I sighed as I trudged toward the laundry room, and the mounds of linens that awaited me. I missed Polly in more ways than one.
The sun dipped low in the sky as I pumped the pedals of my bike down Cranberry Road. I had drunk two pots of tea and done six loads of laundry, but neither John nor Sgt. Grimes had turned up, and I was afraid Benjamin would corner me again if I hung around the inn.
Emmeline Hoyle’s house huddled under the tall pine trees. The front yard was neatly kept and the house had recently been painted a bright mint green. I glanced down the road as I pulled up on my bike. The crusty blacktop was empty; the rusted truck the police had borrowed was gone, and Murray’s Jaguar had either survived the trip back up the road or been towed. I left the bike leaning against a tree and wove through the garden gnomes that peopled Emmeline’s front yard, wishing I’d shown a bit of restraint with the tea as I sloshed up the walk. When I stumbled over a cheery little fellow pushing a wheelbarrow, it felt as if the tides were shifting in my stomach.
Emmeline answered the door almost immediately, looking like a throwback to the 1950s in her pink housedress. A bright flowered apron was tied snugly around her ample middle, and her cheeks were as round and shiny as Parkerhouse rolls. The shrewd glint in her raisin-brown eyes, however, told me this was no June Cleaver.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, wiping her damp hands on her apron.
“I’m Natalie Barnes,” I said. “I run the Gray Whale Inn. I’m the one who found your neighbor, Polly Sarkes, this morning.”
She nodded. “She did some work for you, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did. I was hoping to talk to you about her, if you don’t mind.”
Emmeline clicked her tongue. “Terrible thing, isn’t it? Quiet as a church mouse, Polly was. I never thought she’d come to an end like that.” She shook her head. “But come in, come in.” I followed her through the small but tidy living room into the kitchen. The window over the sink looked out onto the pitted road, and I could see Polly’s lonely house in the distance.
“Please sit down,” Emmeline said, and I pulled up a ladder-backed chair. My stomach gurgled as I sat down and watched her fill a kettle with water. “Can I get you some tea?”
I groaned silently, but said, “Thanks, that would be lovely.” Between the caffeine and the constant trips to the bathroom, I was worried I’d never get to sleep that night. Then again, if tonight was anything like last night, the odds were that I’d be up anyway.
I surveyed the kitchen as she bustled around. Like Polly’s house, the surfaces sparkled, but Emmeline was a bit more liberal in the decoration department; the pink walls were festooned with embroidered samplers of various shapes and sizes, and the windowsill was crammed with what looked like homemade pincushions shaped like vegetables. I felt like I’d wandered into the sewing section of a craft store.
“Did you do all of these samplers?” I asked.
Emmeline smiled proudly. “Yes, I did. Designed them, too. I’ve always had a knack for handwork.”
I glanced around at the embroidered butterflies and flowers and focused on a particularly busy piece, loaded with roses and irises and at least six hummingbirds. “That one is so intricate,” I said. “It’s really beautiful.”
Emmeline flushed. “Thank you. I’ve been thinking about going to some of the craft fairs on the mainland, but Henry always tells me it’s not worth it.”
“I think you should,” I said. “I’ll bet there’s a market out there that would love your stuff.”
Emmeline eyed me as she sliced a loaf of what looked like banana bread. “I could do one for your inn, if you’d like. With whales on it, maybe a few seagulls.”
I cringed inwardly, but said, “That would be wonderful.” I watched as Emmeline laid a plate of the brown bread on the yellow tablecloth. “Wow,” I said with a touch of apprehension. “You cook, too?”
“It’s not as good as the food up there at that inn of yours, I suppose, but yes.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” I took a bite of the dense, sweet bread. The sweetness of banana mingled with a spice I didn’t recognize, and my taste buds sang with pleasure. The cross-stitch might be a bit much for my taste, but this woman could cook. “I might need the recipe for this.”
Emmeline tucked her lips into a small smile as she sat down. “I’d be happy to give it to you,” she said. “But you didn’t come down here to talk about banana bread and handwork, did you?”
I smiled sheepishly. “Not really, no.”
Her voice was brisk. “Why do you want to know about Polly? The police said it was a suicide. No foul play.”
I looked up. “They’ve been out asking questions?”
“No.” Emmeline took a bite of banana bread. Her pink cheeks wobbled as she chewed a few times and swallowed. “That’s what I heard down at the store.”
I finished my bread, then dabbed at my mouth with an embroidered napkin and leaned back in my chair. “I don’t know. Something about it just doesn’t seem right to me. How well did you know Polly?”
“Well, we said hello and all, but she kept to herself, mostly.”
“Do you think she seemed like the type of person who would commit suicide?”
Emmeline’s brown eyes narrowed, and she glanced out the window toward Polly’s vacant house. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It’s pretty lonely out there, so maybe. But they said she shot herself.” Her eyes were keen. “And that just doesn’t seem like a woman’s way to go, now, does it?”
