Scone Cold Dead Page 8

  "Do you think Earl might have killed her to keep her from discovering that?"

  "You can lose a license for years over something like this," he said. "These folks don't know how to do anything but this. If they can't fish..." He made a cutting gesture over his throat.

  "Stakes are pretty high, then," I said. "So why do it?"

  "Money," Eli said with a sigh. "It always seems to be about money."

  Unfortunately, it often did. "But why would Earl risk losing his license over it?"

  "Must have needed cash bad. His daughter's at the University of Maine, and he was grousing about the cost the other day."

  "Maybe tuition payments put the squeeze on him?"

  "Maybe."

  I looked at the empty compartment. "What do we do about it?"

  He shrugged. "There aren't any lobsters in there now. Nothing illegal to report."

  "Are you going to say anything to him about it?"

  "I don't know," he told me. "I don't know what to do."

  "I don't know either," I replied. "Should we tell the fisheries people?"

  "I thought about that," he told me. "I don't like cheating. And I don't like people messing with the resource. But Earl is one of ours. If he gets his license suspended, how is he going to keep on?"

  "It's a tough call," I agreed. "I also wonder how many other lobstermen have these secret compartments."

  "I don't know," he said. "I never built one, I'll tell you that. I don't get involved in shady stuff like that."

  I wasn't surprised. "Ironic that Mac thought Earl snitched on him, isn't it?"

  "Ayuh," Eli said as he put the washboard back on. "I'll sleep on it."

  "Thanks for letting me know," I said as he finished putting it back on. The two of us walked to the barn door, and he switched off the light. "How's Claudette doing?" I asked in a quiet voice.

  "I'm worried," he said. "If I lose her..."

  I reached out and touched his shoulder. Together, we walked to the house in a silence punctuated only by the wind whipping past the roof; it was getting chilly, and it smelled like rain. When we got to the porch, I said, "We're all here for you, you know."

  "I know," he said. "Thank you."

  "Of course," I replied.

  "Don't say anything about what I showed you, okay? Not even to John," Eli cautioned me.

  I didn't like it, but I agreed. At least for now.

  "Get some sleep," I told him. "I'll stop by tomorrow with some food. And I might sneak a few scones in, too."

  "Thank you, Nat," Eli said, his face crinkling into a weary smile. "I'm glad you came to Cranberry Island."

  "Me too," I said, giving him a hug before turning back to the inn.

  The rain started as I hit the top of the driveway, coming down in sheets that cut through my light windbreaker and soaked my jeans. As I picked up the pace, I noticed a flashlight bobbing to the right of the inn.

  "Hello!" I called.

  The flashlight swiveled, shining right in my face. Then it went dark.

  "Hello!" I called again, but there was no answer. My stomach tightened; who was skulking around the inn? I hurried to the kitchen door. As I mounted the steps, my right sneaker connected with something soft. I jerked back my foot and stepped over it, then pulled open the door.

  Lying on the second step down was a small stuffed animal. Had someone dropped it? Or had someone left a stuffed animal on my front step intentionally? I looked over to where the flashlight had been, but there was only darkness.

  I opened the door, and light flooded the drenched stones of the step... and the thing I had stepped on.

  It was a stuffed animal with a rope noose around its neck.

  My stomach churned as I bent for a closer look. It wasn't just any stuffed animal.

  It was a ginger tabby.

  11

  I rushed into the house. "Biscuit! Smudge!" Neither cat was by the radiator, their favorite spot in the kitchen.

  I slammed the kitchen door behind me and slid the deadbolt home, then hurried into the laundry room to where their food bowls were. No cats. I raced up the stairs, still calling their names, and pushed through into the bedroom.

  To my relief, curled up in an orange and gray pile were Biscuit and Smudge, blinking sleepily and looking confused.

  "Oh, thank God," I breathed, and sat down next to them, stroking their velvety heads. As they settled back down to sleep, both purring, I thought again about the gruesome offering on my step.

