Claws for Alarm

by Karen MacInerney

  "What kind of tension?"

  "Well, Sebastian and Gage have been arguing a bit," he said. "And that woman Blue doesn't seem too happy with Kellie and her clone." He took another sip of tea. "I heard Blue scolding Kellie for making trouble yesterday."

  "I get the feeling trouble is Kellie’s specialty," I said. "What about Barbara Sue?"

  "She just kind of falls in line with Kellie, from what I can see. She's been making eyes at James, though... both of them have. I think Barbara Sue actually likes him; Kellie just wants to conquer every man she meets."

  "I've known people like that," I told him. "Male and female."

  "I can't believe I fell for it."

  I turned my cup around. "Do you really love Rainy?"

  "I do," he said. "I wasn't sure, but now that she's hurt... it makes me realize how much she means to me."

  "Maybe you should tell her," I suggested.

  "She'd better recover," he said, and tears filled his eyes. "Do you know what the prognosis is?"

  "Why don't you go visit her?" I said. "Maybe hearing your voice will help her come to, somehow.

  "Maybe," he said glumly. "Or maybe I’ll make things worse."

  I looked at him with pity. I wasn’t sure which way it would go either.

  13

  Charlene was studying the classifieds in the Portland newspaper when I pulled up a stool at the counter the next morning. Gwen had taken care of breakfast that morning, giving me a chance to head over to the store.

  "You're here early," she said.

  "I needed a break from the yoga crowd," I told her. My friend hadn't done her makeup, and her caramel-streaked hair was pulled back in a scrunchy; the dark circles under her eyes told me she hadn't slept well. "What’s up with Alex?"

  "He’s barely here, as usual," she said. "I thought he was coming to visit me, but evidently the lobstermen are more intriguing."

  "Still thinking of leaving town?" I asked.

  "Considering it," she said. "None of the jobs are blowing me away, though. I don't want to be a deli clerk, and I don't think I'd make a particularly good dental hygienist."

  "Plus, I doubt that's a train-on-the-job kind of thing."

  She sighed and looked up from the page of job listings. "I'm so disappointed with Alex. I really thought we had something good together. Another pipe dream, I guess." She looked away and touched her eyes with the tips of her fingers, wiping away a bit of extra moisture, then straightened up. "I'm not going to mope, though; I'm a woman of action. If I don't want to be single for the rest of my life, I'm going to have to take things into my own hands."

  "I agree with you," I said, "but moving to Portland seems like a bit of a big step. Are you still against dating locally? Bangor isn't that far away, and it's more of a metropolis."

  "How am I going to meet anyone in Bangor if I'm here on Cranberry Island?"

  "Maybe it's time to join the twenty-first century and get online," I said. "I'll take pictures, help you write the profile... whatever you need."

  "I guess," she said noncommittally. "I've heard some horror stories about people ghosting you."

  "That can happen no matter how you meet someone," I pointed out.

  She pulled her mouth to the side; I knew we were both thinking of Alex. "True," she admitted.

  "And in the meantime," I added, "you can help me figure out who hit Francine over the head with a brick so Claudette doesn't end up spending her golden years behind bars."

  "They're still thinking she did it?"

  "They haven't come up with any good alternatives," I said. John had told me that morning that the detectives were coming back to the island to ask Claudette and Eli more questions... and possibly take her into custody.

  "I know she wasn't responsible for what happened to Francine," Charlene said.

  "Me too. But I don't know who is."

  As I spoke, the front-door bells jingled, and Ingrid Sorenson walked in.

  I hadn't seen her in a few weeks; although she looked fit and tanned, with more makeup than I was used to seeing and a pair of sparkly earrings that brought out the color in her light eyes, the firm set of her mouth told me she was troubled.

  "Oh," she said, spotting us. "I was hoping I'd run into you."

  "Me?" I asked. "Why?"

  "I wanted to talk to you about the whole thing with Francine. I know everyone's thinking Claudette did it, but I'm sure she didn't."

