“I’ll finish making lunch while you get acquainted,” I said. As the two of them headed out into the cool morning air, already talking about currents and sails, I began assembling lunch: rare roast beef sandwiches on fresh Little Notch bakery bread, slices of blueberry pie, and salt and vinegar potato chips. I was slicing the last sandwich when John walked in the back door.
“What did the insurance company say?”
“They’re sending an adjustor next week.”
“Next week? That’s a long time to wait. What do we do in the meantime?”
“I have a call in to see if I can make it faster. Hope the ceiling doesn’t completely cave in, I guess,” John said. “Good thing we’re short one guest, or we’d be sleeping in a tent in the yard.”
“I suppose that is a very faint silver lining,” I said as I put the last sandwich into its box and fit it into the padded cooler.
“When do they leave?” John asked, looking at the stack of assembled lunches.
“In an hour or so,” I told him. “Eli and Martina are down on the Summer Breeze getting it ready.
“Did your sister ever come back?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” I said. “But I found out something about the captain from Eli.” I relayed what he’d told me about his connection to Lorraine.
“That explains why he looked familiar,” John said. “His name was different then; close, but not quite the same.”
“Bridges. I wonder why he changed it?”
“It might be worth looking into,” John suggested.
“You think Lorraine may have had something to do with what happened to him?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his sandy hair. “Somebody did him in, Nat. Maybe Lorraine wasn’t the only one he was connected to romantically. Or maybe there was jealousy.”
“You’re thinking Tom?” I said. I could not imagine the head of the lobster co-op tying an anchor to a man’s leg and dropping him into the Gulf of Maine. “He did go after Tom’s traps, according to Eli.”
“Even if they weren’t involved—and I hope they’re not—maybe they know something we don’t,” he said. “It’s worth talking to them. If Catherine’s doing the rooms, maybe you could swing by and talk to Lorraine; I’ll see if I can connect with Tom.”
“I did promise Charlene I’d take some cookies down to the store,” I mused. “And pick up the grocery order.”
“And if you’re not here, Bridget can’t corner you,” John pointed out.
“Will you take care of the kitten?” I asked.
“I’ll keep her in the workshop with me,” he said. “And I’ll even start dinner.”
“What would I do without you?” I asked, grinning at my handsome husband.
“Let’s hope you never have to find out,” he said as I pulled my cookie cookbook out of the shelf. “Still no binder?” he asked.
“Missing in action,” I told him. “On the plus side, I’m having to experiment with new recipes.”
“We’d better find that binder,” he said. “I don’t think I can survive without your Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake.”
“Better to lose the binder than our mailing list, I guess.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said darkly as I leafed through the cookbook for another recipe. I decided on raspberry oatmeal bars; I had just made jam last week, and although my pantry was running low, I had enough eggs and butter for the recipe. I’d drop the bars by the store, say hi to Charlene, and then pick up my grocery order.
As I pulled the oats out of the pantry, Catherine walked into the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom,” John said. “I was just on my way down to the workshop. Thanks for taking care of the rooms today.”
“And thanks for putting up with my sister,” I added.
“Natalie,” she said, giving me a pitying look. “However did you survive growing up?”
“That bad?” John asked with a wry grin.
“You would think Cranberry Island was some hotbed of sloth and iniquity, to hear her talk,” she said. “And that you had lured her daughter into a den of vice.”
“Did Bridget really say that?” I asked.
“Well, maybe the words were a little bit milder,” she confessed, “but she’s pretty adamant about taking her daughter back to what she calls ‘civilization.’ Of course, I understand on some level,” she said, sliding her eyes at John. “When you have a child who’s bright with lots of potential, it’s hard when they take a path other than the one you’d envisioned for them.”
“Subtle, Mom,” John said. “Have you recovered from the disappointment yet?” Although his voice was light, I could hear a strained undertone. It looked like John wasn’t as sanguine about his job choice as he’d let on, I realized.
“John,” she said, “I long ago realized that no one knows your path better than you.” She walked over and put an arm around him. “You have a varied career, you live on a beautiful island, and you’ve got a terrific, patient, wife.”
“Patient?” John winked at me. “Let’s not go too far, Mother.”
She smiled. “The point is, when you’re a driven person with an only child, sometimes it’s easy to find yourself living vicariously. It can be hard to let go of those expectations.”
“What exactly were you expecting me to do?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing too outlandish. President of the United States would have been fine.” She winked at him. “Seriously, though,” she said. “There comes a point when you have to realize your children are wiser than you are—at least in terms of their own destiny. Bridget just hasn’t gotten to that point yet.”
“Do you think she will?”
“I hope for both their sakes she does,” she said.
“Gwen thinks I’m on Bridget’s side,” I told Catherine.
“Why?”
“Because I asked her if she was sure she was doing the right thing.”
“Nothing wrong with checking in,” she said. “But if I were you, I’d leave it and let the two of them work it out.”
“It would be a lot easier if Bridget were still in California,” I said darkly.
