Murder Most Maine (10 page)

“What?”

“It’s a terrible tragedy,” she said, eyes gleaming. “The body belonged to a man, about thirty-five years old, they think—they’re getting a second opinion on that, because it’s hard to tell—people were smaller back then, you know, and apparently there are a few unusual things about these bones—but according to the lab, he didn’t die of natural causes.”

“We heard that yesterday,” Emmeline observed. “Makes sense, since he was locked in.”

Matilda ignored Emmeline. “It was a secret room on the bottom floor; that’s where he was found. The body was stabbed to death, they think.” Her eyes were alight with the excitement of a historian who has just uncovered a great story. “They found marks on his ribs that indicate a blade went through, right around the area of the heart. In the back, no less!” Despite the morbid nature of the information she was relaying, Matilda looked positively giddy.

Emmeline shook her head. “Poor Harry. What an awful way to go.”

“We don’t know for sure yet that it’s Harry,” she said. “Part of the reason they’re getting a second opinion is that they don’t think the bones are Caucasian.”

“Well, then, what are they?” Eleazer asked.

“They think they may be African—that’s why they’re getting a second opinion. I’ve spent the last two hours poring through the records, trying to find out who else might have disappeared during that time period, or if there was any record of Africans or African-Americans on the island. It’s a real mystery!”

“That makes two,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Matilda asked, looking confused.

“There was another body found there this morning.”

“Oh, that,” Matilda said, tossing her cropped head. Evidently the only murders she found interesting were the ones that occurred more than a hundred years ago. “I heard it was just a heart attack, or something.”

“Dirk was hardly a candidate for that,” Charlene said. “I’ve never
seen
a man in better shape.”

“I suppose we’ll know soon enough,” Emmeline said. Claudette nodded, not missing a beat in her knitting. “Still, with all those police officers asking questions, it makes me wonder.”

“Do you think maybe …” Claudette started, then stopped.

Emmeline paused in her knitting. “Do I think what?”

Claudette sucked in her breath. “I heard he died last night sometime. Could it be … a crime of passion, maybe?”

“It couldn’t be,” I said, shaking my head. “Not if it was poison.”

Four heads whipped around. “He was poisoned?” Emmeline asked. “No wonder the police were at the inn.” Her dark eyes got round. “Do you think it was something in the food?”

“Of course not!” I said quickly. “Honestly, I don’t know how he died—and since I fed Detective Rose lunch today, she doesn’t seem too worried about anything coming from the inn.” Maybe that would satisfy their concerns.

But they all kept looking at me. “But why do you think it was poison?” Claudette asked finally.

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “I guess because we didn’t see any blood when we found him. Honestly, though—just because they’re being cautious doesn’t mean it’s murder. I mean, maybe he just had a heart attack or something!”

Claudette hmmed, and I groaned internally. Maybe I hadn’t told Gertrude Pickens my poisoning suspicion—but I was afraid I might just well have announced it with a bullhorn.

When I crested the
hill and started down the road to the inn almost two hours later, I was feeling much better after some time at the store and a bit of exercise. But my improved mood dimmed a bit when I spotted a battered pickup truck next to my defunct van.

It was Tom Lockhart’s.

I let myself into the inn’s front door, half-expecting to see Tom’s lanky frame stretched out on one of the living room couches, comforting Vanessa. But the downstairs was empty—after the weight-lifting session, all the guests must have gone to their rooms. Where could he be? I wondered. Was he in Vanessa’s room, comforting her after her partner’s death? I was tempted to head upstairs and listen for his voice at her door, but dismissed the idea. It wasn’t my business what Tom did—or didn’t—do, I told myself. And besides, I had to get ready for breakfast.

When I pushed through the kitchen door, hoping Gwen had found the time to clear the decks for me, I heaved a sigh of relief. Thanks to my wonderful niece, the counters gleamed, and not a dish remained; she’d even dried and put up all the pots and pans. I made a mental note to do something special for her soon—maybe send her to the mainland for a nice dinner with her lobsterman boyfriend, Adam.

But I would worry about that later; there was still work to be done. Tomorrow was the second full day of the retreat, and although things hadn’t exactly gone as planned so far, everyone still needed to eat. I grabbed my stack of retreat-approved recipes and flipped through until I found the menu for tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s breakfast included egg-white omelets, fat-free swiss cheese, and a fat-free lemon-yogurt sauce, along with a side of high-fiber English muffins. Not exactly my idea of a taste sensation, but if the retreat participants were as hungry as I was, they’d probably consider it manna from heaven. I also had to make a dozen fat-free, sugar-free custards for dessert at lunch.

