Scone Cold Dead Read online

  Scone Cold Dead

  A Gray Whale Inn Mystery

  Karen MacInerney

  Copyright © 2019 by Karen MacInerney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Other books in the Gray Whale Inn Mysteries:

  The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries

  Murder on the Rocks

  Dead and Berried

  Murder Most Maine

  Berried to the Hilt

  Brush With Death

  Death Runs Adrift

  Whale of a Crime

  Claws for Alarm

  Cookbook: The Gray Whale Inn Kitchen

  Blueberry Blues (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)

  Pumpkin Pied (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)

  Iced Inn (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Spell of Trouble

  More Books by Karen MacInerney

  Recipes

  Apple Puff Pancake with Cinnamon Butter Maple Syrup

  Cranberry Island Crabmeat Quiche

  Chocolate Cherry Hazelnut Scones

  Lemon Blueberry Sunburst Scones

  Bonus Recipe: Maple Walnut Scones

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  I'm good at a lot of things. Whipping up sour cream coffee cake before I've finished my first cup of coffee. Being polite to guests who complain that there's no room service at 2 a.m. Cutting up pineapples without removing the tips of my fingers.

  I am not, unfortunately, good at watercolor.

  It was the first day of my niece Gwen's inaugural art class at Cranberry Island's brand-new Art Guild. With the help of some big donors—and local developer Murray Selfridge—Gwen, my husband John, and a few other artists had worked together to turn Fernand LaChaise's property into an art school and gallery again. I, along with several other islanders, had eagerly signed up for classes—not just because I wanted to support Gwen, but because I'd always wanted to try my hand at painting.

  So far, it wasn't going well.

  "Is that supposed to be water?" my classmate Charlene asked, pointing a paintbrush at my page. She was dressed nattily, as usual, in hip-hugger jeans that clung to her ample, curvy figure and a gorgeous, green cashmere sweater that contrasted beautifully with her caramel-streaked hair. Charlene was the island's postmistress and the proprietor of Cranberry Island's only store; she was also my best friend.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Same here," she said, pointing to her page. Although she was a wizard with a makeup brush, she, too, seemed to be struggling with the whole painting thing.

  "What am I doing wrong?" I asked as I stared at the large, blotchy blue spot on my formerly pristine piece of white paper.

  Gwen drifted over and examined my attempt at watercolor. "There's a lot of pigment on there," she said, a line appearing between her delicate brows. She looked gorgeous and artistic as always, in a flowing skirt and a crinkly red-velvet blouse that accented her dark hair and ivory skin. Marriage seemed to suit her; since she and local lobsterman Adam Thrackton had tied the knot just before Christmas, she'd seemed happier than ever. Her outfit reflected her artistic abilities, as did the detailed, evocative watercolor paintings that graced the walls of the gallery next door. I, on the other hand, was more pragmatically clad—as usual—in jeans and a plaid shirt that I wore untucked to hide the evidence of a few-too-many blueberry muffins. And my painting? Well...

  "Did you do a wash with water first?" my talented niece asked, trying to diagnose the problem.

  "You mean, coat the page with water? Yes, I did. And then I just dabbed on some paint from there."

  "Ah. That could be the issue. You might want to make a little pool of water on the palette and dab a little bit of pigment in it instead of taking it straight from the tray," she suggested. "What makes watercolor special is its transparency."

  "Okay. I'll try that," I said, and moved to crumple up the page.

  "Don't do that!" Gwen said. "Try another section. Here," she said, pointing to a corner of the page. "Just practice a bit. Like this.” She took a big brush, expertly swiped a bit of water on the page, then dabbed a bit of dark paint into a pool of water on my palette. A moment later, a beautiful, transparent blue blossomed on the top of the page, looking like a fresh rain puddle. "See? It's easy."

  "Right," I said skeptically, and picked up the brush. Whatever artistic talent was in the family had clearly passed me by.

  "How's this?" asked Lorraine Lockhart, brandishing a beautiful wash of light blue.

  "Oh, that's fabulous!" Gwen said. "I like how you managed the color gradation. Good job!"

  I watched as Gwen walked around the room dispersing compliments. Maybe I should try one of the other classes, I thought as I dabbed at the paper yet again, making more unwieldy blue blotches. Three artists from the mainland were spending a few months in residency and were giving classes: a potter, an oil painter, and a sculptor who worked in wood, just like my husband. The potter was less than amazing—although he called his lumpish creations "an organic representation of life on the sea bottom," Gwen had told me privately that Chad Berman, their creator, was the son of one of the benefactors, and was really there more for the funding than the talent. On the other hand, Emma Frisch, the artist who worked in oils, had done some close-ups of local flora that made me think of her as a modern Georgia O'Keeffe, and the sculptor, a woman named Thuy Nguyen, from my hometown of Austin, was a master of wood carving. John had really enjoyed having a colleague to share tips and experience with; I was already seeing some new techniques emerging in his gorgeous driftwood sculptures.

