Murder on the Rocks

by Karen MacInerney

  I lay awake for a long while, listening to the patter of rain on the roof, before I finally drifted into a dream in which Estelle and Bernard Katz were throwing huge chunks of sea glass at me and laughing. Bernard Katz was saying something to me that I couldn’t understand, and he kept pointing to the side of his head. Bits of skull poked from a jagged hole gaping above his ear, and a long trickle of blood ran down over his starched white collar onto his pin-striped suit.

  • • •

  The next morning dawned gray and cool. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it was still coming down steadily as I headed downstairs, afraid of what I’d find on the dining room floor. Fortunately, John’s quick fix had held for the night, and the old pine planks hadn’t been damaged by the rain. I laid a new tablecloth and place settings on the table the rock had landed on, frowning at the plastic and hoping John could get the window repaired today. Then I sighed and headed into the kitchen to start breakfast.

  Twenty minutes later, I was sliding a raspberry coffee cake into the oven and pulling down a coffee cup for a much-needed hit of caffeine. My head was better, but the knot on my temple still ached, and the cut in my foot stung with every step.

  I had started stirring chunks of cheddar cheese into a bowl of eggs when the phone rang. I picked it up and cradled it on my shoulder. “Gray Whale Inn.”

  “It’s just me,” Charlene said. “I thought you’d want to know; the paper just came in.”

  “More good news?”

  “Developer Murdered on Cranberry Island: Investigator says innkeeper ‘person of interest’.”

  “Sounds better than suspect, anyway.” I glanced over at the oven and checked the timer: ten minutes to go. Cooking was usually balm to my soul, but this morning the rich smell of coffeecake filling the kitchen did nothing to dispel the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Charlene said, “Between Pickens and Grimes, you’ve got yourself an anti-fan club going.”

  I sighed. “I’ll head down later to pick up a copy of the paper. Do you have any good news for me?”

  “Well, the evaluators are due in today.”

  “I’m not sure that qualifies as good news.” I shifted the phone to the other shoulder. “Someone threw a rock through the dining room window last night with a note attached.”

  “You’re kidding me. What did it say?” When I told her, she said, “You’re the Bermuda Triangle of the Maine coast, you know that?”

  “I know. Any idea who could have done it?”

  “Well, there are a few islanders who want the development to go through so they can sell out at high prices. Maybe they’re worried you’ll interfere with the resort.”

  I gazed out the window at the dark gray ocean. The surface was dulled by the spatter of raindrops, but a few lobster boats chugged across the sullen water. I wondered if Adam’s was one of them. As my eyes followed the progress of the nearest boat, I remembered that I wanted a boat of my own. “By the way,” I said, “when you see Eleazer, could you tell him I’m looking for a cheap skiff?”

  “I thought you were supposed to stay on the island.”

  “I didn’t say I was going anywhere,” I snapped. “I just said I needed a skiff.” I gave the bowl of eggs and cheese a final stir and put it into the refrigerator. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Relax, Nat. I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

  I rummaged through the freezer and pulled out a package of bacon. “It hasn’t worked out too well so far.”

  “True. But you can’t blame me for trying. By the way, when are you going to send another batch of cookies my way?”

  I promised her I’d try to get some made after breakfast and hung up the phone with a heavy heart.

  Ogden appeared just before nine in slacks and a beige sport coat. His thick glasses were the same as always, but this morning his lank hair was slicked back, and he reeked of Polo. Although he had clearly made an effort, he was not exactly GQ material; his brown slacks were short enough to expose more than I liked of his wildly patterned socks, and both the pants and the socks clashed with his scuffed black leather shoes. His eyes looked huge behind the convex lenses as he inspected the window. “What happened?”

  “The window broke.” I decided it would be best not to give the details. “It will be fixed today. Can I get you some coffee?”

  Ogden looked as if he wanted to ask something else, but changed his mind and nodded curtly. “You do recall that Mr. Katz will be joining me this morning?”

