Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  I straightened my back and stared Grimes in the eye. “I thought he might know something about Polly’s death.”

  “Like I said, that was a suicide.”

  “I’m still not convinced,” I said.

  Grimes glanced at Charlene, who was now rigid in her chair. “You two seem pretty friendly now that your boyfriend’s gone.”

  “Natalie is my friend,” Charlene hissed. “What’s your point?”

  Grimes swaggered over to the kitchen table and leaned over one of the chair backs. His paunch swayed as he spoke. “My point, Miz Kean, is that you and your friend Miz Barnes are my two best suspects in this case.”

  Charlene blanched. “You think... you think I killed Richard?”

  “Maybe you found out there was a little hanky panky going on. Maybe you got mad.” He nodded at me. “Or maybe your friend here got a little jealous of all the time you and McLaughlin were spending up at the rectory.”

  “Hanky panky?” Charlene asked. “What are you talking about?”

  He stood up and jotted something down in his little book. “Why don’t you tell me, Miz Kean?”

  Charlene stood up and straightened her back. Her eyes were no longer flat; instead, they were burning with barely suppressed anger. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Sergeant Grimes. And if you know something I don’t, I would appreciate you telling me instead of using crude innuendos.”

  Grimes shrugged. “Just a few things I’ve heard around the island...” He studied Charlene’s face, which was white with rage. “The way I hear it, you weren’t the only filly in the stable.”

  Charlene gripped the chair back. “What? Who told you that?” Her voice was strained. “Who was it?”

  A slow smile spread across Grimes’ face. “I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.”

  ___

  My old friend came back to life almost as soon as Grimes left. As I sprayed the kitchen with lavender mist to dispel the odor of stale smoke and Grimes’ cheap aftershave, Charlene paced the kitchen.

  “That bastard!” she said. “How dare he...” She turned to me. “Do you think it’s true?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Charlene. But if it is, I can’t think why we haven’t heard about it already.”

  “You’re right. It can’t be true. It can’t be.” She stopped her pacing and looked at me. “We have to go to the rectory.”

  “Hold on, Charlene. The cops are there.”

  “Tonight, then. We’ll go tonight.”

  I sighed. “Fine.” There was no way to convince her otherwise. Besides, maybe we would find something—notes, or a diary, or an unsent letter—that would help explain Polly’s death. “In the meantime, why don’t you let me get some of this laundry started, and then we’ll make a few phone calls?”

  “You mean to see what everyone is talking about?”

  “I mean to find out about what happened while Richard was in Boston.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay.” Her eyes strayed to the phone. “I need to call the store first, see how Tania’s doing.”

  “Sure,” I said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll throw in a load of towels and check on Gwen.”

  As Charlene picked up the phone and dialed, I tossed a bunch of towels into the washer and ran upstairs to talk to Gwen, who was finishing cleaning Candy’s room. As usual, Gwen was dressed in the kind of clothes I reserved for a date. Even when she was scrubbing toilets, my niece did it in style.

  “How’s Charlene?” she asked, tugging her turquoise cashmere sweater down as she bent to scrub the toilet.

  “She’s doing better, now that Grimes has her all fired up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s told us we’re the primary suspects... and he suggested to Charlene that maybe she wasn’t the only woman in McLaughlin’s life.”

  Gwen dropped the toilet brush. “No!”

  “That’s what he says. Have you heard anything?”

  Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “No, but I’ll see if anyone else has heard anything.”

  “How’s Adam doing, by the way?”

  Gwen’s face lit up like it always did when I asked about her lobsterman boyfriend. “He’s great. Things are going really well for him this fall...” Her face clouded. “But O’Leary’s getting the co-op in trouble.”

  “Marge’s husband? What’s going on?”

  “He’s cutting trap lines. I talked with Adam this morning; someone went out and cut fifty or sixty of the mainlanders’ traps last night. I’m betting it was O’Leary and some of his cronies.”

  I winced. Someone further down the coast had been killed over lobstering territories just last year. “What does Adam think of it all?”

  “He’s just trying to keep his nose clean,” Gwen said. I was glad to hear it. That hadn’t always been Adam’s approach to territory wars.

  “Well,” I said, “let me know what you find out. I can’t help you out this morning, but maybe tomorrow I can give you a hand and you can head out to Fernand’s early.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Nat. But you’ve got your hands full with Charlene...” She glanced around the room. “...and Candy.”

  “That’s not all I’ve got to worry about, unfortunately.” I told her about my conversation with the insurance company—and about Benjamin’s marriage proposal.

  She drew in her breath. “Oh my God. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to turn him down.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I should be,” I sighed. “But I’m not a hundred percent. And that’s the trouble.”

  “What about John?” she asked.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes,” she said.

  I groaned and headed for the door. “Don’t I know it.”

  Just as I got back to the kitchen, Charlene hung up the phone. She turned to me, hands on her hips. “O’Leary’s starting that damned territory war,” she said.

