Dead and Berried Read online

  A gust of cold wind rattled the branches around me, and I took the opportunity to move a little further from the road. When I had put some distance between Russell and me, I doubled back toward the blacktop. At 9:56, I slipped across the road a second time, just out of sight of Russell, and sidled up behind the empty house, wincing at the sound of the frozen grass crackling beneath my feet. I had just pressed myself up against the house when someone called out from the road.

  Flattening myself against the rough wood boards, I poked my head around the corner. I didn’t recognize the man—he was hunched in a green jacket and brown gloves. I couldn’t tell what color his hair was, since his head was covered in a brown wool cap that was pulled down over his ears.

  “Over here!” Russell called. Good. That meant they were planning on meeting by the house.

  “I hope you’ve got it with you,” the unfamiliar man said as he crunched up to Russell. “I had to get up at the crack of dawn to make it over here, and the boat ride was a nightmare. Couldn’t we do this on the mainland?”

  “I wanted it to be private,” Russell said. “Besides, you’re supposed to come out here, so it doesn’t look suspicious.” I heard a rustling, and peered around the side of the house in time to see the man in the green jacket slip something into his pocket.

  Russell was beaming. “Are you sure we’re clear?”

  “I submitted the report yesterday, so you’ve got the green light.”

  “And the one who was giving you a hard time?”

  “There was a big shake-up at the department last week, so she just got four or five new cases to deal with.” The man chuckled. “No worries there.”

  Something rubbed against my legs. I jerked my head back and stifled a yelp. It was a gray tabby cat. I reached down to pet her. She sniffed my fingers, which smelled like the breakfast I had just prepared, and meowed.

  “What’s that?” said Russell’s visitor.

  “One of the damned cats this woman had,” Russell said. “They’re everywhere.”

  The cat meowed again, and another gray tabby and a chunky white cat trotted up beside her to find out what was so fascinating. I jammed my sausage-scented fingers into my sweater pocket, but it was too late; now all three of them were meowing. They must have been out of food.

  “What are they meowing at? Is there someone back there?”

  I cast around for a hiding place. There was a big gap under the back porch; I dropped to my stomach and wiggled under it as heavy footsteps rounded the house. The cats followed me, joined by a few more of their whiskered friends, and now stood gathered beside the porch, meowing at me. I held my breath and braced myself for discovery.

  “No one here,” Russell said. “Weird.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something under that porch.”

  I leaned away from the opening under the porch and winced as the man leaned over and peered into my hiding spot.

  “See anything?” Russell asked.

  “Nope. Probably a skunk or something, staying out of the cold.”

  I sagged against the cold, wet ground as the voices retreated. How had they missed me? I glanced up at the morning light leaking through the narrow gaps in the porch boards. It must not have been enough to show my dark sweater and jeans. Thank goodness I hadn’t worn white.

  When I was sure they were gone, I wriggled back out again, grimacing at the mud on my clothes. I peered around the side of the house, but the two men had headed back up the road.

  Swiping at the mud on the knees of my jeans, I climbed the back porch steps and refilled the cats’ food. “Next time, just stand by the food bowl, guys,” I grumbled, and went inside to fill their bowls with water and rinse my hands. It was almost as cold inside as it was outside; someone would have to winterize the house soon—although with demolition scheduled for March, it wasn’t really necessary. But I would have to find homes for Polly’s rescued cats, I thought with a pang as a furry body wove itself around my legs.

  When the bowls were full, I ducked inside one last time and jotted down the shelter number. The shelter would know whether Pepper was up to date on her shots—and perhaps be able to help find homes for the cats that weren’t claimed.

  A wave of sadness washed over me as I stood on the worn linoleum of Polly’s kitchen, using a paper towel to get the bigger chunks of mud off my clothes. Poor Polly. I remembered her sweet, broad face, the brown hair that poofed up around it “like a dandelion gone to seed,” she’d said once. Soon, her cats, and even her house, would be gone. She would be nothing more than a memory—and a name in a dusty old file. I reached down to stroke a Siamese mix that was sniffing my shoes, admiring the blue of the big cat’s eyes. Then I closed Polly’s kitchen door behind me, casting one last look at the bleak little kitchen, and headed back up the road toward home.

  I clutched my now-damp sweater around me and hunched down, walking fast. A sudden gust of wind sent shivers through me as I passed Emmeline’s garden gnomes. Glancing at her cheery kitchen window, I decided to drop by and see if she was home. She kept promising to show me those paths, and something told me they might help me figure out what happened to Polly. Besides, I could also do with a cup of tea and a little more of that banana bread. I hurried up the front path, through a forest of gnomes, and rang the bell. Emmeline answered a moment later, dressed this morning in a blue floral housedress and a pink and white apron.

  “Natalie! So nice of you to drop in.” Her eyes took in the mud stains on my clothes. “Whatever have you been doing?”

  “Oh, I tripped on a rock and went flying.”

