I stopped by the store; Claudette was holding court in one of Charlene’s squishy armchairs, and after I passed the news about the attorney to my two friends, I headed out to Ingrid Sorenson’s house. Charlene promised to drop Claudette by after dinner, along with the grocery order that was due on the last mail boat; the plan was to put her up in one of my rooms for the night, so she wouldn’t be alone. On the way back to the inn, as promised, I stopped by Claudette’s to refill the cats’ bowls and check on the goats. I called several times for Muffin and Pudge, but the dynamic duo had evidently moved on to somebody else’s garden, and after about fifteen minutes I gave up. My last stop was at Ingrid Sorenson’s, but the curtains were closed and nobody answered when I knocked. I’d try again tomorrow.
The sun was an orange ball in the sky by the time I headed down the final hill toward the Gray Whale Inn. The gray-shingled building nestled into the hillside below me, the meadow beneath it sloping gently to the water. The kitchen windows glowed with a warm light, and despite Eleazer’s plight—and the recent tragedy—I felt a wave of deep contentment. Just a few years ago, I had taken a big risk and made a stab at reinventing my life. Now I had a growing business, a great relationship with my niece, an island of friends, and plans to be married to a kind, warm—not to mention drop-dead gorgeous—man.
The sense of peace and contentment were short-lived, though; when I stepped into the kitchen, Gwen immediately informed me that the oven had broken.
“I know we’re doing the cod cakes in the pan, and I made the patties and put them on a tray in the fridge, but what about the potatoes?” I had told her we would be roasting the potatoes to serve alongside the cod cakes. Despite her creative personality, she had grown up primarily with take-out, and was only able to cook if I left her explicit, step-by-step instructions.
“We’ll boil them and serve them with butter and chives,” I said. “It’s more traditional, anyway.” Tonight wasn’t a problem, and I could thaw out a batch of banana bread for tomorrow, and do sandwiches for lunch—but things would be much easier if the oven was fixed in time for dinner tomorrow. I’d done cold meals in a pinch before, and even borrowed the kitchen at Spurrell’s Lobster Pound, but it was a huge hassle. “At least the stove is still working,” I said. “Did you tell John about the oven?”
She nodded. “He took a look at it, but wasn’t able to fix it. He made a call to a repairman on Mount Desert Island, but he won’t be able to get here until the day after tomorrow.”
“That’ll take forever—particularly if they need to order parts!”
“That’s what John said. He’s down in the carriage house now, trying to get someone else.”
I smiled. After two years of handling inn crises all by myself, it was nice having someone to share the load with—although after the grueling three a.m. start and hours dealing with the Coast Guard and the police, calling repairmen was the last thing John needed. As soon as I got the potatoes on, I’d run down and check on him. “Let’s hope he found someone else,” I said to Gwen, “or I’m going to have to borrow someone’s oven tomorrow afternoon.”
“Just make sure it doesn’t belong to someone who’s entering the bake-off,” Gwen pointed out.
I groaned as I filled a pot with water. She was right. “Cross your fingers that it’s fixed by tomorrow night.”
In no time at all, I had the new potatoes nestled in a pot of salted water and set Gwen to chopping chives. I checked on the tray of cod cakes in the fridge—the round disks needed only a last dredge in breadcrumbs and a quick sauté in a hot pan—and stepped into the dining room to check on the tables. Gwen had set them perfectly; she was getting more efficient every day. I was about to go back into the kitchen and compliment her when I heard raised voices from the parlor. I edged closer, curious.
“Someone’s taken things from the site. I’m telling you—they’ve been messing with the artifacts.” It was Carl, the university archaeologist.
“The weather’s been rough these last few days,” Molly said soothingly. “You and I both know the bottom changes all the time. I’m sure everything is still there; we’d have seen it if they pulled anything up. Besides, they don’t have a boat.”
