Dead and Berried Page 11

  After an hour of Benjamin’s secretive winks, Candy’s high-pitched giggles, and Russell’s suspicious glances, it was a relief when everybody filtered out of the dining room. I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and left a message for the insurance adjustor, then headed for my bike. I needed to get out of the inn for a while. I also needed to talk with McLaughlin about the number of bullets in Polly’s gun.

  The blue sky sparkled overhead as the touring bike coasted down the hill toward the rectory. It was a beautiful afternoon, and truth be told, it was a pleasure being away from the inn—and the people in it. The island was ablaze in autumn glory. Beneath the wheels of the bike, the blacktop was dotted with bright red and yellow leaves, and the apple trees that appeared from time to time along the edge of the road were laden with ripe fruit. Riding past the brightly painted houses clustered near the church, I smelled the faint tang of wood smoke.

  The rectory was a small white house tucked in across the street from St. James. As I pulled up outside of it, I saw for the first time the extent of the renovations that McLaughlin had undertaken. Charlene had told me he was doing some work on the rectory, but I hadn’t realized just how much. When it was finished, the skeletal structure attached to the back of the tiny house would triple the size of the building.

  I almost tripped over a foil-covered Pyrex dish on my way to the rectory door. My nose wrinkled as I bent down to retrieve it—it smelled decidedly fishy—and knocked at the door twice.

  McLaughlin answered a moment later, dressed in slacks and a red button-down shirt that skimmed over his flat stomach and accented his dark good looks. He greeted me with a lukewarm smile. I didn’t miss the flash of irritation that preceded it.

  I handed him the dish. “It looks like this is for you.”

  He flipped back a corner of the foil and sighed. “Another tuna-fish casserole.”

  I grimaced. “Does this happen often?”

  “Almost every day, I’m afraid. Since I moved here, I’ve had a steady diet of tuna casserole, lasagna, and some concoction that involves green peas and hamburger meat.” I shuddered. There were more challenges to life in the ministry than I had realized. “The big problem, though,” he continued, “is trying to figure out who to return the dishes to.” He gave me a wry grin, and for a moment I could understand what Charlene saw in him.

  Then he seemed to remember who he was talking to. The grin disappeared, replaced by the more usual solicitous smile. “What can I do for you, Natalie?” he said briskly. “I hope you haven’t come to hound me about Polly again?”

  “Mind if I come in for a moment?”

  “Oh, of course. Forgive me.”

  I followed him into the front room. I had always imagined that a priest’s living room would be furnished entirely with tatty, hand-me-down couches and mismatched chairs. Not this living room. Two vast leather couches flanked the fireplace, and my feet sank into the deep pile of an obviously expensive oriental rug.

  “Please, sit down,” he said. He lifted the Pyrex dish. “I’m just going to take this to the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Oh, no thanks.” McLaughlin disappeared into the kitchen, and I settled myself into the buttery leather of one of the couches and glanced around. At the far end of the room, a number of commemorative plaques hung. I was too far away to read the text, but from the brass toilets adorning them, I guessed they harked back to his former life in plumbing. The walls were lined with bookshelves. The books’ heavy leather bindings looked a little pricier than the run-of-the-mill Reader’s Digest condensed books. McLaughlin soon reappeared and arranged himself on the couch across from me.

  “I noticed you’re doing some major renovations,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. It’s a nuisance, but it’ll be nice when it’s done.”

  “I didn’t realize the work was so extensive.”

  “Well, this place has been pretty much untouched since it was built. It was time to do a little upgrading, bring it into the twenty-first century.”

  “Yeah, most of the island is a little behind the times.” I leaned back against the leather couch. “You’re such a talented minister,” I said. “I’m kind of surprised you’re posted here. Is this your first church?” I asked.

  “Thank you for the kind words,” he said. His smile was saccharine. “I think part of the reason God called me here was to breathe life back into some of the smaller ministries.”

  “So this is your first posting?”

  “I’ve done some good work with other churches before,” he said, shifting in his seat. “But Cranberry Island is really something special. I can see why you chose to open an inn here.”

  “I’ve heard you had a very successful life in the business world before you came to the church.” I nodded toward the row of commemorative toilets. “What made you switch gears?”

  “I did have some success in the plumbing fixtures industry,” he said. “But I always felt there was something missing from my life.” He leaned forward in his chair. “That’s ancient history, though. And we still haven’t talked about why you’re here. I’d like to believe you’re looking for my support in this time of crisis, but I’m afraid that’s not why you came here today.”

  “No, it’s not,” I admitted. “I’m here because I found out some new information last night. I was hoping it might change your mind about talking to the police.”

  His dark eyebrows arched. “Oh?”

  “The gun that killed Polly Sarkes had only four bullets in it.”

  His tanned brow wrinkled. “And the significance of that is?”

  “The significance,” I said slowly, “is that one bullet is unaccounted for.” I studied his face as I continued. “And I don’t think that even an inexperienced markswoman would need two shots to hit herself in the chest.”

