Claws for Alarm

by Karen MacInerney

  "Good for you," I said, thinking that if Rainy did have to leave, at least it would keep Ravi off my sofa.

  * * *

  Willow rejoined me in the dining room as Blue was interrogating me about the amount of lemon zest in the cookies. "They're so tart... like lemon bars. Can I have the recipe?"

  "Of course," I said, catching sight of Willow's curly head from the corner of my eye. She nodded, and I excused myself. "I'll print it up tonight," I told Blue.

  "Thanks," she said, smiling. She wasn't at the table with Kellie and Barbara Sue, I noticed; the other two Texans were by the window, both on their phones. I wasn't sure how they were managing to get service—it was spotty—and hoped if they were, they weren't posting bad Yelp reviews.

  As everyone chatted and sipped their tea, Willow grabbed a glass and tapped it with a spoon. At the sound, the room quieted.

  "I have an unfortunate announcement to make," she began.

  "What? Did Rainy assault someone else?" Kellie asked in a self-satisfied drawl. Her hair, I noticed, had been returned to its previous coiffed perfection, and she appeared to have reapplied her lipstick. Maybe that's what she had been doing with the phone: using it as a mirror.

  "No," Willow said. "I haven't spoken with her yet, but I will. The news I have is that there's been a homicide on the island."

  There was a collective intake of breath. James, for the first time, showed a flash of emotion: surprise? Concern? Not for the dead woman, I was sure, but for himself. And then the questions started tumbling out.

  "Where?"

  "Who?"

  * * *

  "Are we in danger?"

  "It wasn't anyone associated with the retreat," Willow answered over the din of questions. "The victim was a local. The police are investigating, and they haven't indicated that there's any threat here at the inn." They hadn't indicated otherwise either, but I kept my mouth shut.

  "Who was it?" Blue asked, looking more animated than I'd seen her the whole retreat.

  "Francine Hodges," I answered. "The woman who stopped by here briefly last night."

  "How did she die?" James asked.

  "I'm not at liberty to say," I told him, even though everyone on the island would know the details by sundown, if they didn't already.

  "Well, how are we supposed to know what to look out for if we don't know how she died?" Kellie asked.

  "My advice is to find a buddy if you go anywhere away from the inn," Willow advised.

  "What if our 'buddy' is the killer?" Sebastian asked, wringing his hands.

  His partner, Gage, rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Seb. We've been together for five years. If I was going to kill you, don't you think I would have done it by now?"

  Sebastian blushed, and a few people chuckled, breaking the tension.

  "Anyway," Willow continued, "I'm sure it had nothing to do with anyone here. We can just be a little more cautious, and doubtless the police will have the perpetrator in custody soon. If you have any questions, Natalie here can help you," she said, handing the hot potato off to me, and sat down.

  I would have spent the next hour saying "I don't know" if John hadn't rescued me by poking his head through the swinging door. "Nat," he said in a voice that filled me with dread.

  "I'm coming," I said, and excused myself to the kitchen.

  7

  "What is it?" I asked when the kitchen door had swung shut behind me.

  "They're asking a lot of questions about Claudette," he said. "They know she was a suspect a few years ago; they're wondering if maybe she really is a killer. And of course Pauline told them about the food fight."

  "Of course," I said. As I spoke, the phone rang. John reached for it; we both expected it to be the detective, but I recognized Charlene's voice.

  "It's for you," he said, and handed me the phone.

  She launched right into things. "You heard about Francine, I presume."

  "Adam swung by this morning," I told her. "John and I went out to the scene."

  "I heard someone smashed in her head with a brick," Charlene said. "Who would do something like that?"

  "That's what I was hoping you could tell me," I replied, leaning against the wall. "Who was angry at her?"

  "The whole lobster co-op, for starters. And Claudette, of course."

  "I know. Pauline told the police all about the little dustup in the store, apparently. And someone or something hurt Pudge last night."

  "Uh-oh," Charlene said, echoing my thoughts.

