Scone Cold Dead

by Karen MacInerney

  "Give it time," I suggested.

  She took a sip of black coffee and slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. "I don't think that will help."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  She paused for a moment, considering, and then the floodgates opened. "I shouldn't have said anything. I was just so upset about how much time he was spending with that Sarah woman. When I found out she was on the mainland, I accused Murray of only asking me to dinner because she wasn't available.” She turned her mug around on the table; some of the dark liquid sloshed out onto the pine table, then she said in a bitter voice, "I told him if he wanted to spend all his time picking out carpet samples with some hussy he'd just met, I was done wasting my time."

  "What did he say to that?" I asked.

  "He said if that was how I felt about it, he'd take me home." She snorted. "On the way, he thanked me for the time we’d had together and said he hoped there were no hard feelings.” She lifted the mug to her lips and took a mechanical sip. "I think it's over."

  "I'm so sorry," I said.

  "Don't be," she said. "I'd rather find out what he's really like sooner rather than later. I'll be just fine.” Although she lifted her head regally, I could see the tears welling in her eyes. She took another sip of coffee and stood up. "I'm going down to my place. I'll be back to clean up after breakfast if you need me."

  "Take the morning off," I suggested.

  "No," she said quickly. "It'll do me good to stay busy."

  "If you change your mind..."

  "I'm fine," she said quickly, draining her coffee mug and yanking open the dishwasher. She jammed the mug into the top rack, slammed the door, and took another deep breath. "See you after breakfast," she announced, and then practically jogged to the back door.

  It wasn't really any comfort at all, but at least I wasn't the only one having a crappy morning, I reflected as the door slammed behind her.

  John rolled back down the hill in the van just as I was tucking the quiches into the oven. Although I loved the recipe, which was utterly decadent, with lumps of crabmeat encased in silky egg custard, my appetite had vanished; I might as well have been baking Styrofoam. He walked in as I closed the oven, the paper rolled up in his hand and a grim look on his tanned face.

  I winced. "That bad?"

  "That bad," he confirmed, handing me the paper. I read the article, which was above the fold on the front page, of course. Charlene had told me what it said, but seeing it in print made it ten times worse. I put it down, feeling sick to my stomach. "Gwen and Adam are going to kill me. What if I've accidentally made Adam a suspect?"

  "I know Adam's innocent," John said. "I'm sure any investigation will bear that out." He walked over and put his hands on my shoulders. "I know you didn't mean to do it, but this is going to take some work to undo."

  "I'm going to call the paper and retract it all."

  "That's a start," he said. "If she'll print it."

  "I feel awful," I said.

  "I know," he said. "But it wasn't intentional. I'm sure they'll understand."

  "I hope so," I replied, but I didn't feel so optimistic.

  Chad and Emma had just come down for breakfast when a yacht motored up outside the inn. My first thought was that it was Murray, come to visit Catherine with hat in hand, but it wasn't Murray's yacht. It was bigger, with black windows and a giant satellite dish on top of it. As I watched, a deckhand tied it up at the pier; a moment later, a well-dressed couple disembarked, striding up my back path with purpose.

  I didn't have any new guests booked for tonight, and even if I did, check-in wasn't until three. Still, I'd be happy to oblige if they needed a room... although the yacht looked like it had plenty of luxurious sleeping arrangements.

  They mounted the steps to the back deck just as I opened the kitchen door.

  "Good morning," I said. "Can I help you?"

  "We're here to visit Chad," the woman said, smoothing her khaki skirt. A large diamond winked from her left hand; two of its cousins adorned her ears, and another hung from a delicate chain around her neck. Everything about her looked immaculately groomed, from her highlighted hair and French-manicured nails to her rather tight-looking face.

  "Chad Berman," her companion—her husband, presumably—clarified. His wife was fit, but despite his tanned face and expensive-looking clothing—he wore khakis and a Polo shirt, and looked ready for a day at the golf course—he had a bit of a paunch over his slacks.

