Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  Charlene snorted. “Don’t count on it. Jeez, maybe we’ll have to start another group: Save the Gray Whale.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You know, if Katz is planning to drive you out of business, I wonder why he’s not staying with his son instead of paying you to provide bed and board?”

  I measured the flour into an extra-large mixing bowl and then rummaged through a drawer for my second set of measuring spoons. “I’ve been wondering that too. Bad blood?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” Charlene was the spider in the middle of the island’s web of gossip. As the storekeeper and postmistress, everyone came by to see her, and she was so good at extracting information I was surprised that the CIA hadn’t contacted her with a job offer.

  “By the way,” Charlene said, “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Ingrid.”

  I extracted the spoons from the jumble in the drawer and began measuring out baking soda. “She hasn’t been by to pick up her mail?”

  “Nope. In fact, she hasn’t been by the store in two days.” Ingrid was the only undecided selectman, and her vote could make or break us. As of a week ago, she had been leaning toward voting for the association, but she was by no means a shoo-in. “I’m worried, Nat.”

  “Isn’t Ingrid one of your afternoon regulars?” Several of the island women stopped by and had tea and sweets in the front of the store a few days a week, and I had seen Ingrid on a stool at the counter many times. She’d complimented me on my oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies before; that’s why I was baking ten dozen of them for tonight.

  “Yup. She never misses two days in a row.”

  I stirred the dry ingredients together with a fork, and added them to the butter and chocolate. “Well, keep calling her. Maybe she came down with the flu or something.”

  “By the way, you’ve got a few letters down here, looks like they might be brochure requests, and Katz has got some sort of package.”

  “If the weather lets up, I’ll send Gwen down to get them.”

  “Rats. Can’t you come instead?”

  “I’ll tell you what. If I get ten dozen brownies done in the next 45 minutes, I’ll be right down.”

  Charlene sighed. “See you at the church tonight then. And save some for me.”

  • • •

  When I stepped into St. James Episcopal Church at 6:45, it was already half-full and buzzing with conversation. Cranberry Island was too small for a town hall, so the antique wooden church did double duty as a meeting hall. Usually, a half dozen islanders at a meeting was considered a good turnout; tonight it looked like the whole island, and even a few from neighboring islands, had showed up.

  I headed toward the tables in the narthex with two loaded cookie trays. The room already smelled of coffee; Charlene had brewed enough to fill the two silver pots she’d set up on the folding tables. Charlene joined me in removing the wet plastic wrap from a mound of fudge brownies. We had barely uncovered the rich brown squares when the locals set upon them like a pack of starving wolves. They might not be sure what to think of me, but they certainly knew what to do with a plate of my brownies.

  “The Katz contingent is already here,” Charlene murmured into my ear. She had dressed for the occasion in a sparkly sweatshirt and jeans that hugged her well-padded form. Despite the rain, her highlighted and artfully tousled light brown hair looked as if she had just stepped out of the beauty parlor. She went to the mainland once a month to get her hair done and was addicted to Mary Kay cosmetics. I liked to tease her about it, telling her that she belonged in Texas, not a small island in Maine. This was usually met with a withering look and a comment regarding what she called my “bowl cut.”

  I looked down at myself—in my hurry, I had forgotten to change —and brushed a bit of flour from the front of my ragged blue T-shirt. Charlene grimaced at my ensemble and then pointed toward the front of the church. “Ogden is setting up posters and what looks like a big computer presentation.”

  I sighed. “Let’s hope chocolate will triumph over technology.” My eyes surveyed the room. Murray Selfridge stood in the corner talking with Bernard Katz and Estelle. Murray had moved away from the island and made his fortune on Wall Street, then retired and returned in grand style, buying up property and promising to establish a historical museum if he were elected to the board. He won the election, established the museum, and then, to the chagrin of most of the people who had voted for him, began courting developers.

