Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Found out the kid had been borrowing the boat on the sly.” Fred’s mouth turned up in a slight smile. “I heard Adam threatened to kill him if he caught him at it again.”

  I groaned. “When was this?”

  “Last week,” he said. “I always said that young man would get into trouble. He’s not from here. Got his head filled with all kinds of rubbish at that fancy Ivy League school of his.”

  “Adam’s a fine young man,” I said sharply.

  Fred grunted. “That’ll be for the cops to decide, I expect.”

  “Don’t you have some lobster to catch?” Charlene asked tartly.

  “Why go chasing mermaids when I can sit here and be served coffee by one?” he said in that so-not-seductive growl.

  “Fred, I need some time alone with my friend,” Charlene said, rather bluntly. “Why don’t you go do some fishing?”

  He gave her a pleading look, but she held firm, and a moment later he swaggered to the door. “Let me know if you want me to take you out this weekend, darlin’. I know how to show a woman a good time.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said shortly, still giving him a hard look. “Bye.”

  When the door shut behind him with a jangle, Charlene brushed a bit of confectioners’ sugar from her chin and shook herself. “I can’t stand that man,” she said.

  “I can see why,” I agreed. “Is what he said about Adam true?”

  She shrugged. “I heard Adam fired him, but I didn’t hear about the death threat.”

  “What about the missing dinghy?” John asked.

  “Even if it is missing, that doesn’t mean anything. Anyone could have taken it.”

  “Without the key?” John asked.

  “Who said there was a key in it?” Charlene pointed out. “Besides, all anyone needed to do is untie it, not run it, and every person on this island knows how to untie a knot.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I said, feeling dread coil in my stomach. “How well did you know Derek?”

  “Enough to know he wasn’t good boyfriend material—although Tania didn’t believe me.” My friend frowned, her lipsticked lips making a pink upside-down crescent. “I hate that he died, but I don’t think he was a good influence on her.”

  “Why?” John asked when he’d polished off his lemon bar. Already the container was half-empty; apparently the recipe was a winner. I reached for one myself. The sweet-tart flavor of the lemon curd mixed with the buttery shortbread crust was divine; I could see why the bars were disappearing so fast.

  My friend licked a stray bit of powdered sugar off her index finger before answering. “She was always waiting for him to call, and he wasn’t very good about showing up on time. I heard he wasn’t a particularly good sternman, either. Showing up late, lazy on the job. I never heard anything about him taking out Adam’s boat, though.”

  John leaned forward on his stool. “Did you talk with him at all?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see him around the store much; he just waited outside for Tania. He never wanted to come inside.”

  Never a good sign, I thought, wondering why he didn’t want to talk to Charlene. Was it because he was shy, or because he had something to hide?

  “Did he have any friends on the island that you know of?” John asked.

  “He was friendly with Ingrid Sorenson’s son Evan,” she said.

  “That’s not necessarily a vote of confidence,” John said. The select-woman’s son had had drug problems a few years back, and had been in and out of rehab several times.

  “That’s not fair,” I said to John. “I know he’s been in and out of trouble in the past, but he’s been clean for a couple of years, now.”

  “True,” John admitted. “Anyone else he was close to?”

  “As far as I know, he just worked with Adam. And Tania liked him, of course.”

  As our eyes strayed to the closed door in the back of the store, the bell over the front door jingled, and we all jumped.

  It was Matilda Jenkins, the town historian. “Goodness,” she said, adjusting her glasses. Her cropped white hair looked slightly wild, as usual. “You all look as if you’d just seen a ghost!”

  “It’s been a long day,” I told her. “Have a lemon bar.”

  “Ooh, don’t mind if I do.” As she crossed to the counter and inspected the few remaining bars, she said, “I heard about the police launch, and I came here figuring Charlene could fill me in. What’s going on?”

  Charlene gave a weary sigh. “Adam’s sternman died. Natalie found him drifting in a dinghy.”

  “The young man Tania was seeing? That’s terrible.” She shuddered. “Boats can be so dangerous. Did he fall and hit his head? Or get tangled in a line?”

  I shivered at the thought. “We don’t know.” The detective had told me not to share details of what I’d found—not that I had much to share, anyway—so I didn’t mention the blood.

  “Another mystery.” Matilda adjusted the strap of her cloth bag and selected a powdered-sugar-covered square. “So much death. It’s especially bad when they’re young. I didn’t know him except in passing, but still …” She took a bite of the lemon bar. “These are delicious, Nat.”

  “Thanks.”

  She turned to my friend. “How recent is the coffee, Charlene?”

  “Just made it twenty minutes ago,” Charlene said. “Want a cup?”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, pulling up a stool at the bar. “I still can’t get over that young man. What do the police say?”

  “They’re not saying anything, at least not yet.” I thought of the bullet hole in Derek’s chest and suppressed a shudder. “But it looks like homicide.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I found the body.”

  Matilda reached over and squeezed my hand. “You poor, poor dear. Are the detectives working on the case already?”

  Charlene nodded toward the closed door in the back of the store. “Detective Johnson is talking with Tania now, in the back room.”

