I came over to his table to fill his coffee cup. His pale skin looked pasty; I wondered if he’d even left his room since he checked in.
As I finished pouring, Ogden looked at me from behind his thick glasses. “By the way, Mr. Katz will be joining me for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
I almost dropped the coffeepot. Then I realized he meant Stanley, not Bernard. “That’ll be fine,” I said. “During normal hours, I presume?”
“At nine o’clock,” he said, and dabbed a square of pancake into a neat puddle of syrup.
“If you’d like eggs this morning, let me know; I’ll make them to order.” He nodded curtly, and I retreated to the kitchen.
I sat back down at the kitchen table, relieved to have made it through the morning without scaring away any guests. I picked up another cookbook and flipped to a recipe for chocolate meringues. Perfect: the comfort of chocolate without the fat. I rummaged through the fridge and the pantry and laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter, and soon I was separating eggs and measuring flour and cocoa, slipping out to the dining room from time to time to see if Ogden needed more coffee. By 10:00, a mound of billowing chocolate filled the bowl and the aroma of chocolate suffused the kitchen.
I had to bake the meringues in shifts, so by the time the buzzer went off for the last time I had cleaned up after breakfast and set up the dining room for the next morning. It was early afternoon when I headed out from the inn on my blue Schwinn. The police hadn’t shown up yet, but John had promised me he’d let them in if they arrived before I got back.
The winding road up to Cliffside was almost more than my legs could take. Just as I was about to give up and walk, the bike crested the hill and I glimpsed an imposing gray structure between the trees. Parked in the driveway was the late-model, cream-colored BMW the Katzes kept for tooling around the island. Most islanders’ cars looked like rejects from the dump; since they never left the island, they were all unregistered, and most were missing doors, trunk lids, and sometimes even roofs. Not the Katzes, though; they’d had the car shipped over specially.
I leaned my bike up against a craggy old spruce tree and unstrapped the plastic box of meringues from the back. It wasn’t the most attractive container, but it was the only thing I could think of that would get them up the big hill intact.
My eyes probed the house as I walked up the flagstone path to the massive front door. No pesky rocks to interfere with Estelle’s stilettos here. Like the Gray Whale Inn, the building was sheathed in weathered gray shingles; where the Gray Whale was welcoming and cozy, however, Cliffside was imposing and formal. The shrubbery was pruned into a rigid geometry, and instead of starched cotton curtains, heavy brocaded fabrics shrouded the windows. The turret I had often seen from the water was hidden from the front of the house.
I pushed a glowing button to the left of the heavy walnut and leaded-glass door, and the doorbell chimed solemnly. I was wondering whether anyone was home when a bright blue form materialized behind the wavy glass. Estelle.
She opened the door and eyed me with suspicion. “What are you doing here?” Although it was 12:30 in the afternoon, she hadn’t gotten dressed yet. She wore only a bright blue silk kimono, but had taken the time to do her face. I was surprised; her makeup was usually flawless, but today her the blue eyeliner rimming her icy eyes was so thick that she looked almost clownish, and her frosted lipstick only approximately followed the lines of her mouth. Her blond pouf was flattened on one side, as if she had slept on it.
“I came to tell you how sorry I am about your father-in-law’s death,” I said, holding out the container of meringues. “I brought you some cookies.”
Estelle’s garishly painted eyes narrowed as she looked at the plastic box.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “they’re low-fat.”
She reached out a manicured hand and took the box, then stood in the doorway staring at me. I wasn’t sure she was going to invite me in, so I invited myself.
“Would you mind if I had a glass of water?” I asked. “That hill is murder.” I felt my face redden as I realized what I had said.
Estelle looked annoyed. “Oh, all right.” She opened the door wider, and I followed her fluffy mules through the ornate marbled entry hall into the cavernous living room. She disappeared through a door off the side of the room with the box. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow, so I lowered myself onto a couch upholstered in mauve-and cream-striped satin and scanned the room. It was tastefully and expensively furnished, with a rich lilac and blue oriental rug and heavy silk curtains framing a million-dollar view of the water and Mount Desert Island beyond. The furnishings were all dark wood with ornate carving, and polished to a high sheen. It looked as if Polly Sarkes had been continuing to clean despite the lack of paychecks.
I could see what looked like Stanley’s study through one of the arched side doorways; the room’s centerpiece was an oversized mahogany desk flanked by bookshelves loaded with antique-looking books. Probably bought by the yard by a designer; Estelle and Stanley didn’t strike me as lovers of classic literature.
Estelle lurched back into the room a minute later holding a juice glass filled with tepid water and no ice. I caught a strong whiff of gin as she thrust it at me. She tottered across the broad expanse of plush rug and flopped onto a couch opposite me, reaching for what looked like a thirty-two-ounce tumbler of ice water. Probably a gin-and-tonic. It was already half gone.
“How is Stanley holding up?” I asked.
“Stanley?” She took a long sip of her drink. “Oh, I imagine he’s surviving.”
“His father’s death must have been quite a shock.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me. He’s got the worst timing . . .” She ran a lacquered finger around the rim of her glass.
I was confused. “Stanley?”