  “That’s what Gwen said. How’s Tania holding up?”

  “The store’s fine. The island is humming with rumors, though; Tania didn’t want to tell me, but I wrung it out of her. Apparently the word is that Polly and Richard were planning to buy a yacht and head south, but that an old girlfriend came and put a stop to things.” Despite Charlene’s light tone, her face was drawn, and I knew she was hurting.

  “An old girlfriend?” I said. “That’s ridiculous! Nobody new has been on the island!”

  “I don’t know who comes up with these things. There’s a whole cult theory, too, but I’m not clear on the specifics.” She shook her head. “Probably Marge O’Leary.”

  “The O’Learys again. They’re a pair of bad apples, aren’t they?

  She nodded. “So, what do we do first?” She pointed to the short list I had left on the table.

  I picked it up. “So far, we’ve got Murray and the rectory. I forgot to add Boston.” I scrawled the name at the bottom of the list. “Which one do you want to tackle first?”

  “If it were up to me,” I said, “I’d call Boston. I have a feeling there’s a reason McLaughlin... I mean Richard... ended up here.” I glanced at Charlene, whose chin jutted out slightly, and decided not to carry that thought any further.

  Charlene reached up and touched her hair. “I want to talk to Murray. Maybe Richard said something to him...” She sighed. “But if you want to call Boston first, go ahead. I’ll go change into something presentable while you figure out who we should call.”

  As Charlene disappeared through the swinging door, I put the last couple of dishes into the dishwasher and grabbed the phone book. It was times like this that I wished I had an Internet connection. Maybe I would have to head over to the
Somesville library on the mainland later in the day.

  I looked up the area code for Boston in the front of the book, then called information and got the number for the diocese office. After a moment’s pause, during which I constructed a cover story, my fingers picked out the number. A woman’s voice answered on the third ring.

  “Hi,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m a reporter for the Daily Mail, up in Maine, and I was hoping you could help me.”

  The woman’s voice was guarded. “What can I do for you?”

  I put on my best professional voice. “Unfortunately, Rev. Richard McLaughlin, the rector of St. James’ Episcopal Church on Cranberry Island, died suddenly yesterday. I’m doing an article for the paper on the reverend’s good works throughout his life and career, and someone told me that he used to serve in Boston. I was hoping I could find out a little more about his work in your diocese.”

  “Rev. McLaughlin? The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ve only worked here for a year...”

  “Is there anyone there who might remember him?”

  “Yes, there’s one person... Hold on a second.” The phone clicked, and “Amazing Grace” flooded into the earpiece. I gazed out the window while I waited, watching a lobster boat chug by. I strained my eyes to see if I recognized the buoy strapped to the front of the boat, but it was too far away to see.

  “Hello?” The voice jolted me, and it took me a moment to remember why I was calling. And who I’d said I was.

  “Hello,” I stammered, and my eyes flicked to the Cranberry Rock lighthouse in the distance. “I’m... Beatrice Lighthouse, calling from the Mount Desert Island Daily Mail.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Lighthouse?”

  “I was calling to inquire about Rev. Richard McLaughlin. He died suddenly yesterday, and I wanted to see if you could tell me anything about his life in Boston. For the obituary.”

  “McLaughlin.” The voice was clipped. “Yes, I remember him. I’m sorry to hear he passed away. He was here for a few years, at St. Jude’s.”

  “Yes, so I understand,” I said. “I was wondering, what prompted him to move from a city like Boston to a small island like Cranberry Island?”

  The man on the end of the line cleared his throat. “I think it was a personal decision,” he said.

  “Did you know Reverend McLaughlin?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. He was a dedicated priest... now, if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to attend.”

  “Did you know McLaughlin was murdered?”

  The phone was silent for a beat. “Murdered?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted the reverend dead?”

  “I really have to go, Ms—?”

  “Lighthouse,” I prompted. “And who am I speaking with?”

  “John LeGrange. I’m the bishop. Now, I really must go. Good luck with your article.” He hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and stood staring out the window. When Charlene came down a few minutes later, looking more like herself in tight-fitting jeans and a V-neck top, I was still leaning against the counter, watching the slow progress of the lobster boat across the water.

  “What did you find out?” she asked.

  I turned to face her. “I think we need to make a trip to the library.”

  “Why?”

  “I just spoke with the bishop.”

  Charlene stared at me.

  “He didn’t want to talk about McLaughlin—was in a real hurry to get off the phone. When I asked him why McLaughlin had moved to Cranberry Island, he said it was for ‘personal reasons.’”

  “So?”

  “When I told him McLaughlin had been murdered, he didn’t sound surprised.”

  Charlene’s face was hard. “So what are you saying, Natalie?”

  “What I’m saying is that we need to look into what happened in Boston. I’d like to go to the library and see if anything turned up in the papers.”

  “The papers?” She crossed her arms. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know yet. It could be any number of things. If we can’t find anything out, I’ll keep calling and see if I can find out who his friends were. He was at St. Jude’s; I’m sure some of the congregation members remember him.”

