I called Charlene. "Do you have that metal detector?"
"It's in the truck," she said. "I was going to bring it over later."
"Can you bring it now? I think I know where that ruby is. And I've got some other news, too."
"Hang on," she said, and I heard talking in the background. "Robert will mind the store; I'll be right over. Is Alex there?"
"No," I said. "He went out to take pictures somewhere."
"Whew," she said. "I'll see you in a few."
Fifteen minutes later, Charlene appeared, carrying a metal detector. I got up from the slab of granite I'd been sitting on and walked to greet her.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"First, let me fill you in on Alex and Georgina," I said. I related the goings-on at the inn... everything but my request to Alex to leave Charlene alone.
"She stalked him here?"
"Yes... and she sent you the nasty letters," I said. "I recognized the 'w' from the two letters you showed me."
"Sounds like someone's got some serious mental health issues," Charlene said with a shudder. "And she had a gun, too?"
"It wasn't loaded, but yes," I said. "The police took her away a little while ago."
"Good," Charlene said. "But that doesn't explain the metal detector."
"Before she went crazy, Georgina told me that the lupines near the inn are different genetically from the ones on the mainland... and on the rest of the island. I think it's because Margaret's husband brought back lupine seeds for her at the end of the 19th century, and she planted them here."
"So?"
"So... in her diary, she said she hid the ruby where the wolves gather to look at Gull Rock."
"There aren't any wolves on the island," Charlene said.
"No," I said. "But the name for lupines comes from wolves. Lupinus comes from the Latin word for wolf: lupus."
"Weird," Charlene said, looking at the swath of purple and pink flowers. "They look nothing like wolves."
"They think the flowers were named that because people thought they "wolfed" up nutrients from the soil. Margaret had a lot of botanical knowledge. She must have known the meaning of the name."
Charlene's eyes widened. "So when she was talking about the wolves gathering, you think she meant the lupines!"
"Yes," I said. "I'm hoping she meant the ones she planted, and I'm hoping your metal detector will help us find it."
"Do you get to keep it if we do?"
"Let's find it first. Then we'll worry about who it belongs to." I glanced over at my decimated roses. If we were successful, I hoped it would at least bring an end to prospecting in my garden.
"Here goes," Charlene said, and turned on the detector, carefully stepping around the blooming lupines as she scanned the meadow.
After ten minutes, it beeped. "I've got something," she said.
"Let me get a trowel from the shed," I said. I hurried down to the garden shed and returned a few minutes later with both a trowel and a shovel. She pointed to the spot, and I dug until I felt the trowel's blade clink against something.
"What is it?" Charlene asked as I felt in the moist soil. A moment later, I retrieved a bit of rusted metal.
"Not a ruby," I said. "See if there's anything else?"
She ran the detector over the spot again, but got nothing.
"I'll keep trying," she said.
We had three more false alarms and were about to give up when the detector beeped again. It was a few feet from the rock I'd been sitting on.
"Got another hit," Charlene said.
I dug with the trowel, but found nothing.
"Try the shovel," my friend suggested. I did, and had gotten about eighteen inches in when I hit something hard.
I used the trowel to clear the rest of the dirt from what looked to be a small box made of wood; it was about the size and shape of a cigar box. I pried it out of the soil with the trowel and set it down on the rock. It wasn't locked, but the latch was rusted and wouldn't budge. I gave it a few knocks with the trowel before it popped open.
I lifted the lid; inside were several cloth pouches, the material damp and rotting.
"I think we found something," Charlene said, reaching for a pouch and opening the drawstring, pouring the contents onto her palm. A pair of blue gemstone earrings glittered against her pale skin.
"I think you're right," I said. The second pouch contained what appeared to be a pendant encrusted with emeralds. And the third was a ring.
"Bingo," Charlene said, admiring what appeared to be a large, oval ruby flanked by smaller diamonds. "I think we found the buried treasure."
"Let's put it in the box and get back to the inn," I said. "I'll let John know, and we can figure out where to go from here."
As Charlene replaced the pouches in the box, I looked out toward Gull Rock. How many times had Margaret stood here staring out to sea, praying for the return of her husband?
I could only imagine her despair when she learned he had been lost at sea, and would never come back again.
It was a week before we heard the results from the appraiser. Alex had left the inn without saying goodbye to either Charlene or me, and I hoped we'd seen the last of him. Georgina, apparently, was out on bail, although I hadn't seen her; she'd gone back home, according to the police.
"Well, the gem is six carats," John announced when he got off the phone.
"Is it?" I asked. "Is it worth a fortune?"
"Depends on what you call a fortune," he said. "It's not a ruby."
"What? It's a fake?"
"It's a stone called a spinel," he said.
"So it's a fake."
"Yes and no," he told me. "For a long time, possibly including when William Selfridge purchased it, a spinel was apparently considered the same as a ruby. So while it may not be as valuable as a ruby now, it still has considerable worth."
"Like how much?"
"Twenty-thousand dollars."
"Holy moly," I said. "And who does it belong to?"
