Scone Cold Dead

by Karen MacInerney

  The scones were a smashing success; as we figured out our plan to feed Claudette and Eli for the week, both Charlene and I ate two each, slathered with clotted cream; with the cherries, they didn't need any jam.

  "I have to stop," she groaned. "But these are amazing."

  "I think this one may be a winner," I agreed. "I still have two more recipes to experiment with, though. So stay tuned."

  "With pleasure," she said, licking her fingers. She glanced at the clock. "When is your observer supposed to show up, again?"

  "Three," I told her.

  "It's two forty-five now," she said. "Are you picking her up in the van?"

  "She told me she'd rather walk. And it's a gorgeous day; I would, too."

  "So no panic."

  "And the rooms are clean," I said, "so I'm off-duty for a while."

  "How are things now that Gwen's not here anymore?" she asked.

  Since she and Adam had gotten married, they'd taken up residence at Adam's house. And now that Gwen was so busy getting the Art Guild up and running, she'd been at the inn a lot less frequently. "I miss her," I said. "And I'm still getting used to the extra work. I may have to hire someone to help out; Catherine, John, and I are handling it, but it would be nice to have a break. If I can get the occupancy up, I'm going to see if I can have Marge come back to help me out again."

  "That sounds like a good plan," she said. "What are you doing to up bookings?"

  "I'm sending out a newsletter tomorrow," I said. "And doing the contest, of course. I was thinking of putting together a cookbook, too."

  "Oh, that's a great idea," she said. "You could call it The Gray Whale Inn Kitchen."

  "I like it!" I told her. "You're full of good ideas."

  "You really should talk to Gwen about it," she said. "She did some computer course on online marketing; I'm sure she'd be happy to help."

  "I should," I said. As I spoke, my mother-in-law, Catherine, walked into the kitchen. Although she was normally decked out in cashmere and pearls—even when changing sheets in the guest rooms—today she was dressed down in a wool sweater I'd never seen before and a pair of trim-fitting but unusually faded jeans. And she wasn't wearing lipstick.

  "Hey, Catherine."

  "Hi," she said shortly.

  "Is everything okay?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?" she barked.

  I blinked. "Your energy seems a bit off," I said, trying to be tactful. "I'm just checking in."

  "I'm fine," she bit out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to switch the laundry and go lie down. I have a headache.”

  As Charlene and I stared at each other, Catherine marched into the laundry room. We could hear the sound of the washer door being slammed open and, a moment later, the dryer door shut with a clang and the machine start. She marched back into the kitchen and out the back door, a thin smile that resembled a grimace on her face.

  When the door slammed shut, I turned to Charlene. "What was that about?"

  "I don't know," Charlene said. "But I can guess."

  "Oh? Do tell."

  "Well, I heard Murray was spending a good bit of time up at Cliffside yesterday, talking with the new owner."

  "Sarah Greenwich?"

  "That's the one. And he was there the day before, too, giving his 'professional opinion.'" Charlene made air quotes, then took a sip of tea. "She's kind of pretty."

  "She is," I agreed. I'd seen her at breakfast at the inn, and she had a sporty, zesty vibe to her that I could see could be very alluring. "And she's driven, too... kind of like Murray. Birds of a feather, in a way."

  "Could be trouble."

  "It could," I said. I'd seen Murray be jealous of Catherine, but this was the first inkling I'd had that it might go the other way around. "She's booked for another week at the inn," I said.

  "And she's moving here permanently soon."

  I sighed. "I never thought I'd say this, but I hope you're wrong and they're still solid. I've never liked Murray, but he seems to make Catherine very happy."

  "It takes all kinds," Charlene said, then got a dreamy look on her face.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Oh, just thinking about Robert," she said. "He's just so amazing. He brings me flowers every time he comes to see me, and makes coffee before I wake up. Why did you keep him a secret all this time?"

  "I didn't," I said. "Besides, he was living in Chicago, and I know how you feel about long-distance relationships." Charlene's last relationship with a freelance naturalist had died an early death when she realized she'd only see him four times a year.

