“What would you do with it?”
“I’d want it in a museum, of course,” he said. “First, though, let’s find out what it is.”
“Wise man,” John said.
Adam looked at me. “I’m hoping you’ll get some business out of it—when I called the university, I told them about the inn.”
“I appreciate the plug,” I said, and gestured to the cookies cooling on the rack. I might have to make another batch if I kept getting visitors. “Help yourself,” I told him.
“Thanks.” He scooped up three and grunted appreciatively as he bit into the first gingery cookie. Rhonda’s cookies had made another convert.
“I wonder what they’ll find,” I said, gazing out the window at the blue water.
“Could be Selfridge’s ship,” John said.
“Or Davey Blue’s,” Adam put in optimistically. “We’ll just have to wait and see!”
Gwen came down the stairs, her dark curly hair pulled up in a loose bun, the canvas bag I knew held her art supplies slung over a slender shoulder. Her face glowed when she looked at Adam. “You’re early!”
“You’re late,” he said, grinning at her. The two exchanged a quick kiss, and stood with their arms around each other. They’d been together more than a year, but they were both still smitten. “It sounds like Adam’s filled you in on the news,” she said, glancing at the cooling cookies. “Oooh. Rhonda’s gingersnaps. Can you spare a few?”
“Of course,” I said. Next time, I’d have to make a double batch. Or maybe even triple. “Gwen—how come you didn’t tell me about the ship Adam found?”
“You were asleep when I got home, Aunt Nat!”
“Next time, wake me up!”
Gwen made herself a small stack of cookies and turned back to me. “It is pretty cool, isn’t it? Wait until I tell my mother!”
I shifted from one foot to the other, wishing she hadn’t brought up my sister Bridget. I had no idea what would happen when Gwen’s mother found out that the boyfriend she thought was a shipping magnate—a misunderstanding I’d accidentally fostered and never got around to dispelling—was a lobsterman.
Gwen had come out to spend the summer with me a few seasons ago—largely to escape her mother’s company for the summer—and ended up postponing her degree to stay on the island. She lived at the inn with me and helped me manage the place. A gifted artist, she also studied art with Fernand LaChaise, a well-known painter with a studio on the island. But I knew Adam was the real reason she stayed. Adam had a Princeton degree to his name—or at least he did, before he tipped it overboard—but his lobsterman credentials were not going to hold much weight with my sister Bridget.
“It’ll work out fine,” Gwen said, reading my mind.
“I hope so.”
“You’re the one who told her Adam was in shipping,” she reminded me, slipping on a jacket and grabbing her bag of art supplies.
“Maybe a promise of free lobstergrams will win her over,” Adam suggested lightly.
Gwen shot him a skeptical look. “Clearly you haven’t met my mother,” she said.
“I haven’t, but I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “I think.”
Gwen shouldered her bag and finished the last cookie. “Anyway, it sounds like you have all the news on the ship. I promise you’ll be the first to know if I find out anything else.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m looking forward to having a scoop for Charlene for a change of pace.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” John said.
“She didn’t know about it this morning!”
“That was hours ago,” Gwen said.
“True,” I admitted.
“Anyway,” Gwen said. “I’m headed out to work on the boat for a few hours—I’ll be back to help with dinner.”
“Thanks,” I said, the mystery of sunken ships eclipsed, at least for a few minutes, by the details of running the inn. “John’s cooking, but if you could help with serving, that would be great. Marge is taking care of the rooms, so we’re set.”
Marge O’Leary had been my enemy when I arrived on the island, and I’d sworn I’d never hire her to help me. That was before I discovered she had spent years in an abusive relationship, fearing for her life. In fact, Marge and I had both almost died at her husband’s hands.
Once he was in jail, however, and Marge was able to live without fear, she had blossomed—and had quickly become my right-hand woman. She kept the inn in tiptop condition, cleaning rooms and readying them for guests, leaving me to handle the business side of things—and the food. Even now, I could hear the vacuum droning in the distance.
“If we find out anything else, you’ll be the first to know.” Adam opened the door for Gwen, letting in a gust of chilly wind.
Gwen paused, turning back to me. “There is one thing I forgot to tell you.”
“What?” I asked, expecting another tidbit about the sunken boat.
“They’ve started a pool down at the co-op.”
“A pool?” I asked, perplexed. “Why would the lobster co-op need a swimming pool?”
“As in gambling,” she clarified, while Adam laughed. “They’re betting on who you’re going to pick to win the bake-off.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I said.
“Who’s got the best odds so far?” John asked with a grin.
“Don’t tell me,” I said, holding up my hands. “I don’t want to know.”
“I don’t envy you,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “They couldn’t pay me to take that job.”
Adam followed her out the door, both of them off for a day’s work. A moment later, after coming over to give me one more kiss—and a hug that left me warm all over—John disappeared to his workshop, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Biscuit.
The phone rang as I pulled out the cornmeal for cornbread, and I answered it on the second ring.
“Cherry Price speaking,” announced the voice on the other end of the line. “I just wanted to confirm that I’ll be arriving this afternoon.”
