Murder On the Rocks (21 page)

Although the path had been used in the last few days, it wasn’t a regular thoroughfare. It had clearly been around for a while-the path had the kind of rut down the center that comes from years of use-but the narrow trail was so overgrown in places I was afraid I’d lose the track. Fortunately, whoever had been on this path recently had not taken pains to spare neighboring plants, so a hunt for broken or damaged leaves usually got me going in the right direction again quickly.

The trail wound through the trees and crested a hill, then headed back down again. I was beginning to think it might just be a shortcut back to the main road when I spotted a small building beneath the heavy spruce trees.

As I pushed branches aside and stepped closer, a sudden shaft of sunlight penetrated the thick tree cover, revealing a small log cabin. An old camp, probably. I pushed through the underbrush and made a cautious round of the perimeter. Cracks riddled the dirty glass windows, and some of the panes had been replaced with weathered boards. When I was satisfied the small building was unoccupied, I made my way to the front of the cabin and pushed at the big wooden door. It was wedged shut. I braced my shoulder against the rough door and threw my weight against it, and it lurched inward far enough for me to sidle in.

The camp might have been abandoned for many years, but someone had been here recently. Despite the musty smell of long disuse, the rough wooden floor had been swept clean-a broom stood next to the door-and a stack of blankets lay in the corner. Someone had made makeshift curtains out of dishtowels thumbtacked to the rough window frames, and a Coleman lantern stood on a wooden chest under one of the windows, but other than these basic amenities, the cabin was empty. No food, no clothes, no dishes or silverware: just the blankets, the lantern, and the broom.

I rifled through the blankets, hoping to uncover something hidden between them, but found nothing. I moved the lantern to the bumpy floor and opened the wooden chest. The smell of mildew threatened to overpower me as I eased open the rotting lid. The chest was empty, except for a few Captain Marvel comic books from 1970. I flipped through the moldy pages, but found nothing. Disappointed, I closed the chest and sat down on the floor, wondering if this was where Estelle and Bernard had had their assignations. A glance at the dishtowel curtains and the rotting wooden floor made me decide that it probably wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine Estelle agreeing to meet in a one-roomed shack with dishtowels for curtains.

Then again, if the price was right, maybe she would lower her standards a bit. It wasn’t the Ritz, but at least it was somewhat clean, and very private. Still, why not meet somewhere else? And what had she been doing out on the cliff path a few minutes ago? My mind flitted back to her skimpy workout clothes. Had she been here? Maybe not; after all, I’d barely been able to get the door open myself, and I weighed a good bit more than Estelle. Perhaps she had been telling the truth, and was just out for some fresh air.

I took a last look at the cabin before heading through the door and pulling it shut behind me. It wouldn’t close all the way-a good inch lay between the door and the frame-but I gave up after a few minutes and headed for home, deep in thought.

“Hey, Natalie!” John’s voice jolted me out of my reverie, and I realized I was almost at my own front door. I looked around, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. “Over here!” I squinted; John was calling to me from the front door of his workshop. His sandy hair gleamed in the watery light. “Still on for tonight?”

Tonight? I searched my brain for a moment before I remembered he had invited me over for dinner. With everything that had gone on during the last twenty-four hours, it had slipped my mind. “As long as you don’t mind if I’m not the most sparkling conversationalist;” I said.

“I heard about what happened last night. I’m glad everyone made it in safely.”

“Are the phones back on, then?”

“No, not yet-I headed down to the store this morning, and Charlene filled me in. Oh-that reminds me-she sent some mail for you.” He ducked into his workshop, and reappeared with a stack of mail, including a red and blue cardboard express mail envelope.

My heart thudded as I took the stack and shoved it under my arm. “Thanks,” I said, stretching my lips into a smile. Had he looked at the mail? I assumed what I hoped was a nonchalant air. “So, what time tonight?”

His smile dazzled me. “Is six-thirty okay?”

“That would be great. Can I bring anything?”

“Nope. Just try to get a nap in beforehand. You look like you could use one.”

