“I’d really like to know who leaked that bit of information,” I said.
She took a swig of tea and rolled it around in her mouth. “Are you sure it wasn’t one of the Katzes?”
“They didn’t include it on their presentation to the board, did they? I don’t think they were ready for it to become public knowledge.”
Charlene set her teacup down. “What about Gwen? Did she tell her art teacher about it? They seem pretty buddy-buddy, don’t they?”
“Even if she did tell Fernand,” I said, “why would he leak that to the press? From what Gwen tells me, he hated Katz every bit as much as I did.” I paused for a moment. “Disliked, I mean.”
Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe Fernand did him in and was trying to give you a motive to cover his tracks.”
“Well, whoever did it, I’m not too excited about having the Gray Whale linked to Katz’s death in the paper.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Charlene said, wetting her finger and picking the crumbs up off her plate. “Most of your guests don’t read the local paper anyway—they’re from out of town, remember?”
“I guess that’s something,” I said. We stopped talking as Ingrid marched up to the counter with a dozen eggs and a bottle of milk.
“You sure took your time picking those out,” Charlene said. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
Charlene rang up her purchases, and Ingrid jammed them into her bag and hurried out of the store. The door slammed shut with a jangle.
“I don’t know what’s up with her,” Charlene said, helping herself to another scone. “Used to be, she was in here every day, chowing down and chewing the fat. Now she hardly talks to anybody.”
“Probably feels bad because she sold out the island,” Eleazer said.
“Why’d she do that, anyway?” Charlene asked. “A month ago, she told me she didn’t think a big resort was right for the island, then she turns around and hands it to Katz on a silver platter.”
Eleazer shrugged. “Maybe there was some money in it for her. A kickback, or something. People do funny things for money.”
“Maybe,” said Charlene, looking unconvinced. She took a bite of scone and glanced at the clock. “Almost time to close up shop. You want to go down to the lobster pound with me?”
I looked at Charlene in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine she was hungry after eating two gigantic scones, but my mouth watered at the thought of succulent fresh lobster meat with sweet corn and blueberry pie. My bank account, however, was in no shape to support a lobster feed. “No thanks,” I said with regret. “You might see Barbara down there, though.”
Charlene perked up. “Oh, yeah?”
“She was looking for a place to eat, and I recommended the pound.”
“Miss Barbara,” Charlene said. “What’d she think of Katz’s death?”
“She figured he was down there bothering the nests, and that he deserved it.”
“Maybe what happened to Katz was what Barbara meant by ‘alternate tactics’.”
“The thought crossed my mind too,” I said. “But I don’t know—she doesn’t seem the type. Besides, she looked surprised when I told her about it.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlene said. “Well, I’ll see what I can dig up on Ms. Eggleby tonight. You’re sure you don’t want to come?”
“Maybe next week.” I fished my grocery list out of my pocket. “By the way, could you add this to your next order? Let me know what I owe you.”
Charlene took the list from me and pinned it up on the corkboard next to the mail cubbies. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I almost forgot about your mail.” She handed me a stack that included several small envelopes and a large, heavy one. “The big one’s addressed to Bernard Katz. I doubt he’ll be interested, but I guess you can give it to his assistant.” I thanked her and headed for the front door.
“Say hi to Claudette and the goats,” I called over my shoulder to Eleazer.
“I will,” he said. “Although why she doesn’t just buy wool like normal folks, I’ll never know,” he grumbled as the door swung shut behind me.
• • •
I had just finished off a grilled cheese sandwich and was setting up the dining room tables for breakfast when Gwen came through the kitchen door with pink cheeks and windswept hair.
“How’d the sketching go?” I asked, shaking out a bright white tablecloth.
“It’s getting better every day.” Gwen’s eyes shone with excitement. “I’ve decided I want to major in art.”
“Great,” I said, wondering how I was going to explain that to my sister Bridget. She hadn’t telephoned in about a week, and I knew another call was due soon. Bridget’s idea of a proper major was business or economics, and it was a safe bet she’d consider art “a waste of time and money.” I just hoped she wouldn’t blame me.
Gwen disappeared back into the kitchen as I shook out another tablecloth. As the white cotton floated down over the scarred wood table, I decided to deal with it when the time came. I had enough on my plate as it was.
“Is there anything to eat?” Gwen called from the kitchen.
“I know the larder’s kind of bare,” I called back. “I just gave Charlene the grocery order. There’s bread and cheese, though. And I left you a few scones.”
I finished laying out the last tablecloths, pulled a stack of plates out of the sideboard, and headed into the kitchen for silverware. Gwen was fixing herself a sandwich as I grabbed handfuls of forks, spoons, and knives. I paused on the way back into the dining room. “By the way, Gwen, did you mention what we found in Ogden’s room to Fernand?” I asked.
“You mean the plans that showed the Gray Whale Inn being axed?” A faint line appeared between her arched eyebrows. “I don’t remember saying anything about it. Why?”
“A reporter called asking about it this morning.”
