Berried to the Hilt (21 page)

The ride wasn’t a long one. Only a few minutes had passed before she idled the engine. I lifted my head to see where we were, but she pushed it down with her foot. “You’ll see where we’re going soon enough.”

She idled a minute or two more, then gunned the motor and drove the boat forward. The side of the boat smacked into a rock with a grating sound, and my heart juddered in my chest. Then the light dimmed, and the familiar sucking sound filled me with dread.

“Smuggler’s Cove,” I said.

She didn’t bother answering, but I knew I was right.

_____

She was an expert boatswoman, I’ll give her that. She had the dinghy tied up in no time flat, and her bulky flashlight wedged under one arm. When the boat was secure, she yanked me to my feet and pushed me up the short walkway toward the cave. “Let’s go,” she said brusquely when I resisted, giving me a sharp poke in the back with the tip of her knife. I gasped, feeling a warm spurt of blood. “Give the sharks something to get excited about,” she said, then ordered me to sit on the floor.

She bound my feet expertly. “I’ll be back tonight,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll find the dinghy this afternoon, and I’ll volunteer to help out with the search and rescue.”

“Do you really want more blood on your hands?” I asked weakly, my back still smarting from where she had jabbed me.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said. “See you tonight.”

Then she retreated toward the dinghy, taking the flashlight with her.

I don’t know how
long I lay in the darkness on the cold rock in my damp clothes, but slowly, the sucking sound diminished, the faint hint of light at the mouth of the cave faltered, and then I knew the cove’s entrance was completely submerged. I worked at my bonds, wriggling around on the bumpy floor and trying to saw through them by rubbing the rope against a sharp rock, but all I managed to do was bloody my wrists.

It was the second time I had found myself confronted by a murderer in Smuggler’s Cove, I thought to myself as I lay like a beached fish on the rocky floor. I’d escaped—barely—the first time, but I was afraid Molly was too smart for me to hope I’d get lucky a second time. The next low tide was well after midnight—and after finding my skiff in the water, no one would think to look for me here. John might suspect Molly was involved in my disappearance, but what would he be able to do? The evidence was gone, and no one had seen Molly and me together. And even if I did get free of my ropes, what then? If I managed to swim out of the cove, the current was strong and the rocks jagged. If I did manage not to be smashed against the side of the cliff, it was still a long swim to a place where I could haul myself out of the water. I would likely die of hypothermia before I was found.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of a plan B, so despite the less than rosy prognosis of plan A, I went back to trying to cut through the ropes with a dull rock. If nothing else, the movement kept me slightly less frozen, the effort passed the time—and the pain in my raw wrists distracted me from the terror.

As the hours passed with no discernable change in the condition of the ropes binding my wrists, the eerie sucking sound of the waves against the rocks returned, and I knew the tide was going out. When I gauged the tide to be halfway out, I wriggled toward the mouth of the cave and started yelling. It was likely that the pounding waves drowned out my voice, but I called out until I was hoarse, then took a break and started yelling again.

It seemed like an eternity that I lay there, shivering in my damp clothes, back and shoulders aching from my efforts to saw through the ropes, praying for someone other than Molly to come back and discover me. When I heard the sound of a motor, I renewed my yelling, and felt a surge of hope when the motor grew closer. But when the boat entered the cove and no one responded to my call, I knew with a sickening certainty that it was Molly, not John, who had come to retrieve me.

All too soon, the flashlight appeared at the opening, and Molly was yanking me to my feet.

“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice hoarse from yelling.

“Let’s go,” she said, slicing through the ropes that bound my feet and pushing me toward the dinghy.

My feet were numb from being bound tightly for so long, and I stumbled, but Molly’s grip was like steel. I reeled against her once, hoping to knock her down, but she quickly evaded the move. I crashed into the floor on my side, grazing the side of my head on a rock.

Mercilessly, she hauled me up again and shoved me down into the dinghy. Then she climbed after me, still brandishing the knife. “Shut up and stay down,” she hissed. The motor started on the first try. She set the flashlight on the bench seat and untied the ropes, but left them looped around the iron rings until a big wave filled the cave. As the water receded, she released the ropes and gunned the engine, and a moment later, I left the cove for the last time.

