The women hurriedly slurped down the rest of their drinks and trotted after Dirk and Vanessa into my living room, which was doing double-duty as a weight-lifting and yoga room. The overstuffed sofas were still in place, but I knew they’d be pushed back against the walls for an evening exercise session later. In fact, all the furniture in the living room would be moving around a lot this week; I just hoped it didn’t scratch the floors.
John joined me as I carried the empty mugs and plates to the kitchen and stowed them in the dishwasher.
“So,” I said as he brought in the last mug. “You and Vanessa seemed pretty cozy.”
“It’s been a long time,” he said with a shrug. “Lots to catch up on.”
“How many summers did you spend together?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Three or four, I guess. We were just kids.”
“Funny; you’ve never mentioned her.”
“I guess it just never came up,” he said, looking out the window at the darkening sky. “I’m going to head back to my place; let me know if you need anything.”
A moment later, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts —and a pack of hungry dieters.
At five-forty-five, I was pulling a tray full of chicken breasts out of the oven as my niece Gwen plated the steamed veggies. “How much sesame dressing should I use?” she asked.
“It’s on the recipe,” I said, pointing to a stack of papers on the counter. Every meal I’d designed had been vetted and measured by Vanessa, and I was under strict orders not to “fudge” anything.
“Two teaspoons,” Gwen read. “I’ll just eyeball it.”
“Use the measuring spoons,” I said.
“Are you serious?”
I sighed. “Just because you can eat two pounds of chocolate and not gain an ounce doesn’t mean everyone can.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I’d hate to have to measure my salad dressing. Geez.”
Ten minutes later we transported the plates into the dining room, where they were met with great enthusiasm by our guests. Cooking for dieters had a definite benefit, I decided, in that they were so hungry that just about anything you served them was a treat. Although it was only the first day, I was already jonesing for some chocolate. Maybe it was because I’d spent so much time hustling to get dinner ready that I hadn’t eaten anything myself.
“Ooh, that looks delicious,” Bethany said as I deposited a plate in front of her. “A nice buttered roll would make it just perfect.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Vanessa said. “I just love the freshness of steamed veggies. So much lighter than starchy bread.”
Bethany shot her a look that was pure venom, then masked it with a smile. “You’re right, Vanessa. After all, as Dirk always says, veggies are much better than starches!”
To each her own, I thought as I retreated to the kitchen to pick up the rest of the plates. I’d take a fresh-baked cloverleaf roll over steamed broccoli any day.
So far, I was pleased at how the retreat was going. This was the first time I’d done full meal service—usually I limited the inn’s culinary offerings to breakfast and the occasional batch of afternoon cookies—and I was still getting the hang of planning for three meals daily. With the amount of cooking on my plate this week, I thought, odds were good I’d drop a few pounds even without restricting my calorie intake.
When I pushed through the swinging door with two more dinner plates, Dirk was distributing little capsules to the guests.
“What are these?” asked Elizabeth, who still had her notebook with her.
“They’re special herbal supplements,” Dirk said. “They boost lipolytic action and help reduce hunger pangs.”
“What’s lipo … What was it you called it?”
“Lipolytic action? It’s the ability of the body to burn fat,” he said. “The supplement is a combination of green tea catechins and Rhodiola rosea, a Siberian herb that’s been used for centuries to improve metabolic processes. I’ve also included a couple of special ingredients that I’ve developed to assist the weight-loss process.”
“Are they safe?” she asked, cocking a sculpted eyebrow.
“Of course,” he said glibly. “I’ve used them for years.”
I didn’t know about Elizabeth, but the whole ‘mystery ingredient’ thing didn’t inspire much confidence in me. My impression of the Lose-It-All program had been that it focused on (admittedly rather extreme, at least in my case) lifestyle changes; I hadn’t realized that supplements would be part of the retreat. And to be honest, I wasn’t too excited about it. What if something went wrong? Could I be held liable if a guest had a reaction?
I deposited another plate, watching Elizabeth turn the capsule around in her fingers. As Dirk turned his back to hand one to another participant, she slipped the capsule into her pocket—which is probably exactly what I would have done under the circumstances.
