Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (10 page)

“Evidently he was working for Fred Penney,” I confirmed. “Who do you have working for you now?”

“Evan Sorenson.”

“Ingrid’s son?”

Zeke nodded. “He’s not a bad worker, but he’s a late riser.”

“How long has he been working for you?”

“Since the beginning of May.” He opened the ancient refrigerator that was humming in the corner of the shed and pulled out a dented carton of farm eggs.

“Do you know if he and Derek hung out together?”

Zeke closed the refrigerator and smiled at me, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “I see living on the island has rubbed off on you.”

My face heated up. “I’m sorry—I know I sound nosy.” I forced a laugh. “I guess I am turning into an islander. Actually, though
…
I was more worried about Derek. He worked for Adam Thrackton, too.”

“I heard.” He handed me the eggs.

“Did you also hear the police are thinking it’s a homicide?”

A shadow of some emotion crossed over his face, but was gone before I could identify it. Surprise? Or fear? “I wondered why the police asked so many questions,” he admitted. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

He let out a deep breath and shook his head from side to side. “He was only here for a couple of weeks. When he didn’t show two days in a row, I had to let him go.”

“I heard it wasn’t a very warm parting.”

Zeke shrugged. “It’s business. Now, then, lettuce and eggs. And carrots, too? They’re beauties.” He lifted a bunch and tucked it into the bag, taking care not to bruise the tender lettuce leaves. “I’ll toss these in for free.”

“Thanks.” I reached for the bag, feeling mildly guilty for my questions, and felt in my back pocket for my checkbook. “Shoot. I left my checkbook home. Is it okay if I come back later today?”

“I’ll put it on your tab. You can pay me next time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” I followed him out of the shed, standing next to it as he closed the doors and latched them. I squinted at the barn on the far end of the fields. “Are you going to keep the cows in there?” I asked, pointing to it.

“What? Oh, in the barn?” He waved a dismissive hand toward it. “It’s in pretty bad shape; needs a lot of work. Besides, it’s pretty far from what I hope will be my pasture.” He glanced at the land I knew he was hoping Murray would rent to him.

“Matilda Jenkins told me there’s an anvil in it, from when the local smith lived here. He used to shoe all the island’s horses.”

“Really?” He seemed uninterested.

“I’d love to take a look inside sometime. I’ll bet there are all kinds of fascinating old farm implements. It’s hard to imagine that there were two farms on the island, isn’t it?”

“I’ve only been in there a couple of times. Didn’t see much but piles of moldy hay,” he said quickly. “A fire hazard, really. One day I’ll fix it up, make sure it’s structurally sound. I put a
No Trespassing
sign up just to make sure none of the neighborhood kids get into it and get hurt. Or Brad,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his brother, who was peering at something on the ground near the barn.

“Good thinking.”

“I’ll get to it someday, I suppose. I’ve got plenty of things to do in the meantime, though. Speaking of which
…
” He adjusted his gloves and gave the fields a meaningful look.

I took the hint. “Thanks for the lettuce and eggs. And the carrots, of course; what a treat!”

“Anytime.” He nodded, then turned back to his row of tomatoes while I fitted the carton of eggs and the bag of vegetables into the bike’s basket and hopped onto the bike, mulling over our conversation. I was burning with questions about Derek. Why had he quit—or been fired? Would Tania be able to tell me? As I rode toward the top of the hill, the cool breeze behind me, my mind turned again to that fleeting emotion I’d glimpsed when I told Zeke that Derek had been murdered. Had it merely been surprise?

Or something else?

eleven

John was in the
kitchen when I rolled up to the inn a half hour later. He smiled and waved at me from the kitchen window, where he appeared to be washing dishes. Handsome
and
thoughtful, I thought as I waved back.

The kitchen was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of cranberry bread when I opened the door, the bag of veggies looped over one arm and the eggs in my hand.

“Hello, gorgeous,” John said, putting down the dish and giving me a bear hug.

“Thanks for doing the dishes,” I murmured into his chest.

“My pleasure.”

“Smells wonderful in here. What’s in the oven?”

“I was mentioning your cranberry bread to Agnes, and she said it sounded so good she wanted me to make it.”

“So half of breakfast is taken care of?”

“And dinner. I intercepted the grocery delivery and took the liberty of marinating the salmon.”

I hugged him again, loving the smell of him. “Will you marry me?”

“In a heartbeat.” He kissed my head gently.

“Speaking of weddings,” I said, “I have some bad news.”

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly alert.

I took a deep breath. “It looks like the resort we booked went out of business.”

He blinked. “What? What about our deposit money?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but the web site’s gone, and nobody’s responded to my e-mail. There was an article in the
St. Petersburg Times
saying it had gone out of business. “

“Damn,” he said, tossing the dishrag into the sink. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t think the newspaper would have picked it up if it wasn’t true,” I said, feeling my spirits sink.

“So much for planning.”

“Why don’t I make a cup of tea and we’ll see if we can figure something out?” I suggested.

“I think I’d rather have a beer, but you’re probably right,” he said as I filled the kettle with water and fished a box of Irish Breakfast tea from the pantry. “Cookies?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say no to a few of your Texas Ranger cookies.”

