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

  “I’ve got news, too,” he said. “They argued on the pier the other day. Tom said he should have thrown Bridges overboard years ago.”

  I cringed. “He didn’t.”

  “He did,” he said. “And she’s not the only one who heard it. Apparently somebody else passed that little nugget on to the police.”

  “Do you think he would have done it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s a passionate guy—but he’s also a good person. I just can’t see him doing something so cold-blooded. Or killing a young reporter.”

  “Someone did, though,” I said, as I retrieved my recipe binder from its hiding place and leafed through it. “My money’s on Martina.”

  “You think?”

  “She didn’t like how he was running the business. She now owns the whole thing. She was jealous of Stacy... plus, Stacy was probably writing a nasty article about her business.”

  “And it wouldn’t be hard to get Bainbridge out onto the schooner the night he died.”

  “Or to slip out and do in Stacy,” he added as I pulled a green bell pepper out of the fridge. “What are you making?”

  “I was thinking of doing a King Ranch chicken casserole,” I said. “I’ve got tortillas in the freezer and soup in the pantry, we’ve got plenty of chicken, and I could use the comfort food.”

  “Will the kids eat it?”

  “I’ll put some plain chicken aside for them just in case,” I told him as I pulled a package of corn tortillas out of the freezer. There might be a murderer running around the inn, but people still needed to eat. I hoped Yvonne and Carson were keeping close tabs on Lizzie and Liam. “I was thinking of making Texas Sheet Cake for dessert, too.”

  “Feeling a little homesick?” John asked with a grin. “Not that I’m complaining, of course... in fact, I wouldn’t object to a double batch.”

  “I think I’m just in the mood for comfort food,” I said. “I don’t miss Texas summers, but I do miss Tex-Mex.”

  “I’m glad you found that binder,” he told me. “Although I still don’t know how we’re going to mention it to the Fowlers.”

  “They’ll figure it out soon enough,” I said as I put the chicken breasts into a pan with some water and transferred them to the stove to poach. “Maybe we should charge them extra.”

  “I wish we could charge them for damages.”

  “Have you heard anything from the insurance adjustor?” I asked as I turned on the oven and pulled a canister of flour down from the pantry for the Texas Sheet Cake.

  “No, but I’m thinking maybe we should get in touch with an attorney.”

  “Are you thinking of charging them with vandalism or something? As much as it feels like the right call, I worry about the added publicity. Let’s see what the insurance adjustor says first.”

  “Fine,” he said, “but I don’t like letting go without a fight.”

  “Me neither,” I said, measuring the flour into a bowl and adding the other dry ingredients. “Is Catherine around? I want to ask her if she’s talked with Murray about Cliffside.”

  Before he could answer, Bridget walked into the kitchen.

  “Hi,” she said shortly. The tension level in the kitchen shot up about 500%. I busied myself with adjusting the heat on the stove and glancing over my recipes.

  “Hi,” I said as I opened the fridge and grabbed a dozen eggs and a tub of sour cream. “John and I were just talking... have you seen Catherine?”

  “No,” she told me, stroking the kitten’s head. “But I think I located some good gallery prospects for Gwen.”

  “That’s nice of you,” John said. “What did you find?”

  As she pulled a wad of brochures from her purse, Catherine walked into the kitchen.

  “I was hoping I’d find you here,” my mother-in-law said. “Murray told me somebody applied for a permit to turn Cliffside into a resort. Guess who owns the company involved?”

  “Someone at the inn,” I said, measuring out sour cream and adding it to the dry ingredients. “The Fowlers are the main people, but Nan McGee is backing them.”

  Her manicured eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”

  “I saw them with the architect today,” I said as I unwrapped two sticks of butter and plopped them into a pot. Once the butter melted, I’d add cocoa and water and let it cool a little before adding it to the other mixture; together, they made Texas Sheet Cake magic. I was salivating just thinking about it; thank goodness I’d found my binder. “It turns out the Fowlers were the ones who took my recipe binder and stole my client list.”

  “That’s horrible!” Bridget said. “You should sue them.”

  “I was just talking to John about that,” I said, checking on the chicken; when it was done, I’d let it cool, then shred it before sautéing onions and peppers and combining all three with the sauce. The final dish was like an enormous enchilada casserole, and always a big hit. “We could sue,” I said, “but I don’t know if it would be worth the bad publicity.”

  Bridget turned to Catherine. “Can they get the permitting through?”

  “You should talk to Murray,” Catherine said.

  “I’m not familiar with the law here, but it wouldn’t take long to read it,” Bridget said. “I can’t believe they’re trying to run you out of business and steal your client list. It’s not right!”

  I added cocoa and hot water to the melted butter and looked up at her. “I’m still not sure about suing, but if you can find some way to avoid the permit, that would be great.”

  “Some of the folks down at Island Artists were talking about protesting,” John said.

  “That’s good, too, and may come in handy at a meeting to approve, but let me take a look at what’s on the books, first,” Bridget said, her pile of gallery brochures forgotten. “Can you introduce me to Murray?”

