Berried to the Hilt (13 page)

“Okay,” she said, but just stared at the muffin when I put it in front of her. “I heard the phone ring. Is there any news?”

John and I filled her in on what had happened to Adam.

“Thank goodness he’s going to be okay,” she said. “He’s such a nice boy.”

“He is,” I agreed.

“Do you think what happened to poor Adam has anything to do with Gerald’s death?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It could. I’m going to see if I can talk to Ingrid today.”

“Poor Adam,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s like Eli—good-hearted.” She sighed. “I should go down to the house and check on the cats and the goats today.”

I got up to turn the bacon and glanced out the window; the rain was lessening, but it was still coming down. “I’d wait until it clears up a bit,” I said, opening the fridge and taking out a dozen eggs.

“It’s supposed to be sunny by noon,” John said.

“Maybe we can finally get the oven fixed, then,” I said. I’d already planned to make sautéed chicken cutlets and steamed veggies for tonight—with a side of rice instead of bread—but it would be nice to know when I could start cooking normally again.

“Speaking of baking, isn’t the bake-off this weekend?” John asked.

“Don’t remind me,” I said darkly, and cracked an egg into a bowl with vigor.

_____

By the time the first guests came down to breakfast, my kitchen was empty again. Claudette had borrowed a raincoat and headed out to check on her animals, and John had returned to the carriage house to call the repair company. The dining room was bathed in watery morning light; already a few rays of sun were escaping the thick cloud cover. Cherry sat in her customary table by the window, cheerful as usual despite the cloudy morning, and the Iliad duo sat a few tables away. There was no sign of Carl and Molly.

Frank looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him as I poured coffee and informed him of what was on the menu. Even Audrey looked slightly less depressed than usual.

“You look like you’ve gotten some good news,” I said as I finished my recital of the breakfast offerings and topped off Audrey’s coffee cup.

“We got a line on a big R/V with a submersible,” Frank said happily.

“What’s an R/V?” I asked.

“Short for research vessel,” he said with a smile. For a man who had lost his partner only two days earlier, he looked remarkably chipper. After what I’d overheard this morning, I guessed the R/V wasn’t the only thing brightening his day. “It’ll be here this afternoon,” he added.

I topped off Frank’s coffee cup and stepped back. “I thought all of your big research vessels were in the Caribbean right now.”

“They are,” he said. “My staff tracked this one down yesterday; it’s in Portland, and we’re leasing it for a few days. That’ll allow us to do a sonar map of the area and pull up a cannon—should make identifying the wreck a whole lot easier.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to ask, by the way—I know Evan Sorenson contacted you initially about the wreck. Did you enter into any kind of agreement with him?”

His smile faded. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to talk about that,” he said.

“You do know that Evan has disappeared, don’t you?”

“I’d heard something about that,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “He’s a young man—probably went to visit a girlfriend or something. You know how college-age kids are.”

“Speaking of disappearing, any word yet on the
Lorelei
?” I asked.

“Not yet, unfortunately,” he said. “If it went down at the site, though, the sonar on the new vessel should pick it up, and we’ll find out if we can salvage it.”

“I hope it was insured,” I said.

“Everything’s insured at Iliad,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “We like to cover all of our bases.”

Including murdered partners, I thought as I drifted back to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes went by, and still Molly and Carl didn’t come down. Where could they be? They were usually the first ones at breakfast. I peered out the window at the water below the inn, and was surprised to see that both of the mooring lines were vacant. They must have headed out early, determined to take advantage of the lull in the storm. Had Molly remembered the lift bag she’d stashed in her suitcase?

As I set down the basket of muffins, I replayed in my head the phone conversation I’d overheard that morning—and my brief chat with Frank. He seemed awfully cavalier about Evan’s disappearance. Was Iliad somehow involved in it? That didn’t explain what had happened to Adam in Bar Harbor yesterday, though.

There were too many unanswered questions, I thought as I refilled the carafe with coffee, and no way of knowing if any of them were linked to Gerald McIntire’s death.

One thing was certain, though. If Carl had killed Gerald to buy the university time to identify the wreck, it was quickly running out.

By the time I
finished loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, the sun was breaking through the clouds, and it was shaping up to be a gorgeous fall day. John had kindly offered to stick around and wait for the repairman to come, and since none of the guests would be at the inn for lunch (Cherry was checking out the cafés on Mount Desert Island, and Molly had left a note on the front desk saying they’d be out until dinner), I had a luxurious few hours of freedom.

When my yellow kitchen was clean and sparkling, I slipped my windbreaker and sneakers on, retrieved a Tupperware container full of my oatmeal chocolate chippers I’d dug out of the back of the freezer—I would have baked fresh, but it’s tough to make cookies without an oven—and headed out the door, enjoying the fresh, cold breeze against my cheeks.

