Iced Inn
A Gray Whale Inn Short Story
Karen MacInerney
Copyright © 2018 by Karen MacInerney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Iced Inn
Chapter One, Mistletoe Murder
Recipes
Natalie’s Emergency Hot Chocolate
Gray Whale Inn Gingerbread People
More Books by Karen MacInerney
About the Author
Iced Inn
"Whose idea was it to have a wedding in December, anyway?" Charlene asked as she peered out the kitchen window at the darkening sky.
"I think it's kind of romantic," I replied as I pulled a pan of gingerbread cookies out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack. It was mid-December, and my niece Gwen was getting married to local lobsterman Adam Thrackton in just a couple of days. The wedding was going to be at our little island church, with the reception at the Gray Whale Inn, catered by yours truly. I had family coming in from California, along with a cousin who had recently moved to Bangor, just a few hours west.
"If you consider being snowed in with no power romantic," Charlene quipped. "Isn't your sister supposed to be coming in today?"
"She is," I confirmed. Adam's parents were arriving, too, and would be staying at the inn. I hoped the families would get along.
"Bridget still on board with the wedding?" Charlene asked.
"Last time I talked to her she was," I said. My high-achieving sister Bridget hadn't been thrilled when she learned her daughter's "shipping magnate" fiancé was actually a lobsterman. He had a degree from Princeton, so that helped, but even though she'd been grudgingly supportive after her last visit, I suspected she was still struggling with the idea of her talented daughter working as an artist on a small Maine island with her lobsterman husband. "They fly into Portland this evening; she's renting a car and driving up."
"If they don't get diverted," Charlene said. "There's a storm rolling in; it's supposed to snow at least a foot over the next few days."
I glanced out the window at the approaching clouds as I transferred the warm cookies from the pan to the cooling rack. "As long as it holds off until they make it here, we'll be fine. We've got plenty of firewood, propane, and enough food to feed an army for a month."
"I may just stay here then," Charlene said.
"You're welcome to," I said as I retrieved another ball of dough from the refrigerator and began rolling it out. As I worked, I inhaled a deep whiff of the warm, spicy scent that permeated my yellow kitchen. I'd decorated the inn for Christmas, with boughs of fresh greens on the mantle, wreaths--one of which was adding its balsam fragrance to the already deliciously scented kitchen--and a Christmas tree John and I had selected and cut down just the day before. He was busy on a last-minute order of toy boats for Island Artists, which had seen a holiday boom since starting an online ordering business, and I was busy getting ready for our guests. I'd made thumbprints, sugar cookies, and a batch of decadent caramel-fudge bars, but it wasn't the Christmas season for me without gingerbread. "You can stay anytime," I reiterated to Charlene, who seemed kind of glum. "We've got room."
"We'll see," she said, taking a sip of her hot chocolate and leaning her chin on one hand. "Romance is in the air right now, it seems. Even Marge O'Leary has a beau."
"What? I knew she broke her foot, but no one said anything about a beau."
"Frank Duggin is crazy about her," she said. "His boat's been having all kinds of troubles the last few months--something with the fuel tank is the latest problem, I hear--so he's been at the store more often than usual, and he's gotten to know her a bit. Now he's writing her bad poetry and leaving roses on her doorstep."
"Good for her," I said. Marge's romantic past had been less than idyllic--her ex-husband was currently in jail for murder--and I was glad something positive was going on in her personal life.
"Not really," Charlene says. "She wants nothing to do with him. She leaves the flowers and doesn't read the poetry. At least she says she doesn't." Charlene grimaced. "She says she'll never get married again."
"You don't have to marry someone just because you have dinner with him," I said. "Maybe she should at least give it a shot. He's a nice man."
"It would probably help his cause if he bathed more," Charlene mused. "He smells like a bait cooler at a filling station."
"Eau de Lobsterman," I quipped.
"Even so, I heard Anna Potts is incredibly jealous."
"Of Marge?"
"She's had her eye on Frank for years," Charlene said. "She thinks Marge broke her foot just to get his attention."
"And people say life on a small island is boring," I commented.
"I know, right?" She looked out the window at the snowflakes spiraling down from the wintry sky and sighed. "Think I'll ever get married?"
I looked at my beautiful friend; her caramel-colored hair glowed in the afternoon light from the window, and her purple cardigan hugged her curvy form. Half the island's men would have given a limb to be married to Charlene, but she hadn't yet found anyone who floated her boat. There had more than a few false starts, the most recent being a naturalist who had visited the island for a summer tour and carried Charlene's heart away with him. Charlene had recently called it quits with him when she realized her dream of a full-time relationship wasn't going to be a possibility with a photographer who never spent more than a week in the same place. "I think you could have your pick," I told her honestly.
"Sadly, the selection isn't terrific. You and Gwen have skimmed the cream off the top of Cranberry Island."
