Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  “But what about the rooms?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “Do you have a moment for some strata?”

  “No, but I’ll take a brownie,” she said. “If there are any left.”

  “On top of the fridge,” I said, filling a travel mug as she popped the lid off the Tupperware and assembled a short stack of chocolate cherry brownies. How she stayed so slim, I had no idea.

  She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried to the door. “Thanks a million, Aunt Nat.”

  “Don’t think twice about it,” I said as the door shut behind her.

  The truth was, I was kind of looking forward to some time by myself. Charlene had headed down to the store, so I didn’t have to worry about her this morning, and with everything that had been going on the last week, my head was whirling. The ritual of putting things right sounded soothing... meditative, almost. Besides, I wanted to be home in case the insurance company ever got around to calling me back.

  After starting the dishwasher, I gathered my cleaning supplies and headed upstairs, figuring I’d start with Candy’s room and move down the hallway from there. My toe clipped a warped board as I rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, and I cursed Candy silently. My eyes slid to the door of the room she had “accidentally” flooded. What was I going to do if the insurance company wouldn’t cover the damages? And would the Gray Whale Inn be able to survive a competitor right down the street?

  So much for meditative. I struggled to clear my mind as I knocked at Candy’s door. When no one answered, I used the skeleton key to unlock the door and let myself in.

  Whatever Candy was, she wasn’t a neat freak. The floor was strewn with discarded jeans and T-shirts; one of the logos sparkled in the gray morning light. The vanity was covered with cosmetics, and a lacy thong hung from the bathroom doorknob. If Candy did open an inn on the island, I reflected grimly, she should probably make room in the budget for housekeeping help.

  I set down my cleaning supplies and started with the bed. As I stripped the sheets, I found myself inspecting them for one of Benjamin’s dark brown hairs. Why do you care what he does? I chided myself as I tossed the pile of white cotton toward the doorway.

  After smoothing the new sheets down, I gingerly removed the thong from the doorknob and piled it on the dresser with the rest of the discarded clothing. Then I turned my attention to the desk. Shooting a glance at the doorway, I sidled over to the pile of papers scattered over the scarred maple desk top.

  My stomach twisted as I glanced at the top sheet. A contract for Cliffside. It wasn’t new information, but seeing it in print made it starkly real. I shuffled through the papers beneath it, wondering what other properties she had looked at, but the only information was on Cliffside.

  Anger burned deep in my chest. For all her talk of starting an inn on the mainland, it looked like Cranberry Island was the only place she’d investigated.

  I ran the feather duster around the papers, did a quick run-through of the bathroom, and got out of there before I did something unprofessional. Like take a pair of scissors to her thong underwear, although how I could make it any smaller I didn’t know.

  Benjamin’s room was next. Unlike Candy’s, his clothes were neatly folded in their drawers, the bed already made. Opposites attract? I shooed the thought from my head and tackled the bed and bathroom, carefully avoiding the stack of papers on the dresser. I knew they were the specs for the inns in Austin, and I didn’t need the temptation. No blonde hairs on the pillowcases, I was happy to see. So much for equanimity.

  My professionalism lapsed only for a moment, when I picked up the bottle of Calvin Klein’s Obsession and held it to my nose. Closing my eyes, I let a torrent of memories sweep over me... nights on the crisp blue sheets of his king-sized bed, his skin warm against mine...

  I set the bottle down with a jolt and backed away from the sink. Then I gathered up my cleaning supplies and hurried toward the door, and away from danger.

  Slamming the door shut behind me, I leaned against the wall, trying to slow my heart rate. Why did he have such an effect on me? For God’s sake, even his cologne was enough to send me into a tailspin! I felt like a teenager all over again. Clutching the bucket of supplies, I struggled to recall the feeling of John’s arms around me. A warm tingle coursed up my spine, but it wasn’t enough to exorcise the rush of feelings I’d had in Benjamin’s room. I forced myself to recall the humiliating moment in Z Tejas. Benjamin’s hand on Zhang’s back, her black hair like a curtain of silk....

