Dead and Berried

by Karen MacInerney

  “Get in,” he said. When Marge didn’t listen, he pushed her, and she fell into the little skiff with a thud. I stepped in hurriedly to avoid being pushed, and almost fell down as I tripped over something unfamiliar. I caught my balance just in time and sat down hard on the wooden bench.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Lobster pots.”

  “Lobster pots?”

  He laughed again. A cold laugh. “Thought we might do a little lobstering.” He shone the beam on the two pots at my feet, and my stomach turned over. Now I knew what he meant when he said it was a one-way trip.

  The two traps were loaded with bricks.

  Panic roared through me as O’Leary stepped into the boat and fumbled with the engine. He was going to tie us to the traps and drown us. No bodies this time. My boat would be found, floating empty. And Marge? He could just say she disappeared.

  Who would know better?

  Maybe the motor won’t start this time, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut and praying. Please, God, let it not start.

  No luck. The engine roared to life on the first try. I closed my eyes and felt the cold wind on my face, gulping air. Death by drowning. I could already feel the icy water, the bursting lungs, the burn of water in my chest when I finally gave up...

  No.

  My hands were tied, but my feet weren’t. He hadn’t tied us to the traps yet. And I could swim.

  But could Marge?

  The engine thrummed behind me; we were headed out to sea. Marge was right next to me in the middle of the boat; I could feel her thigh pressed against mine. “Marge,” I whispered.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Marge!”

  She grunted.

  “Can you swim?” I hissed.

  She was silent for a moment. Then she whispered back so quietly it was almost swallowed by the wind. “No.”

  Damn. How could I leave her here? I scanned the black water for a light, for signs of another boat. Nothing.

  O’Leary gunned the engine harder, and the nose tipped up a bit more. The little skiff was low in the water, not built for the weight of three people and a load of bricks. On the plus side, I thought grimly, it would be lighter on the way home.

  Stop it, Nat.

  I needed to think. Marge couldn’t swim, but if one of us didn’t try to escape, we were both sure to die. If only there were another boat...

  I strained my eyes, looking ahead into the blackness. Nothing. I kept waiting, dreading the moment when O’Leary would cut the engine, but the boat kept moving further from the island. Suddenly I caught a glimmer of something. It disappeared, then sparked again.

  Another boat?

  O’Leary hadn’t seen it—we kept moving toward it. Soon, it was more visible—a blotch of white and a pinprick of red. Another boat, headed right into our path.

  Only now I wasn’t the only one that had seen it. O’Leary slowed the engine and shifted course, away from the light.

  It was now or never.

  “I’m going to get help,” I whispered to Marge. Then I lurched to the side and flopped headfirst into the icy water.

  The cold took my breath away. I struggled to push my head above the water. The boat was turning around now. I searched the horizon for the light—there it was, a glimpse of it, not far off. The thrum of the skiff’s engine roared behind me, and a bright light skimmed over me, then doubled back, focusing on my head. He was using the flashlight to search for me.

  I gulped for air and dove down, feeling the bottom of the boat slam against my foot as I plunged into the inky water. When I couldn’t hold my breath anymore, I pushed back up, my clothes dragging me down in the water. Better than a lobster trap. But how long could I survive?

  My head burst through the water’s surface again. My foot was injured, but I could still kick. My head was throbbing, the cold was already numbing my legs, and my lungs were struggling, weakened by the kicks O’Leary had dealt me earlier. I didn’t know how long I could hold on.

  As I treaded water, panting, the flashlight found me again. The skiff was turning around for another run. I sucked in as much air as possible and dove down again, kicking with as much force as I could muster.

  The boat roared overhead again, but this time I was deep enough to avoid being hit. When I struggled to the surface for the third time, I heard another sound—a lower thrum than the Little Marian. The other boat.

  “Help!” I cried, choking as a wave cut off the word. I sputtered, then yelled again. “Help! Over here!”

  The flashlight beam swung toward me, and the skiff turned again. I glanced in the direction of the low thrum—there it was, a red light. And a green one. Coming toward me.

  Then the Little Marian roared up behind me. I dove, my body numb with cold, but O’Leary was faster. A loud crack exploded in my head.

  And then I drifted away.

  ___

  “Natalie?”

  I struggled up through the depths, seaweed clawing at my feet. Light, up above me... had to get to it...

  “She moved!”

  It was Charlene’s voice.

  Charlene? Where was I? I opened my eyes to a square of bluish light. And Charlene, bending over me.

  “Where am I? Am I in jail with you?” Marge. What happened to Marge? I struggled to sit up. “Marge. He’s got Marge.”

  “Marge is fine,” she said. “And neither of us is in jail. Now settle down, or they’re going to shoo me out of here.”

  A moment later, a flurry of nurses burst through the door.

  “She’s out of the coma,” Charlene said.

  “That’s great news! I’ll tell the doctor,” a woman’s voice said. Charlene squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back.

