Scone Cold Dead

by Karen MacInerney

  "Yes. Chad Berman. They knew each other; she called him a trust-fund baby. He didn't take to it too well."

  "Interesting," she said, jotting down notes. "And I can find him at the Art Guild?"

  "Presumably," I replied. "He's a potter."

  "Did she know anyone else in the dining room?" the detective asked.

  "Not that I could tell," I said. My thoughts touched on Bruce and Noelle, who had quickly made themselves scarce, but they hadn't interacted with Chelsea at all. "She did seem a bit... startled, or almost upset, at one point, though."

  "Upset?"

  "Yes," I said. "I think it may have been her conversation with Chad. Apparently they knew each other in college."

  "Any idea what it was about?"

  "Other than the trust-fund baby thing, I don't know."

  * * *

  "I'll be sure to talk to him. Who else was in the dining room at the time?" the detective asked.

  "Just about everyone. Chad, of course. And Thuy, Emma, Sarah, Bruce and Noelle..." I ticked off the guests' names on my fingers. "Everyone came down early this morning."

  "And you don't know if there was anything else she might be reacting to? That startled her?"

  "No," I said, shaking my head. "I wish I did. I'm sorry."

  "And she didn't interact with anyone else while she was here? Did you notice any visitors to the inn, other than the guests?"

  I shook my head. "I'll ask Catherine and John, but none that I saw."

  "Oh, don't worry about John. I'll talk with him in a bit. But if you could ask Catherine, that would be helpful."

  Again, I felt that twinge of jealousy, but I just smiled. "I'll ask her. Let me know if there's anything else we can do to help."

  "Thanks, Natalie," she said with a bright smile. "You and John have been great. I saw some of his sculptures on the mainland recently, by the way... he really is talented!"

  "He is," I said.

  "At any rate, duty calls," she said. "And do you have a key to Chelsea's room? Has anyone been in there?"

  "I let myself in to look for her, but I didn't touch anything," I said, digging in my pocket and producing a key. "It's on the first floor, near the end of the hall; it's called the Rose Room."

  "Thanks," she said. "Talk to you soon, I'm sure," she said as she strode toward the swinging door to the rest of the inn, leaving me alone and unsettled in my kitchen.

  The phone at the inn rang constantly that afternoon: not with bookings, unfortunately, but with curious islanders—and, even worse, Gertrude Pickens of the Daily Mail, who was always sniffing around for a story.

  Her syrupy voice made me want to hang up the moment I heard it. "Natalie! I'm so glad I caught you."

  "I'm actually on my way out..."

  "I'll only be a moment. I heard one of your guests died," she said. "The observer who was supposed to be on Mac Penney's boat. I understand there's been a lot of bad blood on Cranberry Island recently."

  "I don't know about that," I said. "I pretty much stick to inn business."

  "Did you meet the young woman? Chelsea Sanchez, right? You must have, because she was staying at your inn."

  "I don't think I'm supposed to talk about it."

  "So the police are investigating," she said in an excited tone. I bit my lip. "My sources tell me someone hit her over the head. Can you confirm that?"

  Gertrude's sources were pretty darned good, it seemed. I wondered if she had an in at the police station; none of the islanders who had called knew as much as she did, or if they did, they hadn't mentioned it. "Gertrude, I'm on my way out the door. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

  "She didn't die at the inn, though, did she?"

  "No," I confirmed. The last thing I needed was an article claiming that a guest had died here. Bookings were bad enough as it was.

  "So, no statement you'd like to give?"

  I took a deep breath. "Not at the moment, no," I said. "Let me think about it."

  "Don't think too long," she said. "Deadline's at five."

  "Got it," I said, cursing under my breath as I hung up. I had a bad feeling about this article Gertrude was working on. Should I make a statement? Or would that just make things worse? I had no idea. But I did know I had to head over to the Art Guild for the pottery class with Chad Berman and my mother-in-law. I knocked on Catherine's door, but there was no answer—she must have left early—so I got on my blue bike and headed up the drive.

