She perched on the rocking chair by the fire. "What kind of questions?"
"Where were you this evening?" John asked.
"Here," she told him steadily.
"The whole time?"
She nodded. "I haven't left the place since yesterday. I'm just snuggling in with my kitties." She pointed to the two orange tabbies curled up on a cushion by the fire.
John got up, walked over to the back door, and shone his light out at the ground, then turned back to Anna. "Do you have any idea who might want to interfere with the fundraiser for Marge O'Leary?" he asked.
Her face tightened. "No," she said shortly, then, "Why?"
"Someone stole all of the donations," I said. "We're trying to find out who did it."
"So you must know she isn't my favorite person, if you're here asking me questions," she said.
"We've heard," John admitted.
"I asked him to dinner last month," she admitted. "He declined. And now he's chasing down Marge O'Leary. Marge! She treats him horribly." She swiped at her eyes and took a deep breath. "But no, to answer your question. Other than me, I don't know who would have it in for Marge."
"I'm so sorry," I said. "That's got to be rough."
"One of the downsides of living on an island," John said. "I've been there, too."
"Have you?" she asked, looking slightly hopeful.
"I have," he confirmed.
She sighed. "At least I have my kitties. They don't ask for much, and they don't make a terrible mess." She looked up at me. "I keep telling myself it's for the best. I'd spend all my time trying to get him to tidy up. I don't quite know what I see in him, frankly."
I didn't either, but I decided to keep that to myself.
"Are you sure you won't have any tea?" she asked.
"We'd love to," John said, "but we'd better get back before the snow gets too deep." He glanced at the fireplace, which appeared to be the small house's only source of heat. "Do you have enough wood?"
"I've got plenty on the back porch," she said. "I've seen worse winters than this; you don't need to worry about me."
"Well, if you run into trouble, give us a call," I said. "We've got plenty of rooms."
"Thanks," she said as we got up and walked to the door. "I'm sorry I wasn't more help."
"It's just fine," John said. "Stay warm!" he said, and a moment later, we were back out in the cold night and no closer to figuring out what had happened to all those toys.
Gwen was waiting for us at the kitchen table when we got home, looking morose in the light of a single candle.
"Where's Adam?" I asked.
"He went home," she said. "I told him I needed time to think."
"About what?" I asked, pulling up a chair across the table from her as John busied himself making a pot of decaf; we were both still chilled.
She gave me a look.
"Are you having second thoughts about the wedding?" I asked.
She sighed. "I am."
"Really?"
"I just want it to be about us. Not about everybody's idea of what we should be, or what we should have done with our lives."
"I get it," I said.
"I want to marry Adam... he's the love of my life. But I don't want the whole thing spoiled by our parents. I'd rather just elope."
"You can elope here if you want," I said. "I could call the priest and we could head over anytime. As long as you don't mind a very small, candlelight service."
"You'd do that for me?"
"Of course," I said. "We can have a reception or not, it's up to you. This is about you and Adam. Nobody else matters."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Thanks, Aunt Nat," she said. She bit her lip, and I could see the uncertainty her mother always managed to spark in her. "You don't think I'm crazy for building my life here, do you?"
As she spoke, John came up behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders. A wave of love and gratitude filled me, and I grinned at my niece. "I can only speak for myself, but I'm happier here than I have been anywhere else in my entire life."
Gwen’s shoulders sagged, and her face relaxed a little bit. "Thanks. It's just... I'm fine when it's just Adam and me, but then these other people come in, and I feel like I'm defending myself all the time."
"I know," I said. After all, I'd grown up with Bridget. "I'm sorry it's so hard, but it's only temporary. As for the wedding... you'll think about it?"
"I'll think about it," she said, then turned to John. "Got enough coffee for three?"
"Of course," he said, and we spent a companionable hour by candlelight, enjoying the warmth of family. With only a slight shadow cast by judgy relatives... and an unsolved crime.
It was the night before the maybe-wedding, and I was busy in the kitchen, baking cake tiers and mini quiches for the post-wedding celebration. Assuming Gwen and Adam decided to go through with it; she'd been mum on the topic after we talked. We were still snowed in, but I'd borrowed a generator from Eleazer so that I could get the cooking done, and Tom Lockhart had promised he'd find a way to clear the road to the church. Not for the first time, I felt myself lucky to live in such a close community.
"I really think Princeton is the best of the Ivy League," Margaret was droning on as I nipped into the dining room to grab a pitcher from the sideboard. There was no sign and Adam or Gwen; it was just the two sets of parents, continuing to joust.
"Is there more wine, Nat?" Bridget asked, her face already flushed.
"Come with me, and I'll get you some," I said. She excused herself and followed me into the kitchen.
"Have you seen Gwen at all?" my sister asked.
"Not recently," I said, “but you guys have got to tone it down."
Bridget blinked. "Tone it down? I'm not the one going on about the Ivy League every thirty seconds."
"You can't control what other people do, but you can control what you do," I said. "This is about Gwen and Adam. Not about anything else."
"I know," she said peevishly. "I just want what’s best for her."