  “Oh, that’s so awful. I hope they’re wrong and decide it was an accident. I don’t want to have to worry about a murderer running around the island. Although it seems to be a perennial problem.” She bit her lip. “Any word from Agnes and Beryl on the crucifix?”

  “Nothing yet,” I told her, “but I don’t expect them back until later.”

  “I wish I could have gone with them,” she said, “but I had to staff the museum. I would love to get into that old rectory.”

  “Any luck convincing Murray to let you in?”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately not, but I’m dying to get in there. There could be some indication as to what happened to the poor man. The police decided the bones were too old to pursue, but that doesn’t mean we can’t figure out what happened!”

  “I like your spirit,” I said with a smile.

  “Thanks. I can’t wait to hear back from Beryl and Agnes.”

  “I’m sure they’ll let you know as soon as they hear anything,” I said. The two had become fast friends with the island’s historian since arriving at the island. Old bones seemed to be a great way to bring people together, as it turned out.

  “If it was the priest,” Matilda said, pursing her lips, “and he didn’t die of natural causes, it’s a real puzzle.”

  “Being buried out of the graveyard kind of indicates foul play,” Charlene pointed out. “Kind of hard to dig a hole, throw yourself in, and cover yourself up if you’re dead.”

  “But why on earth would anyone want to kill a priest?” Matilda’s brow furrowed.

  I shrugged and darted a glance at Charlene. It had happened before on the island, I knew. Another of Charlene’s ill-fated romances.

  “Stranger things have happened,” Charlene said lightly, and busied herself pouring Matilda a cup of coffee.

  The historian shook herself as if to rid her mind of the thought, and turned to my fiancé. �
�Enough about tragedies,” she said. “Too many of them on this island, it seems. How are things with your mother, John?” she asked.

  Speaking of tragedies, I thought. I glanced at John, wondering how he would react.

  “She and Murray seem to be hitting it off surprisingly well,” he said stiffly.

  “I know. She’s been working with him on his family’s genealogy; we’ve been going through the Selfridge papers.” Matilda grinned at John. “They think one of his relatives might have been involved in rum running; he frequently went to Canada. Even married a young woman up there.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “The Selfridges like their profits.”

  Matilda poured two packets of sugar into her coffee and stirred it. “Many islanders have family who got involved in the business during Prohibition. There was lots of that going on off the coast of Maine; ships would come down from Canada and sit three miles out from shore, just outside U.S. territorial waters. It was a good way to make money from something other than fishing.” She took a sip of the hot brew before continuing. “William McCoy was one of the most famous rum runners. He brought liquor down from Canada, and he was often off the coast here. Ever heard the phrase ‘The Real McCoy’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Some people say it’s a reference to his liquor; he only smuggled good stuff, not moonshine.”

  “Why was Cranberry Island involved?” I asked.

  “That’s what Smuggler’s Cove was all about.” Her eyes gleamed, and she chuckled. “It was a great place to stash things. Hard to get to, off the mainland, and only accessible by water. Cranberry Island supplied a lot of those grand summer cottages on Mount Desert in those days.”

  She was referring to the huge mansions on the mainland that had been built by the industrial barons, I knew. Many of them had burned in the fire of 1947, but a few of the sprawling “cottages” still stood.

  I was about to ask her more about rum running when the door to the back room opened, and Tania emerged with a pale, tear-streaked face.

  “Poor sweetheart,” Matilda said as Charlene put an arm around her and escorted her to one of the couches in the front of the store. Detective Johnson thanked her quietly, then headed for the door of the store with us in his wake.

  four

  Our first stop was Derek’s aunt and uncle’s house, which was not far from the cranberry bog from which the island had gotten its name.

  “Do you want us to come with you?” John asked the detective as we pulled up outside the gray-shingled house on Kitchen Lane. Red geraniums bloomed from white-painted window boxes, and marigolds and petunias mixed with beans and tomato plants in a small garden plot in the side yard.

  “Do you know them well?” the detective asked as John set the parking brake.

  “Not really, I’m afraid.” I knew Jeff Abingdon worked on the mail boat sometimes, but we’d never really talked, and I’d never met his wife. The couple didn’t mingle much. One of them, however, was obviously a gifted gardener. A few beautiful rose bushes bloomed a gorgeous crimson on the side of the house.

  “Why don’t you just stay here, then,” Detective Johnson said. “I probably won’t be too long. I may have to stay until victim services arrives if they’re too upset; if so, I’ll let you know.”

  John reached for my hand as we watched him mount the steps to the front door. A burly man answered the door, and his face turned grim as the detective shared the news. A moment later, the detective was inside the house, and the front door was shutting behind them.

  “That’s got to be the worst part of the job,” I told John.

  “I imagine so,” he said. “I’m glad it’s not down to me.”

  “Nice little house, though,” I said as we sat and waited for the detective to finish. “One of them is quite a gardener. Do you know if Derek was staying here?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I know almost nothing about the young man, unfortunately.”

