Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) (17 page)

“It’s worth a try.”

She tiptoed back, glancing at the hole in the floor, and slid the thin blade of the knife into the seam and lifted. A section of the floor came up about an inch, and I grabbed the edge and pushed it up farther.

“Bingo,” she said in a low voice as we both peered down into the murky depths of the cellar, which smelled of must and earth. A rickety staircase led into the darkness, and my thoughts turned to the bones buried just yards away.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said drily, with a glance at the hole in the floor. “But I’m dying to know what’s down there.”

Before I could protest, she was already on the first step. It creaked ominously, but didn’t give. “So far, so good,” she said.

“What did you find?” Beryl called from the doorway.

“It’s a staircase to the cellar,” I told her. “Matilda’s going down.”

“Is it safe?”

“I doubt it,” I told her honestly, then returned my attention to Matilda. “What do you see?” I asked the historian.

“It’s amazing down here,” she said from near the bottom of the ladder. “Like a time capsule. You should come see. The ladder seems perfectly safe.”

Despite her assertions, I waited until she was all the way down before braving the first step. I didn’t know if it could hold one person, much less two—and I had been hitting the pastries a bit hard lately.

“You coming?”

“Be right there.” Saying a brief prayer, I lowered myself onto the first step. It bowed under my weight, but didn’t break. Carefully, I made my way down the rest of the ancient staircase—which was more like a graduated ladder than a staircase—to where Matilda was flashing her light on a stack of dusty bottles.

“Isn’t this incredible?” she breathed. “I’ll bet nobody’s been down here in ninety years.”

“Are these all full?” There were hundreds of them, I realized, coated with dust. Some were stacked in wooden pallets, and others were crammed into makeshift shelves lining the wall.

“They seem to be.” Matilda picked up a bottle, pried out the cork, and held it out to me. “Take a sniff.”

I lowered my nose cautiously and took a light whiff that just about seared my nose hairs. “Good God. What is it?”

“Whiskey.” She shone the light on the bottle; the liquid inside glowed amber beneath the dust, and a label proclaimed it as Toronto Club Whiskey. She ran the light around the basement; there were crates and crates of bottles. The basement was significantly bigger than the house above it. “This place is enormous,” she said.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a contraption in the corner. There were two large metal containers linked by a narrow tube; the whole thing was felted with dust.

She walked closer. “I think it’s a still.”

“As in for making moonshine?”

“I think the reverend was spreading more than the good word, Natalie,” she said slowly, running her light over a line of barrels that were tucked behind the still.

nineteen

“I’ve often heard that
rum runners used Smuggler’s Cove,” Matilda said, still staring at the bottle. “Now I know who it was.”

“You really think a priest was responsible for this?” I asked.

“What better cover?” She glanced at me. “Nobody’s going to go after the local priest.”

“Apparently someone did,” I pointed out.

She replaced the cork on the bottle. “True.”

“Natalie?” It was Beryl, from somewhere up above us. “What did you find?”

“Lots of bottles,” I called up. “I’ll be right up.” As I headed for the bottom of the ladder, Matilda’s light found a crate of empty bottles stacked in front of a line of barrels. “Aha.”

“What?”

“I think I know why someone may have done him in.”

I paused. “Why?”

“Ever heard of the Real McCoy?” she asked.

“You mentioned him the other day,” I said. “But what does that have to do with this basement?”

“McCoy was a rum runner who was known for importing genuine liquor. He used to go up and down the Atlantic seaboard, smuggling Canadian whiskey, among other things.”

“And?”

“Well, we’ve got a basement full of liquor bottles marked Canadian whiskey here. And some of them are empty.” She flashed her light on the crate nearest the still.

“And there’s a still …” All of a sudden the letters Beryl had showed me popped into my mind. “He was corresponding with a Canadian bishop who was complaining about his congregation thinning.” I looked up at Matilda. “Do you think the ‘bishop’ was a rum runner?”

“That would be my guess,” she said. “I’m guessing Beryl’s grandfather started smuggling Canadian whiskey, but then started manufacturing his own whiskey and passing it off as Canadian stuff.”

“We’re coming down,” Beryl called from the top of the ladder. One by one, the two climbed down the ladder to join us in the dusty cellar.

“Oh, my word,” Beryl breathed when she took in what was
around us.

“It’s a surprise, isn’t it?” Matilda asked.

“I think we’ve figured out who killed your grandfather,” I told
her.

“You’re kidding me,” she said.

“We’re guessing his Canadian bishop was a rum runner, and your grandfather was making moonshine.”

She gulped. “My grandfather? The priest?”

