Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries)

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Death Runs Adrift
© 2014
Karen MacInerney

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First e-book edition © 2014

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3998-4

Book design by Donna Burch-Brown

Cover design by Ellen Lawson

Cover illustration by Chris O’Leary/Lindgren & Smith

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dedication

Dedicated to my passionate, funny, and inventive son Ian,
who never ceases to surprise me and make me laugh.
I love you!

one

“Did you try that
bouquet garni I tossed in for you the other day?”

I smiled at the young farmer, who was a recent—and very welcome—addition to Cranberry Island. “We made soup with it,” I said, gathering my basket of fresh leaf lettuce, brilliant orange carrots, and red and white French Breakfast radishes that glowed like jewels. “It was fabulous.”

“I tossed in some shallots this week.” Zeke Forester adjusted his ball cap above his bright blue eyes. “They should be terrific in salad.”

“I’m so glad you decided to start a farm here,” I said, looking past him at the verdant fields of lettuce and dark green plants he’d told me were potatoes. After years of making do with produce that had traveled farther than any vegetable should, it was a treat to make salads with crisp, fresh greens and shortcake with locally grown strawberries. The guests at the Gray Whale Inn had been raving over the food, and I’d recently gotten a terrific write-up in the Portland paper, in part due to Zeke’s gorgeous produce.

“I’m just continuing an old tradition,” he said. “According to
Matilda, there used to be two farms on the island. You can see the old stable there, next to the greenhouses.” He pointed to a falling-down wooden structure near the tree line; beside it were three greenhouses cloaked in opaque plastic sheeting. “If things go well and I can talk Murray into renting me some more land, I might think about having a few cows, too.”

“That would be amazing,” I said, thinking of how lovely it would be to have fresh milk. “Good luck with Murray Selfridge, though.” Murray, the local real estate mogul who had tried to develop large swathes of Cranberry Island in the past, was motivated by one thing only: money. He was not, to say the least, one of my favorite people.

Zeke shrugged and grinned optimistically. “From what I hear, he can’t do anything else with that land. The board of selectmen won’t let him. Why not rent it to me and make a few extra bucks?”

“That’s the kind of argument Murray will understand,” I said. “I’m glad to hear the farm is doing well. Your produce is absolutely gorgeous.” And with my slightly plump, late-thirties figure, I was hoping the influx of fresh vegetables would help me stave off further poundage. I would never be thin, but hopefully I could at least avoid moving into muumuu territory. Fortunately, unlike my former career working for the Texas Department of Parks and Wildlife, I didn’t need to wear business suits, and could get away with jeans and loose button-down shirts most of the time. A few years ago, I’d quit my job, sold my house, and plowed my savings into starting the Gray Whale Inn on Cranberry Island. It had been scary, but the move had resulted in a life that was both enchanting and deeply satisfying.
It
was wonderful seeing that excitement mirrored in the face of
another entrepreneur. I pushed a strand of my bobbed brown hair behind one ear and smiled at the young farmer.

“It’s gone better than I expected, to be honest,” he told me. “I was worried I wouldn’t survive.” He let out a long breath. “I still have winter to contend with, but I’ve picked up a few restaurant contracts on the mainland, and that’s a huge help. If I had a dairy, it would help with the winter.” He glanced over his shoulder toward a short, smiling man who was humming to himself as he pulled up weeds. “My brother has never been happier. Moving here has been great for him.”

“He’s a nice young man,” I said, smiling at Brad. The young man had been born with Down’s syndrome, and I knew his love of being outdoors was a large part of Zeke’s decision to move to the island. Here, Zeke knew that Brad could wander safely, and would be looked after by everyone in the community. Both of their parents had passed away young, and Zeke had been taking care of his brother for years. From all accounts, it had been a good move, and one I hoped would be a lasting one. “I’ll be rooting for you. It was tough the first few years when I opened the inn, but it seems to be smoothing out.”

“Thanks,” he said as I fished my checkbook and a pen from my back pocket. I hoped Zeke would find a way to make it through. With the long Maine winters, he would need some extra income to tide him over to the short growing season. Most islanders did a variety of jobs to make ends meet; with luck, Zeke would figure something out.

