Murder Most Maine

by Karen MacInerney

  Why would he—or she, or whoever had kept this record—have written all of this down? There was no reference to money, or payment, or the type of goods transported. But every parcel arrived and left in the wee hours of the morning, and every one came from a southern state. The “parcels” were recorded in batches ranging from one to as many as seven. Was it possible that seven people had huddled together in that cold dark basement under the lighthouse, waiting for a ship to come and take them to freedom?

  I leafed through all of the documents, up to the last pages, which were dated February, 1841. “Three parcels arrived from South Carolina,” read the top entry on the second to last page. “Some indication that route has been compromised. Departure scheduled for February 10 may be delayed until the situation is resolved.”

  The next entries were simply records of the weather, which was evidently less than favorable, with lots of squalls and north winds. There was no further mention of the “situation.” The entries led up to the day before the scheduled departure, in which I saw a hint of emotion for the first time. The neat, methodical hand was hurried in the last entry—almost a scrawl. “Observing much caution—visitor has particular interest in these parcels. Am fearful that the code has been compromised, and the station is no longer safe. Will attempt departure tonight, despite foul weather from the north; further delay may be catastrophic.”

  I flipped through the rest of the pages, searching for a hint of what might have happened next.

  But the rest of the book was blank.

  Next morning’s breakfast of cracked wheat with Greek yogurt, a smattering of honey, and frozen Maine blueberries from last summer started off well enough, with lots of lively conversation in the dining room. My thoughts kept returning to the two mysteries on the island—both Dirk’s death and the skeleton in the lighthouse—but my guests seemed more focused on calories than corpses. Now that the initial shock of the trainer’s death had passed, everyone seemed to be relaxing a little bit—and even though Vanessa still wasn’t back to her previous level of perkiness, which in my opinion had been inhuman anyway, at least she didn’t seem quite so strained.

  That was before Detective Rose appeared at the door, carrying a search warrant and trailing a team of forensics experts. Half of them peeled off and headed toward my kitchen.

  “Where are they going?” I asked.

  She ignored the question. “You haven’t tampered with the victim’s room?” she asked me as the rest of the forensics team traipsed up the stairs, presumably toward the late trainer’s room.

  “I’ve kept the room locked since you were last here, like you asked. But why are they in my kitchen? And what do you mean, ‘victim’?” I asked. “Did the autopsy results come back then?”

  She nodded brusquely. “They did a rush job, since the guests are only here temporarily; we got the results in late last night. We’re treating the case as a potential homicide.”

  Despite the chill coming through the still-open front door, my palms began to sweat. “May I ask what the cause of death was?” I asked, thinking, please, please, please don’t let it be poison.

  “The victim ingested large quantities of a toxic substance,” she said.

  “You’re kidding me,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Namely, that the fact that the forensics team was investigating the food prep area meant they were closing down my kitchen.

  Detective Rose eyed me coolly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make alternate arrangements for food preparation,” she said, “while we inspect your kitchen.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until we have determined that the source of the poison was not your kitchen,” she said, “you’re going to have to shut down your food service operation.”

  I felt like the earth was falling out from under me. “But how are the guests supposed to eat?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid you and the retreat leader will have to make other arrangements,” she said. “I saw a restaurant down by the pier. Perhaps they will be able to handle the food service.”

  “But they’re closed until June!” I said. This retreat, which had seemed like the answer to my prayers, was turning into a nightmare.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Barnes,” she said. “But we are dealing with a murder investigation, and must take all the proper precautions. Now, if you have a few minutes, there are some more questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “Sure,” I said weakly. “Can we at least do it in the kitchen, so I can clean up?”

  “Not until the forensics team has been able to examine it,” she said. “Do you have an open guest room?”

  I sighed and opened the cabinet, plucking the key out and handing it to her. “Here’s the key to the Blueberry Room—it’s the last one on the left, on the first floor. I’ll be there in a minute, if that’s okay. I’d like to check on my guests and call the restaurant to make arrangements; lunch is in a couple of hours, and I don’t think they even have any food on hand. We may have to settle for sandwiches from Charlene’s store.” Which were anything but dietetic, unfortunately, consisting as they did of white bread, globs of mayonnaise, and American cheese.

  “I’ll wait for you in the room,” she said.

  The guests stared at me as I walked through the dining room—they had seen the forensics team trooping into the kitchen, and it appeared to have put them off their food. Elizabeth looked keenly interested in the happenings, but everyone else seemed slightly dazed, even fearful; I heard a spoon clatter to the table as we marched past the sorority sisters and into the kitchen.

  After refilling coffee mugs and reassuring everyone that the investigation was “routine” (hardly), I scurried down to the front desk and called Evie Spurrell. When she didn’t answer, I called Charlene down at the store.

  “I’ve got a problem,” I said in a low voice. “Dirk was poisoned, and they’ve shut down my kitchen indefinitely.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “I can’t get in touch with Evie. Can you see if you can find her? I need to have someone else prepare lunch and dinner.”