“Fortunately for you, you’ve got a murder and an arrest to keep you occupied,” Catherine said glibly. “Not to mention a full inn. I’m planning on taking care of the rooms.”
“Thanks. It should be easy,” I said. “No need to change sheets yet—but Gayla and Herb’s room flooded last night; if you could check and make sure things are drying out okay, that would be good.”
“How?”
“Overflowing bathtub,” John said. “We had to move them to Bainbridge’s room.” The police had cleared us to use it, and the Fowlers had taken it reluctantly—after demanding a discount.
“Are the floors okay?”
“They’re not in great shape,” John admitted. “Neither is the laundry room ceiling.”
“It’s been some week, hasn’t it? On the plus side, I don’t see how it could get much worse.”
Unfortunately, she was wrong.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Once the guests headed out for the day on the Summer Breeze—Nan and Stacy seemed concerned at first, but Eli quickly won them over with his charm—I spent a meditative hour making raspberry bars. Eli had promised he would chart the location of the entangled whale if he saw it; I hoped it had broken free, or that Adam and Alex’s efforts would be successful in helping free it.
As I mixed the dry ingredients together, I wondered about Captain Bainbridge—or Carl Bridges—and his connection to the island. Most people who came back reminisced about their childhood memories, but despite his time sterning with Eli, the captain had never mentioned that he’d been on Cranberry Island before. Something seemed strange there; I was hoping Lorraine could fill me in on what she knew about him.
My thoughts turned to Alex as I kneaded butter into the dry mixture. I had told them I’d seen Alex coming back at 2 a.m., because it was true. Was it because of that that the detective
s had arrested him? And what did they think was his motive was for killing the captain?
I threw my mind back to the captain’s comment to Martina about trouble with Alex. I was going to have to ask Martina about that; I was guessing there was more to the relationship between Bainbridge and Alex than met the eye.
I patted the dough into the pan and reached for a jar of raspberry jam, spreading the garnet-colored jam over the golden crust, then sprinkled the remaining dough crumbles over the top. I was just sliding it into the oven when Gwen came in, looking haunted.
“Is she here?” she asked in a furtive voice, her eyes darting around the kitchen.
“No,” I said. “I thought she was with you.”
“I sent her to the mainland on the mail boat to look at galleries,” Gwen said, depositing her art bag on the table and heading to the fridge. “I didn’t wait for the ferry, though, and I was afraid she might turn back.”
“Why did you send her to look at galleries?”
“So she’d feel she had some control,” Gwen said as she pulled out a container and opened it up. “What’s this?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, glancing at the contents of the unfamiliar Tupperware. “Maybe it’s Catherine’s; I don’t recognize the container.”
“It’s gross enough to be Catherine’s,” Gwen said as she tucked it back into the refrigerator. “Probably gluten-free cabbage casserole, or something.”
“There’s left-over strata, some fruit salad, and some coffee cake—the cake’s next to the cookie jar,” I told her.”
“Sounds good,” she said, grabbing the container of strata from the fridge and reaching for a plate. “By the way,” she said as she spooned out a large helping, “I’m still mad at you for butting in.”
“I know,” I said, relieved that at least the fury that had accompanied my niece out the door that morning seemed to have dissipated. “I’m sorry you felt I was interfering,” I told her. “Your mom and I have a long history; even now, she can make me second-guess myself.”
“No kidding,” Gwen said. “Imagine having her for a mother!”
“She loves you,” I told her. “And she’s right; it’s not my job to tell you what to do.”
“When have you ever told me what to do?” Gwen asked, and something inside me relaxed a little. “You’ve listened to me, you’ve given me advice when I asked—and okay, maybe you told me doing huge oils for that awful gallery owner on Mount Desert Island wasn’t the best idea.”
“Yeah—I really influenced you there, didn’t I?”
“I wish you had,” she said ruefully. “Those paintings were awful.”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to try something new. But I’m glad you’re doing what you love.”
She sighed as she slid the strata back into the fridge and reached for the fruit salad. “Maybe my mom can set me up with a mainland gallery. If that will keep her satisfied with me being here, it might be worth it.”
“And you never know,” I said. “It could be profitable; they get a lot more traffic in Northeast Harbor, and there are some pretty ritzy visitors.”
“If nothing else,” she said, “I have an afternoon off.” She looked at me a little bit guiltily; she had been rather absent the last few days, although it was understandable. “Not from work, I mean.”
“Catherine’s got the rooms and I’ve got dinner,” I said. “I think you deserve a little time to yourself.”
“Actually, Adam and I are planning to meet with some scientists from College of the Atlantic,” she said as she spooned a few scoops of cut fruit into a small bowl. “He’s hauling traps this morning, but someone’s coming out to the island this afternoon to show the lobstermen how to tag the whale if they see her..”
“I just hope it doesn’t get caught up on other traps,” I said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to drown,” I said, shuddering—and then remembered that Captain Bainbridge had done just that. “By the way,” I said. “Apparently the captain spent a summer sterning with Eli several years back.”