  Mac had said just a few hours ago that curiosity killed the cat.

  Was this his way of telling me he was serious?

  I petted the cats a minute more until my heart rate dropped back into a manageable range, then headed downstairs to look for John.

  He wasn't anywhere in the inn, and considering what I'd found on the doorstep, I wasn't comfortable walking out to the workshop. Instead, I grabbed my phone and dialed him.

  My husband answered on the second ring. "What's up?"

  "Someone left a stuffed animal in a noose on the front step," I told him.

  "I'll be right there," he said. "Lock the doors. I have a key."

  "Got it," I said. As I hung up, I hurried out to the front door and made sure it was secure, then jogged back to the kitchen. John was just coming in the back door as I entered, a baseball bat in his hand.

  "Where is it?" he asked, his jaw set.

  "On the step," I said, pointing to the kitchen door leading to the front of the inn.

  He choked up on the bat with one hand and unlocked the door with the other. But when the door swung open, the stuffed animal was gone.

  John looked at the empty step, then back at me.

  "It was there five minutes ago. I swear."

  He bent down and looked at the stone steps. "There's a dry spot here."

  I exhaled. "So I'm not crazy."

  "No," he said, peering into the darkness. "But whoever left it here is obviously nearby."

  "Why come back to get it?"

  "Since you found it, the threat has been delivered," John reasoned. "No reason to leave evidence."

  "That's so creepy," I said.

  "It is. And I'm going to see if I can find out who it is." He closed the door, pulled open the junk drawer and grabbed a flashlight, then pulled a jacket from a hook by the door.

  "You can't go out there! It's not worth it!"

  "Threats are unacceptable," he said. "Whoever did this is still out there. I'm going to see if I can track him—or her—down."

  "I think you're crazy," I told him. "Stay."

  "I'll take my phone," he said. "I'll call or text in a few minutes."

  Before I could say anything else, he was gone.

  I gripped my phone and watched through the window as John's flashlight bobbed into the woods, then disappeared. A series of unpleasant possibilities unfurled in my head as the rain lashed against the inn. What if whoever it was was armed with something other than a baseball bat? What if John never came back? I should have tried harder to keep him in the inn. If something were to happen to my husband...

  As I stared into the darkness, a pair of headlights appeared at the top of the drive. As I watched, they bumped down the hill; it wasn't until the car turned in front of the inn that I recognized it as Murray's Jaguar. The Jag had barely come to a stop before the passenger door opened and Catherine spilled out, slamming the door behind her and marching to the kitchen door.

  Murray jerked the car into reverse as Catherine unlocked the door and flung it open.

  "Are you okay?" I asked as Murray skidded to a stop and then spun out as he headed up the driveway. I glanced toward the woods again; there was no sign of a flashlight. Was John all right?

  "I don't want to talk about it," she said.

  "Fine," I told her, "but please stay in the inn until John gets back."

  She turned to look at me. Her eyes were red, her mascara smeared. I didn't think all the moisture on her face was from the rain. "Why?"

  "Someone
left something threatening on the doorstep. John's trying to track down whoever it was, but I don't want you to go to the carriage house alone."

  Her blue eyes widened. "Something threatening? What was it?"

  "A stuffed animal with a noose around its neck. It looked like Biscuit."

  "Who would do something so horrible?" She looked around the kitchen. "And where is it?"

  "Whoever left it came back and took it right after I saw it, we think. John's out looking for him."

  "What? He went out alone?"

  "I know," I told her. "He has a baseball bat, at least. I asked him not to, but he went out anyway. He's supposed to call me or text me." I stared down at my phone, willing something—anything—to appear. I glanced up at Catherine, who had gone pale. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Murray broke up with me, and now my son is out there in the darkness with a madman or -woman on the loose..." She burst into tears and put her head in her hands.

  "Oh, Catherine," I said, putting an arm on her damp shoulder. She turned to me, and I put my arms around her as she sobbed against me. "I'm so sorry."

