“No, there are other possibilities,” John said. “Like Adam.”
I felt as if he had punched me. “Adam? What do you mean?”
“Derek was in his dinghy,” John said quietly. “I recognize it.”
I broke off a corner of my scone, feeling miserable. “So Adam’s on the hook, along with Tania. Charlene wanted me to let her know if it turned out to be Derek. And now there’s this note… What do I do?”
John ran a hand through his sandy hair. “We can’t say anything until the family’s been notified.”
“I know.” I sipped my coffee without tasting it, wishing I could erase the image of the young man’s pale face, his hair floating in the bloody water. “He was from Ellsworth, apparently.”
“I imagine he has family there, then. They’ll probably send an officer this afternoon.” John grimaced. “I’ll ask Johnson to let me know when we can talk to Charlene. I hope Tania wasn’t too serious about him.”
“I hope so too.” My eyes strayed to Detective Johnson, who was conferring with the officer. Please, please, please don’t arrest my friends, I prayed.
“We should ask who else Derek was involved with,” I said, feeling the need to take some action—beyond prayer—to help my friends.
“I think Detective Johnson will probably take care of that.”
“It doesn’t hurt to ask around, though. Sometimes locals know more than the police,” I protested. “As islanders, we might be able to help. You know that.”
“So, you’re a local now?” He gave me a strained grin. “Fred Penney know that?” Fred was an island lobsterman who didn’t believe you were a “local” unless you’d not only lived here, but had at least three generations of islanders in your family. The only reason he spoke to me was that he was sweet on Charlene, and knew she was my best friend. John winked at me, but I whacked him on the arm anyway.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice had a familiar grim tone. “And I think you should stay out of it.”
“Why?” I asked, even though we’d been through this conversation at least a dozen times.
He gave me a look that made me all warm inside. “Because if something happens to you, who’s going to bake all those muffins every morning?”
“You’re pretty handy with a muffin pan,” I pointed out.
“Okay,” he said, lowering his voice to a rough growl. “Who’s going to warm my bed on cold winter nights?” He pulled me into an embrace that made my heart thump under my T-shirt. And unfortunately was disturbed only ten seconds later by the opening of the door to the porch. We jumped back like high schoolers caught under the bleachers as Detective Johnson stepped back into the kitchen.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked with grin playing around the corners of his mouth.
“Not at all, officer,” I said, feeling my face warm, and plunked down gracelessly in my chair.
“I think we’re about done here anyway,” he said. “One of my colleagues is informing the family right now.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t like to impose, but could I ask for a ride? I have a few stops to make on the island, and without a vehicle or a map …”
“We’d be happy to,” John said.
“Thanks,” the detective said. “Sorry to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all,” I told him, thankful we weren’t still on the subject of the note I shouldn’t have touched. “Not quite as many homicides here as in New York, I imagine,” I said.
“Not so far,” he said. “Hope it stays that way.”
“Me too,” I said with a shiver.
three
When the call came a few minutes later to confirm that the immediate family had been told, I grimaced. “I feel so bad for them. Did both parents live in Ellsworth?”
“Single mom,” he told me. “Dad is long gone, apparently. He was the youngest of three.”
“Does she have any idea who would have wanted him dead?”
The sturdy detective shook his head. “They haven’t questioned her yet; she’s still too upset.”
John grimaced. “But now we have news to deliver.”
“I understand he’s got relatives on the island—an aunt and uncle. I’m going to have to break the news to them and ask a few questions.”
In case they were involved, I knew he was thinking, but didn’t say. Everyone related to the murder victim is a suspect … a fact I knew from personal experience.
“I need to talk to his aunt and uncle, as well as the young woman he was dating. I’d also like to talk with the lobsterman he worked for. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“We can take you where you need to go,” I said. “I want to head down to the store myself, to offer Tania moral support. Adam might be out on the water, though.”
“I do need to talk to him. If he isn’t there, is there some way to get a hold of him?”
“If he’s not there, we’ll tell him you need to get in touch with him,” I said. “He’s practically family.”
The detective nodded. “Small island, eh?”
“Yup.” I finished cutting up the lemon bars, which were the perfect mix of buttery shortbread and tangy lemon curd, the tartness cut by the blanket of powdered sugar, then put about a dozen into a plastic container to take with me. It was bitter news we had to share, and although it wasn’t much, I was hoping my offering would bring at least a smidgeon of comfort.
Murray Selfridge’s Jaguar was purring down the lane as John and I stepped out of the inn. Detective Johnson had told us he would join us in a moment, then headed down to the dock to check with the team on the police launch.
John was surprised to see Murray, and I realized I hadn’t ever mentioned Catherine’s date to him. “What’s he doing here?”
“With the … the hullabaloo this afternoon, I guess I forgot to tell you. He took your mom out to lunch.”
John blinked. “He what?”
“I know. I found out from Zeke Forester. Apparently Murray wanted to pick her up in the yacht, but our dock is too shallow.” The sudden urge for a lemon bar gripped me at the sight of the familiar Jaguar, but I ignored it.
