Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  Candy’s eyes flitted to my waist, which I had to admit was a bit larger than it used to be. “Gosh. I don’t know how I’m going to keep my figure in this business,” she said.

  I tugged down my sweatshirt and turned on the mixer again as I assembled the dry components. I was pleased to discover that the whir of the beaters made further conversation impossible. By the time I turned the mixer off, the eggs and milk were practically foam.

  “Have you ever considered low-carb breakfasts?” Candy piped up as soon as the beaters stopped. She looked pointedly at my midriff. “It might help.”

  I smiled and turned the beaters back on again while I cut the butter into the flour mixture, letting them run until the last possible moment. The cake might be a tad chewy, but the silence was worth it.

  Quickly, I assembled the layers of batter, peaches, and raspberry cream. I had just poured the last of the batter over the rows of sliced peaches and slid the pan into the oven when the phone rang. I said a small prayer of thanks—now that the mixer was off, I could see Candy preparing to launch into her favorite topic again—and grabbed for the receiver.

  “Good afternoon, Gray Whale Inn.”

  “Afternoon? It’s not even eight o’clock.” I smiled at the bright voice of my best friend, Charlene Kean. In addition to her duties as postmistress and gossip queen, she also owned and ran the only grocery store in town. She wasn’t what I had expected in a Mainer—her taste in clothes was more Neiman Marcus than L. L. Bean, and she regularly took large consignments of Mary Kay cosmetics—but we had become fast friends almost from the moment I set foot on the island.

  “Sorry, Charlene. I’m a little short on sleep.” I cracked an egg into a large mixing bowl as I spoke. I was about to tell Charlene about the noises in the attic, but glanced at Candy, whose blue eyes were still tracking me, and stopped myself. “What’s up?” I asked instead.

  “I didn’t get a chance to call you yesterday, but I’ve got a special delivery down here for you,” she said.

  “A special delivery? What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s in a styrofoam cooler. Says it has to be frozen after forty-eight hours. I stuck it in the freezer. The return address is some town in Texas.”

  Texas? I had spent fifteen years working for the Texas Department of Parks and Wildlife in Austin, but I wasn’t expecting any deliveries from that part of the world.

  I emptied another egg and discarded the shell. “That’s strange.”

  “Do you want me to bring it out to you?” Charlene asked. “Or are you coming down to the store later?”

  I eyed the tub of home-baked toffee squares I had been planning to take down to Charlene’s that afternoon. In addition to the coffee cakes and scones my kitchen produced for inn guests, I often made treats to sell at the store for a few extra dollars—and to entice people to stay at the inn. So far it hadn’t worked out too well—usually Charlene ate them all and then complained about how her pants were fitting—but I was still trying.

  “I’ll probably be down as soon as breakfast is over,” I said. “By the way, have you heard from Polly?”

  “No, I haven’t. Why?”

  “I’m worried about her. She was supposed to come over and help with the laundry Monday, but she never showed. If she doesn’t turn up today, I’m going down to check out her house.”

  “Weird. That’s not like her. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks,” I said, cracking the last egg and reaching for the milk. “How was your date with the good reverend last night?”

  Charlene’s voice perked up. “Richard? He took me to the lobster pound.” To the envy of most of the women on Cranberry Island, Charlene had started seeing Reverend Richard McLaughlin, the charming Episcopal priest who had recently been assigned to the island. When he took up his post at St. James in August, women who hadn’t been to church since they were baptized suddenly started finding religion.

  “I didn’t know clergy salaries were that good,” I teased, grabbing a package of sausages from the freezer and plunking the frozen links into a cast-iron pan. “So how’d it go?”

  “It was fabulous,” Charlene breathed. “Just fabulous. Richard’s such a wonderful guy—sincere, caring, compassionate...”

  “And not too bad in the looks department either,” I added. Richard McLaughlin’s wavy black hair, deep brown eyes, and sonorous voice had done much to increase Sunday attendance at St. James. According to Charlene, sales of lipstick had tripled since he took up residence in the rectory.

