Whale of a Crime (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries Book 7) Page 15

  A moment later, I closed the door behind me and headed downstairs, trying to stifle the urge to put bleach in Nan McGee’s coffee.

  Jan had arrived in the dining room by the time I got back. “Not good news this morning, eh?” she asked, nodding toward the police launch.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  “It’s too bad. She was a nice woman,” she said. “Nerve-wracking, too, though, I must admit. How’s the kitten?” she asked.

  “I think she’s doing better, but when you’re done with breakfast, I’d love it if you could take a look at her,” I said, trying not to stare daggers at Nan McGee, who was deep in conversation with Herb and Gayla. Who were probably trying to interest her in some piece of Iowa farmland, I thought, gritting my teeth.

  “I’d love to,” she said. “She’d probably go for some of this salmon if you’re having a hard time getting her to eat. It’s delicious.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “And these muffins are to die for,” she told me. “I would love the recipe, if you’re willing to share.”

  “Happy to,” I said, smiling, and a moment later, retreated to the kitchen.

  Gwen had gotten up while I was up checking on Nan’s room, and was now squinting out at the launch. Her hair was up in a loose, romantic knot on top of her head, and she wore a long, flowing skirt and a hand-painted tank top. “What happened?”

  I filled her in on the details.

  “That’s horrible,” she breathed. “At least they can’t blame Alex for it.”

  “I asked the detective about that, but he seems to still think Alex is on the hook for the captain’s death.”

  “So we’ve got two murderers on the island?”

  “That’s his theory.”

  “Who did it, do you think?” Gwen asked. “And I wonder who’s next?”

  “Hopefully we’re done with murders for a while,” I said. “And I have no idea who’s responsible. But guess who’s buying Cliffside?”

  “Who?”

  “The investor—Nan McGee. She’s got the survey and plans for an enormous resort in her room.”

  “What’s she doing here, then?”

  “Sabotaging my inn and poaching my guest list, I suspect.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I do. I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused that leak, either.”

  “But I thought she was looking to invest in the tour group.”

  “Maybe she’s buying both,” I suggested. “Starting her Maine coastal empire.”

  She was about to respond when Bridget showed up at the back door, looking pale. “Gwen,” she said. “Thank God you’re okay. I saw the police launch, and...” She shuddered. “I thought you’d be safe on this island, but people are dropping like flies.”

  “I’m fine,” Gwen told her. “How did you sleep?”

  “Not too bad,” she said. “But I can’t believe that woman died practically on my doorstep.”

  “Did you see or hear anything last night?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. As she spoke, one of the detectives knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” I called, and the detective let herself into the kitchen along with a cool breeze.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Thanks for coming out,” I told her with a smile. “Can I get you folks coffee, and maybe some muffins?”

  “Coffee would be great. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to question your guests again,” she told me. “And you.”

  “I figured as much,” I said. “They’re in the dining room, along with the coffee.”

  “Were you all here last night?” she asked, looking at Gwen and Bridget.

  “I was upstairs, asleep, and my mom was in the carriage house,” Gwen answered.

  She asked them a few more questions—when they got in, what they’d been doing, and if they’d heard or seen anything—the answers were negative—and then turned to me. “I have a few questions for you, too.”

  “I’ll check on the guests,” Gwen said, then turned to the detective. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Cream and sugar,” she told her. “Thanks. Please let me know if there are any guests not at breakfast.”

  “I will,” Gwen replied, heading into the dining room.

  “May I?” the detective asked, gesturing to a chair.

  “Of course,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk, though,” I said. “I’ve to clean the kitchen.”

  “No problem,” she said. As I loaded coffee cups into the dishwasher, she asked me the standard questions—where I’d been, if I’d heard anything, etc. Since John had been with me all night, I wasn’t too worried about my alibi, but I was curious what he was thinking.

  “Are you thinking there may be two murderers, then?” I asked as I wiped down the counter.

  “We can’t rule anything out,” she told me. “The murders were very different, after all.”

  “Still,” I said. “What are the odds that there are two murderers at large?”

  “We have to consider all options,” she said. “Do you have any insight into who might have wanted to kill the captain—or Stacy Cox?”

  “I do know that the captain had a bit of a shady past,” I told her. “I’m sure you know his last name used to be Bridges; he worked on the island several years ago.”

  “We uncovered that,” she said. “He was seeing a couple of young women, I understand.”

  “Yes,” I said, impressed. “Do you think that might be connected? Or maybe that whoever killed Stacy also killed the captain?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “It’s highly unlikely that there are two murderers on an island of this size.”

  “You’re assuming there’s only one murderer, then?”

  “Not necessarily. We can’t rule anything out.”

  “It may be that Stacy was writing something more than a travel article,” I suggested, remembering the note I’d seen by her body—and the papers in her room. “And somebody didn’t want something to get out. Her door is ajar, by the way; I peeked in, and it looks like someone ransacked her room.”

  “I know,” she told me with a nod. “I’ve got detectives looking through it now.”

