Murder On the Rocks (15 page)

We finished our chowder, and Charlene headed home, promising to ask around and see if anyone was out the night Katz died. Gwen helped me set up the dining room, and we both headed upstairs at the same time.

“I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy,” I said as we climbed the creaky staircase.

Gwen smiled. “Thanks, Aunt Nat.”

“Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”

Gwen groaned. “Do you have to be so limiting?” We both laughed.

“Have a good night, Gwen. And thanks for taking care of the rooms today.”

“No problem.”

I could hear the shower running in the bathroom next door as I filled the claw-foot tub with hot, bubbly water and lit a candle. One nice thing about living in an inn was that you never ran out of hot water.

I lowered myself into the hot fragrant bubbles with a sigh of pleasure, luxuriating in the tingle of heat on my chilled legs and feet. In Texas, it rarely got chilly enough to appreciate a good hot bath. Here in Maine, though, evenings were always nippy enough to make baths a real pleasure. And I hadn’t even spent a winter up here yet.

I picked up my book and soon lost myself in the pages, enjoying the flicker of the candles and the scent of the bubbles. The shower had gone off next door, and I could hear the rain patter against the windowpane, and below that the soft rush of the waves as they lapped against the rocks outside.

I had just turned a page and was sinking deeper into the fragrant water when a crash of breaking glass sounded from somewhere in the inn.

I LEAPED OUT OF the bathtub and grabbed a towel. Within seconds, I had wrapped a robe around myself and was running down the stairs. I hit the kitchen light and scanned the room, but nothing was out of place; the sound must have come from elsewhere. My hand trembled as I slid a carving knife from the block and approached the swinging door to the dining room on tiptoe, gripping the knife. The droplets of water falling to the floor from my wet hair sounded like hammer blows as I shouldered through the door into the dark room and fumbled for the switch.

The lights went on with a click. I stood squinting into the glare, holding the knife out before me like a talisman. The dining room was empty, but someone had thrown a rock through the window. It was perched on the corner of one of the dining room tables, surrounded by shards of twinkling glass.

I tiptoed over to the glass to take a closer look. It was a chunk of granite almost as big as my head, and the glass window it had evidently come through was shattered. As I bent down to examine it, something crashed behind me. I whirled around, stabbing the air-but it was only a chunk of glass falling out of the window frame.

My breath shuddered out of my chest as I looked back at the rock. A folded piece of lined notebook paper had been tied to it with a piece of rough twine. I laid the knife down where I could retrieve it quickly and slid the paper out from beneath the twine.

I peeled the paper open with shaking fingers. It was wet with rain, and the ink had begun to run, but the message, which had been written firmly with a black marker, was clear: GET OFF OUR ISLAND.

I stood staring at the angry block letters when the sound of someone hammering at the kitchen door made my heart start thudding all over again. Blood thundered through my veins as I grabbed the knife, and it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to consult a cardiologist soon. Island life hadn’t been nearly as relaxing as I’d hoped. As I crept toward the kitchen, a sharp pain lanced through my foot. I yelped-I must have stepped on a shard of glass-and hobbled the rest of the way, my heart racing as I pushed open the swinging door.

A wave of relief swept over me at the sight of John standing outside in the rain. I limped over to the door and unlocked it, leaving a trail of blood on the wood floor. His hair was rumpled, and he was dressed in a holey T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. As the door opened, I became acutely conscious of my threadbare bathrobe, and pulled it tighter around myself.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I said as he stepped into the kitchen.

“I heard a crash. What happened?” His green eyes leapt to the blood on the floor. “Are you okay?”

“Someone delivered a message through the dining room window. I’m fine; I just stepped on a piece of glass.”

“Someone broke the window?”

“Threw a rock through it, actually. I’m surprised half the inn isn’t up. The rain must have masked the noise.”

“The only reason I heard it is that I have a window open.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Kitchen mishap,” he said sheepishly. I didn’t probe further. “Are you okay in here?” he asked. “I’m going to see if I can track down whoever did this.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” The door shut behind him, and I limped over to a chair to inspect my foot.

