Berried to the Hilt (4 page)

“Did you see anything on it?”

He shook his head. “Not a soul—or even a sail. It was dark as pitch out there, and foggy to boot. Nothing but the flicker of a lantern, and that could have been a trick of the night, you know. And then, like that”—he snapped his fingers—“she weren’t there no more.”

“It just disappeared?”

He nodded.

“Even the smell?”

“It hung around for a minute or two, but then it was gone, too.”

“Creepy,” I said.

“Ayuh,” he said, nodding. “That was the strangest night I’ve ever passed, on water or on land. My da steered out of there quick as anything. I never saw that old boat cut through the water half as fast—even with the fog thick as chowder.”

“Did he think it was a ship?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” he said. “It seemed best to leave it behind us; we never said a word about it.”

“What happened to the lost lobster boat?”

“Turned up the next day,” he said.

“Was everyone okay?”

“Ayuh. They just ran out of gas. Looked like total idiots. They were lucky the Coast Guard found ’em drifting south.” He chuckled. “They would have been halfway to Florida soon enough.”

I gazed at the dark, restless water—beautiful, but deadly. We were heading east of the island, out toward what looked like open water. “Where did Adam and Evan find the wreck?” I asked.

“Funny thing about that,” he said, reaching in his pocket for another piece of cake. He looked back at me with shrewd eyes. “It’s right smack in the middle of Deadman’s Shoal.”

I swallowed. “Where you saw the ghost ship.”

“If that’s what it was,” he said, with a half-shrug. There was a faraway look on his craggy face. “Fog can play tricks on a man’s mind. And it was a long time ago.”

“It’s a great story, though.”

He looked back at me and winked. “Maybe so. But not one I’d want bandied about, so if you’ll keep it close, I’d be much obliged.”

“Of course.”

He nodded and returned his gaze to the boats, which were drawing closer by the moment. I looked back at Cranberry Island, which had shrunk to a dark gray mass in the distance. “Who was Davy Blue’s lady love?” I asked.

“A young lady named Eleanor Kean,” he said. “Or at least that’s the story.”

“Really? She was one of Charlene’s ancestors?”

“Unless there was another Kean family on the island, I’m guessing she was.”

I chuckled to myself; evidently the Kean women’s effect on men ran in the family. Charlene, whose natural beauty was enhanced by her carefully coiffed caramel-colored hair and always-impeccable makeup, had half the lobstermen on the island mooning after her. She hadn’t seduced a pirate yet, though—or at least not that I knew of. “So, she’s not the only heartbreaker in the family,” I said.

“Comes by it honestly, I’d say.”

Any further conversation along that vein was tabled till later; we were growing closer to the two boats—and moving into the danger zone.

Eleazer nodded to me. “Head up to the bow and keep an eye out for rocks, will you?”

I’d steered around rocks in my own skiff many a time, but the tale of Deadman’s Shoal made me nervous. If a seasoned pirate could get caught by submerged rocks, where did that leave me? “Any tips on what to watch for?” I asked.

“Well, you want to holler if you see anything sticking out of the water, for starters. But sometimes you’ll see light patches, or seaweed—you know, you’ve done it before. If you see something, just yell out ‘eleven o’clock’ or ‘two o’clock’, and I’ll adjust.”

“Got it,” I said, and spent the next few minutes staring hard at the inky water, trying to prevent the little skiff from joining the ship on the bottom of the ocean.

Fortunately, Eleazer steered us through the danger zone without incident, and soon we were idling next to the two larger vessels. Evidently we’d come at a bad time; despite Eleazer’s friendly hail, the boats’ passengers spared us barely a glance. I recognized Molly’s curly red hair aboard the
Ira B
. Her partner, Carl, looked completely different, perhaps because he was beet red and his eyes were bulging out of his head.

“You’re not going to get this one, Gerald.”

“Settle down, Carl,” Gerald said from the deck of the
Lorelei
. He oozed an irritating blend of confidence and condescension.

“Just because you have friends in high places doesn’t mean the entire ocean belongs to you,” Carl fumed.

Eleazer glanced at me. “We came at a bad time, it seems.”

“Jurisdiction quarrel,” I said.

His eyebrows went up. “Jurisdiction? It’s not just the university out here?”

“That one,” I said, pointing to the
Lorelei
, “belongs to a company called Iliad. And that one,” I said, gesturing to the smaller, utilitarian-looking
Ira B
, “belongs to the University of Maine.”

Eleazer’s face hardened. “I’ve heard of Iliad. Made a mess of a Spanish galleon a few years back. Why are they here?”

“They’re hoping to find artifacts and make money selling them, I imagine.”