“I’ve got you in the Crow’s Nest,” I said. “Will you be staying to dinner?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Likewise,” I said. She seemed like a delightful woman—and her name was familiar, too, somehow. I had barely hung up when the phone rang again. It was an islander I’d barely spoken to, asking how I felt about cranberries in fruitcake.
How had I ever let Tom talk me into doing the bake-off?
“So, Adam thinks it might be Davey Blue’s ship?” Charlene asked as she poured me a cup of coffee from behind the counter of the Cranberry Island Store that afternoon. I’d broken the news about the ship to her yesterday, and she’d been calling me every half hour since for updates.
Leaving Gwen in charge of lunch clean-up, I’d headed down to the store with a batch of muffins for Charlene to sell at the counter. I was planning to enjoy a bit of the gorgeous fall weather before my new guests checked in that afternoon. Adam’s recommendation had worked; I now had five additional rooms booked. Fortunately, I had plenty of supplies in the freezer, but was expecting an additional shipment of ingredients from the mainland that afternoon.
The sun was shining and the breeze off the water was mild, but chilly enough to make me thankful for my jacket. The fall colors were stunning, the leaves scattered like red and orange jewels across the russet blueberry patches and the straw-colored grass.
By the time I arrived at the homey little store, with its rockers on the front porch, a wall of old-fashioned post office boxes behind the counter, and shelves stocked with everything from peanut butter to fishing line, I was ready for a cup of coffee and a pleasant chat. Which was a good thing, because that was exactly what Charlene had in mind for me.
Charlene’s store was often referred to as the island’s living room, and the front part of the old wood-frame building was outfitted with several squishy couches and a few chairs. After transferring the muffins to the bakery case she kept b
y the register, I eased myself into the chair closest to the window, feeling refreshed and relaxed—until I spotted the big red flyer taped to the window. In huge block letters, were the words “Annual Cranberry Bake-Off!”
I tore my eyes away from it as Charlene handed me a cup of coffee and sat down across from me. The sequins on her lavender sweater sparkled in the afternoon light that poured in through the mullioned front window as she crossed her legs and looked at me expectantly.
I told Charlene—again—what Adam had told me about the wreck. “Adam told the marine archaeologists about the inn, and they booked five rooms—so hopefully, I’ll have more to tell you soon,” I said. “What are the islanders saying?”
“That they found gold,” she said.
“If they have, I haven’t heard about it,” I said.
“Some of the guys are saying it’s probably worth millions of dollars—a sunken treasure. And they’re already arguing over whose it is; there have been a lot of boats out on Deadman’s Shoal, using fishing nets to try and find the site.”
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “Have they pulled up anything?”
“No, but one of them put a hole in his boat and two of them have lost their gear.”
“Serves them right,” I said. “No divers, though, I hope.”
She shook her head. “Nobody’s got gear but Diver Bob, and he won’t do it—he doesn’t want to disturb the site further.” She sipped her coffee. “So, will Adam get the booty?”
“It depends on how far off the coast it is, I think. And what ship it is.”
“It’s amazing that no one’s found it over all these years—it must have been down there a couple of centuries, and nobody knew,” Charlene said, shaking her head. “There’s always been a rumor that Smuggler’s Cove was a pirate hideout; maybe there was something to it!”
“How can they figure out whose ship it was?” I asked.
Charlene shrugged. “Eleazer told me they can tell lots of things just based on what they find in the wreckage. Plates, glasses, cannons—all kinds of stuff. I heard there are marine archaeologists coming in from around the country to investigate it.”
“Two are coming in from Portland, and they’re staying at the inn,” I said. “The other three said they were from a marine research company out of Florida.” Which was strange; Adam had only mentioned getting in touch with the University of Maine. I’d ask him next time I saw him. “Maybe you can use your charm to get the details out of them.”
“Are any of them cute?” she asked.
I laughed. “I have no idea—and besides, two of them are women.”
“That still leaves three. What was your first impression?”
“The man I talked to sounded … well, like a normal person. But we only talked on the phone. You’ll have to come by and find out for yourself!”
“I may do that.” She took a sip of coffee and looked sidelong at me over the rim of her mug. “So. Any progress on the local front? Made any big decisions?”
“If you’re talking about the bake-off, I’ve decided I’m just going to give the award to the best dish,” I said primly.
She shrugged. “I think you’re crazy, but have it your way.”
“Why?” I asked, leaning forward despite myself. “Did you think of a better plan?”
“Other than John beaning you with a two-by-four and putting you in the hospital for a few days?” She shook her head. “Not yet. But I still think it’s not a bad idea.”
_____
I arrived home to a nervous-looking Emmeline Hoyle, carrying a heavy tray with a tea towel draped over it. Her dark eyes looked nervous in her round face, and I noticed she was wearing her Sunday clothes—in this case, a long straight skirt and a red wool sweater that years of her excellent cooking had made a bit snug.
“Hi, Emmeline,” I said warily. Emmeline was one of my favorite people on the island, and normally I would be delighted to see her, but I knew she was also a top contender for bake-off champion, having taken home the title for three of the last five years.
“Good morning, Natalie. How are you?”