  I scanned the room, looking for Ingrid. Tom Lockhart, the head of the lobster co-op and the only selectman firmly in our court, was standing next to my neighbor, John, drinking coffee and wolfing down a brownie. John caught my eye and waved a brownie in greeting. I felt the blood rise to my face as I smiled back, then turned to Charlene.

  “Where’s Ingrid?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She’s usually an hour early to town events, and the first one at the feeding trough, but I haven’t seen a trace of her this evening.”

  “Any luck getting in touch with her this afternoon?”

  “She wasn’t home . . . or she wasn’t answering the phone. She hasn’t gone off-island; I’d have seen her on the pier, and I can’t imagine she was out for a stroll all afternoon in this weather.” She nodded toward the rain pelting the church’s windows.

  “I guess we just have to keep our fingers crossed, then.” I glanced over at the tables, where the mountains of cookies were dwindling. “Maybe I should have made more.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Nat.”

  A cold wind blew into the room, and a tall woman with a bright yellow rain slicker swept in, closing the church door behind her. She peeled off her jacket and strode past the plates of cookies without a sideways glance. When a few people greeted her, she nodded, her thin lips stretched into a tight smile, as she made a beeline for the front of the church.

  “Well, there’s Ingrid,” said Charlene. “I wonder what’s up with her.”

  “I don’t know, but it looks like we’re about to get started.” People were making little stacks of the remaining cookies and brownies and moving into the sanctuary. I snagged a brownie and followed Charlene down the main aisle.

  Claudette was already sitting at the front of the church, looking grim and stolid in a flowered broomstick skirt and a large black tunic that clung to her ample figure. She looked like an avenging earth goddess, with her long gray hair pulled back into a severe bun and steel-gray eyes above rolling mounds of flesh. As always, her knitting needles clacked in her lap; whatever she was working on tonight was so thick and fleecy that it looked as if she were recreating a sheep out of wool.

  “Hi, Claudette. What are you working on?” I asked.

  Claudette looked at me as if I were dense, and raised the lump of wool, which now appeared to have at least one sleeve dangling from it. “A sweater.”

  “Did you get some of Nat’s cookies?” Charlene asked. “They’re to die for.”

  “I’m on a new diet; can’t have sugar. Besides, I don’t want sticky wool.” Despite her bulk, Claudette was on a perpetual diet; the beet and spinach diet, the high-protein diet (which, Charlene informed me, might have failed due to heavy consumption of bacon and whipping cream), the cabbage and grapefruit diet . . . she’d tried them all.

  “Mind if we join you?” Charlene asked. Claudette lumbered over a few inches to make room for us. Charlene, who was also generously proportioned, deposited herself in the empty spot next to Claudette, and I wedged myself into the remaining six inches at the end of the pew.

  Once most of the islanders had abandoned what was left of the cookies and filed into the sanctuary, Tom moved to the pulpit, clearing his throat and calling the meeting to order. After a discussion of trash disposal and pier maintenance, he addressed the real business at hand, and stepped down to give Bernard Katz the pulpit. Ogden
dimmed the lights in the sanctuary and Katz began his sales pitch, flashing colorful illustrated pictures of the future resort on the small white screen he’d erected over the cross at the front of the church.

  “This resort not only means two million dollars in the town’s coffers—enough to build a new school, or a library—but more jobs for islanders, as well as an increase in property values.” He smiled broadly and looked around the room. “By making Cranberry Island the home of the next Premier Resort, you’re investing in the island’s future.” My stomach lurched. I knew that the Shoreline Conservation Association’s offer didn’t even come close.

  He turned toward the screen, ready to describe the proposed plan to the assembly. I noticed that the parking lot expansion I’d seen on the blueprints—the one that would presumably be built after he had bulldozed my inn—wasn’t featured in the plan he was describing to the islanders. He had begun explaining how the golf course would be available to locals at a reduced fee when Claudette’s sharp voice interrupted him.

  “What about the terns?”

