Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (5 page)

“There is that,” Detective Johnson said. “There is that.”

_____

The police launch had pulled away from the inn’s dock, towing the dinghy with it, and was docking at the town pier, near the house where Derek Morton had apparently lived for a few weeks before his death. We’d left the detective near the pier—he was planning on walking to meet his team at the house.

John and I got back to the inn, where the Cape Anne building sat serene above the soft blue waves. I looked out at the blue water lapping peacefully against the rocks, seaweed washing back and forth in the gentle waves. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that nothing unusual had happened. It had, though—and I couldn’t get the image of that young man’s pale face out of my mind.

Catherine had finished tidying the rooms and gone down to the carriage house after her outing with Murray. John had headed down to his workshop to put the finishing touches on a sculpture for the show he was preparing for—his gorgeous driftwood pieces were starting to get some notice in the art world—while I dusted a pizza peel with cornmeal, dug a grapefruit-sized ball of dough from a plastic container in the fridge, and formed it into a rough round. I’d learned the recipe for no-knead artisan bread from Kathleen Flinn’s
Kitchen Counter Cooking School
, and now I always kept a tub of dough on hand for bread. In an hour, I’d score the top with a sharp knife and toss it into the oven with a cup of hot water, and the kitchen would fill with the homey, yeasty scent of fresh bread.

As the loaf sat to rise, I began cutting parchment for fish
en papillote
. The recipe sounded sophisticated and tasted out of this world, but was quick and easy to assemble—perfect for a distracted chef.

I laid the fillets on top of the parchment squares, ignoring Biscuit, who was winding between my legs and meowing pitifully, then drizzled them with olive oil and sea salt before tossing in some minced shallots, summer squash, and a few spears of asparagus. I sealed the packets and tucked the pan into the fridge; I’d slide it into the oven when the bread came out. Catherine would be delighted, I thought; a dish that was low fat
and
featured vegetables! Served with a salad and some crusty bread (which I knew she wouldn’t touch), it would be a summer feast.

My eyes drifted to the window, and the placid blue water beyond. Young Derek Morton would never enjoy another summer feast again. Who had taken his life?

Biscuit meowed again, and I reached down to pet her smooth ginger fur. Normally I’d take pity on her and open a can of tuna, but the vet had told me she was getting a bit on the chunky side, and that I needed to cut back. Biscuit wasn’t the only one who needed to cut back, I thought, adjusting my T-shirt over my middle and opening the back door so she could go out and get some exercise. She gave me a disdainful look and padded over to the radiator under the window, where she curled up for an afternoon nap. So much for regular exercise.

I pulled my recipe file out and flipped through to my grandmother’s steamed pudding recipe. John had brought up my coffee can of fresh blueberries; I knew Catherine wouldn’t share it with us, but I suspected both John and I could use some comfort food after the day’s grisly discovery. As I glanced over the list of ingredients, my thoughts strayed back to Derek. He had evidently been “talking big” recently. Had he told someone more than he was supposed to?

And if his death
was
a warning, who was it for?

I pulled out the metal pudding steamer my grandmother had given me—it looked like a little Bundt cake pan with a lid—and buttered it, then prepared the pot in which the pudding would cook. Like Boston Brown Bread, what made the pudding so moist and delicious was the steam treatment it received.

While the pot of water was heating on the stove, I lined up the ingredients on the counter, including the rinsed berries I had picked that morning. As I creamed the butter, sugar, and eggs together in a mixer, I cast my mind back to the image of Derek, trying to remember the details. He’d been lying almost straight up-and-down in the bottom of the boat, with his feet toward the bow; if he’d fallen into that position, that meant he would have been standing in the bow, which is not usually where you stood in a skiff. I was guessing someone had placed him there.

As I mixed the butter and sugar together, I found myself wondering how Tania was doing—and if she had some information that would point to why Derek had died. Adam evidently wasn’t the only one Detective Johnson was questioning, but it made me nervous that there was a link between Adam and Derek. I was also worried about having a murderer running loose on Cranberry Island. I poured the dry ingredients into a smaller bowl and stirred them with a whisk, then added them to the creamy butter and sugar in the mixing bowl and reached for the berries.

When the blueberries had been folded into the creamy batter and I had poured it all into the pudding mold, I picked up the phone and called my best friend. She answered on the first ring, sounding less like her cheery self than normal.

“How’s Tania holding up?” I asked as I fitted the lid onto the mold and slipped it into the pot on the stove, then added water to create a “bath” for the pudding.

“Not great,” Charlene said. “But that’s to be expected.”

“It’s hard to lose someone you care for.” I put the lid on the pot and adjusted the heat. “How long had they been seeing each other, again?”

“Only a month or two. She was pretty into him, though.” She sighed. “You remember young love.”

