Berried to the Hilt by Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.

praise for the gray whale inn mystery series “MacInerney adds a dash of the supernatural, throws in some touristy tidbits and finishes with some tasty diet-right recipes.” —Publishers Weekly “Mixes a pinch of salt air, a hunky love interest, an island divided by environmental issues and, of course, murder. Add Karen MacInerney to your list of favorite Maine mystery authors.” —Lea Wait, author of the Antique Print Mystery Series “Just what’s needed for a cozy evening in front of the fire.” —Cynthia Riggs, author of the Martha’s Vineyard Mystery Series “Karen MacInerney has a winning recipe for a great series.” —Julie Obermiller, Mystericale.com “Karen serves up intrigue as effortlessly as her heroine whips up oatmeal chocolate cookies. This debut novel is a whale of a great read.” —Deb Baker, author of Murder Talks Turkey “Clever plotting, charming characters—and of course, decadent recipes—will leave you hungry for more.” —Michele Scott, author of the Wine Lover’s Mystery Series “It may be old-fashioned to describe a book as charming, but MacInerney’s writing is evocative of the most delightful, comfortable cozies of old, with just a soupçon of modern wit.” —Bed and Breakfast America “A truly smart and gripping cozy mystery.” —OnceUponARomance.net “A delicious sequel to Murder on the Rocks.” —Mystery Scene

b e r r ie d to the h i lt

other books by karen macinerney Murder on the Rocks Dead and Berried Murder Most Maine

berried to the

hilt A Gray Whale Inn Mystery

Karen MacInerney

Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Berried to the Hilt: A Gray Whale Inn Mystery © 2010 by Karen MacInerney. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2010 Book design by Donna Burch Cover design by Ellen Dahl Cover illustration © 2010 Bob Dombrowski/The July Group Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data MacInerney, Karen, 1970– Berried to the hilt : a Gray Whale Inn mystery / Karen MacInerney. — 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7387-1966-5 1. Bed and breakfast accommodations—Maine—Fiction. 2. Murder— Investigation—Fiction. 3. Cranberry Isles (Me. : Islands)—Fiction. 4. Maine—Fiction. I. Title. PS3613.A27254B47 2010 813'.6—dc22 2010021431 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated with love to the memory of Merrie Leigh Orton MacInerney

acknowledgments Thank yous, as always, go first to my family—Eric, Abby, and Ian—for all their love and support; also to Dave and Carol Swartz, and Ed and Dorothy MacInerney. I am so lucky to have my extended family so close! Thanks also to Bethann and Beau Eccles, my adopted family; my wonderful nieces and nephews on both sides; to my sister, Lisa, and her family; and to my fabulous grandmother, Marian Quinton (and Nora Bestwick). Many thanks to my agent Jessica Faust, who is there for me at every plot turn. I cannot say enough good things about the fabulous Midnight Ink team—particularly Terri Bischoff, whose support, (and willingness to wait a few months when things got hectic) has been amazing. Thanks also to Connie Hill, editor extraordinaire, for finding my mistakes and making me look good, and Ellen Dahl, whose cover concepts rock. I also want to give a shout-out to Thea Eaton, here in Austin, for all of her help with the web page. And a big thank you to all those supportive friends out there – particularly Dana Lehman, J. Jaye Smith, Jessica Park, Austin Mystery Writers, and all my friends at the Westbank Library and my local coffee shop and bookstore. Thanks also to all of the wonderful readers who take the time to tell me you enjoyed the books; I couldn’t do it without you!

on e

“What were you thinking?” It was a question I had often asked myself over the last few years, ever since I quit my job, sold my house, and plunked down my life savings on the gray-shingled inn on Cranberry Island, Maine. As gorgeous as the locale was—after more than a decade in sun-baked Texas, I was still awed by the beauty of the mountains across the water, their granite shoulders now swathed in the brilliant golds and russets of early October—starting a bed and breakfast had been fraught with challenges. But Charlene wasn’t referring to my decision to gamble my life savings on a house on an island. Nor was she talking about my recent transition from bed-and-breakfast to full-service inn, which, even with help, was turning out to be a more-than-full-time job. “I don’t know,” I said, switching the phone to the other ear and stepping out of my steamy kitchen onto the back porch. A welcome gust of cool fall air swept over me, and I took a deep breath

