Murder On the Rocks (10 page)

As my hands measured out the ingredients, my thoughts turned to Katz’s murder. Grimes might be too lazy to dig up other suspects, but if someone didn’t find out who had killed Katz, a cloud would remain over me-and the inn. If I didn’t end up in jail, that was.

I closed up the baking powder and poured a small hill of salt into a measuring spoon. My head throbbed as the possibilities reeled through my mind. Who might have wanted Katz dead? Estelle was a good candidate. After all, John had indicated that Katz might have been going to meet a woman when he died. A flirtation had obviously existed between them, and the cliff path did pass right under Cliffside. I dumped the salt into the bowl and looked out the window at the dark blue water. Why would she have killed him, though? So that Stanley could inherit his money?

I stirred the dry ingredients together with a fork and walked over to the fridge. Stanley might have been interested in an early inheritance, too. I pulled out the eggs and butter and closed the door with my foot. Maybe he was in financial straits; Charlene certainly thought so. Had he been desperate enough to kill for money?

After cracking three eggs into a bowl and whisking them together, I unwrapped the butter and put it in the microwave to melt. Maybe Stanley had gotten fed up with the flirtation between Estelle and his father. Maybe he’d discovered that it was more than flirtation. He didn’t seem to care too much about what his wife did, I mused, but maybe the knowledge that she’d cuckolded him with his own father would be enough to push him over the edge. Then again, I had no way of knowing what the relationship between Bernard Katz and Estelle was; it was all speculation.

The bell on the microwave dinged and I poured the melted butter into the eggs, whisking them together. Who else might have wanted Katz dead? Claudette, of course, had practically threatened to kill him in front of the entire island. I remembered the look of blind rage on her square-jawed face at the board meeting and shivered. Eleazer might not think she was capable of violence, but I wasn’t so sure.

Barbara was another possibility. She’d managed to get the association to pony up an extra million dollars. The purchase of the preserve was pretty important to her. Important enough to kill for? If so, why wouldn’t she have killed him before the meeting? Because she hadn’t had the opportunity, I realized as I poured the flour mixture into the eggs and butter. She didn’t get to the island until the meeting was already under way.

I gave the batter a few turns with a wooden spoon and covered it with a dishtowel, then poured myself a second cup of coffee. The throbbing in my head seemed to be abating slightly; the aspirin must be kicking in. As I sipped my coffee, I heard the pipes whine as a shower went on overhead. Gwen was up early this morning. Maybe she could help me with the pancakes so that I could lie down. Her culinary skills were less than extensive, but she might be able to manage pancakes if the batter was already done.

I sat down at the kitchen table and turned the problem of Bernard Katz’s murder over in my head. Who else was close to Katz? An image of Ogden’s greasy hair and Coke-bottle glasses floated into my mind, but I couldn’t see how he’d benefit from killing Katz. If anything, Katz’s death would put him out of a job.

The clock above the stove read eight o’clock. I adjusted the heat on the pancake griddle and tasted the berries-they needed just a touch more maple syrup-before pulling a package of sausage from the freezer and plunking a block of frozen links into a pan.

My hand slid into my pocket, and I fingered the receipt I’d found in Katz’s room last night. Maybe Berta could tell me what Katz had in mind for the jewelry he’d bought. Talking to Berta was easy; I would stop by Seaglass Jewelers and drop off some brochures that afternoon. What I really needed to do, though, was talk to Estelle and Stanley. Unfortunately, chances were pretty slim that they’d roll out the red carpet for me at Cliffside.

The sausage was beginning to sizzle when the phone rang.

“It’s Charlene.”

“What’s up?”

“I hate to always be the bearer of bad tidings, but you haven’t seen the paper yet, have you?”

“Of course not” Like everyone else on the island, I had to go down to the store to pick it up. “Why?”

“Apparently Grimes isn’t the only one who thinks you did in Bernard Katz. Get a load of today’s headlines: `Local Inn Guest Dies after Squabble with Innkeeper’.”

I tried to look on the bright side. “At least they didn’t name the inn.

“Oh, yes they did,” she said. “About four times. You were in there a lot, too”

“How? I only spoke with Gertrude Pickens for two minutes yesterday.”

