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

  “Where do you think she’d hide it?” Gwen asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said as my niece opened the drawers of the dresser. I hurried over and checked under the bed; together, we scoured the room. Unfortunately, though, either the investor wasn’t hiding anything, or she’d taken it with her.

  John was stepping out of Yvette and Carson’s room when we closed her door behind us. “Man,” he said. “I’m glad we don’t have kids.”

  “That bad?”

  “Goldfish crumbs everywhere,” he said. “And it looks a little like a children’s toy store exploded in the corner.”

  “No permanent damage?”

  “Not that I could tell,” he said, then realized which room we were coming out of. “Wait. I thought she had a do-not-disturb sign up.”

  “I was looking to see if my recipe binder had migrated to her room,” I said. “Not to mention our client files.”

  “It’s not in the kitchen somewhere?”

  “No,” I said. “And no Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake until I track it down.”

  He bit his lip and scanned the other two do-not-disturb signs. “Have you been in the Fowlers’ room?”

  “Not since they created Niagara Falls, no.”

  “They were awfully protective of their things. I think it’s worth a look,” he said.

  “Wait a moment. This is coming from Mr. Don’t-Ever-Snoop?”

  “We’re talking about your coffee cake here,” he said. “I’d say that constitutes extenuating circumstances. Are they here?”

  “I saw them heading up the road behind Nan McGee,” Gwen told him.

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I vote we go in.”

  “Seconded,” I declared, and Gwen slid the skeleton key into the door. A moment later, it swung open.

  “Wow,” I said, surveying the mess. Clothes lay scattered across every surface, the sheets were a knot in the middle of the bed, and a sopping wet towel sat in the middle of my hardwood floor.

  “I know they have a do-not-disturb sign, but I’m not leaving that there,” I announced. When I picked it up, a white spot remained on the finished floors.

  “That will come up, right?” I asked John.

  “If not, I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Now let’s find that binder.”

  Quickly, the three of us began moving clothes and opening drawers, searching for the missing binder. As I took on the night tables and John went through the dresser, Gwen walked into the bathroom.

  “Ugh,” she said. “It’s like they had a toothpaste war.”

  “That’s not the only thing in here,” John said, pulling a wad of papers out of the bottom drawer of the desk. “Look familiar?”

  “My client list,” I said. “But why would the Fowlers want my client list?”

  “Maybe they’re the ones planning on opening the inn at Cliffside.”

  “But that was Nan.”

  “Nan may be the investor,” he said. “Somebody’s got to run it.”

  “They did follow her up the road,” Gwen pointed out as she ran a hand under the mattress. “Wait a minute,” she said, and pulled out a familiar looking three-ring binder. “This what you were looking for?”

  “It is,” I said, grimacing. “I think we need to have a talk with the Fowlers when they get back. This explains why they ‘accidentally’ left the water on; it was sabotage, after all.”

  “It looks like they’re all here, but I think we need to put a lock on the front desk,” John added, leafing through the papers. “This is a mess. Do you think they had a chance to copy them?”

  “I hope not,” I said. “I’m just glad we have it all back. I’m just not sure how we’re going to explain how we tracked this stuff down.”

  “I vote you just say that you heard water running and were worried something might be overflowing, and happened to find your papers.”

  “Anything to link them to Bainbridge or Stacy?”

  “No,” John said. “But what would their motive be?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t want McGee investing in the tour group instead of the inn,” I suggested.

  “And maybe Stacy saw something that would implicate the Fowlers.”

  “Someone from the second story did leave the inn the night he died,” I said. “And I did see Stacy listening in on conversations more than once. Maybe she heard them talking about it.”

  “It’s a reasonable motive. So we have another suspect,” John suggested.

  “We’ve got Martina, Nan, the Lockharts...”

  “The Lockharts?” Gwen asked.

  “Tom was sleeping at the co-op the night Bainbridge died,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Lorraine dated him a long time ago,” John supplied. “They had an argument over it.”

  “So neither one has an alibi,” Gwen said. “But I just can’t imagine either of them being a killer.”

  “I doubt Lorraine would leave the kids at home in the middle of the night,” I said.

  “We still can’t rule her out,” John said. “As much as I’d like to. Any other potential suspects, Ms. Holmes?”

  “The only other one I could think of was Jenna Pool,” I suggested. “After all, he got her into hot water over a jewel theft about fifteen years ago, evidently.”

  “But why not kill him then?”

  “He skipped town, then. Maybe she couldn’t get to him.”

  “I wonder if anyone saw them together?” I mused. “I’ll have to ask Charlene; if anyone knows or can find out, it’s her.”

  “Anyone else on the list?” Gwen asked. “The Easter Bunny? Maybe Liam and Lizzie?”

  “I’d like to put Doreen on the list, to be honest, but I’m sure she’s allergic to death.”

  “Most of us are,” John said. “Both crimes required some strength. Do you think Gayla and Herb could manage it? They’re a bit older.”

  “Older doesn’t mean weaker,” I said. “Besides, they could have worked together.”

  “That’s true. What I can’t figure out is, did they go to the boat in a dinghy with the captain?”

