Berried to the Hilt

by Karen MacInerney

  It was Charlene. “I’m on my way over with Claudette and your groceries,” she said.

  “I’ll put her up in the Beach Rose room,” I said. “Thanks for staying with her this afternoon.”

  “I was poking around online today, and found out some interesting things about our recently deceased treasure hunter.”

  I leaned back against the wall. “Oh, yeah?”

  “He got engaged last week,” she said as if she were imparting an incredibly juicy detail.

  I didn’t catch the relevance. “Well, it’s got to be terrible news for his fiancée,” I said, “but how does that help with Eli?”

  “It’s all about motive, Nat.”

  “Why would someone kill him because he was engaged?”

  “That woman he’s down here with. What’s her name?”

  “Audrey?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, someone saw the two of them kissing on the stern of the Lorelei,” she said.

  Interesting. She had seemed upset the other day—was that just because of her boss’s death, or because he had lied to her? Although if she was involved with him and he’d died, of course she’d be upset. “How was your informant able to spot that?” I asked.

  “He was out hauling traps, and was watching the wreck site as they cruised by. It’s big news right now, and everyone on this island’s got binoculars, Nat.”

  “Still—it doesn’t make sense. If they were kissing, why would she kill him?”

  “Jealousy!”

  “I still don’t see it.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know,” Charlene suggested. “Maybe she found out last night, and killed him in a crime of passion.”

  That didn’t explain the cutlass and the missing research boat, but it was still a potential lead. “I guess it’s worth checking out,” I said.

  “Of course it’s worth checking out. Anything’s worth checking out. Anyway, I’ll be over in a few minutes. Got any more cookies for me?”

  “Gave the last of them to the co-op this afternoon, and the oven’s broken,” I said.

  “You’re having a rotten week!”

  “Did I mention there’s a food writer from the New York Times here?”

  “I wouldn’t bother playing the lottery, if I were you.”

  “No kidding. See you in a few, then.”

  _____

  We slept the entire night through, which was a nice change of pace, but Claudette was already up and sitting alone in the darkness when I padded downstairs to start the coffee. I heard the soft clack of her knitting needles before I saw her. She was dressed in a shapeless, oatmeal-colored dress, and dark circles ringed her eyes.

  “Did you get any sleep?” I asked as I filled the grinder with several scoops of fragrant French Roast coffee. The rich, dark smell was comforting.

  “Not really,” she said. The sweater had been replaced by a scarf, which trailed over her knee to puddle on the floor beside her. Had she been up all night working on it? “The room was lovely, but I just kept thinking of poor Eli, all locked up and alone.” Tears filled her eyes. “Eli’s no spring chicken, Natalie. If they put him in prison, he may never be able to come home again,” she whispered.

  “Don’t think that way,” I said as I pulsed the grinder, trying to sound optimistic. “We’ve got a couple of leads we’re looking into, and Tom’s found Eli a top-notch attorney.” I poured the ground coffee into the maker, started it, and walked over to put my arm around Claudette, who was wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “An attorney. Does that mean they’re going to charge him?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m taking the mail boat over to see him this morning,” she said. “Emmeline is going with me.”

  “Good,” I said. “Give him our love, will you?” Then I thought of something. “And will you ask him a question for me?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I know the police have already talked to him, but I think they might have missed something. Ask him whom he gave the cutlass to, when, and where. And any details he can remember that might help prove it.”

  “You think he gave it to someone?”

  “John told me he claimed … I mean, said he gave it to Carl Morgenstern, the archaeologist from the university.” I kicked myself for the poor choice of words, but Claudette evidently didn’t notice.

  A fire stirred in her eyes, the first since Eli was arrested, and I was reminded that when roused, she could be a formidable opponent. “That university archaeologist hated Gerald, didn’t he? Eli told me. So maybe the archaeologist killed him, and set up my poor Eli.”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said cautiously.

  “If he set up my husband,” she said, “I’ll kill the man myself.”

  “Easy, Claudette,” I said. “Let’s find out as much as we can, quietly. If it’s true, we don’t want him to be alerted that we know until we have a way to prove it.”

  “You’re right,” she said, the knitting needles picking up speed. “If I find out when they met, maybe I can find someone who saw them together. Nothing happens on this island without somebody noticing it.”

  That was the second time I’d heard that in the last twenty-four hours. “It’s worth asking around,” I said. “I’ll see if Charlene heard anything. She usually knows everything that happens.” Happy to see Claudette a little less bleak, I busied myself getting the morning’s breakfast ready. As I pulled the last loaf of frozen banana bread out of the freezer and retrieved a carton of eggs from the refrigerator, I prayed Claudette would find out something we could use to prove Eleazer had handed over the cutlass. And that the oven would be fixed before tomorrow morning. As much as I enjoyed the occasional Entenmann’s Danish, I didn’t want to be reduced to serving it for breakfast—particularly not with a Times food writer in the dining room.

  _____

  Since the oven was broken, the lunch menu was lobster rolls and cold salad, which Gwen assured me she could handle with aplomb.

  “The lobster salad is in the fridge,” I said, “and I defrosted the rolls this morning. You can serve some sliced cantaloupe on the side.”

