"I'd love some," she said. As she sat down and I filled her cup, her eyes swept the room. She drew in her breath.
"What is it?" I asked. Her eyes were fixed on the other end of the room. "Oh... nothing," she said, but it didn't sound like nothing.
"Chelsea?" It was Chad, standing up and squinting at her. "Is that you?"
She swallowed hard. "Oh. Chad. I didn't see you there."
"What are you doing up here?" he asked, crossing the room.
"I work for NOAA," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm going out on a lobster boat this morning; I'm an observer."
"Not painting anymore, then?" he asked.
"I still do some on the side, but I needed a job," she said, her face reddening. "I don't have a trust fund," she added bitterly, a jab that surprised me.
"My art supports me," he said, drawing himself up.
"Uh-huh. Must be nice," she said in a flat voice.
"Anyway," he said, obviously embarrassed, "I just wanted to say hi."
"Hi," she said, then turned to me. "Actually, can I get my breakfast to go? I think I'm going to walk over, and I don't want to be late."
"Sure," I said. "I'll pack it up; I'll be right back."
As I walked to the kitchen, I scanned the dining room. The lovebirds had withdrawn from each other; Noelle's hair cloaked her face, and Bruce had left the room. A lovers' quarrel? I wondered as I retreated to the kitchen to pack breakfast for Chelsea, who had left the dining room to wait in the parlor.
"Is she there?" Catherine asked when I walked into the kitchen.
"Sarah? She is," I said. "I need to pack a breakfast to go for Chelsea," I said, retrieving a box from the pantry and cutting a wedge of apple pancake.
"Is she running late?"
"She had a bit of a run-in with one of the artists from the Guild," I said. "She accused him of being a trust-fund baby, and that’s when she decided to get breakfast to go."
"Well, he is a trust-fund baby," she pointed out. "His parents are half the reason the Guild is in business. They're hoping it'll give their son some kind of direction."
"I'd heard his parents were benefactors," I said, "but I didn't know the rest of it." I'd been unimpressed by his pottery offerings, but had decided it must just be that I wasn't up on modern art. "On the plus side," I said, "I no longer have to give her a ride to the dock; she's decided to walk."
"Good day for it at least," Catherine said, glancing out at the bright blue sky. She sighed. "I sometimes think it's a mixed blessing to be born into wealth," Catherine said. "Less worry about ending up homeless, of course, but if you're not motivated to make it big, I don't think you're as likely to work hard and go after your dreams..."
"He says he's supporting himself from his art," I said as I slid a slice of pancake into a box.
"That's a stretch," Catherine said. "Murray knows his parents. He's got an allowance of four thousand a month."
"That would help," I said. "Still... I wish him the best. It's hard being young."
"It's hard being any age," Catherine pointed out. "Mind if I serve breakfast?"
"Go ahead," I said. "Just don't bite her head off."
"I won't," she promised. "I'm just curious.” Her tone was light, but she looked miserable. I hoped I was right, and it was just a friendship that had sprung up between Murray and Sarah, and not something more.
Chelsea had departed, the rest of the guests had all been served, and I was dishing up a piece of puff pancake for myself when Catherine burst back through the swinging door. "He's here," she announced.
"Who?"
"Murray. He came to have breakfast with her!" She twisted the pearls at her neck so hard, I was afraid the strand would break. "She lit up like a Christmas tree when he walked in. And now I have to refill their coffee while they chat away about baseboards and the real estate market and..." She turned away and dabbed her eyes.
"I'll take care of it," I said. "Go have a piece of pancake."
"Too many carbs," she said reflexively.
"Fine. There's sausage in the pan. Let me go deal with them."
She looked up at me, her blue eyes red and puffy. "Tell me if you think I'm imagining things. Okay?"
"I'll do my best to get a feel for it," I said as I added some fruit salad and sausage to the plate I had been fixing for myself, then ferried it out to the dining room.
