Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

by Karen MacInerney

  There was something else going on, I thought as I poured the batter into the muffin cups. And I had a hunch Derek knew something about it—something someone didn’t want him to know.

  I put the pans into the oven, washed the bowls, and made myself a cup of tea as I waited for them to finish. Before long, the kitchen was filled with a warm, comforting chocolatey smell that made my mouth water. The muffins would be terrific tomorrow morning alongside a fruit salad and shirred eggs with toast, I decided, with bacon or sausage on the side. With the menus I’d made, I was in pretty good shape … except that I’d forgotten to pick up carrots. Which would be a great excuse to drop by the farm; after all, Derek had worked there for a while, and things hadn’t ended well. I’d been looking for a reason to stop off at Zeke’s farm for a chat. With any luck, I’d be able to come home with more than a few bunches of root vegetables.

  When the timer buzzed, I took the muffins out of the oven, admiring their plump, chocolatey tops. I tried a bite of one that hadn’t risen quite as well as the others; the rich, chocolate-coffee crumb studded with melted chocolate was heavenly, and for a blissful moment, I forgot that anything else existed.

  Unfortunately, the feeling was short-lived.

  _____

  Agnes was no worse for wear, it turned out, and if anything, the near-disaster had added a fillip of interest to her trip. She and Beryl wolfed down John’s fettuccine when they got back, and were still chatting about it over coffee, muffins, and eggs the next morning.

  I walked through the sunlit dining room with a coffee pot as Agnes speculated on who might have driven the boat that rammed us. “It was bizarre—and I can’t think why anyone would do something like that. I mean, we’re just tourists.”

  “I’ve never known of anything like that happening before,” I told her. I was relieved that she was just a little bit cold and banged up—nothing serious. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too,” Agnes said. My eyes were drawn to the stretch of buoy-dotted water just outside the cove. No lobster boat now, although it wasn’t anywhere near low tide. Had it been low tide when I’d spotted the boat in the past? I wished I’d paid more attention. “What are you two up to today?”

  “We’re going to see if we can talk our way into the old rectory,” Beryl said.

  “I forgot to ask Catherine about it,” I remembered suddenly. “Sorry about that. She’s not made it up to the inn yet, but I will.”

  “No worries. Matilda’s going over there this morning. She told us that since she put together the exhibit on his family, Murray Selfridge been very amenable.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said, thinking I had a visit of my own to make today. I’d decided to see if I could talk with Fred Penney, the other lobsterman Derek had sterned for. Even if he didn’t have any new information on Derek, maybe he’d have a lead on the boat that I’d seen outside Smuggler’s Cove.

  “We’ll let you know what we find!” she said, peeling the wrapper from her third muffin. “These are absolutely irresistible. If I lived here, I’d weigh 400 pounds by now.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m on my way,” I grimaced, tugging at my snug waistband. Weight gain certainly was an occupational hazard. I wondered if, by the time September came around, I’d still fit into my gown.

  Speaking of weddings, I realized I hadn’t heard back from the resort. After checking on everyone, I excused myself back to the kitchen and sat down at the computer.

  No response.

  I pulled up the bookmarked web site. Instead of an image of the gorgeous, palm-tree-studded resort, all I got was a page that said the web address was unavailable. I switched to Google and typed in the hotel’s name. The second entry was an article in the St. Petersburg Times. As I read it, my heart lurched.

  There would be no wedding in September for John and me—at least not at the Sandpiper Resort.

  It had gone out of business.

  _____

  I’d hurried through the rest of breakfast in a daze. John, unfortunately, was out of reach, as he’d headed to the mainland for the day, so I hadn’t had a chance to share my bad news. I was still thinking about the wedding—the now nonexistent wedding, that was—as I rode my bike down to Zeke’s farm an hour later. What were we going to do? Was it possible to get our money back? Would we ever get married?