Greg was at the next table, along with Megan and Carissa, the mother-daughter duo who shared blond hair, blue eyes—and a passion for jelly doughnuts, from the look of them, although Carissa appeared to be outpacing her mother in the weight-gain department. “Doesn’t that look delicious, dear?” Megan asked her daughter, patting Carissa’s pale hand and glancing at Greg, whose chambray shirt was so tight that gaps appeared between the buttons, exposing flashes of the white T-shirt he wore under it. Megan adjusted the plunging neckline of her own tight-fitting blouse, which clung to the spare tire around her middle like Saran Wrap. “Aren’t you glad we came here?”
Her daughter, who had donned a shapeless blue sweater that had been worn so much its sleeves were covered with pills, shrugged, looking miserable. I felt a stab of pity; earlier that afternoon, during the introductions, the poor girl’s mother had regaled the group with tales of Carissa’s chocolate debauchery. After detailing how Carissa had consumed an entire tub of frosting with her fingers—which I could totally understand, to be honest, although I preferred homemade to the prefab stuff you get at the store—Carissa’s mother had announced, “She could be so beautiful if she just lost fifty pounds. And at the rate she’s going, she’ll be single forever. She’s already eighteen, you know. It’s time she dropped the baby fat.” My heart had gone out to Carissa, who had said nothing, only wrapped her faded gray cardigan tighter around herself and stared at a spot on the floor.
Greg was eyeing the little mother-daughter drama with interest, and Megan was certainly aware of him. Despite the presence of her daughter, I saw her give him an appraising look as he inspected Dirk’s proffered capsule and downed it with a swig of water. Megan’s wedding band glinted on her left hand as she reached for her own water glass. Charlene always said that just because you were dating someone, it didn’t mean you were dead; I guess that translated to marriage, too.
The next table was the rowdiest of the bunch—the three middle-aged sorority sisters who looked on hungrily as I laid out the plates. “Looks great,” said Boots. Her nails were expertly polished, and although she had a few extra pounds to lose, her khaki pants and cream sweater were perfectly cut. She tucked a strand of her gleaming page boy behind one ear. One delicate, well-dressed ear—she was wearing diamond earrings that looked to be at least three carats each.
“Would look better with mashed potatoes on the side,” said one of her sorority sisters gloomily. Sarah, I told myself mentally; I was trying to keep everyone straight. Unlike Boots, whose hair was cut to precision, Sarah’s hair was faded blond streaked with gray, and she wore a green velour sweat suit that made her pale skin look sallow. Although Sarah and Boots must have been the same age, Sarah looked ten years older.
Just think how fabulous we’ll look,” Boots said, nudging the third woman in the party. “Right, Cat?”
The third sorority sister, a pretty woman with large brown eyes and a mane of long hair, looked up, startled. “What?”
“Oh, stop ogling the trainer,” Sarah said.
“I wasn’t,” Cat said, blushing slightly. Like Carissa, she was dr
essed in a formless blue sweater and jeans, although I was guessing they were much more expensive. Her long hair had been swept up into a clip; the effect accentuated her large, slightly uptilted eyes. If Cat had a slender figure as a sorority girl, it had changed significantly over the years. She was carrying about fifty extra pounds, and fell firmly into the “pear-shaped” category.
“Yes you were,” Sarah teased, her tired face lighting up with an evil grin. “You’ve hardly taken your eyes off him since we got here.”
“Oh. Really? I didn’t realize,” Cat said, her eyes dropping to her plate.
“If you’re going to stare, though, at least he’s worth looking at.” Boots crossed her long, khaki-clad legs and ran a critical eye over the handsome trainer. Although Dirk wasn’t my type—he seemed kind of full of himself, and his conversation, as it was limited to low-fat eating and exercise regimens, was less than riveting—he was a handsome man, and many of the women kept darting glances at him. “Do you think he and Vanessa are an item?” Boots murmured, narrowing her long-lashed eyes.
“Somebody told me they were,” Sarah replied. “But they don’t act like it. I haven’t seen them together at all today.”