I heard the sound of chewing. “She knew all about Katz’s plans to bulldoze your inn. The way the article reads, you did too. There’s even a partial picture of the blueprint.” She paused, and a slurping noise traveled down the phone line: probably coffee. “She talks all about your `crusade’ against the resort,” she continued, “and how the board vote went against you anyway. The whole article is about why you didn’t like Bernard Katz, followed by a paragraph about how the police may suspect foul play.” She took another bite of whatever she was eating.

“Wait till they find out he was murdered,” I said.

The chewing stopped. “What?”

“I just found out this morning.”

“Lovely. I can only imagine what tomorrow’s headlines will be.” She slurped again. “By the way, if you ever need work, I’m always looking for an extra cashier.”

I HUNG UP THE phone and turned the sausages. As there was no sign of Gwen, I sprayed the griddle with cooking spray and ladled six circles of batter onto the hot surface, then stirred the blueberry compote.

I thought about the newspaper article as tiny bubbles appeared on top of the batter. Even if Grimes wasn’t eyeing me as Bernard Katz’s murderer, it was obvious that I needed to clear my namefast. And to do that, I needed to talk with Estelle and Stanley.

How was I going to get into Cliffside? As the spatula slid under the pale circles and turned them over, the smell of pancakes filled the room, soothing me. Food was always a comfort. I paused with my spatula in midair. That was how I was going to get into Cliffside. With a big batch of cookies to comfort the bereaved family.

I flipped the last pancake with renewed energy and transferred the sausages to the oven to stay warm. I’d figured out how to get across the threshold. The only problem was, Estelle turned her nose up at my kind of cooking; she avoided fat like the plague, but most of my recipes called for substantial amounts of butter or oil. Could I come up with something she would actually eat?

I tucked the finished pancakes into the oven next to the sausages and poured six more circles; then I headed to the hutch and pulled out a stack of cookbooks. For the next fifteen minutes, I shuttled back and forth between the griddle and the books. The last six pancakes were sizzling on the griddle when Gwen sailed down the stairs, looking radiant in a ruffled blue sundress and carrying a portable easel. It looked like I was on my own for breakfast again.

“Hi, Aunt Nat.” A cloud of perfume engulfed me as she swept by. “What smells so heavenly in here?”

“Pancakes and sausages. Where are you off to?”

“Fernand said I should try catching some of the morning light.” Her brown eyes rested on my temple. “What happened to you?”

I gave her a brief rundown of last night, ending with an admonition to lock her door at night and be careful walking around the island after dark.

“Sure, Aunt Nat,” she said, her oval face solemn under a mass of dark ringlets. Then she peeked into the oven, and all thoughts of late-night intruders vanished. “Mind if I have some of that?”

“Go ahead.” There was plenty for everyone this morning, particularly since the inn was short one guest. She piled a plate high as I turned the last pancakes and ran upstairs to throw on a pair of jeans. Five minutes later, I started shuttling food out to the warming plates in the dining room.

I was setting out the butter next to a pitcher of maple syrup when the Bittles walked in.

Mrs. Bittles eyed me critically from beneath an oversized purple beret. “Whatever did you do to yourself, dear?”

I paused with the pitcher in my hand, baffled by the question. Then I followed her eyes to my temple and remembered what had happened last night. The aspirin must be working; I’d forgotten all about it. “Oh, I tripped and hit a door frame,” I said in a casual tone. No need to broadcast the fact that I’d been hit over the head by an intruder. Whoever had broken in last night was interested in Katz’s room, not the Bittles.

I filled both of the Bittles’ coffee cups as they investigated their breakfast options. Mrs. Bittles was retreating from the buffet table with a stack of pancakes that wobbled as much as her beret when Barbara walked into the room. As she sat down at a table next to the window, I poured her a cup of coffee.

“Wow, Natalie. You’re a mess. What happened to you?”

“Somebody whacked me over the head last night,” I said quietly, studying Barbara’s face. “An intruder broke into Katz’s room last night; whoever it was, I interrupted them.”

Her thin eyebrows squinched together in a look of concern. “What do you think they were looking for?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think they found it.”

“Yikes” Barbara stirred sugar and cream into her coffee. “You should let the police know about that. I’m glad you’re okay.” She took a sip of coffee. “By the way, I ran into your friend Charlene last night. She’s kind of nosy, isn’t she?”

