Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  “I’ve thought about that. I wonder if maybe Stanley was jealous of Estelle and his father? They seemed pretty chummy.”

  Fernand snorted. “I don’t think that was the motivation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fernand cocked an eyebrow at me. “You mean it isn’t obvious?” I shook my head, and he sighed. “Let’s just say that I don’t think Stanley would be jealous of any woman.”

  It took a moment for it to dawn on me what Fernand meant. “Wait a second. Do you mean Stanley is gay?”

  Fernand put up his hands. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Why do you think he’s gay?”

  “I visit the mainland from time to time,” Fernand said, “and I’ve run into him in the company of someone other than Estelle.”

  “Who?”

  “Let’s just say it wasn’t a woman.” He looked at me over rims of his glasses. “And they were awfully friendly for just friends.”

  I stood with my mouth hanging open. Who could it have been? Unfortunately, it looked like Fernand wasn’t going to tell me. I looked at his startling blue eyes and pressed blue shirt. He was an attractive man. Was this his way of telling me that Stanley had been with him?

  I dismissed the thought as soon as it came to me; a man as good-looking as Fernand couldn’t possibly be attracted to Stanley. “Well,” I said, “that would explain why when every other man in the room has his tongue hanging out when Estelle walks in, he hardly notices her. I just put it down to being married for a long time.”

  Fernand rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. They haven’t been married that long.”

  “If Stanley’s gay, why would he have gotten married in the first place?”

  Fernand shrugged. “Lots of gay men do. They do it thinking it’ll ‘cure’ them, or to appease their families.”

  I thought about that for a moment. Had Stanley married Estelle to ensure his inheritance? “That’s a terrible reason to get married,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” Fernand smiled at me. “Well, I hate to run, but I’ve got to get out before the light changes. Let me think about that retreat program; we probably can’t get it going until all of this stuff with the development blows over, but it’s a good idea.”

  “Do you think the resort will go through?”

  Fernand grimaced. “If Murray Selfridge has anything to say about it, it will. Do you think the Gray Whale Inn would survive a big resort next door?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still hoping the evaluators will decide it can’t be built. How about you?”

  Fernand gazed out the wall of windows at the sweeping view of the open ocean. “Of course I don’t want it to be built. As for the studio . . . I don’t know either.” He sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The clouds continued to break apart into clots as I walked back toward the inn, and I wondered if the evaluators were back on the island. When I came to the path that led off the main road up to the cliffs, on an impulse I decided to take the rough way home. Maybe I could catch a glimpse of the evaluators.

  As the rocky path wound around Cliffside, I glanced up at the blank windows and the copper-clad turret that rose like a lighthouse from the back of the imposing house, and my mind turned over the conversation at the studio. I wondered if Fernand was right, and Stanley or Estelle had murdered Bernard Katz. I wasn’t so sure about Estelle; she had seemed genuinely distressed by her father-in-law’s death, and her comment about bad timing made me think she didn’t view his murder as a benefit.

  I stepped over a clump of low-bush blueberries. Stanley had looked pretty shaken up when I told him Katz had been murdered. Maybe Stanley had killed his father, and had counted on it looking like an accident. I wondered why—and how—he had had his father’s personal papers with him at breakfast. Had Stanley been the late-night intruder in his father’s room? I’d always assumed that my arrival had interrupted the intruder before he or she found what they were looking for. Maybe I was wrong, and whoever had knocked me out had continued to search.

  There was a lull in the rush of waves against the rocks, and I heard footsteps ahead of me on the path. A moment later, Estelle rounded the bend wearing pink lycra shorts and a matching crop top. She had done a better job of her hair and makeup today; like Charlene, her lipstick and nails matched her outfit perfectly. She pulled up short when she saw me, blinking her blue-lined eyes in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Heading home,” I said. “I thought I’d come this way and see if the evaluators had finished.” My eyebrows crept up a few millimeters as I took in Estelle’s skimpy outfit. The weather was warm, but not that warm. Her arms were covered in goose pimples, and despite her fancy workout clothes, she hadn’t been straining that hard; her powdered skin was unmarred by perspiration. “How about you?” I asked.

  “I’m exercising.”

  “I thought you and Stanley had a personal gym.” I remembered the weight machines coming over on the mail boat. The crew of the Island Queen had complained about lugging them over to the island for days.

  “Of course we do,” she huffed. “Since when is it a crime to get a little fresh air?” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t have time for this.” She pushed past me on her way back toward Cliffside.

  “See you later, Estelle,” I said to the cloud of perfume that hovered in her wake. And you’re welcome for the cookies.

  I started walking again, wondering why Estelle had suddenly decided to take up hiking. It seemed out of character. The path veered closer to the steep drop-off, and I moved over toward the edge of the cliff to look for the evaluators, but the rocks jutting out beneath the path eclipsed the view of the beach. As I turned back toward the main track, my sneaker caught a rock, and I sprawled onto the rock-studded path.