  “So I just put the lobster salad in the rolls, make the salad …”

  “The dressing’s already made and in the fridge,” I reminded her.

  “… and plate it,” she finished.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I don’t know how many guests you’ll have—the Iliad party should be here, since I think they’re waiting on another boat to arrive, but I’m guessing the university folks will be diving at the wreck site.” Attempting to retrieve what they hoped was the ship’s bell, if last night’s conversation was anything to go on.

  “Is Marge taking care of the rooms?”

  “She’s already done with half of them.” I could hear the washer going, with the first load of towels. “I’m going into town to see if anyone saw anything the night Gerald McIntire died,” I said. “Eli said he gave the cutlass to Carl, but Carl claims he didn’t.”

  “You think Carl might have killed Gerald with it?”

  I shrugged. “I’m also curious to find out what happened to Evan Sorenson. Have you heard anything more about him?”

  Gwen shook her head. “Nothing. He just kind of vanished.”

  “Along with the Lorelei,” I pointed out.

  Gwen’s arched eyebrows rose questioningly. “You think?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. But anything we can come up with that points toward someone other than Eli—”

  “Good luck, Aunt Nat.”

  “Thanks. I’m afraid we’ll need it.”

  My first stop was the store. I could have called, but with all the excitement on the island over the last few days, I knew Charlene would likely have a full house—and I wanted to talk with as many people as possible.

  Despite the stormy events of the last week, it was a beautiful
autumn day, with a robin’s-egg blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. The blueberry bushes were a rich russet color, and orange and red maples flamed at intervals among the dark green spruce and pine trees. The wind off the water was bracing, scented with the tang of salt and autumn leaves, with a hint of pine from the evergreens.

  I glanced out at the blue water, which was dotted with whitecaps. How was the university expedition going? I’d read up a bit on Iliad the night before, and I could understand why Carl felt such animosity toward the organization. Some treasure-hunting companies were relatively good about preserving the sites they explored, but Iliad appeared to have a more mercenary approach to the business of salvaging shipwrecks. And the university had lost to Iliad not once, but twice—both times because Iliad had brought an identifiable artifact to court before them. No wonder Molly and Carl were so intent on getting that ship’s bell up and identified; if they didn’t, Iliad might beat them to the punch a third time. Would Carl be willing to kill to prevent it?

  But why kill Gerald McIntire when scuttling his boat would be enough to buy a few days’ time?

  And where the heck was Evan Sorenson—and the Lorelei?

  In what seemed like no time at all, Charlene’s store came into view. The rose bushes along the front porch still had a few brave blooms on them, but most of the leaves had yellowed and fluttered to the ground. The rockers on the porch were empty today—it was a tad brisk for sitting on the porch—but the mullioned windows, as always, were papered with notices. I ignored the ones advertising the bake-off and pushed through the front door, the bell above the door announcing my arrival.

  As expected, the place was full, primarily of lobstermen’s wives and old-timers, and tongues were wagging. They were until I walked in, anyway. A dozen pairs of curious eyes locked onto me as I stepped inside. Charlene sat on her stool behind the counter; across from her was Matilda Jenkins, the town historian.

  “Any news?” Charlene called over to me.

  “I was hoping you’d have some,” I said, shaking my head. The patrons quickly decided I had nothing new to add to the gossip mill, and the buzz of voices resumed.

  Charlene poured me a cup of coffee as I pulled up the stool next to Matilda.

  “Matilda’s been researching Davey Blue,” Charlene told me.

  “I heard he dated one of your ancestors,” I said to Charlene.

  “That’s the most likely scenario,” Matilda said, running a hand through her close-cropped white hair. Her eyes shone with excitement behind her glasses.

  “What did you find out?” I asked.

  “Well, it was a long time ago, and with pirate ships, there aren’t a lot of records.”

  “I guess not,” I said.

  “But from what I’ve been able to find out, his ship was last recorded in the Portland area in late April of 1631. There’s no record of it after that,” she said.

  “So he was in Maine,” I said. “How did you connect him with Charlene’s great-great-great-great-aunt, or whatever she is?”

  “Cranberry Island is an unusual place—and a wonderful place to be a historian. Because so many families have been here for so long, a lot of the history has stayed with the families—and on the island itself.”

  “Like family bibles?” I asked.

  “Bibles, photos … even diaries.” She gave me a pointed look; I had managed to lose an important diary not too long ago, and she still hadn’t forgiven me. “We also have correspondence that folks have donated for preservation. The Kean family was particularly prolific,” she said, looking at Charlene.

  “My grandmother kept trunks of letters up in her attic. When she died, we gave them to the museum,” Charlene explained.

  “And some of them went back to the seventeenth century. Incredibly well preserved, too; I’m hoping to install a special storage case for them, to prevent further degradation.”

  “Was there anything in them about Davey Blue?” I asked.

  “Not specifically,” she said. “There’s a legend on the island that one of the Kean girls got mixed up with a pirate, but it wasn’t until a few years ago, when Charlene donated materials she found in the attic, that we found any indication there might be truth to the story.”

