Anchored Inn

by Karen MacInerney

  "How are you feeling?" I asked.

  "Better. Everything okay?" she asked, sensing the mood in the kitchen.

  "Tania's gone missing," I said.

  "What?"

  "She told Charlene she'd be gone for a bit, and now she's not answering her phone and isn't at home."

  "Maybe she's staying with a friend on the mainland?" Gwen suggested. "Cell service can be spotty sometimes, depending on where you are."

  "I hope so," I said.

  "Are you okay if I don't help with dinner?" she asked. "I don't want to push it."

  "No problem," I said as she headed upstairs. "Let me know if you need anything."

  "Thanks," she said, ducking her head down to give me a smile.

  Although dinner was small, preparing it was stressful. How often do you cook for someone who doubtless dines in the finest restaurants worldwide?

  "It's a terrific dish," John reassured me as he mixed the sauce for the bok choy about a half hour before dinner. "You've made it dozens of times before, and it's always a hit."

  "But most of my customers aren't reclusive gazillionaires."

  "Stop worrying so much," he said as he tasted the sauce and added a touch of sesame oil. "It'll be fine."

  I looked up at him. "Do you think Tania will be fine?"

  "The college gave me Hunter's information. I left a message for him, and the mainland police are running his information for me. I'm going to swing by and talk with Charlene more tonight, see if there's anything she left out."

  "Why don't we invite her over to the inn?" I suggested. "I'm sure she could use the company."

  "Good idea," he said.

  "I hope Tania's okay."

  "Me too," he said as he sliced the end off a baby bok choy. Despite the coziness of the kitchen, with its white-curtained windows, warm yellow walls, and old pine farm table, it felt as if a dark cloud had descended over the inn. We worked in silence, both lost in thought.

  Dinner was a small affair, consisting of Brandon and his two assistants, who ate without talking, which was odd considering they'd come all this way to see a wreck that had been lost since World War II.

  "I didn't realize there were U-Boats so close to the Maine coast," I said once I'd placed their plates in front of the trio—soy-glazed, rare salmon, rice and stir-fried bok choy in a delicate sesame sauce

  "Oh, they were all up and down the coast," Rebecca replied. "Mr. Marks told me that one of them actually dropped a pair of spies off in Bar Harbor."

  "You're kidding me. That's only a few miles away from here!"

  "I know; weird to think about, isn't it?" she said. For the first time, Brandon seemed to have noticed my existence. He studied me with dark eyes in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable, although I couldn't have said why. For just a moment, I could sense the intensity that had catapulted him to the top of his field; then, as if he'd flipped a switch, it was gone, and he was gazing out the window again, his expression blank. "They sure did a lot of damage," Rebecca went on as I watched Brandon.

  "So I'm learning," I said. "What sparked your fascination with U-Boats?" I asked Brandon directly.

  Rebecca jumped in to answer, but Brandon held up a narrow hand and turned to focus on me again. Less laser-like, but still intense.

  "I wasn't looking for a U-Boat in particular," he said slowly, "but it is an intriguing find. And I do have a personal interest of sorts."

  "Really? What's that?" I asked.

  "I lost my great-grandfather to a U-Boat on the Grand Banks," he said calmly. "His name was Hezekiah Spurrell. He was the master of a merchant vessel; when the ship was hit, he refused to board a lifeboat and went back to save as many of his crew as he could." He shook his head. "He was last seen on the deck with a lantern before it went down."

  "Master is like a captain, right?"

  "Correct," he said.

  "Wow," I breathed. "He was a good leader."

  "He was," Brandon agreed with a sharp nod. I wondered if that was where he'd gotten his abilities from, although something about Brandon told me he might not be last on board to look for survivors. Still, it was hard to tell about people. I'd learned that over the years, for sure.

  "Interesting that his name was Spurrell," I said. "There are Spurrells on Cranberry Island; it's an unusual name."

  "From England, originally. And yes; it is unusual.”

