“I don’t see why not.” Charlene giggled.
“What?”
“I just can’t wait to see the look on Murray Selfridge’s face when he finds out he’s been hoodwinked by Bernard Katz,” she said.
• • •
A smile spread across my face as I hung up the phone. I might be going to jail, but at least the island had a reprieve. My stomach gurgled, reminding me that the issue of lunch still needed to be dealt with. I grabbed a few cold waffles and sat down at the kitchen table, thinking about what this new information meant to the murder investigation. If Katz had no money, I thought as my teeth sank into the first buttery waffle, then maybe the will wasn’t the motive for his murder. Then again, maybe Stanley didn’t know how dire his father’s financial situation was.
A fishing boat steamed across the water outside the kitchen window as I chewed. Even if the Gray Whale Inn didn’t survive, at least the slow pace of life on this island would continue unchanged. As the events of the last week replayed in my mind, I sat up with a jolt. I was convinced I knew who had murdered Bernard Katz. The only problem was, I needed to get to the mainland to prove it.
I grabbed my windbreaker and hurried down to the dock, a half-eaten waffle still in my hand. This might be my only shot at getting to the mainland. Grimes could be back at any moment, and now that I had found the murderer’s second victim, chances were excellent that my freedom was about to be curtailed.
As I trotted down the path to the dock, I eyed the Little Marian with trepidation. Handling the little boat had seemed easy when Eleazer was with me, but could I do it alone? I didn’t even know how to tie a proper knot, much less find somewhere to tie the boat up in the event I actually managed to get her over to the mainland. The small, white boat bobbed jauntily in the blue-black waves as I clambered in and untied the ropes, pushing wildly against the dock to avoid bashing the boat’s sides. I slid onto the bench in front of the engine and pulled the cord as Eleazer had shown me. The engine whined, but sputtered and fell silent. I took a ragged breath and tried again, with the same result. Great. The boat was drifting away from the dock—I’d untied the ropes and pushed off—and now the engine wouldn’t start.
I yanked again. This time, the engine sputtered twice and caught, and the Little Marian surged forward. I sighed with relief, then yelped as I realized the boat was headed straight for a barnacle-encrusted rock. I grabbed at the rudder and pulled hard to the right, holding my breath at the low rasp on the left—port, I corrected myself—as the skiff grazed the barnacles. I hoped the scrape hadn’t done too much damage to the Little Marian’s paint job. As long as she had no gaping holes, though, that was good enough for me.
I guided the small craft out toward the open water, reflecting that whatever seamanship ran in my family’s blood had clearly not been passed on to me. John was right; I should have gone out with him a few times before embarking on this fool’s errand.
As I pulled farther away from the Gray Whale Inn dock, my eyes slid over to the cliffs. If John was up there, he might recognize me. I decided to veer south until I was too far away for John to see me before heading for the mainland.
As the nose of the little boat turned toward Sutton Island, the dark cleft in the rocks that Eleazer had pointed out to me caught my attention: Smuggler’s Cove. In all the excitement of the last few days, I’d forgotten about it. Yet someone had been there the night of the murder. As the cove slipped away behind me, I promised myself that if the Little Marian survived the trip to the mainland, I would visit it on the way back.
The cliffs receded from view, and the Little Marian was almost all the way to Sutton Island before I decided to risk crossing the open water. I steered the boat toward the mainland and pulled my hood over my head, hunching down as low as possible in the back of the boat as my eyes probed the rocky harbor. Where could I put the Little Marian? Was it okay to tie her up where the mail boat docked? My eyes were still trained on the harbor when the thrum of an engine caught my attention, and I looked up to see George McLeod waving at me from the Island Queen. I groaned. Now the whole island would know I’d slipped my leash. I ducked my head and gunned the engine.
