Brush with Death Page 3

  It would be an understatement to say I was surprised when Edward Scissorhands answered the door. I took an involuntary step back before recovering my manners.

  It wasn’t really Edward Scissorhands, of course; not only was she a woman, but instead of long, silver blades, her fingertips ended in bitten-to-the-quick nails, and her face was free from scars. Still, she had the same waxy complexion, hollow eyes, and wild black hair as the character in the movie; the resemblance was uncanny. She was dressed in a black thermal shirt and a pair of holey gray sweatpants. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice high and suspicious.

  “I’m, uh, here for the knitting group,” I said, wondering if I’d somehow gotten the time or place wrong. “Is Claudette here?”

  “Natalie? Is that you?” Claudette’s voice floated from behind the woman at the door, and I relaxed. A moment later, my friend appeared, putting her hands gently on the woman’s shoulders and steering her away from the door. “Come on in, Natalie,” she said. “Dawn, dear, why don’t you go back to bed?”

  “Don’t call me that,” the woman said, her lower lip stuck out like a third grader’s. She looked at me and narrowed her eyes.

  “Natalie, this is my daughter-in-law. Dawn …”

  “I said, don’t call me that.”

  Claudette ignored her and continued on. “I’d like you to meet Natalie, the innkeeper I told you about.”

  “Why is she here?” The woman’s voice was strangely childish. Petulant. I smiled at her, but it only made her frown deepen. “Are you sure she’s not Patricia? Did you invite Patricia here?”

  “She’s part of my knitting group,” Claudette said. “Why don’t you go and lie down? I’m sure you’ll feel better in a little bit.”

  “Why did you invite Patricia here?”

  “I told you, it’s not Patricia. Her name is Natalie.”

  Dawn—or Edward, or whatever she liked to be called—gave me another suspicious look, then turned back to Claudette. “Can I have some hot chocolate?”

  “I’ll bring you some in a minute,” Claudette said.

  When the woman had shuffled away down the hall toward the bedrooms, I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

  Claudette sighed. Although she still had the same solid bulk as she always had, she looked more tired than I’d ever seen her. I didn’t know what was wrong with Dawn, but it was clearly a serious issue, and I could tell it was taking a toll on my friend. “I know, I know,” she said. “That’s why they moved here. My daughter-in-law’s got a few … issues.”

  A few issues? That was putting it mildly, I thought. No wonder Claudette had taken over caring for the grandchildren. “I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this, Claudette,” I said, reaching out to squeeze her pillowy arm. “Eli said things were rough. Is she getting treatment?”

  “She is,” Claudette said. “But it doesn’t seem to be working very well.”

  “What’s going on with her?” I asked, but before Claudette could answer, I heard Emmeline Hoyle’s voice. “Claudette, I need your help deciding what color to use next.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll fix the hot chocolate.” I wanted to give Claudette a quick break, despite Dawn’s obvious distaste for me—but more importantly, I liked the idea of doing something I had some skill at. The yarn for the scarf I’d been working on had been knitted and unraveled so many times it looked like packaged ramen.

  “No, no,” Claudette said. “I’ve got it under control. Why don’t you help Emmeline pick a color?” She smiled weakly and turned to head into the kitchen. I looked after her longingly, then took a deep breath before hanging my coat and scarf on the coatrack and heading into Claudette’s cozy living room, my knitting bag slung over one shoulder and my basket in the other.

  “Ooh, she brought goodies!” Emmeline said with a smile. She was dressed today in one of her vintage 1950s plaid housedresses, and her brown eyes, which had always reminded me of currants in a bun, were bright in her round, wrinkled face. In her lap was a ruffled thing that I knew was supposed to be a tea cozy, but looked more like a yarn jellyfish.

  “What’s in the basket?” asked Maggie Brumbacher, looking up from the sweater she was knitting for her daughter, Emma. Maggie, with her blunt-cut red hair and frank, open face, was another island newbie; after her husband passed away from cancer, she had used the proceeds from his life insurance policy to move her small family to the island. I liked her spirit, and her decision to raise her children in a place with a strong sense of community, but I wasn’t overjoyed with her decision to start a petition to oust the island’s schoolteacher simply because her partner was a woman. Maggie had always been pleasant to me, but her chilliness—and her obvious disapproval of Sara’s lifestyle—had kept the young teacher from attending many of our sessions.

