Berried to the Hilt (6 page)

“If you didn’t see him with it, there’s no way to know if he took it with him. And were your doors locked?”

“Never needed to lock them,” she said, looking up at me. “It’s a small island.”

“So if he left it here, anyone could have snuck in and taken it. It was common knowledge on the island where he kept the sword.”

“That’s true, I guess.”

“Did you tell the police that your doors were unlocked—and that Eli kept the cutlass over the fireplace?”

“I didn’t think it would matter,” she said. “They’re convinced he killed that man.” She let out a convulsive sob. “I wish they’d never found that ship, Natalie.” She reached out and gripped my hand; hers were dry and cold. “I’m afraid it’ll be the death of him.”

“It’s early days, Claudette,” I said, squeezing her hand comfortingly. “Does he have a lawyer?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Not much call for one on Cranberry Island.”

“Well, then, that’s the first order of business. Let me talk to Tom Lockhart, see if he knows anyone on the mainland,” I said. “Don’t worry—I’m sure we’ll get all this sorted out,” I said in a bright voice that sounded false even to me. “Why don’t you come to my place today? I could use some company.”

She glanced back. “Well, there are the cats …”

“Just toss some food in the bowl and come with me. They’ll keep for a few hours.”

“And I’ve got a sweater to finish …”

“You can do it at my place,” I said. “Come along with me.”

She wavered. “Maybe it would be best to get out for a bit,” she said. “Clear my head.”

“Absolutely it will,” I said. “Gather your knitting things and let’s go!”

The goats were back at Ingrid’s roses as we walked up the road together a few minutes later, Claudette hunched over, a big bag of wool slung over one shoulder. She didn’t even look up when I pointed out Muffin and Pudge. I thought I saw the curtains of Ingrid’s house twitch as we passed, though.

I’d definitely have to drop by her place later.

_____

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that the police finally arrived at the Gray Whale Inn. I had just laid several cod fillets in a pan of milk to poach—I was making Cranberry Island Cod Cakes for supper—when the bell rang.

“I’m not sure who’s here,” I told the two officers. “I think McIntire’s coworkers are here, but the university folks have been out at the site all day.” Probably making hay while the sun shone, I thought. Who knew how long Iliad would be out of the picture? “They’re probably quite relieved to have the site to themselves,” I said, attempting to drop a hint.

Neither responded, and I wrote down the names and room numbers of the guests, trying to think of a way to convince them the murderer wasn’t already in a jail cell. “Have you found the
Lorelei
yet?” I asked.

The detective shook her head. “Still looking,” she said.

“I’ll bet when you find it, you’ll find out who the murderer really was,” I said.

“Do you know something about it?” she asked sharply.

“I know that Eleazer White would never have discarded an antique cutlass in a shrub,” I said.

“People do strange things in the heat of passion,” she said.

“I’m just saying there were lots of folks who didn’t like Gerald McIntire. You know he’s had a long history with the university archaeologist, Carl Morgenstern? I was out there yesterday, and he had murder in his eyes—and last night he attacked Gerald in my dining room.”

“Did I, now?”

I whirled around; behind me stood Carl, who had evidently just come back in. Molly stood beside him, eyeing me with anger and reproach.

“Mr. Morgenstern, I presume?”
the detective said smoothly.

“Indeed,” he said, still giving me a hard look. “I don’t care for slander, Ms. Barnes.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s a murder investigation,” I said, feeling my face burn. “I was telling them what I saw.”

“We appreciate your assistance, Ms. Barnes,” the detective said briskly, dismissing me. “If we need more of your observations, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, is there a place we can go to ask these two folks some questions?”

“You can use the dining room,” I said, feeling chastened. I installed them at a table by the window and returned to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Claudette was sitting by the window, knitting something large and brown.

“Who’s here?” she asked, the needles pausing.

“The police,” I said. “They’re questioning the archaeologists.”

She sat up a little straighter. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I hope so,” I said, but as I filled the teakettle, I realized I wasn’t feeling very hopeful at all. The police already had someone with means, motive, and opportunity. Why look further?

I tossed a tea bag into a teapot and sat down across from Claudette, who had resumed knitting mechanically. Her fingers moved at lightning speed, but her eyes were glazed, unfocused. “Tell me again what happened last night,” I said.

She sighed, and the needles slowed slightly. “Well, all this started yesterday, after he went out to the site with you. I’ve never seen him so angry. He stayed home long enough for a bite to eat, but then he was gone—out to find Tom Lockhart, I think. He talked about going to see the archaeologists about the cutlass, but I don’t know if he ever did it. I think after what happened yesterday, he seemed worried mainly about the wreck site.”

