Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  I turned and waved as I opened the door to the kitchen, then recoiled as a wave of foul air blasted through the door.

  “Hello?” I called, breathing through my mouth as I closed the door behind me and shrugged out of Fernand’s coat.

  A rattling sound caught my attention; a pot was steaming on the kitchen stove. I rushed over and lifted the lid, then recoiled. Someone had started steaming cabbage, but the pot had run out of water, leaving a foul-smelling burnt residue on the bottom.

  I grabbed the pot and headed for the door, throwing it open and depositing the smelly load on the bottom step. The heat of the pot made the snow sizzle and hiss on contact. I closed the door behind me and took a deep whiff of the kitchen. The smell was still unbearable; even Biscuit had fled, abandoning her post on the radiator. Since the main windows were covered with storm windows, I opened the door to the back patio, then pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. A cold wind gusted into the kitchen, and I shivered.

  “John? Gwen?” I called, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room.

  “Natalie! Is that you?”

  My future mother-in-law appeared like a specter in the doorway to the parlor.

  TWELVE

  HER SKELETAL FRAME WAS dressed impeccably in a Talbot’s twin set and knife-creased slacks, her platinum blonde hair shellacked into a chin-length helmet. “I … I didn’t expect you so soon!” I said, lamely. Burnt cabbage in the kitchen … I should have known.

  I was acutely aware of my flannel shirt and jeans as she stepped forward to give me a perfume-scented air hug. “I called from the mainland, but you weren’t here, so some nice gentleman in a very smelly pickup truck gave us all a ride to the inn.” She sighed. “I may have to give those clothes to charity. Anyway, I was just talking with one of your guests in the parlor,” she said. “Since no one was here when I got here, I started dinner. I should probably go check on that cabbage …”

  “I took care of it already,” I said quickly. “But we don’t have any guests. The inn is empty until after Christmas.”

  She blinked in surprise. “But you’ve got two. Frederick came over on the same mail boat as I did,” Catherine said. “There’s a young lady here, too; she checked in right after Frederick.”

  “What?” How was I going to feed two guests? And why hadn’t they made reservations?

  “The young lady went to her room, but Frederick and I have been enjoying the fireplace. Here, let me introduce you,” she said.

  I followed her into the parlor, where an equally neatly dressed young man with short-cropped brown hair stood, hand extended. Despite his polite smile, his face looked drawn, and there were circles under his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead and make a reservation. A young woman named Gwen checked me into a room when I arrived, and Catherine has kept me company ever since.”

  “No problem,” I said, trying to think fast. What was I going to feed this young man? I could manage breakfast, but I hadn’t shopped for guests. I suddenly remembered the extra pan of lasagna I’d tossed in the freezer a month ago, with just such a situation in mind. I also had a few loaves of frozen French bread and plenty of salad makings, which would make a perfect hearty dinner for a cold night. I glanced at my watch. “It’s 5:30 now—I can have dinner ready by 6:30, if that would work for you.”

  “Oh, no need, darling,” Catherine said. “I put some cabbage on to steam.”

  “Um, there was a little problem with the steamer,” I said.

  She sniffed. “Is that what that smell is?”

  I nodded. “I’ve got a lasagna in the freezer I can heat up, though.”

  She sighed. “Well, it’s not on my diet, but I suppose a little lasagna won’t hurt. It’s turkey and low-fat cheese, right?”

  “Pork sausage and full-fat Provolone, mozzarella, and Parmesan, I’m afraid.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Ah, well. You really should think about installing an elliptical, or maybe a treadmill—with all those high-calorie goodies you’re always making, your guests need it! I’ll just have to do a bit longer walk tomorrow. Can’t let myself go to seed!” She patted the concave space under her ribcage where most people’s stomachs resided. It was only a couple of weeks, I told myself. I could survive that, couldn’t I?

  “Lasagna sounds just fine,” Frederick said.

  “Terrific,” I replied, hoping my other mystery guest felt the same way. “What brings you to Cranberry Island in December?” I asked.

