Murder On the Rocks (3 page)

“Aunt Nat?” Gwen stood in the doorway and ran a hand through her long mass of curly brown hair. As usual, she was artistically dressed in a long, flowing black skirt and a close-fitting purple tank top that accented her slender waist. It wouldn’t be my choice for changing sheets and cleaning bathrooms, but she seemed comfortable.

“How’s it going back there?”

“I have to show you something.” She spoke with a note of urgency, and visions of overflowing toilets, broken water pipes and electrical fires passed before my eyes.

“What’s wrong? Is it an emergency?” My hand strayed to the phone. “Do I need to call John?” John often helped out with inn emergencies; plumbers were hard to come by on short notice.

“No, no, it’s not that. Just come look.” I followed her through the parlor down the long hallway to Ogden’s room. When Gwen opened the door, my eyes swept the room. The blue-and-whitechecked quilt lay smooth on the bed, and the wood floor shone as if freshly waxed. Either Ogden was a neat freak, or Gwen’s housekeeping skills were improving. I hoped it was the latter.

“Everything looks great. Except the weather.” My eyes drifted to the window, where starched white curtains were pulled back to expose an ocean of molten lead, interrupted by violent crashes of white as the surf hit the rocks. My throat tightened at the reminder that we were on our own at the board meeting tonight.

“And except for this.” Gwen walked over to the rolltop desk in the corner. “I rolled it back to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, and I found this.” She pointed at a blueprint that lay half-unrolled next to a stack of bank statements on the cherry-wood desk’s gleaming surface. My eyes lingered on the top statement; the holder of the account was listed as Holding Construction Company, and the most recent deposit was for more than $400,000. The Katzes must be doing pretty well.

“I’m not talking about the bank statements, Aunt Nat. This is the blueprint for the resort” She unfurled the pale blue paper and I stared down at the familiar coastline of Cranberry Island, disturbed by the sprawl of buildings depicted on the currently pristine property next door.

“Parking lots?” I snorted. “Is he planning on putting in a car ferry, too?”

“That’s the least of it, Aunt Nat. Where’s the Gray Whale on this map?” I looked at the section of coastline where the building that housed the inn had stood for more than a hundred and fifty years. In its place was an expanse of lined parking spaces. My stomach filled with ice water.

“That creep,” I hissed. “Just this morning he was trying to convince me that the resort would be `good for business’, and all along he’s been planning to run me out of business so he can raze the Gray Whale.”

A footstep sounded in the hall. I froze. Gwen snatched my hand from the blueprint, shoved it back into the desk half-rolled and started tugging at the rolltop.

“Roll it down, roll it down!” Gwen wrenched the handle at the top of the desk, but it wouldn’t budge; the humidity from the storm must have made the wood swell. I dropped the blueprint and yanked with her. The footsteps came closer, then paused. Suddenly the top slammed down with a bang, landing on my left thumb. I winced with pain and scurried toward the bathroom, where I was inspecting the sink when the door opened.

Ogden Wilson stepped into the room. His bulging eyes registered Gwen, then flicked to me. “What are you doing here?”

I smoothed my hair back with my uninjured hand and smiled. “Just checking to make sure the room was okay. My niece started a few weeks ago, and I was just looking to see if she’d missed anything.”

Ogden’s eyes roamed the room, lingering at the desk. A corner of the blueprint was sticking out. Had it been that way when we came in? “What was that noise I heard?”

“Noise?” My brain raced to produce a plausible explanation. “Oh, I slipped on one of the rugs and whacked the doorframe with my thumb.” I raised my injured hand. The base of the nail had already begun to darken. “I’ve been meaning to buy some slip-proof pads,” I continued, forcing a smile. “I’d better pick them up soon. I don’t need the business shut down over a liability case.”

I moved toward the door, and Gwen fell in behind me. “Anyway, it looks like you’ve done a fine job, Gwen. Mr. Wilson, please just let us know if there’s anything you need.” I eased the door closed as Gwen slipped through. “Sorry to disturb you.”

I hurried back to the kitchen with Gwen on my heels. “Thank you for showing me that, Gwen. I can’t believe this guy. If he wants to drive me out of business and then buy my inn, why is he even staying here?”

Gwen shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t like his son.” She glanced at her watch, then looked up at me. “Hey, I really want to get in a few sketches of the storm; do you mind if I leave the last room to you?”