  "Why is that?"

  "I've known Claudette for years. She was furious with Francine, but there's no way she would have hurt her. Besides," she said, "I heard the goats were nearby, and wounded."

  "That's right," I said. "Claudette never would have left Muffin and Pudge with untended wounds. And why leave the goats there, near the scene of the crime?"

  "Exactly," Ingrid said. "Who would leave something that was so obviously a clue? Unless you were trying to frame someone else, that is."

  "So it was probably an islander, unfortunately," Charlene said. "No one else would have known about the goat feud."

  "Wait a moment," I said. "That's not true. When Francine came to the inn to say she wanted to press charges, everyone there heard her talk about the goats."

  "But why would anyone at the retreat want to do in Francine?" Charlene asked. "I mean, she was pretty much a boil on the island, but they could all go home without worrying about their neighborhoods being destroyed." She tapped the paper thoughtfully. "Speaking of neighborhoods, I hear Murray and Francine had some kind of scheme cooked up."

  "They did," I said. "That's part of why Murray and Catherine are on the outs."

  "I heard she was out with one of the summer people from Northeast Harbor," Ingrid said. "Did she and Murray break up, then?"

  "No," I replied. "At least not that I know of."

  "Dating has got to be a challenge on an island as small as this," Ingrid commented.

  Charlene rolled her eyes. "No kidding. Why do you think I'm looking at the Portland want ads?"

  Ingrid blinked at her. "You can't be thinking of leaving! What would we do without you?"

  "I'm sure you'd find someone to take over," Charlene said, although there was a sad look on her face as her eyes swept the cozy little store. The front, which was filled with squashy sofas and a beaten-up coffee table I was sure Francine had hated, was the island's "living room," where locals washed up regularly to share a cup of tea or coffee and the latest gossip. And, if I was on top of things, a few treats from the Gray Whale Inn, which I had been remiss in providing this week.

  "So, the reason you're considering leaving is that you don't have a man. Is that right?"

  Charlene shifted on her stool. "It sounds really bad when you put it like that."

  Ingrid leaned forward. "I've been married for almost forty years." She glanced over her shoulder before continuing in a lower voice. "Trust me. It's not exactly Cinderella and Prince Charming living happily ever after. I mean, sure, I love my husband, but..." She trailed off and took a big breath. "All I'm saying is, some days a cottage of my own on the other side of the island—or maybe another island altogether—sounds like it might not be such a bad deal.” She straightened up. "Still, though, I understand the desire."

  "So I should just give up on finding a partner altogether?" Charlene asked, crossing her arms.

  "No," she said. "Of course not! It's just... be careful what you give up. That's all."

  Charlene looked unconvinced. In fact, she looked angry. I couldn't entirely blame her.

  "Oh," Ingrid said, her eyebrows rising.

  "What?" Charlene asked a little sourly. "Have the name of a local convent you'd like to suggest?"

  Before Ingrid could answer, the bell jingled again, and Eli walked in, his normally jaunty stride slow. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the last week.

  I left Charlene and Ingrid and hurried over to greet him. "Are you okay?" I asked as he sank into the nearest couch.

  "Haven't slept a wink," he volunteered. "Claudette's in a tizzy
, police are comin' round to ask more questions, and I haven't the faintest idea who decided Francine Hodges would look better with a brick in her head."

  As he spoke, the bells tinkled again, and Marge O'Leary walked in. Marge had helped me out at the inn a few years back, before Catherine had come to stay and before I'd married John. She'd transitioned to working for several summer people and year-rounders who needed and could afford household help.

  She'd trimmed down since her violent ex went to jail; I'd heard the divorce had come through a year or two ago. Now, her graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail from her ruddy face, and there was a spring in her step that hadn't been there when we met.

  "How you holdin' up?" she asked Eli when she spotted him on the couch.

  "Not too well, if I'm honest," he replied. "I'm supposed to be working on Gary’s boat, but I just don't have the heart for it today."

  "It'll come," I said soothingly.

