Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  “Thanks,” I said, heading for the door.

  “Will you come back?” Tania called after me.

  “As soon as I can,” I said. The bells above the door jingled as I pulled the door open and headed back out into the cold.

  ___

  My hands were almost frozen when the battered green door of the Cranberry Island School opened and a dozen kids tumbled through the door. Tiffany was last, along with another girl. I recognized her at once—it was her face I’d seen that day at the rectory.

  She was obviously willowy, even in her thick winter coat, and her pink cheeks and bright blue eyes radiated youth and innocence. A wave of tenderness rose in me as she bent down to retie her left shoe, her long limbs gawky, jeans a little too short, exposing a few inches of grayish sock. I hoped McLaughlin had done nothing to destroy that innocence.

  After exchanging a few words, the girls separated. I walked behind the thin blonde girl; as she turned to head toward Seal Point Road, I caught up with her.

  “Tiffany?”

  She whirled around, startled.

  “I’m Natalie Barnes,” I said, proffering an icy hand. She stared at it, then back at my face. “I run the Gray Whale Inn.”

  Her eyes were guarded. “What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk to you.”

  She shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “About what?”

  “Can I walk with you for a few minutes?”

  “If you want,” she said, and continued trudging along, eyes fastened to her worn sneakers.

  As we walked past the apple trees, I wondered for the hundredth time how to broach the subject of McLaughlin. I wasn’t comfortable talking to her without her parents—but I was afraid that if I didn’t, she wouldn’t tell me anything.

  “I saw you outside the rectory the other day.”

  Her head whipped around. “What?”

  “The day Rev. McLaughlin died,” I said softly. She was staring at the ground again, walking with purpose, as if she wanted to run away from me. Some of the pink receded from her cheeks.

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “He was nice,” she said. “My parents fight sometimes. He was the only one who listened...” She trailed off, and we walked in silence for a moment. “And now he’s gone.”

  We walked in silence for a moment longer. “I’m sorry,” I said finally. “It’s hard to lose someone who cares for you.”

  Tiffany nodded abruptly, wiping her nose with a worn blue glove.

  “How long had you been friends?”

  “Only for a month or two,” she said, sniffling. “Once or twice a week. I used to sneak out, after my parents thought I was asleep. I have to go home right after school—my mom needs me to help with my little brother, Charlie. And Mom and Dad... well, sometimes they don’t get along at night, and I just need somewhere to go...” She snuffled. “He was so nice. He always listened, told me it wasn’t my fault. He gave me hot chocolate, then told me I shouldn’t sneak out.”

  My throat constricted. Hot chocolate. Sneaking out at night. What had McLaughlin done?

  I swallowed hard. “You felt comfortable talking with him?”

  “Rev. McLaughlin was the best. He was going to talk to my parents, see if he could help.” She sniffed again. “When he died, it was just... just so awful. Who could have done such a horrible thing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “They took Tania’s aunt,” she said fiercely, staring straight ahead now. “They said she did it. But I don’t believe them. I saw him, and Miss Charlene loved him. She would never do that!”

  “I know she didn’t,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out who did. Do you know if anyone was angry with him?”

  She shook her head. “He was nice to everyone.”

  I took a deep breath. “He never... never made you feel uncomfortable, did he?”

  She glanced up at me, eyebrows high with surprise. “Who? Reverend McLaughlin?” She shook her head decisively. “Never.”

  There was no hesitation.

  Thank God.

  The breath I hadn’t realized I was holding shuddered out of my chest. Then I had another thought. A bad thought. “It sounds like you had a special relationship with him,” I said, straining to keep my voice casual.

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Did he ever help any of your other friends out?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  I thanked God again. Maybe for once the jury got it right, and McLaughlin wasn’t a loose cannon. I put my hand on Tiffany’s thin shoulder and squeezed it gently. “No reason.” The wind sent a flurry of leaves skittering by us as we walked past a stand of dark green pine trees. “You know,” I said slowly, “if you need someone to talk to, you can always come by the inn.”

  She lowered her head and kept walking, eyes glued to her scruffy sneakers.

  “I know it’s hard, when your parents fight. Mine did, sometimes.”

  Tiffany glanced up at me through a curtain of hair. “Really?”

  “Really. I know how hard it is, especially when you have no one to talk to.”

  She sighed, eyes back to her sneakers again. “I try to talk with Ginny about it, but she doesn’t get it. I mean, her family’s so happy-happy all the time.”

  “Come by sometime,” I said. “I’d love to talk. Besides, I make a mean hot chocolate.”

  “But my mom...”

  “Maybe I can talk to her. Tell her I’m teaching you to cook.”

  She pushed her hair behind her ears and smiled shyly at me. “That would be fun. Aren’t you the one who makes those cool cookies and brownies they sell at the store?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I don’t know if she’ll say it’s okay, but I’ll ask,” she said. “Can she call you if she says okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And if you want, I can always call her. Just tell Tania—she’ll let me know.”

  “Cool.”