  The rain had passed, leaving the island feeling fresh and clean; droplets still clung to the white blueberry blossoms, and the cool, moist air brought out the piney scent of balsam. I rolled up to the Art Guild a few minutes early, hoping to catch Gwen before the class started. As I parked my bike against one of the blooming apple trees, I heard the sound of hammering from one of the outbuildings. The doors were open to let in the cool spring air; I walked over to find my niece, in goggles, assembling a simple wood frame for one of her pieces inside.

  She looked up as I knocked on the door. "Hey," she said, putting down the hammer. "Any more news about poor Chelsea?"

  "Not yet," I said, raising an eyebrow. "No one keeping you company?"

  "Thuy just stepped out for a snack," she said, tilting her head toward the other worktable, where an intricate tree was taking shape from a stack of thin trunk slices. "She said she'd only be a minute.” She lowered her voice. "Do you really think it might be Chad?"

  "I don't know who it is," I told her. "But he's the only person I really saw her interact with, and it didn't go well, so I'm erring on the side of caution. What do you know about him?"

  "Well, his family put up half the money to get the Guild going," she said. "They live over in Northeast Harbor. He got an MFA degree from Middlesex about five years ago and has been doing art ever since, but I don't know how much he actually sells," she said diplomatically. "He says he's more interested in art for art's sake than art for commerce."

  "Ah," I said. "How does he get along with the other folks here?"

  "He lets them know where the money's coming from, that's for sure. But I think he's jealous, frankly. Of Thuy in particular; her work sells for a lot."

  "I'm not surprised," I said, admiring her work in progress.

  "I think Chad thinks his should be selling for at least as much. He's talking about doing a bigger project, maybe a clay sculpture, but he'd need a bigger kiln.... He's lobbying his parents for one now."

  "Must be nice to have backers you're related to," I said. "When did he get here this morning?"

  "Around nine thirty," she said.

  "Was he with anyone? Maybe Emma?"

  She shook her head. "She got here about half an hour earlier. He was the last one here, actually."

  "Anything else you can think of?"

  "Wow," Gwen said, raising her dark eyebrows. "You really are going after him."

  "No... not yet, anyway. I'm just gathering information. If you're going to be spending all day around him, I'd like to be sure he's not homicidal." As I spoke, Thuy walked into the workshop, eating a banana.

  "Who's homicidal?" she asked, blinking. She wore a faded apron over jeans and a plaid shirt, and there was sawdust in her black hair.

  "Aunt Nat's just trying to figure out what happened to Chelsea," Gwen informed her.

  Thuy shook her head. "That's so sad... I still can't believe it!” She was a few years older than Gwen, maybe in her early- to mid-thirties, but with the presence and self-confidence of a woman much older. Even though John was several years older, I knew he'd learned a lot from her since she arrived on the island a few weeks earlier. "Emma told me she fell on the path by the cliffs and hit her head.” Thuy looked at me. "Is that not what happened?"

  "Where did Emma hear that?" I asked.

  Thuy shrugged. "You'd have to ask her. I would rather think it was an accident. I'd heard there was some friction down at the co-op, but homicide?"

  "I shouldn't have said that," I admitted. "I really don't have a lot of information about what's
going on."

  "At least not for now," Gwen said, giving me a sidelong look. "Between you and Charlene, it's hard to get away with anything on this island."

  "Have you been trying?" I asked.

  "I know better," she said, and glanced at her watch. "Pottery class starts in five minutes. Where's Catherine?"

  "I should probably find out," I said, and eyed both women. "Be careful, both of you. And stick together."

  It wasn't until I was ten steps away from the workshop that I realized I really didn't know much about Thuy Nguyen, and that perhaps that wasn't the best advice.

  8

  Catherine and I comprised fully half of Chad's class, which was held in a small room with two large tables. My mother-in-law's eyes were red, and when I asked where she'd been, she told me she'd taken a walk to clear her mind. I slid into a chair next to her and glanced around the room. The other two participants included my friend, Emmeline Hoyle, who was a crack knitter, and a young woman I didn't recognize. They occupied the other table.

  Although it was a few minutes after three, there was no sign of Chad.

  "Do you think we'll get to do mugs?" Emmeline asked. "I'm hoping to make a set for my niece for Christmas."

