Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  We hung up a moment later. As I closed the bag of candy canes and reached for a mallet, my eyes were drawn to the painting-like scene outside my window. The snow-dusted pines looked the same, but the buoyant feeling of contentment I’d felt less than an hour ago had collapsed faster than a soufflé in a breeze.

  TWO

  THE CRANBERRY ISLAND STORE was decked out with Christmas lights twinkling in the windows and a fragrant Balsam wreath on the front door when I pulled up outside in my van an hour later, parking between a battered green pickup truck and a white sedan with only three doors; the fourth had been replaced with black plastic and duct tape. Despite the ominous letter waiting for me, I grinned as I put the van into park. If the vehicle inspectors ever opened an office on Cranberry Island, 75 percent of the cars would fail.

  I stepped out into the cold air and hurried up onto the porch. The rosebushes—or what was left of them after Muffin and Pudge, the island’s resident goats, had had their way with them—were dusted with snow, and as usual, the mullioned windows were covered with local notices. Jingle bells rang as I pushed the door open, a basket of cookies in my arms and a giant knot in my stomach.

  Eleazer White, the local boatwright and husband of Claudette, the Winter Knitters’ organizer, was ensconced on one of the big floral couches in the front of the store, sipping a big mug of what looked like hot chocolate. Despite my sense of impending doom, I found myself smiling; Claudette tried to keep Eli on a strict no-sugar diet, but I was guessing neither the hot chocolate nor the mound of whipped cream on top of it were sweetened with Splenda.

  “Hi there, Eli!”

  “Good morning, Miss Natalie,” he said with a semi-toothless grin. “How’s the new skiff treating you?”

  Although it had been three years since he’d given me the Little Marian, the dinghy I used to get back and forth from the mainland in fair weather, he still inquired after her every time. I loved the fact that he viewed the boats he’d worked on almost as children. Anxious as I was to rip open the letter Charlene had called to tell me about, I decided to stop for a moment. I hadn’t seen Eli in several weeks, and he was one of my favorite people.

  “Just fine, although she could probably use a fresh coat of paint.”

  “Bring her by, and we’ll take care of it before spring.” His eyes strayed to the basket in my hands. “What goodies do you have today?”

  “Candy Cane Chocolate Sandwich Cookies,” I said, turning back the cloth napkin I’d covered them with and offering him one.

  “You won’t tell Claudette?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

  “I won’t breathe a word,” I said as he took a cookie from the basket and dunked it into his hot chocolate. His eyes closed in sugar-fueled bliss as he chewed the first bite. “Do you like it?” I asked. “It’s a new recipe.”

  “It’s a keeper,” he said, then took another bite.

  “I’ll tell Claudette to save a few for the grandkids,” I said. Claudette’s son, whom she had given up for adoption forty-five years earlier and recently reconnected with, had moved to the island with his wife and two children only a few months ago. “How is it having family in town?”

  Some of the twinkle faded for a moment, but he responded with a smile. “The children are grand. I’m teaching Zoey and Ethan how to fish, and Claudette’s got them finger-knitting already.”

  “Are they liking the new teacher at the school?” Sara Bennett, a fresh-faced young teacher with lots of big ideas, had just started in the fall, moving to the island from Bangor. Her partner, Terri, was a lobsterman who still worked with her father out of Southwest Harbor. Although a few on the island, including our select-woman, Ingrid Sorenson, had had their feathers ruffled when they learned Sara was gay, I had heard nothing but good things about her teaching. Several parents had pulled their children from school during the prior teacher’s five-year reign, but Charlene told me at least four families had reenrolled since Sara had come to the island—good news for the little school’s chances of survival.

  “They love it, except when there’s homework.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Just between you and me, though, their mum isn’t taking to the island too well. Some days she’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but most days she stays in bed and won’t eat, or even look at her young’uns. If it weren’t for Claudie, Ethan and Zoey wouldn’t make it to school until lunchtime.”

