Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “It didn’t pass all the way through his skull, so they buried him with it still in his head.” She grimaced. “He was a country priest. Who could have wanted him dead?”

  “Maybe there were other things going on in his life,” I suggested, thinking of a murder that had happened on the island a few years back. “Even priests have private lives. Maybe Matilda can shed some light on what might have happened.”

  “Oh, that’s right … we were going to call her!”

  “Tell her she’s welcome to join us,” I said. “I’ve got enough to add a plate.”

  Beryl stood up, smoothing out her cotton dress. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Of course,” I said, pointing her to the desk in the front hall.

  As Beryl hurried off, Agnes poured herself a glass of wine and sat back in her wing chair. “Speaking of death or possible murders,” she said in a low voice, “I heard there was a bit of excitement here this morning, too.”

  “How did you know?”

  “George McLeod told us you found a body in a dinghy.” She shivered.

  “It’s true, unfortunately,” I told her.

  “How terrifying,” Agnes breathed, but her eyes were gleaming with interest. “Was he murdered?”

  “We’re still waiting to hear the official word,” I replied, “but from what I saw, I can’t think what else it would have been.”

  “Was the victim local?”

  “He lived here with his aunt and uncle for a bit, but he came from Ellsworth. He was dating a young woman I know, though.”

  “You wouldn’t think something like that would happen on an island like this,” Agnes said, taking a sip of her wine.

  “It is surprising,” I agreed. “But it does happen.”

  Beryl walked back in and told us Matilda was on her way. When she arrived a few minutes later, Agnes wasted no time filling her in on what she had missed, and the plump woman’s eyes grew round. “Do you think we’re safe?” she asked, pushing a salt-and-pepper curl behind one ear.

  “I think we’ll be just fine. Besides, you should be safer here than anywhere else on the island; my fiancé is a deputy.”

  “That handsome man with the green eyes?” Beryl asked.

  I nodded, feeling a surge of pride. “He’s really good looking,” Agnes said, taking another sip of wine. “Are there more like him around here?”

  “If there were, my friend Charlene would call first dibs,” I joked.

  “Is she the pretty woman who runs the store?”

  “That’s the one.” I grinned. “She’s been on the hunt for eligible bachelors for years. She’s not a fan of the smell of herring, though, so her local options are limited.”

  “I’m sure she’ll find her Prince Charming someday.” Agnes reached for another cracker and cut off a wedge of cheese. “She’s too cute not to!”

  “And you’re engaged,” Beryl said. “How did you two meet?”

  “John was my tenant, actually,” I said, smiling. I told her how he’d been renting the carriage house when I bought the inn, and that the relationship had developed as we’d gotten to know each other. It hadn’t been without hiccups, but I was excited to be sharing my life with such a wonderful man. “When are you getting married?” Beryl asked.

  “In September,” I told her. “We booked a resort on the beach in Florida, and they’re taking care of everything. I sent in the rest of the deposit a few weeks ago; I should probably call and confirm that they got it.”

  “How romantic.” Beryl gazed out at the water beyond the parlor window. “A beachside wedding.”

  “It sounds lovely … but I’m still curious about this body you found,” Agnes said, pulling the conversation back to poor Derek. “I heard he was in a boat. Was he just lying there? Had he hit his head or something?”

  “I did find him in a dinghy, but I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it,” I said, glancing up at the clock. “I’d better get back in the kitchen and get dinner going. There are wine glasses in the buffet in the dining room if you need another for Matilda.”

  “Thanks, Natalie,” Agnes said. “Keep me posted on the case; it might be excellent source material for my book!”

  “Will do,” I said, and escaped to the kitchen before she could pepper me with unanswerable questions.

  The kitchen smelled deliciously of steaming pudding, and I inhaled the comforting scent as I cleaned new potatoes for the pot and whipped up a quick vinaigrette for the salad. The fish was already in little packets; I arranged them on a tray, then checked the timer on the pudding; it only had a few minutes to go. I’d make the foamy sauce at the last minute, I decided; it didn’t keep very well, so it was best to wait.

  When I’d finished washing the lettuce leaves and slicing up radishes and tomatoes, my mind turned away from the gruesome discovery of this morning to the more pleasant topic of the wedding. It was going to be small; Charlene was coming, as were Gwen and my sister, along with John’s mother and a few folks from the island. We’d wanted to keep it simple, but part of me wished we were having it here on the island so that everyone in our lives could attend. John had wanted to go away to minimize the workload on me. When I’d talked about keeping it on the island, he’d hugged me and explained his reasoning. “You’ll want to cater everything, you’ll be cleaning the guest rooms, worried about making breakfast … I want you to get away from everything and take a break!” I appreciated the thought, but felt a tug of wistfulness. I pulled out the computer and sent a quick e-mail to the resort, just to make sure they’d gotten the deposit check, then busied myself putting the rest of dinner together.

  _____

  “It’s hard to believe it was only this morning you were picking blueberries, isn’t it?” John asked as he put the last dish into the dishwasher later that evening. Matilda had stayed for dinner, and the trout and the steamed pudding had been a big hit. Even Catherine had had a second helping of the pudding, despite her aversion to carbohydrates in any form other than a celery stick. The melding of the blueberries with the moist pudding, topped off with the butterscotch flavored sauce, was irresistible. The fish had been popular, too: flaky and flavorful.