  “Natalie, I appreciate your help, but I think you’re on a witchhunt here. I know Richard isn’t... wasn’t your favorite person...”

  “Charlene,” I said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “How I felt about Richard isn’t the issue here...”

  She thrust her chin out. “He left Boston because he needed a change. You’re as bad as the Daily Mail... just looking for a scandal.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am. But Grimes has his eye on us. If we do find something, at least we can say there was someone else with a motive.”

  “But neither of us has a motive!”

  “That’s not what Grimes thinks. And unfortunately, it’s his opinion that counts right now.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. So you want to go to the library. What about Murray?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll talk to him later. Maybe after we go to the rectory. Do you want to come with me, or would you rather stay here?”

  “I probably need to head down to the store for a while, if you don’t mind.”

  “Are you sure? Tania seems to have it under control down there.”

  “It will be good for me. Take my mind off... things.”

  I was about to try to persuade her to stay, but suddenly our conversation with Grimes echoed in my head. She was probably going down to the store to find out if there was any truth to the rumor that McLaughlin was seeing someone else, I realized. So instead of trying to get her to stay at the inn, I said, “I’ll swing by the mainland, then.”

  Charlene headed for the swinging door, a look of grim determination on her face. “Call me when you get back.”

  ___

  After checking with Gwen to make sure she didn’t need any help, I let myself out the back door, shivering a little when I remembered the footprints on the back deck last night. Who had it been, I wondered? And what did he—or she—want?

  Whoever had been lurking at my door last night was sure to be long gone, but my eyes still darted around nervously as I headed down to the dock. Despite all my worries, it felt good to be outside. The air was fresh and clean from last night’s storm, and a few water droplets still glistened on the reddish-orange rose hips as I brushed past them. I was tempted to stop in and visit John, but decided to postpone it until I got back. Then maybe I’d have some new information to share, and he could pass it on to Grimes.

  I hopped into the bobbing boat, settled myself on the hard wooden seat, and pulled the engine’s starter cord.

  Nothing happened.

  I tugged again, with the same results. After about fifteen minutes of yanking on the cord, my arm was starting to hurt, so I clambered out of the boat and headed to John’s workshop, hoping he could figure out what was wrong.

  Unfortunately, John wasn’t home. My trip to the library would have to be postponed. I sighed as I passed the rosebushes a second time; it looked like it would be laundry day after all.

  When I opened the door to the kitchen, Benjamin stood at the refrigerator door, peering at the contents of the shelves. He turned around and smiled when I closed the door behind me.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.

  “I was in the mood for chocolate, but I didn’t feel like walking all the way to the store,” he said, closing the fridge and bridging the gap between us. “You look tense.”

  “Tense? Your friend Candy flooded the inn, the insurance is threatening not to pay, there have been two murders on the island, and now my stupid boat won’t
start.” I sank into the nearest kitchen chair.

  Benjamin pulled up a chair behind me and began kneading my shoulders. “Things have been tough lately, haven’t they? But there are other options.”

  “I know, I know. That’s what you keep telling me.” I took a deep breath. “But I just can’t forget what happened last time. And I’ve worked hard for all of this,” I said, waving my arms at the buttery yellow kitchen, the gleaming wood floors. “I just don’t think I’m ready to give it up.”

  “This time will be different,” he said soothingly, his warm fingers probing my shoulders. “I didn’t know what I wanted before. Now, though, since you’ve been gone...”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair. “And what about Candy?”

  His hands paused for a split second, then resumed their kneading. “What about her?”

  “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with her lately,” I said.

  “Only because you’ve been so busy here,” he said. “And there’s not a whole lot to do on this island.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s why the murder rate is so high.”

  I sat up straight and turned to face him. “Benjamin, I loved you once. And you betrayed me.”

  He dropped his hands in his lap and looked away.

  “Benjamin, I still care for you. But the truth is, I don’t think I can take that kind of risk again.”

  He stared at the floor for a moment. My eyes traced the line of his jaw, the little scar on his chin from when he fell from a bike and gashed himself on the handlebars. He looked so sad, so vulnerable. My heart twisted in my chest.

  Finally, he looked up. “What can I do to prove myself to you?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Benjamin. I’m not sure you can.”

  ___

  By the time Charlene got back from the store, it was late afternoon, and the morning’s sunshine had been replaced by clouds of metallic gray. The temperature had dropped outside, but inside the kitchen it was warm and cozy, and the mounds of dirty laundry were almost gone; I had folded all the towels and was waiting for the last batch of sheets to come out of the dryer. Between loads, I had cleaned the kitchen and whipped up a batch of Barbara Hahn’s Berried Medley Lemon Streusel Muffins, trying hard not to think about Benjamin, whose presence in the inn I could feel, or John, whom I hadn’t seen all day. My six phone calls to the insurance company hadn’t netted me anything, either.