  "So we need to figure out who else would have it in for her."

  "I'll see what I can find out," she said. "Have they arrested her?"

  "Not that I know of."

  She sighed. "Maybe Alex will be able to help me out."

  "What time is he getting in?" I asked. At least someone's romance was firing on all cylinders.

  "I'm going to go meet him at the mail boat in just a few minutes," she said. "I know it's ridiculous, with everything that's happened, but all I can think of is what I should wear!"

  "I think you'd look good in a burlap sack," I advised her.

  "You're sweet," she told me. "Any more news?"

  "Oh, lots of drama at the yoga retreat, but nothing related to Francine," I told her. "Any word on how Gus is taking things, by the way? I thought I'd drop by with some cookies later," I added, glancing at what was left of the lemon cookies I'd made. It might be time to make another batch.

  "You mean dropping by for some interrogation, I'm guessing."

  "Sympathy and gentle questions," I corrected her. "You know how good the police force is at arresting the wrong person. If anyone would know who she was feuding with, you'd think it would be her husband." As I spoke, I grabbed a Tupperware container from a drawer and started filling it with cookies.

  "Well, let me know what you find out."

  "Likewise," I told her. "And I'd love to have you and Alex over for coffee or dinner or something, once you're done catching up."

  "We'll see," she said, a smile in her voice. "I may not want to share."

  I grinned. "Ah, young love. Give me a call later, okay? I think I'm going to slip over to the Hodges' house."

  I had just hung up the phone when Catherine walked in.

  "Did you hear the news?" I asked.

  "What news?"

  "Someone killed Francine Hodges next to the co-op last night or early this morning," I informed her.

  "Francine? That woman who just moved into the big house and was trying to turn the island into Disneyland?" she asked with disdain.

  Her description reminded me of Murray Selfridge, but I didn't mention that. The bloom seemed to be off the rose in that relationship anyway; maybe she'd see him with clearer eyes now. And maybe, I thought darkly, without the mitigating influence of Catherine, he'd start trying to take over the island again.

  Nothing I could do about it today, though. I fitted the lid on the Tupperware. "I'm going to go take Gus Hodges some cookies," I told her. "If you could help John out with lunch and take care of the rooms, I would be eternally grateful. I'm happy to take care of dinner, though."

  "I'm on it," she said, giving me a curious look. "But why are you in such a hurry to visit the bereaved husband?"

  "I'm afraid the police may think Claudette did the deed. I'd rather see if we can come up with a few other options."

  "You mean suspects?"

  I nodded.

  "I'll see what I can find out, too," she said. "Be careful. There's a murderer on this island somewhere."

  "Thanks for reminding me," I said with a half-hearted smile, and headed for the door.

  * * *

  I hadn't been to the Hodges' house since they moved in, but I was familiar with the sprawling farmhouse-style building on the far side of the island. Whereas before it had been a bit overgrown with beach roses and tall grass, now the yard was neatly trimmed, and the beach roses had been replaced by a line of red roses and hydrangeas that lined the front of the freshly painted house. The formerly shi
ngled roof was now galvanized metal, and a line of turquoise rocking chairs lined the white-trimmed porch. The whole spread was pretty, but felt sanitized.

  Sonorous bells chimed somewhere inside as I pressed the doorbell. I was about to press it a second time when there was movement through the wavy glass of the sidelights. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Gus Hodges stood there, looking bewildered.

  He blinked. "Can I help you?"

  "I heard about Francine," I told him. "I'm so, so sorry."

  He blinked again. "Thank you," he murmured.

  I proffered the Tupperware container. "I brought you some cookies. We can arrange dinners for a few weeks, while you're... adjusting."

  He didn't take the cookies, but just stood there looking at me with mild brown eyes. Then, as if waking from a trance, he shook himself. "I'm sorry. It's just... it's been a lot. Please, come in."