  "I'm not sure I'm cut out for this," Charlene said as she held up her paper for examination. Dribbles of paint rolled down to the bottom. "Oops."

  "There are no mistakes," Gwen crooned. "Only opportunities!"

  "Opportunity my patootie. If this were red, it would look like a murder scene," Charlene observed under her breath. "And speaking of murder and other violent acts," she added brightly, "did you hear what happened down at the co-op yesterday?"

  "Do I want to know?"

  "Mac Penney drank too much and rammed Earl Randall's boat."

  "What? That's crazy. Why?"

  "I'm not sure if it was drink or something else, but it's going to take a week or so for Eli White to fix it. Earl is lucky it didn't sink."

  "It wasn't an accident," Lorraine said.

  "Earl accused Mac of hauling his traps last week," Charlene informed me.

  "Tom told me about that," Lorraine pitched in. "A lot of locals have been light on lobsters, but Mac keeps hauling in more than his share. There's been some talk that maybe he's fishing e
xtra traps."

  "Anything to it?" I asked.

  Lorraine grimaced. "I don't know if it's someone on the island or not, but someone's raiding other people's traps. And Adam accidentally hauled up an unmarked trap the other day... and it was connected to four more."

  "That's seriously illegal," Charlene said. "Any idea who's doing it?"

  Lorraine shook her head. "Mac is pretty sure Earl called the Marine Patrol on him, though."

  "Why does he think that?" I asked.

  "There's an observer coming to the island tomorrow. She's asked to go on Mac's boat."

  "I think she's booked at the inn," I said. Because the Gray Whale Inn was the only place to stay on Cranberry Island, it made sense that the guest I had arriving tomorrow must be the observer in question; her name was Chelsea Sanchez, and she'd booked for a week.

  "Maybe you can find out why she's really here," Charlene suggested. "Mac thinks it's because Earl said traps are being hauled illegally; he thinks she's an investigator, not just an observer."

  Lorraine twirled her paintbrush in the air and leaned in toward us. "Mac had a few PBRs to drown his sorrows, and when he ran into Earl at the co-op, he threatened to make him lose his license... or worse."

  "That doesn't sound good."

  "I know," Lorraine said, "and Tom's worried things are escalating. You heard what happened on Matinicus a few years ago, right?"

  "I know it's an island down the coast, but I don't know anything else. Fill me in."

  "There was a horrible gear war," Lorraine said.

  Charlene waved her paintbrush. "I remember that. It ended in more than a quarter-million dollars in damages, right? And didn't some guy's boat get torched, like three times?" Charlene asked.

  "Exactly," Lorraine said.

  "You don't really think we're going there, do you?" I asked. We'd had troubles a few years ago with folks from off island intruding on the traditional fishing grounds—although the lines aren't "official," they were fiercely guarded—-but things seemed to have settled down. At least until now.

  "Someone's been hauling other people's traps," Lorraine said. "We don't know who it is. There's been some talk of doing surveillance, but you can't just put a camera on someone's boat without telling them about it."

  "I remember there was some talk in the legislature about changing that a few years ago, but it got voted down," I said.

  "It did," Lorraine confirmed. "The Marine Patrol has to give anyone twenty-four hours’ notice before installing surveillance equipment."

  "And who would be stupid enough to do something illegal on camera?" Charlene asked.

  Lorraine's mouth quirked up in a smile. "You might be surprised. But generally, people do behave better when they're being filmed."

  "Well, if this keeps up, Eli will have plenty of work lined up this coming winter," Charlene pointed out. "Speaking of Eli, he seemed a little worried when I saw him yesterday."

  "What's up?"

  "Claudette's last checkup didn't go so well, apparently. A couple of weeks ago, he told me they want her to go in for more testing.” That was not news I wanted to hear—not at all. Claudette and Eli White were pillars of the island. Claudette was a fierce protector of island habitat and had always been active in island affairs... despite the fact that her two goats, Muffin and Pudge, had been the terrors of local gardens for years. She'd reconnected with her long-lost son and his young family not too long ago, and she and Eli were savoring the experience of being parents—and grandparents—for the first time.

  "Oh, no," I said. "Diabetes?" I knew she'd been prediabetic for some time; everything she baked was sugar-free, so I often slipped her husband a few extra cookies from the inn. It was our little secret.

  "No. Something else. I don't know the details, but Eli didn't look so good."

  "I'll have to swing by to check on him," I said.

  Charlene looked worried. "Me too. I hope she's going to be okay."

  As she spoke, Gwen drifted back over. "How's it going over here, ladies?"

  "We got distracted," I confessed. "I'll try again."

  "It just takes practice," Gwen said as I smeared more blue water on the page. "You'll get it, Aunt Nat!"