The rest of the guests were long gone, but Murray and Sarah had their heads bent over Sarah's blueprints and were talking excitedly, oblivious to me until I set the plate down on the table.
"Oh," Murray said, looking up in surprise. "Is that for me?"
"It is," I said.
"Thanks!" he told me. "You should see what Sarah has in mind for Cliffside. It's going to be gorgeous."
"Oh, Murray," she said, playing with the pendant at her throat. "It's just a simple renovation."
"No," he said. "You're really restoring it to its former glory.... It'll be a showplace when you're done with it. I wish you could have helped me when I was working on my place. You're so talented!"
"It's just all those years of renovating properties," she said. "Experience, not talent."
"Whatever it is, it's working. Maybe we should talk about flipping properties over on the mainland. I've got an in with a real estate agent over there, and with your know-how..."
She laughed. "I'm out of that business. Remember?"
"Oh, come on. It could be fun!" he said.
Sarah flipped her hair with her fingers. "I'll think about it. But for now, tell me what you think of these front-door options. I'm leaning toward the simpler one..."
I refilled their coffee as they pored over the plans, then returned to the kitchen to a waiting Catherine.
"Well?"
"They're talking about the plans," I said. "And about maybe going into business together."
"So it's all business?" she asked. "Did he ask why I wasn't the one in the dining room?"
"They were talking about doors," I said, trying to be kind. "I think they were distracted."
"So I don't have anything to worry about?"
I hesitated. I didn't want to stress Catherine out, but I didn't want to lie either. There had been chemistry in the dining room. Whether it was the excitement of a potential business partner or something more, I couldn't say for sure, but my instincts told me the attraction extended beyond real estate.
"I don't know," I said. "They do seem chummy."
Catherine deflated. "I knew it.” She pushed her plate away, the solitary sausage link untouched. "I wish she'd never come to the island. As soon as they met, down at the dock, I knew there was going to be trouble."
"Don't jump to conclusions," I said. "Have you talked to him?"
She shrugged.
"You should. Besides, you're a catch. Don't forget that."
Catherine grimaced. "I didn't build my own financial empire."
"That could be in your favor, actually," I said. It was hard to believe I was encouraging Catherine not to give up on Murray Selfridge. The developer had an ego the size of the Gulf of Maine, and had attempted to bully the board of selectmen to renovate the island to his liking more times than I could count, but since he'd met Catherine, I'd seen his softer side. Besides, with two potential real estate moguls teaming up, it couldn't be good for Cranberry Island. "Too many chiefs, you know?"
"That's true," she said. "I guess we just have to wait and see."
"Exactly," I said. "In the meantime, do you have things to keep you busy?"
"I'm supposed to take a pottery class down at the Art Guild," she said. "It starts this afternoon, but to be honest, I just don't feel up to it."
"Do it anyway," I said, even though I wasn't sure how much she'd get out of it if Chad was teaching it. "Any plans to see Murray?"
"We're supposed to go out on his yacht sometime in the next few days," she said. "Unless he cancels."
"I'm sure he won't," I said. "If I were you, I'd just throw myself into som
ething absorbing.” I grinned. "If you're up for a deep clean, I wouldn't object."
"I thought you said absorbing," she said with a glimmer of her normal spunky self.
"Seriously, though," I said. "I need to do some promotion to get reservations up for the summer. If you could help me brainstorm, or put some ads together, that would be great."
She sighed. "It's something, I guess."
"Maybe later this afternoon, then? After class?"
"Sure," she said in a lackluster voice. "It's better than staking out Cliffside, I suppose."
I'd just finished cleaning up from breakfast when a call came from Tom Lockhart.
I closed the dishwasher with my hip as I picked up the phone. "Hey, Tom. What's up?"
"Have you seen Chelsea Sanchez?"
"Not since breakfast," I said, turning on the dishwasher. "Why?"
"Well, she never showed up at Mac's boat, apparently," he said. "Are you sure she didn't come back to the inn? Maybe she wasn't feeling well."
