Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  Too far-fetched, I decided.

  “Anyway, I’d better go and get to work,” my niece said as I stared into the distance, cookie tin in hand. Her words brought me back to the task at hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to take the canvases over to the mainland tomorrow. It’s time to start framing them.”

  “Will you be alone?”

  “Adam will be there,” she said.

  “Good.” I didn’t like the idea of her being at the studio alone. “It sounds like you have enough paintings, then.”

  “I guess.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how good they are, but they’re done.”

  “Take the watercolors, too,” I suggested.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, and pushed through the door into the dining room. I glanced at the clock; I knew John was taking the doll and the wool to the mainland today, and talking to Detective Penney about his suspicions regarding Fernand’s death. I’d have to ask about the case—and the doll—when he got back that evening.

  I closed the tin on the cookies and grabbed my cleaning supplies, since I had volunteered to do room clean-up today. I headed toward Frederick’s room first; since he was at the rectory, I knew I wouldn’t be disturbing him. I knocked out of habit, then let myself in with the skeleton key.

  FIFTEEN

  ALTHOUGH HIS APPEARANCE WAS neat, his room was messy, with clothes strewn everywhere. I tidied quickly; despite the clothes draped over the counter and heaped on the floor, there wasn’t much work. There was a bottle of scotch in the bathroom, on the corner of the counter. I thought again of the glass in Fernand’s room, and the footprints leading to and from the water. I hurried to the wardrobe and picked up one of Frederick’s shoes. He was a men’s size 11; I’d have to compare it with what John had found. I didn’t want to believe Frederick had done it, but I couldn’t rule it out, either.

  When I got to Irene’s room, she was gone, too. I hoped she hadn’t decided to visit the rectory, I thought as I closed the door behind me and set down my cleaning supplies.

  Like her brother, Irene was very tidy. Although she hadn’t made her bed, her clothes were neatly hung in the wardrobe, and her toiletries and medicines were lined up on the back of the counter. Two of them were prescription medications: Xanax and Ativan. She must suffer from anxiety, I thought to myself. Interesting: I wouldn’t have guessed it from meeting her. The laptop was gone, but on the cherry desk was a short stack of papers. I resisted the urge to page through them, but was surprised at what lay on top of the stack.

  It was a punch card for the Cranberry Island mail boat. She’d only arrived yesterday, but it had been punched seven times.

  I stared at the card, thinking of the implications. Fernand might have been estranged from his family, but he’d been in contact with his sister—or at least his sister had been to the island. When? Why? I wished I had a picture to show to George McLeod, the mail boat captain. Had she come secretly the night he died, waiting for him to pass out from the scotch and then slitting his wrists when he slept?

  It still didn’t explain the footsteps leading to and from the water, though. Whose were they? Had two people visited Fernand the night he died—and only one killed him?

  I walked through the room once more, making sure everything was in order, before heading up to the second floor and Catherine’s room.

  She answered as soon as I knocked, only cracking the door open.

  “Hello, Natalie.”

  “I was just going to clean your room, if that’s okay,” I said.

  “No, no. No need,” she said, peering through the slit in the door. “I’ll take care of it. I’m glad you’re here, though; I was hoping you could drive me over to our old summerhouse this afternoon.”

  I took an involuntary step back. “I’ve got my knitting group, but I suppose I could take you after that,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “It’s Cliffside, of course.” She gave me a tight smile. “Didn’t John tell you?”

  I shook my head, surprised. I knew John had visited the island as a kid, but he’d never mentioned where he’d stayed; I’d assumed it was one of the small houses not far from the pier. Then again, with his attorney father and society mother, it made sense. “I’m not sure Torrone and her agent will want you to come in, though.”

  She waved my concerns aside. “Oh, I’ll talk them into it. Just let me gather my things and I’ll meet you downstairs. When are we leaving?”

  “In about twenty minutes,” I said, dreading the prospect of an afternoon with Catherine. Struggling with yarn was bad enough without my critical mother-in-law on the scene. At least I had an excuse to avoid the knitting, I thought, thinking of the bandage on my hand.

  I had gathered my knitting and slipped the tin of cookies into a bag when Catherine appeared in the doorway. She had added a string of pearls to her ensemble, along with a liberal dose of a powdery scent.

  “Oh, silly me. I forgot my crocheting!”

  As she turned and disappeared behind the door, I jammed one of the frozen cookies into my mouth and chewed hard, then swallowed and followed it with another one. I drew the line at three and brushed the crumbs off my sweater, then stretched plastic wrap over the remaining cookies. At least there would be other people, I told myself. I wouldn’t have to carry the conversation alone.

  Still …

  It was a good fifteen minutes before Catherine reappeared with a dainty cloth bag and a black wool coat. “I’m ready when you are!” she trilled. I snuck another cookie from beneath the plastic wrap and followed her out the door to the van. At the rate I was going, I’d be wearing muumuus for Christmas.

  _____

  It was a quiet ride to Claudette’s house—at least from my side of the van. Catherine held forth on a number of subjects, including her favorite lavender soap, the dilapidated appearance of several yards (evidently stacks of lobster traps are not recommended lawn decor), and my business at the inn. Oddly, she avoided any mention of the fake engagement ring.

