Iced Inn Page 3

  "That's true," I said as we pulled into the church parking lot next to Claudette's beaten-up station wagon. The church was dark, as was the rest of the island; the power outage must have covered the whole community. The headlights illuminated the little church; the snow on the roof and the pine trees made it look like something from a Currier and Ives painting. "I wish I knew Robert better. We haven't seen each other in twenty years."

  "If they do get along, at least he's in Bangor, not Portland," John pointed out.

  "Let's not put the cart before the horse," I suggested. "She's just recovering from the last break-up, and I have no idea what kind of man Robert turned into, although he was very nice as a boy."

  "True," he said. "I guess I'm just a romantic."

  "A romantic deputy," I said, and reached over to squeeze his gloved hand. "Speaking of deputing, what do you think is going on with these fundraiser thefts?" I asked.

  "Either someone's desperate for money, or someone doesn't like Marge, is my guess."

  "Who are you thinking?" I asked.

  "Well, Marge took a few jobs from Bertha Matheson this past summer, I hear," John said. "So Bertha’s one possibility."

  "Huh. Charlene told me Frank Duggin has a crush on Marge, too," I said.

  John blinked. "Really Frank?"

  "He writes her poetry. Brings her flowers."

  "Hidden depths, that one. I've heard him wax rhapsodic over an upgraded motor, but I thought his lady love was his lobster boat."

  "Apparently his lady love has had some mechanical issues lately, leaving him stranded at the store. That's when he fell for Marge."

  "Really."

  "Really. And what's more, it's a love triangle."

  John stared at me, openmouthed. "No."

  "Yes. Charlene told me Anna is livid with Marge. She wants Frank for herself."

  "She does?" John said, sounding puzzled. "But he smells like a bait shop."

  "No accounting for taste," I said. "Maybe she's grown up around that smell so much that she doesn't notice it. And as Charlene has pointed out repeatedly, now that you and Adam are spoken for, the pickings on Cranberry Island are rather slim."

  "Maybe," John said, not sounding convinced. "You think Anna would be vindictive enough to steal a bunch of toys over that?"

  I shrugged. "All's fair in love and war, right?"

  He sighed. "Well, let's go find out what Claudette has to say."

  Together, we hurried from the van to the church door; John held it for me while I nipped inside, along with a flurry of snowflakes, and then followed me.

  Our flashlights illuminated the sanctuary of the little church, which was decorated for Christmas with greenery and red ribbons adorning the pews and altar. I took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of pine and furniture polish and candle wax and a little bit of dust; it was familiar and comforting and would have felt deeply satisfying had it not been for Claudette's anxious voice echoing off the walls.

  "Natalie? John? Is that you?"

  "It's us," I confirmed.

  "Thank goodness you're here," she said, appearing with a lantern in hand. Claudette's solid frame was swathed in a chunky wool sweater, a broomstick skirt, and boots. "I just can't believe this is happening."

  "When did you discover that things were missing?" John asked.

  "Just a half hour ago," she told me. "I came up to sort things out before the storm got worse, and when I opened the door to the bride's room... well, you'll see."

  We followed her down the aisle to a door to the right of the altar, and then into the bride's room, a small room that doubled as a dressing room and a storage area.

  "Look!" she said, pointing to a long, empty table. "It's all gone."

  "All the donations?" John asked.

  Claudette nodded, almost in tears. "Every one of them. I've kept the door locked, but when I got here today, it was open."

  "When was that?" John asked.

  "Just when I called," she said. "They were all here this morning! And I've heard whoever it was stole things from a few other places, too." Her shoulders sagged. "I just can't believe it. We're all supposed to be working together here!"

  "Maybe it was someone in need?" I suggested.

  "Whoever it was was sloppy," John said, squatting down and looking at the table. "There's something like grease on the side of the table. Was this here before?"

  "No," Claudette said, peering at the smear of what looked like dirty engine grease.