  As another flurry of leaves shot past us, a shiver passed through me. My arms and legs had gone numb, and I wondered if I’d ever get warm again. “I should probably head back now before I freeze to death,” I said with chattering teeth, “but it’s been nice to meet you, Tiffany.” I proffered an icy hand.

  She took it this time, giving it a surprisingly firm shake. “You too, Miss Barnes.”

  “Call me Natalie.”

  “Okay.” She kicked at a stray leaf. “Natalie.”

  “Will you stop by soon?”

  “If my mother says it’s okay.”

  “I hope she does. I’d love to have you over sometime soon. And don’t worry about Charlene—we’ll get her out of there.”

  “Good,” she said, a smile tugging at her pale lips. “Tania was pretty upset. I guess I would be, too.”

  “Why don’t you hurry home and ask your mom when you can come up?”

  “I will. Thanks, Miss... I mean, Natalie!” Another shy smile glanced over me before Tiffany’s eyes returned to her sneakers. Then she burrowed her hands into her pockets, adjusted her backpack, and turned toward home.

  Despite the icy wind prying at my inadequate jacket, I watched her until she disappeared around a bend in the road. I had done nothing to help Charlene, and all my theories were blown to bits.

  But as I watched the thin girl in the puffy coat disappear behind a stand of scraggly spruce trees, I was glad.

  ___

  I turned the problem over again and again in my head as I hurried down the road toward the dock. Whoever had killed Polly had killed McLaughlin. I was almost sure of it. Polly had a number for the battered women’s shelter on her fridge, and was packing to take a tr
ip. McLaughlin knew something was wrong there, but wouldn’t tell me what.

  And now Charlene was in jail, and I didn’t even have a list of good suspects.

  An icy gust pressed against me as I pulled my jacket closer around me and tried to think. Who had a motive? Russell Lidell was paying off an environmental inspector to let his development go through. Polly refused to sell to him. Had he killed Polly—and then killed McLaughlin because he knew too much? But how did Russell end up with Polly’s gun? Unless she was using it to defend herself, and he turned it against her...

  And what about Murray Selfridge? Someone had taken that diary from me as I stood outside the rectory. Did McLaughlin figure out who J.S. must have been and confront him about the diary? Is that why Selfridge was funding the rectory renovations—to keep McLaughlin quiet? But that still didn’t explain who had killed Polly.

  It also didn’t explain who had tried to get into my kitchen the other night, or taken the bullets from Polly’s dresser after I talked with McLaughlin. It could, of course, have been McLaughlin... but why? Unless he told someone else about it...

  As I hurried past the darkened storefronts on the pier, I thought once again of the paths behind Polly’s house. Whoever had rifled Polly’s dresser hadn’t come by the road—I was sure of it. The paths could lead anywhere—including just a road, which would get me no closer to pinpointing the murderer. On the other hand...

  I clambered into the Little Marian, untied the ropes from the cleats and started the motor. The cold had seeped into my bones, and my fingers felt numb on the rudder. But instead of heading back to the inn, I turned the Little Marian toward Cranberry Point—and the bog that lay on the other side of the island.

  ___

  It was only as Polly’s little house came into view that I realized the flaw in my plan. I was only a few yards away from land—but there was nowhere to tie up the boat.

  I puttered past the bog, then turned around and went by again, searching for an old cleat or something that would let me tie up. Surely on an island like this, there would be plenty of places to tie up—after all, most people used to travel by boat, didn’t they?

  A cluster of rocks caught my eye, and after maneuvering past it a few times, I decided it was my best bet. I shouldered the Little Marian up alongside, wincing when the rocks grazed the white-painted side. Eliezer would kill me.

  I tossed the rope out with numb fingers, managing to lasso a rock on the third try. After an awkward couple of minutes during which I almost pitched face-first into the frigid water twice, I had managed to get the boat somewhat secured to a group of granite boulders. I clambered out of the boat and edged around the rocks toward the bog, trying to ignore the sound of grating wood behind me and wondering why I didn’t just go home, get a better coat, and walk down.

  Despite the near-freezing temperatures, the bog was mushy, and my feet sank into the spongy earth as I made my way toward Polly’s house. I tried to ignore the icy water seeping into my shoes, but couldn’t help questioning my sanity. Why exactly was I out here? I already knew the answer. Desperation.

  I was soaked halfway up my shins by the time I got to the lonely little house. The cats were smarter than I was, evidently—since none of them trotted over to meet me, I figured they were probably tucked up inside. I made my way past the back porch to the space between the spruce trees that marked the beginning of the nearest trail. Jamming my hands deeper into my pockets, I lowered my head and forged forward, away from the lonely little house that used to be Polly’s.

  The path closest to the house was narrow, but someone used—or had used—it regularly. A few saplings that had attempted to take a foothold had been trampled, and the wet ground was muddled with footprints. I could make out a man’s heavy boot, and a smaller print, a woman’s, probably. Did many people use this trail? It was a reasonable assumption, I supposed. It was cranberry season, after all.

  A few times, side trails broke off from the main path, but they were all overgrown, so I kept to the main track. After about twenty minutes winding through the trees, I spotted a break in the dark branches in front of me, and the glint of metal.