of it before continuing. “I guess it sounded like a good idea at the time.” A month ago, Tom Lockhart, the Cranberry Island selectman and head of the lobster co-op, had asked me to judge the annual cranberry bake-off. Flattered to be included, I had said yes, thinking it was a wonderful way to become more involved with the community. I was right about the involvement in the community. But I got the “wonderful” part all wrong. “Natalie, you’re doomed,” Charlene said. “It doesn’t matter who you give the prizes to; everyone else will accuse you of playing favorites. Ten years from now, they still won’t have forgiven you.” “But the entries are anonymous!” I protested. “I won’t know whose is whose!” “We live on an island of under a hundred people, Natalie. Do you really think you won’t recognize Claudette’s sugarless cranberry pie?” I puckered involuntarily at the mention of the infamous pie, realizing that Charlene was right as usual. As Cranberry Island’s postmistress and general store owner, she was the arbiter of all things island. She and I had hit it off almost immediately, and now I couldn’t imagine life without my impeccably dressed, bubbly friend. “So what do I do?” “I don’t know. Maybe you could ask John to drop something on your head—something heavy enough to put you in the hospital for a few days. It might be easier.” Despite my dire situation, I couldn’t help feeling a little tingle at the mention of my neighbor—and now fiancé—John. I held up my left hand; the sapphire stone of the engagement ring sparkled 2

in the light. We hadn’t set a date for the wedding yet—I’d been too busy with the transition to lunch and dinner service to do much other than sleep—but we were thinking maybe early spring, before the tourist season began. “I can’t go into the hospital,” I said. “I’ve got a business to run.” “Then we’ll have to come up with a strategy,” she said. “I’ve got a novel idea. How about I taste all the dishes and give the best one the award?” I asked. “You’re so naïve,” she said. “I’ll think about it and get back to you. I’ve got to get down to the dock for a delivery. Talk to you later!” And then she was gone. I hung up the phone and shaded my eyes, squinting into the distance. Sure enough, the Island Princess was puttering over from the mainland, leaving a pearly wake in the dark blue water as it hauled tourists, groceries, and mail to the island. Unless you had a boat, the only way on and off Cranberry Island was the mail boat, which made stops only a couple of times a day. Today’s load would not include a large grocery order for me, since my four guests would be departing the next day, leaving only one room booked for the weekend. The mortgage, unfortunately, didn’t care how many rooms were occupied; it still needed to be paid. And then there was the bake-off to worry about. I turned reluctantly from the sweeping view, my eyes lingering only briefly on John’s carriage house, which was just down the hill from the inn. I knew he had gone to Mount Desert Island in his skiff, Mooncatcher, to stock up on paints for the toy boats he sold at Island Artists. Like many on the island, he was a jack-of-all-trades: island deputy, artist, craftsman, and now part-time chef at the inn. 3

The barn next to the small house functioned as his workshop, and would continue to—but to increase our income we had talked about renting out the carriage house once we were married. Married. Just the word was enough to send tingles through me. The buzzer sounded as I opened the oven door, releasing the warm, yeasty scent of fresh rolls. Lunch was lobster salad, which I’d prepared a half hour ago and was already in the fridge, along with rolls, a lightly dressed green salad, and a cookie. I pulled the tray of golden cloverleaf rolls from the oven and put them on a rack to cool, then grabbed the flour and sugar from the pantry and set to work making my favorite gingersnap recipe. The recipe for the gingery cookies was a gift from an old friend, and a perfect accompaniment to the crisp fall air. The afternoon sun slanted through the old mullioned windows, making the yellow walls glow, and the antique pine floors creaked under my feet as I creamed the butter and sugar, then cracked an egg into the bowl. A few minutes later, as I scooped the stiff dough into balls and rolled them in sugar, I found myself smiling with contentment. So what if I didn’t have any bookings for the next few weeks? So what if I was about to commit social suicide at the bake-off? Maybe I’d run a fall special, I thought, rolling another round ball in the sugar. I could e-mail my former guests and advertise a special weekend getaway. Even if I got only one or two takers, it would still be better than an empty inn. As the smell of fresh-baked rolls mingled with the smell of ginger from the cookies I’d slid into the oven, I glanced out the window at the dark green pines at the end of the driveway. The coppertinged blueberry bushes made a gorgeous autumnal carpet at their

feet, and a white gull hovered overhead. As mercurial as the business of owning an inn was, I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. _____ I had just finished cleaning up from lunch when John burst through the kitchen door, adding his familiar woodsy scent to the already intoxicating aroma. His sandy hair was windblown, his tanned face ruddy. Biscuit, my well-fed ginger tabby, glanced up from her perch on the radiator, then settled back down. I, on the other hand, felt my heart pick up its pace a bit. “Did you get everything you needed?” I asked as he came up and wrapped his arms around me, kissing the top of my head. “They were out of the green paint until next week,” he said. “But I heard some exciting news in Northeast Harbor,” he said. “They’ve canceled the bake-off?” I asked. I was still shaking off the dream I’d had the night before—the one that had half the women in the island chasing after me with cranberry-stained butter knives. I’d just locked myself into the town library when the alarm went off, allowing me to escape. “You wish,” he said, laughing. “Adam got a diver friend of his to clear up some tangled pots out by Deadman’s Shoal.” Adam Thrackton was a lobsterman—and also the beau of my niece, Gwen, who helped me manage the inn. “I thought they just cut the lines and had done with them,” I said. “Usually they do, but this time there were about a dozen of them tangled up, and Adam didn’t want to lose them. Anyway, you’ll never guess what they found.”

