Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

  “Me too,” I said, squeezing back. “I’m worried about the real Nina Torrone, though,” I said, feeling a pit in my stomach. “I hope the police are able to get Gladstone to tell them what happened.”

  “We can’t change what happened to Nina, but at least you and Jennifer are okay,” he said.

  “It was awfully close. If you hadn’t gotten there when you did …”

  “But we did,” Sara said. “And you did a great job dealing with Gladstone. We had to cut the rope off of him—those knots were tight.”

  I shuddered, remembering the long hours in the boat. “I was sure we were dead,” I said. “I can’t figure out what happened to the motor, though. Eli had just fixed it.”

  “He told me he didn’t fill up the tank before he delivered it to Gladstone,” Terri said.

  “So we ran out of gas?” I asked.

  “Most likely,” Terri said. “He wasn’t much of a seaman, I’m afraid.”

  “Good thing, too,” I said. “If he hadn’t turned to check out the motor, I never would have had a chance to bean him.” I shivered, thinking of where I would be now.

  “Aunt Nat?”

  I looked up to see Gwen, who was standing in the doorway, Adam at her side, in a hospital gown.

  “I hope you don’t mind; I thought she’d want to see you,” Catherine said, smiling.

  My niece came over and hugged me. “Catherine told me what happened. How terrifying!”

  “Yes, but it’s over,” I said.

  “And you saved Jennifer.”

  “I almost got us both killed,” I said. “Maybe our plan wasn’t the best, after all.”

  “I’ve been so worried about you. I tried to call the inn, but nobody answered.”

  “That’s because they were all out looking for your aunt,” Terri said, and Gwen hugged me again. She was still skinny as a rail; the hospital food didn’t appear to be helping.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t think to tell you as soon as we got here,” I said. “With all the hullabaloo …”

  “It’s okay,” Gwen said. “You’re okay. And as long as we’re all together, that’s the most important thing.”

  I looked around the room at John, and Gwen and Adam, and Catherine, who stood by the doorway with a half smile on her face. Even Terri and Sara, who had spent hours in the cold and the dark searching for a stranded boat.

  Gwen was right. I loved the inn … but I loved the people in my life even more.

  _____

  “I’m so nervous,” Gwen said as I pulled three pans of Eggnog Bread from the oven a few days later. She was dressed in a simple black sheath, with a dangly pair of crystal earrings that sparkled in the afternoon light.

  “All the art is out and displayed, right?”

  “Mostly. John is going to head over with me to put the finishing touches on it.”

  “So really, all you have to do is show up,” I said as I set the last pan on a cooling rack. The entire kitchen was wreathed in its spicy vanilla scent; it was all I could do not to slice off a hunk and eat it warm from the oven. I resisted the urge, though; it was for the show. “You put your watercolors in, too, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course. But what if nobody likes them?”

  “They will,” I reassured her, but I could tell the words were lost on her.

  “I’m going to go try on the other dress,” she said, and disappeared back upstairs.

  I sighed, wishing there were some way to tell her the show was bound to be a success. Or at least a partial success; I wasn’t sure her oils would sell, but I knew her watercolors would shine. Ever since she’d gotten back from the hospital, Gwen had been working night and day at the studio—and with the murderer safe behind bars, I’d given up trying to stop her. It would be over soon enough.

  I slid a knife around the edges of the golden brown loaves and thought about the changes the last week had wrought in my life. Gladstone had been charged with Fernand’s murder and the assault on Gwen, and the police were looking into Nina Torrone’s disappearance—and the disappearance of Anne Stokes years earlier. Both Jennifer and I had been discharged from the hospital after recovering from hypothermia. As soon as she’d given the police her statement, Jennifer had high-tailed it home to her family … and, I hoped, a less dangerous future in the acting business.

  The phone rang as I turned off the oven; it was Charlene.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Positively chipper,” I said. “And I’ll be even better when this art show is over.”

  “Even though your future mother-in-law is moving in next door?”

  “How did you hear that?”

