Berried to the Hilt (8 page)

“But Carl had a motive to kill Gerald!” I protested. “He’s not going to tell the police that Eli handed him the cutlass, is he?”

“I know, Natalie. They zeroed in on Eleazer and refuse to look at anyone else.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “I hate the thought that we’re going to have to rely on his defense attorney to save him.”

“Tom got him an attorney,” I said. “A good one. From Bangor. And the co-op is pitching in to help cover the costs.”

“The island is watching out for its own,” he said, with a smile. “I hope it’s enough.”

I put my arm around him and gave his shoulders a hug. “Just because the police have given up, doesn’t mean we have to. We’ve solved a few murders in the past, you know.”

“And you almost got yourself killed a couple of times, if I remember correctly.” He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me tight. “I don’t want to see Eleazer go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit—but there may still be a murderer out there.”

“May?” I said quietly. It disturbed me that he wasn’t sure about Eli. Then again, Eli had been so angry yesterday morning, I realized I wasn’t sure, either.

“We may never know what happened that night,” he said. “And I don’t want to risk losing you.”

“We’ll do it together,” I said. “Safety in numbers. Besides, I promised Claudette I’d help.”

He sighed. “I guess it can’t hurt to ask questions.”

“Even if we can cast a bit of doubt on the proceedings—don’t they have to acquit if there’s reasonable doubt?”

He nodded. “It might be a good idea to find out more about Carl Morgenstern,” he said.

“I’ll see what I can find out from Molly. And in the meantime,” I said, anxious to switch topics before he had a change of heart, “thanks for calling repairmen while I was gone.”

“That’s one thing that went right, at least,” he said with a rueful smile. “He’ll be out in the morning.”

“You’re my hero,” I said.

“How’s Claudette holding up?” he asked. “I heard you brought her back to the inn this afternoon.”

“She’s at the store with Charlene right now; she’ll drop her off here later, along with the groceries, and I’ll put her up in the Beach Rose room.” I chuckled bitterly. “At least we’re getting some bookings out of this fiasco.”

“You’re a good woman, Natalie Barnes.”

“And you’re a good man,” I said. He opened his arms, and for a moment, I let all of my worries fade away, allowing myself to be enveloped by the scent and feel of him. Then I remembered the potatoes.

“Can’t Gwen handle it?” John said when I told him why I had to go.

“Not if I don’t want to serve charcoal,” I said. “She’s great at cleaning rooms and serving, but she’s not what I’d call an intuitive cook. Unless I have every step outlined for her, she’s a mess,” I said.

“Go save your potatoes, then,” he said with a last kiss.

“There’s plenty, if you’re hungry.”

“I’ll be up in a bit.” As I left, he picked up the phone; evidently he wasn’t done doing battle for Eli yet.

Neither was I.

_____

Dinner was a surprisingly civil event, although the presence of the two investigators doubtless contributed to the ceasefire between the two camps. The folks from the university were at one end of the dining room, conferring quietly, and the Iliad employees camped out at the farthest table from them. Audrey still looked stricken, but Frank seemed distracted. How had his partner’s death affected the firm? I wondered. Was he now first in command?

Between them sat the two investigators, who were set to head back to the mainland that evening, and Cherry Price, who was picking apart her cod cakes with interest. “These are delicious—I love the lemon, and the crisp crust is just right. Did you use shallots in these?”

“No shallots,” I said, “but I substituted fresh chives for the dill.”

“The lemon sauce is wonderful, too.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “You sound like you know your cooking.”

“It’s my job,” she said.

“You’re a chef?”

“A food writer,” she said.

I swallowed hard. “Now I know your name—you write for the
New York Times
!”

She laughed. “You’ve discovered my secret.”

“Are you here to do an article on the inn?” I asked with trepidation. With the number of policemen traipsing in and out, it hadn’t been a very relaxing day. “I had nothing to do with the pickled cranberries, by the way—or the gumdrops,” I said, pointing at the table with the islanders’ cranberry creations. “I’m supposed to judge a bake-off this weekend, and they’ve been plying me with their wares all week.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I read the sign. But the streusel cake is quite good.”

