I folded it up and shoved it aside. “She’s really even-handed about the coverage, isn’t she?”
Charlene chuckled. “Anything to sell papers. On the plus side, I hear Grimes has been interrogating people other than you for a change.”
“I wondered where he was going when he wasn’t at the inn.”
“He’s been making the rounds,” Charlene said. “He was out to Eleazer and Claudette’s, and I hear he’s talked to Tom Lockhart, too. Word is, he even made it out to Cliffside.”
“I hope Tom told him about the flashlight.” I took a sip of tea. “I wonder if he’s really looking for other suspects, or if he’s just trying to tighten the noose around my neck.”
Charlene gave me an encouraging smile. “I think it’s a good sign, Nat.”
“Maybe you’re right. At any rate, at least he’s not smoking up my inn anymore.”
• • •
The rain had started again when I walked across Charlene’s front porch to my bike. I hadn’t taken the newspaper with me—no use torturing myself with it at home.
I glanced at the sky, and decided today was not the day to ride out to Fernand’s. The clouds had deepened to dark gray, and ominous black thunderheads were rolling in from the sea. I pedaled toward the inn as fast as I safely could, giving the brakes a compulsive squeeze every few minutes.
At the top of the big hill, a short gray body skittered across the road. One of Claudette’s goats had gotten loose again. I debated going back to tell her, or even trying to collar this one, but Claudette’s goats had a reputation for being ornery with everyone except Claudette. I slowed the bike, thinking of turning back, but when the rain started coming down even harder, I decided to call her from home. I didn’t envy her chasing them down in the rain. As the goat—was it Muffin, or Pudge?—disappeared into the bushes, I realized with a flash what it was about my visit to Claudette’s that had struck me as not quite right.
Water was gushing off the roof when I ran in through the kitchen door. The one message on the machine was from Gertrude Pickens, and once again I deleted it halfway through. My eyes drifted to the black water beyond the sheeting rain, and a shiver of apprehension ran through me. I hoped Gwen was not out in the storm.
Charlene might think Gwen was old enough to date without oversight, but I didn’t feel comfortable with the amount of time she was spending with Adam. Guilt pricked at me as I realized I hadn’t even met him. But would it matter if I had? Gwen had reached the age of majority, and I wasn’t her mother. As the roses outside the window swayed wildly in the wind, their blowsy blossoms shredded by the onslaught of raindrops, I resolved to have a long conversation with Gwen when she came in this evening. I would also invite Adam over to dinner soon so that I could meet him myself.
Thunder rumbled ominously as I checked the guest rooms; everything was neatly tucked in, the floors shone, and the towels had been restocked, so Gwen must have stopped in long enough to clean up. Only Ogden was in his room; he opened his door just a crack and told me everything was “satisfactory.” I was sitting down with a cookbook planning tomorrow’s breakfast when John knocked at the door. He’d evidently come from his workshop; a few wood shavings clung to his sandy hair, and his pine-colored shirt was speckled with sawdust. Despite the dusting of wood scraps, he still looked as if he had just stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog.
“Everything okay?” I asked as the door closed behind him. The warm smell of freshly sawed wood filled the kitchen, and I noticed a fleck of blue paint on his cheek.
“Yeah,” he said, fixing me with those mesmerizing green eyes, “everything’s fine. I’ve been meaning to ask you something, though.”
My heart rate picked up. Did he want to know if I’d snooped in Bernard Katz’s room that night? Had he found out I’d been poking around at Cliffside?
“What?”
He ran his hand through his hair, dislodging a few pine shavings. “Would you be interested in coming over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Dinner?” I laughed, relieved and more thrilled than I liked to admit. “I’d love to. That’d be wonderful.”
He smiled, looking relieved himself.
“Can I bring anything?”
“No. You cook all the time. Let me take care of it—you deserve a night off.”
“Not even dessert?”
