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Chapter One

The alarm rang at 6 AM, jolting me out from under my down
comforter and into a pair of slippers. As much as I enjoyed
innkeeping, I would never get used to climbing out of bed while
everyone else was still sleeping. Ten minutes later I was in the
kitchen, inhaling the aroma of dark-roasted coffee as I tapped it
into the coffeemaker and gazing out the window at the gray-blue
morning. Fog, it looked like-the swirling mist had swallowed
even the Cranberry Rock lighthouse, just a quarter of a mile away.
I grabbed the sugar and flour canisters from the pantry and
dug a bag of blueberries out of the freezer for Wicked Blueberry
Coffee Cake. The recipe was one of my favorites: not only did my
guests rave over the butter-and-brown-sugar-drenched cake, but
its simplicity was a drowsy cook's dream.

The coffeepot had barely finished gurgling when I sprinkled the
pan of dimpled batter with brown-sugar topping and eased it into
the oven. My eyes focused on the clock above the sink: 6:30. Just
enough time for a relaxed thirty minutes on the kitchen porch.

Equipped with a mug of steaming French-roast coffee, I grabbed
my blue windbreaker from its hook next to the door and headed
out into the gray Maine morning. As hard as it was to drag myself
out of a soft, warm bed while it was still dark outside, I loved
mornings on Cranberry Island.

I settled myself into a white-painted wooden rocker and took a
sip of strong, sweet coffee. The sound of the waves crashing
against the rocks was muted, but mesmerizing. I inhaled the tangy
air as I rocked, watching the fog twirl around the rocks and feeling
thekiss of a breeze on my cheeks. A tern wheeled overhead as the
thrum of a lobster boat rumbled across the water, pulsing and fading
as it moved from trap to trap.

"Natalie!" A voice from behind me shattered my reverie. I
jumped at the sound of my name, spilling coffee on my legs. "I
was looking for you." Bernard Katz's bulbous nose protruded from
the kitchen door. I stood up and swiped at my coffee-stained
jeans. I had made it very clear that the kitchen was off-limits to
guests-not only was there a sign on the door, but it was listed in
the house rules guests received when they checked in.
"Can I help you with something?" I couldn't keep the anger
from seeping into my voice.

"We're going to need breakfast at seven. And my son and his
wife will be joining us. She doesn't eat any fat, so you'll have to
have something light for her."

"But breakfast doesn't start until 8:30."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll throw something together. He glanced
at his watch, a Rolex the size of a life preserver. "Oops! You'd better
get cracking. They'll be here in twenty minutes."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he disappeared back into
my kitchen with a bang. My first impulse was to storm through
the door and tell Katz he could fish for his breakfast, but my business
survival instinct kicked in. Breakfast at seven? Fine. That
would be an extra $50 on his bill for the extra guests-and for the
inconvenience. Scrambled egg whites should do the trick for Mrs.
Katz Jr. First, however, a change of clothes was in order. I swallowed
what was left of my coffee and took a deep, lingering breath
of the salty air before heading inside to find a fresh pair of jeans.

My stomach clenched again as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom.
Bernard Katz, owner of resorts for the rich and famous, had
earmarked the beautiful, and currently vacant, fifty-acre parcel of
land right next to the Gray Whale Inn for his next big resort-despite
the fact that the Shoreline Conservation Association had recently
reached an agreement with the Cranberry Island Board of
Selectmen to buy the property and protect the endangered terns
that nested there. The birds had lost most of their nesting grounds
to people over the past hundred years, and the small strip of beach
protected by towering cliffs was home to one of the largest tern
populations still in existence.

Katz, however, was keen to make sleepy little Cranberry Island
the next bijou in his crown of elite resorts, and was throwing bundles
of money at the board to encourage them to sell it to him instead.
If Katz managed to buy the land, I was afraid the sprawling
resort would mean the end not only for the terns, but for the Gray
Whale Inn.

As I reached the door to my bedroom, I wondered yet again
why Katz and his assistant were staying at my inn. Bernard Katz's
son Stanley and his daughter-in-law Estelle owned a huge "summer
cottage" called Cliffside that was just on the other side of the preserve.
I had been tempted to decline Katz's reservation, but the
state of my financial affairs made it impossible to refuse any request
for a week in two of my most expensive rooms.

I reminded myself that while Katz and his assistant Ogden Wilson
were odious, my other guests-the Bittles, a retired couple up
from Alabama for an artists' retreat-were lovely, and deserved a
wonderful vacation. And at least Katz had paid up front. As of last
Friday,...(Continues)