Dead and Berried Read online

  Charlene slipped through the kitchen door, letting in a gust of cold air, and snagged a muffin before plopping down on a kitchen chair. Things were looking up; her appetite was returning.

  “What did you find out?” she asked, shrugging off her windbreaker and taking a bite of the fruit-studded muffin. Barbara was right—the recipe was a winner. Charlene’s cheeks were pink from the wind.

  “I didn’t make it over to the library,” I said. “The boat broke.”

  “Couldn’t John fix it?”

  “He wasn’t here.” I pulled up a chair across from her. “Maybe I’ll go tomorrow. How about you? Is the store in good shape?”

  She nodded as she nibbled on a bit of streusel. “Tania did a good job. Everything’s running fine.”

  I hesitated for a moment. “Anything on the rumor mill?”

  “Not a word.” The expression on her face was grim and determined. “I knew Grimes was wrong. I just knew it.”

  I nodded, wishing I could agree with her, but privately I wondered. If he had been seeing someone else, only the most heartless gossip would point it out to Charlene now that McLaughlin had been murdered.

  Charlene set down her muffin after only one bite. “It helped, you know, going down there. But part of me still can’t believe it. I keep expecting to turn around and see him, or wanting to pick up the phone and call him.” Her face was bleak. “Sometimes I forget for a few moments, then something happens that reminds me, and it all comes rushing back.”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I know, Charlene.”

  She wiped away a tear. “They’re postponing the funeral. Because of the autopsy.”

  “Will it be here, do you know?”

  “I just don’t know. I need to talk to his parents, but I don’t know how to reach them. We hadn’t met yet.”

  “Maybe Grimes has the number,” I suggested.

  She shook her head shortly. “No way. We’ll get it when we hit the rectory.” Her blue eyes probed mine. “You’re still game, right?”

  “My only worry is that the police haven’t finished their work...”

  “We won’t disturb anything.” She fished in her jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of leather gloves. “I picked these up at the house. Fingerprints, you know.”

  I stifled a sigh. “Good idea. What time, then?”

  “How about eight? It will be dark then.”

  “But what if someone is out and about?”

  Charlene glanced outside at the leaden sky. “In this weather? I don’t think so.”

  “All right,” I said grudgingly, glancing at the clock. “It’s already coming up on five. If you want to do this cloak-and-dagger stuff, then you need to eat. So what do you want for dinner?”

  “How about just a few of these muffins?”

  “No dice. It’s a cold night; how about stew?”

  “Takes too long.”

  “Two hours. It’ll be done by seven. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  “If you insist,” she said.

  “I do,” I said, and pulled a package of stew meat out of the refrigerator.

  ___

  The weather had worsened by the time we clambered into Charlene’s pickup truck, our bellies full of Beef Zinfandel, spiced apple cider, and Barbara’s delicious muffins. Benjamin had popped through the swinging door just before six. Charlene had invited him to join us, and after a moment’s hesitation, I relented, figuring the male company would do Charlene good. It had; she’d perked up like a flower in sunshine.

  I rubbed my hands together for warmth after slamming the truck door shut behind me.

  “Did you get gloves?” Charlene asked as she turned the key. The engine juddered to life.

  “Shoot. I’ll be right back.” I closed the truck door and hurried back to the house.

  Five minutes later, I was back in the cab of the truck, clutching a pair of bright orange rubber gloves.

  Charlene raised an eyebrow. “That’s the best you could do?”

  “I’m from Texas, remember? My glove collection is less than extensive.”

  “You’re in for a fun winter then,” Charlene said as the truck lurched into gear.

  “I’m just excited that I’ll get to see snow.”

  She chuckled. “Tell me that in May.”

  “May?”

  “Just you wait,” she said, as the truck climbed the big hill behind the inn. “You’ll be begging to go back to Texas.”

  An image of the Queen Anne Victorian Benjamin had shown me flashed through my mind.

  “Speaking of Texas, your ex is a good-looking guy. What’s the story?”

  “We were engaged,” I said. “But it didn’t work out.”

  “What happened?”

  “I found out he was... well, involved with another woman. Several of them, in fact.”

  Charlene drew in her breath. “And now he wants you back?”

  I nodded.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Feed him breakfast. Send him home.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” I said. But it sure didn’t feel like it.

  Before long, we were bumping down Black Cove Road, coming up on the rectory. I was thankful for the distraction—even if I wasn’t too jazzed about breaking a police seal. “Where do you think we should park?” Charlene asked.

  “Why don’t you pull up behind the rectory?” I asked. “It’s kind of out of the way, and I doubt anyone will see us.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “I’d turn off the headlights, but I’m afraid we’d run into a tree.”

  I eyed the dark pine trees hugging the edges of the road. “Better keep them on.”

  A minute later, we crunched down the rectory driveway and pulled in behind the half-finished extension. Charlene cut the engine and sat silent for a moment.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked gently.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice wobbly.

