Page 19 of The Hampton Beach Café 5
Before Lucinda could argue, Frances was back out the door and sitting down next to the woman––she was quietly sniffing into a handkerchief.
“I don't understand why you're so focused on me and my café. I'm not dating Clarkson––not that it was really any of your business––”
“Good! He's a snake and a liar,” she burst out, quickly covering her mouth as if she could stop something else from following it.
Frances did a double take. “Some fan you are...” she muttered.
“I'm not a fan!” the woman insisted. “I'm a victim! He told everyone I was stalking him and they all believed him, even my son. Until I showed him the documents...”
She started crying again and Lucinda appeared at the door with a pot of tea and three delicate vintage cups.
“Here,” she said gently. “Do you want sugar?”
“Only a little,” the woman said.
“What's your name?” Lucinda asked, pouring the dark aromatic tea into the waiting cups.
“Martha,” she said, stirring. “Martha Johnston.”
Lucinda took the remaining seat and set the teapot aside. “Tell us what you wanted to say.”
“That man who scammed me? The one who stole my house out from under me? He's the same man who told you I was a stalker and a fanatic––as if I'm some crazed teenage girl waiting for The Beatles to notice her at an airport. He made a fortune off me, but I had no recourse because everything was done off the books. He's a scammer, dear. A real con artist.”
Frances felt a little lightheaded as her heart skipped a beat, and nausea flooded her stomach like ice water. “What?”
“I moved to the States from London twenty years ago. About three years ago, my grandson got in a bit of trouble back home, and my son flew him out here to stay with me––then told him he couldn't come home. That gossip down the street got it all wrong––a teenage son at my age, what am I, a medical marvel? Anyway, we were living in my lovely old house down by the water in James Bay, that little pit stop about an hour from here. Well, he went back for a visit––it didn't go well, but he was gone for a few months. That's when that snake snuck in.”
Frances glanced at Lucinda. She hadn't touched her tea but was instead staring in shock as Martha spoke.
“Why is your grandson so angry with me?” Frances asked.
“He's not, not really,” she explained. “He thinks you're in cahoots with that wretched man. He saw you at the auction, talking to him and then buying the place. He's convinced you're like him––but I know you're like me.”
“How did he steal your house?”
Martha burst into tears again. “He convinced me that there were problems with the foundation and that I needed to sell right away––he said he was doing me a favor. He organized all the repairs, but then when it sold, there was barely anything left… I was left with less than ten thousand dollars.”
With a double take, both Lucinda and Frances exclaimed at the figure.
“How?” Lucinda asked. “Ten thousand?”
“It sold at auction,” she explained. “He was involved with whoever sold it––it went back on the market a few months later and sold for over two million dollars.”
The gurgling feeling in her throat was feeling stronger and stronger the more Martha spoke––the auction, the repairs, the pressure to sell. It was all too familiar.
“I don't understand,” Lucinda said. “Clarkson did this to you?”
Martha nodded vigorously. “He called himself Jonathon then, though, and the company that inspected my foundation was probably in on it… McPherson's.”
This piece of information hit Frances like a blow.
“Thank you for telling me all this, ma'am. I'm sorry for what you've been through. I promise I won't call the police about the door. Tell your grandson he doesn't have to worry about that,” Frances said, patting the woman's hand. “And tell him I'm not in on anything with Clarkson, please? I can't afford any more broken glass.”
The woman looked up at her, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you, dear. You're a kind young woman. I hope you can fix things with your shop––and get out from whatever he's got planned for you.”
Frances watched the woman walk away, feeling a mix of emotions. She knew she had to confront Clarkson, but at the same time, she couldn't help but wonder if she could trust this woman... She and Lucinda looked at one another––they needed to find out more.
“What exactly is going on?” Lucinda exclaimed. “Why aren't we calling the police?”
