Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

  The house was tucked in the trees just a short way from the town pier. A dirt path led to it from the main road, half-buried in a thicket of raspberry bushes and nettles that scratched at my legs as I passed, and I couldn’t imagine having to push through this just to get to my own front door. I didn’t know how much Derek had been paying to live here, but I hoped it wasn’t much.

  An old recliner with half the stuffing leaking out of it in yellow clots sat in a clearing not far from the front door, accompanied by two card-table chairs that had had better days. The dirty tips of hand-rolled cigarettes littered the ground; evidently this was where Derek had kicked back and enjoyed a smoke. Had Tania spent much time here? I couldn’t imagine it being very appealing.

  I clutched the container of cookies intended for the Abingdons as I stepped past the rotting recliner and reached up to knock on the peeling front door.

  The door swung open when my knuckles hit it, and I jumped back, startled. Nobody was there, though; the door had just been slightly ajar. The smell of stale beer wafted out, and I wrinkled my nose.

  “Hello?” I called—not that I expected anyone to answer, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

  When nobody answered, I glanced over my shoulder and took a step inside.

  I stepped on a piece of stale pizza with my toe and knocked over a beer can as I crossed through what I suppose could be called a living room. A formerly overstuffed and now half-stuffed couch of indeterminate color was in the middle of the room, festooned with dirty clothes. In front of it, an upturned crate doubled as a coffee table—or a beer table, if the number of cans lined up on it was any indication. An overflowing ashtray was tucked in between the cans, adding a stale smoke aroma to the spilled beer and spoiled food scent. Housekeeping had evidently not been a priority for Derek Morton.

  By the time I got to the kitchen, I decided “messy” didn’t really do it justice. “Filthy” was closer to the mark. Tania’s description of the house as a “bachelor’s pad” was an understatement. The sink overflowed with bowls and plates, and a pot with what might once have been ramen languished evilly on an electric burner. I swallowed back nausea and retreated down a short hall to the house’s one bedroom.

  I reached in and flipped on the light, then surveyed the room, which resembled the kitchen, only with more clothing. I could make out the general shape of a mattress on the floor among the piles of dirty clothes. A poster of Jimi Hendrix hung lopsidedly from the dark paneled walls. I knew the police had been here, but the jumble looked just like the rest of the house. Evidently Derek’s mother hadn’t gathered the courage to come and collect her son’s things—either that, or she’d decided nothing was worth picking up.

  I stepped into the dead man’s bedroom with trepidation. There were flannel shirts and T-shirts, none of them clean, and a stack of dog-eared magazines. If he’d had a cell phone or computer, the police had taken them; there was no sign of electronics here. I rifled through the piles of clothes, but either the police had taken everything of interest, or there was nothing here. A suitcase lay in the corner; I searched its compartments carefully, but found nothing. I was about to give up when something gleamed in the corner. I bent down and picked up a light bulb. It was an odd color—blue instead of white—but didn’t look suspicious. A moment later, I noticed a slip of paper poking from the back pocket of a pair of jeans on the floor. I retrieved a folded piece of notebook paper, on which were scrawled what appeared to be a series of dates and times. Three of them were in the past, but one was scheduled for the coming week, and one the following. Perplexed, I tucked the paper into my back pocket and looked through the rest of the jeans pockets. There was one other piece of paper, folded so many times I almost didn’t recognize it as paper.

  I sure recognized the intent of the note written on it, which was scrawled with a heavy hand in thick pencil on a creased piece of notebook paper.

  Stay away from her or I’ll kill you.

  I had just tucked the note into my back pocket when I heard a sound. Someone was at the door. I hurried to the room’s small closet and tucked myself inside. Whoever it was came through the house; I could hear footsteps in the bedroom. It sounded like a woman, and she was sniffling as if she’d been crying. I could hear as she moved through the room—it sounded as if she were searching for something—and wished I’d thought to leave the door open a crack. A moment later, I heard the footsteps retreat, and the front door creaking open, then thudding shut. I hurried to the window and peeked out in time to see a thin woman with brown hair disappear into the brambles.

