Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  It seemed that I’d only been asleep for ten minutes when the alarm buzzed like a hornet’s nest. I slammed my hand down on it and groaned. Why did breakfast have to come so early?

  My temple pulsed angrily as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Biscuit had come to join me at some point; she stretched and glanced at me before burrowing back into the covers as I shuffled over to the mirror.

  What had been a pink bump last night had swelled to an angry purplish-blue knot above my left eye. More than anything, I wanted to take a handful of aspirin and go back to bed, but I limited myself to two, wrapped myself in my flannel robe, and trudged downstairs.

  As I dumped frozen blueberries into a pot, I wondered again who had broken into Bernard Katz’s room the night before. Could it have been one of the guests? Just because the intruder had come in through the window didn’t mean he or she wasn’t staying at the inn.

  My head continued to throb as I opened the door to the pantry. I was glad the menu wasn’t complicated this morning; I could whip up corn muffins in ten minutes, and the sausage and egg casserole would be done in another twenty. When my hand reached for the cornmeal bag, my plan evaporated; it was almost empty. So much for corn muffins. I leaned my head against the doorframe, my mind scrambling for an alternative.

  Finally, inspiration hit. I pulled down the flour and sugar canisters and flipped through a cookbook until my fingers found my favorite pancake recipe. It was a bit more time-intensive—I’d have to stand over the griddle—but it wasn’t too difficult, and pancakes would go well with the blueberry compote. Maybe I’d forget about the casserole and just cook up a few sausages instead. If anyone wanted eggs, I’d make them to order.

  As I was measuring out the flour, a knock sounded at the kitchen door. It was John, looking rumpled. A comforting whiff of fresh-cut wood blew in on the cool morning breeze as I opened the door to let my neighbor in. John hadn’t shaved yet, and his hair was disheveled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Meeting him like this felt strangely intimate. When my hands moved to brush stray flour off my clothes, I realized why. I was still wearing my bathrobe.

  John hadn’t noticed the bathrobe; his eyes zeroed in on the knot on my head. “My God, Nat! What happened to you?”

  My hand flew to my temple. “Somebody bashed me over the head last night.”

  “Where? When?”

  “First come in and have a cup of coffee.” Just thinking about last night made my head ache. I needed caffeine. John sat down at the table as I scooped beans into the coffee grinder and filled the pot with fresh water, recounting the night’s events as I worked.

  When I turned around, his expression was grim. “Why didn’t you come and find me?”

  “By the time I came to, whoever it was was long gone,” I said. “Came to?” His green eyes were filled with disbelief. “You mean they knocked you out and you didn’t come and find me?”

  I shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Not good,” he said. “Not good.” He sighed and leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hands as his elbows slid across the table. “I’ve got some more bad news,” he said. “Grimes just called.”

  “A little early for a business call, isn’t it?”

  “The coroner’s filed the report. Katz was murdered.” I slumped against the counter. The lines around John’s eyes and mouth looked deeper than usual as he continued. “I hope you didn’t touch anything while you were up there. They’re sending forensics over to go through Katz’s room today.”

  My stomach fluttered. “Katz’s room is part of my inn. My prints are going to be all over the place.”

  “Yeah, but not on his personal belongings.” His green eyes studied me. “Right?”

  “Right,” I said feebly. I sat down at the table across from him and took a big swig of coffee, wondering how many more aspirin I could take without doing myself irreparable damage. “Just what I need for the business. Rooms festooned in yellow crime-scene tape.”

  “I’ll ask them to be discreet.”

  Being discreet on an island of five hundred curious inhabitants was like asking an elephant to walk on tiptoe, but I thanked him anyway.

  “You know, I didn’t believe you yesterday,” John said, “but I think you may be right. Grimes seems to think you’re involved in this.” I already knew that, but hearing it from John turned the blood in my veins to ice.

  “Well, he hasn’t had much time to ask around yet, has he?” I said with false brightness. “I think he’ll find I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t on spectacular terms with Bernard Katz. Besides,” I continued, “the intruder should be a good lead to follow.”

