Dead and Berried Page 22

  My eyes strayed to the Little Marian again, and it occurred to me that Eliezer White could probably figure out what was wrong with it. He was the island’s boatwright—in fact, he had gotten me the skiff in the first place. I hadn’t seen Eliezer in a while, anyway; it would be a good excuse to catch up—and maybe pick up a little bit of island gossip. When I dialed his house, he picked up immediately, and promised he’d be over shortly.

  After putting on a pot of coffee and pulling a loaf of cranberry walnut bread out of the freezer—it was Eliezer’s favorite since, unlike his wife, I made it with sugar—I turned my attention to the small stack of papers I had pulled from my sweater pocket. Recipes for Emmeline’s banana bread and chocolate chip cookies—and the number to the shelter. The recipes went into my “try soon” file. Then I smoothed out the slip of paper with the phone number, glanced at Pepper, and dialed.

  As the phone rang, I watched the little cat. She seemed to have recovered from the trauma of her mistress’s death, and now that she and Biscuit were no longer fighting openly, I was considering adopting her myself. As Pepper yawned and stretched, someone picked up the other end of the line.

  “Battered Women’s Shelter hotline. Can I help you?”

  I stood speechless, clutching the phone.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “No,” I said. “No, I’m sorry. I must have gotten the wrong number.” I replaced the receiver and stared at Pepper. Why did Polly have the number for the Battered Women’s Shelter on her fridge? I remembered the open suitcase, clothes spilling over the sides, only half-packed. Had Polly been leaving the island to escape someone? I shuddered; if so, she hadn’t made it out in time. I scooped up the kitten, wishing cats could talk. Pepper, I was sure, knew what had happened; the frustrating thing was, I couldn’t ask her.

  As I scratched under her pointy chin, Pepper vibrated in my arms, purring. Had McLaughlin been reassigned because he was violent, I wondered? Had he abused Polly—and maybe someone else, too—and paid the price with his life?

  Stroking Pepper’s delicate ears, I looked out the window at the Little Marian again. I needed to get to that library. If Eliezer couldn’t fix the boat, that would mean taking the mail boat over to Northeast Harbor and driving to Somesville. At least a few of the answers lay in that library, I was positive.

  The phone rang a moment later, and I reached for it immediately.

  “Hello, Natalie?”

  It was Matilda.

  “Hi, Matilda. How are you?”

  “I did a little research on other people with the initials J.S.,” she said.

  “I found two at the churchyard.”

  “Good. We can compare notes, then. I’ve got a Jeremiah Sarkes and a Jonah Selfridge.”

  “Those are the two I found.” I thought for a moment. “I know Jeremiah married an Elizabeth Mary, but could you find out when?”

  “I have it right here, in fact. Let me see.” I could hear the rustling of pages over the phone line. “They were married in 1876. Kind of late for the times, actually.”

  “So in 1875, Jeremiah was single?”

  “Unless he married earlier... but there’s no record of it.”

  “And you’re sure there wasn’t another J.S. on the island?”

  “No one who was recorded, anyway. I’ve cross-checked it with the census for that year.”

  Jonah Selfridge. I took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. Unless the priest’s diary was wrong, Murray Selfridge’s ancestor had committed murder right over my head.

  Goosebumps rose on my arms as I gripped the phone. “Thanks, Matilda. That helps... a lot.”

  “By the way, did you get a chance to copy that diary for me?”

  “Um... I’m afraid it disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? You mean you lost it?”

  “It’s a long story. And believe me, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “How could you misplace a historical document...”

  I cut her off. “Thanks again, Matilda. I’ll be down to see you in a few days, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “But...”

  “You’ve been a big help. I’ll talk with you soon!”

  She was still sputtering when I hung up.

  A shiver passed through me as I leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the leaden water, trying to assimilate what Matilda had told me. Murray Selfridge’s great-great-grandfather was a murderer. I glanced at the ceiling again, trying not to imagine what the room above—my bedroom—must have looked like when she was found. Was the discovery of the diary what made Annie restless? Assuming, of course, that a ghost was the source of the nocturnal noises. And the pantry episode.

  My eyes returned to the scene outside—the same view Annie must have seen as she went about her daily chores. I knew who had killed her. But the diary with the proof was gone. I touched the lump on the back of my head. Someone else thought that the diary was valuable enough to crack me over the head and steal it. The question was, was that knowledge also enough to have sparked a second—and maybe even a third—murder?

  A knock on the kitchen door jolted me out of my thoughts. Eliezer stood on the kitchen porch, a lopsided smile on his weathered face.

  A cold wind blew through the door as I let the little man in. He doffed his battered cap, grinning up at me as the door closed behind him. “Chilly day for a skiff ride.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I need to get over to the mainland.” I gestured toward the quick bread on the counter. “Can I get you a cup of tea and some cranberry bread?”

  He glanced out the window. “Let me just see what we can do about your boat. Then I’ll gladly take you up on it,” he said.