  As the nurses bustled about the machines flanking the bed, I closed my eyes and sank back into the pillows, letting it all sink in. Marge was okay. “It was him,” I told Charlene. “O’Leary. He killed them. Polly and Richard. And he was the one who went after the lobsterman, too. The one in the hospital.”

  “We know. The police have him in custody.”

  “This isn’t the time for this,” said a reproving voice. “She just came out of a coma.”

  “Sorry,” Charlene mumbled.

  I opened my eyes again. My right temple throbbed, and Charlene swam in and out of focus under the glare of the lights. I closed my eyes again. “How... what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story later—you need to rest now. The coast guard found you. They were out looking for whoever was cutting the lines. They saw the flashlight and went over to investigate. Nearly ran over you.”

  “And Marge?”

  “She was still in the boat. With those awful traps.” A shudder passed through me as I remembered the brick-filled lobster pots on the bottom of the boat. If I hadn’t dived into the water, I’d be at the bottom of the ocean right now—tied to one of them. And no one would ever know.

  “But Marge is fine,” Charlene said, squeezing my hand again. “You rest now. I’ll be here. When you’re up to it, we’ll talk some more.”

  “Okay,” I said, allowing my focus to drift. Marge was okay. And O’Leary was in custody. I could sleep now.

  I was safe.

  ___

  I don’t know how long I slept, but the next time I woke up, John was sitting next to the bed.

  I smiled weakly at him. “Hi.”

  His green eyes were soft with concern. “How are you doing?”

  “Much better now, thanks. How’s the inn?”

  He laughed. “You almost end up at the bottom of the ocean, get hit by a boat, end up in a coma... and you want to know how the inn is?”

  I laughed, then stopped when it hurt.

  “Shouldn’t do that,” he said
. “Ribs cracked.”

  “O’Leary,” I said. “He kicked me. Marge, too.”

  He nodded curtly, his face suddenly hard. “I wish you’d told me where you were going. Taken me with you.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said. He gripped my hand and squeezed it tightly. I tried to make my voice light. “Now, how about the inn?”

  “Well, I found your ghost.”

  “Annie?”

  His sandy eyebrows rose. “I guess you could name her Annie. She looks more like a masked bandit to me, though. Maybe Bonnie—you know, for Bonnie and Clyde?”

  “A masked bandit?”

  He grinned at me. “It was a raccoon. Got into the space between the attic and the ceiling of your bedroom. Even got into the heating system, and figured out how to get into the kitchen.”

  “The pantry...”

  “Exactly.”

  I started to giggle again, until a lance of pain in my ribs stopped me. “So all that time, when I was convinced there was a ghost, it was actually a raccoon.”

  He nodded.

  “But the diary...”

  “What diary?”

  I shifted against the pillows, trying to make myself more comfortable. “The diary I found at the rectory. There was a murder in the inn. Jonah Selfridge did it.” I tried to prop myself up a bit. John reached out and pressed the button to make the head of the bed rise. “Didn’t they find it at O’Leary’s house?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I know of. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t think anything of it. They know who killed Polly—and McLaughlin.” His mouth was a grim line. “The Selfridges had nothing to do with it.”

  An alarm bell went off somewhere in my head. Selfridge. Cranberry bog. Polly’s house. “John. I need to tell the police something else.”

  “There will be plenty of time for that when you’re better. Marge has given the police enough information...”

  “It’s not about that. It’s about the development. Russell Lidell paid off the environmental assessor.”

  To my surprise, John just nodded. “No need to worry. Emmeline already sounded the alarm. The deal is dead. They fired the environmental guy, and are going to press charges.”

  “Emmeline blew the whistle?”

  “Seems she didn’t want a new subdivision right down the road. Speaking of new subdivisions, I’ve been doing a little investigating of my own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those rectory renovations? They seemed a little steep to me. I’ve been asking around... since McLaughlin was so buddy-buddy with Selfridge, I wondered if there might not be something there.”

  “You were investigating, too?”

  “On the quiet,” he said. “Anyway, what I found out is that Murray Selfridge was kicking in for the repairs... in exchange for McLaughlin supporting the development.”

  “I figured as much,” I said. “How much?”

  “A hundred grand,” he said.

  “Wow. He really wanted that development, didn’t he?”

  “By the way, Emmeline told me to tell you she’s got a new cranberry bread recipe for you to try. Once you’re well again, that is.”

  “Speaking of that, how long are they planning on keeping me here?”

  “I was wondering when you’d get to that question.” He stood up. “Why don’t I go get the nurse?”

  “Wait just a moment,” I said.

  “What?” He turned to face me, looking totally out of place and completely irresistible.

  “Come here.”

  As he approached the bed, I reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him toward me.

  He paused. “But what about your ribs?”

  “As long as you don’t make me laugh, I think they’ll be just fine.”

  ___

  It was four days before they let me go back to the inn. As Charlene and John helped me up the steps to the front door, I realized I hadn’t heard anything about my ex-fiancé. Or Candy and Cliffside, for that matter. Or, it occurred to me suddenly, the insurance company.