“Aren’t you planning on doing a project with the school this fall?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was going to help them build a greenhouse … but that depends on whether the school remains open.”

I bit my lip. “Are they really thinking of closing it?”

“Three more kids are moving off-island this summer.” He shook his head. “Lobster prices have been down.”

“And Murray Selfridge is tired of paying high taxes, so he’s leading the charge to close it.” Murray envisioned quaint Cranberry Island as a future tony resort, and seemed to waste no opportunity to try and turn our small community into a jet-setting destination. He’d recently begun a campaign to close the school—a move that was almost guaranteed to decimate the year-round population of our island community. I sighed. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”

“He is,” he said as I handed him the check. “Maybe your future mother-in-law can persuade him to stop petitioning to have the school closed—and to let me rent that land.”

“Catherine?” I asked, surprised. My fiancé’s Bostonian mother had come to live with us after her finances collapsed; now, she was helping me with the rooms, but not the cooking. Like my niece Gwen, who had headed back to California for a year to finish her degree, Catherine was helpful with the cleaning, but a liability in the kitchen. Her last attempt at chocolate chip muffins had involved egg whites, olive oil, and Splenda. They were not, to put it mildly, delicious. “Why would she have any influence over Murray Selfridge?”

Zeke blinked at me. “You don’t know? Apparently Murray’s after her.”

I almost dropped my basket of vegetables. “You mean … romantically?”

“Charlene hasn’t filled you in?”

Charlene, island postmistress, gossip hub, and my primary source of information, had been visiting her cousin in Portland over the last week. “It must have started after she left,” I said. “So
…
are his feelings reciprocal?”

“I have no idea.” He tucked the check into the cashbox and closed it. “I just heard it from George McLeod that there was a rose order coming over on the mail boat, and that Murray had ordered it.”

“Hard to keep secrets on this island, isn’t it?” I asked.

Zeke gave an uncomfortable chuckle that made me wonder, for a brief moment, what secrets he was keeping. Whatever they were, Charlene would doubtless ferret them out soon enough. I grinned, thinking of the news I’d have when she returned. As distasteful as the thought was of having Murray hanging around the inn, it would be nice to have a piece of gossip to share with Charlene for a change of pace. Usually it was the other way around.

“You hear anything about those bones they dug up?” he asked, changing the subject.

Murray had decided to put in a pool behind his sprawling mansion, and the workers had made a grisly discovery as they dug a hole.

“No, but I’ve got a guest who thinks the bones might be her grandfather’s.”

Zeke blinked. “How does she know?”

“They found an unusual cross with the body,” I said. “Her grandfather was an Episcopal priest on the island—he disappeared suddenly when her mother was very young. She’s got a photo of him wearing a crucifix that looks a lot like it, and she’s hoping to compare the two and see if it’s a match.”

“Weird,” he said.

“I know. And I’ve got another guest who’s trying to write a mystery, so it’s pretty much all they talk about down at the inn.” The two had checked in earlier in the week, and the mystery of the bones had drawn them together immediately. In fact, they were both on the mainland today, trying to get a look at the crucifix that was found with the bones.

“Did he disappear or something?” Zeke asked.

“Apparently he vanished in the 1920s, which looks to be about the age of the bones. He was a priest on the island; his family was in Bangor.”

“And wasn’t the old rectory on Selfridge’s land?”

“It’s the building he uses as a storage shed,” I said. “He’s thinking of tearing it down.”

Zeke shook his head. “Lots of secrets on this old island, aren’t there?”

I smiled. “That’s what makes it interesting. You’d think everything would have already been discovered, but something new keeps turning up!” I hefted the bag to my shoulder. “I’d better get back to the inn. Good luck with the cows—and with Murray,” I said. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but I’ll ask Catherine to put a good word in for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, his bright smile back. “See you in a couple of days? We should have green beans soon.”

“Looking forward to it!” I called over my shoulder. I waved to Brad as I headed down the lane toward home. The young man looked up from his weeding, and his face split into a sunny smile as he vigorously waved back, weeds still clutched in his hand.

_____

Catherine wasn’t in the kitchen when I arrived back at the inn, and there was no sign of the roses Zeke had mentioned, but I knew she’d been here; there was a smell of lemon cleaner in the air, and the countertops sparkled. I stowed the vegetables in the crisper and headed down to the carriage house, where my future mother-in-law had been staying since moving to the island a few months earlier.

