And so were the boat and the flashlight.
I staggered to my feet, struggling to control the spasms in my muscles, and grabbed with numb fingers at the lapels of John’s coat. The short path up to the carriage house seemed to last for miles; when I finally got to the door, my fingers wouldn’t close around the knob. After the fourth try, I got the door open. By the time I pushed it shut, John was in the bedroom doorway.
“Natalie!” He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat. “What happened?” He touched my face. “You’re ice cold.”
“I saw a boat,” I rasped, my body still vibrating with shivers. “Someone hit me. I blacked out.”
He quickly inspected my head and peered into my eyes. I was shaking so badly I couldn’t keep my head steady.
“We’ve got to get you warm,” he said. Pulling the coat even tighter around me, he led me to the bathroom, where he turned the hot water tap on full. As the bathtub filled, he grabbed the comforter from his bed and wrapped it around me, hugging my body to his to warm me. When the tub was finally full, he peeled off my clothes—my numb fingers couldn’t manage the buttons and snaps—and helped me in.
The hot water felt like fire on my feet and legs.
“I can’t do it,” I said, trying to step out of the tub.
“It’ll get better,” he said. “We need to get the circulation going. You’ve got hypothermia.”
I sat down gingerly, trying not to scream. It felt like my body was covered in third-degree burns, with needles just under the skin. After what seemed like an eternity, the tingling, burning sensation faded, and I began to feel the ache of the cold in my bones.
“How long were you out there?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was dark, and the moon was still high.”
“It’s just now beginning to dawn,” he said. “There’s no telling how many hours you were out there.” He touched my head, and I flinched. “Where does it hurt?”
“All over,” I said, but pointed to what seemed to be the source of the throbbing. He grazed it lightly, and I cringed.
“It’s a bad bump,” he said, peering into my eyes again. “I don’t think you have a concussion. Do you have any idea who hit you?”
“I don’t know. It was someone tying up a small boat to the dock. I tripped and fell, and then whoever it was whacked me on the top of the head.”
He shook his head. “If you keep getting clobbered like this, I’m not going to let you out of my sight.” Another shiver pulsed through me, and he ran a bit more hot water into the tub. “What were you doing out there, anyway?”
“Defrosting bacon,” I said.
“Out at the dock?”
I laughed, which made my head hurt. “No,” I said when the pain subsided. “I woke up and remembered I hadn’t taken the bacon out to thaw. I was on my way back down to the carriage house when I saw a light (so I went) down to the dock to see who it was.”
“Well, whoever it was didn’t want to be seen,” he said. “Next time you see something strange in the middle of the night, come get me before you go investigating, okay?”
“We live on a small island. It’s supposed to be safe.”
“Well, lately, the opposite seems to be the case. Lucky for you you didn’t fall in the water. You’d be down in Davey Jones’ Locker,” he said.
“Like Gerald McIntire,” I said.
“Like Gerald McIntire,” he said gravely, leaning down to kiss me on the forehead. “And that I couldn’t bear.”
_____
John insisted on taking care of breakfast while I huddled in bed under several blankets and waited for the Motrin to kick in. It wasn’t until ten o’clock that he returned to the carriage house.
“Did everything go all right?” I asked.
“Just fine,” he said. “They were a little surprised when I served them raw steak instead of bacon, but other than that, no problems.”
“Oh, no! I defrosted the wrong meat?” I thought of the Times writer. “What did Cherry think?”
“Relax,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “I was kidding. Everything went great, and Ms. Price was very happy. What’s on tap for the rest of the day?”
“I’ve got a grocery order coming in this morning,” I said, and outlined the menu for the rest of the day. “I should be able to manage, though. The headache seems to be fading.”
“You are ordered to take it easy,” he said. “I went down by the dock, by the way; no sign of a boat. No sign of anything, in fact.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
“I keep trying to figure out who it could have been.”
“Practically everyone on the island has a skiff. And the Ira B crew ties up their dinghy at the dock every night.”
“Do you remember where the skiff—or the dinghy—was tied up?”
“It was too dark to tell,” I said.
“You probably couldn’t tell if the Ira B was moored there, either.”
I shook my head. “It was too dark to see anything other than the flashlight. But if it was the dinghy, it didn’t come in directly from the Ira B,” I said.
“So either someone took the Ira B’s dinghy out and then came back, or it was someone else’s boat.” John shook his head. “But why tie up at the dock in the middle of the night? And why knock you out?”
“Maybe I scared him. Or her. Or whoever it was. I don’t think there was more than one person.”
“I scared you just the other day when I opened the kitchen door and you were chopping onions. You didn’t throw a French chef’s knife at me.”
“I’m not a murderer, though,” I pointed out. “Other than dispatching the occasional lobster, that is.”
He smiled, but his tone was serious. “Do you think what happened last night might be connected to Gerald McIntire’s death?”
“Whoever attacked me didn’t want me knowing what they were up to. So maybe it was—although I can’t think how.” I glanced out the window at the dark blue water. It looked so peaceful and serene this morning—but had seemed so sinister just hours ago. “On the other hand, they didn’t kill me, so maybe not.”