  _____

  I was still picking raspberry thorns out of my jeans when I arrived at Derek’s aunt and uncle’s house on Seal Point Road twenty minutes later, still wondering about the woman I’d seen. Had it been Tania? If so, what had she been looking for? I fingered the note in my pocket, thinking about Derek. Who might have written it? Someone jealous of Tania? I made a mental note to ask Charlene about other suitors as I climbed the porch to the Abingdons’.

  The bright geraniums sparkled with dewdrops of water—someone had watered them this morning—and the front porch was well swept. A wind chime tinkled in the breeze as I knocked on the freshly painted door and waited.

  I heard voices behind the door, and then it opened a few inches to reveal a gruff looking man in his thirties. He wore a Patriots T-shirt that looked as if it dated from the ’70s and had seen pretty constant wear, and I caught a faint whiff of herring. “Can I help you?” he asked, sounding put out.

  “I’m Natalie Barnes, the owner of the Gray Whale Inn,” I said, the words tumbling out. “Sorry to bother you,” I continued, proffering the container of cookies, “but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

  He grunted in acknowledgment, then looked at the container in my hands. “What’s in the box?” he asked.

  “Texas Ranger cookies,” I said. “I brought them for you and your wife.”

  He reached for the container and pulled it through the door. “Thanks,” he said shortly. If I was hoping for an invitation, it didn’t appear to be forthcoming.

  “It must have been a terrible shock losing your nephew,” I continued, trying to extend the contact. “I understand he stayed with you a few years back.”

  “He did,” Abingdon said, “but once he left the island, we washed our hands of him.”

  “Someone told me he tried to contest your lobster license a year or two ago.”

  He snorted. “Some thanks for taking him in, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m curious. I know his mother is in Ellsworth; why did he live with you?”

  “His mum asked us to take him in. Thought it would be better for him to be on the island, away from bad influences. Problem is, he took trouble with him.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind that lands you in jail if you’re not careful. Or worse … like what did happen to him.”

  “You think he was killed?” I asked.

  His eyes darted to the side. “They seemed mighty interested in that young lobersterman he was working for.”

  “Adam?” I asked, feeling a kernel of ice form in my stomach.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The cop seemed to think he had it in for Derek. Anyway, thanks for the cookies. Not sure I should take them, really; we had nothing to do with him, but I’ll tell the wife you stopped by.”

  “So you have no idea who he was mixed up with?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Can’t help you,” he said. “Thanks again for the cookies,” he added as he shut the door in my face, leaving me on the front doorstep.

  I stood there for a moment, and as I turned to walk down the steps, I heard voices again from inside the house. Only this time there was a note of anxiety I hadn’t heard before. I paused to see if I could make anything out, but the television drowned out the words.

  It gave me something to think about as I headed down to the store, though.

  _____

  “No goodies today?” C
harlene looked up from the bag of mail she was sorting. Today she was dressed in a yellow sundress accessorized with large, sun-shaped gold earrings; she looked more ready for a Caribbean cruise than a day on Cranberry Island. Tania was nowhere to be seen, unfortunately. A few of the island’s summer people were congregated on the couches at the front of the store, talking about a sailboat they were thinking of buying. I smiled and nodded as I passed them by and pulled up a stool at the empty bar.

  “I gave them to Derek’s aunt and uncle,” I told her as I settled onto the stool.

  “I’m dying to hear how that went. Want a cup of tea? I just brewed it a few minutes ago. I can deal with the mail later, and we can sit on the couches and be comfortable.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. Charlene handed me a mug, and I filled it with the fragrant brew; Charlene had discovered Twinings Black Currant tea over the winter, and drank gallons of it. I added a splash of milk and some sugar and stirred.

  I followed Charlene to the soft, worn couches in the front of the store and sank into one of them while Charlene arranged herself across from me. “I was hoping Tania would be here today,” I said as I took a sip of the sweet, warm tea.

