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  Murder Most Maine: A Gray Whale Inn Mystery © 2008 by Karen MacInerney.

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  First e-book edition © 2010

  E-book ISBN: 978-07387-2024-1

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  To Abby and Ian, the lights of my life.

  I love you!

  As I sipped my first coffee of the day—a mug of steaming French Roast, topped off with hot milk and a dash of sugar—I pulled open the kitchen curtains of the Gray Whale Inn and watched a robin belting out a love song in a nearby maple tree. After several months of nothing but the sound of the wind whipping past the eaves, his lilting call was a delightful change of pace.

  It was my second May in Maine, and although the bluebonnets had carpeted the hillsides in my former hometown of Austin two months ago, flower buds were just starting to appear on the hillsides of Cranberry Island. It was already in the 90s in Texas, but here, the last of the snow had just recently melted.

  I gazed out the window at the big blue van I had transported to the island over the winter for hauling guests and luggage, and my outlook darkened a bit. The first birds might be returning to the island, ready to get spring underway, but the van was still hibernating. Despite a full tank of gas, I couldn’t get it started, which was not good news, because it was the first day of the Lose-It-All Weight Loss retreat, and ten people were due at the Gray Whale Inn that afternoon. It was a big booking for me, and the last thing I needed was for something to go wrong.

  Of course, as it turned out, the van was the least of my troubles. But I didn’t know that then.

  I picked up the phone and dialed, turning to stare out the back window at the green spruce trees, the white-capped blue waves, and the fresh green field below the inn, which I knew would soon be awash in the blues and pinks of lupines. It was fresh, serene—and deceptively peaceful.

  “Cranberry Island Store,” my best friend trilled. Charlene was the owner of the little store that was often called the island’s living room; it was also the island’s pantry, post office, and gossip hub. Which came in very handy: kind of one-stop shopping.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Nat! The big retreat starts today, doesn’t it? How are you holding up?”

  “A little stressed,” I admitted. “If the food order doesn’t come in right, I don’t know what I’ll do.” Hosting a weight-loss retreat was a new thing for me, and I had high hopes for it. If it went well, there was a good chance the Gray Whale Inn would be a regular location for it. After a lean winter at my fledgling inn, I was hungry for business. Ironically, though I was relieved the retreat would fatten my business’s rather anemic balance sheet, I was also hoping it would force me to start trimming my own calorie intake. At my annual checkup a few weeks ago, both my cholesterol levels and the number on the scale had come up on the high side, and my doctor had issued a rather stern warning to cut back on the cupcakes. Since I was the owner of a bed and breakfast, and surrounded daily by tempting treats, this proclamation was not welcome news.

  “Relax, Nat. I’m sure everything will be fine,” Charlene said. “And if you need anything, you know I’ve got staples at the store.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’m glad you called; I tried getting in touch with you last night, but the phone lines went out for a few hours.” Which was normal on Cranberry Island—along with regular power outages. “There’s some big news.”

  “What happened?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

  “Nobody got hurt,” Charlene said quickly; she must have heard the dread in my voice. “At least not recently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how they started the lighthouse renovation?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I couldn’t believe they started in February. In that brutal weather!”

  “They’re trying to get it done before tourist season,” she reminded me.

  After years of discussion, the island had recently decided to renovate its historic lighthouse, which had been boarded up for years. I was all in favor of the project, of course—not only are lighthouses a big attraction for visitors (and potential guests), but there was something magical about the round white building that graced Cranberry Point.

  “Anyway, I guess you haven’t heard the big news. They found a skeleton hidden inside it.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said, my eyes drawn to the window and the innocent-looking lighthouse in the distance. I’d gone by that lighthouse a zillion times—as had everyone else on the island—and had never imagined that there was a body inside it. The hairs on my arms stood up just thinking about it.

  “Nope. Apparently it’s an adult, but that’s all they know at this point. They’re taking it to a lab on the mainland for testing.”

  A shudder passed through me. “So that’s two historic murders on the island.” I’d recently discovered that a young woman had been murdered almost 150 years ago in the Gray Whale Inn, and although it had never been solved, I’d found a diary that implicated one of the island’s most prominent citizens. How many other secrets were hidden on the island? I wondered. Biscuit, my ginger-colored and slightly obese tabby, brushed against my legs, and I jumped.

  “They don’t know if it was historic,” Charlene said. “And no one said it was murder.”

  “Why else would you board someone up in a building?” I asked. Biscuit had started a plaintive meowing; to quiet her, I grabbed the bag of cat food and filled her bowl.

