Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  “Where are you off to?” Candy asked.

  “I have some errands to do.” Since Polly’s house bordered the bog, I figured I’d pick a can of cranberries while I was down there. My mouth watered at the thought of the little gems, red and tangy, that waited for me. Fortunately, I didn’t imagine Candy would think too much of squelching around in a bog.

  “Inn business?” She licked her pink lips like a cat.

  “No,” I said. “Personal business.” I smiled politely and slipped through the kitchen door before she could offer to join me.

  As I walked around the side of the inn toward the shed where I kept the bikes, I took a deep breath of the brisk autumn air. The rose hips gleamed red against the weathered gray shingles of the inn, and a few dusty pink chrysanthemums bloomed bravely in the blue window boxes.

  I paused at the sound of hammering from John’s workshop. I glanced at the bike shed and decided it could wait a few minutes. My stomach fluttered as I headed down the hill toward the small gray building that hunched next to the inn’s former carriage house. John had converted the carriage house to an apartment that he rented from me at a nominal rate. I hesitated at the door, thinking that perhaps I should go back and make myself a bit more presentable—a little lipstick, maybe, or at least a sweatshirt that didn’t feature a constellation of bleach stains—but the thought of encountering Candy again prevented me from taking major reparative actions. Instead, I smoothed my hair down, brushed a bit of stray flour from my sweatshirt, and knocked twice. John opened the door, surprise and pleasure in his green eyes.

  Before I could say anything, he pulled me into his arms. As always, the smell of wood on his skin and the warmth of his body under the red flannel shirt made me tingle “I was hoping you’d come by,” he murmured into my ear. I leaned back and looked at his long face and tousled blonde hair. His lips curved into an easy smile that deepened the creases around his mouth, and my heart started thumping out an impromptu samba. I pulled my eyes from his face to survey the workshop behind him. The floor was covered with scraps of wood and sawdust, and a hunk of driftwood lay on his workbench.

  “Starting a new project?” I asked.

  “I will be in a few minutes. Got the last of the boats painted yesterday, and I’ll deliver them today. I figured I’d take a month off and do my own thing.”

  John was a sculptor who specialized in transforming pieces of driftwood into gorgeous works of art. Although his work was beautiful, sales of it barely covered the heating bill, so John supported what he called his “art habit” by carving toy boats he sold at the Island Artists store on the pier. He further supplemented his income by serving as deputy for Cranberry Island, which had the added benefit of giving me a nice sense of security. I had read horror stories about guests preying on single women innkeepers. Having a deputy on the premises—particularly one as attractive and attentive as John—made it much easier to sleep at night.

  “What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?” he asked.

  I made a wry face. “Reconstituted frozen clam chowder, probably.”

  “Why don’t you come over? I’d say tonight, but I won’t get a chance to go shopping till tomorrow.”

  “I’d love to. I’m headed over to the cranberry bog; do you want me to pick some berries for you?”

  “No, thanks. I never get around to using them.” His eyes twinkled. “But I wouldn’t object to a few slices of cranberry bread, if you’re baking any.”

  I laughed. “I’ll bring a loaf when I come tomorrow.” He folded me in his arms for another long hug, and my insides turned to jelly as his mouth brushed my lips in a hot, prickly kiss. Despite the financial implications, I was looking forward to a bit more downtime at the inn—and a lot more uptime with John.

  “I’ve got to head down to Island Artists, but if you’re around later, maybe we can have a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Stop by anytime,” I said. He kissed me again, hard, and I almost forgot about Polly and the cranberries. Finally he shooed me out toward the bike shed.

  My lips were still warm as I wheeled a red touring bike from the shed and strapped the coffee can onto the back of it. As I huffed up the hill, I wondered what Candy would find to do in my absence. I hoped I had remembered to lock the front desk; it wouldn’t surprise me if she decided to occupy herself by poking through my papers. At the top of the big hill, I paused, panting, and looked back at the inn.

