Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

  “He’s looking to lease more land, so it can’t be that bad.”

  “I just hope he makes it through the winter,” she said. “He’s so sweet to his brother, and they both seem so happy here. I worry sometimes. Not a whole lot of farming to be done from October through May.”

  “He seems to think things are going to be all right.”

  “Let’s hope he knows what he’s talking about,” Charlene said. “He may need to do more than farming if he’s going to survive winter here.” She bit her lip. “He’s gotten a lot of correspondence from some regulatory division of the Department of Health and Human Services lately.”

  “Maybe it’s about the cows he’s planning to bring over,” I said.

  “Think cows will be enough to keep him in business,” she asked.

  “He’ll figure it out,” I said, hoping I was right. I took another sip of tea, and the bell above the door jangled.

  Charlene and I turned to see who was walking in, then traded quick, wide-eyed glances. It was Ingrid Sorenson.

  “Natalie,” Ingrid said, looking as if she were about to go out for a hunt in the country in her tweed jacket and boots. Her eyes, pale blue above an aquiline nose, fixed on me as she strode to the counter. “I heard about the discovery you made out on the water.” She shook her head; her carefully styled hair didn’t move. “Terrible tragedy. Do they know if it was homicide yet?”

  “If they do, they haven’t told me,” I said. “Did you know the young man?”

  She shook her head. “Never met him,” she said. “Derek something. I heard he was from Ellsworth.”

  “Really?” I said, glancing at Charlene and bucking up my courage. “I understand he and your son hung out together.”

  “You’re not implying that my son had anything to do with that young man’s death, are you?”

  “We’re not implying anything, Ingrid,” Charlene said in a placating voice.

  Ingrid’s blue eyes were icy. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Charlene smiled at her. “If you could just ask him if he knows who Derek was friendly with, that would be a big help. Apparently he had some kind of contact, but we can’t figure out who it is.”

  “I’ll ask if you want,” she said, “but I’m sure he knows nothing about it.” She straightened her tweed-clad shoulders. “Now, if you could just ring up a gallon of milk, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’ve got to run, too,” I told Charlene as she extricated herself from the deep cushions of the couch. “I promised I’d take my guests over to Smuggler’s Cove this afternoon.”

  She shivered. “Be careful.”

  “Keep me posted on Tania, okay? And let me know if she comes up with anything that might help.”

  “I will, Nat.” She reached over and squeezed my hand before returning behind the register to ring up Ingrid’s milk and continue sorting the mail. “Thanks for the support.”

  seven

  Agnes and Beryl were waiting for me by the time I got back to the inn. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful, sunny day, both were dressed as if we were headed to Newfoundland in a Nor’easter. Agnes wore a rain slicker and matching plastic pants, while Beryl was decked out in knee-high rubber boots and a purple poncho.

  “You guys sure are prepared,” I said as I threw on a windbreaker, grabbed a flashlight from the drawer in the kitchen, and led them down the path to the dock.

  “I know it seems like overkill, but everyone says the weather changes fast here,” Agnes said. “Plus, I live in Southern California. How often do I get to wear rain gear?”

  “Better safe than sorry.” I grinned at the two women as we stepped onto the small dock.

  In almost no time at all, Agnes and Beryl had clambered into the boat and I was casting off, ignoring the twist of worry in my stomach. I checked to make sure the oars were in the boat—and the life jackets—and revved the engine, heading toward Smuggler’s Cove.

  Although I’d visited Smuggler’s Cove more than once, and both the tide and the smooth water were in our favor, visiting the small cove was a tricky proposition. It was really more of a sea cave—although the inside held a few spacious “rooms” that rumor had it had been used for nefarious purposes in the past, the entry was only accessible when the tide was low, and even then it was a tight squeeze. I’d been caught in there with a murderer once, and although he was long since behind bars, my stomach still clenched when I remembered being trapped in the cold, dark cavern.

  “How did you figure out you were related to someone on Cranberry Island?” I asked, hoping to distract myself from the prospect of another visit to the little sea cave.