  “I know a few of your guests would have benefited from a little time in solitary confinement.”

  “True,” I said, thinking of some of the colorful characters I’d hosted since opening the inn a year earlier.

  “Anyway, I’ll keep you posted on the skeleton,” she said. “Do you need any help getting everyone to the inn?”

  At the mention of my guests—and my groceries—I glanced out the window at the van. Unless I could magically get it to start
, I was in a bit of a pickle. Most of the time I relished the quaintness of living on an island where all of your supplies were delivered by mail boat. That was until I had ten people with very strict dietary requirements scheduled to stay for a week.

  “I can’t get the van to work.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I don’t know—it just won’t start. The problem is, how am I going to get my groceries from the dock to the inn?” I asked. “And the guests?”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Why don’t you take the guests over in the skiffs? It’s supposed to be a gorgeous day—and that’s sure to make an impression.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “If it doesn’t start, just bring over the Little Marian . Get John to bring Mooncatcher , too. Between you, John, and Eleazer, we can manage.”

  I glanced out the window at the water, which was a bit choppy today. Unless a storm came up and turned the sea into Italian meringue, getting my handsome neighbor and the island’s shipwright to help out just might work. I glanced out at the van. “If I can’t get it started, I just may do that. Will you ask Eleazer when he stops by for coffee?” I knew the boat builder would be at Charlene’s store today, not just for the sweets, but for a respite from his good-hearted but rather stern wife.

  “Sure.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “Any word on the personal trainer?” Charlene was between men at the moment, and actively looking for a new romantic interest. Which she could easily have found among any number of smitten lobstermen on the island—her curvy, padded figure and caramel-colored locks had been the subject of many local yearnings. Unfortunately for the lobstermen, though, none had passed muster.

  “You’re in luck,” I said. “From what I hear, he’s male, blond, and very handsome,”

  “Straight?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” I said, grinning. In a place the size of Cranberry Island, which boasted a population of approximately 100 year-round residents, the arrival of handsome male visitors were quite an event. Charlene’s last love interest had died unexpectedly, and since then, she hadn’t shown much enthusiasm for dating. I took her renewed interest as a sign that the mourning period might be coming to a close.

  “God, I hope he’s not gay,” she said. “Have you seen a picture of him?”

  “No, I haven’t. But he’ll be on the three o’clock mail boat, so you can see for yourself.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on,” she said.

  “I’d recommend a bit more than bells. It’s still pretty darned chilly out there. Isn’t it supposed to be spring?”

  “Welcome to Maine, my dear,” she said. “Oops … got a customer. See you later!”

  As I hung up the phone, I glanced out the window and said a brief prayer that the van would start. I had no idea exactly how many pounds my guests had to lose, but if they were extra-hefty, that would limit the number of people I could load on a skiff. Which meant it might take more than one trip to get everyone to the inn.

  Maybe I should give the van one last try after all.

  I grabbed my windbreaker, slipped on a pair of clogs, and flung open the kitchen door.

  The scene was breathtaking—and not just because a brisk wind whipped most of the air out of my lungs the moment I opened the door.

  The field stretched out below the inn like a soft green comforter, just coming to life after months buried under the snow. Across the dark blue water, the mountains of Mount Desert Island hulked, their granite shoulders cloaked in pale green. Despite the sparkling sunshine, the morning air was still brisk, and laced with the lingering scent of wood smoke from the carriage house just down the hill.

  The sound of a boat motor floated to my ears, and as a skiff eased into view, I smiled. The panorama had just gotten a whole lot better.

  “John!” I called, and my handsome neighbor docked the skiff and waved. He was wearing a green jacket that I knew matched his eyes, and the morning sun glinted on his sandy blond hair.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” he called back as I paused on the path. “I decided to head out, see if I could catch us a couple of fish.” He raised a hand, showing me a string of plump, gleaming fish as I stepped onto the dock.

  I rewarded him with a long, lingering kiss that drove away any remaining chill. “You are the best neighbor ever ,” I said. More than just a neighbor, actually. We had been dating for some months, and although we hadn’t officially spelled it out, we were slipping into comfortable couplehood. “I may have to ask another favor, too,” I said.

  “What?”

  “If I can’t get the van started, I’m going to have to get the guests here via the water. Can you and Mooncatcher give me a hand?” I asked.

  “My pleasure,” he said, grinning.

  “My knight in shining armor,” I said. “However can I repay you?”

  “I wouldn’t object to a plate of your blueberry pancakes.”

