_____
When I pushed through the door at 6:30 with three plates of salad on a tray, my guests had arranged themselves at three separate tables. Evidently the news of Frederick’s relationship with Fernand had cooled relations with Catherine—her nose was buried in a book—and Fernand and Irene, who were back to back a few tables apart, were still strangers. At least for now.
Irene was gazing into her laptop when I set the salad down. I glanced at the screen—it was a listing for probate attorneys—
before she quickly closed the computer up. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at me with those uncannily familiar eyes. I deposited the salad and moved away toward Frederick, who smiled weakly and didn’t pick up his fork, instead continuing to gaze moodily toward the flashing lighthouse in the distance.
“Are you sure you don’t have anything other than lasagna?” Catherine asked, glancing up from her book as I deposited the salad.
“Leftover green chile stew,” I told her.
“With chicken?”
“Pork, I’m afraid.”
She made a little moue with her thin lips. “Perhaps just another salad for me, then. In fact, why don’t I join you in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling myself tense as she stood up, salad plate in hand, and marched over to the kitchen. I headed back into the kitchen after her, hoping John finished whatever he was working on soon; after a quick visit with his mother, he’d excused himself and gone back to the workshop to put the finishing touches on the piece he’d been working on for most of a week. “You don’t seem to have too many guests,” Catherine said as she deposited herself at my big farm table. Biscuit, who had finally deigned to come back downstairs, eyed her suspiciously from her radiator perch.
“This is usually the slow season,” I pointed out.
“I don’t know how your business survives, being out here in the middle of nowhere,” she said. “My husband always wanted to come here in the summers. Sometimes I wonder what John might have become if he didn’t fall in love with this place as a kid.”
I glanced up at her as I sliced tomatoes. “He’s turning into a very successful artist, you know.”
“I know,” she said, but she waved one hand as if swatting away my words. Her green eyes—the only similarity I’d seen between Catherine and her son—fixed on me. “Can I help you, dear?”
“No,” I said, too quickly. “I’ve got it.”
At that moment, Gwen appeared on the stairs, her wet hair pulled up into a loose bun. She wore jeans and a wraparound sweater, and appeared to have put on a bit of makeup. She looked better than I’d seen her in days.
“You look terrific,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she said, and her eyes strayed to the dining room door. “I think I’ll save saying hello to Frederick until after dinner,” she said. “What can I help with?” she asked.
I mentally reviewed the menu and realized I had forgotten dessert. “Shoot,” I said. “I totally forgot dessert.”
“Oh, I don’t need any,” Catherine said.
“I know you don’t eat sugar, but the other two guests could probably use some about now,” I said, adding a few sliced cucumbers to her salad and then sprinkling oil and vinegar over the top.
“Want me to warm up a few crepes and make some whipped cream?” Gwen asked.
“Great idea,” I said, thankful for her quick thinking. What would I do if she left the island? I pushed the thought from my head and focused on the task at hand. “I still have some of the chocolate sauce I made last week, too. If we heat that up, it will be perfect.”
“Don’t make one for me,” Catherine said, then glanced out the window. She had shredded her napkin, and was tearing it into tiny bits. “Where is my son?”
“He’s down in his workshop. He’ll be back soon.”
She tore another piece of napkin into bits. “I don’t understand what he sees in that old wood. His father used to collect it, too—I used to throw it out when he wasn’t looking.” She crossed her thin arms over her chest. “He’s more like his father than me, I’m afraid.”
Thank God, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. Gwen raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged, added a few crumbles of goat cheese to the salad and crossed over to the table.
“What happened to your finger?” Catherine asked as I set down the plate.
“What do you mean?”
“It looks horrible—did you drop something on it?”
As I glanced down at the reddened skin on my finger, the back door opened, and John walked in, bringing a blast of cold air with it. “Still smells in here,” he said.
“Here he is, now!” I said, hoping to get her off the topic.