“I haven’t decided whether I’m going to make Gwen clean rooms today,” I said. “If I do, I promise I’ll sleep.” I tightened my grip on the stack of mail. John was appealing, but I was dying to see what was in that express envelope. “See you at six-thirty, then?”

“Looking forward to it.” John gave me a little wave and disappeared back into his workshop, and I walked back to the inn, forcing myself not to run. As soon as the kitchen door swung shut behind me, I pulled the envelope out and ripped it open, yanking out a thick sheaf of paper. I started reading the front page, then hesitated-Grimes could reappear at any time-and decided to take it up to my room. I was in enough trouble with Grimes already; I didn’t need to be caught reading someone else’s mail. Particularly when the mail had been sent-at my request-under false pretenses. I took the narrow stairs two at a time.

I shut the bedroom door, threw myself onto the down comforter, and scanned the cover letter-just formalities-before flipping to the first report. It was on Tom Lockhart. I pored over the pages, but the investigators had found nothing unusual in Tom’s dossier.

I was not surprised to find myself featured in the next report. I quickly skimmed my biographical sketch and the names of my family and friends dating back to high school-whoever had compiled the report had been very thorough. A shiver ran through me when I realized how much somebody could find out about you without your knowing. My entire life was laid out here in black and white, by someone who had never even met me. Although I was fascinated by the level of detail the investigator had discovered, like Tom’s, my report was devoid of what I’m sure Bernard Katz would have considered interesting material, and I flipped to the next one.

I wasn’t surprised by the name typed at the top of the last report. I was willing to bet I would find some interesting information in this portion of the neatly typed pages.

I found what I was looking for on page three. I sucked in my breath, read it twice, then flipped through the rest of the pages to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. Then I tucked the sheaf of paper back into the red and blue envelope and slid it under the mattress. It was time to pay someone a visit.

I KNOCKED ON JOHN’S door an hour later, smoothing my hair and feeling like a schoolgirl on a first date. As I waited, I wondered whether the makeup I’d troweled on to hide the circles under my eyes and the fading lump on my temple made me look overdone.

John opened the door and smiled a smile that made my already shaky legs turn to jelly. “You look like a new woman,” he said as he ushered me through the door. He wore faded jeans and a deep blue shirt that intensified his golden brown skin and sunwashed hair. I tugged at my red blouse, wishing I’d worn something a little nicer than frayed jeans and scuffed brown loafers. On the other hand, pickings in my wardrobe were slim; I had been lucky to find a reasonably good-looking blouse. “Did you get your nap in?” he asked.

“No-Gwen was too wiped out from last night. I let her sleep. Thank God the power is back on, though.”

“Hard to cook breakfast without it, isn’t it?” I followed him into the small living area to the left of the door. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Wine? Beer?”

I asked for a glass of wine and settled myself into John’s big, wheat-colored couch as he bustled about in the small kitchen. I glanced at the dining table in the corner across from the kitchen; it was laid with a white tablecloth and candles. The downstairs of the carriage house had been converted into a living area, with the kitchen separated from the rest of the space by a narrow staircase. The walls between the tall windows were covered in bookshelves. The deep, comfortable couch sat across from two slightly downat-the-heel armchairs, a blue braided rug lay across the scarred hardwood floor, and white sailcloth curtains framed the views of the water.

One of John’s sculptures, a piece of driftwood that he had transformed into a basking seal, stood in the center of the small wood coffee table. I wondered if it was modeled after one of the harbor seals Eleazer had told me about. I had reached out to touch the seal’s smooth gray back when John emerged from the kitchen carrying two glasses of red wine. He handed one of them to me before settling in on the other end of the couch.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks. That was one of my first sculptures. I’ve improved with time, but I still like this one a lot.” He reached out and stroked it.

“What got you interested in working with driftwood?”

He ran his hand down the seal’s back for a moment before answering. His brown hand looked strong and warm against the soft gray wood. “I guess I noticed that most pieces of driftwood already look like something,” he said. “On this one, before I even touched it, I could see the snout, and the long smooth neck. I just had to shape it a bit, bring it out of the wood.”

