Claws for Alarm

by Karen MacInerney

  "Someone killed Francine Hodges last night. Adam found her by the co-op; whoever did it used a brick."

  John winced. "Ouch. So much for the peaceful life on a small island." As he stood up and headed to the sink, Biscuit moved to the warm spot he had vacated. "Would you mind calling the mainland for me while I throw on some clothes? Tell Adam I'll be right down."

  "Sure. I'll fix your coffee to go," I offered.

  He smiled. "Thanks."

  I poured coffee into travel mugs for both Adam and John when I got back to the kitchen. "Who found her?" I asked.

  "I did," Adam said. "Ironically, I was loading up on bait when I spotted her."

  "If you hadn't seen the brick, I might have thought she had a heart attack from the smell. Where was she?"

  "She was on the rocky beach a few yards from the dock," he said. "If she hadn't been wearing a yellow jacket, I probably wouldn't have seen her. It's a good thing the tide didn't take her out."

  I handed Adam a mug, then reached for the phone and called the police on the mainland. It only took a minute to relay the information. As I hung up, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs; a moment later, Gwen appeared, her dark hair a tangled halo around her pale face. "What's going on?" she asked.

  "Someone did in Francine," Adam said, crossing the kitchen and giving her a hug. "I'm glad I made sure you got home safe last night. No more wandering around at night on your own, my love."

  "Did her in? How?"

  As Adam filled her in, John came down the stairs, dressed in jeans and a faded Cranberry Island Lobster Co-op T-shirt. He came over and kissed me, and I handed him his travel mug. "Thanks," he said, and turned to Adam. "Ready?"

  "Why don't you go with them, Aunt Nat?" Gwen offered. "I'll take care of breakfast; it's the least I can do.”

  "Are you sure?" I asked. "That would be great."

  "Positive," she told me.

  "Muffins are in the oven, I cut up a cantaloupe and put it in the fridge, and the recipes for everything else are over there," I told her. "I'll take my phone."

  "Mine's gone, but I can reach you from the landline if I need to," Gwen said.

  "Thanks," I told her, and transferred my own half-drunk coffee to a travel mug. "Nothing like a morning cruise to start the day off right, eh?"

  "Too bad Francine is the highlight of the tour," John said, grimacing. "Or what's left of her anyway. Did you get through to the mainland?" he asked me.

  "They're sending someone out this morning," I told him as he opened the door to the back porch for me.

  "Why don't you join Adam on the Carpe Diem, and I'll follow in my skiff?" John suggested.

  "Sounds good to me," I said. Adam leaped to the deck of the Carpe Diem and offered me a hand. Less than a minute later, we were motoring toward the lobster co-op... and what was left of Francine.

  I sipped my coffee as the lobster boat cut through the dark blue water. The boat made the buoys on either side bob as we passed, and the wake looked like pearls of foam. A breeze came from the direction of the island; I caught a whiff of beach roses and the kelp scent of low tide mixed with the cool, clean smell of salt water. The mist on the mainland was already thinner, and the sun had risen higher in the sky; it was going to be a beautiful Maine morning.

  But Francine wouldn't get to see it.

  Who had killed her, and why? I wondered as we rounded one of Cranberry Island's rocky points and the co-op came into view. She and Claudette had certainly had it out the day before; I found myself grateful no one had seen it but Charlene and me. And Pauline, now that I thought of it. And everyone at the yoga retreat had known she was going to file charges for assault, I realized with a sinking heart. Surely no one would think Claudette killed Francine because she threatened her goats. At least I hoped not.

  A few people were crowded on the beach not far from the co-op. There was a flash of yellow among the green-brown of the rocks and the black rubber boots of the lobstermen.

  Adam docked efficiently, with John not far behind him, and soon we joined the huddle of lobstermen surveying Francine's remains.

  "Looks like someone got fed up with the beautification committee," Gary Hall, one of the members of the co-op, remarked as John stooped and put a finger on where Francine's pulse would have been if her heart was still beating. There was a look of surprise mingled with outrage on her pale face, but something about the way her body lay on the beach, arms akimbo, made me think of a doll that had been flung aside. The water was lapping at her fingers, making her left hand bob up and down with the waves, and I turned away. I hadn't liked her, but it was upsetting to see this woman, who had been so full of energy and passion just the day before, with the life snuffed out of her.

