Berried to the Hilt (12 page)

“That’s what I wondered. And Carl was complaining about the site being disturbed the other night, too.” I poured the wine, admiring the golden glow of it in the crystal glasses. “Do you think maybe she’s doing her own archaeology on the side?” I asked.

“You didn’t find any artifacts in her room,” John said. “Maybe the lift bag was defective—or she forgot she had it.”

“What about the plastic tubs and the car battery?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I have no idea what they use when they’re doing an excavation. Why don’t you ask?”

“I can’t,” I said, blushing slightly as I retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge.

“Why not?” John asked.

“There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on her door,” I confessed.

John sighed. “And you went in anyway?”

“Gotta run,” I said, putting the drinks on the tray and disappearing through the door to the dining room.

John gave me a stern look when I returned to the kitchen. “I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything illegal,” he said.

“Who said it was illegal? I was just trying to help a friend,” I said, nodding toward Claudette. “Besides, I’m supposed to go into the rooms. I’m the innkeeper.”

John rolled his eyes, but I ignored it.

“I wonder what all that stuff was for?” Charlene asked as she applied a new coat of lipstick.

“Car battery, jug of clear liquid … who knows?”

“Maybe I could ask one of the Iliad archaeologists,” I said.

“You’re going to tell them you found all that stuff in Molly’s room?” Claudette asked.

“Of course not,” I said. “I’ll be subtle. I’m good at subtle.”

Charlene gave a little cough that I chose to ignore and stood up, smoothing down her soft purple top. “Everyone gets salads, right?”

“Right.”

“Who’s sitting where?” she asked.

I gave her the rundown and sent her out with the salads. “Be extra nice to the woman by the window,” I said. “She’s a food writer for the
Times
.”

“You’re kidding me,” Charlene said. “Really?”

“That’s great, Nat!” John said, his face breaking into a smile for the first time in days.

I nodded, then gave Charlene a stern look. “Just try not to spill shrimp on her, okay?”

With Charlene in charge of serving, I poured myself a small glass of wine, ladled out a small bowl of chowder and sat down between Claudette and John. The creamy chowder was velvety on my tongue, and the oaky, slightly sweet Chardonnay was a perfect combination. I dipped in a leftover crust of sourdough bread and chewed it.

Claudette’s bowl sat before her, untouched. “Eat,” I said. “You need your strength.”

“I can’t,” she said miserably.

“What about a piece of pie?” I asked.

She turned to look at me. “Is there sugar in it?”

I gave up, defeated.

_____

The rest of dinner went well, at least according to Charlene. “That writer of yours gushed over the chowder,” she said, “so you should be in good shape.”

“See anything you like out there?” John teased Charlene as he rinsed the last salad plate and tucked it into the dishwasher.

“Well, the university guy is good-looking, in a weather-beaten kind of way,” she said, taking a sip of wine, “but he seems a bit uptight.”

“He’s got anger management problems, too,” I said. “Plus, he’d be out of town all the time.”

“A challenge, but not insurmountable,” she said, spooning up a bite of raspberry pie and chewing it thoughtfully. “It’s good, but yours is better.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I just wish I could have gotten Claudette to eat some of it.”

“She’s not wasting away yet,” Charlene said. Claudette did have an ample build, but I was still worried. We had tried to get her to stay in the kitchen with us, but she had excused herself and gone up to her room. I was planning to check on her in a little bit.

“Not having an oven has been kind of convenient today,” I said. As much as I loved baking, a day away had been a nice break. “But I’m still hoping to be back in the baking business soon.”

“If that repairman isn’t here by 11,” John growled, “I’ll go get him myself.”

“You may have to wait a bit if the weather doesn’t improve,” Charlene said, glancing at the rain-glazed windows. “Speaking of which, have you heard from Gwen?”

“Not yet,” I said, glancing at my watch; it was coming up on eight.

“She and Adam were headed over to Mount Desert Island today. Adam was going to ask around about Evan,” Charlene said.

The wind howled, rattling the windowpanes. “I hope they made it back before the weather got bad.”

“Why don’t you call and see if they’re at his place?”

“Excellent idea,” I said, dialing Adam’s number. The phone rang four times before his pleasant tenor voice kicked in, inviting me to leave a message. I hung up, feeling a flutter of fear in my stomach. “No answer,” I said.

Charlene sighed. “Most of the time, I love it that cell phones don’t work here, but sometimes it’s a pain.”

“If anything has happened, it’ll likely be on the VHF,” John suggested.