“Please tell me it’s not a body,” I said, feeling my stomach turn over. We’d had more than enough of those on the island recently; I wasn’t sure I could handle another. “A sunken ship,” he said, his green eyes gleaming. I shivered, thinking of the boats that occasionally disappeared in winter’s brutal storms. “That’s almost as bad. How recent?” “That’s the thing,” he said. “They think it’s one of the old wooden sailing ships, from a couple hundred years ago. Eleazer thinks it might even be the Black Marguerite.” Eleazer, the island’s shipwright—and my dear friend—was something of an expert on sailing ships. “What’s the Black Marguerite?” I asked. “The Black Marguerite belonged to Davey Blue, the pirate who used to operate off this part of the coast; he was supposedly in love with a woman who lived in the area. He and the Marguerite vanished sometime during the eighteenth century.” “There were people living here then?” I asked. “Not many, but some. Some people say Smuggler’s Cove was Davey Blue’s hideout,” John said. He was referring to a cove just a little way down the coast from the inn. It had a treacherous entry that was completely hidden at high tide. “Why not call it Pirate’s Cove?” I asked. “Sounds like a mini golf course.” I laughed. “So, why do they think it might have been his ship? I’ve never heard of pirates prowling the Maine coast.” “He didn’t prowl here, but he came from here, and returned often. He was supposed to be shipping out to the Caribbean, but he never made it, apparently. The legend is that it went down in a storm almost as soon as it shipped out, but it’s never been found.” 6

John gave me another squeeze and released me. “Smells like gingersnaps in here.” The gingersnap recipe I’d gotten from my old friend Rhonda Shield, who worked at my favorite Austin library and was an amazing cook, was one of John’s favorites. I called the cookies “Me-Maw’s Gingersnaps,’” after Rhonda’s grandmother, who passed the recipe down to her. Just the smell of them in the kitchen made me think fondly of Rhonda’s ready smile. Plus, they had an autumn tang that went well with the weather. “Mind if I sample a few?” he asked. “Go ahead,” I said. He walked over and plucked three warm cookies from the cooling rack, making appreciative noises as he bit into the first one. Like my niece, Gwen, he could plow through half a jar and not gain an ounce. “How can they tell whether it’s the Black Marguerite?” I asked as he groaned in ecstasy. When he’d finished the cookie, he licked the crumbs from his fingers, then answered my question. “I don’t know. Apparently they’re calling in a bunch of experts to see what they can find.” He opened his mouth to insert a second cookie, then paused. “You know, we’ve got a few mooring lines off the inn’s dock. If we moved the skiffs over, they could stay here and tie up right outside. Business is kind of slow right now.” “As in dead,” I said. I had a few rooms occupied now, but with the exception of one booking—a woman named Cherry Price, who was arriving from New York that afternoon—the next two months were not looking good. “And it would help fund the wedding,” John added. He had barely finished his sentence when there was a knock at the kitchen door. Adam stood on the back porch, an expectant smile on his face. 7

“Hi, Natalie,” he said when I opened the door and invited him inside. It was obvious why Gwen was taken with Adam—with a shock of dark hair that contrasted with his light eyes, he was a handsome man, and he was gifted with an outgoing personality and a great sense of humor that made him excellent company. In jeans and a heavy wool sweater, he looked more like the college kid he used to be than the lobsterman he now was. The two were a good match, I thought, with a twinge of misgiving. What would happen if Gwen went back to UCLA? Would the couple survive? “Is Gwen ready to go?” Adam asked. “I thought she was going to do some painting this afternoon!” “She is,” he said, and winked. “Scenes at sea.” I laughed. “John tells me you’ve had some excitement the last few days. I just found out about it, but evidently all the island’s abuzz with your discovery!” Except, I realized, Charlene. Maybe I’d get to fill her in on the local gossip, for the first—and probably the last—time. “It was pretty amazing,” he said. “I was with Evan Sorenson— he just got back into town a few weeks ago, and is thinking of getting into lobstering.” Evan, who was selectwoman Ingrid Sorenson’s son, was back from a stint in rehab, I knew. I was glad to hear he was moving forward—away from the drug addiction that had almost destroyed his life. “Ingrid asked me to hire him for a few weeks. He was out with me—he was helping with the winch. Anyway, we were having trouble pulling up one of the traps—I thought we were going to have to cut the line—when finally it comes up with this huge timber attached to it.” “How did a timber get in the trap?” I asked.

