I went back inside to finish making breakfast; the kitchen smelled marvelous. The strata was almost ready to come out of the oven, and the batter just needed the addition of cranberries and walnuts before I started scooping it into muffin tins and sprinkling it with turbinado sugar. I'd keep the strata warm on top of the stove, covering it with a tea towel, while the muffins baked.
Max joined me, refilling her coffee and sitting back down at the kitchen table as I measured out the berries and nuts for the batter.
"What do you know about the man who died?" she asked.
"I know he worked odd jobs around the island," I said. "A lot of people do. He's..." I corrected myself. "He was a handyman. I had him here once, but I didn't like him much. I never hired him again."
"What do you mean?"
"I hired him to fix the front door a few years ago; it kept popping open. He kept asking a lot of questions about how much the place had cost me," I told her, "and once I found him looking through the papers on the front desk.”
"Did you fire him?"
"I let him finish the job," I said, "but I never hired him again, that's for sure."
"So he's nosy," she said.
"Maybe he was too nosy," I suggested as I put muffin cups into the tins. "Maybe he found out something he shouldn't have."
"Where was he working?" she asked.
"I know he's worked for Murray Selfridge—he's a local developer type who used to date my mother-in-law—but lately he's been helping out on a remodeling job for the Jamesons, I hear."
"Think he might have dug up too much dirt on one of them?" she asked.
"I'm not sure Murray would care, frankly," I said. "I don't really know anything about Steve. But he's been on the island for years and has worked for all kinds of people. He could have dug up dirt on anyone." I thought about it for a moment. "But you do have a point. For someone to kill him now, he would have had to find something out recently."
"Exactly," she said.
"It's still a big assumption, though. I really don't know anything about him."
"Maybe a jilted lover?"
"If anyone will know, it's Charlene," I said. I glanced at the clock; it was still before eight. A bit early for my friend, I knew, but she always liked to be the first to know about goings-on, so I knew she wouldn't mind the call. "I'll ask right now," I said. "As soon as I get these muffins in, anyway." I sprinkled sugar over the tops of the muffins and slid them into the oven, then refilled my coffee and dialed Charlene.
"Do you have news on Tania?" she asked as soon as she picked up.
"Not yet, unfortunately," I said, and I could practically feel her deflate on the other end of the line. "But Catherine found Steve Batterly next to the carriage house with a knife in him."
"No way," she said, then, "Oh, no."
"What?"
"Tom Lockhart threatened to kill him just two days ago, in front of half the island."
7
"What? Why?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. "But he told him to stop mucking around in things and said if he ever set foot on his property or said another word about him, he'd make sure it was the last thing he ever did."
"Ouch," I said. "Why?"
"I don't know," she said. "Steve had a bit of a reputation for digging up dirt on people and stirring up trouble. I have no idea why people continued to hire him."
"Maybe he blackmailed them into it?" I said, half-jokingly.
"I can't think why else they'd have him," she replied darkly. "Although from what I hear, he does do good work."
"He did a good job on my front door, but I didn't like him at all," I said.
"What kind of knife?" Charlene asked.
"I don't think I'm supposed to said," I said. "But the wound was definitely not self-inflicted." I glanced out toward the carriage house, where I knew John was keeping watch over the body. "The mainland police are on their way."
"Maybe you can ask them if they have any news on Tania," she suggested.
"Of course I will. I was talking with Max about the situation, and she suggested we go take a closer look at Tania's place. See if maybe there's something we missed that might tell us who her mystery man is."
"I was thinking that, too. Are you free this morning?"
"Once I get through being questioned by the police, I'm all yours," I said. "How are you doing with the whole Mandy thing?"
"I'm shaken up, but I'm more worried about Tania."
"Of course," I said, gathering the bowls I'd used and putting them in the sink. "I didn't know Mandy and John were a thing for a while," I said. "He'd never mentioned her before."
"He dated all kinds of girls; they all fell for him," Charlene said.