“Nope.” He smiled a slow, dazzling smile, his teeth bright white against his brown skin. “I’ve got it all under control.” My mind flashed to the kitchen mishap of the previous night as I smiled back.
“By the way,” he said, “I got the glass for the dining room window today, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to install it until tomorrow.”
“Thanks a million for picking it up. I don’t know how I could have gotten it taken care of without you.” My happiness faded slightly as I remembered why I wouldn’t have been able to pick up the glass myself; I was a suspect in a murder case, and wasn’t allowed off the island. Although now that I had my own boat . . . “Tell me how much it was, and I’ll pay you back.” I fixed him with a stern look. “And that includes labor, mister.”
“Consider coming to dinner tomorrow payment in full.”
I laughed. “Somehow that doesn’t seem quite fair.”
As the door closed behind him, a smile spread across my face, and I resisted the urge to do a little jig. I had a date with John! I was tempted to call Charlene, but decided instead to tell her about it afterward. I glanced at the phone and realized I had forgotten to call Claudette. I hurried over to lift the handset. No dial tone. The storm must have knocked the line down. I hung up, slid into a kitchen chair, and picked up a cookbook. Claudette would figure out that her goats were gone soon enough; there was nothing more I could do.
As I leafed through recipes, the front door slammed. I poked my nose through the kitchen door, but it was only the Bittles, just back from Spurrell’s Lobster Pound. They left their giant striped umbrellas next to the door and bid me good night, and a few minutes later, Barbara came in, the door blowing shut behind her with a bang. As the guests returned to their rooms, I flipped through a stack of cookbooks and decided on a recipe for blueberry tea bread with a sweet lemon glaze. After double-checking to make sure all the ingredients were in the fridge or the pantry, I decided to whip it up after dinner. It would be great with an egg dish and some sausage or bacon and a little fresh fruit. With that decided, I turned my attention to dinner.
I put a pot of water on for spaghetti and pulled a bag of meatballs out of the freezer. One nice thing about cooking for Gwen was that she wasn’t a picky eater. As the frozen meatballs tumbled out onto a cookie sheet, I glanced at the clock—it was coming up on six—and wondered again when she’d be home. The rain was still pouring down, and the thunder and lightning had increased in intensity.
The lights flickered as a particularly loud crack of thunder sounded overhead, and for the first time, I felt a twinge of unease. Gwen was usually home by now. Maybe she was just waiting for a ride, or waiting for the rain to let up to walk home. Surely she wouldn’t be out on a boat with Adam in this storm. I glanced out at the dark, icy water, which had whipped itself into a frenzy and was lashing itself against the rocks. There were no boats out, or at least none that I could see.
Gwen didn’t show up for dinner. I picked at my spaghetti and meatballs for a half hour, but my stomach was twisted into knots, so I shoved my plate into the fridge. My eyes scanned the dark water outside as I rinsed the pots, wondering who to call to find out about my niece. I set the last pot in the dish dryer and picked up the phone to call Charlene, realizing the flaw in my plan as soon as the handset touched my ear. The phone was still dead. As I stood trying to decide what to do next, thunder cracked again. The lights flickered twice and went out.
I fumbled through the kitchen drawers for a flashlight, then dug out my box of emer
gency candles and matches. Then I did the rounds of the rooms, delivering candles and matches to Ogden, Barbara, and the Bittles and hoping that the inn wouldn’t burn down before the night was through.
After reassuring everyone that the lights would doubtless be back on soon, I returned to the kitchen and lit a candle of my own, then sat down at the kitchen table. There was no getting around it; I was worried about Gwen. Normally, I’d cook to keep my hands and mind busy, but with the power out, the oven wasn’t available. The water that earlier today had been glassy now looked black as night, and Eleazer’s words came back to me: “That water’s so cold you wouldn’t last more than fifteen minutes.” The last time I saw her, Gwen was dressed for a beach party, not a wild night at sea.
