“Thank you,” Berta said. “Let me just get a few for you to take back with you.” She disappeared into the back room and returned with a half-dozen brochures of her own. “I have to get more printed,” she said sheepishly.
“Thanks, Berta. And thanks for having faith in me. I’m sure this will all be cleared up before we know it.”
“I hope so,” she said as I headed for the door. As I got onto my bike, I peered back through the glass. Berta had disappeared into the back room again. And so had my stack of brochures.
• • •
The gray-shingled building looked as tranquil as ever as I rode up to the inn. Pale pink and blue sweet peas climbed the columns next to the blue front door, and brilliant magenta roses spilled from the front beds. I noticed a few stray clumps of grass poking out from among the flowers as I wheeled my bike around to the side of the inn; it was time to get out and do some weeding. I stowed the Schwinn in the shed and touched a hand to my temple, which had begun to throb again during the ride home. No weeding right now, though. Right now, I needed more aspirin, and maybe a nap.
A blast of cigarette smoke hit me as I opened the door to my kitchen. Sergeant Grimes sat at my kitchen table next to a saucer full of cigarette butts and several half-empty cups of coffee, looking like he owned the place.
“Ah, Miss Barnes. I hope you don’t mind—I made some coffee for the forensics crew.”
“No problem,” I said, forcing my face into an approximation of a smile. “But do you mind smoking outside? Some of my guests are sensitive to smoke.”
Grimes’ jowly face registered surprise. “I’ll just finish this one up then,” he said, and took a long drag of the half-smoked cigarette dangling between his yellowed fingers. I looked at the butt-filled saucer—my saucer—with fury. It would be days before I got the smell of smoke out of my kitchen.
“The guys are up working in Katz’s room,” he said.
“Did John tell you about the intruder?”
“Oh yeah. He mentioned you hit your head.” He glanced at the knot on my temple. “Nasty. You should get that looked at. What’d you do, trip and whack into something?”
“Someone broke into Katz’s room last night. They were looking for something. I heard them doing it, and interrupted the search. Whoever it was hit me over the head and knocked me out, then took off.”
“You went into Mr. Katz’s room and found someone?” He smoothed his hair with his free hand; the cigarette smoldered in the other. He reminded me of a big, greasy toad. I imagined him blowing up with cigarette smoke and floating through the window, then exploding in the clear Maine air like an overfilled balloon.
“That’s right.”
He leaned back and put his feet up on one of my chairs, making his belt disappear between his paunch and his heavy legs. “What I’d like to know is how exactly you got into Mr. Katz’s room. I locked that door before I left yesterday, and you told me I had all the keys.”
I swallowed. “I forgot about the skeleton key. My niece uses it when she cleans the rooms.”
“The skeleton key, eh? You ‘forgot’ about it. How convenient.” Grimes took his feet off the chair and pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “And how did this—intruder—get into Mr. Katz’s room if you had the skeleton key?”
“Through the window.”
“Through the window. What, did he fly?” He flapped his arms, sending ash flying onto my pine floor. I restrained myself from hurrying over to scoop up the ashes.
“The window was open,” I said evenly. “I imagine whoever it was climbed the rose trellis. Have you taken a look at the ground below the window? There might be footprints.”
Grimes took another drag of his cigarette and made a few notes in his little book. He exhaled a thick stream of smoke and said, “No, haven’t sent anyone out there yet. We’ll get there—let the professionals handle this.” Well, that leaves you out of it, I thought.
He took a last puff and ground out his cigarette on my saucer. I looked at the pile of butts with distaste. “Do you mind if I take that outside?”
He shrugged. “Be my guest.” I grabbed the saucer and walked out the kitchen door with it. After emptying it into the trashcan at the side of the inn, I leaned against the wall and stared at the waves crashing against the rocks, trying to relax. Between the image of Grimes smoking in my kitchen and my ruminations on the culinary expertise of state penitentiary cooks, however, it didn’t work too well.
