Selene MacGregor was rearranging some pottery mugs when Bridget and I knocked on the door of the little store. “Is Gwen here?” Bridget asked, breathless, when Selene unlocked the door.
“She left about half an hour ago,” Selene said, looking surprised. “Is everything all right?”
“Where did she say she was going?” I asked.
“She said she had one more stop to make and that she was heading back to the inn.”
“Did she say what the stop was?” Bridget asked.
Selene shrugged.
“What did you talk about?”
“Her paintings, of course,” Selene said, looking puzzled. “What’s all this about?”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, all the goings-on at the inn, of course. I told her I thought there was no way Tom Lockhart would have done anything like that. And about that horrible case with the dead captain, all those years ago, when that poor naturalist got framed.” Selene shook her head. “It wouldn’t surprise me if her husband did him in. He’s the jealous type.”
“So you don’t know where she went?”
“Sorry, I don’t,” she said. “Why are you so worried?” Her eyes grew big. “Wait. You don’t think...”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I cut in quickly. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, and I could feel her eyes follow us as we hurried to the door.
“Now what?” Bridget asked.
“I think we need to check in at the lobster pound,” I said.
“Why?”
“I think I know who killed the captain—and Stacy.”
“What about Gwen?”
“I’m sure she’s fine. We’re just doing due diligence,” I said, trying to remain calm as I hurried down the pier to the lobster pound, praying that Gwen would be there. Jenna was behind the counter, wrapping up silverware. She smiled when she saw me.
“Hi, Natalie. Thanks for stopping by today; I think you’re right about taking classes.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “Hey—have you seen your mom?”
“She’s not here right now,” Jenna said. “Why?”
“Was Gwen here?” Bridget asked before I had a chance to answer.
Jenna shook her head. “I haven’t seen her.”
I felt a wave of relief. “Was your mom here?”
“She left about thirty minutes ago.” Bridget and I looked at each other. The same time that Gwen left Island Artists.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Home, I guess. I’ll tell her you stopped by, if you want.”
“No need,” I said.
“Do you want to sit down for dinner?” she asked. “It’s late, but we still have clam chowder.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “Thanks, though,” and together, Bridget and I hurried outside.
“What was that all about? Where do you think she went?”
“I’m not sure,” I told her, “but I think we need to stop by Martha Spurrell’s house.”
“Oh, God,” Bridget breathed. “You don’t think...”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But we’re going to find out.” Together, we hurried to the van. Even though it was high summer, I felt colder than I had all year.
As she buckled herself in and I pulled out onto the narrow road, Bridget turned to me . “You think she’s the murderer, don’t you? The woman at the lobster pound. Why?”
“I think she was avenging her daughter,” I told her. “When Bridges came back into town, he stirred things back up with Jenna.”
“So Martha murdered her?”
I nodded. “He really did a number on her daughter; I don’t think she’s ever recovered. And I think Stacy figured it out, so Martha had to get rid of her, too.”
“And now Gwen?”
“We’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” I told her as I turned down a small, wooded road and pulled up outside a small cottage with a stack of broken lobster traps in the side yard. Martha’s beaten-up gold truck was parked crookedly in the driveway.
“What do we do?” Bridget asked as I walked up to the front door. “Shouldn’t we strategize?”
“If she’s got Gwen, we don’t have time to lose,” I said. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go to the door?”
“No,” she said. “I’m going with you.”
Together, we hurried to the front door. I knocked, praying I was wrong. No one answered, but I heard something like a muffled cry from behind the door.
“That’s Gwen,” Bridget said, going pale.
I tried the door; it was locked. Not a good sign; almost no one on the island locked their doors.
“Let’s go around back,” she said. Together we rounded the house; the back door was locked, too.
“Gwen!” she called, pounding on the door. She looked at me, eyes wild. “Let’s kick it in,” she suggested.
“What?”
“I’ve never done it before, but I’ve seen it on TV.”
“Why don’t we break the glass and reach through and unlock it, instead?” I asked.
She gave me a blank, panicked look. I reached down and grabbed an egg-shaped granite rock and smashed the bottom pane of the door’s window, then pulled my sweatshirt down around my hand and reached in to unfasten the deadbolt.
A moment later, we hurtled through the door into the darkened kitchen. It was neat and orderly—no surprise, since Martha owned a restaurant—but there was no sign of Gwen.
“Now what?” she whispered.
“Come on,” I told her quietly. We’d already announced our presence with the pounding and the broken glass, but it felt right to whisper. Together we hurried out of the kitchen, searching the house. There was no more sound—and no sign of anyone.
“Where is she?” Bridget asked, almost in tears.
As soon as she spoke, there was another muffled cry; from below us.
The cellar.
“How do we get in?” my sister asked.
We walked back to the kitchen, where I’d seen a door I presumed was to a pantry. I grabbed the knob and pulled the door open; sure enough, wooden stairs descended into a dimly lit space.
“Don’t you dare come down here,” came a husky voice.
“Martha?” I asked. “Is that you?”
“Yes. And this is private property.”
“You’ve got my daughter down there, don’t you?” Bridget demanded, voice shaking.