  The blue shutters of the gray-shingled cape were a shade paler than the deep blue sky, and the sparkling windowpanes threw back the lemon sunlight like polished mirrors. Behind the inn, a golden meadow that in early summer was awash with blue- and rose-colored lupines swept down to the rocky shoreline, where cobalt waves caressed the rocks.

  The sight still took my breath away. As I gazed at the inn—my inn, I reminded myself with a flush of pride—my eyes lingered for a moment on the roof above my quarters. I felt a chill as I remembered the noises I had heard the night before. I wasn’t too excited at the prospect of owning a haunted inn. On the plus side, maybe there was good business to be had hosting parapsychology conferences.

  I turned away from the inn and pointed the bicycle down the other side of the steep hill. The deep green patches of blueberries flanking the road had turned to cinnamon, and the maples and birches blazed crimson and gold against the backdrop of spruce and pine. The wind whipped my hair as I picked up speed. Despite my concern for Polly, I was enjoying the temporary freedom from laundry and irritating guests, and I was excited at the prospect of picking cranberries. I felt a tug at my stomach when I remembered the development that was slated for the old bog.

  When I first heard about Cranberry Estates, I headed to the Somesville Library on the mainland and read up on the subject of cranberry bogs. I hadn’t realized it before, but the bog on Cranberry Island was one of the few natural bogs left on the East Coast—most of the rest had been drained or gobbled up by commercial cranberry operations.

  It was unfortunate that Murray Selfridge had managed to buy most of it. The island itself held title to a wedge, and Polly owned the little bit of it that extended out behind her cottage, but Murray had the deeds to everything else. Charlene had told me that Murray had repeatedly offered to buy Polly out, but that she had always refused.

  As I reached the bottom of the hill, instead of continuing straight down the road toward the pier and Charlene’s store, I took a left on Cranberry Road, the narrow ribbon of blacktop that led to Polly’s house.

  The bike shuddered as it rolled over the corrugated asphalt, and I swerved just in time to avoid a pothole resembling a meteor strike. Polly didn’t own a car, and it was a good thing; no car could survive this stretch of rutted pavement for long.

  After several minutes coasting through a thick canopy of spruce and pine, dotted occasionally by houses and stacks of lobster traps, the trees fell away and I spotted Polly’s small wood-framed house.

  I crunched up the gravel walk and hopped off the bike, leaning it against the front porch railing, and climbed the three steps to the porch. The white paint on the railing was scrubbed clean, but peeling. I remembered Polly telling me she had asked her cousin Gary to help her paint it over the summer; evidently he hadn’t gotten around to it. A calico kitty lazed on the well-swept boards of the front porch, and a large gray tom with only half an ear rubbed up against me as I stood at the front door and knocked. I reached down and tickled the tom’s chin, then knocked again. No one answered.

  I peered through the mullioned window. A brown tabby cat lazed on the threadbare couch in the front room, and the bit of kitchen counter I could see through the door from the living room was empty. The boards of the porch bowed beneath me as I walked down the stairs and followed the path to the back of the house. The back porch was where Polly kept the cats’ food and water bowls. Polly always kept them filled, and with ten hungry feline mouths to pro
vide for, I often wondered how she could afford to feed herself. Today, however, the line of bowls was empty. Something wasn’t right.

  A small contingent of cats emerged from the bushes as I opened the galvanized can by the door and scooped food into the plastic bowls. As I replaced the lid on the can, the brown tabby cat and a smaller, white cat popped through the cat door at the bottom of Polly’s kitchen door. I looked for Pepper, a small gray kitten Polly had recently rescued, but she was nowhere to be seen. Had Polly taken her to the vet?

  Vet trips don’t last overnight, though. And Polly would have called. Where was she? I tried to remember who her relatives were—probably everyone on the island—but the only name I could think of was her cousin Gary’s, and I didn’t know how to reach him. I leaned against the railing and squinted out toward the bog. Red maples flamed up at intervals along the edge of the bog, and a seagull flashed white in the glare of the sun. I was about to turn and walk back around the house when something caught my eye.