“Maybe they’re just being professional,” Boots replied, brushing a piece of lint from her sweater. “I know they have separate rooms.”
“Which one is Dirk in?” Cat asked, blinking her huge eyes.
Boots arched a tweezed eyebrow. “Upstairs, last one on the right. But I thought you said you weren’t interested,” she said with a wicked grin.
“Do you need anything else for now?” I asked, interrupting their musings over Dirk’s availability.
“Not right now, but the food looks great,” Cat said. “Thank you.”
“I hope you enjoy it,” I said, and returned to the kitchen for another round.
When everyone had their plates—and their pills from Dirk—I made my way from table to table, making sure everyone had what they needed. When I was satisfied that all the guests were taken care of, I retreated to the kitchen to help Gwen put the finishing touches on dessert—my “Sweet Nothing” chocolate meringue cookies with a garnish of fresh raspberries. I was helping her plate the last two dishes when the doorbell rang.
“Go ahead and get it, Aunt Nat,” Gwen said, smiling up at me. “I’ll take care of the rest of the berries.”
“Thanks,” I said, hurrying to the front door.
To my surprise, Tom Lockhart stood there.
“I didn’t hear you drive down,” I said. “Come on in!”
“I took the boat instead,” he said, stepping through the doorway after me. “I just stopped in for a couple of minutes.” Tom was always welcome at the inn—the tall, rangy man with bright blue eyes was one of my favorite people—and not just because he’d helped save the inn from developers last year. Tom was one of the pillars of Cranberry Island; he had grown up on the island, and was now president of the lobster co-op, in large part because of his friendly nature and even temper. He grinned at me, and I could see why his wife, Lorraine, had fallen in love with him ten years ago. His two boys, Tommy Jr. and Logan, shared the same winning smile. “I wanted to drop a bunch of lobsters by,” Tom said. “I left them in a pot off the dock—they’ll be good all week. I figured they’re low calorie, so you could serve them to your guests.”
I blinked in surprise—he’d never brought fresh lobster to the inn before—but I wasn’t about to argue.
“Gosh. Thanks. Won’t you come in, and have something warm to drink?”
“Thank you,” he said.
Vanessa was deep in conversation with Dirk when Tom and I walked into the dining room. “I told you, it’s nothing,” she was saying urgently to Dirk as we passed. Then she looked up, and her eyes widened suddenly. “Tom.”
“Vanessa!” His blue eyes lit up like a beacon. “I didn’t realize you were here!”
I resisted the urge to snort. On this island? Please.
She hesitated for a moment, then stood up to greet him, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Gosh. It’s been years,” she said.
Tom ignored the proffered hand and pulled her slender frame into a bear hug, his eyes sliding to Dirk, who was looking on with impatience. After a hug that lasted an uncomfortably long time, he released her, running his eyes up and down her. “How are you? What have you been up to?”
“Oh, keeping busy,” she said, glancing over at Dirk, who was glaring at Tom.
“We’ll have to get together, talk about old times,” Tom said. Before Vanessa could answer, Bethany appeared at the doorway.
“Dirk?” she asked, her pale, moon-shaped face glowing with desire. “I have a few questions about my protein-carbohydrate mix. Can you come talk with me for a moment?”
Dirk hesitated, glowering at Tom; then he rearranged his chiseled face into a more pleasant expression. He reminded me of one of those guys you see in toothpaste commercials, I realized—all tanned skin, ripped biceps, and blindingly white toothy smiles. “Sure,” he said, still sounding a tad surly as he walked over to her.
“Isn’t it wonderful that we have a whole week together?” Bethany cooed, putting a plump hand on Dirk’s arm. A flash of irritation passed over his features before he masked it with a thin smile.
“Dirk is just the most wonderful trainer,” Bethany gushed to us. “He’s been training me for years, but with the business taking off the way it has, he had to cut down on his hours, so we don’t get to see each other as often.”
“The price of success,” I quipped.
