Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  If I didn’t head her off now, it would be hours before I got a word in edgewise. She paused for a breath and I jumped into the gap. “I agree with you, Claudette, and I’d love to discuss it sometime, but I came by this afternoon because I have a question for you.” She fell silent. Her gray eyes flicked to me, then returned to the pan in front of her. “I ran across something the other day that made me think Bernard Katz was trying to blackmail some folks here on the island.”

  Claudette’s jaw jutted out even farther, and the intensity of her stirring increased. She fixed her eyes on the contents of the pan.

  “I was wondering if he’d ever approached you,” I said. “Tried to convince you to back off Save Our Terns.”

  Claudette’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the wooden spoon. She spoke through clenched teeth. “What exactly did you find that would make you ask me that, Natalie?”

  I shifted in the hard chair. “He sicced a private investigator on you, didn’t he?” I asked gently. “Tried to blackmail you into backing down by threatening to tell everyone about the child you had to give up.” Claudette stopped stirring. “But you didn’t give in, did you?”

  Claudette stood motionless at the stove. Her gray eyes shone, and as I watched, a tiny drop trickled down her thick cheek. She was silent for a long moment, and the hard lines of her face seemed to soften. “I was young,” she whispered. “He was a fisherman from the mainland, promised me he’d marry me.” She made a strange sobbing noise. “When I told him I was pregnant, he signed on with a ship. Left port the next day.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. I got up from my chair and retrieved the tissue box next to the sink. She took it from my hand without looking at me.

  “What a terrible thing to do to a young girl,” I said softly.

  She pulled a tissue from the box and dabbed at her eyes, then stood silent for a long moment. “I went to stay with an aunt in Bangor,” she continued in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. “My mother insisted, said no one could know. Told everyone I was taking a course in etiquette.” She gazed out the window. “I never saw my baby. I never even saw him.”

  I sat silent as she wiped her eyes with the tissue. “And then later,” she continued, “with Eleazer, when we wanted children . . .” she trailed off. Her thick body convulsed. I rose and patted her soft back. “I couldn’t have another child. That’s why I have Muffin, and Gretel, and Pudge.” For a moment I was confused. Then I realized she was talking about her goats.

  “What an awful experience,” I murmured. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you. Does Eleazer know?”

  “No.” Her voice was venomous. “But Bernard Katz was threatening to tell him about it.”

  “You know, you and Eleazer might be able to adopt.”

  She sighed. “It’s too late for that. Look at me. I’m fifty-eight, and Eleazer’s almost seventy. Who would give a child to us?” The smell of singed onion began to fill the room, recalling Claudette’s attention to the stove; she turned the gas down and stirred wildly, scattering bits of meat and blackened onion across the clean white surface.

  “Bernard Katz came and threatened to tell Eleazer. And the whole island.” Her voice was edged with bitterness. “I told him he could shout it from Cadillac Mountain if he wanted to. It doesn’t make a whit of difference to me now.”

  “Do you know where your son is now?”

  “They gave him to a family in Bangor. He’s grown now, has a family of his own. A girl and a boy. I’ve never met him—I didn’t want to upset his life—but I keep tabs on what he’s doing. And his kids—my grandkids, really,” she said wistfully.

  “Maybe you should try to get in touch with him. You’d make a wonderful grandmother. And I’m sure he’d understand—you were so young, and things were very different then.”

  “Maybe. I just have to get through this thing with the police first.”

  “What thing?”

  She gave me a curious look. “Everyone on the island saw how angry I was at Bernard Katz the night he died. I just about threatened to kill him myself, didn’t I? I’m surprised they haven’t been beating down the door already.”

  “But surely Eleazer could vouch for you. I mean, you went home right after the meeting, didn’t you?”

  Claudette’s eyes flicked out the window, to where Muffin and her friends were tearing up part of the backyard. “Yes,” she said, “of course.”

  • • •

  The sky was just starting to spit fat drops of rain as I pulled up beside the inn, stowed my bike in the shed, and dashed to the kitchen door. The lacy white kitchen curtains billowed in the wind as the door slammed shut behind me, and I rushed to close the windows before the rain turned into a downpour. My eyes swept the room, looking for more cigarette butt-laden saucers. To my relief, although the acrid smell of smoke still lingered in the air, it looked as if Grimes had taken any further cigarettes outside. I peeked at the bread dough, which had started to puff up beneath its blue and white towel, and headed to the front desk to check for messages.

  The red light was blinking again. I hit the play button.

  “Hello, Natalie? This is Gertrude Pickens of the Daily Mail again. If you could give me a call, I would appreciate it.” Her saccharine voice made my head begin to ache again. My finger jabbed at the erase button halfway through the phone number; I wasn’t about to provide her with more ammunition for tomorrow’s edition.

  A clunk from upstairs reminded me that the police were still at the inn. Although I was tempted to go upstairs and ask questions, the safer course would probably be to stay busy in the kitchen. I glanced at my watch; there was enough time to start getting things ready for breakfast tomorrow before Charlene arrived. Then again, I was short on groceries until she showed up. Still, maybe there would be something I could start working on.