After a few futile minutes, I returned to the kitchen. Grimes stood in the middle of the room, smoothing his hair again. He hitched his belt up over his paunch and looked at me with those too-close blue eyes.
“Well, that’ll do it for now. I’m going to head upstairs.”
“Don’t forget to look out by the rose trellis.”
“Just let the police do their job, okay, Miss Barnes?”
I raised my hands in surrender and watched as he waddled through the swinging door. Then I scooped up the coffee cups and put them into the dishwasher, opened the windows, and sprayed the kitchen with orange spray. The stench of smoke would take days to dissipate.
My eyes slid to the clock: it was already 2:30. I suddenly realized I hadn’t asked Gwen to do the rooms that afternoon; I needed to make sure she had cleaned them. If she hadn’t, I’d have to do it myself—and fast.
I jogged to the front desk, grabbed the skeleton key, and headed down the first-story hall. Ogden’s room was the first door on the left. I knocked, and when no one answered, I let myself in.
The blue and white counterpane was tucked in tidily, and a stack of fresh white towels lay folded in the bathroom. I smiled. Gwen had taken care of the rooms without my asking. My eyes strayed to the rolltop desk; it was open, but both the blueprints and the stack of statements were gone. They hadn’t been in Katz’s room the other night, either. Where was Ogden keeping them? I was tempted to check the drawers, but decided I’d done enough snooping for the day. Besides, the inn was crawling with police.
I closed Ogden’s door behind me and returned the skeleton key to the cabinet by the front desk. As the cabinet door clicked shut, my eyes fell upon the stack of mail Charlene had handed me. It lay unopened on the blotter.
I pulled the large manila envelope addressed to Bernard Katz out from the bottom of the stack, weighing it in my hands. The return address was Downeast Investigations in Bangor. I turned it over and examined it, wondering what the penalty was for opening someone else’s mail. I knew it was a federal offense, but did it mean jail time? Then again, if someone didn’t find out who had killed Bernard Katz, jail time was probably in my future anyway.
The envelope was latched and taped. I lifted a corner of the tape experimentally; it came off easily. I looked around to make sure I was alone, and then removed the rest of the tape and slid the contents out onto the desk.
Downeast Investigations
540 East River St.
Bangor, Maine 04401
Dear Mr. Katz:
Per your request, enclosed is a copy of the report on Claudette White. We have also enclosed a bill for our previous services. Our records show that your account is past due; please remit payment at your earliest convenience.
If you have any questions, please contact us at (207) 532-8978.
Sincerely,
Jacob Smiley
A report on Claudette White? I flipped through the pages to the computer-generated report and reviewed it quickly. Born Clau-dette Rose Kean in 1946, married to Eleazer White in 1968, resided on Cranberry Island ever since. Nothing new here. I turned the page.
According to this report, Claudette had had a child when she was sixteen. My eyes scanned the typed page. A search of Maine records had turned up the birth of a son at the Bangor hospital to Claudette Kean in 1962; father’s name not recorded. According to the report, she had moved in wi
th an aunt in Bangor while she was pregnant, then put the child up for adoption and returned to Cranberry Island. Nobody on the island knew about it.
I set down the sheaf of paper and stared out the window at the dark pine trees cloaking the hill in front of the inn. So Claudette had had a child. I felt a wave of pity for her; I could only imagine how horrible it must have been first to discover she was pregnant, then to leave the island in secret and have to give up the child, without breathing a word of it to anyone. Had she told Eleazer about it?
I flipped through the rest of the report, but there was nothing else unusual. Was Bernard Katz trying to blackmail her with this information? I pulled the bill out of the stack and looked at it; there were four account numbers listed, but no names. Had he had four islanders investigated? If so, who?
I turned back to the cover letter. Call for assistance, the letter said. Was it a crime to do what the letter told me to do? Then again, I wasn’t the person the letter was addressing. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. I’d already opened somebody else’s mail. Was calling the sender for more information any worse?