  I knew Charlene’s family had donated many old documents to the museum, but had never heard anything about Davey Blue. “Did she write to him?” I asked, wondering how exactly one sent a letter to a pirate—and how, if so, it would have ended up in Charlene’s grandmother’s attic.

  “Nothing so direct, I’m afraid. But there are two letters from a series, written by Genevieve Kean to her sister Felicity in Portland, that may indicate a connection. Genevieve lived in a house right by the pier, not too far from where the museum is, but the house was torn down a long time ago—probably in the 1700s. That’s when the other islands were settled; Cranberry Island was the first, and there were only three families here in the beginning.”

  “No wonder the Kean girls were frustrated with their options,” Charlene said, her eyes sparkling as she sipped her coffee.

  “What was in the letters?” I asked, trying to gently guide Matilda back to the topic of Davey Blue.

  Matilda sighed. “They’re a wonderful record of early life on Cranberry Island. Absolutely amazing. All kinds of things—the fishing, the weather conditions, the difficulty in procuring goods from the mainland, particularly in winter. Did you know some of the islanders slept with their bread in their beds, to keep it from freezing?”

  “Tell her about Eleanor,” Charlene said, impatiently.

  Matilda smiled. “You’ll have to come down and see them,” she said. “There were two letters in particular that caught my interest,” she said. “Your ancestor had a beautiful hand—and a wonderful way with words.”

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “Genevieve was a typical mother, I guess,” Matilda said, chuckling. “She was having trouble with her third daughter, an impulsive seventeen-year-old beauty named Eleanor. Evidently Eleanor was not delighted with her marital prospects on the island, although one of the Selfridges was courting her.”

  “See? The women in my family have always had taste,” Charlene said.

  Matilda let the comment pass; as the Selfridges had been the primary museum benefactors, I could understand the conflict of interest. “As I was saying,” she said, “Genevieve was hoping for a match with one of the Selfridge boys. But Eleanor was not enamored of the young man in question, especially after meeting an unsavory gentleman who had taken shelter from a storm in the harbor.”

  “A pirate?”

  “Genevieve doesn’t say,” Matilda said, “but she certainly was not impressed by the man. In her opinion, he was an ‘ill-mannered and lawless man who styles himself a sea captain,’” she quoted from memory. “She never mentions his name, unfortunately. The timing is right, though.”

  “Girls always do go for bad boys,” Charlene said with a sultry smile. “Who wouldn’t want to date a pirate captain?”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “Like any good parents, Genevieve and her husband forbade her to see the man, and were much relieved when he and his ship departed.”

  “Without Eleanor,” I said.

  “Without Eleanor,” Matilda said. “But he returned six months later. His ship never came into the harbor, but was spotted off Cranberry Point.”

  “That’s not far from the inn!” I said.

  “Or Smuggler’s Cove,” Charlene pointed out. Smuggler’s Cove was a cove a little ways from the inn; although its entrance was covered at high tide, at low tide, you could just make it inside. There was a large, dry cave inside, with mysterious iron rings embedded in the rock, for tying up boats. No one knew who had put them there, or when. Rumor had it that it had been used by smugglers during Prohibition—and maybe even pirates in earlier times.

  “Maybe Eli is right, and it was a pirate hideout,” I said.

  “We may never know,” Matilda said. “I was hoping to
ask one of the marine archaeologists to take a look at the cove. I have no idea how old those iron rings are.”

  “But tell her about Eleanor,” Charlene said.

  “Ah, yes. Eleanor. Well, the girl just disappeared,” Matilda said.

  “While the ship was off the coast?” I asked.

  She nodded. “She claimed to be going out for a walk, and never returned.”

  “Probably escaping with her pirate lover,” Charlene said.

  “The poor woman,” I breathed. I couldn’t imagine losing a seventeen-year-old daughter like that.

  “According to Genevieve’s letter—she was very distraught, you could see it in her handwriting—the ship was seen heading out to sea within hours of the girl’s disappearance. And then a terrific storm bore down on the island.”

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  Matilda looked grim. “Exactly. They never found or heard of the ship again, but several ship’s timbers were sighted in the water the following week—along with three dead bodies.”

  I shuddered. “Not Eleanor’s?”

  “Not Eleanor’s,” she said. “But the girl never returned, and her parents eventually had to presume that she had died when the ship—whichever one it was—went down.”

  “What makes you think it might have been Davey Blue’s ship?” I asked.

  “We’ll never know for sure,” Matilda said, “Genevieve never names the captain, or the ship. But I found a reference to the Black Marguerite being in the area at the time. I haven’t found any supporting evidence for the first visit to the island, but at the time of Eleanor’s disappearance, a log from a captain based out of Mount Desert Island mentions a sighting of a ship matching the description of the Black Marguerite, cruising the waters about fifty miles south of here.”

  “And does the timing line up with Eleanor’s disappearance?” Charlene asked.

  “Yes,” Matilda said. “Legend has it the captain was making a run to the Caribbean, but he doesn’t appear to have made it. Like I said, the last sighting of the Black Marguerite was in Portland, in April of 1631. Three weeks before Genevieve’s letter was dated.”