A Killer Ending

by Karen MacInerney

  She considered the question for a moment before answering. "Josiah's jealous of his brother's success," Miriam said. "Same thing as Aggie and Loretta, really. Josiah always felt he got a bum deal, despite the fact that his family gave him more advantages starting out. I hate to think he would have, but people do odd things."

  "I've never met Josiah, but I can see it would be hard having such a successful sibling."

  "Oh, but you did meet him," she said. "I saw you sell him a book the night of the grand opening."

  "You were here? I’m so sorry I don't remember! What does he look like, anyway?"

  "Bearded, a bit unkempt. Nothing remarkable, although he resembles his brother."

  I searched my memory, but I'd been so preoccupied with Scooter—not to mention my ex and his author girlfriend and my old summer crush—that I didn't recall him. "I don't remember him at all," I said.

  "You had your hands full that night. I'd love the recipe for those coconut cookies if you have it, though. And those look mighty good, too," she said, pointing to the few raspberry cookies left on the cake plate.

  "Thanks for reminding me. Free cookie with every purchase!" I said, grabbing a napkin and lifting the lid. "These came out of the oven a few hours ago. I'll give you the biggest one," I told her.

  "I shouldn't have it, but..." She took the cookie and sank her teeth into it. "Mmmm. Delicious," she mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. "If you get tired of selling books, you should consider opening a bakery."

  I laughed. "I love them both."

  As she turned to go, she paused, swallowing her mouthful of cookie. "Did Loretta ever tell you about the history of this place?"

  "No," I said, shaking my head. "I know the house was in the family for a long time, but I've only ever known it as Seaside Cottage Books."

  "It used to be where the town midwife and healer lived," she said. “Loretta's great-great-grandmother had a wall full of books upstairs. If you were expecting, or cut yourself on a hook, or came down with the sniffles, you came to see Mrs. Muriel. She had a garden of healing herbs in the back—Loretta told me that a few odd herbs still pop up now and again—and she practiced out of the front room. The wealthy folks went to see the doctor, but if you didn't have the money or trusted in the old ways more than the new, you came here."

  "Wow," I said, looking around me at the book-lined walls. I wondered, not for the first time, how many stories this house had seen over the years. "Anyone else of interest?"

  "Well, rumor has it her grandfather was quite an important man around here during Prohibition," she said. I don't know if you know it or not, but Snug Harbor was THE place to summer for the wealthy. And the wealthy liked their liquor. Which Loretta's grandfather was happy to provide."

  "Loretta's grandfather was a rumrunner?"

  "It was never proven, but he had quite a network. This house was where everything was stashed; ever wonder why the cellar is bigger than the house?"

  "I hadn't, really, but you're right." I'd only been down there a few times, to check the boiler; it was damp down there, and totally unsuitable for books.

  "Loretta told me she never found much to show for it, though," Miriam said. “Broken glass here and there, but not much else."

  "So no buried treasure?"

  "Not exactly, no. Rumor has it that the stash was kept on Snug Island somewhere, and late at night, they'd ferry it over in a small boat and hide it here for distribution."

  "We're right up the road from the restaurants," I said. "Was this some kind of business at the time?"

  "It was just a house then," she said. "In fact, I'm not sure Loretta's grandmother knew what her husband was up to. She was the staunchest anti-liquor campaigner in town. No one realized it was her husband who was in charge of the whole network until he got caught red-handed."

  "What happened?"

  "Coast Guard was tipped off. He was found in a lobster boat whose entire hull was filled with cases of gin."

  "Ouch."

  "Thing is, he was careful. Wasn't a big spender, and no one knows where the money went."

  "Maybe the cellar?"

  "Maybe," she said. "Rumor had it he had a leather book where he kept all his accounts in some kind of code. The story also says it's got directions to where he hid his ill-gotten gains."

  "A treasure map?"

  "That's what they say," she said. "Of course, that was a hundred years ago, and there have been generations of Satterthwaites in this house since and nobody's ever found it." She cocked her head to one side. "I thought maybe with all the renovations you were doing, maybe you might run across it; I didn't want you to throw it out."

