As I watched them approach the inn, my eyes riveted again on John and Vanessa, I suddenly realized that people who exercised are frequently hungry. I glanced at my watch; lunch was less than an hour away, and I’d been so wrapped up in my snooping—I mean, cleaning—I hadn’t even thought about preparing food.
With one last look at the group coming down the road, I grabbed my supplies and hurried to the kitchen. I struggled to banish thoughts of John’s potential suspecthood and the upcoming article in the Bangor paper from my mind—and breathed a sigh of relief that today’s lunch was just a simple shrimp salad followed by the custards that were already made.
___
When I toted a tray of shrimp salads into the dining room less than an hour later—field greens, julienned veggies, and fresh shrimp drizzled with a yogurt-lime-chipotle dressing (I’d had to order the chipotles from Texas)—the mood of the guests was once again subdued. I wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion from the morning excursion, though, or a reverberation from the trainer’s death. John was nowhere in evidence; he had managed to pry himself away from Vanessa, at least for a few minutes, anyway. What exactly had John and Tom been arguing about last night? Maybe once the retreat had moved onto the afternoon’s “nutritional education” session, I’d steel myself to walk down to the carriage house and have a chat with my neighbor, who’d practically disappeared from my life the moment the retreat hit the island. Before I passed judgment, I should hear his side of the story, after all.
As I distributed the custards to my ravenous guests, including Vanessa, who had wolfed hers down almost before I’d handed out the rest of them, my eyes were drawn again to the lighthouse on the point. My thoughts turned to what Charlene had said about the Underground Railroad. Could it be that Cranberry Island had been a way station? If it was, how many refugees had taken up residence behind the white-painted façade?
I flashed back to the strange lights we’d seen the other night, and a shiver crept up my spine. The other question was, whose skeleton had the workers found hidden inside the lighthouse?
___
As Vanessa started droning on in the dining room about nutritional choices (not all carbs are bad, of course, but the less refined, the better), I tucked into my own shrimp salad at the kitchen table, eyeing the carriage house with trepidation. I knew I had to face John eventually. But it was going to be hard to control my emotions when I did it. Heck, I wasn’t even sure what my emotions were. Anger, for sure. And hurt—even though, as Charlene said, there was no hard evidence to show that John and Vanessa were anything but friends. After all, my ex-fiancé had swept into town last fall, and even though he’d kissed me, it hadn’t meant I was falling for him. If John had managed to overlook a kiss, I should be able to overlook him calling Vanessa sweetheart. And spending an hour behind closed doors in his carriage house with her. My blood pressure rose just thinking about it.
But there was another emotion I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with mixed in there. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might be fear.
As I finished my less-than-filling salad, my eyes strayed to the cookie jar. It was a good thing I’d taken those mint bars down to Charlene’s, or I’d have plowed through the whole pan.
Instead, I turned my back on the jar’s siren song and helped myself to the last remaining custard, which I’d tucked into the fridge next to a bag of lettuce. The smooth confection was missing some of the richness of the full-fat version, and the sweetener had a touch of aftertaste that wasn’t my favorite, but I needed something sweet right now, and it filled the bill.
Finally, when I’d licked the last bit of custard out of the bowl (one of the benefits of dining alone, in my opinion), I realized I couldn’t put it off any longer. With a tummy full of fat-free custard and fat-free shrimp, I checked my face for stray dressing, smiled into the mirror to make sure there was no salad stuck between my teeth, and headed out the door toward the carriage house.
I stepped out onto the porch off the kitchen, catching my breath at the gusts of wind off the water. Summer might be on the way, but the wind was still pretty darned chilly. And forceful enough to make my white-painted rockers rocket back and forth on the porch all by themselves. It was eerie, almost—as if they had invisible, highly agitated occupants. I glanced up at the lighthouse, white as bleached bones, in the distance. Then I wrapped my arms tightly around myself and forced myself to head down the path to John’s carriage house.
