Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (9 page)

ten

I spent the next
hour putting together menus and calling in a food order, then gave Eleazer a ring to let him know about the
Little Marian
. John had headed down to Island Artists with another batch of the toy boats, and planned to spend the rest of the afternoon in his workshop putting the finishing touches on another sculpture.

When I told Eleazer about the collision, he tsked into the phone. “That little skiff hasn’t had much luck,” he said. “It may be time to retire her.”

“You think? I’m kind of attached to her.”

“It’s going to be hard to retrieve her, and the motor is probably shot after being underwater. Besides, I’ve got a new skiff I’ve been working on—a beauty. Why don’t you come down and take a look?”

“How much?” With the wedding coming, I didn’t want any extraneous expenses.

“I’ll cut you a deal. Claudette was just saying she wanted to have you over for tea, anyway.”

“How about tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.

“I’ll let Claudie know.”

I hung up and grabbed my favorite cookbook off the shelf, then leafed through it until I found a recipe for Chocolate Express Muffins. The boat incident had made me jittery, and I needed something to do to calm me down. Despite the coffee in the batter, the moist chocolate cakes would be just the ticket for breakfast tomorrow. And maybe for tea this afternoon.

As I gathered the flour, sugar, and coffee crystals from the pantry, my mind turned back to the events of the last few days. A dead young man in a boat—not from here, but connected to people here—who bragged about “big things” on the horizon before he died. A threatening note found in his house. A mysterious lobster boat with foreign colors lingering not far from Smuggler’s Cove. And the attack on the
Little Marian
today.

Why would someone run down the skiff? I wondered. It hadn’t seemed accidental; there had been no attempt to evade our skiff. It didn’t make sense—unless whoever did it was trying to warn me away from the cove, I thought as I measured flour and baking soda into a bowl. Derek’s body had been displayed as a warning, too. Did we interrupt somebody else’s plans?

I mixed milk and the coffee crystals into a bowl, stirring them until the coffee had dissolved, then added a cup of melted butter, two eggs, and a splash of vanilla before fitting the beaters into their sockets and whirling the aromatic mixture. The mud on the cove floor was fresh, and there was a lot of it. Was someone doing something in the cove they didn’t want other people to know about?

And if so, how was that connected with Derek’s death? Or was it just a coincidence?

I glanced out the back window toward the little cove as I stirred in the dry ingredients, making a rich, chocolatey batter. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew by now the cove entrance must be covered by the tide. Was the cove the reason I’d seen that lobster boat idling just off the coast recently? I wished I’d gotten a closer look at the boat that had rammed us, but I had been too concerned with my waterlogged guests. As I folded the chocolate chips into the batter, my mouth already watering at the thought of the chocolatey little cakes, I realized I hadn’t heard about Agnes yet. I reached for the phone and dialed the cell phone number she’d given me. When she didn’t answer, I left a message, asking her to call as soon as she knew something.

As I returned to my muffins, placing muffin cups into the pans, I thought again of Charlene’s niece, Tania. She was the closest islander to Derek—along with Ingrid’s son. What was he doing back on the island, anyway? I knew Evan had been addicted to drugs of some kind a while back. Was he dabbling in it again? I’d have to check in with Charlene and see if she could gently grill Tania for more information.

Still, recreational drug use didn’t usually get you killed. And it didn’t explain the boat that had just about split my skiff in two that morning.

There was something else going on, I thought as I poured the batter into the muffin cups. And I had a hunch Derek knew something about it—something someone didn’t want him to know.

I put the pans into the oven, washed the bowls, and made myself a cup of tea as I waited for them to finish. Before long, the kitchen was filled with a warm, comforting chocolatey smell that made my mouth water. The muffins would be terrific tomorrow morning alongside a fruit salad and shirred eggs with toast, I decided, with bacon or sausage on the side. With the menus I’d made, I was in pretty good shape
…
except that I’d forgotten to pick up carrots. Which would be a great excuse to drop by the farm; after all, Derek had worked there for a while, and things hadn’t ended well. I’d been looking for a reason to stop off at Zeke’s farm for a chat. With any luck, I’d be able to come home with more than a few bunches of root vegetables.