  “Candy Cane Chocolate Sandwich cookies,” I told Maggie, and offered them around the room. Selene MacGregor, who owned Island Artists, reached for a cookie.

  “So much for my diet,” Maggie said. “Between the hot chocolate I’ve been guzzling and your cookies, I’m going to be wearing muumuus this summer!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Selene, smiling as she adjusted her

  jeweled reading glasses. She was dressed in a flowing handknit sweater with shades of blues and greens that draped beautifully over her ample form. “A little extra padding helps keep you warm in the winter.” Selene had a pile of amazing Fair Isle stitched hats and mittens beside her; she turned them out at a phenomenal rate. Like many of the other knitted items produced by the group, I knew she would sell them all this summer at the store.

  Maggie took a bite and groaned. “These are amazing,” she said. “Better than sex. Not that I can remember what that’s like,” she said. There was an awkward silence, and I found myself reflecting how odd it was that someone so open in some ways could be so narrow-minded in others.

  “Natalie, you’ll have to get us the recipe for these,” Emmeline said, coming to the rescue. “They’re delicious—and so Christmasy!”

  “Thanks.” I smiled at my friend, who had given me more than one of her own terrific recipes. When the plate had been passed around, I set the remaining cookies on the table next to Claudette’s less exciting offerings. She had put her usual sugar-free snack out on the table: celery sticks and fat-free ranch dressing. I didn’t understand how a woman who eschewed sugar and ate a diet composed primarily of rabbit food managed to maintain her substantial bulk. Another of the mysteries of life.

  I settled into one of Claudette’s comfortable overstuffed chairs, resolving to leave my mortgage troubles behind—at least for now.

  I looked at Selene, who was finishing off a blue mitten. “What do you think of all the artists coming to Cranberry Island?”

  She peered over her glasses at me. “It certainly can’t hurt business,” she said. “Although I don’t think they’ll be selling their work at our store. Still, it will get people onto the island, and they often browse while they’re waiting for the boat.” Island Artists was located on the pier, and got most of its business from day-trippers who browsed while waiting for the mail boat to dock.

  “I hear Fernand’s not too excited about it,” Emmeline said, and glanced at me. “One of them—Zelda Chu—has been seen chatting with Murray Selfridge a lot lately.”

  “Uh oh,” I said. I knew Zelda, whose art was rather avant-garde compared to Fernand’s, was looking to establish a retreat center. If Murray got involved, we’d have a six-acre spa resort, a condominium complex, and a subdivision of enormous houses.

  “They’ve got to get anything through the board of selectmen,” I said.

  “Seen Ingrid lately?” Emmeline asked. “Maybe that’s why she’s been dodging the group. Guilt.”

  “She’s not the only vote,” I reminded her. “I can’t see Tom Lockhart doing anything that’s bad for the island.”

  “We’ll see,” Emmeline said, not sounding convinced.

  “I heard Zelda asked you to put
up her guests this summer,” Selene said.

  “We talked about it, but I haven’t decided anything yet,” I said.

  “Gwen won’t like that, will she?” Emmeline asked, her thin needles clacking in her lap.

  “Gwen’s got other things to worry about right now,” I said.

  “Like the show she’s doing for that awful man,” Selene said. “Herb Munger. I heard he’s got her doing enormous oils.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “And she’s not liking it much.”

  Maggie, who was working on a hot pink fuzzy scarf, tsked. “I heard he’s a failed artist himself. He can’t make art, so he’s trying to be a bigwig by ‘mentoring’ others.” She put down her knitting to add the air quotes.

  “Munger is clueless,” Selene said. “I saw one of his exhibits this summer—it was terrible. He should stick to vacuum cleaners.”

  “Why do you think Fernand encouraged Gwen to take the opportunity, then?” I asked.

  “Opportunity is opportunity,” Selene said with a graceful shrug. “If her paintings are good, they’ll find an audience—regardless of Munger.”