“What about your finger, Natalie?” Catherine asked
“I … I burned it,” I said, tucking my hand behind my back. “Gwen, I think the crepes are in the bottom drawer of the freezer.”
“You burned yourself?” John’s green eyes darkened with concern.
“It’s nothing,” I said, giving him a look that meant “We’ll talk later.”
It didn’t work, though. “Let me see.” John reached for my hand. “I want to show my mother the ring, anyway.”
Well, might as well get it over with, I thought. “Uh … the thing is, I seem to be reacting to it. Something about the metal.”
“I never had any problem with it,” Catherine sniffed.
“Let me see,” John said. Reluctantly, I offered my hand. He took it in his large, capable ones, and as always, I felt a shiver of desire. He touched the tender skin with his finger. “It looks like it’s reacting with your skin. But gold shouldn’t do that!”
“That’s the thing,” I said, thinking I might as well get it out on the table. “I took it to a jeweler today to ask about why it might be turning my finger black, and, well … ” I stole a glance at my mother-in-law, who was twisting the napkin around between her hands. “It’s not real gold,” I blurted out.
THIRTEEN
“WHAT?” JOHN LOOKED AT me, then turned to his mother.
The napkin was twisted into a tight ball, but she said, “Nonsense. You must not have gone to a reputable jeweler. Your grandmother gave me that ring: it’s 24-carat gold with a 3-carat stone.”
“It’s not a diamond, actually,” I said, dully. John looked stricken. I reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“But Mother,” he said. “That can’t be right. You had it appraised.”
“Of course I did,” she said, nodding fiercely. “The jeweler must be wrong.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “But her skin is reacting. You’ve never had trouble with gold before, have you?”
I shook my head.
“And the jeweler said the diamond’s fake. He checked it with a loupe?”
I nodded, thankful he was asking yes or no questions.
He was still holding my hand in his. “Nat, where is the ring?”
“It’s upstairs,” I said.
He turned to his mother. “Did you take it somewhere to have it cleaned? Is it possible they made a copy and gave you a fake one?”
“I … I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose,” she said. “Maybe that’s what happened.” She had abandoned the napkin and was pulling her twinset tight around her body, as if it could protect her.
John sighed. “We’ll have to check it out. But in the meantime … ” He turned to me. “I am so sorry, Natalie. I’ll find you another ring.”
“But the mortgage … we can’t afford it!” I said without thinking.
Catherine’s thin eyebrows shot up almost to her blonde hairline. “Mortgage troubles?”
Gwen, whom I’d forgotten was there, put down the jar of chocolate sauce with a loud thunk. “You’re not going to lose the inn, are you?”
“No, Gwen, no,” I said, hoping I wasn’t lying. I cursed myself. “Snafu with the refinancing,” I said dismissively. “It’ll be squared away soon.”
The timer went off on the oven; I was thankful
for the distraction. “Lasagna’s done,” I said. “We can talk about all this later.”
I hurriedly plated two giant squares of lasagna, added bread to two baskets, and loaded them on a tray to take to the dining room. I pushed through the swinging door just in time to hear Irene spit out, “So you’re the reason he was planning to change his will!”
_____
I took an involuntary step back, colliding with the swinging door and almost dropping the lasagna. Irene towered over Frederick, who had gone pale.
“He never spoke to me about a will,” Frederick said.
“Yeah, right,” Irene said, her pale face deep red. She glanced at me, then shook her shoulders and smoothed her hair back. “We’ll talk about this later,” she said, shooting Frederick a look of pure venom before stalking back to her table.
I walked over to Frederick’s table with the lasagna. He had barely touched his salad. “Do you want to keep that?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, looking as if Irene had slapped him. Who knew: maybe she had? I actually found myself looking for finger marks on his cheek.
“I’ll leave it, just in case,” I said. “We’ve got chocolate crepes for dessert,” I said, giving him an encouraging smile. “Be sure to save room!”