___
“I hear you’ve been asked to leave the case,” I blurted artlessly a few minutes later as I perched on the edge of John’s couch. He winced slightly, and I cursed my poor choice of words. The room around me smelled faintly of fresh wood, like John himself, who was enamored of working with the natural material. Although he supplemented his income with his deputy position and the toy boats he made for Island Artists, his first love was working with the weathered wood that washed up on the rocks. He would spend months at a time transforming chunks of weathered wood from gnarled hunks of twisted branches into graceful sea creatures, several of which graced the bookshelves at the end of the room. John’s first piece of driftwood art, a seal, still stood on the coffee table, its gray back smooth as silk. I reached out reflexively to touch it—it felt warm under my fingers.
I pulled my hand back and regarded the man on the other end of the couch, wondering at how quickly the intimacy of two days ago had dissipated. So far, our little meeting was not going as well as I had hoped. John had answered after the second knock; after a glancing kiss on the forehead, he’d invited me in, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch from me. Tension crackled in the air between us.
“Because I have a prior acquaintance with one of the people connected with the incident,” John said in answer to my artless question, “they have asked me to disassociate myself from the case.” He wore a flannel shirt and faded jeans, and the spray of yellow sawdust dusting his sleeve told me he’d spent some time in his workshop this afternoon.
“Do you mean Vanessa?” I asked, wondering if “prior association” was the only reason they’d asked him to step down.
He nodded, but I found myself unconvinced. Just because he knew her over a decade ago wasn’t enough to get him removed from the case. Was there more than he was telling me?
“You never mentioned her to me,” I said. “Why not?”
John sighed and leaned back into the cushions, his eyes fixed on the window behind me. “I don’t ask about your past relationships, do I? Besides,” he added, “it was just a summer thing. Puppy love, I guess you’d call it.”
I tried not to flinch at the word love.
“Anyway, it was no big deal. We were both kids.”
“You called her ‘sweetheart’ yesterday morning,” I said, before I could help myself.
He flushed slightly. “I was trying to help her. She was obviously upset. She’s going through a rough time right now.” His green eyes slowly shifted to mine. “I’m sorry if you found it hurtful.”
I sat quietly for a moment, trying to sort my emotions out. So far, I wasn’t getting the warm and fuzzy feeling I’d been hoping for. Was John involved somehow in Dirk’s death? Even if he wasn’t—was there any way to fix this weirdness that had sprung up between us? Or had I already lost him to Vanessa?
“I saw you arguing with Tom last night,” I said, failing to mention that I’d also seen him with Vanessa. Or that I’d sat on my bed with my eyes glued to his front door for more than an hour, feeling like I was about to puke. “Why?” I asked.
John’s eyes grew suddenly guarded. “Tom has made some … poor decisions lately.”
“Like poisoning Dirk DeLeon?” I asked.
John drew back, startled. “No,” he said shortly. “Nothing to do with Dirk—Tom didn’t even know him.”
He’d met him, though. And he knew he was Vanessa’s maybe-boyfriend, I thought.
“I was trying to get him to think about what he was doing to his life,” John said. “His … actions have put
his marriage in jeopardy. Not to mention his standing on the island. I was advising him to back off for a bit, really think about his decisions.”
“Out of your feelings for his family? Or because you were interested in Vanessa yourself?” I asked, then wondered if I should go back home and tape my mouth shut. It was like I’d come down with an acute case of Tourette’s syndrome on the short walk over here.
“So that’s what this is about. You think I want to leave you for Vanessa?” he asked softly.
I shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. Or that you were somehow mixed up with what happened to Dirk. “The thought had crossed my mind,” I admitted.
“There’s nothing between us. Honest,” he said. “I was comforting her, Natalie. She’s been through a tough time, and she’s got no one here. And she has to shoulder the retreat by herself.”
Poor Vanessa, I thought. Rather uncharitably, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. “So you’re her rock, then. Just a good friend,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“Exactly,” he said, looking relieved. He moved closer to me, bridging the gap on the couch between us. Then he reached out to touch my chin, pulling my face up slightly to look at him. Just like he did with Vanessa.
