Murder Most Maine (11 page)

___

By the time Gwen made it downstairs to the kitchen, dressed in a flowing skirt and a gorgeous velvet jacket, I was already cleaning up from breakfast. After the omelets, which had been remarkably tasty, Vanessa had led the guests on a jog to the cranberry bog, leaving the inn in peace for the first time since they’d arrived. I still hadn’t seen John, but my eyes darted to his carriage house frequently as I rinsed the plates and tucked them into the dishwasher.

“Hey, Gwen. Thanks for your help last night—the kitchen looked great,” I said.

“Did the walk help?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I said.

“What does that mean?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe and grabbing a stack of gingersnaps from the jar by the door. I watched enviously as she bit into the first cookie: no veggie omelets for Gwen.

I sighed. “It looks like they think Dirk was poisoned,” I said. “Gertrude Pickens wrote it up yesterday in the
Daily Mail
.”

“Does John know anything about the lab results?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to sound neutral.

“Still haven’t talked to him, have you?”

I shook my head.

“Aunt Nat …”

“It’s all right though,” I said briskly, turning and grabbing the skillet from the sink. “I’ve got enough going on with the retreat anyway. I’m sure things will settle out soon.” I busied myself scrubbing at a stubborn bit of cooked-on egg white and changed the subject. “Are you headed down to the studio this morning?”

“I could go either way,” she said. “Do you need me here?”

“I think I’ve got it under control,” I said.

“But it’s not Marge’s day.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “You covered for me last night—besides, I need something to do to keep busy.” What I didn’t tell her was that I was interested in taking the opportunity to find out what kind of article Elizabeth was
really
working on. And to find out why she might have been poking around in Dirk’s room.

“Well,” Gwen said tentatively, “if you’re sure …”

“Positive,” I said quickly. “Go and take advantage of this gorgeous day.” And it was a gorgeous day—the sun was sparkling on the water, and the breeze through the open windows ruffled the white curtains gently.

“Thanks, Aunt Nat,” she said, taking a last swig of coffee and tucking the cookies into a pocket and coming over to give me a quick kiss. She smelled like soap and jasmine. “Call the studio if you change your mind, okay?”

“I will,” I said.

She grabbed her portable easel and shut the door behind her a minute later, leaving me alone at the inn.

After one last glance at the carriage house, I shut the dishwasher and grabbed my cleaning supplies; then I headed to the front desk and tucked the skeleton key in my pocket.

Elizabeth might not want to tell me what she was doing in Dirk’s room, but I hoped I was about to find out.

Elizabeth’s room was the
one nearest the stairs on the second floor, and even though I clean guests’ rooms all the time, my heart beat a little bit faster as I let myself in this morning.

A pleasant lavender scent greeted me as the door opened, and if it weren’t for that—and the lone book lying on the maple nightstand—I might have thought I’d let myself into the wrong room. The reporter from Portland appeared to be a neat freak; the bed was already made, the blue-and-white counterpane stretched without a wrinkle over the four-poster bed, and aside from the book,
A
Pocket Full of Rye
,
which I recognized as one of my favorite Agatha Christie mysteries, there was not a personal item in sight. Which made my cleaning job easier, of course—but made me a bit less comfortable about going through her things. If something is just lying out and you happen to see it, that’s one thing—but despite the fact that I’d seen her sneaking into Dirk’s room the night before he died, I still felt a little guilty as I locked the door behind me and hurried over to the desk by the window.

Elizabeth had filled the top drawer with empty notebooks and pens; the second drawer on the left, however, contained a stack of manila file folders, each one neatly labeled in her block print.

I sat down and lifted the stack to the top of the desk, listening intently for the sound of returning guests. Except for the cry of a gull and the soft sigh of the wind around the eaves, though, all was quiet.

The first folder was labeled “Lose-It-All”; inside was a stack of brochures on the program, a couple of company-issued press releases, and profiles of both Vanessa and Dirk.

I picked up Dirk’s first. He had been photographed in a pair of running shorts and a short-sleeved shirt that showed his bulging pecs and biceps to good advantage. I suppressed a shiver at the sight of his blue eyes smiling out at me; they had looked very different yesterday, by the lighthouse.

