“No, thanks. We called the launch—if you don’t mind, we’re going to board at your dock.”
“Be my guest. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea to warm you up?”
They declined, and filed out the doorway. Grimes hung back to deliver a parting shot. “I’ll be back to take prints tomorrow,” he said, then shut the door behind him with a bang.
Charlene looked at me. “Prints?”
“I know. Not good.”
“Well, at least the other two policemen were nice,” she said. “The guy with the glasses was kind of cute.”
“It’s just the investigating officer I’ve got a problem with.”
Charlene and I were on our second bowls of chowder when Gwen swept down the stairs in her fluffy blue bathrobe. She tore off a big hunk of bread and began filling a bowl with steaming chowder. I spooned up some more of the creamy soup and waited until she sat down at the table before I asked the question.
“Did Adam lend you that jacket?”
Gwen froze with her spoon in midair. “How did you know?”
“I’m best friends with Charlene, remember?” Gwen blushed. Charlene leaned forward and patted her hand.
“Adam’s a fine boy, sweetheart. You don’t need to hide him from us.”
“Are you going to tell your mother about him?” I persisted.
Gwen shifted in her chair. “I don’t really think he’s mother’s type,” she said in a faint voice.
I sighed. “Gwen, I’m responsible for you this summer. From what Charlene tells me, Adam is a good person. I’m afraid your mother’s going to be less than thrilled, though. I’m not going to call her and report your every movement, but if she asks me if you’re seeing anyone, I’ll have to tell her.”
Gwen toyed with her spoon and stared at the table. “I know.”
“Good lord, Nat, lighten up!” Charlene paused between bites of chowder to wag her spoon at me. “You’d think Gwen was dating a convicted murderer.” She gave me a funny look. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.” She licked her spoon. “But Gwen’s a young woman now, not a child. She can choose who she wants to see.”
“I know,” I said. “I just don’t want to get in the middle of things.”
“Then don’t.”
Gwen shot Charlene an appreciative look and took a tentative taste of chowder. “This is really good.” She was right. Charlene’s chowder was a masterpiece of potatoes and clams cloaked in a velvety sauce. I scooped up a little with a crust of bread and made a mental note to get the recipe.
Charlene smiled proudly. “New England style. None of that tomato-y Manhattan stuff.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “At any rate, sweetheart, how is Adam doing? Is he involved in the gear war?”
I was baffled, but Gwen seemed to know just what she was talking about. “I don’t think he’s cutting any traps himself,” she said, “but he’s all for taking measures to protect our traditional fishing grounds.” I looked up from my bowl. Our traditional fishing grounds? She’d been on Cranberry Island a sum total of six weeks.
“What gear war?” I asked. Charlene and Gwen gave me a pitying look. “You do know that some mainlanders have been moving in on Cranberry Island’s fishing grounds?” I nodded. “Well,” Charlene continued, “somebody’s been cutting buoys loose from the traps. You know, the red and green buoys that keep popping up like bad pennies? They belong to mainlanders. The lobster co-op has been moving them back over the line into mainland territory, but whoever’s fishing them keeps moving them back onto Cranberry Island’s turf. So someone started cutting their gear. It’s been the talk of the island,” she said. “That and what happened to Bernard Katz, of course.”
She turned to Gwen. “So, how’s the haul been?”
“A lot of shorts, and Adam says he’s been changing a lot of water.”
“Changing water?” I asked.
“That’s what they call it when the traps come up empty,” Gwen said in an authoritative voice. “But Adam says the hauls don’t really start picking up until the beginning of July, so he’s not worried.” I raised my eyebrows. In less than two months, my California niece had started talking like a Maine lobsterman.
“What are shorts?”
“Lobsters that are two small to keep. Conservation measures.”
“Ah.” Clearly I had a lot to learn about lobstering. “Gwen, have you done any painting since you’ve been here?”
Gwen’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, Aunt Nat—I did a great watercolor of the Gray Whale the other day. I sketched it while I was out on the boat.”
“I could use one of those for a new brochure,” I said.
Gwen’s eyes sparkled. “Really? You’d use it on your brochure? I could do a series, you know.”
“Well, the next printing is a ways away,” I said, not wanting her to get too excited—I hadn’t even seen one of her sketches, after all—“but it’s a definite possibility.” If there was a second printing.
Gwen beamed at me. “Thanks, Aunt Nat. That’d be great in my portfolio.” She started buttering her bread and I turned back to Charlene.
“Gertrude Pickens called me again this afternoon.”
Charlene spoke through a mouthful of clam and potato. “What did you tell her this time? I can hardly wait to read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”
“I didn’t tell her anything. She left a message; I didn’t call her back.”
“She’ll still make you sound like an ax murderer.”
I stared at the fat raindrops dashing themselves against the kitchen window. “I wonder how he did die? It might help to know that.”
“Help what?” Charlene sounded skeptical.
“Well, if Grimes isn’t going to investigate, I figure someone should.”
