By Karen MacInerney
Whilst a lobsterman discovers a sunken send, Cranberry Island is abuzz with pleasure. Is the ruin the is still of the Myra Barton, the lacking send of island sea captain Jonah Selfridge? Or the elusive Black Marguerite, which belonged to at least one of the main infamous pirates of the seventeenth century and vanished and not using a trace—except for the ghost send that old-timers say roams the water on fog-shrouded nights? quickly the island is swarming with marine archaeologists and treasure hunters. It’s excellent news for Natalie—and for the grey Whale Inn—until a physique turns up floating close to the damage. Natalie unearths herself immersed on this planet of pirates and sunken treasure, either prior and current. Will she resolve the secret and locate the killer in time? Or will Natalie be the following to affix the misplaced ship’s staff, down in Davy Jones’ locker?
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Extra info for Berried to the Hilt
But we only talked on the phone. ” She took a sip of coffee and looked sidelong at me over the rim of her mug. “So. Any progress on the local front? ” “If you’re talking about the bake-off, I’ve decided I’m just going to give the award to the best dish,” I said primly. She shrugged. ” I asked, leaning forward despite myself. ” She shook her head. “Not yet. ” _____ I arrived home to a nervous-looking Emmeline Hoyle, carrying a heavy tray with a tea towel draped over it. Her dark eyes looked nervous in her round face, and I noticed she was wearing her Sunday clothes—in this case, a long straight skirt and a red wool sweater that years of her excellent cooking had made a bit snug.
I don’t know. ” He opened his mouth to insert a second cookie, then paused. “You know, we’ve got a few mooring lines off the inn’s dock. If we moved the skiffs over, they could stay here and tie up right outside. ” “As in dead,” I said. I had a few rooms occupied now, but with the exception of one booking—a woman named Cherry Price, who was arriving from New York that afternoon—the next two months were not looking good. “And it would help fund the wedding,” John added. He had barely finished his sentence when there was a knock at the kitchen door.
He shook his head, remembering. ” Ten pounds? Forget a pot—you’d need a hot tub to cook them in. ” I asked. His eyes glinted with mischief. ” “I know,” he said, eyes sparkling. ” He squinted out over the water, and I followed his gaze to where two boats floated in the distance. “As for Deadman’s Shoal? Nobody pays any mind to the oldtimers’ stories,” he said. ” He gave me a wicked smile. ” I leaned toward him. ” He shrugged. “Maybe. ” “I sense a story,” I said. He shrugged again, and seemed to debate telling me for a moment.
Berried to the Hilt by Karen MacInerney