Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

“Afraid?” Tom laughed. “He was full of himself. Swaggered around like he was the cat’s meow—kept talking about how he wasn’t going to be filling traps with dead herring for long. Although with his work ethic, I can’t imagine him going very far.”

  “Did he ever say anything specific about what his new job was going to be?”

  “Said he knew some important people. They were going to take care of him.”

  “Maybe they did,” I murmured, thinking of the blood in the dinghy. John shot me a look and I clammed up.

  Detective Johnson plucked a card out of his pocket. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Lockhart. If you think of anything, please give me a call.”

  Tom took the card and smiled. “Anything I can do to help, officer.”

  The inside of the co-op smelled of gasoline, herring, and men, three of whom were gathered at a table at the end of the long room, listening to the crackle of the radio.

  Adam rose as he saw us, his usually smiling face grim. He was a handsome young man, tall and dark, with a quick wit and a kind heart. “I heard about Derek,” he said solemnly.

  “As has everyone on this island, apparently,” the policeman murmured dryly. Detective Johnson introduced himself to Adam and the other two lobstermen, both of whom knew Derek, as well. He asked the same questions he had of Tom. Although they agreed that Derek had been unreliable and rather full of himself, no one had anything new to add to the conversation.

  “I understand you fired Derek Morton,” the burly policeman said to Adam.

  “I let him go last week,” Adam said.

  The detective made a noncommittal noise. “Did you see him at all after that?”

  Adam shook his head. “He didn’t come back to the co-op. I don’t think anyone else would hire him.”

  “Did you have any communication with him after you terminated his employment?”

  “I paid him a week’s severance, and that was it,” he said. “I assumed he’d gone back to Ellsworth.”

  “Can we talk in private for a moment?” he asked. Adam shot me a questioning glance, then shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and followed the detective out the door.

  “I knew he was bad news,” volunteered Ernie when they left.

  “Does that cop think Adam did him in?” asked the other.

  “I think he’s just doing his job,” John said, then turned his attention to Ernie. “What did you mean about Derek being bad news?”

  Ernie shifted in his chair. “Just a feeling,” he said. “He was the kind to get into trouble.”

  “Did you ever see anything suspicious?” John asked.

  “He got to work late a lot,” Ernie said. “I think he might have been a drinker; his eyes were always bloodshot, and he was kind of out to lunch sometimes.”

  “Who did he hang out with?”

  “Tania Kean, mostly,” he said. “And Evan Sorenson.”

  Ingrid’s son again. “How long has Evan been back on the island?” John asked.

  “A month or two. He’s living with his parents, and working out at that new farm.”

  “Really? I heard Derek worked there, too.”

  He shrugged a flannel-clad shoulder. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine Derek Morton doing much in the way of weeding. Too lazy.”

  I glanced at the door. “I heard Derek took out Adam’s boat sometimes.”

  “That’s what Adam said,” Ernie replied.

  “How did he find out?” John asked.

  “Boat was tied up wrong a few times, and the gas seemed to be going down awful fast, so Adam stayed back and watched one night. Caught him red-handed.”

  Before I could ask more, Detective Johnson and Adam returned.

  “Thank you for your time,” the policeman said, giving Adam a card. “And I’d like you to come and take a look at that dinghy later on today.”

  Adam seemed paler than usual, and my heart sank a few notches. Even though the dinghy was his, I told myself, anyone could have accessed it. Still, after the way the two men had parted company … it didn’t look good.

  The detective handed additional cards to the three young lobstermen. “If any of you know or happen to hear anything regarding Derek’s death, please give me a call.”

  Something about the question sparked my memory. “While I’m thinking of it,” I asked the lobstermen, “have any of you noticed a boat with a turquoise and orange buoy around lately?”

  “I’ve seen her a few times,” said Ernie, “but I haven’t seen any of the buoys on the water. And I’ve been watching.”

  “What’s her name?” John asked.

  “I never get close enough to see,” Ernie said. “She’s not a boat I’ve seen before. She’s usually pretty quick off the mark when she spots me.”

  “Think she’s putting out traps?” I asked.

  “If she is, she’s using someone else’s buoys to do it,” he answered. Each lobsterman in Maine was assigned a specific buoy; it was illegal to be seen picking up a trap whose buoy didn’t match the one tacked to your boat. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen any funny business.”

  “What else would a lobster boat be doing hanging around the island?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but I aim to find out,” Ernie said darkly.

  “Don’t go taking the law into your own hands, now,” Detective Johnson said mildly. “If you see any ‘funny business,’ I want to know about it. It might be related to what happened to that young sternman.”

  “I’ve got your number,” Ernie said with a steely smile that told me he planned on handling suspected poachers all by himself, thank you very much.

  Detective Johnson gave the young man a long, searching look, then turned to Adam. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The three men watched as we followed him out of the dim, fish-scented co-op, and I found myself glad I was an innkeeper and not a lobsterman.

  “Do you want us to run you down to Zeke’s farm?” John asked as we got back into the van.

  “Thanks, but you’ve driven me around the island enough already for one day,” he said. “The house is over there, right?” he asked, pointing toward a patch of woods not far from the pier.

