"Who was that?" I asked, pouring coffee and sugar into the glasses.
"One of the Jameson boys. He and the Karstadt kids hung out with each other, but not us."
"Is he still on the island?" I asked.
"He is, but only occasionally," she said. "Ed Jameson inherited the family's house, but he doesn't come up much, and when he does, he doesn't really mix with the locals. The Karstadts haven't been here for a few years, but they still maintain the house."
"Ed's been here on and off this summer," John said. "I've seen his yacht out a few times."
"He doesn't come to the store; he sends someone," Charlene said, "and one of his personal staff gets groceries from the mainland."
"Friendly," I said dryly, topping the coffees off with cream and shuttling them to the table.
"Oh, yes," she said. "He's a real treat. Murray tried to get close to him—rub shoulders, you know—but Jameson never wanted anything to do with him." She took a sip of coffee. "Oooh. This is marvelous."
"It is," Max agreed, taking a sip of her own. "I never think to make these. Why not?"
"They're better shared with friends," I said, taking a sip of my own coffee, enjoying the burn of the whiskey, the richness of the coffee, and the cool sweetness of the cream. I looked up at Charlene, who was licking cream off of her upper lip. "Murray was here in the summers, too, wasn't he?"
"Oh, he was," Charlene said, "but his dad put him to work in one of his offices early, so he didn't have a lot of chance to mingle. He only got a few weekends here; he spent the rest of the time down in Boston with his father."
"He does have a Boston accent, doesn't he?" I mused. "Was he on the island when Mandy died?"
"I really don't remember," Charlene said. "You're not thinking Murray might have done it?"
"Steve did work for him," I said. "And when Catherine and I were over there, he was acting a little squirrelly."
"Maybe I'm glad they broke up after all," John said.
"I don't think she's over him yet."
"If he ends up in jail for murder, that might help," he said.
"You think?"
"I don't know, but it's worth looking into," he said.
"We don't really have anything to look into with Mandy," I said, "but Steve has lived here for years. Think there might be some clue at his house?"
"The police have been over it, and they didn't find anything," John said.
"They're understaffed," I pointed out.
"You really plan on breaking and entering?" John said.
"I didn't say that," I said, not admitting that that was exactly what I was thinking.
"Don't do it, Nat," John said.
"Oh, all right," I said. "But somebody's got to figure out what happened to Steve, or Tom Lockhart is going to go away for a very long time."
After we finished our Irish coffees, Max and Ellie headed up to bed. As John cleaned up the kitchen, I padded up the stairs to Gwen's old room, knocking lightly.
"Come in," Adam said in a low voice.
Gwen was sleeping, an empty mug on the table next to her, and Adam sat on a chair next to the bed, his book open in his lap.
"How's she doing?" I whispered.
"Pulse rate is better and she kept it all down," he said, closing the book. "She even had a few bites of pot pie."
"Really? That's terrific!"
"I still want the doctor to come see her tomorrow, though," he said. "This has been going on for too long. I think she might have given herself an ulcer this summer."
"I've thought that, too," I said, speaking in a whisper. "We'll see what the doctor says. Are you staying here tonight?"
"Do you mind if I do?" he asked.
"Of course not," I said. "I've got a cot downstairs; want me to bring it up?"
"That would be great," he said. Gwen's bed was a single, and neither of us wanted to disturb her. "Hey..." I asked before I headed for the door. "Was it possible that the man with the Boston accent was Murray?"
He cocked his head. "It could be," he said. "I just don't know. Why?"
"Just a thought," I said. "I'll be right back with the cot."
"Thanks, Nat," he said.
I ran downstairs and retrieved the cot from the storage closet under the stairs. John took it up to Gwen's room for me, and Adam and I put on fresh sheets. "I'm going to head back down, but let me know if you need anything," I told him.
"Will do. And thanks again."
"Oh, anytime," I said. "Besides, you're family now."
"What an honor," he said, giving me a grateful smile before I nipped back down to the kitchen.
I made two more Irish coffees while John finished drying the pan I'd cooked the curry in. He had just sat down to join me when the phone rang.
I answered it; before I had the chance to say, "Gray Whale Inn," Lorraine's voice burst through the speaker.
"Nat, is that you? I have something to show you."
"What?" I asked.
"Just... Just come. And don't bring John, okay?"
"Why not?"
"Just don't. Please. For me."
She hung up before I could say anything else. I stood holding the phone in my hand, staring at John.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Lorraine has something to show me. But I'm supposed to go alone."
15
"I'm not sending you alone," John said.
"What. You think Lorraine's a murderer?" I asked.
"I have no idea who the murderer is," he said, "but I do know when someone asks you to come alone, you make sure you have back-up."
I sighed. "Well, what do I do?"
"I'm going with you," he said flatly.
"I'll tell you what. Why don't you wait in the van?"
"I still don't like it."
"I'm going. But if she's got something to tell me, I'm not going to hear it if you're there."
He sighed. "Okay. I'll compromise. You call me just before you go in there. Leave it on speaker, and I'll mute my phone. That way I'll be outside listening if anything goes wrong."
