“Lord knows he’s happier now,” the woman in front of me murmured to her husband. “He’s already all but sold her house to Murray, I hear.” The woman, a thickset middle-aged matron I recognized but didn’t know, shook her head and leaned in toward her husband again. I strained to catch her words. “If I didn’t know Gary doesn’t have it in him, I’d a thought he’d done her in himself.”
Richard McLaughlin took the pulpit again, and I found myself soothed by his deep, velvety voice as he moved effortlessly through the ceremony. It was only when my eyes drifted across Polly’s shining wooden casket that I remembered with a guilty start why we were all here.
A half hour later, we followed Polly’s coffin out the front doors of the church to the small cemetery next door. A rectangle of open earth yawned among the lichened tombstones and faded silk flowers. As Polly’s casket descended into the cold ground, I felt more certain than ever that Polly hadn’t taken her own life.
“I’ll do my best to find out who did,” I whispered to her casket. I stood a minute, letting the cold salt air push my hair back from my face, before following the throng back inside the church.
After retrieving my pie from the pew in the sanctuary, I headed for the fellowship hall. I added my offering to the assortment of desserts on the folding tables and wove through the crowd toward Charlene and Reverend McLaughlin. The local women were lined up to greet him, but McLaughlin was deep in conversation with Murray; at McLaughlin’s elbow was Charlene, in a black scoop-necked dress that hugged her curvy figure. It looked as if her diet was working. I eased myself into the small crowd and put my hand on Charlene’s arm.
“I need to talk to you,” I said. “I’m sorry about the other day.”
Charlene’s eyes were cool, but I thought I detected a slight melt. She had opened her mouth to respond when her paramour noticed me.
McLaughlin broke off mid-sentence. “How about we continue our conversation later?” he said to Murray, who had traded in the yacht club ensemble for a sober blue suit and a tie with a huge gold pin in it.
Murray looked puzzled until his eyes flicked to me. Then he clapped McLaughlin on the back. “Good idea. I’ll call you this evening.” Then he turned to me. “Hello, Natalie.”
I smiled tightly. Despite Murray’s perpetual joviality, I hadn’t forgotten that he had cut the brake lines of my bike earlier in the year. He winked at McLaughlin and drifted off.
McLaughlin engulfed my hand in his own and pumped it a few times. “Hello, Natalie. It’s nice to see you, even on such a solemn occasion as this.” He shook his head sadly, and his brown eyes looked at me soulfully from above his chiseled cheekbones. I looked closely. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was wearing blush. He delivered his next line as if he were auditioning for the lead in Hamlet. “Such a tragedy when a fine woman takes her own life.”
“I understand you visited her a few times over the last couple of weeks,” I said.
McLaughlin’s eyes darted around the room, but he didn’t answer. I pressed on. “Do you have any idea why she might have killed herself?”
He blinked twice. Charlene’s sculpted eyebrows rose. “I was there to do my pastoral duties,” he finally answered. “I had no idea it would... it would come to this.”
“She didn’t tell you that something was bothering her?”
McLaughlin had regained his composure, and his answer was silky smooth. “What passed between Polly and me is between God, Polly, and me.” He shrugged resignedly. “I had no idea she would take her own life.” He arranged his features into a soulful look and rested his warm hand on my shoulder. “I know you feel terrible about Polly. If there’s any way I can help you through your grief, you know I’m here for you.”
“You can start by telling me why you were down at Polly’s so much lately,” I shot back. “And if you won’t tell me, then tell the police.”
McLaughlin glanced around and chuckled uncomfortably. Then he bent down and addressed me in a low voice. “Polly killed herself. A tragedy, to be sure. But I don’t see how dredging up the sordid details of her life will do anything but destroy her memory.”
Sordid details? “I’ll tell you how you can help me,” I said. “Tell the sordid details to the police.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
He gave me a smile that had the wattage of a nightlight and turned away to greet one of his female admirers. “Such a sad occasion, isn’t it?” He enfolded an octogenarian in a hug that, from the look in her watery blue eyes, gave her a thrill that was better than an entire month of The Guiding Light.
I glanced at Charlene. She gave me a nasty look and turned her head away. I gave up and walked over to the dessert table.
After loading up a plate with two brownies and a chocolate chip cookie, I scanned the room for a friendly face—okay, for John’s face. I bit into the cookie, and the moist, buttery confection melted in my mouth. In fact, it was downright delicious. I reached for another one, and a familiar voice floated over my left shoulder.
“That’s one of my favorite recipes.”
I turned around, my mouth full of cookie. It was Emmeline Hoyle. No housedress today, but her blue and pink plaid dress looked like vintage 1950s Sears and Roebuck.
“These cookies are yours, too?” I mumbled through the crumbs.
Her brown eyes twinkled as she nodded. “You find out anything more about your ghost?”
“A little bit,” I said. “I mean, a little bit about the inn. I haven’t heard any ghosts.”
“Mmmm.”
“How are the cats?”
“They’re doing just fine. That brown tabby is the sweetest little thing. Do you know, she followed me home the other day?”