  As I headed into the kitchen to take inventory, thunder boomed. I froze. Had the police been out to the rose trellis yet? If not, all the evidence would be washed away.

  I tore up the staircase and pounded on Katz’s door. Grimes opened it and eyed me quizzically. The room was still a shambles, only now it was a shambles dusted with powder. Fingerprint powder, I presumed.

  “Did you check the bottom of the rose trellis?” I gasped. “It’s starting to rain.”

  The two men behind Grimes looked up. “Rose trellis?” asked the smaller of the two, a thin dark man with round wire glasses.

  “Somebody broke into the room last night. I think they climbed up the rose trellis and came in through the window.” He gave me a blank look from behind his glasses. The other man, a plump redhead, raised his eyebrows at Grimes.

  “You didn’t tell us that.”

  Grimes shifted from foot to foot. “That’s what she says happened. Looks to me like she was coming up with an excuse for having her prints all over the room. Probably whacked herself in the head getting out of the shower or something, and thought it would be a good cover story.” He smirked at me. “By the way, we’ll need a full set of prints from you before we leave for the day.”

  “Does this mean you’re not going to look at the ground beneath the trellis?”

  The short dark-haired man looked outside at the now pouring rain and grimaced. “Any evidence out there has probably washed away by now. We’ll go out and take a look, but . . .” He shot Grimes a hard look. “I’m sorry we didn’t know about this earlier.” Grimes ran a finger around his collar and cleared his throat.

  “I think that will be all, Miss Barnes. We’ll come find you if we need anything further.” He started to close the door on me.

  I stuck my foot between the door and the frame. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  I pushed the door open far enough to address the two men. “Would you mind not using crime scene tape? I’m afraid it will frighten away my guests.”
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  The dark-haired man’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Of course not. That won’t be necessary at all. In fact, I think we’re almost finished up here, don’t you?” His red-haired partner nodded.

  I withdrew my foot, and the door shut with a bang. As I made my way down the stairs, I heard voices coming down the hall. At least they’d look at it. I cursed myself for not thinking to point it out to them earlier. Clearly Grimes thought he had an open-and-shut case, and was not interested in gumming up the works with information that might lead to the real killer. For a moment, I regretted taking the letter out of Katz’s room last night; maybe the investigators could have made something out of that. That was water under the bridge, though. I couldn’t exactly go up and give it back to them.

  The sound of the front door slamming shut reverberated through the house as I dug through the freezer, sorting through bags of frozen pork chops and chicken until I found a bag of raspberries. The rain was sheeting down the windows as I tossed the bag onto the counter; I hoped the policemen had brought raincoats. I opened the fridge to see what I could find. There was no sour cream and only a quarter of a pound of butter, but a container of dehydrated buttermilk lurked in the corner of the fridge. I pulled it out and leafed through my cookbooks until I found a recipe for raspberry coffee cake that involved minimal butter and called for buttermilk instead of sour cream. I’d make the batter this evening and keep it in the fridge; in the morning, I’d add a streusel topping and pop the cake into the oven.

  I was just washing up the bowl when Charlene’s truck clattered down the road. I threw on my rain slicker and raced out to help her unload the groceries.

  “What are those guys doing on the side of your house?” she yelled as we ran in through the kitchen door, our arms filled with wet plastic bags.

  “Looking for clues,” I called back as I headed out for another load of groceries. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get this stuff inside.” Within ten minutes, the kitchen counters were covered with dripping white bags and we were soaked. “I’m glad you used plastic instead of paper,” I said.

  “It didn’t help me much,” she said, peeling off her bright yellow rain slicker. Charlene’s silky magenta blouse clung to her skin, and the hem of her denim skirt was splattered with mud. Her usually immaculate hair stuck to her face, and mascara oozed down her cheeks. I put on a teakettle and tossed her a clean towel from a stack in the laundry room. She dabbed at her face and hair with it as I put the groceries away and told her about my day.

  “Someone broke into Katz’s room and hit you over the head?” she asked, raccoon eyes wide.

  “Yeah, but Grimes didn’t tell the forensic guys about it. When it started to rain, I went up and asked if they’d had a chance to look outside yet. Grimes hadn’t even told them about it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What a jerk. Can’t you call and have someone else put on the investigation?”

  “That would look good. The primary suspect calling to complain because she doesn’t like the investigating officer.” The teakettle began to whistle. I threw a tea bag into the teapot and poured hot water over it, then turned the oven to 400 degrees for the bread.

  “I see your point,” Charlene said. “Maybe I should call.”

  “Thanks, but I really don’t think it would make any difference. I did find out something else about Katz today, though.”

  “What?”

  “I think he was blackmailing some of the islanders. Or trying to.”

  Charlene stopped dabbing at her mascara. “You’re kidding me. Who?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m sure.” What Claudette had told me today was between her and me. I wasn’t going to divulge that information to anyone, even Charlene. I changed the subject. “So, what did you find out about Barbara?”