  “We found a bunch of letters in my grandmother’s attic,” Beryl said. “I knew he was a priest on one of the islands when he disappeared, but we didn’t know which one until we saw the postmark.”

  “Have you been into the cove before?” Agnes asked over the roar of the motor.

  “A few times. It’s hard to get in and out of, and there’s not much there.”

  “Any sign of the rum runners?”

  “There’s an old iron loop driven into the rock where they used to tie up their boats,” I told her, “but other than that it’s pretty bare.”

  “That’s a shame,” Agnes said. “I was hoping for at least a few old bottles.”

  I glanced at her. “If there were any, they were taken long ago.”

  “Well, I suppose it will be interesting just to see what it looks like now. I can imagine the rest.”

  I could practically feel my blood pressure rise as we approached the rocky face of the cliff in which Smuggler’s Cove was carved. The underwater rocks were more visible with the tide low, but no less dangerous, and I worked to maneuver the boat for a straight-in approach; the opening was fairly small, and it was less likely I’d scrape the sides of the skiff that way.

  “Eerie.” Agnes pulled the collar of her rain slicker together, as if it could protect her from whatever was in the cove. “It looks like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  “Shh.” Beryl put a hand on her friend’s sleeve. “Let her concentrate.”

  I was thankful for the request; getting into the little cove was easy for most of the locals, but tough for a landlubber like me. Last time I’d made this trip, I’d almost put a hole in the side of the Little Marian. This time, thankfully, I skirted the rocks without incident and shot straight through the small dark hole in the cliff.

  The light faded almost immediately, and I reached for the flashlight and switched it on, using it to guide the skiff to where I knew an iron ring protruded from a rocky shelf.

  “Cold in here.” Agnes hugged herself as I handed Beryl the flashlight and tied up the skiff.

  “You’re used to Southern California,” I teased her, trying to shake off a chill of my own. Absence had not made the heart grow fonder—at least as far as this little cove was concerned.

  “Who put this here?” Beryl directed the flashlight at the rusty iron loop to which I’d tied the skiff.

  “I don’t know, but it’s been here a long time.” I climbed out of the skiff and offered a hand to the two women, who made their unsteady way out of the little boat.

  “Was it used for anything other than rum running?” Beryl asked, her flashlight beam darting around the cove.

  “I don’t know. I’d love to find out how old these iron rings are, though,” I told her as we clambered out of the Little Marian and stood on the rocky ledge next to the water.

  Beryl’s light did a quick sweep of the walls. “Not a whole lot of space. Is this it?”

  “This is just where boats tie up. The main area is back here.” I directed the light to an opening toward the back of the cave. “Follow me.”

  A feeling of foreboding descended on me as I ducked through the crevice that led to a dank, cavernous room. The last time I’d been here, a murderer had almost killed me. Time had not improved the place, although at least there weren’t any killers in residence at the moment. The r
ocky room was empty.

  “So, this is it,” Agnes said, disappointment tingeing her voice. “Just looks like a cave.”

  “No writing on the walls or anything, is there?” Beryl asked, flashing her light into the crevices in the wall.

  “Nope. And nobody ever comes here these days, either. Makes sense, really. It’s not very nice in here, and it’s hard to get to.”

  “It’s not completely abandoned,” Beryl said, shining her light on the floor of the cave. There was a big smudge of mud on the rock. She crouched down and touched it with one finger. “Still wet,” she said. “Either of you have mud on your shoes?”

  Agnes and I looked down at our boots; the soles were clean.

  “Smells bad, too,” Beryl said, wrinkling her nose and wiping her hand on the rocky wall. Now that she mentioned it, I did smell something unpleasant. “Ick. Horse poop.”

  She was right. It was faint, but distinctive.

  “I guess we’re not the only sightseers,” I said lightly, but something about the fresh mud unnerved me. I flashed the light around the cave. “There’s a lot of it, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” Beryl said. “Almost as if someone were pacing.”

