“How in the world did you pull that off?” Charlene asked.
I winked at her and whispered, “You’ll see.”
“Although Natalie Barnes was a fine choice, we’ve had the opportunity to engage the services of a judge with far more experience and qualifications,” she said.
“Nice,” said Charlene in a low voice beside me.
“I am pleased to announce that Ms. Cherry Price, food writer for the New York Times, has graciously agreed to judge our contest today.”
There was a smattering of applause, and a hum of voices. Cherry gave the audience a wave, smiled and winked at me, and allowed Irene to guide her to the first table.
“You,” Charlene said, poking me with a polished fingernail, “are the luckiest woman on earth.”
“My reputation is safe,” I said. “And I never have to have another spoonful of Maude Peters’ cranberry pickled chutney again, as long as I live.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Charlene took a swig of Cranapple juice from her plastic cup and winced. “I think I need a real drink.”
“Once the judging’s over, you can have one on me. With one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That no matter what, you will never let me volunteer for anything so stupid ever again.”
She raised her cup. “Deal.”
_____
Emmeline’s streusel cake won top honors, and although Florence was disappointed with her second place prize for her gumdrops (apparently they tasted better than they looked), she was still pleased. “It’s not as nice as winning first place, but it’s still a credential,” she said, holding the empty plate to her chest. “Particularly with a New York Times food writer judging.”
Once the bake-off was over, the tables were open to the public, and everything except the chutney disappeared fast. Maude finally swept up her bowl and marched out in a huff, with Mr. Snuggles trailing behind her. “That’s the problem with these small towns,” she said before departing. “Too provincial to appreciate sophisticated cuisine.”
Irene walked over to where Charlene and I stood, observing the proceedings. “A very successful event,” she said, preening. Cherry was being mobbed by a trio of island bakers, who were scribbling down baking tips and asking for advice. Irene smiled at her fondly, then turned back to me. “And the addition of Ms. Price really made it world-class. She’s such a delightful woman. So kind of her to agree to judge.”
“Maybe she’ll come back next year,” Charlene said.
“That would be lovely,” she said. “But if not, we always have Natalie.”
“Personally, I think it’s nice to have an impartial judge,” I said. “Someone who doesn’t know anyone from the island.”
Irene cocked her head slightly. “The idea may have merit. There have been some accusations of bias, I must confess …”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “if you can’t get a food writer from New York, you could find someone from Mount Desert Island to do it. Or maybe even the food writer from Bangor.”
Irene’s eyes lit up. “That’s a brilliant idea, Natalie! It would certainly broaden our choices; you have no idea how hard it is to find someone with even minimal qualifications.”
Charlene rolled her eyes at me, and I just grinned. She had a point. I might be an innkeeper, but my fifteen years in the Parks and Wildlife Department hardly qualified me to judge cooking contests.
“Well, then,” I said. “That solves all of our problems, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean, all of our problems?” Irene blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand. Do you mean you didn’t want to be this year’s judge? It’s such an honor …”
“Of course it’s an honor! And I was honored to be asked,” I said quickly. “It’s just that it’s such an important contest on the island; I didn’t want to … well, you know. Disappoint anyone.”
“Ah. I can see your point,” Irene said, tapping her chin with one thin finger. She glanced over at the front of the room, where Florence and Emmeline were rolling up the tablecloths. “I must assist in the clean-up. All part of organizing; you’re involved in every step of the process. I want to thank you again, though, for bringing Ms. Price.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “Why don’t I give you a hand with those tablecloths? It’s the least I can do.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, and I joined my fellow islanders in cleaning up the town hall, thankful to be the clean-up crew instead of the judge and jury.
My head healed quickly, thankfully, and within a few days, things were largely back to normal. After searching the island for almost forty-eight hours, the police had found Molly’s black bag in the woods not far from the inn, with the dive knife and Gerald’s watch still in it. Along with the dive computer log, the evidence was enough to free Eli and charge Molly with murder—and attempted murder, for her efforts to eliminate me. Carl had been shocked and upset—but the recovery of the coins had helped buoy his spirits. It also helped that Murray Selfridge had not only released all claim to the Myra Barton to the University of Maine, but had offered to fund the research.
Matilda was over the moon when she came to visit me almost a week after Molly was arrested. I was on my own that morning, and with John searching for driftwood on the nearby islands and no one staying at the inn, it was the perfect day to catch up on my baking. “I told you Murray was a good man,” she said as I invited her to have a cup of coffee in my kitchen. I was adding the sour cream to one of my favorite recipes—Wicked Blueberry Coffeecake—as she spoke.
“He has his moments,” I confessed as I finished mixing the batter and pulled a bag of frozen blueberries from the freezer. I hadn’t experienced the generous side of his nature before—he hadn’t made millions in business by being generous—but I was happy to hear that he was supporting the excavation of his ancestor’s ship.
“I’m hoping we can work with the university to put together a display on the island,” she said.
“Any word on what those coins were from?” I said.