  “That sounds tough for everyone,” I said. “Could it be depression? Some people are susceptible to it when the seasons change …”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I do worry.”

  “Natalie! Bring those cookies over here before Eli finishes them off!”

  Charlene’s voice reminded me of the letter that was hanging over my head like a proverbial axe. I offered the basket to Eli, and he snagged two more. “I’ll check in with Claudette this afternoon,” I promised as I flipped the napkin back into place.

  “I’d much appreciate it,” Eli said. “I want to help, but I don’t know how.”

  I wasn’t sure I knew how to help, either, but at least I could provide a listening ear. As he balanced a short stack of the cream-filled cookies, I hurried toward the back of the store.

  Charlene was holding court behind the counter, where two lobstermen, Ernie and Rob, were sharing a “mug-up.” Ernie looked as cheerful as ever; he was always a jovial man, full of jokes and stories. Rob, on the other hand, was quiet and reserved. He looked haggard today, as if he hadn’t slept in some time. Rather like Gwen, in fact. I wondered what was troubling him.

  “Come bring those cookies to the back,” Charlene said, motioning me behind the counter. She wore a fuzzy purple cashmere sweater that set off her ample curves, and her manicured fingernails were painted a coordinating shade of lilac. She smoothed a strand of caramel-colored hair from her eyes as she opened the door to the back room. Like most of the island’s lobstermen, Ernie watched Charlene’s every move. Rob, on the other hand, seemed too distracted by whatever his troubles were to notice my friend as she sashayed past. I said a brief hello to both men and followed her through the door to the back room.

  “Here it is,” she said, thrusting the envelope at me as soon as I’d closed the door behind me.

  “Take these,” I said, handing her the basket as I tore open the envelope. The words FORECLOSURE NOTICE were printed in bold across the top of the page. I felt faint.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlene said.

  “They’re threatening to foreclose on the inn,” I said.

  “What do you mean, they’re going to foreclose on the inn?” Charlene asked, a furrow forming between her plucked brows. “You just refinanced three months ago!”

  “The letter’s from the old mortgage company,” I said, still in a fog. How could this be possible? “It says I haven’t paid in three months. But I have paid—on the new note. I don’t understand.”

  “You have a new mortgage, right?”

  “Exactly. I’ve made all the payments since the changeover. I even paid extra.”

  “And you haven’t gotten any previous notices?”

  “There was a notice a month ago, but the attorney told me they just hadn’t recorded the payoff yet, and that he was handling it.”

  “I’m sure it’s a clerical error, Natalie. A few phone calls should get things squared away,” Charlene said, although she didn’t sound convinced. “You’re not the only one, though. Someone else got an envelope just like that recently; I can’t remember who, though. I didn’t think about it at the time.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said. The words on the page seemed to swim as I stared at them.

  “They say I owe $15,000 immediately,” I said, my voice husky. Where was I going to come up with $15,000? And what had happened to the payments I’d been making since September? The words on the page were like physical blows. Thirty days to pay. After that, I’d owe the balance of the mortgage, or the inn would be auctioned off. The business I’d worked so hard to build
, my life savings, my home—even, I realized, John’s carriage house—all of it would belong to somebody else. I’d be broke, homeless, and out of a job.

  “Natalie,” Charlene said, putting her hands on my shoulders. She smelled like lilacs, and despite the dire news on the paper in my hands, I found myself thinking how impressive it was that she’d even managed to color coordinate her perfume. “If you’re in a pinch, I’m sure John can help out.”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I said. Even though we were going to be married soon, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable asking for help that way. “But I shouldn’t need help. I’ve been making payments. I’ve got the bank statements to prove it.”

  “I’m sure everything will be fine, then,” Charlene said, a forced chipperness in her voice. “It’s probably a miscommunication between the new company and the old one. Didn’t Murray’s buddy Lloyd Forester handle the closing?” Murray Selfridge was one of the island’s wealthiest residents—and also the one most intent on turning the island into the next Kennebunkport. Murray and I had crossed sabers more than once in the past over our differences in vision for the little island we called home.

