Murder Most Maine (8 page)

A pit opened up in the bottom of my stomach. Even-tempered, happily married Tom Lockhart, who was chair of the board of selectmen, president of the Cranberry Island Lobster Co-op, and one of my favorite people on the island. I could picture his blue eyes, twinkling merrily. I couldn’t imagine him as a murderer. “Are you saying you think Tom might have killed Dirk?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve known Tom a long time, and I just can’t see it.”

“Me neither,” I said, relieved that Charlene agreed with me. “Then again, Vanessa does seem to have an effect on men.”

“We’re jumping to conclusions here, Nat,” Charlene said. “We don’t even know when he died. Or how. Or if it was homicide, even.”

I looked out the window at the lush spring grass, the dark blue water. It looked the same as it had that morning. But for me, everything had changed. “You’re right. But there is a detective here, asking questions,” I reminded her, “and suggesting it might have been poison. So the police must be thinking in that direction.”

“Let’s hope they’re at least slightly more competent than Grimes. Although I don’t get a great read off that Rose woman.” I hadn’t either, but I didn’t voice the opinion. “Do you think you can find out details from John?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “But then again, maybe not. With Vanessa around, things are a little chilly.”

“Maybe you could invite him over for a candlelight dinner.”

“Yeah,” I said sourly, looking out the window at the craggy mountains of the mainland. The peaceful scene was deceptive; in the last twenty-four hours, my life had been stirred into a maelstrom. “Fat-free chicken breast and steamed vegetables. How romantic.”

“Which reminds me—any chance of getting some of your mint bars down here? I’ve been getting a lot of requests.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, wondering how I was going to be able to bake something as sinful as my Midnight Mint Bars with a starving horde of dieters on the other side of the kitchen door.

“I’ve got to go—half the island just walked through the door. Word must be out about Dirk.”

“Let me know what you find out,” I said, hanging up and walking into the dining room. The guests had been eating so quietly I had almost forgotten I still had lunch to clean up after. I was beginning to see the downside of running a full-service inn; you never finished cooking or cleaning.

I cleared the empty plates and began washing up the dishes in the kitchen, and an hour later, when everything was back in shape, I thought about the mint chocolate bars Charlene had requested. Did I dare make a pan of such sinful treats in an innful of hungry guests?

I debated briefly—and headed for the pantry. Diet or no diet, baking made me feel better—and delivering a pan of mint chocolate bars would give me an excuse to get out of the inn for an hour or two. And maybe steal a couple of tastes of chocolate while I was at it.

I grabbed the flour and sugar from the middle shelf, then retrieved a bottle of peppermint extract from the rack on the door. But when I reached for the baking chocolate, the box was empty.

Empty?

It had been full yesterday, when I’d made the meringues. How could it possibly be empty?

Unless I was mistaken, someone had been pilfering my pantry. I did a quick inventory, and discovered that a big bag of chocolate chips was gone, as well. The chocolate chips I could understand. But who the heck would eat a box of unsweetened baking chocolate?

My thoughts turned to Carissa, who had been surreptitiously sneaking squares of something brown into her mouth that morning. I had thought they were candy bars, but they could have been baking chocolate. I cringed just thinking about the taste of straight, unsweetened chocolate—but if she was that desperate, she was welcome to it. With a mother like that around, telling me every five minutes how gorgeous I would be if I lost my ‘baby fat,’ I might be reduced to similar measures myself. I’d just have to do a better job of hiding my calorie-laden loot in the future. Or maybe invest in a padlock.

I replaced the box on the shelf and dug around for a can of cocoa and some vegetable oil. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do in a pinch.

Twenty minutes later, the baking had done its magic yet again. Working with the warm, dark chocolate had soothed me, and combined with the view of the sparkling blue water outside—thankfully, the kitchen island didn’t offer a direct view of the lighthouse—had helped relieve some of the tension I was feeling. The batter was just about ready to go into the pan, and I’d only stolen two or three—okay, maybe four or five—spoonfuls when Marge, my new helper, came into the kitchen, carrying a stack of dirty towels.

“Hi, Marge!” I said brightly as I greased a baking pan. “Thanks for taking care of the rooms.”

She nodded at me over the stack of terrycloth and then shook her head, making her jowls wobble a little bit. As usual, she wore cotton pants and an oversized T-shirt that did little to disguise her ample middle. “I heard about the trainer. Dead guests—ain’t good for business.”

No kidding
. “At least it didn’t happen on the premises,” I said, trying to look on the bright side of things. At the mention of the death, my mind flashed back to the awful experience we’d shared in the fall, when we’d almost both been killed by her abusive husband. He was currently in jail on the mainland, and divorce proceedings were almost complete—and Marge, after years of living in a private hell, had been transformed by her liberation.