  Below one of the fiery maples a patch of blue peeked out from the faded grass. I walked down the back steps and started down the path that led through the bog, my boots squishing into the soft ground. As the blue patch grew closer, I craned to get a closer look. It was a jacket. A trickle of dread snaked down my spine, and I covered the last fifty yards in a clumsy sprint.

  I stopped a few yards away from the maple, my rubber boots sinking into the loamy earth, and swallowed back a mouthful of bile. I knew that jacket. And I knew the person wearing it.

  Her brown eyes gazed sightless at the deep blue sky. A red stain bloomed across her chest like a macabre flower, and a gun lay in her outstretched palm. I had found Polly Sarkes.

  I stumbled backward and closed my eyes, but the image of Polly’s face was seared into my retinas. I swallowed back the bile that bubbled up in my throat and forced myself to look again. The gun gleamed in the sun, and the edges of the bloodstain had turned a rusty brown. I shuddered and turned away.

  The broken body on the ground ripped at my heart. It was so awful... and such a terrible, terrible waste. Poor Polly. I remembered her soft voice, always with a hint of laughter, the stories she’d tell me about her cats, whom she’d loved like children. The pride she’d taken in her work.

  What had been so awful that she felt she had to take her own life?

  And how could I have missed the signs?

  Polly had always been cheerful, and solidly practical. I had never glimpsed even a hint of the quiet desperation you would expect from a person considering suicide. As I turned back to the still form, a breeze lifted a strand of Polly’s bushy brown hair, and the soft wisp settled across her pale cheek. As I looked closer, I noticed a purplish blotch, like a smudge, on the pale skin around her left eye. My eyes drifted to the gun resting in her limp hand. Such a violent way to die.

  I needed to call the police.

  I tripped over a tussock as I stumbled toward Polly’s house and flailed to regain my balance. I had to get in touch with John. I leapt up the porch steps two at a time and prayed that Polly’s house, like most houses on Cranberry Island, was unlocked.

  Fortunately, the knob turned easily. The smell of cooking oil and lemon furniture polish enveloped me as I hurried through the front hall to the kitchen phone. I dialed John’s number from memory, my fingers clumsy with the rotary dial. No answer: John must still be out in his workshop.

  I glanced at the message board next to the phone, hoping to see a list of emergency numbers. Except for a hastily scrawled phone number with the word “Shelter” next to it, the board was blank.

  Under the counter was a stack of slender phonebooks. I pulled out the top one and located the number for the police, wishing not for the first time that the island could afford 911 service.

  A few moments later, I reeled off the details of Polly’s death to the police dispatcher. My eyes roamed the room as I spoke. Knife marks crisscrossed the countertop, but the tan Formica gleamed in the light from the window, as did the olive vinyl floor. The cheery yellow walls were decorated with a cuckoo clock and a cat calendar, and white lace curtains framed the window. My fridge was plastered with notices and reminders to myself, but Polly’s refrigerator was bare except for a cranberry scone recipe I had given her last week. I gave Polly’s address to the dispatcher and agreed to stand guard over the body until the police arrived.

  After hanging up, I walked over to the fridge and opened it on impulse. A brand new quart of milk and a freshly picked can of cranberries stood on the top shelf. The rest of the shelves were neatly organized. Polly had lined all of the jams and jellies in a row, and even the mustard squeeze bottle looked as if someone had wiped the crust off of it.

  Closing the refrigerator door, I glanced around the spotless kitchen. Polly’s death was so messy, yet everything in her house was almost compulsively clean—even with ten cats living in it. My stomach lurched again when I thought of Polly’s body, alone in the bog. This didn’t feel right. Not at all. Polly wouldn’t have ended her life without at least providing instructions for the care of her cats; she loved them like children.

  My eyes drifted to the porch, where the cats ringed the food bowls. I had forgotten to give them water. I retrieved two empty bowls and filled them in the sink, then walked back out and set them down beside the food. As the cats gulped down the dry food, I realized I still hadn’t seen Pepper. Maybe she was hiding somewhere in the house.