“That’s weird. Where would they have heard about that?” She sliced a thick slab of cheddar and opened a bag of bread. “Didn’t you tell Charlene about it? Maybe she said something to somebody.”
“I was thinking maybe someone in the store overheard her end of the conversation, but I can’t think who it could have been.”
“I’m sure Charlene will find out soon enough,” Gwen said as she took out a couple of slices of bread and closed the bag. “She knows everything that happens on this island.”
I leaned against the kitchen door. “What was Fernand’s take on Katz’s death?” I asked, watching as Gwen layered a piece of bread with what must have been three-quarters of a pound of cheese.
She smiled grimly. “He said he hoped the same thing would happen to the resort.”
“He’s not the only one,” I said. “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to him about putting together an artists’ retreat vacation package. Kind of a co-op promotion. When’s a good time to stop by the studio?”
Gwen slapped her sandwich together and took a huge bite, chewing laboriously before she swallowed. “It’s hard to say. When he doesn’t have a class, he’s usually out somewhere with his paints. You might try him around noon, though, after he’s done with the Bittles.”
“Thanks, I will.” I left her with her cheese sandwich and took the silverware out to the dining room. After arranging the last spoon, I stood back and surveyed the room. Everything was ready to go; I just needed to decide what to do for breakfast. I still had sausage and eggs, and unless Gwen fixed herself a second sandwich, I had cheese. A breakfast casserole with corn muffins on the side would fill the bill. What was I going to do for fruit, though?
I walked back through the swinging door and opened the freezer. After a few minutes of digging, I unearthed a bag of blueberries from beneath a frozen chuck roast. With maple syrup and a dash of lemon juice, the berries would cook up into a nice compote while
the casserole and the muffins were baking. I closed the freezer and glanced at the kitchen table. After polishing off her humongous sandwich, Gwen had started in on the scones. The scones might be gone, but at least I’d have cheese for the casserole. I gazed at her full mouth and slim body with envy.
The golden light that had poured through the kitchen window most of the day had faded; the sun had disappeared behind Cadillac Mountain, leaving a glowing band of red on the horizon. Fatigue swept through me as my eyes swept across the last dregs of sunset. I had planned to dust and vacuum the parlor this evening, but it could wait until tomorrow. Bidding Gwen goodnight, I headed upstairs to draw myself a hot bath, and after a good long soak with a candle and a book, I climbed into bed.
Despite my exhaustion, the day’s events kept running through my mind like a looped film. When I realized my eyes had been glued to the same page for twenty minutes, I put on my slippers and a robe and padded down the stairs, figuring if I was wide-awake and fidgety, I might as well get something done.
I grabbed a dust rag and a bottle of furniture polish from the utility room and tackled the parlor. Dusting was generally my least favorite task, but tonight the rhythmic rub of the cloth against the antique furniture soothed my overactive brain. I was polishing the mantel above the river-stone fireplace when a loud clunk sounded from above. I glanced at my watch—it was midnight. A little late to be moving furniture around. I listened for a moment, and when nothing further happened, I gave the mantel a final swipe with the rag and moved on to the coffee table.
I was just replacing the basket of silk flowers in the center of the table when there was a second clunk, louder than the first. I told myself it was probably just Ogden, but my heart began thumping against my ribcage as I set the rag down next to the flowers and climbed the stairs to investigate.
The upstairs hall was dark, except for the faint light from the parlor downstairs. I crept down the hall, pausing at Ogden’s door. Unless Ogden was moving furniture around in the dark, the noises were coming from somewhere else; no light shone through the narrow gap at the bottom of his door. A chill ran down my spine. Both the Bittles and Barbara Eggleby were on the first floor. The only other occupied room on the second floor belonged to Bernard Katz, and he was dead.
As I padded slowly toward the door at the end of the hall, the floor groaned beneath me. I froze. After a very long moment, another clunk sounded; it was definitely coming from the room at the end of the hall. Whoever was in Katz’s room was still going about his or her business.
My heart thundered so loudly that it seemed impossible that whoever else—or whatever else—was up here couldn’t hear it. I wiped my clammy hands on my robe and tiptoed to the end of the hall. I stood for a long moment outside of Bernard Katz’s door, listening to the creak of footsteps. Adrenaline coursed through me as I grasped the cold brass doorknob and turned it.
The door was locked.
Of course. Grimes must have locked it that morning. Which meant that whoever was in the room had entered through the window. Unless . . .
I crept back down the hall as quickly as possible and ran down the stairs on tiptoe. I raced to the reception desk and opened the key cabinet. A small brass door key dangled on its own hook at the end of the second row: the skeleton key. Gwen and I used it when we were cleaning the rooms. As my hand closed around it, I realized that I’d forgotten to tell Grimes about it.
I clutched the cold key in my hand and started back up the stairs. Halfway up, I paused. Did I really want to walk in on an intruder unarmed? I hurried back down to the parlor and slid the poker out of the rack of fireplace tools, giving it an experimental swing with a shaky arm before tackling the stairs again.