“Thank God for that,” John said, and lapsed into silence, thinking. His weathered face seemed more lined than usual, and I longed to kiss away his cares. But I couldn’t kiss away Gerald McIntire’s death—or Eleazer’s imprisonment.
“But there was no need to kill you,” he finally said, slowly. “They just needed to make sure you didn’t know who they were.”
“The facts just aren’t fitting together,” I said.
“What facts?”
“Oh, just … everything,” I said.
I told him about the “Rules” book and the torn-up photograph I’d found on Audrey’s nightstand.
“Did you dig through the rooms again?” he asked.
“No, just the once,” I said. “I just forgot to tell you about Audrey’s room.”
“Interesting,” he said. “She doesn’t strike me as the Southern Belle type.”
“Me neither,” I said. “Maybe she was desperate, though.” I’d used a few embarrassing self-help guides myself in the past. The Smart Woman’s Guide to Finding Mr. Right, which I’d bought after my former fiancé cheated on me, had been my bible for a few months, so I understood the impulse.
“But I don’t see what it has to do with Gerald McIntire’s murder.”
“I don’t know. It certainly provides a motive. How would you feel if someone you thought was in love with you suddenly got engaged to someone else?”
“I’d be upset,” he said, and there was an uncomfortable moment. Both of us were thinking of my former fiancé’s visit to Cranberry Island—and his attempts to woo me back to Austin. “But I don’t think it would drive me to murder.”
“I should hope not,” I said. “But it did look like a crime of passion,” I pointed out.
“The idea has some merit,” he said. “But unless whoever did it was already in possession of the cutlas
s, that would imply premeditation, not passion.”
“I wish there were some way to prove that Eleazer wasn’t in possession of that stupid cutlass,” I said.
“He claims he left it at the inn for the archaeologist,” John said.
“I know,” I said. Then I had a thought. “When did he drop it off?”
John shrugged. “That’s all they told me.”
“A time would help narrow things down, at least.”
“How?” John asked. “If he left it here with a note on it, anyone could have picked it up.”
I sighed. “Another dead end, then.”
John reached out and rubbed my shoulders. “So you found a self-help book and a ripped-up photo in Audrey’s room,” he said. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”
“Actually, yes,” I said. “And it was much stranger than a photo.” I told him about the plastic tubs and the car battery I’d seen in Molly’s room.
“I don’t see what’s strange about that. She’s a marine archaeologist. Why wouldn’t she have scientific equipment?” he asked.
“That part makes sense,” I said. “But why keep it in your room instead of in the boat? I don’t remember her unloading any of that stuff when she checked in.”
“Have you asked?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I wasn’t supposed to be in there. There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him; he cocked an eyebrow at me, but I ignored it and continued. “But besides that, the car battery seems weird. So do the jugs of liquid. Plus, they’ve been delayed two days waiting for a lift bag—but she’s got one under her bed.”
“Did she forget about it, maybe?” He continued to knead my shoulders as he spoke—I had no idea they were so tense.
“I doubt it,” I said. “It’s not like they’re tiny or inconspicuous. And she must have put it there just a couple of days ago.”
“Why wouldn’t she bring it out, then? From what I understand, it’s a race against time to identify the boat.”
I nodded. “And they think they may have found the ship’s bell, which usually has the vessel’s name on it.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe she’s double-crossing Carl,” I suggested. “I thought she had a connection with Gerald—turns out they used to work together. Do you think maybe she was sabotaging the university?”
“If so, it doesn’t explain Gerald’s death.”
I leaned forward as he worked his strong, warm hands down my back. As wonderful as the massage felt, I was still frustrated. “Carl and Audrey obviously had motives, but it doesn’t explain everything else that’s happened. And the only other person I can think who might have murdered him was Frank.”
“Monetary gain, right?”
“If Gerald was going to restructure his will and the business once he got married, it would be to Frank’s benefit if Gerald died before that could happen. He certainly seemed relieved that Gerald hadn’t signed some papers before he died.”
“But Frank didn’t know whether or not Gerald had signed them?”
“Didn’t sound like it.”
“Weakens the motive, but it’s still interesting,” he said. “It’s certainly worth looking into.”
“The police aren’t going to be interested, are they?”
He gave me a sad smile. “I don’t know. But even if they’re not, it might provide something for Eleazer’s defense attorney to chase down.”
“We’re missing something,” I said. “I’m going to talk with everyone again, see if I can figure it out. I can sense it, just beneath the surface.”
“First we’d better get you well—and check up on Adam.”
“Adam!” I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. “Where’s the phone?”
“I already called, my sweet. He still doesn’t remember anything about the beating, but he’s doing better. They’ll probably release him later today.”
“Thank goodness,” I said. “But the puzzle is still missing a big piece.”
“On the plus side, it sounds like Adam’s parents have really taken to Gwen.”
“Let’s just hope Gwen’s parents take to Adam.” As John continued to rub my back, my mind strayed to thoughts of our wedding—and the potential disaster if my sister came to the island. “Maybe we should just elope and tell everyone after the fact.”