“I heard it might be poison,” Marge said.

Uh-oh.
“As far as I know,” I said, trying not to sound strained, “they’re still waiting for the autopsy results.”

“You’d better make sure Gertrude Pickens over at the
Daily Mail
don’t get wind of it,” Marge said sagely. “Although how you’re going to keep that nosy parker out of it, I’m sure I don’t know.” She clumped into the laundry room and filled the washer as I slid the mint bars into the oven and set the timer.
Please, please, please let Dirk have died of natural causes
, I thought.
Or at least not of poison.

When she had loaded the towels into the washer, I invited Marge to join me for a cup of coffee.

“Still got two rooms to do,” she said.

“You can do them in a minute,” I said, anxious to ask her a few questions about Vanessa’s island visits. “Why don’t you take a break and keep me company while I make the frosting?”

Marge plumped down on one of the kitchen chairs; a moment later, she was munching through gingersnaps as I poured her a fresh mug of coffee. “Were you here when Vanessa used to spend her summers here?” I asked as I slid the mug across the table to her.

“Ayuh,” she said. “She’s trouble, is that one. Broke the hearts of half the menfolk here—turned their heads, then disappeared for the rest of the year. Left them all pining for her.”

As I dug in the refrigerator for cream, I said, “I hear she and John were an item one summer.” I was glad my back was to Marge, so she couldn’t see my face.

“She was here a few summers,” she answered. “But John wasn’t the only one she got her hooks into. Your neighbor and Tom Lockhart almost came to blows over her one night, out at the dock.”

“Really?” I asked lightly, measuring out sugar and trying to keep a smile fixed on my face. Although I suspect it was more of a grimace.

“Ayuh,” she repeated. “It never came to nothing—Eleazer broke it up, told ’em it wasn’t worth fighting over a woman, and they both went home. But there was bad feeling there for a long time.” She paused to eat another gingersnap. “And Lorraine is still jealous of the woman, even though it’s been near fifteen years. When she heard Vanessa was back, she threatened to make him sleep out in the shed.”

“Huh,” I said, wondering what it was about Vanessa that brought out such strong feelings in people.

And whether John’s feelings for me would be enough to overcome them.

“Well,” Marge said, shoveling the last two gingersnaps in and washing them down with a swig of coffee. “I’d better get back to it.”

“Thanks for the help,” I said, stirring peppermint extract into the frosting and wondering whether my midnight raider had found my peppermint starlites, or if I’d have to dig up some leftover candy canes to crush and sprinkle on top. As Marge lumbered toward the kitchen door, I said, “If you see anything strange while you’re cleaning, let me know, okay?”

Marge gave me a funny look. Then she nodded once and disappeared through the door.

___

The chocolate mint bars were frosted, glistening with the crushed starlight mints I’d found hidden behind the cornstarch, and kept beckoning to me from their pan as I started in on dinner preparations an hour later. It seemed like I’d just finished serving lunch, and already it was time to think about dinner! I still hadn’t heard anything from Detective Rose, but I figured I’d make enough to feed her if she needed to stay. Anything I could do to stay on good terms with the police force was worth it.

I pulled a big package of pork tenderloins from the fridge and grabbed a head of fresh garlic; within minutes, I had whipped up a low-fat, no-carb dijon vinaigrette marinade for them. As delicious as the marinade smelled, though, I must admit I had eyes only for the mint bars. If I didn’t find time to head down to the store soon, I’d end up eating the entire pan by myself.

I had just slid the meat into a bowl and poured the savory liquid over it when the phone rang. After rinsing my hands, I grabbed the phone. “Gray Whale Inn, how can I help you?”

“Is this Natalie Barnes?”

My heart sank. “Speaking,” I said.

And then she told me what I already knew. “This is Gertrude Pickens of the
Daily Mail
. I understand there’s been a poisoning at your inn.”

I should have known
it would only be a matter of hours before Gertrude got wind of Dirk’s death. I sighed and gripped the phone, looking out the window at the dark expanse of water and the foam where the waves licked the rocks, trying to regain the serenity I’d found briefly while making the brownies. “One of my guests did pass away,” I said carefully, “but nobody has told me the details.”

“Dirk DeLeon,” she said in an insistent tone of voice. “I understand he was a personal trainer. You’re hosting a weight-loss retreat there, correct?”

“Yes,” I said.

“So who do you think killed him?”

“I don’t know that anybody killed him,” I said. “He may have died of natural causes.” Although since Detective Rose was currently questioning all of my guests, I was 99-percent sure that wasn’t the case.

“But they’re questioning your guests,” Gertrude said in a whiny voice, echoing my thoughts. “Certainly there must be some cause for suspicion.”

“I think you’d have to talk to the police about that,” I said.

“May I speak to one of the detectives?”