  "We kind of are long-distance," she pointed out. "He lives in Bangor."

  "But he's here every weekend and you're on the phone all the time," I pointed out. As I spoke, her phone vibrated. She looked down at it and smiled. "Aw! He sent me a recipe for eggs Benedict. We're going to try it out this weekend."

  I smiled. "I'm glad," I said. "You deserve some goodness in your life."

  "I do, don't I?"

  "We all do," I said, and my thoughts drifted to Claudette and Eli. I hoped the cancer scare was a false alarm. And that whatever was going on down at the co-op would settle down soon, so the island could return to its normal, peaceful atmosphere.

  Hope springs eternal, I guess.

  Charlene and I had just finished a third scone each when she spotted a solid figure in a red windbreaker trundling down the driveway to the inn, a green rolling suitcase bumping along behind her.

  "Looks like your observer's here," Charlene said.

  "I'm glad they let her get past the co-op without ripping her to shreds," I said.

  "They probably didn't know who she was yet," Charlene said cheerily. "I hope she knows self-defense."

  Charlene joined me as I walked to the front desk; a moment later, the front door opened, and the woman we'd seen coming down the driveway walked in, pulling her suitcase in after her.

  "You must be Chelsea," I said. "Welcome to the Gray Whale Inn."

  "Thanks," the young woman said, giving me an uncertain smile. There was a gap between her front teeth that somehow made her look younger than her years. She looked around the front hall, which featured my big cherry desk, cubbyholes for mail and keys, and a blue Oriental rug. "This is nice," she said. "So much better than a Motel 6."

  "I hope so!" I said, handing her a key as she fished out a credit card. "I put you in the Rose Room, on the first floor; it's got a great view of the ocean. There are cookies in the dining room, along with coffee and tea, and we serve dinner if you're interested; otherwise, you can go to Spurrell's Lobster Pound, on the dock."

  "Thanks," she said. "I'll probably run down to the Pound and get a cup of chowder; I had a big lunch. When's breakfast?"

  "It starts at eight," I told her.

  She grimaced. "I'm supposed to be at the dock at nine."

  "You can eat fast and I'll run you over in the van. As for lunch, I'll put something together you can take with you," I said. "Any dietary restrictions?"

  "I probably should have some," she said ruefully, "but I don't. I'm a sucker for baked goods."

  I smiled at her. "Good, because those are my specialty. I'll put together a sandwich and toss in a few cookies and some fruit, if that works for you."

  "That would be terrific," she said.

  "We'll take care of you. First time on the island?" I asked as I ran her card.

  "It is," she said.

  "How long have you been working as an observer?" I asked. "It must be interesting work."

  "It's not really," she said. "I get paid by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration… NOAA. You sit on boats and count fish or lobsters," she said. "And a lot of the time, the people on the boat don't want you there." She sighed. "It's not ideal, but at least it's a paycheck.”

  "How did you get into that line of work?"

  "I was a marine biology major," she said. "I wanted to do something related. I'm thinking I may have to go back to grad school, though. I'm not sure y
et."

  She looked to be about twenty-five, I gauged. If she was an undercover Marine Patrol officer, she had a very convincing cover story. "I hear you're going out on Mac Penney's boat."

  "How did you know?"

  "It's a small island," I said. "He's not the friendliest, I'm afraid."

  She sighed. "I always get the grouchy ones. It's all right. I'll just stay out of the way as much as I can."

  "Good plan," I said as I handed her back her card. "I'll have everything ready for you in the morning."

  "Thanks," she said. "Wish me luck!"

  I did. I felt bad for anyone who had to spend a full day at sea on Mac's boat. I hoped she was up to it.

  "I don't think she's working undercover for the Marine Patrol," I told Charlene once I heard the door of the Rose Room close.

  "Me neither," she said.

  I grimaced. "And boy, that poor young woman's got some fun ahead of her."

  "Of all the lobster boats on all the islands..."

  "If he is indulging in too much liquor, or something else, I hope he's okay to operate a boat," I said thoughtfully. "It could be dangerous."

