Brush with Death Read online

  The tracks followed the same path through the forest that whoever left the doll had traveled. As I pushed through the snow, I wondered if it was the same person. And whether John had caught up with him. Or her.

  “John!” I called again, my voice shrill in my ears, yet muffled sounding, dampened by the blanket of snow. I couldn’t hear anything above the crunch of my sneakers as I ran.

  I followed the tracks up the hill, my lungs burning in my chest, terrified for John. On I went, though my legs felt leaden, and my shoes and jeans were filling with snow; I could feel the icy cold against the skin of my calves as I pushed through the snow.

  Finally, I crested the hill. As I hurtled down the path, though, my foot slid, throwing me off balance. I struggled to right myself, but still fell hard, my hands instinctively going out to protect me. The knife slipped from my hand, the edge slicing into my palm, as I tumbled into the snow and continued to slide down the slope, stopping only when my shoulder slammed into the trunk of a fir tree. An avalanche collapsed on top of me.

  I lay there stunned for a moment, the pain of the cut stinging, the cold taking my breath away. Then I flailed to my feet, shook myself off, and retrieved the flashlight, which was glowing beneath about a foot of snow. I scanned the snow quickly for the knife, my body shaking from cold despite the jacket. I couldn’t find it in the churned-up snow. Giving it up for lost, I kept going, focusing on John, trying not to think about what I’d do if I found him in trouble.

  I made it down the rest of the hill without incident, but with no sign of my fiancé. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, and limped until the trees ended and the path died into the road.

  There was no sign of him.

  _____

  “John!” I called, my heart about to explode from my chest.

  “Right here.”

  Relief flooded through me. I waved the flashlight around, trying to find him; he was standing about twenty yards down the road, next to a person.

  I hurried over, training the light on John’s companion. Who was it?

  “Are you okay?” I asked warily.

  “I’m fine. But why are you out here? You could have been hurt.”

  I ignored the question. “Who’s this?” I asked, training my flashlight on his companion’s face. She held up a gloved hand and flinched away. “Sorry,” I said, and dropped the light.

  “This is Nina Torrone,” John said. “She was out for a walk. She saw someone head down the road a few minutes ago, running.”

  I was dying to shine the light on her face again—it was the first time I’d seen her without those enormous sunglasses—but resisted the urge, instead peering at her through the gloom. She had high, arched eyebrows, but I couldn’t tell much else. “I didn’t mean to shine the light in your eyes; we just had a scary incident at the inn. I’m sure John told you what happened.”

  She shrugged. I slowly moved the flashlight so that it was near her boots; they were caked with snow. Was it all from the road? It had been plowed recently, so it had to be from somewhere else. The forest path, perhaps?

  “A bit late for a walk,” I said.

  “I like to walk at night,” she said in a small voice. “No one bothers me.”

  “Where’s your agent?” I asked.

  “He is asleep,” she said. “He doesn’t like me to go out.”

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Paparazzi.”

  “On Cranberry Island? In the middle of the night? In winter?”

  “Nat.” John put a hand on my arm.

  “Sorry. I guess it must be a hard habit to break.” I turned to John. “Any sign of our vandal?”

  “I’m afraid whoever it is is long gone,” John said. “I twisted my ankle at the end of the path. Nina told me that whoever it was had a good head start, and I can’t run anymore.”

  “Who do you think it was?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I wish I knew.” He turned to Nina. “I’m sorry we had to meet at the dead of night, but I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve always admired your work.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Even in the darkness I could sense her tensing up.

  John must have sensed it, too, and kept his voice warm and casual. “There are a few of us on the island, if you ever feel like getting together with a few artists for a drink, or dinner at the inn. Zelda Chu is opening a gallery here. Fernand would have loved to talk with you; it’s a shame he’s not here.”

  “Yes. The party was lovely,” she said in her small voice. It was still tight, though—I could tell she was uncomfortable with the idea of getting together with others. Was it because of her agent? Or had she always been reclusive?

  “You and Fernand met in New York, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go. Mortimer will be wondering what happened to me.”

  Abruptly, she turned and fled, the beam of a penlight marking her progress. John and I stared after her; neither of us made a move to stop her.

  Now that she was gone, the pain in my hand and the cold of the snow suddenly seemed to intensify. I shivered, and John turned to me. “You’re freezing.”

  In a low voice, I said, “Do you think Nina Torrone was the one we were chasing through the woods? Her boots were covered in snow.”

  “Odd time of day to be out for a stroll,” he replied. “But she wasn’t breathing hard. If it was her, she’s in terrific shape.”

  Unlike me, I thought, still catching my breath.

  “Next time I tell you to stay home,” John continued, “please listen to me. Whoever is doing this has it in for you; don’t hand them the opportunity on a silver plate.”

  “I thought you might need help,” I said. “Or at least a light.”

  He sighed. “Let’s have a look at the prints, then.”

