The Drowned House - Chapter One
A WIP. Novel, novella or short story? I haven't really decided yet.
Harold let the idling engine run a slow count while he watched Eidolon Bay settle in the blue haze of after-sunset. White houses lined the streets below, windows catching the last of the light. At the water’s edge, a slit of marina drew a long shadow out into the glassy harbor. Cranes and scaffolding on the marina stood in silhouette against the fading orange seam of the horizon, their reflections trembling in the glassy surface below.
He felt like he could taste the town through the open window. Salt first, then the bitterness of creosoted docks, and a little pine thrown in. Gulls called from the breakwater, accompanied by the steady insect churn in the eaves of the old clapboard civic buildings.
The dashboard clock read 21:37. A tad later than he’d planned to arrive, but time had a way of stretching on those rural Maine roads.
Harold kept one hand on the wheel as he eased off the brake and let the descent pull him toward the town waiting below.
Habit made him catalog details others might miss: fresh paint on most houses, new-looking storm shutters, carefully repaired front steps. Signs of money, or at least enough care to maintain appearances.
Following the road brought him to the town square. He slowed the car to a crawl and let the tires bump gently over a worn cobbled strip that bisected the street. The square itself was neatly hemmed by a low iron fence.
Around the square, the buildings were two-storey red-bricks, probably at least a century old by Harold’s guess. There was a bookstore with a curved glass front, a café just packing up for the night and a law office.
“Picturesque,” Harold murmured to himself, but the word feeling inadequate in his mouth. Eidolon Bay looked as if it had been plucked straight from a movie set. The sidewalks showed no cracks, the street signs gleamed, even the trash cans looked freshly painted.
It was a prosperity that seemed at odds with some of the struggling fishing towns he’d passed through on the way. A couple of those places were in their death throes, the people moving on. Eidolon Bay had a sense of permanence. It was a place where people stayed. Harold adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, suddenly aware of the transient nature of his own existence and decided he had enough sightseeing.
His destination was less than a minute away and he followed the GPS to the corner of Main and Harbor. The small lot in front of Lowmere County Sheriff’s office was empty, save for a single Ford Police Interceptor.
Harold parked and got out, stretching the spine that three hundred miles of highway and rural road had fused into iron rod. The Sheriff’s office was squat and square, old-fashioned like the rest of the town but without the quaintness. A single exterior light buzzed above the door, throwing a pale circle onto the concrete step below.
There was no sign suggesting what hours the station maintained, but a light on inside the building, just about visible through the frosted glass etched with the county seal, suggested the place was still open.
The door opened with a reluctant creak. A small bell overhead chimed once, bright and brief, and then the sound was swallowed by stillness.
The lobby was empty.
Florescent lights hummed overhead with a low electrical murmur. A reception desk, heavy oak worn smooth at the edges stood straight ahead. A small computer monitor cast a blue glow over the old wood.
To the right, a row of padded chairs sat against the wall beneath a community noticeboard of lost dogs, bake sales and blood drives. To the left, a hallway of closed doors stretched back toward the rest of the station.
There was a small brass bell on the reception desk. Harold stepped closer, hand hovering above it, when he heard a door open somewhere down the corridor to his left, followed by the steady rhythm of approaching footsteps.
The woman didn’t look up at first, attention fully on the page in her hand, eyes narrowed in concentration as she appeared from around the corner.
She was tall, probably five-ten with dark hair cropped short. The short-sleeved uniform was crisply tailored, the fabric hugging wide shoulders, tight against defined biceps. A large stainless steel chronograph, sat snug to her left wrist. The case was broad, thick-lugged, heavier than most women would wear, but it didn’t look out of place on her.
She looked up from the page and noticed him. Her posture didn’t shift. No startle, no jump. Just a flick of her cool blue eyes, steady and unbothered.
Harold guessed she was in her mid-forties, a few years older than his thirty-eight. Her cheekbones were high and harsh, the jaw strong. She had a deep tan, the kind earned through hours outdoors and laughter lines tugged at the corner of her eyes. It was the kind of face people might’ve called handsome in another era.
“Help you?”
The question broke Harold from his gawking. “Looking for Sheriff Talbot.”
“And you found her.” Talbot set the piece of paper she had been reading on the desk, one hand resting on it, the other going to her hip. “What can I do for you?”
He held out a business card. “Harold Craigan. Private Investigator.”
Talbot took the the card and turned it over. “Boston?”
“I have a Maine P.I license. Would you like to see it?”
“Are you planning on doing private investigator work while here?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would like to see it.”
Harold obliged, handing over a copy of the license. Talbot studied the document closely. She was utterly striking woman and Harold let his gaze linger a moment too long. Her eyes flicked up and caught him. She suppressed a weary sigh and then slid his credentials back to him.