  “I can do sandwiches if you need me to,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I may have to take you up on it. I suppose I could bring something in from the mainland for dinner, if I needed to …”

  “If I can’t get in touch with Evie, we’ll work something out here. But I’m sure she’ll be happy to help out. And there’s still time to order supplies from the mainland.”

  “Thanks a million,” I said. “Keep it quiet, if you can.”

  “I’d like to,” she said, “but I’m afraid once I ask Evie to cover for you, it will be the equivalent of announcing it with a bullhorn.”

  “I know,” I said. “Thanks, Charlene. You’re a lifesaver.” I glanced at the door to the guest room, where I knew the detective was waiting for me. “I have to go answer more questions now. I’ll call you later,” I said.

  “This will all get worked out,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’s just a glitch.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, hanging up the phone and preparing myself to face Detective Rose.

  ___

  Her questions, fortunately, had less to do with my food than I had feared. Instead, they focused primarily on who had had access to Dirk’s room, which was comforting; it meant they suspected that was the source of the poison. I told her I’d seen Elizabeth coming out of Dirk’s room the night before he died, and that the skeleton keys—along with several spare room keys—were generally kept at the front desk, where anyone would have access to them.

  “You leave the keys out in the open?” she asked, blinking at me with watery eyes. The morning light through the window behind her made her kinky silver hair glow like a halo around her sharp face.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “They’re in a cabinet.”

  “But the cabinet isn’t locked?” she asked.

  “No,” I admitted sheepishly.

  She let out a long sigh. �
�So any of your guests could have had access to Mr. DeLeon’s room.” She made a few notes on her notebook as I shifted uncomfortably in my wooden chair. “What about Tom Lockhart? Was he at the inn at any time that you know of?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling a coldness inside me. At her request, I told her about his visit with the gift of lobsters. Which were still waiting in a pot down by the dock, I realized. With my kitchen closed, maybe I should just let the poor things go.

  “And John Quinton?” the detective asked, and the coldness in my gut turned to a block of ice.

  I nodded, and she made a notation on her pad.

  “When was he present?”

  “He was in and out a few times,” I said lightly. “He lives just next door, and we’re … good friends,” I added lamely. Since at the moment, I wasn’t sure exactly what the status of our relationship was. Even if he had kissed me last night.

  “Was he here at all the day before Mr. DeLeon died?”

  I thought back. “He was here in the afternoon,” I said. “He helped transport the guests, and hung around the inn for a while afterward. I don’t think he was here in the evening, though.”

  “Does Mr. Quinton have a key to the inn?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling my stomach sink. “He does.”

  “So he could have come in at any time. And is he aware of the location of the skeleton key?”

  I nodded, and she took down more notes.

  “Was there any strife between Mr. Quinton and Mr. DeLeon?” she asked, pen poised over her notebook.

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “They really didn’t know each other.”

  “I understand Miss Tagliacozzi and Mr. Quinton had a prior relationship,” Detective Rose said, her keen eyes glued to me. “How much time did they spend together after her arrival?”

  I shrugged. “Not much, I don’t think.” Then I remembered Gwen telling me Vanessa had been down at the carriage house the day she arrived. “I think Vanessa went down to visit him after they got here—once they figured out they knew each other.”

  “She was unaware of Mr. Quinton’s presence before her arrival?”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly wondering if that was true. Was finding John here really such a surprise? If Vanessa had been corresponding with Tom Lockhart, surely she knew John was still here. Was it because of him—or Tom—that she had decided to host the retreat here?

  “You don’t seem quite certain about that,” the detective said. Either I was an awful actress or she had very good instincts.

  I arranged my face into a pleasant expression and said, “I’d heard she was still in touch with some of the islanders, so she may have known. But both of them seemed surprised.”

  “Did you notice any intimacy between the two?”

  “Between Vanessa and John?”

  “Yes.”

  “They spent some time together the last few days,” I said. “I don’t know what they talked about.”

  “Did John mention anything about Dirk in your presence?”

  “Not that I recall,” I said. “Then again, I’ve been very busy with the inn; we haven’t talked as much the last few days.” Then I blurted out, “I know there was some strife between Vanessa and Dirk—you should definitely ask her how things were going with the business. I think she was trying to cut him out of it—she didn’t like the supplements—and he was giving her a hard time about it.”

  She made a note on her pad as I rambled. The cool breeze from the open window behind her brought her Ivory soap scent to my nose.

  “And Bethany, the guest who had a crush on Dirk?” I continued, looking at her pink, scrubbed face.

  “What about her?” the detective asked.

  “She has a whole shrine to Dirk. She’s obsessed with him—she followed him here, is convinced that he loved her, even though he was with Vanessa,” I said, the words tumbling out.

  The detective gave me a sharp glance. “How do you know all of this?”

  “I clean the rooms,” I said. “So I see a lot of things. And there was another thing I’ve been meaning to ask: do you know when he died?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” she said.

