Scone Cold Dead

by Karen MacInerney

  After a long moment, Chad said, "Okay," and disappeared upstairs a minute later.

  "Do you need to get anything?" I asked Julia. "You're welcome to borrow. Between Catherine and me, I'm sure we can cover you."

  "Thank you," she said. "I don't have anything. It's all on the boat or the mainland. I'll come." A few minutes later, Chad and Julia climbed into the back of the inn's van, looking like survivors of a terrorist attack.

  In a way, I reflected, they kind of were.

  24

  "So all's well that ends well," Charlene said as we walked over to watercolor class the next morning. Breakfast had been easy but delicious; I'd served my favorite overnight French toast recipe along with a fruit salad and eggs to order, and there had been lots of oohing and ahhing over the food, along with speculation over recent events. Chad and Julia had come down to breakfast a little late, but both had been embraced by the artists from the Guild, and had looked relieved and grateful for their compassion. Emma even offered to work with Chad a bit to help him market his work.

  Now, as we walked along the road on a perfect Maine morning, I turned to Charlene and pointed out her error. "Not completely," I said. "I still feel horrible for Chelsea, and although Quartz came to briefly, she's still got a ways to go." I'd called the hospital that morning; Quartz's mother, who had arrived the day before, had given me an update.

  "She'll recover, though, right?"

  "She will," I confirmed. "But she, Chad, and Julia have a lot of healing to do."

  "That's true," Charlene agreed. "It was all pretty horrible. Talk about a snowplow parent."

  "I know," I said. "Charles confessed he used a motorboat to cut loose all the boats in the harbor, just to spread suspicion."

  "What did he do, anyway?"

  Charles had told us the details while we waited for the police. "After he saw Chelsea that night, he convinced himself she was planning to shame Chad again. He looked her up and confirmed that she was a reporter, then took a boat out during the night to cut loose the rest of the lobster boats—he had heard she was here on the island purportedly to go out on a lobster boat, and you know it's been in the news a bit."

  "True," I said.

  "So once he did that, he pulled his boat ashore and waited outside the inn for her to come out. She took the cliff path, and he followed her and killed her. He followed the same pattern with Quartz a few days later."

  "Scary," she said.

  "But that still doesn't explain who left that stuffed animal on my doorstep," I reflected. "And I have no idea what the deal was between Mac and Earl."

  "I know what the deal was between Mac and Earl," Charlene said smugly.

  "What?"

  "Earl told Mac he had a problem and needed to go to rehab. Mac had had too much to drink, so he blew a gasket and plowed into his boat."

  "Really?"

  "Really," she said. "He just said the thing about blaming Earl for the observer because he didn't want to admit what had really happened. Apparently, he was fishing illegally to make enough money to support his habit, and I think a few locals knew he was doing it, so it was a reasonable explanation."

  "Alcohol problem?"

  "That and opioids," she said.

  "Oof," I said. "That stuff is nasty."

  "I know," she told me. "Another reporter from the Portland paper stopped by the shop to ask me some questions about what all had gone on; you'll probably hear from her, too. Turns out opioids are what Chelsea was here to report on."

  "Not Chad and the Art Guild?" I shook my head. Chelsea had died to keep her from reporting on a story she wasn't even interested in.

  "Nope. She was doing a big feature on opioid addiction in the lobster industry. There are a few here who are addicted... that's part of the reason there's been some cheating lately when it comes to fishing." She dabbed at her paper again and continued in a low voice. "Keep it under your hat, but Mac and Earl were doing a little illegal lobstering."

  "That explains the hidden tank on Earl's boat," I said. "Why?"

  "A little extra money, of course. A few extra traps set. But others got wind of it, and things started to get hot." She leaned in close and whispered to me, "Apparently, Mac was desperate enough for money that he just started selling a few illegal lobsters to a lobster pound over on Mount Desert Island."

  "What are they going to do about it?"

  "It can't be proved now—I think the evidence is eaten—but Tom has decided to deal with it on the island and not call the Marine Patrol."

