Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  When I stepped through the kitchen door, Gwen sat at the table in a fluffy blue bathrobe, starting in on the shirred eggs. Despite the fact that she had obviously just emerged from the bed covers, her ivory skin was flawless, and her hair, while wild, fell in a gorgeous tumult of curls around her shoulders. I, on the other hand, felt—and probably looked—like the bride of Frankenstein.

  Gwen looked up as the kitchen door closed behind me, and her face filled with concern as she took in my battered appearance. Her eyes darted from my skinned knees to my face. “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I fell off a cliff.”

  “That explains the knees. That must have been some fall. You look awful.”

  I grimaced. “I also found Bernard Katz. He’s dead. John thinks someone might have killed him.”

  Gwen’s brown eyes widened. “Someone murdered him?”

  “It’s only a theory,” I said. “He could have just slipped and fallen.”

  I limped to the phone and dialed the police. Gwen had worked her way through two eggs and half a muffin by the time I had finished detailing the situation to the dispatcher. I hung up the phone and eased myself into a chair, helping myself to my niece’s last muffin. “Well, they’re sending a helicopter and the state police. I wonder if John’s right; maybe Katz was murdered. I can’t imagine him climbing around on those cliffs.” I unwrapped the muffin from its little paper cup. “Then again, I can’t imagine why he was out there in the first place.”

  My teeth sank into the muffin, the familiar sweetness of bananas and walnuts erasing some of the horror of finding Katz. My kitchen helped, too; the blue-and-white tile backsplash, the butter yellow walls, and the rich caramel-colored floor always made me feel safe and cozy. The sun streamed in through the windows, and the view of the blue ocean and the lighthouse in the distance was serene.

  My niece speared a piece of watermelon. “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone murdered Katz. I mean, half the island hated him. Even Fernand was saying things would be a lot better if Katz just disappeared and didn’t come back.”

  Gwen’s art instructor, Fernand LaChaise, was trying to establish an art colony on the island. It was a great idea as far as the inn was concerned; in fact, my guests the Bittles were on the island for a week-long en plein air workshop with him. My knowledge of art was minimal, but from the easels I’d seen set up at various points on the island, I gathered that en plein air was a fancy term that meant “painting outside.”

  I looked at Gwen. “Why didn’t Fernand like Katz?”

  Gwen swallowed her watermelon. “Would you come to Cranberry Island to paint a golf course?”

  She had a point, but I didn’t think that that was enough to warrant murder. Who else might have wanted him out of the way? Claudette, of course, had told the entire island she wished Katz were dead just last night. I wondered how she’d feel when she found out her wish had come true.

  My mind touched on Barbara’s comment about “alternate tactics,” then dismissed it. Even if Barbara were to consider killing Bernard Katz, how would she lure him out onto a rocky cliff during a storm? And just because John had suggested Katz might have been murdered, it didn’t mean he had been murdered. For all I knew, he had just slipped and fallen.

  Gwen’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. “You should probably go and clean those cuts up. Some of them look pretty nasty.”

  “You’re probably right.” I pried myself up from the chair and lumbered toward the stairs. I was warming up to Gwen; despite her less-than-perfect housekeeping skills, she did seem concerned about me, and about the inn. Maybe this could turn out to be a long-term relationship.

  “By the way,” Gwen called after me. “Does this mean I don’t have to do Katz’s room?”

  • • •

  When I had bandaged my wounds, transferred the tablecloths to the dryer and checked the answering machine for messages (two brochure requests and six suddenly solicitous islanders, looking for news on the helicopter, but no new reservations), I started a batch of cranberry scones to take my mind off Bernard Katz. I had just finished mixing together the dry ingredients when a sharp rap sounded at the front door. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and went to answer it.

  A policeman stood on the front doorstep.

  “Ms. Natalie Barnes?” the man asked in the rough voice of a pack-a-day smoker. He was a thick, short man with greasy dark hair. I caught a whiff of hair gel and stale tobacco on the breeze that eddied past him through the door.

  I forced myself to smile. “That’s me.”

  “My name is Sergeant Grimes. I understand you found Mr. Katz’s body on the cliff.”

  “That’s right.” I leaned against the door. “So he is . . . dead, then?”

  Grimes nodded. “Yes, he is. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  My body felt numb. I knew that Katz was dead, but it seemed much more official coming from a policeman. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought he was, because of his neck . . .” I shook myself, trying to clear the vision of Katz’s body from my mind. “I’m in the middle of a batch of scones, but you’re welcome to come in and talk to me while I work.”

  Sergeant Grimes paused for a second, then said, “That would be fine.” He stepped inside and followed me through the parlor and the dining room to the kitchen, his eyes taking in the antique bookshelves, the soft overstuffed couches and the pale blue and peach oriental rugs as we walked.

  “Looks like you’ve got quite a bit invested in this inn,” he said, sitting down at my big pine farm table.

  I nodded. “It takes a lot to get an inn going. Can I get you some coffee?”

  Sergeant Grimes declined and pulled out a small notebook. I picked up my pastry cutter and began cutting butter into the flour and sugar mixture. He watched me push the cutter down with my fingertips, trying not to aggravate my scraped and bruised hands.

