Murder On the Rocks (22 page)

Was that why John had invited me over? To quiz me for the police? Then again, I was the one who brought up the murder, not him. “What kind of information?” I asked.

“Nothing much, I’m afraid. I don’t get out too much.” He laughed. “What he really needs to do is get plugged into Charlene’s database.” “

I hope you’re not going to tell me you invited me over just to interrogate me.”

“As long as you’re not going to tell me you accepted my invitation just to find out what I know about the case.”

“Nah” I grinned. “I just came for the free food”

We finished the clams in a lighter mood, and I was stuffed by the time John picked up the clamshell-littered plate and headed to the kitchen. He declined my offer of assistance, and I spent a few minutes studying the titles of the books in his bookshelves. The vast majority were dedicated to sailing. Propped up against a row of well-worn paperbacks was a small photo of a young boy and an older man, beaming as they displayed a giant codfish that dangled from the older man’s hand. The tow-headed boy was almost certainly John, but I didn’t recognize the man. I was replacing the photo among the books when John called me to the table.

Although my stomach was already distended from the clams (I resisted the urge to unbutton my jeans), my mouth began to water as John brought dinner to the table. My plate was dwarfed by what must have been a two-pound lobster, with a small bowl of melted yellow butter on the side. A blue crockery bowl held golden ears of corn, and another was filled to the brim with sliced cherry tomatoes and slender circles of leek, drenched in a glistening vinaigrette. John made a last trip from the kitchen with a basket of steaming rolls and refilled our glasses with a flourish.

“I think I died and went to heaven,” I breathed, unfolding my soft blue cloth napkin. “If you’re ever looking for another sideline, you might consider going into the restaurant business.” I reached for a home-baked roll. “We could make the Gray Whale a full-service inn; my kitchen is yours.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He grinned, and we both picked up our crackers.

“Why is one claw always bigger than the other?” I asked as I fished a morsel of creamy pink meat from the larger of the two immense claws on my plate.

“One’s the cutter, and one’s the crusher,” he said. He held up the narrower of his lobster’s claws. “This is the cutter,” he said. “The big fat one’s the crusher. They grow back if they lose them, but it takes a while.”

“It’s easier to enjoy them knowing they’re not docile, peaceful animals,” I said as I began excavating a leg.

“You know, the servants in Maine used to have it in their contracts that they couldn’t be served lobster more than three days a week?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. It used to be considered a trash fish.”

I pried out a chunk of meat and drenched it in melted butter. “They were nuts;” I said, as I lifted the dripping meat to my mouth. “I could eat this every day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“I’ll have to have you over for lobster stew sometime.”

“I’d love that.” It may have been the wine, but I thought I saw his cheeks redden. I held his green gaze for a long moment before reaching for my wine glass. “You know, this is like a dream come true. Here we are, eating lobster together, in a beautiful island cottage with this stunning view.” I turned toward the window, where the sun was receding over the mountains and painting the sea a luminous gold. “And the best thing of all is that this isn’t a dream, or even a vacation. This is our life.”

At the sight of the rocky hill rising up next to the inn, an image of Bernard Katz sprawled across the rocks flashed into my mind. “I guess it’s nearing midnight, though,” I sighed. John gave me a puzzled look. “Cinderella’s carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin again,” I said. More than ever, I wanted to stay here forever, and make the inn work. My eyes sought John’s. “I’m afraid the inn might not survive.”

John leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“Well, even if the resort doesn’t go through, Grimes thinks I killed Bernard Katz. I don’t think I could make a go of it from jail.” I grabbed my wineglass. “It’s hard to be an innkeeper if you can’t live on the premises.”

“You’re assuming he won’t find the murderer,” John said.

I sipped my wine and slid the glass back onto the table. “How likely does it seem to you that he will?”

He held my gaze and reached his hand across the table to squeeze mine. “I’ll do whatever I can to make sure he does,” he said.

My skin tingled as he rubbed the back of my hand with a calloused thumb. We were leaning toward each other when the phone rang.

A woman, calling from Portland, whom he would be calling back later tonight. Things didn’t look good for the home team. I drained my wine and stared out the window at the evening sky. Neither of us reached across the table again.

