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Monday, July 16, 2018
GARY ANDDan walked up Broad Street toward the Whaling Museum, and took a right onto North Water Street. The one-hour ferry trip had served as a reminder how much Dan enjoyed being on the water. He’d grown up around boats: his dad had let him take the helm of the family yacht for the first time when he was fifteen. Nantucket Sound was full of boats, and the flap of sails, the dull murmur of engines, and the occasional burst of laughter or loud comments between boats had plunged him into pleasant memories.
North Water Street was narrow and lined with cobbles, the sidewalk done in red and gray blocks. On one side were red brick houses, and on the other, white mansions with porticos and vaulted roofs, upper decks surrounded by white railings, and trees that provided a splash of green against the white-cedar shakes. Then white gave way to gray, but the size of the houses didn’t diminish. Cars were parked along one side, and white picket fences protected front yards filled with shrubs, trees, and twisting, clinging plants that crept over trellises and covered exterior walls.
Dan gazed at the properties with a smile. “It’s like being home.”
Gary chuckled. “I keep forgetting. You come from New Hampshire. I suppose you get a lot of summer visitors too.”
“We get our fair share.” The high-speed passenger ferry had brought back yet more memories. It had been packed with families and couples armed with vacation paraphernalia and all sporting sunglasses.
Gary stared at the huge, almost palatial houses on the left side of the street. “We are talking aseriousamount of money here.”
Dan said nothing. He came from such a background. His parents had expected him to lead a philanthropic life of fund-raising for charity, not to employ his strange gift to help others.
Not that they ever discussed his gift.
They came to a fork in the road, and Gary pointed to the left. Cliff Road was a collection of impressive properties, some of them guest houses or hotels. They hadn’t gone far when Gary came to a stop. The house was set back on the right, its exterior walls covered in cedar shakes, a lawn stretching from the front door to the sidewalk, dissected by a rustic paved path. Dan figured the second-story windows had to provide great views of Nantucket Sound.
They made their way to the door, which was hidden beneath a porch covered with roses. As they approached, it opened, and an elegant woman with short white hair and gold-framed glasses stood there.
“Gentlemen, I’m Marie Brightmore. My husband is expecting you. Please, follow me.”
They stepped into the light interior with oak floorboards, a staircase on the left, and glass-paned doors leading from the hallway. Mrs. Brightmore stopped in front of the farthest door. “I was about to make tea. Would you like some?”
“Thank you. That would be great,” Gary told her. She pushed the door open, and they entered what looked like a sunroom, the walls and numerous window frames painted in a pleasant sage green, a colorful yet faded rug covering the wooden floor. Outside, Dan spied a deck with three sofas, surrounded by lawn.
Mr. Brightmore rose from his rocking chair to greet them. “Detective Mitchell?” Gary went over to him, and they shook. He introduced Dan, another shake of hands, and then Mr. Brightmore indicated the couch below the window.
Gary had mentioned that Roland Brightmore was seventy-seven years old, and his wife, seventy-five. Looking at the man who welcomed them, Dan had an impression of someone a lot older—someone who didn’t indulge much in smiling.
“Thank you for agreeing to come out here. We spend the summer months here.” Mr. Brightmore gestured to their surroundings. “This old house has been in the family for generations. I believe it was built in the early eighteen hundreds.”
Gary crossed the room to the table that stood in one corner, draped in a white tablecloth. Its surface was covered in framed photos. Gary pointed to the ones in the front row. “Your children?”
Mr. Brightmore smiled. “Indeed.” He joined Gary and picked up the nearest frame. “This is our daughter Rachel, her husband, their three children and their partners, and our great-grandchildren.” He replaced it and picked up another. “And this is our daughter Louisa, her husband, their two children and their partners, and yet more great-grandchildren.”
Dan joined them, peering at the happy, smiling people. “You have a beautiful family, Mr. Brightmore.”
His lower lip trembled. “But we lost our son, so this is where the family line comes to an end. A family that can trace its lineage back to the nineteenth century.” His face contorted in a grimace. “Except the result would probably have been the same had he lived.”
Gary gave Dan an inquiring glance, but Dan hadn’t understood the remark either.
Mr. Brightmore straightened. “But enough of that. I believe you said in your phone call that you’re investigating a death. How does this concern us?”
“We’re looking into the death of Cheryl Somers, who disappeared in 1992. Her body was later discovered in 2006, clearly a wrongful death.”
Mr. Brightmore frowned. “I have no recollection of that name.”
Gary’s voice softened. “You would have known her under another name—Benjamin Raskin.”
The only sound in the room was Mr. Brightmore’s labored breathing, and the hairs on Dan’s arms stood on end.
At last Mr. Brightmore cleared his throat. “In that case, justice was served.” His voice quavered.
Dan studied his face, his body language. “You don’t seem surprised by the news.”
Mr. Brightmore managed a shrug. “That is because I’m not. I must admit, I had no idea of the name or… gender change, but I knew whoever was responsible for our son’s death had met their Maker.”
