Brush with Death Read online

  “It’s from the ring,” I said miserably. “It was his grandmother’s.”

  “Gold shouldn’t do that,” she said. “Will you take it off so I can take a closer look?”

  I twisted it off my finger and handed it to her. She inspected the inside of the band, and held the diamond up to the light. “Have you had a jeweler look at this?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “There are no marks on the inside of the band, and there should be.”

  I took it back and looked at the gleaming metal; it was smooth. “What does that have to do with my skin itching?”

  She sighed. “I hate to say it, but it may be that the ring isn’t gold. That would explain the black marks on your finger; you’re reacting to the metal.”

  “And the diamond?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but if it isn’t real gold …”

  I reached for another piece of fudge and jammed it into my mouth, chewing mechanically. Fernand’s death, the attorney, John’s ring …

  Was nothing in my life what it seemed?

  _____

  I woke long before the sun rose the next morning—not that I’d slept much. My mind kept turning things over and over—even picking up one of Susan Wittig Albert’s Darling Dahlias mysteries didn’t help take my mind off my worries.

  Leaving the bed to Biscuit, who burrowed under the covers I

  had just vacated, I headed downstairs and brewed a pot of French Roast coffee, sipping at it as I cracked eggs into a bowl and whipped them with a little bit of milk. I’d put them in the fridge and toss them in the pan when I pulled the muffins out of the oven, I decided.

  The sun was just cresting the pines behind the inn when I finished, making the snow-frosted world outside the window sparkle. I had preheated the oven, but now, tempted by the pristine white outside the window, I turned it off, put plastic wrap over the bowl of batter and tucked it back into the fridge, then pulled on my boots and winter coat.

  The cold, fresh air was a tonic. I breathed deep, thankful for the privilege of enjoying this winter morning—after decades in too-warm Texas, fresh snow always made me feel like a kid again. As always, the fresh snow muffled the world, giving it a soft stillness broken only by the soft crunch of my boots in the snow. This morning, I chose the forest path.

  The snow had made my familiar world into a magical place. The pine trees were frosted with white, their tips adorned with small, translucent icicles that sparkled like Christmas lights where the sun caught them. The deciduous trees formed a delicate tracery above me, like the ceiling of a Gothic cathedral. A set of snowshoe hare tracks cut across the path in front of me, and I found myself wondering where the elusive animals lived; I’d seen their tracks, but never spotted one. How did they survive the long winters on the island?

  The enchanted landscape lifted my spirit as I moved deeper into the woods. One of the lovely things about living on a small island, I thought, was that you never really could get lost; you didn’t have to worry about keeping your bearings, because if you kept walking, you’d end up at the shoreline or a road before too long. In the silence around me, however, it was hard to imagine that there were any houses anywhere on the island. Even the inn, which was such an enormous part of my life, seemed like a distant dream.

  Lots of dreams were in jeopardy right now, I thought as I jumped over a frozen brook. The inn, of course. Gwen’s art career. And even, I admitted to myself, my future with John.

  I’d taken the ring off last night, and although I didn’t miss the itching, its absence nagged at me. As I tramped through the snow, I found myself asking the question I’d been avoiding these last few months: Did I really want to get married?

  I’d come up here to forge a life of my own; I hadn’t been looking for a relationship. After the wedding, John and I would be together all the time, working on the inn together—probably even living there together, sharing the rooms above the kitchen. Already, we’d had some differences in opinion regarding improvements to the inn—even things as simple as menu choices, which had always been completely under my control. There would be much more of that in the future—and as equal partners, we both had to be willing to compromise.

  Provided there was an inn, that was; there still was the issue of the attorney to deal with. And I hadn’t been comfortable sharing that with John—another thing that worried me.

  Was I really ready to give up that independence, and commit to sharing my entire life with another person? Already, I’d found myself holding back from John. I hadn’t told him about the mortgage issues, and now there was the issue of the ring. I unconsciously rubbed the space under the glove where the ring should have been, feeling an uneasiness in my stomach.

  He’d be back today. I pushed myself up the slope, comforted by the rhythm of my boots in the snow. The sky was brilliant blue between the bare branches above me, and as I crested the hill, a small bird—one of the island’s few feathered winter denizens—flitted through the trees, disturbing a tuft of snow as it landed. I would address both issues with John today, I resolved, pausing at the top to catch my breath. I would show up at the attorney’s office—and if I couldn’t get the answers I needed, I would use my meager savings to hire another one.

  As I started down the other side of the hill, another hunch settled on me like a heavy blanket of snow. Fernand’s death had been a shock, but now that the truth of it was settling in, something about it was bothering me—something beyond the tragic loss of my friend. The open door, the lack of a note, the suddenness—the messiness of it, even—all of it felt wrong. Gwen had been right. There was something fishy about it.

  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more out-of-character the whole thing seemed. Fernand would have recoiled at the thought of his blood staining his meticulously finished floors. He wouldn’t have left the gallery strewn with dirty plates and platters of food. And most of all, he would have left some explanation for Gwen, who he knew would have been devastated.

