Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  “Just put a fresh coat of paint on her yesterday,” Eleazer said, patting the bow fondly. “She’s got great lines, this one does.” He looked like a gnome in his dark brown cap and red jacket.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, “but how much is it? Things are kind of tight right now.”

  He waved me away with a gnarled hand. “You can pay me when business gets going. Right now I’m just glad to get this girl into the water where she belongs. Her name’s the Little Marian. I got her off of one of the summer folks—they wanted something fancier, and let her go for a song.” He hopped into the small boat like a mountain goat and looked up at me expectantly. “What are you waiting for? Let’s take her for a spin!”

  I eyed the sky warily. “What if it rains?”

  Eleazer glanced up at the low gray ceiling. “Nah,” he said. “It won’t rain for a while yet. I can always tell. Now, come on. Hop in.”

  I clambered aboard the Little Marian awkwardly, bumping my sore hip against the side. I winced, but Eleazer didn’t notice; he was busy untying the ropes from the cleats and lowering the outboard motor into the water. He pulled the cord and the engine roared to life, and moments later we were moving away from the dock. I looked down through the glassy water, mesmerized by the green sea grasses floating among rocks and pearly mussel shells, and the hundreds of greenish-brown sea urchins that clung to the rocky bottom.

  The water quickly grew deep, and the urchins faded from view. “Here are your oars,” Eleazer said, “and the anchor’s up here. And life jackets, of course.” He patted two weathered orange life vests. “Not that you’d last more than fifteen minutes in this water anyway, but best to be safe. And here’s a bucket to bail with—just an old coffee can, nothing fancy—you might want to get a plastic one, though, one that don’t rust.” He scooted forward in the boat and motioned me toward the motor. “Why don’t you come and take the rudder, get a feel for her.”

  A surge of excitement coursed through me as my hand closed on the thrumming rudder. My own boat. I looked up at the Gray Whale Inn receding across the water and grinned. The island was no longer an enclosed world; it was a point of departure. I pushed the rudder experimentally to the right, and we started moving toward the preserve. “Why don’t we see if the evaluators are out?” I said, enjoying the smell of salt water and the fresh white paint, which was still tacky under my fingertips.

  The scents brought back a rush of memories, of sitting in a similar boat among whales and icebergs, fishing with my grand-father one distant summer off the coast of Newfoundland. The boat’s wake was a string of pearls on the dark glass of the water, and as we turned toward the tree-covered cliffs, I said impulsively, “Would you teach me how to fish?”

  Eleazer’s blue eyes crinkled into a smile. “Next thing you know you’ll be wanting to go out lobstering with your niece.” I smiled, thinking of Gwen in that huge orange raincoat. The water might be magic for her, too, but I suspected her interest was influenced by a more human element. As we rounded the bend and the narrow strip of beach came into view, Eleazer pointed at what looked like a small indentation at the base of the cliff. “See that little cove in there?”

  “Sort of,” I said, straining my eyes. It looked more like a dent than a cove.

  “Rum runners used to keep their stash in there, back in the days of Prohibition.”

  “Smugglers?”

  “Ayuh. It’s a great place to hide things; you can only get in and out when the tide’s out. When it comes back in, the cove disappears. They’d store the liquor out here on Cranberry Island and sneak it out into Somesville. Some say it was used by pirates before, but I think that’s just talk.”

  My curiosity was piqued. “Can we go take a look?”

  He shook his grizzled head. “Nope. Tide’s not right. Besides, it’s tricky getting in and out of there. Not enough room to swing a cat. Got to get you more practice first.” He pointed over at the beach, where two people in green windbreakers knelt in the sand. A small boat lay on the brown sand of the beach. The evaluators had wisely elected not to clamber down the cliff. “Looks like your friends are working hard,” Eleazer said.

  “Let’s hope the terns’ nests haven’t been destroyed beyond repair.”

  “Ayuh. I don’t care much for the terns, not like Claudette, but I sure would hate to see this island turned into a playground for those folks up there.” He pointed at Cliffside, which loomed high above on top of the cliffs.