"I'll check," I said, and headed down the hallway to the Rose Room. I knocked and called her name, but there was no answer. I hurried back to the phone. "She's not answering, Tom. And I haven't seen her come back. That's a long time to be lost."
"I know," he said. "Someone cut free half the boats on the island last night, too. Mac's was one of them."
"Maybe she got there and realized there wasn't a boat to go on, and then went off-island?" I suggested.
"She wasn't on the mail boat," he said. "I called and asked."
I swallowed. "You don't think..."
"I hope there's a reasonable explanation," he said.
"Like maybe she went out on the wrong boat," I suggested.
"I already radioed," he replied. "She's not on board any of ours. Besides, they're all out looking for the missing boats."
"Find them?"
"We're still missing five," he said. "Adam's is one of them."
"Oh, no," I breathed.
"I don't want to call the authorities without good reason, but with the boats and the missing observer..."
My stomach tightened. "I'll knock again, and if she doesn't answer, I'll go in to look."
"I've got a call on the other line; maybe that's her. Let me know, okay?"
"I will," I promised, hanging up the phone and grabbing a key ring from the laundry room and hoping she was in her room.
Unfortunately, she wasn't.
5
The bed in the Rose Room was crisply made, and the few clothes Chelsea had brought hung in a neat line in the closet. Practical things, mainly... jeans, long-sleeved T-shirts, and sweatshirts. A pair of sneakers was lined up on the floor next to the bed, and there were two books on the nightstand: a self-help book I recognized called The Slight Edge, and a biography of Georgia O'Keeffe. To my surprise, there was a portable easel on the desk by the window, along with a small travel watercolor palette. An open sketchbook showed a sparse study of the view from the window. It was only a few brushstrokes, but the scene outside seemed to come alive on the page. Her style was different from Gwen's—sparer but evocative. I could almost see the movement of the water against the rocks by the shore, and the edge of the dock was a dark relief to the translucent green of the bank.
I didn't look further, as I didn't want to intrude, but after a quick check of the bathroom—there was a bottle of all-in-one shampoo on the side of the tub, but no sign of Chelsea—I hurried back to the kitchen to call Tom back.
He picked up on the second ring.
"She's not here," I said.
He cursed under his breath. "I hope we find her. If we don't..."
I understood. Not only was I worried about the young observer, but if a member of the co-op had sabotaged her, or worse...
"Let's not think about that yet," I said. "I'll tell John. It's a little early, but the circumstances are definitely odd. Maybe we should put together an island-wide search with whoever's not out on the water; John and I can start along the cliff trail. She wouldn't be the first one to trip."
"Good idea," he said. "Maybe she fell and hit her head," he added, sounding almost hopeful. Did he really think one of the lobstermen might have tossed her overboard? I wondered. How bad were things down at the co-op, really?
John was busy sanding a piece of driftwood in his workshop when I knocked on the door a few minutes later.
"Hey," he said, giving me a bright smile. His face was coated with sawdust, but I didn't mind. "How was breakfast?"
"It went well—there's extra puff pancake in the fridge if you're hungry—but half the fleet had their mooring lines cut last night, and the observer went missing this morning."
He set down the piece of wood. "What do you mean, missing? Like, she-fell-off-a-boat missing?"
"I seem to be the last person who saw her, best I can tell. I gave her breakfast to go and a box lunch right after eight. She was going to walk down to the dock and meet Mac at nine, but he says she never showed up. His boat is missing anyway. And apparently, she's not on anyone else's boat; Tom radioed."
"And she didn't come back?"
"I checked her room," I said. "No sign of her. Tom's going to organize a search. He's already checked the main road, and there's no sign of her. I told him we'd check the cliff path together."
He sighed. "Guess it's a nice day for a walk, at least," he said. "I hope she just took a wrong turn, but it does seem like a long time to be lost on a small island."
"That's what I was thinking. I think Tom's worried someone might have done something to her."
