“Go on,” she said. “I can take care of this.”
“You’ll do turndown, too?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Why don’t you call Charlene, see if she can come pick you up?”
“Thanks, Gwen. But I think I could do with a walk, actually.”
She looked at me disbelievingly. “With a murderer on the loose?”
“We don’t know that,” I reminded her. “And if there is a murderer, odds are good whoever it is, is already at the inn anyway,” I said, feeling a chill down my spine as I spoke. Unless it was Tom Lockhart, my mind whispered. Or John.
“Well, take a flashlight,” she said, still looking doubtful. “And call me when you get there.”
“I will,” I said, wondering when the tables had turned and Gwen started playing the mom.
___
The cool, moist air was bracing when I stepped out of the inn fifteen minutes later, a container loaded with chocolate mint bars in my hands, feeling only a little guilty about leaving Gwen with stacks of dishes. I’d called Charlene, who confirmed that the store was still open—and probably would be until midnight, with the steady stream of folks stopping by. She’d offered to find me a ride, but I told her I preferred to hoof it. After everything that had happened today, I needed to be by myself for a bit, and nothing cleared my head better than a walk.
A gust of wind brought the smell of the ocean to my nose as I headed up the steep road, glad to be outside in the fresh air. Halfway up the hill, I turned, as I always do, to look back at the inn. It looked like something out of a Currier and Ives painting; the sun setting low over the mountains framing the inn, the windows glowing warmly, the sweet peas starting their climb up the trellis alongside the tender green of the nasturtiums, which I had bravely planted early. Behind the inn, the green field sloped down to the rocks, where the waves licked the gray rocks. Across the water, the lights of the mainland twinkled merrily.
As I gazed at the inn, I reflected that I had taken a huge risk in buying the old house and starting the business, plowing my entire life savings into it with no guarantee of success. And even though mornings were sometimes a bit tougher than I had anticipated, and not all of my guests were adherents of Emily Post, and some months were so lean I wondered if I’d make it, it was still the best decision I’d ever made.
I turned, still smiling, and continued the trek up the hill. As the sun set behind me, the moon rose to my left, the soft light gilding the bunchberry flowers that had started blooming on the shoulder of the road. The island seemed enchanted, I thought—until I topped the hill and my gaze fell upon Cranberry Point Lighthouse, glowing red with the last rays of the sun.
I’d always loved looking at the majestic lighthouse in the past. But now—with the secret room and the skeleton, the eerie light of last night, and this morning’s gruesome discovery—I hurried down the other side of the hill quickly, glad when the silent lighthouse finally fell from view.
The lights of the Cranberry Island Store were blazing when I tramped down the main road a little while later. I picked up the pace at the sight of the little building, which I was sure would be filled with chatty islanders and a pot of fresh coffee. The Cranberry Island Store was more than just the local grocery and post office—it was also the hub of local life. Some folks called it the island’s living room, which in many ways it was—complete with comfy couches that were almost always occupied. With the discovery of another dead body on the island, I was sure the store would be busy—and tongues would be wagging—until well into the night.
I passed by the empty wooden rockers on the front porch and the rosebushes, which were just beginning to send out pale, tender leaves. A moment later, I pushed through the front door, glad for the rush of warm, coffee-scented air. Coming into Charlene’s shop was always like coming home, somehow—the shelves of dry goods, with their faint, spicy scent, the smell of coffee brewing, and Charlene at the register. Tonight, the floral couches in the sitting area at the front of the store were occupied, and four familiar faces turned to the door as the bell jingled. Charlene rose from her stool behind the counter, where she’d been sorting mail. “Natalie! You made it!”
“I’m frozen, but I’m here.”
“And you brought your Midnight Mint Bars,” she said, dropping the stack of envelopes and taking the pan from my hands. “Just what I needed. Anyone else want one?”
Emmeline, one of the island’s longtime residents and a crack baker herself (her banana bread was to die for), nodded. “As soon as I’ve finished this skein of yarn, I’ll have one. Don’t want to get my wool sticky!”
