Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (7 page)

“So you have no idea who he was mixed up with?”

“Sorry, ma’am. Can’t help you,” he said. “Thanks again for the cookies,” he added as he shut the door in my face, leaving me on the front doorstep.

I stood there for a moment, and as I turned to walk down the steps, I heard voices again from inside the house. Only this time there was a note of anxiety I hadn’t heard before. I paused to see if I could make anything out, but the television drowned out the words.

It gave me something to think about as I headed down to the store, though.

_____

“No goodies today?” Charlene looked up from the bag of mail she was sorting. Today she was dressed in a yellow sundress accessorized with large, sun-shaped gold earrings; she looked more ready for a Caribbean cruise than a day on Cranberry Island. Tania was nowhere to be seen, unfortunately. A few of the island’s summer people were congregated on the couches at the front of the store, talking about a sailboat they were thinking of buying. I smiled and nodded as I passed them by and pulled up a stool at the empty bar.

“I gave them to Derek’s aunt and uncle,” I told her as I settled onto the stool.

“I’m dying to hear how that went. Want a cup of tea? I just brewed it a few minutes ago. I can deal with the mail later, and we can sit on the couches and be comfortable.”

“Absolutely,” I said. Charlene handed me a mug, and I filled it with the fragrant brew; Charlene had discovered Twinings Black Currant tea over the winter, and drank gallons of it. I added a splash of milk and some sugar and stirred.

I followed Charlene to the soft, worn couches in the front of the store and sank into one of them while Charlene arranged herself across from me. “I was hoping Tania would be here today,” I said as I took a sip of the sweet, warm tea.

“She is,” Charlene replied, straightening the skirt of her yellow dress, “in body, at least. I made her go for a walk about an hour ago, and she just got back, but I’m not sure she went anywhere.”

So she had been out and about, I thought to myself. “Did she happen to stop by Derek’s?”

“I don’t know; she won’t tell me anything.” My friend sighed. “I’m worried about her, Nat. She barely eats, and she won’t tell me what’s going on.” Despite the cheerful dress, I could see lines of worry in her face. “Do you think it’s just grief?”

“I imagine so,” I replied. “Where is she?”

“Hiding in the back, as always.” She took a long sip of tea. “Anyway, how did it go?”

I told her about my visit to Derek’s house and my brief stop at the Abingdons’.

“You went inside Derek’s house?”

“The door was open,” I told her. “I figured I’d go in, since the police had already been there.”

I knew I could trust my friend not to chide me. Instead, she had a curious glint in her eye, and leaned forward. “Find anything?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the two pieces of paper I’d retrieved. “A weird note,” I said, “and a piece of paper with some times on it. I don’t know what the times mean, but the other one was clearly a threat.”

“‘Stay away from her or I’ll kill you,’” Charlene read. She glanced up at me. “Detective Johnson seems to have forgotten how to conduct a search if they missed this. Where was it?”

“In a pocket of his jeans,” I said. “Do you think ‘her’ means Tania?”

“Maybe. I don’t know of anyone else Derek was seeing. In any case, it seems there’s a suspect other than Adam,” she said. “Gwen is out in California, so he couldn’t be after her, and I know Adam’s not seeing anyone else.”

“Who would it be, then?”

Charlene arched a tweezed eyebrow. “I’ve heard Evan Sorenson’s been carrying a torch for her.”

“What do you know about him? Last I heard, he was in rehab.”

“He was,” she confirmed. “He was a nice boy growing up. Too bad he got into all the trouble with the drugs, the gambling
…
” I knew that he’d gotten himself into trouble over gambling debts, and also seemed to have drug problems his mother had tried hard to cover up. It always seemed to be something with Evan. “He used to love hot chocolate with marshmallows when he was a kid. Sat right there on that stool after school,” she said, pointing to the stool at the end of the counter.

“I wonder why he’s back,” I mused, wishing I could go to Ingrid’s house and just ask. But I really couldn’t—not without an excuse.

“Me too.” Charlene looked pensive.

“Did Tania spend much time at Derek’s place?”

“She was over there a few times.” Charlene wrinkled her nose. “She told me it’s definitely a bachelor pad.”

“More like a homeless camp.” I told her about the cigarette butts and the de-stuffed chair, and the rotten food in the kitchen.

“Sounds like a picture,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And how did your visit with the Abingdons go? I barely ever see Turtle, it seems. Her husband does most of the shopping.”

“Turtle?”

Charlene shrugged. “Her real name is Elizabeth, but she was shy, and always wore enormous turtlenecks as a kid. It kind of stuck.”

“Poor thing,” I said. “Anyway, I have no idea if she was wearing a turtleneck, because I didn’t see her. Her husband answered the door,” I told Charlene, “although only wide enough to get the box of cookies through it.”