“I’m sure Polly would be thrilled to know one of her cats had found a good home.”
“I’ll think about it,” Emmeline said. “By the way, I forgot to tell you something. I remembered it while I was out picking berries yesterday.” She paused dramatically. “The road isn’t the only way down to the bog.”
“No?”
“There are a couple of paths that cut through the woods to the main road.”
“And?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I stared at her blankly, and she sighed with what might have been a hint of exasperation. “If people take the road, I see them. If they take the paths, I don’t. So anyone could have been down at Polly’s this week, and I wouldn’t have known about it.”
I chewed my cookie as I let this sink in. “Do you know who usually uses the paths?”
She shrugged. “Like I said, I can’t see them from the house, so I don’t know. Whoever doesn’t feel like taking the road to the bog, I suppose.”
Well, that sure narrowed it down. I shivered; just thinking about the bog brought the horror of finding Polly rushing back. I took another bite of cookie to comfort myself and tried not to think about it. Instead, I found myself focusing on the gun. “Hey, did you hear any gunshots last week?” I asked.
“Gunshots?” She shook her head and popped something that looked like silly putty from her ear. “No, but both Henry and I wear hearing aids. I think if someone blew up the house in the middle of the night, we’d both sleep through it.”
Just my luck.
Emmeline looked up at me coyly. “By the way, I’ve been working up a design for that sampler we talked about.”
I winced internally, imagining cavorting sea lions surrounded by mermaids, fluffy-tailed rabbits and hummingbirds. “Oh?” I said tentatively. “I’ll have to stop by and see it sometime.”
“While you’re down, I’ll show you those paths.”
“Sure. I’ve been meaning to swing by and see if I could find any vet records on the cats anyway. Thanks for taking care of them, by the way.”
“It’s no trou
ble.” Emmeline glanced at her watch. “Well, I’d better get back and put dinner on. Nice talking to you.”
“You too,” I said, grabbing another cookie.
“You might want to cut down on those,” she said as she turned to go. “You’re looking a little thick around the middle. Men don’t like that.” She squinted at my face. “And you’re not getting any younger, either. You might want to have Charlene order you some of that cream she uses.”
I flushed and put the cookie back down. Granted, I had put on a few pounds, and my skin wasn’t exactly Oil of Olay ad material; in fact, I had noticed the definite beginnings of jowls last time I studied myself in the mirror. Still, this was coming from a woman who looked like the Michelin Man’s maiden aunt.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said as politely as I could. I watched Emmeline’s plump form weave through the crowd and jammed the cookie into my mouth anyway. Then I strained to catch a glimpse of my profile in the plate glass window overlooking the cemetery. Between Candy and Emmeline, I was starting to get a complex.
I was sucking in my tummy and examining the results in the glass when I heard another voice behind me.
“Yeah, well, now that she’s gone, I’ll probably be picking up some new gigs.” It was Marge O’Leary. I grabbed a few cookies and scooted a little further away. She must have been talking about Polly’s housekeeping jobs. Polly might be gone, but even in the height of summer, I wouldn’t be desperate enough to hire Marge. Charlene had told me the O’Learys’ mobile home looked like a dumpster with windows, and Marge’s penchant for nasty gossip made her one of the most unpleasant people on the island. Except, of course, for her husband, Eddie.
I glanced behind me. Marge looked just the same as ever. The same doughy, white skin, the same greasy reddish hair. Her beady eyes were set close to her wide nose, and her wrinkled muu-muu looked as if it hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in months. I ate another cookie, rationalizing that at least I had a ways to go until I reached Marge’s proportions.
“I wonder what they’ll do with all those strays?” I recognized the gruff voice of Marge’s husband. “Damned nuisance. Probably cart ’em all off to the pound where they belong.”
“This island is going to the dogs,” Marge said. “It all comes from letting in outsiders. First there’s that snooty southerner up at the inn, and now we’ve got these fancy houses going in.”
I swallowed the rest of my cookie and turned around. “Oh, hello, Marge. I didn’t see you.” I smiled first at Marge, who swiped at her lank hair with sausage-like fingers, and then at her husband. He was a big, hairy man. His grease-stained jeans and plaid shirt looked cleaner than usual; he must have dressed up for the occasion. As I stepped toward him, I caught a whiff of fish. I wrinkled my nose. Whatever he’d been handling hadn’t been sushi-grade.
“Terrible shame about Polly, isn’t it?” I said. Both of them stared at me. It was Marge who found her voice first.
“If you’re looking for help up there at the inn, I might be able to squeeze you in.” Her small, dark eyes were calculating. “It might cost a few extra dollars, though, seeing as I’ve got so many people to take care of already,” she said.
I choked on my cookie. She wanted me to pay her extra? I grabbed for a cup of lemonade and gulped it down, wheezing for breath. “Oh, no thanks,” I finally managed. “I think my niece and I can handle it.” Marge glowered.
I scanned the room and spotted John. Finally. “Oops. Gotta go. Nice seeing you.” Soon I was weaving through the crowd toward John, glad to be free of the O’Learys. I felt a pang of regret for Emmeline’s chocolate chip cookies, though. By the time Marge got through with them, even the crumbs would be gone.
