Claws for Alarm

by Karen MacInerney

  "Well, she doesn't think that anymore," I pointed out. "Sounds like she made a lot of folks mad."

  "That's the truth," he said.

  "Anyone angry enough to hit her over the head with a brick?" I asked bluntly.

  He looked away and shrugged, then took a swig of coffee. "I don't know nothin' about what happened to her."

  Which I sensed wasn't entirely true. I could feel that the conversation had caught Tom and Adam's attention, too; they had grown still and quiet.

  I sat down on one of the rickety chairs a few yards from Gary. "What do you think she was doing down here at the co-op?"

  "Probably tryin' to burn the place down," he suggested. "I heard she had a lighter on her. And a knife for goin' after Claudette's poor goats."

  So much for crime scene secrets, I thought. "Wouldn't you think you'd want more than a lighter if you were trying to burn a place down?"

  Gary looked around. "This place is half-soaked in kerosene and fish oil. I don't think you'd need much to send it up in smoke."

  "But why would you want to?" I asked. "I mean, wasn't she planning on building a new pier out by the lighthouse? I thought the point was to leave this one for the lobstermen. No point in burning it down."

  "Actually, Gary has a point. She thought it was ugly," Tom added. "She wanted us to rebuild it."

  "You really think she came down here to do arson?" I asked.

  Tom shrugged. "I think she'd do just about anything to impose her vision on Cranberry Island."

  "Was anyone down here the night she died?" I asked.

  "I was, actually," Tom said.

  "What? When?"

  "I was down here until around one," he said. "I installed some new software the other day, and I was trying to get it to work."

  "Did you hear or see anything?"

  "I did, now that you mention it," he said. "Muffin and Pudge were nearby, as you know, in the field just up from the dock. They started bleating at around midnight. After a few minutes, I went to check on them, but I didn't see anything wrong. I didn't look too closely, though... it was dark.” He grimaced. "If that's when someone attacked them, there's a good chance they were gone by the time I stepped outside; I didn't go out for a few minutes."

  "So when you left the co-op, you went out this door, right?"

  "It's the only door," he pointed out.

  "And Francine was on the other side of the co-op. So if she was already there, you wouldn't have seen her."

  "True," he said.

  "She couldn't have been there at midnight," Adam said. "High tide was at eleven that night. From what I saw, her body wasn't far below the high-tide line. If it had been earlier, she would likely have been washed out to sea."

  "Which leads to an interesting question: Why leave her there for everyone to find? Why not just push the body out to sea?"

  Adam's eyebrows rose. "Whoever it was must have wanted her to be discovered."

  "But why?" I asked.

  "Because there was something about her that would incriminate someone other than the murderer," Adam said.

  "That's what I think, too." I turned to Gary. "Are you sure you don't know anything about what happened to Francine that night?"

  "Well," he said, his eyes shifting, "I might have seen something."

  "What?"

  He looked a bit pink. "There’s been a few folks from the mainland moving into our territory," he said. "I was out patrolling, looking to see if any of their traps might have migrated to the wrong place. I saw a light bobbing not too far from the co-op."

  "I wondered whose boat that was," Tom said, fixing him with a keen look. "That was around the time I heard the goats. Are you sure you were just... patrolling?"

  "Of course," Gary said, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. "Just lookin', that's all." We all knew that "looking" worked better in daylight; I was guessing he was cutting an interloper's gear, but I wasn't going to say anything. The last thing I needed to do was get involved in the lobstermen's version of a turf war. If there was something to be dealt with, I knew Tom would take care of it.

  "Where was the light coming from?" I asked, pulling Gary back to the subject at hand.

  "Down the hill," he said. "From your end of the island, actually."

  One of my guests? I wondered. There were a few houses on my end, but the bulk of the population lived on the other side of the island.

  "It stopped off by the goats," he continued, "and then bounced back a ways up the hill before it disappeared."