  “She’s down at the store drinking black coffee and munching on celery sticks. She’s told everyone how wonderful you are.”

  “I think it’ll be okay, actually,” I said, and was surprised to realize that I meant it. I was glad to help her out. Not only was she John’s mother, but without her quick thinking, I wouldn’t be alive.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I said. “I’m actually starting to like her. She seems stiff at first, but there’s a good person in there.” It was funny; at first she’d seemed standoffish, but now that I got to know her, I found myself warming to her gutsy personality. John and I had agreed to let her stay in the carriage house until she got her feet under her; in exchange, she would help with some of the hotel chores (with the exception of cooking). I was nervous about the arrangement, but felt it was the right thing to do; after all, what was family for but to help each other out? Besides, now that her shameful secret was out, she had really relaxed. I didn’t know how things would turn out, but we’d give it a shot.

  “I heard you got stiffed.”

  “Yeah, by Fernand’s sister. As soon as she found out she wasn’t in the will, she skipped town. Her credit card was declined, so she stayed for free.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Actually, it’s fine. Now that the mortgage fiasco is worked out, it’s a loss we can absorb. And she is Fernand’s sister, after all.”

  “So Frederick’s getting to plan the service himself?”

  “No more conflicts of interest,” I said. Frederick had stayed on, thankfully—we’d taken to inviting him to dinner in the kitchen with us, where we reminisced about our evenings with Fernand. With Irene out of the way, Frederick had thrown himself into planning Fernand’s memorial service. He’d taken me up on my offer to host the reception at the inn: a sad event, but one I felt compelled to hold. He was still grieving, but I had come to enjoy his company.

  “Do you think he’ll stay on the island?”

  “I don’t know. I hope he doesn’t sell Fernand’s house—I’d love it if he at least came to visit from time to time—but I think it’s too soon to think about that.”

  Rob, too, seemed to be recovering from the loss of Fernand. Sara had come to visit me the day after she rescued Jennifer and me from the sinking dinghy, and she’d told me confidentially that Rob had approached her about what it was like being “out” on Cranberry Island. He wasn’t ready to spill the beans yet, and was still grieving Fernand’s loss, but Sara had told him to come talk to her whenever he needed to and had put him in touch with a group in Bar Harbor. It wouldn’t heal his pain, but maybe he would feel less alone.

  “Well, I’d better figure out what to wear,” Charlene said. “I ordered a cocktail dress the other day, and I’m thinking this might be just the event to take it for a test drive.”

  “Can’t wait to see it,” I said, hoping I remembered where I’d put my ‘all-purpose’ dress.

  “Have you called Claudette, by the way? She’s been bugging me about it. She told me she swung by to see you yesterday, but you weren’t there.”

  “Shoot. With everything going on, I forgot to call her back.”

  “It’s been a crazy week, hasn’t it?”

  “You can say that again,” I tol
d her as I poured myself a cup of coffee. I cradled the warm mug in my hands and looked out the window toward the cold water, thinking of those long hours in the leaky skiff. The skin of my fingers and toes still stung with frostbite; the doctor had told me it would take a while to heal, but that I was lucky I hadn’t lost a finger or toe. Another thing to be grateful for. “At least we figured out what happened to Fernand,” I said.

  “And you get to keep the inn. Which is better than what happened to Zelda.”

  “Poor Zelda,” I said. Zelda Chu, as it turned out, had used the same mortgage attorney I had—but either the company she’d worked with had been less forgiving, or she’d let the problem go on too long before dealing with it. Word was her new future retreat center had been foreclosed on, and she was heading back to New York. Which was not good news for Zelda—or for Gwen, who had been counting on her as a mentor. “I’m surprised Murray isn’t helping her out,” I said.

  “Apparently he got burned, too, on some speculation property farther down the coast. The attorney had all the paperwork forwarded to his office, so they didn’t know it was in foreclosure until it was too late.”

  “That’s awful!” I said.

  “It is. You got really lucky, Natalie.”