Don’t be stupid, I told myself. She’s probably holed up at Adam’s house, waiting for the storm to blow over. Still, I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I was sure she was safe and on land. As I stared out the window into the night, my eyes searching for the green and red lights of a boat, I understood why the houses of fishermen all looked out to sea.
I sat peering anxiously out into the darkness when a car engine rumbled down the drive. A surge of relief passed through me; Gwen had found a ride home.
A minute later Charlene burst through the doorway. “You’ve got to come down to the store.” Her face was ashen. “The whole fleet’s back, but Adam didn’t make it in. He’s still out there somewhere, and Gwen’s with him.”
“Is anybody out looking for them?” I asked as we bumped up the road toward the co-op. Charlene had told me that all of the island’s lobstermen were there, huddled around the radio and waiting for news.
“Coast Guard’s out looking,” she said, “but I’m not sure if anyone else has headed out. It’s pretty rough out there.” As she spoke, a vein of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a crack that sounded as if the earth were splitting in two. As the rain pounded on the truck’s rusted metal roof, I was thankful that Charlene’s pickup was one of the few island cars in full possession of all its doors and windows. Judging from the mildewy smell emanating from the worn seats, though, it still wasn’t completely watertight. My mind flitted to Adam’s boat; did Gwen have a dry place to ride out the storm?
“Someone must have some idea where they are. Hasn’t he radioed in?”
“The problem,” Charlene continued, “is that no one can get them on the radio.”
My stomach turned over. “My God,” I whispered. “Do you mean they might have gone down?”
Charlene’s pink lips were a thin line. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. It could mean lots of things. Radio broken, generator down. Who knows?” She spoke lightly, but her expression was grim in the greenish light from the dashboard. “The thing is, with no communications, the Coast Guard doesn’t know where to look. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack.” Another flash put her worried features in sharp relief, and we both flinched at the boom that followed it.
“Watch out for goats,” I cautioned her as we rounded a curve.
“They’re on the loose again?” I was comforted by the trace of the old Charlene in her exasperated voice. “What do they do, eat through their chains?”
The pine trees, lovely in the daylight, were menacing in the glare of the headlights. I was relieved when they fell away and were replaced by the warm glow of porch lights and windows.
“You’ve got power?” I asked.
“Lights, but no phone. I figured we’d stop by the co-op and find out what’s going on, then wait it out at the store.”
“Why at the store?”
“There’s nothing to eat at the co-op, unless you like salted herring.”
“You’ve got a radio at the store?”
“How else do you think I keep on top of things?” Charlene asked as we pulled in next to a worn clapboard building on the pier.
The waves roared against the rough planks as we dashed into the small wooden building. The smell of fish and wet wood and sweat enveloped me as I closed the door behind me. The only light in the building came from a single lightbulb dangling from the middle of the ceiling. The walls were covered in peeling buoys, mildewed ropes, and an assortment of fishing gear. Benches and rickety chairs had been pulled up in a rough circle around the radio, and seated on them was a motley crew of fishermen, some still in their foul weather gear. Eleazer was stationed right next to the radio, and rose to his feet and tipped his cap when he saw me. His weather-beaten features sagged, and there was no trace of the gnomish grin I’d seen that afternoon.
“Any word?” Charlene asked anxiously. I could read the answer in the downcast faces gazing at the rough wooden floor.
“Nothing yet,” Eleazer replied. “Murph Hoyle just went out looking for them, though. His nephew, Jake, is Adam’s sternman.”
“Clyde White went out too,” piped up a tall, thin man with a shiny, bald head.
“Are you sure Gwen was with Adam?” I asked.
“Ayuh,” a grizzled man with wild gray hair and orange waders growled. I recognized Eddie O’Leary, Marge’s other half. “I allus told him, bad luck to have a woman aboard, but them college boys are too smart for us old-timers.”