  "Other than a few old medicine bottles and the sole of a shoe, I haven't found anything like that," I said, thinking of the odds and ends I'd found in a corner of the cellar. "I'll keep an eye out, though, even though I'm sure it's just a figment of someone's imagination."

  "Maybe. Maybe not." She took the books, tucking them into her tote bag, and thanked me again. "Good luck to you, and let me know if you do find anything. And if you see any other books you think I might like, please drop me a line."

  "I will," I told her. "And thank you for your support."

  "Of course," she said. "I'll see you soon. And don't get into any more trouble!" she advised me.

  "I'll try not to," I told her.

  The rest of the afternoon was quiet in the store, so I was able to spend some time in between customers on unpacking and arranging my kitchen. By the time I closed the shop and headed upstairs for the night, the little cafe table and chairs were clear of boxes, I'd tied back the white curtains over the sink, I'd laid out my favorite blue Provençal tablecloth, and even had time to run down and snip a few roses from the bushes outside the store to fill a Mason jar.

  I had decided to make myself one of my favorite healthy comfort foods, an Italian pasta dish featuring arugula, lemons, and cherry tomatoes and a yummy local goat cheese they carried at the grocery store. For dessert, I'd picked up some fresh blueberries and a pint of vanilla ice cream. I was in the mood for a blueberry buckle a la mode, but didn't have the energy. Even just blueberries and creamy ice cream sounded divine.

  I played a Celtic music station on my little portable speaker, filling my new home with soothing music, and while a pot of salted water heated on the stove, I sliced up the cherry tomatoes and peeled garlic, enjoying the homey task of meal preparation. When the water was boiling, I added the pasta, then heated a knob of butter mixed with good olive oil in a pan; soon, I was inhaling the delightful aroma of garlic browning in butter. Before the garlic had a chance to get too dark, I tossed in halved cherry tomatoes; while they cooked, I cut the goat cheese into chunks, rinsed the arugula, and squeezed two lemons into a bowl.

  It took only a few minutes to mix everything together; I tossed the cooked pasta into the pan with the tomatoes, then quickly added some reserved pasta water and the arugula and turned off the heat, stirring until the arugula was wilted. Then I added the goat cheese, lemon juice, and a touch of salt and pepper, tasting it until it was perfect.

  With a glass of inexpensive Pinot Grigio I poured myself from the bottle in the fridge, it was a satisfying dinner. Although I enjoyed it with my James Herriot book, losing myself, at least for a few minutes, in the Yorkshire Dales with young veterinarian James and his cast of delightful two-legged and four-legged characters, I found myself glancing out the mullioned glass kitchen door at the changing sky. Through the open window, I could hear the lap of the water against the rocks, soothing and timeless. I'd loved living in Boston, but there was something magical about Maine, particularly the coast. Was it possible that I'd find a way to stay here? I certainly hoped so.

  I returned to my book, trying to push gloomy thoughts out of my head. With my Italian dinner, Celtic music, and English reading material, I was having a very international evening, I reflected as I popped another tomato into my mouth. As I finished another chapter, I looked around the little kitchen with satisfaction.


  The kitchen's walls were bright white, setting off the warmth of the pine cabinets and the blue-and-white hand-painted tiles somebody had installed as a backsplash. It was a small space, with just enough room for the basics and a small table, but something about it told me it had been used lovingly by cooks for many years. Through a wide doorway I could see the living room, where I'd pushed my white slipcovered couch into place, flanking it with two blue armchairs I'd rescued from my study in Boston. At some point I'd get a television. But since I lived above a bookstore, I wasn't sure it was necessary, really.

  I'd just cleaned up from dinner and put the leftovers in the fridge when my cell phone rang.

  "How are you doing?" Denise asked as I picked up my cell.

  "Not great news about the bookstore, but at least no one's arrested me. Yet, anyway." I told her what I'd learned about the deed situation today. Like Bethany, she seemed dispirited, but didn't share it with me.