  “She is,” Charlene replied, straightening the skirt of her yellow dress, “in body, at least. I made her go for a walk about an hour ago, and she just got back, but I’m not sure she went anywhere.”

  So she had been out and about, I thought to myself. “Did she happen to stop by Derek’s?”

  “I don’t know; she won’t tell me anything.” My friend sighed. “I’m worried about her, Nat. She barely eats, and she won’t tell me what’s going on.” Despite the cheerful dress, I could see lines of worry in her face. “Do you think it’s just grief?”

  “I imagine so,” I replied. “Where is she?”

  “Hiding in the back, as always.” She took a long sip of tea. “Anyway, how did it go?”

  I told her about my visit to Derek’s house and my brief stop at the Abingdons’.

  “You went inside Derek’s house?”

  “The door was open,” I told her. “I figured I’d go in, since the police had already been there.”

  I knew I could trust my friend not to chide me. Instead, she had a curious glint in her eye, and leaned forward. “Find anything?”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the two pieces of paper I’d retrieved. “A weird note,” I said, “and a piece of paper with some times on it. I don’t know what the times mean, but the other one was clearly a threat.”

  “‘Stay away from her or I’ll kill you,’” Charlene read. She glanced up at me. “Detective Johnson seems to have forgotten how to conduct a search if they missed this. Where was it?”

  “In a pocket of his jeans,” I said. “Do you think ‘her’ means Tania?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know of anyone else Derek was seeing. In any case, it seems there’s a suspect other than Adam,” she said. “Gwen is out in California, so he couldn’t be after her, and I know Adam’s not seeing anyone else.”

  “Who would it be, then?”

  Charlene arched a tweezed eyebrow. “I’ve heard Evan Sorenson’s been carrying a torch for her.”

  “What do you know about him? Last I heard, he was in rehab.”

  “He was,” she confirmed. “He was a nice boy growing up. Too bad he got into all the trouble with the drugs, the gambling …” I knew that he’d gotten himself into trouble over gambling debts, and also seemed to have drug problems his mother had tried hard to cover up. It always seemed to be something with Evan. “He used to love hot chocolate with marshmallows when he was a kid. Sat right there on that stool after school,” she said, pointing to the stool at the end of the counter.

  “I wonder why he’s back,” I mused, wishing I could go to Ingrid’s house and just ask. But I really couldn’t—not without an excuse.

  “Me too.” Charlene looked pensive.

  “Did Tania spend much time at Derek’s place?”

  “She was over there a few times.” Charlene wrinkled her nose. “She told me it’s definitely a bachelor pad.”

  “More like a homeless camp.” I told her about the cigarette butts and the de-stuffed chair, and the rotten food in the kitchen.

  “Sounds like a picture,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And how did your visit with the Abingdons go? I barely ever see Turtle, it seems. Her husband does most of the shopping.”

  “Turtle?”

  Charlene shrugged. “Her real name is Elizabeth, but she was shy, and always wore enormous turtlenecks as a kid. It kind of stuck.”

  “Poor thing,” I said. “Anyway, I have no idea if she was wearing a turtleneck, because I didn’t see her. Her husband answered the door,” I told Charlene, “although only wide enough to get the box of cookies through it.”

  “He’s never been the chatty type. Did you get anything out of him?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “He said he’d had nothing to do with his nephew since he left the island a few years ago, and implied that he’d been into trouble when he stayed with them.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.” Charlene made a tsking sound and patted down a stray strand of highlighted hair.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Tania said they had a dust-up just a week or two ago.”

  “About what? The lobster license?”

  “Maybe we should ask her.” In a lower voice, she added, “I need your opinion about her, anyway. I’m really worried!” With a sigh, she got up and walked behind the counter, cracking open the door to the back room. “Tania, honey! Can you come out here for a moment?”