  Although McLaughlin’s face remained expressionless, I thought I caught a flicker of something behind his dark eyes. Then he shrugged. “How do you know a bullet is missing? Maybe the gun wasn’t fully loaded.”

  “I’m planning to confirm that this afternoon.”

  “How do you intend to do that?”

  “I know where the box of bullets is.” If I had a metal detector, I’d check the bog, too. I was sure that casing was out there somewhere.

  He blinked twice. Then he sighed. “Natalie, I have to tell you I am very concerned about you. Charlene is, too. Your obsession with the development, and with Polly... it’s worrisome.”

  The development? I hadn’t said a word about the development.

  “Are you sure the inn isn’t too much of a strain?” he asked.

  “Thanks for your concern,” I said shortly, “but the inn is doing just fine.” Except for the fracas with the insurance company. But he didn’t have to know that. “What I’m more worried about is that somebody got away with murdering Polly.”

  He looked to the ceiling and sighed.

  I forged ahead anyway. “I know she talked to you about her personal life. I know that she felt she had some kind of decision to make. I think you may know something that will help bring Polly’s killer to justice.” I paused, but he continued to study the ceiling. “Please. Even if you don’t think it’s relevant, she might have told you some bit of information the police can use.”

  His eyes dropped back to me. He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “According to the police, there is no murderer. Polly was depressed. She killed herself. Natalie, bullets or no bullets, I’m afraid you’re jousting at windmills here.”

  “The police aren’t always right,” I said. As a former murder suspect, I felt more than qualified to make that statement.

  He shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Natalie. Until you come to terms with your... obsession... there’s nothing I or anybody else can do to help you.” He stood up and swiped imaginary lint from his khakis.
I fought to contain my frustration and rage. Then I stood and followed him to the door.

  “If you change your mind, or just need someone to talk to, I’m always here,” he said.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I was still fuming as I pumped the bike’s pedals toward the Cranberry Island store. I couldn’t avoid it any longer; I had to drop off my grocery list. Although the little wooden store with the big front porch was usually one of my favorite places on the island, today I felt as if I were approaching Medusa’s cave.

  I parked the bike, walked past the store’s painted wooden rockers, and sucked in my breath as I pushed through the door. I cringed as the bell jangled above my head and steeled myself for Charlene’s icy green gaze. To my relief, the green eyes that greeted me from behind the register belonged not to Charlene, but to her niece.

  Tania smiled at me, exposing a line of silver braces. “Hey, Nat.”

  I walked over to the counter and sagged onto one of the barstools. “Thank God you’re the one manning the store. I was terrified Charlene would be here.”

  “Aunt Char?” She waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about her. She gets into snits sometimes. It’ll pass.”

  I sighed. “How long does it usually last?”

  “Depends,” she said. “Chocolate usually helps, but she’s dieting.” Tania made a face. “What’s with that preacher guy, anyway? All the women on this island are just bonkers for him.”

  I grinned. At least McLaughlin’s charm didn’t extend to the under-twenty set. “Well, this woman’s not.”

  Tania leaned forward across the counter. “I know Aunt Charlene said no more cookies, but would you mind sneaking us a few brownies from time to time?”

  “Any time you have a need for chocolate, just swing by the inn.”

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  “You bet.” I pulled out the grocery list. “Could you fill this order for me?”

  She picked it up and studied it. “I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” she said. “Are you going to come pick it up? Or do you want me to deliver it?”

  I thought about that for a moment. Charlene usually drove the groceries up in her truck in exchange for dinner—I didn’t have a car on the island—but I wasn’t sure she’d be willing to do that now. “You can drive your dad’s truck, can’t you?” She nodded. “If you could deliver it, that would be great. I tip in chocolate.”

  She grinned. “Count me in.”

  I was about to leave—I didn’t want to risk a run-in with Charlene—when an idea popped into my head. “By the way,” I said. “At Polly’s funeral, Reverend McLaughlin was talking to Murray about something, some sort of business, I think. I was just curious; has Charlene said anything about Murray?”

  She squinched up her face. “Only that he’s been really good for the church,” she said.

  “Good for the church?”

  She shrugged. “That’s all she said.”

  “Thanks, Tania. And if you have a chance to put in a good word for me...”

  “Don’t worry. I will. We miss you.”

  I walked out of the store feeling marginally better. If Tania thought Charlene would get over it, maybe she would.

  Twenty minutes later, the wind bit at my cheeks as I hurtled down the pitted pavement of Cranberry Road. I coasted into Gnomeland and knocked on Emmeline’s door, but her small, well-kept house was empty. The brown tabby Emmeline had told me about lazed on the front porch, and I gave her chin a quick rub before I hopped back onto the bike. The sampler Emmeline had designed for the inn would have to wait for another day.

  I pumped the rest of the way down the pitted road to Polly’s house. The small house had an empty, lonely air, and I felt a stab of sadness for Polly as I parked my bike against the front railing and walked around to the back. The cats’ bowls were full almost to overflowing, and the water in their bowls was clear. Emmeline had already been here today.