  John looked at me. “How did this person get in, anyway? Was the door unlocked?”

  “Through the window,” I said. “I haven’t been out to look, but I’m guessing whoever it was climbed the rose trellis. The window was open when I got there.”

  “Well, maybe they left footprints. If you were planning on doing any gardening, I’d recommend you wait till the police have taken a look out there.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got enough to occupy me without worrying about the perennial beds. I’ll probably just do errands this afternoon.”

  “Errands?” He cocked one eyebrow at me. “Just try to keep out of trouble, okay?” He reached across the table and brushed the hair away from my temple. His voice was gentle. “You might want to get that looked at.”

  “I can’t, remember? I’m not allowed to leave the island.”

  He dropped his hand and sighed. “I’ll talk to Grimes, see if you can go into town to see a doctor.” Then he smiled. “Maybe I’ll promise to come with you and try to keep you out of trouble.” His eyes twinkled, and for the first time, he grinned. “Although that might be a tough job. Trouble seems to come looking for you.”

  I smiled back at him, confused. I was attracted to John, and it seemed as if he might be attracted to me, but Charlene had it on good authority that he was dating a woman in Portland. I was also a suspect in a murder case that he was involved in investigating. Besides, things were complicated enough already. Adding a romantic relationship with my neighbor was not what I needed right now.

  John finished his coffee and headed for the door. “I’m guessing the next few days are going to be pretty busy. I’m going to head down to the workshop and churn out a few more boats while I can. Tourist season is short.” Don’t I know it, I thought. I thanked him for letting me know about the coroner’s report and gave him the last scone to take with him.

  When the door closed behind him, I sank into one of the kitchen chairs, dazed. Bernard Katz really had been murdered. I sat warming my hands on the coffee cup until a popping sound from the stove reminded me that there was cooking to be done. My head twinged as I stirred the blueberries, which had started to bubble around the edges, and added some cornstarch. I took another sip of coffee before retrieving the baking powder and salt from the pantry and plugging in the griddle for pancakes.

  As my hands measured out the ingredients, my thoughts turned to Katz’s murder. Grimes might be too lazy to dig up other suspects, but if someone didn’t find out who had killed Katz, a cloud would remain over me—and the inn. If I didn’t end up in jail, that was.

  I closed up the baking powder and poured a small hill of salt into a measuring spoon. My head throbbed as the possibilities reeled through my mind. Who might have wanted Katz dead? Estelle was a good candidate. After all, John had indicated that Katz might have been going to meet a woman when he died. A flirtation had obviously existed between them, and the cliff path did pass right under Cliffside. I dumped the salt into the bowl and looked out the window at the dark blue water. Why would she have killed him, though? So that Stanley could inherit his money?

  I stirred the dry ingredients together with a fork and walked over to the f
ridge. Stanley might have been interested in an early inheritance, too. I pulled out the eggs and butter and closed the door with my foot. Maybe he was in financial straits; Charlene certainly thought so. Had he been desperate enough to kill for money?

  After cracking three eggs into a bowl and whisking them together, I unwrapped the butter and put it in the microwave to melt. Maybe Stanley had gotten fed up with the flirtation between Estelle and his father. Maybe he’d discovered that it was more than flirtation. He didn’t seem to care too much about what his wife did, I mused, but maybe the knowledge that she’d cuckolded him with his own father would be enough to push him over the edge. Then again, I had no way of knowing what the relationship between Bernard Katz and Estelle was; it was all speculation.

  The bell on the microwave dinged and I poured the melted butter into the eggs, whisking them together. Who else might have wanted Katz dead? Claudette, of course, had practically threatened to kill him in front of the entire island. I remembered the look of blind rage on her square-jawed face at the board meeting and shivered. Eleazer might not think she was capable of violence, but I wasn’t so sure.