Eleazer, who was perched on one of the stools at the counter with a mug of coffee, eyed the plate longingly, hitching up his suspenders. Then he darted a hopeful look at Claudette, who was seated on the couch next to Emmeline. When she raised a disapproving eyebrow, he mumbled, “I’ll pass, thank you.” He sighed dramatically, casting one last longing look at the mint bars, and turned to me, an expectant look on his weather-worn face.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Nothing you haven’t heard,” I said. “Detective Rose spent the afternoon questioning everyone, and the guests are pretty upset, but that’s all I know.”
“What does John say?” asked Emmeline from her spot next to Claudette. Her dark eyes were bright as currants in a bun-like face, and her pink dress, heavy stockings, and sensible shoes looked like something out of a Sears catalog, circa 1955. I was surprised to see her here so late; usually by now she’d be at home with her husband.
“Where’s Henry?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s in Ohio, visiting his sister. Hasn’t been able to make it back because of the weather; I’ve been coming down here for the company.” She finished a row and started another line of pink stitches. “And to get the latest on all the excitement. So,” she asked again, “what does John Quinton think of all this?”
“I haven’t seen him, actually,” I said, feeling uncomfortable admitting it, for some reason. Both women were knitting away at fuzzy objects—Emmeline was working on something pink that looked like a tea cozy, whereas Claudette’s yarn was much earthier, and appeared to be morphing into something like a sock. Which made sense, since she actually spun her own yarn from goat wool. I wondered how the goats, Muffin and Pudge, had survived the winter without any gardens to destroy.
“We’ve all been trying to figure out what happened out by the lighthouse,” Eleazer said. “Emmeline here thinks it might be old Harry, but I’m not so sure.”
“I’m telling you, Eli, it all started when those bones were disturbed,” Emmeline said, needles clacking. “I knew when I saw that light flashing that something bad was about to happen.”
“Weren’t they just testing out the new light?” I asked.
“I don’t think they’ve brought one over yet,” Claudette said, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. Had we seen a ghost light?
“Where are my manners?” said Charlene through a mouthful of mint bar. “Nat, can I get you something to drink?”
“Decaf coffee, please, if you have it. No sugar, though.”
Charlene raised a sculpted eyebrow, looking at me in disbelief. “What? No sugar?”
“I’m trying to stay on the straight and narrow,” I said. “Since I’m having to cook for dieters for a week, I might as well make the most of it. Besides, the doctor told me I need to watch it for a while.” Claudette nodded approvingly from the couch, her gray braids bobbing. Despite the fact that she was well over 200 pounds, she was perpetually after Eleazer—and the rest of the island, for that matter—regarding the evils of sugar. If you asked me, if anyone could use a bit of sugar in his diet, it was Eleazer—he must have been half his wife’s size.
“Any more word on the skeleton?” I asked, lowering myself onto the sofa across from the two women.
“Not yet,” Charlene said, handing me a cup of coffee. I took a long sip, enjoying the warmth as the coffee slid down to my stomach and radiated out to m
y slightly chilled body. Even after more than a year, I still hadn’t adjusted to Maine’s cooler temperatures. “But we’re hoping Matilda will stop by soon and let us know,” Charlene continued as she walked back to the front counter. Licking a stray bit of frosting from one of her fingers, she picked up another stack of mail and said, “She’s been calling them every hour since they found those bones, champing at the bit to find out what the lab comes back with.”
I nodded, hoping the town historian had forgiven me for “misplacing” an antique diary I’d found last fall. I’d finally told her it had been stolen, but she still considered that no excuse. If I’d brought it to the museum as soon as I found it, she reasoned, it wouldn’t have been taken.
Ah, well.
“It’s still such a shame about Dirk,” Charlene said. “I’m beginning to think it’s me. I’m two for two on handsome men so far.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “What happened had nothing to do with you. You’d hardly met the man!”