  Charlene’s niece emerged from the rear of the store looking deathly pale, with dark circles under her eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” Charlene said as they walked toward the couches near the front door, “but Natalie had a couple of questions about Derek.”

  As she sank back into the cushions of the couch, Tania gave a half-shrug, her eyes bloodshot and puffy.

  “I’m trying to figure out what happened,” I told Tania as Charlene poured her a cup of tea. “I know it’s really been a horrible week for you, but I’m worried the police are going to blame Adam for what happened to Derek.” Or you, I added silently, remembering the note I’d found in the dead man’s hand. “I was hoping you could help us figure out who else might have been involved.”

  “I don’t know.” Her head hung low, and her response was almost a whisper.

  “Tania, honey.” Charlene put an arm around her niece. “Natalie found a note warning Derek to stay away from a girl. Do you know who might have wanted to warn them off of you?”

  She shook her head, and her voice was dull. “I think Evan liked me, but I wasn’t seeing him.”

  “Did you visit Derek’s house today?” I asked.

  She stared at the floor. “No. I haven’t been back since … you know.” I looked at her, wishing I’d paid attention to what the woman I’d seen was wearing. Was Tania telling the truth?

  “I know you said something about Derek having an argument with his aunt and uncle,” I said. “What was it about?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said dully.

  “How about the contact he had?” I asked. “The one who was a ‘cash cow’?”

  “I don’t know who it was. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it. And now he’s dead.” Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry …” With that, she ran to the back room and shut the door, leaving Charlene and me staring after her.

  “So,” Charlene said after a long moment. “That’s what we’re dealing with.”

  “She’s not herself at all.” I felt a stab of worry. “This started with Derek’s death?”

  My friend nodded. “I’ve called a counselor, but she refuses to go see her. All she does is mope.”

  “Is she scared?” I said, my eyes drifting to the door.

  “What would she be scared of, though?”

  Maybe that the murderer would come after her next? I thought. Did she kn
ow something she wasn’t telling us? She’d run off when I’d asked about Derek’s contact. I didn’t voice my fears to my friend. “I’d keep her close, if I were you, just in case,” I told her. “And keep trying to get her to the counselor.”

  Charlene adjusted a fallen strap on her pale shoulder. Sundress or no sundress, it was hard to become bronzed on Cranberry Island. “To be honest, I’m glad she’s not involved with him anymore—although this is not how I would have wanted it to end. I just didn’t expect that she would be so … lost.” Her shoulders sagged, and the strap fell again.

  “Do you know what she talked to Detective Johnson about?” I asked. “Other than Adam?”

  “He wanted to know where Derek was staying, how long he’d been here, who he hung out with … basic stuff.” She took a sip of tea.

  “Who did he hang out with?”

  “I don’t know, really. He and Evan appeared to be friends, and like I said, he had a contact he met sometimes—was paying him big bucks, according to Tania—but never said who it was.”

  “Did he say if the contact lived on the island?”

  Charlene shrugged again. “I don’t think she knew.” She gave her tea a moody stir, then looked up. “I almost forgot. You haven’t told me a thing about Murray Selfridge and John’s mom.”

  I winced. “I’ve been trying to forget.”

  Charlene leaned forward, the prospect of new gossip temporarily lightening her burden of worry. “I hear he’s pulling out all the stops trying to impress her. Someone told me he used to know her when John’s family came to the island, and has had a crush on her for twenty years. Are they serious?”

  Murray had had a crush on her for twenty years? Catherine hadn’t mentioned that. Then again, we’d hardly talked since he started courting her. “He’s pretty smitten,” I told her. “Zeke Forester wants me to put in a good word for him—he wants to lease more land from Murray, and thinks he’s putty in Catherine’s hands.”

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” Charlene said with a look of wonder. “Speaking of Zeke, how’s he doing?” Charlene asked. “Every time I go over there there’s a line at the farm stand. We’re going to be carrying his eggs here, and I’m thinking about selling his produce, too; I’ve had to cut back on the vegetable orders from town.”