Four Seasons of Mystery
A Collection of Gray Whale Inn Stories
Karen MacInerney
Copyright © 2020 by Karen MacInerney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Other books in the Gray Whale Inn Mysteries:
The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries
Murder on the Rocks
Dead and Berried
Murder Most Maine
Berried to the Hilt
Brush With Death
Death Runs Adrift
Whale of a Crime
Claws for Alarm
Scone Cold Dead
Anchored Inn
Cookbook: The Gray Whale Inn Kitchen
Blueberry Blues (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)
Pumpkin Pied (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)
Iced Inn (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)
Contents
Introduction
Blueberry Blues
Blueberry Blues
Double-Berry Lemon Muffins
Pumpkin Pied
Pumpkin Pied
Charlene’s Pumpkin Whoopie Pies
Prize-Winning Turtle Pumpkin Pie
Iced Inn
Iced Inn
Natalie’s Emergency Hot Chocolate
Gray Whale Inn Gingerbread People
Lupine Lies
Lupine Lies
Chocolate Sea Salt Caramel Walnut Bars
Altar Flowers
Altar Flowers
Sneak Peek: Anchored Inn
Chapter One
Bonus Recipes from Lucy’s Farmhouse Kitchen
Welcome to Dewberry Farm!
Easy Chicken or Turkey Enchiladas Verde
Lucy’s Apple Dumplings
Grandma Vogel's Lavender Bath Salts
More Books by Karen MacInerney
About the Author
Introduction
Welcome to the first collection of Gray Whale Inn stories! There’s one for each season, along with a bonus short story, Altar Flowers, which first appeared in Portland Monthly many years ago and has never before been published in book form.
I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them. And if you finish these hungry for more, stay tuned for a new series set in Maine… the new Snug Harbor mysteries, featuring Max Sayers, fledgling proprietor of Seaside Cottage Books! (You’ll have a chance to meet her in Anchored Inn, the tenth Gray Whale Inn mystery.)
The debut book of the series, A Killer Ending, will be out Summer 2020. I’ll be including a sneak peek and a chance to pre-order your copy at the end of Anchored Inn!
Thank you so much for your support. Without you, there would be no Gray Whale Inn. Natalie and I are grateful for you each and every day.
XXX OOO
Karen
Blueberry Blues
Blueberry Blues
It was the Saturday of the Cranberry Island clambake, and I was beginning to wonder whether offering up the Gray Whale Inn as a location for the annual event was one of my better ideas. It was usually held at the island’s church— Saint James Episcopal— but since the church floor refinishing project that was supposed to be done two months ago still hadn’t been completed, I’d volunteered the Gray Whale Inn as an alternate location.
“Can’t we put them out on the back deck?” I asked my best friend Charlene as she lugged a tub of clams into the inn’s kitchen. The two of us had laid out sheets of plastic so any condensation— or leaky tubs— wouldn’t hurt the pine floors. Since moving from Texas to open the inn six months earlier, my budget had been tight enough; the last thing I needed was to have to refinish my own floors.
“Are you kidding me?” Charlene pursed her glossy lips and shook her head as we maneuvered another load through the kitchen door. For a storekeeper on a little island off the coast of Maine, she always managed to look fabulous. Forget flannel and fisherman’s sweaters; today’s ensemble was a green velour sweater and tight jeans, with a crystal necklace and earrings that sparkled in the morning light. The overall effect was dampened only slightly by the apron she’d borrowed to protect her outfit— it was white with big black spots, featuring two dancing cows and the logo “Moo-stepping in Texas.”
As Charlene adjusted her grip on the clams, it occurred to me that she’d be an excellent subject for the Daily Mail. The new staff reporter, Andi Jordan, was heading over with a photographer to cover the clambake, and I was hoping for some good coverage for the inn. Since taking the job at the paper, she'd written harsh reviews for several local restaurants, but since it was an island-wide event, I crossed my fingers that she'd focus on the community focus of the event— and the beauty of the inn. My bookings calendar wasn’t exactly overflowing, and I needed all the publicity I could get. Glancing down at my frayed sweatshirt, I reflected that it would probably be a good idea to slip into something more photogenic before everyone arrived.
“We can't put them on the deck,” Charlene said as we bumped past the pine table. “The clams have to be inside. Otherwise the seagulls would gulp them all down in ten minutes flat.” We deposited the tub of clams on the floor, and she reached up to adjust her hair. “Besides, this way they’re closer to the stove. How many pots do you have, anyway?”
“I’ve got two big ones, plus the one you promised to bring over.” I surveyed the crowded kitchen floor. “Although how we’re going to manage to cook in here with all that stuff, I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Emmeline’s taking care of the corn.”
“Yeah, but I still have twelve more blueberry pies to bake.” I nodded toward the pies already lined up by the refrigerator, and the huge bags of rolls that covered half of my countertops. “At least I don’t have to do the rolls.”