  “He only wants oils, though,” I said. “Said that’s what’s selling.”

  “She should ignore him,” Selene said, “and show her watercolors.”

  I sighed. “Wish me luck convincing her of that,” I said.

  “While you’re doing some convincing, you think you might talk to Mr. Munger about his wardrobe?” Emmeline asked.

  “Oh, I know. Those plaid pants …” Selene shuddered.

  “What do you think of Nina Torrone’s work?” I asked her. I’d looked at her paintings online out of curiosity. They had a definite energy to them, but they were too abstract for my taste. I preferred Gwen’s delicate watercolors; I guess I’m a traditionalist.

  “She’s the real deal,” Selene said.

  “Do you think she’ll stay on the island?” Emmeline asked, looking up from her tea cozy/jellyfish.

  “She’s only renting, for now,” I said. “At least someone’s finally in that house.”

  “It’s a bad luck house,” Emmeline said.

  “What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

  “It never stays occupied for long,” Emmeline said, “and bad things seem to happen to the people who live there.”

  I remembered the web of murder and financial trouble that had plagued the house’s former owner. I didn’t know what had happened to the previous residents, but I couldn’t argue that the Katzes hadn’t had a terrific time of it—although it seemed that the house had little to do with their troubles.

  “It seems odd that she would choose Cranberry Island. If I made that much money,” Emmeline said, her needles clacking quietly as she added another row to the yarn jellyfish, “I would pick somewhere warmer. Maybe Hawaii!”

  “I wouldn’t,” I said, glancing out the window at the snow-frosted scene outside. “It’s a winter wonderland out there!”

  “It is beautiful. And such a wonderful place to raise kids,” Maggie added.

  Emmeline grinned. “The thrill wears off after forty years, I’m afraid.”

  “Hopefully I’ll be around long enough to find out,” I said gloomily, thinking of the foreclosure notice.

  As I pulled my wad of knitting from my basket and eyed it warily, Claudette appeared at the door. I turned my attention from it to her, thankful to have something else to focus on. She sat down next to me, looking like she wanted the overstuffed chair to swallow her whole. I reached over and patted her hand. “Eli mentioned things have been a little hectic around here,” I said. “It’s wonderful of you to help your son and his family this way. “

  Claudette looked defeated. “We do it for the children.”

  “Can we help?” I asked.

  “We can bring dinners, help out with the children … whatever you need,” Emmeline piped up.

  “The children can come play at our house anytime,” Maggie said.

  “We’re fine,” she said quickly, then, in a slightly softer tone, “It’s just … family stuff. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  “We’re here for you if you need us,” I said, and the other women in the room nodded, sympathy on their faces.

  My old friend gave a sharp nod. “Well now, let’s see how far you’ve gotten,” she said with her typical crisp take-charge voice, and I sheepishly handed over my scarf nub. I hadn’t worked on it at all since the last meeting, but Claudette didn’t chide me, and we quickly settled into a pattern. I would knit two rows and somehow end up with half the stitches I started with. Claudette would help me unravel it and try again. Two or three rows later, we’d go through the same process all over again. I had been hoping that the activity would help take my mind off my mortgage worries, but instead, it was compounding my frustration.

  “Has anyone met the new artist yet?” Claudette asked as I attempted to loop a few more stitches over my knitting needle.

  “We saw her today,” I said. “Down at the store. She came in to get her mail.”

  “What’s she like?” Lorraine asked.

  “Hard to tell; she didn’t get a chance to say anything.” I told the group about the young Nina Torrone and her overbearing agent.

  “How old is she?” Maggie asked.

  “She looks to be in her late twenties,” I said, thinking of her rounded cheeks and chin. “Her agent’s older—in his late fifties, early sixties. He treated her like a little girl.”

  “Or the goose that laid the golden egg,” Claudette suggested.

  “Do you think they’re … well, getting it on?” Maggie asked. Again, I cringed at the widow’s bluntness. With her preoccupation with conjugal relations, I found myself thinking that maybe we needed to sign her up for match.com.

  “Hard to say,” Charlene said. “I am curious, though. For someone so successful, she’s awfully meek.”