  “Tell me about it,” Charlene said. “When I went to services last Sunday, he gave me a big hug instead of the usual handshake. I swear, half the women there looked like they wanted to skewer me alive.”

  I pried the sausages apart with a spatula and laughed. “I’ll bet.”

  Charlene’s sassy voice was dreamy. “You know, he is handsome, but what I like the most about him is that he has vision. He really sees the beauty of the island and what a wonderful community it is. He was telling me it would be a sin not to share it with the rest of the world.”

  I cleared my throat. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but it didn’t sound good. “What do you mean, share it with the rest of the world?”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I know we’ve been against bringing more people to the island in the past...”

  “You mean Premier Resorts?” I was thinking of the developer who had almost managed to buy the land next to the inn. He had planned to replace the colony of endangered terns that nested there with a golf resort, and Charlene and I had both opposed the development. The developer had come to an unfortunate end, but the rest of the story had concluded happily. A conservation group bought the land, ensuring that both the terns and the rest of the island would remain unmolested by golfers in polyester shirts.

  “No, no, no,” she protested. “This would be completely different.”

  The sausages started to sizzle, and I pushed them around in the pan. “What would be different?”

  “Weintroub Development’s subdivision. The one on the old cranberry bog.”

  “You mean Cranberry Estates? Murray Selfridge’s pet project?” Murray Selfridge was one of the island’s three selectmen. He had bought a lot of land over the years, and had recently started courting developers in hopes of making a big profit on it. His bid to bring in the golf resort had failed, but he was encouraging the board to look for other projects that would “improve the quality of life on the island.” I gazed out the window at a trio of seagulls wheeling in the breeze. How could it be possible to improve the quality of life on the island? Other than providing a subsidy for winter heating bills, that is.

  “You’re in favor of Murray’s new money-making development scheme?” I said, glancing at Candy and wishing she would go somewhere else. She blinked her big blue Shirley Temple eyes at me. I turned to look out the window instead, entertaining a brief fantasy involving Candy, the Good Ship Lollipop, and a plank.

  “It’s not all about money,” Charlene said tartly, pulling me back to reality. “Richard was saying that island communities have been diminishing for years. Look at what happened to Swan Island, and Isle au Haut. They’re both deserted. The same thing could happen to Cranberry Island. There are hardly enough families here to keep the island alive.”

  “And building a subdivision of million-dollar summer homes will help remediate this?” I asked dryly.

  “They’ll all be winterized,” she said quickly. “And besides, some of them are quite moderately priced.”

  “Moderately priced?” I shook my head in disbelief. “How do you support a $600,000 mortgage on Cranberry Island? The only thing I can think of is drug running.” I knew Richard was a smooth talker, but I couldn’t believe Charlene had succumbed to his honeyed tongue. Richard had come to the clergy late in
life, after a long and very successful career selling bathroom fixtures. Evidently he had created quite an empire before he had a change of heart and entered the seminary. I had often wondered how he felt about being sent to Cranberry Island, which had a year-round population of just over a hundred people. I suspected his support for Murray Selfridge’s plan might be his way of starting to build another empire.

  Charlene continued. “The development’s goal is to bring new families to the island, new kids to the school.” I had to admit that the year-round population was an issue. Enrollment at the island’s one-room school had peaked at seven a couple of years ago, but with the loss of another two families to the mainland, that number had dropped down to four.

  “And to line Murray Selfridge’s pockets,” I reminded her.

  “Progress and profit can go together,” she said primly.

  “My God, Charlene. You sound like a brochure.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she sniffed. “Your package will be here when you get here.” The phone clicked in my ear, and Charlene’s voice was replaced by a dial tone. My best friend had just hung up on me.