  "He needs the boat for work," Eli said. "I'm going to have to get after it this afternoon for sure."

  "I knew those Hodges were trouble as soon as they set foot on the island," Marge said. "That woman thought she was royalty, her poor husband runnin' around behind her, tryin' to clean up her messes."

  "You work for the Hodges, don't you?" I remembered someone mentioning she'd taken the job after Francine had fired two other housekeepers.

  "I must be a masochist, but yes. At least the money's good. And with Francine off the premises, things are a whole lot easier."

  "Can I buy you both a cup of coffee?" I asked.

  Marge glanced at her watch. "I've got a few minutes," she said. "You could twist my arm."

  "Sit right here," I said. "Cream and sugar?"

  "Both," they both said.

  "But not a word to Claudette!" Eli added as I walked up to the counter.

  "Go ahead," Charlene said, and I poured coffee for them and returned to the couches; Charlene knew I'd settle up later.

  "What did you think of the Hodges?" I asked as I handed Marge a cup of coffee.

  "She was a piece of work," Marge said.

  "I heard someone vandalized the house not long before she died," I said. "Did she have any theories as to who that might be?"

  "The list was long, I can tell you that," she said, taking a sip of her coffee and glancing at Eli. "Your sweet wife, of course, although I know she wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "Tell the detectives that," Eli said glumly.

  "I will if they ask," she promised.

  "Who else?" I asked.

  "Half the lobster co-op," she said. "The lobster pound, Berta Simmons, and the rest of the merchants on the pier were none too pleased with her harebrained idea to put a pier on the rockiest part of the island." Berta sold sea glass mobiles and jewelry and had been scouring the island for materials for years. "But here's the thing..." She leaned forward. "Just two days before she met her maker, she got another card. She said to her husband it was just like in Florida."

  "What did she mean by that?"

  "I don't know," she said, "but her hubby, he said, 'That's why we left. We left all that behind.'" She glanced around. "And then he said, 'You'd better be careful you don't create the same situation here.' Well, she didn't like that, whatever that meant. Didn't talk to him for more than a day, from what I could see."

  "What did she leave behind?" I asked.

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Marge said. "It sounds like she wasn't too popular back at home, either. Maybe that's why she moved to an island as far away as possible."

  "Sounds like she's no stranger to threats," I said.

  "Small wonder," Ingrid said, walking up behind us. "She was a human bulldozer. If she didn't like your ideas, she'd do everything she could to roll right over you."

  "That's right; she was going to run against you on the board of selectmen, wasn't she?" I asked.

  "She'd never have won, but that was what she was planning to do, yes. And she managed to trump Catherine and get Murray to go along with her new idea. She bought that land out by the lighthouse for next to nothing."

  "Who sold it to her?" I asked.

  "There was an off-island family who bought the point from a lobstering family several years ago, planning to build. They ended up in Somesville instead; they didn't like having to take the mail boat, evidently. She tracked them down and offered them cash, and they took it." Ingrid grimaced. "And then she had her eye on the lighthouse, too."

  "Doesn't the town own that?"

  "They don't own the lighthouse, no, but with Francine on the board of selectmen and some cash for the renovation and the lobster co-op, I'm guessing she thought she could strong-arm her plans through. Murray owned the land next to the point; they were working on a deal together."

  "But wasn't the lighthouse put there because of the dangerous rocks?" I asked. "Hardly the place for a pier."

  "They were going to dredge it, and build it up into a harbor of sorts," Ingrid said. "I'm not sure what the plan was. Or if it's dead in the water, so to speak, with Francine's passing.” She grimaced.

  "I certainly hope it is," I said. "So we've got lots of extra suspects now. The merchants, the co-op... although if Francine was going to give them money, would they have wanted her out of the way?"

  "She was planning on changing the way this island has run for centuries. And remember, she was planning on moving the co-op to the other side of the island... and she was constantly complaining about the smell of bait and trap storage. I think she thought she could buy everyone out."