The piece of glass embedded in my foot was a quarter of an inch long, but fortunately it had slid in sideways, and hadn’t penetrated too deeply. I eased it out between my thumb and forefinger; it looked like a crystal tooth. Blood welled in the wound, and after staunching it with a paper towel, I hopped up the stairs to the bathroom.

As I cleaned and bandaged the cut, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The knot on my forehead was beginning to turn an interesting shade of purplish green, my hands and forearms were scabbed from my slide down the cliff, and the thumb I had caught in Ogden’s roll-top desk had turned dark purple. My graystreaked brown hair was wild around my wan face, and dark circles ringed my eyes. I was hardly the ravishing creature I hoped John would see. In fact, I was beginning to look like a poster child for the Battered Women’s Shelter. There was nothing I could do about my bumps and bruises, but I did throw on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt before I headed back downstairs. I might not look like Aphrodite incarnate, but that didn’t mean I had to meet John in my threadbare bathrobe again.

I had finished sweeping up the glass and was examining the jagged hole in the window when John came through the swinging door from the kitchen.

“Your foot okay?”

“Yeah, it was just a sliver. Did you see anyone?”

“Whoever it was took off in a hurry.” He walked over to the table and picked up the soggy paper. “Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

“Next time I hope they’ll send flowers instead.” My eyes returned to the shattered window. Water dripped from the broken glass, and had started to pool on wood floor. There was no way to hide that from the guests tomorrow morning. Maybe I could blame it on a renegade seagull. “Is there any way to get this covered up for the night?”

“I’ve got a plastic drop cloth I could tape up for now. It won’t be perfect, but at least it will keep the rain out.” He looked at me thought-fully. “I’d be happier with something a little less flimsy, though. Do you have a lock on your bedroom door?”

“Yes”

“Use it. And make sure Gwen locks her door, too. I’m glad you’re both on the second story. I’ll head over to the mainland and pick up some glass tomorrow.”

“I wonder if Grimes will think I did this, too.”

“Throw a rock with a nasty note tied to it through your own dining room window?”

“Well, he didn’t believe anyone had broken into Katz’s room and knocked me out. He didn’t tell the forensics investigators about it until the rain washed away all the evidence.”

John looked up at me, his face drawn. “They didn’t get any evidence?”

“By the time they got around to it, it was pouring. If I hadn’t gone up and said something to them myself, I don’t think Grimes would have mentioned it. He told me he thinks I fell and hit my head and concocted the whole story.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

We were silent for a moment, staring at the window. The lines around John’s mouth looked deeper than usual, and his usually sparkling eyes were dull. I said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you-do you have any idea how Katz was killed?”

John’s head jerked up sharply. “Why do you want to know?”

“I thought it might give me an idea of who might have done it.”

His mouth twisted into a frown. “I didn’t see the autopsy report, but it looked to me as if someone hit him on the side of the head with something heavy, then pushed him over the cliff.”

I shuddered. “I’m glad I didn’t see that side of him.” I thought for a moment. “Do you think a woman could have done it?”

John shrugged. “If she was angry enough, I imagine so.” He shot me a warning look from beneath his thick, sandy eyebrows. “You didn’t hear any of this from me, though.”

“Of course not.”

John ran his hand through his hair and looked back at the shattered window. “Why don’t you put some towels down and I’ll see what I can do to get this window covered up.” His shoulders looked bowed as he closed the kitchen door behind him. I took a look at the blood, water and mud on the floor and retreated to the laundry room for a stack of towels. As I mopped up the floor, he knocked out the rest of the glass and taped up a big piece of cloudy plastic. We worked together in silence, our minds on other things.

By the time I made it back to my bathtub, the bubbles had deflated and the water was cold. I blew out the candle and headed for bed. The clock read 12:45. I groaned. I had only six hours to go before it was time to be up and in the kitchen.