  I opened my eyes and gave myself a mental shake. Focus on work. This was supposed to be meditative, after all, not masochistic. And besides, the cleaning was almost done—other than Charlene’s room, Russell Lidell’s was the last on my list; the Hahns had checked, leaving a glowing recommendation in my guest book despite the flooded hallway.

  The smell of unwashed laundry hit me as Russell’s door swept open, and my nose wrinkled involuntarily. It was a far cry from Benjamin’s cologne. Like Candy’s room, Russell’s room was liberally decorated with discarded shirts and underwear; unlike Candy, however, his taste in underwear tended toward Fruit of the Loom rather than Victoria’s Secret. I found myself wishing for my orange rubber gloves as I deposited the soiled clothes in a heap by the closet and pulled out my feather duster.

  Wherever Russell had gone this morning, he hadn’t taken his briefcase. My eyes kept swerving toward it as I stripped the sheets and straightened the curtains. How was Cranberry Estates coming? Had Polly’s cousin Gary sold her house to Murray? Or to Russell’s development company?

  After running a brush around the toilet bowl and swishing out the sink, all the while entertaining fantasies involving Candy, her future inn, and overflowing toilets, I returned to Russell’s room and contemplated the briefcase for a moment.

  Then I closed the door, slid the deadbolt, and set the briefcase on the smooth blue counterpane.

  The brown leather case was scuffed on the edges, and I was pleased to note that it didn’t sport a lock. I hurriedly lifted the leather flap and riffled through the file folders he had shoved inside.

  The fattest one was labeled Cranberry Estates. It slid out easily, and a moment later I flipped it open on the bed. The woman at the church was right; Gary had sold Polly’s house, and the demolition date had already been set for March. I sucked in my breath and thought of Polly’s cats; I’d have to find homes for them sometime this winter, since Polly’s house would be gone... Polly. I set down the paper and closed my eyes for a moment, remembering her smile, the way her round face lit up when she talked about her cats. My heart still ached for the efficient woman who had always had a friendly word, and who had opened her heart and home to animals with nowhere else to go, spending most of her meager resources to feed them.

  I sighed, frustrated that I still hadn’t figured out who had killed her. And McLaughlin’s death had closed off yet another avenue of inquiry. I flipped past the copy of the contract and blinked at the next sheaf of papers.

  It was a preliminary environmental assessment, and the information listed on it made me blink.

  Russell had said that Cranberry Estates was a go. But the assessment in front of me listed ten endangered species—and denied Weintroub Development the right to build.

  I was flipping through the report when someone slid a key into the lock.

  “Just a minute,” I called, jamming the files back into the briefcase. I shoved it back onto the floor next to the desk, retrieved my basket of cleaning supplies, and hurried to the door.

  Russell eyed me with suspicion as I threw the door open and smiled.

  “Why was the door locked?”

  I tossed off a light laugh. “Habit, I guess. I always lock doors behind me. Comes from being a single woman, I suppose.”

  Russell’s eyes flicked to the briefcase on the floor, and I too
k the opportunity to scoop up the dirty sheets and bustle past him. “I’m headed down to get these into the washer. Let me know if you need anything!”

  The door clicked behind me as I hurried down the hall to the stairs. Thank God I’d used the deadbolt, or he’d have caught me red-handed. It was probably a good thing Gwen did most of the rooms, I reflected—I was entirely too nosy to be a good housekeeper. Had I gotten the files back in order? The thought made my stomach do a little flip. I was probably safe even if I hadn’t—considering the state of his room, odds were good he wasn’t too orderly in his filing. The environmental assessment still puzzled me, though. Endangered species meant you couldn’t build; the report I had just seen made that crystal clear. Was there some way to get an exception that I didn’t know about? Yet another thing to check out at the library... once I got the boat fixed. I had forgotten to ask John about the Little Marian, I realized. Maybe after I finished cleaning, I’d head down to the carriage house.

