A Death on the Island Read online

  “No way!” Page said, so excited she clapped her hands together. “How did that happen?”

  “It’s a long story, but she was desperate for a room and she agreed to pay double the rate.”

  “Double?” Page reached across the center console and patted my shoulder. “Great job, sis. That’s amazing.”

  Then, seeming to remember herself, she turned back to me, suspicion in the lines of her forehead. “What’s the bad news?”

  I took a deep breath. “The bad news is that she’s dead.”

  Page’s mouth fell open, and I heard the air leave her lungs in a huge puff as if she’d been punched in the gut. “What?”

  I explained the sad downfall of Holly Belden, Page growing more and more angry with every word.

  “How does this keep happening?! First, we have a body turn up on our beach, then we have a murderer living next door, and now we have our first guest being murdered? What’s next?”

  She ranted and raved the rest of the drive, going on and on about what a PR nightmare the whole thing was, and it was at that point that I decided not to tell her about Mrs. Harris’ parents being buried in the backyard. Once again, it was information that would only serve to upset her, and she was already upset enough.

  * * *

  The ground was soft from the morning rain, and Mason and I were covered in mud up to our elbows.

  “So, Page really doesn’t know that these crosses are for Mrs. Harris’ parents?” he asked, pulling a big chunk of onion grass out from the base of one of the crosses and throwing it in the ten-gallon bucket sitting between us.

  I shook my head. “And she will never find out if I have any say about it.”

  Holly Belden’s payment for her room cleared the bank before her death, but Page and I had serious qualms about spending it. However, when I made the suggestion that perhaps we could use the money to make a small memorial to the people who had died at the bed and breakfast—or rather, in Nathaniel’s case, been discovered dead at the bed and breakfast, and in Holly’s case, had been staying at the bed and breakfast when she was killed—Page agreed.

  Granted, she didn’t agree right away. We had a very long, very heated discussion about whether it was better to draw more attention to the fact that people in connection with our business kept dying, and I finally convinced her that it would make it seem as if we had nothing to hide.

  “People won’t be able to use it against us,” I had said, remembering how Robert Baines had wanted to do just that, though I’d again neglected to tell Page that part of the story.

  Now, I leaned back on my knees and wiped a gloved hand across my forehead, hoping I hadn’t just wiped dirt across my face. “Page thinks the markers are for Nathaniel Sharpe and Holly Belden,” I explained to Mason. “Which, they sort of are.”

  My mind flickered briefly to Holly Belden. Her story had become clearer in the days following the murders and, despite the way she had blackmailed me to get into the party, I had developed a grudging respect for her. As it turned out, it had not been mere coincidence that she shared the name and age of the daughter of Robert Baines’ ex business partner. She had never given up trying to expose Robert Baines’ part in her father’s suicide all those years ago. Maybe it was why she had become a reporter in the first place. Surely it was why she had attended the party that night, hoping to confront him before the evening was over. Exactly what she would have done then, we would never know, since Baines’ murder had thrown the night into confusion.

  My mind returned to the moment and I realized Mason was looking up at me, dubious at what I’d said about the crosses. “But this is also the exact location where Mrs. Harris’ parents are buried,” he pointed out.

  “Right,” I nodded. "But there’s no saying that they can’t represent different things to different people. To Page, this is a smart business move that helps us maintain a good reputation amongst our guests. To Mrs. Harris, this is a place where she can come and visit her parents and, hopefully, not try to submerge our house in water every time it storms.”

  “What does Page think about Mrs. Harris spending so much time out here?” he asked.

  “She thinks it is Mrs. Harris being creepy.”

  He nodded. “That’s a solid explanation. Mrs. Harris is creepy.”

  I punched him in the shoulder and he winced, but laughed. “What? She is!”

  “Yeah, but it’s still rude to say it. Anyway, she’s doing much better these days. The passing of that big storm seems to have cleared her mind again—or at least made it as clear as it ever gets. She’s stopped talking about the night her papa fell down the stairs and her mama died of a heart attack.”

  Mason nodded, understanding. He always understood things.

  It had been three weeks since the party, and Mason and I had spent every day together. Some days he would stop by just for a few minutes in the evening to say hi, and other days I would spend the entire day with him in his studio, reading and watching him paint.

  We finished weeding the ground around the crosses and we sat back, the cool mud slowly soaking into the backs of our jeans.

  “Do you think our relationship will ever not be mired in death and morbidity?” Mason asked.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He gestured to the crosses in front of us, his eyes wide as if it were obvious. “We only met in the first place because you thought I’d killed someone, then we reconnected at a dinner party where two people were murdered, and now we spend our Saturday mornings tending to the graves of two people who both died in your house sixty years ago.”

  “Fair point,” I said, thinking about how our story would make a horrible romance novel. “I guess only time will tell.”

  Mason didn’t say anything, and I turned to him, suddenly nervous. “Is that okay?”

  He looked at me, his eyes softening around the edges as he smiled, and wrapped a muddy arm around my waist, pulling me into him. “It’s more than okay. It’s perfect.”

  ______________________________

  Find out what mysteries lie ahead for Piper in Book 3, A Corpse At The Cove.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Blythe Baker is a thirty-something bottle redhead from the South Central part of the country. When she’s not slinging words and creating new worlds and characters, she’s acting as chauffeur to her children and head groomer to her household of beloved pets.

  Blythe enjoys long walks with her dog on sweaty days, grubbing in her flower garden, cooking, and ruthlessly de-cluttering her overcrowded home. She also likes binge-watching mystery shows on TV and burying herself in books about murder.

  To learn more about Blythe, visit her website and sign up to her newsletter at www.blythebaker.com