  “Back to your question,” I said, “one of the guests was considering investing in the tour company; evidently she’s also investing in a property on Cranberry Island. I know it’s not murder, but someone’s gone through my desk, ransacked my files, sabotaged my kitchen and potentially damaged the inn.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Do you know who?”

  “The logical choice would be the investor—Nan McGee,” I said, “but the overflowing bathtub was in the Fowlers’ room. I told him the details of what had happened. “The health inspector closed my kitchen because of the sabotage; she’s coming back today.”

  “Did you keep the evidence?”

  “I got rid of the dead rat someone planted,” I told her, “but the Tupperware is still in the trash.”

  “Unfortunately, storing spoiled food in the fridge is hardly a crime,” she told me, “or I’d be locked up for life. There’s not much I can do about that, I’m afraid.”

  “I just wanted you to be aware of it,” I told her. “If anything comes up in your questioning, please let me know.”

  “I will. Again... you didn’t hear anything last night?”

  “Nothing at all,” I told her. “It was a shock this morning.”

  “I can imagine. I’m sorry it’s been such a horrible week.”

  “Me too,” I said, warmed by the sympathy. The detective had just turned to go to the rest of the inn when there was a knock at the door; it was the health inspector.

  Perfect timing.

  ***

  “What’s going on here?” the inspector asked as I led her into the kitchen; the inn was buzzing with investigators.

  “There was a death on the lawn last night,” I said.

  “Not food poisoning, I hope?”

 
“No,” the detective said, walking up to her. “It was homicide, and poison wasn’t involved.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Detective Fleming,” she said. “You must be the health inspector.”

  “Yes,” she responded. “What is all this about?”

  “Natalie was just telling me about the situation; it seems that someone has been sabotaging her inn. We have a suspect, and are investigating.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t give you details right now—it’s an active investigation—but someone appears to be stealing her trade secrets and client list and attempting to paint the inn in a negative light.”

  “That’s horrible!” she said.

  “I’m not suggesting you not do your job, of course—like you, I take safety very seriously—but I just wanted to make you aware of the circumstances.”

  “Of course, officer,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Let me show you what we’ve done,” I said, sending Detective Fleming a grateful look and leading her to the laundry room first.

  It was a short tour. “Well, you certainly have put in an effort,” she said when I closed the fridge. “It all looks good; and considering the extenuating circumstances the detective mentioned, I’ll allow you to re-open. But I’m going to have to come back and inspect again soon.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “I just can’t believe someone stole your guest files.”

  “And my recipe binder,” I said.

  “Is it the same person who caused the water damage?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. The Fowlers and the McGees had had “Do Not Disturb” signs on their doors all week, and I hadn’t spent much time in their rooms. “All I can say is, thank you for your understanding.”

  “I’m not giving you a free pass,” she warned. “I’ll be back soon. But please let me know how it works out with the saboteurs. And I hope you don’t lose any more guests.”

  “Me too,” I said. “It’s horrible; both victims were cut down way too young.”

  “And it’s not the best business model in the world, for sure. On the plus side, at least you won’t have a reporter talking about it to the world.”

  “On the other hand,” I pointed out, “murdering a reporter at my inn is hardly a way to avoid bad press.”

  “I hope you survive all of this,” she said. “It’s hard to overcome negative PR.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” I said as I walked her out. Even though the health inspector had given my kitchen a pass, I felt worse than I had before she came.

  ***

  It was hours before things settled down enough for me to reclaim my territory—my kitchen. Bridget, thankfully, had escaped to the mainland to “research” more galleries for Gwen, John was taking care of the rooms, and Smudge was sleeping peacefully in John’s workshop, snuggled up to a hot water bottle; we’d taken a few minutes to inject her with saline, and she was looking better.

  I was about to make a fresh pot of coffee and sit down on the porch when the phone rang.

  “Someone killed the journalist,” Charlene said into the phone. “Does that mean Alex is free?”

  “Unfortunately not,” I said as I grabbed the flour canister.

  “Why not? Honestly. Do they think there are two murderers on the island?”

  “I know,” I said, “but I’m not in charge.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about Stacy, but I can’t help feeling a little bit relieved. Maybe it’s a good thing Alex is in jail; no one can accuse him of killing her. What happened, anyway?”

  “I think she was strangled. I saw her right outside the house; she was going to meet someone, apparently.”

  “Poor thing. What was she working on?”

  “I think she was doing an article on Bainbridge—he had ties to a Japanese whaling vessel, apparently.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. He’s already dead; who would want to stop her from publishing an article on him?”

  “I suspect her death was related to something else,” I said, thinking of the documentation I’d found in the reporter’s room. Anyone trying to cover up his history would have taken the papers with them and destroyed them. “Is Alex holding up?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “He is,” she said. “I’m sick with worry about him, though. We haven’t known each other long, but I really do think I’m in love with him.”

