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“It sure is. Of course, used to be the sons spent a lot of time here. Especially during the summer. And way back in the day, the Hoveys used to hold house parties and so forth. Believe it or not, once upon a time this island was haven for the rich and famous. They’d come all the way out here to fish and play golf.” Bram grinned, as if entertained by the foibles of the wealthy.
Jason studied the green, heavily forested shoreline wreathed in thready mist. “It looks deserted.”
“Not far from it. There are thirteen year-round residents. You gotta love peace and quiet. It’s too out of the way for most people.” Bram added, “There’s the ruins of an old fort on the other side of the island. The British used this place as a naval station. They’d build their ships here and then raid the coast.”
“That’s a lot of history for such a little island.”
“It is. You can find lots of artifacts and interesting stuff if you poke around.” He glanced at Jason and added hastily, “Of course, it’s illegal to take anything away. I know that.”
“It’s illegal on federal land. This island is privately owned.”
Reassured that Jason and Uncle Sam were not going to snatch his collection of arrowheads or tin cans or whatever it was he was hoarding, Bram relaxed. “We used to come out here all the time to explore when we were kids. There are a couple of graveyards near the fort.”
“Graveyards?” That caught Jason’s attention.
“Sure. Twenty-five military graves lie outside the north wall of the fort. The civilian graveyard is a little east of the fort. Then you’ve got the Indian burial grounds clear on the other side of the island.” He smiled. “These days they’ve got more dead residents than live ones on Camden Island.”
Jason nodded. “The Durrand sons don’t visit anymore?”
“They come to see the old lady sometimes. They live in California now. That’s where the old man was from. Some place up north. Wine and cattle country. Barnaby comes out more than Shep. Somebody told me he’s out here now. I wouldn’t know. They dock their boats at Trudell’s Marina these days.”
“What about the other son?”
“Shep? I haven’t seen Shep in years. But then the estate will go to Barnaby, so I guess it makes sense he keeps an eye on it.”
They rounded a rocky promontory, white rocks like a skeletal foot jutting out into restless, dark water. In the distance, Jason spotted a man—or at least a burly figure—carrying what appeared to be an ax. He was headed toward the winter-bare woods and away from the ruins of a large house.
House? Castle was probably as accurate. Four stories of what looked from a distance to be solid stone. A castle as imagined by Salvador Dalí. Right down to a giant gray and blue disk—was that really a clock face?—lying upturned in the tall grass.
“What’s that place?” Jason asked Bram.
Bram glanced indifferently at the fog-shrouded shoreline. “Camden Castle. That’s what people around here call it, anyway.”
The man with the ax vanished into the deep surrounding woods. Jason went back to studying the structure. As architecture went, it looked like a cross between the House That Jack Built and Hogwarts. “Is that a clock tower?”
“What’s left of it. If you look carefully, you can see the clock itself still lying in the garden. Lightning struck the tower a few years ago, so they dismantled it before the clock took out the whole roof. It wouldn’t take much. The whole place is falling down.”
Pale smoke wisped from one of the tall chimneys, rising like a question mark against the slate clouds. “Somebody still lives there.”
“Sure. Eric Greenleaf. He’s the last of the line. At least for now. He had a kid with a girl in town. Melanie Foster. Claims she tricked him into it. He pays support but won’t recognize the kid as his own. I guess he could still marry and have a family, but I can’t imagine who would want to live out here with him.”
Jason nodded politely as Bram continued the good-natured gossip and slander of his neighbors.
“How many full-time residents did you say are on the island?” Jason asked when he could insert a comment.
Bram automatically corrected the tiller, heading for a distant dock looking silver in the stormy light. “If you mean households, four. The Hoveys, the Greenleafs, the Patricks, and the Jeffersons. Thirteen people. The rest of the houses are summer homes or vacation rentals.”
Meaning if Jason ran into trouble, he’d be at least half an hour away from help. Not that he could picture a scenario where Barnaby turned violent.
They reached the short dock and found two other boats moored there: a pontoon and a small aluminum fishing boat.
“Who do these belong to?” Jason asked.
“The Lund belongs to Pat Patrick. The pontoon goes with the cottage to your leeside.”
Jason considered what he could see of a gray roof, shingles wet with fog, half-hidden behind tall evergreens.
“Is anyone staying at the cottage?”