  "There are footprints, too," I said, pointing at the wood floor. "Or what used to be, before the snow melted."

  "It was recent, then," John said. "The water hasn't evaporated."

  "Not much of a clue, though. No footprints, really. Just melted snow."

  "Could be anyone," Claudette said glumly.

  "We'll do our best to figure it out," John said semi-comfortingly. "And if not, never fear; we'll take care of Marge."

  "It just isn't neighborly," she said. "I don't understand it."

  "We'll take care of it," I said soothingly, glancing at John and hoping we weren't making promises we couldn't keep.

  * * *

  "So, who do you think it was?" I asked John as we hurried back to the van a few minutes later.

  "I don't know," he said. "I'd say someone who's hit hard times, but what are they going to do with a bunch of toys?"

  "It's almost like someone has it in for Marge," I said. "Maybe it's Anna."

  "You suggested that before. You really think she'd try to kill the fundraiser because she's jealous?"

  "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," I said. "Maybe we should stop by and visit?"

  "We'd better do it before the snow gets too bad," he said. "She lives up on Seal Point Road, doesn't she?"

  "She does," I confirmed, and a few minutes later, we pulled up outside a tiny two-story house. Candlelight flickered in the windows, and snow was already starting to drift across the small porch.

  "At least she's home," John said. As we got out of the van, John walked over to the beaten-up golf cart in the driveway. There were no tracks; it didn't appear to have moved all day. Nor, I confirmed with a sweep of the flashlight, were there any tracks off the front porch or along the sides of the house."

  Anna answered the door almost immediately. She was a small, neat-looking woman with tortoise-shell glasses; tonight, she was bundled up in a jacket and mittens. "Can I help you?" she asked.

  "John and Natalie from the Gray Whale Inn; I know we've met a few times before," John said. "Can we come in for a minute?"

  "Of course," she said. "It's a bit chilly in here; the wind keeps shooting down the chimney and filling the place with smoke. I keep meaning to get that looked at," she said as she closed the door behind us. "Come and sit down, please," she said, leading us to a plaid couch in her small living room. "Can I get you anything?"

  "No thanks," I said.

  "Likewise," John said. "As for your fireplace, 'll take a look when the weather clears," he offered. "But in the meantime... can I ask you a few questions?"

  She perched on the rocking chair by the fire. "What kind of questions?"

  "Where were you this evening?" John asked.

  "Here," she told him steadily.

  "The whole time?"

  She nodded. "I haven't left the place since yesterday. I'm just snuggling in with my kitties." She pointed to the two orange tabbies curled up on a cushion by the fire.

  John got up, walked over to the back door, and shone his light out at the ground, then turned back to Anna. "Do you have any idea who might want to interfere with the fundraiser for Marge O'Leary?" he asked.

  Her face tightened. "No," she said shortly, then, "Why?"

  "Someone stole all of the donations," I said. "We're trying to find out who did it."

  "So you must know she isn't my favorite person, if you're here asking me questions," she said.

  "We've heard," John admitted.

  "I asked him to dinner last month," she admitted. "He decli
ned. And now he's chasing down Marge O'Leary. Marge! She treats him horribly." She swiped at her eyes and took a deep breath. "But no, to answer your question. Other than me, I don't know who would have it in for Marge."

  "I'm so sorry," I said. "That's got to be rough."

  "One of the downsides of living on an island," John said. "I've been there, too."

  "Have you?" she asked, looking slightly hopeful.

  "I have," he confirmed.

  She sighed. "At least I have my kitties. They don't ask for much, and they don't make a terrible mess." She looked up at me. "I keep telling myself it's for the best. I'd spend all my time trying to get him to tidy up. I don't quite know what I see in him, frankly."

  I didn't either, but I decided to keep that to myself.

  "Are you sure you won't have any tea?" she asked.

  "We'd love to," John said, "but we'd better get back before the snow gets too deep." He glanced at the fireplace, which appeared to be the small house's only source of heat. "Do you have enough wood?"