  Her left eyebrow twitched, and I got the feeling she didn’t quite believe me. But all she said was “Come in, come in,” stepping aside and letting me into her cluttered front hall. The little house smelled enticingly of apples and cinnamon, and I sniffed appreciatively.

  “Henry went out fishing with the fellows this morning, so it’s just you and me. I’ve got a brown betty in the oven. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll get you a piece,” she said.

  The warmth of the house started seeping into me, and I relaxed. I couldn’t think of anything more appealing than hot apple brown betty and Emmeline’s cozy kitchen right now. “It smells great; I think I’ll take you up on it. Afterwards, though, I was wondering if you could take a minute to show me those paths you were talking about.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, brown eyes sparkling. “But first, let me show you that sampler you wanted. And I copied my recipes down, too—for the banana bread, and the cookies you liked so much.”

  “Thanks, Emmeline,” I said, following her into her little kitchen and settling myself into a kitchen chair as she retrieved a small stack of papers from the counter and handed them to me. I scanned the banana bread recipe—cardamom was the secret spice, it seemed. Beneath them was her design for the sampler. It was simple—and beautiful. The words Gray Whale Inn were drawn in a rich blue, with a cavorting whale beneath it, a few beach roses along the side, and a rendering of the inn at the top.

  “This is beautiful,” I said, touching the little plume issuing from the whale’s blowhole.

  “Thank you, dear,” Emmeline said, smiling.

  “I want you to do it. But let me know how much I owe you.”

  Emmeline blushed. “Oh, it’s nothing. I enjoy the work.”

  “No, really,” I said. “This would be beautiful in my front hall, but I want to pay you for your time.”

  “No need,” she said. “I don’t like to take money from friends.”

  Friends. A warm feeling rose from my stomach. I watched Emmeline’s short, round figure as she fished a teabag out of the canister beside the stove, and said, “I’m honored, Emmeline.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me, eyes glinting. “I may be asking you for your brownie recipe, though. I’ve had a few, down to the store, and He
nry likes ’em, too.”

  “I’ll copy it out and drop it off tomorrow,” I said.

  A moment later, as Emmeline lit the burner under the tea-

  kettle, she said casually, “I noticed you headed down to Polly’s this morning.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “I was going to head down there this afternoon.” As she spoke, a large brown tabby appeared, pawing at Emmeline’s leg. “Are you out of food already?” she asked the big furry cat, reaching down and chucking her chin. At least one of the cats appeared to have found new digs, I thought, smiling.

  Emmeline shot me a glance. “Looks like you weren’t the only one down at Polly’s.”

  “Oh no?” I said, trying to look innocent.

  Her mouth twitched into a smile as she grabbed a pair of crocheted potholders and pulled the apple brown betty out of the oven.

  “You didn’t happen to notice that developer of yours? The one staying at the inn?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “He was there with another man, right outside the house,” she continued. “I don’t know how you could have missed it. Your hearing must be worse than mine.”

  It was no use denying it. I grinned. “You caught me.”

  “And you weren’t muddy on the way over there, either.”

  “I had to duck under the porch for a moment.”

  “They heard you, then?”

  “The cats gave me away.”

  She cut two steaming pieces of betty and laid them on green plates, handing one to me. “I’ll get you a fork. What were they on about, then? Did you hear anything?”

  “I’ll tell you, but please don’t say anything to anyone. I don’t have proof yet.”

  She handed me a fork, then settled down across from me and nodded. “That bad, eh?”

  I picked up my fork and stabbed a golden slice of apple. The topping was thick, glistening with brown sugar and butter. Emmeline really was a first-class cook.

  I looked at Emmeline, whose brown eyes were fixed on me, waiting. “I don’t have all the details yet,” I said, “but I think Russell may be buying off the environmental assessor.”

  Emmeline leaned forward over her brown betty, her aproned bosom perilously close to the gooey apples. “What do you mean?”

  “Paying him money to write a report saying that there are no endangered species in the bog.”

  She pressed her lips together. Her round cheeks wobbled as she shook her head. “Now, that’s just not right.”

  “I know it’s not right. What I have to figure out now is, what do I do about it?”

  Emmeline was silent for a moment, staring out the kitchen window toward the little house in the distance. “Do you think that business might have something to do with poor Polly?” she said slowly.

  “You mean did Russell kill her?”

  Emmeline’s eyes darted to me. “To get her to sell her land. If he’s paying good money to the environment man, do you think maybe he decided to clear her out of the way, too?”

  “I thought about that. The thing is, though, why kill McLaughlin?”

  “Maybe somebody else did in the Reverend.”

  I looked up at her, and suddenly had the feeling she knew more than she was telling me.

  “Why, Emmeline?”

  She picked up her fork and examined it, avoiding my eyes. “I didn’t want to say anything before, seeing as you’re good friends with Miss Charlene down there at the store, but there are some rumors floating about.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Rumors like, maybe he was a little too cozy with someone he shouldn’t have been.”

  I swallowed hard, thinking of Charlene. “Who was it?”

  She shrugged. “That’s the thing,” she said. “Nobody knows.”

