The room was empty.
“What was that?” Charlene whispered behind me.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice wavering a little. “But it’s making it awfully hard to sleep.” As Charlene stood in the doorway, I did a quick check under the bed and in the closet, just to make sure the noise wasn’t Biscuit or Pepper.
“Nothing here,” I said.
“Weird.”
“You’re telling me.” With a last glance over my shoulder, I headed down the stairs again with Charlene. Back in the kitchen, I stooped to turn over the plate of muffins. “Have you ever heard any stories about the inn?” I asked in a low voice.
“You mean the haunting thing?”
I glanced up at her. “You knew about it?”
Charlene leaned over to pick up a ripped bag of rotini. “Everybody does. Eliezer thinks the smugglers who used to use the cove did some of their business out of here when the place was vacant. Did everything they could to encourage the rumors—strange lights, noises in the night. I guess they figured that way, no one would come too close.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think that’s connected with this.”
“Nope.” I scooped the muffins back onto the plate and reluctantly dumped them into the trash. What a waste. “I’d like to find out more about what’s going on, but I’m afraid it’ll be bad for business if the word gets out.” I glanced at my friend, who usually couldn’t hold a secret if it came in a paper bag. “Please promise me you won’t tell a soul about this?”
“Promise.”
“Even Tania?”
Charlene put her hand on her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
I sighed. “Thanks. This is really creeping me out. For the last week or two, I’ve been hearing noises at night.”
She glanced at the ceiling. “Like what we just heard?”
“Worse. Footsteps.”
She shivered. “Are you sure it’s not just the pipes thumping?”
“In the attic?”
Charlene’s eyes widened as I told her about dragging footsteps that had woken me up the other night, including Biscuit’s weird reaction—and the undisturbed dust on the attic floor. “Emmeline told me her husband once saw the ghost of a woman on the landing,” I said. “And according to Matilda down at the museum, there was a murder in the inn, once.”
“The cook, right? Annie Oakes, or something?”
“That’s the one. Matilda says it was never solved.”
“That’s the legend. I think one of the Selfridges was under suspicion, but no one ever proved anything.”
“Do you think she’s coming back because of that?” I asked, opening another garbage bag. “Unresolved business?”
Charlene shook her head. “I just don’t know. Maybe we should get one of those Ouija boards or something, and ask.”
I shivered involuntarily. I don’t know if it was too many B horror movies, but the whole séance thing freaked me out a little bit. “The question is, why now? I’ve been here since spring, and this is the first I’ve heard of her.”
“Maybe we’re getting close to the anniversary of her death. And it is almost Halloween. Aren’t the souls of the dead supposed to come back around then?”
“Actually, I think the Day of the Dead is November first. And it’s only the middle of October now.” I remembered the big festivals in the Mexican-American community in Austin. Candy skeletons, marigolds, food, and pillar candles on the graves of the dead... my thoughts turned to McLaughlin. If this was the time of year when ghosts walked, had the power outage at the rectory tonight been caused by him? And if so, why? Had there been something in the house he hadn’t wanted us to find? I shook myself. Last week, I thought the idea of ghosts was ridiculous; now I was conjuring paranormal explanations for simple power failures.
“I don’t know if it’s the exact day, or just the season,” Charlene said. “Anyway, maybe she couldn’t get her hands on a good calendar in the hereafter, or wherever she is.” I glanced at my friend. Her eyes looked misty again, and her voice was pensive. “Do you think... maybe Richard might send me a sign?”
“I’m sure if he can, he will,” I said, smiling at my friend. Then I grimaced at the drifts of flour on the pine floors. “Forget the Ouija board. They could just write out what they’re looking for in flour.”
“That would be handy.”
I glanced at the mess of muffin crumbs. “Speaking of flour, what the heck am I going to do for breakfast now?”
Charlene shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. What about those great breakfast flans? All you need is eggs and milk, right?”
Dumping a torn spaghetti bag into the trash, I said, “Good idea. Let’s get this place cleaned up, and I’ll make a batch.” I tossed a mound of cherries, flour, and pasta in after the spaghetti bag and groaned. “I can’t believe I live in a haunted inn. No wonder the place was cheap.”
Charlene reached for a handful of pasta and grimaced. “Let’s just hope the poltergeist activity limits itself to your pantry.”
___
The weather was still gray and cold the next morning. Most people aren’t big fans of bleak weather, but after fifteen years of endless summers in Texas, I was enjoying the turn of the seasons—including damp, chilly mornings. It gave me an opportunity to pull on the wool sweaters that had been gathering dust in my closet for years. Today I had chosen a red Aran sweater I had picked up on Inishmore, off the coast of Galway, almost fifteen years ago. I pushed up my sleeves as I poured coffee into the grinder, enjoying the feel of the rough wool against my skin. I thought of Benjamin’s offer again. If I went back to Texas, my thick sweaters would have to go back into storage. I shook my head. Was I really relying on wardrobe options to make the case for staying?