As I reached the top landing, I realized I hadn’t heard anything for a few minutes. Maybe the intruder was gone. A wave of relief and frustration swept over me at the thought that I might arrive too late. When I took a step toward Katz’s room, another bump sounded from behind the wood door. Sheer terror prevailed once again.
I reached the end of the hall and checked my grip on the poker. I would have been happier with something a little more long-range, like a shotgun, but it would have to do. My hand trembled as I struggled to fit the key into the lock without tipping off the intruder. I was afraid I was going to have to put down the poker and try it with both hands when the key finally slid home. I rotated the key in the lock. Then I wiped a sweaty hand, said a little prayer, and turned the knob.
I had a brief glimpse of a profile reflected in the light of a flashlight. Then the flashlight hurtled toward me. I swung the poker wildly, but before it could connect, a bright red pain exploded on the side of my head and everything went black.
I was trapped under black water, gasping for breath. Something was clawing at my head, pushing me down . . .
I opened my eyes to darkness. As I raised my head from the floor, a stabbing pain shot through my left temple, and my stomach turned over as my eyes searched the inky blackness. Panic had begun to constrict my throat when I caught a glimpse of the crescent moon through the window.
I relaxed slightly—I could still see—and then a chill passed through me when I remembered where I was.
I remained still, my head throbbing, listening for the sound of my attacker, but Katz’s room was empty. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, they registered the shadowy curtains fluttering in the breeze. My attacker had come—and presumably gone—through the window.
I climbed to my feet, gripping the footboard of the bed for support. As my body straightened, a sharp pain swelled behind my temple, and my knees buckled. I groped my way to where I knew the night table was and fumbled for the switch of the reading light. I winced as bright light flooded the room. The place had been ransacked.
The clunks I had heard must have been the hasty removal of drawers from the antique dresser; they lay overturned on the pine floor, their contents strewn across the room. The white counterpane and sheets had been torn from the king-sized bed, and the mattress lay askew on the box spring. I didn’t know what my attacker had been looking for, but whoever it was had been very thorough.
I stepped over piles of clothes to reach the long walnut desk next to the window. Piles of paper were heaped randomly on the desktop. A breeze from the open window sent a few receipts fluttering to the floor, and I bent over reflexively to pick them up. My head began to pulse again as I gathered them up: a restaurant receipt from New York, an airport parking ticket receipt, and a handwritten receipt from Seaglass Jewelers, a store down on the Cranberry Island wharf. I glanced at it—it was for $600—and tucked it into the pocket of my robe.
The papers on the desk were primarily bank statements. I riffled through them. The accounts the statements represented were not empty, but they certainly weren’t as substantial as I would have expected for a corporation like Premier Resorts International. One of them was almost as low as my own checking account.
I replaced the papers and looked around the room. The desk drawers had been emptied, too—they lay tumbled beneath the window in an untidy heap. The twin night tables, however, appeared to have been left untouched. Whatever my attacker had been looking for, he—or she—hadn’t found it. I’d interrupted the search.
The bump on my head yowled for attention, but I ignored it. If whatever the intruder had wanted was still here, this might be my only opportunity to find it. If Katz had been murdered—and I was starting to believe he had—the clue to his killer’s identity might be hidden here.
I skirted the upturned drawers and walked to the nearest night table. I slid open the drawer, but it was empty. I felt around underneath it, and bent carefully to peer behind it, but found nothing. An identical search of the table’s twin yielded only a pair of reading glasses. I replaced them in the drawer and slid it shut.
I stepped over piles of clothes and walked into the large tiled bathroom. The intruder hadn’t made it th
is far—the white towels were still neatly folded, and the only thing out of place was a scum of whiskers and shaving cream in the bowl of the marble sink and a glob of toothpaste on the vanity top. I was thinking I’d have to tell Gwen to double-check the sinks when she cleaned when something caught my eye. A piece of paper stuck out from where it had been wedged behind the bathroom mirror.
I pulled it out gently and examined it. The envelope was made of thick, creamy paper and labeled, simply, “Oh.” I opened the heavy flap and withdrew a single sheet of the same heavy paper.
Oh,
How about Thursday . . . same time, same place?
XO
Ess
The handwriting was cramped, and the crabbed letters slanted backward. As I read it a second time, I wondered if this was what the searcher was looking for. There was always the chance that the note had been left by a previous guest, but my gut instinct told me that Katz had put it here for a reason. Did “Ess” stand for Estelle? Maybe “Oh” was her pet name for Bernard . . . or maybe he’d discovered she’d had a rendezvous with someone else, and was using the letter for leverage. If so, I imagined the discovery was recent. Bernard and Estelle had seemed pretty friendly two days ago.
I slipped the letter into my pocket and continued sifting through the room. Forty-five minutes of searching turned up nothing else of interest, other than the fact that Katz wore a 42 waist and favored brightly colored silk boxers.
My head was throbbing by the time I decided to call it a night. My watch read half past one when I shut and locked the window, turned out the light, and used the skeleton key to relock the door behind me. I’d let John know what happened in the morning; the police could sort through the mess when they got here.
• • •
Murder on the Rocks Page 7