  “I think so,” I said. “If you need a ride back, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got the inn’s number right here. ” He patted his shirt pocket. “Where’s the farm located, by the way? Is it within walking distance?”

  I gave him directions, then said, “It sounds like Derek might have been getting mixed up with something dangerous.”

  “Maybe,” Detective Johnson said. “Maybe not. Lots of young men talk big.”

  “He did end up dead, though,” I pointed out.

  “There is that,” Detective Johnson said. “There is that.”

  _____

  The police launch had pulled away from the inn’s dock, towing the dinghy with it, and was docking at the town pier, near the house where Derek Morton had apparently lived for a few weeks before his death. We’d left the detective near the pier—he was planning on walking to meet his team at the house.

  John and I got back to the inn, where the Cape Anne building sat serene above the soft blue waves. I looked out at the blue water lapping peacefully against the rocks, seaweed washing back and forth in the gentle waves. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that nothing unusual had happened. It had, though—and I couldn’t get the image of that young man’s pale face out of my mind.

  Catherine had finished tidying the rooms and gone down to the carriage house after her outing with Murray. John had headed down to his workshop to put the finishing touches on a sculpture for the show he was preparing for—his gorgeous driftwood pieces were starting to get some notice in the art world—while I dusted a pizza peel with cornmeal, dug a grapefruit-sized ball of dough from a plastic container in the fridge, and formed it into a rough round. I’d learned the recipe for no-knead artisan bread from Kathleen Flinn’s Kitchen Counter Cooking School, and now I always kept a tub of dough
on hand for bread. In an hour, I’d score the top with a sharp knife and toss it into the oven with a cup of hot water, and the kitchen would fill with the homey, yeasty scent of fresh bread.

  As the loaf sat to rise, I began cutting parchment for fish en papillote. The recipe sounded sophisticated and tasted out of this world, but was quick and easy to assemble—perfect for a distracted chef.

  I laid the fillets on top of the parchment squares, ignoring Biscuit, who was winding between my legs and meowing pitifully, then drizzled them with olive oil and sea salt before tossing in some minced shallots, summer squash, and a few spears of asparagus. I sealed the packets and tucked the pan into the fridge; I’d slide it into the oven when the bread came out. Catherine would be delighted, I thought; a dish that was low fat and featured vegetables! Served with a salad and some crusty bread (which I knew she wouldn’t touch), it would be a summer feast.

  My eyes drifted to the window, and the placid blue water beyond. Young Derek Morton would never enjoy another summer feast again. Who had taken his life?

  Biscuit meowed again, and I reached down to pet her smooth ginger fur. Normally I’d take pity on her and open a can of tuna, but the vet had told me she was getting a bit on the chunky side, and that I needed to cut back. Biscuit wasn’t the only one who needed to cut back, I thought, adjusting my T-shirt over my middle and opening the back door so she could go out and get some exercise. She gave me a disdainful look and padded over to the radiator under the window, where she curled up for an afternoon nap. So much for regular exercise.

  I pulled my recipe file out and flipped through to my grandmother’s steamed pudding recipe. John had brought up my coffee can of fresh blueberries; I knew Catherine wouldn’t share it with us, but I suspected both John and I could use some comfort food after the day’s grisly discovery. As I glanced over the list of ingredients, my thoughts strayed back to Derek. He had evidently been “talking big” recently. Had he told someone more than he was supposed to?

  And if his death was a warning, who was it for?

  I pulled out the metal pudding steamer my grandmother had given me—it looked like a little Bundt cake pan with a lid—and buttered it, then prepared the pot in which the pudding would cook. Like Boston Brown Bread, what made the pudding so moist and delicious was the steam treatment it received.

  While the pot of water was heating on the stove, I lined up the ingredients on the counter, including the rinsed berries I had picked that morning. As I creamed the butter, sugar, and eggs together in a mixer, I cast my mind back to the image of Derek, trying to remember the details. He’d been lying almost straight up-and-down in the bottom of the boat, with his feet toward the bow; if he’d fallen into that position, that meant he would have been standing in the bow, which is not usually where you stood in a skiff. I was guessing someone had placed him there.

  As I mixed the butter and sugar together, I found myself wondering how Tania was doing—and if she had some information that would point to why Derek had died. Adam evidently wasn’t the only one Detective Johnson was questioning, but it made me nervous that there was a link between Adam and Derek. I was also worried about having a murderer running loose on Cranberry Island. I poured the dry ingredients into a smaller bowl and stirred them with a whisk, then added them to the creamy butter and sugar in the mixing bowl and reached for the berries.

  When the blueberries had been folded into the creamy batter and I had poured it all into the pudding mold, I picked up the phone and called my best friend. She answered on the first ring, sounding less like her cheery self than normal.

  “How’s Tania holding up?” I asked as I fitted the lid onto the mold and slipped it into the pot on the stove, then added water to create a “bath” for the pudding.

  “Not great,” Charlene said. “But that’s to be expected.”

  “It’s hard to lose someone you care for.” I put the lid on the pot and adjusted the heat. “How long had they been seeing each other, again?”