We made polite conversation as we finished our meal. Just when it seemed I couldn’t eat another bite without exploding, John stood up to clear the table. I joined him, and as we shuttled back and forth across the short distance to the kitchen, I made another brilliant conversational sally. “So,” I blurted, “who do you think killed Bernard Katz?”

“Could be any number of people,” he said.

“Do you think Stanley or Estelle might have done it? Stanley was strapped for cash, after all.”

He raised his eyebrows as he collected our wineglasses. “How do you know that?” My mouth opened, then closed. I had been about to tell him about the past-due bills in Stanley’s office, but decided that might not be the best idea. My brain grasped for a plausible answer, and finally I remembered what Charlene had told me. “He hasn’t paid Polly Sarkes, his housekeeper, in months”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in financial trouble. He might have forgotten.”

“Still, it’s worth looking at. And then there were the people Bernard Katz was trying to blackmail . . ” I clamped my mouth shut too late.

John froze in the kitchen doorway with a blueberry cobbler in his hands. “Blackmail?”

“I heard a rumor that he was trying to blackmail people,” I sputtered. “Trying to get them into going along with the resort. I have no idea if it’s true or not.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t remember … it was just someone who suggested it, I guess, and it stuck in my mind.” I stared at the cobbler in his hands. “Can I get some dessert plates?”

“They’re to the left of the stove. But I still want to know more about this blackmail `rumor”’ He gave me a funny look. “You haven’t been doing things you shouldn’t be, have you? Like burgling people’s rooms or houses?”

“It was just a rumor,” I repeated, rummaging through a drawer in search of dessert forks.

“Well, I never heard anything about it.” He brushed my arm as he passed me, and my body tingled in response. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

“Do you have decaf?”

“Yup” As he fiddled with the coffeemaker, I found a big spoon for the cobbler and retreated to the table, cursing my big mouth and wishing I had refused the third glass of wine.

The cobbler was delicious, and despite the gigantic dinner I had just consumed, I managed to put quite a dent in the huge piece John dished out for me. After finishing my coffee, I headed for the door. Part of me wanted to stay later, but John’s promise to call the woman in Portland back echoed in my mind. The chemistry had altered after the phone call. Of course, it could have been my stupid comment about the blackmail, but things had definitely cooled off after the phone rang.

We stood at the door for a long moment, the cool breeze swirling around us.

“Thanks again for dinner,” I said. “It was wonderful.”

“My pleasure.”

“It’s my turn next.”

“Name the time, and I’ll be there.”

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if he would reach for my hand again, but it seemed that whatever had passed between us earlier was gone. “Well, I’d better get back. Good night.”

“Good night.” The door closed behind me as I traipsed up the short path to the inn, wondering if he was already on the phone to Portland.

When I headed to the front desk to check for messages, the answering machine light was blinking furiously. I grabbed a pen and jabbed at the button, steeling myself for more bad news.

The first message was a booking! I jotted down the number and glanced at my watch; it was too late to call back, but I’d phone first thing in the morning. The second message was from Grimes. “Hello, Miss Barnes. I just wanted to make sure you’ll be there tomorrow morning. Looks like your prints turned up in a lot of places they probably shouldn’t have been.” He continued, but I hit erase before he could say anything else, and Charlene’s voice burbled out of the machine. “Bad news, Nat. The evaluators have weighed in-seems the nests are so disturbed they can’t give it endangered habitat status. Looks like the resort’s going to be a go”

THE ALARM RANG AT 6:45 the next morning, waking me with a jolt. I sat up fast and regretted it immediately; my head was throbbing from last night’s wine. When I remembered how the evening had gone-from letting the bit about Katz blackmailing islanders slip to the call from Portland to the messages from Charlene and Grimes-I was tempted to lie back down and cover my head with a pillow.

It was the Bittles’ last day, though, and on the slim chance the inn survived-I had, after all, gotten another booking last nightit was important that their last memories of the Gray Whale Inn be sweet ones. As I staggered out of bed, Biscuit glared at me and moved over to claim the warm spot I had vacated.