I’d pass that on to Emmeline; she’d be thrilled.

“In answer to your question, I am thinking of including the inn in a round-up article of Maine hotspots,” she said. “So far, I’m very impressed—everything is top-notch. And it certainly has been exciting!”

“I’m glad you think so—it’s been an unusual day.”

“I noticed—something about a shipwreck, and somebody dying?”

Glancing over my shoulder at the investigators, who didn’t seem to be paying attention anyway, I gave her a synopsis of events, glossing over the fact that the victim had been staying at the inn at the time of his demise.

“Wow. I’ve heard of bed-and-breakfast murder mysteries, but never attended the real thing,” she said. “So we could have a murderer among us?”

“They’ve already arrested someone,” I said, feeling disloyal to Eli for saying it. “But the investigation is ongoing.”

“Well. This
will
make an interesting article!” Something in my face made her add, “Don’t worry—I won’t link the death with the inn. Although you’d be amazed—ghosts and grisly deaths do appeal to some folks.”

“Well, we have a ghost too,” I said, thinking of the spectral cook who had once appeared in my kitchen.

“Really?”

“I’ve got to finish up with dinner, but if you’d like, I can tell you about her after dessert.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “What are we having for dessert, anyway?”

Dessert! I realized that with all the brouhaha, I’d forgotten dessert.

What was I going
to do? I had absolutely nothing planned for dessert … and I had a
New York
Times
food writer at my table. “It’ll be a surprise,” I said, not mentioning that it would be a surprise for both of us.

Excusing myself, I hurried back to the kitchen and opened the freezer.

“What’s wrong?” Gwen asked. “Did I mess something up?”

“No,” I said. “I forgot dessert.”

Normally I would serve cookies, but I had just sent my reserves to the co-op. The only thing I could see was my two half-gallons of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream which John had had shipped up from Texas especially as a treat for me.

“I guess I can make parfaits,” I said, feeling a pang for the loss of my favorite ice cream. I kept waiting for it to be available in Maine, but the brand had only gotten as far as North Carolina—I had a while to wait.

“No way,” Gwen said, closing the freezer. “You’re not digging into the Blue Bell. Not when we’ve got a whole tray of goodies in the next room.”

“You mean the samples for the bake-off?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“Not the cranberry pickle chutney, though. Or the gumdrops.”

“Think streusel cake and pudding,” she said.

“You’re brilliant, Gwen.”

“You can thank me by doing dinner clean-up,” she said.

“Done.”

She retrieved the trays from the next room, and ten minutes later, we put the finishing touches—including a very small scoop of my beloved Blue Bell ice cream and a dab of cranberry preserves—on each plate.

“Cranberry Island Medley,” she dubbed it. “We’ll tell them to fill out comment cards and pop them in the jar.”

“Perfect,” I said, and ferried the first tray of plates out into the dining room. I hoped Gwen never went back to California; I’d be lost without her.

_____

I had just put the last dish into the dishwasher—the dessert, thankfully, had been a hit with everyone, including the food writer—when the phone rang.

“Gray Whale Inn,” I said as I picked up the phone. I gazed out the window at the lights sparkling on the mainland, beyond the dark stretch of water behind the inn.

It was Charlene. “I’m on my way over with Claudette and your groceries,” she said.

“I’ll put her up in the Beach Rose room,” I said. “Thanks for staying with her this afternoon.”

“I was poking around online today, and found out some interesting things about our recently deceased treasure hunter.”

I leaned back against the wall. “Oh, yeah?”

“He got engaged last week,” she said as if she were imparting an incredibly juicy detail.

I didn’t catch the relevance. “Well, it’s got to be terrible news for his fiancée,” I said, “but how does that help with Eli?”

“It’s all about motive, Nat.”

“Why would someone kill him because he was engaged?”