  "Disappeared? Like, into the trees or behind a building?"

  "Naw," he said, shaking his head. "I think whoever it was just flipped the light off. It looked to me like whoever it was was in the middle of the field."

  "Why would you turn your light off in the middle of the field?" Tom asked.

  "You'd do it if you were waiting for someone," I suggested. "And if you didn't want them to see you."

  "Are you thinking someone arranged to meet Francine by the co-op?" Adam asked.

  "It's a theory," I said, and turned back to Gary. "You're sure you didn't see anyone else?"

  "That's all I saw," he said. "Think I might have seen a murderer?"

  "It's a possibility," I said, thinking it might be time to stop off to see Gus Hodges again. "Sure you didn't see anything else?"

  "I'm sure," he said, and Tom echoed him.

  "Well, if you think of anything else, please let someone know. Claudette is going to need all the help she can get."

  * * *

  My next stop was the Hodges' house. I took the long way from the co-op, although I confess the beautiful day was somewhat wasted on me. Although the blueberry bushes were festooned in pale little bell-shaped flowers and the green, verdant moss beneath the trees looked like fairy carpet, my thoughts kept returning to Francine Hodges.

  Whoever killed her had either panicked and fled the scene or had left her there intentionally because they wanted her found. My instinct leaned toward the second explanation.

  She'd definitely been found with some potentially incriminating evidence. First, there was the knife, which pointed to a run-in with Muffin and Pudge. Now that I thought about it, though, it didn't seem like the kind of knife someone like Francine Hodges would have. It was a utility knife, not a high-end kitchen knife. Where would she find something like that? And why would she be out and about on the island with a knife? It was possible she wanted to attack the goats, but was she carrying it for self-defense? Considering the notes she'd recently received, that idea had merit. But if you were under threat, why go wandering around the island in the middle of the night?

  And second, the lighter. Again, why walk around with a lighter? A flashlight seemed like a better bet if you were trying to see where you were going. The night had been overcast, so there had been little moonlight to rely on. Was she really trying to burn down the co-op?

  Or had whoever killed her planted both things to throw the cops off the scent?

  As I ruminated over the evidence, the lighthouse came into view. The tall white spire had been erected long ago to warn sailors off the point... and the sharp rocks buried under the water's choppy surface. Not exactly a natural location for a harbor, although I knew the plan was to put the main pier a bit away from the lighthouse to avoid the worst of the rocks. It was a pretty piece of property, with a lovely view of Sutton Island, which sheltered it somewhat from the Gulf of Maine, and a long, green tongue of Mount Desert Island in the distance. A few eider ducks bobbed on the waves, and the green swath of the meadow was studded with pink and purple lupines, most of which I was sure would be decimated if Murray and Francine's plans were put into place. Although the lighthouse looked like an ivory pillar from a distance, I knew that up close the paint was peeling, and the windows had been boarded up for some time.

  The plans to renovate the place had never quite come to fruition; some said it was because of the ghost who resided there, but I personally thought it was because most islanders really didn't want a
nother tourist attraction drawing summer people. Although it would be good for my business, I respected the islanders' desire to keep some of their culture intact. Oddly, even those who didn't care much for summer people were glad they had a place to direct lost outsiders to. Before I started the inn, from time to time day trippers would miss the last boat and go from door-to-door, knocking to ask for a place to stay. These days, I got a few such guests every summer; I think the rest of the locals were happy to have someone to take wayward visitors off their hands.

  As I stared at the lonely lighthouse, perched on craggy granite and surrounded by wild but beautiful land, I knew Francine and Murray's vision had no place here. I turned away, heading down the road toward the Hodges' house, wondering if someone else with the same ideas had decided to take things into his or her own hands.

  And if Murray Selfridge might not want to watch his back.

  * * *

  Catherine was only halfway through cleaning rooms when I got back to the inn a little after noon.

  "How's it going?" I asked as she emerged from one of the downstairs rooms looking a little mussed.

