Anchored Inn

by Karen MacInerney

  “Sorry to bother you… John gave me your number,” she said. “I think my daughter spotted Charlene’s niece.”

  “What?” I gripped the phone. “Where?”

  “At U. Maine. She was walking on the other side of the quad; she was with an older man,” Max said. “My daughter couldn’t be sure, but does Tania own a hot pink cardigan?”

  “She does,” I said. “I’ve seen her in it at the shop. Did she talk to her?”

  “She tried, but by the time she caught up to her, she and the man were in a car and driving away.”

  So close…

  “But she wrote down the license plate,” Max said. “I know it’s a long shot—it probably wasn’t even Tania—but it’s worth a try.”

  “Did you tell John?” I asked.

  “I did. He called the police on the mainland; they ran the plate for him, and the car belongs to a man named Dan Farland.”

  “Dan. The boyfriend. Your daughter is amazing… tell her thank you so much! Have they found out anything about this Dan guy?”

  “They’re looking him up now,” she said. “We’ll keep you posted.”

  “Does Charlene know?”

  “John’s on the phone with her now,” she said. “He told me to tell you he’ll call you the moment they find Tania.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. “What are the odds?”

  “Luck is on our side today,” she said.

  As I hung up and stared at Murray’s front door, I hoped she was right.

  17

  It was a long wait. At twenty-seven minutes, I was starting to get nervous. At twenty-nine minutes, I opened the van door, prepared to march up to the front door. I had just closed it behind me when the sound of voices came from beside the house. I looked up to see Murray and Catherine rounding the corner of his mansion, both smiling. Not for the first time, I was taken aback by the juxtaposition of ruddy, stolid Murray in his polyester pants next to the graceful, stylish form of my mother-in-law.

  “What are you doing here?” Murray asked, blinking.

  “I was the chauffeur,” I said. As curious as I was about what had happened between the two of them, I filled Catherine in on Tania first.

  “That’s wonderful news!” she said.

  “They haven’t tracked her down just yet,” I reminded her.

  “No, but she didn’t end up like that poor girl Mandy,” she said. “I was just talking to Murray about that.”

  “You knew who Brandon Marks was, didn’t you?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Boy was an odd duck. I didn’t expect him to be quite so successful. He burned down one of my office buildings, you know.”

  “That’s why you had the file on him,” I said.

  “I just didn’t see how someone with such terrible social skills and such a spotty record could be so successful.”

  Catherine looked at him and smiled. “He told me what his connection was to Steve, too,” she said.

  “What was that?”

  “His mother used to be a housekeeper for my family,” Murray said. “She raised the boy alone. Before she died, she asked me to take care of him.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said, but remembered how he had glanced at the painting in his living room. Did I believe him?

  Catherine certainly did. “I’m sorry I underestimated you,” she said.

  Murray snorted and shot me a look. “I’m used to it.”

  “His death must have been upsetting.”

  “It was,” he said, but he didn’t look terribly torn up. “We weren’t friends, really, but I did feel responsible for him. He was, well, kind of my family’s responsibility for a long time.”

  “He did other work too, though. For other families. I understand he lost a job recently.”

  “The Jamesons. I don’t know why; their company seems to be going gangbusters. Maybe he stepped on some toes. You can ask Ed Jameson yourself; he’ll be here in about ten minutes,” he said. “He’s coming over to do some putting with me, on the green in the back.”

  Of course he was. “What company?” I asked.

  “They own a frozen foods company. I’ve been watching in the news; they recently took over a competitor, and sales seem to be skyrocketing.”

  “I know this seems direct,” I said, “but did Steve ever try to blackmail you?”

  “What? No,” he said, almost too quickly. “Like I said, we were practically family.”

  From what I’d seen of some families, that definitely didn’t preclude blackmail.

  “Do you mind if we stay to meet Mr. Jameson?”

  “You’ll love Ed,” Catherine said, linking arms with Murray as if they hadn’t been separated for months. “He’s such a gentleman. And he’s been on the island for forever.”

  “Did he know about Brandon’s secret identity?”

  “I told him,” Murray said bluntly. “Not that he cares. He never mixed with the Batterlys when he was on the island. Class differences, you know.”

  As he spoke, a blue Mercedes pulled up, and a younger man got out. He was handsome, with blue eyes that matched his car—and his polo shirt. He wore tan khakis and docksiders. I’d seen him a few times on the island over the years, but never spoken to him.

  “Hi, Murray!” he said. “I brought a bottle we picked up in Edinburgh,” he said, proffering a box of scotch, the name of which had too many consonants to pronounce.

  “Thanks for coming over. I know you’ve met Catherine,” he said, putting a hand on her elbow. “This is her daughter-in-law, Natalie. She owns the inn on the island.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “The old Selfridge place. Good to see you,” he said, then turned back to Murray. “Ready to hit the green?”

  “I understand Steve Batterly worked for you,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Ed blinked, taken aback. “What? Oh, Steve? He hasn’t been with us for six months or so,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t usually discuss my household staff,” he said, “and I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but his work had dropped off, and we decided he wasn’t worth what we were paying.”

