Murder Most Maine (16 page)

I hurried into the tense dining room, where I retrieved three more empty bowls and stacked them on the buffet by the kitchen door.

“What’s going on?” asked Sarah, who was comforting Cat. “Why are the police in the kitchen?”

“Apparently Dirk died from ingesting a toxic substance,” I said. “They’re doing a routine check to make sure everything is in order.” No need to go into the whole “kitchen closed” thing right now. I glanced at Cat, whose large eyes were swollen. Sarah had stretched a protective arm around her shoulders. “Is everything all right?” I asked.

Boots took me by the arm and led me aside. “Cat lost a daughter once, years ago, and today’s the anniversary of her death.”

I looked at Cat’s haunted face. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry …”

“It’s okay. It’s just that this is a tough time of year for her,” Boots said. “And with another death …” She shook her head, and her bobbed hair swung back and forth. Even though she must have been in her fifties, she still had some of the look of a college student, I thought. A certain vitality to her … “The timing couldn’t be worse,” Boots continued. “The whole reason she wanted to come to the retreat this week wasn’t really the reunion; it was to take her mind off of her daughter.”

“When did she lose her daughter?” I asked quietly, the forensics unit in the kitchen forgotten for the moment. My heart went out to the poor woman, who was clearly still bereft. As I would be too.

“It’s been several years now,” she said.

No wonder Cat had been so upset last night, I thought. She’d come to the retreat to forget about her personal tragedy, only to be faced with another. I glanced at the poor woman who had lost her daughter; the empty, lost look on her face was somehow familiar. Probably because I’d had to spend so much time staring across a table at Charlene’s haunted eyes, just a few months ago, after Richard McLaughlin had died. Grief, unfortunately, was universal.

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” I said, “let me know.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Do you know if the detective is going to want to question us again?”

“I’ll ask her if she can skip Caterina,” I said. “She’s been through enough already.”

“Thank you,” Boots said, giving me a grateful smile. Then she returned to the table to comfort her friend while I headed back to the guest room where the detective had installed herself.

She opened the door a second after I knocked.

“Are you going to question the guests again?” I asked as she stood in the doorway, still holding her notepad, and hitched up her belt.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to,” she said.

“I wanted to let you know—one of my guests lost a daughter on this day several years ago,” I said. “Her name is Caterina. She’s having a rough morning—all of this seems to be bringing the old memories back.”

The detective blinked at me. “What bearing does that have on the case?”

“It doesn’t,” I said. “It’s just … could you be particularly gentle with her?” I asked.

“I’ll do the best I can,” she said. “I assume all of your guests are at breakfast?”

“Yes,” I said. “Most of them, anyway. Hey—can I at least put the dirty dishes in the kitchen?”

She hesitated.

“I just don’t want them cluttering up the dining room,” I added.

“I suppose that will be all right,” she said.

“Thanks.” It wasn’t much, but it was a small triumph.

As she plucked the first guest from the dining room—Bethany, whose moon-shaped face was still pale and blank with grief—I gathered up a stack of dishes and headed into the kitchen. Two people, a man and a woman, looked up as I entered.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but the detective said I could at least put the dirty dishes in the kitchen. Can I put them on the counter by the sink?”

The woman nodded brusquely and returned to the work of bagging a marshmallow from a bag she’d pulled from the pantry, setting it on a growing stack on my kitchen table. If I had to wait for them to do a chemical analysis of every foodstuff in my kitchen, I realized, I’d be closed for months.

Fighting the wave of despair that threatened to engulf me, I deposited the first load of dishes on the counter.

On my way back out the door, I paused at the cookie jar. God, I needed a sugar hit. I didn’t bother asking. As the woman bagged a raisin and her helper dug through my refrigerator, I plunged my hand into the jar to grab a handful of cookies—but found only the jar’s ceramic bottom.

Somebody had eaten all of the cookies.

I tilted the jar, just to be sure there wasn’t one hiding in the corner, but even the crumbs were gone. I jammed the lid back on and headed into the pantry. What else had the midnight thief taken?

And would any of his or her haul turn out to be the source of the poison?

Marge showed up shortly
after Detective Rose arrived, coming in through the main door when the forensics people rebuffed her from the kitchen. Gwen hadn’t made it out of bed yet—which was amazing, considering the noise coming from the kitchen—but since it was her morning off, I couldn’t blame her. I’d have slept in too, if I could.

“What’s all the commotion then?” Marge asked as she hung her pea-green jacket on a hook behind the front desk.

“Apparently the guy who died the other day may have been poisoned,” I said. “They’re going over the kitchen with a fine-toothed comb and questioning all the guests again.” I lowered my voice. “My kitchen is closed—I can’t cook anything for anyone until they’ve looked at everything. But please don’t say anything. I don’t want the
Daily Mail
to get wind of it.”