I preheated the oven and whipped up the custard, which was a light take on one of my favorite recipes. I’d tested it several times the previous week—it involved egg whites, fat-free milk, vanilla, and sweetener—before I’d finally gotten it right. Now, it went together in no time flat, and within fifteen minutes I was sliding a tray of ramekins into the oven and moving on to breakfast prep.

My stomach growled as I pulled a pack of mushrooms out of the fridge and grabbed some shallots from my onion basket, trying to ignore the cookie jar. The gingersnaps were probably stale anyway, I told myself. Turning my back on the seductive ginger-spiced cookies I knew lurked within the tall jar, I chopped veggies for tomorrow morning’s omelets; if I got the prep done tonight, I could sleep a little longer tomorrow. Besides, with everything that had gone on today—not least Gertrude’s intrusive questions about poison—I needed to do something to calm myself down.

As I peeled the shallots, I glanced out the window at John’s carriage house. The windows glowed warmly, and my heart squeezed a little bit. I hadn’t seen John since he had comforted Vanessa that morning, and the intimacy I’d seen still left a hollow place inside of me that hadn’t gone away.

Should I go knock on his door? I wondered. Or wait for him to come to me?

I finished peeling the last shallot, inhaling its savory aroma, and reached for a chef’s knife to mince the pinkish-purple bulbs. A moment later, I scraped the fragrant bits into a bowl and wet a towel to wipe off the mushrooms. I had cleaned all but two when the sound of raised voices reached my ears.

I glanced back at the kitchen door before I realized the voices weren’t coming from inside the inn—they were floating up from the carriage house.

John’s front door was open, the bright light cutting a swath over the dark grass, and two figures stood silhouetted in the glow. “It was a stupid thing to do,” I heard. The voice was John’s, and hard with anger. “You put your whole life at risk.”

I couldn’t make out the answer, but I recognized the voice—and the lanky frame—as belonging to Tom.

John spoke again. “What happened twenty years ago is over, Tom. You need to accept that, and mend what you can.
If
you can.”

“No,” Tom answered, shaking his head violently. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

John started to answer, but Tom turned and stormed off toward the driveway. I pulled back from the window a bit so he wouldn’t see me, but it didn’t matter—Tom didn’t turn his head. I glanced back at the door to the carriage house, and what I saw made my heart contract.

Vanessa had come to the door; I could see her slim form standing behind John, her dark hair gleaming. As I watched, she put a hand on his shoulder and drew him back inside. A moment later, the door closed behind them; at the same time, Tom’s engine roared to life outside, and his tires screeched up the hill.

The ravenous hunger I’d felt a few minutes ago had vanished, replaced by a churning nausea. I finished the mushrooms mechanically, almost cutting myself twice as I sliced them, my eyes still glued on the dark door of the carriage house. What were they doing in there? I wondered. But my mind shied away from most of the potential answers. By the time I finished the prep work fifteen minutes later, Vanessa still hadn’t come out of the carriage house.

I shoved the veggies into the fridge and hurried upstairs to my dark bedroom, where I continued my vigil at the window, Biscuit curled up by my side. The timer beeped downstairs; as if in a dream, I ran downstairs and retrieved the custards from the oven, shoving them into the fridge as fast as I could before hurrying back to my post at the bedroom window.

Finally, an interminable hour later, John’s front door opened, and the two figures were silhouetted once again. I watched as John looked down at Vanessa, cradling her chin in his hand as he said something to her. Then he drew her into a long, lingering hug that I couldn’t tear my eyes from. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, they parted, and acid burned in my stomach as he watched her climb the short hill to the inn before slowly closing the door behind him.

___

There was not enough coffee in the world to bring me to full consciousness the next morning, and to be honest, that was probably for the best. I wasn’t sure I wanted to face the day with all my faculties intact.

My sleep last night had been fitful, filled with dreams of Vanessa, her sleek black-haired head atop a massive octopus body whose tentacles were engulfing the inn; also, there was the recurring image of Dirk, lying sightless under the blue morning sky, the lighthouse towering over him, a ghostly laugh sounding somewhere in the distance. Now, as I sprayed a pan with olive oil and waited for it to heat up, I took another sip of coffee and tried not to think about what I had seen last night.

I had turned the oven on warm and had just finished beating a bowl full of egg whites when the phone rang. It was Charlene.

“Bad news, Natalie,” she said.

“No kidding,” I said, eyeing the carriage house.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me the news first,” I said.

“I just got today’s copy of the
Daily Mail
,” she said.