  After lugging the sheets down to the laundry room, I left another message for the insurance company and headed to Charlene’s room. Cleaning hadn’t been meditative this morning, but it sure had been informative.

  I had just finished straightening Charlene’s bedspread when the phone rang. I hurried down the stairs, hoping it would be the insurance company with some good news.

  “Hello?” I said breathlessly into the phone.

  “Yes, is Mr. Lidell in?” The voice was high, nervous.

  My hopes plummeted. “Yes, he is. Or at least he was a few minutes ago. May I say who’s calling?”

  “Frank Edwards.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  I set down the receiver and headed for the stairs, curiosity piqued. The name was familiar. I had seen it fifteen minutes ago at the bottom of the environmental evaluation in Russell Lidell’s’ room.

  Russell opened the door immediately when I knocked.

  “Phone call for you.” I smiled. “Someone named Frank Edwards.”

  “Thanks,” he said curtly, pushing past me toward the stairs.

  I followed behind him slowly, passing him as he picked up the receiver. He didn’t say a word until the swinging door of the kitchen squeaked behind me.

  I pressed my ear to the door; when I could hear the low murmur of Russell’s voice, I pushed the door open just enough to slide past it into the dining room.

  Russell’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can go any higher.” He was quiet for a moment, then let out a long sigh. “Fine. Let me see what I can do.” More silence. Then, “How about tomorrow. Ten o’clock?”

  After a pause, he said, “Fine. See you then.” I slipped back through the door to the kitchen as the handset thunked back onto the phone. Thank goodness I hadn’t sprung for a cordless phone, I thought as I eased the door closed behind me. Eavesdropping was a lot easier when the phone calling was limited to the front hallway. As I loaded the washer with today’s haul of sheets and towels, my thoughts turned to the conversation I had just overheard. Why was Russell meeting the environmental assessor?

  And more importantly, what exactly was the assessor asking him to do?

  As I stowed the cleaning supplies and emptied the contents of the washer into the dryer, my mind turned over the conversation I had just overheard. If I asked Gwen to cover breakfast cleanup tomorrow, could I follow Russell to his meeting? Although if the meeting was on the mainland, I’d have to get on the mail boat right behind him, making it fairly obvious what I was doing. Too bad I couldn’t get the skiff over to the main dock. My eyes sought the window, and the Little Marian bobbing down by the dock. The truth was, the skiff wasn’t going anywhere until I asked John to take a look at the motor.

  I tossed a new batch of sheets into the washer and hit the start button. Then I headed to the kitchen to find a jacket, spirits lightening at the prospect of a few minutes with my neighbor—and maybe another back rub. Throwing on a windbreaker, I reminded myself that it was always possible John would have more information on McLaughlin’s death. Maybe the cops had found something at the rectory before Charlene and I got there. A breath of wood smoke greeted me as I slipped through the door into the chilly air, and I inhaled deeply.

  No back rubs for me this afternoon, alas. I knocked at both the carriage house and the workshop, but John didn’t answer. I headed back to the inn, jotted a note on a scrap of paper asking him to take a look at the skiff when he had a chance, and wedged it between the door and its frame.

  The sky started spitting icy droplets of rain as I hurried back to the inn, feeling stymied. The insurance company wasn’t calling me back, I couldn’t find out anything more about Russell until his meeting tomorrow, I was at a dead-end concerning Polly—and until I got to the mainland, I couldn’t find out anything else on McLaughlin.

  I briefly considered taking the mail boat over to Northeast Harbor and driving to the Somesville library, but a fresh spray of rain against the windowpanes made me reconsider. It was a great afternoon for a cup of tea and a good book. There would be plenty of time to chase down rabbit holes tomorrow... maybe even later this afternoon, if John had a chance to look at the Little Marian.

