Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  It was only a few minutes from the dock to the store. The snowy landscape that had looked so enchanting just a few minutes earlier now looked bleak. I dreaded the phone call; Bridget had been against Gwen staying on the island, and I’d talked her into it. Had that been a terrible mistake?

  Charlene walked beside me as I headed to the back of the shop; a hush fell over the conversation as we passed the lobstermen at the counter. News traveled fast, I knew.

  My friend shut the door of the back room tight and handed me the phone. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

  “It depends on Gwen.”

  “I mean calling your sister.”

  “It’s got to be done,” I said. I picked up the phone and dialed my sister’s cell number. There was no answer, so I left a message for her to call me at the inn and hung up. I felt both guilt and relief; because I had no cell phone, she couldn’t reach me.

  “Let’s get back to the dock,” I said. “John will be there soon.”

  I could feel eyes on me as we walked through the store, but I ignored them. When we stepped outside, I noticed a familiar green truck parked in one of the six spots. “Whose is that?” I asked, jabbing a finger at it.

  “Belongs to Rob Perkins, one of the lobstermen. He’s a single guy, originally from Ellsworth. Helps out on Ernie’s boat.”

  I remembered the truck peeling out of the road to Fernand’s house—and the mess Frederick and I had found when we got there. “Does he have a skiff?” I asked, thinking of what George had told me about a skiff hanging out behind Fernand’s house at night—and the footprints leading to Fernand’s back door.

  “Who doesn’t?” Charlene asked.

  I sighed. Unfortunately, she had a point.

  _____

  It took just over an hour to make it to the hospital; although the trip across the water was rough, John handled the skiff expertly. It wasn’t a long drive in the truck, but it felt like hours. How was my niece? Had it been the murderer who attacked her? Why was she at the studio on her own? The questions whirled through my head as I waited impatiently to arrive at the hospital.

  Adam was standing by Gwen’s bed when we got there. His handsome face looked haggard; after greeting me, he ran a hand through his tousled hair, obviously very upset. I looked at my niece; her dark ringlets tumbled over the bandage that wrapped her head, and her eye was swollen. Her cheeks were hollow, and her hand was almost skeletal on the pillow; she looked terribly fragile. “How is she?” I asked, breathless with fear.

  “They think she’s going to be okay,” he said.

  I let out my breath—but not all of it. Thinking she was going to be okay wasn’t nearly as good as knowing it. “What happened?”

  “There was a fallen ladder near her, and a broken light bulb, but the police think someone hit her with a blunt object and tried to make it look like an accident.”

  “Has she woken up at all?”

  “Briefly,” he said. “The doctors said she’s got a bit of a concussion, but she should be fine.”

  Relief flooded me as I looked at my niece’s young, pale face. “Thank God,” I said. “When she was awake, did she say anything about what happened?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask,” he said, grimacing. He reached over and smoothed a stray curl from her forehead, looking at her with a tenderness that made my heart swell.

  I sat down on the side of Gwen’s bed and reached for her hand. “Poor, poor, girl. Why did she go to the studio alone?”

  “We should get a police guard on her,” John said. “Whoever it was might try again.”

  “The detective already took care of that; she told me an officer would be here within the hour,” Adam said.

  “We’ll stay until then,” I said.

  “Can we? What about dinner at the inn?” John asked.

  “There’ll be time,” I said. “If it’s late, the guests will have to deal.” I looked back to Adam. “Munger found her?”

  “He got a ride from the dock from one of the locals,” Adam said. “He said he knocked twice; when she didn’t answer, he let himself in.”

  “Sounds about right,” I said.

  “Are we sure Munger didn’t do it himself?” John asked.

  “Why would he?”

  “You mentioned that you don’t trust him,” John said, lifting an eyebrow in my direction.

  “I don’t,” I said, “but I can’t think why he’d whack Gwen over the head.” If anything, I was more worried that he might try to take advantage of her. “Her clothes weren’t … mussed, or anything, were they?”

  Adam shook his head. “I don’t trust Munger either,” he said, “but if he did hit her on the head, it appears as if that’s all he did.”

  I looked at my niece’s ashen face and felt guilt rush through me. “If only I’d been there with her …”

  “You can’t be with her every moment,” John said, stepping up to touch my hair. “And you and I both told her not to go to the studio alone.”

  “Still …” I shivered, thinking of what might have happened.

  “She’s going to be okay,” John said.

  “I certainly hope so,” I said, squeezing my niece’s cool hand and feeling tears well in my eyes.

  I couldn’t imagine the alternative.

  _____

  We got back to the inn at twilight, and I was surprised to see all the windows of the inn blazing in the semidarkness. John tied up the skiff, and we hurried up the walkway. We were greeted by Detective Penney at the kitchen door.

  “What’s going on?” I asked breathlessly, my face numb from the chill wind. John closed the kitchen door behind us; the toasty warmth of the room and the scent of cloves and cinnamon did nothing to alleviate the coldness that gripped my heart. “Has there been another incident?”