“That was twenty years ago, Natalie,” he said, staring into my eyes. Despite the long winter, his skin was still nut brown, and his sandy hair was still streaked in places, bleached by the sun. He was incredibly handsome—and despite my anger, something inside me tugged with yearning for this gorgeous, intense, incredibly sexy man. “This is now,” he whispered, making goose bumps spring up on my arms.
Then he leaned forward and kissed me, slowly. His mouth was warm against mine, and his woodsy, masculine scent enveloped me.
My heart was pounding when he released me—partially from desire, but partially because I still wasn’t entirely convinced that his feelings for Vanessa were platonic. And, if I was being completely honest with myself, partially because of the tendril of fear that had taken root in my heart. I couldn’t have been dating a murderer, I told myself.
When I’d caught my breath, I asked, “There’s nothing between you and Vanessa?” My eyes searched his for an answer.
“We’re old friends,” he said simply.
“What about Vanessa and Tom?” I asked. “Are they just ‘old friends’ too?”
John sucked in his breath, a pained look on his face. “Tom is still living a fantasy,” he said. “He and Vanessa parted ways a long time ago, but I’m not sure he ever really gave up on her.”
“I heard they’d been having an affair,” I said.
He flinched a little. At least I thought he did—but maybe I was just looking for it. “He and Lorraine have a lot of things to work out,” he said judiciously.
Based on the hungry look I’d seen in Tom’s eyes when he looked at Vanessa, I had to agree with John.
The question was, was Tom the only one still carrying a torch for the island’s summer seductress?
When I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, my mind was whirling and my heart still pumping from that long kiss. But my doubts still lingered. Had the police really taken John off the case just because he and Vanessa were old friends? Or was it because they had had a more recent, intimate association? I never had asked him why Vanessa was at his carriage house the day she’d arrived. Or last night, for that matter.
Although I was sure I knew what his answer would be, anyway. “Catching up on old times,” he’d say. Or “lending moral support.” I tried to think positive thoughts, but found myself tearing open packages of ground turkey for tonight’s low-fat white chili with a bit more aggression than usual.
Biscuit, who is always on hand when there’s food to be had, sniffed out the prospect of a fresh bit of turkey immediately, sliding through the open kitchen door and meowing until I broke off a chunk and handed it to her. Then I dumped the rest into a pan sprayed with a tiny amount of olive oil and turned the burner on medium.
I was digging in the pantry for cumin and coriander when voices reached me over the sound of sizzling turkey.
“It’s natural to miss her,” said a low, female voice. “I don’t think you ever get over that.”
“I know,” the other voice said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m thinking about her so much. It’s like losing an arm, or a leg or something—missing her is always there. Every minute of every day.”
I sidled over to the door and peeked through it. It was Cat who was crying, slumped in one of the dining room chairs; beside her, concern in her eyes, was Boots.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Boots said, opening her arms to hug her friend.
“It’s like a wound that never goes away,” Cat snuffled into Boots’s shoulder. “And I thought I knew how to fix it, but … it turns out it hasn’t helped at all. I still feel hollow inside.”
“Shhh,” Boots said, stroking Cat’s long brown hair. “It’s okay, Cat. It’s okay.”
The sizzling from the stove grew ominously loud, and I tiptoed away from the door and stirred the turkey, wondering what it was Cat was talking about. Had Dirk’s death brought back memories of her own loss? And who was the person she was talking about?
Turning down the burner, I crept back to the door, hoping to hear more. But the two women were leaving the dining room together, and out of earshot.
___
Cat seemed to have gotten herself back together by the time dinner was served; even though there was a melancholy look in her eyes, they were no longer red-rimmed, and her friends’ efforts to cheer her up seemed to be working.