  I followed him into the house, which carried on the Coastal Living look from the outside. The interior was done in bleached wood floors and white walls, with a stunning view of the Gulf of Maine from the windows that stretched along the back of the house. A carefully curated selection of beach-related artwork—none as good as Gwen's, I was happy to note—graced the walls. The only bit of color in the room was from a blue and gray throw cushion on one of the white couches.

  "Can I get you a cup of coffee?" he asked, leading me through the sterile decorator living room to the equally stark kitchen.

  "Sure," I said as I levered myself onto one of the metal stools lined up next to the concrete kitchen island. The place was beautiful, but not comfortable. From the huge, unadorned windows to the featureless expanses of empty concrete countertop to the dearth of soft furnishings, the house felt a bit like a stage set, or a surgical theater. "Would you like me to put a few cookies on a plate?" I asked as he filled the coffeemaker—a Keurig—with water.

  "Sure," he said, waving to a bank of stark white cabinets. "They're in there somewhere."

  I opened a few cabinets until I found a stack of predictably white plates, and took one out. As I arranged the frosted cookies on the plate, I asked, "Do you and Francine have any children, or family, nearby?"

  He shook his head. "It's just... or, was just, the two of us." A spasm of something like pain crossed his face. "We never could have children. It was always a sore spot for her."

  "I'm sorry," I said again. "You hadn't been on the island for very long. And for this to happen..."

  He pushed the button on the coffeemaker, and brown liquid spurted into a cup. "Well, it's not a total surprise, is it? She had a knack for riling things up."

  "Oh, really? How so?"

  He sighed. "Lots of ways, but do you want an example?

  Where we used to live, she got a bee in her bonnet about paint colors in the neighborhood, and it... well, it kind of got out of hand."

  I wasn't sure how an argument about paint colors could "get out of hand," but I was curious. "What happened?"

  "It's a long story," he told me, handing me a coffee cup, "but one of the neighbors ended up painting her house dark purple."

  "Purple?"

  "And covered the garage door with yellow smiley faces.” A ghost of a smile passed over his face. "I thought Francine was going to have a heart attack."

  "What did she do?"

  He shrugged. "There was nothing she could do. The HOA didn't specify paint colors, so..."

  "That must have driven her crazy," I said. "Is that why you moved to Maine?"

  "We didn't move," he pointed out as he made himself a cup of coffee. "We just acquired another mortgage. Do you take cream and sugar?"

  "Both," I told him. "Thanks."

  I doctored my coffee—it wasn't fabulous, but I hadn't come for the coffee—and reached for a cookie. "Would you like one?" I offered.

  He waved it away. "I haven't been able to eat," he told me. "I don't know... maybe it's shock."

  He did look haggard. Haunted, almost.

  I added a spoonful of sugar to my coffee, along with a dollop of cream. "It must have been a terrible blow."

  "It was," he said. "Francine always did make enemies fast, but I just... on an island like this, I wouldn't have expected anyone to do something so horrible." He looked around the kitchen. "She was so proud of how this place turned out... put so much time and thought into it. And she barely got to enjoy it." He paused and took a few deep breaths, trying to master his emotions.

  "Did she feud with anyone in particular?" I asked when he'd gotten himself back together.

  His eyes drifted to the mail sorter by the phone. "We did receive a few threatening notes. But I didn't think much of it."

  "Threatening notes?" I asked.

  "I'll show you," he said. As I munched on my cookie, he retrieved three postcards from a square basket by the phone and handed them to me.

  Whoever had sent them favored Sharpies and block handwriting. The first card had been sent two weeks ago, according to the postmark, and was fairly straightforward: GO HOME.

  "Nice, eh? Wait till you see the next one."

  WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE. GO HOME OR ELSE.

  "Friendly," I said drily.

  "Not as friendly as the last one."

  I drew in my breath as I read the last postcard: THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. LEAVE OR DIE.

  8

  "Wow," I said. "When did you get this one?"

  "It came two days ago," he said. "Someone spray-painted the back of the house last night, too."

