Whale of a Crime (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries Book 7) Read online

  “I can only imagine,” I said, feeling grateful for my niece, Gwen. Not only was I not officially her mother, but she was well past the green cupcake stage.

  Although they were pretty tasty, I had to admit.

  ***

  I pulled up outside the Cranberry Island store a few minutes later, still thinking about Lorraine and her former flame. She seemed terribly upset over the loss of an old boyfriend. Had Tom’s dalliance a few years back made Lorraine question her decision to marry him... or maybe reignited interest in an old lover? Was there more to her meetings with the late captain than she had told me? And had Tom found out about it—or read the old love letter she’d left on the kitchen counter?

  Although I couldn’t imagine the charismatic co-op president tying Captain Bainbridge’s ankle to an anchor chain, somebody had, and I couldn’t rule out the possibility of it being Tom. I stepped out of the van, grabbed the container of raspberry bars and headed for the wooden porch that stretched across the front of the store. The rose bushes, I noticed, appeared to have been paid a visit by Claudette’s goats in the recent past, which was unfortunate, since their pink blooms were usually beautiful. The notices taped to the mullioned windows fluttered as I opened the door. The overstuffed couches in the front of the store were filled with islanders, which was no surprise after yesterday’s discovery.

  “Good morning, Natalie,” Emmeline Hoyle said, fixing me with bright eyes. “A bit of excitement out at the inn, eh?”

  “Not at the inn, actually,” I corrected her.

  “But one of the guests,” she said.

  I shrugged. “Accidents happen.”

  “That’s not what Gertrude Pickens thinks,” Emmeline said. “Big article in the Daily Mail... someone tied him to an anchor and threw him overboard, apparently. And I heard there was a police launch out by the inn this morning.”

  “I’m sure we’ll read all about it tomorrow, then,” I replied. I was surprised they hadn’t heard about the arrest. On the other hand, since Charlene was usually the main conduit for all island gossip, it made sense. She wasn’t going to be talking about Alex being implicated. Gertrude Pickens, I knew, wouldn’t be quite so circumspect.

  Charlene, I noticed, was not a part of the conversation. My friend was behind the counter, staring down at a copy of the Daily Mail with dark-circled eyes.

  She hadn’t bothered with eyeliner or mascara—never a good sign—and her caramel-colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Good to see you all,” I said with a smile, “but I’ve got to run.” I had taken a step toward the door when Emmeline said, “Did you hear about the new hotel going in?”

  ***

  I stopped short. “What?”

  “Contract was signed for Cilffside this morning,” she announced. “Going to be a 100-room luxury hotel. Tennis courts, swimming pool, full-service restaurant, boat service to the mainland... the works.”

  “I’d heard it was under contract, but thought the hotel was just a rumor. Who bought it?” I asked, feeling like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

  “Some operation out of Portland, I hear,” Emmeline told me, confirming what Charlene had said. “I have a few calls into my real estate friend in Bar Harbor. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to imagine what the island would feel like with a luxury hotel on it. What would that mean for the Gray Whale Inn? I wondered—or the island as a whole? Where would they put the tennis courts? I’d have to ask Catherine if Murray knew anything about the sale.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about that now. I walked over to where Charlene was staring at the paper, feeling my heart go out to her. She and Alex hadn’t been together long, but I knew she was smitten with him—and her relationship history had not been a happy one. “How are you holding up?” I asked in a quiet voice, aware of the lull that had fallen over the front of the store—what we often called the island’s living room—as I spoke.

  “He’s not in here yet,” she said tonelessly, pointing to an article on the captain’s death, “but he will be tomorrow.”

  “Have a raspberry bar,” I said, pulling the lid off the bar cookies.

  “No thanks,” Charlene told me.

  And that’s when I knew for sure she was in trouble.

  “Did you get a chance to talk to him?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know who his first phone call was to, but it wasn’t to me.”

  “He told me to tell you he loves you,” I said.

  She brightened for a moment, then slumped again. “Just my luck. I find the perfect man, and he’s arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  I grabbed my friend’s hand, and she looked up at me. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and she was pale. “Are you sure he’s innocent?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, with no trace of doubt.

  I glanced over my shoulder to where the islanders were gathered, talking quietly among themselves again. “Then what was he doing for two hours after he left your house two nights ago?”

  She blanched. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I know he’s not a murderer.”

  “All right then,” I told her. “We need to figure out where he was that night.”

  “I’m going to visit him as soon as I can,” she told me. “I’ll ask.”

  What he told her and the truth might be two different things, but I let it ride. “In the meantime, did Alex tell you anything about Bainbridge’s relationships with the rest of the crew—and the guests?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “I know things were a bit dicey with Martina sometimes—they had different visions for the company. Bainbridge wanted to borrow heavily to expand, and she was nervous about it.”

  “Were they co-owners?”

  “Yes, but Bainbridge held the majority of the company, so he could outvote her.”

  “Well, that’s one motive,” I said. “I wonder who inherits the captain’s share of the company?”

