Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

  As I walked back toward the inn, I tried to puzzle out what I’d overheard. At first I’d thought Zeke had been talking about his dairy license, but if the limiting factor was Murray’s willingness to rent him land, that clearly wasn’t it.

  Who was trying to intimidate the farmer? I had suspected the shed fire wasn’t an accident, and apparently Evan shared my opinion. But he also seemed to think he knew who was responsible for killing Derek Morton, and Zeke hadn’t contradicted him.

  Something was going on at Zeke’s farm—something that might shed light on who had murdered Derek Morton. And the best way to find out what it was, I thought, was to take a peek into that carefully guarded barn.

  eighteen

  My mind was elsewhere as I ushered Beryl and Agnes into the van early that afternoon, with Catherine sitting next to me in the front. She had dressed in a silk blouse and slacks for the occasion, along with kitten heel pumps. Her hair was in a little French twist that looked like something Grace Kelly would wear. I had dressed more practically, in jeans, a polo shirt, and my old sneakers. Beryl and Agnes were slumming it, too; after all, we were going to be poking around an abandoned building.

  Beryl handed me a photograph before we got into the van. “Is that your grandfather?” I asked. The image showed a tall, lean man in a clerical collar. An ornate gold crucifix around his neck.

  “It sure is,” she said.

  “Good-looking guy.” I handed it back to Agnes. “Where did the fancy cross come from?”

  “It came from Italy,” she said. “According to family history, my grandfather’s great-uncle was a Catholic priest, and gave it to my grandfather when he decided to take the cloth. He wasn’t Catholic, but it was a family heirloom. Apparently it originated in Italy.”

  “I didn’t know you were Italian,” I said.

  “On my mother’s side,” she said as we bumped up the road from the inn. “It’s where my dark hair comes from. Or what used to be dark hair.” She grimaced as she touched her salt-and-pepper braid.

  “It’s still beautiful,” I told her. “Did Matilda come up with any new information?”

  “She found the church records from the time,” Agnes told me. “Apparently he was a talented priest; his congregation swelled from the time he came to the time he left. People even came from the mainland to hear him preach.”

  “Must have been charismatic,” I told her.

  “Yes … but it doesn’t make sense,” Beryl pointed out. “The letters with the bishop in Canada indicated that his congregation was shrinking.”

  “And we looked it up,” Agnes said. “His bishop was in Bangor, not Canada.”

  That was strange. “Did she find anything about the bishop in Nova Scotia?”

  “No record yet. She’s still looking, though.”

  “You’re right,” I said to Beryl. “It doesn’t make sense. Was he doing some other kind of ministry? Going to different islands and preaching?”

  “Not that we can find,” Agnes said. “We even contacted the diocese headquarters in Bangor, but there’s no record of him preaching anywhere but here during the time he was installed on the island.”

  I glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Do you know if he traveled to Canada?”

  Beryl shook her head. “Not that I know of. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “If it’s solvable, I’m sure Matilda will figure it out.”

  “Matilda is going to meet us at the rectory,” Agnes said.

  “Are you going to explore with us?” I asked Catherine, who had been sitting quietly in the front seat beside me.

  “I’ll probably go and visit Murray while you gals poke around,” she said.

  “Probably a wise choice. You look really nice today; I’d hate to see your blouse get dirty.” As I spoke, we rounded a bend and found Murray’s sprawling house in front of us. While the rest of the island was populated by quaint shingle-style and clapboard houses, Murray’s was built of pink brick, with a circular drive on which his Jaguar was parked. It hadn’t always been this way, of course; before Murray made his money in development, Charlene told me, the Selfridge home had been a typical clapboard house, complete with a tower from which wives could presumably search for their husbands.

  Now, though, there was a house that looked like it had been picked up from Dallas and plunked down on Cranberry Island. If this is what Murray had in mind for his island developments, I was very thankful nothing had come to fruition. I was also thankful the driveway to his home was long and heavily treed.

  The original rectory—or what was left of it—was off to the right, its simple white clapboard looking very incongruous next to its enormous brick neighbor.

  “Does he have plans for it?” I asked.

  “He’s thinking of replacing it with a cabana,” Catherine said.

  “A cabana?”

  She pointed to the pit in the ground beside it. “To go with the pool.”

  I looked at the dark hole from which the bones had been excavated and suppressed a shiver. How long had they lain there? And who had put them there? Although work had stopped for a bit, it seemed to be moving ahead now; a young man with a spade was deep in the pit.

  “My grandfather’s resting place,” Beryl said.

  “Just think,” Agnes said. “If Murray hadn’t decided to put in a pool, you never would have known what happened to my grandfather.”

  “We still don’t,” Beryl pointed out.

  “I can’t imagine putting in a pool on Cranberry Island,” I mused, looking at the muddy pit. “It’ll be heated, I hope.”

  “Of course,” Catherine volunteered. “We’re not polar bears. Now, if you’ll drop me off at the house, that would be terrific; I’d hate to get muddy. I’m excited to hear what you find, though!”