“It wasn’t actually in the trap,” he said. “It was tangled in the line; I’m surprised the rope didn’t break.” “I’ve heard of that happening from time to time,” John said, “but it’s rare. How did you know it belonged to a ship, instead of just being part of an old pier?” “It was too far out to be part of a pier. Plus, it was curved,” he said. “That’s what made me suspicious. I wasn’t sure, so I called a friend of mine who does dive tours out on Mount Desert Island.” “What did he find?” “It was murky, but he located several more timbers—they were jumbled up, and spread around down there, but because of how they were grouped, he said he was pretty sure it was one of the old sailing ships.” “What else did he find?” John asked Adam. “He spotted an anchor sticking out of the sand, and something that looks like a cannon, but nothing he could bring up.” “Cannons? Maybe it is the pirate ship!” “That’s why I called the university,” Adam said. “They should be here today.” “Do you think it could be Davey Blue’s ship?” I asked. “If it is, and there was treasure aboard, maybe Gwen’s mom won’t be so worried about my chosen career,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “It sure would make things easier. Would the treasure be yours if you found it?” He shrugged. “I majored in political science, not law. From what I’ve read, though, I think it depends on where the find is, and who owned the ship originally. There’s a chance, though.” “What would you do with it?” 9

“I’d want it in a museum, of course,” he said. “First, though, let’s find out what it is.” “Wise man,” John said. Adam looked at me. “I’m hoping you’ll get some business out of it—when I called the university, I told them about the inn.” “I appreciate the plug,” I said, and gestured to the cookies cooling on the rack. I might have to make another batch if I kept getting visitors. “Help yourself,” I told him. “Thanks.” He scooped up three and grunted appreciatively as he bit into the first gingery cookie. Rhonda’s cookies had made another convert. “I wonder what they’ll find,” I said, gazing out the window at the blue water. “Could be Selfridge’s ship,” John said. “Or Davey Blue’s,” Adam put in optimistically. “We’ll just have to wait and see!” Gwen came down the stairs, her dark curly hair pulled up in a loose bun, the canvas bag I knew held her art supplies slung over a slender shoulder. Her face glowed when she looked at Adam. “You’re early!” “You’re late,” he said, grinning at her. The two exchanged a quick kiss, and stood with their arms around each other. They’d been together more than a year, but they were both still smitten. “It sounds like Adam’s filled you in on the news,” she said, glancing at the cooling cookies. “Oooh. Rhonda’s gingersnaps. Can you spare a few?” “Of course,” I said. Next time, I’d have to make a double batch. Or maybe even triple. “Gwen—how come you didn’t tell me about the ship Adam found?” 10

“You were asleep when I got home, Aunt Nat!” “Next time, wake me up!” Gwen made herself a small stack of cookies and turned back to me. “It is pretty cool, isn’t it? Wait until I tell my mother!” I shifted from one foot to the other, wishing she hadn’t brought up my sister Bridget. I had no idea what would happen when Gwen’s mother found out that the boyfriend she thought was a shipping magnate—a misunderstanding I’d accidentally fostered and never got around to dispelling—was a lobsterman. Gwen had come out to spend the summer with me a few seasons ago—largely to escape her mother’s company for the summer—and ended up postponing her degree to stay on the island. She lived at the inn with me and helped me manage the place. A gifted artist, she also studied art with Fernand LaChaise, a well-known painter with a studio on the island. But I knew Adam was the real reason she stayed. Adam had a Princeton degree to his name—or at least he did, before he tipped it overboard—but his lobsterman credentials were not going to hold much weight with my sister Bridget. “It’ll work out fine,” Gwen said, reading my mind. “I hope so.” “You’re the one who told her Adam was in shipping,” she reminded me, slipping on a jacket and grabbing her bag of art supplies. “Maybe a promise of free lobstergrams will win her over,” Adam suggested lightly. Gwen shot him a skeptical look. “Clearly you haven’t met my mother,” she said. “I haven’t, but I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “I think.”

Gwen shouldered her bag and finished the last cookie. “Anyway, it sounds like you have all the news on the ship. I promise you’ll be the first to know if I find out anything else.” “Thanks,” I said. “I’m looking forward to having a scoop for Charlene for a change of pace.” “I wouldn’t count on it,” John said. “She didn’t know about it this morning!” “That was hours ago,” Gwen said. “True,” I admitted. “Anyway,” Gwen said. “I’m headed out to work on the boat for a few hours—I’ll be back to help with dinner.” “Thanks,” I said, the mystery of sunken ships eclipsed, at least for a few minutes, by the details of running the inn. “John’s cooking, but if you could help with serving, that would be great. Marge is taking care of the rooms, so we’re set.” Marge O’Leary had been my enemy when I arrived on the island, and I’d sworn I’d never hire her to help me. That was before I discovered she had spent years in an abusive relationship, fearing for her life. In fact, Marge and I had both almost died at her husband’s hands. Once he was in jail, however, and Marge was able to live without fear, she had blossomed—and had quickly become my righthand woman. She kept the inn in tiptop condition, cleaning rooms and readying them for guests, leaving me to handle the business side of things—and the food. Even now, I could hear the vacuum droning in the distance. “If we find out anything else, you’ll be the first to know.” Adam opened the door for Gwen, letting in a gust of chilly wind. Gwen paused, turning back to me. “There is one thing I forgot to tell you.” 12