“You’ll have to get in touch with the station, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to feed.”

“They’re letting you cook?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t they? They’re guests at the inn.”

“Well, I understand there was a question of poison,” she said. “Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t closed your operation down.”

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice even. “As far as I know, nobody has said anything about poison,” I said, choosing to forget Megan’s question in the dining room a few hours ago. “And since I just fed one of the detectives lunch, it seems to me that the police must feel quite confident in my cooking.”

“So there
is
a detective at the inn,” Gertrude said. I could hear the keyboard clicking in the background as she typed.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a good time for me, Gertrude,” I said as politely as I could. “I have to cook dinner for my guests. I’m sure the police will be happy to answer any further questions.”

“But …”

“Thanks for calling, Gertrude,” I said, cutting her off. “Good bye.”

I hung up the phone and said a few choice words, startling Biscuit, who was napping on the radiator. Then I looked out the window at the water again, trying to bring my heart rate down into a normal range. Unfortunately, the scenic view was becoming less effective the longer I looked at it. Or perhaps it was just that my day kept getting worse.

I focused on the tenderloins again, making sure they were all covered with marinade, then fitted a lid onto the bowl. If Gertrude printed a single
word
indicating that my cooking might be responsible for Dirk’s death, I’d sue her for libel, I thought as I shoved the bowl of pork tenderloins into the fridge and grabbed a bag of salad greens.

Of course, if the papers started printing the words “poison” and “Gray Whale Inn” in the same article, there might not
be
a Gray Whale Inn for very long.

But there was nothing I could do about it now, I told myself as I whipped up a second vinaigrette for the greens and started to chop up a cucumber. My thoughts kept straying to Dirk’s blue eyes, so cold and fixed, and to the image of John, his arms around Vanessa, the morning light playing on her gleaming hair as she sobbed.
Sweetheart
, he’d called her.

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind. If John could be this affected by the arrival of an ex-girlfriend, maybe we didn’t have much of a future together anyway. I thought instead of Dirk, and how ironic it was that someone so dedicated to fitness and health should die so young. I hoped that the cause of death would be determined as something nice and simple. Like a heart attack, brought on by doing too many wind sprints.

Or maybe seeing the ghost of Harry, the missing lighthouse keeper.

___

Detective Rose, as it turned out, did not stay for dinner, returning to the mainland late in the afternoon. As I finished arranging the napkins on the tables—with one less place set, which was a tangible reminder of this morning’s awful events—I glanced down at the carriage house where John lived. The last rays of sunset were fading from the panes of the lower windows, but the lights weren’t on. I hadn’t seen my neighbor since the discovery this morning, I realized. Where had he been?

I returned to the kitchen to plate the salads and drizzle them with miniscule amounts of dressing; when I walked in to the dining room with a tray to serve, the room was almost full. Even Bethany had made it down from her room, her eyes swollen with crying, and so had Carissa, who was pale as a sheet.

Dinner passed in a subdued manner—the detective’s presence had rattled everyone. Bethany ate almost nothing, and Carissa toyed with her salad and barely touched her tenderloin; when her mother chided her to eat her protein, the girl shot her a venomous look that startled me.

“Do you really think he was murdered?” Boots asked her tablemates as I walked by to refill their water glasses. Eight glasses a day was the recommended intake of the program, and despite the events of the day, the participants had certainly been trying to follow the rules; I’d had to run the dishwasher twice just filled with glasses.

“Probably overdosed on his supplements,” Cat said, spearing a piece of tenderloin. “God, this is good. Maybe it’s because I’m hungry, but I can’t remember having a tastier tenderloin.”

I allowed myself a small, satisfied grin.

“I almost forgot about the supplements,” Sarah said. “Vanessa didn’t give us any tonight. Do you think it’s because they might be poisoned?” she asked, her watery blue eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” Cat said. “It could just be that she’s upset. I think they may have been more than just business partners, if you know what I mean.” She cut her eyes at the retreat leader. “Who knows? Maybe
she
did him in—to get a bigger cut of the business. But I’ll bet if anything, he just took one too many pills.”

“Or they were poisoned,” Sarah said dramatically.

Cat rolled her eyes. “Sarah, that’s ridiculous. If they were poisoned, don’t you think we’d all be dead by now?”

I was
so
not happy that my guests were having this conversation, but I kept my mouth shut.

“She has a point,” said Boots, draining her water glass and forking up a mouthful of barely dressed salad.

On that slightly more optimistic note, I moved on to the next table, where Megan and Greg were dissecting the events of the morning with the kind of morbid excitement people often have after a close call. I felt awful for Bethany, who was looking miserable—and for Vanessa, who for all her efforts to remain perky, was obviously struggling to keep things together. Elizabeth, who was sitting next to her, wasn’t making things any easier; as I passed, she was asking how long Vanessa and Dirk had been working together.