"I understand," I said as I handed her a bottle from the pantry. "But I don't think it's working in your favor."
Her lips were a thin line. "I don't want her marrying some smelly lobsterman."
"Adam is not smelly," I said. "They work with bait and engines, but they do understand basic hygiene. Wait..."
"What?"
"I've got to talk to John," I said. "Corkscrew's in the dining room. Help yourself," I said, and left her standing there.
John was busy in his workshop when I burst through the door a few minutes later.
"What's going on?" he asked, looking up from a tangle of driftwood he was planning to turn into a mermaid.
"I'll tell you on the way," I said.
We might not have power yet, but fortunately, Tom had gotten enough of the roads plowed that we didn't have to wade through snow to get to our destination. Within fifteen minutes, we pulled up outside a small mobile home not far from the lobster co-op, parking next to a beaten-up truck. A stack of lobster traps covered with snow stood a few yards away from the small building.
John made a face as we got out of the van. Even with the cold, I could smell the distinctive aroma of bait and gasoline and wrinkled my nose.
"Right there," I said, pointing to a set of snowed-over footprints leading from the truck toward a ramshackle shed on the edge of the woods. Together, we followed the tracks. There was no padlock on the door, and it was slightly ajar.
"It's open. Shall we take a quick peek?" I asked John, who always gave me a hard time for snooping. "Or is that being too nosy?"
"Well, since it's open..." John pulled the flashlight he kept in his pocket out, aimed it at the crack in the door, then sighed.
"What do you see?"
"Look for yourself," he said, stepping aside so I could peek in.
A jumble of colorful toys filled a box lightly dusted with snow; I could make out one of John's boats among the toys, along with a few of the dolls from Island
Artists and some books.
"What I don't understand is, why?" John asked. "If he likes Marge, why would he try to make things difficult for her?"
"He's in love with her," I explained. "He wants to be her knight in shining armor. My guess is that he was hoping she'd be desperate enough to agree to move in with him, or at least accept help from him."
As I spoke, there was the sound of a door opening some- where behind me.
"Who's there?"
We turned to see Frank's round figure in the doorway to the mobile home. "John Quinton, your friendly local deputy," John said. "I'd like to talk with you, if you have a minute."
There was a brief silence, and then, “It’s not what you think."
"I hope not," John said. "But I'm struggling to come up with an alternate explanation."
"It was a stupid idea," Frank said. He'd offered us both beers--we'd declined--and was ensconced in a La-Z-Boy that had seen better days, while John and I perched on a battered couch across from him. The place was littered with old newspapers, beer cans, and dirty plates, and Frank's distinctive fish/gasoline aroma was thick in the air; I could see why Marge wasn't keen on moving in. "When she turned me down to go steady, I... I didn't know what to do."
"So you tried to gut the fundraiser so you could sweep in to the rescue and she'd feel like she had to say yes," I guessed.
He nodded, and the blood rushed to his face. "It was a stupid plan, I know."
"Not the best basis for a relationship, I'll say that," I said.
"I know, I know," he said. "But I don't know what else to do."
"Have you asked her out?" John asked.
"I asked her over for Spam loaf a few weeks back." He shrugged. "She came, but she only stayed for a few minutes; she barely touched it."
Spam loaf? John and I exchanged glances.
"I know, it's not fancy. I'm not much of a cook, I guess, and money's been tight."
"Got it," John said. "Did you clean the place up at all?"
"A bit," he said. "Put the toilet paper on the roll and got rid of the empties. Even cleared part of the table," he said, nodding toward a small Formica table covered in a jumble of debris.
"Well, that's something," I said.
"It's just... lonely this time of year, I guess. I was hoping Marge would want to share it with me." He looked to John. "You found yourself a wife. Any advice?"
"Natalie might be more helpful than me," he said, "but my first instinct is that you might want to start with a shower and some serious tidying."
"But love should be about what's on the inside," he complained.
"She's not going to find out what's on the inside unless she can get close to the outside comfortably," John pointed out. "But before we get into house cleaning, you need to return the things you stole. And hope nobody presses charges."
He paled. "Charges?"
"Charges,” John repeated. "Written apologies might help."
"But then Marge will know what I did!"
"It's Cranberry Island," John pointed out. "It's not like you're going to be able to keep things under wraps."
"Besides," I said, "maybe she'll think it's romantic." Although desperate and creepy were closer to the mark.
"You think?" he asked, brightening. He was a good person, even though he was a little clueless.
"We'll find out," John said. "Now let's get this stuff loaded up. I don't know if we can get to the church today, but I can take it tomorrow if I need to."
He let out a heavy sigh and stood up. "I suppose you're right," he said. "What's Marge going to say?"
"If I were you, I'd get in touch with her before she hears it through the grapevine."
His doughy face was as white as the snow. "Will I go to jail?"
"I can't make any promises about that, but if I were you, I'd start working on those apologies today," John advised. "Now, let's get that shed unlocked and load up the van."
While we'd been off solving one problem, alas, another one seemed to have boiled over.
We could hear the sound of raised voices even before we got to the inn. "Uh oh," I said as John and I stamped the snow off our boots and headed back into the inn, feeling dread.