  “How do we find that out?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” I told her, “but I’ll work on it. Anything else? Girlfriends, wives, boyfriends...”

  “I got the impression he might be a girl-in-every-port kind of guy,” Charlene said.

  “You know he used to date Lorraine, right?” I asked.

  She blinked at me. “What?”

  “His last name used to be Bridges,” I told her. “Eli said he worked for him one summer.”

  “Wait...” Her eyes got big. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! I didn’t recognize him!”

  “Lorraine did, “I commented.

  “I’ll bet she did,” Charlene said. “She started dating Tom not long after Carl took off; she was pretty devastated at the time. I had no idea he was the same person; why did he change his name? And why didn’t he tell anyone who he was?”

  “That’s an interesting question, isn’t it?”

  Before Charlene could answer, the phone rang. She answered, then handed it to me.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Natalie? It’s John.”

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that there was a problem. “What’s wrong?”

  “The health inspector’s here,” he said.

  “What? She was just here last month!”

  “Someone called her,” he said. “And there’s some stuff in the fridge I’ve never seen before.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlene asked when I hung up the phone.

  “Somebody called the health inspector,” I told her.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m heading home to find out.”

  “What about your grocery order?”

  “I’ll pick it up later,” I said, and hurried out of the store.

  ***

  Both John and the inspector looked grim when I hurried into the kitchen of the Gray Whale Inn
ten minutes later.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately,” the inspector said, pushing her glasses up on her nose, “we got a phone call indicating there might be some violations.”

  “Violations?” I asked.

  “Did you put this in the fridge?” John asked, pointing to an unfamiliar Tupperware container on the counter.

  “No,” I said. “Do you think maybe it belongs to one of the guests?”

  “It was in your refrigerator,” she informed me. “And I found a dead rat under your sink. I’m afraid I’m going to have to close down the kitchen.”

  I felt faint. “Close us down? A rat in my kitchen?”

  “I suspect it was planted,” John said. “It looks like it died in a trap, and then someone hid it under the sink and called in an anonymous tip.”

  “I’m willing to accept that explanation,” the inspector said. “But the laundry room ceiling is a problem. As is this,” she said, pointing to the Tupperware on the counter.

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  “Something green and slimy,” John said.

  I turned to the inspector. “I’ve got an inn full of guests... if we get all of this taken care of today, is there any way we can keep the kitchen going?

  “What are you going to do about that ceiling?”

  “I talked to the insurance company, and they moved things up; the insurance adjustor is coming out today,” John said. “In the meantime, if we seal it off with a tarp, will that work?”

  “I can come back and check later this week,” she said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to stop preparing food until I’m able to clear you.”

  I looked at John. “Is there any way you could make it back tomorrow morning?” he asked, giving her the full benefit of his green eyes.

  “I’ve got a very busy schedule this week,” she said, but I could see her softening.

  “Please,” John said. “I know you’ve got a ton on your plate, but we have a journalist here... it could make or break the inn.”

  She pulled up the calendar on her phone. “Well, I suppose I might be able to fit you in.”

  “I can pick you up on the mainland in my skiff if that will make it easier. In fact, I’d be happy to take you back now, so you don’t have to wait for the mail boat.”

  She let out a sigh, but I could tell the concept of a few minutes alone with John was a pretty strong inducement. “I suppose that would be okay.”

  “I’ll take you back now then,” he said. “What time should I get you in the morning?”

  “Would nine be too early?” she asked.

  “That would be perfect,” John said.

  “Well,” she said, turning off her phone. “I suppose we’re done here. It does look like someone tried to sabotage you,” she said, looking at the Tupperware on the counter. “And I guess it wouldn’t hurt for you to serve muffins and coffee in the morning. No real cooking, though, until we’ve cleared you.”

  I wasn’t sure why muffins didn’t count as “real cooking,” but I wasn’t going to argue. I suspected her leniency had more to do with my husband’s green eyes than the health department’s rules. Thank goodness Biscuit wasn’t in her usual place by the radiator. “Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Nat just made up a new recipe: chocolate caramel bars,” John said, pointing to the cookie jar. “You want one for the road?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” she said, eyeing the jar longingly. “But it has been a while since lunch.”

  John opened the cookie jar and offered her one, and she accepted with a shy smile.

  “Check on Smudge, will you?” John asked in a low voice, coming over to give me a quick kiss on the forehead.

  “Still in the workshop?” I asked.

  He nodded. “She looks a little listless; I’m a bit worried about her. And the insurance adjustor should be here in an hour,” he said.

  “Good. The sooner I can get the laundry room cleaned up, the better.”

  “I’ll help you when I get home,” he said, and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before turning back to the inspector. As she followed him out of the inn toward the dock, I leaned against the counter and breathed a sigh of relief, then picked up the offending Tupperware. It had a green lid, and the contents appeared to have once been a pasta salad. I threw it out, then called Spurrell’s to make dinner reservations for the entire tour group.

