Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  Copyright Information

  Brush with Death: A Gray Whale Inn Mystery © 2013 Karen MacInerney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2013

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3648-8

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover illustration: Chris O’Leary/Lindgren & Smith, Inc.

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightink.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to my creative, beautiful, and talented daughter Abby–

  who happens to be a darned good storyteller in her own right.

  I love you, sweetheart!

  ONE

  I’D HEARD IT SAID that “life imitates art more than art imitates life,” and as I stirred a bowl of chocolate cookie batter and looked out the window at the frozen, glistening world, I found myself wondering if it was true. My life was certainly more artful than it had been three years ago, when I’d quit my job and thrown my life savings into a small inn on a Maine island. I had plenty of non-artistic years to my credit, that was for sure. In fact, if I were still at my old job, I would be just finishing up a sandwich and returning to my seat in front of a computer monitor, with the padded beige partitions of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department office for a view.

  Instead, I was tucked into my cozy kitchen on Cranberry Island, Maine, with my ginger cat, Biscuit, napping on the wood stove and a scene from Currier and Ives framed by my frosted window. Life as an innkeeper wasn’t all coffeecakes and walks on the beach—some months, it was tough scraping up money to pay the mortgage, and I spent a lot of time washing sheets and tidying rooms—but I was deeply satisfied with the transformation I had made in my life. And between the busy tourist season and the refinance I had completed just a few months ago, the fact that I had no bookings the second week of December was a welcome respite rather than a cause for panic.

  Art was certainly on my mind, though. Ever since my niece had been selected to display her work in a gallery show on the mainland, there had been talk of little else at the inn. Between my fiancé, John, who was a talented sculptor in his own right; Fernand LaChaise, Gwen’s mentor (and a recent fixture in my living room); and Gwen herself, with her obsession regarding the upcoming show, there had been talk of little else. As ashamed as I was to admit it, I was almost relieved when John had to leave the island to do continuing education to keep his deputy sheriff badge.

  Which didn’t bode well for our impending nuptials, said a little voice inside my head, but I pushed it aside.

  In my niece’s case, anyway, art definitely was imitating life, since the subject of her paintings was the gorgeous landscape of Cranberry Island. She preferred to work in watercolor, and her paintings had an ethereal, magical quality that was entrancing. I was thrilled she had been offered the show, but not at all surprised. As wonderful as the opportunity was, though, my normally happy-go-lucky niece had been a nervous wreck since the announcement—and the gallery owner’s request for a different style of art. It was a good thing we didn’t have too many guests this time of year. Twice she had run the coffeepot without adding water, and she’d put my new red sweater in with a load of white sheets, making everything pink. If this was what an artistic temperament looked like, I decided, I was glad my creative talents didn’t extend beyond baking.

  I gave the batter one last turn and then began spooning it out onto a cookie sheet. The radio was on, giving the weather forecast; highs in the twenties, lows in the teens. A big change from balmy winter days in Austin, but I didn’t mind. Summers were divine; although summer was my busiest season, I still found time to enjoy the warm days, with wild raspberries and blueberries I could pick on my walks and transform into pies and muffins, the slap of the waves against the rocks by the dock, and the sweet scent of pine in the air. Unlike Texas autumns, where the leaves don’t fall off until they turn brown and die in February, fall in Maine brought a rush of crimson and gold, with smoke-tinged air and apples heavy on the branches. Winters, though long, had their high points as well. It was peaceful and cozy at the inn, despite my perennially cold toes, and I had learned to love the absolute hush of a new-fallen snow, the crackle of a fire in the fireplace, and the icicles that hung like jewels on the eaves of the house. All of it was better than the six-month broiler blast of Texas summers.

  Now, I tore my eyes from the snow-dusted pine trees out the window and tasted the batter. It was rich and buttery, with a deep chocolate flavor from the cocoa I had added. Today, I was trying a new recipe—Candy Cane Chocolate Sandwich Cookies—that I planned

  to take to the Winter Knitters’ meeting at my friend Claudette’s house. I wasn’t a knitter—not by a long shot—but when Claudette issued the invitation to join one of the island’s oldest groups, I was so honored to be invited that I couldn’t say no. And of course I’d offered to bring refreshments. But it did make treat-baking a challenge; one disastrous session involving fudge and white yarn had taught me that knitting and sticky fingers are a bad combination.

  I had just popped the trays into the oven when I heard Gwen’s footsteps on the stairs. My niece had been with me almost since the inn began, helping me out with the cleaning and serving (but generally not the cooking) while she studied art with Fernand. Although she and her mother, a high-powered attorney in California, were often at odds, my relationship with my niece had grown roots since she arrived at the inn. Bridget, my sister, was still making noise about Gwen returning to UCLA to finish a business degree, but I was glad my niece had chosen to pursue her twin loves—art, and a kind-hearted young lobsterman, Adam Thrackton—instead. As much as I wanted her to be happy, though, I had to admit to a selfish motive; I would miss her terribly if she left.

