Murder On the Rocks (4 page)

He turned toward the screen, ready to describe the proposed plan to the assembly. I noticed that the parking lot expansion I’d seen on the blueprints-the one that would presumably be built after he had bulldozed my inn-wasn’t featured in the plan he was describing to the islanders. He had begun explaining how the golf course would be available to locals at a reduced fee when Claudette’s sharp voice interrupted him.

“What about the terns?”

“The terns?” Katz looked confused for a moment. “Oh, you mean the birds.” He chuckled. “I didn’t know they played golf.”

A few people tittered, but Claudette’s voice was strident, and her gray eyes flashed fire. “I’m not talking about your stupid golf course. What are you going to do about the terns’ nests?”

Katz smiled at her benevolently, exposing a line of crooked teeth. “Why, we’ll relocate them to a more appropriate location, of course. Premier Resorts International is highly sensitive to environmental issues …”

“I was down there yesterday, and it looks like someone’s been trying to `relocate’ them already. Somebody’s been destroying their nests!”

A murmur passed through the crowd, and Katz’s eyebrows shot up. “Destroying them? Dear lady, I’m sure you must be mistaken. There’s not even a proper walkway to the beach” He smiled at his audience. “Of course, once the Cranberry Island Premier Resort is built, there will be a path to allow everybody access to the beach.”

Claudette rose from her seat, her face flushed a dangerous red. “You’re a murderer!” she spat. “You murdered the terns, and now you’re planning to murder the island. You’re the one who deserves to die, not those innocent birds!” She looked as if she was ready to lunge for Katz’s throat. Charlene stood up and eased her back into the pew, whispering into her ear.

Bernard Katz smoothed down his nonexistent hair and turned back toward the screen. “I can assure you that Premier Resorts will handle the terns with the utmost care and respect. Now, as I was saying, the golf course will be available to islanders at a discount.” As Katz droned on, I tried to imagine the lobstermen taking up golf, and wondered how much it would cost even at a fifty percent discount, which I was sure it wouldn’t be. Probably more than most islanders made in a year. I was imagining a bunch of saltyhaired lobstermen wandering around the golf course in hip waders when suddenly Katz was stepping down from the pulpit to a smattering of applause, and I realized with a jolt that my turn was next.

A lump rose in my throat as I prepared to make
Save Our Terns’
case to the board. I was making my way toward the front of the church when a door banged in the narthex and Barbara Eggleby appeared, soaking wet and clutching a briefcase. Her long red hair was plastered to her face and her navy blue pants suit left a trail of drips as she strode down the main aisle.

“Am I too late?”

“No, you’re just in time,” I said, smiling with relief. My knees wobbled as I staggered back to my pew and wedged myself back in next to Charlene.

“Glad you could make it, Ms. Eggleby.” Tom motioned toward the pulpit. “Please, go ahead. Mr. Katz has just finished his presentation.”

Barbara opened her briefcase and withdrew a piece of paper. Then she pushed her wet hair behind her ears and grasped the pulpit with both hands.

“As you know,” she began, “The Shoreline Conservation Association is prepared to purchase, and has made an offer on, the parcel of land on which Mr. Katz would like to build his resort. Selling the land to the association would ensure that the land would remain exactly as it is, with no future development, enabling the island to retain the character that makes it such a marvelous place and ensuring that the terns can continue to nest.”

She looked around the room before she continued. “I understand that the board of selectmen must do what it believes is in the island’s best interest. Of course, the association feels that conserving this beautiful piece of land for generations to come is the best possible option, but we recognize that funding is important to all communities.” She took a deep breath. “And that is why we are prepared to match Mr. Katz’s offer of two million dollars.”

Two million dollars? Barbara must have called in every favor she’d ever been owed. I looked at Ingrid; surely she’d vote for the association to take over the land now. Her mouth twitched, but she continued to stare at the back of the church. Behind me, everybody started talking. Bernard Katz stood up, his eyes hard behind his glasses. “I’ll make it $2.1 million,” he called over the noise. A hush fell as a hundred pairs of eyes settled on Barbara.

Barbara shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I am not authorized to go above two million dollars.” She paused for a moment. “Mr. Katz should be aware, however, that even if the land were to be acquired by Premier Resorts, there is an excellent chance that he would be unable to develop it, as it may be designated critical tern habitat by the federal government. In fact,” she continued, “representatives from the Fish and Wildlife Service should be here in a few days to begin the evaluation.”