There were no stars in the sky. I couldn’t see anything—Molly had doused the flashlight—but from the moisture in the air, I was guessing there was fog. My already low hopes dropped even further.

I don’t know how far we went, but with every moment, I felt more frustrated, hopeless, and angry—both at Molly and at myself. Why had I gone to the beach without telling anyone where I was going? Why hadn’t I brought something to defend myself with? I’d dealt with murderers before. Why had I not had more common sense?

The fog seemed to thicken as we went, lightless, into the night. How did she know where she was going? I wondered. She was confident—or reckless—to be moving so fast at night, in fog. I saw a bluish glow in the stern of the boat, and realized she was trying to pull something up on her Blackberry. Navigation charts, maybe? Although with no landmarks to steer by, how was she going to figure out how to get home?

I took a deep breath, and smelled a new, sharp odor in the mist. Molly must have smelled it too, because the boat slowed with a jerk, and a moment later, she cut the motor.

The gasoline smell of the motor wafted over me—but so too did the other smell. Tar, I realized—and something else. Something foul. The waves lapped at the side of the dinghy, and I could hear the sides of the little boat creak. Only I’d never heard the dinghy creak before. I raised my head slightly; there was a glow in the mist, like a flickering flame. I opened my mouth to call out, and at the same moment, Molly delivered a vicious kick and a short, sharp, “Sshh.”

“Help,” I called in a hoarse voice. At this point, I had nothing to lose—my life was forfeit anyway. Molly kicked me again, and I yelped in pain, but called again—louder, this time. “Help!”

Molly scuttled to where I was and jammed her hand over my mouth. I bit it, hard, and she swore, pulling her hand back. I struggled to sit up. “Help!” I called again.

She hit me across the face with the back of her hand, then jammed a foul-tasting rag into my mouth.

The flickering light grew closer, but the taste and smell of gasoline and fishy water eliminated the smell of tar. I thought I could hear footsteps, the faint flutter of a sail. Whoever it was was close. I tossed my head this way and that, trying to lose the rag, but she clamped it firmly to my face.

Slowly, the flickering light retreated, and the sound of footsteps faded. Molly loosened her grip on me, and I felt tears spring to my eyes; I’d missed my last chance to be saved. She sat down at the stern of the boat and revved the motor again—but now, there was another light in the fog. She veered away from it, pushing the little dinghy hard and recklessly into the darkness. I was searching my brain, trying to come up with a plan—kick her with my bound feet? Try to push her off the back of the boat?—when the dinghy bucked to a halt with a loud scraping sound. The motor whined like an angry bee for a moment, then when silent.

Molly cursed quietly. Icy water licked my cheek. Despite the fear that welled in me—fear of being sucked under into cold, dark, nothingness, to molder at the bottom of the ocean for eternity—I realized that Molly and I were now quite literally in the same boat. The water seeped into my nose, and I turned my head, sick with dread. The death she had intended for me was seeping into the little dinghy, intent on taking not one of us, but two.

_____

Molly was not unaware of her situation.

“Out,” she said, heaving at me. “Get out.”

“I can’t,” I mumbled through the rag. “I’m tied up.”

With what seemed like superhuman strength, she pulled me to a sitting position and then started heaving me over the side. For the first time in my life, I found myself glad of my addiction to sweets; not only did it make it harder for the slight woman to lever me out of the boat, but my extra padding would keep me floating—and alive—for at least a few minutes longer. I could hear the low thrum of a boat motor nearby. Would I stay afloat long enough to be found? Surely John must have everyone combing the water for me by now.

I fought her as long as I could, but eventually she gave a mighty push and sent me headlong into the water.

The water was like ice, and I gasped involuntarily, sucking in a mouthful of cold water. My body bobbed to the surface, and I twisted my head to get a mouthful of air, choking and coughing.

Molly had already lit her flashlight and was waving it in the air, calling for help. I tried to stay near the boat, but with my arms tied, it was all I could do to stay near the top of the water and grab a mouthful of air. I relaxed and tried to float on my back, but with my arms close to my body, the waves kept rolling me over, and the icy water was numbing my already chilled limbs. I was floating farther and farther from the dinghy, feeling hope gutter like a dying candle.