The engine whined as I crossed the rest of the water at high speed, feeling like a criminal on the lam. A shiver ran through me. As far as Grimes was concerned, I was a criminal on the lam. I hoped the Little Marian wouldn’t encounter the police launch next. I also hoped my hunch about Bernard Katz’s killer was correct. If it wasn’t, I didn’t know what else I could do.
Finally, the Northeast Harbor dock came into view. I threaded the small boat through the moored yachts and sailboats and came up alongside the main dock, ramming the bumper hard. I winced at the sound of splintering wood as my fingers scrabbled at a cleat, wrapping the rope around it several times before cutting the engine and jumping out onto the dock. I fastened the other rope as best I could and jogged up toward the harbormaster’s little booth.
“I’m from Cranberry Island,” I said breathlessly to the young man behind the cloudy, pitted window. His brown eyes were expressionless, and he scratched at one of the pimples that were scattered across his cheek like a constellation. “Can I leave my boat down here for a few minutes? I have an emergency errand to run.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Sure. No problem.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I ran up through the cracked asphalt parking lot toward my little Celica. I had to get to Somesville fast, before the police came looking for me. The little green car was right where it was supposed to be, and my hand dug in my pocket for the keys. My heart sank when I realized they were still at the inn.
“Damn.” How was I supposed to get to Somesville? I hurried back to the harbormaster’s booth. “Is there a place I can put in at Somesville?”
“Yeah,” he said, scratching another pimple, this time on his bristly chin. “You just head down a ways south, go round the bend into Somes Sound, and it’s the first harbor you come to.”
“Thanks,” I said, and ran back down to the Little Marian.
I hopped aboard and untied the ropes from the cleats, but this time I held onto them until the engine was up and running; I was learning. Fortunately, the Little Marian roared to life immediately, and I pulled in the ropes and shoved myself away from the dock, chugging past the expensive boats in the harbor and the equally expensive houses perched among the towering spruce trees on the mainland before veering southward down the coast.
Before long, I was pulling up to the weathered gray wharf in Somes-ville, and docked only slightly more gracefully. Then I checked in with the harbormaster to make sure I hadn’t put the skiff where it would be run over by a yacht, and headed for the library.
Somesville was a picturesque town, and images of its main street, which was decorated with brilliant flowerbeds and boxes, often appeared in the pages of Maine guidebooks. As I trotted toward the main square, two otters played together in a little cove beside the road, and the rows of bright red geraniums lining the quaint bridge glowed in the afternoon sunshine. I made a mental note to come back and spend a little more time in this attractive town, in the event Grimes didn’t arrest me. Now that I had a boat, it would be a lot easier to do.
It was only a short walk to the library, which was housed in a white clapboard building that appeared to be a former church. I stepped in through the heavy wooden door and inhaled the familiar scent of old books that always catapulted me back to childhood. I passed through the small space that had once done duty as a nave and found myself in a long, high-ceilinged room with heavy brown beams reminiscent of the hull of a ship. After nodding a greeting to the librarian, a white-haired woman whose ringed fingers jangled as they flew across a computer keyboard, I grabbed the most recent Wall Street Journal. The article Barbara had put together was on page two, but it told me no more than Charlene had. I tossed the paper aside and hurried over to the com
puter area.
I sat down at the first empty station and pulled up the Premier Resorts International Web site, whose home page featured a picture of a gigantic resort on a white sand beach. Was this the North Carolina resort that Barbara had fought so hard to prevent? I said a silent prayer of thanks that Cranberry Island wouldn’t have a similar monolithic structure plunked down on its rocky shores, and clicked through the pages to a list of the companies associated with or owned by Premier Resorts. As I suspected, what I was looking for wasn’t there.
I pulled up another Web site and typed in a name. The entry appeared immediately; it was located in New York City, and the address was a post office box. My pulse picked up. I was on the right track. When I clicked to find out who the registered owners were, though, the site informed me that a paid membership was required for access to that information. When I saw the price of membership, I sat back in frustration.
