Murder On the Rocks (26 page)

It was only a short walk to the library, which was housed in a white clapboard building that appeared to be a former church. I stepped in through the heavy wooden door and inhaled the familiar scent of old books that always catapulted me back to childhood. I passed through the small space that had once done duty as a nave and found myself in a long, high-ceilinged room with heavy brown beams reminiscent of the hull of a ship. After nodding a greeting to the librarian, a white-haired woman whose ringed fingers jangled as they flew across a computer keyboard, I grabbed the most recent Wall Street Journal. The article Barbara had put together was on page two, but it told me no more than Charlene had. I tossed the paper aside and hurried over to the computer area.

I sat down at the first empty station and pulled up the Premier Resorts International Web site, whose home page featured a picture of a gigantic resort on a white sand beach. Was this the North Carolina resort that Barbara had fought so hard to prevent? I said a silent prayer of thanks that Cranberry Island wouldn’t have a similar monolithic structure plunked down on its rocky shores, and clicked through the pages to a list of the companies associated with or owned by Premier Resorts. As I suspected, what I was looking for wasn’t there.

I pulled up another Web site and typed in a name. The entry appeared immediately; it was located in New York City, and the address was a post office box. My pulse picked up. I was on the right track. When I clicked to find out who the registered owners were, though, the site informed me that a paid membership was required for access to that information. When I saw the price of membership, I sat back in frustration.

What I wanted had to be public record; how could I find it? I walked back to the librarian. She pushed her bright red reading glasses up on the bridge of her nose and joined me at the computer, her ringed fingers whizzing over the keyboard as I stood back and watched in awe. She might not be a child of the information age, but she sure knew her way around the Internet. Within two minutes, she had guided me to exactly where I needed to go.

I typed in a name, and my breath quickened as the entry came up immediately. I clicked on a link, and a list of names unfolded on the glowing screen in front of me. The first name on the list came as no surprise, and the calmness of certainty settled over me as I stared at the small black letters. The second name puzzled me for a moment, but as I sat back and sifted through all the things I had seen and heard, it made perfect sense.

I printed the list, gave the librarian my appreciation for the help and ten cents for the printed page, and headed back out into the bright Somesville afternoon. The floating ramp to the pier was steeper than it had been when I climbed it; the tide was on its way out. It was time to pay a visit to Smuggler’s Cove.

I CAST OFF WITH a bit more ease this time-I was beginning to get a feel for the Little Marian-and puttered past the boats moored in the harbor, debating the best way to approach the cove. Four eider ducklings bobbed by me, following their mother in a noisy line, and I smiled despite the tightness in my stomach. Eleazer had said the landing would be tricky. I hoped I’d be up to it.

Instead of bearing directly for the cliffs-I knew John was still up there, and it was likely that by now both Grimes and the police from the mainland had joined him-I veered back north toward East Bunker Ledge. At least I thought it was East Bunker Ledge-I was still a little hazy on my Cranberry Isles geography. My plan was to turn toward Cranberry Island at its northern tip and then work my way along the shoreline toward the cove. There was still a chance that John would see me, but it was better than making straight for my destination across the open water.

East Bunker Ledge wasn’t much more than a rock sticking out of the water with a couple of pine trees growing at the top of it. I scanned the water around me as the Little Marian chugged toward it; I didn’t want to encounter a police launch along the way. As my eyes swept the horizon, a seal’s snout protruded from the water in front of the boat. I thought of John and his beautiful sculpture and smiled. While the conversation I’d overheard earlier today with Grimes had chilled me to the marrow, hearing John come to my defense had brought a flush of warmth to my heart.

I finally reached the small island, which was swarming with sea-gulls, and turned the skiff toward Cranberry Island. The short stretch of blue water passed quickly, and before long I was puttering along the rocky shore south of the Gray Whale Inn. The shattered granite looked as if someone had bashed it with a hammer, sending large chunks spiraling to the ocean floor below. I scanned the water in front of me, searching for the telltale break in the waves that would reveal a submerged rock. Despite my life jacket and my proximity to the shore, I didn’t relish a dip in the icy water.