"But not you?"
"Not me," she said. "He's handsome, all right, but there was never any chemistry between us."
"Thank heavens for that," I said. Charlene definitely had me in the looks department.
"Do you want to meet at Tania's at ten?" she asked.
"That'll work for me," I said.
"I hope we find something," Charlene said. "And when we're done, I'm going to go over to the inn and grill those detectives, or whatever they are, and tell them to find my girl."
By the time breakfast rolled around, the detectives had arrived and were gathering evidence and Brandon and his entourage were ensconced at a corner table with a view of the proceedings—or what they could see, anyway, since the carriage house hid the body from view.
"What happened?" Rebecca asked, eyes wide. She was dressed, as usual, in a conservative pin-striped blue-and-white blouse with tan slacks, her hair and make-up understated but immaculate. She reminded me a little of Catherine, at least sartorially.
"There was a death last night," I said. "Someone from the island; no one associated with the inn."
"Died?" Antoine asked, his eyes alight with interest for the first time since he'd seen the sunken sub. "How?"
"That's what they're investigating," I said as I put an egg-white frittata filled with veggies in front of him.
"Natural causes?" he pressed.
"Ah... no," I said.
"That explains the police presence," he said, ignoring the omelet and staring at me with curiosity.
"Are we safe?" Brandon asked in a mild voice.
"I can't think why not," I said. "I think the location was just unfortunate."
"What if there's some crazy killer out there?" Rebecca said, then turned to Antoine. "Maybe we should move over to the mainland."
"The police said there's not a serial killer," I said, echoing what John had said earlier. He was, after all, the island deputy. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
"How did he—it's a he?" the bodyguard asked.
I nodded.
"How did he die?"
"I don't think I'm allowed to say," I said.
"I'm going to go take a look," Antoine said in a tone of voice that did not invite debate. He shoved back his chair, stood up from the table and headed for the back door. With his broad shoulders and barrel chest, he looked... well, menacing. Dangerous, really. Dangerous enough to put a knife in someone's back? I wondered briefly. Maybe to protect his rich boss?
I didn't bother trying to stop Antoine—I could tell it wouldn't make any difference—and trusted the investigators would make sure they had the space they needed.
"Are you sure we're safe?" Rebecca asked again.
"I'm sure," I said. The murderer couldn't be staying at the inn, after all, could they? No one here had any connection to the island. Except Brandon, I remembered, looking at him with new curiosity. Why had he chosen to stay on Cranberry Island instead of the mainland—or on his own yacht?
I excused myself and wandered over to the other side of the dining room, where Max and Ellie were enjoying the strata. After all the stress this morning, I'd helped myself to a bit of strata, too, along with a few muffins. Thank goodness for elastic waistbands.
"How are you this morning?" I
asked Ellie.
"Curious," Ellie said. "Do the police have any idea what happened?"
"I haven't heard anything new yet," I said.
"Thank goodness it's not Tania," Ellie breathed. "Not that it's not horrible."
"Did you hear anything last night?" I asked.
"I slept like a baby," Ellie said, and turned to Max. "You?"
"I didn't hear a thing," she said.
"Are you still going over to Tania's place today?" Ellie asked.
"I am," I said.
"I'm happy to be another set of eyes if you like," she said. "I've got two daughters of my own; I'd love to help in any way I can. Actually," she said, "is Tania on social media?"
"She is, but Charlene said she hasn't been posting."
"If she knows what her account names are, we can look to see if she's posted anything."
"Why didn't I think of that?" I asked.
"That's the only way I know what my kids are up to," Max said, rolling her eyes.
"I'll check with her and let you know," I said. "Be right back."
Charlene was at the door to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, phone in hand, dark rings around her eyes and her caramel-streaked hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She wore a U Maine sweatshirt and sweatpants, and looked as if she hadn't slept in three days. Which she probably hadn't.
"Where is she?" she asked.