  Barbara was another possibility. She’d managed to get the association to pony up an extra million dollars. The purchase of the preserve was pretty important to her. Important enough to kill for? If so, why wouldn’t she have killed him before the meeting? Because she hadn’t had the opportunity, I realized as I poured the flour mixture into the eggs and butter. She didn’t get to the island until the meeting was already under way.

  I gave the batter a few turns with a wooden spoon and covered it with a dishtowel, then poured myself a second cup of coffee. The throbbing in my head seemed to be abating slightly; the aspirin must be kicking in. As I sipped my coffee, I heard the pipes whine as a shower went on overhead. Gwen was up early this morning. Maybe she could help me with the pancakes so that I could lie down. Her culinary skills were less than extensive, but she might be able to manage pancakes if the batter was already done.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and turned the problem of Bernard Katz’s murder over in my head. Who else was close to Katz? An image of Ogden’s greasy hair and Coke-bottle glasses floated into my mind, but I couldn’t see how he’d benefit from killing Katz. If anything, Katz’s death would put him out of a job.

  The clock above the stove read eight o’clock. I adjusted the heat on the pancake griddle and tasted the berries—they needed just a touch more maple syrup—before pulling a package of sausage from the freezer and plunking a block of frozen links into a pan.

  My hand slid into my pocket, and I fingered the receipt I’d found in Katz’s room last night. Maybe Berta could tell me what Katz had in mind for the jewelry he’d bought. Talking to Berta was easy; I would stop by Seaglass Jewelers and drop off some brochures that afternoon. What I really needed to do, though, was talk to Estelle and Stanley. Unfortunately, chances were pretty slim that they’d roll out the red carpet for me at Cliffside.

  The sausage was beginning to sizzle when the phone rang.

  “It’s Charlene.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I hate to always be the bearer of bad tidings, but you haven’t seen the paper yet, have you?”

  “Of course not.” Like everyone else on the island, I had to go down to the store to pick it up. “Why?”

  “Apparently Grimes isn’t the only one who thinks you did in Bernard Katz. Get a load of today’s headlines: ‘Local Inn Guest Dies after Squabble with Innkeeper’.”

  I tried to look on the bright side. “At least they didn’t name the inn.”

  “Oh, yes they did,” she said. “About four times. You were in there a lot, too.”

  “How? I only spoke with Gertrude Pickens for two minutes yesterday.”

  I heard the sound of chewing. “She knew all about Katz’s plans to bulldoze your inn. The way the article reads, you did too. There’s even a partial picture of the blueprint.” She paused, and a slurping noise traveled down the phone line: probably coffee. “She talks all about your ‘crusade’ against the resort,” she continued, “and how the board vote went against you anyway. The whole article is about why you didn’t like Bernard Katz, followed by a paragraph about how the police may suspect foul play.” She took another bite of whatever she was eating.

  “Wait till they find out he was murdered,” I said.

  The chewing stopped. “What?”

  “I just found out this morning.”

  “Lovely. I can only imagine what tomorrow’s headlines will be.” She slurped again. “By the way, if you ever need work, I’m always looking for an extra cashier.”

  I hung up the phone and turned the sausages. As there was no sign of Gwen, I sprayed the griddle with cooking spray and ladled six circles of batter onto the hot surface, then stirred the blueberry compote.

  I thought about the newspaper article as tiny bubbles appeared on top of the batter. Even if Grimes wasn’t eyeing me as Bernard Katz’s murderer, it was obvious that I needed to clear my name—fast. And to do that, I needed to talk with Estelle and Stanley.

  How was I going to get into Cliffside? As the spatula slid under the pale circles and turned them over, the smell of pancakes filled the room, soothing me. Food was always a comfort. I paused with my spatula in midair. That was how I was going to get into Cliffside. With a big batch of cookies to comfort the bereaved family.

  I flipped the last pancake with renewed energy and transferred the sausages to the oven to stay warm. I’d figured out how to get across the threshold. The only problem was, Estelle turned her nose up at my kind of cooking; she avoided fat like the plague, but most of my recipes called for substantial amounts of butter or oil. Could I come up with something she would actually eat?