  That was the second time I’d heard that rumor. My mind sorted through the women I knew on Cranberry Island, trying to come up with a likely paramour for the handsome reverend. Other than Charlene, I couldn’t think of one. “Ingrid Sorenson?” I said tentatively, thinking of the elegantly dressed, but snooty, selectwoman. She was in her late fifties, and significantly older than McLaughlin, but still attractive.

  Emmeline’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, that old blowhard? I hope the reverend had better taste than that.”

  I laughed, despite the twist in my stomach. How would I keep this from Charlene? And should I? After all, it was only a rumor...

  “The problem,” I said to Emmeline, “is that I can’t think who it would be. There’s no one to hold a candle to Charlene.”

  “I know. It’s a puzzler.” The teakettle whistled, and she got up to fill the teapot. As she brought the pot to the table along with two carroty mugs, she glanced at my untouched plate. “How’s the betty?”

  I looked down at the forgotten dessert on my plate. “I don’t know yet, but I’m about to find out.” I dug my fork into the apples and raised a cinnamon-crusted bite to my mouth, and for the next ten minutes, the kitchen was silent except for the sound of chewing.

  When I had scraped the last bit of apple filling from my plate, I looked up at Emmeline again. “That was fabulous,” I said. And she hadn’t even mentioned my burgeoning waistline. “When you get a chance, could you copy that recipe down for me, too?”

  “Of course,” Emmeline said, beaming proudly. “I’ve also got a terrific pumpkin pie recipe—with caramel on top. I’ll give you that one too, if you’d like.”

  “If I ever need a cook, I know who to ask.” I took a last sip of tea and helped her clear the table. When we had put the last dish into the dish drainer, she took off her apron and hung it on a hook next to the door. “And now let’s go out and have a look at those paths.”

  I followed her into the front hall, where she exchanged her house shoes for a pair of galoshes. “It’s kind of muddy out there,” she explained.

  “I know,” I said, with a rueful glance at my stained clothes.

  She laughed. “I guess you do.”

  A moment later, she closed the door behind her, and the two of us traipsed back down the road. The wind had picked up, and I was shivering again by the time we reached Polly’s house. Although Emmeline had donned a thick jacket, I wore only two thin sweaters—now damp—I had picked up before leaving the house, and was beginning to think this wasn’t the day for an outdoor jaunt.

  “There are two of them,” Emmeline said. “One’s over there by that stand of trees.” She pointed over to the far side of the bog. “The other’s not too far behind the house, over there.” She turned toward Polly’s house and waved a little to the left of it, then glanced back at me. “Although you’re going to be frozen solid if we head down either of them today. I didn’t realize you went out without a jacket. And you being from Texas, too.” She shook her head. “Why don’t you head home and get some clean clothes? You know where to look now, and if you can’t find them, you can just stop by again.”

  I nodded, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets. “Maybe you’re right,” I said, teeth chattering slightly. The thought of a warm bath and dry clothes was appealing.

  “I know I’m right,” she said, taking my elbow and steering me back toward her house. “You’re welcome to wait until Henry gets back with the truck.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I need to go back and take care of things at the inn. But thank you very much,” I added. “For the brown betty, for the recipes”—I patted my pocket, where I had tucked them before leaving the house—“and for showing me where to look.”

  “Anytime, dear. Now, why don’t you head on home? They’ll still be there tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Emmeline.”

  “Come on, now. I’ll walk you back at least as far as the house.”

  As we headed back toward Emmeline’s together, I felt strangely reli
eved to be leaving Polly’s house behind. I was curious where the paths in the bog led—but for now, I was happy to leave it for another day.

  Charlene was already gone by the time I got home, but she’d done a great job on the kitchen; the surfaces sparkled, and the kitchen smelled of lemon soap. Pepper and Biscuit greeted me warmly, but ignored each other—which was progress, I decided. At least the fur wasn’t flying.

  After checking on Gwen, who was still working her way through the rooms, I peeled my sweater off and threw it into the laundry room, then headed upstairs to take a shower. Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom scrubbed and warm, slipping into a pair of black fleece sweatpants and matching sweatshirt Charlene had picked up for me on the mainland a few weeks ago, before we’d had a falling out over Cranberry Estates—and McLaughlin.

  As I slipped on wool socks and padded down to the kitchen, I wondered what to do with the new information Emmeline had given me. Grimes wasn’t the only one who had heard McLaughlin was seeing someone on the side. But who? Could it be someone from off-island? Maybe even someone from McLaughlin’s past?

  I glanced out the window at the Little Marian, bobbing by herself at the dock below. Maybe I’d have to break down and take the mail boat over to the mainland, so I could get to the library and find out what the papers had to say about McLaughlin’s tenure in Boston. I hadn’t had a chance to ask John to fix the skiff—in fact, since McLaughlin’s death, I hadn’t seen much of him at all. And since Mooncatcher was gone, it was a good bet John wasn’t home, either. Police business, probably. I made a mental note to grill him when he got back—and ask him to help me fix my boat. Maybe I could bribe him with brownies.