  “Yes, but I didn’t hire him because he’s Murray’s friend,” I said. “He’s got a good reputation despite that.”

  “Do you want to borrow a phone and call the attorney here?” Charlene glanced at the door to the store. “I’ll close the door and go up front; no one will hear you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes,” I repeated, more firmly. “I won’t be able to think straight until I get this cleared up.”

  “Go right ahead,” she said. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee. Heck, I’ll make you an Irish coffee. You look like you need it.”

  All the Irish coffee in the world wasn’t going to get rid of the foreclosure notice, but I smiled at my friend, who I knew was trying to help. “Thanks.”

  Her carefully made-up eyes softened. “I’m here if you need me.”

  She gave me a quick hug and bustled out to the front, leaving me standing alone among the boxes of canned goods and a bag of unsorted mail, the receiver of the store’s ancient Bakelite phone in my hand.

  _____

  Charlene was waiting for me when I emerged from the back room a few minutes later, feeling as if I’d just been mugged.

  “Oh, Natalie,” she murmured.

  “It’s fine,” I said, too heartily.

  The two fishermen paid Charlene, stretched, and walked to the door, leaving a faint but pungent scent of herring in their wake. Ernie cast me a speculative look, but I smiled bravely, even though it felt more like a rictus than a smile. When they were gone, I sank down onto a stool.

  “What happened?” Charlene asked.

  “The old mortgage company never got the payoff. I gave them all the information about the new loan, but they have no record of it.”

  Charlene’s lilac-lined eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. What did the attorney say?”

  “He didn’t,” I said bitterly. “His receptionist said he’s out in Colorado on a ski trip. Won’t be back until next week.”

  “He has a cell phone, doesn’t he?”

  “Apparently they’re in an area that doesn’t receive service.”

  Charlene snorted. She had just drawn a breath to tell me something when the front door jingled. We both turned to watch two people walk in whom I had never seen before.

  One was a stick-thin young woman in a trench coat, with dark glasses and a black fur pillbox hat that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Jackie Kennedy. Next to her, one arm placed possessively over her shoulders, was a balding, portly man in a black boiled wool coat and a brightly patterned silk scarf. He looked old enough to be her father.

  “It’s our local luminaries,” Charlene murmured before greeting them with a cheery hello.

  The man steered the young woman up to the counter. “I’m Mortimer Gladstone, and this is the artist Nina Torrone. We just moved to the island. The house with the turret, near the dock.”

  I had to suppress a chuckle; he spoke as if Charlene hadn’t known for weeks. They would soon get a crash course in island communication. Cell phones might not work on the island, but news traveled at lightning speed even without the benefit of technology.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Charlene Kean, and this is my friend Natalie Barnes, our local innkeeper.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, giving me a quick nod. “We’re just stopping in to see if there’s any mail.”

  “So, you moved into the old Katz place? Pretty house,” Charlene said with one of her spellbinding smiles. Despite the arm slung over his young companion’s shoulders, I could see him respond, just as all the other men on the island did, but the woman beside him kept her head down, as if she were a shy young child. I studied her surreptitiously. She had good bone structure—what I could see of it—and olive-colored skin, which made sense with her Italian surname. Her lips were thin, in contrast to her rounded cheeks and chin, and she wore her dark hair bobbed. When she noticed me watching her, she looked away, apparently uncomfortable with scrutiny. I wondered if that was the reason for the big glasses.

  “It suits our needs, at least for the present,” Gladstone responded to Charlene, smiling. I turned my attention to him, and noticed his somewhat bulbous nose was purpled by the broken capillaries that often resulted from a drinking problem. He was probably in his late fifties, and despite his expensive scarf and immaculate wool coat, he gave off an air of dissipation. I found myself wondering about their relationship. I had heard he was the young artist’s agent, but didn’t realize he had moved to the island with her. Was it possible that they were lovers?