We both watched as the car rolled to a halt in front of the inn. Murray got out, his blue seersucker pants slightly wrinkled, and hurried around to open Catherine’s door. He murmured something to her as he helped her out of the Jaguar, and she laughed like a schoolgirl.
John and I exchanged an ominous glance.
“How was lunch?” I asked. Both looked up, startled; they hadn’t noticed us.
“Oh, it was divine,” Catherine said, beaming. “They have the most wonderful little salads, and Murray here is quite the raconteur.”
“You’re the one with the stories,” he said, touching her on the arm. There was a look on his face that I’d never seen before: total adoration. Zeke was right, I realized. If you wanted something from Murray, you’d be wise to ask my future mother-in-law to put in a good word for you.
“Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, Murray.” She played with the small string of pearls around her thin neck.
“Can I tempt you to dinner on the yacht tomorrow?”
“I can’t see why not. Natalie, you’ll be fine on your own tomorrow evening, won’t you?” There was an excitement in her eyes I’d never seen before. I was going to be seeing a lot more of Murray Selfridge in the near future, I realized with a sinking feeling.
“Of course,” I said.
She turned to Murray. “Well, then, I’d be delighted.”
“Bon soir, ma chérie,” he said, the chérie coming out with a distinct Maine twang.
“Á demain!” she replied. “I’m just going to go inside and freshen up,” she told us. Her eyes registered Detective Johnson, and she gave him an appraising glance. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Detective Johnson,” he said, extending a hand, which she took uncertainly.
“You’re a police detective?”
“There’s been a bit
of an incident,” I said.
She blinked. “Is everyone okay?”
“Natalie found a young man dead in a dinghy this afternoon.” John’s voice was neutral. “There may have been foul play involved. Detective Johnson is here to investigate, and there’s a police launch down at the dock.”
“An islander?” Murray’s tone was strained.
“No,” John said. “A young man from Ellsworth. He was working as Adam’s sternman.”
Murray let out a deep breath. “Well, that’s good. I’d hate for it to be one of our own.”
“Murray.” Catherine drew herself up, and her eyes flashed. “Just because he wasn’t from here doesn’t mean it isn’t a tragedy.”
“I know, dear,” he said, his voice patronizing. Dear? I thought. They must be getting along very well indeed.
Murray smiled broadly, exposing a line of yellowed teeth. “It’s no less a tragedy. It’s just … well, islanders are like family.”
I almost choked, remembering how he’d tried to manipulate many “family” members to enable him to make big profits over the years.
But the argument seemed to appease Catherine. She turned to me. “That must have been an awful shock. Did you know the young man?”
“No,” I said. “But he was dating Charlene’s niece Tania, apparently.”
“Poor lamb,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. Such a tragedy.”
“Yes,” Murray said, shaking his head. “Terrible thing.”
“Well, I’m going to head inside and change. Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Murray.” She smiled at Murray, then swept by us in a cloud of tuberose perfume and disappeared into the inn.
“We should be going too,” I added as Murray stared after the door through which she’d disappeared, then slowly turned back to his Jag. “Have a good evening.”
“Oh.” Murray turned to us as if he’d forgotten we were there. “John, I had no idea your mother was such a charmer. Where have you been hiding her?”
“Boston. She always hated it here,” my fiancé volunteered.
“Well, she doesn’t seem to now. I’m glad you brought her up here to visit. She’s a corker!” With that, he got back into his car like a man in a dream, and John and I watched as his car disappeared up the hill.
“A corker,” John repeated. “I’ve heard many words used to describe my mother, but that is not one of them.”
I grinned. “Nice of you to let him know how much she enjoys the island.” As we climbed into the van, I found myself shaking my head. “He’s really smitten, isn’t he? I’ve never seen him look like that before.”
“Murray Selfridge,” John said quietly as we backed out of the driveway and followed him up the lane. “I can’t imagine anyone would find him attractive, much less my mother.”
“He … well, he seems nice enough.” I remembered his take-no-prisoners approach to development on the island and revised my statement. “To Catherine, at least.”
“For the moment,” John said. “You and I both know what he’s like, though.”
“Not your favorite person, eh?” Detective Johnson said from the back seat of the van.
“You can say that again,” John replied.
“Your mother seems to have him well in hand,” I pointed out. “It must be fun, going out to lunch at Jordan Pond House and having someone invite you to dinner on his yacht.”
John shook his head. “I don’t trust him.”
“She’s a grown woman,” I reminded him. “And it’s not like they’re planning to be married, or anything.”
“I certainly hope not,” John said darkly.
_____
It took almost no time at all, it seemed, to get to the store, which was commonly known as Cranberry Island’s living room. The small wooden building had a broad front porch and big, wavy-glass windows posted with local notices; inside, I knew, were worn couches and armchairs where locals sat and caught up on the news, along with grocery aisles packed with essentials and a bank of post office boxes into which my best friend sorted the mail each day—taking special note of the postcards and the return addresses of handwritten envelopes, I knew. I often supplied the store with extra baked goods from the inn; they always disappeared quickly, and not just because of the day-trippers who wandered into the store looking for a snack.