I pulled on some clothes and headed downstairs, and as the restorative aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, began assembling the ingredients for Belgian waffles. I was folding fluffy egg whites into the batter when Gwen appeared at the doorway.

“You’re up early.” I finished folding the lemon-colored batter and set the bowl down next to the waffle iron, pouring the first waffle as Gwen fixed herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. Soon the warm scent of vanilla mingling with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee permeated the kitchen, and my mouth started watering for breakfast.

“I think I’ve finally recovered,” she said, crossing her long legs. Her outfit was subdued today: jeans and a purple-flowered blouse. “Since you covered for me yesterday, do you want me to take care of breakfast?”

Take care of breakfast? I blinked. She’d never offered to go above and beyond the call of duty before. “I think I’ve got it in hand,” I said, “but if you wouldn’t mind taking care of the breakfast dishes and running a vacuum through the dining room, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” she said. “Those waffles smell great”

“You can have the first one.” I pulled a container of strawberries from the refrigerator and turned toward Gwen. She still looked tired and pale, but her cheeks had a little bit of color in them. “Why don’t you invite Adam over to dinner sometime this week?”

“Thanks, Aunt Nat. We’ll see how it goes.” Her wan face looked pinched. “I don’t know when they’re towing the boat back in. He’s pretty down; he may end up missing half the season”

“Maybe a good dinner will help take his mind off things.” I watched as Gwen took a long sip of coffee. “By the way, have you talked with your mother yet?”

She put her mug down with a jolt. “No. Why?” Her brown eyes were wary. “Have you talked to her?”

The waffle iron began to hiss. I lifted the lid; the puffy waffle was golden brown and tender. I eased the plump waffle onto a plate, sprinkled it with powdered sugar, and deposited it in front of Gwen with a fork. “She called the other day”

Gwen dabbed at the powdered sugar with her finger, then licked it. “What did you tell her?”

“Well,” I said, pouring another thick stream of batter into the iron, “she knows you’re seeing someone, but I didn’t tell her much … just that he’s got a degree from an Ivy and a career in boats.”

Gwen picked up her fork. “So she took it okay?”

I poured a little more batter and cleared my throat.” I think she may need a little clarification on how he’s involved with boats.”

“What do you mean?”

My face felt hot with embarrassment as I closed the waffle iron. “I’m not sure, but I think she thinks he’s a shipping magnate, or something,” I mumbled.

Gwen paused with her fork suspended over the plate. “A shipping magnate? Aunt Nat, what did you tell her?”

“I only said he worked with boats. She jumped to conclusions.”

Gwen groaned. “If the phone rings this afternoon, I’m not answering it.”

“On the plus side,” I said, “I saw your paintings, and I think they’re incredible.”

Gwen’s brown eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yes. I’d like to use the one you did of the inn in the next brochure, and in all our ads.” “You’re kidding me!” Gwen sat up straighter, flushing, and her eyes shone. “I can do more, you know. Different angles, different times of day ..

I smiled to see the color return to her cheeks. “I can’t wait to see them.”

My headache had begun to subside by the time I served breakfast, and I surveyed the golden waffles, crispy bacon, and mounds of strawberries and Chantilly cream with satisfaction. The woman who had called to make a reservation the night before had told me that she and her husband were planning to stay for two weeks in July, and I had recorded the dates with a growing sense of optimism. The resort might be inevitable, but maybe I could find a way for my fledgling business to survive despite it. The Gray Whale Inn wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

The Bittles were delighted with the waffles, and with the bouquet of roses and sweet peas I had picked and placed on their table. When I asked them whether they would be interested in the retreat program I was planning with Fernand, Mrs. Bittles gushed in response. “Oh, of course! That sounds wonderful! We would love that; communing with other artists, practicing our craft . . ” She looked at me sidelong. “By the way,” she added casually, “while you were at the studio, did you happen to see any of my paintings?”

The paintings? I’d almost forgotten about them. “Oh, yes. They’re lovely,” I answered, grasping for a positive way to describe them. “I can tell you were influenced by Monet.”