I gasped for air as a wave rolled my body over again, and noticed a bright white light—and the smaller red and green lights of a boat’s bow—approaching. They were zeroing in on Molly’s dinghy—and I was drifting farther away, my sodden clothes swaddling me like a lead blanket.

A wave submerged me, pushing me deep under the water, and I fought to get back to the surface. I kicked my legs and propelled myself upward, sucking in as much air as I could when my head broke through the surface. The boat was closing in on Molly now; I could see her silhouetted in the light.

With a mighty effort, I pointed my head in the direction of the boat and kicked with all my might, trying to close the distance. The wet, heavy clothes dragged on me, pulling me down. On the third kick I strained my neck to see if I was still on course, and glimpsed Molly reaching for a life preserver. I yelled at the top of my lungs, only to find myself sinking into the water again. I fought to right myself, then sucked another lungful of air and drove my body forward again, toward the other boat. I couldn’t feel anything anymore—not the cold water, not the air ripping through my lungs, not the bonds on my hands. My entire being was focused on closing the distance before my only hope of rescue floated away.

I lifted my head for another mouthful of air; Molly was no longer in the dinghy, but the smell of tar and decay was in the air again. The searchlight was moving again, but I couldn’t tell in what direction before I was underwater again, kicking as hard as I could in the direction of the light.

The next time I broke through the surface, the light was closer. I stopped kicking for a moment, flipped to my back, and struggled to stay afloat, praying they would see me. My clothes tugged at me, pulling me into the deep, but I wriggled my body like a fish, fighting to stay afloat—and praying the light would glance across me. The tar smell was strong again, and the light growing closer. I kicked harder, too out of breath to call for help. My only hope was that I would be seen.

My body was about to give out, my numb, tired limbs no longer responding to my brain’s commands, when the light glanced across me.

Something hit my face; a moment later, there was a big splash beside me, and someone was pushing me up toward the surface.

I relaxed and let the arms push me toward the boat. More hands were there, lifting me over the side. I glimpsed the flicker of a lantern, the ghostly flutter of a sail, and then John was there, face white in the bright light, hugging me to him. “Thank God you’re alive,” he said.

“I believe in ghosts
now,” John declared as I huddled beside the inn’s fireplace, a mug of hot chocolate cradled in my hands and two down comforters wrapped around me. I’d taken a hot bath and was swaddled in twenty pounds of goose feathers, but I was still chilled.

“You saw the ghost ship too, then?” I asked.

“We were about to give up when one of the crew spotted the lantern,” he said. “I could almost make out the shape of it—but I could definitely smell it.”

“What were you doing out there in the first place?” I asked.

“When we found your skiff, we knew something terrible had happened—and I was still suspicious of Molly. When she headed out to Smuggler’s Cove at low tide, I followed in
Mooncatcher
, but after she came out, I lost her in the fog.”

“You followed her?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It was too much of a coincidence—the day after we find her stash, you disappear and your skiff winds up wrecked. I was afraid I was too late, and she’d already done something horrible to you, but I had to try.”

“I didn’t hear your boat when we left the cove,” I said.

“The stupid motor wouldn’t start,” he said. “By the time I got it going, she was gone. I got her bearing and radioed the Coast Guard. They picked me up, then used their radar to track her down.”

“That was terrifying,” I said. “I thought no one knew where I was.”

“Well, believe it or not, the legendary ghost ship saved you,” he said. “We saw something flickering in the fog, about a hundred yards off the bow of the boat. If we hadn’t shone the lights on it, trying to figure out what it was, we never would have found you.”

“I saw it too,” I said. “And smelled it—the tar smell. And something else too—something rotten.”

“Eerie, wasn’t it? But I’m so glad it turned out to be true.” John squeezed my hand.

“Maybe Captain Selfridge redeemed himself,” I said.

“I don’t care who or what it was,” John said. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“You and me both,” I said. “And now Eli’s off the hook.”

He didn’t respond.

“What?” I asked.

“The problem is, the evidence is gone,” he said.

“But what about me?”