  I didn’t know what I thought about that, but it wasn’t worth discussing. “Has he told you what he was doing after he left your house?”

  “He was out walking and thinking,” she said.

  I wasn’t convinced, but I didn’t say anything.

  “How are you feeling about Cliffside, by the way?” my friend asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m not thrilled,” I confessed. “Catherine’s asking Murray to talk to the code enforcement officer and see what can be done.”

  “She’s got him wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m not complaining,” I said.

  “Oh—I almost forgot to tell you. Tom and Lorraine had a big blow-out last night; apparently he spent the night at the co-op.”

  “What?” Had he discovered the love letter, too? And if he was at the co-op, I thought to myself, who would give him an alibi? “How do you know?”

  “Adam found him there when he went in this morning,” she said.

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “Why?” She paused and drew in a breath. “Are you thinking maybe Tom killed the journalist?”

  “I’m not necessarily thinking that, but he’s definitely linked to Bainbridge—or Bridges.”

  “You mean that old relationship the captain had with Lorraine?”

  “Yes, and there may still have been some bad blood over those traps he pulled all those years ago. The journalist piece doesn’t make sense, though—unless she was planning on publishing something that would be bad for the Lockharts.”

  “Now that I think of it, I did see her down at the Lockharts’ a couple of days ago,” Charlene said. “And apparently she was down at the pier asking questions, too.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Selene MacGregor at Island Artists mentioned that she was kind of nosy.”

  “I’ll ask her, then,” I said. “Any word on the kitten?”

  “None yet,” she said, “but I’ll let you know.”

  I hung up with Charlene a moment later, slightly cheered by her improved mood, but still concerned about the fact that there were two unsolved murders at the inn.

  As I filled the coffee pot with water, I turned the problem over in my head. It wasn’t just logic that told me the two deaths were the work of the same hand; logic told me as much, too. But why?

  I thought about what I knew of Bainbridge. He and Alex obviously had come to blows over the whales; but there was no way Alex could be responsible for what happened to Stacy.

  And then there were the Lockharts. Why would Lorraine kill an ex-lover she was obviously still emotional about? And even if she had, why kill Stacy? Unless, I thought, thinking back to the kiss Stacy had told me about, she was jealous. But if Bainbridge was already dead, why go after Stacy? Unless Stacy knew who the killer was, it didn’t make sense, I thought as I scooped fragrant coffee beans into the grinder and pressed down on the lid. Had Stacy been the second person out and about the night Bainbridge died? Had she spotted the killer? If she had, maybe that was why someone had gone through her room; looking for notes she might have made about the killer’s identity. As much as it pained me to think either of my friends could be capable of murder, I couldn’t discount Tom, either.

  As I poured the coffee into the filter and turned the pot on, I reflected that Lorraine and Tom weren’t the only ones Bainbridge had tangled with, though. If it was true that Martina had lied to me about the business, and that she knew she was going to inherit it, she
had plenty of reason to do so. I thought back to the conversation I’d overheard after the whale outing; she’d told the captain she would take care of Alex in a tone of voice that made me shiver. Maybe she’d killed two birds with one stone—taking out both Alex and the captain. Had she killed Stacy out of jealousy... or because she suspected she was onto her?

  And then there was Nan McGee, who was evidently ruthless in the business department. Had she done in the captain as an investment strategy? It seemed farfetched, but I couldn’t discount it. It was always possible he had learned something about her shady deals—and told Stacy about them, too.

  The jewel theft was another possible factor. Had Jenna harbored a grudge all these years... and taken the opportunity to avenge herself? Maybe she did Bainbridge in and then thought Stacy saw her... then lured her in to make sure the reporter didn’t connect the dots.

  The coffee pot had just finished brewing Gwen walked into the kitchen.

  “How’s it going?” I asked as I poured myself a mug. “I just made coffee.”

  “Thanks; I’ll take a cup,” she said. “John and I split the rooms, and I’ve got mine done,” she said.

  “Great.”

  “It doesn’t take long when half of them have do-not-disturb signs,” she said as she filled a cup with the dark brew.

  “I know about the Fowlers, but who else?”

  “The first mate—well, now the captain, I guess—and now the investor.”

  “Nan McGee. I believe she’s the one buying Cliffside.” I glanced up at the gap in my cookbook shelf. “I hate to say this, but let’s go in anyway. I suspect she’s the one who stole my recipe binder. Is she in the inn now?”

  “No,” she said, sipping her coffee. “I saw her walking up the main road with a few other guests a few minutes ago.”

  “Probably going to meet with her architect at Cliffside,” I said, rolling my eyes. I put down my coffee mug. “Let’s go.”

  Gwen smiled at me, and I followed her up the steps to Nan’s room. I shivered at the sight of Stacy’s door; the investigators had finished a little while ago. Ignoring the “Do Not Disturb” sign, my niece slid the skeleton key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  “At least she’s neat,” I said, eyeing the carefully made bed and the clutter-free surfaces. The plans I’d seen the other day were no longer in evidence.