  “We’ll let you know,” I said, pulling up into the circular drive in front of the house. I waited until Murray answered the door. He gave us a quick wave, and headed to the car with a stack of papers.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Waivers,” he said as a drift of Polo cologne wafted through the car window. He’d dressed for Catherine’s arrival, in khakis and a pressed checked shirt. “Just in case something happens.”

  Only Murray would ask for legal papers, I thought.

  As I handed them back to my guests, Murray said, “Catherine talked me into renting some more land to that young farmer.”

  “Really?” I said, not quite sure how to react. Yesterday, I would have thought that was a great idea. After what I had seen that morning, I wasn’t so sure. “How about the school?”

  “What about it?” he asked.

  “I heard you’re voting to shut it down.”

  “Natalie.” Catherine gave me a warning look, which I ignored.

  “It’s a tax burden,” he said.

  “We’ll have to pay taxes whether there’s a school on the island or not,” I pointed out. “This way, we have a year-round community here.”

  “It’s not necessary.” Murray’s already ruddy face turned a darker shade of red.

  “Who’s going to take care of your resort people?” I asked. “Who’s going to run the store, or build boats? Claudette’s grandkids will have to move off-island.”

  “I thought you were here to go through the old rectory,” he said, his ears reddening.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you for that,” Beryl piped up from the back seat. “Here are my forms, and Agnes’s.”

  “Mine too,” I said, reading through the pages quickly and signing at the bottom. I didn’t speak legalese, but at least I didn’t see any verbiage about giving him ownership of the inn.

  “Is Matilda here?” Beryl asked.

  “She’s already at the rectory,” he said.

  “I appreciate you giving us the opportunity to check it out,” I told him as I signed my form and handed it over. “And I’m sorry if I sounded sharp, but the school is important to the island. Please think about it.”

  He glanced at Cath
erine, who smiled at him. “She does have a point.”

  I could have hugged her.

  “I’ll let you get on with your day,” I told him. “Thanks again.”

  “Let us know if you find anything,” Catherine called. “And be careful!”

  I turned around in the circular drive and parked near the pool site.

  “You’re pretty hot about that school, aren’t you?” Beryl asked.

  “I thought you were going to nix the whole rectory thing,” said Agnes.

  “Sorry about that. I’m just frustrated, that all.”

  “Well, we’re here,” Beryl said as I pulled in next to Matilda’s ancient Dodge Omni. Like many vehicles on the island, the passenger door was held on with duct tape. “Come on,” she said, and I got out of the van and followed my guests down a short, pine needle–strewn path to the old rectory.

  “Halloo!” Matilda called as we got close to the run-down structure, her close-cropped hair gleaming bright white in the afternoon sun. “I’ve waited for you!”

  “Did Murray make you sign a waiver, too?”

  She peered at me over her glasses. “Are you kidding me? Of course. But we’re in, so who cares?”

  I surveyed the old building. “It’s not in great shape, is it?”

  The warped door was wide open, but the windows had long ago been boarded up. It was a small structure; probably only enough room for a bedroom, a kitchen, and a small living area. “I’m surprised he didn’t tear the whole thing down.”

  “He’s oddly frugal in some ways,” Matilda said.

  “But not others.” I stared pointedly at the enormous hole in the ground that was slated for a pool. A pool that could probably be used for six weeks out of the year.

  When we got to the front door, we all hesitated. I peered into the dark building; the wood floorboards were coated with dust and debris. “Do you think it’s safe?” I asked.

  “I imagine so,” Matilda said. “Here goes.”

  The boards creaked as she walked in, but nothing seemed to give way. She snapped on a flashlight—I was impressed she’d thought to bring it—and ran the beam around the dim room. Beryl followed, eyes wide, and then Agnes.

  “So this is where my grandfather lived,” Beryl said. “Not very big, was it?”

  “His family was in Bangor,” Agnes reminded her. “He didn’t need much space.”

  “It’s a shame there isn’t any furniture here,” Matilda said. There was a cracked mirror hanging on one wall, and a pile of old newspapers in the corner, but the front room, which must once have been a living room, was empty.

  “Not much of a kitchen, either,” Beryl observed from a low-hanging doorway. I peered over her shoulder; the space couldn’t have been more than six feet long. There were a sink and some falling-down shelves; if there had once been an oven or a refrigerator, they were long gone. “I can see why they changed the location of the rectory,” I said.

  “I just wish there were more here,” Agnes said, walking into the small bedroom, which was also empty.

  “It has been vacant for more than fifty years,” Matilda pointed out. “It’s not common to walk in and find things just as they were.”

  “I’m kind of disappointed,” Beryl said. As she spoke, she took a step forward. There was a loud crack, and her right leg shot through the floor.

  She caught herself with her hands as I hurried over to her. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” she said, her voice tight with pain. “Help me up, would you?”

  Together we hauled her out, and inspected her leg. “Is it broken?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, bending it experimentally. “Just bruised and a little scraped up. Thank goodness I wore jeans today!”

  “And thank goodness you didn’t go all the way through,” I added, staring at the hole in the floor where her leg had gone through and then inspecting the floorboards under my own feet. They seemed solid, but after what had just happened, I suspected all of us were nervous. As much as I hated to admit it, Murray had been smart to have us sign waivers. “You’ve had a heck of a week,” I told both women. “First the accident in the skiff, and now this.”