“I just hope the tables and chairs get here soon.” Charlene glanced out at the lawn behind the house— it was a brilliant emerald green, fading into a field of blue and pink lupines and the rocks and water below it. I’d sweet-talked my neighbor— and maybe-boyfriend— John into mowing it yesterday, and had spent a few hours weeding the flowerbeds as he worked, surreptitiously admiring the long brown legs extending from his faded cut-offs. The smell of the beach roses, sweet peas and fresh-cut grass, mixed with the ever-present salt tang of the sea, was a tonic; if I could bottle it, I’d make millions.
“Is that all?” I asked as we lugged the last tub in from Charlene’s pick-up.
“Unless you want to help me track down the tables and chairs...” “I’ve got blueberry pies to make, remember? Besides,” I said, nodding toward the overflowing sink, “I haven’t finished cleaning up from breakfast.”
“When do we get to try one of your legendary pies?”
I replaced a tray of clams and turned to smile at Andi Jordan, the reporter from the Daily Mail. She was a young woman in her twenties, with blunt-cut hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that reminded me of John Lennon's. The clambake was in full swing, and the clams were disappearing as fast as I could put them out.
“First we have to finish off the clams,” I told Andi, who had a little bit of clam juice on her sharp chin. She was so thin I was longing to sit her down at my table and give her an entire pie. With an extra helping of ice cream. Next to her stood a lanky, good-looking you
ng man with a camera.
My eyes lingered on the camera slung around his neck and the tripod tucked under his arm. I gave the inn a quick critical glance. The white-curtained windows sparkled in the afternoon light, and the window boxes overflowed with sweet peas, verbena, and brilliant fuchsia geraniums. A breeze from the sea brought a whiff of beach roses wafting over me, mixing with the delicious scents of fresh rolls and clams. Everything looked perfect. I hoped the photographer would snap several shots of the inn; I could use the press.
I turned back to Andi. “Well, since that was the last pot, I’d say we’re just about ready to move on to dessert.” I surveyed the crowd of islanders spread across the sloping green lawn. They were wolfing down the food faster than we could bring it out. “You’d think they hadn’t eaten in weeks,” I said. “I hope we’ve got enough.”
“I've heard you specialize in pastries,” Andi said. “I’m looking forward to trying the pie.”
“You can have the first piece. I promise.”
My friend Charlene spotted us by the table. She hustled over to see us, the cow apron still clinging to her ample curves. “Do you think it’s time for pie?”
“That’s just what Andi was asking,” I said. “I think so.”
As Andi and the photographer helped themselves to another few clams, Charlene and I headed back to the kitchen and started lugging out pies. “Too bad you didn't get Gertrude,” she whispered.
“Gertrude Pickens? The reporter who just about accused me of murder a few months ago? No, thank you,” I said.
“I don't trust this Andi woman,” Charlene said. “Did you see what she wrote about that new bakery in Bar Harbor last week?”
“The one with those delicious apple turnovers?” I asked.
Charlene nodded. “Ms. Jordan evidently found them dry.”
“Uh oh,” I said, casting a glance at the reporter, who was lingering near the pie table while the photographer snapped shots of the spread. She definitely did not have the build of a woman dedicated to the sampling of baked goods. I glanced down at the pie in my hand. The crust had turned out perfectly— golden brown lattice over beds of dark, plump Maine blueberries. How could she find fault with it? I set a fresh pie on the table and cut a large piece— it was still a bit warm— for Andi, saying a small, silent prayer.
The islanders, smelling pie, swarmed the dessert table behind her as she examined the piece with a critical eye. “Did you bake all of these?”
“All twenty-four of them.”
“They look just delicious. If they taste as good as they look, maybe we could put the recipe in the paper.”
I beamed at her, my worries dispelled. “That would be great.”
“My photographer has been shooting all morning, but do you mind if we get a few shots of you in front of the inn?”
Did she mind? I would have begged for it. I reached up to adjust the collar of the silk blouse I had donned with just such a contingency in mind. “That would be great.”
“How about if we get a shot of you with one of the pies? I love the lattice tops. They’re beautiful!”
“That would be great!” I said. “Let me just go and get a few more pies for the table.” Charlene was slicing, but could barely keep up with the demand; the plates were already disappearing fast. “I’ll be right back.”
“Irving!” Andi hollered at her photographer, who had wandered off somewhere, as I hurried back to the kitchen for more pies. I paused to smooth my hair down and add a bit of lipgloss, then headed back outside, pie in hand, to an empty table in the corner of the yard where Irving was assembling his tripod.
“I thought we’d get the inn in the background of the shot,” he said.
My kind of guy, I thought. Maybe I’d give him a whole pie, just for himself.
I stood smiling, the pie held in front of me, the inn behind me, as Irving fiddled with the camera. Just as he snapped the first shot, a flurry of activity broke out at the edge of the lawn. I looked over just in time to see Henry Hoyle bending over and clutching his stomach.
