It's Murder: On Hat Island

I plopped down on the sofa my eyes wide and mouth open in surprise.  He stood in front of me.  “What do you mean, every 120 years?” I rallied, wishing silently that I hadn’t given up my wine for coffee.

“Miss Martian, don’t tell me you aren’t aware of the infamous murder of island resident Peter Goutre back in 1875,” he admonished.  “ A native, island-raised girl such as yourself?”  His eyes twinkled.  I wanted to smack him.  He continued on with his history lesson, seeming to relish my discomfort.

“Well, part of all investigations encompasses past history.  Being the history buff that I am I was aware of the episode 120 years back, though I did dig up the old records to refresh my memory.”  He sat on the edge of the sofa parallel to me and sipped his coffee.  “It really is quite coincidental.  It was exactly 120 years ago to the day, November 16, 1875.  He sighed and looked at me and said, “I still can’t believe you haven’t heard the story.”

“No, detective” I replied, somewhat snidely.  “I haven’t, but please continue.  You have my full, rapt attention.”  I smiled sweetly, hopefully sickeningly so. 

“Very well. On this date 120 years ago, a French Canadian settler was murdered on this very island.  He had settled here and established a homestead on the northwest side, around here I believe,” (his eyes twinkled again as if he thought he was giving me a scare). “For about fifteen years, the settler lived a fairly secluded life. He did have a dog.”  Detective Anton looked pointedly at me.  When I didn't take the bait, he continued, “Goutre had proved up his little homestead and had abundant livestock and an apple orchard.  There was a rampant rumor that he had a treasure stashed away here.  On November 16, 1875, there was a heavy storm, much like the one that hit yesterday.  It toppled trees and damaged ships.  When Goutre failed to keep his scheduled apple deliveries to buyers in Mukilteo, a concerned search party came over to the island to find out why.  What they found was Goutre’s dog, wildly pacing the beach.  Goutre’s home was vacant, with no evidence of burglary.  Searching the grounds, one of the party members found Goutre lying dead amongst driftwood.  A murder victim, he had been shot with buckshot, once in the chest and once in the head.  Half of his face was blown away.  The search party buried him up on one of the island’s sand hills, not far from the cabin.  Part of the island is rumored to be haunted, you know.” he added.  Pausing he repeated again as if I were a dunce or something, “I can’t believe you’ve never heard this story before.”

The words blew away half his face, skimmed across my mind and I reluctantly remembered my dream of the previous night.  I cringed internally, but chose to ignore the detective’s incredulous comment on my ignorance of island history and asked instead, “Did they ever find the murderer?”