“That woman he’s down here with. What’s her name?”

“Audrey?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about her?”

“Well, someone saw the two of them kissing on the stern of the
Lorelei
,” she said.

Interesting. She had seemed upset the other day—was that just because of her boss’s death, or because he had lied to her? Although if she was involved with him and he’d died, of course she’d be upset. “How was your informant able to spot that?” I asked.

“He was out hauling traps, and was watching the wreck site as they cruised by. It’s big news right now, and everyone on this island’s got binoculars, Nat.”

“Still—it doesn’t make sense. If they were kissing, why would she kill him?”

“Jealousy!”

“I still don’t see it.”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Charlene suggested. “Maybe she found out last night, and killed him in a crime of passion.”

That didn’t explain the cutlass and the missing research boat, but it was still a potential lead. “I guess it’s worth checking out,” I said.

“Of course it’s worth checking out. Anything’s worth checking out. Anyway, I’ll be over in a few minutes. Got any more cookies for me?”

“Gave the last of them to the co-op this afternoon, and the oven’s broken,” I said.

“You’re having a rotten week!”

“Did I mention there’s a food writer from
the
New York Time
s here?”

“I wouldn’t bother playing the lottery, if I were you.”

“No kidding. See you in a few, then.”

_____

We slept the entire night through, which was a nice change of pace, but Claudette was already up and sitting alone in the darkness when I padded downstairs to start the coffee. I heard the soft clack of her knitting needles before I saw her. She was dressed in a shapeless, oatmeal-colored dress, and dark circles ringed her eyes.

“Did you get any sleep?” I asked as I filled the grinder with several scoops of fragrant French Roast coffee. The rich, dark smell was comforting.

“Not really,” she said. The sweater had been replaced by a scarf, which trailed over her knee to puddle on the floor beside her. Had she been up all night working on it? “The room was lovely, but I just kept thinking of poor Eli, all locked up and alone.” Tears filled her eyes. “Eli’s no spring chicken, Natalie. If they put him in prison, he may never be able to come home again,” she whispered.

“Don’t think that way,” I said as I pulsed the grinder, trying to sound optimistic. “We’ve got a couple of leads we’re looking into, and Tom’s found Eli a top-notch attorney.” I poured the ground coffee into the maker, started it, and walked over to put my arm around Claudette, who was wiping tears from her cheeks.

“An attorney. Does that mean they’re going to charge him?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m taking the mail boat over to see him this morning,” she said. “Emmeline is going with me.”

“Good,” I said. “Give him our love, will you?” Then I thought of something. “And will you ask him a question for me?”

“Of course,” she said.

“I know the police have already talked to him, but I think they might have missed something. Ask him whom he gave the cutlass to, when, and where. And any details he can remember that might help prove it.”

“You think he gave it to someone?”

“John told me he claimed … I mean, said he gave it to Carl Morgenstern, the archaeologist from the university.” I kicked myself for the poor choice of words, but Claudette evidently didn’t notice.

A fire stirred in her eyes, the first since Eli was arrested, and I was reminded that when roused, she could be a formidable opponent. “That university archaeologist hated Gerald, didn’t he? Eli told me. So maybe the archaeologist killed him, and set up my poor Eli.”

“It’s a possibility,” I said cautiously.

“If he set up my husband,” she said, “I’ll kill the man myself.”

“Easy, Claudette,” I said. “Let’s find out as much as we can, quietly. If it’s true, we don’t want him to be alerted that we know until we have a way to prove it.”

“You’re right,” she said, the knitting needles picking up speed. “If I find out when they met, maybe I can find someone who saw them together. Nothing happens on this island without somebody noticing it.”

