She walked closer. “I think it’s a still.”
“As in for making moonshine?”
“I think the reverend was spreading more than the good word, Natalie,” she said slowly, running her light over a line of barrels that were tucked behind the still.
nineteen
“I’ve often heard that rum runners used Smuggler’s Cove,” Matilda said, still staring at the bottle. “Now I know who it was.”
“You really think a priest was responsible for this?” I asked.
“What better cover?” She glanced at me. “Nobody’s going to go after the local priest.”
“Apparently someone did,” I pointed out.
She replaced the cork on the bottle. “True.”
“Natalie?” It was Beryl, from somewhere up above us. “What did you find?”
“Lots of bottles,” I called up. “I’ll be right up.” As I headed for the bottom of the ladder, Matilda’s light found a crate of empty bottles stacked in front of a line of barrels. “Aha.”
“What?”
“I think I know why someone may have done him in.”
I paused. “Why?”
“Ever heard of the Real McCoy?” she asked.
“You mentioned him the other day,” I said. “But what does that have to do with this basement?”
“McCoy was a rum runner who was known for importing genuine liquor. He used to go up and down the Atlantic seaboard, smuggling Canadian whiskey, among other things.”
“And?”
“Well, we’ve got a basement full of liquor bottles marked Canadian whiskey here. And some of them are empty.” She flashed her light on the crate nearest the still.
“And there’s a still …” All of a sudden the letters Beryl had showed me popped into my mind. “He was corresponding with a Canadian bishop who was complaining about his congregation thinning.” I looked up at Matilda. “Do you think the ‘bishop’ was a rum runner?”
“That would be my guess,” she said. “I’m guessing Beryl’s grandfather started smuggling Canadian whiskey, but then started manufacturing his own whiskey and passing it off as Canadian stuff.”
“We’re coming down,” Beryl called from the top of the ladder. One by one, the two climbed down the ladder to join us in the dusty cellar.
“Oh, my word,” Beryl breathed when she took in what was around us.
“It’s a surprise, isn’t it?” Matilda asked.
“I think we’ve figured out who killed your grandfather,” I told her.
“You’re kidding me,” she said.
“We’re guessing his Canadian bishop was a rum runner, and your grandfather was making moonshine.”
She gulped. “My grandfather? The priest?”
“And rum runner,” I added.
Matilda piped up, “Don’t forget distiller.”
_____
By the time we emerged into the sunlight, Matilda and Beryl had located a stack of labels and a ledger that showed a rather active business venture, but no sign of any cash. We all surmised that whoever had done in Beryl’s grandfather had taken any cash on hand with him (or her), and abandoned the whiskey as second-rate. “What a find,” Matilda said, as she headed up to the house. “I’ll let you know what Murray says; I’m hoping he’ll let me make an exhibit out of it!”
Beryl was thoughtful on the way back to the inn. We all had dust and cobwebs in our hair, and I, for one, was looking forward to a shower. “I wish I knew who that ‘bishop’ was. I’m pretty sure he was responsible for my grandfather’s death.”
“I’ll bet Matilda can help you with that,” she said. “She’s got contacts all over the place.”
“It’s just so sad.” Her voice sounded hollow. “If he hadn’t been involved in rum running, I might have gotten a chance to know him.”
“People do all kinds of strange things,” I said.
“What do you think happened to all the money he earned?” Agnes asked.
“I bet I know,” Beryl said.
We all looked at her in surprise.
“I didn’t say anything before, but my grandmother had mental problems,” she said. “The reason the kids were in Bangor was so that my great-grandparents could take care of them. She spent a lot of time in institutions. I always figured my great-grandparents paid for it, but now I think it may have been my grandfather.”
“So he might have gotten into rum running for a good cause?”
“The end justifying the means, so to speak,” Catherine suggested. “Too bad it didn’t work out for him.”
_____
When Agnes and Beryl were settled, I picked up the phone and dialed the Whites. “Hey, Eli,” I said into the phone when my friend answered. One mystery might have been solved—or at least the motive figured out—but I still needed to make progress on the more recent one.
“Natalie! How’s the new skiff doing?”
“Just fine,” I said.
“You name her yet?”
“Not yet. Hey … can I ask you a favor?”
“Anything for a woman who makes the best brownies in Maine.”
I chuckled. “I promise I’ll bring you a batch soon. In the meantime, do you know where Fred Penney moors his lobster boat?”
“Absolutely,” he said, “since it almost never leaves these days. Why?”
“I have a hunch she may be our false Zephyr,” I told him. “Has he asked for a new skiff lately?”
“Now that you mention it, yes. I just sold a new one to him a few days back. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Can we take a look this afternoon?”
“I’ll be right over,” he said.
It was less than fifteen minutes before Eli showed up at my back door. I handed him a bag of brownies from my freezer, and his eyes lit up.
“Don’t tell Claudie,” he said. “She’d kill me.”
“My lips are sealed,” I said, knowing his wife’s insistence on sugar-free everything. He took one out and popped it into his mouth, even though it was frozen, as I followed him down to the dock. “You make a mean brownie, Miss Barnes,” he told me once he’d swallowed.