"That's still up in the air," he said. "It was found on our property, but there is some provenance. I let Murray know we found it; he said he would like it to go to the museum, but he'd like to hold onto the necklace. He's offering you the earrings as a finders' fee."
"That's remarkably nice of him," I said. Although they weren't anywhere near as big as the ruby, it would be lovely to have something that belonged to one of the previous inhabitants. "We could always use extra money," I said, "but I don't really feel right selling the ring and keeping the money."
"I think the museum is the right call," he said.
"You know what? I do, too," I said. "If they keep it as an exhibit and publicize the story behind it, it might bring more trade to the island."
"That's true," he said. "And for once, we might like something Gertrude writes about us."
"Forget Gertrude. This is a scoop worthy of the Portland paper... maybe even Boston!"
As I spoke, the phone rang. John glanced at the Caller ID. "It's Gertrude again."
"Do we get in her good graces by giving her first dibs?"
"We'll send press releases to everyone at the same time," he said, then cocked an eyebrow at me. "Do you know how to write a press release?"
"Let me call Murray first," I said.
"I never thought I'd hear you volunteer to call Murray Selfridge," John commented.
"I know, right?" Within fifteen minutes, everything was arranged. Murray and I were donating Margaret's ring to the Cranberry Island Historical Museum. I had just left a message for Matilda when there was a knock at the door.
"Everyone's psychic this morning," John said at the sight of our local historian.
"What's the word?" she asked as I opened the door, letting in both Matilda and a rush of cool spring air. "Did you hear back from the appraiser?"
"We did," I told her. "It's not a real ruby."
"Oh," she said, crestfallen. "I guess William lied to her, or bought a pig in a poke."
"H
e didn't," I said.
"It's a spinel," John explained. "In the 1800s, it would be considered a ruby. In fact, the appraiser told me there's a famous one called the Black Prince's Ruby in the U.K."
"So he didn't lie!" Matilda said.
"Turns out he really did put his money where his mouth was," I said. "It's worth twenty-thousand dollars."
Her eyes widened. "What are you going to do with it?" she asked. "I'd love to buy it for the museum, but we could never afford that. Besides," she said, eyes clouding, "Murray wouldn't give it up to you without a fight."
"Not to me, maybe," I said, "but we've both decided to gift it to the museum."
She blinked. "What?"
"We're giving it to you," I repeated. "Maybe you can do a whole exhibit; it might generate some good traffic."
"Oh, it definitely will!" she said. "We can get in touch with the press..."
"We were just talking about that," John said. "Do you know how to write press releases?"
She cocked her head. "I wrote grant applications for twenty years. Of course I can write a press release!"
"We were trying to decide if we should give Gertrude the scoop..." I trailed off.
"After all the things she's printed about you? No way. I've got a contact at the Boston Globe... we'll give it to the big boys, first. Maybe even do a traveling exhibit! This really might put us on the map..."
She was off and running. John and I exchanged a fond smile as Matilda made plans. "We'll have to get a secure display space, of course..."
"I can build a case," John offered.
"Oh, that would be perfect. And since you found it here, we'll have to put up a marker and send visitors to see it! I'll bet you'll get some extra guests once they learn the romantic story!"
"I just made a batch of chocolate-caramel walnut bars," I said. "Why don't I make some tea and we can dig in and celebrate?"
"I'd love that," Matilda said. "Walnuts are my favorite!"
As I filled the teakettle and loaded a plate with cookies, Matilda and John sketched out plans for a case. I glanced outside toward Gull Rock, thinking of all the days Margaret had spent looking out to sea, and said a prayer of thanks that I hadn't married a man who made his living at sea.
The Gray Whale Inn might have been cursed for the Selfridges, I reflected as I turned on the stove and bit into one of the buttery, gooey walnut bars, but for me, it had been nothing from a blessing. As I popped the rest of the walnut bar into my mouth and carried the plate to the table, John reached out to touch my arm.
"These look great. Thank you," he said, and his smile made my heart expand until it felt the size of the entire island. I sent a small prayer that Margaret and William were happy somewhere in the great beyond and sat down with my husband and my friend at the big pine table, thankful for the little moments that made life worthwhile.
Chocolate Sea Salt Caramel Walnut Bars
Ingredients
1 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar
2 cups flour
8 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips
12 oz. caramels (unwrapped)
1/4 cup whipping cream
1 cup chopped walnuts
1/2-1 tsp. sea salt (fine or coarse, to taste)
Directions
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a 15x10x3/4-inch baking pan with foil. with ends of foil extending over sides of pan, and spray with cooking spray.
* * *
Cream butter and sugar in a large bowl with electric mixer on medium speed until light and fluffy. Add flour slowly, beating on low speed until mixture is well blended and crumbly. Press dough firmly into pan and bake for 15 to 17 minutes or until edges are golden brown.
* * *
Remove pan from oven and sprinkle crust with chocolate chips; cover with foil. Let stand 5 minutes or until chocolate chips are melted, then spread evenly over crust.