  "Someone took some kind of oil bath in there," she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "It smells like an opium den, and it’s hard to clean up."

  "What does an opium den smell like?"

  "I don't know, but I'm guessing it's something like that!" she replied, pointing back toward the bathroom. All I could smell was bleach, but I decided to trust her. "It's taken me almost an hour to get it cleared up; I'm running behind."

  "Whose room is it, anyway?"

  "Sequoia's," she said. "She's a big fan of patchouli, it seems."

  "Why don't I do a few of the rooms?" I offered.

  "Would you?" she asked. "That would be a big help. I'm supposed to go out with Murray tonight."

  "Oh?"

  "To talk," she said.

  "Well, that sounds like progress."

  "We'll see," she said darkly.

  I decided not to pry, and we spent a few minutes divvying up the rooms. I headed back to the laundry room to grab some cleaning supplies and then tackled the first of the rooms.

  First up was Kellie's; although her two cohorts were sharing a room, the queen of the threesome had claimed one of the biggest rooms at the inn.

  Although Kellie always looked impeccably groomed, her room did not; it was a jumble of brightly colored yoga clothes, which were draped over every possible surface, high-end makeup, and a variety of scientific-sounding lotions and potions. I made the bed, trying not to disturb too much of the clothing, and did a quick clear-up of the bathroom, keeping my eye out for anything that might possibly be linked to Rainy... or to Francine.

  I didn't run across anything interesting in Kellie's room, or in the adjacent one, which was occupied by Blue and Barbara Sue. Next was James's room, which, to my not-very-great surprise, looked practically unoccupied... at least until you stepped into the bathroom. The bed was already made, with knife-edge corners, the dresser and night-table surfaces were clear of anything personal, and the only indication that someone had been there was a faint whiff of woodsy aftershave. With one exception, I noticed as I walked through the room: There was one photo of James beside a beautiful young woman with dark, gleaming hair and a wide smile that reminded me a little of Julia Roberts. Whoever she was, she certainly wasn't Willow. Had he been seeing the yoga instructor on false pretenses? Had he led her on? And if so, why... and why come to the retreat when you'd called it off with the retreat leader? Practicality was one thing, but common decency suggested backing out would be the right thing to do. Knowing James, however, I was guessing practicality was the primary driver.

  In contrast to the barren room, the bathroom counter was lined with bottles of supplements... There were at least fifteen in all, and I wondered how he managed to choke them down without throwing up. It was a fairly disappointing room all in all, at least from an investigatory standpoint, and I found myself curious about what I'd find in Willow's, which was—unfortunately for her—the next room down.

  Like James's room, Willow's was neat, but unlike his, it wasn't completely spartan. The bed was made—which I was thankful for—but the night table held a water glass and two books on relationship troubles: Getting Over Mr. Wrong and Finding True Love. A spiral-bound notebook lay open on the desk by the window. Feeling mildly guilty, I glanced at the page. "I hate him. I hate him. I really do. I can't believe I let myself believe he was interested in me, when the whole time, he was only interested in her. Should I say something? I just don't know... it's ancient history. And I just can't believe he could be involved..."

  The writing trailed off, and I blinked. She'd known he was interested in someone else. The woman in the picture on his night table? Someone else at the retreat? I tried to think of what I'd seen of James. If he was here to hit on someone else at the retreat, he'd been doing a very quiet job of it. Of the women from Florida, there was Sequoia, Virginia, and Rainy. Rainy. She'd been knocked out after her run-in with Ravi. Had James maybe come to try to convince Rainy to be with him instead? Had she refused, and he'd responded with violence?

  It was a possibility; after all, someone had returned to the inn, according to Willow. If James was responsible for what happened to Rainy, that still didn't explain the brick embedded in Francine's head. Or was Willow jealous of Rainy? Had she decided to do her in herself?