And presuming the phone actually worked, I thought but didn't say; phone service on the island was notoriously spotty.
"That works for me," I said. "We'll have those coffees when we get back," I said. "Or I'll make more."
"I'm glad she called when she did, or we wouldn't be able to drive."
"Even so, I'm going to have you drive," I said. "I feel a tad tipsy."
"I'm on it," he said.
It was a short drive to Lorraine's house. The upstairs windows were dark, but the lights downstairs were blazing when John pulled up.
I dialed him, then put the phone in my pocket as he picked up and muted his phone. "Ready?" I asked.
"Be careful," he said.
"Of course." I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and opened the van door, curious what Lorraine wanted to show me.
I'd only knocked once before she flung the door open. "Oh, I'm so glad you came," she said, looking wild-eyed; there was a desperation to her voice that made me uncomfortable. "I found something today that I think might explain what happened to Steve Batterly."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I snuck into his house this afternoon to see what I could find."
"You're not supposed to do that!" I said, to some extent for John's benefit. He was always giving me a hard time about doing just that.
"I know, but I feel so... helpless. Tom is in jail and I can't just sit here doing nothing. Anyway, I found something the police missed."
"What? Where?"
"There was a loose floorboard in the bedroom; I noticed it because it was a little bit off-kilter; it moved when I stepped on it. I pulled it up, and this is what I found." She pointed to a fat envelope on the table.
"I hate to ask this, but did you wear gloves?"
"I did," she said. "I've watched enough CSI to know the drill. I grabbed the rubber gloves from under the sink. I've got them right here." She produced a pair of yellow gloves and la
id them on the table.
"What's in the envelope?"
"Take a look," she said.
I put on the gloves and opened the envelope. Inside was cash; a lot of cash. There were two stacks of hundreds and two stacks of fifties.
"That's a lot of money," I said. "Was there anything else?"
"Just a note," she said. "It's in the back, here. That's what I wanted you to see.”
Inside was a handwritten chart of sorts. There were three columns, each headed by a letter— L, M, and E— and to the left was a line of dates; the timing went back about five years. L and M had numbers for multiple dates, between one and two thousand each time, about once a month. The third letter, E, had bigger amounts, about 5,000 each time, but had gone dormant a few years ago. There was a fourth column added on later, in pencil and then erased, with the letter T at the top.
"There's got to be fifty-thousand dollars here," I said, doing the math in my head.
"None of this money came from us," Lorraine said. "I'd know if it did; I do all the finances."
"Are you thinking this 'T' stood for Tom?"
"If so, you can tell right here he didn't get any money from him." There was desperation in her voice. "So there was no reason for Tom to hurt him."
Unless Tom had killed him before caving into blackmail demands, I thought but didn't say.
Lorraine continued, her voice fast and high. "He was getting this money from somewhere. I'm thinking maybe someone got tired of paying him, or if he was in some kind of drug dealing thing, something that went wrong somehow. Maybe somebody whose name started with M."
Murray? I wondered.
"You need to put this back where you found it," I advised her.
"If I do that, though, how am I going to tell the police I know what's there?"
"I'll... I'll convince John to take a look at the house, maybe," I said, wondering how John was taking all of this as he sat in the van outside.
"So I'm supposed to just put this back where I found it?"
"Yes," I said. "And don't go poking around anymore, okay?"
"But what about Tom?" she asked.
"We'll figure that out," I said. "For now, though, can you just put it back?"
"I will," she said. "As soon as the kids go to school tomorrow, I'll head back over."
"Good," I said. "And don't worry... I'm doing some investigating. I haven't given up on Tom."
"Really?" she asked. "I am so thankful. I just can't imagine the kids and me living without him."
"I know," I said. "I'm doing everything I can. Can I take a quick picture of this?"
"Okay," she said, "but are you sure that's a good idea? I'm not supposed to have it."
"You're right," I said. "Good thinking." I stared at it one more time, trying to commit it to memory.
"Thanks, Nat," she said. "I can't tell you how grateful I am."
I left a few minutes later, wondering what John would make of it all.
"You really scolded her for snooping?" he asked as I closed the van door behind me and he started the car.
"I did that for your benefit," I admitted, then told him what I'd seen.
"It sounds like a payoff record," he said.
"It does. And there was a ton of cash in there."
"Who was paying him off?"
"I'm guessing he was blackmailing people," I said. "And that Tom refused to play along; that's why he erased the T column."
"But who are M, E and L?"
"I'm guessing the M stands for Murray," I said, "but I don't know about the other two."
"I'll have to ask around and see who he was working for," John said. "I know he was snooping around the inn. I'm guessing he may have used his access to other people's house to dig up dirt, then hold their feet to the fire."
"Murray seemed wary when we were there and asking about Steve," I said as John turned toward the inn, the headlights illuminating the dark green pines lining the road. Cranberry Island usually seemed sweet and idyllic, but it was a moonless evening, and tonight it felt... sinister, somehow. "He kept glancing at the picture above the fireplace; I think he might have something hidden in a safe behind it.”
"Unfortunately, there's no way to find that out without a warrant."