“Now, now, Eddie. It’s too late to worry about that.” Tom Lockhart’s voice was calm and controlled. I hadn’t noticed him before, but when he spoke, he radiated strength and calm, and I was surprised I had missed him. “What we’ve got to do now is find him, and Jake, and Nat’s niece.” His blue eyes swept the room with cool confidence, and I could see why he had been president of the Cranberry Island Lobster Co-op and Chair of the Board of Selectmen for six years running. “I know he had traps down near Sutton Island and East Bunker Ledge. Anybody seen them anywhere else?”
“Well, he ain’t been hauling too many lately, if you know what I mean.” A few men chuckled. “But I did see a couple of his over by Shag Rock.”
“Anywhere else?”
“I saw a few out north, by the Flats,” said another man.
Tom picked up the radio and relayed the information to the searchers, then asked for a status report.
“Nothing at Shag Rock or the Flats,” a crackly voice replied. “I checked over by Sutton, and I’m headed out northward now. I just saw the coast guard liner—it’s cruising toward open water.”
“Thanks, Murph. Keep us posted,” Tom said. “And be careful. We don’t want to send search parties out after the search party.”
The crackling of the radio subsided, and the lobstermen lapsed into grim silence. Charlene tugged at my arm. “I’m taking this lady over to the store for some tea,” she announced to the solemn crowd. “I’ve got fresh cookies, too. You’re welcome to join us there.”
A few men grunted and shook their heads; they would finish their vigil together, in the dim light of the co-op.
The wind tore at my jacket as we sprinted back to the truck. Both Charlene and I were quiet as we bumped along the road to the store. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the cold, dark sea.
I collapsed into one of the armchairs at the front of the store as Charlene flipped the radio on and busied herself filling the teakettle. “How often does this happen?” I asked.
“What? That someone doesn’t come back?”
“Yeah.” My mouth felt dry as paper.
Charlene turned the gas on and lit a burner. “Once or twice a year, I’d say. They almost always turn up, though, of course.”
Almost always. “How inexperienced is Adam?”
Charlene turned and looked at me. “He’s experienced enough to have his own boat and a native islander as his sternman,” she said levelly. “So don’t you worry about that.” She popped the container of cookies open and piled them onto a plate. “Here,” she said, sliding them onto the table in front of me. “Tea will be ready shortly. Get your jaws working on these. Then you can’t ask any more silly
questions.”
She disappeared into the back of the store, and the only sounds were the drumming of the rain and the lonely howl of the wind through the eaves, punctuated by sharp cracks of thunder. The radio crackled whenever lightning flooded the sky, as if translating the forked fingers of light into some strange language. I picked up a cookie and turned it around in my hand, but my stomach was too queasy to eat. I set it back on the plate and shifted on the couch, tensing every time the radio crackled.
A few minutes later, Charlene bustled over with a teapot, two cups, and cream and sugar. She busied herself fixing us both cups of tea, and settled herself into the flowery cushions of the couch across from me, grabbing a cookie from the overloaded plate. “Try not to worry about Gwen,” she said. “They know where to look now. Adam was laying his traps not too far offshore. They’ll find them.”
I blew air through my lips and closed my eyes. Every time there was a change in the hiss of the radio, I sat up straight. Beneath the static, I thought I could make out the threads of whispery voices across the airwaves, like ghosts from the sea.
“Marge sure was in fine form today, wasn’t she?” Charlene said, pulling me back from the lonely sea to the couch in the front of her store.
“I don’t know how those women can stand her.”
Charlene shrugged. “She overpowers them.”
“Thanks for backing me up today. You could have lost a lot of business over that.”
Charlene waved a hand at me. “Nah. I’m the only store on the island.”
“But they come here for tea, too.”
“Where else are they going to go? Marge’s house?” She shivered. “I think Ronald Reagan was in office the last time somebody lifted a mop in Marge’s kitchen.”
“Marge was complaining about off-islanders today. Do you think she might have thrown that rock through my window?”
Murder on the Rocks Page 15