  “Did Allstart ever call about the damage?”

  As Charlene swung open the door, the smell of fresh-cut wood greeted me, and two workers smiled at us over a pile of boards. “They authorized the work the day you went into the hospital. I talked Candy into calling the insurance company, and she convinced them it was an accident. They’re paying for everything.”

  “What about the guests?”

  “They all checked out.”

  “Candy?” I swallowed. “And Benjamin?”

  “There’s a letter in the kitchen for you,” Charlene said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  They led me to the kitchen and settled me into a chair. Then Charlene glanced at John. “Why don’t we check out the upstairs?” she said.

  “Good idea,” he answered. With a last glance at me, he followed her out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with my letter.

  My name was on the front of it, in Benjamin’s bold script. I opened it carefully and unfolded it.

  Dearest Natalie,

  I’m sorry to have barged into your life again, and I hope you will forgive me for causing any further upheaval. You have created a wonderful place up here, and it was wrong of me to ask you to change your life just to suit me. I’ve asked too much of you. It is time for me to bow out and let you live your own life.

  If you’re ever in Austin, please look me up. I’d love to have dinner with you, just for old times’ sake...

  Love always,

  Benjamin

  Tears welled up as I folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. I was sad, but at the same time a feeling of peace, of resolution, flooded through me. I knew it wasn’t right with Benjamin. We weren’t meant for each other.

  But what had prompted him to leave?

  Someone knocked lightly at the kitchen door.

  I wiped my tears away quickly and said, “Come in!”

  It was Charlene. “What did the letter say?”

  I pushed it across the table toward her. “Go ahead and read it.”

  She gave me a lopsided smile. “I already did,” she admitted. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sad, of course... things weren’t good between us, but I did love him... but happy, too. It was the right thing.” I wiped at my eyes again. “The thing is, why did he change his mind?”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to like this...”

  In a flash, I understood. “It was Candy, right?”

  She nodded. “They’re opening up an inn together in Austin. I’m not sure if they’re engaged, but they’re headed in that direction.”

  “So she’s not opening a rival inn down the street?”

  “Nope. She’s decided to move to Texas.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Thank God.”

  Charlene blinked. “What?”

  “It’s a perfect solution! My two problem guests have moved to Austin together, and now I’ll have the island to myself. Besides, they deserve each other. He can’t cook, and she doesn’t eat.”

  Charlene stared at me for a long moment. Then she began to laugh. A giggle bubbled up in me, too, but the pain in my rib twinged in protest.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” I said.

  “Sorry,” she gasped. “But I can’t help it.”

  I couldn’t either. And that’s how John found us when he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later—doubled over, sobbing with laughter—and pain.

  ___

  Richard McLaughlin’s memorial service was on a Tuesday evening. Although his family had claimed his body and buried him in his hometown in Pennsylvania, Charlene insisted on a memorial service on the island.

  The little church was fragrant
with lilies and carnations, and the reedy voice of the skinny young minister couldn’t have been any further from the dulcet tones of Reverend McLaughlin. John sat to my left, an arm around my shoulder. Charlene was on my right; I squeezed her hand as islander after islander stood to give testament to the reverend’s good deeds. Gary Sarkes, thankfully, was not among the speakers.

  I had run into Eliezer just before the service, and he’d passed on some good news. Now that the development had been scuttled, the development company had agreed to sell the house to Claudette’s long-lost son so that the family could come up and visit more often. I was glad Polly’s house would stand where it always had—and perhaps play a new role in helping a family grow closer together. But what about the cats? I still needed to find homes for them—except for Pepper, who had been adopted by Charlene, and the big tabby Emmeline had taken under her wing—but I knew the islanders would find a way.

  I nodded as Tiffany Jeans walked up and stood behind the pulpit, her young voice trembling as she spoke. Richard McLaughlin hadn’t been here long, but he had made a difference in people’s lives. I leaned back in my pew and closed my eyes, saddened by the island’s loss—two good people, gone because of one evil man—and praying this would be the last memorial service I’d attend for a long, long while.

  As we filed out of the church into the gusty darkness, I offered to stay with Charlene. She smiled sadly and shook her head. “I need some time. Alone.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  She dropped John, Gwen, and me off at the inn a few minutes later. John gave me a last hug and headed for the carriage house, and Gwen and I hurried inside, closing the door tight against the chill wind. Another storm was coming.

  Gwen headed up to take a bath while I put the kettle on for a cup of chamomile tea. As I pulled a tea bag out of the box, a strong smell of roses swept over me, and a prickle rose up my back. I dropped the tea bag and turned around.

  There, at the base of the stairs, stood a pale young woman in a long dress, her hair streaming over her shoulders.

  “Annie,” I whispered, feeling a pang of loss. The diary with the proof—I’d had it, but now it was gone. And now only I knew the story of what had really happened.

  As if hearing my thoughts, she looked at me and smiled, raising her right hand in a gesture of—was it thanks?