  “If they knocked him out, they could have put him in the boat and then pulled him onto deck of the Summer Breeze... or someone could have gone aboard, pulled up the anchor, and then attached him to it.”

  “Or he could have gone to the schooner willingly... thought it was for another reason.”

  “Martina could have asked him to check something out,” I suggested. “Although there was another skiff out that night... from the other side of the island. It could be unrelated... or it could be someone who’s involved, or at least saw something.”

  “Has Charlene heard anything?”

  “If she has, she hasn’t told me, and I just got off the phone with her a little while ago.”

  “Surely someone would know who was out,” John said. “Everyone seems to know everything on this island.”

  “Maybe it will come to light,” I said. “In the meantime, are we done in here?”

  “I think so,” John said.

  “Should we say something to them, or let them figure it out on their own?” I asked.

  John chuckled. “What are they going to do, come and ask why the things they stole from the inn are missing?”

  “Good point,” I answered. “But I’m going to store my binder upstairs while they’re still here—and see if Murray can find out if the Fowlers are involved in Cliffside. I guess if they did kill Stacy to cover up their connection with Bainbridge’s murder, it would make sense to go through her room and make sure she hadn’t recorded the connection.”

  “Her laptop was gone, right?” Gwen asked. “Whoever went through her room stole it, presumably, but it’s not here.”

  “Maybe they got rid of it and any other incriminating things so that the police wouldn’t find it,” John suggested.

  “It’s not here, though. So does that point suspicion away from the Fowlers?” Gwen asked.

  “Just because it�
�s not here doesn’t mean they didn’t take it. They could have gotten rid of it in the water, or tossed it off a cliff.”

  “Hopefully it will turn up,” I said, “and we’ll find something to exonerate Alex.”

  “Are you thinking he’s innocent, then?” Gwen asked.

  “I think it’s highly unlikely that there are two murderers on Cranberry Island,” I responded. “And it’s hard to kill someone when you’re miles away and locked behind bars. Maybe it’s a good thing they arrested him after all.”

  “The murders could be related,” John said, “but there are no guarantees.”

  I turned to look at my husband. “Really?”

  “Correlation does not mean causation,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, in this case, I think you’re wrong. And I’m going to start by checking to see if Catherine’s back, stopping in at Cliffside and heading down to the store and talking to Charlene.”

  “How will that help?”

  “I don’t know that it will, but I’ve got to do something,” I said.

  “I’ll take care of dinner, then,” John said. “At least we have the kitchen open!”

  “Amen to that,” I agreed as I hugged my binder to my chest and stepped out of the Fowlers’ messy room.

  ***

  Catherine wasn’t home, so I hopped in the van and headed toward Cliffside. Sure enough, Nan was tramping around the grounds with the Fowlers, a stylishly dressed woman I didn’t recognize trailing in her wake.

  I pulled the van over and got out, hailing my guests. “Out for a hike?” I asked.

  Nan looked startled, and Herb Fowler looked as if I’d caught them with their hands in the cookie jar. Gayla, on the other hand, pressed her lips together into a look of disapproval. “We’re just taking a look at the place,” she said.

  “You must be an architect,” I said, addressing the woman I didn’t know.

  “I am,” she said, adjusting her rectangular glasses. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” I said, walking over and extending a hand. “I’m Natalie Barnes. I run the Gray Whale Inn. Congratulations on the commission to turn this place into a resort; when do you break ground?”

  “Thanks,” she said, shaking my hand. “Assuming all goes well with the permitting, we’re thinking in another month or so, right?” she asked, turning to Gayla.

  Gayla opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Get it going before winter starts,” I supplied for her. “Good thinking.” I turned to Herb and Gayla. “So is this why you flooded the room and sabotaged my kitchen? Trying to put me out of business?”

  Gayla’s eyes flicked to her husband, and after a moment’s pause, she swallowed and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sabotage? What is she talking about?” the architect asked, looking confused.

  “She’s a bit histrionic,” Nan said, stepping in. “Her guests have been dropping like flies; I’m sure it must be very upsetting to have her establishment linked with homicide in the news so often.”

  “Not as bad as ending up behind bars for homicide,” I said lightly, staring at Gayla. “Well, I’ll let you get on with things.” I turned back to the architect. “Permitting moving along okay?”

  “We’re still working on it,” she said, looking uncomfortable.

  “Good luck,” I said. “Do you have a card?”

  “Why do you need a card?” Nan asked. “Considering expanding?”

  “You never know,” I said with a grim smile. “Have a nice day.”

  ***

  “Any word on Stacy?” Charlene asked when I walked into the Cranberry Island store a few minutes later. Gwen was already there, sitting at the counter in the back. I walked past the overstuffed couches in the front of the store to join them. I was glad to see that Charlene looked better today; her hair was styled, and I could tell she’d put on lipstick.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “And no cookies, either,” she said, glancing at my empty hands. “What kind of friend are you, anyway?” she said with a half grin.

  “A friend with questions,” I said, my recent encounter still on my mind despite that morning’s tragedy. “About Cliffside, for starters. I haven’t seen Catherine; do you have any idea where things are on permitting?”