“And rum runner,” I added.

Matilda piped up, “Don’t forget distiller.”

_____

By the time we emerged into the sunlight, Matilda and Beryl had located a stack of labels and a ledger that showed a rather active business venture, but no sign of any cash. We all surmised that whoever had done in Beryl’s grandfather had taken any cash on hand with him (or her), and abandoned the whiskey as second-rate. “What a find,” Matilda said, as she headed up to the house. “I’ll let you know what Murray says; I’m hoping he’ll let me make an exhibit out of it!”

Beryl was thoughtful on the way back to the inn. We all had dust and cobwebs in our hair, and I, for one, was looking forward to a shower. “I wish I knew who that ‘bishop’ was. I’m pretty sure he was responsible for my grandfather’s death.”

“I’ll bet Matilda can help you with that,” she said. “She’s got contacts all over the place.”

“It’s just so sad.” Her voice sounded hollow. “If he hadn’t been involved in rum running, I might have gotten a chance to know him.”

“People do all kinds of strange things,” I said.

“What do you think happened to all the money he earned?” Agnes asked.

“I bet I know,” Beryl said.

We all looked at her in surprise.

“I didn’t say anything before, but my grandmother had mental problems,” she said. “The reason the kids were in Bangor was so that my great-grandparents could take care of them. She spent a lot of time in institutions. I always figured my great-grandparents paid for it, but now I think it may have been my grandfather.”

“So he might have gotten into rum running for a good cause?”

“The end justifying the means, so to speak,” Catherine suggested. “Too bad it didn’t work out for him.”

_____

When Agnes and Beryl were settled, I picked up the phone and dialed the Whites. “Hey, Eli,” I said into the phone when my friend answered. One mystery might have been solved—or at least the motive figured out—but I still needed to make progress on the more recent one.

“Natalie! How’s the new skiff doing?”

“Just fine,” I said.

“You name her yet?”

“Not yet. Hey … can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything for a woman who makes the best brownies in Maine.”

I chuckled. “I promise I’ll bring you a batch soon. In the meantime, do you know where Fred Penney moors his lobster boat?”

“Absolutely,” he said, “since it almost never leaves these days. Why?”

“I have a hunch she may be our false
Zephyr
,” I told him. “Has he asked for a new skiff lately?”

“Now that you mention it, yes. I just sold a new one to him a few days back. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Can we take a look this afternoon?”

“I’ll be right over,” he said.

It was less than fifteen minutes before Eli showed up at my back door. I handed him a bag of brownies from my freezer, and his eyes lit up.

“Don’t tell Claudie,” he said. “She’d kill me.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said, knowing his wife’s insistence on sugar-free everything. He took one out and popped it into his mouth, even though it was frozen, as I followed him down to the dock. “You make a mean brownie, Miss Barnes,” he told me once he’d swallowed.

“Thanks.” I grinned at him.

“Which skiff you want to take?” he asked.

“Why don’t we take yours?” I suggested. “I’m still breaking mine
in.”

“With your track record, I’m a bit worried about the breaking,” he joked as I hopped into the little boat and helped him untie it.

It was only a few minutes before we were in Cranberry Island’s small harbor. Fred’s lobster boat was moored on the far end, away from the pier. “Could be her,” Eli mused as we drew closer. The buoy on the front was navy and red, not turquoise and blue, and the name emblazoned on the back of the boat in peeling paint was, appropriately,
Lazy Susan
.

“How could you change the name of the boat?” I asked.

“Paint a sign on a board and hang it on the back,” he suggested. “Replace the buoy, and you’re a new boat.”

“Can you get a little closer?” I asked. He slowed the motor and drew up behind the lobster boat. I wasn’t surprised to see two shiny nails driven into the stern of the boat. “I wish we could go aboard and see if we could find that buoy. I found paint cans in Fred’s shed.”

Eli glanced back at the island. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

I stared at him. “But we’ll be seen!”

“Not if you board from the starboard side,” he said. “Be quick about it, and crouch down low. I’ll go a short ways off and cast a line.” He picked up his fishing rod. “When you’re ready, give me a shout and I’ll come back and get you.”

He drew close enough to the lobster boat for me to clamber onto it. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be back in five,” he said. “Gonna catch me a mackerel.”

“More like a red herring,” I muttered and clambered aboard.

Speaking of herring, there was less of a smell of it than I expected, compared to my experiences on Adam’s lobster boat. I hunched down, trying to stay out of sight, and half-crawled into the wheelhouse.

The first cabinet held old, water-stained charts, and the second held life jackets. The third had all kinds of tools, along with extra gas and oil, and the fourth was stuffed with dirty old towels. I was about to close it when I caught a glimpse of orange.

Eagerly, I pushed the towels aside. I’d found the orange and turquoise buoy. And behind it was a rolled-up piece of canvas. When I opened it, I wasn’t surprised to find the words
Green Zephyr
.

I shoved the two things back into the compartment and rearranged the towels, then squatted down to think. Fred Penney was the driver of the faux
Green Zephyr
. But why? And if he wasn’t out lobstering, what was he doing?

I headed toward the stern of the boat, to the bins where the lobsters are kept. I opened the lid to one to find it filled with water. But the other was dry. I leaned in, wondering why there were granules of what looked like dirt spread along the bottom of the compartment. When I took a whiff, I realized it was pepper.

For a few more minutes, I poked around the boat, but found nothing. I gave Eli a wave, and he came looping back; I hopped back into the skiff and we were off.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“She’s the other
Zephyr
,” I said. “The buoy and a canvas sign are tucked into a compartment in the front.”

“Anything else of interest?” His intelligent eyes were bright.

“One of the lobster compartments was empty, except for a bit of black pepper.”

“Pepper?”

“I know,” I said. “Weird.”

“He’s up to something,” Eli said.

“How do we find out what?”

“Only way I can figure is to follow him,” Eli suggested.

“Actually, I think I know when it’ll be at Smuggler’s Cove next,” I told him.

“What, are you psychic?”

“No.” I told him about the list of dates and times I’d found at Derek’s house—including the closest date on the list.

“That’s tomorrow night, isn’t it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Need some help?”

“I’d love it,” I said.

“Count me in.”

twenty

I was still restless
when Eli dr
opped me off back at the inn. Nobody was around, so I set to work assembling a cake for the next morning as I ran through everything I knew, ignoring Biscuit’s plaintive meow from her customary perch on the radiator. I couldn’t stake out Smuggler’s Cove tonight—but there were other things I could do. I grabbed a turtle bar from the cookie jar and picked up the phone, chewing as I d
ialed.

Charlene answered on the third ring. “Cranberry Island Post
Office and Store.”

“It’s Natalie.”

“Any news?”

“Lots of it,” I said, and told her all I’d discovered as I measured flour into a bowl for streusel.

“But you can’t find out about the
Zephyr
until tomorrow night,” she said. “You’re stuck.”

“Not completely. Something’s going on in that barn,” I told her.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

I told her about the conversation I’d overheard between Zeke and Evan.

“Evan thinks Derek’s death is linked to something involved with the farm?”

“Exactly” I replied. “I’ve been trying to figure it out. I think something’s going on in there—that’s why Zeke didn’t want the cops to investigate the fire, and that’s why he scares everyone away from the barn.”

“Well then. When are we going to check it out?”

“It’s not that easy,” I told her as Biscuit wove between my legs. I cut the butter into the streusel and added walnuts, my mouth already watering. The creamy batter was finished and waiting. “It’s padlocked shut.”

“It’s an old barn, isn’t it?” Charlene asked. “Surely there’s another way in.”

“He guards it pretty carefully. I’d be surprised if he was that care
less.”

“We’ll never know until we try, will we? How about tonight?”

“John will kill me.”

“Just tell him you’re coming to visit me,” she said. “Bring some cookies. It’ll make it more convincing.”

“I’m out of Caramel Turtles,” I warned her.

“That’s okay. I like your shortbread and brownies, too.”

I laughed and promised to meet her at her house at eight. We’d go over just after sunset. “Wear dark clothes,” she reminded me. “And bring a flashlight.”

“Anything else?” I grinned.

“I’d say a gun, but neither of us has one,” she said, her chipper voice suddenly solemn. “I’ll bring my mace, though.”

“See you then,” I said, giving the streusel a final stir.

_____

“What did you tell John?” Charlene asked when I arrived at 8:00. Whereas I had worn dark jeans and a navy windbreaker, she wore a black sweat suit with the words
Maine Squeeze
picked out in rhinestones on the front.

“I didn’t,” I said sheepishly as I walked into her small but cozy house. “But I left him a note.”

“Where is he?”

“Helping out down at Island Artists.”

“He’s going to kill you, you know,” she said, arching a plucked eyebrow. “If whoever killed Derek doesn’t get to it first.”

I shivered at the thought. “Got a flashlight?”

“Yup. And I decided on a crowbar instead of mace. It’s more multi-functional.”

“Thinking of prying up a board?”

“Or hitting someone over the head. You never know what you’ll need to be prepared to do,” she countered. “Ready?”

“I think so.”

“Should we take a car, or walk?”

“Let’s walk,” I suggested. “That way no one will ask why we were parked near the farm.” On an island the size of Cranberry Island, any aberration was fodder for gossip.

Despite my nervousness about what we were going to do, it was a lovely evening for a walk. It was cool, but not too cool, and the moon was almost full, illuminating the road so that we didn’t need a flashlight. It was almost twenty minutes before we came upon the farm.

“Looks like someone’s home,” Charlene murmured. The downstairs lights were on in the farmhouse, giving it a cozy, warm glow. “Should we wait?”

I gazed at the house, then looked toward the shadowy hulk I knew was the barn. “It’s a pretty long way between the house and the barn. I think we’ll be okay.”

“Lead on, then,” she told me.

Instead of crossing the fields, I moved back to the far edge of the property, near the woods, and skirted the edge of the property, glancing back nervously toward the house as we approached the barn. Fortunately, everything stayed peaceful as we inched up to the big front doors. The padlock gleamed in the moonlight. I reached for it; the door was unlocked, the Yale lock dangling from the latch.

“Now what?” Charlene whispered.

“I’m just going to open the door a crack,” I said. “There might be someone in there.”

Carefully, I pulled on the handle. It stuck for a moment, and then the door swung out a few inches, spilling bright light out on the
grass. A familiar scent wafted out as I pushed it back quickly, my heart pounding, and scuttled to the side of the barn, Charlene on my
heels.

“Is someone in there?” Charlene asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m not sure I want to risk it.” The darkness seemed to fall down on us like a cloak; the thick pines to the side of the building blotted the moonlight.

“Should I turn on the flashlight?” my friend whispered.

“Not yet,” I said, squinting up at a slice of light coming from the second story of the barn, illuminating the branches of the pines. “Did you smell anything when the door opened?” I asked.

“I thought I caught a whiff of black pepper,” she said.

“Me too.” I thought of the pepper in Fred’s lobster boat. Another connection. But what kind of connection was it?

“This makes me nervous,” my friend confessed, gripping my sleeve with a manicured hand.

“I know, but we’ve got to find out what’s going on. We’re here for Tania,” I reminded her.

“I know,” she said. “But are you sure this barn has anything to do with Derek?”

I was about to answer when I heard voices. Charlene tightened her grip, and we both peered around the corner. The door creaked open, and two people exited.

“Everything’s boxed up and ready to go,” said one of them. Zeke Forester.

“You’re sure nobody’s onto us?” It was Evan. “I can’t afford to get caught.”

“I made sure there was no connection; nobody knows about us. Besides, this is the last time,” he said. “Then we won’t have to worry.”

“You talked with him?”

Zeke’s voice was steely. “I’ve told him my intentions. I won’t let threats stop me.”

“You didn’t tell him I was involved, did you?”

“It’s between him and me,” Zeke said. “You’ll be safe.”

“Derek wasn’t,” Evan said.

It sounded like Zeke sighed. “He brought it on himself. Now, let’s get this over with.” Together, Zeke and Evan carried four boxes out of the barn, setting them on the ground just outside the door. Zeke reset the padlock, then each of them picked up a box. One of them turned on a flashlight, and both headed toward the woods on the other side of the barn.

“What do we do now?” Charlene asked.

“I’ll follow them,” I said, watching the bobbing light recede into darkness. “You try and figure out what’s in those boxes.”

“What if they see you?” She clutched at my arm.

“I’ll tell them I was out for a stroll,” I said, and before I could talk myself out of it, I shook off her hand and hurried after them.

It was tough going; I was trying to keep up, but without making too much noise or walking into a tree. Although the moon helped, the trees made everything shadowy, and the path was narrow and winding. Thankfully, the light was a good distance ahead of me, and the sound of the water crashing against rocks somewhere not too far in the distance helped mask the crack of twigs as I fumbled through the forest.

The path exited on the shore, and whoever held the flashlight shone it briefly at the dark water; the light illuminated the foam as the waves broke near shore. Seaweed littered the rocks; the tide was low, and the air smelled strongly of fish and brine.

There was a skiff pulled up on the rocky shore. As I watched, the two men loaded the boxes onto the little boat. Evan stayed behind with the boat as Zeke hurried back toward the farm. I hoped Charlene had worked quickly.

It was ten minutes before Zeke arrived carrying the rest of the boxes. He put them in the back of the skiff, then the two men pushed the skiff into the water, with Evan at the rudder. Zeke gave him a quick wave as he motored off into the darkness.

I waited until Zeke was long gone back up the path before I followed.