  “Hey,” she said, her greeting unusually subdued. She was all bundled up in a gray wool sweater and a burgundy scarf that would have brought out the roses in her cheeks—had she had any. Her face was wan, and her usually bright eyes were dull. Ever since Herb Munger, the retired vacuum company mogul who had recently opened an art gallery on Mount Desert Island, had invited her to display her work, she had focussed on little else. Privately, I had reservations about Munger. He had insisted that Gwen change her s
tyle, moving from her delicate watercolors to large, bold oil paintings. As far as I could tell, though, his background in art was limited to drinking wine at the occasional opening and networking with potential future clients. I had only met him twice, but his preference for plaid and polyester golf pants added credence to my suspicions regarding his aesthetic sensibilities. Gwen, however, was determined to please him, and had been killing herself trying to do so. Even Adam had taken a back seat to her preparations for the show.

  “Did you sleep okay?” I asked, pouring a cup of coffee into a travel mug and wrapping up a pumpkin spice scone for her to take along to the studio. She hadn’t been sleeping well, but I wanted to make sure she was at least eating; she was naturally skinny, but lately, she’d been closing in on gaunt. Although Gwen was usually impeccably turned out, lately, she seemed to be taking a page from my book and embracing the low-maintenance approach to grooming. This morning, her long, curly hair was pulled back in a yellow scrunchy, and there were dark circles under her mascara-free eyes.

  “Not too bad,” she said, reaching down to rub Biscuit’s head. The round cat purred appreciatively.

  “Off to finish another painting?” I asked as I unwrapped two sticks of butter and plopped them into the mixing bowl for the filling that would go between the chocolate cookies. It was a basic buttercream frosting, but with peppermint extract instead of vanilla and some crushed candy canes mixed in for color and crunch. I turned the mixer on low and opened the canister of powdered sugar, then turned my engagement ring on my finger. It was an antique that had belonged to John’s grandmother, and John had given it to me when we visited his mother over Thanksgiving, but something about it was irritating my skin. I rubbed at my finger as I reached for the peppermint extract.

  “I hope I can finish another one,” Gwen said, giving Biscuit a last pat and eyeing the snow-frosted scene outside the window. “Although with the new snowfall, I might sketch out one or two more.”

  “No hurry,” I said as I reached for the confectioner’s sugar. “According to the radio, we’re going to get a few more inches tonight.” Although many islanders groused about big snowfalls, I was secretly excited; I loved curling up in front of the fire with a mug of hot cocoa while snowflakes drifted down outside.

  Gwen wasn’t as enthusiastic. “I hope it doesn’t mess up Fernand’s party.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I said, measuring out two cups of sugar. “Charlene told me he already picked up the food order.” Charlene, the local postmistress and island store owner, was the island’s gossip and news clearinghouse—and my best friend.

  “Zelda Chu will be there,” Gwen said, giving me a pointed look.

  “I figured,” I said, stifling a sigh as I added the sugar to the butter and turned on the mixer. Over the last month, two New York artists had suddenly decided Cranberry Island was the place to be. Fernand’s party was in honor of one of them: Nina Torrone, a young artist whose work had caught fire and was selling for over half a million per painting. She had evidently decided to rent one of the island’s mansions for the winter, as a retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city, and she was scheduled to arrive today. Zelda Chu, on the other hand, was less celebrated but more business-minded; she was attempting to put together a summer artists’ retreat to rival Fernand’s, and had asked me to partner with her by hosting her retreat participants. Gwen was vehemently opposed to the idea, as she feared it would infringe on her mentor’s business. I hadn’t decided how to handle it yet.

  “Did Fernand invite her, or did she just announce she would be attending?” I asked. Zelda Chu was not one to take no for an answer.

  “Fernand invited her. It would be rude not to.” Gwen narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not going to support her, are you?”

  “The business would be helpful,” I said. “But I understand your feelings.” As much as I appreciated her thoughts regarding Zelda Chu, and as much as I liked Fernand, I wasn’t sure I was in a position to turn down a potentially lucrative partnership. “Nothing is decided yet. John and I will talk about it.”

  “Fernand would never forgive you,” she said, making me feel a pang of guilt. She looked out the window with a moody sigh. “Is there really more snow forecast? What if Nina Torrone can’t make it to the island because of the weather?”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.

  Thankfully, the phone rang. I turned the mixer off and answered the phone, cradling the receiver with my shoulder. “Gray Whale Inn, can I help you?”

  “What are we baking today?”

  It was Charlene, of course. “Candy Cane Chocolate Sandwich Cookies. I’ll save you a few.”