  “How did the Katzes end up moving here, anyway?” I asked Eleazer. “Estelle just doesn’t seem like the island type.”

  “She ain’t,” Eleazer said with a twinkle in his eye. “No designer stores up here. Stanley Katz bought Cliffside a while back as a summer cottage—some cottage, eh? They just came down here in May. I hear they’ve got a place up in New York, too. Seems more her style, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It does. Why did they buy here at all, I wonder?”

  “Young Stanley came up here once or twice as a kid. His gram had a place up here.”

  “He had a grandmother living here?”

  “She was just summer people. Had a little house out in the village, near the store. Nothing much. I guess the salt water gets into your blood, though.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does,” I said, thinking of my own childhood summers. I gazed up at Cliffside’s tall turret. “I wonder why they decided to build a resort here?”

  “Trying to make another Bar Harbor, I guess. Or Kennebunk-port.” He shrugged. “Why build one anywhere?”

  I laughed. “Good point.” We sat listening to the hum of the engine and the slap of the waves for a few minutes. Something gray and pointy poked out of the water in front of the boat, then disappeared. “What’s that?”

  “A harbor seal, looks like. They haul up on the rocks over by the lighthouse.” I looked toward the red and white spire out at the far tip of the island. “Haven’t you seen them?” Eleazer asked.

  “I guess I haven’t gotten out of the inn much.” I grinned. “That’ll change now, though.” I felt like a teenager who had just been handed the car keys for the first time. “I can’t thank you enough, Eleazer. The Little Marian is wonderful. You’re going to have to teach me how to tie her up, though.”

  Eleazer adjusted his cap and grinned back at me. I noticed for the first time that he was missing a few teeth, but it didn’t detract from his mischievous smile. “First you have to get her up to the dock, missy. Don’t go putting the cart before the horse.”

  As he showed me how to make the ropes fast, I asked, “How’s Claudette doing, by the way?”

  His bright eyes dimmed. “A little off,” he said. “This resort thing’s got her in a tizzy.” He stepped back from the ropes and looked at the boat with satisfaction. “You might want to get your neighbor to go out with you the first few times, just till you get the hang of it. You can get gas at the town dock; you’ll want to get a spare gas can, too.”

  I laughed. “I’m going to need to write all this down.”

  “It’ll come,” he said. “It’ll come.”

  As I walked back up to the house, I waved at Eleazer, and he tipped his cap at me. I had told him I’d stop by and pick up the boat later, but he insisted on walking home and leaving the boat with me. I couldn’t even convince him to have a cup of tea. “I’ll be making another batch of chocolate chip cookies,” I told him, “and I’ll leave some down at the store for you.”

  “I’d better get there early, then, or there won’t be any left. You know Charlene.”

  I opened the kitchen door in a far better mood than I had left it in, only to have it dissipate instantly. Grimes was back, and once again he was lolling with his feet up in one of my kitchen chairs. His hair was as greasy as ever, and his eyes, if possible, seemed even closer to the narrow bridge of his nose. He looked at me as if I were something
that had washed up on a beach at low tide. The feeling was mutual. At least he wasn’t smoking.

  I forced myself to smile. “Hello, Sergeant Grimes. What can I do for you?”

  He nodded toward the inkpad lying in the middle of the table next to what looked like two index cards. “I came to get prints.”

  “Let me just wash my hands and I’ll be right with you.” As I squeezed a dollop of dish soap into my palm, I said, “Somebody threw a rock with a note attached to it through my dining room window last night. Did John tell you about it?”

  “No, haven’t seen him today. What’d it say?”

  “You can read it for yourself.” I nodded toward the counter next to the phone, where the rock lay in a large Ziploc bag. “John sealed it up for you to take to the lab.” Grimes made no move to retrieve it as I rinsed my hands and toweled them off. “Also,” I said, “I went for a bike ride this morning, and almost crashed into a boulder. It looks like someone cut my brake lines.”