He laughed and kissed me. “Your sister is the least of your worries right now, my dear. You have enough on your plate; don’t go looking for trouble.”
“I don’t have to look for it. It seems to find me on its own.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he said, gently touching the bump on my head.
We had no guests for lunch, so I had the inn to myself for the afternoon—and an oven that was finally in working order. What I really wanted to do was talk some more to Carl and Molly, but since they were out at the wreck site, that wasn’t an option. I called Charlene to see if she’d heard anything on Evan, but she was uncharacteristically unhelpful.
“Nobody knows anything,” she said. “Lots of rumors, of course. None of them particularly pleasant.”
“Have you seen Ingrid?”
“Neither hide nor hair,” she said. “You?”
“I stopped by to see her yesterday. She’s a wreck.”
“Poor thing. I’ll swing by today and check in on her. How’s Adam?”
“He’s going to be okay, thankfully. He’ll probably be out today.”
“Well, that’s good news, at least.” I heard voices in the background. “Half the island just turned up; can I call you back?”
“Keep me posted,” I said, and hung up, feeling at loose ends. I had three hours before dinner, and nobody to question. On the other hand, my freezer was empty of back-up baked goods, I had a kitchen full of fresh groceries, and a folder full of recipes I’d been meaning to try out. Thanks to the painkillers, my headache had faded, and my energy was high, so I decided to spend a few hours immersed in one of my favorite creative activities.
I grabbed the folder I kept tucked in at the end of my cookbook stack and leafed through it, wondering what to try first.
The recipe for caramel dumplings caught my eye first, but while they looked appealing, I needed something that would freeze well—and work for breakfast. Normally I would choose something with cranberries in it, but with all the “treats” I’d received recently, I was uncharacteristically cranberried-out.
I flipped through the pages, glad to be absorbed in the comforting—and pleasantly anticipatory—task of selecting which delicious concoction I was going to try next. I lingered briefly over a decadent-looking recipe for sticky pecan cinnamon rolls, but cinnamon rolls always tasted best fresh, so that recipe was best saved for a morning when I felt like getting up extra-early. Besides, I was low on pecans. I finally settled on a lemon-berry Bundt cake that would use the bag of organic lemons John had picked up for me—and an apple streusel muffin recipe that made my mouth water. If I doubled both, I could have one batch to serve and one to freeze. Perfect.
I started with the lemon Bundt cake, since it had the longer baking time. I zested a few more lemons than the recipe called for—you can never have too much lemon, in my opinion—and squeezed several of them. Within minutes, the scent of fresh lemons floated through the kitchen, lightening my spirits as I creamed the butter and sugar together and added eggs. The recipe was far from sugarless—Claudette would never approve—but already my mouth was watering. In no time at all, I was sliding the filled pan into the oven, and the smell of baking mixed with the citrus aroma to turn my kitchen into heaven.
There was a knock at my door just as I was selecting apples to chop into chunks for the apple muffins. I set down the Granny Smiths I had chosen and opened the door to let Matilda Jenkins in. She was dressed in a green boiled wool coat with a cherry red scarf, and looked like Christmas, even though it was only October. In her arms was a stack of books.<
br />
“Hi, Matilda. Come in!” I said. “You’re looking merry today.”
She laughed as she set the books on the table and unwound her scarf. “I guess I do look a little festive. But it feels like Christmas with all the discoveries they’re making out there, doesn’t it?”
I thought of Eli’s imprisonment, Adam’s trip to the hospital, and Evan’s disappearance—not to mention the murder victim found floating near the wreck a few days earlier—and found it hard to agree. Instead, I directed her attention to the stack of tomes she had deposited on the table. “What have you got there?”
“All the information I could find on the two ships,” she said. “I promised Carl I’d see what I could get from my friend down at the maritime museum in Portland.” She stopped and sniffed the air. “What is that heavenly smell?”
“Lemon Bundt cake in the oven,” I said, retrieving an apple and a cutting board. “Mind if I peel while you tell me about what you found?”
“Not at all,” she said.
“I can put the kettle on, too. Care for a cup of tea? It’s chilly out there.”
“That would be lovely, thanks.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to meet Molly. Do you mind if I go and see if she’s there?”
“Not at all,” I said. I glanced out the window to where the Ira B usually moored. “Doesn’t look like they’re here, though.”
“Hmm,” she said. “She said she was going to take me out to the wreck site this afternoon, too.”
“I’ll get the tea going while you go and check her room. She’s in the Seaglass Room, on the second floor.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
She returned a few minutes later, looking disappointed. “She told me she’d meet me here, but she’s not in her room. She was going to take me out to the wreck site, and I was going to show her Smuggler’s Cove. What do you think happened?”
“They’re racing to bring up the ship’s bell,” I said, pouring her a cup of tea. “And Iliad’s supposed to have a big research vessel coming in today. They may just be trying to pull it up as quickly as possible, to make sure they have a chance to claim the wreck.”
Berried to the Hilt Page 15