  "I just want my boy to be okay," she whispered. "Please let him be okay. Please, God. Please."

  As if answering her prayer, my phone buzzed in my hand. I jerked up the phone above Catherine's shoulder so I could see the display. It was John.

  "It's him," I said, reading the text. "He's okay."

  "Thank God." She sagged in my arms.

  "He lost the track. He's coming back to the inn."

  "I need to sit down," she said, and I helped her over to the kitchen table, then set myself to work making some tea. Tea always seemed to help. As I filled the teakettle with one eye still on the kitchen door, I said, "I'm here if you want to talk. And I understand if you don't."

  "I don't know," she said. "Everything was going so well until that woman showed up. It turns out, the only reason he asked me out for tonight was that she wasn't going to be on the island."

  I'd thought as much, but held my peace as I arranged some scones on a plate and fished two tea bags out of a canister.

  "He's been two-timing me," she said bleakly. As she spoke, a flash of light darted across the driveway. I raced to the door just as John got there.

  "You're okay?" I asked as I let him in.

  "I lost the trail, but whoever it was dropped this," he said, tossing the limp stuffed animal on the kitchen counter.

  "I'm so glad you're all right," Catherine said. "But what were you thinking, going out there in the dark? You could have been killed!"

  "I'm the island deputy, remember?" he reminded her.

  "I don't care," Catherine and I said in unison.

  "It's not worth losing you," I said.

  "She's right," Catherine said. "If whoever it was had a gun..."

  "Exactly," I chimed in.

  "On the plus side, now we have evidence," John said, changing the subject. "The noose was done with fishing line, which in my mind kind of points to an islander being responsible, not one of the guests." He registered the plate I'd been filling with baked goods. "Are those scones up for grabs?"

  "They are," I replied. "And I'm making tea."

  "Excellent," he said, helping himself to one. He looked at my mother-in-law. "How did it go with Murray?"

  Catherine burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen.

  "It hasn't been the best of days," I informed him as the door swung shut behind her.

  The rain was still pattering on the inn roof when I staggered out of bed the next morning, first checking to make sure Biscuit and Smudge were curled up next to John before heading downstairs to start the coffee. As I scooped beans into the grinder, I gazed out over the leaden water at the bottom of the hill; even the colorful buoys seemed dull in the gray light.

  The sound of a boat engine thrummed in the distance as I checked first the front kitchen doorstep, then the back, relieved that there weren't any new "deliveries." As I closed the back door, I looked out at the sullen water; the Island Queen was chugging away from Cranberry Island toward the mainland after making its first stop for the day. I checked my recipe plan—crabmeat quiche with fruit salad and some of the scones I'd made yesterday—then scooped French roast beans into the grinder and measured out water, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee and looking forward to my first cup. I was just starting to measure out flour for the quiche crust when the phone rang.

  It was Charlene. "What did you say to Gertrude?"

  "What? What do you mean?"

  "I'm looking at the Daily Mail right now. According to Gertrude, you named Adam Thrackton as a suspect."

  I put down the measuring cup, scattering flour all over the kitchen and almost missing the counter. "What?"

  "Apparently you claimed Chelsea was an undercover investigator, that Adam's catches have been suspiciously high lately, and that he may have sparked interest from regulatory agencies. You also named one of the artists as a suspect."

  "I did no such thing," I said, and then an awful thought occurred to me. "Hang on a second, Charlene," I said. I pulled the phone away from my ear and went to recent calls. "Oh, no," I breathed as I looked at the call I'd made to the Daily Mail the day before. Although I'd left only a brief message, the length of the call was seven minutes.

  I could hear Charlene's voice even with the phone in my hand. "What is it?"

  I put the phone back to my ear. "Remember when I called Gertrude yesterday and left a message?"

  "I do. You didn't say all the stuff in the article."

  "I didn't hang up the phone," I said. "She heard every word we said in the store."

  There was silence for a moment. "What all did we say?"