Andi, who had been asking me questions about the inn and jotting down my answers, paused with her pen mid-stroke. Her sharp eyes focused on Henry’s plaid-covered back.
“What’s wrong with him, I wonder?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but he’s not the only one.” As we watched, two more people staggered up from their chairs and doubled over, clutching their stomachs.
“I’ll be right back,” Andi said, pushing her chair back and calling Irving to join her. She hurried over to where Henry was wiping his forehead. “Looks like we got a case of food poisoning!” she yelled as she trotted over to where now three more people had started groaning. I winced as the murmur of concern instantly escalated to a roar.
“Somebody call the doctor!” yelled a squat man I didn’t recognize. I turned and ran into the inn— partly to call the doctor and partly so I wouldn’t have to watch the fiasco unfolding in my back yard.
By the time I had gotten in touch with the Bar Harbor Hospital and asked them to send over medical assistance, almost half a dozen people were suffering from stomach cramps. As I filled glasses with ice water to take to the afflicted, Charlene burst into the kitchen.
“It’s a nightmare out there,” she said. “What do you think happened?”
“Gertrude said something about food poisoning,” I said, “but I’m hoping it’s just a stomach bug.”
“Some stomach bug,” she said. “On the plus side, at least the Daily Mail get a good story out of it.”
I grimaced. “I can see the headline now: Fifty people transported to hospital after lunch at Gray Whale Inn.”
“I told you that reporter would be trouble.” Charlene brushed a few crumbs off of her sweater. “Do you think it could it be the clams? We kept them on ice the whole time, though.”
I sighed, looking out at the melee in the back yard. “I wish I knew.”
“Sometimes I think maybe someone put the evil eye on you.”
“Well if they did, the curse only seems to go active when someone from the press appears.”
Charlene peeked into the cookie jar, withdrew an oatmeal cookie and said brightly, “See? It could be worse.”
“How?”
“It’s only a part-time curse.”
The article in the Daily Mail was every bit as bad as I had feared. Fifteen Hospitalized after Dinner at Gray Whale Inn, blared the headlines. Police Suspect Food Poisoning. Next to it were two photos: one of yours truly, proudly displaying a pie with the inn as a backdrop, and one of Gerald Whitestone with a plate of half-eaten pie in his hand and flanked by a policewoman and an EMT.
I crumpled the paper and tucked it into a drawer to read later, hoping that none of my guests would pick up today’s issue down at the store. My plan to host the clambake had backfired. Instead of the residents of Cranberry Island going home full of clams, pie, and goodwill— and the island coffers overflowing with extra revenue— the day had ended with a phone call to Emergency Services. And an article about the inn that wasn't exactly scrapbook material.
When Charlene dropped off my copy of the Daily Mail, she said the paper was already sold out, bought up by the locals. Apparently the Clambake Catastrophe was the biggest news on the island in months. The only bright spot I could see was that I likely wouldn't be asked to host it again next year. It wasn't much.
According to the article, everyone except for Gerald Whitestone, who was 86 and severely dehydrated, had recovered and been sent home. The police had spent a lot of time poking around. And Andi Jordan, who of course had written the article, had included a nice shot of the uniformed officers on the front page, with the inn as a backdrop. Not exactly the kind of coverage I’d been hoping for. The police had taken samples of all the food served for testing. In fact, they were about to close my kitchen down until my neighbor and quasi-boyfriend John used his pull as island deputy to argue my case. Thanks to his efforts, my kitchen was still open— for now.
Which was a good thing, because I had six guests coming down for breakfast in thirty minutes. Hopefully they weren't big newspaper readers. I banished thoughts of bad press and sick islanders from my mind and focused on the lemon-blueberry ricotta muffins I was baking for breakfast. The show, as they say, must go on.
I squeezed the last of the lemons and flipped open the trash can lid. A wad of legal paper that had been jammed into the trash tumbled onto the floor. I should have emptied the can before lugging it back, I thought to myself. But with all the hullabaloo, it had been overlooked. When I reached down to grab the papers, a brown plastic bottle clattered to the floor.
Why would someone wrap an empty bottle in yellow legal paper? I grabbed a paper towel and picked it up. It looked like a medicine bottle— but I knew I hadn’t been the one to throw it into the trash. I opened it and sniffed, then replaced the lid quickly. Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t vanilla extract.
“So what do you think happened?” Charlene asked as I stirred milk into my coffee down at the Cranberry Island Store. Once the guests had left and I’d cleaned the rooms, I’d decided to head down to visit my best friend— and see if she’d heard anything on the island grapevine. Besides, the big squishy couches and the smell of coffee and dried goods always made me feel cozy.
As I sipped my coffee, my friend reached up to pat her caramel-colored hair into place, then brushed an imaginary crumb off her black wraparound sweater. We might be in Maine, but Charlene wouldn’t be caught dead in plaid flannel.
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