“Thanks.” I grinned at him.
“Which skiff you want to take?” he asked.
“Why don’t we take yours?” I suggested. “I’m still breaking mine in.”
“With your track record, I’m a bit worried about the breaking,” he joked as I hopped into the little boat and helped him untie it.
It was only a few minutes before we were in Cranberry Island’s small harbor. Fred’s lobster boat was moored on the far end, away from the pier. “Could be her,” Eli mused as we drew closer. The buoy on the front was navy and red, not turquoise and blue, and the name emblazoned on the back of the boat in peeling paint was, appropriately, Lazy Susan.
“How could you change the name of the boat?” I asked.
“Paint a sign on a board and hang it on the back,” he suggested. “Replace the buoy, and you’re a new boat.”
“Can you get a little closer?” I asked. He slowed the motor and drew up behind the lobster boat. I wasn’t surprised to see two shiny nails driven into the stern of the boat. “I wish we could go aboard and see if we could find that buoy. I found paint cans in Fred’s shed.”
Eli glanced back at the island. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
I stared at him. “But we’ll be seen!”
“Not if you board from the starboard side,” he said. “Be quick about it, and crouch down low. I’ll go a short ways off and cast a line.” He picked up his fishing rod. “When you’re ready, give me a shout and I’ll come back and get you.”
He drew close enough to the lobster boat for me to clamber onto it. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll be back in five,” he said. “Gonna catch me a mackerel.”
“More like a red herring,” I muttered and clambered aboard.
Speaking of herring, there was less of a smell of it than I expected, compared to my experiences on Adam’s
lobster boat. I hunched down, trying to stay out of sight, and half-crawled into the wheelhouse.
The first cabinet held old, water-stained charts, and the second held life jackets. The third had all kinds of tools, along with extra gas and oil, and the fourth was stuffed with dirty old towels. I was about to close it when I caught a glimpse of orange.
Eagerly, I pushed the towels aside. I’d found the orange and turquoise buoy. And behind it was a rolled-up piece of canvas. When I opened it, I wasn’t surprised to find the words Green Zephyr.
I shoved the two things back into the compartment and rearranged the towels, then squatted down to think. Fred Penney was the driver of the faux Green Zephyr. But why? And if he wasn’t out lobstering, what was he doing?
I headed toward the stern of the boat, to the bins where the lobsters are kept. I opened the lid to one to find it filled with water. But the other was dry. I leaned in, wondering why there were granules of what looked like dirt spread along the bottom of the compartment. When I took a whiff, I realized it was pepper.
For a few more minutes, I poked around the boat, but found nothing. I gave Eli a wave, and he came looping back; I hopped back into the skiff and we were off.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“She’s the other Zephyr,” I said. “The buoy and a canvas sign are tucked into a compartment in the front.”
“Anything else of interest?” His intelligent eyes were bright.
“One of the lobster compartments was empty, except for a bit of black pepper.”
“Pepper?”
“I know,” I said. “Weird.”
“He’s up to something,” Eli said.
“How do we find out what?”
“Only way I can figure is to follow him,” Eli suggested.
“Actually, I think I know when it’ll be at Smuggler’s Cove next,” I told him.
“What, are you psychic?”
“No.” I told him about the list of dates and times I’d found at Derek’s house—including the closest date on the list.
“That’s tomorrow night, isn’t it?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Need some help?”
“I’d love it,” I said.
“Count me in.”
twenty
I was still restless when Eli dropped me off back at the inn. Nobody was around, so I set to work assembling a cake for the next morning as I ran through everything I knew, ignoring Biscuit’s plaintive meow from her customary perch on the radiator. I couldn’t stake out Smuggler’s Cove tonight—but there were other things I could do. I grabbed a turtle bar from the cookie jar and picked up the phone, chewing as I dialed.
Charlene answered on the third ring. “Cranberry Island Post Office and Store.”
“It’s Natalie.”
“Any news?”
“Lots of it,” I said, and told her all I’d discovered as I measured flour into a bowl for streusel.
“But you can’t find out about the Zephyr until tomorrow night,” she said. “You’re stuck.”
“Not completely. Something’s going on in that barn,” I told her.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
I told her about the conversation I’d overheard between Zeke and Evan.
“Evan thinks Derek’s death is linked to something involved with the farm?”
“Exactly” I replied. “I’ve been trying to figure it out. I think something’s going on in there—that’s why Zeke didn’t want the cops to investigate the fire, and that’s why he scares everyone away from the barn.”
“Well then. When are we going to check it out?”
“It’s not that easy,” I told her as Biscuit wove between my legs. I cut the butter into the streusel and added walnuts, my mouth already watering. The creamy batter was finished and waiting. “It’s padlocked shut.”
“It’s an old barn, isn’t it?” Charlene asked. “Surely there’s another way in.”
“He guards it pretty carefully. I’d be surprised if he was that careless.”
“We’ll never know until we try, will we? How about tonight?”
“John will kill me.”
“Just tell him you’re coming to visit me,” she said. “Bring some cookies. It’ll make it more convincing.”