  “Oh, look at that front lawn. It’s like a junkyard!” she said, pointing to Eleazer’s boatyard. I pulled up outside the house and parked, and she looked startled.

  “It’s better on the inside than the outside,” I told her. As she followed me up onto the porch, I debated whether I was hoping Edward Scissorhands would open the door or not.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your point of view—Claudette answered just after I knocked, her bulky form dressed in a shapeless but soft wool sweater and a black broomstick skirt, her gray hair pulled back into a thick braid. She and Catherine looked like they came from different universes. I attempted to bridge the gap.

  “Hi, Claudette,” I said. “This is John’s mother, Catherine.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” my future mother-in-law said, extending a claw-like hand. She still wore her whopper of an engagement ring, and I found myself wondering if it was fake, too. “I don’t know if we’ve met, but we used to summer on the island,” she said.

  “Ah. I think I remember you,” Claudette said, smiling. “Your son is a wonderful addition to the island—and I’m so happy for him and Natalie. You must be thrilled for him!”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Catherine smiled. “Of course. Thank you. And thank you so much for inviting me to your little knitting group.”

  Inviting her? I felt my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, but said nothing.

  “I’m glad you could come,” Claudette said, opening the door wider for Catherine to step inside. “I’ll take your coat for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. We shrugged out of our coats, and Claudette took them from us. “We’re in there,” I told Catherine, directing her to the next room.

  I held back a moment. “How are Muffin and Pudge?” I asked quietly when she was out of earshot. Despite their reputation for rampaging the gardens of the island—trailing the tire they were chained to behind them—I knew Claudette cherished the goa
ts.

  “They’ll make it through,” she said. The lines in her face seemed deeper than I remembered, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “I’m sure that’s the last thing you need right now. Do you have any idea who attacked them?”

  She shook her head grimly. “I thought it might be Ingrid, but I just don’t believe she’d do it.”

  “It’s disturbing, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “First Fernand, and now this …”

  Not to mention the disturbed daughter-in-law and the extra children in the house, I added silently. “How’s your daughter-in-law doing? She was the life of the party the other night.”

  Claudette’s face seemed to shutter. “It’s not one of her better days, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “If there’s anything I can do …”

  “Thanks, Natalie, but it’s a family thing. My son has asked me not to say anything.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Please know we’re here to help.”

  She sighed. “Thanks, but we’ll manage.” I touched her shoulder in sympathy, and as Claudette disappeared with our coats, I followed Catherine into the living room.

  Despite my knitting anxiety, I was happy to see my friends, and delighted to see that Emmeline had contributed chocolate-dipped ginger cookies. The mixture of dark chocolate and crystallized ginger was delicious—and I definitely needed the medicinal chocolate this afternoon. It was a shame Claudette refused to eat sugar; she could use some, too. Everyone but Lorraine Lockhart had turned up today.

  In addition to Emmeline, who sat in yet another plaid housedress working on her jellyfish tea cozy, Charlene was next to her on the couch, the beginnings of a fuzzy purple scarf with metallic fringe in her lap. Maggie was there, too, working on a green sweater for one of her children, and looking sulky. As soon as I saw Sara, the new teacher, sitting next to Selene of Island Artists with a mostly complete red wool hat in her hands, I understood why. Charlene glanced at Catherine and shot me a quizzical look, and I realized I hadn’t mentioned last night’s new arrival. I responded with a look that must have been desperation, and she grinned.

  “Catherine, do you want a cup of tea?” I asked, then realized I hadn’t introduced her. “I’m so sorry. Has everyone met my future mother-in-law, Catherine?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Charlene said, giving me another pointed look. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

  Catherine simply smiled at her. “Thank you, my dear. And Natalie, I’d love a cup of tea. Black, please.”

  “Have a seat,” Charlene said, gesturing toward an overstuffed chair next to her as I lifted the tea cozy and poured a cup of tea. As I handed it to John’s mother, I noticed the chair was a bit threadbare on the arms; like the rest of the living room, it would never make any of the shelter magazines, but Claudette’s whole house had the comfortable air of being well lived in. There were a few toys in the corner: a Nerf gun, and a stack of blocks. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, draped in silver tinsel, and a few wrapped presents were tucked under the lower boughs. It was a cozy, homey room. I knew it probably wasn’t Catherine’s style, but I loved it, and despite my aversion to knitting, I was glad to be here. I pulled my tangled mass of yarn out of the bag and set it on the floor beside my chair, then headed to the coffee table to load up on goodies for myself. Everyone had been behaving so far, but it was good to be prepared.

  “Such a shock about Fernand,” Selene said as I set another cookie on my plate. She was a vision in red today—on me her handmade wool sweater would have resembled an afghan, but on her it was lovely. “I heard you found him.”

  “I did,” I said, suppressing a shiver at the memory. “It was terrible.”

  “He killed himself, I heard,” Selene said. She shook her head sadly. “You just never know about people, do you? He seemed so happy at the party.”

  “Do you think he was jealous of that new artist?” Marge asked.