“I’ll bet they are—but I’m not going to let them steal that ship.” Eleazer looked fierce. “That’s our history there under that water. I’ll not stand by and watch it pillaged by outsiders.”

“I think Carl agrees with you,” I said, nodding toward the archaeologist, who was now an unhealthy purplish color and shouting at the top of his lungs. “You’re a crook! A vulture!”

The other man turned and issued a few commands to his crew. I gathered they had experienced this kind of thing before, for they seemed utterly unconcerned by the invective being hurled at them by the archaeologist.

“You can’t just retrieve artifacts without mapping the site!” Carl yelled as Audrey donned a dry suit and reached for an oxygen tank. “You don’t have permission. You’re desecrating the site!”

Eleazer stood up in the skiff. One hand, I noted uneasily, was on the hilt of the cutlass. “The man’s right,” he called to Gerald. “You have no business here. This ship belongs to the people of Maine!”

The man turned to look at Eleazer, while I tried to make myself as small as possible. As much as I might agree with the islander, the man he was haranguing was, unfortunately, my guest. I was distinctly uncomfortable being—quite literally—in the same boat with him.

Gerald, unruffled by Eleazer’s and Carl’s verbal attacks, surveyed the little skiff; I hunched down in my jacket. “According to the Abandoned Shipwreck Act,” he said in a clipped voice, “the wreck does not fall within territorial waters, and is almost certainly not a ship that belonged to the U.S. government. Therefore, it is not the property of the state, and is—as the saying goes—‘fair game’.”

“I’m no lawyer, and what you say may be true, but it’s still not right, and you know it,” Eleazer said. “In any case, you didn’t find it. Whatever happened to finders keepers? It should be up to whoever found it in the first place.”

“Fortunately, we were, in fact, invited here by the individual who found the ship,” Gerald said coolly. “As such, there is no reason for us not to continue our operation. If it is any consolation, you have my assurances that I will do everything to preserve the site,” he said.

“Adam Thrackton called you?” Eleazer said, looking stunned.

“No,” he said. “Evan Sorenson, the young man who pulled up the timber, contacted us. He specifically requested our presence.”

“You’re a rotten, dirty liar,” Eleazer said. “It was Adam what found that ship, and that’s a piece of our heritage you’re trying to lay claim to. You’re a pirate, plain and simple.” There was a menace to his voice that I’d never heard from mild-mannered Eli. “And do you remember what used to happen to pirates?” he hissed. To my horror, he withdrew the cutlass from its scabbard; the blade flashed in the sun.

I blinked, shocked. Everyone on the island knew that as a shipwright, he had a special interest in antique vessels and the stories that went with them—but I never would have imagined him threatening to kill a stranger over a sunken ship. “Eleazer,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm. He shook me off.

Gerald looked down at him mildly. “Are you threatening me, Mr …?”

“White,” he said. “Eleazer White.” He stood for a moment, staring at the man. Then, after turning the cutlass so it caught the light once more, he abruptly jammed it back into its scabbard and started the motor with a sharp jerk. “I’ll say naught else. You’ve been warned.”

Before Gerald could respond, Eleazer gunned the motor so hard I almost fell off my bench seat. A moment later the two bobbing boats were behind us, and we were heading full-tilt toward Cranberry Island.

I watched my old friend. His grizzled jaw was set, and the look on his face precluded me from saying anything—including asking the question that interested me the most right now.

Why had Ingrid Sorenson’s son betrayed Adam and called a treasure-hunting company?

After our brief but
stormy visit to the wreck site, Eleazer had dropped me off abruptly, muttering about getting in touch with some people. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to reach Gwen to ask about Evan Sorenson—in between visits from islanders bearing plates of goodies. Evidently word had gotten out that I was leaving the treats out for guests’ consumption, and I was regretting my attempt to be kind. After having accepted plates from Emmeline and Claudette, both of whom were my friends, I couldn’t turn down everyone else.

The worst came at four in the afternoon, just when I was trying to slip in a quick nap. Biscuit had just curled up beside me when the front doorbell rang. I ran downstairs to answer it, hoping it would be Charlene.

It was Florence Maxwell, wearing a fisherman’s yellow rain slicker and holding a big bowl of what looked like mutant gumdrops. I was instantly wary. Although our exchanges had never been anything but pleasant, Charlene had told me many stories about Florence, none of them flattering. She had always been polite to me, but I knew she had strong opinions of right and wrong, and I had no desire to tangle with her. When Charlene took over the store and decided to add couches and update the offerings, Florence had circulated a petition against it—and had boycotted the store for two years. She was now writing a cookbook, and I knew she coveted the bake-off award to help her find a publisher. If there was even a whiff of impropriety, I was guessing she’d be on the horn with the
local paper
pronto.

