Scone Cold Dead

by Karen MacInerney

"Me too. Your mother and Murray seem to have a good thing going. I don't want it messed up."

  John glanced at me. "Weird, isn't it? That we're rooting for Murray?"

  "Yeah," I agreed. "But it's true."

  We'd made it to the top of the hill. Although the view over the cliffs was magical, with the dark blue sweep of water dotted with buoys and the granite humps of the mainland mountains in the distance, so far, there had been no sign of Chelsea.

  "We should probably check the cliff," John said grimly.

  "We probably should.” We'd found bodies there before, but I hoped today wouldn't turn up another one.

  As we rounded a bend, John stepped over toward the cliff, scanning the beach at the bottom. "I don't see anything," he said, relief in his voice.

  But I wasn't relieved at all. Ahead of us on the trail, tucked halfway under a blueberry bush, was a red windbreaker.

  6

  "Oh, no," I breathed, running over to where Chelsea lay, her legs sprawled across the trail. Her eyes were half-open, and her chest was still, the lunch box I'd packed for her crushed beneath her right arm. I could see a corner of the sandwich I'd made her just that morning. Unless I was wrong, she'd never get a chance to eat it.

  John was right behind me. He felt her wrist for a pulse, and grimaced. "She's gone."

  "How?" I asked.

  He pointed; I hadn't noticed before, but her black hair was clumped, and the dirt beneath her head was stained dark.

  "That's horrible," I said as John pulled out his cell phone and frowned at it.

  "Bad reception," he informed me. "I'll stay here. Will you go back to the inn and call the police on the mainland?"

  "Of course," I said. "You're sure she's gone?"

  "No pulse, and she's cold. She's not breathing, either."

  "Do you think maybe she fell and hit her head?"

  "She's face-first, and the wound is on the back of her head," he said. "It's possible, but I doubt it.” He scanned the ground and pointed to a blood-spattered rock a few feet off the path.

  "So someone..."

  "It looks like it," he said grimly.

  I looked at the young woman's lifeless body. She'd been so full of life when she headed out the door that morning, it just didn't seem possible that she was gone. "She was so young. Who could have done this?"

  "Unfortunately, just about anyone," he said. "We're out of sight here."

  "Was someone waiting for her, I wonder, or did they follow her?" I asked. "Do you think maybe Mac came to get rid of her before she could find something on his boat?"

  "Anything's possible," he said.

  I sighed and stood up. "I'll go call the mainland. I'll be back in a few. Need anything?"

  "Maybe another cup of coffee," he said. "I think we may be here for a while."

  When I hurried into the inn kitchen, Catherine was busy folding towels.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "We found Chelsea," I said.

  "Is she okay?"

  "No.” I told her what we'd found.

  My mother-in-law put down the towel she was folding, and her face paled. "You don't think it's someone at the inn, do you?" she asked. "Like maybe that young man I'm supposed to take my pottery class from this afternoon?"

  "I don't know," I said honestly.

  "Although maybe I can ask him how he knows her," Catherine said, a pensive look on her face.

  "I wouldn't if I were you," I warned her. "We don't know anything about him."

  "So you do think he's a murderer!"

  "I'll wait for the coroner's report to say for sure. But in the meantime, I don't want anything to happen to you."

  "So should I skip the class?"

  "Do you know anyone else who's going?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "Not many people signed up."

  "Maybe I'll go with you," I suggested. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to learn to make clay lumps, but I didn't feel comfortable sending Catherine alone. And I wanted to tell Gwen to be careful, too.

  "We can ask questions together," Catherine suggested, pulling me out of a rather morbid reverie.

  "Right," I said, but I couldn't shake my lingering worry about Gwen. I'd call her right after I called the police, I decided.

  "It's at three," she said, picking up a stack of towels and heading toward the guest rooms. "Are you going to join me, then?"

  "Yes," I agreed, and she was smiling as she headed to finish up the rooms. I was already dialing as she left.