  "I was hoping to do some for the inn!" Catherine added. "Maybe we can ask to learn mugs."

  "I doubt he'll teach us that," the young woman said. She had short, black hair and wore an artfully distressed black dress and leggings. "He's not in to production pottery; he prefers one-of-a-kind pieces. He told me we're going to work on creating organic forms."

  "Organic forms?" Emmeline asked. "Like rocks?"

  "Whatever you like," she replied. "Oh, look. Here he is!" She adjusted the neckline of her dress and sat up straight as Chad swaggered into the room.

  "Good afternoon, everyone!" he said.

  "Hi, Chad," the young woman simpered. Catherine glanced at me and rolled her eyes.

  "Hi, Quartz," he replied.

  Catherine cocked a tweezed eyebrow.

  "Good to see you. As you know, we're going to be experimenting with clay this session. Have any of you taken a pottery class before?"

  Quartz's hand shot up in the air, her bangles clinking as they slid down to her elbow. Emmeline raised a tentative hand.

  "I know you, of course," Chad said, giving Quartz a smug smile before glancing at Emmeline. "So, about half of you. If you've had one before, I'm sure you were expecting to use a wheel today, maybe do a basic bowl. But we're going to do things a little bit differently here."

  "What do you mean, differently?" Catherine asked.

  "We're going to explore the clay," he said, grabbing a lump of wet clay from a plastic bin at the front of the room and holding it in his hands. "You have to feel the clay," he said. "Let it tell you what it wants to be.” As we watched, he massaged the clay in both hands. Had one of those hands held the rock that ended Chelsea's life? I wondered. If he had murdered her that morning, it didn't seem to be troubling his conscience. I glanced at Quartz, who had a look on her pale face that suggested she wished she could be that lump of clay. I looked away quickly.

  "I'll let you try it yourselves," he said, handing his deformed lump to Quartz, who cradled it in her hands as if he had gifted her a ruby, then fishing out three more lumps and distributing them to the rest of us. "Now," he said. "Just play with it. Feel it. I'll put on some music to help you get into the mood."

  As we all picked up the cold clay, he fumbled with his iPhone. A moment later, a tinny recording of some rhythmic drumming music filled the small room. "Close your eyes," he exhorted us. "Become one with the clay."

  I didn't close my eyes. It was too much fun watching Catherine and Emmeline trying to figure out what to do with these instructions. While Quartz had closed her eyes and was swaying back as forth as she massaged her clay, both Emmeline and Catherine sat stick-straight. Emmeline hadn't closed her eyes either, but had started kneading her lump as if it were bread dough. Catherine, on the other hand, gave it a tentative poke with her finger, then spent the next ten seconds extracting clay from beneath her fingernail.

  "You're not feeling the clay," Chad chided me.

  "Oh," I said. "Sorry.” I took the cold clay and squeezed it, then squeezed it again. It was kind of satisfying, but the clay didn't seem to have any ideas about what it wanted to be.

  This went on for what must have been at least fifteen minutes, although it felt longer. By the time Chad turned off the music, Quartz was swaying back and forth in a quasimeditative state, Emmeline had progressed from kneading to rolling out bits of clay that reminded me of breadsticks, and Catherine was patting her ball of clay as if it were a favorite pet.

  "Now that we've gotten acquainted with our clay," Chad said, "let's try forming it. Can you make a snake?"

  Emmeline had already made several snakes, but she gamely began attaching them to each other to make a long one. I rolled my clay beneath my hands, feeling foolish, while Catherine raised her hand.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  "Are we going to be using a wheel anytime soon?"

  "Eventually, yes," he said.

  "Will you teach us to make mugs?" she asked.

  He let out a contemptuous-sounding noise. "This is an art class, not a craft class. We're making art."

  "Mugs aren't art?" Catherine challenged him.

  "Mugs are utilitarian items," he said. "They are not expressions of the artist's vision. Now," he said, dismissing the question, "follow your instincts and create a form. Let the image bubble up in your head, and let your hands create it in the clay.” He returned to his iPhone and turned on another tinny tune. Catherine and Emmeline looked at each other. I got the distinct impression that the class wasn't exactly what they had expected.