  “I heard her paintings go for millions,” Emmeline said. “Hard to believe—she’s so young!”

  “Jealousy,” Maggie said. “Maybe the party was just too much.”

  “And poor Nat had to find him,” Charlene said. “You’ve got a knack for that, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. I’d found far too many dead bodies since moving to Cranberry Island. I shot a glance at Catherine, who appeared to be concentrating on her crochet. I was sure she was taking

  everything in, though.

  “When’s the service set for?” asked Emmeline.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said, hoping Father Timothy would be able to sort it out.

  “I heard his sister and his boyfriend had it out in front of the rectory,” Emmeline said.

  I felt my stomach contract as I looked at my friend. “What happened?”

  “She called him all kinds of names, and told him he wouldn’t get a dime. Said he might as well pack up and go back to Bangor.”

  “Poor man,” I murmured.

  “That woman had murder in her eyes, I’m telling you.”

  “Who can blame her?” Maggie said. “She’s family. This boyfriend is nothing.”

  I glanced at Sara, whose jaw was set, and cast about for a new subject. “Where are the children today, Claudette?”

  “Eli took them to the mainland for a while,” Claudette said. “Along with their dad.”

  I was glad to hear she was getting a break—at least from the kids. I wasn’t sure about the daughter-in-law. “I hear they’re settling into school beautifully,” I told Sara, who was still looking upset. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your teaching.”

  Maggie huffed from the corner, but no one looked at her; in fact, the pace of gentle clacking seemed to pick up.

  “Thank you,” Sara said politely, and gave me a brilliant smile. “It’s always nice to be appreciated. I hope to be here for a long, long time.”

  There was an awkward silence, except for the sound of busy needles, and I knew everyone in the room was thinking about the petition. Nice job, Nat. I’d stepped right in the middle of it again.

  “How are you enjoying island life?” Claudette asked Catherine, changing the subject yet again. “A far cry from Boston, I imagine.”

  “Yes, but there’s something to be said for the quaint island life,” my future mother-in-law said.

  That was news to me; from what John had told me, she’d always complained about having to spend time on the island.

  “That’s what Nina Torrone thinks, too. Hope we don’t become the next Kennebunkport,” Charlene said.

  Sara looked up from her knitting. “Nina Torrone? Who is that?”

  “Famous New York artist,” Charlene said. “She just moved into the Katzes’ old house.”

  “We used to spend a few months there in the summers,” Catherine said. “John just loved it. Natalie is taking me to visit the house after the knitting group.”

  Charlene goggled at me. “The delicate flower artist’s agent okayed that?” she asked, sarcasm lacing her words.

  I grimaced. “They don’t know we’re coming yet.”

  “Well, good luck getting past the front door. You know, I haven’t seen her since the party,” Charlene said.

  “Is she not coming to the store anymore?” I asked.

  “The only time I ever see her is at night,” Emmeline piped up. “I’ve noticed her a few times after dark, when I’m out with the dogs. She walks around the island, all bundled up.”

  “Terri saw her the other day, too,” Sara said. I glanced at Maggie, who was eyeing her with disapproval. The teacher continued on, “She was trying to talk on a cell phone, but you know what the reception is like here.”

  “What was she saying?” I asked.

  “Something about the mail. A letter she hadn’t gotten. Terri told me she was practically yelling, and walked away fast when she saw her.”

  Yelling? “She’s been pretty quiet whenever I’ve seen her,” I said.

  “Hidden depths
, maybe,” Charlene said. “Or bad reception. How’s Gwen holding up, by the way?”

  “Okay,” I guess. “It looks like Zelda Chu is going to mentor her.”

  Charlene groaned. “Well, she’s no Fernand, but she’s better than that Munger character. At least she doesn’t wear plaid pants.”

  “How’s she going to have time to do that?” Selene asked.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Word on the street,” Charlene said, “is that she and Murray have cooked up a big art school together. They want to make it a summer campus for one of the big New York art schools.”

  “Gwen said something about that,” I said. “They made a proposal to Fernand, but I don’t know what it was.”

  “Fernand told me about it last week,” Selene said. “He told me he thought it was a bad idea. I do know that Murray bought a piece of property across the road from Fernand’s place.” She sighed. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling an ache in my heart for my friend.

  “Murray Selfridge is something else. He can’t develop that bog he bought a few years ago, but he hasn’t given up,” Charlene said. “He owns the property across the street from Fernand’s, but it doesn’t have water access.”

  “Think he’s planning to turn that whole area into an art school?” I asked.

  “That’s what I heard. And I’ll bet he’ll make a tidy packet if it goes through,” Charlene said.

  “Do you think it would be worth enough for him to kill Fernand for?” I said, thinking out loud.

  Immediately, every pair of eyes in the room fastened on me.

  “What do you mean?” Emmeline said, her sharp eyes fastened on me. “I thought he committed suicide.”

  “Nothing,” I said hastily. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Do the police think someone murdered him?” Selene asked. Her jeweled glasses sparkled as she turned her head to me.

  “Not that I know of. I can’t think who would have benefited from it, anyway,” I said. “The police are saying it’s suicide, from what I know. Still … well, it’s just hard to understand.”