  My battered body yammered in protest as I pushed myself up and brushed the dirt off my clothes and my knees. My fingers were disentangling a twig from my hair when a break in the ferns alongside the trail caught my eye. I peered through the trees; it was a trail, and it wound through the underbrush a good way before it disappeared. I bent down and fingered a few broken green fern fronds at the entrance; someone had been on this path recently. Estelle? I ducked under a low-hanging branch and followed the narrow track.

  Although the path had been used in the last few days, it wasn’t a regular thoroughfare. It had clearly been around for a while—the path had the kind of rut down the center that comes from years of use—but the narrow trail was so overgrown in places I was afraid I’d lose the track. Fortunately, whoever had been on this path recently had not taken pains to spare neighboring plants, so a hunt for broken or damaged leaves usually got me going in the right direction again quickly.

  The trail wound through the trees and crested a hill, then headed back down again. I was beginning to think it might just be a shortcut back to the main road when I spotted a small building beneath the heavy spruce trees.

  As I pushed branches aside and stepped closer, a sudden shaft of sunlight penetrated the thick tree cover, revealing a small log cabin. An old camp, probably. I pushed through the underbrush and made a cautious round of the perimeter. Cracks riddled the dirty glass windows, and some of the panes had been replaced with weathered boards. When I was satisfied the small building was unoccupied, I made my way to the front of the cabin and pushed at the big wooden door. It was wedged shut. I braced my shoulder against the rough door and threw my weight against it, and it lurched inward far enough for me to sidle in.

  The camp might have been abandoned for many years, but someone had been here recently. Despite the musty smell of long disuse, the rough wooden floor had been swept clean—a broom stood next to the door—and a stack of blankets lay in the corner. Someone had made makeshift curtains out of dishtowels thumb-tacked to the rough window frames, and a Coleman lantern stood on a wooden ch
est under one of the windows, but other than these basic amenities, the cabin was empty. No food, no clothes, no dishes or silverware: just the blankets, the lantern, and the broom.

  I rifled through the blankets, hoping to uncover something hidden between them, but found nothing. I moved the lantern to the bumpy floor and opened the wooden chest. The smell of mildew threatened to overpower me as I eased open the rotting lid. The chest was empty, except for a few Captain Marvel comic books from 1970. I flipped through the moldy pages, but found nothing. Disappointed, I closed the chest and sat down on the floor, wondering if this was where Estelle and Bernard had had their assignations. A glance at the dishtowel curtains and the rotting wooden floor made me decide that it probably wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine Estelle agreeing to meet in a one-roomed shack with dishtowels for curtains.

  Then again, if the price was right, maybe she would lower her standards a bit. It wasn’t the Ritz, but at least it was somewhat clean, and very private. Still, why not meet somewhere else? And what had she been doing out on the cliff path a few minutes ago? My mind flitted back to her skimpy workout clothes. Had she been here? Maybe not; after all, I’d barely been able to get the door open myself, and I weighed a good bit more than Estelle. Perhaps she had been telling the truth, and was just out for some fresh air.

  I took a last look at the cabin before heading through the door and pulling it shut behind me. It wouldn’t close all the way—a good inch lay between the door and the frame—but I gave up after a few minutes and headed for home, deep in thought.

  • • •

  “Hey, Natalie!” John’s voice jolted me out of my reverie, and I realized I was almost at my own front door. I looked around, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. “Over here!” I squinted; John was calling to me from the front door of his workshop. His sandy hair gleamed in the watery light. “Still on for tonight?”

  Tonight? I searched my brain for a moment before I remembered he had invited me over for dinner. With everything that had gone on during the last twenty-four hours, it had slipped my mind. “As long as you don’t mind if I’m not the most sparkling conversationalist,” I said.

  “I heard about what happened last night. I’m glad everyone made it in safely.”

  “Are the phones back on, then?”

  “No, not yet—I headed down to the store this morning, and Charlene filled me in. Oh—that reminds me—she sent some mail for you.” He ducked into his workshop, and reappeared with a stack of mail, including a red and blue cardboard express mail envelope.

  My heart thudded as I took the stack and shoved it under my arm. “Thanks,” I said, stretching my lips into a smile. Had he looked at the mail? I assumed what I hoped was a nonchalant air. “So, what time tonight?”

  His smile dazzled me. “Is six-thirty okay?”

  “That would be great. Can I bring anything?”

  “Nope. Just try to get a nap in beforehand. You look like you could use one.”

  “I haven’t decided whether I’m going to make Gwen clean rooms today,” I said. “If I do, I promise I’ll sleep.” I tightened my grip on the stack of mail. John was appealing, but I was dying to see what was in that express envelope. “See you at six-thirty, then?”

  “Looking forward to it.” John gave me a little wave and disappeared back into his workshop, and I walked back to the inn, forcing myself not to run. As soon as the kitchen door swung shut behind me, I pulled the envelope out and ripped it open, yanking out a thick sheaf of paper. I started reading the front page, then hesitated—Grimes could reappear at any time—and decided to take it up to my room. I was in enough trouble with Grimes already; I didn’t need to be caught reading someone else’s mail. Particularly when the mail had been sent—at my request—under false pretenses. I took the narrow stairs two at a time.