  "On the plus side, he's less likely to ram into other people's boats with an observer on board," Charlene pointed out.

  "True. Evidently, he didn't do much damage to his own vessel; Eli didn't say anything about it, and Earl's was the only one in the boat barn."

  "He got lucky," she said. "Anyway, she'll have to figure it out. I'm sure he'll be on his best behavior."

  "That's not saying much," I said.

  I had a bad feeling about Chelsea Sanchez's arrival on the island. Things were already simmering down at the co-op. I was afraid her presence would turn up the heat so much that things might boil over.

  Unfortunately, I wasn't wrong.

  I sent some of the scones back with Charlene, asking her to earmark a few for Eli, and then set to work prepping dinner. It was only the two of us tonight; none of the guests were eating in, and Catherine was fending for herself. I hadn't seen Sarah all day; I imagined she was over on the mainland, picking out appliances or organizing contractors. Once I'd finished making the marinade for the flank steak I was cooking, sliced the potatoes and tossed them with olive oil, salt, and a touch of rosemary, and whipped up a vinaigrette dressing for the salad, I busied myself working on the newsletter. As the flank steak marinated, I wrote about the apple blossoms starting to perfume the island, the lupines that were just beginning to unfurl, the recipes I was working on—I included one of my perennial favorites, a sausage, egg, and cheese strata that was always a hit—and some of the upcoming events around the island. I also put in a referral special and added a paragraph about our "romantic getaway weekend packages," which included a bottle of champagne, chocolates, a candlelit dinner, and the nicest suites in the inn. Gwen had suggested the idea a few months earlier, but I hadn't gotten around to putting it together; I'd have to update the website soon.

  There was always more to learn when you had a small business, I thought as I put the finishing touches on the draft, including a few pictures of the inn and one of Smudge, our most recent feline addition, drowsing on the back porch. I really did need to talk to Gwen about setting up some kind of co-op retreat with the new Art Guild. There was the revenue from John's art, so our situation wasn't dire, but with Gwen moving out, even with Catherine and John pitching in, I was short on help, and we didn't have much in the budget to pay for it. I'd considered offering room and board to a potential employee, with reduced salary to compensate, but I wasn't sure how comfortable I'd be having a stranger living in our private quarters and sitting across the kitchen table from us every morning and evening.

  It would all work itself out, I told myself as I closed up the laptop and headed back to the kitchen, where I assembled the salad and headed to the back porch to start up the grill. Then I busied myself whipping up a lasagna to take to Claudette and Eli, and managed—for a little while—to forget about all of my problems.

  I was surprised to see Catherine in the kitchen when I came down the next morning at seven to get ready for breakfast. Unlike yesterday, this morning she in a twinset and slacks that showed off her trim figure and her makeup was impeccable.

  I smiled at my mother-in-law. "You're up early," I said, pulling back my hair into a tie and heading for the coffee maker.

  "I just thought I'd give you a hand this morning," she said. Since this had never before happened, I didn't quite know what to say, but I was guessing it had to do with whatever might be happening between Murray and Sarah Greenwich, who would likely be down for breakfast in the dining room.

  "All right," I said. "I was planning on making apple puff pancakes; the recipe is at the end of the counter, if you'd like to do that."

  She made a face. "You know I'm horrible at baking."

  "All right, then," I said. "You can cut up some fruit, then. And make a roast beef sandwich for a box lunch, if you don't mind."

  "But what about my clothes?"

  "There's an apron on the hook," I said, pointing to the door to the laundry room. Catherine, I was concluding yet again, was far more help cleaning rooms than helping out in the kitchen. "There are strawberries and a cantaloupe in the fridge."

  "No blueberries?"

  "It's early for blueberries still," I reminded her.

  "Oh." She picked a flowered apron from the hook, tied it around her waist, and retrieved the fruit from the refrigerator. As I gathered the ingredients for the apple puff pancake recipe—lots of eggs, and only a little bit of flour, oddly enough—Catherine sliced the cantaloupe in half and began scooping out the seeds.