“Good thinking!” Charlene said. After donning raincoats, the three of us trooped down to the carriage house.

The storm really had kicked up. The rain was flying almost horizontally, and our jackets flapped as a strong gust of wind buffeted us. I was glad it was only a short walk to the carriage house—and prayed that Adam and Gwen were safely on land tonight.

As Charlene and I peeled off our raincoats and perched on the oatmeal-colored couch, John turned on the radio. Despite the circumstances, I found myself admiring once again the simplicity of the décor; the simple lines and the calm, neutral beiges and blues were at once masculine and serene. Not too unlike John, I thought. The crackling sound, along with the radio’s eerie, high-pitched buzz, sent shivers down my back. I reached to touch the back of the driftwood seal sculpture on the coffee table, but the smooth wood did nothing to comfort me.

John tuned the radio to channel 9 and spoke into the transmitter. “
Carpe Diem
,
Carpe Diem
,
Carpe Diem
. This is
Mooncatcher
. Over.”
Carpe Diem
was the name of Adam’s lobster boat;
Mooncatcher
was John’s skiff.

I clutched the arm of the couch, hoping to hear Adam’s voice, but there was no reply.

“They could still be over on Mount Desert,” Charlene murmured as John repeated the call. No response. After he repeated it a third time, another voice responded. “
Mooncatcher,
this is
Rusty Nail
.” I knew that was Mac Barefoot’s boat. “Haven’t seen or heard from the
Diem
all day.”

“Roger that and thanks,
Rusty Nail
. Over.”

John looked up at us. “At least we know Mac hasn’t heard anything bad. Let’s check the distress channel, just in case,” he said. He tuned it to channel 16. He didn’t repeat his call on this channel—it was best to keep it clear for vessels in trouble—but after fifteen minutes, the channel remained silent.

“Doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble,” John said.

“I hope not,” I said as another gust of wind buffeted the carriage house, but I wasn’t convinced.

John looked at me. “Why don’t I take the radio up to the inn, so we can keep tabs on it? That way, if Gwen calls, we won’t miss it.”

As much as I didn’t relish the thought of hours listening to the ghostly whine and crackle of the VHF radio, I knew it was the right thing to do.

“I’m so glad I moved to Cranberry Island to enjoy the peaceful life,” I said as we hurried back up the walkway to the inn. The wind whipped my face as Charlene pulled open the kitchen door.

“At least you can’t say you’re bored,” Charlene said as we hurried back into my warm kitchen and John shut the night out behind us.

_____

It was almost ten o’clock before we heard from Gwen.

When the phone rang, all three of us jumped; I picked it up and dispensed with my normal “Gray Whale Inn” greeting. “Hello?” I barked into the receiver

“Aunt Nat, it’s Gwen.” My niece sounded like she was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, clutching the receiver. John switched off the VHF, and both he and Charlene looked at me with concern.

“It’s Adam,” she said. “He’s in the hospital.”

“Oh, no,” I said,
clutching the phone. Poor Adam … and poor Gwen. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”

“I think so … oh, I don’t know. Somebody attacked him, beat him up badly.” I could hear Gwen’s voice quavering. “He’s unconscious right now. The doctors think he’ll be okay, but they won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”

“Oh, Gwen … how did this happen?”

“I don’t know. We went into Bar Harbor this afternoon. I went shopping for art supplies, and Adam told me he was going to ask around and see if he could find out anything about Evan.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “He was supposed to come and meet me back by the dock, but he never showed up. I waited an hour, and then I went everywhere, asking for him. I finally called the hospital—I didn’t know who else to ask—and they told me he was there.”

“Who took him to the hospital?” I asked.

“One of the guys who works at the pizza place on Cottage Street found him,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Someone propped him up against the back of a building. I can’t believe this could happen … and here, of all places!” She sniffed again, and I could picture her wiping away tears.

Poor Adam. “What do the doctors say?”

“He’s got a broken arm and ribs, and his face looks awful,” she said. “But they’re mainly worried about his head. They did a CAT scan, and he looks okay, but we won’t know anything for sure until he wakes up. I’m praying he’s okay.”

I felt a swell of anger at the thought of Adam, unconscious from a head injury. Who had done this to him? “Did Adam tell you who he was going to talk to?”

“No,” she said, sounding miserable.

“Oh, Gwen, I wish I were there,” I said. I ached to be at the hospital with her, but with the storm outside, there was no way we could cross the water in our skiffs safely. As much as I loved living on an island, there were times when the isolation was a real hindrance—and this was one of them.