After all of the stress of the last few days, the unsullied beauty of the island was a balm to my soul. The world looked washed clean, and although the wind and rain had torn enough leaves from the red maples to create a brilliant red carpet, there were still several clinging to the branches, glowing in the morning sun. Droplets of water glistened where they had caught in the russet leaves of a blueberry bush, and the low rush of waves hitting rocks and the cry of seagulls in the distance were a soothing counterpoint to the rustle of the pine trees. The island was like a jewel box—and I was reminded once again why I’d fallen in love with it in the first place.

When I reached the top of the hill, I turned back and looked down at the inn. It looked like it had always been a part of the landscape—and I realized what a big part of me the sprawling old house had become. It was hard to imagine it belonging to Captain Jonah Selfridge, who had built it to house his wife. She had wanted to live far enough from the dock so her delicate nose wasn’t offended by the smell of fish. Time had marched on, but in many ways, Cranberry Island had changed little since the time of Captain Selfridge—or even of the famed pirate Davey Blue.

My eyes strayed from the gray-shingled inn with its Provençal-blue window boxes to the water beyond. Had Captain Selfridge met his end mere miles from his home, and lain deep under the blue water for almost two hundred years? Or had Davey Blue and his doomed seventeen-year-old love gone down centuries earlier?

And who had stabbed Gerald and left him drifting on Deadman’s Shoal?

I turned away from the inn and headed down the hill toward Ingrid Sorenson’s house, trying to recapture the feeling of peace I’d had so briefly a few minutes earlier. All I could think of was Eli’s twinkling eyes, his wry sense of humor—and the hole in my heart since he was taken away. The trees still whispered, and the gulls still called, but the moment was gone. As I trudged down the ribbon of asphalt toward Ingrid’s house, I found myself wishing the wreck had never been found.

_____

Despite the anguish I knew she must be experiencing, Ingrid’s house, like always, looked like it belonged on the cover of
Cottage Living
. The only sign that there might be any distress was the wilted pansies in the pots flanking the door, thirsty for a drink. It was a wonder, really, that they’d escaped Claudette’s goats. As I stood on the covered front porch, I couldn’t help glancing at Claudette and Eli’s house, just down the road, and despite the circumstances, I found myself smiling. Those boat parts stranded in the overgrown side yard must drive Ingrid nuts.

To my surprise, Ingrid opened the door just seconds after I knocked.

Her appearance was shocking. Her usually coiffed hair was a wild halo around her drawn face, and she wore a stained sweatshirt and sweatpants that hung loose on her thin frame.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“I heard about Evan,” I said. “I know you’ve got to be going through a difficult time.” I proffered the cookies. “I was hoping maybe I could help.”

“Come in.” She spoke in a monotone, then turned away without taking the cookies and walked deeper into the house’s dark interior. I followed uncertainly.

The house was usually sunny and sparkling, smelling of potpourri and lemon Pledge. I could pick up a hint of potpourri today, but the house had an uncharacteristically stuffy and unpleasant odor. Ingrid walked through the dark living room into the kitchen, and I could see why. Dirty dishes were stacked beside the normally spotless sink, and the trashcan was overflowing, a blackened banana peel spilling over the side.

Poor Ingrid.

“Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea,” I said. The circles under her eyes looked like bruises. She said nothing, which I took as assent, and stared blankly while I filled the kettle with water and busied myself clearing the table.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“I want to,” I told her. I opened the dishwasher and began dealing with the stacks of soiled plates and bowls. Ingrid protested again, weakly, but I waved her away. I decided to ask Marge to stop by and do a more thorough cleaning later. If I had the time, I’d join her.

By the time the tea was done steeping, I had taken the trash outside and wiped down the counters; now, I took a clean plate from the cupboard and loaded half a dozen cookies onto it before popping it into the microwave. I’d cracked the kitchen window open a few minutes ago. In addition to the streaks of afternoon sunlight, the smell of warm cookies, tea, and fresh autumn air lightened the room.

With the chaos relegated to the dishwasher, I retrieved the plate of cookies from the microwave and poured two cups of tea. I sat down across from Ingrid and slid a cup over toward her.

“Where’s your husband?” I asked.

“He’s over on the mainland, working with a private investigator,” she said. “He’s been gone for days.”

“And you’ve been here all alone?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I haven’t wanted to leave in case the phone rings. I’ve called the hospital, but Evan’s not there.” Tears filled her eyes. “He was doing so well, Natalie. He’d just gotten back from rehab, and seemed so excited about trying out lobstering. I thought we’d finally gotten him back on track.”

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“I should have been more suspicious,” she said. “All that time out on Mount Desert Island—and he didn’t come back some nights. I wanted to talk to him about it, but my husband told me I was being overprotective, and I backed off.”

“Do you know who he stayed with when he wasn’t here?”

“I wish I did,” she said. “He talked about a guy named Pete—he was another lobsterman, out of Southwest Harbor. I thought he was just learning the ropes, but now …”

“Do you know Pete’s last name?”