“I’m out of Caramel Turtles,” I warned her.
“That’s okay. I like your shortbread and brownies, too.”
I laughed and promised to meet her at her house at eight. We’d go over just after sunset. “Wear dark clothes,” she reminded me. “And bring a flashlight.”
“Anything else?” I grinned.
“I’d say a gun, but neither of us has one,” she said, her chipper voice suddenly solemn. “I’ll bring my mace, though.”
“See you then,” I said, giving the streusel a final stir.
_____
“What did you tell John?” Charlene asked when I arrived at 8:00. Whereas I had worn dark jeans and a navy windbreaker, she wore a black sweat suit with the words Maine Squeeze picked out in rhinestones on the front.
“I didn’t,” I said sheepishly as I walked into her small but cozy house. “But I left him a note.”
“Where is he?”
“Helping out down at Island Artists.”
“He’s going to kill you, you know,” she said, arching a plucked eyebrow. “If whoever killed Derek doesn’t get to it first.”
I shivered at the thought. “Got a flashlight?”
“Yup. And I decided on a crowbar instead of mace. It’s more multi-functional.”
“Thinking of prying up a board?”
“Or hitting someone over the head. You never know what you’ll need to be prepared to do,” she countered. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
“Should we take a car, or walk?”
“Let’s walk,” I suggested. “That way no one will ask why we were parked near the farm.” On an island the size of Cranberry Island, any aberration was fodder for gossip.
Despite my nervousness about what we were going to do, it was a lovely evening for a walk. It was cool, but not too cool, and the moon was almost full, illuminating the road so that we didn’t need a flashlight. It was almost twenty minutes before we came upon the farm.
“Looks like someone’s home,” Charlene murmured. The downstairs lights were on in the farmhouse, giving it a cozy, warm glow. “Should we wait?”
I gazed at the house, then looked toward the shadowy hulk I knew was the barn. “It’s a pretty long way between the house and the barn. I think we’ll be okay.”
“Lead on, then,” she told me.
Instead of crossing the fields, I moved back to the far edge of the property, near the woods, and skirted the edge of the property, glancing back nervously toward the house as we approached the barn. Fortunately, everything stayed peaceful as we inched up to the big front doors. The padlock gleamed in the moonlight. I reached for it; the door was unlocked, the Yale lock dangling from the latch.
“Now what?” Charlene whispered.
“I’m just going to open the door a crack,” I said. “There might be someone in there.”
Carefully, I pulled on the handle. It stuck for a moment, and then the door swung out a few inches, spilling bright light out on the grass. A familiar scent wafted out as I pushed it back quickly, my heart pounding, and scuttled to the side of the barn, Charlene on my heels.
“Is someone in there?” Charlene asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m not sure I want to risk it.” The darkness seemed to fall down on us like a cloak; the thick pines to the side of the building blotted the moonlight.
“Should I turn on the flashlight?” my friend whispered.
“Not yet,” I said, squinting up at a slice of light coming from the second story of the barn, illuminating the branches of the pines. “Did you smell anything when the door opened?” I asked.
“I thought I caught a whiff of black pepper,” she said.
&nbs
p; “Me too.” I thought of the pepper in Fred’s lobster boat. Another connection. But what kind of connection was it?
“This makes me nervous,” my friend confessed, gripping my sleeve with a manicured hand.
“I know, but we’ve got to find out what’s going on. We’re here for Tania,” I reminded her.
“I know,” she said. “But are you sure this barn has anything to do with Derek?”
I was about to answer when I heard voices. Charlene tightened her grip, and we both peered around the corner. The door creaked open, and two people exited.
“Everything’s boxed up and ready to go,” said one of them. Zeke Forester.
“You’re sure nobody’s onto us?” It was Evan. “I can’t afford to get caught.”
“I made sure there was no connection; nobody knows about us. Besides, this is the last time,” he said. “Then we won’t have to worry.”
“You talked with him?”
Zeke’s voice was steely. “I’ve told him my intentions. I won’t let threats stop me.”
“You didn’t tell him I was involved, did you?”
“It’s between him and me,” Zeke said. “You’ll be safe.”
“Derek wasn’t,” Evan said.
It sounded like Zeke sighed. “He brought it on himself. Now, let’s get this over with.” Together, Zeke and Evan carried four boxes out of the barn, setting them on the ground just outside the door. Zeke reset the padlock, then each of them picked up a box. One of them turned on a flashlight, and both headed toward the woods on the other side of the barn.
“What do we do now?” Charlene asked.
“I’ll follow them,” I said, watching the bobbing light recede into darkness. “You try and figure out what’s in those boxes.”
“What if they see you?” She clutched at my arm.
“I’ll tell them I was out for a stroll,” I said, and before I could talk myself out of it, I shook off her hand and hurried after them.
It was tough going; I was trying to keep up, but without making too much noise or walking into a tree. Although the moon helped, the trees made everything shadowy, and the path was narrow and winding. Thankfully, the light was a good distance ahead of me, and the sound of the water crashing against rocks somewhere not too far in the distance helped mask the crack of twigs as I fumbled through the forest.
Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) Page 18