  He swallowed. “I’m here because of Fernand,” he said.

  Of course, I realized. The wan face, the shadowed eyes … “I’m so very sorry,” I said. “We’re reeling from the shock as well; he was a good friend. Are you related to him?”

  “I’m … or, rather, I was … his boyfriend,” Frederick said.

  My mother-in-law said nothing, but I stole a glance at her; her smile seemed to have turned a bit brittle. The only thing I could think to say to Frederick was, “Oh, you poor thing.”

  “I’ve come to make arrangements,” he said, looking shell-shocked.

  Of course he looked shell-shocked. Putting a loved one’s affairs in order when you’ve just lost him or her unexpectedly was a terrible, terrible chore. “I’m happy to help however I can,” I said. “There’s a small church on the island, and I’m sure Father Timothy would be happy to take care of the service. We can have the reception here, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “It’s all just so sudden, and so … so horrible.” His eyes began to well with tears. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “We’ll get it figured out,” I said, resisting the urge to hug him. “I know my niece will want to talk with you,” I said. “Gwen—the young woman who checked you in—she was very close to Fernand.”

  “Oh, yes,” the young man said, recognition sparking in his eyes. “Gwen. He mentioned her many times. He was very proud of her; he said she had a lot of promise.”

  “Please mention that when you talk to her,” I said. “She’s taken Fernand’s loss hard.”

  “I would love to meet her,” he said. “Maybe she can give me some insight as to why …” he trailed off. “We were planning to visit Florence in the spring. Why would he do something like this? He never even told me he was depressed, and now …”

  He shook with sobs, and even though we’d only just met, I reached out and hugged him, patting his back until the sobs subsided. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally, pulling away and swiping at his eyes.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Gwen doesn’t understand either. In fact, she has a theory that someone else … well, that things aren’t what they seem.”

  Frederick’s eyes widened. “Do you mean …” He paused. “But it doesn’t make sense. Who would want to … to kill Fernand?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was hoping maybe you could give us some ideas.”

  He shook his head, still looking stunned by the idea. If Frederick had wanted Fernand out of the way, I thought to myself, he was a very good actor. Had Fernand put Frederick in his will? I wondered. Or was the relationship still too new? Despite Frederick’s apparent distress, I thought it might not be a bad idea to find that out. Even if he hadn’t been seen on the mail boat, there was always the possibility that he had taken a small boat over. I glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Unfortunately, I have to get dinner underway, but maybe this evening we can talk some more. Gwen should be here, too.”

  I excused myself to the kitchen, leaving Frederick and Catherine in the parlor. I hoped the news that Frederick was gay wouldn’t keep her from being friendly; I sensed he needed the human contact right now. I checked the ledger at the front desk and determined that Gwen had put our other mystery guest into the Lupine room. The name gave me a start: Irene LaChaise.

  The door was on the first floor, at the end of the hallway. I hurried down the hall and knocked quietly. The door opened to reveal an attractive woman in her late thirties with cropped red hair and blue
eyes that reminded me painfully of Fernand’s.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to let you know about dinner.”

  She blinked at me. “What about it?” Her accent was the same clipped Canadian as Fernand’s, but without the warmth.

  “I’ll be serving at 6:30 in the dining room,” I said.

  “Oh. Thanks.” She began closing the door.

  “Wait,” I said, before I thought about what I was doing. She paused and looked at me expectantly. “I noticed your last name is LaChaise. You must be here because of Fernand.”

  A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “Yeah. I came to make the arrangements.”

  “How are you related to him?”

  “I’m his sister,” she said.

  “Ah.” I waited for her to volunteer more, but she didn’t. I wanted to tell her about Frederick, but decided it was probably not my place to do so. “We were very fond of your brother. His death is a loss for all of us; my niece in particular was very close to him.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  There was an awkward silence into which I wanted to interject several questions. I finally broke it by saying, “Well, I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

  “Great.”