“You’re a witness, to be sure,” he said. “And Molly’s been arrested for attempted murder. But without the evidence …”

“His watch was in the bag, too, you know. Gerald McIntire’s watch—it’s worth half a million dollars. And she used the dive knife to kill him—not the cutlass. She was there when the
Lorelei
hit the rocks.”

“I know,” he said, stroking my damp hair. “I was there when you told the investigators.”

“They have to let Eli free!” I said.

“I wish we had some scrap of real evidence,” John said. “We may be able to get him out, but without something to put her at the scene of the crime—or a murder weapon—the case is still sketchy.”

I felt the helplessness well up in me again—and the frustration that my dear friend was locked up for a crime that Molly had committed in cold blood. Then I remembered something. “The dive computer,” I said, sitting upright. “The one on her wrist.”

“What about it?”

“It logs her dives—all of them. Including the one she did the night Gerald died.”

John’s eyes gleamed. “So if we download the information, it will prove that she was diving just before he died.”

“Exactly. If she hasn’t cleared it, it should put her at the scene.”

John stood up. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’m calling the investigators now.”

“Now?” I said. “It’s two in the morning!”

“I don’t care,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

When he returned a few minutes later, he was smiling. “They already downloaded the data; it’s got the dive we were looking for. It’s not as good as a smoking gun—or a bloody knife—but it’s a solid piece of evidence.”

“Do you think they’ll find the bag with the knife and watch in it?”

“They’re looking, but there are no guarantees. There’s a good chance she dumped it all overboard somewhere, or hid it on one of the outlying islands. But with your testimony …”

“You mean Eli will go free?”

“The investigator said they would probably be dropping charges tomorrow,” he said.

“Thank God,” I said, sinking back into the loveseat. “Now if only we could find Evan, that would solve all of our problems.”

“Actually, he turned up today,” John said.

“What? Where?”

“In Portland, with a girl he’s been seeing.”

“So after all of that, he was just hanging out with a girlfriend?” I shook my head. “What about what happened to Adam? And who was that Pete guy?”

“It’s all connected,” John said. “Evan was behind on his debts, but when he went to Pete—the lobsterman who ran the poker game—to ask for more time, Pete beat him up and threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay up. Then Pete and his buddies beat up Adam when he came around asking questions.”

“Lovely,” I said, shivering. “I had no idea that kind of thing went on in our part of the world. Is that why he went to Portland?”

“Exactly,” John said. “He was bunking with a girl he’d dated in college—told her he just needed a place to crash for a few days. Only his girlfriend was suspicious—he was pretty beaten up when he got there, and seemed afraid to leave the house. She finally called Ingrid this afternoon and told her she thought Evan was in some kind of trouble and needed help.”

“At least he’s still alive,” I said. “And he didn’t head off to the Caribbean with the
Lorelei
. Still—it’s not good. What’s Ingrid going to do?”

“Right now I think she’s just relieved he’s not at the bottom of the ocean,” John said. I shivered, thinking how close I’d come to that exact fate a few hours earlier, and John pulled me to him, hugging me hard. “Pete will be arrested for assault,” he said, after kissing the top of my head, “but I’m guessing Ingrid will end up making good on Evan’s debts—and keeping her son on a very short leash.”

“I’ll be surprised if she ever lets him out of her sight again,” I said, feeling a wave of drowsiness wash over me. Molly was locked up, Eli would soon be back with Claudette, and Evan was okay. I could finally relax.

“Let’s get you to bed,” John said.

“But I haven’t gotten breakfast ready …”

“I’ll take care of breakfast,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. Then he picked me up and carried me up the stairs to bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

_____

“Natalie!” It was Charlene. “You scared us yesterday—I heard John found you out by the wreck site. Thank God you’re okay!”

“Thanks,” I said. “And Eli’s going to be back on Cranberry Island before we know it.”

“That’s great,” she said. “There’s only one problem.”

“What?”

“Where the heck are you?”

I paused as I soaped a pot, shifting the receiver to the other ear. “I’m in my kitchen, washing dishes. Where else would I be?” John had taken care of breakfast, but when I woke up and discovered he hadn’t slept at all the night before, I sent him to bed and insisted on doing the clean-up.

