Berried to the Hilt by Karen MacInerney

said.
    “So? If he’s the one who called them, why would he want to kill Gerald McIntire?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “But he’s mixed up in all of this, and you never know what he might have seen or heard.”
    “What does Adam think of all of this?” Charlene asked.
    “I haven’t talked with him yet. Gwen told me he’s coming by the inn tonight,” I said. “I’ll ask him what he knows then.”
    “Do you really think we can save Eleazer?” Claudette asked, a tremble in her normally authoritative voice.
    Charlene and I exchanged swift glances. “We’ll do everything we can, sweetheart,” Charlene said, reaching over and patting Claudette’s broad knee. “Now, let’s get to the store and get a cup of coffee. It’s cold out there!”
    As if on cue, an icy gust swept off the water. Charlene hit the gas, letting out a plume of gasoline-scented exhaust, and the truck roared up the road. I hurried to the door of the co-op, hoping Tom would have good news—or failing that, at least not tell me anything that would incriminate Eleazer further.
    The interior of the lobster co-op was dim and smoky, and smelled strongly of fish—not all of it fresh. A half-dozen men were ranged around a rickety table in the corner, all with grave expressions on their weathered faces. They lightened slightly when I produced the cookies. Adam, I noticed, was not among them. “They’re still a bit cold, but they’ll thaw quickly,” I said.
    Tom reached for a cookie, and several other lobstermen followed suit; they were disappearing fast, and I received several gruff thanks. “Tom got you in the soup this year, didn’t he, young lady?” asked Mac Barefoot, a grizzled old-timer. “Judging the bake-off and all.” I knew his wife, Dottie, had passed away twenty years ago, and from all reports, he wasn’t much of a cook. At least one person on the island wouldn’t hate me when it was done, I thought.
    “That’s what Charlene tells me,” I replied. “But I’m going to be completely objective. I’ve got a score sheet I’m using, and the entries are anonymous.” In theory, anyway; I doubted there would be multiple cranberry chutney recipes—or sugarless cranberry pie, for that matter.
    “Good luck with that,” he grunted, obviously thinking the same thing.
    Tom rescued me by changing the subject. “I heard the inspectors were over at the inn.” He was a tall, well-put-together man, with a natural charisma that had kept him at the helm of the lobster co-op for years.
    I nodded. “They’re questioning the archaeologists at the inn right now.”
    “I don’t know why they’re bothering, since they’ve already locked up poor Eli,” one of the lobstermen said.
    “Just because he’s been arrested doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” Tom said.
    “That’s part of what I came to talk to you about,” I said, addressing Tom. “We need to find a good defense attorney.”
    “Already contacted the top attorney in Bangor—she drove in today. The co-op is taking a collection to help Claudette with the costs.”
    My heart warmed. The islanders were looking after one of their own. “Count me in, too,” I said. “I’ll tell Claudette when I see her in a few minutes. She’s down at the store with Charlene right now. We’re trying to keep her spirits up.”
    “That shipwreck is cursed,” someone grumbled.
    “Haunted, too,” another said. “ ‘Always stay clear of Deadman’s Shoal,’ my dad used to tell me. ‘Strange things happen out there.’”
    “I know it’s supposed to be an old wives’ tale, but I thought I saw a ship there once,” said Mac. After Eleazer’s careful admission the other day, I expected the others to scoff, but there was only a tense silence. A few of the lobstermen exchanged cryptic glances as Mac continued. “The fog was just starting to roll in, and though I usually go round the long way so as not to get too close to Deadman’s Shoal, I was trying to make port before