Berried to the Hilt

by Karen MacInerney

  “I wish we had more to go on,” Charlene said.

  “After almost four hundred years, it’s amazing we have as much as we do,” Matilda pointed out.

  I was still dwelling on the girl’s disappearance. “How awful, not to know,” I said. There had been one night when Adam’s lobster boat hadn’t come in—and my niece Gwen had been on it. Charlene and I had spent a long night in the store, huddled over the shortwave radio, praying for news. I could only imagine how I would feel if my seventeen-year-old daughter vanished into thin air.

  “Early death was much more common back then,” Matilda reminded me. “No penicillin meant the slightest cut could cause fatal blood poisoning. Many young women died in childbirth. And then there were measles, tuberculosis … all the diseases modern medicine has made almost obsolete.” The historian pushed her glasses up on her nose and gave me a sad smile. “There were many, many tragedies. That’s one of the reasons families were so big—to replace the offspring that were lost.”

  “It must still have been a blow, though.”

  “Yes,” Matilda agreed, a look of regret on her weathered face for the girl who had vanished close to four centuries ago. “It certainly was to Genevieve.”

  “Was there anything specific that Eleanor had—a locket, a piece of jewelry—that could still be down there?” Charlene asked, twirling a lock of her caramel-colored hair, her blue eyes unusually dreamy. “Something the archaeologists might be able to find and identify her with? If she was on the ship, that is.”

  Matilda shook her head sadly. “If so, there’s no mention of it anywhere. If she had a locket with initials on it, perhaps, but there’s no mention of any particular jewelry, and any clothing or paper would long since have been destroyed. History is often like that—trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle when you’re missing most of the pieces.”

  The mention of puzzles made me think of Cranberry Island’s more recent tragedy—and the reason I had stopped by the store. “Speaking of puzzles,” I said, looking at Matilda, “What do you think of Eli’s cutlass being found in the bushes by the pier?”

  “I’ve known Eleazer all my life,” she said, “and he treated that artifact like a favorite child. He never would have tossed it into the bushes like that.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” I said. “He says he gave it to Carl Morgenstern, the marine archaeologist, but Carl claims he never met with Eli.”

  “Did Eli bring it over to the inn?” Charlene asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Claudette’s over visiting him right now; I asked her to find out for me. Part of the reason I came down here was to find out if anyone had seen Eli talking with Carl.”

  “If so, I haven’t heard about it,” Charlene said, surveying the women chatting in low, excited tones on the couches, “and I think I’ve heard just about everything there is to hear on the subject of Eli over the last twenty-four hours. Folks have talked about nothing else.”

  I felt my hopes deflate; Matilda, too, looked worried.

  “They’re charging him with homicide, then,” Matilda said, looking bleak.

  I sighed. “That’s what John tells me.”

  “It’s ridiculous. I know he was hotheaded about the shipwreck, and angry at Iliad, but Eli would never have killed that man!” Charlene said.

  “Any word on Evan Sorenson yet?” Matilda asked. Evidently I wasn’t the only one who found his disappearance—and the timing of it—suspicious.

  Charlene shook her head. “Nope. Nothing on the Lorelei, either.”

  “Do you think Evan might have killed Gerald McIntire?” I asked.

  “I don’t know him that well, to be honest,” Matilda said. “But it is suspicious.”

  “It’s almost like Eleanor’s disappearance,” Charlene said.

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “The boat disappearing, and Eleanor … it’s the same thing, just a few centuries later.”

  “Poor Ingrid,” Matilda said, shaking her head. “I saw her yesterday; she’s a wreck. Evan had just gotten back from … from a difficult time,” she said, “and seemed to be doing so well, too! It’s such a pity.”

  “Do you know if Evan was seeing anyone?” I asked. “Did he have a girlfriend somewhere?”

  “I know he went over to Mount Desert Island a lot, but I don’t know if he was romantically involved with anyone.”

  “I heard he was getting into poker,” Charlene said. “And that he wasn’t very good at it.” She sighed. “Maybe he tried to follow Davey Blue to the Caribbean, to shake free of his gambling debts.”

  “I hope that’s all it is,” said Matilda.

  “It’s still a felony offense,” I reminded her.

  Matilda pressed her lips together in a grim smile. “It’s better than the alternative.”

  The oven repairman still hadn’t turned up when I got back to the inn.

  “Did he at least call?” I asked Gwen, after ensuring that lunch had gone off without a hitch.

  She shook her head. “He was supposed to be here by two,” she said. “John left him a message a few minutes ago—he’s down in his workshop now.”

  I sighed. “I guess it’s time to put plan B into action.”

  “What—borrow an oven? Or light a fire in the back yard?”

  “No,” I said, checking to be sure I still had clams in the pantry and then picking up the phone. “I’m placing an order with Little Notch Bakery.” The little bakery in Southwest Harbor made killer pies and bread. I made a quick call, reserving two pies and enough small loaves of sourdough breads to make bread bowls to hold clam chowder. I added an order for two dozen blueberry muffins, as well. It was more expensive than baking everything myself, but it was an emergency situation. And it was a beautiful day for a trip in the skiff. I hoped the cold air would clear my head.