I glanced around. I was alone; the guests were either out of the inn or in their rooms, and Grimes was upstairs with the forensics team. If anyone were coming, I’d hear him or her from down the hall. I picked up the phone and dialed.
After three rings, a woman’s voice answered, “Downeast Investigations.”
“Jacob Smiley, please.”
“One moment.” My palms began to sweat as I waited on hold, hoping that Grimes would stay upstairs for a while. Finally, the phone clicked again as the call transferred.
“This is Jacob Smiley.”
“Mr. Smiley? This is Bernard Katz’s assistant. I just received your last report. I was wondering, though, could you send us duplicates of the other reports? The originals are at the office, and we’re still on Cranberry Island.”
“Where’s Mr. Wilson?”
Mr. Wilson? Oh, Ogden. “Oh, he’s here . . . it’s just that everything’s been so busy lately, I’m helping out with the administrative details.”
“What’s your name?”
“Natalie Barnes- . . . ton.” I hit my left temple with my palm, then winced. Great alias, Nat. No one would be able to decipher that one.
“Shall I send it to you, then, Miss Barneston?”
“No, you can address it to Mr. Wilson or Mr. Katz, but at the same Gray Whale Inn address. And could you send that express mail?”
“Of course. You received the bill, as well?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m sending it right over to accounting.”
“Excellent.”
“Do you think you could get those reports out today?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
As I thanked him and hung up the phone, footsteps approached from the upstairs hall. I shoved the paperwork back into its envelope and jammed it into a drawer. By the time the heavy tread of Grimes’ boots had started down the stairs, I was opening my own mail.
“Where can you get lunch around here?” Grimes asked, hanging over the banister. Even though he was more than ten feet away from me, I could smell stale cigarette smoke.
“There’s always Spurrell’s Lobster Pound,” I said. “But the Cranberry Island Store has great sandwiches.” I hoped he’d decide on the store; after all, it was my tax dollars he’d be spending, and I didn’t feel like funding a lobster lunch for Grimes, no matter how indirectly. Besides, Charlene might be able to pry some information out of him that would be useful—like how Katz had died, for example.
As Grimes receded down the hall, I opened the rest of the stack of mail, logging the bills with a heavy heart and setting the brochure requests aside in a small stack. “You need a Web site,” one of the letters said. I’d add it to the list.
I glanced at the answering machine; its red light was flashing. I jabbed anxiously at the play button, hoping for a reservation. As the voices burbled out of the machine, my hopes deflated; two potential guests had called asking for information on rates and availability, but there were no new bookings for my empty calendar.
As I began stuffing envelopes with brochures, I wondered how long Ogden and Barbara would be staying. From a financial perspective, the longer they stayed, the better. Ogden wasn’t my favorite person, but the money was a big help, and at least he was low-maintenance. Since both of them were connected to Bernard Katz, I reflected, maybe the police would insist that they stay until the case was cleared. Then again, since I appeared to be the prime suspect, Grimes would probably let them leave early.
My stomach rumbled as I licked the last envelope. I got up and started into the kitchen, then doubled back and locked the drawer with Katz’s mail in it, slipping the key into my pocket. I might not be the only person snooping around in other people’s desks. It wouldn’t surprise me if Grimes decided to do a little investigating while I was out.
As the kitchen door swung shut behind me, I wrinkled my nose; the smoke smell still lingered, despite the ocean breeze pouring in through the windows. I opened the fridge and gazed at the barren shelves, then grabbed a half-empty jar of strawberry jam and picked up the phone.
“When are those groceries expected in?” I asked when Charlene answered. I fished two stale slices of bread out of a bag and arranged them on a plate. “I’m down to peanut butter and jelly here.”
“They should be in on the 4:00 mail boat. Want me to swing by with them when I close the store? I’ll bring up some frozen chowder and we can have it for dinner.”
“That would be fantastic.” My old Toyota Celica resided in a parking lot over on the mainland. If it weren’t for Charlene’s old rusted-out pick-up truck, I’d be hauling groceries with a wheelbarrow. “I’ll pull some bread dough out of the freezer, and you can tell me all about dinner with Barbara.”