  I didn’t recall, but I nodded anyway. “Of course. I’ll have coffee out in a moment.”

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed the coffee pot. When I stepped back into the dining room, Stanley Katz had materialized, looking as haggard as he had at Cliffside. His shirt was half-tucked into wrinkled brown trousers, and his eyes were bloodshot. He deposited a sheaf of papers on the table as I filled Ogden’s cup.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked. He nodded without looking at me. I glanced down at the stack of papers and caught a glimpse of letterhead, “Brown and Watson P.C.”, before his hand moved over to cover the paper. I poured the coffee and retreated to the kitchen. “I’ll be back shortly with cream and sugar.”

  When I came out a few minutes later, Ogden and Stanley stood at the buffet. I glided over to the table with a pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl and glanced over my shoulder; both Ogden and Stanley had their backs turned to me as they filled their plates. I set down the cream and sugar and took a closer look at the top sheet of paper. The lawyers’ address was in New York City, and the letter was dated May 18.

  Dear Mr. Katz:

  Per our conversation yesterday, attached please find a copy of the new will and testament you requested. As we discussed, we have changed the beneficiary to reflect your wishes. Please review the enclosed documents. If everything is in order, contact my secretary to arrange a date and time to come in and sign the amended will. Please call me if you have any further questions.

  Best regards,

  James Watson

  New beneficiary? I was tempted to flip through and find out who that might be, but decided not to push my luck. I glanced back at the buffet; Stanley and Ogden were at the end of the line and about to return to the table. Stanley seemed to sense my gaze, and turned around suddenly. His eyes widened when he saw me at the table, and he stumbled in my direction, his lank hair falling into his face as he jerked the stack of papers off the table.

  I made a show of arranging the cream and sugar as he clutched the stack of papers to his sunken chest. “Let me know if you need anything else,” I said, and walked back into the kitchen. Stanley’s eyes followed me the whole way.

  The rest of breakfast was uneventful. The Bittles were the last ones down, but even so, everybody had been served by 9:30, and I cleaned up from breakfast and started on a batch of chocolate chip cookies to take to Charlene’s. As I folded chocolate chips into the buttery golden batter, my thoughts turned to the papers Ogden had clutched to his chest at breakfast. I wondered how and why Bernard Katz had changed his will. I also wondered if he had had a chance to sign it.

  The first batch of cookies was ready for the oven when Gwen came downstairs, dressed to kill as usual in white Capri pants and a low-cut blue T-shirt. Her mass of hair had been captured in a loose bun, accentuating her slender neck and long-lashed brown eyes. She looked strangely vulnerable. “How’s your foot?” she asked.

  “Much better.” I had woken her up and told her to lock her door after the rock came through the window last night. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Just fine.” She opened the refrigerator. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Cheese eggs, raspberry coffee cake, bacon, and fruit salad. There’s still coffee, too.”

  “Great.” She pulled out Tupperware containers and started loading up a plate. �
��When are you heading down to Fernand’s?”

  “I don’t know. I have to drop cookies off at Charlene’s this afternoon; maybe I’ll swing by then.” I wanted to ask Fernand a few questions, anyway. “Can I count on you to take care of the rooms? You’ve been doing a great job the last week.”

  “No problem.” She glanced out the window at the leaden sky. “The light isn’t too good today, anyway.” She beamed at me through a mouthful of coffee cake. “I’m glad you’ll be going down to the studio; I can’t wait for you to see my work.”

  “I’ll head over as soon as the cookies are done.”

  It was almost 11:30 when I strapped the container of warm cookies onto the back of my Schwinn and headed up the hill. I had decided to drop the cookies off at Charlene’s store first; then, if it didn’t start raining again, I’d head over to Fernand’s.

  The normally vibrant landscape was subdued today. The towering evergreens formed a dark corridor, and the weather-stained humps of granite rearing up among the ferns and bayberry bushes mirrored the leaden sky. The rain had let up, but the pavement was still wet. I took the turn up the hill from the inn carefully; my poor body was banged up enough already without adding a spill from my bike.