  “I know,” I said. “Any word on Derek’s death?”

  “Nothing yet,” he replied, “but I’m worried.”

  I glanced up from the cup of tea I was nursing at our big pine farm table. If I hadn’t put the pudding in the fridge, I’d be on my fourth slice about now; the moist, berry-studded crumb covered in rich, buttery foamy sauce was absolutely addictive. “What are you worried about?”

  “Adam.”

  I felt a frisson of worry. “Uh oh. Is Detective Johnson taking that threat he made seriously?”

  “I get the impression he’s the main person of interest.” John tossed a dishwasher tab into the soap holder and closed the dishwasher, then grabbed a Thunder Hole Ale from the refrigerator and joined me at the table.

  “Did he say anything about his interview with Derek’s aunt and uncle?”

  “Jeff and Elizabeth Abingdon?” He shook his head. “Johnson doesn’t seem to think they’re involved.”

  “But surely they know something!”

  “He doesn’t think so.” John took a swig of his beer. “Apparently there was a falling out. Derek thought he was entitled to Jeff Abingdon’s lobster license, and threatened to take him to court over it.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a motive for murder?”

  “You’d think so, but he dropped the suit six months ago. They haven’t spoken since, and apparently Johnson doesn’t think a lobster license is worth murdering someone for.”

  “Clearly he hasn’t spent too much time on the coast of Maine,” I snorted. “Didn’t Derek live with the Abingdons for a few years?”

  “He stayed with them for about a year,” John said, “but that was a few years back, and they haven’t been close.”

  “Did they find anything at his house?”

>   “Not that I’ve heard,” he said.

  “He said it was down by the pier, but it doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “It’s kind of hidden back in a clump of trees. There’s no driveway; you have to walk through the brambles to get to it.”

  I pictured the raspberry patch not far from the pier; it was next to a meadow that in spring was covered with lupines, and in summer frequently hosted Claudette’s goats, Muffin and Pudge, who traveled the island chained to an old tire so that, in theory, they wouldn’t stray into people’s gardens. There had always been what I took to be a shack hidden back in the woods. “You mean the small building with the peeling paint that’s next to the meadow?”

  John nodded and took another swallow of his beer. “That’s the one,” he confirmed.

  “I’d like to take a look at the place myself,” I mused.

  My fiancé cocked a sandy eyebrow. “The police have already been through it,” he said.

  “I know, I know. I just feel like I have nothing to go on.”

  He grinned. “I didn’t know the department hired you to take the case.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m worried about Adam, that’s all.”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I realize you’re probably going to ignore me, but I’d rather you hang back and let the detectives handle it.” He gave me a crooked grin. “We’re supposed to be getting married in a few months, after all. Hate to lose the deposit.”

  I kicked him under the table, and he laughed.

  “Honeymoon’s over already?” I asked.

  “It hasn’t begun yet,” he said in a growly tone that made my insides do a little flip. Maybe Florida wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “On a more serious note,” he continued, still holding my hand, “I have to say, Detective Johnson seems a bit surprised that things here aren’t as quiet as he’d expected.”

  “Really? What else is going on?”

  “The department is trying to crack a drug ring they think is working the coast,” he said, “from here to Canada. They’re working in tandem with the Coast Guard, but so far they’re coming up empty.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “Marijuana, mostly. Some heroin.”

  I took another sip of my tea. “Isn’t there a bill in the legislature right now to legalize marijuana?”

  “They’re talking about it,” John said, “but it’s still illegal, unless you’re growing it for medical purposes. There’s still a booming business for recreational pot.”

  “I’m not a fan of the stuff myself, but I wish they’d just go ahead and legalize it,” I said. “Tax the heck out of it and spend the money on education and Medicare, rather than spending oodles of money trying to tamp it down.”

  “Prohibition didn’t work, either,” John said, raising his beer and taking a sip.

  “I just hope they don’t spend so much time worrying about who’s transporting pot that they don’t look further than Adam when they’re rounding up suspects.”

  “That makes two of us,” John said. “Three, if you count Gwen.”

  “She’ll be here in just a couple of days. I hope they get it ironed out by then.”

  “Me too,” my fiancé said in a tone of voice that did not inspire confidence.

  six

  “How did it go with Matilda last night?” I asked as I served plates of shirred eggs to Agnes and Beryl the next morning. I’d whipped up a batch of my Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake and some bacon to go with it, and the two were eating as if last night’s supper had been a week ago.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Agnes said. “She was telling me all about the island’s history. We’re going with her to see the lighthouse this morning,” she said, “and we’re going to see if we can get Murray Selfridge to let us take a look at where the old rectory used to be. I understand they’re renovating it, but I’d love to take a look”

  “Isn’t that right near where they found the body?” I asked as I poured more coffee for Beryl.

  “Right next to it, in fact. We were hoping your fiancé’s mother could put in a good word for us.” She smiled up at me hopefully.