  I slowed, trying not to crunch leaves, and peered through the branches as I drew closer. The path didn’t lead to a road—it led to a house.

  Not a house, exactly. It was a run-down trailer, ringed with old appliances, lobster traps, and stacks of rotted cardboard. I had no idea where on the island I was—I’d never seen the place before. The cold forgotten, I crouched down in the undergrowth and crept closer. The windows were dark. The place looked deserted.

  I edged up toward the trailer and peered through one of the windows. A saggy couch littered with piles of clothes, dirty TV dinner trays on the small table in front of it, dozens of empty Miller beer cans. The curtains hung sideways, as if they’d been ripped off, and the paneled walls were pocked here and there with odd holes—indentations, almost.

  I sidled up to the next window, peeking in cautiously. The bedroom—a stained mattress, no sheets, and clothes heaped around the room’s perimeter. My eyes were drawn to a blue plaid shirt jumbled in the middle of the floor, and I shivered. Was it the same one my attacker had worn?

  More Miller High Life cans, an overflowing amber glass ashtray. My nose wrinkled in disgust. I stepped past a discarded mattress and tramped around to the side of the trailer. The place seemed to be empty. But something didn’t feel right.

  As I rounded the trailer, I noticed a small shed crouching in the undergrowth. A few old tires leaned up against the side of it, next to a rusting hulk that looked like it might once have been a refrigerator. The tiny derelict building looked forgotten—except for the muddy track leading from the trailer to the shed’s metal door. Whoever lived in the trailer made frequent trips to the shed. But why? My wet shoes squelched in the mud as I followed the path to the small metal building.

  There was one small window; unfortunately, it was situated above a tangle of raspberry brambles. I checked the door—it was padlocked. It would have to be the window, then.

  The thorns raked my hands as I pushed the leafless branches aside and stepped up to the window. Dozens of them caught at my jeans like sharp teeth, but every time I tried to dislodge one, three more took hold, so I hurriedly wiped some of the grime from the glass with my sleeve and peered in. The sooner I got out of here, the better.

  A jumble of tools and discarded junk littered the tiny interior, and a pile of clothes had been tossed into a corner. Nothing of any real value, from what I could see. So why the well-used track?

  As I surveyed the dim interior again, something moved in the pile of the clothes. I stepped back involuntarily, and a new batch of thorns nestled into my jeans. I quickly moved forward again, wincing. Probably a rat. I peered through the window again.

  It wasn’t a rat.

  It was a person.

  I pounded on the window. Whoever was locked in there must have been freezing—the temperature was in the forties, and there was no heat. “Hello! Hello in there!”

  The bundle of clothes twitched, and something like a face emerged from the huddle. The skin was mottled with livid bruises, and the eyes were so swollen only two narrow slits were visible.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed, my stomach heaving. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  But how? I ran through my options. Unless I could somehow destroy the lock, the door was out—it was metal. The window would be big enough—but I needed something to break it, and it didn’t look like the person inside the shed was in any condition to climb up and out.

  I needed help.

  “I’ll be right back,” I called. “I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to try to find a phone.”

  The figure nodded feebly as I pushed away from the window and headed back toward the trailer. There was a working phone in there somewhere, I hoped. I also hope
d whoever lived there took his or her time coming back.

  Although the shed was locked, the trailer door opened with no resistance, and the reek inside billowed out. The smell of rotted food and old beer was overpowering; I pressed the collar of my shirt to my nose and made my way through the trailer, searching for a phone. I found it next to a pile of moldy dishes in the kitchen sink.

  No dial tone.

  I slammed the receiver down. I’d have to traipse all the way back to Polly’s. I hated to leave the shed, but it was impossible to do anything without help. John probably had some bolt cutters that would deal with the padlock...

  But as I turned to leave the kitchen, the trailer door creaked open.

  My eyes darted around the room, searching for a place to squeeze into. No pantry, no kitchen table, no nook—nothing. Only a small partition separated me from whoever was in the living room.

  There was nowhere to hide.

  Weapon. I scanned the pile of filthy dishes in the sink. Heavy footsteps approached from the living room. Suddenly I saw it—a steak knife, coated with grease. I grabbed it just as the footsteps approached.

  I turned around and braced myself against the sink as they rounded the corner.

  It was Eddie O’Leary.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He was dressed in a dirty flannel shirt and holey jeans. His small eyes were flat and mean.

  I swallowed hard and tried to sound nonchalant. “I was down at the bog, picking cranberries. I got turned around and ended up here. I’m sorry I just came in—the door was unlocked, and I was trying to call the inn to tell them I’d be back late.”

  His eyes narrowed. Even over the reek of the kitchen I could smell him—body odor, dead fish, and something else—something rotten.

  “Where are the berries?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You said you were picking berries.”

  My hand started shaking. “I must have left them outside.”

  “Show me.”

  I swallowed again. “Okay. Fine.” I edged past him toward the door, still clutching the knife. Could I outrun him? I’d better—it was my only hope of getting out of here. I thought of the poor creature in the shed—probably Marge, I realized now. What had he done to her? My hands started to shake. What would he do to me?