  The back door opened easily, and the smell of lemon furniture polish greeted me as I stepped inside. The kitchen looked no different than it had the day I found Polly, and my eyes fell on the memo board next to the phone. I took a moment to copy the shelter number onto a slip of paper and then headed upstairs to Polly’s bedroom.

  The wind moaned through the eaves as I slid open the top drawer of the dresser and extracted the red cardboard box. “Fifty Cartridges” was printed on the side in bold black letters. I cleared a spot on Polly’s disordered bed and set the box down. Then I began counting.

  The wind continued its eerie moan as the cold metal clinked on the flowered comforter. The pile grew quickly. If Polly had loaded the gun with only five bullets, there should be 45 left.

  I counted 44.

  I was about to count them a second time when a door creaked open downstairs. Emmeline, I thought, and a greeting was on the tip of my tongue before I remembered that Emmeline had already been here today. Heavy footsteps crossed the hardwood floors below, and a ripple of fear coursed through me. I didn’t know who was downstairs, but suddenly I was afraid to find out.

  I shoveled the bullets into the box and crammed it back into the dresser drawer as the steps creaked. I had just scuttled into the closet and pulled Polly’s wool winter coat in front of me when the footsteps entered Polly’s bedroom.

  I crouched in the corner of the closet and sucked in my breath, my stomach churning at the smell of old wool, mothballs, and fear. The heavy footsteps came closer, and I curled myself into a small ball, wishing I had something other than Polly’s coat to defend myself with. The next time I made it to the mainland, I was stocking up on pepper spray.

  Then they stopped.

  I held my breath, waiting for the closet door to open, the thumping of my heart as loud as a snare drum. Just when my lungs were about to burst, the footsteps began again, this time moving away from my hiding place. I clutched at Polly’s coat and gasped for air.

  The rough wool chafed against my cheek as I listened to the thunk of drawers being yanked open on the other side of the closet door. The drawers slammed shut one by one, and my chest tightened again. I tried to remember the Tae Kwon Do I had learned twenty-five years ago. For the next few minutes, while the intruder rifled through Polly’s belongings, I occupied myself by experimenting with different ways to arrange my fists and wishing I had taken more than five days of classes.

  Another drawer opened, and I heard the clink of metal. A moment later, the drawer thudded shut. Again, the footsteps moved toward me. I balled up my fists and crouched behind Polly’s long black coat, preparing myself to explode out of the folds of wool. The wind moaned around the eaves. The doorknob turned. I sucked in my breath and tightened my fists.

  Then the knob slipped back and was still.

  The footsteps crossed Polly’s bedroom, away from my hiding place. I dropped my fists and sagged into the corner of the closet, sweating.

  A moment later, the intruder clumped down the stairs and across the floor beneath me. I let out a long, slow breath as somewhere below a door creaked open and shut with a bang.

  I waited a few minutes, just in case whoever it was decided to come back for a second look, before creeping out of the closet and peering out Polly’s bedroom window at the road. The pitted blacktop was empty. I walked to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer.

  The box of bullets was gone.

  I sank down onto the bed, the bitterness of disappointment stealing in to replace the cold tang of fear. Unless I could somehow find that casing, the evidence that Polly was murdered had disappeared from under my nose.

  But who had taken the bullets? The only person who knew about them was McLaughlin. Had he come back and removed the evidence? Whoever had been here knew where to find them; he or she had made a beeline to Polly’s dresser. My stomach clenched as I realized h
ow narrowly I might just have escaped joining Polly in the small graveyard next to the church.

  I heaved myself from the bed and crept downstairs, clutching the banister to support my still-wobbly knees.

  A few moments later, the cool breeze greeted me as I stepped outside and headed for the bike. The bike. It was as good as an announcement that someone in the house. Why hadn’t the intruder seen it?

  I looked up, and my eyes fell on Emmeline’s house in the distance. She had mentioned paths to town. Anyone coming down the road would have seen the bike. That meant that the intruder had probably used the paths. And if the intruder was also the murderer, he or she had probably also used them the day Polly was killed. As I climbed into the saddle, a chill crept down my back, and it wasn’t because of the wind off the water.

  ___

  When I walked through my own kitchen door a half hour later, Gwen sat at the kitchen table eating a peanut butter sandwich.

  “Hey, Aunt Nat. Where have you been?”

  “Just about everywhere,” I said. I was about to tell her about the intruder at Polly’s house, but for some reason I hesitated. “I had to run down to the store. Tania was there, thank God, so Charlene couldn’t give me the ice-queen routine. What’s up here?”

  “The insurance company called.”

  I cut myself a large piece of brownie and groaned. “More good news?”

  “They didn’t say. But I found out what Candy Perkins has been up to.”

  “What do you mean?” I grabbed a plate and pulled up a chair across from Gwen.

  “Adam told me she was up at Cliffside with a real estate agent this morning.”

  I paused with the brownie halfway to my mouth. “Cliffside?” Cliffside was the second-largest building on the island, a regal three-story house with a stunning view of the harbor. “You don’t think she’s planning on turning it into a bed-and-breakfast, do you?”