Basket Case, page 1
BASKET CASE
A GRAY WHALE INN NOVELLA
KAREN MACINERNEY
Copyright © 2023 by Karen MacInerney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Murder on the Rocks Chapter One
More Books by Karen MacInerney
Recipes
Lemon Sunshine Bundt Cake
Potato Cheese Soup
Margučiai (Egg Decorating) Instructions
About the Author
1
“It’s egg-decorating workshop day, isn’t it?” my handsome husband John asked as I carried the last of the breakfast dishes from the dining room of the Gray Whale Inn. It was springtime in Maine, and although it was still a lot colder than I was used to for April (I’d grown up in Texas), the sky was bright blue, spring bulbs were unfurling their brightly colored blossoms, and the edges of the woodland outside the inn were sprinkled with wildflowers whose names I hadn’t yet learned. On my walk the day before, I’d gathered purple hyacinth and a few narcissus for the vase on the windowsill above the sink, and I couldn’t help but stop and sniff them every time I walked into the kitchen. Mixed with the comforting scent of the cinnamon-apple muffins I’d made for breakfast, the scent of spring flowers made the inn smell like something Martha Stewart would have happily bottled and sold for millions.
“Yes, the wax-pattern workshop is today!” I said, putting the dishes down and stopping to give Biscuit, our resident orange tabby, a few pets. She was in her favorite sunbeam spot on the floor near the radiator; her younger companion, Smudge, was nowhere to be seen. Probably upstairs playing hide-and-seek with a catnip mouse, I decided as the patter of galloping paws sounded from overhead. I looked at the empty egg cartons on the counter from our preparations the day before. “I’m excited to learn how to do the wax-pattern decorating. Agnes helped me blow out a couple dozen eggs yesterday; that’s why we had scrambled eggs for breakfast,” I said.
“Win-win then,” John said. “I love your scrambled eggs! And I talked with Agnes over breakfast; she seems lovely.”
“She is,” I agreed. Agnes Masaitis, whose parents had hailed from Lithuania and who had learned the traditional Easter craft from her own grandmother, had pitched the idea for an egg-decorating workshop to me months ago. Since I had some Lithuanian heritage, I’d been intrigued, and signed her up immediately. Although she lived in nearby Ellsworth, she’d had come to the Gray Whale Inn a day early to help me get everything ready for the workshop, which would be a mix of out-of-towners who had decided to make a weekend of it alongside a few locals. The workshop had been good for business; although it was a beautiful spring day outside, April in Maine could be unpredictable, and it was a hard time of year for bookings. “Will you put the rest of the dishes in the dishwasher while I put down some vinyl tablecloths in the dining room?” I asked.
“Of course!” John gave me a heart-stopping smile; even though we’d been together for a few years now, his sandy hair and green eyes still set my pulse racing. John was the island deputy and had grown up spending summers on the island before returning to pursue life as an artist. When I bought the Gray Whale Inn, he came as part of the package, as he rented the carriage house behind the gray-shingled former captain’s house. We’d started as friends, but before long, we had fallen in love, and now we were partners in life… and innkeeping, which was a delightful side benefit. Many hands, after all, make if not light work, then at least lighter work. As he stood at the sink, I wrapped my arms around his flannel-clad chest and squeezed, inhaling a quick whiff of his woodsy scent. He turned and squeezed me back, then kissed me on the head.
“You’re the best,” I said, and fairly floated back into the dining room, almost forgetting the stack of tablecloths I’d gathered for the wax-pattern workshop.
As the door to the kitchen swung closed behind me, I heard voices from the parlor beyond.
“He never should have married you,” I heard a woman hiss. “I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I’m glad he didn’t listen. He loves me, and I love him!” a younger woman replied, anger in her voice. I sighed; I knew exactly who it was.
“You just want him for his money, don’t you? Well, I wouldn’t get excited about it. Before he died, Ralph and I made sure you’ll never touch…”
2
“Anyone in here?” I called, hoping to interrupt them before words were said that couldn’t be taken back. If it wasn’t already too late.
“Natalie?” Mercedes, a young, dark-haired woman with a sweet, round face popped around the corner, her face flushed. A moment later, her mother-in-law appeared behind her, a brooding angry look on her sharp features, her gray-streaked brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. She reminded me of an angry nun. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mercedes continued. “We didn’t realize anyone was here!”
“Just getting ready for the workshop,” I said. “I’m really excited; Agnes came and helped me prepare the eggs yesterday, and I think it’s going to be a treat.’
“Justine is an artist,” Mercedes said, nodding toward her mother-in-law, who was still looking at her as if she were an unfortunate piece of forgotten Tupperware she’d found in the back of the fridge. “I’ll bet her work will be amazing.”