“Why didn’t he mention it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He and Lorraine apparently had a summer romance, too; I’m hoping I can ask her a bit about him today.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell us he’d been on the island before?” She sliced off a hunk of coffee cake and added it to her plate. Again, I wondered how she ate so much yet stayed so thin; whatever miraculous metabolism she had inherited clearly hadn’t come to me. “Are you thinking somebody he knew on the island might have something to do with what happened to him?” she asked.
“That’s a very good question. I’m exploring all options,” I said. “You know Alex was arrested, right?”
She almost dropped her plate. “What?”
“Adam didn’t tell you?”
“I barely saw him today,” she said. “I spent the whole morning fending off my mother. When did this happen?”
“First thing this morning,” I said. “I was fixing breakfast.”
“How is Martina going to handle the boat on her own?”
“Eli’s helping her,” I said.
“Good thinking.”
“It was Adam’s idea, actually,” I told her, and she smiled.
“He is awesome, isn’t he? Regardless of what my mother thinks, I’m glad I’m marrying him.”
“Don’t tell your mom I said so, but so am I,” I told her. “And I hope I’m not interfering by saying so.”
Gwen walked over and gave me a big hug. “I love you, Aunt Nat!”
“I love you too,” I said. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “Thanks for putting up with me!”
***
I was just slicing the raspberry bars, which were looking decadent, when John walked into the kitchen, looking like an L.L. Bean cover model in faded jeans and a plaid shirt that was dusted lightly with sawdust. A simple wedding band glinted on his left hand, and I had to resist the urge to pinch myself. “How’s it going?” I asked, feeling slightly better just looking at my handsome husband.
“Well, I found out a little more about why they arrested Alex this morning,” he said as I removed the first bar from the tray. “Those look and smell amazing,” he said.
“You’re welcome to try one,” I told him as he came up next to me, bringing a whiff of his woodsy scent. “It’s a new recipe; I still can’t find my binder.”
“That could be a problem,” he said, biting into the bar. His eyes closed, and he let out a moan. “Oh, these are terrific. When you do find the binder, put this recipe near the front.”
“I hope I can,” I said as I began transferring the rest of the bars to a container. “But tell me about Alex.”
“Well,” he said, “the fact that he didn’t make it back to the inn until 2:00 in the morning was certainly a factor,” he said, “but apparently he and the captain had a bit of a blow-out after that whale expedition.”
“Was it because he was getting too close to the whales?” I said. “I wasn’t too thrilled with it, either, but he seemed to want to impress the investor.”
“That was it,” John said. Apparently Doreen overheard them talking on the back porch once they got back. She said Alex threatened to run the captain over with a boat himself if he didn’t back off from the whales. Said something about him already having done enough damage—and that he was going to have to pay for it some day.”
“Ouch,” I said. “But he didn’t damage the whales; he got too close, but the boat never made contact. Have they questioned Alex about it?”
“He said he was just angry that the captain was threatening the whales—that he actually never intended to hurt him.”
“What about his late-night return from Charlene’s?”
“He said he couldn’t sleep, so he went for a walk.”
“If it were during the day, half the island would be able to give him an alibi, but there were probably no witnesses after midnight, unfort
unately.”
“Even if they did, they’d have to cover a two-hour span,” John told me. “Did you hear any boats or anything when you came down to check on the kitten?”
I shook my head. “But somebody must have made it out to the Summer Breeze and back, and I doubt they swam. Do they really not have anything else in the history between Alex and the captain? That kind of seems like a weak motive.”
“Apparently Doreen thought his threat sounded pretty convincing,” John said. “And with the late arrival back at the inn... besides, there really aren’t any other suspects.”
“What about Martina?” I asked. “She was kind of nervous about expanding the business.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “Who else?”
“Maybe someone on the island,” I suggested.
“Like Lorraine, you mean? Don’t you think she’d be over that by now? It must have been what—fifteen years ago?”
“Or Tom,” I pointed out.
“We don’t even know if they knew he was here,” John pointed out.
“She would recognize him,” I said. “Fifteen years isn’t that long. Besides, do you really think Alex would have killed the captain?”
“I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion,” he said.
“Charlene thinks he’s innocent,” I told him.
John gave me a wry smile. “She’s also half in love with him,” he pointed out.
“I won’t argue that,” I said. “But I don’t think they’ve done a whole lot of digging. There might be more history between the captain and some of the tour guests than we know.”
“You think?”
“I think it’s worth looking into, anyway,” I said. “And it might be worth talking to Stacy to see if she’s dug up anything on the captain or the history of Northern Spirit Tours.”
“That’s risky, though,” John said. “We don’t want to dig up any more problems for her to write about.”
“If anything, it might take her mind off of what Gayla keeps telling her,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“She was going on about the murders at the inn, the ghost... all kinds of juicy tidbits this morning.”
“How does she know all of that?” he asked.
Whale of a Crime (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries Book 7) Page 9