“Dirk DeLeon brings twenty years of training experience to the Lose-It-All program,” I read. “With a degree in kinesiology from Colorado State University and a masters in sports medicine from Virginia Polytechnic Institute, as well as years of experience training athletes at the high school, college, and professional level, Dirk has been helping people reach their fitness goals for more than two decades.” There was nothing about his fancy supplement plan, I noticed. Elizabeth had circled Colorado State University for some reason; other than that, there were no notes on the page.

Vanessa’s profile was equally vague. “The founder of Lose-It-All, Vanessa Tagliacozzi has long espoused the tenets of healthy eating for healthy living, and has helped thousands of people achieve their bodyweight goals.” I glanced up at the picture; unlike Dirk, who was dressed to work out, Vanessa wore a revealing silky dress that barely covered her torso. Her gleaming black hair was slightly tousled, and her full lips were parted in a seductive smile. No wonder John was so happy to see her, I thought. Who could compete with that?

“With a degree from UCLA and years of hands-on experience, Vanessa has worked closely with the top names in the business to design a plan that has revolutionized the lives of thousands of Americans.”

She certainly had revolutionized mine, I thought. And not for the better.

But I didn’t have time to linger over Vanessa’s sexy photo. The group would be back before long—and I still had a stack of files to get through.

I sifted through the rest of the file on Lose-It-All, but found nothing of interest. The second file in the stack was labeled “supplements.” Inside were copies of several studies of weight-loss supplements, including a few of the ones Dirk had mentioned; I found a few referencing Creatine and catechins. At the bottom of the thick file was an invoice like the ones I had seen in Dirk’s room, for a delivery of EPH, Creatine, and
Rhodiola rosea
. EPH was circled in ink. I flipped back through, looking for any studies that related to it, but there weren’t any. Was the supplement too new to have been studied? Was that what Elizabeth was writing her article about—dangerous practices in the program?

I moved to the next file, which was labeled “press.” Inside were two ten-year-old clippings about athletes who had died or become ill while taking illegal supplements. One of them involved an entire basketball team in Denver; when three of their members became ill, parents investigated, discovering that the team’s coach, a guy named Frank Hobbes, had been giving them performance-enhancing supplements.

Another clipping was more heartbreaking—this one had occurred in a town just outside of Boulder. A young woman had died after taking supplements given her by her coach. A picture of the funeral showed a grief-stricken couple touching a white casket. The woman’s face was streaked with tears; I could only imagine what hell she must have been going through. “Ashley Mickelson’s parents mourn the death of their only child at Wednesday’s funeral,” said the caption. I stared at the grieving couple; they had caught the mother staring at the camera, and her eyes were haunted with pain and loss. I glanced over the article; apparently the coach, a young man named Dereck Crenshaw, had been imprisoned on manslaughter charges and was awaiting trial. I closed the file, relieved to be away from the woman’s haunted eyes, and her face, which looked strangely familiar. How do you go on after losing a child to a senseless tragedy like that?

And what the heck did two ten-year-old articles have to do with the Lose-It-All weight-loss retreat?

The last file was labeled “legal,” and contained copies of legal documents relating to the Lose-It-All company. Apparently it was registered under dual ownership, with Vanessa and Dirk owning equal shares. There was also a copy of another article, this one in New York, reporting that Dirk was being sued for using unauthorized weight-loss supplements at a gym in Concord, Massachusetts. The date on the article was only one month ago; apparently, one of Dirk’s clients had experienced heart palpitations, and was suing both the gym and Dirk for giving him unsafe pills.

So I hadn’t been wrong to be nervous about the pills Dirk was handing out like candy. Had his former client won the case against him, or lost? I wondered as I put the article back into the file and returned the stack to the bottom desk drawer, making sure they were in the same order that I found them. Maybe that was why he was looking so strained when he talked to Vanessa the other night. A lawsuit against Dirk would look bad for the company—and might even spark other complaints. Had Vanessa killed him to get him out of the way?

I grabbed the “legal” file once again, poring through the company information. Fifty percent of the company belonged to Dirk. But if something happened to Dirk, it all reverted to Vanessa.

I slid the file back into the stack and looked through the rest of the desk, but if Elizabeth had brought a laptop, she must have taken it with her. Likewise with the notebook I’d seen her carrying earlier. I did a cursory clean of the room, which it really didn’t need, and ten minutes later I locked the door behind me, still thinking about the contents of those files.

Which led me directly to Vanessa’s room. I was curious about those legal documents I’d seen; were they related to Dirk’s lawsuit? Or were they connected to something else?