She tsked. “Bad business, then. Can I still do up the rooms?”

“I hope so,” I said. “They let me in to clear the dishes at least; maybe they won’t give us a hard time about getting cleaning supplies from the laundry room.

“Good. I’ve got another job this afternoon at two, if I can get everything done in time. Opening up a house for one of them summer families.”

“Seems a little early for summer visitors,” I said, since the temperature had been in the high forties when I’d stepped out earlier that morning.

“It may not be warm like in Texas, maybe, but it’s coming along,” she said. “We’ll be seein’ lupines soon enough.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“By the way, Miss Natalie. You told me if I saw anything peculiar, I should let you know.”

My heart rate picked up a bit. “Did you see something?”

“Heard something, more like. One of the ladies, that dark-haired one, was talking on her cell phone. Asking somebody to look into some legal stuff. And there was a name she’d asked about, too.”

I felt adrenaline pulse through me. “Do you remember what it was?”

“It was a man’s name,” she said. “Something Kershaw. Eric, maybe—I couldn’t quite catch it.”

Eric Kershaw
. “What was she asking about?”

“Wanted to see what someone could find on it. She said something about the town he lives in, but my hearing’s not as good as it was, I’m afraid.”

“Did she say anything about the state?”

Marge shook her head. “Not that I could hear.” I smiled, but couldn’t keep the disappointment off my face. “But I’ll keep listening and looking,” Marge said eagerly. Ever since our harrowing near-death experience last fall, she had seemed anxious to help me in any way possible. “Don’t worry. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thanks, Marge. And thanks for all of your help around here—you’ve been a godsend.”

“You think?” she said, her dour face brightening into a small smile. “I know your niece don’t think much of me, but I do try.”

“Don’t worry about Gwen,” I said. “We’re both delighted you’re here,” I said, stretching the truth just a bit.

Marge smiled. “I’d better get to it then,” she said. And unless I was imagining things, there was a new spring in her step as she headed for the kitchen.

When she was gone, I sat down behind the front desk, feeling restless—and helpless. John was a suspect in a murder investigation. And as much as I wanted to believe he was absolutely innocent, his behavior had been so strange these last few days, I wasn’t quite sure. I racked my brain, trying to think of who might have wished Dirk harm—other than Vanessa, perhaps, or even Bethany. If Bethany had killed him in a fit of passion, though, I wouldn’t have guessed she’d use poison. Passion generally involves instant gratification—something like a knife, or a gun, rather than a time-release capsule.

I sighed, trying to come up with other possibilities. But aside from Dirk’s former disgruntled clients, I couldn’t think of any.

Dirk’s former disgruntled clients
, I thought suddenly, and sat up straight in my chair. Was it possible that one of them had come to the inn? Or was that entirely too far-fetched? I thought back to the letters I’d seen. People had gotten sick, to be sure—even suffered heart attacks, at least in one case—but no one had died. Would someone commit murder in revenge for a non-fatal heart attack?

Could it be that there were cases I didn’t know about?

I glanced up at the clock; lunch was at twelve, and I still needed to get in touch with Charlene to come up with something that would work, but with Marge doing the rooms, I had a couple of free hours before it was time to serve dinner. And since I wasn’t going to be doing the cooking, I might have enough time to head over the mainland and find out what I could about Dirk DeLeon.

My thoughts turned to the Somesville Library—and to Audrey Fedders, the fabulous librarian who had helped me do research in the past. Maybe if I called her, she could see what she could find; there were so many things to track down, I wasn’t sure I’d have time. It was worth a shot, anyway—and I could always pay her with a batch of her favorite cranberry walnut muffins.

I picked up the phone and dialed the library, asking for the reference desk.

“Somesville Library,” said a bright voice. I could picture Audrey with her sparkly reading glasses and ready smile; we’d become friends over the winter, when I’d spent a lot of time searching the stacks for good books.

“I’ve got a big favor to ask,” I said.

“Does it have anything to do with that handsome man who died near the inn?”

“How did you guess?” I asked.

“Everyone’s talking about it. Since I don’t have much on today, I’ll do whatever I can,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s more interesting than tracking down knitting patterns,” she said, and a moment later, she agreed to see what she could find on the names I gave her.

“I’ll bring over a batch of cranberry muffins sometime soon—I’d do it today, but I’m short on time.” And a kitchen, of course. “I probably won’t get over there until about two. Will that give you enough time?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

I hung up the phone, thinking wonderful thoughts about librarians in general and Audrey in particular, and knocked on the door to the blueberry room to see if Detective Rose needed anything else from me. When I told her I was heading out for a while, she nodded. “Just don’t stray far,” she said, and returned her attention to Cat, who was huddled in the chair across from her, as I closed the door behind me.

I was about to call Charlene when the phone rang. Cringing, I picked it up, praying it wasn’t the Bangor paper.