  I grabbed my jacket from the hook next to the door and followed him down to the dock, where his skiff bobbed beside my own. A cold gust off the water tore through my jacket as I hunched on the little dock.

  “What’s the trouble?” he asked.

  “She just won’t start.”

  He grunted and clambered into the boat. “How’s the fuel level?”

  “Fuel?”

  He unscrewed the fuel cap and peered in. “Looks pretty empty to me.”

  “I called you all the way over here and I’m out of gas?”

  Eliezer laughed at me and winked. “Better than tearing your prop off again.”

  I blushed, remembering the disaster I had made of the skiff one of the first times I took it out. I was amazed he’d gotten her to float again. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got a fuel can in the shed.”

  A few minutes later, he pulled the cord, and the engine throbbed to life.

  “Well, that’s it then,” Eliezer said. “You goin’ now?”

  “Let’s go up and get warm for a few minutes,” I said. “Somesville can wait.”

  He cut the engine and followed me up the hill and into the warmth of the kitchen.

  When the door closed behind us, I pulled off my jacket and put on a kettle for tea. “Don’t tell Claudette I gave you this,” I said as I cut a thick slice of cranberry bread and slid it onto a plate. She did a lot of baking, but almost never used sugar, and gave Eliezer a hard time when he indulged in sweets.

  “My lips are sealed,” Eliezer said, winking and demonstrating just the opposite as he crammed a hunk of bread into his mouth.

  “How’s Claudette doing these days?”

  He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Much better, now that she’s a granny.”

  “She’s a granny? What do you mean?” A few months ago, Claudette had confessed to me that before she and Eliezer married, she had had a child—her only child—out of wedlock. Her mother had forced her to give him up for adoption at birth, and although she had spent her life keeping tabs on her son and longing to meet him, she had never contacted him.
Nobody on the island knew—not even Eliezer. When we talked, I had encouraged her to consider getting in touch with her son, but she had waved my suggestion away.

  “She finally told me about the boy,” Eliezer said.

  “The boy?” I said cautiously.

  He nodded. “Her son in Bangor.”

  I sat down in surprise as Eliezer continued.

  “After you talked with her, she pulled me aside, said there was something I needed to know. Then she told me about him.” He shook his head. “Poor Claudie, to have to live through all of that and never tell a soul, and then us never having a babe of our own!”

  Eliezer took another bite of cranberry bread before continuing, a light shower of crumbs punctuating his words. “Well, I told her she should write him a letter, and would you believe it, she did. After all those years. As it turned out, he called a week later, happy to hear from her, and she’s been down there twice since. She’s got photos all over the house now. Liam and Sarah, the grandkids’ names are.” He took another bite of cranberry bread. “They’re planning on coming up for a week in the summer.”

  “That’s marvelous!” I said. Sugarless cranberry bread or not, Claudette was a warm woman, with a big heart. “And she’s getting along with her son?”

  “Brad? It was a bit touchy at first, but when she explained how it was, he came around.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that.” And I was. After the last few weeks of death and disruption, it was nice hearing that Claudette was reunited with her long-lost child. There was something good happening on the island.

  “It’s a shame about Charlene, though,” Eliezer said, popping the last bit of cranberry bread into his mouth.

  “I know,” I said, cutting him another slice. “She’s really torn up about what happened to McLaughlin.”

  He nodded as I put the slice on his plate. “I just don’t understand why that sergeant arrested her.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  The knife slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. “They arrested Charlene?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea,” I said, steadying myself against the kitchen counter. “How did it happen? When?”

  “It was right around noon,” he said. “They marched down to the store and took her out in cuffs. In front of the whole island. Apparently it was her knife what did the good reverend in.”

  The knife. I knew it.

  He shook his head. “Terrible thing.”

  “Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you knew. I figured that was why you wanted the skiff.”

  Charlene was in jail. No wonder John had been gone all morning. Trying to get her out, probably. My thoughts reeled, touched on the diary. And the shelter number.

  I jerked the chair back and ran to the door, hooking my jacket and grabbing the knob. “I’ve got to run, Eliezer. Let yourself out when you’re done!” The door slammed behind me before he could answer.

  Trying to marshal my thoughts, I stumbled down the steps to the dock. They had arrested Charlene. I knew they had the wrong person; but how was I going to prove it? The diary with Jonah Selfridge’s confession was gone, and I knew Polly had a number for the battered women’s shelter, but that was hardly proof of anything. Besides, I didn’t know who—if anyone—had been abusing her.

  Now that Eliezer had diagnosed the fuel problem, the engine started on the first try, and I untied the ropes and turned toward the mainland. The wind gusted as I nosed the boat into the swells; the water was choppy, and foam tipped the leaden waves. As Cranberry Island receded behind me, the water got even rougher. Normally I would have turned back—but not today.

  Although the engine was at full throttle, it was almost a half an hour before I turned into the sheltered waters of Somes Sound, my hands numb from cold, chin burrowed into the collar of my jacket. Where was Charlene now, I wondered? At the station still? Or had they moved her somewhere else? I shivered, thinking of it. After what felt like hours, the little dock at Somesville came into view. There were fewer yachts tied up in the harbor this time of year, and many of the grand houses that lined the water looked dark and vacant.