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “Maybe we can go over for cocktails this evening.”

  “Let’s do it,” my sister said.

  “Come with me—we’ll give him a call,” Catherine said, and a moment later, John and I found ourselves staring at each other as his mother and my sister headed down to the carriage house together, still talking.

  “What just happened?” John asked, still holding the kitten as I stirred the cocoa-butter mixture.

  “I think we just found something else for my sister to chew on. And with her background, I can’t think of a better ally to have.”

  “So maybe we need to worry less about the incoming hotel—for now, anyway—and figure out who’s killing off our guests before we lose another one,” he suggested.

  I adjusted the heat on the stove. “I thought you were the one always encouraging me to leave it to the police!”

  “I talked with the detective, and she’s not telling me much of anything, but I think she still thinks Alex did in Bridges,” he said.

  “Did you tell them about Martina?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  I stirred the chocolaty mixture, inhaling the comforting scent. “What do they think happened to the reporter?”

  “She came up here because things were getting hot down in Portland; she’d just unearthed some criminal connections with the mafia,” he told me. “They’re thinking her death was unrelated to what happened to Bridges.”

  I put down my wooden spoon. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” he told me.

  “I don’t buy that for a minute.”

  “It does seem awfully convenient,” he said.

  “I’m still putting my money on Martina,” I said. “She’s got means, motive, and opportunity.”

  “You think?” he asked. “She seemed pretty upset.”

  “I don’t think it’s Tom or Lorraine,” I said, “although I haven’t seen Lorraine again. I talked with Jenna, and I just can’t believe she would have done it, but her husband Bill is a possibility. And why would Nan McGee or the Fowlers want him dead?”

  “He was going to scuttle their d
eal? Maybe they were worried he’d invest in the tour instead.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I hate to think it’s one of the islanders,” John told me, “but there was that skiff coming from the other side of the island the night Bridges died. Besides, why come back here if there wasn’t still some connection to the past?”

  “But Martina is the obvious choice,” I objected. “She didn’t like what Bridges was doing. I know Bridges told her to deal with Alex when he was giving him trouble.” I remembered the coldness in her voice when she told the captain she’d “take care of him.” “She benefits from inheriting the business. Stacy admitted to canoodling with him and being caught at it by Martina—and we know she and the captain were involved at some point. And I heard someone going up and downstairs the night Bridges died.”

  “Did we ever figure out what Alex was doing that night?” he asked. “We can’t rule out the possibility that he was the one to kill the captain.”

  “You really think there are two killers?” I asked, watching as the first bubbles began to spring up around the edge of the pot. “I think we’d know if someone came from off-island to do in Stacy, don’t you think?”

  “One of the other guests?” John suggested. “Someone went through her room; maybe she was doing an exposé on Nan McGee’s business?”

  “I guess if she was, there would be no way to know. Whoever it was took everything related to it, and her laptop hasn’t turned up, I’m guessing.”

  “Apparently not,” John told me.

  “So what now?” I asked.

  “Martina’s still out, right?”

  “She is.”

  The mixture in the pot was boiling; I turned off the heat. After it cooled for a few minutes, I’d combine it with the other ingredients and tuck it into the oven; the chicken still needed some time, too. “This is on for another fifteen minutes or so. Unless you have any objections, I thought I might go and make sure there aren’t any clogged drains in Martina’s room.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s go. But we both need to wear gloves.”

  “Got it,” I said, fishing two pairs of rubber gloves out from under the sink as he snuggled Smudge in next to the radiator.

  ***

  Martina’s room was as tidy as you’d expect it to be.

  “Ship-shape,” John quipped as he closed the door behind him.

  “No surprise there,” I said. “I just wish we knew what we were looking for.”

  “I think we’ll know it when we find it,” he said.

  It didn’t take long, actually. “She was setting him up,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I showed him a file with the name “Stacy” neatly printed on the front. Inside was a dossier on Captain Bridges—or Bainbridge.

  “Wow,” John said. “It’s got the whole tiara story, the whaling connections...”

  “And apparently he was arrested for burglary down in New York,” I said. “It didn’t stick, but I can see why he’d change his name.”

  “Why give this to Stacy?”

  “Revenge?” I asked. “Or to scare her off of him?”

  “Maybe it was to scuttle the investment,” he suggested.

  “But that would destroy her stake in the business, too,” I said. “Besides, if you’re going to give her the file, why kill her?”

  “Do you think maybe she used the note and the file to lure her?” he suggested. “I wish we had a copy of that note.”

  I looked at the front of the folder. “The handwriting wasn’t this neat, but it could have been written in a hurry. Should we leave this here, or take it with us?”

  “I’ll take a picture,” he said, “and we’ll leave it here.”

  “I’ll get my phone,” I said, and hurried downstairs. We took a few photos and then scoured the rest of the room, but found nothing else of interest.

  But what we’d found was intriguing enough.

