Once I’d recovered from her quick exit—my cheeks still burned when I thought about her scornful glance—I thought about the sudden change that had come over her once I started talking about Tom.
And the weight-loss supplements she’d stopped handing out.
___
By the time the retreat trooped into Spurrell’s Lobster Pound a few hours later, Vanessa had recovered her sangfroid, and other than a chilly glance my way, had reverted to her normal perky, encouraging, disgustingly skinny self. I seated everyone at little wooden tables and brought them seltzer water; Evie had taken over the food preparation, so I was limited to serving and cleaning up. I hoped it wasn’t because she believed everything she read in the Daily Mail.
I was worried that the change of venue would be a problem, but the guests seemed charmed by the little restaurant—the white-clothed wooden tables and the gingham curtains at the windows gave the dining area a cozy, welcoming feeling, and the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen had everyone’s mouth watering. There would be none of Evie’s delicious lobster bisque—or her melt-in-your-mouth parkerhouse rolls and butter, unfortunately—but since my guests didn’t know what they were missing, they wouldn’t mind. And for a low-fat menu, tonight’s dinner smelled pretty darned fabulous.
As strange as it was not to be cooking, I was thankful to have my menu in the hands of such an accomplished cook. The salads she had plated were gorgeous, bursting with color from the yellow and red cherry tomatoes, purple onions, and the gleam of a raspberry vinaigrette.
“Looks great!” I told Evie, whose round face was red from the heat of the kitchen.
“I just followed your recipe,” she said, smiling.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I said. “I owe you—big time.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, turning back to the stove, where a batch of scallops were browning in a pan.
As I served the salads, I scanned the room. Greg and Megan were attached virtually at the hip, oblivious to Carissa, who was glowering at them across the table. If nothing else, I told myself, at least the presence of Greg had diminished the amount of criticism Megan directed at her overweight daughter. Still, Carissa looked miserable. What was she going to tell her father when they got home? Even if nothing had happened between Greg and Megan, there was obviously some kind of mutual fascination going on.
I looked at the private investigator, thinking of the journal I’d found in his room. I still hadn’t figured out his connection with Dirk. Even if the trainer was the “subject” mentioned in the notebook—why make contact? What was the goal?
There were so many things that didn’t make sense, I thought as I returned to the kitchen for more plates. Including the question of John and Vanessa. And why John was currently being questioned on the mainland.
I pushed thoughts of my neighbor from my mind, grabbed a few more plates, and headed back out to the dining room.
The three sorority sisters were reminiscing as I served them their salads.
“Whatever happened with you and Roy, anyway?” Sarah asked Cat, after complimenting me on the salad and grabbing a fork. What was it someone said? That hunger makes the best seasoning?
Cat pushed at a cherry tomato with a fork, looking uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. “We kind of fell apart after … well, you know.”
“After you lost Ashley,” Sarah said sympathetically.
“Yes,” Cat said.
“Does his family still own that lumber business?” Boots asked. “Mickelson’s Lumber, I think it was called?”
“As far as I know,” Cat said. “We really don’t keep in touch.”
Boots shook her head. “All ancient history, I know. So much has changed over the years, hasn’t it?”
“It has,” Sarah said. “But let’s talk about the future. As in, who do you want to see at the reunion?”
Cat shot her a grateful glance as I laid the last plate in front of Boots and returned to the kitchen. Something they had said rang a bell, I realized as I headed back to the kitchen again. One of those names; I’d heard or seen it somewhere before.
The question was, where?
By the time I left the restaurant, after thanking Evie about a million times and making sure the schedule was set for tomorrow, it was well after dark.
“I feel awful about intruding on you this way,” I said. “Please let me reimburse you for your time—and for using the restaurant.”
She smiled at me and untied her apron from her ample middle. “You’re an islander now, Natalie. This is what we do for each other—always have.”
“But …”
“When someone else is in need, you’ll do the same. You’ve already done it with Marge,” she pointed out.
“They may close my kitchen for the rest of the week, though.”
She shrugged. “It’ll get me back into the swing of things,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” she said. “Maybe you can help me with some of the desserts this summer—but you don’t have to.”
“As soon as my kitchen is open,” I said, “you’re welcome to anything I can make.”
“How about some of those famous Blackout Brownies?” she asked.
“Consider it done,” I said. As I zipped up my jacket and headed out into the darkness alone, I couldn’t help smiling. Things might be going south at the inn, but the islanders were rallying around me. I would never be a native, but they were starting to view me as one of their own.
___
The retreat members had headed home with Vanessa while I stayed to clean up, and by the time I crested the last hill before the inn, the moon was up and the inn’s many windows were glowing. I hoped Gwen had remembered to do turndown service.
I glanced down the hill as I unlocked the kitchen door, and my heart seized in my chest. It wasn’t just the inn’s lights that were burning; the windows of John’s carriage house were lit as well.