  “What happened to your hands?”

  “I hurt them on the rocks when I fell down the cliff.”

  He made a note in his book and turned his eyes back to me. They were blue, and close-set. “What were you doing on the cliff?”

  “I was walking to the pier to catch the mail boat. I was going to drop some brochures off on the mainland.”

  Grimes raised an eyebrow. “Do you usually take the path to the pier? It seems to me that the road is a much easier walk.”

  “There’s a strip of beach down there where black-chinned terns nest. At the board meeting last night, someone said that the nests had been disturbed. I decided to take a look myself.”

  “And somehow you managed to slip off the path and end up right near Mr. Katz’s body.”

  “That’s right.”

  I scraped the zest from an orange as Grimes made notes in his little book. He smoothed his hair with his free hand as he wrote, then fixed me with small blue eyes. “I understand that you and Mr. Katz had some . . . conflicting interests. Can you tell me about that?”

  As I spoke, I stirred the orange zest into the dry mixture. “Bernard Katz wanted to develop the land next to my inn. I wanted the island to sell the land to a conservation group. Unfortunately, the board of selectmen decided to sell it to him.”

  “So you just threw in the towel, is that right, Miss Barnes?”

  I set down the wooden spoon and sighed. “Tom Lockhart ordered an evaluation of the site, to see if it should be designated critical nesting habitat and remain undeveloped.” I walked to the freezer and pulled out a bag of cranberries and a bag of walnuts. “Unfortunately, what the evaluators decide is out of my hands.”

  Sergeant Grimes leaned back in his chair. “If this development goes through, it won’t be very good for your business, will it?”

  I measured out the walnuts and added them to the bowl. “Probably not.”

  “Y
ou’ve got a lot riding on the success of this inn.”

  Just my life savings. “Of course.” I shrugged. “All business owners are invested in their businesses.” I opened the bag of cranberries and began pouring them into a measuring cup.

  “Invested enough to murder someone who was threatening your livelihood?”

  I started. Cranberries jumped across the counter and rolled onto the floor, bumping across the pine planks. I set down the bag and took a deep breath, fixing my eyes on Grimes. “No business is worth more than someone’s life. Even someone like Katz.” As soon as the second sentence slipped out of my mouth, I wanted to swallow it back.

  Grimes sat up like a dog on a scent. “Even Katz, eh?”

  “Yes. Even Katz.” I began collecting berries from the counter and returning them to the cup. “Besides, who said he was murdered? I thought that was just a theory. That cliff is hazardous; I almost killed myself on it this morning.”

  Grimes refused to be waylaid. “So this development would have been the death knell—pardon me—of the Blue Whale Inn.”

  “Gray Whale Inn,” I said, fighting to keep the irritation out of my voice. I shrugged. “Who knows? Katz told me the other day that I might even get some extra business out of the deal.” Even though he was planning on eliminating my inn and replacing it with a parking lot.

  Grimes’ close-set eyes were calculating. “Still, it wouldn’t have been quite the island retreat you had in mind when you bought the place.”

  “No, but hardly anything turns out like you plan.” I forced a smile. “You just have to make the best of things.”

  Grimes’ hand strayed to his hair again. No wonder it was so greasy. He couldn’t stop touching it. “Yes, you seem like the type to make the best of things.” He made a few more notes, then watched me add the cranberries and stir in the buttermilk before turning the batter out onto a floured wooden board.

  I had coated my hands with flour and was about to roll out the dough when he snapped his notebook shut and stood up. “Where’s Katz’s room?”

  “He’s . . . I mean he was . . . in the Crow’s Nest. It’s on the second floor, down at the end of the hall.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  I rinsed my hands and dried them. “I’ll get it.” Grimes followed me out of the kitchen to the reception desk in the front hall. I opened the cabinet behind the desk and retrieved the key to the Crow’s Nest, catching another whiff of stale tobacco as I handed it to Grimes.

  “Is this the only key?” he asked.

  “This one and the one Katz had.” I shuddered to think of where that key was now.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go take a look,” Grimes said. “We’ll be treating Katz’s room as evidence, so till you hear otherwise, it’s off-limits to you and your staff.”

  Evidence? He must be pretty convinced Katz was murdered. “You’re welcome to it,” I said. “Is it all right if I head back to the kitchen? I’d like to finish up those scones.”

  “That would be fine.” Grimes started up the stairs, then paused and turned around. “Oh, and one more thing, Miss Barnes.” His close-set eyes were hard. “I hope you’re not planning to leave the island anytime soon.”

  I set aside half a dozen of the still-warm scones and packed the rest into a plastic container to take down to Charlene’s. For the last few months, Charlene had been selling my baked goods at the store; in addition to picking up a few extra dollars a week, I hoped that the stack of brochures and the sign, “Goodies from the Gray Whale Inn,” would garner me some additional guests. I wanted to take the scones down while they were fresh, but the truth was, I also needed to sit on Charlene’s squashy couch and drink a cup of tea and talk.