  “You’re not too popular around here, are you?” Grimes asked. For once, I had to agree with him.

  • • •

  I was scrubbing at the black ink on my fingertips when the phone rang again. The kitchen, thankfully, was empty of Grimes; after he had taken my finger prints, he had grudgingly taken the rock and promised to take a look at the bike.

  I dried my hands and picked up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Gray Whale Inn.”

  “Hello. May I speak with Barbara Eggleby?”

  “I’ll check her room. May I say who’s calling?”

  “Yes. This is Ermalinda Waggoner of the Conservation Association.”

  “Could you hold on for a minute?” I jogged down the hall and knocked on Barbara’s door, then hurried back to the kitchen. “Sorry . . . she’s not here. Can I leave her a message?”

  “Is this Natalie Barnes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to thank you for trying so hard to help us win the bid on the preserve. Barbara’s said wonderful things about you.” She sighed. “I understand Katz swept it out from under us again.”

  “He’s done this before?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ermalinda said. “Didn’t Barbara tell you? Out on Fawkes Point, in North Carolina. Barbara was furious. She said she’d see him dead before she’d let him win another one.”

  Goosebumps prickled along my arms. “Funny you should say that,” I said. “Because Bernard Katz was murdered the day before yesterday.”

  As I stepped into Charlene’s store, the crowd that had gathered in the front parlor fell silent. The bell above the door hadn’t stopped jangling before Marge O’Leary lowered her newspaper and stared at me with hatred and distrust in her beady brown eyes. Marge was the informal leader of the group of women who congregated there regularly for tea and gossip. She was also the type of person I imagined was responsible for starting the Salem Witch Hunts. I gave her a polite smile, and one of her compatriots, a skinny, washed-out blonde, leaned over and whispered something into her ear. Ingrid was still missing from her normal spot at the counter.

  After the call from the Conservation Association, I had whipped up another batch of cookies and borrowed one of the inn’s spare bikes to take them down to Charlene’s. The seat was less comfortable than the Schwinn’s, but at least the frame was intact, and as an added bonus, the brakes worked. I had imagined heading down to the store and settling in for a comfy chat with Charlene; I had forgotten about the afternoon regulars, and about the article that had appeared in that morning’s paper. Gertrude Pickens of the Daily Mail, I decided, was not my friend.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” I said cheerily. They stared at me suspiciously, and Marge harrumphed, sending a jiggle through her jowls. Her dark reddish-brown hair hung lank around her doughy face, and I resisted the urge to recommend she find out the name of Charlene’s hairdresser. I was one to talk, I thought, reaching up to smooth my own unkempt hair. A roomful of eyes bored into my back as I marched past the couches and pulled up a stool at the counter. Charlene ambled over with a cup of tea and sat down next to me, picking a speck of lint from her sweater.

  “Shouldn’t be serving that type, she shouldn’t,” Marge O’Leary grumbled loudly as I put the cup to my lips.

  Charlene looked up from her sweater. “I’ll serve who I like, Marge.” Her voice was steely. “And if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else to spend your afternoons.”

  Marge’s pasty face reddened, but her scowl deepened. “Don’t you read the paper, Charlene?”

  “I thought you were smarter than that, Marge,” Charlene scoffed. “You should know better than to believe everything you read in the Daily Mail.” A few of the women drew in their breath, and the room was dangerously silent. I looked at Charlene with raised eyebrows, trying to communicate to her that she didn’t need to alienate her customers on my account, but she ignored me and continued directing blue laser beams at Marge. Finally, Marge mumbled something about outsiders on the island and had a sip of tea, and after a few minutes, the hum of gossip filled the store again. I mouthed “thank you” to Charlene and took a big sip of my own cup of sweet, hot tea. Once the noise level in the store had returned to normal, I filled her in on my morning.

  “Somebody threw a rock through your window and cut the brake lines on your bike?” Charlene shook her caramel-colored locks in wonder.