So much for a reformed helper. “On another day I’d say okay, but I’ve got 100 people to feed tonight and I still haven’t done any prep work for breakfast tomorrow.” Gwen sighed and trudged back down the hall. “Thanks for giving me the heads-up on the plans, Gwen,” I called after her. She didn’t respond.

When the kitchen door closed behind me, I picked up the phone and dialed Charlene. I shouldered the handset and recounted what we’d found in Ogden Wilson’s room, unwrapping chocolate squares with my injured hand.

“That dirty rotten fink!” Charlene fumed. “I can’t believe him! Nat, you should kick him out.” “

I can’t. I need the money. Besides, what am I going to tell him: that I was snooping through his assistant’s stuff and didn’t like what I saw?” I unwrapped four sticks of butter and dropped them into a saucepan to melt, then reached for the flour and sugar canisters.

“I guess it’s better to keep your enemies where you can see them. So Gwen filled you in on what was going on? That was unusually helpful of her.”

“Yeah, I guess it was. Now if only she would apply the same zeal to her housekeeping duties.”

Charlene snorted. “Don’t count on it. Jeez, maybe we’ll have to start another group: Save the Gray Whale.”

“Very funny.”

“You know, if Katz is planning to drive you out of business, I wonder why he’s not staying with his son instead of paying you to provide bed and board?”

I measured the flour into an extra-large mixing bowl and then rummaged through a drawer for my second set of measuring spoons. “I’ve been wondering that too. Bad blood?”

“I’ll see what I can find out.” Charlene was the spider in the middle of the island’s web of gossip. As the storekeeper and postmistress, everyone came by to see her, and she was so good at extracting information I was surprised that the CIA hadn’t contacted her with a job offer.

“By the way,” Charlene said, “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Ingrid.”

I extracted the spoons from the jumble in the drawer and began measuring out baking soda. “She hasn’t been by to pick up her mail?”

“Nope. In fact, she hasn’t been by the store in two days.” Ingrid was the only undecided selectman, and her vote could make or break us. As of a week ago, she had been leaning toward voting for the association, but she was by no means a shoo-in. “I’m worried, Nat.”

“Isn’t Ingrid one of your afternoon regulars?” Several of the island women stopped by and had tea and sweets in the front of the store a few days a week, and I had seen Ingrid on a stool at the counter many times. She’d complimented me on my oatmealchocolate-chip cookies before; that’s why I was baking ten dozen of them for tonight.

“Yup. She never misses two days in a row.”

I stirred the dry ingredients together with a fork, and added them to the butter and chocolate. “Well, keep calling her. Maybe she came down with the flu or something.”

“By the way, you’ve got a few letters down here, looks like they might be brochure requests, and Katz has got some sort of package.”

“If the weather lets up, I’ll send Gwen down to get them.”

“Rats. Can’t you come instead?”

“I’ll tell you what. If I get ten dozen brownies done in the next 45 minutes, I’ll be right down.”

Charlene sighed. “See you at the church tonight then. And save some for me.”

When I stepped into St. James Episcopal Church at 6:45, it was already half-f and buzzing with conversation. Cranberry Island was too small for a town hall, so the antique wooden church did double duty as a meeting hall. Usually, a half dozen islanders at a meeting was considered a good turnout; tonight it looked like the whole island, and even a few from neighboring islands, had showed up.

I headed toward the tables in the narthex with two loaded cookie trays. The room already smelled of coffee; Charlene had brewed enough to fill the two silver pots she’d set up on the folding tables. Charlene joined me in removing the wet plastic wrap from a mound of fudge brownies. We had barely uncovered the rich brown squares when the locals set upon them like a pack of starving wolves. They might not be sure what to think of me, but they certainly knew what to do with a plate of my brownies.

“The Katz contingent is already here,” Charlene murmured into my ear. She had dressed for the occasion in a sparkly sweatshirt and jeans that hugged her well-padded form. Despite the rain, her highlighted and artfully tousled light brown hair looked as if she had just stepped out of the beauty parlor. She went to the mainland once a month to get her hair done and was addicted to Mary Kay cosmetics. I liked to tease her about it, telling her that she belonged in Texas, not a small island in Maine. This was usually met with a withering look and a comment regarding what she called my “bowl cut.”