“It’s not safe—not with the storm,” she said. “I’ll be okay. Adam’s mom and dad are driving up tonight.”

“Thank God,” I said. I was glad she’d have company—and crossed my fingers that they were able to support each other. It was going to be tough on all of them. “Please let them know Adam—and all of you—are in our prayers, Gwen. I wish I could be there with you.”

“I know, Aunt Nat. But I’ll be all right.”

And I knew she would. As different as Gwen and Bridget were, My niece had inherited my sister’s strength. “Call me as soon as you hear anything, okay? Any time of night.”

“I will,” she said.

“I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, Aunt Nat.”

I hung up and relayed what Gwen had told me to John and Charlene. “And she has no idea who Adam was going to talk to?” John asked.

“None at all,” I said.

“Evan must have been in deep trouble,” John said. “I heard he’d gotten into gambling, but he must have been in debt to some dangerous people.”

“Do you think that’s why he skipped town?” Charlene asked.

“I’m hoping he got a chance to skip town,” John said.

I shivered. Had Evan, too, fallen victim to a murderer? “Poor Evan.”

“Poor Adam,” Charlene said. “It was his generosity that got him mixed up with Evan in the first place.”

“Adam’s a kind-hearted man,” I said. “That’s a big part of the reason Gwen loves him so much.”

“I know—it’s just a shame.”

“Before we throw anyone else into danger, I think we need to talk to Ingrid, and find out what she knows,” I said.

Charlene snorted. “Get her to tell you anything negative about her precious boy? Good luck with that.”

“If it means helping find her son, she might open up,” I said.

“Anything’s possible, I guess.”

John leaned back and stretched. “I’m ready to hit the sack,” he said.

“You’re welcome to stay here if you want,” I said to Charlene.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to open early.” She gave me a hug. “Call me if you hear anything, okay?”

I promised her I would, and after watching Charlene’s one tail light recede up the drive, John put his arms around me and kissed me. Then, together, as lightning forked in the sky outside and the wind howled around the eaves, we climbed the darkened stairs to the bedroom.

_____

The storm had dissipated when I woke to darkness the next morning. As I stumbled down to the kitchen, I was glad I’d planned an easy breakfast; I was still half-asleep and worried about Adam. It was a good thing the oven wasn’t working. Normally baking was a refuge for me, but this morning, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I accidentally substituted salt for sugar.

I had just started the coffee when the phone rang. I almost dropped the basket of muffins in my hurry to get to the phone.

“Gray Whale Inn,” I blurted into the receiver.

“He’s awake!”

“Thank God,” I said, slumping against the wall. “Is he okay?”

“He can’t remember a thing that happened,” Gwen said, her voice jubilant, “but other than that he’s just fine.”

“Oh, Gwen. I’m so glad. Are his mom and dad okay?”

“It was a tense night, but everyone’s fine now,” she said. “Of course, his face looks like hamburger meat, and they’ll have to straighten his nose out, but he’s going to be just fine.”

“How long will he have to stay in the hospital?”

“They want him there for at least another twenty-four hours before they’ll let him go. His mom and dad have reserved two hotel rooms, so we’re going to stay in town until he’s ready to go.”

“Don’t let him drive the
Diem
yet, okay? I want you both back on the mail boat—or if it’s not running, call me and I’ll arrange something.”

“Sheesh. Now I’ve got two moms.”

“Three, if you count Adam’s mother,” I teased her. “Give him a hug for us, okay?”

“Will do, Aunt Nat.”

I hung up feeling about a million times better, and called Charlene. Then I ran upstairs to pass the news on to John, who was still dozing.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” I called.

“Who called?” he asked, his sandy blond hair appealingly tousled.

“That was Gwen. Adam woke up, and he’s going to be okay.”

He fell back onto the bed. “Thank God.”

“My thoughts exactly.” I gave him a quick kiss. “If you want muffins, you’d better hurry and get downstairs.”

He looked at his watch. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. Is there coffee?”

“Lots. I’ll pour you a cup.”

As I trotted back downstairs, the phone rang a second time. I answered it on the first ring. “Gray Whale Inn.”

“May I speak with Franklin Goertz, please?”

It was barely eight o’clock; a bit early for a casual call. “I’ll see if he’s up,” I said. “Can I tell him who’s calling?”

“Sarah Marks,” said the woman on the line. “Of Marks, Gravenstein, and Pousson.”