  "I've got plenty on the back porch," she said. "I've seen worse winters than this; you don't need to worry about me."

  "Well, if you run into trouble, give us a call," I said. "We've got plenty of rooms."

  "Thanks," she said as we got up and walked to the door. "I'm sorry I wasn't more help."

  "It's just fine," John said. "Stay warm!" he said, and a moment later, we were back out in the cold night and no closer to figuring out what had happened to all those toys.

  * * *

  Gwen was waiting for us at the kitchen table when we got home, looking morose in the light of a single candle.

  "Where's Adam?" I asked.

  "He went home," she said. "I told him I needed time to think."

  "About what?" I asked, pulling up a chair across the table from her as John busied himself making a pot of decaf; we were both still chilled.

  She gave me a look.

  "Are you having second thoughts about the wedding?" I asked.

  She sighed. "I am."

  "Really?"

  "I just want it to be about us. Not about everybody's idea of what we should be, or what we should have done with our lives."

  "I get it," I said.

  "I want to marry Adam... he's the love of my life. But I don't want the whole thing spoiled by our parents. I'd rather just elope."

  "You can elope here if you want," I said. "I could call the priest and we could head over anytime. As long as you don't mind a very small, candlelight service."

  "You'd do that for me?"

  "Of course," I said. "We can have a reception or not, it's up to you. This is about you and Adam. Nobody else matters."

  She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Thanks, Aunt Nat," she said. She bit her lip, and I could see the uncertainty her mother always managed to spark in her. "You don't think I'm crazy for building my life here, do you?"

  As she spoke, John came up behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders. A wave of love and gratitude filled me, and I grinned at my niece. "I can only speak for myself, but I'm happier here than I have been anywhere else in my entire life."

  Gwen’s shoulders sagged, and her face relaxed a little bit. "Thanks. It's just... I'm fine when it's just Adam and me, but then these other people come in, and I feel like I'm defending myself all the time."

  "I know," I said. After all, I'd grown up with Bridget. "I'm sorry it's so hard, but it's only temporary. As for the wedding... you'll think about it?"

  "I'll think about it," she said, then turned to John. "Got enough coffee for three?"

  "Of course," he said, and we spent a companionable hour by candlelight, enjoying the warmth of family. With only a slight shadow cast by judgy relatives... and an unsolved crime.

  * * *

  It was the night before the maybe-wedding, and I was busy in the kitchen, baking cake tiers and mini quiches for the post-wedding celebration. Assuming Gwen and Adam decided to go through with it; she'd been mum on the topic after we talked. We were still snowed in, but I'd borrowed a generator from Eleazer so that I could get the cooking done, and Tom Lockhart had promised he'd find a way to clear the road to the church. Not for the first time, I felt myself lucky to live in such a close community.

  "I really think Princeton is the best of the Ivy League," Margaret was droning on as I nipped into the dining room to grab a pitcher from the sideboard. There was no sign and Adam or Gwen; it was just the two sets of parents, continuing to joust.

  "Is there more wine, Nat?" Bridget asked, her face already flushed.

  "Come with me, and I'll get you some," I said. She excused herself and followed me into the kitchen.

  "Have you seen Gwen at all?" my sister asked.

  "Not recently," I said, "but you guys have got to tone it down."

  Bridget blinked. "Tone it down? I'm not the one going on about the Ivy League every thirty seconds."

  "You can't control what other people do, but you can control what you do," I said. "This is about Gwen and Adam. Not about anything else."

  "I know," she said peevishly. "I just want what's best for her."

  "I understand," I said as I handed her a bottle from the pantry. "But I don't think it's working in your favor."

  Her lips were a thin line. "I don't want her marrying some smelly lobsterman."

  "Adam is not smelly," I said. "They work with bait and engines, but they do understand basic hygiene. Wait..."

  "What?"

  "I've got to talk to John," I said. "Corkscrew's in the dining room. Help yourself," I said, and left her standing there.