  “You can stay in the truck. I can manage by myself.”

  “No. I’m coming with you.” She pulled the keys from the ignition. “You have your gloves on?”

  I pulled the cold rubber over my hands. “I do now. Ready?”

  She took a long, shuddery breath. “Yes.”

  The cold wind tore at us as we followed the weak beam of Charlene’s flashlight to the back door. The yellow crime-scene tape had ripped loose, and was fluttering like a streamer. “Well, we don’t have to worry about breaking the seal,” Charlene called to me over the wind.

  I stood hugging myself against the cold as Charlene fumbled with the key. A moment later, the door opened inward with a bang, and we hurried inside.

  “At least they didn’t change the locks,” she said, closing the door behind us. The wind moaned outside as we stood in the dark, and I caught a faint whiff of McLaughlin’s cologne, and the scent of cinnamon. I glanced at Charlene’s face to see how she was holding up, but the darkness hid her expression.

  “Do we dare turn on the lights?” I asked.

  She took a shuddery breath. “I guess so. Unless you think it would be better to stick with a flashlight.”

  “I think either one would be obvious from outside. But the house is pretty hidden in the trees, so we should be okay.”

  A moment later, the room was flooded with light. We were in the kitchen, I realized, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

  “Where should we start?” Charlene’s voice was businesslike, but her eyes were shiny with tears.

  “Wherever you’re most comfortable,” I said, adjusting my gloves.

  “Let’s look in the study first,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “I think I can handle that.�
��

  “The study, then. Lead the way.”

  I followed Charlene through the living room where McLaughlin and I had sat just yesterday. The row of commemorative toilets still hung on the wall above the sofa, and the plush new carpet was soft under my feet. It was hard to believe the man who had sat on the leather couch just yesterday was dead. Murdered.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Charlene murmured, echoing my thoughts. She paused for a moment, then wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Then she marched across the rug to a heavy wooden door.

  “This is it,” she said, pushing through it and flipping on the lights.

  A big walnut desk stood in front of the window, with two richly upholstered red chairs arranged across from it. “He must have done pretty well for himself before taking up his priestly duties,” I remarked.

  Charlene shot me a look. “He’s gone, okay, Natalie? You can lay off him now.”

  I held up my hands. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that I’m used to seeing more of a secondhand look in priests’ offices.”

  She bristled again. “And I’m sure you’ve visited them often over the years.”

  “Point taken,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Now, where do you think he would have kept that diary, or document, or whatever it was he found?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlene said, relaxing a little and pursing her lips. She ran a gloved finger over the desk, disturbing a fine layer of fingerprint powder. “It looks like the cops have been through here already. There may not be anything to find.”

  “You never know,” I said. The house was eerily quiet, except for the wind moaning through the eaves. A particularly powerful gust rattled the windows behind the desk, and I shivered. “Shall we start with the drawers?”

  “I’ll take the credenza,” Charlene said, pointing to the chest of drawers by the door. “Why don’t you do the desk?”

  “Aye aye, captain.” The smell of McLaughlin’s cologne was strong as I sat in his leather chair. The back was high, like a throne, and I felt strangely protected from the black window behind me as I pulled out the first drawer.

  Fortunately, the police hadn’t removed any of the files—at least none that I could see. They were marked neatly—utility bills, insurance, credit card bills. I paused at the bank account file, but decided to peek anyway. For a priest, the balances were impressive.

  “Find something?” Charlene asked from her spot at the credenza.

  “No, not yet,” I said, pushing the papers back into the folder and returning it to its spot. Despite the chill in the air, my fingers were sweating in the rubber gloves. “You?”

  “Nothing. Just renovation stuff. Plans, bids, that kind of thing.”

  I slid the first drawer closed and tried the second. The files in this drawer had names on them: Hoyle, Kean, Sarkes. I grabbed the Sarkes file. Empty. Had the police removed the contents? Or someone else? My hopes rose when I saw the label on the next folder: Selfridge.

  The only thing inside was a letter, on heavy linen paper. The handwriting was challenging, but the gist of the letter was clear. In it, Murray pledged an undisclosed amount toward the renovation of the rectory. He also thanked McLaughlin for his support.

  What kind of support? I wondered. Was McLaughlin counseling Selfridge? Or did his pledge to renovate the rectory hinge upon McLaughlin’s backing Cranberry Estates?

  “Anything in that file about who’s paying the bills?” I called to Charlene.

  “Nothing yet,” she said. “But some of these invoices are downright frightening. I had no idea renovation was so expensive.”

  “Being on an island doesn’t help. I don’t even want to think about how much it will cost to fix the water damage at the inn...”

  I refolded the letter and slipped it back into the folder. My fingers flipped through to Kean, and after glancing at Charlene, I pulled a short stack of papers out. The first few pages were pledge numbers. Since meeting McLaughlin, Charlene had evidently started taking her tithing commitments a little more seriously. As I replaced the papers and slid the file back into the drawer, I noticed a printer tucked away in a corner of the office.