“Evaluation? What authority do you have to begin an evaluation?” Katz demanded. The room exploded with noise as everyone began talking at once. Tom stood up and called for order. When the chaos began to subside, he responded to Katz’s question. “I am the one who initiated the evaluation, Bernard. Now, before we move to a vote, we need to know; is your offer still good?”

Katz was silent for a moment. Then he straightened and pushed out his chin. “The offer’s good.”

“Then if there are no further comments from the floor,” said Tom, “I move that we take a vote” No one seemed to want to take the pulpit again, so he turned to the two other selectmen. Murray had abandoned his relaxed position and was leaning forward in his seat. Ingrid continued to stare at a point in the back of the church, her lips pulled tight. “All in favor of selling the land to Premier Resorts for $2.1 million, say aye.” Murray boomed his assent immediately. Tom shook his head. All eyes turned to Ingrid.

She took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “Aye”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE double-crossed us.” Charlene slumped in one of my kitchen chairs as I took the whistling kettle off the stove and poured hot water into the teapot. Barbara sat across from her, still shivering despite the warmth of the yellow kitchen. Fortunately, Claudette had bundled up her knitting and stormed out of the church when Ingrid voted for Katz. I appreciated her support, but I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her harangues tonight.

“I can’t believe you went to all of that effort to get up here and the vote went the wrong way, Barbara,” I said. When her connection from Boston was canceled, Barbara had rented a car and drove eight hours up the coast, only to discover that the water taxi wasn’t in service. She had run up and down the pier in a frenzy until one of the fishermen agreed to take her to the island, just in time for the meeting.

“We’ll just have to resort to other tactics,” said Barbara as I filled a plate with the few cookies that hadn’t been consumed at the town meeting. Her voice was cold. “I swore Bernard Katz wasn’t going to win this time, and I meant it.”

“But if the beach isn’t designated critical habitat, what other recourse do we have?” Charlene asked.

“And can’t he develop the rest of the property anyway?” I added through a mouthful of cookie.

“I’ll find a way to keep that resort from being built, Nat. I promise.” As I poured the tea, she stood up and stretched like a cat. “I’m bushed. Mind if I take mine up to my room?”

“Not at all. See you in the morning, Barbara. Don’t worry about getting up in time for breakfast; I’ll fix something for you whenever you come down.”

As the kitchen door swung closed behind Barbara, Charlene added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to her tea and helped herself to a cookie. “These are really good. I’d ask for the recipe, but I’d just rather you made them more often.” She took a bite of cookie and chased it with a swig of tea, then leaned forward. “By the way, I found out a little more about why the big K is staying with you instead of at Cliffside with his son”

“Oh really?”

“Apparently they had a big fight about two months ago, and since then they haven’t been too chummy. Katz used to stay at Cliffside all the time, but now he never visits.”

“Any word on what the argument was about?”

“Nobody knows, but my guess is that it was either about money or about Estelle.” Charlene took another bite of cookie. “How do you get these to be chewy and cooked all the way through? Mine are always either raw in the middle or hard as hockey pucks.”

“Are they having financial problems?” I felt a surge of hope. Maybe the contract for the land next door would fall through.

“I don’t know, but Polly Sarkes does housecleaning for them and she says Stanley hasn’t paid her in two months”

“If they can’t afford to pay the housekeeper, how are they going to afford to shell out two million dollars for a hunk of land and then build a multimillion-dollar resort on top of it?”

“Just because Stanley doesn’t have the dough doesn’t mean his daddy doesn’t.”

The bank statement I had seen that morning floated back into my mind, and my wild hope deflated as I realized Charlene was right. “Okay, so maybe Stanley’s in financial trouble. Why would they fight about Estelle?”

Charlene rolled her mascaraed eyes. “Nat, you’ve got to be kidding me. You haven’t noticed Katz Sr. starting to pant the moment Estelle steps into the room?” I remembered Katz’s behavior at breakfast this morning, and had to admit Charlene had a point.

“I know they’ve been a bit flirtatious,” I said. “But Estelle’s married to Stanley.”

“Maybe she’s discovered that Stanley’s small fry and she’s trying to get her hooks into a bigger fish.” Charlene took another bite of cookie. “After all, somebody’s got to fund her wardrobe”

By the time Charlene climbed into her rusty truck, it was already 11:00. I thanked her for the emergency rations-she’d brought three cartons of eggs and a gallon of milk-and called it a night. I had been planning on baking banana bread, but decided to make a batch of muffins in the morning instead.