“I heard there was some early judging,” Florence told me, proffering the misshapen confections. “I think it may be prohibited in the rules, but I wanted to bring a sample just to make sure I didn’t miss out.”

“It’s not early judging,” I said, wishing I’d never let Emmeline drop off her baked goods. “I agreed to put samples out for guests, along with a comment card. I won’t be sampling any of them.”

“But this way, it won’t be anonymous,” she pointed out.

I sighed. She was right—but on an island of fewer than one hundred residents, anonymity wasn’t much of a commodity anyway. “I understand your concern,” I said. “But I have not and will not sample any of the dishes until the judging officially begins. And I assure you,” I said, again kicking myself for letting Tom talk me into this, “I will be judging on flavor, presentation, and creativity.”

“Hmmph,” Florence said. If I had had any interest in bribery, I had several attractive offers to choose from; I had already turned down two offers of free lobster for a year.

“I’ll be happy to put your dish out with the others,” I said, inviting her in. I placed her crystal bowl on the sideboard beside the other dainties. She scanned them with interest, sizing up the competition. “That cake looks good. I think I’ll try a sample.”

I smiled thinly. “Might be best to wait for the judging,” I suggested.

Florence gave me an appraising look and a short nod. “Well, I’d best be off, then,” she said.

“I’ll return the bowl next week,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said gruffly, and squeaked out the front door.

I’d given up on the nap after she left—her visit had been unsettling—and instead gone to the kitchen to mix up a batch of dough. Now, two hours later, as the smell of fresh bread filled the cozy kitchen and I arranged scallops on ovenproof platters, Gwen slipped through the door, her art bag slung over her right shoulder. “How’d the painting go?” I asked.

“Terrific,” she said. “The colors are so beautiful this time of year. I lost track of time!”

“I was trying to call, but I couldn’t get in touch with you—figured you were out in the boat somewhere, painting
al fresco
.”

She grinned. “
En plein air
, you mean?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“I was, and about froze my fingers off, but it was worth it. The light was spectacular today. What were you calling me about?”

“I wanted to ask about Evan Sorenson.”

“Who?”

“He’s Ingrid’s son. The one who was with Adam when he pulled up a timber.”

“Oh, yeah. What about him?”

“What do you know about him?” I asked.

“Not much,” she said. “I’ve met him a few times, but that’s all. He just got back to the island—he’d been away a few years, off at school, I think.”

Rehab, actually, but there was no need to pass that information on.

“Does Adam know him well?”

“Not really,” she said. “His mom asked Adam to let him try out lobstering.”

“Licenses are awfully hard to get, aren’t they?” From everything I knew, licenses were often passed down in families, and the territories that went with them were hard to come by if you were a newcomer. Just a few months back, there had been a murder down the coast—the result of a feud over lobstering territory.

“An uncle of his in Camden is thinking of retiring and passing his license to Evan. He was at school for a couple of years—and, like Adam, decided he preferred a simpler life.”

Or had been kicked out of school and had no other options, I thought but didn’t say it.

“Anyway,” Gwen continued, “when Ingrid asked, Adam agreed to let him help haul traps with him for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, apparently he now considers himself the finder of the wreck,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Evan called in a treasure hunting company. He’s laying claim to the find.”

Gwen set down her bag with a thud. “But that’s not right! All he did was operate the winch. It was Adam’s boat and Adam’s trap.”

“That’s not how the Sorensons see it,” I said. “I’ll bet you dollars to donuts his mom backs his claim—and the family’s got the money to hire big-gun lawyers. When they got back yesterday, Evan called a company named Iliad and told them he found a sunken ship.”

“Iliad,” she repeated. “I saw that name in the reservation book, didn’t I?”

I nodded.

“They’re staying here?”

“Yup. And so are the university archaeologists.”

She pushed a lock of curly hair behind her ear, looking agitated. “I’ve got to call Adam,” she said. “That jerk. I can’t believe Evan double-crossed him that way.”

“I’ll be curious to hear what he says,” I told her. “In the meantime, both the archaeologists and the treasure hunters are having dinner here tonight.”

Gwen stared at me. “Together? In our dining room?”

“Not at the same table, I’m guessing. But certainly in the same room.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Might not want to put out the steak knives, then.”

“Why do you think I’m serving scallops?” I said, only half-joking. After watching Eleazer wave his cutlass around this afternoon, I was thinking a diet of nice, soft food might be just the ticket for a while.

She crossed her arms, still angry. “It seems wrong that these people are going to come in and take over the find. It should be the university’s business, not a cash cow for private industry.”

“I know,” I said, drizzling a ramekin of scallops with melted butter and scattering cracker crumbs over the top.