  “Done,” I said. As he headed back to the dock to clean the fish, I climbed back up the path to the van in the driveway, which again refused to start. After the sixth try, which resulted only in a strong and worrying smell of gasoline, I retreated to my kitchen and pulled a bag of frozen local berries from the freezer. The van might not be working, but all was not lost. Not only would I have fresh fish for lunch, but I’d get to have breakfast with John to boot.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed a package of bacon from the fridge. Might as well have a last huzzah; from this afternoon on, it would be turkey bacon and melba toast all the way.

  Things couldn’t get much better, I thought a few minutes later as I folded frozen berries into the thick creamy batter.

  Perhaps not. But they were about to get a whole lot worse.

  ___

  When John knocked at the kitchen door twenty minutes later, carrying a Ziploc bag of fresh fillets, a pot of coffee was brewing, the table was set, and I had a big stack of wild blueberry pancakes waiting, accompanied by bacon and warm maple syrup. I’d laid two plates; since we didn’t have guests yet, and I didn’t expect my niece—and helper—Gwen to be up anytime before noon, we had the kitchen to ourselves.

  “Coffee?” I asked as he peeled off his jacket. Even under his blue plaid flannel shirt, his well-muscled torso and trim waist were visible. I tugged at my sweater over my rather less-defined waist self-consciously, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he crossed the kitchen, swept me into his arms, and kissed me. His bristly cheeks were chilled from the wind, but I felt warm tingles anyway.

  “Smells delicious,” he murmured into my ear when I came up for air some time later.

  “The last batch of pancakes just came off the griddle,” I said.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said, nibbling my earlobe.

  “I thought you were hungry.”

  “I am,” he said. “Can’t you tell?”

  He kissed me one more time before releasing me reluctantly. “To be continued later,” he said. A moment later, I poured two mugs of coffee and joined him at the table, where he shoveled half a dozen pancakes onto his plate.

  I watched as he smeared a knob of butter on them and followed it up with about a cup of maple syrup. “It’s just not fair,” I said.

  He looked up with a pancake-laden fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  “You and Gwen can eat mountains of food, and you never gain an ounce.” It was true; like John, my curvy niece had not an ounce of spare flesh on her slender frame. Yet she could—and frequently did—eat more chocolate chip cookies in one sitting than anyone else I’d ever met.

  “It’s all genes, I guess. Anyway, I think you look great,” he said, pushing the pancake plate toward me. “Go ahead. With the celery-crunchers coming, it may be the only food you’ll get all week.”

  I laughed. “Also true.” My eyes drifted to the window, and the lighthouse framed in the distance. “Did you hear about the skeleton?” I asked.

  His green eyes glinted. “The one they found
in the lighthouse?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I talked with Eleazer last night.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I guess I forgot,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “I wonder if they’ve finally found Old Harry?”

  “Who’s Old Harry?”

  “Old Harry was one of the first keepers, back in the 1800s,” John said, selecting a piece of bacon from the platter. “He was at the lighthouse for about ten years … lived all by himself, and only came down to the store once in awhile.” John took another bite of pancake and swallowed it down before continuing. “There was a big storm one January night. The winds were fierce—ripped the roof right off a couple of houses. But the light never went out at the lighthouse—the story is that it kept at least two ships from running up on the rocks out at the point.”

  “What happened to Harry?” I asked.

  “That’s the thing,” John said, spearing another bite of pancake and mopping up a puddle of syrup with it. “No one knows. The light stayed lit, but Harry just disappeared.”

  The skin on my arms prickled. “Vanished?”

  “Everyone figured the storm swept him away,” John said, “even though the body was never found.”

  “Well, if it was boarded up in the lighthouse somewhere, that would explain a lot,” I said.

  “Whatever happened to old Harry that night, he was dedicated to his job; he never let the light go out.”

  “How sad.” I glanced out the window in the direction of the lighthouse, and the keeper’s house huddled beside it. “Did he have family?”

  “I don’t know,” John said. “Of course, there’s a legend that the original light still flashes,” he said, “even though that lantern hasn’t been lit in more than fifty years. The oldtimers consider it an omen of death.”

  I shivered, suddenly cold despite the toasty yellow kitchen. John reached for another piece of bacon.

  As I levered a forkful of maple syrup-drenched pancake to my mouth, I thought of the graceful building that had stood out on the point for centuries, guiding ships away from rocks like dark teeth. Lighthouses had a natural mystique, of course, but the story of the disappearing keeper made Cranberry Island’s sole lighthouse even more haunting.