Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (6 page)

“Me too,” my fiancé said in a tone of voice that did not inspire confidence.

six

“How did it go
with Matilda last night?” I asked as I served plates of shirred eggs to Agnes and Beryl the next morning. I’d whipped up a batch of my Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake and some bacon to go with it, and the two were eating as if last night’s supper had been a week ago.

“Oh, wonderful,” Agnes said. “She was telling me all about the island’s history. We’re going with her to see the lighthouse this morning,” she said, “and we’re going to see if we can get Murray Selfridge to let us take a look at where the old rectory used to be. I understand they’re renovating it, but I’d love to take a look”

“Isn’t that right near where they found the body?” I asked as I poured more coffee for Beryl.

“Right next to it, in fact. We were hoping your fiancé’s mother could put in a good word for us.” She smiled up at me hopefully.

I stifled a sigh. Did everyone on the island want a favor from Murray? And was Catherine’s apparent hold on him already legendary? “I’ll talk to her,” I said, “but I can’t make any promises.”

“Well, if we can’t get to the rectory, Matilda tells us there’s a lot of history elsewhere on the island.”

“She told us there’s a ghost in the inn, too!” Beryl added between forkfuls of coffee cake.

“There may have been,” I said, remembering the eerie apparition I’d encountered one day in the kitchen, “but I think we laid that one to rest.”

Agnes’s eyes were big. “Wasn’t she murdered here?”

“That’s the rumor,” I said, not wanting to confirm it. “But something like that has happened in most old houses. It’s not unusual when you have houses that have been standing for centuries.”

“Matilda did tell us about another place, too. You can only get to it by boat, and legend is that bootleggers used to use it.”

“”Smuggler’s Cove,” I suggested.

“That’s it!” Her eyes shone with excitement. “Is there any way to get there? It sounds like it would be a perfect setting for a murder mystery!”

“I can take you, if you’d like. We have to go at low tide, though. That’s the only time you can get in and out of there.” As soon as I’d offered, I regretted it; the cove was hard to get in and out of even with calm waters, and after a bad experience I’d had there not long after taking over the inn, I wasn’t too keen on going back. Still, it was my job to keep the guests happy, and I didn’t have plans for the afternoon anyway.

“Oh, that would be terrific. I’ve got the tide tables right here, on the back of the Visitors’ Guide.” She pulled a rolled-up brochure out of her bag and smoothed it out on the table. “Low tide is at two today,” she said. “Would that work for you?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Why don’t we meet at one-thirty, down by the dock?”

“Wonderful. How exciting! We’ll get to see where all the action is.” She held up a piece of coffee cake. “This is delicious, by the way. I’d love the recipe, if you’re willing to share.”

“I’ll make a copy,” I said, then refilled everyone’s coffee and escaped to the kitchen.

_____

“
I’ll take care of the breakfast dishes.” John already had the dishwasher open and was filling it before I’d finished clearing the tables. He’d been up early, putting the finishing touches on his most recent sculpture while I got breakfast together, and was planning to carry it to one of the galleries on the mainland on the mail boat. I had made a small grocery list of things to pick up while he was over there; I knew he’d be stopping by the police station, too, to follow up on Derek.

He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and put his warm hands on my shoulders as I set down a plate. “Why don’t you go berry-picking today?” he asked, kneading my tense muscles. “You seem stressed.”

I shivered. “That’s what I was coming back from when I found Derek.”

“Go for a walk, then. Head down to the store and have a cup of coffee with Charlene. Mom will take care of the rooms, and you’re free until dinner.”

“I might do that,” I said, thinking it would be a good opportunity to get a read on what was up with Adam. I wanted to talk with Zeke, too, to see if he knew anything that might help me figure out what had happened to the young man. Not to mention taking a walk around Derek’s house.

John seemed to be reading my mind. “No investigating, though.”

“I’m worried about Adam.”

“They haven’t even decided if it was a homicide yet, Natalie.”

“But I’m betting they will. Why else would he be lying in blood—and why else would Detective Johnson be questioning everyone?”

