Berried to the Hilt (7 page)

“Good luck with that,” he grunted, obviously thinking the same thing.

Tom rescued me by changing the subject. “I heard the inspectors were over at the inn.” He was a tall, well-put-together man, with a natural charisma that had kept him at the helm of the lobster co-op for years.

I nodded. “They’re questioning the archaeologists at the inn right now.”

“I don’t know why they’re bothering, since they’ve already locked up poor Eli,” one of the lobstermen said.

“Just because he’s been arrested doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” Tom said.

“That’s part of what I came to talk to you about,” I said, addressing Tom. “We need to find a good defense attorney.”

“Already contacted the top attorney in Bangor—she drove in today. The co-op is taking a collection to help Claudette with the costs.”

My heart warmed. The islanders were looking after one of their own. “Count me in, too,” I said. “I’ll tell Claudette when I see her in a few minutes. She’s down at the store with Charlene right now. We’re trying to keep her spirits up.”

“That shipwreck is cursed,” someone grumbled.

“Haunted, too,” another said. “ ‘Always stay clear of Deadman’s Shoal,’ my dad used to tell me. ‘Strange things happen out there.’”

“I know it’s supposed to be an old wives’ tale, but I thought I saw a ship there once,” said Mac. After Eleazer’s careful admission the other day, I expected the others to scoff, but there was only a tense silence. A few of the lobstermen exchanged cryptic glances as Mac continued. “The fog was just starting to roll in, and though I usually go round the long way so as not to get too close to Deadman’s Shoal, I was trying to make port before nightfall.”

“What did you see?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t really know. It may have been the fog playing tricks on me, but I swear there was a ship out there, reeking of tar. I could just make out the sails on her.”

“Was there anyone aboard?” Tom asked.

“Not that I could tell. I cut the engine, went to hail them, warn them off the rocks. I yelled out a few times, but nobody answered.”

“Maybe they were below decks,” someone suggested.

Mac shrugged. “Maybe. At first I thought it was one of those historical dress-up ships they float sometimes, or the
Margaret Todd
, out of Bar Harbor, gone astray.” The
Margaret Todd
was a four-mast schooner popular with the tourists—but as far as I knew, it never went more than a mile from shore, and Deadman’s Shoal was three miles out, in the wrong direction. “But it wasn’t a schooner,” he said. “It was too big for that.”

“Could have been a clipper,” someone piped up.

“Or a brig. Jonah Selfridge’s ship was a brig, wasn’t it?”

“Matilda would know. And Eli, of course.”

“Can’t ask him now, can we?”

“Could have been either,” Mac said, shrugging. “I barely got a glimpse of it.”

“What did you do?” I asked, anxious to get back on topic, since I had no idea what the difference was between a brig and a clipper, and didn’t much care at the moment.

“I tried to get closer, but a big bank of fog rolled in, and the damn thing just up and disappeared.”

“Did you try the radio?”

“Ayuh. No answer, and no other boat reported seeing a ship in the area. Had gooseflesh all over me; I’ve never run my boat so hard, especially not with fog.”

“The ghost ship,” someone murmured.

“Probably too much rum in your mug,” a young lobsterman snorted. There were a few uneasy chuckles, but not much mirth. An uneasy silence descended on the smoky room, punctuated by the howl of the wind off the water and the occasional crackle of static from the weather radio.

“Any word on the
Lorelei
yet?” I asked, looking at Tom. He shook his head.

“Probably went down to the bottom with the
Black Marguerite
,” Mac said. “Comes from messing with the dead.”

“I doubt it was a ghost who sank a blade into McIntire’s back,” Tom said.

Mac bristled, and the tension in the room rose. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I wasn’t discounting your story,” Tom said quietly.

“I heard it was Evan who called that Iliad outfit in the first place,” I said.

“Double-crossed young Adam, is what he did,” said Mac. “It wasn’t his place.”

“What do you expect from Ingrid’s son?” the young lobsterman—his name was Brad, I thought—snorted. “Thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

“And short on cash, to boot.”

“Even with all the Sorensons’ money?” I asked.

“His allowance isn’t big enough to cover his extracurricular activities.”