I groaned. “How bad is it?”

“Here’s what Gertrude wrote,” Charlene said. “ ‘Although the autopsy is pending, preliminary toxicology reports indicate that the death may have been a result of poisoning.’”

“Perfect,” I said.

“There’s more, though.”

I closed my eyes. “Do I want to know?”

“Listen to this: ‘The victim was a leader of a weight-loss retreat that was staying at the Gray Whale Inn. Police would not confirm whether the victim was poisoned at the inn, but are treating the death as suspicious. Several islanders, including Natalie Barnes, the proprietor of the inn where the victim was staying, have been asked to remain on the island as the investigation continues.’”

I felt my face turning red. “Poison? The inn? I fed Detective Rose yesterday—if she was worried about poison, she never would have eaten here,” I spluttered. “I’m going to kill that … that …”

“Easy, Nat. I can think of a number of choice words,” Charlene said. “If she’s expecting a goodie basket this Christmas, I’m guessing she’ll be disappointed.”

“She wouldn’t eat it anyway. Afraid I’d poison her.”

“With an article like this, you would certainly be justified if you did,” Charlene said.

“Why is she calling him a victim?” I asked. “The police haven’t even said it was a homicide!” I tossed the shallots into the pan so hard half of them flew off onto the counter. Stirring angrily as the pan sizzled, I said, “If anything, I’m guessing he toked up on too many of his own supplements.”

“I’ll write a letter to the editor,” she said. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings—I figured you’d want to hear it from me first.”

“Thanks,” I said, opening a can of artichoke hearts and hacking them up with a knife, sending green bits flying around the kitchen. A moment later, I dumped them in the pan with the shallots, wishing I could do the same with Gertrude, who seemed to love nothing more than casting aspersions on my inn in print.

“So,” Charlene said, “now that I’ve gone ahead and ruined your day, what’s your news?”

For a moment there, in my anger at Gertrude, I’d almost forgotten about John and Vanessa, but as I relayed what I’d seen last night, all the pain came rushing back. “I think they’re back together,” I said. “Or at least heading in that direction.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Natalie,” Charlene said softly.

“They were in there for an hour,” I said through clenched teeth. “And he called her ‘sweetheart’ yesterday morning.”

She sighed. “I wish I knew what to tell you,” she said in a tone of voice that didn’t make me feel any better.

“What do you think Tom was doing down there?” I asked. “He looked angry—like a spurned lover.”

“Maybe he was jealous.”

“Of John and Vanessa?”

“I don’t know, Natalie.”

My stomach churned, the smell of sautéed vegetables making me nauseous. “What I want to know is, what was John talking about with Tom? What did he mean when he said what happened twenty years ago was dead and gone?”

“I don’t know,” Charlene repeated. “But if I were you, I’d be more worried about John and Vanessa right now. Not to mention the poisoning scare.” She paused for a moment, and I could hear voices in the background. “Hey—can I call you later? I’ve got six people lined up at the cash register.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Any time,” she said, and hung up to deal with her customers. I just hoped not too many of them were buying the paper.

Should I be jealous? I wondered. Not that it really mattered; I already was. After all, John and Vanessa were spending an awful lot of time together, and the intimacy I was used to feeling with him had evaporated since she set foot on the island. And then there was the
sweetheart
slip …

But what had he and Tom been talking about so angrily last night? Was John accusing Tom of throwing away his life by chasing Vanessa?

Or was it possible that Tom, in a rash moment, might have done away with his perceived rival?

Nonsense
, I told myself as I emptied a carton of fat-free yogurt into another bowl and grabbed a few lemons from the fridge. I couldn’t see Tom committing a crime of passion like that. Besides, crimes of passion usually didn’t involve poison—assuming somebody
had
poisoned Dirk. And when would he have had a chance to do it, anyway?

Tom was here that night
, my mind whispered.
He could have snuck upstairs and done it.

I squeezed a lemon, scolding myself for jumping to conclusions. The truth was, anybody in the inn could have snuck upstairs and doctored Dirk’s personal stash of pills. Heck, I’d seen Elizabeth leaving his room the night before he died.

Elizabeth. I’d forgotten about her. Was her surreptitious visit to Dirk’s room related to his death?

Why would she want him dead, though? Of all the people who would want Dirk out of the way, Elizabeth didn’t seem anywhere near the top of the list. She was just a reporter—not his lover or his business partner.

I whisked the yogurt and lemon juice together, thinking more about Elizabeth. Maybe she hadn’t poisoned the handsome trainer. But what
had
she been doing in his room?