  “Not necessarily the same person, but yes, that’s what happened.”

  “How did you stop your bike?”

  “The hard way,” I answered. I might look like death warmed over, but Charlene, as usual, was radiant. Today she wore an emerald green cashmere sweater with hot pink sequined flowers on the front and tight-fitting jeans. She closed her eyes—green frosted shadow, a perfect match with her sweater—and bit into a warm chocolate chip cookie. “Mmmmm,” she groaned, flicking away a crumb with a fingernail the exact color of the sequined flowers.

  “Don’t forget to save some for Eleazer.”

  “He brought you the Little Marian, then?” I nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll save him at least a couple.” She licked her fingers and reached for another cookie. “So, did Sergeant Grimes have anything to say about what happened last night?”

  “Well, he took the rock and the note with him.” I reached over for a cookie of my own. “He promised to take a look at my bike, too, but we’ll see. Oh—and someone from the Conservation Association called.” I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. Not that I needed to; the group on the couches had reverted to their normal loud chatter. “Apparently Bernard Katz and Barbara have met before.”

  Charlene opened her green-rimmed eyes wide. “Really? Where?”

  “They fought over a piece of land in North Carolina. Katz ended up building the development, and Barbara swore she’d kill him before she let him win again.”

  Charlene let out a long, slow whistle. “Maybe she was the one Tom saw out on Seal Point Road the night Katz died.”

  “He saw someone?”

  “Yeah. He went out to check the porch light, and saw a flashlight bobbing along down the road. He called out, but whoever it was didn’t answer.” I bit into a cookie and let the dark chocolate and buttery crumbs melt in my mouth. Lots of people lived down Seal Point Road. Ingrid, Fernand, and Claudette were among them.

  I washed my mouthful of cookie down with a swig of milky sweet tea. “Which way was the light going?”

  “Toward the main road,” Charlene answered. “Could have been heading out toward the preserve.” I’d have to ask Fernand if he’d seen anything when I stopped by. I thought of Gwen’s excitement when I told her I might use her watercolor for my brochure, and remembered the conversation I’d had with my sister earlier.

  “Gwen’s mother called this afternoon.”

  Charlene arched a penciled eyebrow. “What did you tell her?”
>
  “She asked if Gwen is seeing someone, and I said yes. I told her he has a degree from Princeton and a career in boats.”

  “A career in boats?” Charlene studied my face, which I tried to keep blank. “Nat, what did you tell her?”

  “Nothing, really. She kind of leapt to conclusions.”

  “What kind of conclusions?”

  Now Charlene’s blue laser beams were directed at me. I shifted on my stool. “Well, she seems to think he’s a shipping magnate or something.”

  Charlene’s eyebrows shot up. “A shipping magnate? What exactly did you say to her?”

  I blushed. “Weren’t you the one who told me to stay out of it?”

  “I said stay out of it, not jump in with both feet and make it worse.” She shook her head at me and groaned. “I hope Gwen will be able to handle it better than you. What’d she say about all of the goings-on here on the island?”

  “It didn’t come up.” An image of my sister’s black hair and sharp chin floated in front of my mind’s eye. I was very glad she and I lived on opposite coasts.

  “It didn’t come up? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe Gwen will make less of a hash of it than you did. Although how she could do worse, I don’t know.” She reached for another cookie and bit into it delicately, careful not to mar her bright pink lipstick.

  “So,” I said, changing the subject, “where’s today’s paper?”

  Charlene reached back and grabbed it from the counter behind her. “Read it and weep.” I unfolded the front page and spread it out on the counter next to my tea. The headline blared DEVELOPER MURDERED ON CRANBERRY ISLAND in what looked like sixty-point type.

  My stomach turned over as I scanned the article. Charlene was right; the article went into Katz’s pavement plan for the Gray Whale Inn in some detail, and my connection with Save Our Terns received multiple mentions. I was described by islanders (unnamed) as “kind of stand-offish” and “a bit odd.” The inn didn’t come off sounding any better.