He smiled weakly—just a twitch of his mouth—and I moved away, feeling bad for him. If he was lying about the will, he was an excellent actor. But I had to admit the will talk added substance to the homicide theory.
Irene’s face was still flaming when I got to her table, and her breath was coming in short spurts. She had cleaned her salad plate of all but the onions, and I picked it up before placing the warm plate of gooey lasagna in front of her.
“Do you have wine?” she asked.
“Red or white?” I asked, with misgivings. The last thing I needed was a drunk, angry guest.
“Red,” she said.
“I’ll bring a glass,” I said, not wanting to give her the option of a bottle, and turned back to the kitchen. At least I’d have an excuse to come back and make sure she wasn’t threatening Frederick again.
When I walked into the kitchen, John had joined his mother at the table with a plate of lasagna; I wasn’t worried about the lack of help, as I knew that meant he’d take care of the dishes, which was my least favorite part of cooking.
“Well, the secret’s out,” I said as I pulled a bottle of Chianti from the small wine rack in the pantry, glad to have something to talk about other than the fake ring.
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked. She was standing at the stove, stirring a small pot of chocolate. Already, the dark, sweet smell was perfuming the kitchen, replacing the sour stench of cabbage. I glanced at my future mother-in-law; she’d looked up from her salad and was paying close attention. Since I saw no reason to exclude her from the conversation, I forged ahead.
“Irene just accused Frederick of being the reason Fernand wanted to change his will.” I pulled the corkscrew from a drawer and fitted it over the top of the bottle.
John cocked an eyebrow. “Whoa. What’s this about a will?”
“First I’ve heard of it, too,” I said. “Where does sis live?” I asked Gwen.
“She wrote down a Portland address,” my niece said.
I looked at John and twisted the corkscrew. “It’s not too far, then.”
“Too far for what?”
“For her to have come and killed her brother,” I said. “She could have taken a boat over after the party and slit his wrists.”
“One potential problem with that. Are her feet bigger than Fernand’s?” John asked.
“Why?”
“Because if you think she came by sea, she must have worn some real clodhoppers. The footprints behind Fernand’s house were enormous.”
“She could have landed somewhere else,” I said, pulling the cork with a pop. I mulled over the options as I filled a glass with the dark red wine. “Or come over on the mail boat and hidden. After all, the front door was open, not the back.”
“Unlikely, but possible,” John said. “We can ask if anyone saw someone resembling her.”
“I’ll talk to George tomorrow,” I said.
“You think this man was murdered?” Catherine said. “I had no idea this island was so unsafe!”
“Fortunately, we have a deputy on the premises,” I said to reassure her. She glanced at her son, but didn’t look comforted. “There’s another problem, though,” I told John. “I’ve been thinking about it. How would you get Fernand to sit still long enough to slit his wrists?”
“Drugs would do it,” John said.
“Any word back on the toxicology report?”
“I asked about that today. They’re working on it now,” he said. “I also passed on the information about the knife set, and the footprints to and from the house. I told them I thought it was a suspicious death.”
“What did Penney say?”
“She’s not inclined to change the cause of death.”
“Of course not.”
“That’s why I called her supervisor,” he said.
I paused near the dining room door, glass in hand. “You what?”
“Her supervisor is the one who ordered the toxicology report.”
I looked at John in surprise.
“Fernand was a friend,” John said quietly. “If he was killed, I want the killer brought to justice.”
“Detective Penney’s not going to like that,” I said.
He shrugged.
“John,” Catherine said. “I had no idea you were so involved with the police!”
“He’s terrific,” I told her, with a wink at my fiancé. “Back in a sec—need to drop this wine off and make sure there hasn’t been another murder.”
Catherine giggled nervously as I pushed through the swinging door. To my relief, both guests were in their own seats, and there was no blood in evidence.
I put the glass down in front of Irene and asked how the lasagna was.