I grabbed the last bag of cookies from the freezer and arranged a few of them on a plate, then gathered cups, sugar, and a pitcher of milk from the fridge. “Where’s your mom this afternoon?”

“She took care of the rooms and then headed over to Murray’s.”

“Ah, Murray Selfridge.” I snorted. “At least she’s going there instead of having him coming here.”

“That’s looking on the bright side of things,” John said with a wry grin.

“How are things going with the current investigation?” I asked.

John reached for a cookie and took a bite of it, then said, “I’ve got some news, actually.”

“What?” I leaned forward, cookie momentarily forgotten.

“Homicide.” He grimaced. “Gunshot wound killed him. It was from several feet away; there wasn’t much powder residue near the wound.”

I shivered. “Guess that’s a pretty clear call.” Not much chance of a suicide or accidental death if you’ve been shot from a distance, with no gun in sight. “Any new leads?”

“They talked with his mother in Ellsworth. She said that he’d been mixing with bad company and staying out late. She gave him an ultimatum six months ago, and he chose to leave rather than abide by her rules.”

“Poor woman,” I breathed.

“She’s racked with guilt. Tough love usually works for the best, but sometimes
…
” John shook his head. “It’s a sad situation.”

“I stopped by his aunt and uncle’s house this morning. They didn’t seem too broken up about their nephew’s death.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I brought them some cookies,” I said, feeling my face color. “That’s all.”

“Hmm,” John replied, narrowing his eyes. “And what did you learn in exchange for the cookies? Although they are pretty darned delicious,” he admitted.

“Not a whole heck of a lot,” I admitted. “I did drop by Derek’s
house, though.”

“Oh?”

“The door was open.”

He winced. “Tell me you didn’t go in.”

“Well, like I said, the door was open
…
”

He groaned. “Did you find anything?”

“Actually, I did,” I said, pulling the two pieces of paper out of my pocket—and suddenly realized that with all the excitement over the skiff, I’d forgotten to tell Detective Johnson about what I’d found.

He leaned forward, intent. “Where did you find these?”

“In his pants pocket,” I said. “And I forgot to tell the police.”

“I’ll tell them.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe the investigators missed these. This letter could be important, but now that it’s not in the house, we’ve got chain of custody issues.”

“I could always put it back,” I said.

“Still. What are we supposed to do, call the detective and tell him you found a note while you were breaking and entering?”

“He’d suggest I planted it,” I realized.

“Exactly.”

“Here’s the other thing I found,” I said, handing him the note with dates and times on it.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just thought it might be relevant.”

“Some of these times haven’t happened yet,” he said.

“What do they mean?”

“Maybe we should keep an eye on things at the times listed,” he said.

“But keep an eye on what?” I asked.

“Wait a moment,” he said, his green eyes lighting with an idea. “Where’s the newspaper?”

“Right here,” I said, handing him the folded copy of the
Daily Mail
. He flipped through until he got to the tide tables.

“When’s the next one?” John asked.

“Tomorrow at ten,” I said.

He ran his finger down the page and stopped halfway down. “That’s it,” he said. “Low tide. Give me another one.”

I read off another time and date. Sure enough, it was another low tide.

“I’ll bet Derek was going to and from Smuggler’s Cove,” he told me.

“But why?”

“That’s what we’ll have to find out,” he said. “Although now that you’ve been in the cove, whoever’s using it might change tactics.”

“Are you going to tell Detective Johnson about what I found?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t figure out a way that doesn’t involve me mentioning your breaking and entering.”

“If they’d done a better job searching the place, it wouldn’t have been a problem,” I pointed out.

“We’ll just keep an eye on the cove the next time the tide is low,” he said.

“Good idea,” I said. “We can watch it from here.”

“How’s Charlene doing, by the way?” he asked.

“Worried about Tania. She seems
…
scared.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Scared?”

“I don’t know why. I asked Tania if she knew who Derek’s contact was—apparently he had a new source of money—and she got up and hurried into the back room.”

“Well, at least Tania knows he had a contact. His mother had absolutely no clue who might have killed her son.”

“So Tania has no idea what was going on with him?”

“Detective Johnson told me she hasn’t talked with him since he left.”

“And now she never will again.” My heart felt heavy in my chest. “What kind of trouble was he into before he left?”

“Drinking, for sure.”

“Drugs?” I asked, thinking of Evan’s history.

“His mother didn’t know, but she didn’t rule it out.”

I sighed. “Depressing subject. Let’s talk about something else.”

John poured us two cups of tea, then grinned at me. “Like our star-crossed nuptials?”

My heart sank further, thinking of our disappearing wedding plans. “Think we’ll ever get married?”

“Absolutely” he said. “We need to see if we can chase down that money, but in the meantime, I’ve got an idea I’d like to run by you.”

I felt something inside of me relax. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared into John’s green eyes. “Tell me all about it.”

_____

By the time we’d drained the teapot, I was in much better spirits than I had been. As I cleaned up the table, John stopped and gave me a kiss, then headed out the back door. He was gone barely a moment before bursting back in. “Natalie, come here.”