What I wanted had to be public record; how could I find it? I walked back to the librarian. She pushed her bright red reading glasses up on the bridge of her nose and joined me at the computer, her ringed fingers whizzing over the keyboard as I stood back and watched in awe. She might not be a child of the information age, but she sure knew her way around the Internet. Within two minutes, she had guided me to exactly where I needed to go.
I typed in a name, and my breath quickened as the entry came up immediately. I clicked on a link, and a list of names unfolded on the glowing screen in front of me. The first name on the list came as no surprise, and the calmness of certainty settled over me as I stared at the small black letters. The second name puzzled me for a moment, but as I sat back and sifted through all the things I had seen and heard, it made perfect sense.
I printed the list, gave the librarian my appreciation for the help and ten cents for the printed page, and headed back out into the bright Somesville afternoon. The floating ramp to the pier was steeper than it had been when I climbed it; the tide was on its way out. It was time to pay a visit to Smuggler’s Cove.
I cast off with a bit more ease this time—I was beginning to get a feel for the Little Marian—and puttered past the boats moored in the harbor, debating the best way to approach the cove. Four eider ducklings bobbed by me, following their mother in a noisy line, and I smiled despite the tightness in my stomach. Eleazer had said the landing would be tricky. I hoped I’d be up to it.
Instead of bearing directly for the cliffs—I knew John was still up there, and it was likely that by now both Grimes and the police from the mainland had joined him—I veered back north toward East Bunker Ledge. At least I thought it was East Bunker Ledge—I was still a little hazy on my Cranberry Isles geography. My plan was to turn toward Cranberry Island at its northern tip and then work my way along the shoreline toward the cove. There was still a chance that John would see me, but it was better than making straight for my destination across the open water.
East Bunker Ledge wasn’t much more than a rock sticking out of the water with a couple of pine trees growing at the top of it. I scanned the water around me as the Little Marian chugged toward it; I didn’t want to encounter a police launch along the way. As my eyes swept the horizon, a seal’s snout protruded from the water in front of the boat. I thought of John and his beautiful sculpture and smiled. While the conversation I’d overheard earlier today with Grimes had chilled me to the marrow, hearing John come to my defense had brought a flush of warmth to my heart.
I finally reached the small island, which was swarming with sea-gulls, and turned the skiff toward Cranberry Island. The short stretch of blue water passed quickly, and before long I was puttering along the rocky shore south of the Gray Whale Inn. The shattered granite looked as if someone had bashed it with a hammer, sending large chunks spiraling to the ocean floor below. I scanned the water in front of me, searching for the telltale break in the waves that would reveal a submerged rock. Despite my life jacket and my proximity to the shore, I didn’t relish a dip in the icy water.
I hunched down into my jacket as the Gray Whale Inn slid by over my left shoulder, steering the skiff so that it hugged the shore. The entrance to the cove wasn’t visible from John’s rocky perch. If the little boat veered off too far from the shoreline, though, he—or Grimes—would be able to spot me. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the rudder and steered past a trio of rocks jutting up from the silky blue water.
As the boat thrummed closer to the rocky entrance to Smuggler’s Cove, a huge boulder reared up out of the water in front of me like a craggy gray elephant, the waves breaking hard against its weathered hide. I had no choice; I was forced to veer out away from the base of the cliff. I turned the rudder and glanced up toward John’s high perch, catching a flash of his red T-shirt and a glint of sunlight on his hair before I gunned the engine and turned back toward the cliffs, steering the boat as close to the rocks as I dared. I hoped he hadn’t seen me. I needed time to find evidence to clear myself before Grimes descended upon me with dangling handcuffs.
Finally, the entrance of the cove appeared, like a black mouth lined with vicious gray teeth. I examined the narrow opening with a sinking heart. Even though the tide was at its lowest ebb, exposing enough room under the ragged arch in the rock for the boat to pass through, I remembered what Eleazer had said; when the tide came up, the entrance was completely submerged. I’d have to get in and out fast.