  Ten minutes later, I retreated upstairs with a cup of Chai, looking forward to an hour or two snuggled up under my comforter with a good mystery. Biscuit followed me, meowing, as I opened the bedroom door, and dashed out of the way just in time to avoid getting doused with hot tea.

  The diary we had found at the rectory lay in the middle of the bed. But I’d never taken it out of my jacket pocket.

  I set down what was left of my tea on the nightstand and wiped the spill from the floor with a towel before approaching the leather-bound book. A shiver passed through me as my fingers touched the crumbling brown cover, and I glanced toward the ceiling involuntarily.

  Maybe there was more to this diary than reports on the weather.

  I sat down on the bed and opened the cover, leafing through the yellowed pages. The script was flowery, and some pages were rippled, the words blotched by water damage. Illegible. The pages were dry now, and powdery to the touch. Where in the rectory had it been hidden? And how long had it lain undiscovered?

  Biscuit curled up beside me as I leafed through the entries. Lots of talk of the fish industry, new buildings going up—I read the section about the Selfridges with interest. Apparently the town thought he was a bit off-center for building a huge house so far from the center of town. Several pages on, there was some mention of the death of the Oakes girl, the inquest and the funeral. Then the priest’s shock at discovering parishioners actually slept with their bread to keep it from freezing. After this revelation, apparently, he was reluctant to accept dinner invitations. I chuckled and turned the page, thinking of McLaughlin’s tuna casseroles, when suddenly, there was a change in the graceful, careful hand. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I read.

  “Spoke with J.S. today; asked to speak to me under the seal of confession. Although I am not ordained Catholic, and we do not have the confession, I agreed, and the story he recounted is one that will haunt me to the end of my days.”

  I glanced at the ceiling and continued, with Biscuit kneading the pillow beside me. “The story is a sad one; a tryst between a wayward young girl and a married gentleman... as such things go, the girl came to discover she was in a delicate condition, and spoke to the gentleman of it.”

  Was he talking about Annie Oakes?

  “He encouraged her to return to her people, but she refused. This went on for some weeks, he told me, until they strove with words one late night—then words failed him, and he acted with the basest urge, killing both mother and unborn child in wanton violence. God rest their souls. My heart aches for the babe; he died unbaptized.”

  The blood in my veins turned icy. One night in October. This had to be about Annie Oakes. And if the killer was her maste
r...

  “I will write to the bishop for direction in this matter, as I do not know if it is within my purview to contact the authorities. The wretched man is repentant of his actions, and wishes to make atonement for his mortal sin, but the nature of his crime is far beyond my authority to absolve. I pray God that the bishop will recommend a course of action that will lead to justice and absolution.”

  I flipped the page eagerly, wondering what the bishop had directed him to do, but only two entries remained, dealing mainly with a squabble over some missing fishing nets. The rest of the diary was blank.

  Why had he stopped writing, I wondered. Had he been re-

  assigned? Did he buy a new diary? Or did something worse befall him? A dark thought entered my mind. Was the discovery of an eighteenth-century murderer the driver of another, more recent crime?

  Biscuit meowed in protest as I jumped out of bed and headed for the stairs. Matilda Jenkins would know what had happened to the priest. And if she didn’t, surely the information would be buried somewhere in the museum.

  It was still raining and windy when I shut the kitchen door behind me and headed for the bike shed, zipping my windbreaker up to my chin. The chill wind tore through me as I pedaled uphill, fueled by curiosity and unease. Had Annie’s ghost put the diary on the bed for me to find? I didn’t believe in ghosts, but the last few weeks were enough to make me reconsider.

  The museum’s windows were dark, but lights burned in the little yellow house beside it. I leaned the bike against a tree and leapt up the steps to the porch, hammering at the front door. I squeezed the diary, which I had returned to my pocket, as I waited. A moment later, Matilda Jenkins opened the door and peered at me over her glasses.

  I must have looked disheveled, because the first thing she asked was, “Is something wrong?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Come in, come in,” she said, and I stepped through the door into her tiny entryway. “Are you here for that information on the inn?”