“Why did he want to see Tom?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

“For advice, I think.” She finished a row and transferred the needles between her hands. It looked like she was working on one side of a sweater, but it was hard to tell. “He wanted to stop
Iliad
from taking over the site.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Almost the whole day. He stopped in for dinner, but hardly touched a bite.” I knew it wasn’t because of Claudette’s cooking; her pastries might be terrible, but she made some of the best chowder I’d ever eaten. “He ate maybe three bites of stew, and was out the door again. I told him to let things be, to sleep on it at least, but he was angrier than I’ve ever seen him.” She lowered her needles; the brown wool was slack in her lap. “And now look what he’s gone and done …”

“He’s innocent until proven guilty,” I reminded her. “And there were lots of other people who didn’t like Gerald McIntire. He had a long list of enemies.”

She looked up at me. “Really?”

“Trust me. One of the archaeologists threatened to strangle him over dinner last night,” I said. “I’ll make sure the investigators don’t overlook that fact.”

The tension in her doughy features loosened a bit, and I saw a bit of something like hope in her eyes. She picked up her knitting and continued with her row.

“Now. What we need to know is, what did he do with the cutlass?” I crossed my fingers under the table, hoping that Eli hadn’t left the house with it last night.

Claudette gave me a sharp look. “What about it?”

“Are you absolutely sure he took it with him that night?”

“I just don’t remember,” she said.

“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”

“He was certainly home,” she said. “And he usually left it above the mantel.”

“But you don’t recall exactly,” I confirmed.

She shook her head sadly.

It was still worth considering, though. If Eli left the cutlass at home when he went out to see Tom, then anyone else could have come and gotten it. “Did you tell the police he came home—and may have left the cutlass?”

“They didn’t ask,” she said ruefully.

“You can still tell them,” I said. “When I head out, I’ll let them know you’ve got something to add.”

“Thank you, Natalie,” she said. “Since this happened, I … I just haven’t thought clearly.” She paused. “Wait—I did see it. Because he was polishing it something fierce. I remember him putting it back up there.”

“So it was back over the mantel at what time?”

“He was back in at five-thirty, and we had supper at six, so probably by five-fifty or so.”

“He went back out after supper?”

She nodded. “Said he was off to do an errand, and then out in the skiff, to patrol the area. I told him not to, and he usually listens, but yesterday …” She slumped.

“He didn’t take the cutlass, then?”

“I never looked,” she said. “Stupid of me.” The needles clacked angrily. “It’s gone now, that’s for sure.”

He hadn’t taken it right after supper, but that didn’t mean he didn’t come back and retrieve it. “Were you at home the whole evening?” I asked.

“I went over to Emmeline’s after supper,” she said. “I brought her a skein of wool I’d dyed for her—kind of a pale gray-blue. We had a couple of cups of tea and talked about all the goings-on. I walked home around 10 o’clock, but Eleazer wasn’t back yet.”

“Was the cutlass still over the fireplace?”

She gave me a tortured look. “I didn’t look. I never thought …”

“Don’t blame yourself,” I said gently, reaching over to touch her arm. “How were you to know what would happen? And even if it was gone, there was no way to know who took it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, but the anguish in her face didn’t ease.

“At least we know that if someone took it, it had to be after six,” I said. “And since the door was unlocked, anybody could have gone in and taken it. Assuming it was there.”

“That’s true,” she said.

As Claudette’s needles clacked, I thought back to the previous evening. All of the guests had attended dinner, but had any of them left the inn later that evening? I seemed to remember the front door opening and closing a few times, but I had never bothered to see who was coming or going. The bigger question, really, was whether anyone staying at the inn knew where the Whites’ house was—or that the cutlass was kept above the mantelpiece. Eleazer might have mentioned it to one of the university archaeologists; but only Eli or Carl could tell me if that had happened, and Eli wasn’t available.

The teakettle started whistling, and as I got up to fix the tea, I glanced at the clock. Dinner was coming up, and I needed to know if I was going to have extra mouths to feed—namely, the detectives in my dining room. I added a few cookies to the tray, along with some cups, cream, and milk, and pushed through the door to the dining room.

“He was waving the cutlass around,” Audrey was saying as I pushed through the door. “Told Gerald he was nothing better than a pirate. Then he threatened to kill him!” Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face puffy from crying, but her voice was venomous.

I moved quietly, hoping they would continue to talk, but the detectives broke off the interrogation as I set down the tea tray.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but will you be staying for dinner?” I asked.