She hmmed noncommittally. “Such a waste, though. He was so gorgeous …” Her blue eyes became a little misty, and I wondered if she was thinking about Dirk—or about Richard, her late boyfriend. Then she seemed to shake it off, taking a big bite of mint bar. Chocolate, after all, is the best medicine. “Anyway,” she said through a mouthful of crumbs, “I’ve been asking around, and I’ve turned up one or two things.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” she said, “no one saw anyone out at the lighthouse last night, so there’s no help there. But it looks like Ernie was right about Tom.”
“That he was the one at the top of the hill?”
Charlene nodded. “Apparently when he got back, Lorraine was waiting for him, and showed him to the door.”
I cringed. “Where did he go?”
“Spent the night in one of the shacks down by the pier,” she said.
“With all the fishing tackle?” I asked.
“He’s got an old foam mattress in there, so he just bunked down with all the buoys.”
“God, he must have been freezing.”
“I imagine Lorraine thinks it served him right.”
“Why did she kick him out?”
Charlene glanced at Emmeline. “I’ll let you hear it from the horse’s mouth,” she said.
Emmeline nodded, and then gave me the scoop. “Well, from what I hear,” she said, forgetting about her knitting for a moment, “when that woman Vanessa showed up on the Island Princess, Lorraine got suspicious. She’s always been the jealous type, you know, so it’s no surprise.”
“Always has been,” Claudette said sagely. “Even at the wedding, ten years ago, she was worried he might like the maid of honor better. I’m telling you, those were the ugliest bridesmaid’s dresses you ever saw—poor things looked like a row of eggplants in a garden!”
“Anyway,” Emmeline continued, “when Tom left in the middle of the night in the truck—said he had to check on something down at the fish house—she didn’t believe him, which I wouldn’t either, come to that. I mean, if Henry headed off in the middle of the night to check on a shack, I’d wonder what he was up to, too! It’s only natural …”
“And?” I prompted her.
“Anyway, while he was gone, his wife got up and started digging around in his computer. She just knew something wasn’t right, and with that woman in town …”
She paused for a moment, and I waited.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know for sure—I heard it from Ingrid, who talked with Betty, who’s Lorraine’s best friend, and you know how I feel about gossip—but it seems she found a whole passel of e-mails. And it turns out that Vanessa and Tom had started chatting again.”
“Were they having an affair?”
“I don’t know about that, but Lorraine was in a tizzy by the time he got back. Locked the door on him, deadbolt and all, and wouldn’t let him past the front doorstep.”
“Ouch,” I said. To be locked out is bad enough, but at two in the morning? Then again, if my husband had left for a late-night rendezvous with a gorgeous ex-girlfriend, I might have done the same. I thought of John, with his arms around Vanessa this morning. Sweetheart.
“He says there’s nothing to it, but I says, where there’s smoke …” Emmeline broke off mid-sentence and took a sip of tea, eyeing me knowingly over the rim of the cup. I swallowed hard.
“I just can’t believe it,” Charlene said. “Tom doesn’t seem the type. And the kids …” She shook her head. “It’s such a shame. I hope they get it all cleared up, and that there’s nothing to it.”
“We’ll see,” Emmeline said doubtfully. Then she glanced at me. “I heard this morning that Tom and your boyfriend were arguing about her.”
My stomach clenched. “What? Who told you that?”
“I heard it from Addie, who talked with Madeline, who says she heard them when she was taking her evening constitutional. That woman has walked the island every night for years, rain or snow or shine. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Amazing,” I echoed weakly, still thinking about John arguing with Tom over the gorgeous retreat leader.
Emmeline shook her head. “But that Vanessa woman is stirring up all kinds of trouble. You’ll want to watch your man around that one.”
I felt myself flushing, unable to come up with a response. What had John and Tom been arguing about? Had it really been Vanessa? And if so, why?