  “What kind of work did he do for you?” I asked.

  “Oh, this and that,” he said, but didn’t meet my eyes. “He tried to get his job back… just last week, in fact. But I told him it wasn’t going to work out.”

  I nodded. “When was that?”

  “I don’t recall. I lose track of time now that I’m retired.” He seemed uncomfortable with the question, and was about to say something to Murray, but I didn’t let him.

  “I understand you knew Mandy Hoyle, too,” I said.

  He swallowed hard. “Everyone on the island did. She was,” he chuckled, “let’s just say, generous with her favors.”

  “Did she ever grace you with any of her favors?” I asked. “She was enamored of you, from what I understand.” I wasn't sure he was the one Mandy liked, but I was fishing. And maybe I was being direct, but his comment about Mandy being "generous with her favors" rankled me.

  “What?” He blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We barely interacted. Like I said, we ran in different circles. Are you suggesting I had something to do with that young woman’s death?” he said. “I’m not the one who chained her to an anchor and pushed her overboard,” he said. “Now. How about a gin and tonic, my man?” he said, clapping Murray on the back and ignoring me. “We should go out on Barb next week, by the way, now that she’s out of dry dock.”

  “Eli get her looking good again?” Murray asked.

  “Woodwork’s gorgeous, just like it was when Dad had her built,” Jameson said. “I was thinking of planning a picnic lunch; maybe you and Catherine can join Melissa and me sometime next week.”

  “I’d love that,” Catherine said. “We should probably let you get to your golf.”

  “Dinner tomorrow night?” he asked.

  “I’ll be there at six,” she said.

  “I’
ll be waiting,” Murray said, giving her a longing look as she walked toward the van with me in her wake.

  “So,” I said as I backed out of the parking lot, still looking at the Mercedes. “That seemed to go well.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m so glad you suggested I talk to him. It turns out it was all a big misunderstanding.”

  I glanced over at her; she looked happier than she had in months. “He wasn’t seeing another woman?”

  “Not really. He just wanted to make me jealous,” she said. “He thought I’d been getting too chummy with that gentleman from Northeast Harbor… the one with the yacht. So he pretended to wine and dine this other woman.”

  Not exactly the foundation of a healthy relationship, if it was true, in my opinion. And if it wasn’t… “How do you know he was pretending?” I asked.

  “They haven’t seen each other in months,” she said. “He wanted to beg me to come back, but thought he’d look… I don’t know. Unmanly. He says he’s thought about me every day since I broke it off.” She reached over and grabbed my hand. “Your advice was so good. If I hadn’t talked to him… we might have gone on like that for years.”

  “I’m glad it’s figured out,” I said, “but take it easy, okay? Be careful.”

  She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “You don’t believe what he told me?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” I said honestly. “He obviously has feelings for you. Just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Thanks, Natalie,” she said, and gave my hand another squeeze. “I think it’ll be okay, but I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “Good. And I hope you’re right,” I said. As I turned onto the main road, I changed the subject. “I didn’t know Murray and Ed Jameson were close.”

  “They’ve gotten together for golf talk and gin and tonics every week since Murray put in the putting green,” she said. “I think they like to have someone to talk to about the financial markets and all that stuff.”

  “He’s much younger, isn’t he?”

  “He’s about your age, actually,” she said. “His family’s been on the island for ages. His mother, Barbara Leigh, had their house designed and built, and it’s been in the family ever since.”

  “Nouveau riche?” I asked.

  She nodded. “A bit flashy, kind of like Murray. I think that must be why they get along. They can compare Rolexes.” She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she wasn’t really bothered too much by it. “Although I think the Jamesons have much more than Murray ever will; that's why Ed can play golf all the time. Not that I care; he’s got more than enough as it is.” She turned to me. “How do you know Mandy had a crush on him?”

  “I’ve been asking around,” I said. “She was looking for a wealthy Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet. Charlene told me that for a few weeks, anyway, she was hoping Ed would play the role nicely.”

  “I do remember her being boy-crazy,” she said, and gave me a sidelong look. “You know she and John went out briefly, right?”

  “That's what everyone keeps telling me,” I said. “But that was a very long time ago.”

  “He was upset when she just vanished. The whole island was, though, really.”

  Even though that was years ago and John was now my husband, I still felt a flare of jealousy. “It wasn't serious between them, was it?” John had told me it wasn't, but for some reason, I wanted to hear it from Catherine, too.

  “I think he did like her at first, but he was the one who broke up with her at the end of the summer. She wanted him to write every day. She was… clingy. Needy, I guess.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Do you know if she and Ed ever hung out?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “He and the Karstadt boy mainly kept to themselves. They ran with some of the rich kids who summered on the mainland, for the most part. Ed’s dad had just bought a big sailboat and named it after his wife, Barbara Leigh, so they spent a lot of time on that.”

  “That's the boat Ed was talking about; he calls it Barb, right?”

  “Right,” she said. “You can see it moored in the harbor.”

