“Natalie?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Woolgathering. Hey—I asked Catherine to talk to Murray, but see if you can find out anything about the new inn going in, okay?”
“Why?”
“Someone went through my files and called the health department on me,” I said. “I’m wondering if it’s related to whoever’s buying Cliffside.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I hung up a few minutes later and finished reassembling what was left of my file drawer. I was just putting the last pages back in when John walked in, cradling the kitten.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Doing better,” he told me. “She’s dehydrated and has a little stomach bug, but the vet says if we can keep her warm, fed, and hydrated, we’ve got a good shot.”
I walked over and petted the kitten’s head; she was snuggled into John’s chest. “She looks exhausted. How did you keep her warm?”
“I tucked her into my jacket, against my chest,” he said, then looked at the open file on my desk. “What’s going on here?”
I told him what I’d discovered.
“Someone’s trying to mess with us,” he said. “First the health inspector, and now this...”
“My recipe binder is missing, too,” I reminded him.
“And there’s the overflowing water, too,” he said.
“The Fowlers said they didn’t do it,” I told him.
“But their door was locked. If not them, then who?”
“Their room has an adjoining door to the next room. That’s where Yvette’s family is staying.”
“Maybe one of the kids slipped in and played with the faucet,” he suggested.
“Or maybe Yvette and Carson have something to do with the purchase of Cliffside.”
He sighed. “Let’s not think about it anymore tonight,” he said. “It’s been a long week. I put the salmon in the fridge and the bagels in the bread basket. I vote we go upstairs and snuggle this kitten.”
I grimaced. “I got the plastic up on the ceiling in the laundry room, at least—still waiting to hear from the insurance company. Anything else we need to do before the inspector comes back tomorrow?”
“I’ll do a last check in the morning. Right now, I think we both need some sleep.” The kitten meowed as if in agreement.
“Let me check on Gwen first,” I suggested. I had picked up the phone to call Adam when headlights flashed from the top of the hill outside. I recognized the growl of Adam’s truck.
“Looks like she’s back,” John said. We stayed downstairs long enough to say hi to my niece and her fiancé, then headed upstairs together.
***
The one benefit of not having a functioning kitchen was a slightly later wake-up time. Despite the events of the last week, I felt relatively refreshed as I turned off the alarm and tiptoed into the bathroom, leaving John and Smudge curled up together. Biscuit had declined to come upstairs, which was probably for the best, as we were still waiting on results from Smudge’s tests.
I ground French Roast coffee and poured it into the coffee maker, looking out the window at the sloping green lawn and the dark blue water below it; the sun was already up, and the tide was high. My eyes swept over the remaining lupines in the field by John’s workshop. There was something yellow in among the flowers. Probably a bag blown in off the water, I thought as I filled the coffee maker with water and reached for the bag of bagels.
By the time the guests came down for breakfast, I had a pretty display of smoked salmon, sliced tomatoes and fresh bagels, along with a tray of blueberry cobbler muffins and some fruit. I had just finished setting up the coffee when I noticed that the roses in their little vases were looking a bit limp. I gathered the vases and took them to the kitchen, then headed out the back door to snip some fresh flowers.
The beach roses were brilliant and numerous, if thorny. I snipped a few, inhaling their sweet, wine-like fragrance, and put them in my basket, then glanced over at the lupines. The bag seemed awfully large, now that I was closer. I walked closer, and suddenly felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze off the water.
It wasn’t a bag. It was Stacy Cox. The reporter was lying spread-eagle in the middle of the lupines, her eyes wide and staring, her tongue sticking out.
***
I dropped the basket and stepped back, feeling sick to my stomach. After a moment, I forced myself to look again. There was a thin red line around her throat... someone had strangled her.
I was about to turn and run back to the inn when something caught my eye. A note, about a foot away from the body. It was slightly crumpled, but I could read it. I know something about Bainbridge, but no one else can know I told you. Meet me at midnight behind the inn.
Someone had lured her with the promise of a scoop. But who?
I paused, surveying the scene; something glinted in the sunlight on the path a few feet away from Stacy. I squatted down to look at it: another hairpin. I’d have to mention it to the police, I thought as I looked back at the young journalist’s frozen features.
My heart went out to Stacy... she had just been doing her job. I averted my eyes from her contorted face and headed up to find John.
I hated to wake him, but I didn’t really have a choice. Smudge was snuggled in next to him; I wished for a moment I hadn’t gone out to snip flowers. On the other hand, it was better for me to find her than the guests.
“John.”
He sat up right away. “What’s wrong?” he asked as Smudge looked up at him and let out a small meow.
“Somebody killed Stacy Cox. I found her in the lupines by your workshop.”
“How do you know someone killed her?”
“She was... strangled, I think.” I shivered. “Her tongue was sticking out. It was horrible.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “But it looks like whoever murdered the captain is still on the loose. And we’ve got to let the police on the mainland know.”
John swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his jeans. “Call the mainland; I’ll head out back.”
“How are we going to hide it from the guests?”
“I don’t know that we can,” he said.
I sighed. “At least this means Alex is off the hook.”