  I stifled a sigh. Did everyone on the island want a favor from Murray? And was Catherine’s apparent hold on him already legendary? “I’ll talk to her,” I said, “but I can’t make any promises.”

  “Well, if we can’t get to the rectory, Matilda tells us there’s a lot of history elsewhere on the island.”

  “She told us there’s a ghost in the inn, too!” Beryl added between forkfuls of coffee cake.

  “There may have been,” I said, remembering the eerie apparition I’d encountered one day in the kitchen, “but I think we laid that one to rest.”

  Agnes’s eyes were big. “Wasn’t she murdered here?”

  “That’s the rumor,” I said, not wanting to confirm it. “But something like that has happened in most old houses. It’s not unusual when you have houses that have been standing for centuries.”

  “Matilda did tell us about another place, too. You can only get to it by boat, and legend is that bootleggers used to use it.”

  “”Smuggler’s Cove,” I suggested.

  “That’s it!” Her eyes shone with excitement. “Is there any way to get there? It sounds like it would be a perfect setting for a murder mystery!”

  “I can take you, if you’d like. We have to go at low tide, though. That’s the only time you can get in and out of there.” As soon as I’d offered, I regretted it; the cove was hard to get in and out of even with calm waters, and after a bad experience I’d had there not long after taking over the inn, I wasn’t too keen on going back. Still, it was my job to keep the guests happy, and I didn’t have plans for the afternoon anyway.

  “Oh, that would be terrific. I’ve got the tide tables right here, on the back of the Visitors’ Guide.” She pulled a rolled-up brochure out of her bag and smoothed it out on the table. “Low tide is at two today,” she said. “Would that work for you?”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Why don’t we meet at one-thirty, down by the dock?”

  “Wonderful. How exciting! We’ll get to see where all the action is.” She held up a piece of coffee cake. “This is delicious, by the way. I’d love the recipe, if you’re willing to share.”

  “I’ll make a copy,” I said, then refilled everyone’s coffee and escaped to the kitchen.

  _____

  “I’ll take care of the breakfast dishes.” John already had the dishwasher open and was filling it before I’d finished clearing the tables. He’d been up early, putting the finishing touches on his most recent sculpture while I got breakfast together, and was planning to carry it to one of the galleries on the mainland on the mail boat. I had made a small grocery list of things to pick up while he was over there; I knew he’d be stopping by the police station, too, to follow up on Derek.

  He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and put his warm hands on my shoulders as I set down a plate. “Why don’t you go berry-picking today?” he asked, kneading my tense muscles. “You seem stressed.”

  I shivered. “That’s what I was coming back from when I found Derek.”

  “Go for a walk, then. Head down to the store and have a cup of coffee with Charlene. Mom will take care of the rooms, and you’re free until dinner.”

  “I might do that,” I said, thinking it would be a good opportunity to get a read on what was up with Adam. I wanted to talk with Zeke, too, to see if he knew anything that might help me figure out what had happened to the young man. Not to mention taking a walk around Derek’s house.

  John seemed to be reading my mind. “No investigating, though.”

  “I’m worried about Adam.”

  “They haven’t even decided if it was a homicide yet, Natalie.”

  “But I’m betting they will. Why else would he be lying in blood—and why else would Detective Johnson be questioning everyone?”

  “I know
it looks bad, but Johnson knows what he’s doing. He spent twenty years investigating homicides in New York.”

  “So you’re saying it is a homicide?”

  “There was a bullet hole in his chest, so it’s likely, though it could be suicide. But I’m saying I want you to stay out of it. So if it was a homicide, and the person who did it is still hanging around, they have no reason to target you.” His green eyes were solemn.

  I wished I had John’s confidence in the police. His concern was like a warm blanket, though; it was so nice to have someone wonderful to look after you.

  “And if it is ruled a homicide?” I asked. “And if Adam is implicated? What then?”

  “How about we cross that bridge when we get to it?”

  _____

  I left the inn not long afterward, a container of my Texas Ranger Cookies in my hands. The chewy cookies were a toothsome combination of toffee bits, coconut, chocolate chips, and pecans that both froze and traveled well. I tried to keep a couple of bags of them in the freezer, but both John and I enjoyed them frozen, so it was a challenge. I’d managed to scrounge up a dozen for my purposes, though, and resolved to bake another triple batch soon.

  As I walked toward Seal Point Road, my curiosity kept growing. I was looking forward to meeting Derek’s relatives, but I also wanted to visit the little house where the victim had lived. The police had searched it yesterday—it wasn’t that big—so I couldn’t imagine there being any harm in at least walking around the place. When I reached the crossroads, instead of making a left toward the Abingdons’ house, I turned right toward the pier, passing a low line of apple trees as the road dropped toward the harbor.

  Derek’s house was more of a shack than a house; in fact, it looked like its original purpose had been to store fishing supplies in the off-season. It was a squat, wooden structure with a flat roof that looked less than watertight. It had at one point been painted blue, but what little paint was left was peeling off in strips. The windows were cloudy, and even from the road, I could see that a spider web crack spread through one of them. I wouldn’t want to spend the winter there, I thought. Or the summer, either.