  Despite the foreboding atmosphere, it felt good to be out in the sea air and pumping my legs up the hill. The smell of rain was sweet, and the silvery droplets of water dangling from the blossoms in the clumps of blueberry bushes made them look as if they had been touched with fairy dew. The sound of the waves grew fainter as I puffed to the top of the hill, and I sat back with relief as the Schwinn crested it and started the steep descent through the pine trees.

  The wind was whipping through my hair by the time I was halfway down, and my hands squeezed the brakes lightly. The brake levers clacked against the handlebars. I squeezed again; they clacked louder, but the bike didn’t slow; in fact, it kept picking up speed. My stomach filled with ice water as the pine trees receded into a blur of green. Soon I became conscious only of the wet blacktop hurtling toward me. My mind raced, trying to come up with a way to stop the bike. A sharp turn was coming up; if I could make it around that, the rest of the road was relatively straight, and the bike would be able to run its speed down gradually. I braced myself and leaned into the curve as hard as I could, struggling to stay upright.

  I hung tightly onto the handlebars, shifting all of my weight to the left, and was just about through the tightest part of the curve when the Schwinn hit a slick spot and began to skid. As the bike careened sideways, I hung suspended in midair over the wet blacktop. I fought to regain control, but the bike slipped farther, slamming me hard against the wet pavement. For a long, searing moment the Schwinn and I skidded across the asphalt; then we crashed to a halt in a tangle of bushes on the side of the road.

  I lay in the bushes for a moment with my eyes closed, reflecting on what a great idea it had been to move to Maine to escape the stresses and worries of day-to-day life. As the blood pounding through my veins began to subside, I could feel cold metal pressed against my leg. The rest of my body, however, was numb. For a moment, I wondered if I would be running the inn as a quadriplegic, but a few cautious movements assured me that I still had use of my limbs. The smell of leaf mold and bayberry was mixed with the warm scent of chocolate; I guessed that the cookies hadn’t survived the crash.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw that I was sprawled sideways atop a clump of bayberry bushes, with several chunks of cookie and the Schwinn beside me. The cold metal I’d felt against my thigh was a contorted handlebar. My hip flared with pain as I shifted, but everything seemed intact.

  I wriggled out from under the handlebar and stood up shakily. My heavy jeans had protected me from the worst of the road. Gravel had penetrated in one or two spots, but aside from what felt like some major bruises, my leg was in working order. My left arm stung as I straightened it; I’d lost a bit of skin on my left forearm, and a few dark pebbles clung to the abraded skin, but it looked as if it would heal quickly. I brushed myself off and glanced back at the massive hunks of granite lining the steep turn. If the bike had gone down a few seconds earlier, I would have smashed headfirst into a boulder.

  I had survived the fall without major damage, but the Schwinn had not been so lucky. The powder-blue metal frame was bent in several places, and the handlebars resembled chrome antlers. Broken chocolate chip cookies lay scattered across the damp forest floor next to the smashed plastic container. At least the raccoons would enjoy some home-baked snacks. I bent down and took a close look at the brakes, wondering what had gone wrong with them. What I saw made my heart skip a beat.

  The cables had been snipped.

  I fingered the blunt ends for a moment and stood up. Had the same person who had thrown a rock through my window cut my brake lines? I looked at the fragments of chocolate chip cookies scattered across the ground with a sick feeling in my stomach; it could easily have been me lying there in pieces instead. As my eyes returned to the severed brake lines, fear gave way to a smoldering anger. Vandalizing my inn to scare me off was one thing, but I could have been killed by this little prank. Suddenly an image of Bernard Katz sprawled across the rocks flashed through my mind, and a chill ran down my spine as I realized that perhaps that had been the point.

  I bent down to collect the shards of plastic and then pulled the bike upright. The front wheel was warped, but the bike still rolled, so I strapped what was left of the container to the back and limped up the road toward the inn.