“Jonah Selfridge was a merchant, so it may have been from the sale of his cargo,” she said. “They also found what looks like rum bottles down there; that might have been what he was trading at the time.”
“I thought rum was from the Caribbean,” I said, measuring out the berries and dredging them in a bit of flour to keep them from bleeding into the batter.
“The molasses for it was often from the West Indies,” she said, “but they distilled it here in New England—it was a big business.”
“Sounds like a great museum display,” I said.
“That would be interesting! We could display a few of the rum bottles from the wreck, and talk about the history of the rum trade and Maine’s involvement in it …” Her sharp face became dreamy for a moment. “And if we find Davey Blue’s ship …”
“That would be a coup,” I said.
“Wouldn’t it, though? I’m hoping we can encourage Professor Morgenstern to do a more thorough survey of the waters near Cranberry Island.” Her eyes sparkled, and even though we were alone in the sunny kitchen, she lowered her voice. “I think I may have found something that will spark some interest.”
“Really? What’s that?” I asked, folding blueberries into the batter.
She pushed up her glasses. “Remember those initials?”
“The ones in Smuggler’s Cove?” I asked as I poured the berry-studded batter into a baking pan. I shuddered at the memory of the place.
She nodded. “Guess what Davey Blue’s real name was?”
“What?” I asked.
“Archibald Tucker,” she said.
“No wonder he changed it,” I said as I retrieved the brown sugar canister from the pantry. “Archibald Tucker doesn’t exactly inspire fear.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “The carving said EK + AT.”
“Oh,” I said, finally making the connection. “You’re saying he used his real name with Eleano
r?”
She shrugged. “There’s no way to really know, but it’s a good theory,” she said. “The rock is really hard, but if they got caught waiting for the tide to go out, they’d have plenty of time.”
I shivered as I blended the brown sugar with a bit of flour. Yes, they would have had plenty of time if they were stuck waiting for the tide to go out. I knew that from personal experience—although I hadn’t been in a position to do any carving. I glanced down at my wrists, which were still scabbed from my attempts to free myself.
“I’m going to tell Murray today,” she said, almost bouncing with excitement on her chair. “I’m hoping he’ll fund a broader search of the area.”
“I assume you haven’t mentioned it to Iliad?” I asked as I mashed butter into the brown sugar and flour with a fork. The streusel would make deep, buttery crannies in the coffee cake; I could almost taste them already.
“They left the moment the university won the claim to the Myra Barton.”
“I know—but I’d still keep it quiet,” I said as I finished the streusel and scattered it over the creamy batter.
“Good point,” she said, finishing her coffee and standing up. “I’m off to the Selfridges,” she said. “Assuming he’s not out on the Sea Vixen.”
Carl had checked out a few days ago, when he managed to commandeer the university’s bigger research vessel, and had been literally living at the site the last few days, with Murray as his constant companion.
I slid the pan into the oven and set the timer. “You’re going to be turning the Cranberry Island museum into a world-class historic education center, Matilda.”
“I know—first the lighthouse, and now the Selfridge ship … it’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Keep it up,” I said. “It’s great for business!” And it was—the Cranberry Point lighthouse had been making news over the last year, and I’d gotten a good number of bookings out of it. The gorgeous spread Cherry Price had put in the Times hadn’t hurt, either; I was short on bookings at the moment, but my spring was rapidly filling up.
“Do you think maybe Murray would fund a separate building for the display?” she asked.
“It would be nice near the lighthouse,” I said. “Kind of a one-stop shopping experience for tourists.”
“That’s brilliant!” she said. “I’m off to track down Murray—and I’m going to pass on your idea!”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said. Matilda practically jogged up the hill; I found myself smiling as I watched her go. Some good had come from the discovery of Selfridge’s ship.
And most importantly, we had Eli back on the island.
_____
Claudette and Eli were my next visitors.
“We brought you a pie,” Claudette said, looking happier than I’d ever seen her as I let them into the inn’s kitchen. They’d come in Eli’s skiff, and knocked on the back door.
“There’s even sugar in it!” Eli said.
“What an honor,” I said, grinning. “Thank you—I’m looking forward to having it for dessert tonight!” It did look delicious, with a golden lattice crust and ruby-colored berries. She’d missed the bake-off this year, but if she tried next year, a bit of sugar might take her pie a long way—the one she had baked today was beautiful.
“I’m so glad to see you back on the island!” I said, putting the pie on the counter and giving Eli a big hug. “And good to see you looking like your old self,” I said, giving Claudette’s solid body a hug, too.
“I’m glad to be back,” Eli said. “And I thank you for all you did to get me out of that place. John told me what all you did, and I won’t forget it.”
“That ghost ship of yours came in handy,” I said.
“So I hear,” he said. “Funny thing that, isn’t it? But all’s well, that ends well, as I always say. And I’m mighty glad to be home; I missed Claudie’s cooking something fierce,” he said, giving his wife an admiring glance. “Would you believe, she even made me a pie with sugar.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Claudette said sternly.
