Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) by Karen MacInerney

boat. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen any funny business.”
    “What else would a lobster boat be doing hanging around the island?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, but I aim to find out,” Ernie said darkly.
    “Don’t go taking the law into your own hands, now,” Detective Johnson said mildly. “If you see any ‘funny business,’ I want to know about it. It might be related to what happened to that young sternman.”
    “I’ve got your number,” Ernie said with a steely smile that told me he planned on handling suspected poachers all by himself, thank you very much.
    Detective Johnson gave the young man a long, searching look, then turned to Adam. “I’ll be in touch.”
    The three men watched as we followed him out of the dim, fish-scented co-op, and I found myself glad I was an innkeeper and not a lobsterman.
    “Do you want us to run you down to Zeke’s farm?” John asked as we got back into the van.
    “Thanks, but you’ve driven me around the island enough already for one day,” he said. “The house is over there, right?” he asked, pointing toward a patch of woods not far from the pier.
    “I think so,” I said. “If you need a ride back, let me know.”
    “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got the inn’s number right here. ” He patted his shirt pocket. “Where’s the farm located, by the way? Is it within walking distance?”
    I gave him directions, then said, “It sounds like Derek might have been getting mixed up with something dangerous.”
    “Maybe,” Detective Johnson said. “Maybe not. Lots of young men talk big.”
    “He did end up dead, though,” I pointed out.
    “There is that,” Detective Johnson said. “There is that.”
    _____
    The police launch had pulled away from the inn’s dock, towing the dinghy with it, and was docking at the town pier, near the house where Derek Morton had apparently lived for a few weeks before his death. We’d left the detective near the pier—he was planning on walking to meet his team at the house.
    John and I got back to the inn, where the Cape Anne building sat serene above the soft blue waves. I looked out at the blue water lapping peacefully against the rocks, seaweed washing back and forth in the gentle waves. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that nothing unusual had happened. It had, though—and I couldn’t get the image of that young man’s pale face out of my mind.
    Catherine had finished tidying the rooms and gone down to the carriage house after her outing with Murray. John had headed down to his workshop to put the finishing touches on a sculpture for the show he was preparing for—his gorgeous driftwood pieces were starting to get some notice in the art world—while I dusted a pizza peel with cornmeal, dug a grapefruit-sized ball of dough from a plastic container in the fridge, and formed it into a rough round. I’d learned the recipe for no-knead artisan bread from Kathleen Flinn’s Kitchen Counter Cooking School , and now I always kept a tub of dough on hand for bread. In an hour, I’d score the top with a sharp knife and toss it into the oven with a cup of hot water, and the kitchen would fill with the homey, yeasty scent of fresh bread.
    As the loaf sat to rise, I began cutting parchment for fish en papillote . The recipe sounded sophisticated and tasted out of this world, but was quick and easy to assemble—perfect for a distracted chef.
    I laid the fillets on top of the parchment squares, ignoring Biscuit, who was winding between my legs and meowing pitifully, then drizzled them with olive oil and sea salt before tossing in some minced shallots, summer squash, and a few spears of asparagus. I sealed the packets and tucked the pan into the fridge; I’d slide it into the oven when the bread came out. Catherine would be delighted, I thought; a dish that was low fat and featured vegetables! Served with a salad and some crusty bread (which I knew she wouldn’t touch), it would be a summer