  The phone jangled as I opened the kitchen door. I walked over to it, but my hand hesitated over the receiver. I wasn’t up for a call from Gertrude Pickens right now. On the other hand, if it was a guest calling to make a reservation, I needed to book it before they had a chance to call elsewhere.

  Survival instincts won out.

  “Gray Whale Inn.”

  “Natalie? It’s Bridget.” I stifled a groan, and the pain in my hip twanged as I leaned up against the counter. My sister wasn’t Gertrude Pickens, but she still wasn’t high on the list of people I wanted to be talking to right now.

  “Hi, Bridget,” I said with as much brightness as I could muster. “How’s California?”

  “Wonderful. How are things out on Cranberry Island?”

  “Doing fine,” I said in what I viewed as a massive overstatement. I stared out the window at a lobster boat plowing through the leaden water, and wondered if my niece was aboard it. “Gwen seems to be enjoying herself.”

  Bridget’s tone became guarded. “Oh? How so?”

  “She’s been taking an art class on the island,” I said, watching as the white boat moved from buoy to buoy, like a bee collecting nectar from flowers. “Apparently it’s going very well.”

  “She’s not . . . seeing anyone, is she?”

  Was my sister psychic? “Well,” I began, “there is someone . . .”

  “Does he at least have a college degree?” she interrupted.

  “Yes,” I said. “From Princeton, I believe.”

  “Princeton?” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Well, that can’t be too bad. What does he do for a living?”

  “Oh, he’s involved with boats,” I said. The boat I had been watching picked up steam and moved farther out. How nice it would be to spend the day out on the water, breathing salt air and feeling the swell of the waves. Then again, Charlene had told me the salted herring in the bait bags could get pretty smelly. Maybe I was better off watching from a distance.

  Bridget’s voice jerked me back to my kitchen. “Boats? What do you mean? Does he have a yacht?”

  Not exactly. “No, not a yacht. Boats are more of, well, a career for him.”

  She pounced on my words. “A career. Shipping? That’s a good, solid line of work. Lucrative, too. It sounds like my daughter’s judgment is improving. Is she keeping up with things at the inn?”

  I closed and
opened my mouth a few times, feeling like a fish caught on dry land, before responding. “It was a bit rough at the start, but she’s been a real help.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Bridget said. “Maybe the break will help her apply herself when she gets back to UCLA in the fall. She can get this art thing out of her system over the summer and be ready to get back to business.”

  “I thought she was majoring in economics.”

  “You know what I mean,” Bridget huffed. “Something practical. Real life. How’s business going, by the way? Surviving your first season?”

  “Oh, things are chugging along,” I said, walking over to the sink and wincing as I held my battered arm under the rush of water. I decided to leave out the parts about a guest being killed, the cops being interested in me as a suspect, and vandalism with potentially murderous intent. “I’d put Gwen on to talk to you herself, but I don’t think she’s here right now. Shall I have her call you?”

  “Please do. I’m relieved to hear that everything’s going so well.” She chuckled. “Knowing Gwen, I half expected her to take up with a fisherman.”

  I choked out a laugh. “Well, I’ll tell her you called.”

  “Thanks, Nat. Take care.”

  I hung up with the distinct feeling that I had just made things worse, not better. I finished taking care of my arm and had started to wonder how I was going to explain the conversation to Gwen when Eleazer’s gnarled face appeared at the kitchen door.

  “Heard you were in the market for a boat,” he said as I opened the door.

  “News travels fast.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be an islander, you need a boat. When Charlene told me you were looking for a skiff, I knew I had just the boat for you.” He motioned for me to follow him, and we walked across the back deck and down the sloping meadow behind the inn to a small weathered dock. Normally, only John’s skiff, Mooncatcher, was moored there, but this afternoon it had been joined by a second small wooden boat, painted bright white. It looked to be about twelve feet long, and bobbed cheerily among the waves.