  ***

  Bridget burst into the kitchen just as I was frosting the cake, followed by Catherine. “It’s not a done deal,” she announced. “And I may have found an ordinance that prevents them building. Cliffside is a historic structure; if the board can get it approved as such, they can’t do anything with it. Murray’s willing to go to bat.”

  “Really?” I looked at Catherine. “You got Murray to go to bat against a developer?”

  “He’s not the one developing it,” she pointed out. “If he’s not profiting, why should someone else?”

  That made more sense. I was about to answer when the phone rang. I picked it up: it was Charlene.

  “They’re not dropping the charges,” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “They think the murders are unrelated, and Alex is guilty.”

  “John mentioned that might be the case,” I said. “I’m working on it; we may have a lead.” I glanced up at the clock. “I’ve got to get ready for dinner... do you want to come eat with us?”

  “I can’t eat. I can’t think.”

  “Then come over and just be with us,” I suggested. “I’ve got Texas Sheet Cake.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “It’s chocolate,” I said. “It’s therapeutic. You’ll see.”

  She let out a heavy sigh and said she’d walk over with Gwen in a little bit.

  “What’s going on?” Bridget asked.

  “They still think the naturalist killed the captain,” I said. “Charlene’s coming over for comfort and cake.”

  “I think I was wrong about you living a quiet life up here,” Bridget said. “I’m still worried about Gwen, though... where is she?”

  “She’s at the store with Charlene,” I said. “They’ll come over together.”

  “Good. I’m glad she’s not alone.” She shivered. “I hate to think of her on the island with a murderer.”

  “Charlene will look after her,” I said soothingly.

  But I was wrong.

  ***

  The King Ranch Chicken casserole was a hit, as usual, and it was a good thing I kept back some sheet cake, or there would have been none left over. Just a bite of the fudgy, pecan-laced cake was enough to send me zinging back to my hometown of Austin... only the temperature outside was a lot more welcoming.

  I was picking up the plates and still thinking about Stacy when I heard the two kids talking by the window.

  “I told you she was right there,” Lizzie said, pointing out toward the carriage house.

  “You’re making that up,” Liam said.

  “I am not. She had some kind of blue light on her face for a moment. It was her.”

  I walked over and set down the plate I was carrying, then squatted next to Lizzie. “Who did you see?” I asked.

  “The bogeyman,” Lizzie said.

  “There’s no such thing,” Liam protested.

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Last night,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was looking out at the moon. And that’s when I saw here. She was right over there,” she said, stabbing a finger toward the carriage house.

  “Did you recognize her?” I asked.

  “I told you. It was the skunk woman. Just like I saw at dinner the other day.”

  “Dinner the other day?”

  “Lizzie,” Yvette scolded. “Don’t bother Miss Natalie.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said. “When did you see her at dinner?”

  “When we had that white soup,” she said. “Over at the pier. She had that weird stripe on her head.

  Stripe on her head?

  “Like a skunk,” she said.

  My stomach dropped.

  “You’re sure you saw her?”

  “I did,” she said. “I was so scared when her face lit up that I went and hid under the covers. I tried to tell mom, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “She’s always talking about monsters, ever since she saw that zombie show.”

  I stood up, wheels turning in my brain. The h
airpin on the deck of the ship. The hairpin on the floor outside Stacy’s room.

  They didn’t belong to Martina at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had just finished drying the last of the dishes when Charlene walked through the door.

  “You don’t look so hot,” I said.

  “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” she said, pushing back a lock of lank hair.

  “I may have some good news... but first, where’s Gwen?”

  “She stopped by Island Artists; she’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “I thought you two were coming over together,” I said, feeling a twinge of concern.

  “What could happen?” Charlene asked, then bit her lip. “Good point. Maybe I should go back for her.”

  “I’ll call her,” I said, picking up the phone. Unfortunately, her phone was out of batteries or she was on the other line; it went straight to voicemail.

  As I hung up, my sister walked into the kitchen. She saw Charlene. “Is Gwen upstairs?”

  “She’s coming in a few minutes,” Charlene answered, a furrow between her brows.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Bridget said.

  “You know what? I do, too,” I said. “John should be here in a minute; Charlene, will you help clean up? I’m going to run down to the pier and give her a ride.”

  “I’m going with you,” Bridget said, and together we headed out to the van, shivering as a gust of chilled air blew in off the water. Both of us were jittery. I knew now that there was likely a murderer on the island—not just on the island, but on the pier, just down from Island Artists. I gunned the engine, and as we reached the crest of the hill, I felt my stomach clench; surely my niece would be just on the other side of the hill, clutching her bag of art supplies.

  But she wasn’t.

  “I thought Charlene said she’d just be a few minutes behind,” Bridget fretted.

  “We’ll find her,” I said, more calmly than I felt.

  She wasn’t a few minutes behind. In fact, she was nowhere at all on the road home.

  “Is there a shortcut?” Bridget asked.

  “There’s a footpath,” I told her. “She may have taken it and stopped to do some sketches,” I suggested as I pulled in at the end of the pier and cut the engine. I hoped I was right.