  "Are you related in some way?"

  "I don't believe so," he said. "My mother's side of the family hailed from Newfoundland, not Maine."

  "Those sailors got around," I said. "You might want to check in with the Spurrells down at the lobster pound and ask if they've got some family trees." Not that he'd necessarily want to be related, I reflected; there had been one or two bad eggs in recent generations.

  "No," he said peremptorily. "My family is not from here."

  "Well," I said, sensing a sudden chill and wondering what had caused it. Brandon certainly was mercurial. "I should let you eat. Thank you for telling me about your family's history; I'm sorry it was such a dark chapter for your great-grandfather."

  "He died a hero," he said. "That's more than most of us can say."

  He wasn't wrong, I reflected as I retreated to the kitchen.

  The trio went upstairs just after dinner, and as I cleared the dining room, Charlene knocked at the door. I opened it; I could tell by the empty look in her eyes that there was still no sign of Tania.

  "Still no word," she said bleakly. "I'm just a mess."

  "Come have some coffee cake," I said, giving her a big hug and leading her over to the kitchen table. "I'll put the kettle on for tea."

  "Thanks,” she said weakly. I settled her in, filled the kettle and took the foil off the coffee cake, cutting her a big piece of the moist, apple-studded cake. Then I hesitated and cut two more for John and me. After all, I only had two gluten-tolerant guests to feed in the morning.

  As I set plates in front of John and Charlene and then sat down across from them, Catherine breezed into the kitchen, cheeks pink from the chill autumn breeze that had kicked up when the sun went down. "That was fun! I love being on the water in fall weather."

  "Good dinner with your friend?" I asked.

  "It was," she said. "And I got the coconut oil." She pulled the jar out of her pocket and set it on the counter. "Zelda was delightful; do you know she just got back from a month in Paris? Sometimes I think I should swear off men altogether and just live with women." She glanced at her son. "No offense, of course."

  "None taken," he said drily, and we exchanged glances. Catherine had broken up with her steady, Murray Selfridge, not long ago, and although she hadn't exactly been mopey, she was still recovering. "Is the kettle on?" she asked as she unbelted her jacket.

  "It is; you're welcome to some. I've got apple coffee cake, too."

  "I'll pass on the cake, but tea would be great." She hung up her jacket and joined us at the kitchen table. As she sat, she noticed Charlene's wan face and John's dour look. "Oh, no. What happened? Did the millionaire not show up, or something?"

  "Brandon Marks is here," I said. "But Tania's missing."

  "Tania? Missing?" A delicate crease appeared between Catherine's arched brows. She and her son shared few features—she was delicate and refined, whereas John had a rugged handsomeness that always made me think he belonged on the front cover of an LL Bean catalogue—but they were both extraordinarily good-looking people. And good people, too, which was even more important. "I just saw her last night!"

  We all sat up straighter. "What? Where?" Charlene asked.

  "On the mail boat. She was headed over to the mainland. She had a small bag with her and her nose in a book, so I didn't disturb her, but I just figured she was going to do errands, or go to the library."

  "Did anyone meet her at the dock?"

  Catherine shook her head. "If they did, I didn't notice, I'm afraid. But surely she'll be back soon." At the lack of response from Charlene, she added, "Don't you think?"

&n
bsp; "She's not answering her phone," Charlene said. "No texts, no social media... it's like she's vanished."

  "Maybe her phone died," I suggested. "On the plus side, at least Catherine saw her this morning; maybe she'll be back late tonight."

  "I came in on the last mail boat," Catherine said.

  "Was she on the boat?" I asked.

  Catherine shook her head. "No, but she could have come back earlier."

  "She wasn't at home when I went," Charlene said.

  "Does Tania have a land line?" I asked Charlene.

  "No," she answered.

  The kettle started to whistle; I got up and turned off the burner, then filled the tea pot. "Well, let's get that tea to go and we'll go check out her place," I suggested.