“Can’t somebody—the state, maybe—just tell them to leave?”

“I guess it depends on who ‘officially’ found it. It may be the only way to resolve that is in court.”

“Maybe I should have studied law instead of art,” Gwen said.

“There’s still time,” I said. “Your mother would be delighted.” My sister had never forgiven Gwen for choosing to study art instead of something practical, like business. So far, she hadn’t pressured Gwen to return to UCLA, but I knew it was coming.

She rolled her eyes. “Never mind, then.”

I had sent Gwen out to finish setting the tables and was uncorking a bottle of sauvignon blanc when John walked into the kitchen, bringing the sweet smell of fresh cut wood with him.

“How’s my favorite innkeeper?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me.

“Not looking forward to dinner,” I said, checking my watch over his shoulder.

“Why not?” he asked, eyeing the scallops hungrily.

“It’s been an interesting day,” I said. “And I’m afraid my guests are going to start hurling more than invective back and forth.”

“What’s going on? I’ve been in my workshop all day with the radio going,” he said. “Did something happen?”

I filled him in on everything he’d missed. When I told him about Eleazer’s not-so-veiled threat—and Carl’s verbal attack—he let out a long, low whistle. “And all of these people are eating dinner in your dining room tonight?”

“Well, everyone but Eleazer,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent all afternoon in his skiff out at Deadman’s Shoal, trying to prevent anyone from Iliad from diving down to the wreck. He’s probably home refueling on sugarless pie.” Which reminded me of the bake-off, and Florence Maxwell’s visit. “Speaking of which, are you sure you don’t want to volunteer to help me judge the bake-off?” I asked.

He stepped back. “I love you, Natalie, but as far as the bake-off is concerned, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

_____

I avoided the dining room, focusing instead on plating the food. The ramekins of scallops came out of the oven a beautiful golden brown on top, and the crisp green asparagus made a perfect foil. For the first twenty minutes, I stood poised to go and mediate—but by the time the salad plates came back, I was starting to relax. I retrieved the chocolate mousse from the fridge along with a bowl of freshly whipped cream, feeling relieved at my guests’ good manners. Despite their confrontation on the water this afternoon, they seemed able to keep their tempers under control in the dining room.

“How is it in there?” I asked as Gwen brought in the dinner dishes. I was putting the last touch of raspberry drizzle on bowls of chocolate mousse, which I had decorated with little swirls of whipped cream.

“Chilly,” she said. “They’re still on opposite sides of the room, and I haven’t heard a single word.”

“I hope they’re not terrorizing Cherry,” I said.

She was the only guest not on the island to investigate the shipwreck, and had come in on one of the late mailboat runs. “She seems like a nice lady; I’d hate for her to feel uncomfortable.”

“She’s got her nose in a book,” Gwen said.

“Good. That’ll distract her. At least they’re not at each other’s throats,” I said, placing a fresh raspberry on each of the bowls.

I had just set the last bowl on a serving tray for Gwen when there was a crash from the dining room.

Gwen and I stared at each other for a split second before both dashing to the swinging door.

I got there first, and froze in the doorway, at a loss for what to do next.

One of my plates lay shattered on the wood floor. A few feet away, Carl stood, murder in his eyes. Molly stood next to him, a restraining arm on his—our eyes met, and I could read fear in hers.

Not good.

“I’ll get John,” Gwen murmured, and I was thankful for her quick thinking. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but the way things were looking, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have the island’s deputy on hand.

“Can I help you with something?” I said calmly, addressing Carl. He didn’t even hear me. The veins stood out on his forehead; I could see the one by his temple pulsing. He pointed a shaking finger at Gerald. “If you so much as remove one
splinter
from that ship, I will hunt you down personally.”

Gerald sat back in his chair, in the relaxed pose of the man who’s holding four aces in his hand and knows his opponent has nothing but deuces. “Business is business, Carl. I’m here on authority of the finder, and the wreck is outside of territorial waters.” He cut a scallop in half and popped it into his mouth. Carl’s chest heaved as Gerald chewed slowly, then swallowed and looked back up at him with a contented smile. “Better luck next time, Carl.”

Carl let out a strangled bellow and lunged at him. Molly pulled him back, but he broke free, stumbling over to the treasure hunter’s chair and throwing a wild punch that grazed Gerald’s chin. Carl fell to the floor, but scrambled to his feet and was about to attack a second time when John dashed past me and into the dining room.

Within seconds, he had the wiry archaeologist’s arms pinned behind him, and I could hear my fiancé’s low, calm voice telling him to get himself together. Cherry Price gazed at the entire proceedings over the rims of her red reading glasses. She looked more intrigued than afraid, thankfully.