“Planning on adding a little breaking and entering to your dossier? Grimes would like that.” Charlene took another bite of chowder before she continued. “What I want to know is, how are you planning on getting into the police station unnoticed? Particularly since you’re not supposed to leave the island.”
“I’m not planning on breaking or entering anything,” I said, wondering if going through Stanley Katz’s desk qualified as breaking or entering. “Maybe John knows.”
“I know he likes you, but I don’t think he’s allowed to share that information with you. He probably doesn’t know anything, anyway.” She licked a bit of chowder off her spoon. “Grimes seems like the type who would keep that sort of information close to his chest.”
“He was there when they lifted Katz out, and saw something that made him think Katz was murdered. Even if he didn’t see the autopsy report, he could at least give me something to go on.”
“I don’t know,” Charlene said. “Grimes may not be the best investigator in the world, but I don’t think you should go trying to get yourself into more trouble than you’re already in.”
I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “So I should just sit back and let Grimes convict me of murder?”
“Calm down, calm down. All I’m saying is, there are other ways to go about things. Let me ask around, see if anyone saw anything that night. Besides, you were telling me earlier you had a good lead.”
“What lead?” Gwen asked.
“Your aunt thinks Bernard Katz was blackmailing some islanders.”
Gwen wiped the last of the chowder from her bowl with a crust of bread. “Maybe that’s why Ingrid changed her vote.” The thought had occurred to me, too, but I said nothing.
“Good point,” Charlene said. “But who else would he blackmail? I’d say your Aunt Nat would be a good candidate, but she’s too much of a goody-two-shoes.” She narrowed her blue eyes at me; without mascara, they seemed strangely naked. “Unless there’s some deep dark past you’ve been hiding from us.”
I laughed. “Not unless I have a second personality I’m not aware of.” I wondered if Katz had considered trying to blackmail me. I’d find out soon enough if he’d tried; copies of the investigative reports should be here any day.
“What makes you think he was blackmailing people?” Gwen asked.
“I can’t talk about it right now, but I’ll know more soon,” I said. “Please don’t say anything to anyone about it yet, though. I want to be sure.”
Charlene smiled wryly. “Your aunt is considering going into private investigation as a sideline.”
“She’s just kidding,” I said as Gwen looked at me questioningly.
We finished our chowder, and Charlene headed home, promising to ask around and see if anyone was out the night Katz died. Gwen helped me set up the dining room, and we both headed upstairs at the same time.
“I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy,” I said as we climbed the creaky staircase.
Gwen smiled. “Thanks, Aunt Nat.”
“Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”
Gwen groaned. “Do you have to be so limiting?” We both laughed.
“Have a good night, Gwen. And thanks for taking care of the rooms today.”
“No problem.”
I could hear the shower running in the bathroom next door as I filled the claw-foot tub with hot, bubbly water and lit a candle. One nice thing about living in an inn was that you never ran out of hot water.
I lowered myself into the hot fragrant bubbles with a sigh of pleasure, luxuriating in the tingle of heat on my chilled legs and feet. In Texas, it rarely got chilly enough to appreciate a good hot bath. Here in Maine, though, evenings were always nippy enough to make baths a real pleasure. And I hadn’t even spent a winter up here yet.
I picked up my book and soon lost myself in the pages, enjoying the flicker of the candles and the scent of the bubbles. The shower had gone off next door, and I could hear the rain patter against the windowpane, and below that the soft rush of the waves as they lapped against the rocks outside.
I had just turned a page and was sinking deeper into the fragrant water when a crash of breaking glass sounded from somewhere in the inn.
I leaped out of the bathtub and grabbed a towel. Within seconds, I had wrapped a robe around myself and was running down the stairs. I hit the kitchen light and scanned the room, but nothing was out of place; the sound must have come from elsewhere. My hand trembled as I slid a carving knife from the block and approached the swinging door to the dining room on tiptoe, gripping the knife. The droplets of water falling to the floor from my wet hair sounded like hammer blows as I shouldered through the door into the dark room and fumbled for the switch.
The lights went on with a click. I stood squinting into the glare, holding the knife out before me like a talisman. The dining room was empty, but someone had thrown a rock through the window. It was perched on the corner of one of the dining room tables, surrounded by shards of twinkling glass.
I tiptoed over to the glass to take a closer look. It was a chunk of granite almost as big as my head, and the glass window it had evidently come through was shattered. As I bent down to examine it, something crashed behind me. I whirled around, stabbing the air—but it was only a chunk of glass falling out of the window frame.
My breath shuddered out of my chest as I looked back at the rock. A folded piece of lined notebook paper had been tied to it with a piece of rough twine. I laid the knife down where I could retrieve it quickly and slid the paper out from beneath the twine.
I peeled the paper open with shaking fingers. It was wet with rain, and the ink had begun to run, but the message, which had been written firmly with a black marker, was clear: GET OFF OUR ISLAND.