  "Are you sure Tom's not in on it?" I asked. "He had what looked like a nastygram from a mortgage company the other day, remember?"

  She blinked at me. "Wait. Are you suggesting Tom might be fishing illegally?" She laughed. "No. He's been trying to refinance for three months, but the old company hasn't gotten the memo and keep sending bills. He's at his wit's end."

  "So he's not fishing illegally?"

  "Of course not!" Charlene said.

  "I'm relieved to hear that," I said, feeling a cloud lift. "Are people still talking about Adam?"

  "No," she said. "I think he just had a good streak."

  "Is Mac going to rehab?"

  "They're checking him in today," Charlene told me. "I think ramming the Lucky Lady made him realize how bad things had gotten. His sister and Earl are taking him in."

  "Does he know?"

  "I don't know," Charlene said, "so I'm not going to broadcast it."

  "Got it," I said.

  "And speaking of which..." As we walked, three people came into view. Mac, trailing a rolling suitcase, Earl, and a woman I didn't recognize but must have been his sister.

  "Hey," Charlene said.

  Mac looked like he'd been rode hard and put up wet, as they used to say in Texas. So did Mac's sister; apparently, it hadn't been an easy process. Earl looked grim.

  "Hey," I said.

  Mac looked up at me, all the vitriol from the other day evaporated. "Sorry about what I left on your porch," he said. "And for that call."

  "That was you?" I asked.

  "I didn't want you messing around," he said. "I wouldn't have done anything bad. I just wanted to get you to shut up."

  "Nice," Earl said.

  "I was a desperate man," Mac said. "Anyway, I saw you over at Eli's. You always ask too many questions, and I wanted my private business quiet." He grimaced and glanced at his sister. "Although that hasn't worked out too well, thanks to you two."

  "We love you," she said.

  "Funny way of showing it, dragging me out of my house like this."

  "Oh, don't be a wuss," Earl said. "You know you need help. And I'll check your traps while you're gone."

  "Fine," he said in a gruff tone. "But I am not talking to any stinking reporters." Mac harrumphed and kept walking, and his sister hurried to catch up to him, as if she were afraid he'd change his mind and take a wrong turn.

  "You're a good friend," I told Earl. "And she's a good sister."

  "Tell him that," Earl said, nodding his head toward Mac, then stumped after Mac and his sister.

  We stood watching them head down to the mail boat for a moment. "Well," Charlene finally said. "I think that resolves just about everything."

  "Everything except the Art Guild. And Claudette," I said, with a sense of foreboding.

  "We'll talk to Gwen about the situation with the Guild and drop by Claudette and Eli's after class," Charlene said. "We didn't do a very good job organizing meals this week, did we?"

  "No, we didn't," I said.

  "We have a perfect excuse to stop by, then," she pointed out.

  We got to the Art Guild a few minutes later, and Charlene and I detoured to Gwen's studio. My niece was putting the final touches on a painting of the lighthouse. She looked remarkably upbeat, considering her main donor had been arrested for murder.

  "How's it going?" I asked.

  "Oh, crazy as usual," she said, adding a touch of blue paint to intensify a shadow.

  "I'm sorry about t
he loss of your donor," Charlene said.

  "It's okay," she told us. "Chad called last night and told me what happened; it's tragic, but we'll be okay. His mom is going to pick up the slack; she might even take some art classes. She always wanted to, but her husband told her she wasn't very good." She grimaced. "It might be good therapy for her."

  "I hope so," I said.

  "In the meantime," she said, "I'm thinking I need to work on other types of funding, so if you've got time this week, Aunt Nat, I'd like to see if we can put together some art packages for later this summer or in the fall."

  "Really?"

  "Really," she said. "And I'll help with some of your marketing, too; I've learned a lot from one of those online artists' groups."

  "Thank you," I said, resisting the urge to kiss Gwen right then and there.

  "Now. We've got class in five minutes. Did you do the homework I assigned?"

  "Uhh..." Charlene and I looked at each other.

  "I guess I can give you a pass, considering the week you've had. But next time..."