  "He just came down, actually," I said. "Follow me; he's in the dining room."

  They nodded without thanking me. I led them through the kitchen and pushed open the door to the dining room. Chad and Emma were sitting together in the corner. He had a coffee cup halfway to his lips when he spotted his parents. He put down the cup abruptly, a look of embarrassment—or shame?—flashing over his face.

  He got up and hurried over to them, glancing back at Emma, who was watching the scene with curiosity in her bright eyes. I busied myself rearranging the buffet as they talked.

  "What are you doing here?" he hissed.

  "We read the article in the paper," his mother informed him, then glanced at me. "We don't think it's safe here. We're going to see about renting another place on the island; or maybe you can stay with us and we'll have David drop you off and pick you up."

  I felt bad for Chad; he looked mortified.

  "Mom. I'm fine."

  "You're our only son," she said. "If something happened to you..."

  "We're just taking reasonable precautions," his father interjected. "Now. We'll check you out; if you'll get packed today, we'll have you settled by this evening."

  Chad glanced back at Emma, his face flushed.

  "Can we talk outside?" he said in a low voice.

  "I don't see what there is to talk about," his father said in a commanding voice. "We'll have the arrangements taken care of by the end of the day."

  "I don't want to check out," Chad said. "Everything's fine. Someone did that girl in because she was investigating a lobster boat. It doesn't have anything to do with me."

  "Sweetie, I still don't think it's a good idea to stay here. I'd sleep so much better if I knew you were somewhere safe."

  Somewhere safe? Really?

  "Get your things together," his father ordered. "We'll check out while you take care of it."

  "I can't," Chad said. "I have to go to the Art Guild in twenty minutes. I said I'd be there by nine."

  "Well, then, I'll take care of it," his mother said. She turned to me. "Um, Miss? Which room is he in?"

  "Mom!" Chad said. "You can't just take over and tell me where to live."

  "No?" his father said. "We're the primary investors in your little art concern. I think that gives us plenty of say."

  "Charles," Chad's mother said, laying a hand on his arm. "We don't need to go there." She turned back to Chad. "Sweetie, go do what you need to do this morning. I'll take care of everything here; all I need is the key. By tonight, we'll have you somewhere safe, and likely twice as nice as this place."

  I was torn between pity for Chad and fury for his parents, but kept my peace. I glanced over at Emma, who had obviously heard the whole exchange. Her mouth had quirked up a little bit, and again I felt bad for Chad, who didn't quite know what to do. Did he make a stand in front of Emma and risk alienating his parents? Or did he go along and face humiliation?

  He opened his mouth, looking like he was going to tell them to get back onto their yacht and head back to the mainland, but before he could speak, his father said, "We only want what's best for you, Son."

  Chad seemed to crumple. He handed the key to his mother. "It's on the second floor at the end," he told her.

  Her face lit up. "Wonderful. I'll just go get started now." She turned to her husband. "You'll take care of the bill?"

  "I'll handle it," he said as his wife planted a kiss on Chad's cheek and then patted him on the shoulder. "Now, go finish your breakfast with your friend, and we'll meet you at noon."r />
  "Two," he said shortly.

  "Okay. Two. We'll come get you at that art place, okay?"

  "There's nowhere to dock," he pointed out.

  She sighed. "I'll walk over, and we can walk back together."

  "Fine," he said, and turned back to the table where Emma suddenly busied herself cutting into her quiche.

  "Now, then," Chad's father said. "I need to settle up."

  "Follow me," I said, leading him to the front desk as his wife marched toward the stairs. He pulled out an American Express Platinum Card and barely looked at the bill before signing it with a flourish. "I'll have a cup of coffee while I wait," he informed me.