The opening was barely six feet wide, just enough to squeeze into, if I could avoid the cove’s jagged edges. The tops of rocks jutted out of the water like the fins of sharks, all along the narrow corridor leading to the cove.
The waves slapped up against the boat as I idled the motor and examined the approach to the cove with growing unease, wishing that I had taken a few test drives with Eleazer or John before attempting a maneuver like this. Suddenly, the boat lurched, almost knocking me off my seat. A rogue wave had nudged the Little Marian sideways, and its fellows were rapidly pushing the small boat into the rocks. I suddenly realized the skiff was inches away from slamming into the rocks.
I threw the engine into reverse and gunned the motor. The Little Marian lurched backwards, then jerked to a stop with a sickening thud. I threw the engine into forward gear, but the boat didn’t move. I gunned it again. The engine whined in protest, but the skiff was drifting, rudderless. When I pulled the outboard motor up out of the icy water, the problem was obvious; the propeller was gone. I must have hit a rock and sheared it off.
As I sat, helpless, the waves sucked at the Little Marian, pulling her closer and closer to the jagged rocks. Panic welled in my throat. Think, Nat. Think. I scrambled to the floor of the boat and grabbed one of the oars Eleazer had pointed out to me on our first boat trip. I leaned over the side and positioned the oar against the nearest rock and pushed with all of my strength. A wave pushed back, so I heaved a second time, and this time managed to get the Little Marian moving away from the rocks. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on the bench before realizing that the boat was now drifting out to the open water. A flurry of terns was already visible overhead; if the skiff drifted much farther, I would be exposed to the eyes on the cliffs above. I considered giving up and rowing back to the Gray Whale Inn, but dismissed it. This might be my only opportunity to explore the cove.
I eyed the narrow entrance. It was only about six feet wide at its narrowest point—nowhere near enough room for oars. To row into the cove, I’d have to pick up enough speed to carry me through before the boat got to the entrance. The rocks on the sides looked vicious, but I figured I could use the oars to keep the boat from scraping along the sides, and maybe even add a little momentum by pushing the boat along off of the walls.
I fumbled the oars into the oarlocks and sat down on the hard wooden bench. It was now or never. I gave the oars a few experimental swings and then dipped them into the blue-green water, pulling with all of my strength and stealing a glance over my shoulder at the narrow gap. I pulled again,
praying that the waves wouldn’t push me too far to one side, and the little boat began picking up speed. By the fourth pull, the boat was almost to the mouth of the cave. I had dipped my oars into the water for a final thrust when the left oar cracked against something, spinning the Little Marian around toward one of the walls.
I dug the left oar into the water again frantically, trying to get the boat on track, and the right oar dragged hard against the other wall. I pulled it out of its oarlock and stabbed at the walls with it, trying to keep the skiff from scraping against the rocks. As I swung the oar from side to side and pushed against the walls to avoid the rocks that protruded from the water like spears, I prayed that the entrance was short and involved no turns.
The slice of sky above the boat narrowed as I fought my way into the cove, the oar slipping against the slick rocks. Despite my efforts to push deeper in—I was sweating hard under my windbreaker—the boat was slowing down, and the slapping of the waves had taken on an eerie, sucking sound. I stabbed at the rocky walls with the oar, trying hard to steer the sluggish boat through the narrow waterway, and hoped that the little skiff wouldn’t hit any underwater surprises.
I was beginning to wonder if I’d be floating in the cove forever when a shallow shelf loomed on the right side of the Little Marian. I dropped the oar into the boat and fumbled for a hold among the rocks, my hands skittering over the lumpy surface and closing around a rough metal loop. I reached back for a rope and threaded it through, then grabbed the other rope and clambered out of the boat, searching the shelf for another place to tie up. When my fingers closed on a second rusted loop driven into the granite floor, I relaxed for what felt like the first time in days. Then I remembered that I’d have to find my way back out of the cove, and tensed up all over again.
Murder on the Rocks Page 21