Eli sighed. “I’ll enjoy it while it lasts, I suppose. Anyway,” he said, turning to me. “We just wanted to say thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said. “Did you ever get your cutlass back, by the way?”
“We did,” he said, “and I finally got Professor Morgenstern to take a look at it.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He can’t say if it’s Davey Blue’s, but it’s the right time period,” Eli said. “He’ll keep researching it, though—and you never know what he’ll find out!”
“Another mystery,” I said. “We’ve got a lot of them, haven’t we?”
“That’s what happens when a place has history,” Eli said. “Oh—and there’s one more thing.”
“What?” I asked.
“Come here,” he said, taking me by the elbow and leading me out to the back porch. Claudette smiled at me as I followed him.
“What do you think?” he said, pointing down to the dock.
There, gleaming in the sunlight with the hole patched and a fresh coat of paint, was the Little Marian.
“It’s the least I could do,” he said quietly, as my heart swelled with love and gratitude.
_____
“You’d better make it in February,” Gwen said, as she walked into the kitchen that evening and plopped down her art bag. “Or at the very latest sometime before next fall.”
“What should I make in February?” I asked, taking another sip of wine. John and I had just finished dinner—a lovely bowl of lobster bisque prepared by my future husband alongside a salad with his famous dressing—and I was thinking about a bowl of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla for dessert.
“The wedding, silly!” she said, pulling up a chair next to John and me.
“Why?” I asked, glancing at John.
“I already told my mom. She wants to make plane reservations.”
“You what?” I asked.
“Adam’s accident made me do some thinking,” she said, crossing her slender legs and leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “We’re getting pretty serious.”
“I thought so,” I said. “And I’m glad of it—Adam is a wonderful man. Kind, funny, smart, and loyal.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Gwen said, winking at John.
“Thank you, ma’am,” John said, putting an arm around me and giving me a squeeze.
“Anyway,” Gwen said, “I figured it was time to let my mother know the truth.”
“What did she say?” I asked, reaching for my wine. I’d led Bridget to believe Adam was a bigwig in shipping, and had been dreading her reaction when the truth came out.
“She said if I was happy, then she was happy for me,” she said.
“You’re kidding me. She actually said that?”
“Not immediately,” she said, grinning. “First I had about forty minutes of the third degree—including my future prospects, his future prospects, limiting my options … you know.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“But she finally came around—and is insisting on coming out to visit.”
“How’s Adam doing, by the way?”
“Back on the boat and doing great,” she said, beaming. “And they think they’ve found the guy who beat him up—they’ve got a witness who saw him with Adam the day he got hurt.”
“I’m glad he’s doing better—and I’m glad they caught the man who did that to him,” I said.
“You and me both,” she said. “But at least this shake-up has made us think about things. We’ve been talking a lot about the future.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Could there be a second wedding in the offing, then?”
“I think that’s where we’re headed,” she said, eyes sparkling. “But there are a few things I need to do first.”
“Like what?” John asked, glancing at me and then at Gwen.
“I don’t know how to say this,” s
he said, taking a deep breath, “but I’m planning on going back to California for a year or two to finish my degree.”
I swallowed. As much as I hated to lose Gwen—even if was only for a while—I knew she was making the right decision. “I’m glad to hear it, Gwen,” I said. “I’ll miss you tons, and I expect you to visit and call all the time, and you’re welcome back any time. But I’m proud of you for finishing what you started.”
“Thanks, Aunt Nat,” she said, pushing back her chair and hurrying over to hug me. “I’m planning on coming back, though,” she said as I released her.
I blinked at her. “You’re thinking of staying here?”
She nodded. “I’ve been talking to Fernand—if it’s okay with you, I’ll come back in the summer and help out at the inn, and continue working with him. When I’m done with my degree, I’ll help him run his retreats—and he’ll give me a studio space of my own.”
“Sounds like a great plan,” I said, relieved her departure wasn’t going to be permanent. As thrilled as I was for her, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sadness. “What am I going to do without you? I feel like my daughter’s leaving home!”
“I’m not leaving now,” she said. “I’m not starting back until next fall.”
“Good—because I’m going to need your help this summer!” I said.
Gwen looked at John. “By the way, did you tell her your news yet?”
“What news?” I asked, looking at John. “Oh—is it the gallery?”
He nodded, smiling. “The show is planned for December,” he said.
“That’s wonderful!”
“And Gwen’s right—we’d better set a date,” he said, stroking my hair. “I’d recommend February 14.”
“Valentine’s Day? How romantic!” Gwen said.
“And convenient,” he said, “because our plane leaves for the Virgin Islands February 15.”
I turned and goggled at John. “What?”
He grinned. “I took the liberty of booking us a honeymoon at a resort on the beach in St. Thomas,” he said. “Fourteen days of sun, sand, and absolutely no cooking.”
“But the inn …”
“We’ll close for two weeks. And if there’s anyone we can’t turn away, Charlene, Claudette, Emmeline, and Marge have it covered.”
Berried to the Hilt Page 22