“I know it looks bad, but Johnson knows what he’s doing. He spent twenty years investigating homicides in New York.”

“So you’re saying it is a homicide?”

“There was a bullet hole in his chest, so it’s likely, though it could be suicide. But I’m saying I want you to stay out of it. So if it was a homicide, and the person who did it is still hanging around, they have no reason to target you.” His green eyes were solemn.

I wished I had John’s confidence in the police. His concern was like a warm blanket, though; it was so nice to have someone wonderful to look after you.

“And if it is ruled a homicide?” I asked. “And if Adam is implicated? What then?”

“How about we cross that bridge when we get to it?”

_____

I left the inn not long afterward, a container of my Texas Ranger Cookies in my hands. The chewy cookies were a toothsome combination of toffee bits, coconut, chocolate chips, and pecans that both froze and traveled well. I tried to keep a couple of bags of them in the freezer, but both John and I enjoyed them frozen, so it was a challenge. I’d managed to scrounge up a dozen for my purposes, though, and resolved to bake another triple batch soon.

As I walked toward Seal Point Road, my curiosity kept growing. I was looking forward to meeting Derek’s relatives, but I also wanted to visit the little house where the victim had lived. The police had searched it yesterday—it wasn’t that big—so I couldn’t imagine there being any harm in at least walking around the place. When I reached the crossroads, instead of making a left toward the Abingdons’ house, I turned right toward the pier, passing a low line of apple trees as the road dropped toward the harbor.

Derek’s house was more of a shack than a house; in fact, it looked like its original purpose had been to store fishing supplies in the off-season. It was a squat, wooden structure with a flat roof that looked less than watertight. It had at one point been painted blue, but what little paint was left was peeling off in strips. The windows were cloudy, and even from the road, I could see that a spider web crack spread through one of them. I wouldn’t want to spend the winter there, I thought. Or the summer, either.

The house was tucked in the trees just a short way from the town pier. A dirt path led to it from the main road, half-buried in a thicket of raspberry bushes and nettles that scratched at my legs as I passed, and I couldn’t imagine having to push through this just to get to my own front door. I didn’t know how much Derek had been paying to live here, but I hoped it wasn’t much.

An old recliner with half the stuffing leaking out of it in yellow clots sat in a clearing not far from the front door, accompanied by two card-table chairs that had had better days. The dirty tips of hand-rolled cigarettes littered the ground; evidently this was where Derek had kicked back and enjoyed a smoke. Had Tania spent much time here? I couldn’t imagine it being very appealing.

I clutched the container of cookies intended for the Abingdons as I stepped past the rotting recliner and reached up to knock on the peeling front door.

The door swung open when my knuckles hit it, and I jumped back, startled. Nobody was there, though; the door had just been slightly ajar. The smell of stale beer wafted out, and I wrinkled my nose.

“Hello?” I called—not that I expected anyone to answer, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

When nobody answered, I glanced over my shoulder and took a step inside.

I stepped on a piece of stale pizza with my toe and knocked over a beer can as I crossed through what I suppose could be called a living room. A formerly overstuffed and now half-stuffed couch of indeterminate color was in the middle of the room, festooned with dirty clothes. In front of it, an upturned crate doubled as a coffee table—or a beer table, if the number of cans lined up on it was any indication. An overflowing ashtray was tucked in between the cans, adding a stale smoke aroma to the spilled beer and spoiled food scent. Housekeeping had evidently not been a priority for Derek Morton.

By the time I got to the kitchen, I decided “messy” didn’t really do it justice. “Filthy” was closer to the mark. Tania’s description of the house as a “bachelor’s pad” was an understatement. The sink overflowed with bowls and plates, and a pot with what might once have been ramen languished evilly on an electric burner. I swallowed back nausea and retreated down a short hall to the house’s one bedroom.

I reached in and flipped on the light, then surveyed the room, which resembled the kitchen, only with more clothing. I could make out the general shape of a mattress on the floor among the piles of dirty clothes. A poster of Jimi Hendrix hung lopsidedly from the dark paneled walls. I knew the police had been here, but the jumble looked just like the rest of the house. Evidently Derek’s mother hadn’t gathered the courage to come and collect her son’s things—either that, or she’d decided nothing was worth picking up.