“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”
The kettle whistled and Emmeline stood up. I watched as she poured hot water into a teapot shaped like a chubby rabbit, then plunked it onto the table with a sugar bowl and creamer shaped like cabbages. I waited until she had settled herself in the chair across from me before I asked the next question.
“Did anyone ever come down the road to visit her?”
“Not often. Like I said, she kept to herself.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “Wait a minute. I did see that new priest headed down the road once or twice over the last few weeks.”
I leaned forward. “Reverend McLaughlin?”
“That’s his name. Good-looking young man, isn’t he? Yes, he did come by.”
“Anytime in the last couple of days?”
“Let me see... I was hanging out the wash, so it must have been Monday afternoon.”
Monday afternoon. Four days ago.
“And he’d been down to see Polly before?”
“A couple of times, yes.”
“But nobody else?” I asked.
“Well, Murray Selfridge has been down from time to time, of course, checking out that bog of his, but I don’t know if he talked to Polly. And that development fellow, the chunky one with a face like a tomato, he was here earlier in the week. But I don’t imagine he was down for a visit.”
“No, I imagine not.” Russell didn’t seem the type to pay social calls to islanders. Unless, that is, he was trying to persuade Polly to sell her house.
“How about her cousin, Gary. Was he close to Polly?”
“Gary?” She swiped at the air with her hand. “He’s a lazy one, that Gary Sarkes. Lives down by the dock, but he never comes down this way. He’s a lobsterman, and a poor one at that.”
“Is he Polly’s only relative?”
“Only one I know of. Both of her parents died years ago, and she didn’t have any sisters or brothers.”
“Do you think Polly left the house to him?”
Emmeline shrugged. “I imagine so. Who else would she leave it to?”
I didn’t know. “Not a bad deal for Gary, is it?” I wondered aloud.
Emmeline nodded sagely.
“So aside from the development folks and Reverend McLaughlin,” I continued, “it’s been p
retty quiet down at Polly’s lately?”
“We don’t get much traffic on this part of the island. Every once in a while the day-trippers come down on their bikes, and I imagine I’ll see a few more folks now that the cranberries are ripe, but it’s pretty quiet down here.” She poured tea into two cups festooned with carrots and slid one across the table to me. I picked it up and pretended to take a sip as she continued. “Of course, that will change once that development goes in. Maybe they’ll do something about that road.”
“That will really change things around here, won’t it?”
She shrugged as she spooned sugar into her cup. “Probably so. Maybe Henry and I’ll be able to sell up, though, turn a good profit on this place. Move into something fancier.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Have you lived here your whole life?”
“Mostly. Since I married Henry, anyway. I lived over in Somesville when I was a girl. Still have family over there.”
“I’m pretty new here, myself. In fact, I was about to head over to the museum this afternoon and ask Matilda if she knew the history of the inn.”
Emmeline gave me a sly look. “Been hearing things at night, have you?”
I started, spilling tea over the rim of my cup. I dabbed at it hastily with my napkin. “What do you mean?”
“That inn you’ve got is haunted. That’s why it was empty for so long.”
“Haunted?”
“Ayuh.” She dipped her chin. “A young girl got herself murdered up there.”
“Murdered?” I put down my cup. “What happened?”
“She was a cook. Pretty young thing, they say, and she’s been haunting the place ever since. Moving around at night, bumping into things. Used to see lights in the windows, late at night, when the place was empty.” She leaned over conspiratorially. “My Henry, he once did some work up there. Came home white as a sheet. Said he saw a lady on the stairs, wearing a big old-fashioned dress. In broad daylight, too.”
A full-blown apparition? Bumps in the night were one thing, but dead people milling around on the stairs was something else entirely. A chill ran down my spine, but I kept my face neutral. “What was Henry doing at the inn?”
“Oh, he always does odd jobs for folks when the fishing’s bad. He’s pretty handy. Keeps the place up real nice, don’t you think?” I looked around the gaudy kitchen and nodded.
“Anyway,” she said, “He used to do some work for the lady who used to own the place. He was white as a sheet when he came home that day. I’ll never forget it.”
“When did the murder happen?”
She took a long sip of tea and settled back into her chair. “Oh, sometime in the 1850s, I think.”
“Well, I’ll keep my ears open, but so far it’s been pretty quiet up there.”
“Mmmm.” Emmeline sipped her tea. “The museum’s been closed since Labor Day, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Matilda lives right next door, though, in the yellow house. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you out.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been a huge help.” I took a last fake swig out of my carroty cup and stood up, launching another series of waves in my midsection. “Well, I’d probably better head back home,” I said. “It’s getting late, and with Polly gone, I’ve got a lot to do.” Emmeline pushed back her chair and stood. “Thank you for the tea, and for talking to me about Polly. If you think of anything else, please let me know.”
“Why are you so curious about Polly?”
I looked at Emmeline’s intelligent eyes. “Because I think she might have been murdered,” I answered honestly. “And I don’t think the police are going to do anything about it.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know what good you’ll be able to do, but I wish you luck. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.” Her eyes twinkled for a moment. “And if you’re interested in a sampler for the inn, you let me know.”