I lay awake for a long while, listening to the patter of rain on the roof, before I finally drifted into a dream in which Estelle and Bernard Katz were throwing huge chunks of sea glass at me and laughing. Bernard Katz was saying something to me that I couldn’t understand, and he kept pointing to the side of his head. Bits of skull poked from a jagged hole gaping above his ear, and a long trickle of blood ran down over his starched white collar onto his pin-striped suit.

The next morning dawned gray and cool. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it was still coming down steadily as I headed downstairs, afraid of what I’d find on the dining room floor. Fortunately, John’s quick fix had held for the night, and the old pine planks hadn’t been damaged by the rain. I laid a new tablecloth and place settings on the table the rock had landed on, frowning at the plastic and hoping John could get the window repaired today. Then I sighed and headed into the kitchen to start breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, I was sliding a raspberry coffee cake into the oven and pulling down a coffee cup for a much-needed hit of caffeine. My head was better, but the knot on my temple still ached, and the cut in my foot stung with every step.

I had started stirring chunks of cheddar cheese into a bowl of eggs when the phone rang. I picked it up and cradled it on my shoulder. “Gray Whale Inn.”

“It’s just me,” Charlene said. “I thought you’d want to know; the paper just came in.”

“More good news?”

“Developer Murdered on Cranberry Island: Investigator says innkeeper `person of interest”

“Sounds better than suspect, anyway.” I glanced over at the oven and checked the timer: ten minutes to go. Cooking was usually balm to my soul, but this morning the rich smell of coffeecake filling the kitchen did nothing to dispel the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Charlene said, “Between Pickens and Grimes, you’ve got yourself an anti-fan club going.”

I sighed. “I’ll head down later to pick up a copy of the paper. Do you have any good news for me?”

“Well, the evaluators are due in today.”

“I’m not sure that qualifies as good news.” I shifted the phone to the other shoulder. “Someone threw a rock through the dining room window last night with a note attached.”

“You’re kidding me. What did it say?” When I told her, she said, “You’re the Bermuda Triangle of the Maine coast, you know that?”

“I know. Any idea who could have done it?”

“Well, there are a few islanders who want the development to go through so they can sell out at high prices. Maybe they’re worried you’ll interfere with the resort.”

I gazed out the window at the dark gray ocean. The surface was dulled by the spatter of raindrops, but a few lobster boats chugged across the sullen water. I wondered if Adam’s was one of them. As my eyes followed the progress of the nearest boat, I remembered that I wanted a boat of my own. “By the way,” I said, “when you see Eleazer, could you tell him I’m looking for a cheap skiff?’

I thought you were supposed to stay on the island.”

“I didn’t say I was going anywhere,” I snapped. “I just said I needed a skiff.” I gave the bowl of eggs and cheese a final stir and put it into the refrigerator. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Relax, Nat. I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

I rummaged through the freezer and pulled out a package of bacon. “It hasn’t worked out too well so far”

“True. But you can’t blame me for trying. By the way, when are you going to send another batch of cookies my way?”

I promised her I’d try to get some made after breakfast and hung up the phone with a heavy heart.

Ogden appeared just before nine in slacks and a beige sport coat. His thick glasses were the same as always, but this morning his lank hair was slicked back, and he reeked of Polo. Although he had clearly made an effort, he was not exactly GQ material; his brown slacks were short enough to expose more than I liked of his wildly patterned socks, and both the pants and the socks clashed with his scuffed black leather shoes. His eyes looked huge behind the convex lenses as he inspected the window. “What happened?”

“The window broke.” I decided it would be best not to give the details. “It will be fixed today. Can I get you some coffee?”

Ogden looked as if he wanted to ask something else, but changed his mind and nodded curtly. “You do recall that Mr. Katz will be joining me this morning?”

I didn’t recall, but I nodded anyway. “Of course. I’ll have coffee out in a moment.”

I went into the kitchen and grabbed the coffee pot. When I stepped back into the dining room, Stanley Katz had materialized, looking as haggard as he had at Cliffside. His shirt was half-tucked into wrinkled brown trousers, and his eyes were bloodshot. He deposited a sheaf of papers on the table as I filled Ogden’s cup.