  “Could you pick up a few of their cinnamon rolls for me?”

  “Done. Need anything else from Southwest Harbor?” I asked.

  “I’m running low on a few tubes of paint,” she said, “but the best store is in Northeast Harbor. I’ll ask Adam to take me over to the mainland later this week.”

  “How’s he doing with everything?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “He’s angry at Evan, of course—but more worried about him than anything. And Eli.” Gwen pulled her sweater tighter around her. “Any word on how he’s doing?”

  “Claudette’s over visiting him today,” I said. “I’ll ask her when she gets back. Tom found him a good attorney.”

  “I can’t believe Eli would do something like that,” she said.

  “I’m hoping we can prove he didn’t,” I said, pulling on a jacket and glancing at my watch. It was three o’clock; if I made it back by five, I’d have plenty of time to get things together for dinner. All I had to do was put together clam chowder and a salad; Little Notch was providing the dessert.

  I stepped out the back door a moment later, glad to be heading out on the water for an hour or two. The fresh air and the waves always soothed me—and after the week I’d been having, I needed all the soothing I could get.

  I was halfway down the walk to John’s workshop—my plan was to see if he wanted to join me for the trip—when a muffled sob reached my ears.

  Huddled on a slab of granite near the shore was Audrey, the Iliad archaeologist, her head cradled in her hands.

  I hurried down to the water’s edge and crouched beside her, gently putting a hand on her back. She jumped as if I’d shocked her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as she wiped furiously at her eyes. Her tanned skin was splotchy from crying.

  “Fine,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Just upset about Gerald.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “It must be hard losing someone you’ve spent so much time working with. You must have been very close,” I said.

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Not as close as I’d thought.” Swiping at her eyes, she took a shuddery breath. “He played me.”

  “What
do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. I thought we had something special … and then I find out he’s engaged to some floozy from California.” She stared out at the dark cobalt water. “After everything we’ve been through together, everything I’ve done for him—he was a two-timing bastard,” she said, her voice charged with fury.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, wondering what exactly she’d done for him—and whether she’d found out about his engagement before or after Gerald’s death. “Did he tell you?”

  “Of course not,” she said scornfully. “He was a coward. My sister found the engagement notice and forwarded it to me.”

  “Before he died?”

  Her eyes flicked to me; she reminded me of a spooked horse. “No,” she said shortly. “Afterward.” She stood up and brushed at her pants. “I’ve got work to do. Thanks for talking with me, but I really need to get going.”

  She strode up the hillside quickly, her slender athletic frame buffeted by the wind from the water. Interesting, I thought as I turned back toward the carriage house. Eli and Carl weren’t the only two to hold a grudge against Gerald McIntire.

  At his workshop, John greeted me with a kiss. “The repairman’s running late,” he said. “He says he’ll be here at four.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m headed over to Little Notch to pick up some bread and pies. Want to come with me?”

  “I’d love to, but I should probably wait here—in the event the repair guy actually manages to make it over to the island.”

  “Probably a good idea,” I said. “It’s a shame, though—I’d love the company.”

  “So would I,” he said with a grin. I watched as he plucked a small, wooden boat from a small fleet and began sanding the edges. The sweet, clean aroma of fresh wood permeated his workshop, and suspended sawdust gleamed in the air where the light from the studio windows streaked across the room. I thought of Audrey, huddled on her rock—and the venom in her voice. “I think I may have another suspect, by the way.”

  He paused in his sanding. “Who?”

  I relayed the conversation I’d had with Audrey down by the water.

  “Interesting,” he said. “It would be a true crime of passion. And if they’d gone out to the wreck site together … she could have killed him and scuttled the vessel.”

  “How would she have gotten back?” I asked.

  “That is a problem,” he said. “Unless she had help.”

  I sighed. “That would indicate planning, though, and it seemed more a crime of passion.”

  “And we don’t even know when she found out about the fiancée,” he pointed out.

  “Something about her eyes made me think she was lying to me,” I said. “But I wish there were a way to confirm when she got the news.”

  John eyed me sternly. “You’re not thinking of breaking into her computer, are you?”

  I felt my cheeks flush. He knew me too well.

  “It’s illegal, Natalie.”

  “I know,” I said.

  But I didn’t promise not to look.

  _____

  Normally, I would enjoy a trip in the skiff on a gorgeous day, particularly when it involved a visit to Southwest Harbor and the always delectable-smelling Little Notch Bakery. The little town, with its old clapboard buildings, was as quaint as always. I almost always took the opportunity to window-shop and admire the colorful artwork displayed in the shining plate glass windows, but the charms of Southwest Harbor were lost on me today. Even the beckoning shop windows—not to mention the seductive aroma of baking bread and the rows of gorgeous-looking pastries at the bakery—couldn’t distract me from my worries. My mind kept returning to Eleazer.

  The young woman behind the counter handed me a box with my order; I tossed in a few sweet rolls and a tasty-looking apple turnover, and stepped back into the tangy fall air, the smell of fresh bread rising from the box in my arms. It was a short walk to the dock, and before I knew it, I was pointing the skiff back toward Cranberry Island.