  “But he was poisoned. By what?” I asked.

  “Again, I cannot share that information.”

  Which was completely unhelpful. I made yet another gambit. “If he’d been poisoned by the food he’d had at the inn, wouldn’t he have died the night before?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Some poisons take several hours to take effect.”

  I sighed. “Still. If it was my kitchen that caused the death, don’t you think some of the other guests would have been sick?”

  The detective looked at me with pity in her eyes. “Miss Barnes, I appreciate your situation—and the difficulty this case is causing for your business—but we must take precautions. We will do everything we can to get you back up and running, but you’ll have to be patient.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “The Bangor Daily News is calling. I’m afraid when this gets out, it will ruin my business.”

  “We’re doing everything we can,” she repeated. She reviewed her notes once more. “I know you have guests to attend to, so I don’t want to keep you. I think we’re done for now … if I have more questions, I know where to find you.”

  “Thanks,” I said gloomily, then forced myself to look on the bright side. Even though it wasn’t a very big bright side. Detective Rose might have closed down my kitchen, but at least she was much easier to deal with than her predecessor, Grimes. For starters, she didn’t look at me like she was sizing me for orange coveralls.

  “I will need to talk to your neighbor, though,” she said as I turned to go, and something in her voice sent a shiver down my back.

  “He works from home,” I said, “so he should be in.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a chilly smile, shuffling her papers together as I walked out of the room. Perhaps she wasn’t sizing me for a jumpsuit. But I wasn’t sure the same could be said for my neighbor.

  I hurried into the tense dining room, where I retrieved three more empty bowls and stacked them on the buffet by the kitchen door.

  “What’s going on?” asked Sarah, who was comforting Cat. “Why are the police in the kitchen?”

  “Apparently Dirk died from ingesting a toxic substance,” I said. “They’re doing a routine check to make sure everything is in order.” No need to go into the whole “kitchen closed” thing right now. I glanced at Cat, whose large eyes were swollen. Sarah had stretched a protective arm around her shoulders. “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  Boots took me by the arm and led me aside. “Cat lost a daughter once, years ago, and today’s the anniversary of her death.”

  I looked at Cat’s haunted face. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry …”

  “It’s okay. It’s just that this is a tough time of year for her,” Boots said. “And with another death …” She shook her head, and her bobbed hair swung back and forth. Even though she must have been in her fifties, she still had some of the look of a college student, I thought. A certain vitality to her … “The timing couldn’t be worse,” Boots continued. “The whole reason she wanted to come to the retreat this week wasn’t really the reunion; it was to take her mind off of her daughter.”

  “When did she lose her daughter?” I asked quietly, the forensics unit in the kitchen forgotten for the moment. My heart went out to the poor woman, who was clearly still bereft. As I would be too.

  “It’s been several years now,” she said.

  No wonder Cat had been so upset last night, I thought. She’d come to the retreat to forget about her personal tragedy, only to be faced with another. I glanced at the poor woman who had lost her daughter; the empty, lost look on her face was somehow familiar. Probably because I’d had to spend so much time staring across a table at Charlene’s haunted eyes, just a few months ago, after Richard McLaughlin had died. Grief, unfortunately
, was universal.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help,” I said, “let me know.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Do you know if the detective is going to want to question us again?”

  “I’ll ask her if she can skip Caterina,” I said. “She’s been through enough already.”

  “Thank you,” Boots said, giving me a grateful smile. Then she returned to the table to comfort her friend while I headed back to the guest room where the detective had installed herself.

  She opened the door a second after I knocked.

  “Are you going to question the guests again?” I asked as she stood in the doorway, still holding her notepad, and hitched up her belt.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to,” she said.

  “I wanted to let you know—one of my guests lost a daughter on this day several years ago,” I said. “Her name is Caterina. She’s having a rough morning—all of this seems to be bringing the old memories back.”

  The detective blinked at me. “What bearing does that have on the case?”

  “It doesn’t,” I said. “It’s just … could you be particularly gentle with her?” I asked.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” she said. “I assume all of your guests are at breakfast?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Most of them, anyway. Hey—can I at least put the dirty dishes in the kitchen?”

  She hesitated.

  “I just don’t want them cluttering up the dining room,” I added.

  “I suppose that will be all right,” she said.

  “Thanks.” It wasn’t much, but it was a small triumph.

  As she plucked the first guest from the dining room—Bethany, whose moon-shaped face was still pale and blank with grief—I gathered up a stack of dishes and headed into the kitchen. Two people, a man and a woman, looked up as I entered.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but the detective said I could at least put the dirty dishes in the kitchen. Can I put them on the counter by the sink?”

  The woman nodded brusquely and returned to the work of bagging a marshmallow from a bag she’d pulled from the pantry, setting it on a growing stack on my kitchen table. If I had to wait for them to do a chemical analysis of every foodstuff in my kitchen, I realized, I’d be closed for months.