I hunched down into my jacket as the Gray Whale Inn slid by over my left shoulder, steering the skiff so that it hugged the shore. The entrance to the cove wasn’t visible from John’s rocky perch. If the little boat veered off too far from the shoreline, though, heor Grimes-would be able to spot me. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the rudder and steered past a trio of rocks jutting up from the silky blue water.

As the boat thrummed closer to the rocky entrance to Smuggler’s Cove, a huge boulder reared up out of the water in front of me like a craggy gray elephant, the waves breaking hard against its weathered hide. I had no choice; I was forced to veer out away from the base of the cliff. I turned the rudder and glanced up toward John’s high perch, catching a flash of his red T-shirt and a glint of sunlight on his hair before I gunned the engine and turned back toward the cliffs, steering the boat as close to the rocks as I dared. I hoped he hadn’t seen me. I needed time to find evidence to clear myself before Grimes descended upon me with dangling handcuffs.

Finally, the entrance of the cove appeared, like a black mouth lined with vicious gray teeth. I examined the narrow opening with a sinking heart. Even though the tide was at its lowest ebb, exposing enough room under the ragged arch in the rock for the boat to pass through, I remembered what Eleazer had said; when the tide came up, the entrance was completely submerged. I’d have to get in and out fast.

The opening was barely six feet wide, just enough to squeeze into, if I could avoid the cove’s jagged edges. The tops of rocks jutted out of the water like the fins of sharks, all along the narrow corridor leading to the cove.

The waves slapped up against the boat as I idled the motor and examined the approach to the cove with growing unease, wishing that I had taken a few test drives with Eleazer or John before attempting a maneuver like this. Suddenly, the boat lurched, almost knocking me off my seat. A rogue wave had nudged the Little Marian sideways, and its fellows were rapidly pushing the small boat into the rocks. I suddenly realized the skiff was inches away from slamming into the rocks.

I threw the engine into reverse and gunned the motor. The Little Marian lurched backwards, then jerked to a stop with a sickening thud. I threw the engine into forward gear, but the boat didn’t move. I gunned it again. The engine whined in protest, but the skiff was drifting, rudderless. When I pulled the outboard motor up out of the icy water, the problem was obvious; the propeller was gone. I must have hit a rock and sheared it off.

As I sat, helpless, the waves sucked at the Little Marian, pulling her closer and closer to the jagged rocks. Panic welled in my throat. Think, Nat. Think. I scrambled to the floor of the boat and grabbed one of the oars Eleazer had pointed out to me on our first boat trip. I leaned over the side and positioned the oar against the nearest rock and pushed with all of my strength. A wave pushed back, so I heaved a second time, and this time managed to get the Little Marian moving away from the rocks. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on the bench before realizing that the boat was now drifting out to the open water. A flurry of terns was already visible overhead; if the skiff drifted much farther, I would be exposed to the eyes on the cliffs above. I considered giving up and rowing back to the Gray Whale Inn, but dismissed it. This might be my only opportunity to explore the cove.

I eyed the narrow entrance. It was only about six feet wide at its narrowest point-nowhere near enough room for oars. To row into the cove, I’d have to pick up enough speed to carry me through before the boat got to the entrance. The rocks on the sides looked vicious, but I figured I could use the oars to keep the boat from scraping along the sides, and maybe even add a little momentum by pushing the boat along off of the walls.

I fumbled the oars into the oarlocks and sat down on the hard wooden bench. It was now or never. I gave the oars a few experimental swings and then dipped them into the blue-green water, pulling with all of my strength and stealing a glance over my shoulder at the narrow gap. I pulled again, praying that the waves wouldn’t push me too far to one side, and the little boat began picking up speed. By the fourth pull, the boat was almost to the mouth of the cave. I had dipped my oars into the water for a final thrust when the left oar cracked against something, spinning the Little Marian around toward one of the walls.

I dug the left oar into the water again frantically, trying to get the boat on track, and the right oar dragged hard against the other wall. I pulled it out of its oarlock and stabbed at the walls with it, trying to keep the skiff from scraping against the rocks. As I swung the oar from side to side and pushed against the walls to avoid the rocks that protruded from the water like spears, I prayed that the entrance was short and involved no turns.