  Beryl’s light followed the track; it led to where the boat was tied up. “I know Matilda was talking about the cove the other day. Think she might have paid it a visit?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, inspecting the walls of the dank room, looking for clues. The rocky walls were silent, though. Unyielding. If only they could talk, I thought, wondering what they’d seen over the centuries.

  The sense of foreboding deepened. “Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “that’s about all there is to it. Not much to see, is there?”

  “It’s fascinating,” Beryl replied, still training her flashlight on the rocky floor.

  “Yes, but we should probably head out while the tide’s low. It gets tricky when it rises, and we don’t want to spend the night in here.” I shivered. “Trust me.”

  “Did you spend the night in here once?”

  “Not by choice. My boat was damaged, and I got stuck.” I didn’t tell them the circumstances; no need to make them think the island was a dangerous place to be. “But I’d rather not risk it again. Ready?”

  “Let’s go,” Agnes said, but Beryl seemed to want to linger.

  “I feel like there’s a secret here.” She reached out to touch the cold, damp stone. “These walls have seen so much. I wish there were some way to know what all has happened here.”

  Her thoughts echoed my wish that the walls could somehow talk, but the sound of the water slapping against the rocks seemed louder, suddenly, and I just wanted to leave.

  “Come on, Beryl. I think we’ve seen all there is to see.” Agnes headed back to the boat, and after a lingering moment, to my relief, Beryl followed.

  The tide was coming up more quickly than I expected; already we’d have to duck to make it through the cove’s entry. When everyone was situated in the boat, I warned them to watch their heads and cast off, gunning the engine to make sure we made it through the cove’s entrance without scraping the walls.

  Agnes squealed a little and tumbled back as the little boat shot forward. Eyes on the water in front of me, I piloted the Little Marian out into the sunshine.

  As I opened the throttle, there was a roar from somewhere over my right shoulder. And that’s when another boat plowed into the starboard side of the skiff, knocking Agnes into the cold, dark water.

  eight

  “Agnes!”

  There was a hole gouged in the side, and water was pouring into the small craft. Agnes was flailing in the water a few yards away. Horrified, I reached for a life jacket and tossed it into the water toward her. The jacket flopped a few yards away from her.

  “OhmyGod!” Beryl stood staring at her friend, eyes huge, both hands over her open mouth, then down at the water that was quickly engulfing our feet. She turned to me. “What do we do?”

  “Agnes!” I called. She didn’t answer, though. The flailing had stopped. Panic washed over me. I grabbed the two remaining life jackets and threw one at Beryl, then started stripping off my windbreaker. “What are you doing?” Beryl asked, her voice high and panicky.

  “Going in after her,” I said, strapping on the life jacket and kicking off my shoes. “Put yours on; you’re going to need it soon.” By the time I snapped the last buckle of the jacket, Agnes was already sinking. I leaped after her, praying I’d get there in time.

  The cold water sucked the air right out of my lungs, and I came up gasping.

  “She’s over there!” Beryl called. I kicked my legs, which seemed abnormally heavy in their waterlogged jeans, propelling myself in the direction she had pointed. I couldn’t see her anymore. “Is she still there?” I yelled back to Beryl.

  “I see her jacket,” Beryl said. “Hurry, Natalie. She’s going down!”

  I splashed through the inky water, tasting the salt in my throat—I’d swallowed some water when I gasped—and hoping I was going in the right direction. “You’re almost there!” Beryl called, and a moment later, to my immense relief, my hand closed on the slippery fabric of Agnes’s jacket.

  “I’ve got her,” I said as I grabbed her arm and hauled her up. She was heavy—a dead weight, I thought with a sick feeling. Had the boat hit her and hurt her, or was it just the shock of the cold water?

  Her face was pale as it surfaced, and I struggled to keep her afloat. I glanced around for the other life jacket; it was a few yards away, on the open water side of the skiff. What was left of the skiff, anyway. Beryl was making panicked noises, and only an inch of the craft was visible above the waterline. Smuggler’s Cove had not been kind to the Little Marian, I thought; twice now, it had sunk her.

