Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,95

in the windows, hoping she wouldn’t find anything disgusting inside. There were newspapers and a couple of old blankets and cardboard boxes, but nothing that looked too hopeful. Or gross.

“I’m assuming this wouldn’t be Cyrus’ boat,” Eric said.

“Too small. Plus, we don’t know that it ever got built.” She walked quickly to the next room, which was another garage with the second huge door. Nothing was in there except trash and bird poop. Casey continued on to the final door. This one led to a small hallway with offices and a bathroom. The offices had been stripped of all furniture, and the utilities had obviously been turned off long ago. That didn’t stop people from using the restroom. Casey tried not to vomit, and beat a hasty retreat outside, where she stopped and stared out toward the ocean.

Eric followed. “What now?”

“We find someone who knows what happened to this place.”

***

That someone was Mr. Howard Thornville of the Whitley Chamber of Commerce, a jovial stick of a man nearing retirement age. His office fronted Main Street in Whitley, the closest town to the defunct shipyard. Main Street wasn’t as busy as you’d expect from being the central street, but then, the town itself was smaller than Casey had expected this close to the shore. Thornville was more excited about relating the story of Harbor Houseboats than Casey thought natural, but perhaps it was good that someone wanted his job.

“They went out of business in 2007,” he said, which Casey had already guessed from the aging calendar on the wall of the warehouse. “It was a sad thing, but people were losing their regular homes, and could hardly afford a second, vacation one.”

“But I thought people lived in the boats.”

“Sure, some did. Some still do. But the bulk of the houseboat business—at least this particular one—was made up of wealthy people who wanted a unique place for the winter. Harbor Houseboats prided themselves on their workmanship and their leaning toward luxury.”

“Do you know anything about the people who owned it?”

He indicated his computer screen, on which he had brought up their file. “Brothers. Three of them. Their last name was Pinkerton—”

“Like the detective agency?” Eric said.

Thornville smiled. “Just like that. Don’t know if they’re any relation. I heard a rumor that—”

“Anyway…” Casey said. “There were three brothers?” Her head began to buzz. The Three.

“Yes, of course, sorry. Their father had started the business long ago, in the seventies, and the brothers took it over when he retired. This was the oldest, Zeke. He was the boss once the dad left.”

Casey looked at image on the screen, but Zeke was no one she’d seen before. Her buzz began to fade. “And the others?”

Thornville clicked back to the home page. “The second brother, Dan, he was the most hands-on. Knew his stuff as far as boats.” He brought up a photo of him. Again, someone Casey didn’t recognize. So much for that theory.

“Zeke took care of most of the business end. The numbers, schmoozing the rich folks, all that. Dan pretty much ran the workshop. They employed eighteen people at one point, including themselves, but that number began dropping as early as 1995.” He brought up a photo of a group of people, mostly men, and enlarged it. “This was their staff before the lay-offs began.”

“There he is,” Eric said.

“Who?” Thornville asked.

“Cyrus Mann. He was a woodworker from Marshland.”

“Of course. He was one of the first lay-offs, I’m afraid. And,” he cleared his throat, “I hear he met his end not long after that.”

“That’s actually why we’re here.”

Thornville sat back. “Really? Has new information come to light about his murder?”

“Well, it’s his daughter,” Eric said.

“The poor girl who disappeared? Did they find her?”

Casey tuned them out and looked at the men on the photo. She picked out the older brother, Zeke, in the back row, wearing a suit. Dan, the garage foreman, stood on the end of the middle row in blue coveralls. There were a few women, most wearing office-type clothes, one in coveralls. Casey looked carefully across each row, studying the faces, until she stopped, her heart in her throat. “One of them’s here, Eric.”

Eric stopped talking and looked where she was pointing. “I see him.”

“Who?” Thornville angled the screen so he could see, too.

“This man. We have him on another photo. Do you know who he is? Is he still around?”

“Well, of course he is,” Thornville said, laughing. “He’s the youngest Pinkerton brother. He works right down the street at the