The storm howled outside as I curled up under my fluffy down comforter, watching the lightning flicker behind the curtains. Biscuit snuggled in beside me, and the inn felt warm and solid around me. It had withstood storms stronger than this during the 150 years it had clung to the island. I tried to push the possibility that the inn’s days were numbered out of my mind, and finally drifted off.

The next morning dawned clear and rosy. The kitchen’s pine floors and warm yellow walls glowed in the early light, and the sea that yesterday had been leaden was flecked with peach and gold.

I put a pot of coffee on and began cutting up a watermelon, trying hard not to fantasize about it being Katz’s head. I combined the crimson fruit with strawberries and blueberries and reminded myself that although Katz was odious, it was important not to let his presence undermine my professionalism. Besides, Barbara had said he might not be able to develop the preserve anyway.

As I pulled a fresh carton of eggs out of the fridge, the refrigerator’s half-empty shelves reminded me that it was time to place another big grocery order. A quick mental calculation sent a wave of apprehension through me. Katz or no Katz, between the cost of food and my upcoming mortgage payment, I had to find some way to book more guests if the inn was to make it through the summer. I laid the eggs on the counter and started peeling bananas to mash for muffins. Rooms aren’t like bananas. If they’re not used, you can’t turn them into banana bread; they’re gone. I resolved to take a bunch of brochures over to Mount Desert Island that afternoon.

By 8:30, the buffet table was spread with a lavish breakfast; ramekins of shirred eggs, sausages, fruit salad, and mounds of fragrant muffins. The couple from Alabama came down five minutes later and tucked in with relish. “Storms always make me hungry,” white-haired Mrs. Bittles informed me as she helped herself to three muffins and a stack of sausages. Ogden Wilson entered the dining room alone a little before nine.

“Where’s Mr. Katz?” I asked as I poured him a cup of coffee.

“I haven’t seen him. Maybe he went out for a morning stroll.” More like a morning troll, I thought, wondering if he’d decided to do a little nest removal before the evaluation began. Barbara came down a few minutes later looking fresh and cheerful, her hair wet again, but this time from the shower. She sat down at the farthest table from Ogden and turned her back to him. I walked over with a carafe of coffee.

“Sleep well, Barbara?”

“Like a rock.” She smiled. “I love being tucked in when there’s a storm outside. There’s nothing cozier.” She took a sip of the coffee I’d just poured. “Great coffee. You run a wonderful inn, Nat.”

“Thanks. I’m just hoping I can keep doing it.” I told Barbara to help herself to breakfast and then headed back into the kitchen to replenish the butter. Mrs. Bittles had put quite a dent in the slab I had laid out next to the muffins.

By 10:00, the Bittles, Ogden, and Barbara had headed back to their rooms, but Katz had yet to appear. I cleared the buffet table, threw the tablecloths into the washing machine, and headed upstairs to wake up Gwen. Katz would have to forage for himself.

I knocked on my niece’s door and poked my head into her room. She sat up, looking disoriented. “Wow, that storm was noisy last night. I hardly slept.”

“Noisy? I didn’t notice anything”

“How could you not hear the wind? It was screaming like a banshee the entire night.” She shook her head as if to clear it, then rubbed her eyes.

“I’ve got to head down to the mainland with some brochures, but I’ve left breakfast on the kitchen table for you; would you mind taking care of the rooms for me?”

“No problem.” She fell back against the pillow. “Is it okay if I sleep a bit more and do the rooms later? I’m wiped.”

“As long as they’re done by three.” She grunted as the door closed behind me. Maybe I’d call from the mainland to make sure she’d gotten up.

I stuffed a stack of brochures into a backpack and headed out the door. It was wonderful to have an excuse to be out and about; the morning was gorgeous. Instead of taking the road to the pier, I had decided to walk the footpath that wound through the preserve and check the nests on my way to catch the mail boat. Even if I couldn’t find the nests, I thought with a pang, I should enjoy the path while I could. As my feet negotiated the rocky, narrow trail, my eyes drifted across the water toward the mainland. Mount Cadillac and Mount Pemetic rose like craggy beasts in the distance, and white gulls soared and wheeled in the crisp air.