  I told the police what had happened, and they agreed to send over a launch. I called Gwen next. "It's Aunt Natalie. You're not alone, are you?" I asked when she picked up.

  "Thuy and Emma are here with me," she told me, sounding perplexed. "Why?"

  "Chad and Chelsea had a bit of a tiff this morning at the inn, and now Chelsea's... well, she's dead."

  "Dead?" Gwen breathed.

  "It looks like it might be foul play. I'm not saying Chad is responsible, but... be careful. With everyone. I wouldn't be alone with anyone if you can help it until we figure out what's going on. By the way, is there still room in Chad's pottery class?"

  "Lots of it," she said. "I'm having a hard time getting people excited about it, honestly."

  "Can you sign me up to come this afternoon?"

  "Giving up on watercolor already?"

  "No... well, maybe. I'm just keeping Catherine company."

  "That's good of you," she said. "In the meantime, I'll see if I can find out anything about Chad and Chelsea's history."

  "Don't," I warned her. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

  "Now I know how you feel when John tells you to stay out of things," she said.

  "That's different."

  "Is it?" she asked. "Anyway, I'll see you this afternoon. I'm sorry about Chelsea... but keep me posted, okay?"

  "I will. And stay safe."

  "Of course, Aunt Nat. I love you."

  "Love you too, sweetheart," I said, and hung up a moment later, still feeling a nagging worry.

  By the time the launch arrived at the inn's dock, John and I had finished our coffee, and dark clouds were rolling in off the Gulf of Maine.

  "I hope they get what they need before it rains," I said.

  "Me too," he said, staring at Chelsea's windbreaker. "I keep wondering who did this," he added in a contemplative tone.

  "It doesn't look like an accident, does it?"

  "No, it doesn't," he agreed. "Mac is an obvious option... but how would he have known she was walking to the pier from the inn?"

  "How would anyone have known she was walking along the path?" I asked. "When she arrived, she came here on the road, not the path."

  "If someone was watching the inn, they would have seen her," he mused. "Her windbreaker isn't exactly camouflage."

  "Or if they were at the inn already," I pointed out. "Chad had a run-in with Chelsea at breakfast this morning, and most of the inn's rooms have a view of the path."

  "What time did everyone leave the inn this morning?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I was busy in the kitchen; maybe Catherine noticed."

  "You told me Chelsea called Chad a trust-fund baby," John said. "I can see that being insulting, but it doesn't exactly sound like a motive for murder."

  "No, but there might be more to the story. We do know that they knew each other. And that their relationship seemed… complicated."

  "Mac still seems more of an obvious suspect," he commented. "Maybe he came over and watched the inn, waiting for her so he could kill her before she got to the pier. If he got rid of her on the boat, suspicion would immediately fall on him, even if she went overboard."

  "I'd rather it not be someone at the inn, frankly," I replied. "And Mac did ram someone's boat recently, so we know he's not averse to violence."

  "If he did kill her, do you think it's because he's fishing illegally and didn't want to be found out?"

  "I have no idea," I said. "Might be worth talking to the
m about it.” I nodded toward the three people hurrying up the path toward us.

  The quiet, windswept path quickly became a bustling crime scene. John and I reported what we knew to the detective. She told us to close off Chelsea's room until investigators had a chance to go through it.

  "We'll have to wait for the coroner's report, but do you know of anyone who might have wanted her out of the picture?" she asked.

  "There's been a bit of trouble down at the co-op. She was supposed to observe on a lobster boat, and the captain was none too happy about it," I said. "He thought someone had called the Marine Patrol and sent an undercover investigator; he ended up ramming another lobsterman's boat this week."

  "That sounds like a good place to start," she said. "What's his name?"

  "Mac Penney," I supplied.

  "His boat is the Blue Angel," John added. "She was supposed to meet him at the town pier at nine, but she never made it there."

  "Evidently not," the detective said, looking down at the prone form of Chelsea. "She's young, too. It's a shame."

