Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) by Karen MacInerney Read Free Book Online Page A

the detective’s question. “He graduated from Princeton, then decided he’d rather be a lobsterman than a banker. I think he visited here once and fell in love with the place.”
    The detective let out a low whistle. “Heck of a lot of money for a useless degree.”
    “Maybe,” I agreed, “but he seems happy with his decision.”
    “You said he was almost like family. Has he said anything about Derek to you?”
    I shook my head. “I knew he’d taken on a new sternman, but we haven’t talked much; he’s been out on the boat almost every day. And with Gwen in California for a few months, he hasn’t been by the inn as much.”
    “I understand things weren’t going very well between them,” the detective suggested.
    I kept my voice cool, despite the tightness I felt in my throat. “Adam and Gwen?”
    “No.” I glanced back at him, and he shook his head. “The victim and Adam.”
    A little kernel of ice formed in my stomach, and I looked over at John, who was behind the wheel. His face was impassive, but I could tell by the tension in his jaw that he was concerned. “Why do you say that?” I asked.
    “A few people have mentioned it.” He leaned back in his seat and looked out the window. “It may not mean anything—it’s just worth exploring.”
    We drove the rest of the short way in silence, pulling up outside the low-slung building that functioned as the Lobster Co-op. The islanders brought their catch here, and the co-op sold it to restaurants and wholesalers across the country. Tom Lockhart, the tall, affable man who was in charge of the operation, was stepping out the door as we pulled up outside.
    “Tom!” I hailed him as I opened the van door and stepped out.
    “Natalie.” He gave me a subdued wave, and I could tell by his face he’d heard the news.
    “Is Adam here?” I asked.
    He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Inside,” he said as the policeman slid the van door open and stepped out onto the cracked pavement. “Who’s this?” he asked.
    “Detective Johnson,” the policeman said, stepping forward and proffering a meaty hand.
    “Is this about Derek Morton?” Tom asked.
    “You knew the young man?”
    Tom nodded. “Not well—he hadn’t been on the island long—but it’s a tragedy all the same.”
    “Who told you?” the policeman said.
    “Got a phone call from a friend in Ellsworth who knows his mom. Word travels fast around here.”
    Detective Johnson whipped out his notebook. “What was your name again, sir?”
    Tom told him.
    “How long had Derek Morton been working with Adam?”
    “A month or two, I think. He was working for Zeke Forester, too, on the side.”
    The policeman jotted something down. “Who’s that?”
    “He’s a farmer from the mainland. Just moved to the island a few months ago, and started a farm.”
    “How was the relationship between him and Derek?”
    Tom shrugged. “I have no idea. Have to ask Zeke, I’m afraid.”
    The New York cop scribbled that down. “Was there anything unusual about Derek? Did he seem worried about anything—or afraid?”
    “Afraid?” Tom laughed. “He was full of himself. Swaggered around like he was the cat’s meow—kept talking about how he wasn’t going to be filling traps with dead herring for long. Although with his work ethic, I can’t imagine him going very far.”
    “Did he ever say anything specific about what his new job was going to be?”
    “Said he knew some important people. They were going to take care of him.”
    “Maybe they did,” I murmured, thinking of the blood in the dinghy. John shot me a look and I clammed up.
    Detective Johnson plucked a card out of his pocket. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Lockhart. If you think of anything, please give me a call.”
    Tom took the card and smiled. “Anything I can do to help, officer.”
    The inside of the co-op smelled of gasoline, herring, and men, three of whom were gathered at a table at the end of the long room, listening to the crackle of