“What?” I asked, expecting another tidbit about the sunken boat. “They’ve started a pool down at the co-op.” “A pool?” I asked, perplexed. “Why would the lobster co-op need a swimming pool?” “As in gambling,” she clarified, while Adam laughed. “They’re betting on who you’re going to pick to win the bake-off.” “Please tell me you’re joking,” I said. “Who’s got the best odds so far?” John asked with a grin. “Don’t tell me,” I said, holding up my hands. “I don’t want to know.” “I don’t envy you,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “They couldn’t pay me to take that job.” Adam followed her out the door, both of them off for a day’s work. A moment later, after coming over to give me one more kiss—and a hug that left me warm all over—John disappeared to his workshop, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Biscuit. The phone rang as I pulled out the cornmeal for cornbread, and I answered it on the second ring. “Cherry Price speaking,” announced the voice on the other end of the line. “I just wanted to confirm that I’ll be arriving this afternoon.” “I’ve got you in the Crow’s Nest,” I said. “Will you be staying to dinner?” “I’m looking forward to it.” “Likewise,” I said. She seemed like a delightful woman—and her name was familiar, too, somehow. I had barely hung up when the phone rang again. It was an islander I’d barely spoken to, asking how I felt about cranberries in fruitcake. How had I ever let Tom talk me into doing the bake-off? 13

t wo

“So, Adam thinks it might be Davey Blue’s ship?” Charlene asked as she poured me a cup of coffee from behind the counter of the Cranberry Island Store that afternoon. I’d broken the news about the ship to her yesterday, and she’d been calling me every half hour since for updates. Leaving Gwen in charge of lunch clean-up, I’d headed down to the store with a batch of muffins for Charlene to sell at the counter. I was planning to enjoy a bit of the gorgeous fall weather before my new guests checked in that afternoon. Adam’s recommendation had worked; I now had five additional rooms booked. Fortunately, I had plenty of supplies in the freezer, but was expecting an additional shipment of ingredients from the mainland that afternoon. The sun was shining and the breeze off the water was mild, but chilly enough to make me thankful for my jacket. The fall colors were stunning, the leaves scattered like red and orange jewels across the russet blueberry patches and the straw-colored grass. 14

By the time I arrived at the homey little store, with its rockers on the front porch, a wall of old-fashioned post office boxes behind the counter, and shelves stocked with everything from peanut butter to fishing line, I was ready for a cup of coffee and a pleasant chat. Which was a good thing, because that was exactly what Charlene had in mind for me. Charlene’s store was often referred to as the island’s living room, and the front part of the old wood-frame building was outfitted with several squishy couches and a few chairs. After transferring the muffins to the bakery case she kept by the register, I eased myself into the chair closest to the window, feeling refreshed and relaxed—until I spotted the big red flyer taped to the window. In huge block letters, were the words “Annual Cranberry Bake-Off!” I tore my eyes away from it as Charlene handed me a cup of coffee and sat down across from me. The sequins on her lavender sweater sparkled in the afternoon light that poured in through the mullioned front window as she crossed her legs and looked at me expectantly. I told Charlene—again—what Adam had told me about the wreck. “Adam told the marine archaeologists about the inn, and they booked five rooms—so hopefully, I’ll have more to tell you soon,” I said. “What are the islanders saying?” “That they found gold,” she said. “If they have, I haven’t heard about it,” I said. “Some of the guys are saying it’s probably worth millions of dollars—a sunken treasure. And they’re already arguing over whose it is; there have been a lot of boats out on Deadman’s Shoal, using fishing nets to try and find the site.” “You’re kidding me,” I said. “Have they pulled up anything?” 15

“No, but one of them put a hole in his boat and two of them have lost their gear.” “Serves them right,” I said. “No divers, though, I hope.” She shook her head. “Nobody’s got gear but Diver Bob, and he won’t do it—he doesn’t want to disturb the site further.” She sipped her coffee. “So, will Adam get the booty?” “It depends on how far off the coast it is, I think. And what ship it is.” “It’s amazing that no one’s found it over all these years—it must have been down there a couple of centuries, and nobody knew,” Charlene said, shaking her head. “There’s always been a rumor that Smuggler’s Cove was a pirate hideout; maybe there was something to it!” “How can they figure out whose ship it was?” I asked. Charlene shrugged. “Eleazer told me they can tell lots of things just based on what they find in the wreckage. Plates, glasses, cannons—all kinds of stuff. I heard there are marine archaeologists coming in from around the country to investigate it.” “Two are coming in from Portland, and they’re staying at the inn,” I said. “The other three said they were from a marine research company out of Florida.” Which was strange; Adam had only mentioned getting in touch with the University of Maine. I’d ask him next time I saw him. “Maybe you can use your charm to get the details out of them.” “Are any of them cute?” she asked. I laughed. “I have no idea—and besides, two of them are women.” “That still leaves three. What was your first impression?”