  And me.

  But it wasn’t only me. There was Beryl—and Agnes, whom I was struggling to keep from sinking again. My jacket wasn’t enough to support the two of us.

  Lying on my back with Agnes’s head on my chest, I kicked toward the life jacket, reaching one arm back to grab it. I glanced toward Beryl, who had not yet abandoned the boat, but appeared to be up to her knees in water. “You okay?” I called.

  “I’m scared.” Her voice sounded young, childlike.

  “Can you swim?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll be okay, then.” My words sounded reassuring, but I glanced toward shore, estimating how far we’d have to swim. Most of this coastline consisted of sheer cliffs. There was a beach not far from Smuggler’s Cove, but it was impossible to access from land. The other option was to go into Smuggler’s Cove itself and wait for the next low tide to get out. But without the skiff, we’d end up in the same boat, so to speak: stranded with no transportation and unable to do anything but swim for land.

  If I didn’t get that third life jacket, though, none of that would matter. Agnes and I would never make it anywhere.

  I kicked hard, but the tide and the current—not to mention the weight of an unconscious woman—were against me.

  “Beryl!” I called. “Can you swim to get that other jacket?”

  She was up to her waist now, and looking lost—until I asked for help. Something shifted in her. Her shoulders straightened, and I could hear it in her voice. “I’m on it,” she yelled, and before I could respond, dove headfirst into the icy depths.

  She hadn’t been lying when she said she knew how to swim. Despite the jacket she’d neglected to remove, her arms sliced through the water, propelling her quickly toward the floating jacket. In less than a minute, she had reached it and was swimming toward Agnes and me. I felt for the unconscious woman’s pulse as I waited, relieved to feel the flutter of a heartbeat under my fingertips. There was no blood—at least none that I could see—and no sign of obvious trauma. Good news. I hoped.

  It wasn’t long before Beryl had reached us. Together, she and I fitted the life jacket around Agnes’s neck and belted it around her waist. My fingers were going numb from the cold. If we we
re going to head for land, we’d have to do it soon. It might be summer, but the water was still cold—somewhere in the vicinity of 50 degrees—and I was losing energy fast.

  Beryl was obviously thinking the same thing. “Where do we go from here?” she asked, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, and although she’d only been in the water a few minutes, her teeth were chattering.

  I looked behind her at the sheer cliffs, and then beyond at the impossibly distant gray-shingled inn, nestled into the green hillside. We’d never make it back without a boat. Our only chance was to swim for the little sliver of beach where the black-chinned terns nested and hail a boat—or attempt to climb the cliff.

  “Let’s head for the beach,” I said, nodding to where several birds whirled in the breeze. “We’ll figure it out from there.”

  “Got it. I’ll take this side of the jacket and you take the other.”

  Together we swam toward the little strip of sand. My skin was stinging from the cold by now, and my fingers were so numb I had to look back to make sure I was still holding onto Agnes’s jacket. Beryl’s strength pulled me along, though, and together we inched toward the shore. Despite the effort, questions kept bubbling up in my mind. What would we do when we got there? Would anyone find us? Was Agnes just knocked unconscious, or had something worse happened?

  For the first time since the skiff had been hit, I found myself wondering who had done it—and why. “Did you see the boat that hit us?” I asked Beryl as we kicked toward shore.

  “Only briefly,” she said. “It was a little one, about the size of yours.”

  “Did you see any other boat?”

  “I think there was a lobster boat,” she said. “But I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “Me neither,” I said, but wished I had. A lobster boat. “Did you see a buoy on it?”

  “No,” she said.

  I turned briefly and scanned the water, but there was no lobster boat in sight. Whoever it was had disappeared fast—and probably with the skiff that had hit us. Any local lobsterman would have stopped to help us, not disappeared. Which meant whoever had sideswiped the boat wasn’t local—and I was guessing they were displaying a turquoise and orange buoy.