  "We'll do it," Charlene and I promised.

  "Good," she said. "Now, let's go do some art!"

  By the time we left the Art Guild, I was still terrible at painting, but I was feeling better than I had in days. Except for my worry about Claudette.

  Eli wasn't in his workshop when we got to the Whites' house, which was surprising, considering the number of repairs I knew he had to make. Muffin and Pudge were in a fenced enclosure in the backyard; Pudge was testing the gate, and Muffin was nosing the fence.

  Charlene knocked, and we glanced at each other as we waited. A moment later, Eli answered the door, looking cheerier than I'd seen him in weeks.

  "It's two of my favorite ladies!" he said. "Outside Claudie, that is. Come in, come in!"

  We followed him into the little house, which smelled of tea and books, and into the living room, where Claudette was tucked into a recliner with her knitting beside her.

  "We just stopped by for a visit," Charlene said.

  "And to find out about the tests, I imagine," Claudette said.

  "Well?" Charlene asked impatiently. "Did you hear back?"

  "She's clear," Eli said, his face splitting into a sunny smile.

  "Oh, thank goodness," I said, feeling tension I didn't even know I was carrying leaving my body.

  "The biopsy results came back negative," Claudette announced.

  "But she's way low on iron," Eli said. "They thought it might be lymphoma, but anemia's why she's been so tired all the time, and the swollen nodes must have been from a virus. She was cutting back on red meat so much, she tanked her iron count."

  "They have you on something to fix that?" I asked.

  "They do," she said. "It'll take a bit, but my energy should come back. Between the low iron and the virus... the combination just knocked me out."

  "I'm so glad it's not something worse," I said. "I think this calls for a celebration."

  "Cookies?" Eli said hopefully, casting a glance at his wife.

  "I think we can make an exception," Claudette said. "But we don't have any in the house."

  "Actually..." Eli turned a bit pink, but said, "I'll be right back."

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a Baggie. "I tucked a few of your lemon bars into the freezer not too long ago. Hid 'em behind the green beans."

  Claudette gave him a stern look—but not too stern. "Eli!"

  "Just for an occasion such as this," he said, opening the bag and distributing frozen lemon bars. Even Claudette took one. He held up his lemon bar, dropping a bit of powdered sugar onto the rug. "To Claudette's health!" he announced.

  "Hear, hear!" I said, and we all touched lemon bars, then dug in.

  Even Claudette.

  "Claudette's clear!" I announced when I walked into the inn kitchen twenty minutes later. Catherine and John were sitting at the table drinking tea.

  "She is?" John asked, getting up and folding me into a hug. "That's great news!"

  "I know. She's just really anemic and getting over a virus; they thought it might be lymphoma, but she's clear."

  "Thank goodness," Catherine said.

  "I also found out what's going on with Mac and Earl," I told him, and relayed the morning's encounter. "I don't know if it's public knowledge, though, so please don't say anything."

  "Oh, it'll be public knowledge whether he wants it to be or not," John said. "But maybe we can all pitch in and help out."

  "I hope so," I said, and turned to Catherine, who was looking springy in a pale pink blouse and white capris. "How are you?" I asked. I hadn't really talked to her since after class the day before.

  "Doing surprisingly well," she said. "But what about you? You've had an exciting twenty-four hours."

  "I have," I said, "but things are sorted now. I feel bad for Chad and Julia, though."

  "It sounds like it was a horrific situation." Catherine took a sip of tea. "At least they can heal now. Although after living with that for so many years... it'll take time."

  "I'm sure it will," I said. "How are you doing, by the way?"

  "Well, I got my profile up, with Charlene's help," she said, then made a face. "Of course, Murray called right after I did it, and said he wants to have dinner."

  "Are you going to go?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure.” She turned her cup around on the table as she spoke. "I think I need some time, too. Besides," she added, glancing up with a mischievous look in her eyes, "it might be fun to see what's out there."

  "Whatever you decide, we're totally behind you," I said. "I just want you to be happy."