I much preferred older love, I thought as I flipped through my book until I found the recipe for foamy sauce. It was much more rational, and at least at the moment, very satisfying.

“I wonder who would have wanted him dead?” I mused.

“They’ve confirmed that, then?”

“No,” I said, running my finger down the list of ingredients for foamy sauce. Lyle’s Golden Syrup, an English import my grandmother had introduced me to, was easy and good with steamed puddings, but I was out at the moment. Besides, foamy sauce, a sweet concoction made with butter, eggs, and cream, was even better. “Still, obviously they think someone did him in. Did Tania say anything about who she thinks might have killed him?”

“No, but she told me the detective wanted to know a lot about Adam. I guess he’s the only one they have to go on.”

“I hope his name is cleared quickly.” I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my chin as I opened the fridge and checked to be sure I had enough eggs. Although the sauce wouldn’t be made until the last minute, I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be caught short. “Shouldn’t be hard. I can’t imagine Adam hurting anyone.”

“I wouldn’t think so, either,” Charlene said, “but apparently things aren’t looking too good.”

I almost dropped the eggs. “What do you mean?”

“Tania said Derek and Adam had a run-in about a week back.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I had to ask. “What did he say?”

“Adam seemed to think Derek had been taking out his boat without asking permission.”

Just what Fred had said down at the store. “Did Tania confirm that?”

Charlene sighed. “Tania didn’t know for sure, but she does know he left to do ‘errands’ at night a couple of times and wouldn’t say where he was going.”

“Adam must have had some pretty solid evidence to lose his temper like that. He’s usually so easy-going.”

“Derek was reportedly running the lobster boat with its lights off, and had almost run over someone on a skiff.”

“How did he know it was Derek?” I asked.

“One of the lobstermen saw him rowing a dinghy back to shore the night it happened, and whoever he tried to run over said he saw the boat’s name—it was the
Carpe Diem
.”

Adam’s boat, I thought, feeling sick.

“They tracked Adam down and filed a complaint with the police in Southwest Harbor,” Charlene continued.

“No wonder Adam fired Derek.”

“He didn’t just fire him.” I didn’t like the foreboding sound of Charlene’s voice.

I remembered what Fred had told me down at the store, and cringed. “What else did he do?”

“He threatened to kill him if he set foot on the
Carpe Diem
again.”

five

I tightened both hands
and realized I was still standing in the
middle of the kitchen with a carton of eggs in my hands. I set them down before I damaged them, and groaned. If Adam was going to threaten somebody, why did he have to do it in front of half the island?

“I hope he has an alibi,” Charlene said. “Does anyone know when Derek died, yet?”

“Not that I know of. And even if they did, I’m guessing they wouldn’t tell me.”

“Maybe we’re worrying too much,” Charlene suggested. “After all, they didn’t arrest him.”

“They haven’t even finished the autopsy yet, Charlene.”

“That’s right,” she mused. “Maybe he died of natural causes after all.”

“He didn’t,” I said, looking out at the mountains beyond the serene blue water and wishing I felt as calm as the scene outside looked.

“How do you know?”

“I’m not supposed to say anything, but it was pretty obvious what had happened.” I told her how I’d found him.

“Did you notice anything else?”

“There was a note in his hand. He was supposed to be meeting someone named ‘T.’”

“Tania?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been asking myself that question all afternoon.” As I gripped the phone, I glanced out the window toward the island. Beryl and Agnes were walking down the road toward the inn. “My guests are back from the mail boat,” I told Charlene. “I’ve got to run.”

“Now you have me worried.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

She sighed. “Call me if you hear anything.”

“Of course,” I said, hanging up the phone and reaching for a bottle of wine and a box of crackers. Murder or no murder, I still had guests to feed.

_____

“How did your trip go?” I asked as I walked into the parlor carrying a tray laden with Irish cheddar, water crackers, and a bottle of Merlot. The room was cozy, with big windows facing the water, overstuffed couches, and a thick peach-and-blue Oriental rug. On cold nights, I laid a fire in the big river stone fireplace, but tonight was perfect even with the windows open. An early evening breeze ruffled the curtains as I set the tray down on the coffee table.

Agnes, the mystery writer, sat up eagerly, adjusting her chambray shirt over her ample middle as she reached for the cheese knife. “This looks fabulous. I’m absolutely starved,” she told me.

“I’ve got dinner going in the kitchen,” I said. “Tell me about the trip. Was the crucifix a match?”

Beryl answered, eyes shining with excitement. “It’s not a hundred percent, but they’re pretty sure it’s the same one. They’re doing DNA testing to confirm his identity; I had to give them a swab.”

“When will they know?”

“They’re going to test it this week.” She shivered. “It’s weird to think of my grandfather being murdered, but it’s looking like that’s what happened.”

“How can they tell?”