“Why don’t you work up a design for me, and let me know how much it’ll cost? And if I could have a copy of that banana bread recipe, that would be great.”
“I’ll do that.”
I was on my way out the door when I paused. “By the way, would you mind keeping an eye on Polly’s cats? I fed them today, and I’ll keep stopping by, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it down every day.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just give them food and water. The food’s in a can on the back porch. I just refilled the water in the kitchen.”
I felt Emmeline’s eyes follow me as my stomach and I sloshed back up the road. I felt strangely relieved when the trees obscured the small green house from view.
___
By the time I reached the main road, the red-gold light of evening had settled over the island and the temperature had started to drop. I shivered as I slowed the bike to a stop.
As much as I wanted to go straight to Matilda’s house, it was getting close to dinnertime, and I still had a lot of things to do around the inn. Besides, I was in dire need of a bathroom. Benjamin’s face flashed into my mind, and my distended stomach tightened. I hoped he had headed toward the pier for the evening. I hadn’t even had a chance to talk with John yet; the last thing I needed right now was another confrontation with Benjamin.
I looked down the road toward the pier. The pine trees were wreathed in shadow, and a flurry of leaves skittered across the road as a chill wind blew up from the water. If I went into town now, I’d have to ride home in the dark. Cranberry Island didn’t have streetlights, and there would be no moon to light the way. I sighed and pointed the bike toward the inn. Maybe John would be home. I needed to talk to him about Polly—and about Benjamin.
When I coasted down the other side of the hill toward the Gray Whale Inn ten minutes later, the inn’s windows glowed a cheery yellow, but John’s carriage house was dark. I rolled the bike into the shed and trotted to the kitchen door.
Pepper rose from her spot next to the radiator and trotted over to greet me. Her entire body vibrated with purring as I scooped her up and rubbed her chin. I glanced around the room, looking for Biscuit. She was nowhere to be seen, but a note lay on the table.
I tucked Pepper into the crook of my arm and picked up the piece of paper.
Nat –
Dinner tonight? I’m dying to see you. I’ll wait for you in the parlor.
Love,
B
I folded the note in half and shoved it into my pocket, then put Pepper back down by the radiator. First, I ran upstairs to run a brush through my hair, and add just a touch of lipstick.
My heart started whacking out a wild rhythm as I pushed through the swinging door to the dining room a few minutes later. I held my breath as I turned the corner and walked into the parlor, anticipating Benjamin’s long lean body stretched out nonchalantly on one of my flowered couches, already feeling the liquid blue heat of his eyes. I felt almost dizzy as I swept into the room, still unsure of what I would say.
I needn’t have worried. Benjamin wasn’t there.
My body felt deflated as I sank onto one of the couches. I had a sudden longing for a warm, feline body next to mine, but Pepper was still in the kitchen and Biscuit was nowhere to be seen.
“Biscuit!” I called. I listened, but I didn’t hear her. The inn was silent—except for the steady drip, drip, drip of water.
I followed the sound to the staircase and sucked in my breath. A stream of water was flowing down the stairs, puddling on the carpet at my feet.
I took the stairs two at a time, following the water down the hall to its source. It was issuing from Candy’s room. I knocked furiously, but no one answered, and the doorknob refused to turn; it was locked.
I raced back downstairs and grabbed the skeleton key, then
rushed back up and threw open the door.
The pine floor was swamped.
I swore as I sloshed through what seemed like a foot of water to the bathroom. The faucet of the white pedestal sink was running, and a small waterfall cascaded over the oval rim to the lake on the floor below.
I waded over and turned the faucet off. The stopper was closed, and a wet washcloth was wedged into the overflow drain. I pulled the cloth from the overflow drain, opened the stopper, and turned to survey the damage.
The feet of the four-poster bed were submerged, dark water stains were seeping up the bed’s pink and blue quilt, and the hand-hooked rug was sodden. I glanced toward the door; the water was still flowing into the hallway. I had some heavy-duty mopping to do—and I could only pray that would be the extent of it.
As I retrieved a giant stack of towels from the laundry room, Gwen breezed into the kitchen. Her smile faded when she saw me.
“Hey, Aunt Nat. What’s wrong?” She drew in her breath when I told her what I had found in Candy’s room, then grabbed another stack of towels and followed me upstairs.
“How the heck did she manage to stop up the overflow drain?” Gwen asked as we started swabbing down the soggy floorboards.
“She’s not overly gifted in the brains department,” I said.
“Is the downstairs room okay?” she asked as I wrung out a towel in the tub.
I froze. “The downstairs room?” I had forgotten about the room on the first floor. Had the water leaked through the ceiling? Panic welled in my chest as I tossed the towel into the tub and raced for the door. “Keep mopping. I’ll go check.”
As I let myself into the room beneath Candy’s with the skeleton key, my heart plummeted. The ceiling sagged like a water balloon, and large chunks of plaster lay scattered across the floor. I slumped against the door for a moment, then pulled myself together and went to get more towels. At least this room was vacant. The last thing I needed was a lawsuit from a guest who had been hit by a slab of falling ceiling.
Dead and Berried Page 6