“Not necessarily,” John pointed out.
“You think there may be two murderers?”
“They won’t rule it out,” he said as he slung on a green T-shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. Even with Stacy lying dead in my back yard, John still made my heart skip a beat. “But it is a mark in his favor.”
“Poor Stacy,” I said. “Oh—there’s a note next to her on the ground.”
He raised a sandy eyebrow. “You didn’t touch it, did you?”
I shook my head. “All I did is look at it. Promise. Anyway, the note said whoever wrote it had information on Bainbridge, and to meet outside the inn at midnight.”
“Sounds like Stacy had some inside knowledge someone else was worried would get out.”
“Like what?”
“She’s a journalist,” John said. “I’m guessing she uncovered something someone thought was dangerous.”
“I thought she was a travel journalist!”
“Might want to check her out,” he said, one hand on the doorknob. “I’ll head down and guard the body if you’ll call the detectives.”
“Got it,” I said. “And I might do a little research on Stacy before breakfast.”
“Might be worthwhile,” he said. “We should probably feed the little one, too,” John suggested.
I scooped her up off the pillow and snuggled her into my chest. “I’ll take her down with me,” I told him as she purred against me.
I spooned some of the cat gruel into a bowl for her—and a bowl for Biscuit, who had taken up residence on the radiator and eyed me with disdain—and watched with relief as the little kitten lapped it up. She seemed to be turning the corner, thankfu
lly.
As I stood up, my eyes were drawn to John’s shingled workshop—and the dead woman in front of it. She was so young—only in her mid-thirties. A few years younger than me. Why had she died? Had Martina’s jealousy won out? If so, why kill her now, when the captain was dead? Had she seen or heard something she shouldn’t have?
And what would the health inspector think of a dead body on the premises? I wondered, then chided myself. There was more at stake than my kitchen. Having a murderer on the loose was a bigger issue than my kitchen troubles. I called the dispatcher and gave him the details. “This means Alex must be innocent, right?” I added at the end.
“This only means there’s another homicide,” he said.
“What are the odds that there are two murderers on one island?” I asked.
“We’ll send someone over,” he said shortly, and hung up the phone.
Disgruntled, I pulled out the laptop and ran a search on Stacy Cox. She had a few travel articles, yes—but they dated from five years ago. Her most recent articles were exposés on companies who had polluted waterways or secretly disposed of contaminated fill.
So why was she doing a story on Northern Spirit Tours?
I glanced out at John, who was standing guard, and looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes to breakfast. Enough time to see if there was anything of interest upstairs. I pulled a pair of yellow gloves out of the laundry room and hurried up the stairs, grabbing the skeleton key from under the front desk along the way. That, at least, hadn’t been stolen.
As it turned out, I didn’t need it; the door was ajar.
My skin prickled as I pushed the door the rest of the way open, half-expecting someone to jump out at me. Which was ridiculous, really, since whoever had killed Stacy was hardly likely to be hanging out in her room eight hours later—assuming the deed was done at midnight.
Whoever it was had been here, though. The desk was a blizzard of papers, and the drawers were on the floor. I took a few steps forward and leafed through the pages. Most of them were on Captain Bainbridge—or Carl Bridges, as he’d been known before. That secret had been uncovered by Stacy, at least.
I looked closer at the papers. There was a registry for a boat called the Kobyashi Maru, based out of Japan. Carl Bridges was listed as part owner. Why was she concerned about that? I wondered. Then I picked up the next piece of paper—about the Sea Shepherd, an anti-whaling boat, trying to prevent the Kobyashi Maru from taking whales off the coast of Iceland.
My stomach curdled. No wonder she was along for the tour; she seemed to have been doing an expose on Carl’s secret ownership of a whale boat in Japan. I looked through a few more pictures; there was one of him helping haul a whale carcass onto the back of a ship. Of course he wasn’t worried about getting too close to the whales. He wasn’t concerned about conserving them at all, from the looks of it.
There was plenty of incriminating evidence about the captain in Stacy’s room. But if he was already dead, why break in and sift through it? Unless they were looking for something specific—something that was no longer here. Like her laptop, for instance; there was no sign of it.
Beside the unruly pile of papers was a black and white composition book; I’d seen her carrying it around with her and taking notes. I flipped through it. “Whale breaching through the dark water,” read one entry, and “Captain Bainbridge schmoozing with potential investor Nan McGee.” I flipped through to the end—the last few pages were torn out. I caught a few partial words and a number on the remnants of the torn pages—“saw M” and “199,” but that was all that was left.
Whatever the searcher was looking for had been written in that composition book, I suspected—and was long gone.
What had she seen? I wondered as I closed the composition book back up and scanned the room. I glanced at my watch—five minutes to go—and did a quick search of the rest of the room. A few toiletries in the bathroom, a bottle of Ibuprofen, and a book on the night table—a murder mystery by Sue Ann Jaffarian, ironically. A moment later, I let myself out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind me. I was just turning around when Nan McGee stepped out of the next room.
“You’re tidying rooms on the early side,” she remarked, glancing at my gloves. “You forgot to close it,” she added, pointing to the still-open door.