I walked up behind John and touched his shoulder lightly. He jumped and whirled around.
I sucked in my tummy again and gave him what I hoped was a dazzling smile. “Boo.”
He peered at my mouth. “Why are your teeth brown?”
So much for dazzling. I ran my tongue over my teeth. “Emmeline’s chocolate chip cookies. If you want one, I recommend you go now. Marge has cornered the dessert section.”
John glanced over his shoulder. I gave him a quick up-and-down; I’d never seen him dressed up before. As much as I liked him in jeans, the slacks and sport coat were a nice change. He turned back toward me and caught me looking him over. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched up slightly.
“I’m surprised she’s here,” he said. “Last I heard, Marge and Polly were squaring off over who would get to work for the summer people.”
“Marge was just gloating over the cleaning jobs she’ll pick up now that the competition’s gone.”
“Classy.”
“Right out of Emily Post.” I edged toward him slightly. He smelled good. Very good. I’d never thought of sawdust as sexy before, but I was starting to consider dabbing it on my own pulse points. “So, any word from the medical examiner?”
“I have a call in, but I haven’t heard back. Any word on when your friend from Texas is headed back to cowboy land?” he added nonchalantly.
I grimaced. “No. His reservation goes through next Thursday.” Then I fixed him with my best steely eye. “And there’s more to Texas than cowboys, mister.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about the cactuses.”
I rolled my eyes. “Someday, if you play your cards right, I’ll give you a grand tour and introduce you to barbecue. And Tex-Mex.”
“Just as long as it’s not in the summer.” He looked over toward where Charlene and McLaughlin stood. “Hey, have you smoothed things over with Charlene yet?”
“How did you know we were arguing?”
“Nat, Cranberry Island covers less than a square mile. When something happens, even the seagulls talk about it.”
Oh, yeah. I wasn’t in Austin anymore. “I tried to talk to her a few minutes ago, but McLaughlin interrupted me.”
“Why don’t you see if you can catch her when she’s by herself?”
I glanced over at Charlene, whose arm was still wrapped around McLaughlin’s left bicep. “I don’t know. That might require surgical intervention.”
John glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Good luck with Charlene.” He reached out and brushed a few crumbs off of my shirt. “Gosh, did you eat a plateful or something? You’re covered in chocolate.”
Now I really was starting to get a complex.
___
I milled around for about twenty minutes, steering myself away from the dessert table and looking for an opportunity to talk to Charlene without McLaughlin hovering over her. She had dropped a good bit of weight recently; last time I’d seen her in that black dress, the seams had been about to pop. Tonight, however, the silky fabric curved in and out in all the right places. I sucked my stomach in again. Maybe I did need to cut down on the cookies.
It was only when the ladies started shuttling the empty plates to the kitchen that a brief window of opportunity appeared. Charlene reluctantly detached herself from McLaughlin’s arm and started carting casserole dishes. Fortunately for me, McLaughlin stayed at his post near the door. Apparently his pastoral duties did not extend to kitchen patrol.
I grabbed an empty plate and hustled through the kitchen door. Charlene stood at the sink. Before she could move out of the kitchen and back into McLaughlin’s orbit, I cornered her.
“We’ve got to talk.”
She rolled her expertly made-up eyes. “You already tried that line.”
“I miss you.”
“Do you?” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Yes,” she said. “Jealous. Why else would you be attacking Richard?”
“I haven’t been attacking anybody. I think someone killed Polly, and I thin
k Richard knows something about it. All I want him to do is go to the police and tell them what Polly told him.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious, Charlene. I have Polly’s interests at heart.”
“Just like you have everybody else’s interests at heart. The terns, the sanctity of the island, and all that stuff. Give me a break.” She tossed the dishtowel onto the counter. “And that’s not the only thing.”
“Oh, boy. I can’t wait to hear what’s next.”
She narrowed her blue eyes at me. “For all your talk about ‘saving the island,’ and how Murray’s a money-grabber, sometimes I think the only reason you don’t want other people to build things is that you’re protecting your own investment.” She tapped her plum-painted fingernails on the countertop. “I mean, why do you care if Murray builds a few houses? Unless you’re worried that the inn won’t be quite as popular if it’s got a subdivision down the road.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?” She smoothed down her dress and flounced toward the door. “I’m not sure I believe you.” By the time I came up with a response, she was gone.
I was still stewing over Charlene when I got back to the inn half an hour later. My mood did not improve when I opened the door to find the kitchen filled with smoke. Benjamin stood at the stove, wearing a grease-spattered yellow apron. What looked like every pot, pan, and dish I owned were scattered haphazardly around the room. My nose wrinkled at the reek of charred food.
“Natalie!” Benjamin stopped stirring a smoking pot and rushed to greet me. “You’re here!”
“What’s all this?” I slid a greasy pan aside and deposited the empty pie plate on the countertop. My kitchen looked as if it had been the subject of a terrorist attack. From the heaps of blackened foodstuffs arranged on trays, I was guessing biological warfare.
Dead and Berried Page 9