John grimaced. "A lot of folks think she's here undercover for the Marine Patrol. I guess it's possible, but I hate to think that one of ours would do something like that."
"Someone may have thought there was a lot at stake," I suggested.
"Why would anyone cut all the boats loose?" he asked.
I had an idea why, but I didn't want to entertain it yet. "Let's focus on finding Chelsea first," I said. "It's not an ideal reason to play hooky and take a morning walk, but at least the weather's good. I'll go get my windbreaker. Need anything from the inn?"
"If you'd grab mine, that would be great. I have my phone here," he said, patting his pocket. "I was supposed to meet Thuy this afternoon, but that may have to wait."
"Let's hope not," I said.
I hurried back up to the inn, stopping in at the carriage house to tell Catherine what was up and ask if she'd seen any sign of Chelsea.
"Not since breakfast," she said, shaking her head. "Want me to take care of the rooms while you're out looking? If she shows up or calls, I'll let you know."
"That would be great," I said. "I have no idea how long we'll be gone; if we don't find her, we'll have to put together some kind of search party."
"I hope it doesn't come to that," she said. She looked lighter, I realized. "Things going better for you?" I asked.
"Murray stopped by to ask me to dinner," she said. "We're going after my pottery class."
"Oh, wonderful!" I told her. "I hope both go great."
"Me too," she said. "When you get back, maybe you can help me figure out what to wear tonight."
I blinked. This was the first time in history John's mother had ever solicited my opinion on anything of a sartorial nature. I resisted the urge to check her forehead for fever and simply said, "I'd be happy to. I'll let you know when we make it back. Thanks again for taking care of the rooms."
"Of course," she said, then hesitated. "Should I leave the Rose Room be? Just in case?"
I hated to even think it, but she was right. "Yes, please," I said. "I went in looking for her this morning anyway, and she's already made the bed and everything, so it'll be fine."
"Just checking," she said, but the question still needled me as I walked up the path to the inn. The breezy salt air was perfumed with the rich, winy scent of beach roses and the window boxes glowed with jewel-like nasturtiums and pansies, but this morning the inn's charms couldn't dispel the worry that was collecting in Chel
sea Sanchez's absence.
I grabbed our windbreakers from the hook inside the kitchen and gave Smudge and Biscuit, who were curled up together in a sunbeam on the floor by one of the windows, a quick pet, then headed down to meet John.
He gave me a quick, sawdust-speckled kiss as I handed him his windbreaker, and together we headed up the narrow path that led to the cliffs.
"The lupines are really going to be terrific this year, aren't they?" he said as we passed a swathe of the pink and purple flowers. They reminded me of bluebonnets on steroids. They might say everything's bigger in Texas, but they're wrong; where cheery bluebonnets are under a foot tall, some lupines extend to five feet or more. I loved them both. "Thuy is thinking of trying to sculpt some in wood; the shapes are really intricate."
"Flowers seem to be the theme of the Art Guild this spring, don't they?"
"Well, except for Chad," he said.
"What are Chad's... er... creations supposed to be, anyway?"
"Organic sea life forms," he said.
"Like sea urchins once their shells have been cracked and they've oozed out?"
"Something like that," John said. "He's working on it," he added charitably.
"I wonder how many people will take his class," I said as I stepped over a few wild strawberry plants. The little green plants had white flowers I knew would soon be bright red gems that were tart and sweet... perfect for trailside picking.
"My mother's going," he said.
"She told me about that. I hope she's kind."
"My mother is the soul of charity," John protested. My eyes slid over to him. "Mostly."
"She did ask me to help her pick an outfit," I said, "so there's that."
"Really?" he said. "For what?"
"Murray asked her to dinner tonight. She sounded unusually excited."
John sighed. "Sarah told me she was invited to an event on the island tonight."
"You think that's why Murray asked Catherine out?"
"I hate to think it, but maybe," he admitted. "She's nice enough, but I kind of wish Sarah would go back where she came from."
Scone Cold Dead Page 4