“He’s never been the chatty type. Did you get anything out of him?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “He said he’d had nothing to do with his nephew since he left the island a few years ago, and implied that he’d been into trouble when he stayed with them.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Charlene made a tsking sound and patted down a stray strand of highlighted hair.

“Oh, really?”

“Tania said they had a dust-up just a week or two ago.”

“About what? The lobster license?”

“Maybe we should ask her.” In a lower voice, she added, “I need your opinion about her, anyway. I’m really worried!” With a sigh, she got up and walked behind the counter, cracking open the door to the back room. “Tania, honey! Can you come out here for a moment?”

Charlene’s niece emerged from the rear of the store looking deathly pale, with dark circles under her eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” Charlene said as they walked toward the couches near the front door, “but Natalie had a couple of questions about Derek.”

As she sank back into the cushions of the couch, Tania gave a half-shrug, her eyes bloodshot and puffy.

“I’m trying to figure out what happened,” I told Tania as Charlene poured her a cup of tea. “I know it’s really been a horrible week for you, but I’m worried the police are going to blame Adam for what happened to Derek.”
Or you
, I added silently, remembering the note I’d found in the dead man’s hand. “I was hoping you could help us figure out who else might have been involved.”

“I don’t know.” Her head hung low, and her response was almost a whisper.

“Tania, honey.” Charlene put an arm around her niece. “Natalie found a note warning Derek to stay away from a girl. Do you know who might have wanted to warn them off of you?”

She shook her head, and her voice was dull. “I think Evan liked me, but I wasn’t seeing him.”

“Did you visit Derek’s house today?” I asked.

She stared at the floor. “No. I haven’t been back since
…
you know.” I looked at her, wishing I’d paid attention to what the woman I’d seen was wearing. Was Tania telling the truth?

“I know you said something about Derek having an argument with his aunt and uncle,” I said. “What was it about?”

“I don’t remember,” she said dully.

“How about the contact he had?” I asked. “The one who was a ‘cash cow’?”

“I don’t know who it was. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it. And now he’s dead.” Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry
…
” With that, she ran to the back room and shut the door, leaving Charlene and me staring after her.

“So,” Charlene said after a long moment. “That’s what we’re dealing with.”

“She’s not herself at all.” I felt a stab of worry. “This started with Derek’s death?”

My friend nodded. “I’ve called a counselor, but she refuses to go see her. All she does is mope.”

“Is she scared?” I said, my eyes drifting to the door.

“What would she be scared of, though?”

Maybe that the murderer would come after her next? I thought. Did she know something she wasn’t telling us? She’d run off when I’d asked about Derek’s contact. I didn’t voice my fears to my friend. “I’d keep her close, if I were you, just in case,” I told her. “And keep trying to get her to the counselor.”

Charlene adjusted a fallen strap on her pale shoulder. Sundress or no sundress, it was hard to become bronzed on Cranberry Island.
“To be honest, I’m glad she’s not involved with him anymore—
although this is not how I would have wanted it to end. I just didn’t expect that she would be so
…
lost.” Her shoulders sagged, and the strap fell again.

“Do you know what she talked to Detective Johnson about?” I asked. “Other than Adam?”

“He wanted to know where Derek was staying, how long he’d been here, who he hung out with
…
basic stuff.” She took a sip of tea.

“Who did he hang out with?”

“I don’t know, really. He and Evan appeared to be friends, and like I said, he had a contact he met sometimes—was paying him big bucks, according to Tania—but never said who it was.”

“Did he say if the contact lived on the island?”

Charlene shrugged again. “I don’t think she knew.” She gave her tea a moody stir, then looked up. “I almost forgot. You haven’t told me a thing about Murray Selfridge and John’s mom.”

I winced. “I’ve been trying to forget.”

Charlene leaned forward, the prospect of new gossip temporarily lightening her burden of worry. “I hear he’s pulling out all the stops trying to impress her. Someone told me he used to know her when John’s family came to the island, and has had a crush on her for twenty years. Are they serious?”

Murray had had a crush on her for twenty years? Catherine hadn’t mentioned that. Then again, we’d hardly talked since he started courting her. “He’s pretty smitten,” I told her. “Zeke Forester wants me to put in a good word for him—he wants to lease more land from Murray, and thinks he’s putty in Catherine’s hands.”

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Charlene said with a look of wonder. “Speaking of Zeke, how’s he doing?” Charlene asked. “Every time I go over there there’s a line at the farm stand. We’re going to be carrying his eggs here, and I’m thinking about selling his produce, too; I’ve had to cut back on the vegetable orders from town.”

“He’s looking to lease more land, so it can’t be that bad.”

“I just hope he makes it through the winter,” she said. “He’s so sweet to his brother, and they both seem so happy here. I worry sometimes. Not a whole lot of farming to be done from October through May.”