_____

“What did you find?” I hissed when I got back to our hiding spot. Charlene jumped about three feet.

“Don’t do that, Nat!”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “So. What was in the boxes?”

“I couldn’t tell,” she said. “They were taped shut. They smelled like peppercorns, though. It was hard not to sneeze.”

“Are they back in the barn?” I asked.

“I don’t know about Evan, but Zeke is back at the house. Evan relocked the padlock when he came back for the boxes.”

“Did you peek into the barn?”

“I was too scared,” she confessed.

I looked up at the window near the peak of the barn. Light still spilled out, illuminating the branches of the trees. If no one was in the barn, I wondered, why was the light still on?

“Let’s see if we can peek inside,” I told her.

“Are you sure it’s okay? Where’s Evan?”

“He took off in a skiff,” I said. “I think we’ve got at least a few minutes.” Together, we walked around the old building, looking for cracks in the siding or loose boards to pry up, but the barn was sealed tight. “I thought he said this place was falling apart,” I murmured to Charlene.

“It’s pretty darned tight. Not even a chink for light to come through.”

I patted the side of the building. “He’s sealed it up tight.”

“What’s he up to, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but it’s not something he wants people to know about.”

“Should we call Detective Johnson?” she asked.

“If we do, what are we going to tell him? We have no idea what he’s doing in there.”

“True. But at least they’ll investigate.”

“They haven’t done a stellar job to date,” I said. “That’s why I want to call them … but not yet. If this is connected with what happened to Derek, I want to find out how before they seal it all off.”

“What about John?” she asked.

I thought about that for a moment. “I guess I should tell him.”

“Aren’t you and Eli going to stake out Smuggler’s Cove, too?” I’d told her about our plan.

“Wait a moment,” I said. “It’s low tide right now, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“And the next date and time on that page is tomorrow night at low tide. The next high tide is in the middle of the day”

She drew in a breath. “Were they taking those boxes to Smuggler’s Cove, do you think?”

“I’ll bet they were,” I said.

“Do you think we have time to slip in and out tonight?”

“There’s no way we’d get back to the inn and out to the cove in time,” I said. “But we could make it during low tide tomorrow morning.” I shivered at the prospect.

“What are you going to tell John?”

I sighed. “I’ll make it up as I go along, I guess,” I said as we began heading back to Charlene’s.

The walk back seemed longer, somehow, even though Charlene had seemed happier tonight than I’d seen her since Tania was arrested.

“I just wish there were some way to link whatever’s going on in that barn to Derek’s death,” I said as we walked.

“You’ve got the buoy and the skiff,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but we don’t know how that’s related to what’s happening in that barn. Plus, there’s no link to Derek.”

“Evan said something about a connection, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but he didn’t say what. Besides, he just thought he suspected. It didn’t sound like he knew.” I sighed. “Maybe John will be able to come up with something.” I’d have to explain what Charlene and I had been up to tonight. Not something I was looking forward to.

“Speaking of John, how are the wedding plans coming?” she asked.

“The resort we were going to have it at went out of business,” I told her. “Our deposit’s gone.”

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “What are you going to do?”

“We’ve got a plan.” I told her what John and I had discussed.

“That sounds like a terrific idea,” she said.

“I think so too. But it all depends on whether we can get Tania off the hook in time. And to be honest, I don’t even want to think about a wedding until I know she’s okay.”

Charlene reached over and squeezed my hand. “Well, then. We’d better get over to Smuggler’s Cove tomorrow!”

We arrived at her house, and as she let herself in the door, I hopped into the van and turned back toward home, my thoughts on Zeke Forester—and that mysterious barn.

_____

“You did what?” John blinked at me.

“We walked around the barn and saw them moving boxes,” I reiterated. John had gotten the note I’d left him. Since I’d taken the van, he’d been about to ride his bike over to the farm when I’d walked in, and was as angry as I’d ever seen him.

“You didn’t tell me?”

“I thought you wouldn’t approve,” I said.

“You were right,” he said. “I also don’t approve of you sneaking into murder victims’ houses or going places where you could be killed. Nat, think. If Zeke Forester is into something illegal and spotted you, what do you think he might have done?”

“He wouldn’t have killed me,” I said.

“You have no idea if he would have killed you! For all we know, he put a bullet in Derek Morton’s back!”

“But he didn’t seem to know about that,” I protested.

“That’s what he wants Evan to think, anyway,” John said. “You have no idea what that man is capable of.”

“You don’t own me,” I said.

“Own you?” He ran a hand through his hair. “You think this is about ownership?” He bridged the gap between us and pulled me into his arms, hugging me tight. “Don’t you understand?”