  Romance could be an absolute nightmare, I thought to myself as I dusted the desk and straightened the pair of sneakers she'd left next to the bathroom. I'd gotten lucky with John, and Gwen had found a good man in Adam. I just wished I could find a way for Charlene to connect with someone wonderful. I wasn't too worried about Catherine; she seemed to be able to hold her own, to say the least.

  I finished tidying the room and stepped out into the hallway, almost knocking Willow over.

  "Oh," she said. "I wasn't expecting to see you."

  "Room tidying," I said, brandishing my bucket of cleaning supplies. "How are things going with the retreat?"

  "As well as can be expected," she said. "At least the weather's cooperating; it's beautiful out there. We did hatha yoga right by the water; water's supposed to be very healing."

  "I find it to be," I agreed.

  "Any word on Rainy?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing yet, but I haven't called recently, either."

  "I should go do that," she said. "I'm worried about her."

  I glanced down the hallway and dropped my voice. "How are you doing with James today?"

  Her eyes darted to the desk behind me, widening when they spotted the open notebook. "I'm getting over it," she said. "Sometimes it's just not a good match, you know? The right guy will come along. Anyway, I'd better go freshen up; we've got an hour break before the next session, and I need to recharge. See you at dinner!"

  She smiled and darted past me into the room, closing the door behind her and leaving me in deep thought. Willow wasn't over James, not by a long shot. The question was, who was James really interested in? And what did it have to do with what had happened to Rainy?

  * * *

  I'd just put away the cleaning supplies and pulled my recipe binder off the bookshelf when John walked into the kitchen, looking grim.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "Rainy's still unconscious," he said. "And they took Claudette into custody."

  I set down the binder. "What? Why?"

  "The argument in the store. The lack of an alibi.” He sat down and let out a long gust of air, as if he were deflating. "And the goats."

  "I talked with Gary Hall at the co-op today," I said. "He was out...er, checking traps... and saw someone with a flashlight walk down to the meadow by the co-op in the middle of the night... before one, I think he said. Whoever it was came from our side of the island."

  "That doesn't help matters," he replied. "Claudette lives on our side of the island. And the goats were in that meadow, which gave her a good reason to go down there." He c
ocked an eyebrow. "Checking traps at one in the morning? That wouldn't have anything to do with fishing territories, would it?"

  "I know," I said. "Tom's got it, I presume. At any rate, we've got to find out what happened. I think it may be linked with the retreat, and if they all go home before we solve it..."

  "We may never know what happened, and Claudette may spend the rest of her days in prison," John finished for me.

  "Exactly," I said, staring at the binder. "I can't believe my friend's in jail and I'm worrying about dinner."

  "You're not just worrying about dinner. If I know you, you've been out trying to solve this mystery all day, and now you're taking care of what needs to be done. Have you picked up the grocery order at the store yet?"

  "Not yet. I don't think it had made it to the island when I was down there earlier."

  "Why don't you go pick up the order and see if Charlene's picked up any gossip? In the meantime, I have to make a delivery to Island Artists. I'll ask around, see if anyone down there knows anything."

  "That sounds like a good plan. And one more thing—" I said.

  "What?"

  I told him about the photo I'd seen in James's room... and the open journal in Willow's.

  "You're sure it was open when you got to the room?"

  "Yes," I said, rolling my eyes at him.

  "You can't say you're not prone to snooping."

  "I know, I know," I said. "But you have to admit, it's been helpful in the past."

  He didn't respond.

  "Anyway," I said, "I just looked at the page it was open to. I didn't touch anything."

  "Who do you think she was talking about?" he asked.

  "James, I imagine," I said. "The thing is, who was he so interested in? I haven't seen signs of interest in anything other than the calorie count of various menu items, honestly."

  "I wonder what she meant by ancient history?"

  "Was it someone he'd seen in the past, maybe?" I asked. "But the photo in his room doesn't resemble anyone at the retreat."