Berried to the Hilt

by Karen MacInerney

  And who had stabbed Gerald and left him drifting on Deadman’s Shoal?

  I turned away from the inn and headed down the hill toward Ingrid Sorenson’s house, trying to recapture the feeling of peace I’d had so briefly a few minutes earlier. All I could think of was Eli’s twinkling eyes, his wry sense of humor—and the hole in my heart since he was taken away. The trees still whispered, and the gulls still called, but the moment was gone. As I trudged down the ribbon of asphalt toward Ingrid’s house, I found myself wishing the wreck had never been found.

  _____

  Despite the anguish I knew she must be experiencing, Ingrid’s house, like always, looked like it belonged on the cover of Cottage Living. The only sign that there might be any distress was the wilted pansies in the pots flanking the door, thirsty for a drink. It was a wonder, really, that they’d escaped Claudette’s goats. As I stood on the covered front porch, I couldn’t help glancing at Claudette and Eli’s house, just down the road, and despite the circumstances, I found myself smiling. Those boat parts stranded in the overgrown side yard must drive Ingrid nuts.

  To my surprise, Ingrid opened the door just seconds after I knocked.

  Her appearance was shocking. Her usually coiffed hair was a wild halo around her drawn face, and she wore a stained sweatshirt and sweatpants that hung loose on her thin frame.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “I heard about Evan,” I said. “I know you’ve got to be going through a difficult time.” I proffered the cookies. “I was hoping maybe I could help.”

  “Come in.” She spoke in a monotone, then turned away without taking the cookies and walked deeper into the house’s dark interior. I followed uncertainly.

  The house was usually sunny and sparkling, smelling of potpourri and lemon Pledge. I could pick up a hint of potpourri today, but the house had an uncharacteristically stuffy and unpleasant odor. Ingrid walked through the dark living room into the kitchen, and I could see why. Dirty dishes were stacked beside the normally spotless sink, and the trashcan was overflowing, a blackened banana peel spilling over the side.

  Poor Ingrid.

  “Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea,” I said. The circles under her eyes looked like bruises. She said nothing, which I took as assent, and stared blankly while I filled the kettle with water and busied myself clearing the table.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  “I want to,” I told her. I opened the dishwasher and began dealing with the stacks of soiled plates and bowls. Ingrid protested again, weakly, but I waved her away. I decided to ask Marge to stop by and do a more thorough cleaning later. If I had the time, I’d join her.

  By the time the tea was done steeping, I had taken the trash outside and wiped down the counters; now, I took a clean plate from the cupboard and loaded half a dozen cookies onto it before popping it into the microwave. I’d cracked the kitchen window open a few minutes ago. In addition to the streaks of afternoon sunlight, the smell of warm cookies, tea, and fresh autumn air lightened the room.

  With the chaos relegated to the dishwasher, I retrieved the plate of cookies from the microwave and poured two cups of tea. I sat down across from Ingrid and slid a cup over toward her.

  “Where’s your husband?” I asked.

  “He’s over on the mainland, working with a private investigator,” she said. “He’s been gone for days.”

  “And you’ve been here all alone?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I haven’t wanted to leave in case the phone rings. I’ve called the hospital, but Evan’s not there.” Tears filled her eyes. “He was doing so well, Natalie. He’d just gotten back from rehab, and seemed so excited about trying out lobstering. I thought we’d finally gotten him back on track.”

  “What happened?” I asked softly.

  “I should have been more suspicious,” she said. “All that time out on Mount Desert Island—and he didn’t come back some nights. I wanted to talk to him about it, but my husband told me I was being overprotective, and I backed off.”

  “Do you know who he stayed with when he wasn’t here?”

  “I wish I did,” she said. “He talked about a guy named Pete—he was another lobsterman, out of Southwest Harbor. I thought he was just learning the ropes, but now …”

  “Do you know Pete’s last name?”

  She shook her head. “I should have asked,” she moaned.

  I made a mental note to ask Tom Lockhart about lobstermen named Pete. There couldn’t be too many lobstermen with that name fishing out of Southwest Harbor. “What happened the day he disappeared?” I asked.

  “He got up early—ever since he’d gotten back from the … the medical center, he’d been an early riser.” She sighed. “He was so excited about that wreck he and Adam found. He told me he’d gotten in touch with a company that did salvage work, and that if there was bullion, he’d get a finder’s fee.”

  “Do you know if he signed any contracts with anyone?”

  She shook her head. “He never said, and I haven’t found anything. I’ve been through his room again and again. Nothing on the shipwreck, nothing about anyone named Pete …” She dropped her head to her hands. “We’d finally gotten him back, and now, this. I don’t know what to do, Natalie.”

  “Tell me more about the last day you saw him,” I said.

  Ingrid looked up at me, wiping at her eyes, trying to get herself together. “I’ve gone over it in my mind a thousand times, wishing I’d stopped him, wishing I’d done something different …”

  I reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

  She took a few deep, shuddery breaths before continuing. “He went over to Mount Desert Island on the early mail boat. He’d been on cloud nine since the discovery, but something had upset him. He was surly when he came back for dinner the night before. He wouldn’t tell us why.”