“I’ll see if I can get him,” I said.

Frank was up and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt when I knocked on his door and informed him he had a phone call. “You can take it at the front desk if you’d like,” I said.

“I will,” he said, following me to the desk. I hurried back to the kitchen and hesitated before hanging up the phone; I could hear their voices from the receiver. I was dying to listen in. Instead, I slipped through the kitchen door and crept to the far side of the dining room, straining my ears.

“He didn’t sign it?” Frank asked. There was a pause; after a few minutes, he let out a whoosh of air. “So she’s not in the picture, and everything’s still the way it was when we set it up,” he said. He was quiet for a moment. “Well, it’s horrible what happened, but at least the timing worked out. Now we don’t have to wrangle over an IPO, and the shares stay with the original partners.” After a moment he spoke again. “Will the money from the insurance settlement automatically be used to buy the remaining shares?” There was silence again. “Okay. We’ve found a bigger R/V, and it’s coming in today. We should have this site identified in a day or two, and then I’ll be back in the office. Unless it’s urgent, just send any paperwork that needs to be signed to my office address, and I’ll take care of it when I get back.” There was silence for a moment, and then he spoke again. “Thanks for calling—I’ve been on pins and needles this last couple of days.”

As he hung up, I scurried back to the kitchen. Unless I was mistaken, I had just found one more person who benefited from Gerald McIntire’s death.

John was sitting at the kitchen table, his hair gleaming in the morning sun.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“I think it was Frank Goertz’s attorney,” I said.

“What makes you say that?”

I told him what I’d overheard.

“Overheard, eh?” He shook his head, grinning. “You can’t help yourself, can you?” he teased. “You’re as bad as the natives. I’ll have to buy you a pair of binoculars for Christmas, so you can officially join the island’s traditional sport.”

I tried to look innocent. “Birdwatching?”

“No. Snooping,” he said. “It does have its uses, though. Do you think that ‘she’ was Gerald’s fiancée?”

“That’s the only thing I can think of,” I said. “It sounds like Gerald was altering the partnership agreement now that his marital status was changing. I’m guessing Frank didn’t want the shares to revert to anyone other than him.”

“But if it’s a partnership, wouldn’t both partners have to agree on something like that?” John asked.

“Not necessarily, if one is the majority partner. It depends on how the contract was written. He mentioned using an insurance settlement. Sounds like he had a policy on Gerald—that’s what he’s using to buy out the rest of the company.”

“It was probably pretty substantial, then.”

“Looks like we’ve got another motive,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “It would be stronger if he knew the papers hadn’t been signed yet. Murdering your partner is a big risk to take if you’re not sure of the payoff.”

“You’re right,” I said, feeling my hopes deflate a little bit. Would we ever be able to get Eleazer out of jail?

“Still,” John said. “If there was an argument over the IPO, it might have been worth his while to get rid of his partner.” He leaned forward. “The new agreement might still have made him majority partner in the event of a death—and having Gerald out of the way could make it easier to forestall an IPO. And unless they were canceling the insurance policy, he still stood to make a bundle.”

“So he still has a strong motive,” I said.

“I’d say so.” John grinned at me. “Excellent detective work. I think you’re officially ready for a pair of binoculars.”

“Thank you ever so much,” I said. “See if you get muffins with
that
attitude.”

He stood and bowed. “I deeply, humbly apologize, fair maiden and keeper of the baked goods.”

“Oh, all right.” I tossed him a fat muffin; he caught it handily and set to work peeling back the wrapper. I turned on my big griddle and put bacon on to cook, then poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the table. Within moments, the aroma of bacon permeated the room. I took a sip of coffee, still thinking about the conversation I’d overheard. “It’s just too bad he’s sending the paperwork to his office.”

“You know that opening mail is a federal offense,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But coming across opened mail while dusting is still perfectly legal, as far as I know.”

“Incorrigible,” John said, chuckling.

“That’s what makes me so irresistible,” I said.

He leaned over to kiss me, but our embrace was interrupted by the creak of the kitchen door.

It was Claudette, looking more haggard than ever. “Come sit down,” I said, getting up to help her to a chair. She hadn’t eaten in at least twenty-four hours, and seemed to have aged ten years in the last couple of days. I was really starting to worry about her. “Let me get you some tea.” I hurried to put a kettle on. “Are you hungry? I’ve got fabulous blueberry muffins from Little Notch.”

“No, thanks,” she said.

“Why don’t you have just one—to keep up your strength.”