“Drugs?” Mac asked with a knowing look, which surprised me. I had no idea Evan’s addiction was public knowledge; I knew he had been in rehab, but had promised his mother, Ingrid, not to say anything. Then again, in a community the size of Cranberry Island, there aren’t many secrets.

“I don’t know much about that, but I do know he likes a wager from time to time,” Brad said.

“Gambling debts, eh?” Mac asked.

“Ayuh. He’s been a regular at a game in Bar Harbor, ever since he got back a couple of months ago. Word is, he’s in the hole for 10K, and some folks have started asking him when he’s going to pay up.”

“A nice bit of pirate treasure would help with paying that off,” Mac said.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Brad said.

“After all Adam’s done for him, too,” someone said, shaking his head.

“Addiction can be a harsh taskmaster,” Tom said. “But this is all speculation.”

“I do know one of ours is locked up just because that outsider came and tried to steal Davey Blue’s treasure,” Brad said.

“Could be Selfridge’s ship,” someone suggested.

“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it ain’t theirs to take,” Mac said, to grunts of assent. “It belongs to us.”

“It’s out of our territorial waters,” Tom said reasonably. “And most of it will probably end up down at the university in Portland.”

“Better than paying off young Evan Sorenson’s gambling debts—or funding a rich outsider’s retirement home in Florida,” Brad said.

“Paying his funeral expenses, more like.”

Brad shook his head. “I never thought Eli had it in him,” he said. “I know he was crazy about those old ships, but stabbing that treasure hunter in the back …”

I felt like I had been punched; the last thing I expected was for the lobstermen to turn against Eli.

“Do you really think
Eli killed that man?” I asked, still reeling.

“Not saying the man didn’t deserve it, and since I wasn’t out on the water that night, I can’t say as he did or he didn’t,” Brad said, shrugging. “But the last time Tom saw him, he was heading out toward Deadman’s Shoal in his skiff, wasn’t he? And it was his cutlass what did the job.”

“Well, if he did kill that man, he was just protecting what’s ours,” Mac said. “And I can’t say as I blame him for it. Should have taken out Evan while he was at it.”

“How do you know it was Eli who did it?”

“You saw him last, Tom,” Brad said. “When he came by your place last night, spouting all that stuff about modern-day pirates and protecting our heritage. Didn’t he have his cutlass on him?”

“No,” Tom said. “He didn’t.”

Hope flared in me. “What time was he there?”

“He showed up at nine,” he said. “Lorraine and I sent him home at around eleven—or tried to. I didn’t know he would go back out to the wreck site. Madness.”

“But he didn’t have the cutlass on him,” I confirmed.

I was about to heave a sigh of relief when Brad piped up. “Just because he didn’t have it with him don’t mean it wasn’t in his skiff.”

“True,” someone chimed in.

“Do you really think he’d toss his precious cutlass in the bushes by the dock?” asked Mac.

“If he’d just murdered someone with it, don’t you think he’d want to get rid of it?”

“Why not just drop it in the water then?”

The man shrugged. “Folks do funny things in the heat of passion.”

“What I want to know is, what was that Iliad guy doing out there in the middle of the night?”

“And what happened to the
Lorelei
?”

I wanted to know all of those things, of course. But my curiosity was also piqued by Evan Sorenson. I knew of him, but I’d never met him; he’d been off the island in college—or rehab—since I arrived a few years ago. Could Gerald McIntire’s death have something to do with his gambling debts? Had he cut a deal with Iliad—only to have it revoked?

“Has anyone seen Evan since Gerald McIntire died?” I asked.

“He hasn’t shown his face around here, I can tell you that,” Brad said.

“Did he know enough to drive a boat?”

“Course he did. He grew up here, didn’t he?”

“Then, just maybe, when they find the
Lorelei
, they’ll find Evan.”

“Better on the
Lorelei
than in Davy Jones’ locker,” Brad said.

“Who says they’re not both there?” Mac suggested, and a brooding silence fell over the co-op.

The talk died down after that, and I left the co-op a few minutes later, deep in thought about Evan Sorenson—and determined to talk to Ingrid about her son. She and I had never gotten along, but my heart went out to her; as much as she loved him, he always seemed to be in trouble. And one death on the island was more than enough.