I shook my head. “I could never do that. I just don’t have that kind of vision.”

“You might surprise yourself” I took a sip of wine. John’s presence on the couch next to me was solid, and at the same time magnetic. I could smell his woodsy smell, with a hint of something spicy, over the aroma of garlic that was starting to drift from the kitchen.

“What smells so good?” I asked.

“Clams casino.” He smiled. “We’ll start with that, and then move on to lobster.”

“Lobster? I love lobster, and I never get to eat it.”

“Let me know whenever you need a fix. I’ve got a few pots out in the water.”

“You’re a lobsterman too? Is there anything you don’t do?”

He laughed. “No, I’m just an amateur. I have a sport license, which means I can put out a few traps”

“Which buoys are yours?”

“The hot pink and blue ones,” he said. “I put them out pretty close to home.”

“And the locals don’t give you a hard time?”

“I don’t fish enough traps to be a threat. Four hundred traps are a problem; my measly five don’t make a dent. Besides,” he said, “at least I live on the island.” He sipped his wine. “I’ll have to take you out one day.”

“I’ve got a boat of my own now,” I said.

“I wondered whose skiff that was down on the dock. Eleazer just told me about it earlier today. She’s a pretty little boat. You’d better take me with you the first couple of times you head out, though. Just till you get the hang of it.”

“Eleazer already took me out once. It’s pretty easy to handle.” “

I know,” he said. “But be careful. That thing’s not a toy, and weather can change quickly. I don’t want you caught out at sea in a twelve-foot skiff.”

I laughed. “You sound like me talking to Gwen” I thought of her wild night out at sea, and the amount of time she was spending with Adam. “You know,” I said, “I’m worried about Gwen. I don’t know what to think about her relationship with Adam”

John leaned forward, and a line appeared between his sandy eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just afraid she’s getting in over her head. She hasn’t finished school, and getting serious about a lobsterman isn’t exactly what her mother had in mind for her when she let her come up for the summer.”

John raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with getting serious about a lobsterman?”

“Gwen’s mom, my sister, is worried about people’s careers, and a lobsterman . . “I trailed off. “It’s just . . “This was coming out wrong. My sister was the one with the problem, not me. “Oh, never mind.”

John slid his wine glass onto the table and got up. “I’ll be right back.” As he disappeared into the little kitchen, I cursed my poor choice of words. John wasn’t exactly what my sister considered a “career person,” either, and it was fine with me. I hoped I hadn’t given him the impression that I shared my sister’s bias.

When John returned a minute later, he was carrying a plate heaped with clams on the half shell, loaded with garlicky golden breadcrumbs and bacon, and two plates. I was transported heavenward with the first bite. “I have got to get this recipe,” I said. John smiled back through a mouthful of crumbs, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I tried to think of a way to explain the issue with Gwen without alienating John further, and finally decided to abandon the topic in favor of something different.

“I noticed Stanley had a letter from Bernard Katz’s lawyer at breakfast the other day.”

John put down his clamshell and looked at me.

“Do you know who was in line to inherit his money?” I asked.

“Why are you so interested?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just curious, I guess.”

He ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass for a moment before answering. “I guess it’ll be public knowledge soon enough. Everything goes to Stanley. There was a change pending, but Bernard Katz hadn’t signed the new will yet.”

“Who was supposed to inherit according to the new will?” I asked.

He gazed at me levelly. “Estelle”

My eyebrows shot up. “So there was something between Stanley and Estelle.” No wonder she had thought his timing was crummy. “She might have thought the new will was already signed, with everything coming to her, when Bernard Katz died. Heck, she could have murdered him herself.” Berta Simmons had said that Katz had bought the necklace for an unhappily married woman he was hoping to wed himself. I thought about Estelle’s off-handed response when I mentioned the sea-glass jewelry; either she didn’t know about the necklace, or she didn’t want me to know she knew about it. I shook my head in wonder. “And Grimes is still interrogating me?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know what Grimes’ take is on the murder.” His lips twitched into a wry smile. “Sometimes I think he just keeps me around to pump me for inside information on islanders.”