“Any luck?” I murmured into his ear, already knowing the answer.
“No,” he said.
“I’ve got some new information that might help,” I said.
He released me, and gently grasped my shoulders, looking me in the eye. “None of this information came from illegal trespassing, did it?”
“I happened to notice a few things while cleaning the rooms,” I said primly.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I thought Marge was in charge of the rooms today.”
“She was,” I said. “I was just doing a quality control check.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Let’s hear it then,” he said, pulling up a chair at the table.
Claudette had perked up a little, and was eyeing me hungrily. As I retrieved a bag of fresh boiled shrimp from the refrigerator and added them to the salads, I gave a quick rundown of the discussion of the ship’s bell—and the race to identify the boat—as well as the book and photo I’d found in Audrey’s room.
“If it was a crime of passion, why would Audrey kill him at the wreck site and scuttle the boat?” John asked.
“We don’t know what happened to the Lorelei,” I said, finishing the last plate and popping a torn piece of shrimp into my mouth. “And maybe they went out for some late-night research, and she confronted him then and there.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “But why wouldn’t she just bring the Lorelei back here? And how did she get back to land if the boat sank?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe she used the Lorelei’s skiff, and then just let it go when she reached land.”
“To my mind, the loss of the boat points to the folks from the university,” he said.
“I don’t think we can completely discount Audrey,” I said, “but based on what I heard today about the race to identify the shipwreck, the loss of the Lorelei and Illiad’s main partner gives the university a real advantage.”
“And if Carl did find the cutlass, he could have used it and ditched the murder weapon to implicate Eli.”
“But what about the fingerprints?” John asked. “Eli’s were the only ones on it.”
Claudette whimpered.
“Maybe Carl knew what he was planning to do and used gloves,” I suggested.
“Maybe he followed the Lorelei out there in the Ira B, angry because he thought Carl was disturbing the site, or trying to beat him to the punch. He boarded the Lorelei, killed Gerald, scuttled the boat, and then got back on his own vessel and headed back to the inn.”
“But Eli didn’t see anything other than the body,” Charlene said.
“Maybe it happened a half hour before he arrived.” I looked at John. “Would one person be enough to crew either the Lorelei or the Ira B?”
“Tying up would be a challenge, but I suppose you could manage it in a pinch.”
“But the Lorelei never tied up,” I pointed out. “Or if it did, it was somewhere far away from here.” I thought of Ingrid’s son, Evan. “No word from Sorenson Jr. yet?”
“None that I’ve heard,” Charlene said, glancing at the clock. “It’s six-thirty, Nat. Isn’t that the dinner hour?”
“Need a hand?” John asked.
“All I’ve got to do is get everyone drinks and a salad, and then fill the bread bowls and serve the chowder,” I said. “If you’ll take care of everyone in here and then slice the pie for the dessert plates, that would be great.”
“I’m on it,” he said as I slipped through the kitchen door into the dining room.
The atmosphere was hushed; as usual, the Iliad crew sat at one end of the dining room, and the university duo was at the other, with the Times writer seated at a window-side table in between. She looked up as I approached.
“What’s for dinner tonight?”
“A salad with chilled shrimp and creamy French dressing, New England clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl, followed by blueberry or raspberry pie.”
“Perfect fare for an autumn evening,” she said, and I smiled, relieved. “Do you happen to have a Chardonnay to go with that?”
“I’ll get you a glass,” I said, glad I’d thought to tuck a few bottles into the fridge that morning.
“Wonderful,” she said. Then she gave me a grin. “I hear you’re in the middle of a political maelstrom.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. What had she heard about the murder investigation?
“The bake-off, of course,” she said. “I walked down to the store today and overheard a few conversations. All the talk is of the shipwreck and the bake-off. You wouldn’t believe what people are saying!”
“What are they saying?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual,” she said. “That you’ll be biased, of course. That people are buying you off with free lobster.”
“They’ve tried,” I said.
“I believe it. I can’t tell you the number of things I’ve been offered for favorable reviews. Trips to the Caribbean, free spa weekends …”
“I’m afraid all I can come up with is seconds on pie,” I said.
She laughed. “No need,” she said. “This is a delightful little inn you’ve created. I think you’ll be very pleased with the review.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, glad there was some good news this week. Although with Eli alone in a jail cell and his wife sobbing behind the kitchen door, the feeling of pleasure was muted. If only Adam hadn’t pulled up that timber …
“I’ll be back with your Chardonnay in a minute,” I said. “If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
I checked in with the other two tables, letting them know what tonight’s menu was and writing down drink orders. Audrey’s eyes were red-rimmed, and Frank seemed distracted, his hands fidgeting with the napkin in his lap. Carl was taut as a bowstring when I asked him if he’d like a beer or a glass of wine.
“Just water, please.”
“Did you make any progress with the concretions?” I asked politely.
“Nothing identifiable,” he said. “When we get back to the lab, we may have a better chance of softening them up and seeing what’s in them. We’ll be able to X-ray them, too. I wish we had the Sea Vixen here!”
“How do you manage to pull artifacts up?” I asked.