_____

I stopped by the store; Claudette was holding court in one of Charlene’s squishy armchairs, and after I passed the news about the attorney to my two friends, I headed out to Ingrid Sorenson’s house. Charlene promised to drop Claudette by after dinner, along with the grocery order that was due on the last mail boat; the plan was to put her up in one of my rooms for the night, so she wouldn’t be alone. On the way back to the inn, as promised, I stopped by Claudette’s to refill the cats’ bowls and check on the goats. I called several times for Muffin and Pudge, but the dynamic duo had evidently moved on to somebody else’s garden, and after about fifteen minutes I gave up. My last stop was at Ingrid Sorenson’s, but the curtains were closed and nobody answered when I knocked. I’d try again tomorrow.

The sun was an orange ball in the sky by the time I headed down the final hill toward the Gray Whale Inn. The gray-shingled building nestled into the hillside below me, the meadow beneath it sloping gently to the water. The kitchen windows glowed with a warm light, and despite Eleazer’s plight—and the recent tragedy—I felt a wave of deep contentment. Just a few years ago, I had taken a big risk and made a stab at reinventing my life. Now I had a growing business, a great relationship with my niece, an island of friends, and plans to be married to a kind, warm—not to mention drop-dead gorgeous—man.

The sense of peace and contentment were short-lived, though; when I stepped into the kitchen, Gwen immediately informed me that the oven had broken.

“I know we’re doing the cod cakes in the pan, and I made the patties and put them on a tray in the fridge, but what about the potatoes?” I had told her we would be roasting the potatoes to serve alongside the cod cakes. Despite her creative personality, she had grown up primarily with take-out, and was only able to cook if I left her explicit, step-by-step instructions.

“We’ll boil them and serve them with butter and chives,” I said. “It’s more traditional, anyway.” Tonight wasn’t a problem, and I could thaw out a batch of banana bread for tomorrow, and do sandwiches for lunch—but things would be much easier if the oven was fixed in time for dinner tomorrow. I’d done cold meals in a pinch before, and even borrowed the kitchen at Spurrell’s Lobster Pound, but it was a huge hassle. “At least the stove is still working,” I said. “Did you tell John about the oven?”

She nodded. “He took a look at it, but wasn’t able to fix it. He made a call to a repairman on Mount Desert Island, but he won’t be able to get here until the day after tomorrow.”

“That’ll take forever—particularly if they need to order parts!”

“That’s what John said. He’s down in the carriage house now, trying to get someone else.”

I smiled. After two years of handling inn crises all by myself, it was nice having someone to share the load with—although after the grueling three a.m. start and hours dealing with the Coast Guard and the police, calling repairmen was the last thing John needed. As soon as I got the potatoes on, I’d run down and check on him. “Let’s hope he found someone else,” I said to Gwen, “or I’m going to have to borrow someone’s oven tomorrow afternoon.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t belong to someone who’s entering the bake-off,” Gwen pointed out.

I groaned as I filled a pot with water. She was right. “Cross your fingers that it’s fixed by tomorrow night.”

In no time at all, I had the new potatoes nestled in a pot of salted water and set Gwen to chopping chives. I checked on the tray of cod cakes in the fridge—the round disks needed only a last dredge in breadcrumbs and a quick sauté in a hot pan—and stepped into the dining room to check on the tables. Gwen had set them perfectly; she was getting more efficient every day. I was about to go back into the kitchen and compliment her when I heard raised voices from the parlor. I edged closer, curious.

“Someone’s taken things from the site. I’m telling you—they’ve been messing with the artifacts.” It was Carl, the university archaeologist.

“The weather’s been rough these last few days,” Molly said soothingly. “You and I both know the bottom changes all the time. I’m sure everything is still there; we’d have seen it if they pulled anything up. Besides, they don’t have a boat.”

“Not anymore, they don’t,” he said. “But it’s only a matter of time before Iliad sends out a replacement. And if we don’t work fast, they’ll locate something specific to the ship and make the claim. We’ve got to ID that ship and lay claim to it before they can get another vessel and dive gear in.”

“We’re working on it,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “I told you earlier, I think I may have found the ship’s bell on my last dive.”