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look around and take in the view. The ferns and moss lining the road were brilliant green, and the pines and firs soared above them, perfuming the sea air with their piney scent. Every once in a while, I spotted a patch of lime green leaves I knew belonged to low-bush blueberries, along with swathes of bright red bunchberries—beautiful, but not edible, at least not by humans. John and I would figure it out, I told myself. Right now, I had more important things to worry about. Like keeping Adam out of jail.

  It was a perfect day, with temperatures edging up toward the seventies and a gentle breeze off the brilliant blue water. The trees parted, and I found myself scanning the buoy-dotted harbor. Surely someone on the island other than me had seen that orange-and-turquoise buoyed lobster boat, I thought; the local lobstermen were known to guard their territory closely. I’d have to ask down at the co-op.

  By the time I parked the bike in front of Zeke’s farm, I had decided to tell John that evening and not to worry about it until then. I took off my helmet, ran my fingers through my hair, and retrieved my bags from the basket on the front of the bike.

  “Hey, Zeke!” I called as I rounded the farm stand. The fit young farmer, who was pulling up weeds from a long line of lush tomato plants, waved and started toward me. His brother, Brad, who was at the far end of the field, waved too, his face splitting into a toothy smile. I waved back, grinning. He never seemed to have a care in the world.

  A few chickens pecked among the tidy rows of vegetables: natural pest control, Zeke had told me last time I was here. He let them out in the morning and closed them back up in the evening. There’d been a few problems with loose dogs, but overall they lived a happy life.

  As the farmer headed my direction, I let my eyes drift across the fields. There were three long rows of tomatoes, a patch of what appeared to be lettuce, and several rows of pole beans. Behind them, like a benevolent parent, stood an old red barn that Zeke had told me housed horses and cows in the old days. There was rumored to be a blacksmith’s anvil inside it somewhere; apparently the farmer who built it also knew enough to shoe his horses and do basic smith work for the locals. All of it—the horses, the blacksmith, even the stables in the island’s many carriage houses—had gone away with the automobile, though. It was amazing how quickly things changed.

  “What can I do you for?” Zeke asked, tossing his handfuls of weeds onto a pile at the end of the row and smiling.

  “I need carrots, and could use a bit more lettuce,” I said. “I thought I’d stop by and pick some up; and eggs, too, if you’ve got some. I used up most of mine at breakfast this morning.”

  “Just picked lettuce this morning,” he said, “and the hens are laying faster than I can pick up the eggs. Follow me!”

  He turned and headed toward the shed next to his farmhouse—a white clapboard building with a leaning front porch. A line of gloves was strung from a line hung between two posts, and a variety of spades and hoes leaned up against the side of the house. The shed beside it was filled with crates of produce, and outside it was a reclaimed laundry sink fed by a hose—Zeke’s produce-washing station, with a little trench that led back to the fields. The chicken coop was located about fifty yards beyond the house, where the sea breeze would carry the aroma away from the house.

  Zeke unlatched the shed and opened it, releasing the scent of earth and vegetables. A few bins of compost stood in the corner, along with a variety of organic pesticides.

  “No fertilizer?” I asked. I was surprised; I used copious amounts of organic fertilizer on the roses and window boxes at the inn.

  “Too expensive. I have an arrangement
with a dairy farmer on the mainland,” he said as he lifted a crate of fresh lettuces from the back corner of the shed.

  “How do you get it over here?” I asked, trying to envision George McLeod heaving bags of cow manure over to the dock. “I can’t imagine it being popular with the mail boat crowd.”

  Zeke laughed, exposing a line of bright white teeth. “Fortunately, the pasture is right on the water, so I use an old skiff I got from Eleazer. It’s an aromatic trip, but not a long one.”

  “Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose.

  “I’m not saying it’s pleasant, but it’s cheap—and 100 percent organic. Like I said, if I can square things away with Murray and the USDA, I’m hoping to get a few cows into the pasture soon; that should solve the transportation problem, and get me into the dairy business, besides.” He glanced at me, and said in a nonchalant tone, “Any luck persuading John’s mother to talk to Murray?”