  Candy cleared her throat. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” I said, “just fine.” I looked at the container of toffee squares and wondered if I should bake some of Charlene’s favorite brownies as a peace offering. Then I remembered that she was on a diet—another benefit of Reverend McLaughlin’s arrival on the island.

  Candy had drawn a breath, presumably to ask another question, when I heard my niece’s shoes clumping down the stairs.

  Gwen was not a morning person, and had never been overly concerned about the early birds making off with all the worms. In fact, she often said she’d rather get up late and have pancakes, so I was a bit surprised to see her not just awake at eight o’clock, but coiffed and dressed. She had pulled her curly brown hair into a loose bun, and her ruby-red wraparound sweater and tight flared jeans accentuated her slender figure. I beamed at her. Gregarious Gwen would be able to keep Candy occupied while I finished making breakfast.

  Her brown eyes shot to Candy, then flicked to me. Her mouth twitched in amusement.

  “Good morning, Aunt Nat. Hi, Candy. My, you’re up early.”

  “I didn’t want to miss anything,” Candy replied brightly.

  “You’re out of bed early yourself,” I said to my niece. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m headed out to the lighthouse to do some studies.”

  “Are you sure you want to go this morning?” I glanced out the window at the two tiny wisps of cloud in the sky. “It looks kind of overcast to me.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Nat. I promised Fernand I’d be there.” In addition to helping me out around the inn, Gwen studied art with Fernand LaChaise, Cranberry Island’s artist-in-residence. She’d come to help out for the summer and take a few art lessons—she was a gifted painter—but decided to stay on. As talented as she was, though, I suspected that her desire to stay might have less to do with her love for art than with her feelings for Adam Thrackton, a young lobsterman she had met on the island.

  I sighed and slumped against the counter. Gwen walked to the oven and peered in. “Mmm. Coffee cake.”

  “It’ll be done in a half an hour,” I said. “You could bring some to Fernand,” I added hopefully.

  “A half an hour?” She glanced at the clock. “I can’t wait that long. Save some for me, okay?”

  I sighed with resignation. “There are a few leftover scones in the breadbox.”

  “Thanks.” She grabbed three scones and tucked them into the canvas bag that held her art supplies. No low-carb diets for her. I watched her with envy; despite her slender figure, she ate like a horse. Gwen filled a travel mug with coffee and was reaching for the sugar bowl when she spotted the tub of toffee squares. “Are those for Charlene?”

  “Yeah. I was going to take them down later.”

  “I’ll drop them by for you, if you want.”

  I hesitated. I should probably go down to the store myself and smooth things over with Charlene, but I wasn’t up to it. Besides, if Polly didn’t show up soon, I was going to have to ride my bike down to her house. I wasn’t sure there’d be time to ride to the store, too. “That would be great,” I said. “Also, there’s some kind of special delivery there for me. Would you mind picking it up on your way back?”

  “Sure.” She twisted the lid onto her mug and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours to take care of the rooms.” As she pulled the door closed behind her, she paused, eyes twinkling, and tilted her head ever so slightly toward Candy. “Have a good morning!”

  A gust of crisp autumn air swept through the kitchen as the door shut behind her.

  “Your heating bills must be terrible,” Candy said, rearranging her notebook. “Do you use gas, or electric?”

  ___

  By 8:30, I had dislodged Candy from my kitchen table and installed her at one of the breakfast tables in the dining room.

  She fingered the tablecloth and picked up her pen. “Who does your linens?”

  “A local woman comes and helps out a few times a week,” I said. “Now, can I get you some more coffee?”

  I refilled her mug and headed for the kitchen, where the timer had begun to buzz. I turned it off and pulled a tray of broiled grapefruit halves from the top rack of the oven. Then I arranged the fruit on a serving platter and pushed through the swinging door.

