Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  Gwen took a bite of her sandwich and shrugged. “That would explain why she accidentally stopped up the sink.”

  “You think she’s trying to put me out of business?”

  “Maybe. Oh—and Benjamin’s looking for you.” She squinted at me. “What’s the story with him?”

  “Ex-fiancé.”

  “He’s a good-looking guy, Aunt Nat. I’m impressed. What does John think?”

  “Don’t ask.” I took a big bite of brownie and let the chocolate flood my mouth. “I can’t believe Candy’s looking at Cliffside.” Competition on Cranberry Island was going to make running the Gray Whale Inn even harder. I hated to admit it, but that Queen Anne in Austin was looking better and better. “How’s Adam, by the way?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. Eddie O’Leary’s causing all sorts of trouble at the co-op, though.” Every lobsterman on the island belonged to the Cranberry Island Lobster Co-op. The group sold lobsters to area restaurants and shipping companies; they also worked together to defend the island’s traditional fishing grounds from other lobstermen.

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  “He’s complaining that we need to expand our fishing territory.”

  I groaned. “How’s he planning to do that?”

  “Three guesses.” I had learned since moving to the island that the waters off the coast of Maine were divided into zealously guarded territories. Since the dividing lines were unofficial, some lobstermen guarded—or expanded—their fishing grounds by moving other lobstermen’s traps and replacing them with their own traps. Or, if they were less kind, by cutting the ropes that connected the surface buoys to the traps far below, making them unretrievable.

  “Don’t tell me he wants to start a gear war,” I said.

  “Wants to? I think he already has.”

  I sighed. “What does Adam think?” Gwen’s boyfriend had been known to do some gear cutting of his own.

  “That we should stay out of it. Unfortunately, O’Leary’s got a lot of the guys on board.”

  I sucked my teeth. “I hope it doesn’t escalate beyond cutting gear.”

  Gwen looked up, her eyes dark. “So do I.”

  We sat for a moment, munching on our respective snacks and ruminating on what might happen if the lobstermen started a gear war. It had been a lean year for lobsters, and with money short and tempers high, I was afraid the cutting might not stop at trap lines.

  I had gotten up to put the kettle on when John burst through the kitchen door, his face taut and his eyes filled with urgency.

  “Natalie!”

  “What’s wrong?” My throat tightened with fear.

  “Can you get hold of Charlene?”

  “Is Tania okay? Did something happen?”

  He twisted his mouth into a grimace. “Richard McLaughlin is dead.”

  I felt like a brick had slammed into my chest. “Dead? I just saw him this morning.”

  “Then it’s a recent development,” John said.

  “What happened?” My mind flipped through the alternatives. Heart attack, stroke, accident...

  “He was murdered.”

  My hand shook as it pushed a strand of hair from my eyes. Richard McLaughlin and I had had a conversation just two hours ago. Now he was dead. Murdered. An image of Polly’s body, her jacket stained with rust-colored blood, reeled through my mind. Had Murray been shot too?

  “How was he killed?”

  “Somebody stabbed him to death. Emmeline Hoyle found him. She was dropping off a casserole, and found him on the front step.” He sighed. “Grimes is on his way back to the island.”

  An image of Charlene popped into my head, from last Sunday, when she was snuggled up with McLaughlin at church. My stomach clenched.

  “Does Charlene know?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you’d break the news to her.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. Then I turned to my niece. “Can you hold down the fort for a while?”

  Gwen’s brown eyes were solemn. “As long as you need me to, Aunt Nat.”

  “I’m on my way to the scene,” said John, heading for the door. As his hand touched the knob, he stopped and turned back toward us. “Whatever you do, don’t let Charlene go to the rectory.”

  I cringed. “That bad?”

  “According to Emmeline, yes.”

  My mind recoiled at the thought of McLaughlin’s body on the freshly painted wood porch. I’d do my best.

  Twenty minutes later I stood on Charlene’s front doorstep, inhaling the chill autumn air and dreading the upcoming encounter. As my hand hovered over the doorbell, a cold breeze lifted a few dead leaves, sending them skittering along the front walk. Like bones rattling, my mind whispered.

  My finger had barely pressed the glowing button when Charlene opened the door, and a wave of Beautiful washed over me.

  Her smile faded when she registered me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  She wavered for a moment, then nodded shortly. I followed her across the dark hardwood floor of the entry hall to the living room and sat down on the edge of her chambray couch. She perched on a loveseat across from me, and a pang of sadness shot through me—both for the loss of Richard and for the distance he had created between us.

  “I don’t have long,” she said, crossing her jean-clad legs. The beaded fringe at the hem rattled as she swung a foot in irritation. “I’m meeting Richard in half an hour.”

  “Charlene.” I swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “What?” She tossed her head. “Cranberry Estates is going through?”

  “No.”

  Something in my voice caught Charlene’s attention.

  “What is it?” Her voice broke on the last syllable.