  “What’s going on?” Martha Spurrell asked.

  “I have a kitchen malfunction,” I told her.

  “We’ve got a pretty busy night.”

  “Is there any way you can make it work? I’m desperate.”

  She sighed. “I guess I can squeeze in another couple of tables on the dock—the weather is supposed to be good. I guess that’s one good thing about having a new restaurant on the island,” she said, sounding gloomy. “Overflow.”

  “Are you talking about the new hotel? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid,” she said. “The last thing we need is a Chi-Chi resort. I know it’s good for the island economy, but it’s not good for island life.”

  “Are you sure it’s a go?”

  “I heard the contract has been signed. I think there may be an option period, but I can’t think why it wouldn’t go through.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “Some firm out of Portland,” she said. “It’s called MCG or something. Not even a human being.” She sighed again. “I guess we can’t stave off progress forever.”

  “Maybe it’ll be better than we think,” I suggested, trying to sound optimistic.

  “We’ll see,” she said gloomily. “In the meantime, I have you down for seven. Will that work?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver,” I told her.

  “Speaking of lifesavers, too bad the captain didn’t have one,” she said. “I heard someone tied him to an anchor and threw him overboard,” she continued, demonstrating how efficiently news travels on a small island. “Any word on what’s going on with that?”

  “They arrested someone this morning,” I told her, “but I think they have the wrong person. Which reminds me—did you know the captain spent a summer on the island about fifteen years ago? He went by the name of Bridges.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “That was a long time ago. Anyway... I’ll look for your group around 7.”

  “Thanks again. See you later on!” I hung up the phone, then turned to the laundry room. I wanted to cover up the falling ceiling, but the insurance adjustor wasn’t due for another hour. First I would check on Smudge, I decided, and then figure out what I was going to bake for tomorrow morning. What I was really in the mood for was my Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake, but with my recipe binder MIA, I was going to have to come up with something else to make instead.

  The breeze off the water was fresh when I opened the back door and headed down to the carriage house, looking out at the blue water and the craggy gray and green mountains of the mainland beyond. The schooner was gone, as if it had never been here, but I looked at the cold water where it had moored and shivered. The sea was beautiful, but it was deadly... as Carl Bridges—Bainbridge—had recently discovered. I averted my eyes and focused on the beach roses blooming on the path, inhaling their deep, winey scent, and let my eyes stray to the few purple lupines that still bloomed in the meadow near John’s workshop.

  As I opened the door, the smell of roses was replaced by the clean smell of fresh wood, along with the faintest whiff of John’s masculine scent. Several of the toy boats that John sold at Island Artists were lined up, waiting for paint, alongside a few beautiful, miniature wood buoys he’d been testing out at the shop this year. His most recent work, a mermaid sculpture that seemed to have formed itself naturally from a huge piece of driftwood John had found down by the pier, was in the center of the room; he’d sent early photos to the New York gallery that sometimes showed his work, and he already had several interested buyers. />
  That income would certainly help if they shut down the inn’s kitchen, I thought gloomily as I ran my hand over the mermaid’s silky gray tail, rimed with the suggestion of sea foam.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” I called, looking around the stacks of wood for the kitten. I found her in a nest of blankets in the corner under a window. She meowed faintly as I knelt down to check on her. Her food and water bowls looked untouched, and when I picked her up, she felt limp in my hands.

  “Poor baby,” I said, tucking her against my chest. She let out a raspy purr, sounding like a sick outboard motor. I hurried back to the inn with her and searched for advice on my laptop.

  Smudge sat in my lap as I flipped through web pages. Subcutaneous fluids would be ideal—or kitten milk replacement—but I was woefully unprepared for sick kittens. I left a message for Claudette, who had nursed kittens in the past, and found a recipe for chicken and yogurt. I tucked the kitten in near the radiator to keep her warm and grabbed a tub of yogurt and some leftover chicken from the fridge. As I measured the yogurt out into the blender, Biscuit meowed at me from the steps.

  “Oh, no... Biscuit...” I put down the yogurt and headed toward her, but she had spotted the kitten. Before I could reach her, she had leaped up to the kitten’s bed. “Be nice,” I warned—but to my surprise, Biscuit wasn’t hissing. As I watched, she nosed the listless kitten, who started purring. “She may be sick,” I said, picking up Biscuit. “I don’t want you to catch anything if she is.” I put my chunky orange tabby down on the floor and turned back to the counter, but before I’d taken two steps, Biscuit was back up and nosing at the kitten again.

  “I’m going to have to lock you up upstairs, my friend,” I warned her as I put her on the floor again. Biscuit looked up at me and meowed, then started sniffing in the direction of the kitten again. I watched, but instead of jumping up, she sat down at the base of the radiator, as if guarding Smudge. “Are you going to stay there?” I asked.

  She gave me an inscrutable look from her green eyes, and after a moment, I turned back to my improvised kitten chow, keeping an eye on Biscuit as I worked.