“While returning from a morning of duck hunting,” I said, “Professor Eben Chamberlain removed his personal flotation device. He then either suffered a health event that affected his balance or fell out of his boat by accident, perhaps while retrieving decoys. He succumbed to hypothermia in the forty-nine-degree water and drowned in the current, measured that day at 1,200 cubic feet per second at the water-flow meter in Auburn. His corpse sank, floated downriver, and became trapped underwater above the Gulf Island Pond Dam. His remains were recovered six days later. The chief medical examiner determined that the bruises on his body occurred postmortem, and the presence of water in his lungs indicated death by drowning.”

Most of the water in the bucket atop the wood stove had evaporated, and now the spices began to steam.

“Mother has an alternate theory,” said Bibi.

“I understand your reluctance to accept these conclusions,” I said.

“Eben Chamberlain was murdered,” declared Mariëtte Chamberlain. “He never would have removed his flotation vest. He nearly drowned as a boy and always wore one when he was in a boat. Someone forced him to do it. He didn’t drown. He was drowned. Poor Plum here was also forced into the river. The person who killed the professor then returned to shore, relaunched the boat, and tossed the life preserver after it. A near-perfect crime.”

A burnt odor arose from the sizzling bucket. I wondered if either of them was going to add water.

“Do you have any proof of this?” I asked.

“Circumstantial proof—but the state’s theory is also built on circumstances and speculation.”

“I wish I could help you, Mrs. Chamberlain.”

The tall woman shot to her feet. “You’re not going to ask what the motive was?”

“I told you this was a bad idea, Mother,” said Bibi, punctuating the sentence with a stab of her e-cig.

“I know who the murderer is,” said Mariëtte. “And don’t tell me you’re not interested in hearing his name.”

“All right.”

“Bruce Jewett.”

I remembered the name from the report. Rivard had briefly investigated the man. “He was Professor Chamberlain’s regular hunting companion.”

“Among other things.”

“I don’t follow you,” I said.

“Bruce Jewett was my father-in-law’s lover.”

11

I feed the flames with boards pulled from inside the shack. With the missing wall, it is more like a lean-to than a proper shelter. But it provides cover against the wind which would likely extinguish my fire before I can get it burning. Sooner or later I will need to move the smoldering, flickering pile of wood, before it burns through the nominally inflammable insulation on which it sits.

A voice in my head tells me to let the blaze grow until it becomes a massive conflagration and consumes the structure: a beacon visible for miles around.

I have to remind myself to distrust my thoughts. Confusion is a well-observed symptom of hypothermia.