  The door shut before I’d taken two steps down the hallway. Either Irene was very closed, I thought, or the rift in Fernand’s family had extended beyond his relationship with his parents. I wondered how she’d feel about her brother’s boyfriend staying at the inn—and planning to take care of his funeral arrangements. Again, my thoughts turned to Fernand’s will. Did Irene know about the boyfriend—and was she worried he was going to change his will to disinherit her? I didn’t know how much money Fernand had in the bank, but I knew he owned his oceanside property free and clear. As I walked down the steps, I got another whiff of cabbage, and was reminded that my future mother-in-law was still in the parlor. I unconsciously rubbed the raw place on my finger where I had worn the fake engagement ring—she hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing it yet, but would she say anything when she noticed it? And how was I going to talk to John about it?

  After checking the Crow’s Nest—no Gwen, unfortunately—I headed back downstairs, steeling myself for another encounter with my future mother-in-law. I put on a smile as I turned the corner at the bottom of the steps. Frederick and Catherine were still sitting in the parlor, and I was pleased to hear them speaking in low tones. I smiled at Catherine, making a mental note to thank her later for her compassion, as I swept past them into the kitchen, glad to have a cooking task to keep me occupied.

  The kitchen was cold, but at least it smelled better than it had when I got home. I opened the freezer, glad I’d made an extra pan of my favorite rustic three-cheese lasagna last week, and turned on the oven. Then I dug in the fridge for two heads of lettuce, a colorful bunch of radishes, some green onions, and a carrot.

  As I washed and sliced the vegetables—I knew Catherine would barely touch the lasagna, so I was planning on making an extra-large salad—I glanced at the clock. I needed to call Father Timothy to warn him of the situation with Fernand’s sister and boyfriend. Maybe, I thought as the French Chef’s blade sliced through a creamy-colored radish, I could also ask his advice about my mother-in-law—and the fake “antique ring.” And I still needed to figure out something to do about the mortgage company.

  The oven beeped, telling me it had come to temperature, just as I finished slicing the pile of vegetables, which looked like bright jewels against the wooden cutting board. After sliding the pan into the oven, I picked up the phone and dialed the priest’s number.

  He wasn’t home; I left a message, then set to work tearing up a head of lettuce. As I put the last leaves into the salad spinner, the door opened, and Gwen and John walked in.

  “How’d the painting go?” I asked.

  “Same as usual,” Gwen said, and then wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “John’s mother was making a healthful snack,” I said drily.

  My fiancé groaned. “Sorry about that. She just kind of turned up.”

  “There are two other rooms full now, too,” I said.

  “So Gwen tells me.” John sniffed the air. “Cabbage?” he asked. “Or brussels sprouts?”

  “Cabbage,” I told him. “Only she forgot to check on it, and the water evaporated.”

  “Burnt cabbage. The smell of my childhood,” John said ruefully.

  “Are you going to be okay for dinner?” my niece asked. “I know we weren’t expecting any guests.”

  “I’ve got lasagna in the oven. Thanks for checking them in though, Gwen.” I took a deep breath. “The man, Frederick, is Fernand’s boyfriend.”

  Gwen’s eyes widened. “The one from Bangor?”

  “He’s here to make arrangements. So’s his sister, unfortunately.”

  “I recognized her name,” Gwen said, “but didn’t want to pry.”

  “Well,” John said. “That should make for some interesting dinner table conversation.”

  I sighed. “I left a message for Father Timothy; maybe he can help them figure it out.” I glanced back at my niece. “Fernand told his friend about you; he said he’d like to talk to you.”

  She bit her lip. “Really?”

  I nodded. “Maybe after dinner. He’s in the parlor with Catherine right now.”

  “I should probably go say hello,” John said reluctantly.

  “I’d join you, but I’ve got to make salad,” I said, relieved to have an excuse. I was thinking I might pop the cork on a bottle of wine, too. With the evening I had ahead of me, I could use a bit of liquid courage.