  “At least he knows art,” Selene said.

  “Unlike Munger,” I said, under my breath.

  “No wonder Fernand’s green with envy,” Emmeline said, shaking her head. “They both studied under the same artist, but she’s twenty years younger and selling her paintings for millions while he’s running art classes in a small town.”

  “But he gets to live on this island,” I said. “And do what he loves.” I thought of John, who spent hours creating beautiful driftwood sculptures. They would likely never pull in hundreds of thousands of dollars—or even thousands—but that was not why he spent hours in his workshop. I, too, would never get rich making cookies and cakes, but I loved doing it, and to be able to make my living on the island was worth more than millions to me.

  “For you, that might be enough,” Emmeline said. “But I don’t think Fernand’s ever been satisfied with the choices he’s made.”

  “Gwen’s never mentioned that he was unhappy,” I said, attempting to loop the last crinkled red loop onto the needle and launching into my seventh row for the fifth time. I had been planning to get the scarf knitted in time to give to John for Christmas, but I was glad I’d kept the latest L.L. Bean catalog, just in case.

  “I think he keeps it under wraps,” Lorraine said. “But Tom ran into him down at the lobster pound a few weeks ago, after he found out this Torrone woman was coming to Cranberry Island. He had had a few too many glasses of port, and he was pretty open about his feelings regarding young, pretentious artists who gyp the public into paying millions for fingerpainting.” Lorraine bit her lip. “At least that’s the gist of what he said, according to Tom.”

  “Why is he throwing her a party then?” I asked.

  Emmeline shrugged. “Maybe that’s what artists do for each other.”

  “Poor Fernand. Should be an interesting party,” I said.

  “Too bad the deputy won’t be on hand to attend,” Lorraine said. I had almost forgotten that he wouldn’t be there; John’s training wouldn’t be over until the day after the party. “Sounds like we might need him.”

  “It’s just a party. I’
m sure everyone will be fine,” I said, clumsily knitting a fat, loose stitch.

  Unfortunately, I was dead wrong.

  FOUR

  THE BASKET OF COOKIES was empty, but the stunted nub of a scarf was no bigger by the time I packed up my knitting bag and returned to the inn a few hours later. Claudette had had to leave many times to deal with Dawn, who was evidently having some sort of emotional breakdown. We’d quietly speculated on what might be the problem, but no one had seen her enough to know. I was worried about Claudette, though; I’d never seen her so tired. I resolved to visit soon and talk to her privately; maybe she’d be more likely to accept help if I approached her that way.

  As I rolled down the hill in the van, my other worries crept back in. I wouldn’t be able to help Claudette at all if I didn’t have an inn. Would Murray Selfridge snap it up if it went into foreclosure? I wondered. I knew he hadn’t given up on his crusade to transform Cranberry Island into a resort town—and make oodles of money on the land he’d been quietly acquiring over the years. Banishing the thought of Murray owning the Cape Anne I had called home for the last three years, I gathered my knitting bag and hurried into the kitchen, where I checked the answering machine for a message from the attorney or the mortgage company. No one had called.

  I pulled a pork loin out of the fridge and snipped some fresh rosemary from the pot I kept on the windowsill. Rosemary was one of the few things I missed about Texas; I had had three big bushes by my back door when I lived in Austin, and I was always going out to snip a branch for a marinade or a rub. The Mediterranean plant couldn’t survive the winters in Maine, but it did reasonably well on a window sill—well enough to supply my occasional craving for pork loin with garlic and rosemary, anyway.

  I pinched my fingers and ran them down the rosemary stalks, stripping the leaves, and chopped them, along with a few cloves of garlic, with a mezzaluna. As I rolled the crescent-shaped blade back and forth over the mixture, the pungent, delicious scents of garlic and rosemary perfumed the kitchen. I had cooked in this kitchen for three years, I realized. I felt more at home in this large, butter-yellow room with its big pine farm table and butcher-block counters than anywhere else in the world. I glanced out the window toward the mainland, silhouetted against the dark blue sky of approaching dusk. Was the attorney going to be able to work things out?