  "How are things going?" I asked tentatively as I mixed flour, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl. The volume of the pancakes relied on whipping egg whites, which I'd have to do at the last minute. Getting everything else ready now—and leaving the egg whites to warm to room temperature, which meant better whipping later—would make it easier to get the pancakes to the table when my guests arrived.

  "Fine," she said quickly. "Why?"

  "You just seem a little on edge," I said.

  "The whole island's on edge," she pointed out.

  "I know," I said. As I cracked an egg and separated it, I asked, "Have you heard anything about what's going on at the co-op?"

  "Well, I heard about the boat accident," she said. "And I heard someone from the Marine Patrol is going undercover to figure things out."

  "I think you're talking about the observer who checked in yesterday," I said. "She didn't strike me as an undercover officer at all; it could just be a rumor. Who did you hear it from?" I asked.

  "Murray heard it from Tom Lockhart down at the store last weekend," she said.

  "Ah," I replied, cracking another egg. "What does Murray think about what's going on at Cliffside?"

  "He's spending a lot of time over there," Catherine said. "It's like he wants to be a free general contractor or something. I even saw paint swatches on the kitchen table yesterday."

  "That sounds a little too close for comfort," I observed mildly, hoping I wouldn't set off a defensive response. I cared about Catherine. I wanted her to be able to talk to me.

  "It does," she said shortly. Her slim shoulders slumped as she hulled a strawberry. "I know Murray and I have had our ups and downs, but I was starting to think that maybe... well, that Murray might be the one. And now all I hear about is Sarah and what's going on at Cliffside."

  "That's hard," I said.

  "And if she moves here, I'll never hear the end of it," she said. "It's funny. You finally let your guard down with someone, and then something like this happens."

  "What do you know about her?" I asked. "Maybe they're just friends?"

  "She was an investment banker in New York," she said. "They're both in to making money, markets, capital... all that stuff I don't know anything about."

  "Maybe it's just a colleague thing," I suggested. "Not too many people around here know much about that stuff."

&n
bsp; "Maybe," she said, "but my instinct tells me there's more to it than that."

  "I get it," I said. "I hope you're wrong."

  "Me too," she said, whacking off the top of a strawberry as if it were Sarah's head.

  4

  The first puffy apple pancake was ready right on schedule; I had also cooked up a pan of sausage links, and Catherine had assembled a fruit salad before pacing the kitchen for another hour. The guests all came down right as breakfast started, and settled into the tables by the windows.

  Emma Frisch and Chad Berman, the two artists from the new guild staying at the inn, sat together at one table. Emma, who wore a gauzy top and harem pants and looked as if she had just flown in from another, more magical dimension, was sketching one of the roses in a vase on the table in her sketchbook and sipping a cup of coffee, while Chad, whose blond hair was twisted into dreadlocks, wore a fisherman's sweater, a pair of expensive-looking faded jeans, and a bracelet made of rope, chatted away at her. He seemed completely unaware that she was lost in her own world. Thuy, the wood sculptor who was working with John, sat alone at a table by the window, gazing out at the water. At another table was Sarah. She was very different from my mother-in-law, at least in appearance; where Catherine's hair was soft and blonde around her face, Sarah wore hers in a salt-and-pepper bob that accented her strong jawline; where Catherine had a refined look, Sarah's appearance was bold. She reminded me a little bit of a hawk somehow. At the moment, she had laid out architectural plans and was frowning at two wood samples.

  The last table, off in the corner, was occupied by a couple, Noelle Sullivan and Bruce Pinkham, who were practically attached physically; her hand was on his thigh, and he kept stroking her, her back, her neck... I smiled. They were obviously very much in love. I kept forgetting they were at the inn because they spent so much time in their room.

  As I filled everyone's coffee cup and let them know I'd have breakfast out in a moment, Chelsea hurried into the room, pulling on her red windbreaker. "Good morning! When's breakfast?"

  "Right now," I said. "I'll bring yours out, along with your lunch. Want some coffee?"