“About two years,” Vanessa answered, staring at her plate.

“Now that he’s gone, will the business revert to you?” she asked.

Vanessa pressed her lips into a thin line. “That’s for the attorneys to work out,” she said, looking irritated for the first time. I didn’t hear the rest of the questions—I had to return to the kitchen to prepare dessert—but when I returned with a tray of fruit salads a few minutes later, Elizabeth was still asking questions and Vanessa was still looking like a trapped animal.

Once everyone had finished their strawberries and peaches topped with faux whipped cream (whipped nonfat evaporated milk—not quite Chantilly Cream, but not bad with a dash of vanilla and sweetener), Vanessa stood up and addressed the crowd.

“Okay, everyone. I know we’ve had … well, a bit of a shock,” Vanessa said, which was putting it mildly, in my opinion. “And I know we missed our nutrition conferences this afternoon—we’ll make that up later, if we can. But we’re still here to lose weight, so in a half an hour, please join me in the living room for a weight-lifting session.”

There were a few groans, but mostly silence. “You snooze, you don’t lose!” Vanessa quipped feebly. “I’ll see you in a half an hour, everyone. That will give you time to digest your dinners and change into appropriate clothing.”

With that, she fled the room.

As the group trickled off to their rooms to prepare for some heavy lifting, I cleared the dining room tables and stacked the dishes on the counter. I was about to fill the dishwasher for the fifth time that day when Gwen burst through the door, breathless.

“Aunt Nat!” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here … are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Gwen,” I said as she ran up to me and wrapped her arms around me. She smelled like shampoo and salt air.

“All I heard was that there was a death on the island, and that it had something to do with the inn—I was terrified it was you!”

“It was Dirk,” I said. “He died sometime last night or this morning, out near the lighthouse.”

“I know,” Gwen said as she released me. “Fernand and I headed over to the mainland, to do some sketches in Northeast Harbor. He went back early, and I stayed to visit with a couple of friends,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I just found out when I was down at the dock. George on the mail boat told me about it on the way over—he said some of the locals think Harry, the lighthouse ghost, killed him. That maybe he’s mad because someone disturbed his skeleton.”

I seriously doubted that was the case, but I’d had a few brushes with the supernatural since moving to Cranberry Island, so I wasn’t about to rule anything out completely. Still, I was sure Dirk’s death was the result of a more mundane event. “They haven’t even determined who the skeleton belonged to,” I reminded her. “And whatever happened to Dirk, I seriously doubt it was due to a ghost.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “There was that weird light last night, and then this …” She shivered. “And the police have been here all day,” she went on, “and I haven’t been here to help.”

“Marge was here,” I reminded her.

“I guess that’s something,” Gwen said, pulling a face. “But she’s not family. So what happened? You found him near the lighthouse? What was he doing out there?”

“Why don’t you hang up your coat and sit down?” I suggested. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate.” As she hung up her jacket, I grabbed a mug and filled it with milk, then popped it into the microwave. Gwen sat down at the table, picking at the leftover fruit, while I heated the milk, added sugar and cocoa, and filled her in on the details of the day.

“So she questioned all the guests?” she asked, wrapping her slender hands around the mug and breathing the warm chocolate scent in.

“Every one of them,” I said. “And we’re not supposed to leave the island.”

“At least it wasn’t that Grimes guy.” Gwen took a sip from the mug, then her dark eyes flitted to me. “They don’t think
you
did it, do they?”

“I hope not. I can’t imagine what possible motive I could have, so I’m probably clear. It was just a precaution, I think.”

“So who do you think
did
do it?”

“We don’t even know if he was murdered yet. He could have died of natural causes.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s why the police are involved and everyone’s talking poison. What does John think?”

“I don’t know.” I studied my fingernails. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Oh,” she said, and there was an awkward silence. Then Gwen took another sip of chocolate, looked at the overloaded countertops, and sighed. “Well, I guess I’d better get started. Why don’t you get out of here for a while—go see if you can find John. Or Charlene.”

I glanced at the Midnight Mint Bars on the counter. “I do need to take those down to the store—otherwise, I’ll eat them all.” Unless my mysterious chocolate thief got to them first, that was.

“Go on,” she said. “I can take care of this.”

“You’ll do turndown, too?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Why don’t you call Charlene, see if she can come pick you up?”

“Thanks, Gwen. But I think I could do with a walk, actually.”

She looked at me disbelievingly. “With a murderer on the loose?”

“We don’t know that,” I reminded her. “And if there is a murderer, odds are good whoever it is, is already at the inn anyway,” I said, feeling a chill down my spine as I spoke.
Unless it was Tom Lockhart
, my mind whispered.
Or John.