“The man I talked to sounded … well, like a normal person. But we only talked on the phone. You’ll have to come by and find out for yourself!” “I may do that.” She took a sip of coffee and looked sidelong at me over the rim of her mug. “So. Any progress on the local front? Made any big decisions?” “If you’re talking about the bake-off, I’ve decided I’m just going to give the award to the best dish,” I said primly. She shrugged. “I think you’re crazy, but have it your way.” “Why?” I asked, leaning forward despite myself. “Did you think of a better plan?” “Other than John beaning you with a two-by-four and putting you in the hospital for a few days?” She shook her head. “Not yet. But I still think it’s not a bad idea.” _____ I arrived home to a nervous-looking Emmeline Hoyle, carrying a heavy tray with a tea towel draped over it. Her dark eyes looked nervous in her round face, and I noticed she was wearing her Sunday clothes—in this case, a long straight skirt and a red wool sweater that years of her excellent cooking had made a bit snug. “Hi, Emmeline,” I said warily. Emmeline was one of my favorite people on the island, and normally I would be delighted to see her, but I knew she was also a top contender for bake-off champion, having taken home the title for three of the last five years. “Good morning, Natalie. How are you?” “Great,” I said, eyeing the tray. “What’s under the towel?” “I brought a few things for you to try,” she said, whipping off the floral towel to reveal three plates laden with cranberry-studded 17

breads, cookies, and even something that looked like a steamed pudding. “But the bake-off doesn’t start till Saturday!” “I only get one entry,” she said, “so I thought I’d find out which one you thought I should submit.” I shook my head. “I can’t, Emmeline. You know I’d love to be able to help, but people might think I was playing favorites.” Emmeline’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I wasn’t asking you to cheat. I just wanted your opinion.” “I know, Emmeline. I wish I could help.” “I understand,” she said in a tone of voice that said just the opposite. She nodded sharply and turned away, walking up the hill from the house. The sixty-something woman had carried that tray over a mile to get here. With a rush of guilt, I realized she would have to carry it home, too. “Wait a moment,” I said. She whipped around and looked at me with hope in her eyes. “Why don’t you leave the tray with me? I’ve got several guests coming in today; I’ll let them try everything, and I’ll set up a little comment box.” I smiled at her. “That way, I’ve got snacks for my guests, and you can get feedback, but nobody will be able to say I rigged the contest.” “You’d do that for me?” “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll just put up a little sign explaining that you’re taste-testing for the bake-off, and that you’d love their opinions.” “Oh, Natalie, that’s wonderful! I’m baking you a batch of my banana bread when I get home,” she said.

“That would be lovely,” I said, taking the heavy tray from her, “but why don’t you wait until after the bake-off!” “Do you think?” she asked. “I insist,” I said. My stomach gurgled as I breathed in the sweet aroma of Emmeline’s creations. The streusel cake looked particularly appealing. I hadn’t eaten for hours … would it hurt if I took one little bite? “I’ll drop by tomorrow to pick up the results,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my arm. “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?” I asked. “No, no … wouldn’t want anyone to accuse us of impropriety,” she said, and I was relieved to see the familiar twinkle back in her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I said, and carried the tray into the inn, pleased with my ingenuity. _____ The first set of archaeologists arrived at the kitchen door, surprising me. Most of my guests arrived at the front door, not the back. There were two of them: a tall, lean man with graying hair and a worried look, and a younger, cheerful-looking woman with curly, bright red hair and freckles. Both wore jeans and windbreakers; as the woman put her hand up to shade her eyes, the sunlight flashed off the face of her huge, utilitarian looking watch. She clearly didn’t go in for delicate accessories, I thought. “Welcome!” I said, opening the door to them. “I see you found the mooring lines!” “Saved us the long walk from the pier,” said the younger archaeologist. “Plus the fees to the harbormaster. I’m Molly 19

O’Cleary,” she said, extending a hand. “And this is my colleague Carl Morgenstern,” she said, nodding her head toward her partner. “We’ve got a reservation. At least I hope we do, or we’ll be sleeping in the wheelhouse!” “Not to worry,” I said. “I’ve reserved two rooms for you. Please come in.” They followed me through the kitchen into the dining room. As we passed Emmeline’s tray, Molly lingered for a moment. “Looks delicious,” she said. “I’m starving.” “You’re welcome to some,” I said. “Let’s get checked in first,” said Carl. “Then you can gorge.” “It’s fuel for all our hard work,” she said, snagging a piece of cake and following me to the front desk. They didn’t have much to carry; each of them had a small suitcase, and it didn’t take long to check in and put their bags in their rooms. Emmeline’s samples enticed them to linger in the dining room when they came back down, and I served them coffee as they helped themselves from the tray. “What is this?” Molly asked as she took a bite of Emmeline’s steamed pudding. I told her, and explained the theory behind the tray of goodies—and my role in the contest. “If you have a favorite,” I told them, “don’t tell me; write a note to Emmeline.” I pointed to the mason jar and the stack of index cards I’d set up for comments. “A woman with morals,” Carl said. “I like that.” “So,” I said. “You’re here to investigate the shipwreck?” Carl glanced at Molly, and I saw something pass between them before he answered. “That’s why we’re here,” he said. “You’re not the only ones,” I said. 20