When financial difficulties struck John’s mother the previous winter, we had offered the carriage house to her, but both of us had had misgivings. When John and I had visited her in Boston, Catherine had been very concerned with appearances, and we both worried our relatively rural life would pose some problems for her. John had always told me she hated Cranberry Island, where they had spent summers when he was a child; would that have changed in the intervening years?

Our worries had been assuaged, fortunately. Although she still dressed largely as she had when she lived in Boston—primarily cashmere, pearls, and twinsets—she seemed to be adjusting nicely to the small community, even volunteering at the local historical society. The biggest surprise of all, however, had been her willingness to pitch in around the inn when Gwen decided to take a leave of absence to finish her degree. Her high standards for decor and cleanliness had turned out to be a real asset—not only had she added several tasteful touches to the inn, but her help eased the burden of taking care of the rooms every single day.

My relationship with my future mother-in-law hadn’t been my only concern, though. I had also been worried about John’s moving from the carriage house, which he’d lived in for years, to the rooms above the kitchen of the gray-shingled Cape where I’d made my home since investing my life savings in the inn a few years back. Although we were engaged to be married, we had always lived separately, and I was worried about how we would do living in the same space. Again, I had been pleasantly surprised at how congenial it was—I enjoyed the company, and between John’s workshop and the inn, we found we had more than enough room. Together with my niece, my future husband, and my future mother-in-law, I had built not just a life, but a wonderful family in this beautiful part of the world. And after living for fifteen years in Texas, the views out my white-curtained windows, with dizzying tall pine trees, craggy pink granite, and the ice-cold Atlantic foaming against the rocky coast, still made me want to pinch myself.

A cool breeze riffled the blue water as I walked down to the carriage house, wafting the sharp, briny scent of low tide with the sweet scent of the beach roses that lined the path. The purr of a lobster boat mingled with the sound of the surf hitting the rocky shore as the tide began to turn, and I glanced over toward Smuggler’s Cove, where a boat with a buoy I didn’t recognize was idling. The turquoise and fluorescent orange buoy was unfamiliar; I made a note to ask Charlene about it when she got back. Although officially the waters around the island were fair game to anyone with a lobstering license, in reality they were divided up into closely guarded territories. If a boat from elsewhere was hoping to ply these waters, its captain would soon find him- or herself warned off—and not just verbally. More than one murder had occurred over fishing territories.

My eyes were still on the unfamiliar boat as I knocked on the carriage house door. Catherine opened the door on the third knock, looking lovely in a pink silk blouse and white Capri pants. I turned and smiled at her and caught a glimpse of red roses on the kitchen table. “Wow,” I said. “You look nice!”

“Thank you,” she said, her pale cheeks coloring slightly. “I was on my way out to catch the mail boat.”

“Oh?” I asked. “Do you need a ride?”

“Actually, a friend is picking me up.” She reached up to touch the back of her upswept blonde hair. “We’re having afternoon tea at Jordan Pond House.”

“My favorite place on Mount Desert Island,” I said. And it was. There was nothing like sitting on the lawn overlooking Jordan Pond and its twin mountains, the Bubbles, while sipping chai and buttering their enormous popovers. The lobster stew was amazing, too.

I was about to ask who her “friend” was when the sound of a car descending the hill reached my ears, and I turned to see Murray’s Jaguar rolling down my driveway. Zeke had been right.

“Your friend has arrived, it seems.” I watched as the car disappeared behind the gray-shingled inn. Then I turned and grinned at Catherine. “He didn’t pick you up in the yacht?”

“It’s low tide,” she answered solemnly. “The water by the dock is too shallow.”

I had been kidding, but limited myself to wishing her a good time and exhorting her to eat a popover for me.

“Oh, I won’t be eating popovers,” she said. “Way too many carbs!”

I shook my head. Not eating popovers at Jordan Pond House was practically a sin. On the other hand, based on the pink flush in her cheeks, the company might be pleasure enough. “To each her own,” I said, thinking not only of popovers, but of the prospect of a few hours in the company of Murray Selfridge and his ego.