That was the second time I’d heard that in the last twenty-four hours. “It’s worth asking around,” I said. “I’ll see if Charlene heard anything. She usually knows everything that happens.” Happy to see Claudette a little less bleak, I busied myself getting the morning’s breakfast ready. As I pulled the last loaf of frozen banana bread out of the freezer and retrieved a carton of eggs from the refrigerator, I prayed Claudette would find out something we could use to prove Eleazer had handed over the cutlass. And that the oven would be fixed before tomorrow morning. As much as I enjoyed the occasional Entenmann’s Danish, I didn’t want to be reduced to serving it for breakfast—particularly not with a
Times
food writer in the dining room.

_____

Since the oven was broken, the lunch menu was lobster rolls and cold salad, which Gwen assured me she could handle with aplomb.

“The lobster salad is in the fridge,” I said, “and I defrosted the rolls this morning. You can serve some sliced cantaloupe on the side.”

“So I just put the lobster salad in the rolls, make the salad …”

“The dressing’s already made and in the fridge,” I reminded her.

“… and plate it,” she finished.

“Exactly,” I said. “I don’t know how many guests you’ll have—the Iliad party should be here, since I think they’re waiting on another boat to arrive, but I’m guessing the university folks will be diving at the wreck site.” Attempting to retrieve what they hoped was the ship’s bell, if last night’s conversation was anything to go on.

“Is Marge taking care of the rooms?”

“She’s already done with half of them.” I could hear the washer going, with the first load of towels. “I’m going into town to see if anyone saw anything the night Gerald McIntire died,” I said. “Eli said he gave the cutlass to Carl, but Carl claims he didn’t.”

“You think Carl might have killed Gerald with it?”

I shrugged. “I’m also curious to find out what happened to Evan Sorenson. Have you heard anything more about him?”

Gwen shook her head. “Nothing. He just kind of vanished.”

“Along with the
Lorelei
,” I pointed out.

Gwen’s arched eyebrows rose questioningly. “You think?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. But anything we can come up with that points toward someone other than Eli—”

“Good luck, Aunt Nat.”

“Thanks. I’m afraid we’ll need it.”

My first stop was the store. I could have called, but with all the excitement on the island over the last few days, I knew Charlene would likely have a full house—and I wanted to talk with as many people as possible.

Despite the stormy events of the last week, it was a beautiful autumn day, with a robin’s-egg blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. The blueberry bushes were a rich russet color, and orange and red maples flamed at intervals among the dark green spruce and pine trees. The wind off the water was bracing, scented with the tang of salt and autumn leaves, with a hint of pine from the evergreens.

I glanced out at the blue water, which was dotted with whitecaps. How was the university expedition going? I’d read up a bit on Iliad the night before, and I could understand why Carl felt such animosity toward the organization. Some treasure-hunting companies were relatively good about preserving the sites they explored, but Iliad appeared to have a more mercenary approach to the business of salvaging shipwrecks. And the university had lost to Iliad not once, but twice—both times because Iliad had brought an identifiable artifact to court before them. No wonder Molly and Carl were so intent on getting that ship’s bell up and identified; if they didn’t, Iliad might beat them to the punch a third time. Would Carl be willing to kill to prevent it?

But why kill Gerald McIntire when scuttling his boat would be enough to buy a few days’ time?

And where the heck was Evan Sorenson—and the
Lorelei
?

In what seemed like no time at all, Charlene’s store came into view. The rose bushes along the front porch still had a few brave blooms on them, but most of the leaves had yellowed and fluttered to the ground. The rockers on the porch were empty today—it was a tad brisk for sitting on the porch—but the mullioned windows, as always, were papered with notices. I ignored the ones advertising the bake-off and pushed through the front door, the bell above the door announcing my arrival.

As expected, the place was full, primarily of lobstermen’s wives and old-timers, and tongues were wagging. They were until I walked in, anyway. A dozen pairs of curious eyes locked onto me as I stepped inside. Charlene sat on her stool behind the counter; across from her was Matilda Jenkins, the town historian.

“Any news?” Charlene called over to me.

“I was hoping you’d have some,” I said, shaking my head. The patrons quickly decided I had nothing new to add to the gossip mill, and the buzz of voices resumed.