  The more I thought about it, the more I found myself reaching a new conclusion: someone had murdered Fernand LaChaise two nights ago. And until the killer was caught, every single one of us—including my beloved niece—was at risk.

  As the thought crystallized, I found my steps slowing, until I was standing quietly in the snow-frosted world, the only sound my heart pumping in my chest.

  Gwen was alone in the inn, I realized. I hadn’t thought to lock the door when I left. She had told me she thought Fernand was murdered—which might be enough to make someone want to shut her up for good. Had she told anyone else?

  It didn’t matter who she’d told, I knew with a sick certainty. I’d already mentioned her suspicion to Charlene, which was as good as putting it on the front page of the Daily Mail.

  The beauty of the still morning shattered as I turned and began running, my boots churning up the snow as I retraced my steps to the inn. The bird I had admired just a moment ago tweeted in alarm and flew up into the sky as I passed, slipping and sliding down the hill. The odds that someone would slip into the inn and kill Gwen early in the morning were small … but Fernand had been killed overnight, too. Had I locked the door last night? Was it possible that someone had snuck in while we slept?

  Panic fueled me, and despite the cold, sweat slicked my skin under the winter coat. The walk out had seemed to take no time at all, but even running, it seemed to take forever to get back.

  Finally, I caught a glimpse of the inn’s gray painted siding and blue shutters through the trees ahead. My breath was coming in short spurts, my chest tight, but I spurred myself on, running as fast as I could through the snow until I tripped on a hidden root and went sprawling into the snow.

  I pushed myself to my feet, using a nearby tree for support, then jerked my hand back in horror.

  Dangling from a tree limb was a crudely made cloth doll with gray buttons for eyes. A loose mop of brown yarn served as hair, and the mouth was marked with a crooked red line. Dirty yellow stuffi
ng spilled out where someone had slashed at it with a knife, and around its neck was a noose.

  NINE

  BROWN HAIR, GRAY EYES … I stared at the thing for a moment, then tore my eyes away and focused on the inn.

  Terrifying though they might be, voodoo dolls weren’t my main concern right now. Knife-wielding murderers with unfettered access to my niece were higher on the list.

  I closed the gap to the inn in seconds, throwing open the kitchen door. “Gwen!”

  “What?”

  She was sitting at the table, wrapped in a pink bathrobe, with a coffee cup in her hand.

  I sagged against the open door in relief. Biscuit waddled forward, taking a few tentative steps toward the great outdoors, then sniffed at the cold air and changed her mind, retreating to the radiator.

  I pushed the door closed and peeled off my snow-crusted gloves.

  “Are you okay?” Gwen asked.

  “I was worried the murderer might have come while I was out,” I said, sliding the dead bolt home. “I was stupid and didn’t lock the door.”

  Gwen blinked at me, still looking half-asleep. “But we never lock the doors.”

  “That needs to change,” I said, thinking of the gruesome doll I’d found swinging from a branch. “And I don’t want you over at the gallery by yourself.”

  “You believe me, then? About Fernand not killing himself?” she asked, sitting up straight in her chair.

  I nodded. “I can’t say for sure, but my instinct is telling me you’re right. And if there’s a killer on the island, we need to take precautions.”

  “And find out who the killer is,” Gwen said.

  “That would certainly be helpful,” I said, taking a deep breath and turning the oven back on.

  Now that I knew my niece was safe, my mind turned to the awful doll hanging in the trees outside the inn. I had seen someone out there a few days ago; had it been the person putting up the doll? If so, both the snow and my hike had likely ruined any tracks that might have remained.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gwen said.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “What, then?”

  I pulled out a muffin pan and began tucking muffin wrappers into the cups. “Someone left a nasty doll hanging from a tree outside.”

  “Like a Barbie doll?”

  I tucked another muffin wrapper into its cup and shook my head. “More like a voodoo doll.” I shivered, glancing at the window; I wanted to take it down as soon as possible, but not before John had had a chance to look at it.

  “Creepy.”

  “It had gray button eyes. Brown hair, too.”

  “Do you think it’s supposed to be you?”

  “I hope not. It had a noose around its neck and had been slashed up by a knife.”

  Gwen put down her cup so fast the coffee sloshed out onto the pine table. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said as I removed the plastic wrap from the bowl of batter and grabbed a bag of blueberries from the freezer.

  “Do you think it’s the murderer?”

  “If the murderer is hoping the police rule it a suicide,” I said, “I can’t see how hanging up a doll would help.”

  I folded in two cups of frozen berries, then scooped the first dollop of creamy, blueberry-studded batter into a muffin cup.

  “Maybe it’s a warning of some kind,” Gwen said.

  “If it is, I don’t know what it would be warning me away from,” I said.

  “Investigating Fernand’s death?”

  “I doubt it. I think it may have been put up before Fernand died.” Which made no sense at all.

  Gwen shivered, and hugged her thin frame. “When is John coming home?”

  “This afternoon,” I said, using my finger to wipe a stray drop of batter from the muffin pan. “He should be back on the 1:00 mail boat.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll feel safer with him here.”

  I would, too, I thought.