  "Speaking of happy," John said, "you got a message back from that magazine you sent the scone recipe to."

  "Uh-oh. What is it?"

  "They'd like to come spend a weekend here, and maybe do a feature on the inn," he said.

  "What? When?"

  "Next weekend," he said.

  "That would give us enough time to set something up with Gwen," I said. "Perfect for publicity."

  "Maybe things are looking up after all," Catherine said.

  "Maybe they are," I said with a smile, feeling a rush of gratitude for John, for Catherine, for the beauty of the island and the inn, for the warm community around me... and for the life I'd built for myself.

  It wasn't always easy, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

  * * *

  <<<<>>>>

  Spell of Trouble

  Chapter One

  “You have arrived at your destination.”

  “What?”

  As if responding to the navigation system, Georgina, my stuffed-to-the-gills-and-a-little-bit-beyond, lima-bean-green Kia Soul, gave a soft sigh and shut down.

  “No. No, no, no. My destination is Portland. PORTLAND. Not the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere.”

  It was raining. It was pitch black. I was the only person stupid enough to be on the road at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night. And I was absolutely, positively, nowhere near my destination.

  I took a deep breath as the car rolled onto the narrow shoulder, then put the car into park and turned the key in the ignition. Just as I turned it, a huge bolt of lightning forked down from the sky, illuminating the small exit sign a hundred yards in front of me.

  EXIT 43A. MISTY HOLLOW.

  I turned the key in the ignition again — nothing — and reached for my cell phone.

  Which was also dead.

  “Well, this is exciting,” said Aunt Matilda from the seat next to mine.

  “Easy for you to say,” I told her. Since she was a ghost, she wasn’t bothered by rain, the absence of chocolate bars, or the prospect of spending a long, wet night trying to sleep in the front seat of my car. “Any suggestions?”

  “I’m just along for the ride,” she replied. Aunt Matilda had been with me for the last two years. Neither of us was sure why she latched onto me after choking on an olive at the Svelte Seniors Picnic in Fort Myers, Florida a few
years ago, but we’d come to something of a companionable arrangement.

  “Brilliant,” I said.

  “Oh, cheer up. Maybe something good will come of it.”

  “Like a serial killer finding me stranded on the side of the road?”

  “At least you wouldn’t have to worry about paying for a hotel room,” Aunt Matilda pointed out.

  “That’s certainly glass half-full,” I said, looking at the rain-streaked windshield, which was faintly illuminated by a billboard advertising “Misty Hollow: Your destination for a magical vacation.” The small billboard featured a picture of a fanciful witch on a broomstick and an overfed black cat in a red bow tie. The chamber of commerce could use some help, I thought. Maybe I should drop off a resume.

  “You’re worried about the job situation again, aren’t you?” Aunt Matilda asked.

  “When am I not worried about the job situation?”

  “What happened to the taffy machine wasn’t your fault,” she said.

  “Don’t remind me,” I groaned.

  “And when you sent out the ad with the picture of the donkey on it… It could have happened to anyone. And who knew the gorilla was going to get free at the zoo just as you put on the banana suit?”

  I knew she was trying to make me feel better, but going through a grand tour of my previous job mishaps wasn’t doing much for my morale. “Are those headlights?” I asked, trying to interrupt her recitation of my checkered career.

  They were. They came, and they went, leaving me alone with Aunt Matilda and all of my worldly possessions.

  “At least it wasn’t a serial killer,” Aunt Matilda said cheerily.

  I sighed. Now what? I was hours away from everyone I knew (well, everyone except Aunt Matilda), and hours away from where I wanted to be. My phone was dead. And I was stuck on a dark road in the middle of nowhere, at two in the morning, during a rainstorm.

  I had just hit the hazard lights on my car when another pair of headlights appeared behind me on the road. As I watched, they pulled in behind me, illuminating the small slit at the top of the rearview mirror—the only part not obscured by my worldly possessions. I sat frozen in the car, watching in the side mirror as someone opened the door of the car behind mine, walked up beside me, and knocked on the window. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or terrified.