  “I understand you’re quite a celebrity in the art world,” Charlene said, smiling at the young woman.

  “Yes, yes she is,” Gladstone said, as if the young artist weren’t standing right next to him. “That’s why I’ve whisked her off to Cranberry Island. Found a house with suitable light and plenty of solitude. The paparazzi were making it impossible even to stop for a cup of coffee!” He paused for a moment, then asked again, “Is there any mail for us?”

  “Let me look,” Charlene said, turning to inspect the mail cubbies behind the counter. A moment later, she pulled out a large manila envelope, glanced at the address, and held it out to Nina. “Big envelope from New York for you,” she said.

  “Fan mail,” Gladstone said quickly, reaching out and grabbing the envelope. The young artist made no move to stop him. He tucked it under his arm without looking at it. “Thank you; good to know things are being forwarded. Well, we must be off.”

  “Looking forward to the party tomorrow,” Charlene said, and smiled at the woman in the hat. “Everybody’s dying to meet you, Nina.”

  The artist gave a faint smile, but it was her agent who answered.

  “Ah, yes,” Gladstone said. “The big bash. Well, Ms. Torrone is not a fan of crowds, but we’ll stop by for a while.”

  “Fernand would be disappointed if you didn’t,” I said. “So would my niece, Gwen—she’s working on a show of her own right now, and I’m sure she’d love the chance to talk to you.”

  “Right.” Gladstone gave Charlene a last brief smile, then steered the young woman toward the front of the shop. “Thank you for the mail. I’m sure we’ll drop by again soon.” The door jangled behind them as they left.

  “Now that’s an interesting pair,” Charlene said, watching them as they turned up the hill.

  “Not a big talker, is she?” I asked.

  “When does she get the chance?”

  “Good point. Do you think they’re …”

  “Together?” Charlene shrugged one cashmere-clad shoulder. “Probably. He seemed very possessive.”

  “And a bit posh. Makes me wonder why they chose to move to Cranberry Island in the middle of winter?”

  “It does seem odd,” Charlene said. “Moving in summer would be a different story—although I would have guessed Martha’s Vineyard would
be more up his alley. Old money and expensive restaurants.” She raised her plucked eyebrows. “Maybe there’s a scandal.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re lovers, and there’s a huge age difference.”

  “Like that matters these days,” I said.

  “Maybe she’s married. Or maybe he’s married.”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I’d never heard of her before last week.”

  Charlene rubbed her hands together. Whatever their secrets were, I knew, they would not stay hidden for long. “I’ll have to see what I can dig up.”

  I laughed. “If Nina Torrone moved here for privacy, she’s going to be in for a surprise.”

  THREE

  “THINK THEY’LL BE WANTING a boat?” The question came from the front of the store; we’d both forgotten about Eli. “They look like they could afford a nice one.”

  “I don’t know, Eli.” Frankly, I suspected that the odd duo would not find island life to their liking—and would probably be gone long before boating season. “But if they are,” I said, “I know who I’ll tell them to call.”

  “Speaking of calling, shouldn’t you be calling in on the knitting ladies around now?” he asked.

  “Shoot—I almost forgot!” I grabbed the basket, which I had left on the front counter.

  “You’re taking all of those with you?” Charlene looked aghast.

  “Here,” I said, pulling back the napkin. “Take a few. They’ll never know.”

  Charlene took five and Eli took two more before, with a much-lightened load, I hurried back out of the store and into my van, trying to leave my worries about the mortgage company behind me. It didn’t work, but it was worth a try.

  _____

  It had started snowing again when I closed the van door behind me and hurried up to Claudette’s front door. Next to the small, wood-framed house was the barn that operated as Eleazer’s boatwright shop. It was closed up tight against the weather, but a variety of old boats still dotted the yard, looking like sleeping animals under their blankets of snow. A fierce gust of wind dashed snow into my face, and I huddled down into my coat as I rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer.