Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (15 page)

In Christ’s Name, Fr. Probst

A chill crept up my spine as I set the letter down. “This is the last letter?”

“The last one we found,” Beryl said.

“It sounds like the Bishop sent a hit man, not a counselor,” Agnes said in an ominous tone.

“But why?” Beryl asked. “None of this makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said. “But something tells me it has to do with why his body was buried next to the rectory.”

Beryl shivered. “The problem is, how do we figure out what he was talking about?”

“I don’t know. If Matilda can’t help, your only hope is to find something at the old rectory, even though it’s probably a slim chance. I think he may have been the last person to live there, and I don’t
know how much they cleaned out when he died. Maybe he left some
thing there that can explain what happened.” Personally, I thought it was a fruitless endeavor, but I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Beryl sighed. “It’s worth a try, I suppose. I just wish there were someone we could talk to.”

“And if not, maybe I can come up with my own explanation, and put it in a mystery.” Agnes’s eyes lit up. “Maybe it was a slavery ring, or something!”

Beryl fixed her with a stern glance. “This is my grandfather we’re talking about. He was a man of the cloth; he wouldn’t have been involved in any wrongdoing.”

I said nothing, but privately thought that the evidence—opaque as it was—tended to indicate the contrary. Strange missives to and from a priest in Canada, a bullet in the back of the head; something was going on, I was sure of it.

And something had been going on with Derek, too. I just hadn’t yet figured out what it was.

_____

John and I were just cleaning up from dinner—the chicken and potatoes had been roasted to perfection, and the parfaits had been summertime bliss—when Catherine came breezing in the kitchen door on a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

“Did you hear what happened today?” she asked.

John set down the bowl he’d been drying. “What? More bones?”

“No,” she said, walking over to the table and sitting down primly on a chair. “Another drug arrest.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Brian Knight,” she said.

I was shocked. Brian was a great kid. I’d often seen him sterning with his father, a cheerful smile on his freckled face. “Brian? But he’s only in high school!”

“They start younger and younger these days,” she said, shaking her head.

“I can’t believe it. How did it happen?”

Catherine took off her jacket and folded it neatly over one arm. “Another tip called in, apparently.”

“Not to me,” John said drily.

She breezed past his comment. “There seems to be quite a drug problem on the island lately. First Charlene’s niece, and now this young man.”

“Murray’s going to use this to justify closing the school, isn’t he?”

“Well, it is a problem.”

“Closing the school won’t help,” I said.

She pursed her lips and said, “But that’s evidently where the young man got the drugs.”

“What?”

“Derek Morton sold them at the school, and would you believe the teacher didn’t know anything about it?”

“Derek sold drugs at the Cranberry Island School?” John shook his head. “If I’d known that, I might have killed him myself!” He got up and headed for the back door, anger in the set of his jaw. “I’m calling Detective Johnson right now,” he said. “If anyone from the police calls the house, I’ll be in my workshop.”

seventeen

I decided to head
out to Fred Penney’s as soon as breakfast was over the next morning, leaving the dishes and cleanup to John and
Catherine. Catherine, as usual, had made comments over the cheesy soufflé I’d served for breakfast, and again I found myself longing for Gwen’s return. At least Adam wouldn’t be in jail when she returned, I thought. On the other hand, it hurt my heart to think Tania still might. Adam had stopped by the night before to check up on us—and to make sure Gwen’s travel plans were still intact.

“I can’t wait for her to get back,” the tall, dark-haired lobsterman had said, grinning. As sad as I was that Tania was implicated in Derek’s death, I was relieved the shadow of suspicion hadn’t fallen on him. At least not yet. “I’ve got something to ask her,” he added.

John clapped him on the back. “It’s about time.”

“I know we’ve got plans for Saturday, so I’m thinking Friday night.”

“Want me to cook something special?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m taking her to a restaurant on Mount Desert Island,” he said. “I’m going to totally surprise her.”

I felt a thrill of happiness at the thought of Gwen marrying this young man and planning to stay on the island for good. Although that would likely mean Gwen wouldn’t be returning to her room over the kitchen—and that Catherine would be my long-term assistant. It would work, I told myself as I traipsed up the hill from the inn. It would work.

Instead of taking the van, I’d decided to get out and walk, since the weather was glorious and I didn’t need to be back at the inn until two, which was when Agnes and Beryl and I were scheduled to head over to the old rectory. The walk went quickly, and it seemed like no time at all before I was standing in front of Fred Penney’s small house. Although most of the islanders had all their traps in the water at this time of year, there was an enormous stack of them in his front yard. Charlene had told me he wasn’t fishing as much as the other lobstermen, but from the looks of it, unless these were back-up traps, he wasn’t fishing at all. I walked up to the little house, which didn’t look to have room for much more than a kitchen, a bedroom, and a small living area. A juniper planted by some previous owner had grown to massive proportions, coming up to the roofline, but the rest of the front yard was overgrown grass. And lobster traps.

Behind the house was a weather-beaten shed, and beyond that, the land sloped down to the water. I caught the scent of the beach roses that lined the shore; it did little to cover the smell of old, rotted herring that emanated from the stack of lobster traps.

As I walked up to the metal front door, I heard the sound of a television. I knocked, and a moment later, the door opened, adding the smells of beer and frozen pizza to the bouquet.

“Something wrong?” Fred eyed me suspiciously, then took a swig of the Pabst Blue Ribbon he held in his right hand. Behind him, a basketball game played on a flat-screen TV.

“I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Derek,” I said.

“Why?”

I put on a smile. “Because he worked for you, from what I understand. And because Charlene’s niece is in jail for his murder, and unless we figure out who did it, she stands to spend a lot of her life behind bars.”

His eyes darted to the shed for a moment. Then he leaned against the doorjamb. “Shame about Tania,” he said. “I was thinking maybe it might be that fella who had a thing for her,” he said. “What’s his name? The Sorenson boy.”

“Evan Sorenson is a possibility,” I said. I didn’t tell him that based on the conversation I had overheard in Zeke Forester’s barn, I thought he sounded too scared to be the murderer. “Anyone else you can think of?”

“Well, he did have a lady friend,” Fred said.

“Tania?”

“Well, her of course,” he told me. “But he had another one on the side. He’d meet her on the sly, like. Apparently her husband was away from home a lot, and she got lonely sometimes.” He gave me a lewd wink that made me want to head straight back to the inn and take a shower.

“He told you about her?”

“Men get to talking when they work,” Fred said, taking another pull from his can. “Don’t know who she was, but apparently she was happy for the attention, if you know what I mean.”

“When did they meet?”

“Whenever her husband was out on the water,” he said.

Well, that narrowed it down, I thought. “Speaking of out on the water, you don’t seem to have many traps out.”

He stretched. “I’m gettin’ old. Can’t do those long hours anymore.” Behind him, the audience cheered as someone made a basket. He eyed me. “How’s Charlene doin’?”

“Holding up,” I said. “It’s been hard on her, with Tania in jail.” I gave him a meaningful look. “I’m sure she’d be very appreciative of anyone who was able to help her niece.”

He stood up a little straighter. “Is that so? Well,” he told me, finishing off his beer and crumpling the can in his hand, “I wouldn’t mind Charlene being grateful to me. She’s a looker, your friend.”

“She is,” I agreed.

“If I were you, I’d talk to that Sorenson boy. And ask around, see if you can find out who Derek’s lady friend was. All I know is, she lives on Seal Point Road.” His eyes twinkled malevolently. “Husbands can get mighty upset when they find out their wives’ve been playin’ around while they’re out haulin’ traps.”

“Seal Point Road? Anything else you know about her?”

He shook his head. “He just told me that’s where he was headin’ after we were done hauling traps. Although things had changed recently, I got the impression. She was bankrollin’ him, somehow. Or someone was.”

I thought of the drugs he had evidently been dealing at the school and guessed that was the source of Derek’s newfound wealth. “Was he a good worker?” I asked.

Fred shrugged. “He was a typical young man. Too many hormones, and not enough sense.”

“Tania mentioned he talked about some new opportunity that was coming up,” I said.

“He was probably just trying to impress his girlfriend. Typical young buck.” He gave me a knowing look. “Although the money was coming from somewhere.”

“I’ll look into it,” I told him. “In the meantime, if there’s anything else that you think of, please let me know.”

“Will do,” he said. He closed the door a moment later, and there was another burst of televised cheering from inside the small house.

As I walked down the porch, I caught another whiff of the beach roses. I’d been meaning to cut some for the tables in the dining room; maybe I could snip a few here before heading back to the inn. As I walked down the pine needle–strewn path toward the beach, I remembered how Fred’s eyes had darted to the shed. The door was slightly ajar.

Glancing back at the house, I veered toward the shed, hoping Fred wasn’t watching me. The house’s shades were all shut tight, thankfully, so I decided to risk it, and slipped into the run-down building.

The shed appeared to be where tools and appliances went to die. The two high windows were grimy with years of dirt and cobwebs, but let enough light in to be able to make out headless brooms, a tube-style television, and a rusted bike buried among the piles of debris. My heart sank; there was nothing here to help me solve the mystery of what had happened to Derek Morton.

I took my time and examined everything anyway; since I was here, I might as well be thorough. As I listened for the sound of footsteps on the branches and pine needles outside, I ran my eyes over the piles, looking for anything that looked like it might have been
discarded recently. The only thing that looked recently disturbed was an old brown tarp that had been spread over a pile in the near front corner. Unlike the rest of the objects in the shed, it wasn’t felted with dust.

I stepped over a broken lawnmower and grabbed a corner. I drew in a breath at what was under it.

It was a gray dinghy—or what was left of one. The front had been smashed in, and from the pale wood exposed, it had happened recently. I bent down and took a close look at the smashed area, and wasn’t surprised to find flakes of white paint. I was about to pull the
tarp back over it when I spotted two cans of paint tucked up under
what
was left of the boat. One was turquoise, and the other was orange.

_____

On the way home from Fred Penney’s, on a whim, I decided to swing by and see how Zeke and Brad Forester were doing since the fire.

The farm appeared deserted when I arrived. The blackened remains of the shed reminded me of an empty socket in a mouthful of teeth; it looked strange in juxtaposition with the rows of verdant tomato, bean, and cucumber plants. Zeke had erected a tent-like shade structure next to where the shed had been; trays of washed carrots and beets were in bins on the tables.

I walked over to the farmhouse, figuring Zeke and Brad might be grabbing a snack inside—or maybe a nap—but no one came when I
rang. I waited a few moments, then decided to walk around; it was a beautiful day, and I always loved seeing other people’s vegetable gardens
.

I walked down the nearest row toward the back of the property. Strawberry plants were lined up to my right, their red berries and white cup-like flowers like jewels against the green of the foliage, and to my left were the young plants of some member of the squash family. Watermelon, perhaps? My mouth watered at the thought of the crisp, crimson flesh—a real summer treat.

As I neared the end of the row, I heard voices. I paused, looking around, and realized they were coming from the barn. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything, I heard Zeke’s angry voice.

“They’re not going to intimidate me,” he said. “As soon as my license comes through, I’m quitting.”

“What about what happened to Derek?” It was another voice. Young, male. Not Brad’s. “And your shed. They mean business.”

Zeke gave a bitter laugh. “That’s why I have a shotgun by my bed. They won’t mess with me.”

“I think you’re making a mistake,” the young man warned. “What if they come after Brad?”

“I’ll look after Brad,” the farmer said.

“It’s your funeral.” I heard footsteps, and hurried away from the barn, kneeling to inspect a strawberry. When the door opened, I pretended I hadn’t heard it, instead busying myself by admiring the red fruit.

“What are you doing here?”

I looked up to see Zeke Forester looking at me in a less-than-welcoming manner. The barn door was already closed tight behind him, and a few yards away, Evan Sorenson stared at me, looking spooked.

“These berries look terrific,” I said. “I was thinking of making strawberry shortcake tonight. Do you have any ready to go?”

The farmer’s face relaxed. He threaded a short chain through the handles of the barn door and padlocked them shut, then walked down the row toward me. “I picked a few this morning, but haven’t had a chance to wash them yet.”

“I can take care of that,” I said. “Are these watermelon plants?” I asked, trying to keep my voice relaxed as I stabbed a finger at the row of sprawling young plants.

“Sure are. Moon and Stars,” he said. “They’re huge, and speckled. Forty pounds, some of them. Brad loves how they look—that’s why I planted them.”

“Can’t wait. I love watermelon, too.” I smiled and decided to take a risk. “How’s the barn renovation going?”

“Fine,” he said shortly, the ease instantly evaporated from his voice.

“It’s too bad about the shed,” I continued. “Any plans to build a new one, or are you using the barn?”

“We’ll see,” he said. “I’m too busy weeding these days to think of building. Maybe this fall.” We reached the end of the row. “How many pints of strawberries do you want?”

“Three should do,” I said. “Drat; I forgot my checkbook again. I hate to ask, but
…
”

He glanced up at me. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

“I pay interest in brownies,” I joked as he eased three plastic baskets into a paper bag and handed them to me. “How’s the dairy plan going?” I asked, wondering about the exchange in the barn.

“It all depends on Murray,” he said. “Any luck talking to Catherine about it?”

“I asked her to bring it up, but I don’t know if she’s spoken to him
yet.”

“I’d love to have things in place by the end of summer,” Zeke said. “So I can get them going on the pasture.”

“I’ll be sure to follow up,” I told him.

“Will that be all?” He adjusted his cap, looking impatient to get away.

“That’s it for now.” I smiled. “Thanks, and please say hi to Brad for me. We’ll enjoy these!”

As I walked back toward the inn, I tried to puzzle out what I’d overheard. At first I’d thought Zeke had been talking about his dairy license, but if the limiting factor was Murray’s willingness to rent him land, that clearly wasn’t it.

Who was trying to intimidate the farmer? I had suspected the shed fire wasn’t an accident, and apparently Evan shared my opinion. But he also seemed to think he knew who was responsible for killing Derek Morton, and Zeke hadn’t contradicted him.

Something was going on at Zeke’s farm—something that might shed light on who had murdered Derek Morton. And the best way to find out what it was, I thought, was to take a peek into that carefully guarded barn.