“Not anymore, they don’t,” he said. “But it’s only a matter of time before Iliad sends out a replacement. And if we don’t work fast, they’ll locate something specific to the ship and make the claim. We’ve got to ID that ship and lay claim to it before they can get another vessel and dive gear in.”
“We’re working on it,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “I told you earlier, I think I may have found the ship’s bell on my last dive.”
“You showed me the photo,” he said. “It’s hard to tell, with the concretion.”
“It’s easier to see in person. We’ll pull it up as soon as I get the winch fixed,” she said. At least I wasn’t the only one with mechanical difficulties.
“That’ll take too long,” he said.
“There’s always the lift bag option. I know you don’t like to use them, but I can try it tomorrow.”
He sighed. “I hate to take the risk, but it may take some time to get that concretion off, so the sooner we get it up, the better.”
“I promise I won’t drop it,” she said.
“We’ll have to be sure to map it, too.”
“Of course. If the weather cooperates, I’ll dive in the morning,” she said. “With Gerald and the Lorelei out of the way, we have the advantage. We won’t lose this one.”
“We’d better not, or we’ll lose half our funding,” he said darkly, and I hurried back toward the kitchen at the sound of footsteps. Fortunately, they were retreating to their rooms, and had no idea I had overheard their conversation.
I found myself wondering about Carl as I threw on a jacket and headed out the kitchen door to check on John. Molly was right; with both Iliad’s primary partner and the research vessel out of the picture, the university archaeologists had a clear advantage. Carl had threatened to kill Gerald yesterday—and now, I’d just learned that if he wasn’t able to lay claim to this wreck, he was at risk of losing research funds. Had he followed through last night—and scuttled the Lorelei for good measure?
I was still musing over what I’d heard as I knocked at the door to John’s carriage house. He was on the phone when he answered the door, and I could tell from the conversation that he wasn’t talking about my oven.
“You’re giving up too quickly,” he said pacing back and forth across the antique wood floor, and my heart contracted. He was quiet for a moment, listening, then spoke passionately. “There are so many other possibilities. Have you looked at the life insurance beneficiaries? Or at the history he had with Carl, who threatened to murder him the night he died?”
Quiet again, and I found myself hugging my arms to my chest as I lowered myself to the couch. John listened for a long time, occasionally breaking in with objections; then, shoulders sagging, he finally hung up the phone and lowered himself to the couch beside me, his head in his hands.
“They’ve closed the investigation?” I asked quietly, afraid to hear the answer, even though I already knew what it was.
He nodded.
“How can they?” I asked. “I just heard Carl say that if he didn’t ‘win’ this shipwreck, he’d lose half of his funding. They’re racing to identify the wreck before Iliad; there’s a good chance they took the boat out of action, too.” I told him what else I’d heard Molly and Carl talking about too. “Although I don’t know why the ship’s bell would be such a big deal.”
“The name of the ship is usually engraved on it,” he said.
“Aha. I got the impression that the first people to identify the ship in court get to ‘own’ the wreck.”
“But if it belonged to Jonah Selfridge, wouldn’t it pass to the family?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They seemed to think the first person to claim it in court has rights.” I thought about that for a moment. “If that’s true, it mea
ns Evan Sorenson might be out of luck—I’ve heard he was trying to lay claim to the wreck. I was at the co-op this afternoon; word is he got in financial trouble gambling, and was trying to use the wreck to buy his way out.”
He shook his head. “Poor Ingrid.”
“What if Evan confronted Gerald about the money he was expecting and was told there wasn’t going to be any? Maybe Evan killed Gerald and took off with the ship.”
“It’s a theory,” John said, skeptically.
“It would explain why the ship disappeared.”
“But what about the cutlass?”
“Maybe Evan stole it from Eli’s place to make it look like Eli did it. Did they ever confirm it was the cutlass that killed him?”
“Apparently there was a bit of damage to the wound—probably from fish—but it does appear to have been a curved blade.”
“So it could have been something else. Did they find any traces of blood on the cutlass?”