  "Right," I said, not feeling convinced.

  That was okay, I told myself as I made yet another attempt to create something other than a blob on the page. Unfortunately, my next effort looked no better than the previous two.

  I sighed and turned over the paper. Art class, so far, was not proving to be the calming distraction I'd hoped it would be.

  On the plus side, at least I knew how to make a killer coffee cake.

  When Charlene and I stepped out of the Art Guild an hour later, the spring day was cool and fresh. Daffodils were blooming in the grass near the end of the drive, and a few small apple trees had unfurled their blossoms, perfuming the air with their sweet scent. I knew Fernand had planted the apple trees, and felt a twinge of sadness thinking of my lost friend. He'd been Gwen's mentor and had lived here and run a small art school before he'd been taken from us, far too soon. I still missed him, and was glad my niece was carrying on his legacy.

  "Are you going by Eli and Claudette's?" Charlene asked as we turned right on Seal Point Road.

  "I thought I might," I said. "I don't have that many guests at the inn right now, so the workload is light."

  "I heard the woman who's renovating Cliffside is staying with you," Charlene commented. "What do you think of her?"

  "She seems nice enough," I said. Sarah Greenwich had reserved a room for two weeks as she organized work on Cliffside, a big house that overlooked Cranberry Island's harbor and had been through many owners in the past several years. It was a pretty house, but for some reason, nobody could ever figure out what to do with it.

  "Think she'll stick?”

  "She seems excited about moving here," I said. "She used to summer on the island as a kid."

  "Did she? What's her name?"

  "Sarah Greenwich.”

  "It doesn't ring a bell," Charlene said. "I'll ask around. What's she doing to the place, anyway?"

  "Just renovating the interior," I said. "Nothing grand."

  "Not opening a rival B and B?"

  "I hope not!" I said. "Bookings have been slow enough this spring. I don't need the competition."

  "I'm sure things will pick up," Charlene said.

  "The economy's been kind of up and down lately; I think that may be why some of my regulars have been slow in booking." I sighed. "I'm probably going to have to do some marketing."

  "Gwen's done a great job getting the word out about the Art Guild," Charlene said. She was right; not only had Gwen gathered together the contributors, but she'd organized the class schedule, gotten residents in, and started signing people up. "Maybe she can give you a hand. Heck... maybe you could do art retreat weekends this summer."

  "That's a great idea!" I said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

  "Between the two of you, you could really do well, I think."

  "Thanks," I said as we rounded the corner and headed toward the Whites' house. The smell of balsam was in the air, and I caught the sound of a bleating goat. A moment later, we spotted Muffin and Pudge, who were chained—as usual—to a tire that was supposed to limit their range. Unfortunately—also as usual—the control method had proved unsuccessful, and the two goats were again ravaging local Selectman Ingrid Sorenson's rose bushes.

  "They're a menace," Charlene commented.

  "They are," I said. "But they're cute, and I love their owner, so I can live with them."

  "I'm worried about her," Charlene said. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen her as much recently."

  "Hopefully it was a false positive, whatever the test was, and it's just the remnants of the winter blues," I said as we approached the little house. It was tidy enough, but Eli's line of work was made obvious by the boats marooned in the slightly overgrown yard next door. The sound of hammering came from his workshop as we came closer.
<
br />   "Probably Earl's boat," Charlene said. "I know they had to haul her out of the water so she didn't sink."

  "I wonder if Lorraine's right about why Mac rammed her?"

  "I don't know," Charlene said, "but things at the lobster co-op are not good. Tempers are high lately. Is Mercury in retrograde or something?"

  "I have no idea," I said as we crossed the yard to Eliezer's workshop, which was in an open barn in the middle of the boat-dotted field.

  My friend had put down his hammer and was examining the hull of a white lobster boat with a big gash on the port side, right near what looked like the waterline. Charlene was right; Earl was lucky it hadn't sunk. "Hey there, Eli!" I said as we stepped into the barn. The yard might be messy, but Eliezer's workshop was neat as a pin. The tops of the walls were pierced with windows that filled the space with light, and although the barn doors were open, the interior smelled strongly of fresh lumber and marine paint.

  "Well, well, well," Eli said. He smiled, but it didn't make it to his eyes. He was a thin, wiry man, with bright eyes, calloused hands, and gray hair. I'd never met anyone so passionate about boats—he'd made his living as Cranberry Island's boatwright for almost half a century now—and had an impish nature that always made me smile. "How's your boat treating you?" he asked.

  "Terrific as always," I said. My friend had built my little skiff and always inquired after it; I got the feeling his boats were like his children. "I hear there was a bit of a collision in the harbor."

  "You could say that," he said, pointing to the hole in the hull of the boat, whose name, Lucky Lady, was stenciled in peeling black paint. "The Lucky Lady is pretty lucky, from the looks of it. I'm surprised both boats didn't go down."