  “No. Everyone’s fine,” she said. “We were just about to head out. The police launch will pick us up at your dock, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, “but it’s windy out there.” My face still felt numb from the cold; I knew I needed to make dinner for my guests, but first I was making John and me a cup of hot chocolate, I decided. “Thanks for being there to help Gwen,” I said. “Did you find anything out?”

  “I’m sorry about your niece, but I’m afraid I have nothing to tell you. We’re still investigating that incident,” she said, and my heart sank. “We’ll keep you apprised.”

  John’s mother stood up; I had been so focused on the detective I hadn’t noticed she was sitting at the kitchen table. She wore a dark sweater and a tailored pair of jeans, and her face was lined with worry. “How’s your niece?” she asked.

  “It looks like she should be okay,” I said.

  “Does she have any recollection of what happened?” the detective asked.

  I shook my head. “Not so far, but Adam told me she was only awake for a little bit.”

  “Her mother called,” Catherine said. “I didn’t want to say anything until you got back.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved. “I’ll call her in just a minute.”

  Detective Penney, who had been waiting patiently, looked at me with compassion in her brown eyes. “I’m sorry you’re having to go through this. I’ll pray for her,” the detective said, and I found myself warming to her. She was a lovely change from Detective Grimes, who had been as nasty and condescending a man as I’d ever met.

  “Thank you, Detective,” John said.

  “I need to call my sister again,” I said. “Is Frederick doing okay?”

  “It’s a bit of a shock, of course, but he seems to be holding up. He’s in the parlor,” Catherine told me.

  “Want me to start dinner?” John asked.

  “That would be great,” I said. “I think we have enough for the detectives, too.”

  “You don’t need to cook for us,” Detective Penney said.

  “You’re welcome to stay,” I said.

  She smiled politely. “Thanks for the invitation, but the
launch will be here at any minute.”

  After saying our goodbyes, John and I headed to the kitchen. I poured milk into a saucepan before picking up the phone to call my sister Bridget. It had started to snow; fat flakes whipped by outside the window as I told my sister what had happened and reassured her that her daughter would be fine.

  “I had no idea how dangerous living on the island would be,” Bridget said. “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either,” I said, “but she’s going to be all right.”

  “Maybe I should fly out. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow, but …”

  “Bridget, she’s going to be in California in just a couple of days—no need for the extra trip. Adam’s with her, and she’s doing okay.” I loved my sister, but I knew the last thing Gwen needed right now was her mother in the hospital room with her. With Fernand’s death and the upcoming show, not to mention her injury, she had enough on her plate already.

  “I just keep thinking she’ll get over this,” my sister said, “and come back to her normal life. I hate to see her throw her future away.”

  “She’s doing what she loves,” I told my sister. A high-powered attorney in California, she’d never understood my decision to leave my career and open a bed-and-breakfast on a small island in Maine—or her daughter’s love for something as impractical as art. Like me, Gwen was doing what she loved; or at least she had been, before she met Munger. I looked around my warm yellow kitchen, with the white curtains and the ancient pine farm table, and then at John, who was chopping tomatoes near the sink, his shoulders broad under his flannel shirt. I said a brief prayer of thanks that the inn wouldn’t be stolen from me, and I would soon be married to a man I loved. Gwen was on that road, too; as soon as she was able to recognize that she, not a former vacuum salesman, was the master of her destiny. I had mixed feelings about the upcoming art show; if the oils didn’t do well, Gwen would be distraught, but if they did sell well, she’d feel compelled to paint more. I fervently hoped we could convince Munger to include some of her watercolors, and that the response would be what I suspected it would.

  “She may think she loves it,” my sister said, pulling me back from my woolgathering, “but is it the practical thing for her future?”

  “Practicality is only part of the equation,” I said.

  “She told me her mentor died.” My sister’s voice was high and anxious. “What’s she going to do without a mentor?”

  “There’s another artist who volunteered to take that role over,” I said, not having the energy for this conversation but knowing it was necessary. I stirred the milk and added in cocoa and sugar, inhaling the comforting aroma. “She’s a talented artist. And her former mentor left her the studio.”

  “Really? How much is it worth?”

  How much was it worth? “That’s not the point,” I said. “She’s got a place to work—and to display and sell her paintings.”

  Bridget sighed. “I know you think I’m being bossy and controlling, Natalie.” I was startled to hear her say it, but stayed silent and let her talk. “But this is my daughter we’re talking about. Her future is important to me.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s important to me, too.”

  “Is she really going to be okay?” My sister’s voice cracked on the phone, and I suddenly understood that her harangue had been about fear—and about missing her daughter. She loved Gwen. So did I.

  “The doctors say she’ll be fine,” I said. “She’ll be in California in a few days, and you can see for yourself.”

  “What about whatever lunatic attacked her?”

  “She has a police officer watching over her,” I said, “and they’re investigating the incident. John’s a deputy; we won’t let her out of our sight.” I took a deep breath. “Bridget, I love her as if she were my own daughter. I’ll make sure she’s safe,” I said, feeling a twist of guilt that I hadn’t been with her when she was attacked.

  Bridget was quiet for a moment. “Do you promise?”

  “I promise,” I said, still stirring the rich cocoa on the stove.