When we walked into the parlor, with the exception of Adam and Gwen, the two families had retreated to their respective sides of the room and the tension was thicker than frozen fudge. Even the cats had retreated from the fire- place and gone into hiding.
"We're just talking!" Margaret protested.
"No," Adam corrected her. "You've been pitting us against each other since you arrived, measuring us against one another. And it stops now."
"I really don't know what you're talking about," James said, drawing himself up.
"Yes, you do," Adam corrected him. He reached for Gwen and put an arm around her. "This is my bride. The love of my life. If you can't treat her with respect, you will not be attending the ceremony."
Adam's mother blanched, and a small, catlike smile had crept over Bridget's face.
Until Gwen turned to her parents and announced, "The same goes for you. Both of you. All of you. We invited you to share our joy, not harpoon it."
"But..." Bridget started.
"No, Mom," Gwen said. "No buts. Adam's going home now, and I'm going upstairs. You can make your cases in the morning. Good night."
And with that, the couple marched out of the parlor, leaving four parents dumbfounded.
I wanted to burst into applause but thought better of it.
"So, what do you think they'll do?" John asked as we got ready for bed. The cats were snuggled into the comforter already; it was chilly in the inn, and they were staying far away from the warring factions downstairs.
"I don't know," I said. "The wedding's on, at least. Gwen told me she and Adam are going through with it--Charlene's doing her hair and make-up in the morning--but she and Adam will decide tomorrow whether their parents are invited."
"They should be able to swallow their pride and act decently for one day, don't you think?"
* * *
"I hope so," I said. "But either way, I love that Adam and Gwen stuck up for each other. It bodes well."
"It does," he agreed, and together we snuggled down under the comforter, both wondering what the morning would bring.
The day of the wedding dawned clear and bright... and, thankfully, with power, I discovered when the lights all blinked on at four in the morning. The snow had stopped falling during the night, and the wind had died down, leaving Cranberry Island looking like something out of a Christmas card. Snow blanketed the slopes leading down from the inn to the dark blue water, the pines were frosted white, and the cerulean sky was cloudless.
I headed downstairs to make coffee before everyone got up, only to find Gwen at the kitchen table, cradling a mug.
"You're up early," I said. "Wedding jitters?"
"No," she said, smiling. Her lovely face was glowing. "I made a big pot of coffee and put out some muffins," she said, gesturing toward the counter. "I had a talk with Mom a little while ago, and Adam talked with his parents. I think it'll go on as planned."
"Really?" I asked, doubtfully.
"Really," she said quietly. "I know she wants something different for me. But it's my life. I love her, but I'm not going to give up Adam, my art, you and John, and my life here on the island just to chase a dream that isn't even mine."
"And she understood that?"
Gwen nodded. "She did... and she apologized."
"Really?"
"She did. I think she just wants to be sure she's doing right by me. When really, it's about me doing right by me."
I smiled at my wise niece. "Adam’s a lucky man, you know."
"And I'm a lucky woman," she said. "Thanks so much for inviting me here all those years ago. You've changed my life. For the better."
Which was the best Christmas present anyone could ever have given me.
The church was completely full when the first bars of music played, the smell of c
andle wax and Christmas greenery filling the air. Adam stood at the front of the church, looking like a romance novel hero in his crisp tux, even though I noticed him running a finger around the inside of his collar; none of us was used to dressing up. A moment later, the whole church turned to see my niece, Gwen, step into the church.
She wore a cream-colored satin sleeveless gown that set off her pale shoulders. Her dark hair was a tumble of curls, as always, and she carried a small nosegay of cream-colored roses interspersed with red berries and a few sprigs of pine. There was an audible intake of breath as she walked down the aisle flanked by her proud parents, eyes shining. Although the dress was beautiful, she'd have been gorgeous in a burlap sack. I glanced back to Adam; his handsome jaw had dropped at the sight of his bride.
I smiled at Gwen, who had eyes only for her future husband, and as she joined him at the altar, I looked back the rest of the folks in the pews. Marge had made it to the ceremony, as had Frank, who had evidently dressed up for the occasion in his best overalls and was actually sitting next to the object of his affection; he might have been the only other person in the church not staring at Gwen, as his eyes were firmly fixed on Marge. Claudette and Eli were toward the front; Claudette seemed to have recovered, although I thought I saw her dart a glare at Frank. A few pews up, Charlene stood next to Robert, smiling, as was my cousin, who seemed enchanted by my friend; I had hopes for that potential connection. But more importantly, Adam's mother Margaret and my sister Bridget, whose own dark, curly hair was swept up in a beautiful updo, were now standing next to each other in the first pew, if not beaming, then at least not frowning. As I watched, Margaret leaned over to whisper something into Bridget's ear, and her face broke into a sunny smile as she nodded and whispered something back.
"It's a Christmas miracle," I murmured to John, who had also seen the exchange. As the priest began the ceremony, I took a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude for all of the good things in my life. As I dabbed a tear from the corner of my eye, John kissed me on the head and reached for my hand.
Four Seasons of Mystery Page 9