  By the time the first session was over, Quartz had made a lumpish thing with tentacles and spikes she called a "jellanenomefish," and both Emmeline and Catherine had evidently had clay that wanted to be made into rudimentary mugs. "So, we'll start with the wheel next time?" Catherine asked as we put our creations—mine looked kind of like a mutant sea slug—onto a shelf.

  "We'll see," he said vaguely.

  Quartz and I lingered after class, but for very different reasons. "Are we still on for dinner in Northeast Harbor tonight?" Quartz asked.

  "It'll have to be early," he said. "The last mail boat leaves the mainland at around six."

  "You could always stay the night," she said, then glanced at me. "On the couch, of course."

  "I'll see how the work goes," he said, dismissing her. "I'm trying to get ready for that gallery show, and the sponges aren't looking quite right. Can I text you this afternoon?"

  "Sure," she said with a shrug that didn't conceal her hurt feelings. Something sparkled in her dark hair as she moved; it was a small butterfly barrette covered in dark crystals. "Thanks for the class; it was great. I really felt one with the clay."

  Chad's face broke into a smile. "I'm glad you got it," he said, and his eyes slid to me. "Not everyone does."

  She smiled back, obviously buoyed by his response. "Thanks. I'm going to go down to the shore for inspiration. Text me later!"

  "Uh-huh," he said, then turned to me. "Can I help you?"

  "Thanks for the class," I said. "I never thought about clay that way before."

  "It's a different approach, but I think it really opens up the creative pathways," he said.

  "It was really interesting. Oh—by the way—how did you know Chelsea Sanchez?"

  His sunny face darkened. "I heard what happened to her this morning. Tragic."

  "Who told you?"

  "Everyone was buzzing about it," he replied, and busied himself making sure the clay tub was sealed. "The police came and talked with us briefly, too. I don't remember who told me."

  "How did you meet her?"

  "We were at school together," he told me. "It was a long time ago. We took a few classes together. I hadn't seen her since."

  "It didn't look like you were particularly good friends,"
I said.

  "She liked to razz me," he said. "We were okay, though. Anyway, I've got to run... big gallery show coming up. Glad you enjoyed the class."

  "Thanks for teaching it. See you later, then.” He was still fiddling with the clay bin when I walked out of the studio; I got the impression Chelsea wasn't a topic he wanted to linger on.

  Why? I wondered.

  And I thought of the barrette I saw next to Chad's bed. Had Quartz spent the night in his room? And if so, what, if anything, did that have to do with Chelsea Sanchez?

  I walked down the hallway away from the studio. I hadn't gotten to the door before I heard Chad's voice. "Yeah, it's me," he said. "Remember that chick from school? The one who constantly gave me a hard time, and wrote in the school paper about my parents paying for me to get in, and started that investigation?" I could hear the faint voice of someone on the other end of the phone, then, "Well, someone capped her this morning." More talking from the other end of the line. "Yeah. Can you believe she turned up on the island? Some kind of fisheries' observer or something, going out on lobster boats; the art thing didn't pan out for her, I guess. Anyway, she's staying at the same inn as me... or she was. She saw me at breakfast this morning and gave me a hard time about being a 'trust-fund baby' again, and then she died like a half hour later. I know it's bad to say, but it kind of serves her right." He paused, and I could hear the person on the other end talking. "No, I don't know how or where. But the police came and talked to me, and it's freaking me out." Another pause. "Dude, of course it wasn't me!" More talking on the other end, agitated this time. "I was just talking smack. You know that. At any rate, I just wanted to give you a heads-up, in case anyone tries to get in touch with you." The other person talked for a bit, then Chad responded. "Yeah. Not a lot of action here; there's a chick named Quartz, but she's just taking the class because she's into me. Then there are two old biddies and the chunky, middle-aged woman who runs the inn."

  Two old biddies and a chunky, middle-aged woman? I resisted the urge to march back down the hall and smack him myself. I could only imagine what Catherine would think of that description of her and Emmeline. As I controlled my own murderous impulses, Chad continued. "I probably should have done the New York thing instead, but this is what my parents were willing to do, so, you know. At least Quartz is hot; she stayed over the other night."