She shook her head. “I should have asked,” she moaned.

I made a mental note to ask Tom Lockhart about lobstermen named Pete. There couldn’t be too many lobstermen with that name fishing out of Southwest Harbor. “What happened the day he disappeared?” I asked.

“He got up early—ever since he’d gotten back from the … the medical center, he’d been an early riser.” She sighed. “He was so excited about that wreck he and Adam found. He told me he’d gotten in touch with a company that did salvage work, and that if there was bullion, he’d get a finder’s fee.”

“Do you know if he signed any contracts with anyone?”

She shook her head. “He never said, and I haven’t found anything. I’ve been through his room again and again. Nothing on the shipwreck, nothing about anyone named Pete …” She dropped her head to her hands. “We’d finally gotten him back, and now, this. I don’t know what to do, Natalie.”

“Tell me more about the last day you saw him,” I said.

Ingrid looked up at me, wiping at her eyes, trying to get herself together. “I’ve gone over it in my mind a thousand times, wishing I’d stopped him, wishing I’d done something different …”

I reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

She took a few deep, shuddery breaths before continuing. “He went over to Mount Desert Island on the early mail boat. He’d been on cloud nine since the discovery, but something had upset him. He was surly when he came back for dinner the night before. He wouldn’t tell us why.”

“Why didn’t he go to the mainland with Adam?”

Ingrid shrugged. “They were arguing. Something to do with the shipwreck; I think Adam was upset that Evan had called the salvage company. I thought that might be why he was in such a bad mood.”

“Adam got into some trouble last night,” I told her.

“What do you mean?”

“He and Gwen went over to the mainland. I think Adam was looking for Evan—or anyone who knew him. Someone beat Adam up—he’s still in the hospital.”

“It wasn’t Evan,” Ingrid said vehemently. “He never would have done a thing like that!”

The passion of her response startled me. “I didn’t say he did,” I said. “I was just wondering if the two incidents were related.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face crumpling. “I’m overreacting to everything these days. Poor Adam. Is he going to be all right?”

“He is,” I said.

Suddenly she gripped the arms of her chair. Her knuckles were white. “Oh my God. Do you think … do you think whoever did that to Adam might have done something to Evan, too?”

“I hope not,” I said. “I was hoping you could suggest where to look, though.”

She raked her hand through her hair again. “Oh, Evan … what did you get yourself into this time?”

“Did Evan say where he was going that morning?”

“Just to see his friend Pete,” she said. “He promised he’d be back in time for dinner. I was making shrimp scampi, his favorite …” Sobs wracked her thin frame.

“Have you told all this to the police?” I asked.

“Everything,” she said. “They’re supposedly doing an investigation, but every time I call, they tell me they don’t have any leads. I think the police think Evan stole the
Lorelei
.”

“They did disappear at the same time,” I said.

Ingrid drew herself up. “He would never do a thing like that.”

“I wasn’t implying he did,” I said quickly. “Just that the police are looking for a suspect, and the timing is convenient. Would Evan know how to drive a boat like that?”

She nodded. “He grew up around boats,” she said. “But he had no reason to steal the
Lorelei
. He’d never do a thing like that. There was no reason to!”

“Ingrid,” I said. “I hate to ask you this, but did your son ever play cards?”

“What do you mean?”

I told her about the rumor I’d heard down at the lobster co-op.

“Gambling?” she said, looking shocked. “He’s never been a gambler. He’s had other problems, of course. But never gambling.”

“Would he have told you if he did?” I asked.

She slumped again, running a hand through her unkempt gray-blond hair. “I don’t know,” she said, her face more drawn than ever. She seemed to have aged a decade in the past week. “I just don’t know anything anymore.”

“Maybe we could look through his room again, together,” I suggested, not sure how she’d respond. “Maybe there will be something that might tell us what happened.”

“I’ve looked through it a million times,” she said.

“I’m sure,” I said. “But sometimes two sets of eyes are better than one.”

_____

When I got back to the inn, sick at heart over Ingrid and her missing son, my kitchen was in pieces—or at least my oven was.

“You found someone!” I said, giving John a big hug.

“I did indeed,” he said. “And it’s an easy fix, too; just a loose connection.”

“You should be up and running in an hour,” said the repairman, poking his head out of the oven.

“We’ll leave you in peace,” John told him, taking my arm. “You can’t do anything in here right now—let’s go down to the carriage house for a bit. Just come down and knock if you need us, okay?” he said to the repairman.

“Will do,” he said, and John opened the door and ushered me through.

As we stepped out onto the back porch, John put his arm around me. “I heard you were over at Ingrid’s,” he said once the door was closed behind us. “Any word on Evan from that end?”

I grimaced. “Ingrid’s a mess. I told her about the rumor I’d heard—that Evan was into gambling—and she looked shocked.”

“It was the same when she found out he was into drugs, too.”