  I shut the bedroom door, threw myself onto the down comforter, and scanned the cover letter—just formalities—before flipping to the first report. It was on Tom Lockhart. I pored over the pages, but the investigators had found nothing unusual in Tom’s dossier.

  I was not surprised to find myself featured in the next report. I quickly skimmed my biographical sketch and the names of my family and friends dating back to high school—whoever had compiled the report had been very thorough. A shiver ran through me when I realized how much somebody could find out about you without your knowing. My entire life was laid out here in black and white, by someone who had never even met me. Although I was fascinated by the level of detail the investigator had discovered, like Tom’s, my report was devoid of what I’m sure Bernard Katz would have considered interesting material, and I flipped to the next one.

  I wasn’t surprised by the name typed at the top of the last report. I was willing to bet I would find some interesting information in this portion of the neatly typed pages.

  I found what I was looking for on page three. I sucked in my breath, read it twice, then flipped through the rest of the pages to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. Then I tucked the sheaf of paper back into the red and blue envelope and slid it under the mattress. It was time to pay someone a visit.

  I knocked on John’s door an hour later, smoothing my hair and feeling like a schoolgirl on a first date. As I waited, I wondered whether the makeup I’d troweled on to hide the circles under my eyes and the fading lump on my temple made me look overdone.

  John opened the door and smiled a smile that made my already shaky legs turn to jelly. “You look like a new woman,” he said as he ushered me through the door. He wore faded jeans and a deep blue shirt that intensified his golden brown skin and sun-washed hair. I tugged at my red blouse, wishing I’d worn something a little nicer than frayed jeans and scuffed brown loafers. On the other hand, pickings in my wardrobe were slim; I had been lucky to find a reasonably good-looking blouse. “Did you get your nap in?” he asked.

  “No—Gwen was too wiped out from last night. I let her sleep. Thank God the power is back on, though.”

  “Hard to cook breakfast without it, isn’t it?” I followed him into the small living area to the left of the door. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Wine? Beer?”

  I asked for a glass of wine and settled myself into John’s big, wheat-colored couch as he bustled about in the small kitchen. I glanced at the dining table in the corner across from the kitchen; it was laid with a white tablecloth and candles. The downstairs of the carriage house had been converted into a living area, with the kitchen separated from the rest of the space by a narrow staircase. The walls between the tall windows were covered in bookshelves. The deep, comfortable couch sat across from two slightly down-at-the-heel armchairs, a blue braided rug lay across the scarred hardwood floor, and white sailcloth curtains framed the views of the water.

  One of John’s sculptures, a piece of driftwood that he had transformed into a basking seal, stood in the center of the small wood coffee table. I wondered if it was modeled after one of the harbor seals Eleazer had told me about. I had reached out to touch the seal’s smooth gray back when John emerged from the kitchen carrying two glasses of red wine. He handed one of them to me before settling in on the other end of the couch.

  “This is beautiful,” I said.

  “Thanks. That was one of my first sculptures. I’ve improved with time, but I still like this one a lot.” He reached out and stroked it.

  “What got you interested in working with driftwood?”

  He ran his hand down the seal’s back for a moment before answering. His brown hand looked strong and warm against the soft gray wood. “I guess I noticed that most pieces of driftwood already look like something,” he said. “On this one, before I even touched it, I could see the snout, and the long smooth neck. I just had to shape it a bit, bring it out of the wood.”

  I shook my head. “I could never do that. I just don’t have that kind of vision.”<
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  “You might surprise yourself.” I took a sip of wine. John’s presence on the couch next to me was solid, and at the same time magnetic. I could smell his woodsy smell, with a hint of something spicy, over the aroma of garlic that was starting to drift from the kitchen.

  “What smells so good?” I asked.

  “Clams casino.” He smiled. “We’ll start with that, and then move on to lobster.”

  “Lobster? I love lobster, and I never get to eat it.”

  “Let me know whenever you need a fix. I’ve got a few pots out in the water.”

  “You’re a lobsterman too? Is there anything you don’t do?”

  He laughed. “No, I’m just an amateur. I have a sport license, which means I can put out a few traps.”

  “Which buoys are yours?”

  “The hot pink and blue ones,” he said. “I put them out pretty close to home.”

  “And the locals don’t give you a hard time?”

  “I don’t fish enough traps to be a threat. Four hundred traps are a problem; my measly five don’t make a dent. Besides,” he said, “at least I live on the island.” He sipped his wine. “I’ll have to take you out one day.”

  “I’ve got a boat of my own now,” I said.

  “I wondered whose skiff that was down on the dock. Eleazer just told me about it earlier today. She’s a pretty little boat. You’d better take me with you the first couple of times you head out, though. Just till you get the hang of it.”

  “Eleazer already took me out once. It’s pretty easy to handle.”

  “I know,” he said. “But be careful. That thing’s not a toy, and weather can change quickly. I don’t want you caught out at sea in a twelve-foot skiff.”

  I laughed. “You sound like me talking to Gwen.” I thought of her wild night out at sea, and the amount of time she was spending with Adam. “You know,” I said, “I’m worried about Gwen. I don’t know what to think about her relationship with Adam.”