As we walked up the steps to the front porch, I could see through the mullioned windows that Tania was at the counter of the cozy island store, her young face pale and wan. She wore a black miniskirt that covered approximately 5 percent of her long legs, and a sparkly pink camisole clung to her bony chest. Her aunt Charlene sat across the counter from her with a worried expression on her beautiful, impeccably made-up face.
Unfortunately, they weren’t alone; Charlene’s most ardent admirer, Fred Penney, was parked at his habitual spot at the counter. Although my friend had told him repeatedly that she wasn’t interested, he appeared to favor the Chinese water torture approach to courting. He’d tried to give her a pair of tourmaline earrings the previous week, and seemed to spend more time in the store than on his lobster boat.
Charlene looked up as the bell above the door jangled, announcing our arrival. Our faces told her everything she needed to know. My friend’s pink-frosted lips thinned into a line, and she shook her head slowly, her normal effervescent energy dulled.
Tania turned on her stool, a fearful look on her thin face. She had her aunt’s terrific cheekbones and bright green eyes, but not her bulk; where Charlene’s avowed chocolate addiction gave her a curvy, well-padded figure, Tania looked like she hadn’t eaten in a month.
She turned her haunted eyes toward us. “Who’s this?”
“Detective Johnson,” the policeman said, handing her a card.
Fred’s eyes widened; I could almost see his ears perk up.
“You know something.” Her young voice was high and reedy. I glanced at John, but before any of us could speak, she said, “It was him, wasn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Miss Barnes found a young man named Derek Morton today,” Detective Johnson said.
She flinched as if he’d hit her. “Dead?” she whispered.
“I’m afraid so,” the burly policeman said, compassion in his eyes. “I understand you two were close. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Oh, honey.” Charlene reached across the counter to touch her niece’s shoulder. Tania’s face crumpled, her hair swinging down like a curtain, and her narrow frame heaved with silent sobs.
I crossed the wooden floor of the store quickly, setting the container of lemon bars on the counter and putting my arms around her bony frame. She didn’t resist, and I cradled her in my arms until Charlene rounded the counter.
“How did it happen?” she wailed. “I knew he was going to get into trouble. I knew it!”
I glanced at Detective Johnson, who looked like a hunting dog on a scent. I gave him an inquisitive look, and he nodded. “What made you think he was going to get into trouble, Tania?”
“Just … just … I don’t know! I can’t talk about this right now. Derek.” She gave a long, low moan. “I can’t believe he’s gone!”
She broke down in my arms. Charlene stroked her hair, and I rocked her back and forth. It seemed like forever before her sobs subsided and she pulled away, swiping at her mascara-smeared eyes with the back of her hand.
“I know it’s a difficult time, miss, but I’d like to ask you some questions,” Detective Johnson said gently. “We’re hoping you can help us figure out what happened.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
“You might be surprised,” Detective Johnson told her. “Even the tiniest detail can sometimes help. I’d like to ask you a few questions now, while your memory’s still fresh.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned against the counter, hugging herself tightly. “Okay,” she said. “But not right here.”
“You’re welcome to use the
back room if you’d like,” Charlene offered the detective.
Detective Johnson smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and again I found myself thankful that he wasn’t Sergeant Grimes. “It’ll only be a few minutes.”
Charlene sighed, and she gave her niece a squeeze. “We’ll be right here, honey.”
Tania shrugged, then glanced up at the detective with swollen eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know.”
When they’d disappeared into the back room, Charlene popped the top off the lemon bars. “I can’t believe Derek died. I hope Tania didn’t get the Kean curse.”
John reached for a lemon bar and pulled up a stool at the counter. “What curse?”
My friend blinked at him. “The boyfriend curse,” she said. “The men I date either turn out to be scoundrels, or they …” She shrugged. “You know. Something happens to them.” She glanced at Fred, who was still staring at her like she was a triple-layer chocolate cake, and thrust a lemon bar into her mouth.
“I’d take the risk,” he said in a rough voice I suspect he thought was sexy, but reminded me of an outboard motor that needed a tune-up.
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” I said, although Charlene did have a less-than-stellar track record with the men she’d been interested in since I’d known her. The mortality rate had been rather high.
“I can’t believe someone left him floating in a dinghy,” Charlene said.
“A dinghy?” Fred perked up. “I was just down at the co-op this morning. Young Adam Thrackton was looking for his; had to borrow someone’s to get out to his boat.”
My stomach clenched. “When did it go missing?”
“Last night sometime. He’s going to borrow one from old Eli White.”
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence,” Charlene said, echoing what I’d said a moment earlier, but like me, she didn’t sound completely convinced.
I decided to change the subject. “Did either of you know Derek well?”
“Only saw him working with Adam,” Fred said. “Expect the police will want to talk to that young man before long. For all his high-and-mighty degree, he used some pretty colorful language last week.”
Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) Page 3