  "I've already been over there, but it couldn't hurt to go again. I've got a spare key in my purse," Charlene said. "Let's go now, and if she's there, we can bring her back and all share."

  Fair enough. "I'll drive," I offered, and Charlene and I hurried out of the inn together, both grabbing our jackets but not taking the time to put them on.

  "Call as soon as you know anything," John said.

  "Of course," I assured him.

  It was only about a five-minute drive to Tania's little one-room cottage, like to anywhere else on the island, so it wasn't a particularly long trip, but it sure felt that way to both of us. I resisted the urge to speed down the lanes; there were too many cyclists and pedestrians on the island to risk it.

  "Down here," Charlene said, directing me down a wooded dirt track to the left of the road. I turned the van onto it, hoping we'd see lights burning in Tania's cottage through the leaves, but the little building at the end of the track was dark.

  "Damn," Charlene said under her breath. I parked the van in the empty spot outside the cottage and hurried after Charlene, who was already pounding on the door by the time I closed the van door behind me.

  When no one answered, she fumbled with the key and threw open the door.

  "Tania!"

  She wasn't there. Charlene flicked on the light to reveal a cozy, tidy space.

  The cottage was actually more like a cabin, with wood walls and exposed rafters. Red gingham curtains framed the windows, and Tania's neatly made bed was tucked in the far corner, with a bright white duvet with red and red-and-white checked pillows. A gray couch with a red throw pillow sat in the other corner, along with a small coffee table that looked vintage; a few House Beautiful magazines were interspersed with Us! and Cosmos on the white-painted top.

  The kitchen was small, but functional, with a white tile counter, a two-burner stove, and an under-the-counter fridge. It was a lovely little set-up; the only thing missing was the lovely young woman who lived here.

  "Where could she be?" Charlene mused as we stood in the vacant cottage. As she spoke, there was an insistent meow from behind the small kitchen table, and an orange-and-white cat stood up, stretched, and padded over to greet us.

  "Butters!" Charlene said, reaching down to scoop up the kitty, whose purring was so loud it was practically vibrating the house. "Where's your mom?"

  Butters didn't answer, of course; instead he just burrowed his head under Charlene's chin.

  "Should I take him home with me for now?" she asked.

  "If it would make you feel better, then do it," I suggested. "He's still got food and water; she didn't leave him high and dry."

  "Of course she didn't," Charlene sniffed.

  "If you think it's best to take him, just leave a note for Tania, so she doesn't panic when she gets home."

  "If she gets home," Charlene corrected me.

  "Catherine saw her this morning. Maybe she just got held up and is going to take a water taxi over." Although I was also worried about Tania, I could sense that Charlene needed reassurance.

  "She never does that. Too expensive."

  "Maybe this time will be an exception," I said, but it was obvious Charlene wanted none of it. "In the meantime," I said, changing tack, "let's look around and see if there's any indication of where she might have gone. I don't see a purse or keys or anything, so there's that."

  "True," Charlene said. "Sorry, Butters. Auntie Charlene has to do some investigating. You can come home with me in a bit."

  Butters protested as she put him down, but a moment later he strolled over to me, looking up at me with winsome golden eyes.

  "I'll give you a few pets, but I have to help your auntie," I informed him.

  Tania was evidently a bit of a neatnik, so there wasn't much to root through in her cottage. A mail sorter at the end of the counter contained two utility bills and a credit card bill, which Charlene scanned, looking for anomalies. "I feel a little weird looking through these, honestly."

  "I get it. It's up to you," I said.

  She closed her eyes and thought about it for a moment, then opened them. "I don't like doing it, but my gut tells me there's something wrong, so I'm going to. I'll apologize later."

  "That makes sense," I said as she opened an envelope.

  "Well, she sure does eat at the Little Notch Bakery a lot," she said as she scanned the bill.

  "In Northeast Harbor? I didn't know she went over there that often."

  "I didn't either," she said. "Maybe her study buddy works there?"