  “Not yet.” Saving the school, leasing land: the list of things I wanted Catherine to talk to Murray about was growing. A brown hen with bright, beady eyes wandered into the shed, picking at the dirt, and Zeke shooed it away. It half-hopped out the door, clucking imperiously. “The chickens seem happy.”

  “They are.” He grinned as he selected a few lettuces and put them into a bag for me. “And as long as they keep laying like this, I’ll be happy, too.”

  “It seems like a lot to keep up with. Do you have any helpers?”

  “I do,” he acknowledged. “A couple of young guys come out and give me a hand when they’re not out on the water. The pay isn’t terrific, but it helps them make ends meet.”

  I leaned up against the rough wood wall and tried to look casual. “I heard Derek Morton worked for you for a while.”

  “He did.” The smile dimmed. “Not for long, though; he didn’t work out.”

  “Not very reliable?” I guessed.

  “We had a difference of opinion,” he said shortly, glancing up at me from eyes that reminded me somehow of the hen’s for a moment. Sharp. “And no. Not very reliable at all. I understand he found different work.”

  “Evidently he was working for Fred Penney,” I confirmed. “Who do you have working for you now?”

  “Evan Sorenson.”

  “Ingrid’s son?”

  Zeke nodded. “He’s not a bad worker, but he’s a late riser.”

  “How long has he been working for you?”

  “Since the beginning of May.” He opened the ancient refrigerator that was humming in the corner of the shed and pulled out a dented carton of farm eggs.

  “Do you know if he and Derek hung out together?”

  Zeke closed the refrigerator and smiled at me, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “I see living on the island has rubbed off on you.”

  My face heated up. “I’m sorry—I know I sound nosy.” I forced a laugh. “I guess I am turning into an islander. Actually, though … I was more worried about Derek. He worked for Adam Thrackton, too.”

  “I heard.” He handed me the eggs.

  “Did you also hear the police are thinking it’s a homicide?”

  A shadow of some emotion crossed over his face, but was gone before I could identify it. Surprise? Or fear? “I wondered why the police asked so many questions,” he admitted. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

  He let out a deep breath and shook his head from side to side. “He was only here for a couple of weeks. When he didn’t show two days in a row, I had to let him go.”

  “I heard it wasn’t a very warm parting.”

  Zeke shrugged. “It’s business. Now, then, lettuce and eggs. And carrots, too? They’re beauties.” He lifted a bunch and tucked it into the bag, taking care not to bruise the tender lettuce leaves. “I’ll toss these in for free.”

  “Thanks.” I reached for the bag, feeling mildly guilty for my questions, and felt in my back pocket for my checkbook. “Shoot. I left my checkbook home. Is it okay if I come back later today?”

  “I’ll put it on your tab. You can pay me next time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” I followed him out of the shed, standing next to it as he closed the doors and latched them. I squinted at the barn on the far end of the fields. “Are you going to keep the cows in there?” I asked, pointing to it.

  “What? Oh, in the barn?” He waved a dismissive hand toward it. “It’s in pretty bad shape; needs a lot of work. Besides, it’s pretty far from what I hope will be my pasture.” He glanced at the land I knew he was hoping Murray would rent to him.

  “Matilda Jenkins told me there’s an anvil in it, from when the local smith lived here. He used to shoe all the island’s horses.”

  “Really?” He seemed uninterested.

  “I’d love to take a look inside sometime. I’ll bet there are all kinds of fascinating old farm implements. It’s hard to imagine that there were two farms on the island, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve only been in there a couple of times. Didn’t see much but piles of moldy hay,” he said quickly. “A fire hazard, really. One day I’ll fix it up, make sure it’s structurally sound. I put a No Trespassing sign up just to make sure none of the neighborhood kids get into it and get hurt. Or Brad,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his brother, who was peering at something on the ground near the barn.

  “Good thinking.”