  The wind was fierce on the way back to the inn; dark clouds were tumbling into the blue sky from the north, and I wasn’t surprised to see the Ira B moored near the dock when the inn came into view. Had the university archaeologists managed to retrieve the ship’s bell? I wondered as I moved the box of baked goods to the dock and tied up the Little Marian.

  At the inn, Gwen was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear the sound of voices in the parlor as I unloaded my haul in the kitchen. John had left a note on the table—the repairman wasn’t going to be able to make it until tomorrow morning. I patted myself on the back for the foresight to buy muffins. Instead of the overnight French toast I’d been planning on, I’d serve cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, with fresh blueberry muffins alongside.

  I glanced at the clock. I needed to start the chowder soon, but I wanted to see if Claudette had made it back—or if the university team had made any new discoveries at the wreck site. Ten minutes wouldn’t kill me, I decided—as long as I was efficient.

  I slipped through the door to the dining room just as Carl and Molly rounded the corner from the parlor.

  “How’d it go today?” I asked.

  “Not as well as we’d hoped,” Carl said.

  “Weather started coming in, and the current got bad, so we called it off for the day,” added Molly.

  “Did you manage to bring anything up?” I asked.

  Molly’s sunny smile faded a bit. “We tried, but the lift bags weren’t quite big enough, and the current was rough. We’re going to get some new bags and give it another shot when there’s less wave action.”

  “So, no luck?” I asked.

  “A few concretions,” she said. “But nothing identifiable. The dive chilled me to the bone, though—I was thinking of starting a fire, if that’s okay.”

  “You’re welcome to,” I said. “There’s wood and matches next to the fireplace, and newspaper for kindling; I can do it for you if you need me to.”

  “I’ve got it,” she said, with a wink. “Years of Girl Scouts.”

  I laughed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. But I’m sorry you didn’t find anything more helpful today.”

  “We’ll find something soon enough, I’m sure. Once I’ve warmed up a bit, I’ll probably head back to the Ira B in a little bit and see what we can do with what we hauled up. Doesn’t look like gold or silver bullion, but you never know what you’ll find.”

  “Not that we’re looking for gold or silver,” Carl cut in reprovingly. “Our concern is the historical value of the ship.”

  “Of course,” Molly said, her freckled face flushing pink. “It’s just a lot easier to date a wreck when you’ve got coins.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “But if we get the bell …” He glanced at me and trailed off suddenly.

  “You found the ship’s bell?” I asked.

  “We don’t know,” Molly said, backpedaling.

  “How would that help?” I asked.

  “It might help identify the ship,” she said. “If we could find it—and if the information on it hasn’t been eroded.”

  “I’ve heard metal often ends up rusting into a big chunk if it’s been under water for a long time,” I said.

  Carl nodded. “It’s called a concretion; the artifact gets buried in it, along with anything nearby. It can envelop not just the metal, but any object close to it—even leather and wood.”

  “How do you get it off?”

  “Sometimes we chip it off,” he said. “We also use electrolysis—putting the metal into a charged, sodium hydroxide solution—to soften up the concretion and preserve the artifact. It can take years, though,” he said.

  “Gosh. And I thought electrolysis was just to get rid of unwanted hair,” I said.

  Molly grinned. “Unwanted hair, unwanted rust …”

  “So, if you manage to track down the bell,” I said, “how long do you think it would take to identify it?”

  “It would depend on the condition of th
e bell, and the level of concretion,” Carl said. “And whether we’re able to locate it.” Which I knew they likely had. Why was he being so cagey? “Unless we have the artifact, I’m afraid, there’s no way to tell.”

  I decided to push my luck. “How exactly does someone lay claim to a shipwreck? I thought it was finders keepers, but I understand there may be more involved.”

  The two exchanged glances, and it was Carl who spoke. “If you find artifacts that can positively identify the ship, you can register the claim in court.”

  “So you would be able to lay claim to the wreck,” I said.

  “The university would, yes. It gets dicey if you’re talking about naval ships; one of the big treasure hunting companies found a eighteenth-century Spanish ship called the Merchant Royal. They pulled up a hundred thousand pounds of gold.”

  “Wow. No wonder it’s big business. Do they get to keep it?”

  She shook her head. “They’ve been fighting about it in court for years, but the court ruled in favor of Spain not too long ago.”

  “I just hope the Spanish treat the wreck as an archeological site,” Carl said, shaking his head. “Of course, everything’s been disturbed, so the site’s no longer intact …”

  “They did map it first,” Molly pointed out. I was a bit surprised to see her defending a treasure hunter.

  “So the company didn’t get anything?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t look like it. They’re appealing the decision, of course,” Molly said. “But it was a military ship, so even though it sank four hundred years ago, the court ruled that since Spain never officially abandoned the ship, it still belongs to the Spanish government.”

  “What about this wreck?”

  “It’s outside of Maine’s territorial waters,” Molly said, “so it’s fair game. If it does turn out to be Davey Blue’s ship, then the organization that first files the claim takes home the spoils.”

  “And if it’s the Selfridge ship?”

  “That’s a bit murkier. It all depends on whether there’s still family to claim it—and whether they’d be willing to go to court to defend their right.”