She looked at me as if I were an imbecile. “Bad timing for you, too, isn’t it? I mean, if Bernard had kicked off the day before, you’d have your stupid little nests all to yourself. And the Moby Dick, or whatever it is you call it.”
“The Gray Whale Inn.”
“Right. Whatever.” She poked at an ice cube. “I don’t know why he was so hell-bent on getting this god-forsaken island. There’s nothing to do here.” She took another sip and looked out the huge picture windows at the stunning vista. “I’d almost convinced him to do one in the Bahamas, instead, but then she got involved . . .” She stared dreamily into the distance, and it seemed for a moment that she had forgotten I was in the room. “Once that happened, there was no way he was going to back down . . .”
“Who?”
She blinked, and turned to look at me. “Oh, you know.” She reached over to the side table and picked up a pack of Ultra Slims and a silver lighter. She slid a cigarette out, lit it with a wobbly hand, and inhaled. “The bitch,” she hissed through the thin stream of smoke that issued from her painted lips.
The air was heavy with the scent of gin and cigarettes. On an impulse, I said, “He was murdered, you know.”
Estelle’s heavily lined eyes grew big. “Murdered?” She let out an explosive laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“The coroner’s report came back this morning.”
“How was he killed?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get the details.”
Estelle looked at me closely for the first time, blinking as she tried to focus. “Maybe I’d better get those cookies tested before I eat them.” She looked out the window again, then lurched to her feet and teetered out of the room.
I was confused for a moment, but when I heard a door close and the tap of her mules on tile, I decided she must have visited the bathroom. My eyes strayed to the mahogany desk in the next room. After a moment’s internal debate, I scurried over to the office overlooking the water and darted behind the massive desk.
While t
he rest of the room was spotless, the top of the desk was awash in stacks of paper. The inbox was overflowing, and I leafed through the pages quickly. Overdue notices for credit cards and utilities. It looked like Charlene was right about Stanley’s financial situation.
I slid open the drawers and glanced through them—nothing but office supplies, except for the bottom drawers, which were locked. A quick search failed to reveal the key; Stanley must have hidden it. A rush of water sounded from somewhere in the house, and I quickly closed the drawers. As the top drawer slid shut, I caught a glimpse of a stack of creamy envelopes. The same heavy linen, the same tapered flap . . . the letter in Katz’s room had come from here.
A door opened somewhere as I shut the last drawer and raced back to the candy-cane striped couch. I had just perched on the edge again when Estelle wobbled back into the room.
She threw herself back into the sofa and took another swig of her gin and tonic.
“Where’s your husband today?” I asked.
“Oh, off moping somewhere. He’s always wandering around this stupid island.”
I was silent for a moment, debating how far to push my luck. I decided my chances of getting a second interview with Estelle were slim, so I forged ahead. “I hope you don’t mind my being forward, but you have such a beautiful house . . . why didn’t your father-in-law stay here?”
Her gaudy face hardened. “That’s none of your business. I’d say it’s because he liked your cooking, but that can’t be it.” Anger rose in my throat, but I quelled it. Estelle shot a pointed look at my untouched glass. “Are you done with your drink?”
I took a hasty sip of the tepid water. “Can I take this back to the kitchen for you?”
“No, just put it on the table. The maid will take care of it.” She took an exaggerated look at the jeweled watch on her slender arm. I decided the interview must be over, and stood up.
“Well, I’ve got to be off,” I said. “I’m headed down to drop some brochures off at Berta’s shop.” I watched Estelle’s painted face closely. “She makes such beautiful jewelry, don’t you think?”
“If you can’t afford the real stuff,” she said with a toss of her head.
“I’ll just walk myself out,” I said. “Don’t bother getting up.” Estelle didn’t look as if she were going to anyway.
The fresh air felt like a tonic as the door to Cliffside closed behind me. As I headed down the smooth front walk toward my bike, I saw Stanley approaching up the driveway. “Hi,” I said.
Stanley looked up, startled. “I was just dropping off some cookies,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Thanks.” He ducked his head. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his clothes were rumpled; he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Have the police been in touch with you yet?” I asked gently.
“The police?” Stanley looked around nervously. “No. Why?”
“Apparently your father was murdered.”
All of the blood drained out of Stanley’s face. His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “No . . . you must be wrong.”
“The coroner’s report was filed this morning.” Stanley looked as if he were about to be sick.
“I’ve . . . I’ve got to go,” he said. Before I could say another word he had disappeared around the house. I stood on the path for a moment, then heard a door close somewhere behind me.
The pungent smell of seaweed and fish wafted over me as the pier came into view. It must be low tide. I hoped Berta would be in her store, rather than beachcombing in search of more raw material. All of her jewelry—or so the advertisements said—was made of unpolished sea glass from the shores of Cranberry Island. Since a national style magazine had recently featured Berta’s pieces, business had apparently skyrocketed, and I wondered how she was keeping up with the demand. Maybe she’d started dumping buckets of broken bottles overboard herself.