  "I'm sure you'll figure it out," she said, trying to sound optimistic. "I found out a little tidbit today, and I thought I'd share it with you."

  "What?" I asked.

  "Gretchen Parker was at Scooter Dempsey's office today," she said. "She accused him of helping Cal hide money."

  16

  "How do you know that?" I asked.

  "One of the baristas heard them through the open window when he went out to his car to get a sweater," she said. "Apparently she was so loud practically the whole street could hear them."

  "Interesting," I said. "What prompted that, do you think?"

  "Maybe something about Cal’s will? I don't know. The divorce is done... you'd think that would be ancient history by now."

  "Maybe," I said. "But that stuff lingers... maybe his death just stirred it up."

  "Maybe," Denise said, but she didn't sound convinced.

  I hung up the phone, still thinking about Gretchen Parker, and busied myself filling Winston's food bowl before he started throwing it around the kitchen floor. He scarfed down his kibble in no time flat, and I leashed him up and put on my walking shoes. Together we stepped out onto the back porch into the cooling evening air. I wasn't sure I was ready to go back down to the beach just yet, but I had to do it eventually. Besides, I told myself, maybe there was a clue the police had missed. And maybe I'd catch a glimpse of the woman I'd seen yesterday.

  I kept Winston well clear of the place I'd found Cal's body, scanning the rocky shore as we walked. Winston seemed unconcerned, more focused on the lone sea gull who hadn't found a place to roost for the night (if that's what they did—where did they go, anyway? I wondered briefly). I found nothing out of the ordinary... just a piece of styrofoam cup that I picked up to throw away, and a gazillion mussel shells that glinted blackish-blue in the fading light.

  A cool breeze was kicking up as we walked the beach; the tide was going out, exposing the sand bar, and I scanned the darkness under the trees on Snug Island. Apparently there had once been a few houses over there, but they'd been torn down decades ago, and nobody lived there now. Occasionally someone got stuck on the wrong side of the water, or a few people got brave and decided to camp, but except for day trippers and the occasional intrepid backpacker, the ospreys were the only ones I knew who lived there.

  As I walked, the breeze riffled my hair. I walked past the backs of a few houses and shops, the grass sloping down to the coast, and then the well-lit shoreline restaurants, the smell of cooking lobster and melted butter and rolls drifting down to Winston and me as we made our way down the beach. The juxtaposition of the dark, wild island just across the water to my left and the happy burble of voices and clang of dishes up on the restaurants' lit decks made me feel strangely adrift between wilderness and community.

  This was my home now, I thought to myself. And I was going to do everything I could to make sure it stayed that way.

  As Winston and I climbed over a jumble of boulders, I heard the sound of angry voices.

  "I don't believe you," a woman’s voice said.

  "I promise, sweetheart. I had nothing to do with it."

  "Then where did you go that night? I know you weren't at home."

  "Josiah called," the man said. "I went to his place to have a few beers. I promise. That's all."

  "Sure," the woman said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "I've told you a million times that nothing happened between Cal and me, but you never believed me."

  "Let's not drag this up again," he said.

  "I have to," she said in a husky voice. "I have to know that you had nothing to do with what happened to Cal. I… I can't live with a murderer."

  "A murderer?" The anger in the man’s voice made the hair rise on the back of my neck. "If you don't believe that I didn't touch a hair on that scumbag's head..."

  "But he was going to ruin our business! And the whole bar heard you threaten to kill him just last week!"

  "I swear I didn't kill him," he repeated.

  The woman made a choking noise, and I heard the sounds of footsteps.

  "Sylvia! Come back!"

  I peeked over the boulder, watching as they ran down the beach, her running unevenly, him sprinting to catch up. It must be Jared and Sylvia Berland, the owners of the Salty Dog.

  I looked down at Winston, who had spent the time sniffing dried kelp. "Good boy," I told him, thankful he had remained quiet.

  Had Jared Berland killed Cal Parker?

  And, I wondered with a feeling of foreboding, was Sylvia Berland in danger?