“What?” I asked, putting down a plate and hurrying to the back door.

“Is that it?” he asked, pointing to a white lobster boat that was motoring away from the vicinity of Smuggler’s Cove.

“I can’t tell,” I said, squinting and trying to see the buoy. “There’s no name on it, is there?”

“No,” he said. “No dinghy, either, which would make it hard to get into the cove.”

“Let me get the binoculars.” I hurried inside and dug through the drawers until I found our bird-watching field glasses, but by the time I got back outside, the boat had passed around the point and was lost from sight.

“Just because there isn’t a dinghy doesn’t mean that isn’t the boat,” I suggested. “Maybe the dinghy was damaged when it hit us, and it’s somewhere being repaired.”

John gave me a meaningful look. “Or maybe it’s in the cove.” The tide was low, I realized. It was entirely possible that the dinghy was hidden inside. “When does the tide turn again?”

I headed back into the kitchen and grabbed the tide tables, then returned to the deck with the paper in hand. “According to this, low tide is at three-fifteen today.”

“Ten minutes ago,” John said, consulting his watch. “They’ve got another thirty minutes or so before the water rises too high to get a dinghy out of the cove.”

“It’s a beautiful day to sit outside.”

“It sure is, isn’t it?”

We turned the two rocking chairs I kept on the porch so that they faced the cove. Time ticked away, and although the breeze was lovely and the company delightful, we were both disappointed. If the dinghy had gone into the cove, it wasn’t coming back out; and the lobster boat didn’t seem interested in returning, either.

“Were they scouting to see if anyone was around?” I asked.

“Why use a boat to do that, when you can see from land?”

“That only works if you’re on the island,” I pointed out. “If you’re not from here, it’s hard to get here without being noticed.”

“True,” he admitted.

“We could always head to the cove during the next low tide and see if anyone’s there,” I suggested.

“That would be at three in the morning,” he pointed out. “Besides, it’s dangerous. And if what’s going on in the cove has anything to do with Derek’s death, there’s a good chance the people involved are armed.”

“Why would anyone shoot him?”

“He was mixed up in something he shouldn’t have been, is my guess.”

“But what? Here on Cranberry Island?”

“There’s more goes on here than you know.”

I glanced over at the little island, and noticed a plume of dark smoke rising. “Somebody must be burning leaves,” I said.

“Odd time of year to be doing that,” John said. “Maybe it’s garbage.”

“Awful lot of garbage.”

As I spoke, the phone rang.

“Back in a minute.” I hurried into the kitchen to pick up the phone. “Gray Whale Inn,” I answered.

“Natalie?”

“Charlene.”

Her voice was breathless. “Tell John to get over to the farm as fast he can.”

My heart clenched. “Why?”

“One of the buildings is on fire.”

_____

Half the island was gathered around the farm by the time we got there, and what was left of the shed was a smoldering ruin. Tom Lockhart was still spraying water from the pumper truck, but there were no open flames.

The black smoldering ruin seemed out of place next to the verdant rows of vegetables, the venerable barn, and the small farmhouse. Zeke was pacing back and forth beside it, wearing mud-stained jeans and a worn T-shirt and looking agitated. Brad was curled up in a fetal position on the ground near the house, with Emmeline patting his back.

“What happened?” I asked as we climbed out of the van and hurried over.

“The shed caught fire while I was behind the house,” Zeke said. “I can’t believe it. How could this happen?” A gust of breeze set the wind chimes on the front porch tinkling. It was incongruous next to the smoking black shed.

“Thank God for the pumper truck,” said Emmeline, who looked up from where she was comforting Brad. Today she wore a pink flowered housedress, and her bright brown eyes were soft with compassion.

“Did you have anything flammable in the shed?” John asked.

“Not that I know of,” Zeke said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m glad it was only the shed, but it’s still an inconvenience. I just don’t know how it could have caught fire.”

“How much did you lose?” John asked.

“A lot of tools,” he said, “and the washing sinks. It might not seem much, but that’s going to put me back a good bit. Cash flow isn’t terrific right now.”

“Shouldn’t have been much of a fire risk; we’ve had a lot of rain up till this week,” I said, peering in at the blackened ruins.

“You’re insured, right?” I asked.

“Yeah. I hope they cover it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Zeke,” Tom said. “We’ll have a shed-raising sometime soon. Everyone will pitch in and help out, right?”

“Of course,” John said.

“I can hammer,” I said. “And bake cookies.”

He smiled at us all. “Thanks, guys. What I can’t figure out is how it caught fire in the first place.”

As I scanned the smoldering ruins, something caught my eye. “I think I see what might have caused it,” I said, pointing to a blackened can lying askew in the middle of what used to be the shed. “Did you store a gas can in here?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, somebody put one in here,” I said.

“Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?” John asked him. He picked up a fallen branch and flipped the metal can over. It was definitely a gas can.

“That’s not mine,” the young farmer said. “Mine are plastic. I keep them in the barn.”

I glanced at John. “I think this may be a crime scene,” he said.

“Wait,” Zeke said, holding up his calloused hands. “I did have one of those metal cans. I forgot; I found it in the cellar, and was going to fill the lawnmower with it.”