"Still at breakfast," I said.
"Think she'd mind if I joined her?"
"Not at all," I said. "I'll go with you."
"Hey" Max said, standing up as my friend hurried up to their table. "I'm so sorry to hear about Tania. I hope we can help you figure out where your girl is!"
"Me too," Charlene said, pulling up a chair.
"Do you want some strata, or a muffin?" I offered.
"No," Charlene said, very uncharacteristically. "I can't eat right now."
"I'll get you coffee then,” I said, and as Max and Charlene hunched over her phone, I poured a cup of dark coffee with cream and two sugars. As I returned to the table, I glanced over at Brandon’s entourage. Antoine was back, eating his strata mechanically, and Rebecca was on her cell phone, speaking urgently. I heard something about "public relations liability" and "National Geographic" before I set Charlene's mug down in front of her.
"She posted on her Instagram account half an hour ago," Charlene said excitedly. "Look!" She showed me a picture of a path into dark woods with the hashtag #roadlesstraveled. Although I was glad to see some sign of activity from Tania, something about the photo—and the caption—was unsettling.
"Can you tell where the picture was taken?" I asked.
"She didn't list it, but I'll bet there's a way to tell; I think it's encoded in the photo somehow."
"We should tell John," I said.
"This doesn't really look like Tania's typical posts," Charlene said, scrolling through a series of filtered selfies.
"Wait," I said, stopping her at a photo from two weeks ago that showed someone's arm—male, by the size of it—around her. "Can you blow that one up?"
"Sure," she said, magnifying the photo. "What's that ring?" I asked, pointing to a gold ring with a crest on the hand draped over her shoulder.
"I can't tell," she said, and looked up at me. "Do you have a computer we can look at this on?"
"I do," I said. "It's in the front office."
"Natalie?" It was Rebecca.
"I'll be right back," I told Charlene. "If you'll e-mail or text the photo to me, I can blow it up on the screen," I said.
"Will do," Charlene said as I headed over to the millionaire's table.
"What can I do for you?" I asked. Brandon was busy on a tablet and didn't look up.
"I've got a few news agencies that are coming out to cover the discovery," she said. "Can you keep this situation" —she flicked a manicured hand toward the police next to the carriage house— "hush-hush? We don't want it to detract from the magnitude of what Mr. Marks and his team have found."
"I don't know exactly how I'm going to keep it hush-hush," I said, "but I'm not going to be advertising it, if that helps. When are these folks arriving? Will they need rooms?"
"In light of what's going on out there," she said, her eyes flicking to the carriage house again, "we thought it best to suggest they stay elsewhere."
Wonderful.
"Right," I said shortly. "Well, let me know if you need anything else."
"We will, actually," she said. "Could you put together a gluten-free bag lunch? We'll need it within the hour."
"I'll see what I can do," I said, and excused myself to the front desk, trying to resist the urge to sprinkle the lunch I was about to make with extra bread flour. Assuming I had something I could whip up into an impromptu gluten-free lunch, that was. I was going to be charging extra on their bill, that was for sure.
"Did you e-mail the picture to me?" I asked Charlene.
"I did," Charlene said.
I went into my office and pulled up my inbox; sure enough, there was the photo. I saved it, then opened the file.
"Can you make it bigger?" Charlene asked.
"I can," I said, magnifying the image. "Can you see what's on the ring?"
"It's some kind of shield, or coat of arms, it looks like," Charlene said.
"Maybe some kind of school ring?" Max suggested.
"Probably," I said. "It's got a number on it, looks like. Let's print it and show it to John; I'll e-mail it to him, too, so he can share it with the police on the mainland." I hit PRINT. "Why don't you guys see what else you can turn up on her accounts? I've got to make a few box lunches, and then we can head over to Tania's place."
"Sounds like a plan," Charlene said. "What other social media apps don't I know about?" she asked Max as I hurried back to the kitchen to try to come up with something gluten-free to send with the entourage.