  “She’s coming home for Christmas,” my sister said.

  I paused in my stirring. “Will you send her back in January?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “If that’s what she wants,” she said, “then yes.”

  I hung up a moment later feeling a new uneasiness in my stomach despite the aroma of hot chocolate.

  “You okay?” John asked. He’d left the kitchen a few minutes ago, and returned with a slip of paper in his hand.

  “I think so,” I said, grabbing two mugs and ladling hot chocolate into them.

  “Is she coming?”

  I shook my head and handed him a mug. “Not at the moment. But she wants Gwen home for Christmas … and I’m guessing beyond that.”

  “She’s an adult now,” John said. “She’ll make her own decision.”

  “I know,” I sighed, then took a sip of the warm, cocoa-laced drink. There was not enough chocolate in the world to soothe me, unfortunately. Biscuit, seeming to sense my upset, wound between my legs. I picked her up and snuggled her in my lap, but even a purring cat did nothing to dispel my worries.

  “I have some interesting news on a completely different topic, if you’re interested,” John said.

  “What?”

  He took another sip of his hot chocolate and held up a paper in his hand. “I ran Irene’s credit card number; the service was down the day she checked in.”

  I petted Biscuit’s silky head. “And?”

  “It was declined,” he said.

  I groaned. “Did you talk to her?”

  He shook his head. “No: but I’ll be telling Detective Penney.”

  “Why?”

  “She may be in over her head financially; I’m guessing that’s why she came back to visit her brother. To ask for help.”

  “She found out about the will this morning, when the detectives told her. That might have prompted the attack on Gwen.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Her attorney called. I was around the corner.”

  I thought of my niece in her hospital bed and gave Biscuit a little hug. “You think she may have attacked Gwen out of anger that Fernand changed his will?”

  “Perhaps. It may be that she killed him thinking she’d inherit,” John said. “The previous will favored her, and she didn’t know about the new one, so there’s motivation there. We don’t have confirmation that she’s been on the island. They’re doing a search on her prescription history right now to see if she’s had access to Ativan,” he said. “I’m not going to say anything about the card, if that’s all right with you.”

  “We’re already out 15K,” I said, trying not to sound bitter. “What’s another couple hundred dollars?”

  “In the meantime, be careful,” he said. “If Irene is the murderer, I’m glad Gwen’s safe on the mainland.”

  “She is. But we’re not,” I said, shivering.

  _____

  Breakfast was quiet the next morning. I served coffeecake and omelets to my guests, who sat in their accustomed corners of the dining room and refused to look at each other. Despite the seductive aroma of my favorite sour cream coffeecake, my appetite was low; I was too worried about Gwen and the fact that I might be harboring a murderer under my roof. We’d slept with the kitchen and bedroom doors locked, and I’d woken up almost every time the wind blew the night before.

  John had gone out to work carving more of the toy boats he sold in the summers at Island Artists. With the continuing education and all the hullabaloo of the last several days, he was behind schedule and needed to catch up. Catherine, dressed in a dove-colored sweater and dark blue jeans, ate her oatmeal slowly, saying little.

  When I opened the dishwasher to clean up, she stood up. “Let me take care of that this morning,” she said. “I know I can’t cook, but I can clean.”

  I blushed a little bit, remembering the cabbage, and stammered, “Oh, no … please.
You’re our guest.”

  “I’m family,” she said, stressing the word. “I want to help. Besides, I know you want to call the hospital. Go ahead; it’s nine o’clock.”

  I was surprised by the offer but grateful for the help, and stepped away from the sink. “Thanks,” I said, drying my hands on a dishtowel. “It’s been on my mind all morning.”

  As she busied herself putting plates into the dishwasher, I picked up the phone and dialed the hospital. Gwen answered on the third ring.

  “You’re awake!” I said, feeling my whole body relax.

  “I’ve got a heck of a headache, but I’m up,” I said.

  “Do you remember what happened? You got a nasty knock on the head.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Last thing I remember was painting. Then I woke up here.”

  “You didn’t fall off a ladder?”

  “Ladder? Why would I need a ladder?”

  “They found one next to you,” I said, watching Catherine as she rinsed a mug. “With a broken light bulb. I think somebody attacked you, then tried to rig it to make it look like you fell.”

  “I’m just glad they didn’t finish the job,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said. “The only thing is, how did they get in without alerting you?”

  “I was wearing my iPod,” Gwen said, a bit sheepishly.

  “And you were there alone,” I reminded her. “Until we get this cleared up, no more of that. Okay?”

  “I know, Aunt Nat. I was only there because I was supposed to meet Mr. Munger.”

  “We were lucky this time,” I said. I stared out the window at the mainland, its pink-gray granite shrouded in snow. If it was the murderer who attacked Gwen, why not finish the job? Had Munger interrupted him or her? And why attack Gwen at all? Was it rage because she inherited some of Fernand’s estate? If that was the case, both Gwen and Frederick were in danger.

  “Is there an officer guarding you?” I asked, thinking of my niece, unprotected in her hospital bed.

  “Yes,” she said. “Adam went down to get him a bagel just now.”