Mortar and Murder Read Online Free Page B

rather than fiberglass. Not a fishing boat—I’d seen plenty of those in the harbor in Waterfield—but nothing like a yacht, either. There wasn’t anything sleek or expensive about it; it was old, with a little deck house with curtained windows, and some coils of rope and things stowed on the deck. It reminded me of houseboats I’d seen in pictures, traveling the canals in England. Smaller, though. Too small to live on, but possibly big enough to spend a night or two in the cabin, if there was no other alternative. The name of it was Calliope , or so it said on the prow in red letters.
    I wasn’t really interested in the boat, though, other than as an indication that someone was here, so I turned to look at the facade of the house.
    The Colonial looked just the way I hoped that ours would look one day. The white paint gleamed in the sunlight, all the windows were neatly shuttered, and it had a rather nice slab-stone stoop; not rickety wood, like ours. I made a mental note to ask Derek whether he thought such a stoop might be hidden underneath the little wooden porch outside our house; whether someone might have simply built the porch and wooden stairs right over it. Certainly worth looking into. I also wanted to figure out what lived underneath the porch. I’d seen the streak of blue gray fur a few more times in the past couple of days, but never close enough to identify. It had four legs and not much of a tail and it ran fast, but so far, that was all I’d been able to determine.
    Colonial homes are pretty simple constructions, really. As Derek had told me, the style started out as your basic two-room cottage or cabin, then grew to a one-over-one and two-over-two as time went on. Three bays, a door and two windows, turned to five bays. A center chimney turned to matching chimneys, one on either end. The simplicity and symmetry continued to be a part of the design, though. The windows are on the small side, and unadorned; six-over-six panes, not much taller than they are wide. No six-or eight-foot windows here, like in Aunt Inga’s Victorian. The only true ornamentation on the exterior of a Colonial home is usually the front door area. This one was no exception. The door itself was extra wide, made of vertical planks painted a pale sage green, same as the shutters, and held to the frame with black iron hinges. It sported a heavy black handle and separate deadbolt. Not very historical, that last one, but Gert probably had some nice stuff inside that he wanted to protect. Computer equipment, certainly, maybe even a home theater.
    Above the door was a half-circular window, a fanlight, while beside the door on each side were sidelights. Outside that were pilasters, half columns, supporting a pediment that looked like the mantel on a fireplace. Heavy, black, iron carriage lamps hung on each side of the door, completing the picture.
    I was gaping at the whole thing, so overcome with door-envy that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me, until a voice asked me what I thought I was doing there, and then I realized I was no longer alone.
    A skinny, middle-aged man with sunken cheeks and a ruddy complexion stood behind me. Or maybe he just appeared ruddy because he was outside in Maine in April. The wind off the ocean was brisk, even here on the lee side of the island. He was dressed for the elements in a pair of padded coveralls of the sort worn by construction workers. The fingers of a pair of black gloves stuck out of one pocket, and a ski cap was bunched on top of his head, ready to pull down once he got into open water.
    His eyes were muddy brown, like pebbles, and suspicious. He repeated the question, and added, “Who are you?”
    I extended a hand and my best smile. “Hi. I’m Avery Baker. My boyfriend and I just started fixing up the other Colonial. You know, the house across the island. The twin to this one.”
    He didn’t take my hand, nor acknowledge that it was there, and after a few moments I lowered it,