  I studied the clean windowpanes and the small but swept front porch. “It looks bright and cheerful, but you never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

  John gave me a look. “You thinking they may be suspects?”

  “I don’t know enough to say, but don’t the police look at family first?”

  He nodded, and both of us stared at the little house, wondering what was going on inside—and if the grim-faced man at the door might have been responsible for his nephew’s death.

  It was twenty minutes before Detective Johnson emerged, looking solemn. The bright sun and cheerful flowers seemed too gay, somehow, considering the tragic news he’d had to deliver.

  “No victim services?” John asked as he reclaimed his seat in the van.

  “I gave them a card in case they need it, but I doubt they’ll call. The wife was quite upset; she left the room almost immediately. She looked pretty shaken up to me, but her husband seemed to think she’ll be all right.”

  “Any potential leads?” John asked.

  “It doesn’t look like it,” he said. “He wasn’t staying with them, either. Which reminds me, I have a quick call to make.” Detective Johnson picked up his cell phone and called his team, directing them to a small house not far from the pier where Derek had apparently bunked while he was on the island. If his aunt and uncle were close with him, I thought as John steered the van toward the co-op, it didn’t extend to opening their home to their nephew. After a moment, the officer put away his phone and asked about Adam.

  “He’s been dating my niece for two years,” I told the detective as the van bumped down the narrow road toward the town pier. The gardens in front of the small, clapboard houses were filled with the purples of tall delphiniums and bright pink roses, with the occasional burst of yellow from Black-Eyed Susans. A line of tomato plants bore little yellow blossoms. The arrival of the farm, I thought to myself, had inspired the vegetable gardener in more than one islander—and revealed a few green thumbs.

  We passed by the school, a two-story building painted bright blue, with a small playground in front of it, on the way to the co-op. Two elementary-aged girls swung lazily on the swings, heads bent in toward one another as they chatted. The new teacher in town had brought a fresh jolt of excitement to the school; she and her lobsterman partner had moved to the island only six months before. I hoped she was able to fight Murray’s bid to close it down successfully. Much of what kept the island vital was the young families who lived here and raised their children—and without the school, many of them would be forced to leave. In the shadow of a lilac bush beside the building, I noticed a trio of teens slouching against the wall. I caught the eye of the tallest, and the three seemed to dissolve into the bushes.

  “Thrackton is his last name, right?” Detective Johnson asked as he wrote the name down, drawing me back to more immediate concerns. “Tell me more about him.”

  I turned away from the school and focused on the road—and the detective’s question. “He graduated from Princeton, then decided he’d rather be a lobsterman than a banker. I think he visited here once and fell in love with the place.”

  The detective let out a low whistle. “Heck of a lot of money for a useless degree.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, “but he seems happy with his decision.”

  “You said he was almost like family. Has he said anything about Derek to you?”

  I shook my head. “I knew he’d taken on a new sternman, but we haven’t talked much; he’s been out on the boat almost every day. And with Gwen in California for a few months, he hasn’t been by the inn as much.”

  “I understand things weren’t going very well between them,” the detective suggested.

  I kept my voice cool, despite the tightness I felt in my throat. “Adam and Gwen?”

  “No.” I glanced back at him, and he shook his head. “The victim and Adam.”

  A little kernel of ice formed in my stomach, and I looked over at John, who was behind the wheel. His face was impassive, but I could te
ll by the tension in his jaw that he was concerned. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “A few people have mentioned it.” He leaned back in his seat and looked out the window. “It may not mean anything—it’s just worth exploring.”

  We drove the rest of the short way in silence, pulling up outside the low-slung building that functioned as the Lobster Co-op. The islanders brought their catch here, and the co-op sold it to restaurants and wholesalers across the country. Tom Lockhart, the tall, affable man who was in charge of the operation, was stepping out the door as we pulled up outside.

  “Tom!” I hailed him as I opened the van door and stepped out.

  “Natalie.” He gave me a subdued wave, and I could tell by his face he’d heard the news.

  “Is Adam here?” I asked.

  He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Inside,” he said as the policeman slid the van door open and stepped out onto the cracked pavement. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “Detective Johnson,” the policeman said, stepping forward and proffering a meaty hand.

  “Is this about Derek Morton?” Tom asked.

  “You knew the young man?”

  Tom nodded. “Not well—he hadn’t been on the island long—but it’s a tragedy all the same.”

  “Who told you?” the policeman said.

  “Got a phone call from a friend in Ellsworth who knows his mom. Word travels fast around here.”

  Detective Johnson whipped out his notebook. “What was your name again, sir?”

  Tom told him.

  “How long had Derek Morton been working with Adam?”

  “A month or two, I think. He was working for Zeke Forester, too, on the side.”

  The policeman jotted something down. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s a farmer from the mainland. Just moved to the island a few months ago, and started a farm.”

  “How was the relationship between him and Derek?”

  Tom shrugged. “I have no idea. Have to ask Zeke, I’m afraid.”

  The New York cop scribbled that down. “Was there anything unusual about Derek? Did he seem worried about anything—or afraid?”