Charlene finished her mint bar and picked up another envelope. The little store was silent but for the clacking of needles, and I shifted uncomfortably on the couch.
After a few moments, Charlene broke the silence. “Gertrude Pickens called earlier, by the way.”
Gertrude. I’d almost forgotten. “What did she want?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Nothing good.
Charlene arched a tweezed eyebrow. “The skinny on the body, of course. Who was it? Was he murdered? If so, was it poison?”
My stomach clenched. “She asked me about that, too. And if she prints one word suggesting he died because of something he ate at the inn …”
“That woman is working for the wrong paper,” Eleazer complained. “Turning the Daily Mail into the Enquirer!”
Claudette and Emmeline nodded vigorously in agreement. Despite my fear over what might turn up in the pages of the local paper tomorrow, their quick support gave me a warm feeling that was better than the richest hot chocolate. Which this coffee definitely wasn’t, I thought, taking another sip of the rather weak brew. Maybe I’d have to get Charlene a new coffeemaker for her birthday.
I was basking in the warm glow of community acceptance when the door banged open, jingling wildly.
It was Matilda, the local historian. Her cropped white hair stood out around her head, and her long nose was red from the chilly air, but behind her glasses, her eyes were bright.
“Matilda!” Charlene called. “Come join the fun. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Absolutely,” she said, smiling at everyone, including me. She must have learned something interesting to be in such high spirits, I thought.
“Any news?” I asked.
“I got in touch with the lab just this afternoon,” she said. “And you’re not going to believe what they said.”
“What?”
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” she said, eyes gleaming. “The body belonged to a man, about thirty-five years old, they think—they’re getting a second opinion on that, because it’s hard to tell—people were smaller back then, you know, and apparently there are a few unusual things about these bones—but according to the lab, he didn’t die of natural causes.”
“We heard that yesterday,” Emmeline observed. “Makes sense, since he was locked in.”
Matilda ignored Emmeline. “It was a secret room on the bottom floor; that’s where he was found. The body was stabbed to death, they think.” Her eyes were alight with the excitement of a historian who has just uncovered a great story. “They found marks on his ribs that indicate
a blade went through, right around the area of the heart. In the back, no less!” Despite the morbid nature of the information she was relaying, Matilda looked positively giddy.
Emmeline shook her head. “Poor Harry. What an awful way to go.”
“We don’t know for sure yet that it’s Harry,” she said. “Part of the reason they’re getting a second opinion is that they don’t think the bones are Caucasian.”
“Well, then, what are they?” Eleazer asked.
“They think they may be African—that’s why they’re getting a second opinion. I’ve spent the last two hours poring through the records, trying to find out who else might have disappeared during that time period, or if there was any record of Africans or African-Americans on the island. It’s a real mystery!”
“That makes two,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Matilda asked, looking confused.
“There was another body found there this morning.”
“Oh, that,” Matilda said, tossing her cropped head. Evidently the only murders she found interesting were the ones that occurred more than a hundred years ago. “I heard it was just a heart attack, or something.”
“Dirk was hardly a candidate for that,” Charlene said. “I’ve never seen a man in better shape.”
“I suppose we’ll know soon enough,” Emmeline said. Claudette nodded, not missing a beat in her knitting. “Still, with all those police officers asking questions, it makes me wonder.”
“Do you think maybe …” Claudette started, then stopped.
Emmeline paused in her knitting. “Do I think what?”
Claudette sucked in her breath. “I heard he died last night sometime. Could it be … a crime of passion, maybe?”
“It couldn’t be,” I said, shaking my head. “Not if it was poison.”
Four heads whipped around. “He was poisoned?” Emmeline asked. “No wonder the police were at the inn.” Her dark eyes got round. “Do you think it was something in the food?”
“Of course not!” I said quickly. “Honestly, I don’t know how he died—and since I fed Detective Rose lunch today, she doesn’t seem too worried about anything coming from the inn.” Maybe that would satisfy their concerns.
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