  “Only a month or two. She was pretty into him, though.” She sighed. “You remember young love.”

  I much preferred older love, I thought as I flipped through my book until I found the recipe for foamy sauce. It was much more rational, and at least at the moment, very satisfying.

  “I wonder who would have wanted him dead?” I mused.

  “They’ve confirmed that, then?”

  “No,” I said, running my finger down the list of ingredients for foamy sauce. Lyle’s Golden Syrup, an English import my grandmother had introduced me to, was easy and good with steamed puddings, but I was out at the moment. Besides, foamy sauce, a sweet concoction made with butter, eggs, and cream, was even better. “Still, obviously they think someone did him in. Did Tania say anything about who she thinks might have killed him?”

  “No, but she told me the detective wanted to know a lot about Adam. I guess he’s the only one they have to go on.”

  “I hope his name is cleared quickly.” I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my chin as I opened the fridge and checked to be sure I had enough eggs. Although the sauce wouldn’t be made until the last minute, I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be caught short. “Shouldn’t be hard. I can’t imagine Adam hurting anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t think so, either,” Charlene said, “but apparently things aren’t looking too good.”

  I almost dropped the eggs. “What do you mean?”

  “Tania said Derek and Adam had a run-in about a week back.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I had to ask. “What did he say?”

  “Adam seemed to think Derek had been taking out his boat without asking permission.”

  Just what Fred had said down at the store. “Did Tania confirm that?”

  Charlene sighed. “Tania didn’t know for sure, but she does know he left to do ‘errands’ at night a couple of times and wouldn’t say where he was going.”

  “Adam must have had some pretty solid evidence to lose his temper like that. He’s usually so easy-going.”

  “Derek was reportedly running the lobster boat with its lights off, and had almost run over someone on a skiff.”

  “How did he know it was Derek?” I asked.

  “One of the lobstermen saw him rowing a dinghy back to shore the night it happened, and whoever he tried to run over said he saw the boat’s name—it was the Carpe Diem.”

  Adam’s boat, I thought, feeling sick.

  “They tracked Adam down and filed a complaint with the police in Southwest Harbor,” Charlene continued.

  “No wonder Adam fired Derek.”

  “He didn’t just fire him.” I didn’t like the foreboding sound of Charlene’s voice.

  I remembered what Fred had told me down at the store, and cringed. “What else did he do?”

  “He threatened to kill him if he set foot on the Carpe Diem again.”

  five

  I tightened both hands and realized I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen with a carton of eggs in my hands. I set them down before I damaged them, and groaned. If Adam was going to threaten somebody, why did he have to do it in front of half the island?

  “I hope he has an alibi,” Charlene said. “Does anyone know when Derek died, yet?”

  “Not that I know of. And even if they did, I’m guessing they wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Maybe we’re worrying too much,” Charlene suggested. “After all, they didn’t arrest him.”

  “They haven’t even finished the autopsy yet, Charlene.”

  “That’s right,” she mused. “Maybe he died of natural causes after all.”

  “He didn’t,” I said, looking out at the mountains beyond the serene blue water and wishing I felt as calm as the scene outside looked.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m not supposed to say anything, but it was pretty obvious what had happened.” I told her how I’d found him.

  “Did you notice anything else?”

  “There was a note in hi
s hand. He was supposed to be meeting someone named ‘T.’”

  “Tania?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been asking myself that question all afternoon.” As I gripped the phone, I glanced out the window toward the island. Beryl and Agnes were walking down the road toward the inn. “My guests are back from the mail boat,” I told Charlene. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Now you have me worried.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  She sighed. “Call me if you hear anything.”

  “Of course,” I said, hanging up the phone and reaching for a bottle of wine and a box of crackers. Murder or no murder, I still had guests to feed.

  _____

  “How did your trip go?” I asked as I walked into the parlor carrying a tray laden with Irish cheddar, water crackers, and a bottle of Merlot. The room was cozy, with big windows facing the water, overstuffed couches, and a thick peach-and-blue Oriental rug. On cold nights, I laid a fire in the big river stone fireplace, but tonight was perfect even with the windows open. An early evening breeze ruffled the curtains as I set the tray down on the coffee table.

  Agnes, the mystery writer, sat up eagerly, adjusting her chambray shirt over her ample middle as she reached for the cheese knife. “This looks fabulous. I’m absolutely starved,” she told me.

  “I’ve got dinner going in the kitchen,” I said. “Tell me about the trip. Was the crucifix a match?”

  Beryl answered, eyes shining with excitement. “It’s not a hundred percent, but they’re pretty sure it’s the same one. They’re doing DNA testing to confirm his identity; I had to give them a swab.”

  “When will they know?”

  “They’re going to test it this week.” She shivered. “It’s weird to think of my grandfather being murdered, but it’s looking like that’s what happened.”

  “How can they tell?”

  “Well, the unmarked grave is suspicious,” she said. “He wasn’t in a cemetery, and as a man of the cloth, he would have wanted to be buried on hallowed ground.”

  “Makes sense,” I agreed.

  “But beyond that, it appears someone put a bullet through his skull.” Beryl shuddered. “They even found the bullet.”