  I handed him the flashlight.

  “Why is it sticky?” he asked, then realized it was slicked with blood. “Natalie!”

  “It’s just a cut,” I said.

  “How did you cut yourself?”

  “I grabbed a knife from the block before I came to look for you. When I tripped, it cut me—and I lost it.”

  “You came after me with a knife?”

  “I was worried you might be in trouble,” I said.

  He shook his head and sighed. “We’ll look for it tomorrow,” he said. “Show me your hand.”

  I held it out, and he trained the flashlight on it. “I’m going to put some butterfly bandages on this when we get home. You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

  “You’re the one who went bolting out the door,” I pointed out.

  He stroked the edge of my hand, then gathered me into his arms, kissing my forehead, then my lips. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

  “Likewise,” I said, hugging him tightly as a cold wind whipped off the snow, cutting through the layers of fabric. Despite the warm feeling in my heart, it was still cold. My body shivered violently, and John released me. “We’ve got to get you home,” he said, flashing the light on the stirred-up prints. “But I don’t want to disturb the tracks anymore than I already have. Are you up for the long way?”

  “If we have to,” I said.

  He glanced up at the sky. “I hope it doesn’t snow tonight; I want those prints fresh tomorrow morning. Let’s get you home so I can put you in a hot bath and take care of that wound.”

  He put an arm around me; despite the lack of a jacket, I could still feel his warmth—and steered me toward the inn.

  “Do you think it might have been Torrone?” I asked as we walked in the darkness, following the bobbing light.

  “It is a bit suspicious that she happened to be out here,” he said, “but why would she threaten you? She’s barely even met you.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but there’s something strange about her. She sure didn’t want to get together with anyone else. And to walk after dark to avoid the paparazzi on Cranberry Island …” I shook my
head.

  “Maybe she’s creatively blocked,” he said. “Maybe that’s why they came up here. Sometimes success can do that to an artist.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But that doesn’t explain why her boots were caked with snow.”

  He hugged me closer. “Why do you always seem to draw trouble?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, snuggling into John. We walked together in darkness for a while, the only sound the crunch of our boots in the snow. “What will we do if we lose the inn?” I asked quietly, broaching the question that had been nagging at me all day.

  “We won’t,” he said.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  “We’ll hire an attorney. If I need to pay the $15,000, I will; I’d like to see if we can get the attorney to waive those fees.”

  “It was my mistake,” I said. “I can’t ask you to pay for it.”

  “We’re in this together, remember? You’ve worked way too hard to lose everything because of a crook.” He pulled me closer. Although I was determined not to take him up on his offer—it was my mess, and I needed to clean it up—I felt something inside me relax knowing he viewed himself as my partner. For better and for worse.

  “In the meantime,” I said, wanting to change the subject, “what do I do about the stuff on the steps? I know it’s evidence, but I don’t want to upset Gwen. Or the guests.”

  “I’ll take a sample and a picture,” he said. “Then we’ll clean it up.”

  “Who do you think is doing this?”

  “It might be worth mentioning at your knitting group,” he said.

  “Or to Charlene,” I said. “If someone’s annoyed with me, she’d be the first to know.” I thought about it. “I just can’t think of anything I’ve done that might have made someone mad.”

  “I don’t know, Nat. You have mangled a lot of yarn,” he said.

  I laughed for the first time in a week.

  Thankfully, the rest of the night passed without incident, and I was not exactly torn up about it when John told me I should lay off the knitting until the wound had partially healed. John took a sample of the red sticky stuff on the door; it did appear to be blood, although I didn’t want to speculate on whose. After I scrubbed the door and the steps and sprinkled them with salt, I was thankful for the warm bath John had drawn for me. When I was clean and warm, I burrowed into his arms, relishing the feeling of being embraced as I fell asleep—and trying to forget that the alarm was set for 6:30 and that my future mother-in-law would be facing me over the breakfast table.

  _____

  It was still dark when I stumbled down to the kitchen the next morning, thankful I’d come up with a plan the night before. John came down a few minutes after me; as soon as it was light, he headed out to the forest trail. The sun was high in the sky by the time he tramped up the steps to the kitchen.

  “Any luck?” I asked John as he closed the door behind him. I was stirring grated cheddar cheese into a bowl of eggs for the soufflé.

  “I found the knife, at least. Not hard to find—there was blood everywhere.”

  “What about the prints?”

  “We muddled up most of them, but I got a few.”

  “The same as the ones at Fernand’s?”

  “Smaller,” he said, “but I got a logo.” He showed me the shot on his digital camera.

  “Timberland,” I said. One of the most popular boot brands on the island. “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “It’s a start,” he said. “And maybe we can figure out a shoe size.”

  “Was that on the sole, too?”

  “No, but I measured the print,” he said. “I’ll let the mainland police know about it this morning.”