I heard a whimper that sounded like Gwen.
The voice was cold and expressionless and carried a current of menace that made my hair stand up. “I said, go away.”
My stomach plummeted. Were we too late?
“Let me at least talk to her,” Bridget said, taking a step and motioning for me to stay. “Call the police,” she whispered.
I didn’t have my cell phone, but I spotted a phone across the kitchen. “We’re not here to hurt you,” Bridget said as I reached for it and dialed the inn, but no one answered. I tried the workshop next; John wasn’t there. I hung up and dialed the inn again; if I called the mainland police, it would be at least 30 minutes before someone got here. Too long.
“Oh, God. No,” Bridget said from down the stairs. I put the phone down and hurried over to the cellar door, looking down.
I was wrong about Martha not having a gun. She was pointing it at my sister.
“Martha,” I said.
Her eyes leapt up the stairs to me. “There are two of you. Damn. Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Is Gwen okay?” I asked.
“She’s tied up in the corner,” my sister answered, her voice shaky. “She looks bad, though. What did you do to her?”
“Shut her up,” she said. “And now I have to shut you up, too. Christ. Why couldn’t you leave it alone?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Bridget said, her voice steady. “I know what happened. I agree—the jerk deserved to die. If anyone had done that to my daughter...” She looked at Gwen. Her v
oice was firm, but I could see the tic in her left eye.
“Yeah, well, I can’t have you blabbing it around. By the time I’m done, I’m going to have to start counting bodies on both hands.”
“There’s no need for anyone else to die,” Bridget said calmly. “With good representation, you have a chance at a minimal sentence.” She swallowed. “Or no sentence at all.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a hoity-toity lawyer, aren’t you? Well, I’m afraid I’ve done my research, and you’re wrong. I’m in for the rest of my life, and I don’t fancy a room with bars. I took care of what needed to be taken care of—the reporter was a nasty accident, but I don’t regret it. In for a penny, in for a pound.” Her voice was harsh. “Now get down here. Both of you.”
My instinct was to flee and get help. But if I did, I’d be leaving both Bridget and Gwen at Martha’s mercy... and I had no doubt she’d make good on her threat to kill them both.
“You don’t have to do this,” Bridget continued. “Seriously. You’re making a big mistake.”
“A boat accident will be just the thing,” she said. “Maybe you went out together in a skiff, and it overturned in bad weather. There’s a storm coming in tonight.”
“But why would you be out in a skiff?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“As long as it doesn’t come back to me, it makes plenty of sense,” Martha said. “Now here. Get downstairs next to Gwen here.” Bridget hurried down the stairs to her daughter, who was curled in a corner with her hands duct-taped together in front of her. Her face was bruised, and her eyes wide like a deer’s. Why had I ever invited her to Cranberry Island? I cursed my bad judgment. Without me, Gwen wouldn’t be in this horrible situation.
“Are you okay?” she asked her daughter.
How had we gotten here? And more importantly, how could we get out of here?
Martha squinted at Bridget. “She’s pretty, like you. A shame. But then our children’s futures aren’t always what we’d hoped for.”
“I talked with your daughter today,” I told Martha in a calming voice. “Just a little while ago. She’s thinking of going back to college.”
“How’s she going to afford that? Her college fund got blown up by that man. So did my chance of having grandchildren. All so that jerk could walk off scot-free, with a bunch of diamonds.” Her lips pulled back into a grim smile. Well, he’s not walking anymore, is he?”
“When did you recognize him?” I asked.
“As soon as he set foot on the island,” she said. “Same cocky walk. I’d know him anywhere.”
“Yours was the skiff that was out that night,” I said. “How did you get him out to the boat?”
“I left him a note saying I was Lorraine, of course,” she said. “My daughter was enough of an idiot to think he came back for her, but I knew better.”
“So you killed him.”
“Knocked him out with a brick,” she said. “Then I tied him to the anchor and towed the schooner’s skiff back to the dock.”
“Clever,” I said. “Why did you have to kill Stacy?”
“She was asking too many questions about the tiara. Came by twice to ask about Jenna; she got wind of the fact that she was still in love with him. If I didn’t do something, she was going to go to the police.”
“But they already had Alex in custody,” I said. “There was no way he could be accused of killing Stacy; wouldn’t that just open things up again?” As I spoke, I moved over next to Gwen and glanced at Bridget. We exchanged glances just as we had when one of us would sneak out at night to raid the frozen Snickers bars in the freezer. I would be the distraction; she would disable Martha.
My eyes were on the gun as Martha said, “I know. I thought about it, but I heard her asking around about where Jenna was the night the captain died. She knew it wasn’t that naturalist.” The gun was pointed at me now, not Bridget—right where I wanted it. “She started asking too many questions. It had to be done.” She sighed. “And now I have to deal with you, too.”
“Did Bridges tell you if he really did steal the tiara?” I asked, stalling for time as Bridget edged toward her.
“He took it, all right. Fenced the jewels, and then used some of the money to buy part-interest in some Japanese outfit, and the rest to start up his tour company.”
