dead by now?”
I was so not happy that my guests were having this conversation, but I kept my mouth shut.
“She has a point,” said Boots, draining her water glass and forking up a mouthful of barely dressed salad.
On that slightly more optimistic note, I moved on to the next table, where Megan and Greg were dissecting the events of the morning with the kind of morbid excitement people often have after a close call. I felt awful for Bethany, who was looking miserable—and for Vanessa, who for all her efforts to remain perky, was obviously struggling to keep things together. Elizabeth, who was sitting next to her, wasn’t making things any easier; as I passed, she was asking how long Vanessa and Dirk had been working together.
“About two years,” Vanessa answered, staring at her plate.
“Now that he’s gone, will the business revert to you?” she asked.
Vanessa pressed her lips into a thin line. “That’s for the attorneys to work out,” she said, looking irritated for the first time. I didn’t hear the rest of the questions—I had to return to the kitchen to prepare dessert—but when I returned with a tray of fruit salads a few minutes later, Elizabeth was still asking questions and Vanessa was still looking like a trapped animal.
Once everyone had finished their strawberries and peaches topped with faux whipped cream (whipped nonfat evaporated milk—not quite Chantilly Cream, but not bad with a dash of vanilla and sweetener), Vanessa stood up and addressed the crowd.
“Okay, everyone. I know we’ve had … well, a bit of a shock,” Vanessa said, which was putting it mildly, in my opinion. “And I know we missed our nutrition conferences this afternoon—we’ll make that up later, if we can. But we’re still here to lose weight, so in a half an hour, please join me in the living room for a weight-lifting session.”
There were a few groans, but mostly silence. “You snooze, you don’t lose!” Vanessa quipped feebly. “I’ll see you in a half an hour, everyone. That will give you time to digest your dinners and change into appropriate clothing.”
With that, she fled the room.
As the group trickled off to their rooms to prepare for some heavy lifting, I cleared the dining room tables and stacked the dishes on the counter. I was about to fill the dishwasher for the fifth time that day when Gwen burst through the door, breathless.
“Aunt Nat!” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here … are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Gwen,” I said as she ran up to me and wrapped her arms around me. She smelled like shampoo and salt air.
“All I heard was that there was a death on the island, and that it had something to do with the inn—I was terrified it was you!”
“It was Dirk,” I said. “He died sometime last night or this morning, out near the lighthouse.”
“I know,” Gwen said as she released me. “Fernand and I headed over to the mainland, to do some sketches in Northeast Harbor. He went back early, and I stayed to visit with a couple of friends,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I just found out when I was down at the dock. George on the mail boat told me about it on the way over—he said some of the locals think Harry, the lighthouse ghost, killed him. That maybe he’s mad because someone disturbed his skeleton.”
I seriously doubted that was the case, but I’d had a few brushes with the supernatural since moving to Cranberry Island, so I wasn’t about to rule anything out completely. Still, I was sure Dirk’s death was the result of a more mundane event. “They haven’t even determined who the skeleton belonged to,” I reminded her. “And whatever happened to Dirk, I seriously doubt it was due to a ghost.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “There was that weird light last night, and then this …” She shivered. “And the police have been here all day,” she went on, “and I haven’t been here to help.”
“Marge was here,” I reminded
I was so not happy that my guests were having this conversation, but I kept my mouth shut.
“She has a point,” said Boots, draining her water glass and forking up a mouthful of barely dressed salad.
On that slightly more optimistic note, I moved on to the next table, where Megan and Greg were dissecting the events of the morning with the kind of morbid excitement people often have after a close call. I felt awful for Bethany, who was looking miserable—and for Vanessa, who for all her efforts to remain perky, was obviously struggling to keep things together. Elizabeth, who was sitting next to her, wasn’t making things any easier; as I passed, she was asking how long Vanessa and Dirk had been working together.
“About two years,” Vanessa answered, staring at her plate.
“Now that he’s gone, will the business revert to you?” she asked.
Vanessa pressed her lips into a thin line. “That’s for the attorneys to work out,” she said, looking irritated for the first time. I didn’t hear the rest of the questions—I had to return to the kitchen to prepare dessert—but when I returned with a tray of fruit salads a few minutes later, Elizabeth was still asking questions and Vanessa was still looking like a trapped animal.
Once everyone had finished their strawberries and peaches topped with faux whipped cream (whipped nonfat evaporated milk—not quite Chantilly Cream, but not bad with a dash of vanilla and sweetener), Vanessa stood up and addressed the crowd.
“Okay, everyone. I know we’ve had … well, a bit of a shock,” Vanessa said, which was putting it mildly, in my opinion. “And I know we missed our nutrition conferences this afternoon—we’ll make that up later, if we can. But we’re still here to lose weight, so in a half an hour, please join me in the living room for a weight-lifting session.”
There were a few groans, but mostly silence. “You snooze, you don’t lose!” Vanessa quipped feebly. “I’ll see you in a half an hour, everyone. That will give you time to digest your dinners and change into appropriate clothing.”
With that, she fled the room.
As the group trickled off to their rooms to prepare for some heavy lifting, I cleared the dining room tables and stacked the dishes on the counter. I was about to fill the dishwasher for the fifth time that day when Gwen burst through the door, breathless.
“Aunt Nat!” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here … are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Gwen,” I said as she ran up to me and wrapped her arms around me. She smelled like shampoo and salt air.
“All I heard was that there was a death on the island, and that it had something to do with the inn—I was terrified it was you!”
“It was Dirk,” I said. “He died sometime last night or this morning, out near the lighthouse.”
“I know,” Gwen said as she released me. “Fernand and I headed over to the mainland, to do some sketches in Northeast Harbor. He went back early, and I stayed to visit with a couple of friends,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I just found out when I was down at the dock. George on the mail boat told me about it on the way over—he said some of the locals think Harry, the lighthouse ghost, killed him. That maybe he’s mad because someone disturbed his skeleton.”
I seriously doubted that was the case, but I’d had a few brushes with the supernatural since moving to Cranberry Island, so I wasn’t about to rule anything out completely. Still, I was sure Dirk’s death was the result of a more mundane event. “They haven’t even determined who the skeleton belonged to,” I reminded her. “And whatever happened to Dirk, I seriously doubt it was due to a ghost.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “There was that weird light last night, and then this …” She shivered. “And the police have been here all day,” she went on, “and I haven’t been here to help.”
“Marge was here,” I reminded
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