  Grimes’ arrival had thwarted my plan; I didn’t want to leave until he was gone. Instead, I threw a load of towels into the washer, made out my grocery list, and headed for the front desk.

  I surveyed the calendar for the coming months with a sinking feeling. The long weeks of July and August, supposedly the high season, stretched before me like an empty plain, broken only by a scant four bookings. I had been counting on at least three times that number to pay the bills. Maybe it was time to talk with Fernand about setting up a series of artists’ retreat weeks; we could split the advertising costs and generate more income for both of us.

  I was closing the calendar and trying not to think about where the money for an advertising campaign would come from when the phone rang. My heart flared with hope. It was probably another islander who was suddenly concerned about my welfare—and any information I might happen to have about the helicopter out by the cliffs—but it might be another reservation.

  “Good afternoon, Gray Whale Inn.”

  “Is this Natalie Barnes?” The woman spoke in a high-pitched voice.

  “Speaking.”

  The woman cleared her throat and continued. “This is Gertrude Pickens of the Daily Mail. I understand you’re the proprietor of the Gray Whale Inn?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And you’re also the person who found Bernard Katz’s body this morning, on the side of a cliff, is that right?”

  Goosebumps crept down my back. “Yes.”

  Gertrude Pickens continued in a sugary voice. “He was a guest of yours at the inn, is that correct?”

  “He was.”

  “That must have been difficult, having a guest who was planning to replace your inn with a parking lot.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. How had she found that out? “Well,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even, “you can’t let your feelings get in the way of running your business.”

  “Oh, so he was planning to replace your inn with a parking lot?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No matter, no matter.” A keyboard clicked in the background. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” she continued, “but the Cranberry Island Board of Selectmen voted to sell the property next to yours to Bernard Katz’s company, Premier Resorts International, just last night. As I understand it, you were the leader of the organization—is it Save Our Terns?—that opposed the development. The decision must have made you very angry.” Her voice was cajoling.

  “Look,” I said. “The police are investigating the situation. If you have questions about Bernard Katz or his business, why don’t you go ask them?”

  “They’re investigating it then, are they? So they do think foul play is involved?”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the police. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy here. I’m going to have to let you go. Good-bye.” The voice continued to squeak out of the receiver as I slammed it down. How had Gertrude Pickens gotten wind of Premier Resorts’ plan to pave over my inn?

  “Nosy neighbors?” Grimes hung over the carved wooden banister, smirking at me.

  “No,” I said. “Nosy newspaper reporters. I referred them to you.”

  Grimes swaggered down the rest of the stairs. “I think I’m finished here for today. Katz’s room is still off-limits, though.” He eyed me and held up the key. “You’re sure this is the only key?”

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “Well, once the coroner’s report comes in, I may have to have forensics out here.”

  I cringed. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean yellow crime scene tape everywhere.”

  “Well, we’ll see.” Grimes walked past me to the front door. He turned to me with one hand on the doorknob. “I guess that’s all for now,” he said. Then he wagged a finger at me. “Remember what I said, though. If you’ve got any business off-island, you’ll have to send somebody else.”

  “How could I forget?”

  When the door closed behind him, I laid my head down, pressing my forehead against the surface of the big maple desk. My inn was in jeopardy, one of my guests had died under sus
picious circumstances, the newspaper was running a story on it, and it looked as if the police had decided I might be a murderer. I was sure things could get worse. I just wasn’t sure how.

  Something warm pressed against my leg; it was Biscuit. I pulled her up on my lap, thankful for the company. She curled up into a ball, her green eyes half-closed as she rumbled with pleasure. “At least you’re happy.”

  I was rubbing her cheeks and feeling marginally better when there was another knock at the door. Biscuit leaped off my lap as I stood up, wondering what Sergeant Grimes wanted now. To my relief, it was John.

  “Thank goodness it’s you,” I said.

  “I knocked at the kitchen door first, but I didn’t see you,” he said, smiling. “You look almost spooked. Who were you expecting, the bogeyman?”

  “Close enough. I just had a nice little meeting with Sergeant Grimes. He seems to think Bernard Katz was murdered.” I sighed. “He also thinks I might have killed him.”

  John’s smile faded. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Well, he told me I wasn’t allowed to leave Cranberry Island, and made some pretty insinuating remarks.” I realized that John was still standing on the doorstep. “I’m sorry—please, come in. Are you hungry? I just made a batch of cranberry walnut scones.”

  “No wonder it smells so good in here,” he said, stepping through the door. “That sounds great.” Biscuit sidled up to him, mewing plaintively. John scooped her up and she rumbled with pleasure as he followed me into the kitchen.

  “Traitor,” I muttered.

  John continued to rub Biscuit as I fixed a plate of scones and filled the teakettle with water, more aware than I would have liked of John’s lean limbs and the crinkle of the brown skin around his green eyes. He cooed to Biscuit, who luxuriated in the attention; with everything that had been going on, I’d neglected her for the last couple of days.

  “What a day,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “I think I’ve talked with half of the island already. For some reason, once the helicopter came, everyone was in the mood for a hike along the cliffs.” Biscuit settled in contentedly on his lap, still purring.