With the ownership of the company slated to go to Vanessa in the event of Dirk’s death, she definitely had some motivation to slip a little extra something into the trainer’s morning coffee. And the lawsuits couldn’t have been good for the business, either—yet more incentive to get rid of a difficult business associate. Had the gorgeous Vanessa decided to get her deadweight partner out of the way?

Assuming, of course, Dirk was murdered, I reminded myself. But with the toxicology report pending, and the police questioning my guests, something told me it was only a matter of time before it moved from speculation to fact. And having the co-owner of a prestigious weight-loss retreat poisoned at my inn was not going to be good for business, regardless of the investigating officer’s opinion of my food’s safety.

Vanessa’s perfume wafted out into the hallway as I opened the door to her room. I didn’t bother with her dresser—no need to torment myself with the fact that she wore a size zero. Instead, after locking the door behind me, I made a beeline for the desk—and the stack of envelopes I’d shied away from earlier. Today, I opened them with no qualms.

The first two were letters from lawyers, complaining of clients who had experienced heart palpitations connected with the supplements Dirk was providing. Both threatened to sue for medical damages, which I could imagine would put a real damper on business profitability.

The third was a letter from Vanessa’s lawyer, outlining the process for divesting Dirk of his ownership in the business. Which, according to the lawyer, would be a costly and difficult process.

I scanned the letter, my mind running through the events of the last few days. Vanessa and Dirk had had a heated conversation the night before he died. Had he discovered the letter? Was he threatening to retaliate? Had she decided to take the easy way out and kill him?

And what exactly
was
her relationship to her business partner? Her grief certainly had seemed real yesterday. But had it been an act?

I slid the letters back into the files and went through the rest of the paperwork, locating two more interesting things. The first was a copy of an e-mail from a national daytime television show inviting Vanessa to make an appearance; the second was a letter from a literary agent offering representation for a book titled
Dare to Lose-it-All
. I was about to slide it back into its file when I realized that Dirk hadn’t been addressed in the letter; it had been to Vanessa alone. Did he know about the show and the book? I wondered. Or were they both Vanessa’s private projects?

When I’d scoured all the files twice and failed to find anything else of interest, I did a quick wipe-down of the bathroom, still thinking of all I’d discovered this morning. Despite Dirk and Vanessa’s cheery, can-do attitude, evidently there had been trouble in weight-loss paradise. Which might explain why one of them was now dead.

I closed and locked Vanessa’s door, then eyed the next door down, which—until this morning—had been Dirk’s. I was sorely tempted to pay it another visit, but Detective Rose had told me the room was off-limits. If—or when—they did determine Dirk had been murdered, the last thing I needed was to leave
more
of my fingerprints all over the place. In truth, there were probably too many already.

So I passed it by, instead doing the rounds of the other rooms. My heart sank a bit when I cleaned Greg’s room; unless I was mistaken, one of Megan’s long blond hairs was in the sink, and another lay on one of the pillows. It looked like their intimate conversations might have moved on to another level.
Even if they have, there’s nothing you can do about it, Natalie. And it’s not your business.
Still, it made my heart hurt for Carissa.

I half-expected to find my bags of chocolate chips—or at least the evidence of them—in Carissa and Megan’s room, but while there was a mostly empty bag of mini Snickers bars tucked in the closet, my baking chocolate was nowhere to be found. I did think it was odd, though, that Carissa would raid the pantry when she still had chocolate in the room. Megan’s bed was mussed, I was pleased to see. Even if she had taken the opportunity to visit Greg’s room—which was pure speculation, based on a couple of hairs, I reminded myself—at least it looked like she’d spent some of the night here with her daughter.

The sorority girls’ rooms revealed nothing of real interest, except that one of them—the pear-shaped one, Cat—seemed to have been stashing her pills rather than taking them, as there was a baggie of them poking out of the nightstand drawer. I found no indication of who my chocolate thief might be, though; whoever was raiding my pantry had done an excellent job concealing the evidence.

I had just finished the last room when the phone rang. I gathered my cleaning supplies and hurried downstairs, catching it just before it went to voice mail.

“Gray Whale Inn, can I help you?”

“May I speak with Natalie Barnes please?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Carmen Bosworth from the
Bangor Daily News
. I understand there’s been a suspicious death at your inn, and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

I sank down on the chair, hoping I was in a nightmare and somebody would wake me up soon.