“Would that be possible?” asked the younger of the two, a rather nice-looking young man. “We’d be sure to reimburse you for the expense. Not a lot of restaurants on the island.”

“Of course,” I said, mentally adding two to the tally. I was hoping they’d continue the interrogation as I laid out the tea things, but not another word was spoken until I was back in the kitchen.

I glanced up at the clock; I had two hours before dinner, and I was dying to talk with Tom Lockhart. John, I knew, was going to be busy with the investigation—but since the menu was fairly simple, Gwen would be able to do most of the prep work. I hated to leave Claudette, but I was sure she’d understand.

I made a few phone calls, and within ten minutes, everything was arranged. Gwen, who had just finished cleaning the upstairs rooms, set to work chopping vegetables for the salad, and a few minutes later, Charlene arrived in her battered pickup truck. Visitors were always a bit surprised when Charlene stepped out of the hunk of 1950s-era steel she drove around the island. The truck, whose original color was indeterminable, gave the general impression of a junkyard refugee held together by duct tape. In contrast, Charlene usually looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Today, she wore a hot pink trench coat that hugged her curves, and her hair was swept back in a stylish updo.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Let me just finish loading this container, and we’ll be out.” I tucked three more frozen cookies into a big plastic tote and snapped the lid shut. Charlene snagged one of the cookies—double chocolate chip, her favorite—and pulled Claudette into a warm hug.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked.

“I’ve been better,” the older woman said, still looking shell-shocked. She declined my offer of a cookie—despite her bulk, she was a strict advocate of a sugar-free regimen—and let Charlene lead her out to the driveway. In no time at all, the three of us were packed into the truck’s front bench seat, jouncing up the road toward town.

_____

The town pier looked as it always did, the weathered dock lined with stacks of lobster pots, the long, low building that housed the island’s tourist shops stretched along the wooden walkway. The plate glass windows of Spurrell’s Lobster Pound were dark this time of year, but lights still shone in Island Artists, where one of John’s driftwood sculptures was on display: a dolphin leaping from the sea. To the left were a few of the brightly painted toy boats he built every winter; they were snapped up by the dozens in summer, by the tourists who day-tripped to the island on the mail boat. In the next window, a sea glass mobile dangled, the gray-blue shards of cloudy glass mirroring the sullen sky.

Charlene dropped me off just past the pier, in front of a low-slung building, its walls covered in colorful, weathered buoys: the Cranberry Island lobster co-op.

“Half the island’s in there,” she said, “and the other half is at the store, swapping gossip.”

“Let me know if you hear anything good.”

“Don’t I always?”

“And find out anything you can about Ingrid’s son,” I added.

“You think he might be involved?”

“Evan’s the one who called Iliad
in the first place,” I said.

“So? If he’s the one who called them, why would he want to kill Gerald McIntire?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But he’s mixed up in all of this, and you never know what he might have seen or heard.”

“What does Adam think of all of this?” Charlene asked.

“I haven’t talked with him yet. Gwen told me he’s coming by the inn tonight,” I said. “I’ll ask him what he knows then.”

“Do you really think we can save Eleazer?” Claudette asked, a tremble in her normally authoritative voice.

Charlene and I exchanged swift glances. “We’ll do everything we can, sweetheart,” Charlene said, reaching over and patting Claudette’s broad knee. “Now, let’s get to the store and get a cup of coffee. It’s cold out there!”

As if on cue, an icy gust swept off the water. Charlene hit the gas, letting out a plume of gasoline-scented exhaust, and the truck roared up the road. I hurried to the door of the co-op, hoping Tom would have good news—or failing that, at least not tell me anything that would incriminate Eleazer further.

The interior of the lobster co-op was dim and smoky, and smelled strongly of fish—not all of it fresh. A half-dozen men were ranged around a rickety table in the corner, all with grave expressions on their weathered faces. They lightened slightly when I produced the cookies. Adam, I noticed, was not among them. “They’re still a bit cold, but they’ll thaw quickly,” I said.

Tom reached for a cookie, and several other lobstermen followed suit; they were disappearing fast, and I received several gruff thanks. “Tom got you in the soup this year, didn’t he, young lady?” asked Mac Barefoot, a grizzled old-timer. “Judging the bake-off and all.” I knew his wife, Dottie, had passed away twenty years ago, and from all reports, he wasn’t much of a cook. At least one person on the island wouldn’t hate me when it was done, I thought.

“That’s what Charlene tells me,” I replied. “But I’m going to be completely objective. I’ve got a score sheet I’m using, and the entries are anonymous.” In theory, anyway; I doubted there would be multiple cranberry chutney recipes—or sugarless cranberry pie, for that matter.