  "Read the article," I said in a glum voice.

  She was silent again. Then, in a slow voice, she said, "Well, fudge."

  12

  I swallowed hard, looking at the flour scattered on the counter. "Oh, Charlene. This is a horrible mistake. What do I do?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Make a retraction? Say you were misquoted?"

  "Can I even do that? Would she print it if I did? Clearly she's got my message recorded on her phone," I said, feeling almost sick to my stomach. "And what am I going to do about Adam and Gwen? When they read this... They're going to think I told Gertrude he's a suspect!"

  "You'll have to explain it to both of them," she said. "I'm sure they know you'd never do anything to hurt them," she added in a weak voice.

  "That makes one of us," I said. "Somebody left a nasty surprise on my doorstep, too.” I filled her in on what I'd found the night before, and John's search of the woods.

  "That's horrible! Do you think someone would really do something like that to Biscuit?"

  "I don't let her outside," I said, "but I'm not always good about locking the door."

  "You might want to start," she said.

  "But the front door of the inn is always unlocked during the day."

  "Lock her in your room when you're not there?" she suggested.

  "That sounds miserable," I said, "but you're probably right. Better safe than sorry."

  "Yes. Any word on what happened to Chelsea?"

  "Not yet," I said, "but there is some other news. Murray and Catherine broke up."

  "Oh, no," she said. "Who dropped the bomb?"

  "I think Murray did."

  "It's that Sarah woman, isn't it? They're together all the time."

  "I think so," I said. "Catherine was pretty upset. By the way, how did it go with Robert?"

  "Great, as always." I could hear the smile in her voice. "He's marvelous. He even ordered my favorite Cadbury chocolate from England!"

  "I'm so glad," I said.

  "Oh... hang on. Tom's here."

  "Lockhart?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you swing by with a copy of the paper this morning?" I asked. "I've got guests."

  "I don't have any coverage," she said. "Can you send John, or maybe he can cover?"

  "I'll see what I
can do," I said. "Tell me if you find anything out from Tom, okay?"

  "I will," she promised, and hung up.

  The dinner menu was crabmeat quiche, so I decided to get a start on it. By the time John came down, the piecrusts were in the oven and I was cutting up veggies to sauté.

  "What smells so good?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and reaching for a coffee mug.

  "I'm making quiche," I said. "Coffee's fresh. Could you make a quick run down to the store to pick up a copy of the Daily Mail?"

  "What? Why?"

  As I pulled the piecrusts out of the oven and sprinkled grated cheese on them, I explained to him what had happened.

  He put down his mug. "You said that?"

  "I don't remember what I said," I told him. "Eli told me he had had a lot of big catches lately, and that people down at the co-op were getting kind of suspicious. I know Adam had nothing to do with whatever happened to Chelsea."

  "I'm going down to get that paper right now," he said. Without waiting for me to answer, he pulled on his boots and grabbed the keys to the van. "I'll be back in a minute."

  "Thanks," I said, miserable. I wasn't sure I wanted to see what was in the paper. In fact, I knew I didn't want to see what was in the paper.

  But I didn't really have a choice.

  I glanced out the window at the water as I poured the veggies into a pan with melted butter. A lobster boat was chugging by the inn; by the buoy, I recognized it as Mac Penney's. A slight figure was bent over in the back: Josie Barefoot. Did she know where Mac had been when Chelsea disappeared? I recognized her close-cropped hair as she stood up and turned around. I'd seen her before; she had gone to high school on Mount Desert Island, but come back to live with her parents after graduation. How had she ended up sterning for Mac Penney? I wondered, giving the veggies a quick stir and then retrieving the eggs, half-and-half, and crabmeat from the fridge. I made a mental note to find out.

  Catherine appeared as I finished whisking the half-and-half and eggs, looking like she hadn't slept a wink.

  "He didn't call," she announced as she reached for a coffee mug and poured herself a cup. "I thought he'd have second thoughts. But he didn't."