Justine sniffed. I had to give Mercedes points for effort. “What kind of dye is she using?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m just providing the eggs and the venue; she’s taking care of all the rest. She did say we should wear old clothes, though; I hope you brought something you don’t mind getting color on!”
“Of course we did,” Justine said condescendingly. “And remember, I’m allergic to peanuts, so no peanut oil or peanuts in any of the food you provide.”
“I remember you telling me when you made the reservation,” I said.
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to meet my friends for our morning walk. I’ll see you at the workshop.” She turned and walked away; a moment later, as I unfolded the first tablecloth, I heard the front door open and close.
“Can I give you a hand with those?” Mercedes asked as I smoothed the tablecloth down.
“No need,” I said. “That sounded rough; are you okay?”
She sighed. “I invited Justine to this to try to smooth things over with her,” she said. “I’m afraid it seems to be backfiring.”
“I saw that one of her friends is here, too.”
“Two of them, in fact,” she said. “Justine told them about it, and now it’s the four of us. We went to that lobster pound on the dock last night and all my mother-in-law did was complain about Mary running for the school board and tell Phoebe she should make her HOA sue the people across the street from her for painting their house the wrong color.”
“And she still has friends?”
“I know, right?” she said. “Seriously, though; let me help with that.”
“Thanks,” I said, handing her a tablecloth. Together, we spread it over one of the tables by the window. “Do you and your husband live close to her?”
“We’re all in Ellsworth, but Aidan and I are about a half hour away from his mom. Not nearly far enough, if you ask me.” Her shoulders sagged. “I really hoped this weekend would help us connect find common ground, but all she talks about is money, and how I’m not going to get any. Like I married Aidan for his mother’s money. It’s so… hurtful.” Her face flushed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. My own mother-in-law lived in the carriage house behind the inn. We’d had a few rough moments, but had come to a point of mutual respect, and I was grateful for it. It was hard being enemies with your partner’s parents. “She saves the best for you, eh?”
“She’s kind of mean to everyone, actually. I’m realizing that today; I guess that makes me feel a little better.”
“A little,” I said. I was about to ask how her husband’s relationship with his mother was when the door from the kitchen swung open and my very pregnant niece Gwen appeared.
“Hi, sweetheart!” I said, smiling at Gwen, whose pale face was surrounded by a halo of dark curly hair and whose tiny frame was dwarfed by her enormous baby bump. The baby was due any day, and half the island had already knitted the future addition blankets, booties, and hats. “Gwen, this is Mercedes. She and her mother-in-law are here for the egg-decorating class.” I grinned. “You know a little about in-laws, don’t you?”
“Mine are great, but my husband is a saint for putting up with my mother,” she said, th en looked at me. “You know she’s coming when the baby’s born, right?”
“I have a room reserved for her next week,” I told her. Gwen’s mother, my sister Bridget, had been less-than-thrilled to learn that her daughter was marrying a lobsterman and pursuing a career in art instead of finishing her degree and going into something sensible, like business. They had arrived at an uneasy detente, with “uneasy” being the operative word.
“When are you due?” Mercedes asked.
“Two weeks,” she said, her hands resting on her pregnant stomach. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it that long, though. I can barely sit down as it is!”
Mercedes had a hopeful look on her face. “What’s it like, being pregnant?”
“Exciting. Terrifying. Heartburny.” Gwen grinned. “Are you thinking about having kids?”
“We have,” she said, with a glow that told me she was more than ready to start a family of her own. “That’s part of the reason I invited my mother-in-law for this weekend. I guess I was hoping to make peace with her before we bring a child into the family.”
“I hope it works out that way,” Gwen said encouragingly. “I’m so glad to have my Aunt Nat around, even though my mother’s far away. Family is good.” My niece shot me a smile that warmed my heart.
“I’m sure we’ll get the family thing figured out,” Mercedes said with an attempt at a smile, then reached for another tablecloth. “Do you need any more help?” she asked me.
“Go relax,” I said. “Looks like you’ll have a full afternoon ahead of you; take some me time.”
“Maybe I should,” she said, and grinned. “And maybe another slice of cake?”
3
I followed my own advice once I got the tablecloths laid out, pulling on a pair of hiking boots, putting a bit of food into the cats’ bowl, and stepping out into the spring morning. Biscuit and Smudge, who’d abandoned the catnip mice at the sound of the food bag rustling, dug in greedily as I closed the door behind me and headed down the path behind the inn. Gwen had gone down to John’s workshop to ask his opinion on a new painting series she was considering starting, but had assured me she’d be back in time for the workshop. Based on the tension I’d experienced with Mercedes and Justine just a few minutes before, I was grateful.