  “Are you sure you’ve got dinner under control?” Gwen asked, lingering at the base of the stairs.

  I nodded. “I’ll pull out a coffeecake and make oatmeal and egg soufflé for breakfast,” I said. “I don’t have fruit, but I’ll call in an order tomorrow morning.”

  “My mother won’t like it,” John said.

  “I have yogurt and frozen fruit; that will have to do,” I said, thinking that if she was going to show up unannounced, Catherine was going to have to take what she could get. I glanced at Gwen, willing her to go upstairs. I needed to talk about the mortgage issue with John—and the ring—but didn’t want to bring up either subject with my niece in the room.

  “Before I talk with Frederick, I think I’ll run up and take a shower,” Gwen said. “See if I can get some of this paint off my hands.”

  “How’s the painting going?”

  “Don’t ask,” she said, scowling, and disappeared up the stairs.

  When we heard her door slam overhead, John turned to me. “Any luck on the mortgage issue?”

  “The attorney skipped town two weeks ago, and can’t be reached. The receptionist hasn’t gotten her paycheck. There was another man there who was in the same boat as me.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t know; he was too busy yelling at the poor receptionist to give me details.”

  “We need to find out who else is being foreclosed on,” he said. “And we need to get another attorney ASAP. It sounds like fraud; we need to interview the victims.”

  “I saw Murray Selfridge, too. He went into the attorney’s office after I’d been there.”

  “I’ve heard they’re friends. Do you think he could be in trouble, too?”

  “He owns a lot of property,” I said.

  He sighed. “I’ll file a report tomorrow, and see if we can track down who else might be affected.” He glanced at the door to the dining room. “In the meantime, I’d better go say hello to my mother.”

  I knew John struggled with his mother, who had never forgiven him for following his artistic impulses rather than following his father into medicine. Although he had forged the life he wanted, it was not the life she had envisioned for him. Even the news of his gallery show in New York—and the article in the Times that had accompanied it—had not been enough to appease Catherine Quinton. I gave my fianc
é a hug, feeling the tension in his body. He handled her well, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Good luck,” I said, feeling both guilty and relieved that the need to serve dinner in an hour gave me a good excuse to stay in the kitchen while he greeted his mother. He grimaced and straightened his shoulders, then pushed through the door to the dining room.

  With my mind still on John, I checked on the lasagna, which was looking melty already—I loved the recipe, which called for Provolone and fresh mozzarella studded with chunks of Italian sausage and sprinkled liberally with Parmesan cheese—and pulled an emergency loaf of French bread from the freezer, wrapping it in foil and tucking it onto the rack below the lasagna pan.

  With the salad made and everything else in the oven, I sat down at the kitchen table with my binder of recipes to plan the menu for the rest of the week and make a grocery list. I didn’t know how long Frederick and Irene would be staying, but for now, I decided to plan three days of meals. Comfort food was definitely in order. After some deliberation, I settled on juicy pork tenderloin in an Asian glaze, with mashed sweet potatoes and bok choy in oyster sauce for sides. For the other nights, I’d make a hearty coq au vin and a comforting beef stroganoff. If Catherine objected, she was welcome to raid the fridge. I grabbed a pen and paper and jotted down the ingredients—I had honey and soy sauce for the pork, but could use a

  knob of fresh ginger, along with beef, boiler onions, and some mush-rooms. I added two dozen eggs to the list, as well as bacon and sausage and some fresh fruit. For breakfast, I’d make oatmeal for Catherine, and a cheesy egg soufflé for everyone else, along with some coffeecake. If I felt like it, I might whip up a batch of muffins tonight.

  Despite all of the problems swirling around me, it felt good to focus on food, I realized as I scanned my list; planning meals pushed everything else out of my head. As much as I’d looked forward to a week without people at the inn, it was a comfort to have people for cook for. Even if, I thought as I returned the binder to the shelf, two of them were bereaved, and the other was my future mother-in-law.