  “The terns?” Katz looked confused for a moment. “Oh, you mean the birds.” He chuckled. “I didn’t know they played golf.”

  A few people tittered, but Claudette’s voice was strident, and her gray eyes flashed fire. “I’m not talking about your stupid golf course. What are you going to do about the terns’ nests?”

  Katz smiled at her benevolently, exposing a line of crooked teeth. “Why, we’ll relocate them to a more appropriate location, of course. Premier Resorts International is highly sensitive to environmental issues . . .”

  “I was down there yesterday, and it looks like someone’s been trying to ‘relocate’ them already. Somebody’s been destroying their nests!”

  A murmur passed through the crowd, and Katz’s eyebrows shot up. “Destroying them? Dear lady, I’m sure you must be mistaken. There’s not even a proper walkway to the beach.” He smiled at his audience. “Of course, once the Cranberry Island Premier Resort is built, there will be a path to allow everybody access to the beach.”

  Claudette rose from her seat, her face flushed a dangerous red. “You’re a murderer!” she spat. “You murdered the terns, and now you’re planning to murder the island. You’re the one who deserves to die, not those innocent birds!” She looked as if she was ready to lunge for Katz’s throat. Charlene stood up and eased her back into the pew, whispering into her ear.

  Bernard Katz smoothed down his nonexistent hair and turned back toward the screen. “I can assure you that Premier Resorts will handle the terns with the utmost care and respect. Now, as I was saying, the golf course will be available to islanders at a discount.” As Katz droned on, I tried to imagine the lobstermen taking up golf, and wondered how much it would cost even at a fifty percent discount, which I was sure it wouldn’t be. Probably more than most islanders made in a year. I was imagining a bunch of salty-haired lobstermen wandering around the golf course in hip waders when suddenly Katz was stepping down from the pulpit to a smattering of applause, and I realized with a jolt that my turn was next.

  A lump rose in my throat as I prepared to make Save Our Terns’ case to the board. I was making my way toward the front of the church when a door banged in the narthex and Barbara Eggleby appeared, soaking wet and clutching a briefcase. Her long red hair was plastered to her face and her navy blue pants suit left a trail of drips as she strode down the main aisle.

  “Am I too late?”

  “No, you’re just in time,” I said, smiling with relief. My knees wobbled as I staggered back to my pew and wedged myself back in next to Charlene.

  “Glad you could make it, Ms. Eggleby.” Tom motioned toward the pulpit. “Please, go ahead. Mr. Katz has just finished his presentation.”

  Barbara opened her briefcase and withdrew a piece of paper. Then she pushed her wet hair behind her ears and grasped the pulpit with both hands.

  “As you know,” she began, “The Shoreline Conservation Association is prepared to purchase, and has made an offer on, the parcel of land on which Mr. Katz would like to build his resort. Selling the land to the association would ensure that the land would remain exactly as it is, with no future development, enabling the island to retain the character that makes it such a marvelous place and ensuring that the terns can continue to nest.”

  She looked around the room before she continued. “I understand that the board of selectmen must do what it believes is in the island’s best interest. Of course, the association feels that conserving this beautiful piece of land for generations to come is the best possible option, but we recognize that funding is important to all communities.” She took a deep breath. “And that is why we are prepared to match Mr. Katz’s offer of two million dollars.”

  Two million dollars? Barbara must have called in every favor she’d ever been owed. I looked at Ingrid; surely she’d vote for the association to take over the land now. Her mouth twitched, but she continued to stare at the back of the church. Behind me, everybody started talking. Bernard Katz stood up, his eyes hard behind his glasses. “I’ll make it $2.1 million,” he called over the noise. A hush fell as a hundred pairs of eyes settled on Barbara.

  Barbara shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I am not authorized to go above two million dollars.” She paused for a moment. “Mr. Katz should be aware, however, that even if the land were to be acquired by Premier Resorts, there is an excellent chance that he would be unable to develop it, as it may be designated critical tern habitat by the federal government. In fact,” she continued, “representatives from the Fish and Wildlife Service should be here in a few days to begin the evaluation.”