The sun was high in an impossibly blue sky and the crisp air smelled of green and promise, and the path along the cliff beckoned. John was working on something in his workshop behind the inn; I could hear hammering through the open door as I walked toward the path leading up from the inn, breathing the cold sea air and feeling it fill my lungs. While we were at the workshop, John had told me he was planning on going to the town pier to deliver more of his toy boats to Island Artists and pick up a grocery order from the mainland. It was good to have help with the chores and errands that came with running a bed-and-breakfast. As I climbed the rise to the path, I turned back and looked at the inn, feeling pride swell in me at the sight of it.
The gray-shingled Cape Anne was nestled into the rocks and trees of the island, looking like it had sprung from the earth. Although the gardens were still dormant, I knew that in a few months, purple and pink lupines would cloak the sloping meadow that stretched down from the inn toward the rocky coast, and the bushes lining the path would be full of fuchsia beach roses with their deep, winey scent. Soon, I would be planting pansies and lobelias and geraniums in the window boxes again, and the inn would be full of summer vacationers, come to escape the craziness of life on the mainland.
I’d given up my own mainland life in Texas years ago, after a chance trip to Maine brought me to Cranberry Island and I had fallen in love with the gorgeous shingled Gray Whale Inn. On instinct, I had put an offer in on it, cashing out all my savings in a gamble that even now I was amazed I had the courage to take. I was so glad I had, though. Now, instead of living in a cubicle at the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department in Austin, I was the proprietor of the Gray Whale Inn, the wife to a sweet, gorgeous man, and part of a thriving island community full of people who had become dear friends.
Life can surprise you when you take chances. Sometimes in wonderful ways you never could have expected.
I took one last look at the inn that had been the home to so much of my life the last few years—and soon would see a new life, in the form of my grand-niece or nephew—and turned to head down the path, hopping over a few slushy mud puddles and pulling my jacket tight against the chilly wind off the water below.
I hadn’t gone far when a trio of women appeared, Justine at their head, the same sour look on her face I’d seen earlier.
“Hello again,” I called.
She grunted a response, and I stepped off the path into a patch of half-melted, icy snow to let her pass. And pass she did, with two equally dour looking women in her wake; I got the strong sense that something had happened among the women, one of which shot me a tight-lipped smile and the other simply a sharp nod.
“See you shortly!” I called as they tramped down the path toward the inn. I found myself hoping they took their shoes off, or at least wiped them off, before going inside. They were women, I remembered then; women were usually the most mindful of dirty shoes, since they seemed to be the ones who usually cleaned up after them. With Justine and her pals, though, I wasn’t sure that would be the case.
Poor Mercedes. It was like putting a gourami in with a pack of piranhas. I made a mental note to see if Gwen would sit with her, to provide moral support; I had the feeling the young woman might need it.
I headed down the path a little further, and was about to turn back when a piece of paper caught on a tangle of branches caught my eye. It was a photograph that had been printed on a color printer. One corner was wet where it had made contact with a bit of melting snow, but it looked like it hadn’t been there long enough for the ink to run. I picked it up; it showed a man and a woman embracing on a beach; I couldn’t see her face, but from what I could see of his, I didn’t recognize him. I looked back over my shoulder in the direction the three women had gone. Had one of them dropped it? I picked up the photo, folded it in half, and tucked it into my pocket. Then, after one last gaze out at the mountains on Mount Desert Island, their craggy pink granite slopes still frosted with snow despite the warmer weather, I turned back to the inn.
4
Agnes emerged from her room about a half hour before the workshop was scheduled to start, while I was refilling the coffee carafe and setting out milk and sugar for the workshop participants. She was a short, solid woman with a cap of steel-gray hair and intelligent eyes magnified by her thick glasses; I could sense both kindness and hurt in her, and I had the feeling she’d seen some serious challenges in her time on the planet. In addition to the basket of blown eggs we’d prepared the day before, Agnes had brought her supplies, and was laying out candles, little metal cups, pencils, pins, and sheets of sweet-smelling beeswax.
“Can I do anything for you?” I asked.
“Yes, actually,” she said, her gray-blue eyes shining as she dug several boxes of dye out of her fabric bag. “I’ll need some boiling water to make the dyes; could you put the kettle on? I brought vinegar.”
“It’s just like traditional Easter eggs!” I said.
“Almost,” she said.
“How did you get started doing these, anyway?” I asked.
“My mother taught me,” she said. “Her mother came from Lithuania when she was a young woman; making margučiai is one of the traditions she passed on.” She pronounced it “margoochay.” “The craft comes from centuries ago… decorated eggs were supposed to provide protection, and both the symbols and the colors had meaning. Flowers mean children, green is youth and growth, brown is the earth… I have a list you can use when you design your own eggs.”