  "She was wrong," I said. "The question is, who decided on a permanent solution?" I turned to Marge. "I hate to ask this, but do you think her husband might have gotten tired of her after forty years?"

  Ingrid shuffled from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable as she took a sip of coffee.

  "My gut says no, but you never can tell, can you?" Marge offered. "I put up with a lot, the Lord knows," she added, referencing her murderous husband. "But I'm not sure I could put up with forty years of Francine Hodges."

  "One more question," I said. "She came to the inn the night she died. Did you see her at all after that?"

  Marge shook her head. "I came to work the next day, but Mr. Hodges told me to go home."

  "What time was that?"

  "Nine o'clock," she told me.

  "Did he often do that?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "Not that I can recall. She called all the shots around the place."

  "Did he say why, or look upset?"

  "He looked... rattled, I guess you could say. He said someone had spray-painted the house the night before. He didn't want to disturb any evidence before the police could look at it. He didn't say a thing about his wife not coming home, though."

  "He told me it had been spray-painted, too," I said. "And he showed me the threats. But he didn't seem to take them seriously... even though his wife had been killed."

  "That does seem odd," Charlene said. She had joined me on the couch while we were talking. "But grief does funny things."

  "Do you think he is grieving?" I asked.

  "You don't live with someone for forty years and not grieve, I think," Ingrid said. "You share a life—even if it's a twisted life. When the other half isn't there anymore, I imagine it's a shock."

  Marge nodded. "When Eddie went to jail, at first I was relieved. Excited, almost. But there was a time there when it felt empty. I didn't know who I was when I wasn't married to Eddie, awful as he was."

  "You make marriage sound amazing," Charlene said, rolling her eyes.

  "I think it all depends on the marriage," Ingrid said. "But the most important thing here is finding out what really happened to Francine Hodges, before someone we care about gets blamed for the crime."

  Charlene sighed. "It's a shame really. In some ways, whoever did it performed a public service."

  "Truth will out," Marge said in a stertorous voice that made us all look up in surprise.

  What was the truth? I wondered. There wa
s more here than met the eye, that much I knew.

  But how was I going to find out what it was?

  14

  On the way home, I decided to take a detour and swing by the co-op. I knocked before walking into the small space, which always felt like a living history museum to me in some ways, despite the computer setup at one end of it, where Tom Lockhart managed the co-op's business. Although it was lined with small windows, the building still felt dark inside, with unfinished, smoke-stained board walls and a weathered wooden floor. The woodstove in the corner was cold because it was summer, and the whole place smelled like a slightly revolting yet comforting blend of kerosene, herring, spilled beer, burned coffee, and less-than-fresh laundry.

  The place was fairly quiet because almost everyone was out on their boats. Adam and Tom were staring at a screen full of figures on the computer. The only other person in the co-op was a heavyset lobsterman in bright yellow rubber boots, who was sitting in a dark corner moodily sipping a cup of very murky-looking coffee.

  "Hi, Natalie. What's up?" Adam asked, turning from the computer. "Need a few more lobsters?"

  "Not today, thanks," I said. "Just thought I'd stop by to say hi."

  "And nose around into what happened to that Francine woman," added the lobsterman from the corner.

  "Well, maybe some of that, too," I confessed, trying not to blush. "Do you have any ideas?"

  "Could be anyone," said the lobsterman. It was Gary; he’d been there when Francine was found. It must be his boat Eli was working on... or not working on, as the case might be. "Nobody wanted her here."

  "She was kind of a bull in a china shop."

  "Summer people," the man scoffed.

  "I heard she was more of a year-round person," I said.

  "Cancer on the island," he said shortly. "What islander has a problem with traps stacked outside? It's a working island, not some hoity-toity resort."

  "So she went after you, did she?"

  "Ayuh," he replied with a sharp nod. "Left notes on the traps. Scolded me in the street. We was here for hundreds of years before she and her kind ever set foot on this island. Now, just because she can afford a fancy house, she thinks the rest of us ought to change how we've been living."