  “Why didn’t he go to the mainland with Adam?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “They were arguing. Something to do with the shipwreck; I think Adam was upset that Evan had called the salvage company. I thought that might be why he was in such a bad mood.”

  “Adam got into some trouble last night,” I told her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He and Gwen went over to the mainland. I think Adam was looking for Evan—or anyone who knew him. Someone beat Adam up—he’s still in the hospital.”

  “It wasn’t Evan,” Ingrid said vehemently. “He never would have done a thing like that!”

  The passion of her response startled me. “I didn’t say he did,” I said. “I was just wondering if the two incidents were related.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her face crumpling. “I’m overreacting to everything these days. Poor Adam. Is he going to be all right?”

  “He is,” I said.

  Suddenly she gripped the arms of her chair. Her knuckles were white. “Oh my God. Do you think … do you think whoever did that to Adam might have done something to Evan, too?”

  “I hope not,” I said. “I was hoping you could suggest where to look, though.”

  She raked her hand through her hair again. “Oh, Evan … what did you get yourself into this time?”

  “Did Evan say where he was going that morning?”

  “Just to see his friend Pete,” she said. “He promised he’d be back in time for dinner. I was making shrimp scampi, his favorite …” Sobs wracked her thin frame.

  “Have you told all this to the police?” I asked.

  “Everything,” she said. “They’re supposedly doing an investigation, but every time I call, they tell me they don’t have any leads. I think the police think Evan stole the Lorelei.”

  “They did disappear at the same time,” I said.

  Ingrid drew herself up. “He would never do a thing like that.”

  “I wasn’t implying he did,” I said quickly. “Just that the police are looking for a suspect, and the timing is convenient. Would Evan know how to dr
ive a boat like that?”

  She nodded. “He grew up around boats,” she said. “But he had no reason to steal the Lorelei. He’d never do a thing like that. There was no reason to!”

  “Ingrid,” I said. “I hate to ask you this, but did your son ever play cards?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I told her about the rumor I’d heard down at the lobster co-op.

  “Gambling?” she said, looking shocked. “He’s never been a gambler. He’s had other problems, of course. But never gambling.”

  “Would he have told you if he did?” I asked.

  She slumped again, running a hand through her unkempt gray-blond hair. “I don’t know,” she said, her face more drawn than ever. She seemed to have aged a decade in the past week. “I just don’t know anything anymore.”

  “Maybe we could look through his room again, together,” I suggested, not sure how she’d respond. “Maybe there will be something that might tell us what happened.”

  “I’ve looked through it a million times,” she said.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “But sometimes two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  _____

  When I got back to the inn, sick at heart over Ingrid and her missing son, my kitchen was in pieces—or at least my oven was.

  “You found someone!” I said, giving John a big hug.

  “I did indeed,” he said. “And it’s an easy fix, too; just a loose connection.”

  “You should be up and running in an hour,” said the repairman, poking his head out of the oven.

  “We’ll leave you in peace,” John told him, taking my arm. “You can’t do anything in here right now—let’s go down to the carriage house for a bit. Just come down and knock if you need us, okay?” he said to the repairman.

  “Will do,” he said, and John opened the door and ushered me through.

  As we stepped out onto the back porch, John put his arm around me. “I heard you were over at Ingrid’s,” he said once the door was closed behind us. “Any word on Evan from that end?”

  I grimaced. “Ingrid’s a mess. I told her about the rumor I’d heard—that Evan was into gambling—and she looked shocked.”

  “It was the same when she found out he was into drugs, too.”

  “She said he was spending nights out of the house,” I said, “but her husband told her not to pry.”

  John shook his head. “With Evan’s history? They’re nuts not to pry. Has she gone through his things?”

  I nodded. “She went through everything—and while I was there, we looked again—but there was nothing to find. Not a name, not a phone number—nothing.”

  “A dead end, then,” he said, grimacing.

  “Looks like it,” I said. “I only found out one thing.”

  “That’s something, at least.”

  “It’s not much, though. She told me Evan was on the outs with Adam over the wreck, which we knew—but she did say that the night he disappeared, he was going to see a friend named Pete,” I said as we walked down the well-trodden path to the carriage house. I glanced down at the water; the only boats there belonged to John and me. I hoped Carl and Molly were having luck getting the ship’s bell up.

  “Pete,” John said as he opened the carriage house door. “Pretty common name, unfortunately. But it’s something.”

  I crossed the small space and sank down on the couch. “She also told me he was looking for a big payoff from the wreck—and was upset about something the last day or two before he disappeared.”

  “Interesting,” John said.

  “That’s what I thought. Do you think maybe Evan killed Gerald for reneging on the deal?”

  “And took the boat?”

  “Maybe,” John said. “But what would he do with it?”

  “Escape to the Caribbean and sell it?” I said. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s possible,” John said. “But if he did, how did the cutlass end up in the bushes by the pier?”

  I sank back into the couch cushions. “That is a problem, isn’t it?”