  Pulling up to the dock, I hopped out and tied up the skiff, then jammed my hands into my pockets and hurried the few short blocks to the library.

  The warm, dusty smell of books was a welcome respite from the cold wind howling down Somesville’s main street, but did nothing to soothe the anger that was boiling in my stomach. The computer stations were full; I waited impatiently as an older woman examined a pecan pie recipe, resisting the urge to shove her off the chair. Finally, she got up and toddled toward the printer, murmuring “It’s all yours” as she passed me.

  I slid into the seat and pulled up Lexis Nexis, my fingers fumbling as I typed in Boston and Richard McLaughlin. A long list of articles popped up immediately. He had been successful; several articles in business journals popped up, chronicling his progress through the ranks of a New York-based plumbing company. I scrolled down—there was even an article about his decision to give it all up and enter the seminary. “I was looking for something more in life—a way to give back,” he’d told the interviewer. Although McLaughlin’s motives had always seemed a bit suspect to me, I felt a pang for his lost optimism.

  I paged through the articles, feeling my frustration mount. Lots of nicey-nice articles—but no useful dirt. I quickly became acquainted with McLaughlin’s history, and was not surprised at what I saw. The diocese obviously viewed him as a priest with great promise—after ordination, he had been assigned to St. Jude’s, a large church in downtown Boston. His charisma had transferred well from plumbing sales to church work—I found several articles quoting him on churchly subjects such as donations and interfaith charities.

  I scanned an article featuring McLaughlin and his St. Jude’s flock, looking for some clue to his reassignment, but found nothing; according to the Globe, the church’s attendance had gone up dramatically after he took the pulpit, and everything was coming up roses. After scrolling through two pages of articles, there was still nothing to indicate why he had been reassigned—and from the glowing reports I was reading, it would have had to be a pretty big transgression. Maybe the church had managed to keep it out of the papers.

  As I was about to try a different search engine, an article heading caught my eye. I clicked on it and sucked in my breath.

  No wonder McLaughlin had been reassigned to a small island. Just before he left Boston, the priest had been under investigation for improper sexual conduct—with a thirteen-year-old girl.

  Fifteen minutes later I was revving the Little Marian’s engine and heading back to Cranberry Island. The printout of the article crackled in my jacket pocket as I huddled down in the back of the boat, wondering what to do with my new information. It was possible that the parents of the child in Boston took out their vengeance on the priest—but it didn’t explain Polly’s death. And I still didn’t know why she had called the shelter.

  Although McLaughlin had been acquitted of the molestation charges, the Church obviously thought there was enough evidence to reassign him. Was it true in this case that where there’s smoke, there’s fire? And was it at all related to McLaughlin’s murder?

  As I turned out of Somes Sound onto the open water, something clicked. McLaughlin was rumored to be seeing someone. Polly didn’t seem like his type... but I remembered the tear-streaked face of a young girl outside the rectory on the day McLaughlin died. My stomach lurched. Had he done it again?

  And had her parents discovered it—perhaps killing the man who had violated their child?

  My mind switched into high gear. Maybe Polly had found out—maybe McLaughlin had visited her repeatedly, trying to talk her out of telling the girl’s parents. He had certainly tried to shut
me down every time I asked about Polly. And the shelter number—could it have been for the girl? Maybe Polly was going to accompany her to a safe place where she could get counseling, and McLaughlin found out and killed her before she could do anything more.

  But how did that explain McLaughlin’s death?

  The engine whined as I urged the little skiff to go faster. Maybe he killed Polly too late. Or maybe the girl told her parents.

  One thing was sure. I needed to find out who I had seen that day outside the rectory.

  Tania would know.

  Instead of heading back to the Gray Whale Inn, I veered off toward the Cranberry Island dock. The Island Princess was just pulling in as I tied up the skiff; I waved at George McLeod and hurried past the row of little shops, their windows darkened for the winter, on my way to the store.

  The familiar smell of dried spices and coffee made me ache for my friend as I threw open the door to the store.

  Tania sat behind the cash register, tears streaking down her pale face. “Natalie!” She snuffled and wiped her nose on a tissue. “They’ve taken Aunt Charlene! They came in and told me while I was in school...”

  “I know,” I said. “But I think we may be able to get her out.”

  She looked up from her tissue. “How?”

  “I need your help.” I described the girl I’d seen outside the rectory the day McLaughlin died. “Do you know who it is?”

  “Why? What does that have to do with Aunt Charlene?”

  “I can’t tell you yet. Just trust me.”

  She nodded. “It’s one of two people. Hang on—I think Aunt Char has the back-to-school-night photos here somewhere.” She rummaged around in the drawer beneath the cash register and pulled out a pack of pictures.

  I found her halfway through the pack. “Tiffany Jeans,” Tania said.

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “She’s over down by the light house. On Seal Point Road.” Tania looked at her watch. “She’ll be in school for another half hour, though.”