Although I couldn't disagree with her--my husband John was amazing, and Gwen's intended was pretty awesome, too--I knew agreeing with her would be counterproductive. "The sea is bigger than just Cranberry Island," I reminded her. I'd been trying to get her to post an online dating profile for years. She'd talked of moving to Portland not long ago, and I was afraid to lose my closest friend. "I think you should broaden your search."
"Maybe," she said, finishing her hot chocolate and standing up. "I should probably head back to the store and close up." Charlene ran the island's only store (and post office); she had help, but she'd promised to let her niece Tania off early.
"Will we see you later, for dinner?" I asked.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "You're already so busy."
"Absolutely," I said. "I made chowder, so there's plenty."
"Thanks," she said with a smile. "Besides, if your sister's here, the entertainment alone will be priceless."
"I'm hoping you're wrong," I said.
"Me too," she said, with a mischievous grin as she tucked her mug into the dishwasher and grabbed her coat. "Sort of."
* * *
By the time I got to the town dock to greet the last mailboat--and hopefully my sister and all the other guests scheduled to arrive--the snow had started to fly. The ground was already white from a storm that had come through the previous week, and there was a fresh dusting on the plowed roads. I said a small prayer for the local lobstermen who were probably still out on the open water--the lobster season in Maine extended to the end of December, and many islanders were still out pulling traps in the sub-zero weather--and then added a small prayer of thanks for my mostly indoo
r profession.
The wind tore at my coat as I hurried from the van to the dock, passing the local stores that lined it. Although Spurrell's Lobster Pound was closed for winter, Berta Simmons's sea glass jewelry store and Island Artists both kept limited hours as the holiday approached, and the windows twinkled with Christmas lights. I was pleased to see John's boats displayed prominently in the window of the Island Artists store, along with some ornaments he'd designed in the fall; the owner, Selene MacGregor, had told him they were selling well. Once the holiday season was over, I was hoping my husband could turn his attention back to the driftwood sculptures that were starting to take off in some of the galleries on the mainland.
I huddled in the lee of the building, watching for the mail boat. After a few minutes, I heard the thrum of the engine, and watched as the boat churned through through the thick, wind-whipped water. As the boat approached the dock, I recognized my sister, who was bundled in a fashionable puffy jacket, and her husband, Glen, among the small group of passengers. I was just about to head down the gangway when I heard Gwen behind me.
"Aunt Nat!" she called. I turned to see my niece hurrying over to me, her curly dark hair flying in the wind.
"Gwen!" I said. "Where's Adam?"
"He's out pulling up the last of his traps," she told me. Her cheeks were flushed.
"But the wedding's in two days... and aren't his parents coming in?"
Gwen shrugged, but I could tell she was nervous. "He told me he'll be back in a few hours. I just hope the storm holds off."
I glanced up at the darkening sky, then at the whitecaps foaming on the dark water. It decidedly wasn't holding off, but I didn't want to upset Gwen any more. Adam had been lobstering for years, and was careful, but bad weather wasn't something to mess with.
"Look," she said. "Here they are."
We hurried down the gangway together as the captain leapt lightly off the mailboat and tied her up, then pulled out the plastic steps while his first mate stood by to help his passengers off the pitching boat.
Bridget was first, and pulled first Gwen, and then me, into an expensive-smelling embrace. I pulled away, still smelling spring flowers despite the cold, and then gave my brother-in-law Glen a quick hug.
"We met your future in-laws on the boat," Bridget said. "This is Margaret and James," she said, as an older couple stepped off the boat and onto the dock.
"You must be Gwen," said Margaret, fixing my niece with a penetrating look that reminded me of my sister's. I could sense Gwen shrinking under her future mother-in-law's gaze, and felt a little sorry for her; neither her mother or mother-in-law-to-be seemed like the warm, comforting type.
"Great to meet you," James said, enfolding his future daughter-in-law in a stiff hug. "We've heard so much about you."
"Natalie? Is that you?"
I turned to see what I guessed from the voice must be a man; it was hard to tell with the layers of jacket, scarf, and hat. I surmised it must be my cousin, although he'd been a lot shorter the last time I saw him. "Robert?"
"It's me," he said, flashing me a grin from the depths of his scarf. I gave him a hug. "I haven't seen you in what... twenty years? Thanks so much for making it out. I can't wait to catch up!"
"Can we do it somewhere else?" my sister whined.
"Of course. We should get into the van where it's warm," I said as the wind gusted. I waved to the captain as he untied the mail boat. As the engine roared back to life, I led everyone back up to the pier toward the van, excited for the chance to catch up with my cousin and hoping things would go well. Gwen was pointing out John's toy boats and his newest experiment, small wooden cars, to her mother when the door to Island Artists popped open and Selene MacGregor emerged, eyes wild behind her sparkly reading glasses.
"Natalie, I'm so glad you're here. Someone robbed the store!"