“The lab results aren’t back yet,” he said. “The conversation between Carl and Molly is interesting. Where did you hear it, anyway?”
“They were in the parlor just now; I overheard them when I was in the dining room.”
“ ‘Overheard?’”
“All right, I was eavesdropping. But if we tell the police about it, will that help convince them to look for more suspects?”
“I can try,” he said, “but they seem to think they’ve got a rock-solid case already. Apparently Eleazer said he left the cutlass with the archaeologist, but Carl claims he never laid hands on it—and the only fingerprints on the cutlass are Eli’s.”
“But Carl had a motive to kill Gerald!” I protested. “He’s not going to tell the police that Eli handed him the cutlass, is he?”
“I know, Natalie. They zeroed in on Eleazer and refuse to look at anyone else.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “I hate the thought that we’re going to have to rely on his defense attorney to save him.”
“Tom got him an attorney,” I said. “A good one. From Bangor. And the co-op is pitching in to help cover the costs.”
“The island is watching out for its own,” he said, with a smile. “I hope it’s enough.”
I put my arm around him and gave his shoulders a hug. “Just because the police have given up, doesn’t mean we have to. We’ve solved a few murders in the past, you know.”
“And you almost got yourself killed a couple of times, if I remember correctly.” He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me tight. “I don’t want to see Eleazer go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit—but there may still be a murderer out there.”
“May?” I said quietly. It disturbed me that he wasn’t sure about Eli. Then again, Eli had been so angry yesterday morning, I realized I wasn’t sure, either.
“We may never know what happened that night,” he said. “And I don’t want to risk losing you.”
“We’ll do it together,” I said. “Safety in numbers. Besides, I promised Claudette I’d help.”
He sighed. “I guess it can’t hurt to ask questions.”
“Even if we can cast a bit of doubt on the proceedings—don’t they have to acquit if there’s reasonable doubt?”
He nodded. “It might be a good idea to find out more about Carl Morgenstern,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can find out from Molly. And in the meantime,” I said, anxious to switch topics before he had a change of heart, “thanks for calling repairmen while I was gone.”
“That’s one thing that went right, at least,” he said with a rueful smile. “He’ll be out in the morning.”
“You’re my hero,” I said.
“How’s Claudette holding up?” he asked. “I heard you brought her back to the inn this afternoon.”
“She’s at the store with Charlene right now; she’ll drop her off here later, along with the groceries, and I’ll put her up in the Beach Rose room.” I chuckled bitterly. “At least we’re getting some bookings out of this fiasco.”
“You’re a good woman, Natalie Barnes.”
“And you’re a good man,” I said. He opened his arms, and for a moment, I let all of my worries fade away, allowing myself to be enveloped by the scent and feel of him. Then I remembered the potatoes.
“Can’t Gwen handle it?” John said when I told him why I had to go.
“Not if I don’t want to serve charcoal,” I said. “She’s great at cleaning rooms and serving, but she’s not what I’d call an intuitive cook. Unless I have every step outlined for her, she’s a mess,” I said.
“Go save your potatoes, then,” he said with a last kiss.
“There’s plenty, if you’re hungry.”
“I’ll be up in a bit.” As I left, he picked up the phone; evidently he wasn’t done doing battle for Eli yet.
Neither was I.
_____
Dinner was a surprisingly civil event, although the presence of the two investigators doubtless contributed to the ceasefire between the two camps. The folks from the university were at one end of the dining room, conferring quietly, and the Iliad employees camped out at the farthest table from them. Audrey still looked stricken, but Frank seemed distracted. How had his partner’s death affected the firm? I wondered. Was he now first in command?
Between them sat the two investigators, who were set to head back to the mainland that evening, and Cherry Price, who was picking apart her cod cakes with interest. “These are delicious—I love the lemon, and the crisp crust is just right. Did you use shallots in these?”
“No shallots,” I said, “but I substituted fresh chives for the dill.”