  "It is," I agreed.

  "Does Mac have a sternman?" she asked.

  "Josie Barefoot helps him out," John said. "But she's not always with him. He sometimes goes out solo."

  "That's kind of unusual. Why?"

  "That's what a lot of folks at the co-op are wondering,” John told her.

  "I'll be sure to talk with both of them," she said, making a note. "How long was she a guest at the inn?"

  "She arrived late yesterday," I told her.

  "Did she have any contact with other guests that you know of?"

  "She knew one," I said, relating her exchange with Chad Berman.

  "Interesting.” The detective made another note. "Do you know where I can find him?"

  "He's at island's Art Guild," I said.

  * * *

  "I'll go talk to him there," she said. "Anyone else?"

  "Not that I know of," I told her.

  "We'll have to interview your guests, I'm afraid," she told me. "I know it's an inconvenience, but it's part of the process."

  "I understand," I told her. "I don't know who's still at the inn; do you want me to tell whoever's there to stay put till you get there?"

  "That would be great," she said.

  "I'll whip up some scones while I'm there," I said.

  "There's no need for that."

  "I'm working on a recipe for a competition anyway," I said. "It's no trouble."

  "That would be wonderful, then," she said. "We'll be down in a bit. John, do you mind staying?" she asked my handsome husband. She was an attractive woman in her forties, with a physique that suggested long hours in the gym and a very limited acquaintance with coffee cake. "We're a bit short-handed, and we may need your help figuring out who's who at the co-op.”

  "Happy to," he said.

  "I'll see you soon," I told him, planting a big kiss on my husband before heading back down to the inn.

  7

  Biscuit and Smudge were busy chasing a fake mouse around the kitchen floor and I'd just finished toasting a pan of walnuts when John came back into the kitchen, smelling like sea air and the rain that had started coming down a few minutes earlier.

  "I called Tom and told him to call off the hunt; he was relieved she was found on land."

  "That doesn't mean a lobsterman isn't responsible," John said with a grimace.

  "I know, but at least it broadens the possibilities, I guess. I still can't believe she’s dead; she was so young! And she'd hardly gotten to the island."

  "I know.” John took off his windbreaker and poured himself a cup of coffee, then slumped into a kitchen chair. Smudge immediately hopped into his lap, put her paws on his chest, and touched her nose to his. John smiled and scratched the top of her head.

  "Did they get things squared away before the weather kicked in?" I asked.

  "Enough," he said. "Something smells good. What are you making?"

  "Maple walnut scones," I said as I cut butter into a bowl of dry ingredients. "I'm trying to find a winner for the scone competition in the Portland paper. I figure the publicity will help."

  "Bookings are still down, then?"

  "They are," I said. "I might see if I can set up some kind of art retreat with Gwen, where people stay here for the week and take classes at the Guild."

  "That sounds like a great idea. We should probably put out a newsletter soon, too."

  "I was thinking we might run some specials, or maybe put together a getaway weekend package.” I added the liquid ingredients to the crumbly mixture in the bowl. "With everything that's going on, though, I don't know when I'm going to do it. I told Catherine I'd join her at her pottery class this afternoon."

  "I didn't know you were interested in pottery."

  "I'm not. Well, I am, but I'd rather learn to make mugs and bowls than the bulbous sea creatures that seem to be his specialty. I didn't want her going there alone," I said. "Just in case."

  John cocked an eyebrow. "You think Chad's a murderer?"

  "Someone is," I said. "He's the only person I know who knew Chelsea."

  He sighed. "As much as I hate to think it, I'm guessing it may be someone in the lobstering community. Tempers have been running hot lately, and you know lobstermen are an independent bunch. They don't like people nosing in."

  "If that's the case, though, I'm betting someone has something to hide. No one's going to kill an observer just on principle."

  "Illegal fishing?" he asked as I added the walnuts to the scone dough.

  "On a grand scale, maybe. Either that, or something else criminal is going on. At least that's what Sally thinks, and I tend to agree with her."