The turkey chili was a big hit, I was glad to see; I’d served the aromatic green stew over brown rice, accessorizing it with nonfat greek yogurt, reduced-fat cheese, and chopped green onions. I would have preferred full-fat cheese and a hefty helping of guacamole—not to mention more jalapeno, which I’d cut back on in deference to northern taste buds—and a glob of sour cream. My guests thought it was deliciously spicy—Elizabeth, who had put up her notebook for a change, scraped every last bit out of her bowl and looked to be on the verge of asking for seconds. Back in the kitchen, though, I found myself dumping large quantities of hot pepper sauce on my own serving, along with the tiniest sliver of fresh avocado. And maybe just a little bit of real cheddar cheese. After all, I’d worked so hard cooking and cleaning all day, I figured I’d earned it. And if I fit in a little walk after dinner, it would erase all the extra calories. At least I hoped so.
When everyone had finished their chili and their melon plates and the kitchen was clean for the third time that day, I decided it was the moment to break free of the inn again. Gwen had come back from the studio and offered to do turndown for me, which I gladly accepted. The walk would help burn off my fat-laden indiscretions; besides, I was curious about the lighthouse renovations.
I grabbed a flashlight and my windbreaker and headed out the kitchen door. After a moment’s deliberation, I decided to ask John if he’d like to join me. Kind of an olive branch offer. And perhaps an opportunity to find out more information, if I was being completely honest with myself. Walking down the path to the carriage house, I breathed in the salt air and admired the fresh green leaves on the beach roses, which I knew would soon be unfurling their gorgeous deep pink flowers. A couple of white strawberry blossoms peeked out from under tufts of grass next to the roses; my mouth watered just thinking of the little red berries that would replace them in June. Low calorie, too!
The carriage house was dark, but the lights were on in the workshop next door. I knocked on the door, and the smell of fresh paint wafted out as he opened it, paintbrush in hand. An endearing splotch of red paint decorated his nose; behind him, I could see a line of toy boats in various stages of completion.
“I was going to ask you if you wanted to go for a walk,” I said, “but it looks like you’re busy.”
“The shop opens next week, and I’m trying to finish up an order,” he said. “Maybe another night?”
“Sure,” I said. We stood there for a moment. “There’s leftover turkey chili in the kitchen,” I said, “if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Well.” There was an awkward pause, and John glanced over his shoulder, obviously anxious to get back to his painting. “I guess I’ll be going now,” I said.
“Thanks for stopping by,” John said. “I’d hug you, but …” He opened his arms, showing me the splotches of wet paint on his shirt.
“No problem.”
“Maybe next time,” John said, reaching for the door. His green eyes looked troubled—or was I projecting?
As I turned up the hill alone, I found myself unsettled by the encounter. The feeling trailed me as I climbed the hill; not even the fresh piney scent of the towering trees and the tender green of the blueberry bushes flanking the road could erase it.
___
The lighthouse by night was far eerier than the lighthouse by day, and as I traipsed down the path to Cranberry Point, skirting the area where Dirk’s body had lain—it was easy to see, as the bushes flanking the trail had been trampled—I found myself glancing up at the light uneasily, afraid it might start flashing at any moment.
A chill wind swept off the water as I grew closer to the old building, and the hulking construction equipment surrounding the lighthouse had an abandoned look that added to the brooding atmosphere.
A wire construction fence ringed the area, but it wasn’t locked; I pulled back the gate and slipped through it, picking my way along the rocky area. Down by the water stood the remains of the keeper’s boathouse—although the roof had caved in years ago, the walls were still bravely standing, if slightly tilted. To my immediate left was a roughly square patch of grass and weeds, now flattened by the tread of workers’ boots, where Matilda had told me the keepers used to have a vegetable patch. Behind the grassy swatch stood the keeper’s house, a little two-story building with peeling white paint, half of which had been stripped during the renovation process. The boards in the windows had been replaced with panes of glass that glowed in the last rays of the sunset, giving the appearance that a light burned somewhere inside. Down the hill a little way was the small stone building that the historian had told me was the oil house. For obvious reasons, the keepers stored the flammable substance away from the wooden structure of the house.
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