“Great,” I said, eyeing the tray. “What’s under the towel?”
“I brought a few things for you to try,” she said, whipping off the floral towel to reveal three plates laden with cranberry-studded breads, cookies, and even something that looked like a steamed pudding.
“But the bake-off doesn’t start till Saturday!”
“I only get one entry,” she said, “so I thought I’d find out which one you thought I should submit.”
I shook my head. “I can’t, Emmeline. You know I’d love to be able to help, but people might think I was playing favorites.”
Emmeline’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I wasn’t asking you to cheat. I just wanted your opinion.”
“I know, Emmeline. I wish I could help.”
“I understand,” she said in a tone of voice that said just the opposite. She nodded sharply and turned away, walking up the hill from the house. The sixty-something woman had carried that tray over a mile to get here. With a rush of guilt, I realized she would have to carry it home, too.
“Wait a moment,” I said.
She whipped around and looked at me with hope in her eyes.
“Why don’t you leave the tray with me? I’ve got several guests coming in today; I’ll let them try everything, and I’ll set up a little comment box.” I smiled at her. “That way, I’ve got snacks for my guests, and you can get feedback, but nobody will be able to say I rigged the contest.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll just put up a little sign explaining that you’re taste-testing for the bake-off, and that you’d love their opinions.”
“Oh, Natalie, that’s wonderful! I’m baking you a batch of my banana bread when I get home,” she said.
“That would be lovely,” I said, taking the heavy tray from her, “but why don’t you wait until after the bake-off!”
“Do you think?” she asked.
“I insist,” I said. My stomach gurgled as I breathed in the sweet aroma of Emmeline’s creations. The streusel cake looked particularly appealing. I hadn’t eaten for hours … would it hurt if I took one little bite?
“I’ll drop by tomorrow to pick up the results,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my arm.
“Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?” I asked.
“No, no … wouldn’t want anyone to accuse us of impropriety,” she said, and I was relieved to see the familiar twinkle back in her eyes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I said, and carried the tray into the inn, pleased with my ingenuity.
_____
The first set of archaeologists arrived at the kitchen door, surprising me. Most of my guests arrived at the front door, not the back. There were two of them: a tall, lean man with graying hair and a worried look, and a younger, cheerful-looking woman with curly, bright red hair and freckles. Both wore jeans and windbreakers; as the woman put her hand up to shade her eyes, the sunlight flashed off the face of her huge, utilitarian looking watch. She clearly didn’t go in for delicate accessories, I thought.
“Welcome!” I said, opening the door to them. “I see you found the mooring lines!”
“Saved us the long walk from the pier,” said the younger archaeologist. “Plus the fees to the harbormaster. I’m Molly O’Cleary,” she said, extending a hand. “And this is my colleague Carl Morgenstern,” she said, nodding her head toward her partner. “We’ve got a reservation. At least I hope we do, or we’ll be sleeping in the wheelhouse!”
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’ve reserved two rooms for you. Please come in.”
They followed me through the kitchen into the dining room. As we passed Emmeline’s tray, Molly lingered for a moment. “Looks delicious,” she said. “I’m starving.”
“You’re welcome to some,” I said.
“Let’s get checked in first,” said Carl. “Then
you can gorge.”
“It’s fuel for all our hard work,” she said, snagging a piece of cake and following me to the front desk.
They didn’t have much to carry; each of them had a small suitcase, and it didn’t take long to check in and put their bags in their rooms. Emmeline’s samples enticed them to linger in the dining room when they came back down, and I served them coffee as they helped themselves from the tray.
“What is this?” Molly asked as she took a bite of Emmeline’s steamed pudding.
I told her, and explained the theory behind the tray of goodies—and my role in the contest. “If you have a favorite,” I told them, “don’t tell me; write a note to Emmeline.” I pointed to the mason jar and the stack of index cards I’d set up for comments.
“A woman with morals,” Carl said. “I like that.”
“So,” I said. “You’re here to investigate the shipwreck?”
Carl glanced at Molly, and I saw something pass between them before he answered. “That’s why we’re here,” he said.
“You’re not the only ones,” I said.
Carl looked startled. “We’re not?”
“I’ve got another couple of archaeologists coming in today.”
“Oh, really?” Carl spoke, but both seemed suddenly wary. “Who?”
“They’re with a company called Iliad,” I said.
Molly sighed and shook her head. “They’re not really archaeologists, I’m afraid. They’re treasure hunters.”
“Do you know who called them?” Carl asked.
I shrugged. “All I know is that they booked three rooms.”
“I knew they’d find out about this,” Carl said, radiating anger.
Molly laid a hand on his arm. “Calm down, Carl. They weren’t the ones who found it, and we don’t even know how many miles offshore it is. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“If they manage to pillage this one …”
“We’ll do everything we can,” she said, soothingly.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Molly sighed again. “We’ve had dealings with Iliad before. There was a shipwreck—a Spanish galleon from the 1600s—and they took over the entire thing. We didn’t even get a chance to map it, and then all of the artifacts …” She snapped her fingers. “Gone. Sold for profit.”
Berried to the Hilt Page 2