At eight o’clock, the kitchen was filled with the heavenly aroma of sizzling sausage, and the sky outside was pearly gray and drizzling. I peered out the window; the Cranberry Rock lighthouse was barely visible through the haze, and the rich autumn colors of the mountains across the water were subdued. The gray palette outside made the soft yellow kitchen, with its antique blue and white tiles, pine floors, and farmhouse table feel especially cozy, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. Pepper was nowhere to be seen—probably with Charlene—and Biscuit had curled up next to the radiator. Candy hadn’t been into the kitchen in a few days either, I realized. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her opening a rival inn down the street, but at least she wasn’t haunting my kitchen anymore. Unlike Annie Oakes...
I sipped at my coffee and turned the sausages, then pulled a bag of corn tortillas out of the freezer for migas, a Mexican egg dish I had learned to love in Austin. It would go with the flan, and besides, a little spice was good on a cold morning. As I tossed a few tortillas into the microwave and began grating cheddar cheese, my mind turned to the mess Charlene and I had discovered in the kitchen. Had it been the cook’s ghost? And if so, was I just going to have to steel myself for a month of paranormal activity once a year?
On the plus side, the manifestations seemed to be limited to the non-guest portions of the inn. I could only hope whoever—or whatever—had caused the mess in the kitchen last night didn’t decide to branch out. And at least there had been no further manifestations after the kitchen debacle of last night; although it had taken me a while to fall asleep, nothing had interrupted me, and I woke feeling refreshed. My eyes drifted to the pantry. I would have to ask Charlene to pick up some more flour at the store. And I needed to call the insurance company again, too.
For the next half hour, I focused on the migas, dicing jalapeno peppers, slicing avocado, and creating a cheesy, gooey dish that looked so good I put a little on a plate for myself before delivering the platter to the dining room.
Benjamin was already there, looking crisp and fresh in jeans and a blue wool sweater that
brought out the color of his eyes. “Thanks for dinner last night,” he said.
“My pleasure.” I poured his coffee and backed away quickly.
“Have you thought about things anymore?”
“It’s been kind of busy.”
“I’m only here for a few more days, you know. I’d love to buy an extra ticket to Austin... for you.”
“Even if I did...”
“You’re considering it?”
I sighed. “I’m not saying anything at all. You know, maybe it would be better for you to go...”
“Good morning!”
Benjamin and I turned to see Candy, who stood in the doorway in tight jeans and high-heeled shoes. Benjamin stood up to greet her. “Hi, Candy.”
“Hi, Ben. Are we still on for Jordan Pond House?”
Benjamin glanced at me sidelong.
I kept my smile pasted on.
“Why don’t we eat breakfast first, and then we’ll figure it out later,” he muttered, then turned to me. “Nat...”
“It may not be a good day for sitting out on the lawn, but it’s nice inside, too,” Candy said brightly. “And I’ve heard their popovers are to die for. I’m going to see if I can get their recipe, for when...” She glanced at me and trailed off, then fluttered her long eyelashes and sashayed over to Benjamin’s table. Her tight pink hooded sweatshirt didn’t quite cover her bulging T-shirt—or the inch and a half of cleavage above it.
I filled both coffee mugs and turned on my heel. “Migas, grapefruit, and flan this morning. I’ll be out with toast in a moment.”
My heart was pounding when the swinging door closed behind me. I leaned up against the wall. I knew this about Benjamin. So why was I so agitated? And Candy... she really was planning on opening up an inn. And the hard reality was, if the insurance didn’t cough up for the damage she had done, she would have an excellent chance of running me out of business.
I closed my eyes. The right decision—financially, anyway—would probably be to jump at Benjamin’s offer; after all, I was still attracted to him, and life would be less stressful without huge mortgage payments looming every month. But that was a terrible reason to embark on any relationship, and besides, I had built a life for myself here. My eyes drifted to John’s carriage house. Did I really want to leave all of this behind?
The truth was, whether I took Benjamin up on his offer or not, I might not have a choice.
I fished a few slices of bread from a bag, thrust them into the toaster and slammed the little glass door shut. Then I marched over to the phone to call the insurance adjustor. A moment later, his voice mail message burbled out of the receiver.
Damn.
I left a message and checked on the toast, then crossed the kitchen to peek into the dining room; if any other guests had come down, they’d want coffee. Just before I pushed through to the dining room, a tap sounded at the outside door.
It was John.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as I opened the door. The wind swept John’s faint woodsy scent in with him. I loved his smell; there was something primeval and clean about it.
“What do you mean?” I asked as the door closed behind him. Like Benjamin, John wore jeans and a wool sweater; unlike Benjamin, the jeans were thin around the knees and the sweater looked like something you’d see on a fisherman. The patterns, I suddenly remembered, were to help family members identify drowned men when they washed ashore. I shivered; death kept creeping into my thoughts uninvited.
“You look stressed,” he said.
“The insurance company isn’t answering my calls, Candy is planning to open a rival inn, my best friend’s boyfriend got murdered, and Grimes thinks one of us did it.”
John’s craggy eyebrows rose.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I asked, pulling down a mug.