“Well, the unmarked grave is suspicious,” she said. “He wasn’t in a cemetery, and as a man of the cloth, he would have wanted to be buried on hallowed ground.”

“Makes sense,” I agreed.

“But beyond that, it appears someone put a bullet through his skull.” Beryl shuddered. “They even found the bullet.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“It didn’t pass all the way through his skull, so they buried him with it still in his head.” She grimaced. “He was a country priest. Who could have wanted him dead?”

“Maybe there were other things going on in his life,” I suggested, thinking of a murder that had happened on the island a few years back. “Even priests have private lives. Maybe Matilda can shed some light on what might have happened.”

“Oh, that’s right
…
we were going to call her!”

“Tell her she’s welcome to join us,” I said. “I’ve got enough to add a plate.”

Beryl stood up, smoothing out her cotton dress. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Of course,” I said, pointing her to the desk in the front hall.

As Beryl hurried off, Agnes poured herself a glass of wine and sat back in her wing chair. “Speaking of death or possible murders,” she said in a low voice, “I heard there was a bit of excitement here this morning, too.”

“How did you know?”

“George McLeod told us you found a body in a dinghy.” She shivered.

“It’s true, unfortunately,” I told her.

“How terrifying,” Agnes breathed, but her eyes were gleaming with interest. “Was he murdered?”

“We’re still waiting to hear the official word,” I replied, “but from what I saw, I can’t think what else it would have been.”

“Was the victim local?”

“He lived here with his aunt and uncle for a bit, but he came from Ellsworth. He was dating a young woman I know, though.”

“You wouldn’t think something like that would happen on an island like this,” Agnes said, taking a sip of her wine.

“It is surprising,” I agreed. “But it does happen.”

Beryl walked back in and told us Matilda was on her way. When she arrived a few minutes later, Agnes wasted no time filling her in on what she had missed, and the plump woman’s eyes grew round. “Do you think we’re safe?” she asked, pushing a salt-and-pepper curl behind one ear.

“I think we’ll be just fine. Besides, you should be safer here than anywhere else on the island; my fiancé is a deputy.”

“That handsome man with the green eyes?” Beryl asked.

I nodded, feeling a surge of pride. “He’s really good looking,” Agnes said, taking another sip of wine. “Are there more like him around here?”

“If there were, my friend Charlene would call first dibs,” I joked.

“Is she the pretty woman who runs the store?”

“That’s the one.” I grinned. “She’s been on the hunt for eligible bachelors for years. She’s not a fan of the smell of herring, though, so her local options are limited.”

“I’m sure she’ll find her Prince Charming someday.” Agnes
reached for another cracker and cut off a wedge of cheese. “She’s too cute not to!”

“And you’re engaged,” Beryl said. “How did you two meet?”

“John was my tenant, actually,” I said, smiling. I told her how he’d been renting the carriage house when I bought the inn, and that the relationship had developed as we’d gotten to know each other. It hadn’t been without hiccups, but I was excited to be sharing my life with such a wonderful man. “When are you getting married?” Beryl asked.

“In September,” I told her. “We booked a resort on the beach in Florida, and they’re taking care of everything. I sent in the rest of the deposit a few weeks ago; I should probably call and confirm that they got it.”

“How romantic.” Beryl gazed out at the water beyond the parlor window. “A beachside wedding.”

“It sounds lovely
…
but I’m still curious about this body you found,” Agnes said, pulling the conversation back to poor Derek. “I heard he was in a boat. Was he just lying there? Had he hit his head or something?”

“I did find him in a dinghy, but I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it,” I said, glancing up at the clock. “I’d better get back in the kitchen and get dinner going. There are wine glasses in the buffet in the dining room if you need another for Matilda.”

“Thanks, Natalie,” Agnes said. “Keep me posted on the case; it might be excellent source material for my book!”

“Will do,” I said, and escaped to the kitchen before she could pepper me with unanswerable questions.

The kitchen smelled deliciously of steaming pudding, and I inhaled the comforting scent as I cleaned new potatoes for the pot and whipped up a quick vinaigrette for the salad. The fish was already in little packets; I arranged them on a tray, then checked the timer on the pudding; it only had a few minutes to go. I’d make the foamy sauce at the last minute, I decided; it didn’t keep very well, so it was best to wait.

When I’d finished washing the lettuce leaves and slicing up radishes and tomatoes, my mind turned away from the gruesome discovery of this morning to the more pleasant topic of the wedding. It was going to be small; Charlene was coming, as were Gwen and my sister, along with John’s mother and a few folks from the island. We’d wanted to keep it simple, but part of me wished we were having it here on the island so that everyone in our lives could attend. John had wanted to go away to minimize the workload on me. When I’d talked about keeping it on the island, he’d hugged me and explained his reasoning. “You’ll want to cater everything, you’ll be cleaning the guest rooms, worried about making breakfast
…
I want you to get away from everything and take a break!” I appreciated the thought, but felt a tug of wistfulness. I pulled out the computer and sent a quick e-mail to the resort, just to make sure they’d gotten the deposit check, then busied myself putting the rest of dinner together.