  “Did Richard have a computer?” I asked.

  “He has... I mean he had... a laptop,” she said, glancing around the room. “But I don’t know where it is. He usually kept it on his desk.”

  “Maybe the police took it with them.” Or the murderer, I added silently. I scanned my friend’s face for signs of strain. “I know this is hard. Are you doing okay?”

  Charlene closed the drawer and stood up. “I’m all right. But that diary isn’t here, and I don’t know where it could be.”

  “Maybe in the bedroom?”

  She sighed. “It’s worth a shot.”

  As I followed her through the living room to Richard’s bedroom, the lights flickered, and went out.

  Charlene stumbled over something. “Damn.”

  Fear tiptoed up my spine as she switched on a flashlight, sending a weak beam shooting through the darkness. Was it a power outage? Or did someone know we were at the rectory? “Do you think the whole island lost power?” I asked.

  The flashlight bobbed. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  A chill passed through me. “I’m kind of spooked. Let’s do a quick run of the bedroom and get out of here.”

  “I’m sure the wind just knocked a line down.”

  “I know. But still. We can always come back.”

  “I’d rather not have to, if it’s all right with you,” she said as I followed her into the bedroom.

  The flashlight beam bounced around the room, giving me glimpses of a cherry wood dresser, a plush green comforter, a carved headboard. “Where do we start?” Charlene asked.

  “I don’t know. The bedside tables?”

  We did a quick search, but the only book was a well-thumbed Bible. I handed it to Charlene. “Why don’t you take this with you?”

  She hesitated, then reached out for it. “You think I should?”

  “I know how much you cared for him,” I said. “It’s hardly evidence. And I’m sure he would have wanted you to have it.”

  She clutched it to her chest, her face shadowed in the reflected glare of the flashlight. “Thanks, Nat.”

  “You bet. Now, let’s do a quick run through the dresser—I’ll let you do that—and get out of here.”

  “Did you look in the bookshelves?”

  I glanced over at the dark wood shelves near the doorway. “I didn’t see them.”

  The beam of light glanced over the spines as Charlene walked over to the bookshelf. I joined her as she trained the flashlight on the shelves.

  Under the religious textbooks was a row of brightly colored thrillers. “Lots of Ludlum,” I said. Then I noticed an older book shoved in among the paperbacks, its leather binding crumbling at the top. “What’s this?”

  “You think that’s it?”

  “I don’t know.” My fingers lifted the cover gingerly. “Let’s have some light.”

  Charlene aimed the flashlight at the page I opened to.

  Winters are bitter here on the island, I read. The ink freezes solid in the inkwell unless I leave it by the stove.

  “It’s a diary, all right.” I flipped back to the title page. “Rev. Martin. Written in the 1800s.”

  “Why would someone... kill Richard over this?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, flipping through the pages. “And if they did, why would they leave the evidence lying around?” My eyes scanned the yellowing pages. “Whoever wrote this seemed kind of obsessed with the bad weather on the island.” A strong gust of wind howled around the corners of the house, and the eerie sound sent a chill up my spine. I slapped the book shut. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

  “
What about the dresser?”

  I stifled a sigh. “Let’s just make it fast, okay? We can come back when the power’s on.”

  “You sound like you’re afraid you’ll see a ghost or something.”

  The wind howled again, and I recalled the noises at the inn with a shiver. I’d been meaning to talk to Charlene about my nocturnal visitor; tonight, I’d have a chance. I slipped the diary into my pocket and followed her to the dresser. “Remind me to tell you about something when we’re done here.”

  ___

  It was almost nine o’clock when we abandoned the search and headed back to the inn. Despite looking through all the shelves and drawers, and even peeking under the mattress, we’d come out empty-handed.

  The Gray Whale Inn’s windows glowed yellow as we bumped down the long drive; either the power outage hadn’t extended to the whole island, or it had come back on.

  We hurried through the rain to the back door and let ourselves into the dark kitchen. I reached to flip on the light, and stood blinking at my kitchen.

  Someone—or something—had ripped through the pantry, strewing food all over the hardwood floor.

  “Oh my God,” Charlene breathed as we surveyed the wreck. Two ten-pound bags of flour had been ripped open and dragged across the floor, leaving a line of powdery drifts in their wake. The dried cherries were scattered over it like holly berries in snow, and several bags of pasta had been ripped open. The plate of muffins lay upside-down on the floor. Biscuit and Pepper were nowhere in sight.

  As I stepped forward, a thump sounded from the ceiling. My bedroom floor, I realized.

  “What was that?” Charlene’s voice was sharp.

  “I don’t know,” I said, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Let’s go,” I whispered.

  “Go where?”

  I inclined my head toward the staircase, and started toward them. The steps creaked as we crept up them, and a thump sounded from the wall next to us. I rounded the corner and tiptoed to my bedroom door, then threw it open and clawed at the light switch.