“I can see why you were angry,” I said. “Your daughter got left with huge legal bills and no college, and he walks off with enough money to start a new life.”
She nodded. “You know what I’m talking about.” She glanced at Gwen. “She’s kind of like your daughter, isn’t she?”
“She’s my sister’s daughter,” I said, glancing at Bridget, who was only a few feet away from Martha, “but I love her very much.”
“I just wish the two of you would stop fighting so much,” Gwen piped up from where she was on the floor.
“It’s not going to matter much longer anyway,” Martha said. “You might as well make up now.”
“How did you figure out it was Martha, anyway?” I asked Gwen.
“I remembered Lizzie talking about the skunk woman,” Gwen told me. “I suddenly realized who it might have been.”
I bit my lip; had Gwen just put Lizzie in danger, too?”
“You can’t kill everyone,” I reasoned with Martha, playing for time. As I talked, Bridget edged closer. I could see her scanning the cellar floor out of the corner of my eye. “Why don’t you just pull a Bridges—change your identity and leave town?”
“If I had a diamond tiara, I might consider it,” she told me. “But my whole life is here. The pound, my daughter... I’ve always lived on this island.” She tightened her grip on the gun and glared at me. “I’m not going to let that man drive me out. He’s ruined our lives enough already.” She took a closer step to me and pushed the gun into my abdomen. Bridget, who had found an old baseball bat and had been advancing on her, stepped back. “Move over toward the others,” she said, reaching for a roll of duct tape with the other hand.
“You’re going to have to put the gun down to tie us up,” I pointed out helpfully.
Martha looked at the gun, and then at me. “No I won’t,” she said. Before I could say another word, she lifted the gun and brought it down on my temple.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was dark when I opened my eyes. “Gwen?” I called. “Bridget?”
“I’m here,” Gwen said. “But I think Mom’s still down for the count.”
“How long have we been down here?”
“About an hour, I think. I have no idea what time it is, though. She knocked me out, too, before she tied me up.”
I lifted my hands; they were taped together. “She said she was going to take us out after dark,” I said. “We don’t have much time to get out of this stuff.”
“I never should have complimented that woman’s clam chowder,” Gwen said bitterly.
“Just because she’s a murderer doesn’t mean she’s not a good cook,” I pointed out. “But we should probably be worried about something other than chowder recipes. Did you notice anything sharp in here?”
“No,” Gwen said, “but I’ve got an Exacto knife in my bag. Jeez... why didn’t I think of that before? I’m an idiot.”
“Panic makes it hard to think sometimes,” I said. “Where is it?”
“I think it’s in the corner there.”
“Where’s there?”
“Behind me,” she said. “I’ll see if I can scootch over there.” There was a bit of grunting, as presumably she heaved herself across the concrete floor.
“Can you reach it?” I asked.
“I have the flap. I’m just trying to unbuckle it.”
As she spoke, there was movement above us. “Hurry,” I whispered as she fumbled with it in the dark. “Got it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Ouch.”
“Be careful,” I warned her.
“I can’t do it,” she said. “Can you edge over here and hold it, so I can rub the tape aga
inst it?”
“Sure,” I said, rolling toward her and maneuvering myself so that we were back to back.
“It’s in my hand,” she said. I fumbled for it, touching the sharp point and sucking in my breath before closing my fingers on the handle.
“I’ll hold it,” I said. “You rub the tape; that way I won’t cut you.”
She positioned herself against the blade and started rubbing, but she’d barely begun when the door at the top of the stairs swung open.
“Pretend I’m still knocked out,” I whispered, and scooted back as best I could to where I’d been lying. The light flicked on, and I froze.
A chill ran through me as Martha clumped down the stairs. “Still out?” she asked.
“Yes,” Gwen said. I heard a thumping sound, and a whimper. “Don’t kick my mother!” Gwen said.
“She’s got to wake up,” Martha said. A moment later, her foot slammed into my ribs. I whimpered, but didn’t open my eyes. She kicked me again, harder.
“Why?” Gwen asked.
“I can’t get them up the stairs,” she said. “Too heavy.” She kicked me again, but I kept my eyes closed.
“I’m sure they’ll wake up soon,” Gwen said. “Maybe another thirty minutes or so?”
“I don’t have all night,” she complained.
“I’m sure they’ll be awake by then,” Gwen said.
“She’s moved,” Martha said, nudging me with her foot.
“She’s an active sleeper. Always has been,” Gwen explained.
How long had we been gone? I wondered, feeling my heart pound in my chest. They must have noticed that we hadn’t come back. Was someone searching for us? Even if they were, there was no way they’d know we were at Martha’s house.
“I guess I’ll give them a few more minutes,” she said. “But if they’re not up, you’ll have to help me carry them.”
“I will,” she promised. To my relief, she clumped back up the stairs and turned off the light.
“What do we do?” Gwen hissed when the door had slammed shut.
“Let’s get the tape cut first,” I said. “Then we’ll figure it out.”
We moved back into position. It felt like hours, but it must only have been ten minutes before Gwen was freed.
Whale of a Crime (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries Book 7) Page 19