When the timer buzzed, I took the muffins out of the oven, admiring their plump, chocolatey tops. I tried a bite of one that hadn’t risen quite as well as the others; the rich, chocolate-coffee crumb studded with melted chocolate was heavenly, and for a blissful moment, I forgot that anything else existed.

Unfortunately, the feeling was short-lived.

_____

Agnes was no worse for wear, it turned out, and if anything, the near-disaster had added a fillip of interest to her trip. She and Beryl wolfed down John’s fettuccine when they got back, and were still chatting about it over coffee, muffins, and eggs the next morning.

I walked through the sunlit dining room with a coffee pot as Agnes speculated on who might have driven the boat that rammed us. “It was bizarre—and I can’t think why anyone would do something like that. I mean, we’re just tourists.”

“I’ve never known of anything like that happening before,” I told her. I was relieved that she was just a little bit cold and banged up—nothing serious. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” Agnes said. My eyes were drawn to the stretch of buoy-dotted water just outside the cove. No lobster boat now, although it wasn’t anywhere near low tide. Had it been low tide when I’d spotted the boat in the past? I wished I’d paid more attention. “What are you two up to today?”

“We’re going to see if we can talk our way into the old rectory,” Beryl said.

“I forgot to ask Catherine about it,” I remembered suddenly. “Sorry about that. She’s not made it up to the inn yet, but I will.”

“No worries. Matilda’s going over there this morning. She told us that since she put together the exhibit on his family, Murray Selfridge been very amenable.”

“Well, good luck,” I said, thinking I had a visit of my own to make today. I’d decided to see if I could talk with Fred Penney, the other lobsterman Derek had sterned for. Even if he didn’t have any new information on Derek, maybe he’d have a lead on the boat that I’d seen outside Smuggler’s Cove.

“We’ll let you know what we find!” she said, peeling the wrapper from her third muffin. “These are absolutely irresistible. If I lived here, I’d weigh 400 pounds by now.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m on my way,” I grimaced, tugging at my snug waistband. Weight gain certainly was an occupational hazard. I wondered if, by the time September came around, I’d still fit into my gown.

Speaking of weddings, I realized I hadn’t heard back from the resort. After checking on everyone, I excused myself back to the kitchen and sat down at the computer.

No response.

I pulled up the bookmarked web site. Instead of an image of the gorgeous, palm-tree-studded resort, all I got was a page that said the web address was unavailable. I switched to Google and typed in t
he hotel’s name. The second entry was an article in the
St. Petersburg
Times
. As I read it, my heart lurched.

There would be no wedding in September for John and me—at least not at the Sandpiper Resort.

It had gone out of business.

_____

I’d hurried through the rest of breakfast in a daze. John, unfortunately, was out of reach, as he’d headed to the mainland for the day, so I hadn’t had a chance to share my bad news. I was still thinking about the wedding—the now nonexistent wedding, that was—as I rode my bike down to Zeke’s farm an hour later. What were we going to do? Was it possible to get our money back? Would we ever get married?

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look around and take in the view. The ferns and moss lining the road were brilliant green, and the pines and firs soared above them, perfuming the sea air with their piney scent. Every once in a while, I spotted a patch of lime green leaves I knew belonged to low-bush blueberries, along with swathes of bright red bunchberries—beautiful, but not edible, at least not by humans. John and I would figure it out, I told myself. Right now, I had more important things to worry about. Like keeping Adam out of jail.

It was a perfect day, with temperatures edging up toward the seventies and a gentle breeze off the brilliant blue water. The trees parted, and I found myself scanning the buoy-dotted harbor. Surely
someone on the island other than me had seen that orange-and-turquois
e buoyed lobster boat, I thought; the local lobstermen were known to guard their territory closely. I’d have to ask down at the co-op.

By the time I parked the bike in front of Zeke’s farm, I had decided to tell John that evening and not to worry about it until then. I took off my helmet, ran my fingers through my hair, and retrieved my bags from the basket on the front of the bike.