“Fine,” she said crisply. I glanced at Frederick; he hadn’t touched his plate, and was gazing out the window. Could he really have killed his lover? I found myself looking at his feet and wondering if they were bigger than Fernand’s. Maybe I could check his shoe size while I was tidying his room, I thought. Or show his picture to the mail boat captain along with Irene’s. I should probably surreptitiously snap photos of both of them. Another thing to worry about.
To think I’d moved to Cranberry Island for the quiet life, I thought as I headed back into the kitchen.
_____
It seemed like hours before John’s mother decided to retire for the night, leaving John and me alone in the kitchen at last. We hadn’t had time to get the carriage house ready for her, so Gwen had put her in one of the second-story bedrooms. As soon as the swinging door closed behind her, John set down the bowl he was drying and took my hands in his.
“I’m sorry about the ring,” he said. “I had no idea it wasn’t real. We’ll go pick out another this week.”
“Let’s hold off on that,” I said, “until we get this mortgage thing taken care of.” My stomach wrenched at the thought of the mortgage; time was running out, and although John had made a few calls, we had made no substantive progress on resolving the matter. I pushed the thought aside and smiled up at John, telling myself that at least one issue had been resolved—or at least broached. “But thank you for saying so. I was so nervous to tell you.”
“No need,” he said. “I want there always to be honesty between us.” He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. “How long have you known?”
I shrugged. “The metal has been bothering me for a few weeks, but I only knew for sure today. Speaking of honesty, your mother didn’t want to talk about it too much, did she?”
“No, she didn’t. There’s something different about her,” John said. “I can’t place it.”
“It’s odd that she’s here at all—much less early. She’s never had much interest in the island in the pa
st.”
“No,” he said. “She only came because my father and I loved it here. Something’s going on with her. I hope she’s not ill.”
“She looks the same as always,” I said. “Very healthy.”
“If it’s early stage cancer, or heart disease … ” He sighed. “It will come out soon enough, I suppose,” he said. “It always does. In the meantime, though … ” He put his arms around me and kissed me, and all the problems of the week dissolved as I melted into him.
“I think we should go upstairs,” he murmured into my ear.
“With pleasure,” I said. We had taken two steps toward the staircase when there was a loud smacking sound at the door.
We jerked apart. “Go into the dining room,” John ordered me, his voice almost a growl as he switched into his protector mode. I headed toward the swinging door to the dining room as he closed the gap to the kitchen door. I pulled open the door, but peered around it as he stood beside the exterior door and reached for the doorknob.
He pulled it open with a jerk, and I caught my breath.
The bottom of the door was splattered with what looked like fresh blood.
_____
“Hey!” John yelled, and then disappeared through the door, leaping over the steps into the snow.
My heart rose to my throat, and I ran to the open doorway. The blood was everywhere, along with fragments of green latex, staining the stone steps and the snow. I peered into the darkness—if there was a moon, the clouds were too thick to see it, and the night was pitch black. John had vanished into the darkness, but I could hear a thrashing noise in the snow.
“John?” I called. He didn’t answer. What if the person who had thrown the blood-filled balloon was armed? What if John got lost in the dark? What if …
I pushed those thoughts aside and tried to think logically. He wouldn’t get lost if I followed his tracks with a flashlight. And if he needed help …
Without thinking further, I grabbed a knife from the knife block and a flashlight from the drawer next to the phone. Then I threw on a jacket and headed out after him, trying to sidestep the pooling blood on the step.
“John!” I called as I trained the flashlight on the tracks in the snow and hurtled into the night. As I followed the footprints into the trees, I realized that the light made me vulnerable if the prankster had doubled back—and that running through snowy woods with a knife in my hand was not the wisest idea. I couldn’t think of a better plan, though—and wanted it handy if I needed it—so I pointed it outward, hoped I wouldn’t trip on a tree root, and kept going.
Brush with Death Page 12