  "Any idea who?"

  "Not a clue," he said.

  I squinted at the postmark. All the cards had been sent in the last week, and the postmark said it had been sent from Bar Harbor, not Cranberry Island. I could understand why:; Charlene took in all the mail, so she'd know in a heartbeat who the sender was.

  "The first one was sent seven days ago," I said, flipping through the cards. "Did anything happen that might have sparked this?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing in particular. You know how she was, though," he said with a grimace.

  "I know she wasn't a fan of the co-op," I said. "Who else was she having trouble with?"

  "The woman with the goats," Gus said. "She found them munching on the roses down the lane, and read her the riot act last week. And then there was the head of the lobster co-op, of course."

  "Tom Lockhart?"

  "That's the one. He laughed when she suggested they move the co-op; she was angry at him for days."

  "Where did she want to move it?"

  "Oh, out near the lighthouse. She wanted the main pier to be for tourism, and the 'dirty work' to be done far away from everything."

  "She wanted to move the dock to where the rocks are?"

  "Her thinking was that it would be downwind of the rest of the island."

  "Of course," I said. Forget logic. It was all about the aesthetics. "What did he say to her proposal?"

  Gus sighed. "He told her you can't have a functioning dock without a harbor, and that if she was interested in the Coastal Living experience, she should have bought real estate in Kennebunkport."

  He had a point. "I'll bet that went over well."

  "It didn't." He sighed. "I loved Francine, but once she got an idea in her head, she was like a terrier with a bone."

  I reached for another cookie. "She came by the inn last night. Did she say anything about that?"

  He shook his head. "Not a word. Of course, I didn't see much of her last night. I took an Ambien at around nine and was down for the count until this morning."

  "Was she home at all last night?"

  "She was. She was fluffing the cushions in the living room when I went to bed. And when I woke up, she was gone."

  "Did she come to bed?"

  He shook his head. "When I woke up, her side of the bed was untouched. That's when I started to worry. I called her, but she didn't answer."

  "I'm sorry to keep asking questions like this... but had she called you, or left any messages? Maybe left a note to let you know wh
ere she was?"

  "No," he said. "Like I told the police, I fell asleep, and then I woke up... and she was gone. No sign of her." He took a ragged breath. "And now I'll never see her again."

  "I'm so sorry." He looked lost. "How long were you married?"

  "Forty years." His eyes misted over, and it looked like he was replaying an old film in his head. "I know she was... difficult sometimes. But her heart was in the right place, and she was all I had, you know?"

  I reached out to squeeze his shoulder; he didn't shrug me off.

  "With her gone, I don't know if I'm coming or going. She used to leave me lists of things to do. This morning, I woke up, and the list wasn't there." He reached for a Kleenex and blew his nose loudly. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "It's okay," I said in a soothing voice. "When did you find out?"

  "Just a few hours ago," he told me. "I knew something was wrong when I woke up late: seven thirty. I always make her breakfast in the morning. She wakes me up at six, and while she goes on patrol, I cook her oatmeal."

  "Patrol?"

  "Making sure there's no litter on the road," he clarified. "Anyway, I went out looking for her, but I didn't find her. Now I know why." He shuddered. "A brick. So uncivilized... and messy. She would have hated that."

  I tried to blot out the image of Francine's dead body on the rocks next to the co-op. I took another sip of coffee, but it didn't help. "When you saw her last night, did she seem upset about anything?" I asked.

  Gus bit his lip. "You know, now that you mention it, she was. She said something about the goats."

  My heart sank. "What about them?"

  "That if they even looked at her rosebushes, she'd be eating roast goat for Sunday dinner." His eyes widened. "You don't think the goat woman was the one who... who did that to her, do you?"

  "No," I said quickly, looking down at the postcards. Claudette might be capable of many things, but I couldn't imagine her smashing out anyone's brains with a brick. "I'd say whoever wrote these postcards is more likely. Did you tell the police about them?"