“Hey, Zeke!” I called as I rounded the farm stand. The fit young farmer, who was pulling up weeds from a long line of lush tomato plants, waved and started toward me. His brother, Brad, who was at the far end of the field, waved too, his face splitting into a toothy smile. I waved back, grinning. He never seemed to have a care in the world.

A few chickens pecked among the tidy rows of vegetables: natural pest control, Zeke had told me last time I was here. He let them out in the morning and closed them back up in the evening. There’d been a few problems with loose dogs, but overall they lived a happy life.

As the farmer headed my direction, I let my eyes drift across the fields. There were three long rows of tomatoes, a patch of what appeared to be lettuce, and several rows of pole beans. Behind them, like a benevolent parent, stood an old red barn that Zeke had told me housed horses and cows in the old days. There was rumored to be a blacksmith’s anvil inside it somewhere; apparently the farmer who built it also knew enough to shoe his horses and do basic smith work for the locals. All of it—the horses, the blacksmith, even the stables in the island’s many carriage houses—had gone away with the automobile, though. It was amazing how quickly things changed.

“What can I do you for?” Zeke asked, tossing his handfuls of weeds onto a pile at the end of the row and smiling.

“I need carrots, and could use a bit more lettuce,” I said. “I thought I’d stop by and pick some up; and eggs, too, if you’ve got some. I used up most of mine at breakfast this morning.”

“Just picked lettuce this morning,” he said, “and the hens are laying faster than I can pick up the eggs. Follow me!”

He turned and headed toward the shed next to his farmhouse—a white clapboard building with a leaning front porch. A line of gloves was strung from a line hung between two posts, and a variety of spades and hoes leaned up against the side of the house. The shed beside it was filled with crates of produce, and outside it was a reclaimed laundry sink fed by a hose—Zeke’s produce-washing station, with a little trench that led back to the fields. The chicken coop was located about fifty yards beyond the house, where the sea breeze would carry the aroma away from the house.

Zeke unlatched the shed and opened it, releasing the scent of earth and vegetables. A few bins of compost stood in the corner, along with a variety of organic pesticides.

“No fertilizer?” I asked. I was surprised; I used copious amounts of organic fertilizer on the roses and window boxes at the inn.

“Too expensive. I have an arrangement with a dairy farmer on the mainland,” he said as he lifted a crate of fresh lettuces from the back corner of the shed.

“How do you get it over here?” I asked, trying to envision George McLeod heaving bags of cow manure over to the dock. “I can’t imagine it being popular with the mail boat crowd.”

Zeke laughed, exposing a line of bright white teeth. “Fortunately, the pasture is right on the water, so I use an old skiff I got from Eleazer. It’s an aromatic trip, but not a long one.”

“Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose.

“I’m not saying it’s pleasant, but it’s cheap—and 100 percent organic. Like I said, if I can square things away with Murray and the USDA, I’m hoping to get a few cows into the pasture soon; that should solve the transportation problem, and get me into the dairy business, besides.” He glanced at me, and said in a nonchalant tone, “Any luck persuading John’s mother to talk to Murray?”

“Not yet.” Saving the school, leasing land: the list of things I wanted Catherine to talk to Murray about was growing. A brown hen with bright, beady eyes wandered into the shed, picking at the dirt, and Zeke shooed it away. It half-hopped out the door, clucking imperiously. “The chickens seem happy.”

“They are.” He grinned as he selected a few lettuces and put them into a bag for me. “And as long as they keep laying like this, I’ll be happy, too.”

“It seems like a lot to keep up with. Do you have any helpers?”

“I do,” he acknowledged. “A couple of young guys come out and give me a hand when they’re not out on the water. The pay isn’t terrific, but it helps them make ends meet.”

I leaned up against the rough wood wall and tried to look casual. “I heard Derek Morton worked for you for a while.”

“He did.” The smile dimmed. “Not for long, though; he didn’t work out.”

“Not very reliable?” I guessed.

“We had a difference of opinion,” he said shortly, glancing up at me from eyes that reminded me somehow of the hen’s for a moment. Sharp. “And no. Not very reliable at all. I understand he found different work.”