I stepped into the dead man’s bedroom with trepidation. There were flannel shirts and T-shirts, none of them clean, and a stack of dog-eared magazines. If he’d had a cell phone or computer, the police had taken them; there was no sign of electronics here. I rifled through the piles of clothes, but either the police had taken everything of interest, or there was nothing here. A suitcase lay in the corner; I searched its compartments carefully, but found nothing. I was about to give up when something gleamed in the corner. I bent down and picked up a light bulb. It was an odd color—blue instead of white—but didn’t look suspicious. A moment later, I noticed a slip of paper poking from the back pocket of a pair of jeans on the floor. I retrieved a folded piece of notebook paper, on which were scrawled what appeared to be a series of dates and times. Three of them were in the past, but one was scheduled for the coming week, and one the following. Perplexed, I tucked the paper into my back pocket and looked through the rest of the jeans pockets. There was one other piece of paper, folded so many times I almost didn’t recognize it as paper.

I sure recognized the intent of the note written on it, which was scrawled with a heavy hand in thick pencil on a creased piece of notebook paper.

Stay away from her or I’ll kill you.

I had just tucked the note into my back pocket when I heard a sound. Someone was at the door. I hurried to the room’s small closet and tucked myself inside. Whoever it was came through the house; I could hear footsteps in the bedroom. It sounded like a woman, and she was sniffling as if she’d been crying. I could hear as she moved through the room—it sounded as if she were searching for something—and wished I’d thought to leave the door open a crack. A moment later, I heard the footsteps retreat, and the front door creaking open, then thudding shut. I hurried to the window and peeked out in time to see a thin woman with brown hair disappear into the brambles.

_____

I was still picking raspberry thorns out of my jeans when I arrived at Derek’s aunt and uncle’s house on Seal Point Road twenty minutes later, still wondering about the woman I’d seen. Had it been Tania? If so, what had she been looking for? I fingered the note in my pocket, thinking about Derek. Who might have written it? Someone jealous of Tania? I made a mental note to ask Charlene about other suitors as I climbed the porch to the Abingdons’.

The bright geraniums sparkled with dewdrops of water—someone had watered them this morning—and the front porch was well swept. A wind chime tinkled in the breeze as I knocked on the freshly painted door and waited.

I heard voices behind the door, and then it opened a few inches to reveal a gruff looking man in his thirties. He wore a Patriots T-shirt that looked as if it dated from the ’70s and had seen pretty constant wear, and I caught a faint whiff of herring. “Can I help you?” he asked, sounding put out.

“I’m Natalie Barnes, the owner of the Gray Whale Inn,” I said, the words tumbling out. “Sorry to bother you,” I continued, proffering the container of cookies, “but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, then looked at the container in my hands. “What’s in the box?” he asked.

“Texas Ranger cookies,” I said. “I brought them for you and your wife.”

He reached for the container and pulled it through the door. “Thanks,” he said shortly. If I was hoping for an invitation, it didn’t appear to be forthcoming.

“It must have been a terrible shock losing your nephew,” I continued, trying to extend the contact. “I understand he stayed with you a few years back.”

“He did,” Abingdon said, “but once he left the island, we washed our hands of him.”

“Someone told me he tried to contest your lobster license a year or two ago.”

He snorted. “Some thanks for taking him in, wasn’t it?”

“I’m curious. I know his mother is in Ellsworth; why did he live with you?”

“His mum asked us to take him in. Thought it would be better for him to be on the island, away from bad influences. Problem is, he took trouble with him.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind that lands you in jail if you’re not careful. Or worse
…
like what did happen to him.”

“You think he was killed?” I asked.

His eyes darted to the side. “They seemed mighty interested in that young lobersterman he was working for.”

“Adam?” I asked, feeling a kernel of ice form in my stomach.

“Yeah,” he said. “The cop seemed to think he had it in for Derek. Anyway, thanks for the cookies. Not sure I should take them, really; we had nothing to do with him, but I’ll tell the wife you stopped by.”