  “Did either of them know Steve at all?” I asked on a hunch.

  “Probably a little bit. Steve’s father made his money the same way Steve did; he did handyman jobs for folks around the island, and took Steve along as his apprentice, so to speak. Steve never did finish high school; he took over for his dad and never left the island.”

  Something about Ed Jameson bothered me all the way home.

  But it wasn’t until I was back at the inn that I realized what it was.

  “I’ve got one more errand to do,” I said as I dropped Catherine off at the inn. “I just remembered; I’ll be back soon.”

  “Want company?”

  “No,” I said. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  “I’ll do a last check on the rooms,” she told me, then leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, which was a total surprise. “Thank you so much for encouraging me to talk to Murray. I’m so… happy,” she beamed. She got out of the van and practically danced up to the kitchen door.

  As I headed back up the driveway a minute later, I found myself hoping I’d done the right thing… and not just made things worse.

  18

  It was only a few minutes before I pulled up outside of Steve Batterly’s cottage. It looked to be a two-or-three bedroom place, with a freshly paved driveway. Although the grass was slightly overgrown, the siding had recently been painted, and a few fresh planks on the front porch indicated recent repairs. I parked in one of the two spaces at the top of the driveway and got out, eyeing the place.

  I walked around to the back of the house, hoping to find a door. Fortunately, I was in luck. Up a few wooden steps was a door with a half-window. I climbed the steps and tried the knob. The door was locked, but when I lifted the doormat, I found a key, and a moment later I was standing inside Steve’s spartan kitchen.

  The cabinets were oak, and the floor linoleum—clean, but dated. I tried to recall everything I’d seen on crime shows with John, and began in the freezer; I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I had a feeling there was something here that would tell me what had happened to the former handyman.

  There was no exciting container hidden in the back of the freezer. All I found was a bottle of Stoli and a stack of TV dinners. The fridge was much the same way: empty save for two wrinkled apples and a six-pack of Bud Lite.

  I found nothing in the kitchen, so moved on to the living room, which was outfitted with an enormous projector TV and what looked like surround-sound speakers, along with a huge leather sectional. None of which was cheap; Steve must have been doing pretty well for himself. I wondered how much of this had been funded by the numbers Lorraine had found on the note under the floor.

  Speaking of the floor, I found myself paying close attention to the hardwood planks underfoot. I spent a good twenty minutes testing all of them and then looking behind the vintage pin-up girl poster on the wall above the couch, but found no sign of anything unusual.

  I moved down the hall to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. In the guest bedroom, a board squeaked as I walked around the bed. I knelt down and felt for a wobble; sure enough, there was a mark at the end of the board where it looked like something had scraped the wood repeatedly. I pulled a pocket knife from my back pocket and pried it up.

  Although John had called the mainland to tell them about the loose floorboard, the detectives evidently hadn't gotten around to following up on what Lorraine had told us; sure enough, the board hid a secret compartment of sorts. Lorraine had evidently returned what she found; in a gap beneath the board was the list she’d shown me the other day, along with the neat stack of bills. I felt around to see if she’d missed anything before replacing the board. I walked around the rest of the room, looking for another board with signs of having been pried up before. Nothing in this room, but when I went into the master bedroom, I noticed another strangely scuffed boa
rd under the night stand next to the neatly made queen-sized bed.

  I pushed the night stand aside and retrieved my knife, slipping it under the end of the board.

  Sure enough, there was a stack of envelopes.

  I pulled it out, curious to see what Steve had collected. The first envelope was labeled T. I opened it to find pictures of Tom Lockhart with a young woman, holding hands and exchanging a kiss on a city street that looked like it might be Portland, based on the red brick.

  So blackmail it was.

  I was about to open the second envelope when a door creaked down the hall. I shoved the envelopes back into the hole and hurriedly slid the board back into place. I couldn’t get it level; part of it still stuck up, but footsteps were already in the kitchen, so I abandoned it. I picked up the nightstand and set it down close to where it had been, then dropped to the floor and slid myself under the bed, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t see me.

  As I peered out from under the low-slung bed, a pair of docksiders approached down the hallway.

  I recognized them from earlier.

  It was Ed Jameson.

  He stopped at the bedroom door, surveying the out-of-place night stand, no doubt. “I know you’re in here,” he said in a calm, sing-song voice that made my stomach turn over. “You can’t hide from me.” As I watched, the docksiders padded to the closet. He opened the door and peered inside, then stepped back out. I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t bend down and look under the bed. He didn’t. Instead, he left the bedroom and walked down the hall.

  I took the opportunity to slide out from under the bed as quietly as I could. I was about to sprint down the hall when his footsteps came closer. I ran into the closet, trying to hide behind a row of hanging shirts, but the floor creaked as I moved.

  Jameson was back in the bedroom in an instant, and it didn’t take long for him to get to the closet.

  “I knew you were in here,” he said as he flipped the light back on. “Come out so I can see you.”

  I slid the knife out from my back pocket and opened it, holding it behind my back, then stepped out from behind the shirts.