“Just checking to make sure there wasn’t another water leak,” I lied.
“Does that happen often in old houses like these?” she asked.
“There’s always something to fix, unfortunately,” I said, peeling off my gloves and heading for the stairs. “Ready for breakfast?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“I hear the health department was here yesterday,” she said. “I’m surprised you’re allowed to cook.”
“I’ve got bagels and smoked salmon, and everything should be cleared today. It was just a misunderstanding,” I said with a forced smile, wondering how she’d heard about the inspector—or if perhaps she was the one who had placed the anonymous call. But why would she do that? Particularly if she was considering investing in the tour company that used my inn?
“What are your thoughts on Northern Spirit Tours?” I asked. “It’s been kind of a crazy week, hasn’t it?” And I hadn’t even told her that Stacy was dead. Of course, there was always a possibility that Nan was responsible for killing the journalist. In truth, I didn’t know much about Nan McGee. Had she killed the captain to drop the value of the tour company—and then killed Stacy before she could write about it? A chill stole down my back at the thought that I might be alone with a murderer.
“It has been a bad week for the company,” she agreed. “Fortunately, I’m researching a number of opportunities.”
“All in the area?”
“I don’t limit myself to one area,” she said as I followed her down the hall. “But I do see a lot of potential in this part of the world. Beautiful, unspoiled...”
“Yes,” I said. “I hope it stays that way. I’m kind of glad it’s not close enough to the mainland to put a bridge in.”
“There are other ways to increase traffic though,” she told me as we walked down the stairs. As we stepped into the parlor, the police launch appeared at the dock. “Back to do more investigating?” she asked.
“It seems so,” I said. “Actually, I found Stacy Cox dead this morning,” I said, watching Nan’s face.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “This is a dangerous establishment you’re running, it seems.”
“It seems to have more to do with the tour than the inn,” I pointed out.
“Maybe,” she said. “Unless one of your staff is a mass murderer. How did she die, anyway? Someone drown her, too?”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to say, actually. Breakfast will be out in a minute if you’re hungry; there’s coffee on the table.”
I abandoned Nan and hurried into the kitchen, where I immediately pulled up her name on my laptop. Several entries came up; philanthropist in Boston, member of a prominent business family... and chair of the board of MCG Venture Capital.
The name rang a bell. It took me a moment to place it—and then I remembered. MCG was the name of the company looking into buying Cliffside.
I caught my breath. Nan McGee wasn’t interested in investing in the Northern Spirit Tours—or at least only investing in the tour company. She was planning to buy Cliffside and turn it into a resort.
Was Nan the one who had let the bathtub overflow, and called the health inspector? Not to mention gone through my guest list files? It certainly would explain how she knew my kitchen was closed. Maybe she was planning on buying both Cliffside and Northern Spirit, I thought. But why commit murder just to decrease the value of an acquisition when you already had millions of dollars?
Unless the captain—and Stacy Cox—knew something about her she didn’t want out.
I hurried to put together the breakfast platter, then headed into the dining room and laid them out, pouring Nan coffee. A moment later, Gayla and Herb came down, comp
laining about the overcast weather.
“Oh, good morning!” Gayla said as she rounded the corner and saw Nan sitting by the window. “Mind if we join you?”
“Sure,” Nan said. I hurried over to fill their coffee as Nan filled them in on the police launch.
“What happened?” Herb asked.
“Apparently another one of the inn’s guests was killed off last night,” Nan informed them. “The journalist—Stacy Cox.”
“What happened to her?”
“She won’t say,” Nan said, nodding toward me. “But the police are investigating, so I’m guessing it wasn’t a heart attack.”
“Are we safe here?” Gayla chimed in.
“I’m sure the police will be in to talk with everyone shortly,” I said. “While you’re waiting, though, breakfast is lox and bagels this morning, and I made a batch of Blueberry Cobbler muffins.”
“Even with your kitchen closed?” Gayla asked.
I gave her a tight smile and retreated as the three of them launched into a lurid discussion of what might or might not have befallen Stacy Cox.
Once they were well underway, I hurried up the stairs, skeleton key in hand. I crept down the hall as quietly as I could and unlocked the door to Nan’s room. If she was the one responsible for my guest files being ransacked, there should be some evidence of it here. I closed the door quietly behind me, glad to still hear the distant murmur of conversation, and headed for the desk.
At least she was orderly, I thought as I opened the drawers. I didn’t like the idea of snooping, but I needed to know if she had stolen my files—or, now that I thought of it, my recipe binder. The standard notepad and pen were there, and her laptop was neatly closed on top of the desk, but there were no papers in the desk, or anywhere else.
Until I hit the night table. Inside was a folder with a valuation of Cliffside—and a copy of a site plan. Pools, tennis courts, a spa, a pier with shops—it looked like its own enormous, self-contained community.
I shut the folder and slid it back into the drawer, then did a quick survey of the rest of the room. No guest lists, no recipe binder—but I didn’t need to find those to know I was harboring a future competitor.
Whale of a Crime (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries Book 7) Page 14