  “It’s Richard.” The words sounded as if they were coming from another planet. “He’s dead.”

  Charlene stared at me. “Dead? He can’t be dead. I talked with him this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlene.”

  She sprang up from the couch and lunged for the phone, her fingers shaking as she dialed. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight glanced across her caramel-colored hair as she clutched the handset to her ear, her eyes wide with fear. I don’t know who answered—if anyone did—but suddenly her face crumpled. I crossed the gap between us and caught her as she sank toward the floor.

  “Richard,” Charlene keened, rocking back and forth. Tears streaked down her face, and her body shuddered in my arms.

  “Come on,” I said gently. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

  “What happened?” she whispered as I guided her to the blue sofa.

  I squeezed her shoulders. Why did I have to be the one to tell her? “Somebody stabbed him.”

  She blinked. “Stabbed him?” Her hands rose to her mouth, and her face turned gray. “Oh, God. God, no. He was such a good man, a wonderful man... Why?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” I crooned, rocking my weeping friend. “I just don’t know.”

  “He was so alive, so vibrant. We were going out to dinner. He can’t be dead. He just can’t be.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, hugging her tight.

  ___

  I stepped out of Charlene’s house into a brisk, cold breeze a half hour later. Tania and her mother Clarice had come over to help Charlene pack and escort her to the inn; I’d invited her to stay with me for a few days, so she wouldn’t be alone, and after some persuading, she’d agreed.

  Once the initial shock wore off, Charlene’s first impulse was to drive to the rectory. We managed to dissuade her, but only after I promised I would do anything I could to find out who the killer was. “You figured out who killed Katz,” she said. “Please. Help me find out
what happened to Richard.” Her voice faltered, and the tears streamed down her face again. “I thought he was the one,” she whispered.

  I squeezed her tight and promised I’d do anything I could to help. Which was why I was now headed to the scene of the crime.

  As the bicycle rolled up the little driveway past the church, it didn’t seem possible that I had been to the rectory just that morning. A cluster of policemen crowded the front door. Only when one of them stepped down to retrieve something from his bag, revealing the crumpled form on the porch, did the reality sink in.

  Where the tuna-fish casserole had sat a few hours ago, Richard McLaughlin lay, one arm stretched toward the steps, his dark eyes vacant, his tanned skin pale. The collar of his red shirt was still crisp, but the fabric was stained almost black, and a river of blood extended almost to the front of the porch. My stomach heaved, and tears pricked my eyes.

  No wonder John wanted me to keep Charlene away.

  I parked the bike and walked over to the small group of bystanders—mostly women—that had collected on the driveway. Emmeline Hoyle, still clutching a foil-topped casserole, walked over to me as I approached.

  “Another tragedy,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I heard you were the one who found him,” I said.

  “Ayuh.” She clucked her tongue. “Some people think being handsome is a blessing, but it can also be a curse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She jerked her head toward the cluster of women. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of them done him in. Spurned love, and all.”

  “You think?”

  She nodded sagely. “Crime of passion.”

  I glanced at the body on the porch. Maybe she was right. It was so haphazard, unplanned; no attempt even to hide the body. I forced my eyes away from the red shirt, the pale skin. Poor Richard. And Charlene. My heart ached for my friend. “When did you find him?” I asked.

  “Oh, ’round about one o’clock,” she said.

  An hour after I left the rectory.

  “Did you see anyone?”

  She shook her head. “Whoever did it was long gone,” she said. “Although I would have thought poison, for a woman. Maybe it was a cuckolded husband.”

  “Maybe,” I said, trying to remember if I’d seen anyone when I left the rectory. I glanced around, looking for John, and asked Emmeline if she’d seen him.

  “He was here a few minutes ago, but I don’t know where he’s got to.”

  A familiar voice called to me from the porch. “Miz Barnes!”

  I turned to see Grimes sauntering down the steps. “Figured I’d see you here before long,” he said.

  He trundled up next to me, hitching his belt up over his belly. My nose wrinkled involuntarily at the smell of stale smoke.

  “Can’t keep away from dead bodies, can you?” he said.

  I straightened my spine. “What can I help you with?”

  He whipped out a notebook. “I hear the dead guy was close with one of your friends.”

  “He was dating Charlene Kean, yes.”

  “Know if they had any lovers’ spats lately?”

  I shook my head. “Not that she mentioned, no.”

  “Scuttlebutt is, you and she kind of fell out over her new boyfriend.”

  “Oh?”

  He glanced at the group of island women. “He seemed to be kind of a ladies’ man. Good-looking guy.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Where were you today?” Grimes asked, fixing me with close-set eyes.

  What was he getting at? “I was at the inn, of course. And later on, I stopped by Polly’s house to check on the cats.” I swallowed hard. “I also swung by the rectory for a few minutes.”

  “The rectory.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I guess around eleven thirty.” Which I knew was less than an hour before Emmeline found him. Which meant, I now realized, that I was probably the last person—other than his murderer—to see him alive.