  Agnes grinned. “At least it hasn’t been dull.”

  I looked down at the floorboards. They seemed solid, but who knew? “We should probably get out of here,” I said.

  “First I want to find out if there’s a cellar access,” Matilda said.

  “Other than that one, you mean,” I said, pointing to the jagged hole in the floor. She approached it gingerly, aiming the light through the hole.

  “See anything?” Beryl asked.

  “Actually, yes,” she said. “It looks like a bunch of bottles.” She stood up and looked around. “Surely there’s an access point.”

  “I didn’t see any doors,” I told her.

  “Is there one outside, maybe?” Matilda asked. We were all relieved to file out the front door and circle the small house from the exterior. Unfortunately, though, there was no sign of any access from the outside.

  After inspecting the house multiple times, we stood outside the front door, reluctant to go back inside.

  “There’s got to be an access somewhere,” Matilda said.

  “I’m not sure it’s safe to look for it, though. Beryl could have fallen all the way through.”

  “I’m going back in.” The historian’s jaw was set and her voice full of resolve.

  “Matilda …”

  “If I fall, just haul me out,” she said firmly.

  I groaned as she headed back in, training the flashlight on the floor. “All right, I’ll join you,” I said a moment later. I couldn’t let her go in alone. As I followed her cautiously, I found myself regretting the second helping of coffee cake I’d had that morning, and tried to think light thoughts.

  Keeping a safe distance from the wiry historian and skirting the hole in the floor, I watched as she studied the floors and walls, feeling them with knotted hands. She made the rounds of each room, including the kitchen, but came up empty.

  “There’s got to be an access somewhere,” she said. “I’ve checked everywhere.”

  “What about those papers?” I asked, pointing to the unruly stack in the corner. “There might be something under there.”

  “It’s worth a try, I suppose,” she said. Together, we relocated the stack—“From the late ’20s,” she noted—and sneezed at the clouds of dust that rose in a cloud. When we got the last of them shifted, she shone the light over the area, but the floor looked just like the wood in the rest of the room. “So much for that,” Matilda said, frustration in her voice.

  “Wait. What’s that?” I directed her light toward a slender seam in the wood.

  “You’re right, Natalie. There’s something there!”

  I brushed the dust away; there was definitely a seam there. “A trap door,” I suggested.

  “Looks like it. A big one, too. But how do we open it?”

  I looked around the room for something to use to pry it open, but there was nothing available. “Maybe there’s something in the kitchen, or outside,” I suggested.

  “I’ll check the kitchen,” she said. “You go look for a branch or something.”

  “We’ll see if we can find something,” Beryl said from the door. I sat near the door while Matilda tiptoed to the kitchen. “There’s a bent butter knife in here,” she called to me. “Think that will work?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  She tiptoed back, glancing at the hole in the floor, and slid the thin blade of the knife into the seam and lifted. A section of the floor came up about an inch, and I grabbed the edge and pushed it up farther.

  “Bingo,” she said in a low voice as we both peered down into the murky depths of the cellar, which smelled of must and earth. A rickety staircase led into the darkness, and my thoughts turned to the bones buried just yards away.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked.r />
  “Not at all,” she said drily, with a glance at the hole in the floor. “But I’m dying to know what’s down there.”

  Before I could protest, she was already on the first step. It creaked ominously, but didn’t give. “So far, so good,” she said.

  “What did you find?” Beryl called from the doorway.

  “It’s a staircase to the cellar,” I told her. “Matilda’s going down.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “I doubt it,” I told her honestly, then returned my attention to Matilda. “What do you see?” I asked the historian.

  “It’s amazing down here,” she said from near the bottom of the ladder. “Like a time capsule. You should come see. The ladder seems perfectly safe.”

  Despite her assertions, I waited until she was all the way down before braving the first step. I didn’t know if it could hold one person, much less two—and I had been hitting the pastries a bit hard lately.

  “You coming?”

  “Be right there.” Saying a brief prayer, I lowered myself onto the first step. It bowed under my weight, but didn’t break. Carefully, I made my way down the rest of the ancient staircase—which was more like a graduated ladder than a staircase—to where Matilda was flashing her light on a stack of dusty bottles.

  “Isn’t this incredible?” she breathed. “I’ll bet nobody’s been down here in ninety years.”

  “Are these all full?” There were hundreds of them, I realized, coated with dust. Some were stacked in wooden pallets, and others were crammed into makeshift shelves lining the wall.

  “They seem to be.” Matilda picked up a bottle, pried out the cork, and held it out to me. “Take a sniff.”

  I lowered my nose cautiously and took a light whiff that just about seared my nose hairs. “Good God. What is it?”

  “Whiskey.” She shone the light on the bottle; the liquid inside glowed amber beneath the dust, and a label proclaimed it as Toronto Club Whiskey. She ran the light around the basement; there were crates and crates of bottles. The basement was significantly bigger than the house above it. “This place is enormous,” she said.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a contraption in the corner. There were two large metal containers linked by a narrow tube; the whole thing was felted with dust.