Gwen jumped and whirled around as I pushed open the door. “Aunt Nat!” she said, sagging against the cluttered countertop. Several canisters and bags of dried fruit were still scattered haphazardly around my normally immaculate kitchen. “You scared me!”
“Sorry about that,” I said. My eyes scanned the counters, but my mind was still on the carriage house—and John.
“Do you know where the sugar-free mints are?” she asked.
“I’m guessing the police hid them somewhere,” I said. “You’ll just have to skip it tonight.”
“How did dinner go?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, anxious to go and find out what had happened with John. “It looks like John’s back—I’d like to go talk to him.”
“I saw him in the living room a few minutes ago,” she said.
“With Vanessa?”
She nodded, pity in her brown eyes. “I think he went back to the carriage house, though.”
“Alone?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
I took a deep breath. “Do you have things under control here?” I asked.
“I’m fine, Aunt Nat,” she said, her eyes following mine to John’s windows. “Go talk to him.”
“Thanks,” I said, walking back through the kitchen door and down the hill, feeling numb. I dreaded talking to him—but I needed to know what was going on.
John answered almost immediately, looking haggard and weary.
I stood there, tongue-tied, hugging myself against the cold wind off the water.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” he said. After a pause, he said, “Would you like to come in?”
“Sure,” I said.
As I walked into his jumbled living room, he removed a pile of cushions from one of the couches, gesturing for me to sit, then pulled up a chair across from me. The smell of fresh wood did nothing to soothe me today, and the seal sculpture that usually sat on the coffee table had been relocate
d somewhere. The picture of John as a child, standing beside a sailboat with his grandfather, still had pride of place among the bookshelves, but everything else was still in disarray. “You’d think they’d put things back when they were done,” I said, glancing around the mess they’d made of his usually neat living quarters and trying to ease the tension that had sprung up between us. “I may never get my kitchen back into shape.”
“They went through your kitchen?” he asked.
“They closed it,” I said. “That’s why we ate down at the restaurant.”
“Vanessa told me about that.” His green eyes flickered slightly.
I nodded abruptly, and we lapsed into silence again. I broke it a moment later. “Why did they question you on the mainland?” I asked. “And go through your house?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, his eyes focused on a spot on the wall behind me, he said, “They think either Tom or I killed Dirk.”
I swallowed hard. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
His face went very still. “Do you think I murdered Dirk De-
Leon?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Ever since Vanessa turned up on the island, you’ve been—not yourself. Distant.”
He didn’t say anything.
I stared at the sisal rug. “I heard you might be having an affair with Vanessa,” I said.
“I’m not,” he said quietly.
I looked up at him, wanting with all my heart to believe him. But his ready smile was nowhere to be seen—in fact, his tanned face was closed to me. “It is true that Vanessa and I had a relationship one summer,” he said, “about twenty years ago. I think you know that.”
“And since then?”
“We’ve talked a couple of times, but lost touch over the last five years or so.”
“So she didn’t know you were here when she scheduled the retreat,” I said, staring at the rough texture of the sisal rug again. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye—perhaps because I was afraid of what I might see.
“Tom may have told her I was here.”
I looked up. “So there is something going on with Tom.”
“Yes,” he said. “They’ve been … in contact … for some time.”
“Just via e-mail?”
“Not entirely,” he said.
“But you haven’t talked to her in years,” I said, feeling anger and hurt roiling inside me. “And that’s why the police had you over on the mainland for questioning all day.”
“I know it looks like things might have been … rekindling between us,” he said awkwardly. “But really, I was just trying to be a friend.”
“Why were you arguing with Tom the other night?”
He bit his lip and ran a hand through his short hair. “Tom is still hung up on Vanessa—hung up enough to risk everything, even though she doesn’t want to continue the relationship. His family, his livelihood—he’s throwing it all away.”
“Why does she want to end the relationship?” I asked. Is it because of you? I thought but didn’t add.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Do you think Tom killed Dirk?” I asked.
John looked up at me. “No,” he said. “He’s obsessed, but he’s not violent.”
“Poison isn’t violent,” I pointed out. “What exactly was going on between Dirk and Vanessa? Did she tell you?”
“She was engaged to be married to some guy in New Jersey, apparently, but then she met Dirk and they fell for each other, so she called off the wedding.”
“So they were involved,” I said.
“For a while. Then they started the business together, and things started going south. He was going nuts with all this supplement stuff, and it was starting to cause problems—apparently he’d run into trouble with it before, and Vanessa wanted him to lay off.”
“What kind of trouble?” I asked, thinking of the articles on lawsuits I’d seen in Elizabeth’s room. And wondering how John knew all of this if he and Vanessa had just reconnected a couple of days ago.
“There were health risks, apparently.” He leaned back in his chair. “Vanessa thought it was too dangerous to use them, particularly as the business started taking off—but Dirk saw it as a big money-making opportunity, and didn’t want to let go of it.”