  "Or maybe that's where they meet," I suggested. "It's worth checking out, anyway."

  "She's also got a charge here for some kind of testing place," Charlene said.

  "What's that?"

  "I don't know, but it shows up twice—once two weeks ago, and once two weeks before that."

  "Write it down," I said. "Anything else?"

  "Not really," she said. "She's not a big spender."

  As Charlene looked through the bills, I walked around Tania's small space, looking for anything with a name on it or anything that looked out of place. In the bathroom, I found a surprise.

  "Hey," I said. "There's a second toothbrush in here. And Old Spice deodorant."

  "What?" Charlene asked, abandoning the mail sorter and joining me in the bathroom. "Whose is that?"

  "I don't know. Is she seeing anyone?"

  "If so, she hasn't told me about it," Charlene said. Then her eyes got big. "Do you think maybe she went out on a date and took up with a serial killer? Maybe he lured her to the mainland and killed her?"

  "Odds are low," I pointed out. She really was struggling if she was leaping to such outlandish conclusions.

  "Yes... but why didn't she tell me if she was seeing someone?"

  "We don't know that she is," I reminded her. "And if she is, maybe it's early days. Maybe she's not sure what she thinks of him. Or maybe she's not sure you'll approve?'

  "Well, I certainly don't now," my friend said. "I can't believe she didn't tell me, though. Why not?"

  I had a few ideas, but decided it was best not to float them. "Maybe when we get in touch with Hunter he'll be able to shed some light on the situation. Any other people she hung out with on the island?"

  "Mainly Megan," she said. "I'll bet she knows about whoever owns that Old Spice."

  "You know where she lives, right? You were there earlier."

  "You bet your bippy I do, and yes, I was there earlier," she said. "And we're going to talk to her right now."

  "Are we taking Butters, or not?" I asked.

  She looked over at the big orange cat, who was sprawled out on Tania's bed and appeared very relaxed. "I'll leave him here for now," she said. "I'll check on him tomorrow, if Tania's not back by then."

  "That works for me," I said, and turned out the light as we headed out of the little cottage. Despite my encouraging words, my instincts were buzzing; there was something very not right about the situation.

  I just hoped it didn't mean Tania was in serious trouble.

  4

  Megan still lived with her parents, and it was her mother, June, who answered the door, wearing a towel turban and a pink and blue housedress that made her look as if she'd just teleported in from the
1950s. A white Schnauzer was at her feet, barking and eyeing us with a mix of interest and suspicion.

  "Charlene! Natalie! Is everything okay?" she asked.

  "We're looking for Tania," Charlene informed her. "Is Megan home?"

  "She just finished painting her toenails; come on in," June said. "Relax, Duchess," she admonished the little white dog, holding her by the collar as we stepped into the small front hall.

  "Feel free to sit down," she said, gesturing to a small living area that hailed from the same era as her housedress. "I'll go find her."

  Charlene and I perched on the edge of a long pink couch that had been brand-new and doubtless modern in the mid-twentieth century, but had obviously seen a good bit of wear over the years. Once we made it into the living room, Duchess seemed to decide we were okay, since she hurled herself up between us on her short stubby legs and threw herself across my lap, staring up at me with big brown eyes. I scratched behind her ears and she made a grunting noise, leaning into my hand with obvious pleasure, as I looked around.

  Everything in the Canfields' living room looked as if it had remained unchanged for decades, from the Hummel figurines on the hutch along the paneled wall to the ancient tube television with rabbit ears, complete with tinfoil, in the corner of the room. Despite its vintage origin, everything was neatly kept; there was a tidy stack of Daily Mails next to the fireplace, the green carpet showed recent vacuum lines, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere. Whoever was in charge of the house—likely June—was a good housekeeper, and took care of her possessions. I was guessing the house had been in the family for several decades, with very little change.

  "Did anyone in your family collect Hummel figurines?" Charlene asked as we waited, staring at the lines of shepherdesses on the shelves against the wall.