“Well, when the winch is working, we use that,” he said. “Otherwise, we use inflatable lift bags.”
“How much can they carry?”
“They come in a variety of sizes, but we usually use the 100-pound bags,” he said. “You hook the artifact to the bag; then the bag inflates and floats to the surface of the water. The only worry is that they can move up too quickly and drop an artifact. You have to be very, very careful—but Molly’s an expert with them.”
“Clever,” I said, aware of Molly’s eyes on me. So the lift bag under her bed was the right size after all. Something told me she hadn’t forgotten about it.
“We should have another batch of bags coming in tomorrow; I’ve arranged to pick them up early tomorrow on Mount Desert Island.”
“I hope they get here on time,” I said, and returned to the kitchen, where John was ladling chowder into bowls.
“You want one?” he asked.
“After I’m done serving, I’d love one.” I retrieved a bottle of California Chardonnay from the fridge and dug in a drawer for the wine opener. “I realized I forgot to tell you something.”
“What?” Charlene asked, looking up from her compact; she had been touching up her mascara. At my questioning look, she said, “I’ve decided to help you with the serving.”
I grinned, knowing her intent had little to do with helping me and a lot to do with checking out the archaeologists.
“You were going to tell us something, remember?” John prompted me.
“Oh, right. Anyway, you know those lift bags they use to pull up artifacts?”
“The inflatable ones?” John asked.
I lined up three wine glasses and nodded. “Carl said they were out of them, an
d needed to wait for a shipment to arrive tomorrow morning, but I saw one under Molly’s bed today.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Charlene said.
“Unless she’s doing something else with those lift bags,” John said.
I told them about the other things I had seen in Molly’s bathroom.
“Why wouldn’t she store those things on the boat?” Charlene asked.
“That’s what I wondered. And Carl was complaining about the site being disturbed the other night, too.” I poured the wine, admiring the golden glow of it in the crystal glasses. “Do you think maybe she’s doing her own archaeology on the side?” I asked.
“You didn’t find any artifacts in her room,” John said. “Maybe the lift bag was defective—or she forgot she had it.”
“What about the plastic tubs and the car battery?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I have no idea what they use when they’re doing an excavation. Why don’t you ask?”
“I can’t,” I said, blushing slightly as I retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge.
“Why not?” John asked.
“There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on her door,” I confessed.
John sighed. “And you went in anyway?”
“Gotta run,” I said, putting the drinks on the tray and disappearing through the door to the dining room.
John gave me a stern look when I returned to the kitchen. “I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything illegal,” he said.
“Who said it was illegal? I was just trying to help a friend,” I said, nodding toward Claudette. “Besides, I’m supposed to go into the rooms. I’m the innkeeper.”
John rolled his eyes, but I ignored it.
“I wonder what all that stuff was for?” Charlene asked as she applied a new coat of lipstick.
“Car battery, jug of clear liquid … who knows?”
“Maybe I could ask one of the Iliad archaeologists,” I said.
“You’re going to tell them you found all that stuff in Molly’s room?” Claudette asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “I’ll be subtle. I’m good at subtle.”
Charlene gave a little cough that I chose to ignore and stood up, smoothing down her soft purple top. “Everyone gets salads, right?”
“Right.”
“Who’s sitting where?” she asked.
I gave her the rundown and sent her out with the salads. “Be extra nice to the woman by the window,” I said. “She’s a food writer for the Times.”
“You’re kidding me,” Charlene said. “Really?”
“That’s great, Nat!” John said, his face breaking into a smile for the first time in days.
I nodded, then gave Charlene a stern look. “Just try not to spill shrimp on her, okay?”
With Charlene in charge of serving, I poured myself a small glass of wine, ladled out a small bowl of chowder and sat down between Claudette and John. The creamy chowder was velvety on my tongue, and the oaky, slightly sweet Chardonnay was a perfect combination. I dipped in a leftover crust of sourdough bread and chewed it.
Claudette’s bowl sat before her, untouched. “Eat,” I said. “You need your strength.”
“I can’t,” she said miserably.
“What about a piece of pie?” I asked.
She turned to look at me. “Is there sugar in it?”
I gave up, defeated.
_____
The rest of dinner went well, at least according to Charlene. “That writer of yours gushed over the chowder,” she said, “so you should be in good shape.”
“See anything you like out there?” John teased Charlene as he rinsed the last salad plate and tucked it into the dishwasher.
“Well, the university guy is good-looking, in a weather-beaten kind of way,” she said, taking a sip of wine, “but he seems a bit uptight.”
“He’s got anger management problems, too,” I said. “Plus, he’d be out of town all the time.”
“A challenge, but not insurmountable,” she said, spooning up a bite of raspberry pie and chewing it thoughtfully. “It’s good, but yours is better.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I just wish I could have gotten Claudette to eat some of it.”
“She’s not wasting away yet,” Charlene said. Claudette did have an ample build, but I was still worried. We had tried to get her to stay in the kitchen with us, but she had excused herself and gone up to her room. I was planning to check on her in a little bit.