Fortunately, I'd made some quinoa the day before, planning to use it in a salad. I grabbed it from the fridge, added a can of chickpeas and some feta, along with lemon juice, olive oil, garlic salt, chopped-up cucumber and a box of cherry tomatoes. I nipped out the back to get some fresh basil from the pot I kept on the back porch during the day (I took it in when it got too cold); as I harvested some leaves, I watched as two young officers moved a body bag to a stretcher.
"John!" I called, seeing my husband standing a few feet away from the proceedings, his face grim.
He strode over to meet me, and I told him what we'd discovered about Tania. "I think there's usually GPS info encoded into Instagram photos," I said. "Plus, one of the photos has someone's arm around her; there's a ring in the picture. We blew it up and printed it."
"Good thinking," he said.
"It was Max," I said. "She's got college-age daughters; it was her idea."
"Frankly, you'd think the detectives would have gone that route," John said.
"You don't think they're taking it seriously?"
"Either that or they're understaffed," he suggested. "I'll get this info to them right away. If she posted that picture yesterday, she may still be there."
"I hope so," I said, my eyes drifting over to the body bag. I hoped Tania wouldn't find her way into one, I thought with a shiver. Then my mind went back to the note I'd spotted in Steve's hand. Why had someone lured him to the inn, rather than somewhere else on the island?
"Any more clues?" I asked.
"Just the note in his hand," John said. "At least that's all I know about. They may find something else when they do the autopsy."
I shivered at the thought.
"I'm going to go to Tania's with Charlene in a bit. I'm making box lunches for the multimillionaire and his entourage; I'll take care of the kitchen before I go.”
"Thanks," he said, giving me a kiss. "I'm sorry I'm tied up."
"It's no problem," I said. "I understand. I've got this."
"Thanks. I love you," he said.
"Love you too," I said, feeling my heart melt a little as he kissed my forehead and t
hen hurried back to the knot of police officers next to the carriage house. I watched him go, then plucked another stem of basil and retreated to the kitchen.
It only took ten minutes to finish whipping up the quinoa salad and spooning it into tubs. I put the tubs into three brown bags, and then added a few of the gluten-free chocolate meringues I'd whipped up the day before to each bag, along with an apple and a bottle of water. Not too bad for ten minutes notice, I thought with satisfaction as I delivered the bags to the trio in the dining room.
They accepted the bags without comment.
"Will you be here for dinner?" I asked.
"We won't know until later," Rebecca informed me.
"Please let me know by four, so I can plan," I said.
She nodded, then looked back at her phone, essentially dismissing me.
I'd be charging a LOT more for those box lunches, I thought as I gathered the rest of the dishes and took them to the kitchen. I did a quick clean-up before returning to find Charlene, Max, and Ellie still huddled over my computer at the front desk.
"Find anything else?" I asked.
"Nothing yet," she said. "I think she's got a Snapchat account, but I can't get into it, and besides, those photos don't last.”
"I told John about the Instagram post; he's going to have the folks on the mainland see if they can get GPS coordinates on that photo," I said.
"You're the best," Charlene said, looking more hopeful than I'd seen her in days. "Ready to go to Tania's?"
"Mind if we go with you?" Max offered.
"I'd love the extra eyes," Charlene said, then turned to me. "Can we take the van?"
"Of course."
I had just finished clearing the last of the dishes and put on my jacket to head out when my phone rang; it was Lorraine Lockhart.
"Hey, Lorraine. What's up?" I asked.
"Oh, Natalie... I need your help."
"What? Why?"
"They... the police came and they arrested Tom!"
8
"What? Why?"
"Steve Batterly... I know you know someone stabbed him outside the inn," she said. "Well, apparently there was some kind of note in the guy's hand, and the knife in his back..." She swallowed. "I... I think it came from my kitchen. I'm with the kids at Claudette and Eli's right now; the police are searching the house for evidence."
Anchored Inn Page 7