* * *
Microwave caramels and cream in microwaveable bowl on medium 4 minutes, stirring once at 2 minutes, until caramels begin to melt. Stir until caramels are completely melted. Spread caramel evenly over chocolate layer and sprinkle with walnuts, then sprinkle with sea salt. Cool on pan on wire rack; when cool, remove from pan using foil as handles.
* * *
Cut into 36 bars.
* * *
<<<<>>>>
Altar Flowers
Altar Flowers
It was a bright June afternoon when I ducked into the dark interior of St. James’ Episcopal Church, my arms full of blue and pink lupines from the field behind the Gray Whale Inn. As I arranged them in one of the altar vases, a quiet voice startled me.
“I love lupines.”
I whirled around, almost dropping the vase. In the front pew sat a wizened lady, dressed in a long skirt and a blouse buttoned all the way up to her sharp little chin. I’d never seen her before, which surprised me; I thought I knew almost everyone on Cranberry Island.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You startled me.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said in a scratchy little voice. “I like to come here from time to time, and sit.”
“Me too,” I said, stepping back to admire my handiwork. “What do you think?”
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “I love this time of year, when winter’s gone and summer’s on the way.”
I nodded. “I thought it would never end this year.”
“It was a hard one,” she agreed. “I thought old Jedediah Spurrell wasn’t going to make it.”
“Oh?” I said politely, thinking perhaps the woman was suffering a touch of senility. She looked about eighty, and as far as I knew, there was no Jedediah on the island.
“I’m surprised we haven’t met,” I said, smiling. “I’m Natalie.”
“I’m Lily. Born and raised here. Baptized right here in this very church.” Her mouth drooped. “So was my daughter,” she added quietly.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Rose,” she whispered. “I lost her when she was two. It’s her birthday today.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my heart wrenching; I had never had a child, but to lose a daughter, and so young…
A cloud had passed over Lily’s ancient face, but you could almost see her shaking it off. “Well,” she said, clasping her withered hands. “I must be off now. Cows to milk, you know.”
“Nice to meet you, Lily,” I said. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
Lily smiled sadly, then rose with difficulty and hobbled toward the door. I watched her stiff back under the starched blouse, and tried to imagine her milking a cow; she looked like she belonged in a nursing home. Sometimes living on Cranberry Island was like stepping out of time.
As Lily disappeared through door, I gathered the fallen petals and headed toward the church kitchen, where Emmeline Hoyle was washing out the pans. “Got those lupines in water?” she asked, glancing at me from bright brown eyes.
“I sure did. Hey, how come I’ve never met Lily?”
A small furrow appeared on Emmeline’s brow. “Lily?”
“She told me she and her daughter were baptized here; only her daughter Rose died when she was two.” I sighed. “So sad. She said something about a Jedediah Spurrell, too.”
Emmeline put down the dish she was drying. “Jedediah Spurrell died in the 1800s.”
I swallowed hard. “There must be some mistake,” I said. “She said she was baptized here…”
“I don’t remember any Lily, either, and I’ve lived here all my life.”
“But...”
“Natalie, I know there’s been no Rose baptized here in the past fifty years. Or Lily.”
“Then who was that woman?” I asked.
Emmeline dried her hands. “Show me where you saw her,” Goosebumps rose on my arms as we pushed through the heavy door into the sanctuary.
“She’s gone,” I whispered as we crept toward the front of the church.
Everything looked the same
as it had when I left. No sign of the little old woman. “I must have imagined it,” I said.
Emmeline gave me an odd look, but said nothing. Together we walked around the sanctuary, then headed for the exit.
Emmeline went first, and just as I closed the heavy wooden doors behind me, something on the floor caught my eye. I stooped down and picked it up.
A petal, long and white. Nothing like the ones I’d gathered from around the altar.
“What is it?” Emmeline asked, just as a cool breeze lifted my hair, bringing with it the scent of flowers.
“Nothing,” I said, cradling the lily petal in my hand. “Nothing at all.”
The breeze came again, carrying the faint aroma of flowers.
Only it wasn’t lupines I smelled.
It was lilies.
And unless I was mistaken, just the faintest hint of rose.
Sneak Peek: Anchored Inn
Read on for a sneak peek of Anchored Inn, the tenth book of the Agatha-nominated Gray Whale Inn mysteries!
Chapter One
It's not every day an eclectic, reclusive multimillionaire rents the entire upper floor of your inn. At least not if you run a small establishment in quaint Cranberry Island, Maine.
As my niece Gwen and I went over arrangements in the cozy yellow kitchen of the Gray Whale Inn, I started fretting over all the extra requests we'd agreed to in order to host Brandon Marks. He'd made his millions (or billions) with a social media platform called WhatsIn, and despite the "social" nature of his business, he was a notorious recluse. I had no idea how he was going to manage on an island with subpar Internet, but his staff hadn't asked or added anything about it to the rather extensive list, so I hoped they'd figure it out.
Four Seasons of Mystery Page 13