“Sure. Let’s get back to this Grimes thing. Who—specifically—is ‘us’?”
“Charlene and me.” After filling the mug, I handed it to him and dug out a spoon.
He shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Why on earth would either of you kill McLaughlin?”
I snorted. “Apparently there’s a rumor that McLaughlin was seeing someone else on the side. And I was supposedly so jealous of Charlene’s new beau that it drove me to murder.”
“That’s ridiculous.” John shook his head and sipped at his coffee. “And where did he come up with this thing about McLaughlin seeing someone else?”
“I don’t know, but he’s taking it pretty seriously.”
He let out a long, low whistle. “Things aren’t going your way lately, are they?” He put down his coffee and moved behind me, rubbing my back with calloused hands. I relaxed into him, and something inside me melted.
“How are your floors, by the way?”
I sighed. “We got the water in the hallway cleaned up fast enough, but the rooms are in pretty bad shape. I’ve left the windows open in the two rooms, but I’m worried about mold.”
“And the insurance company’s giving you a hard time?”
I nodded.
“Have you thought about asking the woman who blocked the sink up to talk to the insurance company?”
“Who, Candy? She’s looking to open up an inn down the street. Why would she want to help me out? I half think she did it just to take out the competition.”
His hands kneaded my shoulders. “It’s worth a shot, anyway.”
“You’re right. I’ll ask her.”
“All she can say is no,” John said. He gave my shoulders a final squeeze and released me. “Is something burning?”
“The toast!” I dashed over and opened the little door, but it was too late. As I deposited the scorched squares into the trash, the phone rang.
“Can you get it for me?”
He grabbed the phone. “Good morning, Gray Whale Inn.” He was silent for a moment as I pulled a few more slices of bread out of the bag and popped them into the toaster. “No, it’s John.” A moment later, his voice dropped. “Is he going to be okay?”
I whirled around toward John. His face was grim. Had there been another murder?
I stared at John, whose lips were a thin line. What was going on?
“I’ll tell her,” he said. “Keep me posted, okay?”
“What?” My voice was tight as he hung up the phone. “What happened?”
He let out a long, low sigh. “That was Emmeline Hoyle. The gear war is escalating. They found one of the mainlanders adrift on his boat this morning. Had to take him to the hospital. Someone gave him a nasty blow on the back of the head, knocked him out cold.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“He hasn’t come to yet. They’re running tests.”
I sank down into a kitchen chair. At least it wasn’t another murder; and at least this time, the motive was obvious. “Who do you think did it?”
“I have my ideas,” he said, “but we should probably wait for the evidence.”
“I guess so.” I shook my head. “All this violence lately...”
John walked over to me and put his hands on my shoulders, pulling me toward him. I leaned into him. His arms were strong under the soft flannel as he wrapped them around me, warming me from the inside out.
His voice was low and soft. “I’m worried about you, Nat.”
I tilted my head up to look at him. “Why?”
“First Polly, then McLaughlin...”
“I thought you said Polly was a suicide.”
His arms tightened around me. “I’m not sure of anything right now. All I know is that there’s a dangerous person at large on the island, and you and Charlene tend to get your noses into places some people might prefer were left alone.”
I thought of our trip to the rectory... and the footprints outsi
de my kitchen door the other night. He had a point.
He gave me a last squeeze. “Be careful, okay? We still haven’t had our dinner date, and I’d hate to have to cancel it again.” He turned me around and gave me a soft kiss on the forehead. “I’ll check on you later, okay? Just don’t go anywhere by yourself.”
“I’ll try not to. Are you sure you can’t stay for breakfast?”
He grabbed his coffee cup and took a last swig before heading for the door. “I already ate, but thanks.” He flashed me a last smile and headed back out into the chilly morning.
I stood staring at the door for a minute, my body remembering the feel of his arms around me. Dinner soon, he’d said... I gave myself a mental shake. Guests. Toast. Toast! I rescued the bread just in time, slathered on some butter, and put it in the warmer before feeding the toaster four more slices and carrying my coffeepot out to the dining room.
Benjamin and Candy sat where I’d left them, laughing over something, and Russell Lidell had taken a seat at a far table. I ignored the happy couple—honestly, after a few minutes with John, I didn’t mind nearly so much—and filled Russell’s coffee cup.
“Who was that on the phone?” he asked.
“Just a friend,” I said.
“Any calls for me?” Today he wore wrinkled khaki pants and a striped shirt a size too small. His doughy face looked strained.
“Not while I’ve been here,” I said. “I don’t think there are any messages on the machine, but I’ll check.”
“Let me know,” he said. “I’m expecting a call.”
___
I was cleaning up the last of the breakfast dishes when Gwen rushed down the stairs into the kitchen. She’d pulled her bushy hair into a sloppy ponytail and was tugging a sweatshirt over her arms. “Aunt Nat,” she said, breathless. “I overslept... I was supposed to be at Fernand’s first thing this morning!”
“Why don’t you head over now?” I said as she grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.
Dead and Berried Page 17