I looked down at myself-in my hurry, I had forgotten to change -and brushed a bit of flour from the front of my ragged blue T-shirt. Charlene grimaced at my ensemble and then pointed toward the front of the church. “Ogden is setting up posters and what looks like a big computer presentation.”

I sighed. “Let’s hope chocolate will triumph over technology.” My eyes surveyed the room. Murray Selfridge stood in the corner talking with Bernard Katz and Estelle. Murray had moved away from the island and made his fortune on Wall Street, then retired and returned in grand style, buying up property and promising to establish a historical museum if he were elected to the board. He won the election, established the museum, and then, to the chagrin of most of the people who had voted for him, began courting developers.

I scanned the room, looking for Ingrid. Tom Lockhart, the head of the lobster co-op and the only selectman firmly in our court, was standing next to my neighbor, John, drinking coffee and wolfing down a brownie. John caught my eye and waved a brownie in greeting. I felt the blood rise to my face as I smiled back, then turned to Charlene.

“Where’s Ingrid?” I asked.

“I don’t know. She’s usually an hour early to town events, and the first one at the feeding trough, but I haven’t seen a trace of her this evening.”

“Any luck getting in touch with her this afternoon?”

“She wasn’t home … or she wasn’t answering the phone. She hasn’t gone off-island; I’d have seen her on the pier, and I can’t imagine she was out for a stroll all afternoon in this weather.” She nodded toward the rain pelting the church’s windows.

“I guess we just have to keep our fingers crossed, then.” I glanced over at the tables, where the mountains of cookies were dwindling. “Maybe I should have made more.”

“Don’t worry about it, Nat.”

A cold wind blew into the room, and a tall woman with a bright yellow rain slicker swept in, closing the church door behind her. She peeled off her jacket and strode past the plates of cookies without a sideways glance. When a few people greeted her, she nodded, her thin lips stretched into a tight smile, as she made a beeline for the front of the church.

“Well, there’s Ingrid,” said Charlene. “I wonder what’s up with her.”

“I don’t know, but it looks like we’re about to get started” People were making little stacks of the remaining cookies and brownies and moving into the sanctuary. I snagged a brownie and followed Charlene down the main aisle.

Claudette was already sitting at the front of the church, looking grim and stolid in a flowered broomstick skirt and a large black tunic that clung to her ample figure. She looked like an avenging earth goddess, with her long gray hair pulled back into a severe bun and steel-gray eyes above rolling mounds of flesh. As always, her knitting needles clacked in her lap; whatever she was working on tonight was so thick and fleecy that it looked as if she were recreating a sheep out of wool.

“Hi, Claudette. What are you working on?” I asked.

Claudette looked at me as if I were dense, and raised the lump of wool, which now appeared to have at least one sleeve dangling from it. “A sweater”

“Did you get some of Nat’s cookies?” Charlene asked. “They’re to die for.”

“I’m on a new diet; can’t have sugar. Besides, I don’t want sticky wool.” Despite her bulk, Claudette was on a perpetual diet; the beet and spinach diet, the high-protein diet (which, Charlene informed me, might have failed due to heavy consumption of bacon and whipping cream), the cabbage and grapefruit diet … she’d tried them all.

“Mind if we join you?” Charlene asked. Claudette lumbered over a few inches to make room for us. Charlene, who was also generously proportioned, deposited herself in the empty spot next to Claudette, and I wedged myself into the remaining six inches at the end of the pew.

Once most of the islanders had abandoned what was left of the cookies and filed into the sanctuary, Tom moved to the pulpit, clearing his throat and calling the meeting to order. After a discussion of trash disposal and pier maintenance, he addressed the real business at hand, and stepped down to give Bernard Katz the pulpit. Ogden dimmed the lights in the sanctuary and Katz began his sales pitch, flashing colorful illustrated pictures of the future resort on the small white screen he’d erected over the cross at the front of the church.

“This resort not only means two million dollars in the town’s coffers-enough to build a new school, or a library-but more jobs for islanders, as well as an increase in property values.” He smiled broadly and looked around the room. “By making Cranberry Island the home of the next Premier Resort, you’re investing in the island’s future.” My stomach lurched. I knew that the Shoreline Conservation Association’s offer didn’t even come close.