The slice of sky above the boat narrowed as I fought my way into the cove, the oar slipping against the slick rocks. Despite my efforts to push deeper in-I was sweating hard under my windbreaker-the boat was slowing down, and the slapping of the waves had taken on an eerie, sucking sound. I stabbed at the rocky walls with the oar, trying hard to steer the sluggish boat through the narrow waterway, and hoped that the little skiff wouldn’t hit any underwater surprises.

I was beginning to wonder if I’d be floating in the cove forever when a shallow shelf loomed on the right side of the Little Marian. I dropped the oar into the boat and fumbled for a hold among the rocks, my hands skittering over the lumpy surface and closing around a rough metal loop. I reached back for a rope and threaded it through, then grabbed the other rope and clambered out of the boat, searching the shelf for another place to tie up. When my fingers closed on a second rusted loop driven into the granite floor, I relaxed for what felt like the first time in days. Then I remembered that I’d have to find my way back out of the cove, and tensed up all over again.

I looked at the iron loops driven into the rocks. As difficult as it was to get into the narrow waterway, apparently someone had visited it regularly at some point. My mind flitted back to Eleazer’s comments about rumrunners. I knelt down to examine the stone around the base of the loops; it was stained orange with rust, and the iron was pitted and corroded. Whoever had driven these loops into the rock had done it a long time ago.

I checked to make sure the boat was secure, then stood up and looked around. The sunlight had been reduced to a narrow slit in the rocks above me, and the small space around me felt more like a cave than a cove. I took a few steps forward and cast my eyes around the dim walls. Nothing was visible but jagged walls, and disappointment welled in my throat. Still, if somebody had once tied a boat up here regularly-and someone else had visited the cove the night of the murder-there had to be something here. I ran my hands along the wall, looking for a concealed shelf, and edged along toward the back of the cove. The small walkway ascended sharply, and I was almost at the end of it before I found what I was looking for: a small opening, about three feet high, hidden behind a bulge in the rock.

Excitement tinged with fear welled in my chest as I bent down and stepped into the hole. I stood up slowly to avoid bashing my head against the granite ceiling, but I needn’t have worried; although the entrance was low, there was enough room to stand up easily in the small chamber. The darkness was inky-this part of the cove was truly a cave-and the sound of the water slapping against the walls behind me was muted.

I stood still until my eyes adjusted to the faint light, wishing I had brought a flashlight. After a few minutes, I could make out the shape of the rough walls, but not much else. I’d have to fumble around with my hands and take anything I found out into the main part of the cove to examine it. As I glanced back toward the mouth of the cave, a dull gleam caught my eye. When I reached out to touch it, my hand closed around a flashlight. I perked up; my luck was turning. When I flicked the switch, the cave was suffused with light. My initial excitement was tempered with a frisson of fear as I realized that the working flashlight meant somebody had been here recently, and evidently planned to return.

As I swung the flashlight around, the beam illuminated two shovels leaning up near the cave’s entrance. I focused the light on the nearer of the two and knelt to examine it. The gray metal shone in the flashlight’s beam, and at first glance, looked as if it had never been used. On closer inspection, however, I noticed fine scratches on the blade and few grains of sand wedged between the metal blade and the handle. Was this the shovel that had been used to destroy the terns’ nests?

I scooted over and trained the beam on the second shovel. This one was much older; the blade was rusted through in spots, and it wobbled on the handle as I picked it up. A few rusty red streaks marked the wood at the base of the handle, and a shiver passed through me. Blood, a little voice in my mind whispered. Then again, it could just be a rust stain. I released the shovel hastily and ran the beam of the flashlight around the rest of the cave.

On the second sweep, I spotted what looked like a small fireproof safe tucked into a crevice at the far end of the cave. My heart leaped in excitement, but began sinking stomachward as I walked over to take a closer look. It was a safe. And like most safes, it was locked with a key. I flashed the light around the cave, hoping that whoever had left the safe here might also have left the key, but my luck wasn’t that good.