  “No, but I’ll see what I can find out,” she said. “But back to Stacy. I heard you found her.”

  “I did,” I said, shuddering at the memory. I lowered my voice. “Someone had written her a note saying they had some information to share on Bainbridge—Bridges. It was right next to the body, but don’t say anything; I don’t think the police want that out.”

  “Do you think it was someone at the inn?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and went over the list of suspects I’d come up with earlier that day.

  “Martina seems like the obvious choice,” Charlene said. “You’ve got means—she had total access to the boat—motive, which she’s got in spades, since she inherits the business and was jealous of Stacy—and opportunity.”

  “It would explain Stacy’s murder, too,” Gwen said.

  “I guess,” I said. “She told me she didn’t know how the inheritance would work out. I don’t know if she was lying or not, but I still feel like we might be missing something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Someone saw a skiff out on the water the night the captain died. I don’t know why, but I think it’s got to be connected.”

  “The Lockharts?” Gwen looked appalled. “Do you really think Tom or Lorraine would do something like that?”

  “I’d like to think they wouldn’t, but we can’t rule it out,” I said.

  “And then there’s Jenna. She’s a bit of a dark horse,” Charlene said. “As far as I know, she didn’t even know Bainbridge was here.”

  “She’s so quiet, how would you know?” Gwen asked. “Although she did look pretty upset the other day when I was swinging by Island Artists with a couple of watercolor paintings.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Only briefly,” she said. “She was arguing with her mother about something; I saw them having angry words out by the end of the pier.”

  “What did she say when you talked to her?”

  “She told me I was lucky my mother lived in California.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “No idea what they were arguing about?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Think Jenna was getting involved with the good captain again?” Charlene asked.

  My niece’s hand leapt to her throat; she looked horrified. “But she’s married!”

  “Lorraine saw him, and she’s married, too,” I pointed out.

  Gwen’s eyes widened. “You think they were... together?”

  “I think Lorraine was still carrying a torch for him,” I said, remembering how upset Lorraine had been, and her regretful words about roads not taken. “And I know they talked. But I don’t know that anything else happened. She and Tom did have an argument, though; he ended up sleeping in the co-op the night Stacy died.”

  “That’s not good,” Charlene said. “I don’t imagine anyone else was with him?”

  “Evidently not,” I replied. “No alibi.”

  “Where was Jenna Pool?” Gwen asked.

  “No way to know.”

  “Might be worth talking to her, don’t you think?” Charlene asked.

  “You’re right, I think. I’ll stop by there next,” I said.

  Charlene smoothed back a lock of her caramel-colored hair. “Want me to go with you?”

  “I don’t want her to feel like we’re ganging up on her,” I said. “But keep an ear out and let me know if you hear anything, okay?”

  “Of course,” my friend said. “Do you really think we’ll be able to clear Alex?”

  I put on what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “We’ll do our best.”

  “Is it safe to go back to the inn?” Gwen asked as I turned to leave the s
tore.

  “If you’re talking about your mom, she wasn’t there when I left, but I’ve been gone a while.”

  “Maybe I’ll just stay with Adam until she’s gone back to California.”

  “She loves you, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just... hard to be around someone who tells you you’re doing everything wrong.”

  “Believe me,” I told her as I slid off the stool and headed for the front door. “I get it.”

  ***

  Jenna Pool lived in a small, but tidy house tucked back in a copse of evergreens, just two houses down from Emmeline Hoyle. Pots of impatiens flanked the wooden steps leading up to a glassed-in porch in which a sea glass mobile—handmade, I was guessing—gleamed in the sun.

  I knocked on the door. A moment later, there were footsteps, and Jenna came to the door. I knew she had to be at least 30, but she looked very young; something about her reminded me of a spooked deer. She was dressed in tight blue yoga pants and an oversized plaid flannel shirt that was off a button.

  “Hi,” she said, and I got a strong whiff of alcohol. “Is everything okay?”

  “It is,” I said. “I was just wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  Her bloodshot eyes darted away from me, and then back. “About what?” she asked, swaying slightly in the doorway.

  “About Captain Bainbridge,” I said quietly. “You knew him as Carl Bridges. I understand he made life very difficult for you.”

  She swallowed hard. “How do you know about that?”

  “Eli recognized him,” I said. “It sounds like he really left you in a terrible spot.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “It shouldn’t upset me so much, but it still does,” she confessed. “I loved him so much. I still don’t believe he was responsible for what happened. The suspicion here destroyed his career, so he had to find a job overseas... that’s why he left. My mother still doesn’t believe me... blames me for everything.”

  “From everything I’ve heard, it wasn’t your fault,” I said gently.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, opening the door wider. “I shouldn’t leave you standing out here on the porch. Come in,” she said.

  I followed her as she wove through the glassed-in porch and into the living room. Although it was small, it was well kept, with blue rag rugs, a slipcovered couch in the living room and several jars with sea glass on the windowsills. There was a big tumbler of what looked like Coke on the living room table, half-gone; something told me it was more than just a soft drink.