  "Where'd they get a brick?" Gary asked.

  "It's got barnacles on it," Adam said. "Looks like it came out of one of the traps." Old bricks were often used to weight lobster traps on the island.

  "Or just washed ashore," Gary pointed out, indicating the few broken bricks scattered among the mussel shells and granite rocks on the beach.

  "The forensics folks will tell us more," John said, standing up. "We need to stay away until they're here, so we don't contaminate the crime scene."

  Gary took a puff of his cigarette; as he blew out a stream of smoke, ash drifted down to the body. Too late, I thought, grimacing.

  "What's this?" I asked, pointing to something red and shiny in Francine's right hand, which was half-hidden under her yellow jacket.

  Gary reached to grab it, but John warned him off. "Let's leave it for the investigators," he said. "Everyone into the co-op, please.” I squinted at it; it looked like a grill lighter to me. What would she be doing walking around with a grill lighter? I wondered.

  Reluctantly, they stepped away, Gary throwing down his cigarette butt and grinding it into the rocks with his boot. It was a good thing half of us had seen him do it, or it might have been considered evidence linking him to the scene, I thought, but I didn't say anything.

  As they traipsed up the beach toward the co-op, grumbling, I heard the sound of goats bleating. Muffin and Pudge had come loose from their tire again, it seemed; the two were standing in the grassy field above the co-op, watching us with interest.

  "What's that on Pudge's side?" John asked.

  "She's hurt," I said. "I'll be right back; I'm going to go check on her."

  "Be careful," John warned me.

  "She won't hurt me."

  "Maybe she won't hurt you, but she's a fan of jackets," he said. "She got the sleeve of my field jacket while I wasn't paying attention the other day."

  Pudge hobbled over to me as I cooed to her. There was a streak of blood on her flank; in fact, it looked like it had been sliced open. "Poor baby," I said. "I need to call your mom."

  As I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Claudette, I examined Muffin, who was a bit more reticent. I couldn't see any marks on her, but Claudette would want to take a closer look to be sure.

  Eli, Claudette's husband and the island's boatwright, answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

  "Hey, Eli... it's Nat. I'm down near the co-op."

  "I heard about what happened," he said. "Sounds like a nasty business."

  "How did you hear about it?" I asked.

  "On the wireless," he answered. "Anyway, what can I do for you?"

  "Muffin and Pudge appear to have gotten loose," I informed him. "Pudge is hurt; it looks like she cut herself."

  "Cut herself?" Eli asked in an ominous voice. "Or maybe that woman tried to do her in before she died."

  "I wouldn't bring that up if I were you," I suggested. "I'd like to keep Claudette out of the investigators' crosshairs."

  "Maybe you're right," he said. "Although after what happened down at the store yesterday, I'm guessing that'll be a bit of a hard sell."

  He had a point, but I still thought it was best not to throw more fuel on the fire. "Anyway," I told him, squinting at the long red gash on Pudge's flank, "she'll pro
bably want to come and collect them, and take care of Pudge. The cut doesn't look deep, but she's limping a bit, and I don't want it to get infected."

  "Claudie's down to Emmeline's this morning, but I'll give her a call and tell her to come collect them."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "How's the Little Marian holding up, by the way?"

  I smiled. Eli had made my skiff for me, and always inquired after it as if it were a favorite grandchild. "She's doing great," I said. And speaking of grandchildren, I hadn't heard anything about Claudette and Eli's clan, who usually came up to visit for a few weeks in the summer. "I've been meaning to ask: are the grandkids coming up to visit you at all this summer?"

  "They're heading up this week," he said with pride in his voice. "I'm hoping to take them out fishing, and maybe start on a skiff for them to use while they're here." Although Claudette's grandkids weren't Eli's biological grandchildren, it didn't make a whit of difference; he loved them fiercely, and from what I'd seen, they adored him in return. Who wouldn't, though? I would have loved to have Eli as a grandfather as a child. Heck; I still would.