“Not having an oven has been kind of convenient today,” I said. As much as I loved baking, a day away had been a nice break. “But I’m still hoping to be back in the baking business soon.”
“If that repairman isn’t here by 11,” John growled, “I’ll go get him myself.”
“You may have to wait a bit if the weather doesn’t improve,” Charlene said, glancing at the rain-glazed windows. “Speaking of which, have you heard from Gwen?”
“Not yet,” I said, glancing at my watch; it was coming up on eight.
“She and Adam were headed over to Mount Desert Island today. Adam was going to ask around about Evan,” Charlene said.
The wind howled, rattling the windowpanes. “I hope they made it back before the weather got bad.”
“Why don’t you call and see if they’re at his place?”
“Excellent idea,” I said, dialing Adam’s number. The phone rang four times before his pleasant tenor voice kicked in, inviting me to leave a message. I hung up, feeling a flutter of fear in my stomach. “No answer,” I said.
Charlene sighed. “Most of the time, I love it that cell phones don’t work here, but sometimes it’s a pain.”
“If anything has happened, it’ll likely be on the VHF,” John suggested.
“Good thinking!” Charlene said. After donning raincoats, the three of us trooped down to the carriage house.
The storm really had kicked up. The rain was flying almost horizontally, and our jackets flapped as a strong gust of wind buffeted us. I was glad it was only a short walk to the carriage house—and prayed that Adam and Gwen were safely on land tonight.
As Charlene and I peeled off our raincoats and perched on the oatmeal-colored couch, John turned on the radio. Despite the circumstances, I found myself admiring once again the simplicity of the décor; the simple lines and the calm, neutral beiges and blues were at once masculine and serene. Not too unlike John, I thought. The crackling sound, along with the radio’s eerie, high-pitched buzz, sent shivers down my back. I reached to touch the back of the driftwood seal sculpture on the coffee table, but the smooth wood did nothing to comfort me.
John tuned the radio to channel 9 and spoke into the transmitter. “Carpe Diem, Carpe Diem, Carpe Diem. This is Mooncatcher. Over.” Carpe Diem was the name of Adam’s lobster boat; Mooncatcher was John’s skiff.
I clutched the arm of the couch, hoping to hear Adam’s voice, but there was no reply.
“They could still be over on Mount Desert,” Charlene murmured as John repeated the call. No response. After he repeated it a third time, another voice responded. “Mooncatcher, this is Rusty Nail.” I knew that was Mac Barefoot’s boat. “Haven’t seen or heard from the Diem all day.”
“Roger that and thanks, Rusty Nail. Over.”
John looked up at us. “At least we know Mac hasn’t heard anything bad. Let’s check the distress channel, just in case,” he said. He tuned it to channel 16. He didn’t repeat his call on this channel—it was best to keep it clear for vessels in trouble—but after fifteen minutes, the channel remained silent.
“Doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble,” John said.
“I hope not,” I said as another gust of wind buffeted the carriage house, but I wasn’t convinced.
John looked at me. “Why don’t I take the radio up to the inn, so we can keep tabs on it? That way, if Gwen calls, we won’t miss it.”
As much as I didn’t relish the thought of hours listening to the ghostly whine and crackle of the VHF radio
, I knew it was the right thing to do.
“I’m so glad I moved to Cranberry Island to enjoy the peaceful life,” I said as we hurried back up the walkway to the inn. The wind whipped my face as Charlene pulled open the kitchen door.
“At least you can’t say you’re bored,” Charlene said as we hurried back into my warm kitchen and John shut the night out behind us.
_____
It was almost ten o’clock before we heard from Gwen.
When the phone rang, all three of us jumped; I picked it up and dispensed with my normal “Gray Whale Inn” greeting. “Hello?” I barked into the receiver
“Aunt Nat, it’s Gwen.” My niece sounded like she was crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, clutching the receiver. John switched off the VHF, and both he and Charlene looked at me with concern.
“It’s Adam,” she said. “He’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, no,” I said, clutching the phone. Poor Adam … and poor Gwen. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”
“I think so … oh, I don’t know. Somebody attacked him, beat him up badly.” I could hear Gwen’s voice quavering. “He’s unconscious right now. The doctors think he’ll be okay, but they won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”
“Oh, Gwen … how did this happen?”
“I don’t know. We went into Bar Harbor this afternoon. I went shopping for art supplies, and Adam told me he was going to ask around and see if he could find out anything about Evan.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “He was supposed to come and meet me back by the dock, but he never showed up. I waited an hour, and then I went everywhere, asking for him. I finally called the hospital—I didn’t know who else to ask—and they told me he was there.”
“Who took him to the hospital?” I asked.
“One of the guys who works at the pizza place on Cottage Street found him,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Someone propped him up against the back of a building. I can’t believe this could happen … and here, of all places!” She sniffed again, and I could picture her wiping away tears.
Poor Adam. “What do the doctors say?”
“He’s got a broken arm and ribs, and his face looks awful,” she said. “But they’re mainly worried about his head. They did a CAT scan, and he looks okay, but we won’t know anything for sure until he wakes up. I’m praying he’s okay.”
Berried to the Hilt Page 12