“That’s why when I found out he was co-hosting this retreat, I just had to sign up.” She blinked up at Dirk. “It’s such a romantic setting, isn’t it?” She squeezed his arm, and he flinched. “And I’m so glad he’s here. I always do everything he tells me to—without his help, I’d be a blimp!”
Based on the extra thirty pounds she was carrying, I suspected she wasn’t being entirely honest about following Dirk’s instructions to the letter, but I didn’t volunteer the thought. “Thanks for the lobsters, Tom,” I said, turning to the rangy lobsterman. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen and get dessert ready. You’re welcome to a chocolate meringue if you’re interested.”
“Oooh, chocolate meringues? How divine,” Bethany said, evidently oblivious to the tension between Dirk, Vanessa—and Tom, who looked like he couldn’t wait for all of us to clear out. “Sounds like they’re to die for.” Bethany gave Dirk a predatory look. “I’d kill for something sweet about now.”
“I’ll go get them ready then,” I said, heading for the kitchen as Bethany led Dirk to her table.
As I moved away from Vanessa and Tom, I heard his low voice say something about the lighthouse, but I didn’t catch the rest. I doubted the conversation involved the skeleton they’d found in the hidden chamber, though. How many men had Vanessa seduced out on Cranberry Point? I wondered.
And what would Tom’s wife say if she knew what was going on in my living room?
I passed Dirk and his admirer on my way to the kitchen, where Gwen stood with one hand on her slim hip, counting plates of my “Sweet Nothing” meringues. She looked glamorous as always in a cashmere sweater and designer jeans, and I reflected once more that her boyfriend, a local named Adam Thrackton, was one lucky lobsterman. Gwen had come up the previous summer to study art with Fernand LaChaise, Cranberry Island’s artist-in-residence—and to help me out with some of the housekeeping.
Fortunately for me, she’d fallen in love, not just with the island, but with a local lobsterman, and had managed to convince her mother to let her take a sabbatical from UCLA and stay on with me. My sister had agreed grudgingly, perhaps in part because she was under the impression that her daughter was dating a shipping magnate on the island. Neither Gwen nor I had informed her that the magnate’s fleet consisted of one small lobster boat named Carpe Diem, but it was only a matter of time before my sister descended on us for a visit and the truth came out. (I was hoping Adam’s Princeton degree would
help—even if he had tossed it into the drink when he bought the Diem.) For now, though, Gwen and I were both happy that her mother lived two thousand miles away—and that she wasn’t a fan of cold weather.
“Who was at the door?”
“Tom Lockhart,” I said. “He left a pot full of lobsters down by the dock. For free.”
“I didn’t know it was on the menu.”
“It wasn’t,” I said. “Until now. He just dropped a bunch of them by.”
Gwen cocked an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like Tom,” she said. “Why did he do that?”
“Who knows?” I said, shrugging. I didn’t want to think about it right now, to be honest. “I’ll save them for the last night—it will make the last meal special.” I glanced at the Tupperware container of meringues. “I’ll go clear the dinner plates. Do you have dessert under control?”
“We need ten plates, right?” Gwen asked.
“Yup.”
My niece pushed a lock of her dark, curly hair behind one ear and looked up at me. “You know, this retreat is turning out to be a lot of work. Are you sure you’ll be okay if I go up to Fernand’s in the morning?”
“It’ll be fine. Marge is coming to help me out, remember?”
Gwen cocked a dark eyebrow at me.
“She’s doing a great job,” I said. “Honest.” Gwen’s reticence was understandable, if unwarranted. For years, Marge O’Leary had had a reputation as one of the island’s nastiest—and least fastidious—residents. She’d worked as a part-time cleaner for the island’s summer population, but based on the feedback from her clients, I had once sworn I would never let her wield a feather duster in my inn.
Since last fall, though, when I’d helped Marge escape the hellish life she was secretly living—trapped with an abusive, homicidal husband who had almost murdered both of us—she had been working hard to turn her life around. As much as I supported her efforts to change, when she’d asked me for a job in December, I’d had serious misgivings. Marge had surprised me, though; with a little bit of training, she had transformed into a reliable, conscientious—and even pleasant—employee.
Murder Most Maine Page 3
