Murder Most Maine by Karen MacInerney

radiator. Then I looked out the window at the water again, trying to bring my heart rate down into a normal range. Unfortunately, the scenic view was becoming less effective the longer I looked at it. Or perhaps it was just that my day kept getting worse.
    I focused on the tenderloins again, making sure they were all covered with marinade, then fitted a lid onto the bowl. If Gertrude printed a single word indicating that my cooking might be responsible for Dirk’s death, I’d sue her for libel, I thought as I shoved the bowl of pork tenderloins into the fridge and grabbed a bag of salad greens.
    Of course, if the papers started printing the words “poison” and “Gray Whale Inn” in the same article, there might not be a Gray Whale Inn for very long.
    But there was nothing I could do about it now, I told myself as I whipped up a second vinaigrette for the greens and started to chop up a cucumber. My thoughts kept straying to Dirk’s blue eyes, so cold and fixed, and to the image of John, his arms around Vanessa, the morning light playing on her gleaming hair as she sobbed. Sweetheart , he’d called her.
    I pushed those thoughts out of my mind. If John could be this affected by the arrival of an ex-girlfriend, maybe we didn’t have much of a future together anyway. I thought instead of Dirk, and how ironic it was that someone so dedicated to fitness and health should die so young. I hoped that the cause of death would be determined as something nice and simple. Like a heart attack, brought on by doing too many wind sprints.
    Or maybe seeing the ghost of Harry, the missing lighthouse keeper.
    ___
    Detective Rose, as it turned out, did not stay for dinner, returning to the mainland late in the afternoon. As I finished arranging the napkins on the tables—with one less place set, which was a tangible reminder of this morning’s awful events—I glanced down at the carriage house where John lived. The last rays of sunset were fading from the panes of the lower windows, but the lights weren’t on. I hadn’t seen my neighbor since the discovery this morning, I realized. Where had he been?
    I returned to the kitchen to plate the salads and drizzle them with miniscule amounts of dressing; when I walked in to the dining room with a tray to serve, the room was almost full. Even Bethany had made it down from her room, her eyes swollen with crying, and so had Carissa, who was pale as a sheet.
    Dinner passed in a subdued manner—the detective’s presence had rattled everyone. Bethany ate almost nothing, and Carissa toyed with her salad and barely touched her tenderloin; when her mother chided her to eat her protein, the girl shot her a venomous look that startled me.
    “Do you really think he was murdered?” Boots asked her tablemates as I walked by to refill their water glasses. Eight glasses a day was the recommended intake of the program, and despite the events of the day, the participants had certainly been trying to follow the rules; I’d had to run the dishwasher twice just filled with glasses.
    “Probably overdosed on his supplements,” Cat said, spearing a piece of tenderloin. “God, this is good. Maybe it’s because I’m hungry, but I can’t remember having a tastier tenderloin.”
    I allowed myself a small, satisfied grin.
    “I almost forgot about the supplements,” Sarah said. “Vanessa didn’t give us any tonight. Do you think it’s because they might be poisoned?” she asked, her watery blue eyes wide.
    “I don’t know,” Cat said. “It could just be that she’s upset. I think they may have been more than just business partners, if you know what I mean.” She cut her eyes at the retreat leader. “Who knows? Maybe she did him in—to get a bigger cut of the business. But I’ll bet if anything, he just took one too many pills.”
    “Or they were poisoned,” Sarah said dramatically.
    Cat rolled her eyes. “Sarah, that’s ridiculous. If they were poisoned, don’t you think we’d all be