  I headed back inside to the living room, calling out to Pepper. Photos covered every available surface; not of people, but of Polly’s furry charges. A line of porcelain cats marched across the mantel, and a small television set sat in the corner next to the fireplace. The couch looked comfortable, but well-worn; a hand-knitted

  afghan covered the back of it. It was obvious that everything in Polly’s house had been in use for a long time, but she had taken good care of her belongings.

  I climbed to the second story, still calling Pepper’s name. The door to the bathroom was across from the head of the stairs. The white-tiled room smelled of shampoo and bleach, and despite the bright pink flowered bathmat, the green shower curtain gave the white walls a sickly cast. On a whim, I stepped to the sink and opened the mirrored medicine chest. If Polly suffered from depression, she might have a bottle of antidepressants hidden behind the over-the-counter medicines.

  A quick sweep of the shelves revealed nothing but the usual array of antihistamines, antacids, and aspirin. A blue safety razor lay on the bottom shelf. I picked it up and turned it over, wrinkling my nose at the black hairs gumming the rusted double blade before returning it to the shelf. Then I stepped to the bathtub and pulled back the plastic curtain, revealing a pink razor and a can of shaving cream huddled together on the tub’s porcelain rim. I took a quick look at the razor’s safety blade—this one was clean—and rearranged the shower curtain before heading back into the hall.

  To the left was a small bedroom/sewing room. My eyes skimmed over the furrowed double bed to the sewing machine pushed up against the far wall. A stack of folded fabric was the only splash of color in the room. I leaned down and peered under the bed, but it was empty.

  The only other door led to another bedroom: Polly’s room. The first thing I saw was an open suitcase sprawled across a neatly made double bed. I walked over and glanced at the case’s jumbled contents: a few shirts, a couple of pairs of socks, and a green corduroy skirt I’d seen her wear to church. I fingered the corded fabric for a moment, thinking of the last time I’d seen her in that skirt. It was the church supper, at the end of September; I remembered the chicken potpie she had brought, the flowered green headband she’d used to corral her wayward hair. A pang shot through me as I tucked it back into the suitcase. Polly hadn’t mentioned she was planning on taking a trip.

  I turned my attention to the dresser. The dark wood gleamed from years of polishing, and Polly had decorated the marble top with
a lace doily and a small crystal jar of dried lavender. The curved top drawer was ajar, enough for a kitten to have slipped inside, and I slid it the rest of the way open, exposing a line of balled socks and a basket of folded underwear. I caught a glimpse of a red cardboard box between the neatly rolled socks. I pushed the white cotton socks aside for a closer look and jerked my hand back when I realized it was a box of bullets.

  I took a shaky breath, then called for Pepper again. When the kitten didn’t appear, I hurried out of the empty bedroom and downstairs to the front door.

  The crisp autumn breeze was a welcome change from the stagnant air inside, and I filled my lungs as the front door snicked shut behind me. As the gulls called and the wind rustled through the autumn grass, I set my shoulders and turned toward the bog—and Polly.

  I had only taken a few steps down the path when the sound of a car engine floated to my ears. A burgundy Jaguar bumped down the pitted road, and I grimaced as I recognized Murray Selfridge’s car. I hoped he had a good mechanic—preferably one who made house calls. I winced as the undercarriage scraped against a chunk of broken asphalt.

  The car crunched to a stop in front of Polly’s house, and three men unfolded themselves from its leather interior. Murray Selfridge was wearing his yacht club ensemble, and Russell Lidell was close behind him, looking redder than usual. I didn’t recognize the third man, a gangly man in his mid-forties, but guessed he was probably a surveyor or engineer.

  Murray’s bushy eyebrows shot up when he spotted me on the narrow path. “What are you doing here?” he called down to me.

  My throat closed up as I answered Murray. “I found Polly Sarkes in the bog.” My voice was thick and unfamiliar. “She’s dead. The police are on their way.”

  His eyebrows moved toward his receding hairline. “Dead? What happened to her?”