I laughed. “Don’t be offended. She’s that way with everyone.”

Barbara looked relieved. “Good. For a little while there, I was wondering if she thought I’d killed Bernard Katz.”

Killed? As far as I knew, nobody but John and me knew he had been murdered. The coroner’s report had just come back that morning.

“I expect she’ll be grilling half the island,” I said lightly. “We’ve got pancakes and sausage with blueberry compote this morning, but if you’d like eggs, I’d be happy to fix them for you. Oh-and by the way-the police will be here again today, doing some work in Bernard Katz’s room.”

I watched her narrow face, but it registered no visible emotion. Instead, she eyed the mounds of pancakes and sausage. “Well, then, I guess I’ll get started.” She got up and headed for the buffet table, and I returned to the kitchen to refill the coffeepot. Gwen, of course, was already gone, but her empty plate and half-f coffee cup lay on the table where she’d sat. So much for help with breakfast.

The Bittles and Barbara had wandered out of the dining room by the time Ogden showed up. He barely glanced at the knot on my head before serving himself two pancakes and two sausages. He laid his white napkin across his lap and began cutting his pancakes into tidy squares.

I came over to his table to fill his coffee cup. His pale skin looked pasty; I wondered if he’d even left his room since he checked in.

As I finished pouring, Ogden looked at me from behind his thick glasses. “By the way, Mr. Katz will be joining me for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

I almost dropped the coffeepot. Then I realized he meant Stanley, not Bernard. “That’ll be fine,” I said. “During normal hours, I presume?”

“At nine o’clock,” he said, and dabbed a square of pancake into a neat puddle of syrup.

“If you’d like eggs this morning, let me know; I’ll make them to order.” He nodded curtly, and I retreated to the kitchen.

I sat back down at the kitchen table, relieved to have made it through the morning without scaring away any guests. I picked up another cookbook and flipped to a recipe for chocolate meringues. Perfect: the comfort of chocolate without the fat. I rummaged through the fridge and the pantry and laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter, and soon I was separating eggs and measuring flour and cocoa, slipping out to the dining room from time to time to see if Ogden needed more coffee. By 10:00, a mound of billowing chocolate filled the bowl and the aroma of chocolate suffused the kitchen.

I had to bake the meringues in shifts, so by the time the buzzer went off for the last time I had cleaned up after breakfast and set up the dining room for the next morning. It was early afternoon when I headed out from the inn on my blue Schwinn. The police hadn’t shown up yet, but John had promised me he’d let them in if they arrived before I got back.

The winding road up to Cliffside was almost more than my legs could take. Just as I was about to give up and walk, the bike crested the hill and I glimpsed an imposing gray structure between the trees. Parked in the driveway was the late-model, creamcolored BMW the Katzes kept for tooling around the island. Most islanders’ cars looked like rejects from the dump; since they never left the island, they were all unregistered, and most were missing doors, trunk lids, and sometimes even roofs. Not the Katzes, though; they’d had the car shipped over specially.

I leaned my bike up against a craggy old spruce tree and unstrapped the plastic box of meringues from the back. It wasn’t the most attractive container, but it was the only thing I could think of that would get them up the big hill intact.

My eyes probed the house as I walked up the flagstone path to the massive front door. No pesky rocks to interfere with Estelle’s stilettos here. Like the Gray Whale Inn, the building was sheathed in weathered gray shingles; where the Gray Whale was welcoming and cozy, however, Cliffside was imposing and formal. The shrubbery was pruned into a rigid geometry, and instead of starched cotton curtains, heavy brocaded fabrics shrouded the windows. The turret I had often seen from the water was hidden from the front of the house.

I pushed a glowing button to the left of the heavy walnut and leaded-glass door, and the doorbell chimed solemnly. I was wondering whether anyone was home when a bright blue form materialized behind the wavy glass. Estelle.

She opened the door and eyed me with suspicion. “What are you doing here?” Although it was 12:30 in the afternoon, she hadn’t gotten dressed yet. She wore only a bright blue silk kimono, but had taken the time to do her face. I was surprised; her makeup was usually flawless, but today her the blue eyeliner rimming her icy eyes was so thick that she looked almost clownish, and her frosted lipstick only approximately followed the lines of her mouth. Her blond pouf was flattened on one side, as if she had slept on it.