I stood staring at the angry block letters when the sound of someone hammering at the kitchen door made my heart start thudding all over again. Blood thundered through my veins as I grabbed the knife, and it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to consult a cardiologist soon. Island life hadn’t been nearly as relaxing as I’d hoped. As I crept toward the kitchen, a sharp pain lanced through my foot. I yelped—I must have stepped on a shard of glass—and hobbled the rest of the way, my heart racing as I pushed open the swinging door.
A wave of relief swept over me at the sight of John standing outside in the rain. I limped over to the door and unlocked it, leaving a trail of blood on the wood floor. His hair was rumpled, and he was dressed in a holey T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. As the door opened, I became acutely conscious of my threadbare bathrobe, and pulled it tighter around myself.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” I said as he stepped into the kitchen.
“I heard a crash. What happened?” His green eyes leapt to the blood on the floor. “Are you okay?”
“Someone delivered a message through the dining room window. I’m fine; I just stepped on a piece of glass.”
“Someone broke the window?”
“Threw a rock through it, actually. I’m surprised half the inn isn’t up. The rain must have masked the noise.”
“The only reason I heard it is that I have a window open.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Kitchen mishap,” he said sheepishly. I didn’t probe further. “Are you okay in here?” he asked. “I’m going to see if I can track down whoever did this.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” The door shut behind him, and I limped over to a chair to inspect my foot.
The piece of glass embedded in my foot was a quarter of an inch long, but fortunately it had slid in sideways, and hadn’t penetrated too deeply. I eased it out between my thumb and forefinger; it looked like a crystal tooth. Blood welled in the wound, and after staunching it with a paper towel, I hopped up the stairs to the bathroom.
As I cleaned and bandaged the cut, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The knot on my forehead was beginning to turn an interesting shade of purplish green, my hands and forearms were scabbed from my slide down the cliff, and the thumb I had caught in Ogden’s roll-top desk had turned dark purple. My gray-streaked brown hair was wild around my wan face, and dark circles ringed my eyes. I was hardly the ravishing creature I hoped John would see. In fact, I was beginning to look like a poster child for the Battered Women’s Shelter. There was nothing I could do about my bumps and bruises, but I did throw on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt before I headed back downstairs. I might not look like Aphrodite incarnate, but that didn’t mean I had to meet John in my threadbare bathrobe again.
I had finished sweeping up the glass and was examining the jagged hole in the window when John came through the swinging door from the kitchen.
“Your foot okay?”
“Yeah, it was just a sliver. Did you see anyone?”
“Whoever it was took off in a hurry.” He walked over to the table and picked up the soggy paper. “Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”
“Next time I hope they’ll send flowers instead.” My eyes returned to the shattered window. Water dripped from the broken glass, and had started to pool on wood floor. There was no way to hide that from the guests tomorrow morning. Maybe I could blame it on a renegade seagull. “Is there any way to get this covered up for the night?”
“I’ve got a plastic drop cloth I could tape up for now. It won’t be perfect, but at least it will keep the rain out.” He looked at me thought-fully. “I’d be happier with something a little less flimsy, though. Do you have a lock on your bedroom door?”
“Yes.”
“Use it. And make sure Gwen locks her door, too. I’m glad you’re both on the second story. I’ll head over to the mainland and pick up some glass tomorrow.”
“I wonder if Grimes will think I did this, too.”
“Throw a rock with a nasty note tied to it through your
own dining room window?”
“Well, he didn’t believe anyone had broken into Katz’s room and knocked me out. He didn’t tell the forensics investigators about it until the rain washed away all the evidence.”
John looked up at me, his face drawn. “They didn’t get any evidence?”
“By the time they got around to it, it was pouring. If I hadn’t gone up and said something to them myself, I don’t think Grimes would have mentioned it. He told me he thinks I fell and hit my head and concocted the whole story.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
We were silent for a moment, staring at the window. The lines around John’s mouth looked deeper than usual, and his usually sparkling eyes were dull. I said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—do you have any idea how Katz was killed?”
John’s head jerked up sharply. “Why do you want to know?”
“I thought it might give me an idea of who might have done it.”
His mouth twisted into a frown. “I didn’t see the autopsy report, but it looked to me as if someone hit him on the side of the head with something heavy, then pushed him over the cliff.”
I shuddered. “I’m glad I didn’t see that side of him.” I thought for a moment. “Do you think a woman could have done it?”
John shrugged. “If she was angry enough, I imagine so.” He shot me a warning look from beneath his thick, sandy eyebrows. “You didn’t hear any of this from me, though.”
“Of course not.”
John ran his hand through his hair and looked back at the shattered window. “Why don’t you put some towels down and I’ll see what I can do to get this window covered up.” His shoulders looked bowed as he closed the kitchen door behind him. I took a look at the blood, water and mud on the floor and retreated to the laundry room for a stack of towels. As I mopped up the floor, he knocked out the rest of the glass and taped up a big piece of cloudy plastic. We worked together in silence, our minds on other things.
By the time I made it back to my bathtub, the bubbles had deflated and the water was cold. I blew out the candle and headed for bed. The clock read 12:45. I groaned. I had only six hours to go before it was time to be up and in the kitchen.
Murder on the Rocks Page 12