“Alright, what can I can do for you Mr. Craigan?”
“I’m on a missing person case. Young woman called Corrine Boyne.”
Talbot’s posture shifted slightly at the name. “I remember the report,” she said slowly, folding her arms. “Her mother called about two weeks back, said her daughter hadn’t been in touch for a number of days. My deputy followed-up with her employer who told him Corrine had quit without notice and took off. No forwarding address.”
“That didn’t strike you as odd?”
She frowned, and when she answered her tone suggested her patience was already wearing thin. “Not particularly, we attract seasonal workers in the summer months. Some of them aren’t the most reliable employees.”
“But this wasn’t a seasonal job. Corrine was hired as a full-time housekeeper.”
“Something which her employer disputed. He told my deputy Corrine had only been hired for the summer.”
Harold raised a skeptical brow. “A housekeeper only for the summer?”
“Claimed he gets a lot of guests. Friends from out of state, family from abroad.”
“Do you know the employer?” Harold paused to pull his small notebook from the pocket of his jeans, although he already knew the name written there. “Douglas Perrin?”
Talbot gave a half scoff. “Suppose you could say that. If you’ve seen the Marina, you’ll have noticed the regeneration work going on. Perrin’s company is the lead on that. He’s one of the largest employers in the county, owns about half of the waterfront property in town sits on the Chamber of Commerce and a few other committees of the great and good.”
Harold gave an obligatory impressed sound. “Rich?”
“Very.”
A wry smile touched the corner of Harold’s mouth. “Untouchable.”
The cool blues narrowed as Talbot leaned forward, planting two fists on the desk. The muscles in her forearms flexed like coiled rope. “Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”
“Not at all,” Harold lied. He was trying to get a personal measure of the woman and the jab had its intended effect, suggesting to Harold the local Sheriff was not the type to get cowered by wealth or influence. “I’ve had a long drive, Sheriff,” he continued, this time telling the truth. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Talbot shook her head. “Look, Craigan, I’ve had a long day myself.” She tapped the watch to emphasize her point. “There’s not much else to tell you. We followed up on the mother’s report. Talked to Perrin, who told us what I just told you. We checked the house and her room. Nothing suspicious. No suggestion of foul play. Conducted some witness enquiries but they didn’t turn up anything, no friends that we know off, no boyfriend or girlfriend. We know she didn’t have a car and arrived on a bus, so that’s probably how she left town too.”
Harold nodded along and waited for Talbot to finish. “Mind if I talk to him?”
“Who, Perrin?”
“Yes.”
“You can talk to whoever you like, Mr. Craigan,” she said flatly. “It’s a mostly free country.”
“I get the sense you’re not too keen on the idea.”
“Perrin’s a private citizen. If you’ve got questions, you can ask him but he’s free to tell you where to go. I’m not sure what you think he is going to tell you that he didn’t tell us. He said Corrine Boyle quit and there’s nothing to suggest she didn’t grab the first bus out of town. End of story.”
“End of your story.”
“Mr. Craigan,” she said, her voice low. “I know how this works. You’re the outsider with a theory. You think small-town law enforcement is asleep at the wheel, missing something obvious. But I’ve been doing this a long time. People leave. They move on. Sometimes they don’t want to be found.”
“I know how it works too, Sheriff. I was on the job once upon a time. Boston PD.”
“Hmm.” Talbot’s reply was impressively unimpressed.
The dismissal hit harder than Harold would have expected. “Not trying to impress you, Sheriff,” he said tersely. “Just explaining why I get twitchy about some corners getting cut.”
“Cut corners?” Talbot looked as if she were about to say more but stopped herself and help up a hand. “If you’re set on talking to Perrin, his place is out on Quarry Road, past the reservoir. Big iron gates, can’t miss them.”
Harold let out a quiet breath, the edge gone from his voice. “Appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me,” Talbot said, picking the piece of paper up from the desk. “Just don’t make me send a deputy to arrest you for harassment.”
Harold half smiled and turned to leave but hesitated at the door. “You ever grab a coffee after hours, Sheriff?”
Talbot looked up from the papers she’d already returned to, her brows knitting. “Coffee?” She said the word as though no-one had ever thought to utter those particular letters in that particular order before.
“Coffee,” Harold repeated. “Even a small town like this must have a place open.”
For a moment, something flickered behind her eyes. Then she shook her head, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’ve got a hell of a sense of timing, Craigan. I’ve been on my feet since seven, I’m short a deputy, and I’ve got a stack of reports to file before I even think about home. So no, I won’t be grabbing coffee.”
Harold lingered a moment longer, then nodded once. “See you around, Sheriff.”
“I hope not.”