  "Well, hopefully we'll get all this sorted out by then," I said, looking over my shoulder as the sound of a thrumming motor reached my ears. The police launch was on its way.

  "I hope so, too," he said. "I'll give Claudie a call; thanks for the heads-up."

  "Of course," I said, as Pudge gave me a hard nudge and then grabbed the hem of my jacket with her teeth. John was right about her love affair with jackets, it seemed... and I was relieved that the cut on her side didn't seem to be putting a crimp in her style.

  "And if you have any extra cookies," Eli said in a conspiratorial voice, "feel free to drop them by the store."

  I laughed; Eli had a serious sugar habit, but Claudette didn't allow the stuff in their house, so I kept him supplied at the store. "I'll probably make a batch in the next day or two; I'll drop some by the store and tell Charlene to save some for you."

  "Much obliged," Eli said. "And as always..."

  "I won't mention it to Claudette," I finished for him.

  * * *

  It was almost ten o'clock by the time I made it back to the inn. I'd waited with Muffin and Pudge until Claudette came to collect them; she'd been concerned about the slash in Pudge's side.

  "This looks intentional," she'd announced when she squatted down to examine the wound. "I'll bet it was that woman who did it."

  "Francine?" I asked. "She's dead."

  "I know that. But before she died. Maybe someone killed her because she was hurting my goats."

  "Maybe," I allowed. "But she and Muffin were out on the loose; she could have scraped her side on a fence or something."

  "It's an awfully clean cut," she pointed out, standing up and smoothing her tunic out over her long, broomstick skirt. Her hair was up in a white, braided bun, and her jaw was set and angry. Claudette was a good woman, but she wasn't someone I ever wanted to cross. "Good thing the mobile vet is due this week. I'm going to have to put some antibiotic on it in the meantime."

  "Do goats wear cones of shame?" I asked.

  "If she leaves it alone, she won't have to," Claudette cooed to Pudge. "Who's a good girl? Did you break free from your tire again?"

  "How did they get loose,anyway?" I asked.

  She sighed. "I never know."

  "Well, they're not wearing collars at the moment," I pointed out. "Is it possible someone set them free?"

  "Why would they do that?" Claudette asked, perplexed. "I'd love to let them run free, but people are way too uptight about their gardens."

  If not wanting my window boxes mowed down to stubs and my rosebushes defoliated made me "way too uptight," I was okay with that label, but I just shrugged. "Well, let's just get them home and not talk too much about what happened, okay?"

  She blinked at me. "Why?" Then her eyes drifted down to the group of investigators down at the co-op. "You don't think someone might think I did her in, do you?"

  "Well, you were pretty handy with the soy milk and potatoes yesterday," I said.

  "The potatoes were all Francine. Besides, nobody saw that. Except you, John, and Charlene anyway."

  "And Pauline," I reminded her.

  Claudette grimaced. "So everyone on the island knows by now."

  "Maybe. At any rate, just keep a low profile, okay?"

  "You don't think they'll arrest me, do you?" she asked, paling. "I've got the grandkids coming to town. What will they think if their grandma's in the hoosegow?"

  I put a hand on her solid arm. "I'm sure it won't come to that. Just... let's take proper precautions, okay?"

  "Like not jumping for joy that Francine Hodges is gone?"

  I patted her arm. "That would be a good start."

  * * *

  John had stayed on at the investigation scene, so I walked back, hoping the exercise and clean air would dispel some of the dark cloud that had settled over me since Francine had been found. Gwen had just finished washing up the dishes when I walked into the kitchen.

  "What's going on?" she asked as I refilled my coffee mug and reached into the cookie jar, only to discover we were out of cookies.

  "We’re trying to figure out who bashed Francine over the head with a brick," I said. "Right next to the co-op."

  Gwen winced as she slid the last plate into the dishwasher. "Ouch. Any idea who it was?"