"If we 'find' the money with the list in Steve's house, would that be enough to get a warrant?"
"Maybe," he said, "but M is kind of nondescript. It might be hard to convince a judge." And it could stand for Marksburg as easily as Murray.
"Did my mother ever talk to him, by the way?"
"I haven't seen her all day," I said. "I was so distracted with Gwen and everything else, I didn't even think about it."
"I'm going to check the carriage house the moment we get back to the inn," he said. "If Murray is a murderer, and she went to talk to him and let something slip..."
I felt a cold trickle of ice down my spine. "What would she let slip?"
"I don't know, but I don't want to risk my mother."
He hit the accelerator, and we made it home in record time. John practically hurled himself from the driver's seat and ran down the hill to the carriage house, which was dark. He pounded on the door, but from what I could see, there was no answer.
I hopped out of the van and hurried to the inn. The kitchen was empty; I hung my jacket on a peg and hurried into the dining room. It was also empty.
"Nat?"
It was Catherine's voice; she was sitting on the sofa in the living room, across from Charlene, who was stretched out on a chair by the fireplace, two Irish Coffee mugs on the table beside her.
"Oh, thank goodness," I breathed. "I'll let John know you're here."
"What? Why?"
"Hang on," I said, hurrying to the back door and pulling it open.
"She's here!" I called.
John whipped around, and I saw his shoulders sag in relief. "Where?"
"In the parlor," I said. "She's fine."
"Thank God," he said in a shaky voice, then loped up to the inn. I closed the door behind him, and together we headed back to the parlor.
"What did you think was wrong?" Catherine asked, looking confused, as John sat next to her on the couch and gave her a little hug.
"I don't know who the killer on the island is, and when you said you were going to talk to Murray and didn't come back..." He gave a sheepish shrug. "I guess I just let my imagination run away with me."
"I didn't talk with Murray, for your information," she said tartly. "I went for a long walk to clear my head. I still haven't come to a decision."
"Ah," I said. "I understand that. It's good to take some time."
"Why do you think he's a killer?"
John and I exchanged glances. I decided to let him share what he was comfortable with. "I think Steve may have been blackmailing some of the folks on the island. It's just a theory, of course."
"That makes sense," Catherine said, eyes widening. "I never did understand why Murray kept him on. In spite of what Murray may have told you, he was a terrible worker, and he was very... insolent. Murray always tolerated it, and I could never understand why."
"Do you have any idea what kind of information he might have had on Murray?"
"That's the thing... I have no idea. He's not married and he's no longer dating me," she said, "so it's probably not an affair, and he'd wound down his business dealings the last few years... I don't know what in the world Steve could have had on Murray."
"An illegal deal?" I suggested. "We both know he's not the most rule-bound person on the planet. Maybe he used to be mixed up in some stuff that wasn't completely aboveboard, and Steve found out about it?" I suggested.
Catherine pursed her lips. "It's possible, but I just don't know."
"Whatever it is, I'll bet he's got it hidden in his mansion somewhere," I said.
"The problem is, there's no way to find out," John pointed out. "At least not without a warrant."
"Which we can't get," I said.
He shook his head. "Nope."
> "So now what?"
"Well," Catherine said slyly, "I might be able to get in."
"No," John and I said in concert.
"We'll figure out what happened. We don't need you putting yourself into potential danger or messing up what could turn out to be a solid relationship again," I told her.
"But..."
"No," John said again. "Let us work it out. Okay?"
She sighed. "Okay. But I hate feeling useless."
"You're never useless," I said. "We love having you here. You bring a lot to our lives every day."
"Really?" she asked, reaching for her pearls and flushing delicately. "I always feel like such a burden..."
"You are anything but," John said firmly, and I nodded, agreeing.
"You're family. And we love you."
"That's wonderful," she said, beaming. Then her face got serious. "But could you please find out whether or not he's a murderer before I try to patch things up?"
"Always a good idea," Charlene said, raising one of the mugs and then draining what was left of it. I recalled now that I hadn't seen our Irish coffee mugs in the kitchen when we came back.
It looked like they'd found a home.
We tucked Charlene, who was at least three sheets to the wind, in in the cranberry room and gave Catherine the room next door—she was uncomfortable staying in the carriage house still—before checking on Gwen and Adam and heading up to our own bedroom.
"What a day," John groaned as he sank down on the bed. The cats were still with Gwen, so we had it to ourselves tonight.
"No kidding," I said, sinking down beside him and lying down, looking up at the ceiling. “I'm glad Lorraine found that envelope, but I wish the police had done a better job," I said. "How are we going to let them know it's there?"
"I figured I'd call tomorrow and ask if I can take another look."
"Do you think maybe there's some other stuff stashed there that they missed?"
"It's possible," he said. "With any luck, we'll find out."
"I'm deeply curious about Brandon, I have to admit," I said. "If it weren't for the search of the ocean floor, I'd think he was the murderer."
"The note to Steve mentioned an 'opportunity,'" John said. "Could the 'opportunity' be some kind of dirt on Brandon Marks?"
Anchored Inn Page 12