  “And it still doesn’t explain what happened to Adam,” he said.

  “Coincidence?” I said, knowing I was reaching.

  “Too bad we can’t ask Adam,” he said.

  “That’s right. He’s got amnesia.”

  “Does he at least remember who he was going to see?” John asked.

  “Gwen didn’t say,” I said, feeling a glimmer of hope. “I’ve been meaning to call and check on Adam anyway; why don’t I see if I can find out?”

  “It’s better than nothing,” John said. “I’ll call and see if there’s any change in the murder investigation.”

  “Iliad is getting a sonar rig,” I said, “so if the Lorelei is anywhere near the wreck, we’ll know.”

  “That would be one mystery solved, at least,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t help Eleazer.”

  “Or Evan—if he’s aboard,” John pointed out.

  I shivered at the thought.

  _____

  The rest of the afternoon and evening were taken up by dinner preparations and clean-up. With Gwen off the island, the work fell to John and me. Everyone was cordial at dinner—the Iliad crowd looked quite cheerful despite the demise of their leader, and I was guessing it was due to the impending arrival of a new research vessel. Even Audrey was looking a little less morose. Was she a killer? I wondered as I refilled water glasses.

  I wondered the same of Carl. “Any lift bags?” I asked as I picked up his salad plate.

  “Not yet,” Carl said. “I can’t believe the shipment didn’t arrive. They sent a duplicate order out today, though; should be here first thing tomorrow.”

  I was tempted to tell them Iliad’s news, but decided against it; I had enough trouble without stirring up more.

  The Times writer was dining on the mainland tonight, so it was a small group for dinner. Charlene had called to tell me Claudette was staying home to keep her cats company, so once the guests went to their rooms, John lit a fire in the carriage house fireplace and the two of us snuggled in front of it, each with a glass of red wine.

  As I leaned into him, he toyed with a strand of my hair. “We probably need to set a date, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s just been so busy lately.”

  “It should slow down soon,” he said, stroking my arm. “What do you think of a February wedding?”

  “Cold,” I said.

  “True,” he said. “But the inn will be dead—and the island will be a winter wonderland.”

  “We’d have time to take a honeymoon,” I said.

  “Maybe the Caribbean?” he said.

  As much as I loved Maine, the Texas girl in me still longed for the sun in the dark months of winter. “If we can afford it,” I said.

  “We may have a bit more income soon,” he said.

  I sat up and turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently someone who’s big in the New York art world saw one of my sculptures at a friend’s house in Blue Nose,” he said. “She wants to see a portfolio.”

  “John, that’s wonderful! Your work might be in a New York gallery?”

  “Looks like it,” he said. “The gallery owner called me a couple of days ago. I told her I’d send her my portfolio next week.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

  “With everything going on with Eleazer … the time just never seemed right,” he said, shrugging.

  “When will you know?”

  “I’ve got to get her the portfolio first, Nat,” he said.

  “So you might be able to devote all your time to sculpture.”

  “And the inn,” he said, running his calloused fingers down my cheek and turning my face toward him. “And you.”

  A February wedding, an opportunity for John to do the work he loved … two bright spots in the clouds. John’s lips were warm on mine, and we sank back into the couch together, the fire crac
kling at our feet, our arms around each other, the worries we carried left outside—at least for a little while.

  _____

  It was dark when I woke up. I was disoriented for a moment, then realized we were in the carriage house, John stretched out beside me, breathing evenly. A sliver of moon peeped through the window, and I was about to turn over and go back to sleep when I realized I had forgotten to take the bacon and cranberry bread out of the freezer.

  An innkeeper’s work is never done.

  I dragged myself out of bed and dressed quickly, borrowing one of John’s coats from the hook by the door before hurrying up the walk to the inn. I filled the sink with cold water and dropped in the bacon, then pulled my last loaf of cranberry nut bread from the freezer and set it on the counter. Then I turned off the light and headed for the kitchen door.

  As I pulled the door shut behind me, a light flashed on the water near the shore, and the low purr of a motor reached my ears. I paused, curious who would be out in the middle of the night. The light grew closer as I stood on the porch step, and the little boat—I couldn’t tell what it was—came right up to the inn’s dock.

  I made my way down the pathway as the engine cut off; I could hear the clunk of the boat against the bumpers. The slender beam of a flashlight illuminated little; I could make out a dark form crouched near the boat, tying it up to the dock. I was only a few yards away now, squinting to make out who was paying the inn a middle-of-the-night visit. Goosebumps crawled up my arms. I glanced up at the carriage house, wishing John was with me, and took another blind step forward, right into a hole.

  The breath whooshed out of me as I fell, hitting the ground with a grunt. The flashlight bounced toward me; I heard a muttered oath, and then something hard crashed into my skull.

  A stray thought flashed through my mind—I need to invest in a helmet. Then the sliver of moon dissolved into darkness, and everything went black.

  It was the shaking that woke me.

  I sat up slowly, my head throbbing, my whole body shivering violently. The sky was slate-colored, with a milky rim over the mountains on the mainland—the moon was long gone.