  Slow as he was, Grimes looked like he’d picked up on that fact, too. “And why did you pick this particular morning to visit Rev. McLaughlin?”

  “I wanted to talk to him about Polly.”

  “Polly. The suicide out in the bog, right?”

  “He had been out to visit her a few times, and I thought he knew more than he was telling.”

  “Mmmm. So you came to talk about Polly. Did you happen to bring any cutlery with you?”

  “Cutlery?”

  He smirked. “I’d ask to take your prints, but we already got ’em on file. Don’t have your friend’s, though. Where does she live?”

  “She lives down by the store, but she’s going to spend a few days at the inn.”

  “You two seem to be getting a little friendly again,” he said.

  “Her boyfriend was just murdered,” I said tartly.

  “And now you two are all buddy-buddy again. Isn’t that nice?”

  “Where’s John?”

  “Your boyfriend? Oh, he’s around somewhere. What kind of knives do you use, Miz Barnes?”

  “Henkels,” I said. I remembered because they’d cost me a small fortune.

  He nodded. “I’ll send someone down to take a look at them.”

  “What?”

  “I think we’ll be doing a lot more talking in the near future, Miz Barnes. So if I were you, I wouldn’t plan any vacations. Or your friend, either.”

  “Are you saying I’m—I mean, Charlene and I—that we’re murder suspects?”

  He smiled like a Cheshire Cat. “Too soon to tell, Miz Barnes. But I hope you and your friend got some good lawyers.”

  Before I could come up with a response, John walked up behind him. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’ll let your girlfriend fill you in,” Grimes said. Then he hitched up his belt and swaggered back to the crime-scene team.

  John swept a hand through his sandy hair, and the crease between his eyes deepened. “Nat. What’s going on?”

  “Charlene and I are suspects.”

  His bushy eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “I was the last person to see him alive, probably. Grimes thinks it was a crime of passion, and figures I lost my temper with him.”

  “I don’t get it. If it’s a crime of passion, where do you come in?” He arched an eyebrow. “Unless you and Richard...”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right. Apparently Grimes heard that Charlene and I had a falling-out over McLaughlin. I got the impression he thinks I killed McLaughlin to smooth things over with Charlene.”

  John shook his head. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Try telling Grimes that,” I said. “Was it a Henkels knife that killed him?”

  He nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Something Grimes said. Just my luck. Charlene and I both use Henkels, and they’re sending someone over to check out my kitchen. Probably Charlene’s, too.” My throat closed up. “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “Charlene told me one of her knives was missing. God, what if it’s the same one?”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” John said soothingly. But I wasn’t. I glanced over at the group of islanders, who were staring at John and me. Emmeline smiled and nodded, her brown eyes glinting. “We should probably talk about this when we don’t have an audience,” I murmured. “Besides, Charlene’s headed over to the inn to stay a few days, and I need to get back and check on her.”

  “Probably not a bad idea. How’s she doing?”

  “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” I said. “How long are you going to have to stay here?”

  “I don’t know. As long as they need me.” He lea
ned forward and planted a quick kiss on the top of my head, and a swell of murmurs rose from the gaggle of islanders.

  “Why don’t you stop by when you’re finished here?” I said. “I’ll microwave some clam chowder.”

  “It’s better than another TV dinner.”

  I laughed. “Charlene made it, so you know it’s good.”

  He headed back toward the rectory, and I walked past the group of islanders to my bike. “He’s a handsome young man,” Emmeline said as I passed her.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, blushing.

  “Stop by sometime soon,” she said. “I’ve got a sampler design ready for you, and I copied out that banana bread recipe.” Her eyes glinted. I knew she was also anxious to show me the paths she had discovered.

  “Maybe I’ll swing by tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”

  “I’ll look for you. We’ll have a pot of tea!”

  The woman next to Emmeline tugged at her sleeve; the men on the porch were lifting McLaughlin into a black body bag. I turned my head away as his arm fell, dangling lifelessly, and caught a glimpse of a young girl in the undergrowth beyond the house. I saw a flash of blonde hair and a pink, tear-stained face. Then, with a rustle of leaves, she was gone.

  ___

  Charlene’s truck was in the driveway when I rode up to the inn a few minutes later. The sun was setting over the mainland, painting the hills crimson and gold. It was hard to believe a life had been cut short with such violence today, when everything around me was so beautiful, so serene.

  A gust of wind sent a shiver through me as I stowed the bike in the shed and hurried to the kitchen door. I glanced to the east, where a bank of gray clouds was rolling in from the water. Things were about to get a lot less serene; I hoped the investigators had time to gather all the evidence before the storm hit.

  Gwen and Charlene sat at the table, their hands cradling mugs of tea, as I closed the door behind me. Mascara streaked my best friend’s face, and her shoulders were slumped in her cashmere sweater.

  I slipped off my shoes and walked over to squeeze her shoulder.

  “How bad was it?” she croaked.