  I resisted the urge to tell him to go jump off his yacht. Not only was he rude, but he and his wife had just talked their son out of giving me another month of booking income... income I'd been counting on. And considering what had been printed in the Daily Mail this morning, I wasn't exactly in a good position to talk to Gwen about doing co-op advertising. So instead of whacking Mr. Berman Senior over the head with a stapler—the urge was strong—I put on as polite a smile as I could muster and directed him to the dining room. As he turned from the front desk, Noelle and Bruce sauntered down the stairs, hand in hand. Whatever had been bothering them seemed to have cleared up; at least someone was having a decent day.

  "What's for breakfast?" Noelle asked.

  "Crabmeat quiche," I said.

  "Ooh, that sounds delicious," Noelle said, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

  "Find a table and I'll bring you some coffee," I said.

  "Hey, did they ever find out what happened to that girl?" Bruce asked.

  "No," I said.

  "The police asked a lot of questions," he said.

  "I'm sure it's just routine," I said. "I'll bring you breakfast in a minute; feel free to find a table."

  "Thanks," Noelle said with a smile, then nuzzled into Bruce again. As they seated themselves by a window, I hurried back into the kitchen. I grabbed three coffee cups and the coffee carafe and headed back into the dining room, delivering two to Bruce and Noelle and one to Chad's father, who was already on his cell phone and completely ignored me as I set the mug in front of him. I had to wave to catch his attention.

  "What?" he asked sharply.

  "We don't allow cell phones in the dining room, I'm afraid," I told him. "You are welcome to take your coffee out on the deck."

  "I'll only be a minute," he said, and went back to his conversation.

  "No," I said. "You'll have to take it outside. It's disturbing my guests."

  "Give me just a second, Richard, okay?" he said into the phone, then hit the Hold button.

  "Is there a problem?"

  "Like I said, we don't allow cell phones in the dining room. You'll have to take it outside."

  He sighed and went back to his call. "Sorry. This woman is giving me a hard time about the phone. What time are you thinking? Noon? I think I can do that. Yeah, we'll go down to the club for lunch afterward. Absolutely. See you then. Say hi to Midge for me!" When he was done, he looked at me. "There. All done."

  I gave him a tight smile and walked away.

  "Where are the cream and sugar?" he asked.

  "Over there," I said, pointing to the buffet, and continued to the kitchen.

  The phone rang as soon as the door swung shut behind me. I stared at the phone as if it were a poisonous snake—I'd left a message for Gwen first thing, and was dreading the return call—then picked it up.

  "Gray Whale Inn, can I help you?"

  "How could you?" It was Gwen, sounding angrier than I'd ever heard her.

  13

  And that was saying something, as she and her mother, my sister, had quite a history. I winced.

  "I'm so sorry," I said. "I can explain..."

  "You'd better start," she said. "Although I'm not sure how you're going to make it any better. I can't believe you told Gertrude that about Adam!"

  "I didn't," I said. "I called her to leave a message and must have accidentally not hung up. She overheard my conversation."

  "That still means you told someone Adam was a suspect."

  "I was only reporting what I heard from someone else," I said. "I don't believe Adam had anything to do with this. Do you think I'd encourage my niece to marry someone I thought was capable of murder?"

  She was quiet for a moment.

  "I left a message for Gertrude the moment I saw the article," I told her. "I'm trying to get her to print a retraction. I know it's not the same as never printing it at all, but I'm doing everything I can to fix it."

  "Good," she said, taking a deep breath. "I'll try to explain it to Adam. But it still doesn't make it better."

  "I know, honey," I told her. "I'm so sorry this happened. It's my fault. I'll do anything I can to make it up to you."

  "How about finding the actual murderer, so people stop talking about us?"

  "I'll do my best," I told her.

  She sighed. "I know you'd never do anything like that intentionally, but... I still can't believe you said it."

  "I'm sorry," I repeated.

  "I'll think about it," she told me. "Anyway, I guess I'll see you later. I've got to run. Bye."

  "Goodbye," I replied, but she had already hung up.

  I put down the phone and cut two more pieces of quiche with a heavy heart. I couldn't believe what a mess I'd made of things.