  John was busy in his workshop when I burst through the door a few minutes later.

  "What's going on?" he asked, looking up from a tangle of driftwood he was planning to turn into a mermaid.

  "I'll tell you on the way," I said.

  * * *

  We might not have power yet, but fortunately, Tom had gotten enough of the roads plowed that we didn't have to wade through snow to get to our destination. Within fifteen minutes, we pulled up outside a small mobile home not far from the lobster co-op, parking next to a beaten-up truck. A stack of lobster traps covered with snow stood a few yards away from the small building.

  John made a face as we got out of the van. Even with the cold, I could smell the distinctive aroma of bait and gasoline, and wrinkled my nose.

  "Right there," I said, pointing to a set of snowed-over footprints leading from the truck toward a ramshackle shed on the edge of the woods. Together, we followed the tracks. There was no padlock on the door, and it was slightly ajar.

  "It's open. Shall we take a quick peek?" I asked John, who always gave me a hard time for snooping. "Or is that being too nosy?"

  "Well, since it's open..." John pulled the flashlight he kept in his pocket out, aimed it at the crack in the door, then sighed.

  "What do you see?"

  "Look for yourself," he said, stepping aside so I could peek in.

  A jumble of colorful toys filled a box lightly dusted with snow; I could make out one of John's boats among the toys, along with a few of the dolls from Island Artists and some books.

  "What I don't understand is, why?" John asked. "If he likes Marge, why would he try to make things difficult for her?"

  "He's in love with her," I explained. "He wants to be her knight in shining armor. My guess is that he was hoping she'd be desperate enough to agree to move in with him, or at least accept help from him."

  As I spoke, there was the sound of a door opening somewhere behind me.

  "Who's there?"

  We turned to see Frank's round figure in the doorway to the mobile home. "John Quinton, your friendly local deputy," John said. "I'd like to talk with you, if you have a minute."

  There was a brief silence, and then, "It's not what you think."

  "I hope not," John said. "But I'm struggling to come up with an alternate explanation."

  * * *

  "It was a stupid idea," Frank said. He'd o
ffered us both beers--we'd declined--and was ensconced in a La-Z-Boy that had seen better days, while John and I perched on a battered couch across from him. The place was littered with old newspapers, beer cans, and dirty plates, and Frank's distinctive fish/gasoline aroma was thick in the air; I could see why Marge wasn't keen on moving in. "When she turned me down to go steady, I... I didn't know what to do."

  "So you tried to gut the fundraiser so you could sweep in to the rescue and she'd feel like she had to say yes," I guessed.

  He nodded, and the blood rushed to his face. "It was a stupid plan, I know."

  "Not the best basis for a relationship, I'll say that," I said.

  "I know, I know," he said. "But I don't know what else to do."

  "Have you asked her out?" John asked.

  "I asked her over for Spam loaf a few weeks back." He shrugged. "She came, but she only stayed for a few minutes; she barely touched it."

  Spam loaf? John and I exchanged glances.

  "I know, it's not fancy. I'm not much of a cook, I guess, and money's been tight."

  "Got it," John said. "Did you clean the place up at all?"

  "A bit," he said. "Put the toilet paper on the roll, and got rid of the empties. Even cleared part of the table," he said, nodding toward a small formica table covered in a jumble of debris.

  "Well, that's something," I said.

  "It's just... lonely this time of year, I guess. I was hoping Marge would want to share it with me." He looked to John. "You found yourself a wife. Any advice?"

  "Natalie might be more helpful than me," he said, "but my first instinct is that you might want to start with a shower and some serious tidying."

  "But love should be about what's on the inside," he complained.

  "She's not going to find out what's on the inside unless she can get close to the outside comfortably," John pointed out. "But before we get into house cleaning, you need to return the things you stole. And hope nobody presses charges."

  He paled. "Charges?"

  "Charges," John repeated. "Written apologies might help."