“You showed me the photo,” he said. “It’s hard to tell, with the concretion.”

“It’s easier to see in person. We’ll pull it up as soon as I get the winch fixed,” she said. At least I wasn’t the only one with mechanical difficulties.

“That’ll take too long,” he said.

“There’s always the lift bag option. I know you don’t like to use them, but I can try it tomorrow.”

He sighed. “I hate to take the risk, but it may take some time to get that concretion off, so the sooner we get it up, the better.”

“I promise I won’t drop it,” she said.

“We’ll have to be sure to map it, too.”

“Of course. If the weather cooperates, I’ll dive in the morning,” she said. “With Gerald and the
Lorelei
out of the way, we have the advantage. We won’t lose this one.”

“We’d better not, or we’ll lose half our funding,” he said darkly, and I hurried back toward the kitchen at the sound of footsteps. Fortunately, they were retreating to their rooms, and had no idea I had overheard their conversation.

I found myself wondering about Carl as I threw on a jacket and headed out the kitchen door to check on John. Molly was right; with both Iliad’s primary partner and the research vessel out of the picture, the university archaeologists had a clear advantage. Carl had threatened to kill Gerald yesterday—and now, I’d just learned that if he wasn’t able to lay claim to this wreck, he was at risk of losing research funds. Had he followed through last night—and scuttled the
Lorelei
for good measure?

I was still musing over what I’d heard as I knocked at the door to John’s carriage house. He was on the phone when he answered the door, and I could tell from the conversation that he wasn’t talking about my oven.

“You’re giving up too quickly,” he said pacing back and forth across the antique wood floor, and my heart contracted. He was quiet for a moment, listening, then spoke passionately. “There are so many other possibilities. Have you looked at the life insurance beneficiaries? Or at the history he had with Carl, who threatened to murder him the night he died?”

Quiet again, and I found myself hugging my arms to my chest as I lowered myself to the couch. John listened for a long time, occasionally breaking in with objections; then, shoulders sagging, he finally hung up the phone and lowered himself to the couch beside me, his head in his hands.

“They’ve closed the investigation?” I asked quietly, afraid to hear the answer, even though I already knew what it was.

He nodded.

“How can they?” I asked. “I just heard Carl say that if he didn’t ‘win’ this shipwreck, he’d lose half of his funding. They’re racing to identify the wreck before Iliad; there’s a good chance they took the boat out of action, too.” I told him what else I’d heard Molly and Carl talking about too. “Although I don’t know why the ship’s bell would be such a big deal.”

“The name of the ship is usually engraved on it,” he said.

“Aha. I got the impression that the first people to identify the ship in court get to ‘own’ the wreck.”

“But if it belonged to Jonah Selfridge, wouldn’t it pass to the family?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They seemed to think the first person to claim it in court has rights.” I thought about that for a moment. “If that’s true, it means Evan Sorenson might be out of luck—I’ve heard he was trying to lay claim to the wreck. I was at the co-op this afternoon; word is he got in financial trouble gambling, and was trying to use the wreck to buy his way out.”

He shook his head. “Poor Ingrid.”

“What if Evan confronted Gerald about the money he was expecting and was told there wasn’t going to be any? Maybe Evan killed Gerald and took off with the ship.”

“It’s a theory,” John said, skeptically.

“It would explain why the ship disappeared.”

“But what about the cutlass?”

“Maybe Evan stole it from Eli’s place to make it look like Eli did it. Did they ever confirm it was the cutlass that killed him?”

“Apparently there was a bit of damage to the wound—probably from fish—but it does appear to have been a curved blade.”

“So it could have been something else. Did they find any traces of blood on the cutlass?”

“The lab results aren’t back yet,” he said. “The conversation between Carl and Molly is interesting. Where did you hear it, anyway?”

“They were in the parlor just now; I overheard them when I was in the dining room.”

“ ‘Overheard?’”

“All right, I was eavesdropping. But if we tell the police about it, will that help convince them to look for more suspects?”

“I can try,” he said, “but they seem to think they’ve got a rock-solid case already. Apparently Eleazer said he left the cutlass with the archaeologist, but Carl claims he never laid hands on it—and the only fingerprints on the cutlass are Eli’s.”