“No wonder Vanessa stopped dishing out pills after Dirk died,” I said. And before that had contacted her lawyer about kicking him out of the business. “But how did Tom and Vanessa manage to have an affair?” I asked. “I mean, I think everyone would notice if she was making clandestine trips to Cranberry Island.”
John studied the wall behind me. “They ran into each other down in Boston, and Vanessa told me they kind of picked up where they had left off. Tom had been married for a long time, and things had started deteriorating with Dirk, so Vanessa was vulnerable.”
Vulnerable? Yeah, right. “So they started seeing each other?” I asked.
“She’d come up to Mount Desert Island on weekends, and he’d head over and visit her. Told Lorraine he was out fishing.”
I thought of John’s occasional trips to art studios on the mainland. Had he been meeting clandestinely with Vanessa, too? But I took a deep breath and said, “Is that why she decided to hold the retreat here on the island? Because Tom was here?”
He nodded. “Initially, yes. But he started talking about leaving his family, and Vanessa started pulling back. She wanted the excitement of an affair, I guess, not a lobsterman husband with two kids from a prior marriage.”
Infidelity was a terrible thing, but I still felt bad for Tom, who evidently was going through a bit of a midlife crisis. Not to mention poor Lorraine. If they did manage to cobble their marriage back together, it would never be the same.
On the other hand, if he spent the next fifty years in prison, that would make reconciliation really, really hard.
And if John spent the next fifty years in prison, our relationship would have a hard time moving forward, too.
“Did Tom think Dirk was his competition?” I asked.
John nodded. “That’s why he’s still at the station.”
“What do you mean?”
John looked pained. “They found some of the supplement pills at his house. He says he got them for Lorraine—she was always trying to lose a few pounds—but the police think he may have doctored some of them and exchanged them for Dirk’s pills.”
“So is that what killed him?” I asked.
“They found massive quantities of ephedrine in Dirk’s system,” John said.
“Ephedrine?” My mind clicked back to the list of supplements I’d seen in Dirk’s room. “Do they sometimes call that EPH?”
He nodded.
“He had it in the supplements he was giving to the guests!” I said, my spirits lifting a little for the first time since I’d knocked on John’s door. “Maybe nobody poisoned him—he just probably took too much.”
John shook his head. “He’d been working with the stuff for years—but the amount they found in his body was off the charts. Enough to cause a cardiac arrest, which is what he died of.”
“But how come the guests didn’t die?”
“He kept his pills separately,” John said. I thought back to what I’d seen of Dirk’s room and realized John was right. He had kept a stash of pills for himself, away from the supplements for the retreat. “When the police searched his room, they found several pills filled with huge doses of the stuff among his personal items—enough to kill someone bigger than Dirk. The pills looked identical, but few of them had huge doses of ephedrine.”
“So it looks like someone slipped in some bad pills and poisoned him,” I said. “Does this mean they’ll let me reopen my kitchen?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” he said. “They tend to be cautious with things like that.”
“But why do they think it was Tom?” I asked.
John sighed. “Because Tom was here the night before Dirk died. And they found a bi
g supply of ephedrine at his house, at the same strength as the stuff in the pills. He says he used it sometimes on the boat, when he hadn’t had a lot of sleep, but …”
“The police aren’t buying it,” I said, suddenly feeling sick. The police had let John off the hook, but Tom …
“No, they’re not,” John said quietly. “Which is why they’ve arrested him,” he continued, “for first-degree murder.”
I closed my eyes, wishing it wasn’t true. But when I opened them, John was still looking stricken.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered.
John shrugged, looking defeated. “I don’t know, Natalie. I just don’t know.”
___
My head was still reeling as I headed back to the inn a few minutes later. They had arrested Tom Lockhart for murder. If he was convicted, he would be separated from his family for life—and the island would never be the same. My heart broke when I thought of Lorraine, with Tommy Jr. and his younger brother Logan, growing up knowing their father was in jail for murder. And Lorraine herself, who would go through life as a single parent, believing the father of her children was a murderer.
Tom might have been going through a midlife crisis; and he might have done some irrational things. But I knew he wasn’t a murderer.
Unfortunately, unless I could prove it, I didn’t think anyone else would believe me. At least not the people who mattered.
What about John? my mind whispered. There’s still something he’s not telling you; is it that he’s the one who murdered Dirk?
“Everything okay, Aunt Nat?” Gwen asked when I closed the kitchen door behind me, barely feeling the cold breeze.
“They’ve arrested Tom Lockhart,” I said tonelessly.
The color drained out of her face, and the pot she was washing slipped out of her hands, clattering onto the counter. “No,” she breathed.
“Yes,” I said mechanically. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit—let me know if you need me.” I climbed the stairs to my bedroom as if in a trance, then sat down on the bed, staring out the window at the cold dark water below.
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