  I waited for the couple to disappear before continuing on my walk, thinking about the exchange I'd just overheard, and wondering who else Cal Parker had angered enough to threaten him with murder. Although several tourist families walked by with ice cream, I resisted the urge to head up to Stewart's Scoops, instead turning back toward the shop once the path curved toward town. The sun continued to drop as Winston and I picked our way among the rocks, heading back home. The first stars were starting to twinkle above as we walked, mussel shells crunched under my sneakers as we found our way back. Soon, we left the busy restaurants behind, and the windows of the cottage book shop glowed invitingly as we turned up the short path away from the beach. Whatever happened, I felt a rush of gratitude that I was here at this moment.

  I took my shoes off next to the door, enjoying the homey, lingering scents of garlic and butter, and settled Winston in with a treat as I headed downstairs to double-check the locks. The front door was bolted tight, as were the windows, and I double-checked the back door before scurrying back up the stairs to my cozy retreat.

  Once I slid the deadbolt of the upstairs cottage apartment, I filled the clawfoot tub with warm water and Epsom salts, added a few drops of lavender oil, and retrieved my James Herriot book. By ten, I was tucked into my freshly made bed with a cup of chamomile tea on one side of me and Winston snuggled in on the other, trying to put the worries of the day behind me.

  It was eleven by the time I reached over to turn off the light and drifted off to sleep.

  I was in the middle of a dream involving Agatha Satterthwaite chasing me into the ocean with an enormous flatiron in her hand when there was a tinkle of glass from somewhere in the cottage.

  I sat up straight. Beside me, Winston had also woken up, and he was vibrating with a low growl.

  I shushed him and listened. There was silence for several minutes, and then I heard the creak of a floorboard from somewhere below me.

  The hairs stood up on my arms; unless I was imagining things, my intruder was back.

  17

  I closed Winston into the bedroom, tossing him a dental chew to keep him busy, and tiptoed into the kitchen, pulling a knife from the block next to the sink. It glinted in the faint light from the moon outside the window as I crept to the door, opened it slowly, and peered down the stairwell into the darkness.

  A flicker of light, as if from a flashlight, danced across the floor at the base of the stairs, and I heard heavy breathing. I grabbed my cell phone to call the police, but then I
stopped. What if the intruder would be gone by the time they got to the shop? I really wanted to know who was breaking in—and what they were looking for.

  I tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs, the knife tight in my hand. I turned the corner to encounter a shadowy figure bent over my desk, rifling through the drawers.

  I took a step closer, hoping to see who it was. I was about to edge to the side, where I might get a chance to see the intruder's face, when Winston burst out in a volley of barks from above me. The intruder turned the flashlight toward the base of the stairs, the light flashing over me as he or she turned, then jerked it back to focus on me.

  I squinted into the light, shielding my eyes. "Who are you and what do you want?" I croaked over the cacophony of Winston’s barking from upstairs.

  No answer. We remained frozen in a stand-off. Then the figure the figure moved. In a split second I saw the glint of the glass paperweight they snatched up from the desk to hurl at me and I ducked, but the heavy globe glanced off my temple, and a burst of pain shot through my head. As I raised my hand instinctively to my head, the intruder rushed past me, pushed through the back door, and fled into the night.

  I took a moment to clear my vision, then ran to the back door, knife still in hand, and stared out at the path to the ocean. The flashlight was bouncing—my intruder was running—and as whoever it was turned right and disappeared into the night, I flipped on the lights and looked down at the door. The doorframe was intact, but one of the windows was broken; it looked like someone had smashed the pane and reached in to unlock the door. I relocked the back door, not that it was going to make any difference, and walked to the front of the shop; the door was still locked.

  I turned to the desk. The intruder hadn't had much time, but he or she had made the most of it; papers were strewn all over the floor, including the letter regarding the Satterthwaite will, and the bottom drawer was out and upside-down on top of the desk, as if someone was looking at the drawer itself. I thought of the bookshelf that had been slightly pulled out the other day; it was as if someone was looking for some kind of secret compartment or something.