Carl looked startled. “We’re not?” “I’ve got another couple of archaeologists coming in today.” “Oh, really?” Carl spoke, but both seemed suddenly wary. “Who?” “They’re with a company called Iliad,” I said. Molly sighed and shook her head. “They’re not really archaeologists, I’m afraid. They’re treasure hunters.” “Do you know who called them?” Carl asked. I shrugged. “All I know is that they booked three rooms.” “I knew they’d find out about this,” Carl said, radiating anger. Molly laid a hand on his arm. “Calm down, Carl. They weren’t the ones who found it, and we don’t even know how many miles offshore it is. Don’t jump to conclusions.” “If they manage to pillage this one …” “We’ll do everything we can,” she said, soothingly. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Molly sighed again. “We’ve had dealings with Iliad before. There was a shipwreck—a Spanish galleon from the 1600s—and they took over the entire thing. We didn’t even get a chance to map it, and then all of the artifacts …” She snapped her fingers. “Gone. Sold for profit.” “That’s terrible,” I said. “How can they do that?” “It all depends on who finds the ship—and where it is,” Molly told me. “If it’s within Maine territorial waters, then it may be under the state’s jurisdiction. If not, well … the law can be fluid.” “Too fluid, if you ask me,” Carl said, and I could hear the passion in his gravelly voice. “They’re destroying our cultural heritage! These shipwrecks—they’re snapshots of another time, preserved under the waves for centuries … and then, in a period of a 21

few weeks, some guy who’s out for a quick buck can take the whole thing apart and sell it for profit.” He smiled grimly. “Every age has its pirates,” he said. “Do you think it’s a pirate ship, then?” I asked. “It could be,” Molly said. “The location is right; records indicate the Black Marguerite was along the coast when it disappeared. There’s long been speculation that Davey Blue had a lady friend in this neck of the woods.” “How long ago was it?” I asked. “Mid-seventeenth century,” Molly said. “It would be an amazing find. The biggest since the Whydah.” “What’s the Whydah?” I asked. “It was originally a slave ship out of England, but it was attacked by the pirate ‘Black Sam’ Bellamy and became his flagship. It went down off Cape Cod in 1717—he was actually headed toward Maine when it sank—and was only recovered about twentyfive years ago.” “I had no idea Maine was such a pirate destination,” I said. “Even pirates need vacations,” joked Molly. “There was another captain whose ship disappeared,” I said. “He used to own this house, in fact—he built it for his wife. His name was Jonah Selfridge. One of his descendants, Murray Selfridge, lives on the island.” Jonah Selfridge had built a beautiful house, but I’d learned last fall the he wasn’t exactly a nice guy. The room was still haunted by one of his victims. “Do you know what his ship was called?” I shrugged. “No idea, unfortunately.” “What was the time period?” 22

“Somewhere in the early to mid-eighteen hundreds, if I remember correctly. Matilda Jenkins is the town historian—she could tell you tons more than I could.” Carl looked at Molly. “Could be good news. Not as old, but at least there might be less profit in it, so we wouldn’t have to fight Iliad as much.” “Depends on the cargo,” Molly said. She turned back to me. “Do you know what he was trading?” “Again, you’ll have to ask Matilda,” I said. “How can you tell which ship is which, anyway?” “It’s not easy,” she admitted. “Sometimes, if we can find an old image or the specifications of the ship we suspect it is, we can identify it by size and shape, or by something unique to the ship— like a figurehead, if it’s been preserved.” She took a bite of Emmeline’s streusel cake before continuing. It did look delicious; I had to restrain myself from grabbing a slice too. “It also depends on how broken up it is,” Molly said after she’d finished her bite. “Sometimes, they are almost intact, and sometimes, they’re in pieces.” “What do you do if you don’t have an image to go by?” “We look at the artifacts. There are often features—the ship’s size, the number and make of the cannons, the ship’s bell, if we’re lucky—that can positively identify the vessel. If not …” She shrugged. “We’ll see what puzzle pieces we can find and try to put them together!” “Sounds like exciting work!” “It is,” Molly said. “But it’s slow going. Measuring, mapping; and many times, if things weren’t immediately covered in sand or mud, metal artifacts—and anything close to them—are buried in concretions.” 23