  “In more ways than one,” I said, thinking of all the blessings in my life. John, the inn, my near-miraculous rescue by Terri and Sara …

  But there was still something bothering me—some piece of business that seemed unfinished. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “SHOOT—CUSTOMERS,” CHARLENE SAID. “WE’RE short on baked goods, by the way.”

  “I’ll whip something up this afternoon,” I told her.

  “Great,” she said. “See you tonight!”

  “Looking forward to it!” I hung up and took a sip of coffee, then turned on my computer and checked my gift orders. John’s new set of woodworking tools were scheduled to be delivered tomorrow, as was the silk scarf I’d ordered for my mother-in-law and the books on creativity I’d ordered for Gwen. Biscuit wove between my legs, meowing. “Don’t worry, your Christmas catnip is coming,” I told her, reaching down to stroke her head. Her rumbling purr vibrated against my hand.

  I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and walked into the parlor, mentally ticking off the things I needed to do. The balsam fir John had cut down for us twinkled from the corner of the parlor, filling the room with its green, festive scent. John and I had gotten the lights up, but Charlene, Gwen, Frederick, John, Adam and I would decorate it that evening, after the show; I was planning on putting the cider in the crockpot with cloves and cinnamon before we left for the gallery, and reserving one loaf of Eggnog Bread for home consumption.

  I had finished my coffee and was headed down to bring the boxes of ornaments up from the cellar when there was a heavy “thunk” at the kitchen door. I turned to look; a figure moved behind the glass of the kitchen door.

  “Hello!”

  No answer.

  I hurried over to the door, feeling uneasy, and opened it. A headless Barbie doll lay on the porch, spattered with red paint, and a woman was running toward the woods. “Hey!” I called. The woman tripped and went sprawling into the snow. I leaped over the porch steps and into the snow, determined to find out who had been leaving those awful dolls at my doorstep.

  As the woman—she had dark hair, and was wrapped in a shapeless coat—struggled to her feet, Claudette’s ancient Pinto crested the hill. I barely spared it a glance, though; I was focused on catching my stalker. The snow filled my sneakers as I ran toward her. I was ten feet away when she turned, a look of hatred and fear on her face that made me stop in my tracks.

  “I knew you’d follow me here! You’re always after me.”

  “Dawn?” I said, confused.

  “Dawn!” Claudette called. She had gotten out of the car and was hurrying over to us. “Natalie, I’m so sorry … I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Stop calling me that!” Claudette’s daughter-in-law said. Gone was the coiffed woman I’d seen at Fernand’s party; her face was pale and drawn, and the look in her eyes sent a shiver of fear through me.

  “Dawn,” she said. “This is Natalie. It’s not Patricia.”

  “You’re lying,” she hissed, her pale face contorted with fear and hatred. “She’s just pretending.”

  “Natalie isn’t here to get you. She just reminds you of the woman you’re afraid of.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “You’re wrong.”

  “Come home with me, Frances,” Claudette said. Frances? I wondered. I thought her name was Dawn! “It’s cold out here. I’ll make you hot chocolate.”

  The woman’s face softened slightly. “With marshmallows?”

  “With marshmallows,” Claudette said. “And whipped cream, just like you like it.”

  “Are there any cookies?” Her voice was that of an eight-year-old’s. It was eerie to watch.

  “We can make some,” my friend said. “Why don’t you get into the car where it’s warm?”

  “She’s not coming with us, is she?” Dawn/Frances said, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “No, it’s just us,” Claudette said, coming up and putting an arm around her daughter-in-law. “Come on, sweetheart.” Suddenly docile, the woman followed Claudette to the little Pinto, allowing the older woman to buckle her in as if she was a child. When Claudette had closed the door behind the woman, she turned to me. “I’m so sorry, Natalie. I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t reach you.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Claudette gave a deep sigh. “She’s suffering from dissociative personality disorder. Apparently she was abused as a child. It used to be manageable—it only happened once in a while—but lately …”

  “No wonder you’re looking so exhausted all the time,” I said. “Is the disorder why she has two names?”