  "Sally? The detective?" I asked, trying to quell the little bubble of jealousy that floated up at the mention of the detective's first name. The Catherine-Murray-Sarah situation must be getting to me. I gave myself a little shake and put on a smile, dismissing my reaction. "Like what?"

  "Yes, Sally Freedman," he confirmed. "As for the criminal issue, I don't know," he continued. "We've had drug-running before, but I hate to think that any of the islanders might be involved with that."

  I shrugged. "I just hope they find out before something else happens."

  "So much for the idyllic island life," John said with a grimace.

  "It does have its perks, though," I said as I turned the dough out onto a board. "I'd rather be working here than a cubicle somewhere."

  "That's true," he said, coming up behind me and putting his arms around my waist. He gave me a kiss on the back of the neck. "And the lunch service is fabulous. Plus, I love my coworkers."

  "Me too," I said, leaning back into him. "The drop in bookings is just a temporary thing, right?"

  "It is," he said. "There are ups and downs. We just have to remind our former guests that we're here and reach out to some new ones, and we'll be turning away bookings."

  "I hope you're right," I told him.

  "We'll make it work, sweetheart," he said. "One way or the other. I promise."

  I closed my eyes for a moment, thankful to have met such a wonderful, supportive man. "I'm glad you're in my life," I told him.

  Catherine walked into the kitchen, her arms filled with dirty towels. "Sorry to interrupt," she said as John kissed me on top of the head and stepped away.

  "You're not interrupting," I told her. "Thanks for taking care of the rooms."

  "It's no trouble," she said. "I did leave the Rose Room alone until the police have a chance to look at it."

  "Thanks. Are any of the other guests in their rooms?" I asked. "I know the investigators are going to want to talk with them."

  She shook her head. "Everyone's out for the day. I imagine the artists are at the Guild. There was a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the couple's room—Noelle and Bruce, right?—so I don't know if they're here. I think that Sarah woman was headed to the mainland today.” She frowned. "Her room is kind of a mess. And she reads romance novels."

  "Lots o
f people read romance novels," I pointed out.

  Catherine sniffed. "You'd think she'd at least clean the toothpaste out of the sink. I'm telling you, it was a mess in there. And she wears some perfume that smells like the back of my grandmother's attic. Plus, she spends a fortune on beauty products."

  John and I exchanged glances.

  "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in any of the other rooms?" I asked.

  "Not really," she said. "Although Chad's room is as bad as Sarah's. I guess they're used to other people picking up after them." Her brow wrinkled. "There was a woman's barrette in Chad's room, though, next to the bed. I put it on the nightstand. Maybe it belongs to the poor young woman?"

  "That's interesting," I said. "I don't remember Chelsea wearing a barrette, though."

  "Maybe one of the other artists visited him in his room," John suggested. "He seemed interested in Emma."

  "From what I saw, it wasn't superreciprocal, but I guess we'll see what we can find out today at the Guild," I said.

  "You're coming with me still, right?" Catherine asked.

  "If it's okay with you," I said.

  "Of course!" she said. "Maybe we can make mugs for the inn!"

  From what I'd seen of Chad's work, I was guessing mugs weren't on the agenda, but I just smiled. "Here's hoping!"

  Detective Freedman came in a few minutes later, asking if I knew where she could find my guests. I drew a rough map for her, giving her directions to the Art Guild to find the artist guests and to Cliffside to track down Sarah.

  "Thanks," she said. "I haven't really asked you any questions yet. What made you and John go looking on the path for Chelsea Sanchez?"

  "Like I said, Tom called me at around nine thirty to let me know she hadn't turned up at the dock; she was supposed to meet Mac at nine. I was going to drive her over to the dock, but she decided to walk over on the early side."

  "Why did she decide to walk?"

  "Like I said, she had a bit of an exchange with one of our other guests, one of the artists at the Guild. I think she was a bit upset."

  "His name is Chad, right?" she asked.