“He seems to think things are going to be all right.”

“Let’s hope he knows what he’s talking about,” Charlene said. “He may need to do more than farming if he’s going to survive winter here.” She bit her lip. “He’s gotten a lot of correspondence from some regulatory division of the Department of Health and Human Services lately.”

“Maybe it’s about the cows he’s planning to bring over,” I said.

“Think cows will be enough to keep him in business,” she asked.

“He’ll figure it out,” I said, hoping I was right. I took another sip of tea, and the bell above the door jangled.

Charlene and I turned to see who was walking in, then traded quick, wide-eyed glances. It was Ingrid Sorenson.

“Natalie,” Ingrid said, looking as if she were about to go out for a hunt in the country in her tweed jacket and boots. Her eyes, pale blue above an aquiline nose, fixed on me as she strode to the counter. “I heard about the discovery you made out on the water.” She shook her head; her carefully styled hair didn’t move. “Terrible tragedy. Do they know if it was homicide yet?”

“If they do, they haven’t told me,” I said. “Did you know the young man?”

She shook her head. “Never met him,” she said. “Derek something. I heard he was from Ellsworth.”

“Really?” I said, glancing at Charlene and bucking up my courage. “I understand he and your son hung out together.”

“You’re not implying that my son had anything to do with that young man’s death, are you?”

“We’re not implying anything, Ingrid,” Charlene said in a placating voice.

Ingrid’s blue eyes were icy. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Charlene smiled at her. “If you could just ask him if he knows who Derek was friendly with, that would be a big help. Apparently he had some kind of contact, but we can’t figure out who it is.”

“I’ll ask if you want,” she said, “but I’m sure he knows nothing about it.” She straightened her tweed-clad shoulders. “Now, if you could just ring up a gallon of milk, I’ll be on my way.”

“I’ve got to run, too,” I told Charlene as she extricated herself from the deep cushions of the couch. “I promised I’d take my guests over to Smuggler’s Cove this afternoon.”

She shivered. “Be careful.”

“Keep me posted on Tania, okay? And let me know if she comes up with anything that might help.”

“I will, Nat.” She reached over and squeezed my hand before returning behind the register to ring up Ingrid’s milk and continue sorting the mail. “Thanks for the support.”

seven

Agnes and Beryl were
waiting for me by the time I got back to the inn. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful, sunny day, both were dressed as if we were headed to Newfoundland in a Nor’easter. Agnes wore a rain slicker and matching plastic pants, while Beryl was decked out in knee-high rubber boots and a purple poncho.

“You guys sure are prepared,” I said as I threw on a windbreaker, grabbed a flashlight from the drawer in the kitchen, and led them down the path to the dock.

“I know it seems like overkill, but everyone says the weather changes fast here,” Agnes said. “Plus, I live in Southern California. How often do I get to wear rain gear?”

“Better safe than sorry.” I grinned at the two women as we stepped onto the small dock.

In almost no time at all, Agnes and Beryl had clambered into the boat and I was casting off, ignoring the twist of worry in my stomach. I checked to make sure the oars were in the boat—and the life jackets—and revved the engine, heading toward Smuggler’s Cove.

Although I’d visited Smuggler’s Cove more than once, and both the tide and the smooth water were in our favor, visiting the small cove was a tricky proposition. It was really more of a sea cave—although the inside held a few spacious “rooms” that rumor had it had been used for nefarious purposes in the past, the entry was only accessible when the tide was low, and even then it was a tight squeeze. I’d been caught in there with a murderer once, and although he was long since behind bars, my stomach still clenched when I remembered being trapped in the cold, dark cavern.

“How did you figure out you were related to someone on Cranberry Island?” I asked, hoping to distract myself from the prospect of another visit to the little sea cave.

“We found a bunch of letters in my grandmother’s attic,” Beryl said. “I knew he was a priest on one of the islands when he disappeared, but we didn’t know which one until we saw the postmark.”

“Have you been into the cove before?” Agnes asked over the roar of the motor.

“A few times. It’s hard to get in and out of, and there’s not much there.”

“Any sign of the rum runners?”

“There’s an old iron loop driven into the rock where they used to tie up their boats,” I told her, “but other than that it’s pretty bare.”

“That’s a shame,” Agnes said. “I was hoping for at least a few old bottles.”

I glanced at her. “If there were any, they were taken long ago.”

“Well, I suppose it will be interesting just to see what it looks like now. I can imagine the rest.”

I could practically feel my blood pressure rise as we approached the rocky face of the cliff in which Smuggler’s Cove was carved. The underwater rocks were more visible with the tide low, but no less dangerous, and I worked to maneuver the boat for a straight-in approach; the opening was fairly small, and it was less likely I’d scrape the sides of the skiff that way.