  Emma lingered a few minutes after everyone else had left. She was sipping her coffee and sketching the scene from the window, using the window itself as a frame. As I cleared the last of the tables, she said, "What do you think of Chad Berman?"

  I glanced over at her, surprised by the direct question.

  "He certainly seems intrigued by you," I said.

  "It's not me he's intrigued by," she said dryly, adding another line to her sketch. "It's what I do that interests him."

  "Your art? But he's an artist, too," I said.

  She shrugged. "He makes things with clay. But to do art takes work," she said simply.

  "I always thought it was about talent."

  "Talent can only take you so far," she replied. "Effort and time are key. It doesn't just happen.” She waved a hand. "Did this inn just happen?"

  As I picked up the coffee carafe and wiped a small spill, I thought about the risk I'd taken to come here, pouring my life savings into this historic building at the edge of Maine, and the continued worries I had about keeping the business healthy. "No," I said.

  She leaned forward and looked at me. "You worked at it. You still do."

  "That's true," I said.

  "What did you do before you were an innkeeper?" she asked.

  "I worked for the Parks and Wildlife Department in Austin, Texas," I told her.

  "You really wanted to do this, didn't you?" she asked. Her eyes were intense. "This place spoke to you, and you risked a lot to answer the call."

  "I did," I said, taken aback by her insight.

  She nodded. "I did too. My parents wanted me to do an accounting degree. Practical. Lucrative." She put down the cup. "Safe."

  She sounded like my niece, who had defied my sister to pursue art as a career. "But you didn't."

  Emma shook her head. "I didn't. And I paid the price for that for a while. My paintings never sold for much for years. I ate beans and rice, I shared a house on the wrong side of the tracks just so I could afford the rent, but I never stopped sketching, never stopped painting, never stopped learning."

  "You're doing well now," I said. I'd seen the price tags on her paintings at the Guild. And I knew at least half of them had sold, and the summer had just begun.

  "I am," she said. "But I sacrificed for it. Chad doesn't understand that. He just expects it to 'happen.'"

  "I can see that."

  "I looked up his work when I first met him."

  "Oh?"

  "He started with woodworking, but he decided the medium 'wasn't for him.' Then he worked with collage, but after six months
decided it was too 'limiting.' Now it's pottery, and... well, he hasn't taken the time to really learn the medium, but he's disappointed his sales aren't better."

  "He doesn't need the money."

  "It's not the money," she said. "It's the stamp of approval the money means."

  "I see," I said. "He's interested in what you're doing."

  "He is. He's seen that my work is in demand, so he's thinking if he tries oil painting, that will be the answer."

  "Looking for the magic bullet."

  "Exactly. But what he doesn't understand," she said, "is that you do it because you have to. The money is nice, and necessary to live on, but that's not what keeps you going." She sipped her coffee and stared out at the water. "You do it because there’s something that's yearning to come out that he's got to try again and again to make a reality. He may have that somewhere, but he hasn't found it. It's not what's driving him."

  "No?"

  She shook her head. "It's recognition he wants."

  "So there's no hope for him?"

  "I didn't say that," she said, glancing at me with an arched eyebrow. "There's always hope. But he's got a few things working against him."

  "Like the folks who showed up earlier, you mean?"

  She nodded. "They make it too easy for him. They smooth everything out. Keep him from feeling any hardship." She made another few lines on the page. "He has to close out the world and listen to what's inside, instead of trying to look a certain way, or please his parents, or work for approval."

  "I can see that," I said, thinking of my niece's struggle.

  "Ironically, the way for him to get the approval he wants is for him not to want it."

  "Kind of a sticky wicket, isn't it?"

  "It is," she mused, then put another few lines on her sketch. "It's complicated doing art for a living."

  "It sounds like it," I said.

  "Your niece knows what she's doing," she informed me. "So does your husband. They do their work for the right reasons. And they work hard. It shines through in their pieces."