  I tucked the finished pancakes into the oven next to the sausages and poured six more circles; then I headed to the hutch and pulled out a stack of cookbooks. For the next fifteen minutes, I shuttled back and forth between the griddle and the books. The last six pancakes were sizzling on the griddle when Gwen sailed down the stairs, looking radiant in a ruffled blue sundress and carrying a portable easel. It looked like I was on my own for breakfast again.

  “Hi, Aunt Nat.” A cloud of perfume engulfed me as she swept by. “What smells so heavenly in here?”

  “Pancakes and sausages. Where are you off to?”

  “Fernand said I should try catching some of the morning light.” Her brown eyes rested on my temple. “What happened to you?”

  I gave her a brief rundown of last night, ending with an admonition to lock her door at night and be careful walking around the island after dark.

  “Sure, Aunt Nat,” she said, her oval face solemn under a mass of dark ringlets. Then she peeked into the oven, and all thoughts of late-night intruders vanished. “Mind if I have some of that?”

  “Go ahead.” There was plenty for everyone this morning, particularly since the inn was short one guest. She piled a plate high as I turned the last pancakes and ran upstairs to throw on a pair of jeans. Five minutes later, I started shuttling food out to the warming plates in the dining room.

  I was setting out the butter next to a pitcher of maple syrup when the Bittles walked in.

  Mrs. Bittles eyed me critically from beneath an oversized purple beret. “Whatever did you do to yourself, dear?”

  I paused with the pitcher in my hand, baffled by the question. Then I followed her eyes to my temple and remembered what had happened last night. The aspirin must be working; I’d forgotten all about it. “Oh, I tripped and hit a door frame,” I said in a casual tone. No need to broadcast the fact that I’d been hit over the head by an intruder. Whoever had broken in last night was interested in Katz’s room, not the Bittles.

  I filled both of the Bittles’ coffee cups as they investigated their breakfast options. Mrs. Bittles was retreating from the buffet tabl
e with a stack of pancakes that wobbled as much as her beret when Barbara walked into the room. As she sat down at a table next to the window, I poured her a cup of coffee.

  “Wow, Natalie. You’re a mess. What happened to you?”

  “Somebody whacked me over the head last night,” I said quietly, studying Barbara’s face. “An intruder broke into Katz’s room last night; whoever it was, I interrupted them.”

  Her thin eyebrows squinched together in a look of concern. “What do you think they were looking for?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think they found it.”

  “Yikes.” Barbara stirred sugar and cream into her coffee. “You should let the police know about that. I’m glad you’re okay.” She took a sip of coffee. “By the way, I ran into your friend Charlene last night. She’s kind of nosy, isn’t she?”

  I laughed. “Don’t be offended. She’s that way with everyone.”

  Barbara looked relieved. “Good. For a little while there, I was wondering if she thought I’d killed Bernard Katz.”

  Killed? As far as I knew, nobody but John and me knew he had been murdered. The coroner’s report had just come back that morning.

  “I expect she’ll be grilling half the island,” I said lightly. “We’ve got pancakes and sausage with blueberry compote this morning, but if you’d like eggs, I’d be happy to fix them for you. Oh—and by the way—the police will be here again today, doing some work in Bernard Katz’s room.”

  I watched her narrow face, but it registered no visible emotion. Instead, she eyed the mounds of pancakes and sausage. “Well, then, I guess I’ll get started.” She got up and headed for the buffet table, and I returned to the kitchen to refill the coffeepot. Gwen, of course, was already gone, but her empty plate and half-full coffee cup lay on the table where she’d sat. So much for help with breakfast.

  The Bittles and Barbara had wandered out of the dining room by the time Ogden showed up. He barely glanced at the knot on my head before serving himself two pancakes and two sausages. He laid his white napkin across his lap and began cutting his pancakes into tidy squares.