  Charlene sighed and resumed dabbing at her face. “Not much. Apparently she’s spending most of her time at the Somesville library doing ‘research’, but she wouldn’t tell me anything more about it.”

  “Did you find out anything about what she meant by ‘alternate tactics’?”

  Charlene was glum. “Not a word. I must be losing my touch. Barbara sure can pack it away, can’t she? She ate a two-pound lobster, half a dozen rolls and two huge slices of pie.”

  “I know. It’s not fair, is it? Gwen’s the same way.” I unveiled the bread dough and popped the pale loaf into the oven. “Where’s that chowder, by the way?”

  “I think I left it in the truck.” She rose to get her raincoat again, but I was already at the door.

  “I’ll get it. You were nice enough to bring me my groceries—and the chowder. Besides, you just got yourself cleaned up.” She sank down into her chair as I slipped back out into the rain.

  When I returned with the Tupperware container, Charlene was looking around the kitchen. “By the way, where is your niece?”

  “Out painting, I presume. She’s off with her sketchbook and easel whenever she gets the chance.”

  Charlene’s lips curved into a smile. “Have you seen her work?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been meaning to head over to Fernand’s, but I haven’t had the chance. Why?”

  “It’s pouring out there. Do you really think Gwen’s outside painting right now?”

  I glanced out the window at the sheeting rain. The last time I had seen her, Gwen was wearing a light sundress, and her raincoat still hung on the peg by the door. “I see your point.” I looked at Charlene, who was still smirking. “So, where is she?”

  Charlene examined her pink nails. “The way I hear it, she’s been spending a good bit of time with Adam Thrackton.”

  “The kid who threw all his books off the pier and decided to become a lobsterman?”

  “Yup. Apparently Gwen’s been spending a lot of time out on his boat.” She bent down to examine a miniscule snag on a pinky nail. “Do you have a file?”

  “No, I don’t. So, is she going out with this guy?”

  “Well, he’s not hauling too many traps lately, the way I hear it.”

  I looked out at the whitecaps on the water. “You don’t think she’s out with him in this weather, do you?”

  “I think he’ll take care of her. They all say he’s a natural on a boat.”

  I groaned. “How am I going to tell my sister about this?” I narrowed my eyes at Charlene. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Trust me.” Charlene rubbed at her nail for a moment, then looked up at me. “At least he has a degree from an Ivy League school.”

  “Had,” I said. “Didn’t he pitch that into the drink as well?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  As if on cue, the kitchen door banged open. My niece appeared in the doorway with her mass of brown hair plastered to her pink cheeks, wearing a heavy orange rain jacket and a starry-eyed smile.

  “How’s the painting going?” I asked.

  Gwen pushed a strand of wet hair away from her face. “The painting? Oh, great—really great.” Charlene gave me a nasty look; I ignored it.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing your work. I’ve got to get over to Fernand’s someday soon to take a look at it.”

  “That’d be cool.” She peeled off the orange raincoat. “Mind if I run upstairs and change? I’m drenched.”

  “If you’re hungry, I’ve got bread in the oven, and Charlene brought over some chowder.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, kicking off her mud-covered sandals and heading for the stairs. As she disappeared, Charlene cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “So, you think that glow comes from art?”

  “I concede the point. As usual, I’m the last to know.”

  Charlene pointed at the orange raincoat dripping on the hook next to the door. “At least he’s enough of a gentleman to lend her his coat. He can’t be all bad.”

 
“Unfortunately, I don’t think her mother will see it that way.” I grimaced. “I never dreamed I’d see her in a fisherman’s jacket.”

  “She’s nineteen. She can’t be under her mother’s thumb forever. Didn’t you have a few flings when you were young? Or were you always this averse to anything romantic?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s just that I’m responsible for her . . .”

  “Responsible for giving her a place to live and feeding her and making sure she doesn’t do herself bodily harm. She’s getting her work done here, isn’t she?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So let her deal with her mother. Stay out of it.” Clearly she didn’t know Bridget very well, but I just nodded and said nothing. I got up and peeked into the oven; the bread was close to being done, so I popped the chowder into the microwave. As I turned around, a knock sounded at the kitchen door, and three very wet policemen crowded into the kitchen. Grimes hung close to the door, a sour look on his face.

  “You guys are soaked!” I said. “Do you need towels?”

  “No, we’re just going to head back to the launch,” the dark-haired forensics investigator told me. “We’re done for today.”

  “Did you have any luck outside?”

  The plump redhead grimaced. “Some of the vines were torn away from the trellis, and the wood was broken in a few places, but if there were any footprints or fingerprints, they got washed away in the rain. I’m sorry.”

  My heart sank. On the plus side, they did seem to believe that someone had climbed the trellis. Grimes stood sullenly, his wet uniform dripping on my pine floor. His hand strayed to his pocket, and then retreated. Reaching for a cigarette.

  “Do you need a ride back to the town dock?” Charlene asked, trying to puff up her flattened hair.