“What’s a concretion?” “Concretions form when the metal rusts, and all kinds of things—shells, debris—stick to it, forming a hard layer around the object.” Molly took another bite of Emmeline’s pudding and swallowed before continuing. “We X-ray them to see what’s inside, and then we have to carefully chip the artifacts out. We usually have conservators to help us … the process takes days.” “Wow. And you have to dive down and get this stuff, right? That water’s about 50 degrees!” “We prefer to use submersibles, but our biggest research vessel—and the university’s submersible—is booked for another month. Usually, researchers can’t even take the smaller ones out without a captain, but Carl has logged enough hours they’re making an exception, and allowing him to be the captain.” “It’s not that big a boat. But not to have access to the bigger vessel … rotten luck, really,” Carl said. “It’s much less expensive this way,” Molly reminded him. “And at least this site is shallow enough that we can dive!” I shivered. “That water is freezing!” “We use dry suits,” Molly said, “so it’s not that bad. But yes— it’s a lot of work.” She grinned at me. “Which means we’ll be staying here for a while, most likely.” Which was good news for my bottom line, for sure. “Maybe. It depends on Iliad,” Carl said grimly. He was taut, like a bowstring full of barely leashed energy. “Don’t be such a pessimist, Carl. I’m sure we’ll have better luck this time.” Molly took a last sip of her coffee and glanced at her watch. I’d never seen a woman wear such a clunky piece before; it

looked like it weighed ten pounds. “It’s pretty calm out there, and it’s still daylight. What do you say we go and have a look?” “Thought you’d never ask,” Carl said, pushing his barely touched plate away and standing up quickly. “Let me know what you find out,” I said, leading them back through the kitchen to the back door. Molly turned back. “That reminds me—how do we get in touch with the historian?” “Her name is Matilda Jenkins. You can find her in the museum—the only brick building down by the main pier.” “Thanks,” she said, giving me a sunny smile. She was a likeable young woman, a huge contrast to her brooding partner, Carl. “And tell your friend I liked the pudding the best!” I watched the archaeologists head out in their research vessel, a small boat named the Ira B that Molly told me they frequently used for student expeditions. They had barely vanished around the point before the doorbell rang. I reluctantly went to answer it, hoping it wasn’t another would-be bake-off winner trying to bribe me with baked goods. Three people stood at the front door, two men and a woman. All three were dressed in jeans and blue windbreakers with a logo—Iliad—stitched on the breast pocket. “I’m Gerald McIntire,” said the oldest of the trio, who I guessed to be in his late forties. “I believe we have reservations?” “Of course,” I said, opening the door wider so the trio could file in. Gerald McIntire was the university archaeologists’ archenemy. He didn’t look like a pirate, I thought. He was tall and stocky, with a bit of a spare tire, but his baby cheeks and light blue eyes, fringed

with short blond lashes, gave him an innocent look. “You’re here because of the wreck, right?” I asked. “Right,” he said, wheeling his case behind him. He was pink from exertion, and puffing. “Long walk from the pier,” he said. “I wish I’d known when you were coming! I would have picked you up!” “No worries,” he said. “The suitcase rolls. Besides, I needed the exercise.” I glanced at my watch. “The mail boat doesn’t come for another hour, so I assume you have a boat. Did you leave it down at the main pier?” “We did.” “I’ve got mooring lines out back you can tie up to if you want. There’s going to be another boat docked there, too, but unless you came in a cruise ship, there should be plenty of room.” “Thank you,” he said, and turned to the other two. “This is Frank Goertz, my partner, and Audrey Hammonds, our primary archaeologist. We’ll have more crew coming soon; our main research vessels are down in the Caribbean at the moment, on other excavations. We’re doing a preliminary review of the site.” He grinned. “If this is what I think it is, we’ll be back with the big guns in the spring.” “Big guns?” “One of our two biggest vessels—they both have submersibles, and we’ll be able to map the site—even pull up cannons, if we find any.” I could see the excitement in his pale eyes. “I’ve been looking for Davey Blue’s ship my whole life; wouldn’t want to miss a chance to find her!” “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” I said politely. 26

“I’m kind of glad we don’t have the Nibelung here,” the other man said, his eyes roaming around the antique furniture, plush peach-colored rug, and sparkling windows looking out over the water. “This sure beats a six-foot cabin.” I laughed. “I certainly hope so!” I shook hands with Audrey and Frank; both of them had firm handshakes, and their skin was warm and calloused. She was wiry and fit-looking, with a weathered face, probably in her early thirties. The man was equally wiry, but much taller, about the same age as Gerald. Despite his cheerful assessment of their lodging, there were worry lines etched into his tanned brow. “Let’s get checked in, and we’ll go back and move the Lorelei,” Gerald said with an easy air of authority. As they finished the paperwork and I handed them the keys, he asked, “Is the other boat yours?” “Actually, no. A couple of marine archaeologists from the University of Maine came up in it today. Carl Morgenstern and Molly O’Cleary,” I said, watching his expression. “They’re currently out investigating the wreck.” “Ah,” he said, smiling back at me and not looking at all concerned about the potential of academics horning in on his turf. Either he was a good actor, or he didn’t view them as much of a threat. “It’s going to be a regular get-together, then,” he said, glancing at Audrey, who smiled back at him. “Just like old times.” “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay,” I said neutrally. If there was any truth to what Carl had said earlier, I hoped it would be significantly better than old times. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how it worked out.