“Um, I don’t know,” Charlene said. “Maybe the Town Hall?”

I was about to ask why when suddenly it hit me. I almost dropped the pot. “Oh, no. It’s the bake-off.”

“That knock on the head did have some impact after all,” she said, cheerily. “Too bad it wasn’t a little bit harder, or you’d be in a hospital bed and they’d have to find someone else.”

“If you only knew,” I said darkly.

“Tell me about it when you get here. But you’d better get here fast. The natives are getting restless!”

I was turning off the sink and wiping my hands on a dishtowel, steeling myself for the inevitable, when an idea occurred to me. “It may take me just a bit longer.”

“What?”

“I have an idea. Can you hold them off for a few minutes?”

“I’ll do my best,” she said. “But Florence Maxwell is already as red as Maude’s cranberry chutney. You’d better get a move on it.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said, abandoning the pot, hurrying out the kitchen door, and praying my plan would work.

_____

“You’re late! The bake-off judging was supposed to start an hour ago!” Irene Dinsdale, the bake-off chairwoman, twittered at me forty minutes later. The town hall was filled with islanders, and the tension in the large, whitewashed room was almost palpable; Maude and Florence both smiled thinly at me, then turned away, whispering to one another. The tables at the back of the room were covered in bright red tablecloths and numbered plates of cranberry dishes. I spotted the gumdrops and the chutney and suppressed a shudder.

“I’m sorry I’m running behind this morning,” I said.

“Well, you’d better hurry up. Meg White keeps complaining that if her pudding isn’t consumed at the right temperature, the texture is ruined.”

“Actually, before we begin, I’d like to propose a change.”

“Natalie, the bake-off is already underway. We can’t change the rules!”

“Not the rules, of course. There have been some issues of impartiality raised …”

“I haven’t heard them,” Irene said peremptorily.

“Well, I have. So, in the interest of fairness, I would like to substitute a different judge.”

Irene was aghast. “But … who will I find on such short notice! You agreed to do it!” She put her hands on her ample hips. “You can’t possibly back out now! There’s no time!”

“I’ve already found an alternative. Irene, this is Cherry Price, food writer for
the
New York Times
. She has graciously agreed to judge the contest in my stead.”

Irene’s eyes grew round behind her wire glasses. “
The
New York Times
?”

“Will that be acceptable?”

“Why … of course.” She clasped Cherry’s hands between hers. “I’m so honored to meet you, Ms. Price. Thank you so much for honoring us with your presence. It’s so hard to scrape up qualified judges here. We do what we can, but … to have a genuine professional is a real honor!”

Cherry smiled back and said something gracious.

I bit my tongue. It wouldn’t have mattered what I said, anyway … Irene had completely forgotten about me, and was leading Cherry toward the tables. I watched her go, thankful I had dodged the bullet—and that I wouldn’t be exposed to Maude’s cranberry chutney a second time.

Charlene sidled over to me. “What was that all about?”

“You’ll see,” I said as Irene stood at the podium and fussed with the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said—even though the only male in the room was Mr. Snuggles, Maude Peters’ large, neutered brown tabby. He had a reputation for dropping in on town gatherings. “I want to thank you for your patience, and announce a change in the judging.”

A murmur swept through the room, and several eyes flicked in my direction.

“How in the world did you pull that off?” Charlene asked.

I winked at her and whispered, “You’ll see.”

“Although Natalie Barnes was a fine choice, we’ve had the opportunity to engage the services of a judge with far more experience and qualifications,” she said.

“Nice,” said Charlene in a low voice beside me.

“I am pleased to announce that Ms. Cherry Price, food writer for
the
New York Times
, has graciously agreed to judge our contest today.”

There was a smattering of applause, and a hum of voices. Cherry gave the audience a wave, smiled and winked at me, and allowed Irene to guide her to the first table.

“You,” Charlene said, poking me with a polished fingernail, “are the luckiest woman on earth.”

“My reputation is safe,” I said. “And I never have to have another spoonful of Maude Peters’ cranberry pickled chutney again, as long as I live.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Charlene took a swig of Cranapple juice from her plastic cup and winced. “I think I need a real drink.”

“Once the judging’s over, you can have one on me. With one condition.”