  “They’re going to get tired of hearing from you,” I said as I poured the cheesy mixture into a soufflé dish and tucked it into the oven, where I’d put a pan of water to heat. “First Fernand, then the attorney, and now this …”

  “What attorney?” I turned around to see Gwen at the bottom of the steps.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” I said. With everything else going on, the last thing she needed to think about was the prospect of the inn closing. Besides, John had offered to step into the breach, so it really wasn’t anything to worry about. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the sandwich bag in John’s hand.

  I looked at John, who nodded. “Someone threw something at the back door last night. It may be the same person who left the doll.”

  “You’re being threatened,” she said.

  “It’s just a nuisance,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.” I glanced at her, and realized she had combed her hair and put on a bright sweater—even a touch of makeup. “You look great,” I said.

  “Mind if I borrow the truck?” she asked. “I’m going to meet with Zelda Chu this morning.” She walked over and grabbed a banana from the counter.

  “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “She’s not Fernand,” she said, and I saw a spasm of emotion pass over her face, “but she is an artist, and she paints.”

  “Good for you,” I said, thankful to see her moving in a positive direction. “You’re welcome to the truck, if you’re careful,” I said. “As long as I can run down to the pier at noon and pick up the food order.”

  “I should be back by ten, if that’s okay.” She pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and tucked the banana in her pocket.

  “What about Fernand’s studio?” John asked.

  “I imagine whoever inherited it is going to sell it,” she said. “If Zelda buys it, maybe I can keep painting there—I’m hoping she’ll agree to mentor me.”

  “She doesn’t work in the same medium,” I pointed out. “Or even the same style.”

  “I do oils now too,” Gwen reminded me. “And at least she’s got connections.”

  “It’s too bad Nina Torrone is so unfriendly,” I said.

  “Talk about different styles—she’s completely abstract!” John pointed out. He smiled at Gwen. “You know you can always share the workshop with me.”

  “Or the Crow’s Nest,” I said, even though it was one of my highest-earning rooms. If it meant keeping Gwen, it was worth it.

  “Thanks, you two.” She gave John a wan smile, then looked at me. “Are you sure everything’s okay with the inn?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” I said.

  She glanced at the clock over the kitchen door. “Why don’t I go ahead and set the tables? I’ll be back this afternoon to help with the rooms.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Three, right?”

  I sighed. “If we can convince Catherine to stay in the dining room.”

  “I’ll tell her we need a referee,” John said.

  “Catherine as a referee? God help us,” I said.

  _____

  Gwen hadn’t returned by the time Frederick appeared in the dining room. He sat by the window again, and although he was dressed stylishly in a blue cashmere sweater and khakis, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. I filled his cup, then headed for the kitchen for sugar and cream. As I placed them on his table, I felt a pang of sadness for him.

  “I heard you had words with Irene yesterday,” I said.

  “She’s going to cut me out,” he said.

  I said nothing, wondering if he was talking about the will.

  “She called the priest. Since I’m not family, I’m not allowed to do the memorial service.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling my heart ache for him.

  “I’m going to the house, though,” he said, lifting his chin. “One last time. I have to say goodbye.”

  “Do you need someone to go with you?” I asked softly.

  “You knew Fernand, didn’t you?” he asked, looking up at me.

  I nodded. “I can give y
ou a ride over after breakfast, if you’d like. It’s a long walk in this weather.” I glanced out the window. Although it wasn’t snowing, it was overcast, and the wind was howling off the water.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Will ten-thirty work?” When he nodded, I promised I’d meet him in the parlor after I got the dishes together. “I’ve got Winter Knitters later on, but I should have enough time to get you there and back.” I gave his plate a pointed look. “You should eat; I know Fernand would want you to keep up your strength.”

  He made a noncommittal noise, and I drifted back to the kitchen, wondering about his “cutting out” comment. Was he only talking about the priest? Or was he talking about Fernand’s estate, too?

  When I walked out a few minutes later with the egg soufflé, Irene had arrived, looking smart in a black pants suit with heels. Clearly these folks hadn’t spent much time on Cranberry Island in winter, I thought, looking down at my practical flannel-lined jeans and thick Aran wool sweater. I shook my head at the heels; I hoped she wasn’t walking to the church in those. As an innkeeper, I felt obligated to offer her a ride—but then felt as if I was being a traitor to Frederick.

  I filled her coffee cup and scurried back toward the kitchen, thinking that things were much easier when my guests didn’t want to kill each other.

  “Natalie!” my future mother-in-law said when I stepped into the kitchen, looking perfectly turned out in black slacks and a cranberry red twin set that made her look very pale. “My, you’re looking tired this morning. Did you not sleep well?”

  “Thank you,” I said. You’re looking cadaverous yourself, I thought but didn’t say.

  “Is there coffee?” she asked.

  “Right here,” I said. “Could you do me a favor, this morning?”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Would you mind eating in the dining room, and keeping tabs on the guests? Emotions are running pretty high right now.”