_____

“It’s hard to believe it was only this morning you were picking blueberries, isn’t it?” John asked as he put the last dish into the dishwasher later that evening. Matilda had stayed for dinner, and the trout and the steamed pudding had been a big hit. Even Catherine had had a second helping of the pudding, despite her aversion to carbohydrates in any form other than a celery stick. The melding of the blueberries with the moist pudding, topped off with the butterscotch flavored sauce, was irresistible. The fish had been popular, too: flaky and flavorful.

“I know,” I said. “Any word on Derek’s death?”

“Nothing yet,” he replied, “but I’m worried.”

I glanced up from the cup of tea I was nursing at our big pine farm table. If I hadn’t put the pudding in the fridge, I’d be on my fourth slice about now; the moist, berry-studded crumb covered in rich, buttery foamy sauce was absolutely addictive. “What are you worried about?”

“Adam.”

I felt a frisson of worry. “Uh oh. Is Detective Johnson taking that threat he made seriously?”

“I get the impression he’s the main person of interest.” John tossed a dishwasher tab into the soap holder and closed the dishwasher, then grabbed a Thunder Hole Ale from the refrigerator and joined me at the table.

“Did he say anything about his interview with Derek’s aunt and uncle?”

“Jeff and Elizabeth Abingdon?” He shook his head. “Johnson doesn’t seem to think they’re involved.”

“But surely they know something!”

“He doesn’t think so.” John took a swig of his beer. “Apparently there was a falling out. Derek thought he was entitled to Jeff Abingdon’s lobster license, and threatened to take him to court over it.”

“Wouldn’t that be a motive for murder?”

“You’d think so, but he dropped the suit six months ago. They haven’t spoken since, and apparently Johnson doesn’t think a lobster license is worth murdering someone for.”

“Clearly he hasn’t spent too much time on the coast of Maine,” I snorted. “Didn’t Derek live with the Abingdons for a few years?”

“He stayed with them for about a year,” John said, “but that was a few years back, and they haven’t been close.”

“Did they find anything at his house?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” he said.

“He said it was down by the pier, but it doesn’t sound familiar.”

“It’s kind of hidden back in a clump of trees. There’s no driveway; you have to walk through the brambles to get to it.”

I pictured the raspberry patch not far from the pier; it was next to a meadow that in spring was covered with lupines, and in summer frequently hosted Claudette’s goats, Muffin and Pudge, who traveled the island chained to an old tire so that, in theory, they wouldn’t stray into people’s gardens. There had always been what I took to be a shack hidden back in the woods. “You mean the small building with the peeling paint that’s next to the meadow?”

John nodded and took another swallow of his beer. “That’s the one,” he confirmed.

“I’d like to take a look at the place myself,” I mused.

My fiancé cocked a sandy eyebrow. “The police have already been through it,” he said.

“I know, I know. I just feel like I have nothing to go on.”

He grinned. “I didn’t know the department hired you to take the
case.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m worried about Adam, that’s all.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I realize you’re probably going to ignore me, but I’d rather you hang back and let the detectives handle it.” He gave me a crooked grin. “We’re supposed to be getting married in a few months, after all. Hate to lose the deposit.”

I kicked him under the table, and he laughed.

“Honeymoon’s over already?” I asked.

“It hasn’t begun yet,” he said in a growly tone that made my insides do a little flip. Maybe Florida wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“On a more serious note,” he continued, still holding my hand, “I have to say, Detective Johnson seems a bit surprised that things here aren’t as quiet as he’d expected.”

“Really? What else is going on?”

“The department is trying to crack a drug ring they think is working the coast,” he said, “from here to Canada. They’re working in tandem with the Coast Guard, but so far they’re coming up empty.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Marijuana, mostly. Some heroin.”

I took another sip of my tea. “Isn’t there a bill in the legislature right now to legalize marijuana?”

“They’re talking about it,” John said, “but it’s still illegal, unless you’re growing it for medical purposes. There’s still a booming business for recreational pot.”

“I’m not a fan of the stuff myself, but I wish they’d just go ahead and legalize it,” I said. “Tax the heck out of it and spend the money on education and Medicare, rather than spending oodles of money trying to tamp it down.”

“Prohibition didn’t work, either,” John said, raising his beer and taking a sip.

“I just hope they don’t spend so much time worrying about who’s transporting pot that they don’t look further than Adam when they’re rounding up suspects.”

“That makes two of us,” John said. “Three, if you count Gwen.”

“She’ll be here in just a couple of days. I hope they get it ironed out by then.”