  Candy wasn’t the only guest in the dining room. I lowered the grapefruit into the warmer and retrieved the coffee before heading over to greet my Missouri guests, Barbara and Ray Hahn, who had chosen a table near the window. They were accompanied by their dachshunds Elmo and Captain Pluto, and the little dogs had been a charming addition to the inn over the last week—despite Biscuit’s frequent protests. It was the Hahns’ last day at the inn, and I was sad to see them go, but fortunately Barbara had left me with her favorite muffin recipe, Berried Medley Lemon Streusel muffins. One of the best parts of being an innkeeper was meeting wonderful people—and being privy to their favorite recipes. I planned to try Barbara’s soon.

  “Good morning, Natalie!” Barbara’s Texas accent—even after more than twenty years in Missouri, she still had it—brought a smile to my face, reminding me of my own roots in Austin. I hadn’t heard too many Texas twangs since moving to Maine less than a year ago.

  “Are the four of you off on the mail boat this morning?” I asked.

  Ray nodded and reached down to stroke Elmo’s silky head. The little dog scootched forward on his little walker; although his back legs were paralyzed, the Hahns had figured out a way to help him get around. The two of them loved animals as much as Polly, I thought, and my stomach wrenched again at the thought of my missing helper; I was beginning to think something might be seriously wrong.

  “My son’s expecting us back to help with the vineyard,” Barbara said, adjusting the collar of her blouse. “We’ll have one more lobster this afternoon before we head back.”

  “Maybe I should have gone into winemaking instead of innkeeping,” I joked.

  “You’ve got a gorgeous place here,” she said. “Besides, the lobster’s cheap!”

  “I could go for cheap wine, too,” I said as Russell Lidell walked into the dining room.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerily. Russell nodded in response. As I filled his mug with coffee, I noticed that he was wearing a suit instead of his normal khakis and wrinkled oxford shirt. A small lip of pink flesh protruded over the starched white collar of his shirt, and his charcoal suit jacket strained to cover his wide back. At least I wasn’t the only one in the inn who appreciated the merits of high-calorie foods. “You look nice this morning,” I said. “Early meeting?”

  “Yup.” He sugared his cup liberally and added a big dollop of cream. Russell worked for W
eintroub Development Company, and had been staying at the inn for almost a week. Although he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, he had the stocky build and ruddy skin of a man at risk for coronary heart disease. “An engineer’s coming out today to take a look at the drainage options down at the bog,” he said.

  “How are things going with the development?”

  “Fine,” he said, running a finger around the inside of his collar. His tie, which featured an assortment of red horseshoes, looked as if it might be cutting off circulation to his brain.

  “Have you been with Weintroub Development for a long time?” I asked.

  “Just started a year ago.”

  I leaned over and replenished his coffee, which was already half-gone. “Is this your first project, then?”

  His fleshy lips tightened. “I’ve put together a couple of other deals.” He gulped down another mouthful of coffee and his ruddy face flushed an even deeper red.

  “Up here in Maine?”

  “Yeah, in Maine.”

  “Anything I’d recognize?”

  “Um... they never really got to the construction phase.” He straightened his tie and lifted his chin. “But this one will.” He fixed me with his brownish-green eyes. “I know you’re not a big fan of development on the island—I heard about the golf resort—but this one’s going to be a go.”

  “Yoo hoo.” A sugary voice sounded from behind me. I turned to see Candy holding up her mug. “Could I have a smidge more coffee?”

  I nodded at her and turned back to Russell, suddenly feeling a bit more optimistic about Cranberry Estates. If his other projects had stalled, then maybe this one would too. “Well, good luck with your meeting,” I said. “Help yourself to the buffet.”

  ___

  By 10:00, the dining room was empty, but Polly still hadn’t called or showed up. I was crouched in front of the refrigerator, trying to find room for leftovers, when Candy slipped through the kitchen door. She slid her denimed derriere into a chair and watched me wedge the last grapefruit half onto the bottom shelf. I stood up and wiped my hands on a dishtowel, then grabbed an empty coffee can from the pantry and flipped my jacket off of the hook by the door.