* * *
My plans to catch up with Bridget and escort Adam and Gwen's families were put on hold as Selene dragged me into Island Artists. I loved the colorful, cozy little store, which featured John's work prominently, along with several other local artists. Sea glass mobiles dangled in the frosted windows, locally made stockings and mittens in a rainbow of colors lined the front of the counter, and shelves of beautiful hand-thrown mugs and bowls lined the back wall; I'd had my eye on a beautiful blue pitcher that would be perfect for serving maple syrup for a couple of weeks now.
"See?" she said, pointing to a pile of empty boxes behind the counter. There was a strong smell of gasoline in the place, and a touch of herring; I assumed it was a result of the lobster co-op being located right next door.
"What's missing?" I asked.
"All the toys I was going to donate to the fundraiser," she said, fiddling with the hem of her hand-knitted sweater. My friend Claudette had set up a Christmas fundraiser to help support Marge O'Leary as she recovered from her broken foot; all the local businesses had donated something to be auctioned off. I'd contributed a weekend at the inn, myself. "Someone stole them. I can't believe someone would do a thing like that!"
"When did it happen?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. "They were here this morning; I finished packing the boxes first thing. I was going to take them over to the church on my way home." She sighed. "Will you ask John to come in and do a report, or whatever it is you do when there's a theft?"
"Of course," I said. Like most islanders, my husband held a variety of jobs. In addition to supplying Island Artists with a good portion of their merchandise, sculpting artwork in his studio, and operating as my partner at the inn, John also served as the island deputy. Things had been quiet since the summer people left; there had been a few (not out of the ordinary) complaints about Claudette White's goats rampaging through local pumpkin patches in October, and one missing poultry case (the hen in question, Niblet, was later found helping herself to the lower branches one of the local apple trees), but other than that, things had been pretty quiet. "I'm sorry this happened; you were generous to give so much to the fundraiser. Were you here all day?"
"I went home to see Fozzie Bear and grab lunch at around one, but other than that, I haven't gone anywhere." Fozzie Bear was Selene's adorable corgi; he sometimes came to the shop to keep her company.
"Did you lock the door?" I asked.
"I think so," she said, fidgeting with her bracelets.
"You think so?"
"I don't know," she said. "I got a call from my daughter just as I was leaving. I think I did... but I just don't remember. But why take the gifts I was going to donate and leave everything else?"
"That's a good question," I said. "What all did you put aside?"
"Three or four of John's boats, a few of these handmade dolls and some doll clothes"--she pointed to a basket of adorable dolls on the counter--"some puzzles, two of the cars John's experimenting with this year, and some wooden tops."
"That's a nice donation," I said.
"It would have been, anyway," she said, still fiddling with her bracelets. "But now it's all gone."
"Where was the box?"
"Right here," she said. As I followed her to the counter, the smell of gasoline and herring grew stronger. I wrinkled my nose, but Selene didn't seem to notice. "Behind the counter. I tucked it in under the register. And now the whole box is gone."
"And you're sure you didn't deliver it?"
"Positive," she said. "I was going to drop it off tonight."
I sighed. "I'm so sorry your donation disappeared. I'll tell John as soon as I get home; there's a storm coming, but I'm sure he'll be out as soon as he can."
"I hate to be a bother, what with the wedding and the holiday coming up, but I really did want to donate to the fundraiser."
"It's a wonderful thing to do," I said, "and I'm so sorry this happened. I'll let John know when I get back to the inn."
"Thanks, Natalie," she said, looking relieved. I wasn't sure what John was going to be able to do about it, but I smiled at her and headed back into the frigid afternoon,
hoping everyone at the inn was getting along. After all, they'd only been together for a half hour .
What could go wrong?
* * *
Evidently, a lot.
My sister met me at the kitchen door, and I hadn't even closed it before she started in. Glen was nowhere to be seen; doubtless he'd run for cover. "Those people are the most insufferable snobs!" she said. "They made some comment about Gwen not finishing her degree... as if she weren't 'good enough' for their Princeton-educated son." I closed both the door and my mouth; I didn't feel it would be helpful to point out that she'd felt a mere lobsterman was below her own daughter.
"I'm sure it was nothing," I said. "Is John here?"
"I haven't seen him," she said. "What did that woman at the store need you for? Robbery? I thought this island was safe!"
"Just something that went astray," I said, giving my cats Biscuit and Smudge, who had finally befriended each other and were curled up in front of the heater, a quick hello. "Nothing huge. I'm sure it'll be worked out soon. Where is everyone, anyway?"
"In the parlor," she said.
"I'll get some cookies and hot chocolate out, then," I said. "Can you grab me one of those platters?"
Bridget grabbed the top platter from the stack without breaking stride, continuing to talk as I set to work laying out jam thumbprints, gingerbread cookies and lemon bars. "Now that I think of it," she said, "I still have reservations about this. I mean, this island is idyllic and all, but it's--pardon me for saying so--a real backwater. I know she's in love, but is she going to regret her decision a few years down the line, when it's too late?"
"I don't think anyone knows for sure how it's going to turn out when they get married," I pointed out as I busied myself pouring milk into a kettle on the stove.
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