“Eerie.” Agnes pulled the collar of her rain slicker together, as if it could protect her from whatever was in the cove. “It looks like something out of
Pirates of the Caribbean
.”

“Shh.” Beryl put a hand on her friend’s sleeve. “Let her concentrate.”

I was thankful for the request; getting into the little cove was easy for most of the locals, but tough for a landlubber like me. Last time I’d made this trip, I’d almost put a hole in the side of the
Little Marian
. This time, thankfully, I skirted the rocks without incident and shot straight through the small dark hole in the cliff.

The light faded almost immediately, and I reached for the flashlight and switched it on, using it to guide the skiff to where I knew an iron ring protruded from a rocky shelf.

“Cold in here.” Agnes hugged herself as I handed Beryl the flashlight and tied up the skiff.

“You’re used to Southern California,” I teased her, trying to shake off a chill of my own. Absence had not made the heart grow fonder—at least as far as this little cove was concerned.

“Who put this here?” Beryl directed the flashlight at the rusty iron loop to which I’d tied the skiff.

“I don’t know, but it’s been here a long time.” I climbed out of the skiff and offered a hand to the two women, who made their unsteady way out of the little boat.

“Was it used for anything other than rum running?” Beryl asked, her flashlight beam darting around the cove.

“I don’t know. I’d love to find out how old these iron rings are, though,” I told her as we clambered out of the
Little Marian
and stood on the rocky ledge next to the water.

Beryl’s light did a quick sweep of the walls. “Not a whole lot of space. Is this it?”

“This is just where boats tie up. The main area is back here.” I directed the light to an opening toward the back of the cave. “Follow me.”

A feeling of foreboding descended on me as I ducked through the crevice that led to a dank, cavernous room. The last time I’d been here, a murderer had almost killed me. Time had not improved the place, although at least there weren’t any killers in residence at the moment. The rocky room was empty.

“So, this is it,” Agnes said, disappointment tingeing her voice. “Just looks like a cave.”

“No writing on the walls or anything, is there?” Beryl asked, flashing her light into the crevices in the wall.

“Nope. And nobody ever comes here these days, either. Makes sense, really. It’s not very nice in here, and it’s hard to get to.”

“It’s not completely abandoned,” Beryl said, shining her light on the floor of the cave. There was a big smudge of mud on the rock. She crouched down and touched it with one finger. “Still wet,” she said. “Either of you have mud on your shoes?”

Agnes and I looked down at our boots; the soles were clean.

“Smells bad, too,” Beryl said, wrinkling her nose and wiping her hand on the rocky wall. Now that she mentioned it, I did smell something unpleasant. “Ick. Horse poop.”

She was right. It was faint, but distinctive.

“I guess we’re not the only sightseers,” I said lightly, but something about the fresh mud unnerved me. I flashed the light around the cave. “There’s a lot of it, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” Beryl said. “Almost as if someone were pacing.”

Beryl’s light followed the track; it led to where the boat was tied up. “I know Matilda was talking about the cove the other day. Think she might have paid it a visit?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I said, inspecting the walls of the dank room, looking for clues. The rocky walls were silent, though. Unyielding. If only they could talk, I thought, wondering what they’d seen over the centuries.

The sense of foreboding deepened. “Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “that’s about all there is to it. Not much to see, is there?”

“It’s fascinating,” Beryl replied, still training her flashlight on the rocky floor.

“Yes, but we should probably head out while the tide’s low. It gets tricky when it rises, and we don’t want to spend the night in here.” I shivered. “Trust me.”

“Did you spend the night in here once?”

“Not by choice. My boat was damaged, and I got stuck.” I didn’t tell them the circumstances; no need to make them think the island was a dangerous place to be. “But I’d rather not risk it again. Ready?”

“Let’s go,” Agnes said, but Beryl seemed to want to linger.

“I feel like there’s a secret here.” She reached out to touch the cold, damp stone. “These walls have seen so much. I wish there were some way to know what all has happened here.”

Her thoughts echoed my wish that the walls could somehow talk, but the sound of the water slapping against the rocks seemed louder, suddenly, and I just wanted to leave.

“Come on, Beryl. I think we’ve seen all there is to see.” Agnes headed back to the boat, and after a lingering moment, to my relief, Beryl followed.

The tide was coming up more quickly than I expected; already we’d have to duck to make it through the cove’s entry. When everyone was situated in the boat, I warned them to watch their heads and cast off, gunning the engine to make sure we made it through the cove’s entrance without scraping the walls.

Agnes squealed a little and tumbled back as the little boat shot forward. Eyes on the water in front of me, I piloted the
Little Marian
out into the sunshine.

As I opened the throttle, there was a roar from somewhere over my right shoulder. And that’s when another boat plowed into the starboard side of the skiff, knocking Agnes into the cold, dark water.