“The lemon sauce is wonderful, too.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “You sound like you know your cooking.”
“It’s my job,” she said.
“You’re a chef?”
“A food writer,” she said.
I swallowed hard. “Now I know your name—you write for the New York Times!”
She laughed. “You’ve discovered my secret.”
“Are you here to do an article on the inn?” I asked with trepidation. With the number of policemen traipsing in and out, it hadn’t been a very relaxing day. “I had nothing to do with the pickled cranberries, by the way—or the gumdrops,” I said, pointing at the table with the islanders’ cranberry creations. “I’m supposed to judge a bake-off this weekend, and they’ve been plying me with their wares all week.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I read the sign. But the streusel cake is quite good.”
I’d pass that on to Emmeline; she’d be thrilled.
“In answer to your question, I am thinking of including the inn in a round-up article of Maine hotspots,” she said. “So far, I’m very impressed—everything is top-notch. And it certainly has been exciting!”
“I’m glad you think so—it’s been an unusual day.”
“I noticed—something about a shipwreck, and somebody dying?”
Glancing over my shoulder at the investigators, who didn’t seem to be paying attention anyway, I gave her a synopsis of events, glossing over the fact that the victim had been staying at the inn at the time of his demise.
“Wow. I’ve heard of bed-and-breakfast murder mysteries, but never attended the real thing,” she said. “So we could have a murderer among us?”
“They’ve already arrested someone,” I said, feeling disloyal to Eli for saying it. “But the investigation is ongoing.”
“Well. This will make an interesting article!” Something in my face made her add, “Don’t worry—I won’t link the death with the inn. Although you’d be amazed—ghosts and grisly deaths do appeal to some folks.”
“Well, we have a ghost too,” I said, thinking of the spectral cook who had once appeared in my kitchen.
“Really?”
“I’ve got to finish up with dinner, but if you’d like, I can tell you about her after dessert.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “What are we having for d
essert, anyway?”
Dessert! I realized that with all the brouhaha, I’d forgotten dessert.
What was I going to do? I had absolutely nothing planned for dessert … and I had a New York Times food writer at my table. “It’ll be a surprise,” I said, not mentioning that it would be a surprise for both of us.
Excusing myself, I hurried back to the kitchen and opened the freezer.
“What’s wrong?” Gwen asked. “Did I mess something up?”
“No,” I said. “I forgot dessert.”
Normally I would serve cookies, but I had just sent my reserves to the co-op. The only thing I could see was my two half-gallons of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream which John had had shipped up from Texas especially as a treat for me.
“I guess I can make parfaits,” I said, feeling a pang for the loss of my favorite ice cream. I kept waiting for it to be available in Maine, but the brand had only gotten as far as North Carolina—I had a while to wait.
“No way,” Gwen said, closing the freezer. “You’re not digging into the Blue Bell. Not when we’ve got a whole tray of goodies in the next room.”
“You mean the samples for the bake-off?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“Not the cranberry pickle chutney, though. Or the gumdrops.”
“Think streusel cake and pudding,” she said.
“You’re brilliant, Gwen.”
“You can thank me by doing dinner clean-up,” she said.
“Done.”
She retrieved the trays from the next room, and ten minutes later, we put the finishing touches—including a very small scoop of my beloved Blue Bell ice cream and a dab of cranberry preserves—on each plate.
“Cranberry Island Medley,” she dubbed it. “We’ll tell them to fill out comment cards and pop them in the jar.”
“Perfect,” I said, and ferried the first tray of plates out into the dining room. I hoped Gwen never went back to California; I’d be lost without her.
_____
I had just put the last dish into the dishwasher—the dessert, thankfully, had been a hit with everyone, including the food writer—when the phone rang.
“Gray Whale Inn,” I said as I picked up the phone. I gazed out the window at the lights sparkling on the mainland, beyond the dark stretch of water behind the inn.
Berried to the Hilt Page 8