  “Oooh,” said my food-loving friend, whose well-padded curves had been the object of many local bachelors’ unrequited love for years.

  “I’ll drop them off on my way to the Winter Knitters,” I said, rifling through the pantry in search of peppermint extract.

  “Have you learned how to purl yet?”

  I groaned. “Not yet, but I figure as long as I keep bringing treats, they won’t kick me out.” I glanced at my niece, who was looking at me expectantly. “By the way, Gwen wants to know if there’s any word on Nina Torrone.”

  “The artist who’s moving into the Katzes’ old house?”

  “That’s the one.” I thought of the house, which presided over a point that jutted out just east of the pier. The previous owners had passed away and/or gone to jail a few years ago, and the house had been vacant—until now. Although there was predictable grumbling about wealthy outsiders, I knew many of the islanders were looking forward to having a luminary in residence—particularly Fernand, who was hosting the welcome party at his studio to introduce her to the islanders.

  “Not to worry. She got in last night,” Charlene said. “Along with her agent. A puffed-up guy named Mortimer Gladstone, according to George McLeod.” George was the captain of the Sea Queen, the mail boat that ferried passengers, mail, and all sorts of things, from chickens to refrigerators to building supplies, back and forth from the mainland.

  “She’s here,” I reassured Gwen as I measured out a teaspoon and a half of peppermint extract and poured it into the creamy frosting, along with a dash of red food coloring. “And Fernand has everything he needs for the party, right?”

  “Even the two cases of champagne he ordered. Came over on the morning mail boat.”

  “He’s got all the food and two cases of bubbly,” I told Gwen. “You can stop worrying now.”

  “Good,” said Gwen, looking relieved. She had shrugged on her coat and was reaching for the doorknob; I held up a hand and pointed to the wrapped scone and the travel mug. She mouthed the words “thank you” as she tucked the scone into a pocket and grabbed the mug. Then she slipped through the door, letting a burst of cold air into the warm kitchen. Biscuit curled up tighter on the radiator, and I shivered.

  “And how is your zombie niece?” Charlene asked.

  I sighed. “Dead on her feet, as usual.”

  “It’s not fair; I always gain weight when I’m stressed, and she keeps dropping it.”

  “I know.” I had long envied Gwen’s ability to eat like a draft horse and retain her slender figure, but lately, even her size 2 jeans had been hanging on her. “I’m worried about her; I keep plying her with scones, soups, and sandwiches, but I’m not sure she’s eating them. She’s worried about Zelda Chu—and about getting things ready for the show.” As I talked, I retrieved one of the boxes of candy canes I’d bought on my last grocery run and plucked four of them out. I had bought three boxes: one for baking, and the other two for the tree John had promised he’d cut for us when he got back. Charlene sucked in her breath and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell her I said so, but I was out at the gallery yesterday to deliver some of Fernand’s order, and I got a look at what she’s working on.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “I hate to say it, but those new paintings of hers? They’re nowhere near as good as what she
normally does.”

  “Well, she is working in a different medium. But that’s what the Munger wanted,” I reminded her.

  “Munger also buys pink plaid pants,” Charlene pointed out. “And wears Hawaiian shirts with naked women on them.”

  “I know, but he says the bigger, more abstract paintings are selling better.” I unwrapped the candy canes and put them into a zippered plastic bag as I spoke. I’d use a mallet to crush them, then instead of mixing them into the frosting, rolling the finished cookies in them. “You may question his taste, but you can’t fault his sales experience.”

  “Well, I hope he’s right,” Charlene said. “But the new stuff is nothing I’d want in my living room.” I heard a rustling of papers. “Oh, before I forget, there’s an official-looking letter for you that’s been sitting in your mailbox for a couple of days.”

  “Who’s it from?” I asked.

  I heard the sound of papers rustling in the background. “It’s from Cornerstone Mortgage Company. The envelope is pink, and it says ‘FINAL NOTICE’.”

  “That’s my old mortgage company,” I said, feeling my stomach lurch. “I refinanced a couple of months ago. I knew there were a couple of snafus, but the attorney told me he was working it out.”

  “Doesn’t look like he did a particularly good job,” Charlene said. “Did you ever get a payoff notice from them?”

  “I assume so—the attorney was handling all of that.”

  “Well, I’d call to make sure,” she said. “And I think you should get down here and pick this up ASAP.”

  I usually found Charlene’s penchant for stating the obvious endearing, but this was not one of those times. “I’ll pick the envelope up when I drop off the cookies,” I said.

  “If you can get them here while they’re still warm, I’ll be your best friend.”

  “You already are my best friend. But I’ll bring them warm anyway.” In fact, I’d bring them as soon as I could load them into the basket. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop worrying until I got my hands on that letter.