My bike bumped over the weathered boards as I rode past Spurrell’s Lobster Pound, my mouth watering at the smell of boiled lobster and corn. I promised myself I would have dinner there soon, regardless of the state of my bank account. A little farther down the pier was Island Artists’ mullioned front window, which featured a bright line of John’s boats. I smiled as a curly haired little boy picked up one of the gaily colored sailboats and tugged at his mother’s shirt. John had told me Claudette’s sweaters and hats were for sale there as well, but they hung on the racks in the back.
Berta’s store was the last one on the pier. I leaned my bike up against the weathered wood wall and glanced at the display in the big glass window, where three sea glass mobiles twirled in the afternoon light and glowed like living pearls. My eyes were drawn to the smallest of the three, which was an iridescent mix of milky blue and green glass. It would be perfect in the window over my kitchen sink. Maybe if business turned around I’d buy it.
When I walked into the small store, Berta sat behind the counter, peering through jeweled reading glasses as she helped a middle-aged woman select a pair of earrings. Berta didn’t look much like a fashion maven in her flowing blue-green dress and gray bouffant; she looked more like somebody’s wacky maiden aunt. The customer she was helping wore a fanny pack strapped to her ample waist, and I guessed she had come over on the mail boat to wander around Cranberry Island for the afternoon. She’d probably read about Berta’s store and had made the trip just to buy her own genuine Berta Simmons earrings from the artist herself.
While Berta helped her customer, I checked the price tag on the mobile that had caught my eye—$500. If I wanted a mobile, I would have to find my own sea glass and figure out how to string it myself. As the price tag slipped from my fingers, I glanced outside. On the next wharf over, a police launch bobbed beside two lobster boats. It looked as if I’d have company when I got home.
The cash register dinged, and Berta handed the woman a bag and a receipt. When the door swung shut, I walked up to the register and smiled.
“Business is booming, eh?”
Berta took off her glasses, which hung around her neck from a chunky silver chain. “Ever since that article hit the stands, I’ve been taking as many orders as I can fill. I’m glad we had that storm the other day,” she said. “I was just about out of materials, but it washed plenty more up on the beach.” She ran her ringed fingers through a big porcelain bowl filled with shards of blue, green and milky white glass, then looked at me with shrewd brown eyes. She might look dreamy, but underneath the gauzy trappings, Berta Simmons was all business. “So, what brings you down to the pier?”
“I was just stopping by to drop off a few brochures,” I said. “I was also hoping to pick up a few of yours to display at the inn.” Berta’s eyes darted to the newspaper rolled up next to the cash register.
I sighed. “I see you’ve been reading the Daily Mail.”
She pursed her lips. “Well . . .”
“Don’t believe everything you read.” Despite my effort to control it, my voice wavered. “As far as I know, Gertrude Pickens hasn’t even spoken to the police yet. And they’ve just started investigating the case.” Berta opened and closed her reading glasses and stared at the mobiles in the window. I tried a new tack.
“Look, Berta. I want to know as much as you do what happened to Bernard Katz. Trust me, I had nothing to do with what happened out there on the cliff. Do you think I’d jeopardize my livelihood—or my life—on Bernard Katz’s account?”
Berta put down her reading glasses and gave me a small smile. “I’m sorry, Natalie. It’s just . . . that article seemed so sure.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “I don’t know how, though, since the police have just started the investigation.”
“You’re right. It’s just so sad, isn’t it? I mean, he was in here just three days ago, picking out a necklace for his lady friend, and now . . .” she trailed o
ff.
“He was picking out jewelry? I didn’t realize he had a girlfriend.”
“His wife died years ago, he was telling me, but he’d recently started seeing a woman—a very stylish dresser, he said—and wanted something special for her.” She sighed. “He probably never even got a chance to give it to her. Poor man.”
I gazed at the array of jewelry in the display case. “All of your pieces are so beautiful,” I said, looking at the necklaces and bracelets arranged among sand dollars and dried sea stars. They were made of sea glass pieces rimmed in gold, connected by tiny gold links. “Which one did he pick?”
“Well, no two pieces are exactly alike—each one is unique, of course—but he selected a necklace that looked very much like this one.” She withdrew a string of pale blue glass and laid it on top of the glass case. “He chose blue because he said it matched her eyes.” I looked at the necklace for a moment before she replaced it in the case, thinking that Estelle’s eyes were blue. A little darker than that necklace, perhaps, but definitely blue.
“Was his lady friend back in New York?” I asked.
“He didn’t say,” Berta answered as she relocked the case. “He just said she was ending a bad relationship, but that he hoped she’d be interested in marrying him when it all got sorted out.”
Was Bernard Katz trying to break up his own son’s marriage so he could marry his daughter-in-law? I didn’t think much of Katz, but that seemed beyond even him. I made a sympathetic noise. “That is tragic, isn’t it? I had no idea Bernard Katz was involved romantically. I hope she wasn’t too deeply in love with him; if so, what a horrible loss.”
“Well, hearts do mend,” Berta said. “But still, you’re right. It is a terrible way to lose a loved one.”
“I hope the police get it all sorted out soon,” I said. Berta composed her thin lips into a polite smile. “Anyway,” I said, “I should probably head back to the inn. You must be swamped with orders to fill.” I unzipped my backpack and laid a stack of brochures on the counter.
Murder on the Rocks Page 9