  “What am I going to do about painting, though? If I can’t go to the studio alone, how am I going to get anything done? I still have that show coming up.”

  I thought about it. I could join her, but really didn’t want to spend all day sitting in the studio with nothing to do. Besides, I had to get to the mainland and track down my wayward attorney.

  “What about working here?” I asked as I filled the last cup. “We could set up one of the guest rooms for the time being. John will be back this afternoon, so you’d have someone here with you.”

  “The Crow’s Nest has a nice northern exposure,” she said, a thoughtful look on her face.

  “We’ll just move the bed out of the way and put a drop cloth down,” I said. “That way I can keep tabs on you.” And make sure she ate regular meals, too, I thought to myself.

  “I guess we could try it,” she said, not looking entirely convinced.

  I plowed ahead despite her hesitation. “We’ll drive over and pick up your canvases as soon as the muffins are done,” I said. “I have a few questions to ask you, anyway.” As if on cue, the oven beeped to tell me it had come to temperature, and I slid the pans onto the middle rack.

  Within minutes, the comforting smell of baking filled the kitchen. I popped a CD of Christmas carols into the player, then washed the mixing bowl in the sink. There might be a murderer on the island, a wacko was leaving threatening dolls in the trees outside the inn, my engagement ring appeared to be fake, and there was an excellent chance I’d have to drain my bank account fighting to keep the inn, but somehow, with my niece sitting at the table and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” filling the kitchen, I felt a faint glow of hope.

  _____

  John was the first one off the mail boat, and despite my worries, my heart skipped a beat at the sight of his tall, lanky frame and sandy blonde hair. I met him as soon as he stepped out onto the dock, and he pulled me into an enormous bear hug. I closed my eyes and inhaled his familiar, woodsy scent. Despite my worries about the inn, the ring, and our impending nuptials, I felt something inside of me open up as he held me in his arms.

  “I’ve missed you.” He kissed me on the top of the head, and his voice was almost a low growl.

  “You’re not allowed to leave anymore,” I said. “Everything’s gone south since you left.”

  “South. Not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll do my next continuing ed in Florida, and you can come with me.”

  “We’d have to teach Gwen to inn-sit,” I said. Provided Gwen was still here. And provided there was an inn to sit for. The reminders of my current situation made me feel hollow inside. There were too many things we had to discuss … but not right now.

  “Let’s get you back home,” I said. Holding my hand, which even under the glove felt naked without its ring, John walked with me to the waiting van. As he slung his overnight bag into the back seat, I said, “Gwen’s painting in the Crow’s Nest—just to be safe. I didn’t want her at the studio alone.” In fact, I hadn’t been comfortable leaving her to go to the dock, but she’d insisted on staying.

  “They’ve ruled Fernand’s death a suicide,” John said.

  My heart sank, but I wasn’t surprised. “Who did you talk to?”

  “The detective you told me about. Penney.”

  “So she’s not investigating.”

  He shook his head. “No need, as far as she’s concerned.”

  “Did they find a note anywhere?” I hadn’t seen one, but it was possible he’d put it somewhere else.

  “No,” he said. “They’re running a toxicology report, but he’d evidently been drinking.”

  “There was a glass of scotch on his dresser,” I said.

  “Which supports the suicide theory,” he said. “Alcohol is a depressant, and the holidays can be a hard time for people. Evidently Fernand was estranged from his family; when they got in touch with his mother, she said she hadn’t spoken with him in ten years.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Could be his lifestyle,”
John said.

  I presumed John meant the fact that Fernand was gay. Which evidently everyone but me had been aware of. “It’s hard to believe parents would disown a child because of his sexual orientation,” I said. “I assume that’s what you mean.”

  “It happens a lot,” he said. “But I’m speculating; I don’t know what caused the rift.”

  “Even so, it had been ten years—not exactly a fresh wound. And he’d just had a huge party,” I said. “He hardly seemed isolated to me.”

  John shrugged. “Jealousy over a younger artist’s success?”

  I glanced over at him. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Just being devil’s advocate, Miss Natalie. If you and Gwen are convinced, we’ll look into it. I’m just telling you what Detective Penney will say if you ask her to reopen the case.”

  I gripped the steering wheel hard. “Can you convince her to change her mind?”

  “Only if we can come up with some evidence,” he said. “Why is Gwen so sure it was murder?”

  “She thought he was too excited about things going on in his life to commit suicide. He seemed in good spirits to me, too; even said something about watching his weight. You wouldn’t think a person who was about to commit suicide would be worried about that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe he got bad news after the party.”

  “That’s what I told Gwen, but my instinct tells me she’s right. I don’t see him as the suicide type.”

  He sighed. “Well, we’ll see what we can find out.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “And see if we can keep both of you safe in the meantime.”

  Something inside me relaxed. I hadn’t realized until now how much John’s calm, solid presence comforted me. “Speaking of safe …” As we turned onto the narrow, curvy road that led to the inn, I told him about the awful doll I’d found.

  His voice was calm, but his words were clipped. “Did you touch it?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll bag it when we get home.”

  “It had been there a few days—there was snow on it. And I saw someone out there a few days ago, right where I found the doll.”