Thankfully, it wasn’t. “Nat,” Charlene said. “Evie Spurrell has agreed to open the restaurant for dinner, and I’m going to send over sandwiches on whole wheat bread with some fruit for lunch.”

“You’re a godsend,” I told her.

“Anything else you need?”

“Can she do lunch and dinner for the next few days? Just in case?”

“She says she’ll do whatever you need,” Charlene replied.

Thank goodness
. “I’m going to call and thank her right now,” I said. “She’s a lifesaver.”

“Any more news at the inn?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything, though.”

After hanging up with Charlene, I called Evie to thank her for helping out. “Can I come down and cook?” I asked. After all, Detective Rose hadn’t told me not to cook; just that I couldn’t do it in my own kitchen.

“I’ll take care of the cooking,” she said. “I need to get warmed up for the summer season. But if you’ll serve, that would be great!”

“I’ll put an order in for the food and get the recipes to you,” I said, hoping her insistence on cooking had more to do with feeling territorial about her kitchen than concerns that I might poison yet another guest. “We may have to do this for a few days, if that’s all right with you.”

“Whatever you need, Natalie. I’m happy to help out with lunches, too, if you need.”

“Thanks a million,” I said, wondering what I was going to do about tomorrow’s breakfast. Maybe I could work something out with Charlene. “I’ll drop by in a little bit with the menu, and I’ll order the food now.” Which was frustrating, since I had several pounds of expensive food already purchased and stowed in the freezer, just steps away. Oh, well. “Dinner is scheduled for 6:30; I think it’s grilled scallops tonight, which is easy.”

“Perfect. See you in a bit, then.” I headed back to the kitchen and retrieved my menus, trying to ignore the chaos that had descended on my favorite room—and the fact that my freezer door was just standing open, allowing everything in it to thaw. Including five pounds of scallops. I had just called to place the food order—it would be over on the 2:00 mail boat, they assured me—and had my hand on the doorknob, wondering if I could get the police to reimburse me for lost food, when I realized there was another stop to make while I was out.

I hurried up the stairs to retrieve the broken box I’d gotten from the lighthouse.

While I was out, I might as well make the trek to the Cranberry Island Museum.

___

After dropping off the menus with Evie, who had greeted me with a hug and smile that warmed my heart, I headed down toward the pier—and the museum—feeling a little bit more hopeful. Maybe it was Evie’s willingness to come to my aid, or the buds on the gnarled apple trees along the roadside, or the warmth I could finally detect in the breeze off the water, but I felt as optimistic as it was possible to feel when you’re an innkeeper and the police have shut down your kitchen because one of your guests was poisoned.

Matilda answered the door in a turtleneck and jeans, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her long nose. “Natalie!” she said, her thin face breaking into a smile. “Come on in. Sounds like you’ve had lots of excitement up there at the inn this week.”

“A bit too much, if you ask me,” I said.

She laughed. “I’m sure everything will work out all right—even though it’s a shame about that poor man dying. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I wanted to show you something,” I said.

“Oh?” she said, her eyes sparking with interest. “Did you find that diary you lost last fall?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

She sighed heavily. “I was afraid not,” she said as I followed her through the door of her little yellow house and into the dining room, where stacks of old papers were carefully laid out on the cherrywood table. The walls were adorned with old photographs of the island as it had been; I recognized several of the houses, which were still standing today.

“I took a walk down to the lighthouse yesterday,” I said.

“It’s really coming along, isn’t it?” she asked. “I can’t wait to get to work on recreating the interior. They’re going to let us use it as an extension of the museum.”

“Yes, that will be lovely,” I said. “Anyway, while I was there, I decided to take a look at that little hidden room …”

“You found it?” Her eyes were bright. “The skeleton was such an amazing discovery. Most of the clothing was rotted away, but there were still scraps.”

All I could think was,
blech.

“
If only there had been more information available,” she continued, “to help us figure out what happened.”

“Have you found anything in your research?” I asked, gesturing toward the stacks on the table.

She walked over to the table and pointed to a copy of an old newspaper article. “Nothing other than this reference to a black slave-catcher named Otis Ball. I’m surprised to find a black bounty hunter—they were almost invariably white, for obvious reasons. But evidently he was here in 1841—caused quite a stir.”

“Who was he looking for?” I asked.

“Two adults and a child,” she said. “Their names were James, Emma, and Sadie. No last names, of course—slaves didn’t have them—but they belonged to a family called Dixon, in the Carolinas.” She pushed her glasses up and shook her head. “Slavery was such an awful institution. To think your own child could be sold … I’d try to escape, too, if my daughter’s life was at stake. Even with the risks.”

I stared at the article.
Slave-catcher pursues runaways to Cranberry Island
, read the headline. The slaves—ages twenty-three, twenty-five and seven—were suspected to be hiding somewhere on the island.