  “I’ll get to it someday, I suppose. I’ve got plenty of things to do in the meantime, though. Speaking of which …” He adjusted his gloves and gave the fields a meaningful look.

  I took the hint. “Thanks for the lettuce and eggs. And the carrots, of course; what a treat!”

  “Anytime.” He nodded, then turned back to his row of tomatoes while I fitted the carton of eggs and the bag of vegetables into the bike’s basket and hopped onto the bike, mulling over our conversation. I was burning with questions about Derek. Why had he quit—or been fired? Would Tania be able to tell me? As I rode toward the top of the hill, the cool breeze behind me, my mind turned again to that fleeting emotion I’d glimpsed when I told Zeke that Derek had been murdered. Had it merely been surprise?

  Or something else?

  eleven

  John was in the kitchen when I rolled up to the inn a half hour later. He smiled and waved at me from the kitchen window, where he appeared to be washing dishes. Handsome and thoughtful, I thought as I waved back.

  The kitchen was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of cranberry bread when I opened the door, the bag of veggies looped over one arm and the eggs in my hand.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” John said, putting down the dish and giving me a bear hug.

  “Thanks for doing the dishes,” I murmured into his chest.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Smells wonderful in here. What’s in the oven?”

  “I was mentioning your cranberry bread to Agnes, and she said it sounded so good she wanted me to make it.”

  “So half of breakfast is taken care of?”

  “And dinner. I intercepted the grocery delivery and took the liberty of marinating the salmon.”

  I hugged him again, loving the smell of him. “Will you marry me?”

  “In a heartbeat.” He kissed my head gently.

  “Speaking of weddings,” I said, “I have some bad news.”

  “What is it?” he asked, suddenly alert.

  I took a deep breath. “It looks like the resort we booked went out of business.”

  He blinked. “What? What about our deposit money?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but the web site’s gone, and nobody’s responded to my e-mail. There was an article in the St. Petersburg Times saying it had gone out of business. “

  “Damn,” he said, tossing the dishrag into the sink. “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t think the newspaper would have picked it up if it wasn’t true,” I said, feeling my spirits sink.

  “So much for planning.”

  “W
hy don’t I make a cup of tea and we’ll see if we can figure something out?” I suggested.

  “I think I’d rather have a beer, but you’re probably right,” he said as I filled the kettle with water and fished a box of Irish Breakfast tea from the pantry. “Cookies?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a few of your Texas Ranger cookies.”

  I grabbed the last bag of cookies from the freezer and arranged a few of them on a plate, then gathered cups, sugar, and a pitcher of milk from the fridge. “Where’s your mom this afternoon?”

  “She took care of the rooms and then headed over to Murray’s.”

  “Ah, Murray Selfridge.” I snorted. “At least she’s going there instead of having him coming here.”

  “That’s looking on the bright side of things,” John said with a wry grin.

  “How are things going with the current investigation?” I asked.

  John reached for a cookie and took a bite of it, then said, “I’ve got some news, actually.”

  “What?” I leaned forward, cookie momentarily forgotten.

  “Homicide.” He grimaced. “Gunshot wound killed him. It was from several feet away; there wasn’t much powder residue near the wound.”

  I shivered. “Guess that’s a pretty clear call.” Not much chance of a suicide or accidental death if you’ve been shot from a distance, with no gun in sight. “Any new leads?”

  “They talked with his mother in Ellsworth. She said that he’d been mixing with bad company and staying out late. She gave him an ultimatum six months ago, and he chose to leave rather than abide by her rules.”

  “Poor woman,” I breathed.

  “She’s racked with guilt. Tough love usually works for the best, but sometimes …” John shook his head. “It’s a sad situation.”

  “I stopped by his aunt and uncle’s house this morning. They didn’t seem too broken up about their nephew’s death.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I brought them some cookies,” I said, feeling my face color. “That’s all.”

  “Hmm,” John replied, narrowing his eyes. “And what did you learn in exchange for the cookies? Although they are pretty darned delicious,” he admitted.