“And you can tell me what you’ve been up to. From what I hear, you’ve been all over the island today.”
“We’ll talk about it when you get here. 6:30, then?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
I hung up and bit into my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was coming close to 3:00, and I wanted to get to Claudette’s and back before dinnertime.
A few dark clouds loomed on the horizon as my bike rolled up in front of Claudette’s house a half hour later. The goats grazed in the meadow behind the little wood-frame house, chained to an old tire and bleating as they devoured everything in sight. Clau-dette’s sweet peas were bare stems below the six-foot mark, and only one petunia peeked out among the stumps of geranium and ivy in the whiskey barrels that lined the front porch. It gave me comfort to know that Claudette’s garden suffered, too.
The barn that housed Eleazer’s boat-building shop was set back a bit behind the house. Both buildings were painted white with aquamarine trim, but while the house’s paint was fresh and clean and the porch neatly swept, the barn was starting to peel in places, and the yard next to it was cluttered with boats in various stages of decomposition. As I looked at the rotting hulls, I decided to ask Eleazer if he could find me a cheap skiff; it would be much easier than relying on the mail boat.
The wooden steps creaked beneath me as I climbed to the front porch. I knocked on the aquamarine door with trepidation; I didn’t know how to broach the subject of blackmail, and was more than a little afraid of what Claudette’s reaction would be.
The aroma of browning beef and onions wafted over me as Claudette opened the door, dressed in a long floral housedress and a white apron spattered with cooking oil. Her hair was pulled back into a tight gray bun, accentuating her heavy jaw, and her cool gray eyes registered surprise.
“Smells great in there,” I said. Despite the peanut butter and jelly, my mouth had begun to water.
“I’m making stew for dinner.” Claudette wiped her hands on
her white apron. “Come in.”
I followed her through the small entryway and into the cramped kitchen. The floor was covered in brown linoleum, and the small kitchen table was draped with a red-and-white checked cloth. An assortment of pots and pans with the dull shine of many scrubbings hung from a pot-rack over the porcelain sink, and a line of antique canisters stood next to a thirty-year-old gas stove. An old-fashioned wood-burning stove appeared to be the source of heat for the kitchen; although a teakettle rested on one of its black burners, I was guessing it wouldn’t be lit again until September. A basket full of wool with an assortment of knitting needles sticking out of it sat next to the back door.
I slid into one of the two kitchen chairs as Claudette stood at the stove and stirred the onions and beef in a pan. Something about her looked different. My eyes strayed to the basket of wool, and I realized that it was one of the few times I’d seen her without a pair of knitting needles.
“So, what brings you here?” Claudette asked. “Any news on the preserve?” Her raspy voice was guarded, and reminded me of why I had come.
“Nothing yet. The evaluators should be out there any day now. I assume nothing’s changed with Premier Resorts, though.”
Claudette grimaced. “I thought not. It’s too bad Bernard Katz didn’t die a day earlier. Could have saved us all a lot of trouble.” She added salt to the pan with a sharp jerk of her wrist. “I hear he was murdered.”
“That’s what they’re saying. The police came out to look at Katz’s room today.” Claudette replaced the saltshaker on the ledge behind the stove. I leaned forward in my chair. “Have the police been out to talk to you yet?” Claudette’s gray eyes darted from the pan to me for a moment. She thrust out her jaw.
“No. Why would they?”
“Well, they’ve been all over me,” I said lightly. “You’d think I was the only one on the island who didn’t like Bernard Katz.”
Claudette took a deep breath and then launched into the beginning of one of her trademark tirades. “He’s just like the rest of the greedmongers, wanting to take nature and pervert it to their own uses.” She thrust the spoon into the pan. “There’s no room for nature anymore. It’s all plastic cartons, plastic wrappers, trash everywhere. No one is interested in the natural rhythm of things, in conservation.”
Murder on the Rocks Page 10