  “Evaluation? What authority do you have to begin an evaluation?” Katz demanded. The room exploded with noise as everyone began talking at once. Tom stood up and called for order. When the chaos began to subside, he responded to Katz’s question. “I am the one who initiated the evaluation, Bernard. Now, before we move to a vote, we need to know; is your offer still good?”

  Katz was silent for a moment. Then he straightened and pushed out his chin. “The offer’s good.”

  “Then if there are no further comments from the floor,” said Tom, “I move that we take a vote.” No one seemed to want to take the pulpit again, so he turned to the two other selectmen. Murray had abandoned his relaxed position and was leaning forward in his seat. Ingrid continued to stare at a point in the back of the church, her lips pulled tight. “All in favor of selling the land to Premier Resorts for $2.1 million, say aye.” Murray boomed his assent immediately. Tom shook his head. All eyes turned to Ingrid.

  She took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “Aye.”

  “I can’t believe she double-crossed us.” Charlene slumped in one of my kitchen chairs as I took the whistling kettle off the stove and poured hot water into the teapot. Barbara sat across from her, still shivering despite the warmth of the yellow kitchen. Fortunately, Claudette had bundled up her knitting and stormed out of the church when Ingrid voted for Katz. I appreciated her support, but I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her harangues tonight.

  “I can’t believe you went to all of that effort to get up here and the vote went the wrong way, Barbara,” I said. When her connection from Boston was canceled, Barbara had rented a car and drove eight hours up the coast, only to discover that the water taxi wasn’t in service. She had run up and down the pier in a frenzy until one of the fishermen agreed to take her to the island, just in time for the meeting.

  “We’ll just have to resort to other tactics,” said Barbara as I filled a plate with the few cookies that hadn’t been consumed at the town meeting. Her voice was cold. “I swore Bernard Katz wasn’t going to win this time, and I meant it.”

  “But if the beach isn’t designated critical habitat, what other recourse do we have?” Charlene asked.

  “And can’t he develop the rest of the property anyway
?” I added through a mouthful of cookie.

  “I’ll find a way to keep that resort from being built, Nat. I promise.” As I poured the tea, she stood up and stretched like a cat. “I’m bushed. Mind if I take mine up to my room?”

  “Not at all. See you in the morning, Barbara. Don’t worry about getting up in time for breakfast; I’ll fix something for you whenever you come down.”

  As the kitchen door swung closed behind Barbara, Charlene added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to her tea and helped herself to a cookie. “These are really good. I’d ask for the recipe, but I’d just rather you made them more often.” She took a bite of cookie and chased it with a swig of tea, then leaned forward. “By the way, I found out a little more about why the big K is staying with you instead of at Cliffside with his son.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Apparently they had a big fight about two months ago, and since then they haven’t been too chummy. Katz used to stay at Cliffside all the time, but now he never visits.”

  “Any word on what the argument was about?”

  “Nobody knows, but my guess is that it was either about money or about Estelle.” Charlene took another bite of cookie. “How do you get these to be chewy and cooked all the way through? Mine are always either raw in the middle or hard as hockey pucks.”

  “Are they having financial problems?” I felt a surge of hope. Maybe the contract for the land next door would fall through.

  “I don’t know, but Polly Sarkes does housecleaning for them and she says Stanley hasn’t paid her in two months.”

  “If they can’t afford to pay the housekeeper, how are they going to afford to shell out two million dollars for a hunk of land and then build a multimillion-dollar resort on top of it?”

  “Just because Stanley doesn’t have the dough doesn’t mean his daddy doesn’t.”

  The bank statement I had seen that morning floated back into my mind, and my wild hope deflated as I realized Charlene was right. “Okay, so maybe Stanley’s in financial trouble. Why would they fight about Estelle?”