  "I know lots of people who won't exactly be crying into their coffee over her loss," I replied as I added a dollop of sugar to my own coffee mug and reached for my recipe binder, "but I have no idea who did the deed."

  As I flipped through my binder to the recipe for lemon cookies—one of Eli's favorites—my mother-in-law Catherine waltzed into the kitchen, looking (as usual) like she was ready for a society tea.

  "Good morning, darlings!" she said, giving Gwen a kiss on the top of her head. Gwen's eyes widened, and she looked at me. I gave her a slight shrug.

  "You're in a good mood this morning," I remarked.

  "It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I have a dinner date on a yacht... what could be better?"

  "Murray's taking you out?"

  She reached up and fingered her pearls. "Actually," she demurred, "it's with someone else."

  I blinked. "You're going on a date with someone other than Murray Selfridge?"

  She let out a light, tinkling laugh. "Did I say date? I meant dinner."

  "Sounds like a date to me," I replied.

  Gwen turned on the dishwasher and leaned against the counter. "So, does Murray know about this?"

  Catherine shrugged. "I didn't mention it, no. Besides, Murray and I are... well, taking a break. Anyway, it's just a friendly outing."

  I grabbed a bag of lemons from the fridge drawer and reached for the flour. What I was about to make was nowhere near gluten- or sugar-free, but I liked the recipe so much, I was happy I wouldn't have to share. Except with Eli. And Gwen. And John. And Catherine. And probably Adam, come to think of it.

  Maybe a double batch would be in order. "So, who is this mystery man?" I asked as I popped a pound of butter in the microwave to soften and preheated the oven.

  "Oh, just a gentleman I met in Northeast Harbor a few weeks ago," Catherine said, blushing.

  "What's this gentleman's name?"

  Before she could answer, there was a knock on the kitchen door. It was Murray, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

  5

  Catherine looked as if she'd been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. It was quite possibly the first time I'd ever seen her nonplussed.

  "Don't say anything!" she hissed as Gwen opened the door.

  "Here you are!" Murray thrust the bouquet of beach roses and delphiniums toward her. "I knocked at the carriage house, but you weren't there." Catherine had moved into the carriage house John had lived in when I arrived on the island. It worked well overall, although to be honest, we could probably use a bit more space. I had kind of been hoping things with Murray would move on towar
d something more permanent so we could reclaim the little house, but it wasn't looking too hopeful at the moment.

  "How did you get here?" I asked, peering past him; there was no sign of his Jaguar in the driveway.

  "I sailed," he said. "There's a picnic lunch on board, with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, if I can tempt you, my dear.”

  Catherine blinked and took the bouquet from Murray, twisting her pearls so tightly I was afraid the strand would break.

  "I'd love to," she said, glancing at me, "but I really should help Natalie out today. I've been useless the last few days, and I know the inn is full."

  Murray drooped visibly. "Are you sure?"

  "How about tomorrow?" she suggested.

  "Catherine, I forgot... I need to show you something in one of the rooms; I really need your opinion." I looked at Murray. "Hold on for a minute... we'll be back."

  Catherine followed me out of the kitchen into the dining room. "What's going on?" she asked.

  I shepherded her to the front desk, where we were out of earshot. "You're welcome to go with Murray today, you know," I said. "We've got it covered... you can take over tomorrow."

  "That's kind of you," she said, "but... I'm not sure I want to."

  "Just offering," I said.

  "I understand. Now. Was there something you wanted to show me?"

  "Not really," I admitted. "I just wanted to talk without Murray in the room."

  "Now," she said, "I'll start with the downstairs rooms."

  "Don't you want to wear something more... casual?" I asked, eyeing her slacks and cashmere sweater.

  "This is casual," she said, looking down. "Although perhaps I should throw on an apron, just in case."

  "Good idea," I said.

  "Tell Murray I can't make it," she said.

  "And the flowers?" I asked. Catherine was still clutching them in her hand.

  She thrust them at me. "Could you put them in a vase for me?" she asked, retreating toward the hallway. "I need to get working."

  "The cleaning supplies are in the room off the kitchen," I pointed out. That was the opposite direction from the one in which she was heading.