  Claudette nodded. “This personality is called Frances; her psychiatrist thinks it’s a throwback to her younger self. She had some bad experiences as a child … and unfortunately, she seems to think you’re a woman who abused her.”

  “Her abuser was named Patricia?”

  Claudette nodded.

  “No wonder she’s been leaving the dolls,” I said. “But why dolls?”

  “I don’t know. She cut the goats, too,” she said. “I think she was using the blood for something, but I don’t know what.”

  I did, but I wasn’t going to tell Claudette right now. Dawn was evidently very disturbed.

  “We’re taking her to the hospital on the mainland tomorrow,” Claudette said in almost a whisper. “They’re going to keep her for observation.”

  “I hope they’re able to figure out what’s going on and fix it,” I said.

  “Me too,” she said.

  “If you need anything … Help with the kids, anything at all …”

  “I know who to call,” Claudette said. I gave her a big hug and watched as she climbed into the Pinto and drove back up the hill.

  I walked back to the inn, hugging myself for warmth, and stooped to pick up the doll from the steps. Poor woman: trapped between adulthood and a traumatized childhood. I walked into the warm kitchen to find John leaning against the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Hey there, pretty lady,” he said with a rakish grin, but the smile on his face evaporated as he saw the doll in my hand. “Another one?”

  “Yes, but I know who it was now.”

  “How?”

  I told him what had just happened, and he shook his head. “Poor Claudette.”

  “Every family has its secrets, I suppose,” I said, dumping the doll into the trash can and pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  “Including mine,” John said, with a grimace. “Are you sure you’re okay with my mother moving into the carriage house?”

  I walked to John and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “We’re family now—or will be, soon. That’s what we do for each other.”

&
nbsp; “Are you sure?” he asked. “It’ll be a big change. And I know you two don’t get along too well.”

  “We’re getting better,” I said. “Besides, she saved my life, remember?”

  “I don’t want you to do this just because you feel indebted.”

  “I’m not. I’m glad to be able to help,” I said. “Just like you helped me out—and Claudette’s helping her son and daughter-in-law out.”

  John ran a hand through his hair. “I wish she hadn’t tried so hard to protect me from the truth,” John said. “We might have been able to save the house.”

  “We can’t go back and change it,” I said. “She’s here now, and needs a place to stay; and it just so happens we have one.” I smiled at him. “Besides, that solves our question of where to live. If your mother takes over the carriage house, you’ll just have to join me here at the inn.”

  There was still a crease between his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

  I thought of the retreat I had made for myself, up above the kitchen. Was I willing to share my room with the views of the water, and the blue and white quilt I’d bought at the antique fair last year? With the wooden bookshelves overflowing with my favorite mysteries? Yes, I realized, looking at this man with his shock of sandy hair and his caring green eyes. “Absolutely,” I said, feeling my heart overflow with warmth as he took me into his arms. I closed my eyes, relishing his warm, woody smell. I’d never felt this way about anyone before. To think I’d be able to spend the rest of my life with this man … I tilted my chin up, and he kissed me.

  At that moment, Gwen appeared on the stairs. “Sorry to interrupt, but the boat leaves in twenty minutes.”

  I sighed as we broke our embrace, but told myself that there would be plenty of time later.

  The rest of our lives, in fact.

  _____

  Charlene, Catherine, and I arrived at the gallery twenty minutes before it was scheduled to open. One of Gwen’s oils was highlighted in the front window. It wasn’t my favorite, but I tried to tell myself that taste was completely subjective.

  Herb Munger met us at the doorway, resplendent in plaid Sansabelt pants and a virulently orange sweater. I handed him the tray of Eggnog Bread, which I had had to defend from Charlene on the entire trip over from Cranberry Island, then put my coat on a hook and smoothed my black, tea-length dress. It was actually a little looser than it had been last time I put it on; all the stress of the last week must have gotten to me. “Looks great, don’t you think?” he beamed.