Part 2 (1/2)
”Lobster mac and cheese.” Mom indicated the contents of the heavy gla.s.s pan bubbling away in the oven.
”Oh-”
”Livvie made it this morning before she went to work.”
Thank goodness. My mother was a terrible cook. Livvie, on the other hand, was world-cla.s.s, and lobster mac and cheese was one of her specialties.
”Why don't you let Page and I finish up?” Mom said.
The rich aroma of sweet lobster meat and sharp cheese filled the room. My tummy rumbled in response, reminding me I'd eaten next to nothing all day.
I grabbed a Sea Dog ale from the fridge and joined Livvie and Sonny on our wide front porch. The heavy, wood-framed windows were still up and I looked through the wavy gla.s.s out toward the harbor and its six tiny islands. Morrow Island was farther out, beyond the harbor's mouth. My mother claimed she could see it from the cupola at the top of our house. Sonny, Livvie, and I knew that was impossible, but in the years since my father's death, we'd given up arguing with her.
”I'll take these porch windows down tomorrow, put up the screens,” Sonny said. ”Might as well. No work.”
”So what do we think?” Livvie asked from her seat on the porch swing. ”Who did it?” Like most Mainers, Livvie was nothing if not direct.
”From the questions the cops asked you, sounds like they think it's trouble Wilson brought with him from New York,” Sonny answered. He turned toward me. ”Were these people into something shady there?”
”I don't know. I barely know Tony and I'd never met Ray.” I flashed on the body hanging from the grand staircase at Windsholme.
”So that's it then,” Livvie was as eager as I was to pin the murder on outsiders.
”But why on the island?” I asked them the question that had bugged me from the beginning.
When no one had an answer, Sonny offered an alternative. ”Chris Durand was the last to person in the harbor to see the dead guy.”
”I'm sure Chris had nothing to do with it,” I responded, a little too vehemently.
”Julia, I know you and Chris have this thing,” Sonny said. ”But that doesn't mean he couldn't have done it.”
”What thing?” I glared at Livvie. Betrayer.
”That thing where you eat lunch with him at Gus's three times a week,” Sonny answered.
Oh, that thing. I remembered what I hated about living in a small town.
Sonny continued relentlessly. ”I know you have a big blind spot where Chris Durand is concerned, but that doesn't mean he isn't involved.”
”I don't know what you're talking about.”
”You do,” Sonny insisted. ”He's been in and out of trouble since high school.”
I looked at Livvie to see if she was going to give me any help, but she sat on the swing, apparently in agreement with her husband.
”Chris is a respected citizen of Busman's Harbor.” My voice rose. ”He owns three businesses in this town. G.o.d forbid if we were all judged by the things we did in high school. You especially, Sonny.”
”You don't live here, Julia,” Sonny raised his voice to meet my own. ”I do. I hear stuff. Current stuff.”
”What stuff?” I demanded. I'd been arguing with Sonny so long and hard all spring, it was reflexive. I yelled, he yelled. Such a well-worn road.
”Dinner.”
The three of us had been so caught up, we hadn't heard Page open the front door. ”What are you guys fighting about?”
”Nothing important, honey,” Livvie jumped off the swing and moved toward her daughter. ”You know how Daddy and Aunt Julia are.”
”Always yelling,” Page grumbled.
Livvie put an arm around Page and escorted her into the house, followed by Sonny. I brought up the rear. Pa.s.sing him on the way into the dining room, driven, as always, to have the last word, I hissed, ”Even if Chris had something to do with it, which I totally discount, it still doesn't answer the question why on the island?”
Chapter 8.
Livvie's mac and cheese was the perfect comfort food at the end of a long, horrible day. I ate heartily, savoring the rich tanginess of the cheese combined with the sweetness of the lobster. The tastes and textures perfectly complimented one another-the springy noodles and toothsome lobster along with the crunchy panko breadcrumb topping. People asked if I ever got tired of lobster. I'd discussed this with the family who owned the ice cream parlor in town, who fielded similar questions. The simple answer was no. If you loved something, you loved it.
After dinner was cleared up and Livvie, Sonny, and Page finally went home, I climbed the back stairs to my room and fell exhausted onto my bed. I wanted nothing more than to sleep. But once I was cleaned up and properly tucked in, sleep didn't come. I couldn't stop worrying about the clambake.
In the clambake business, when a day was lost, it was lost forever. The income projected for this weekend was gone, our ability to make it up later severely hampered by the short Maine summer season. I knew if we were still closed on Monday I'd have to have a conversation with our banker. And I knew it wouldn't be pleasant.
I lay awake, doing calculations in my head. What if we were still closed on Monday? On Tuesday? Wednesday? Being shut down through the next weekend would be catastrophic. I was certain if that happened, the bank would call our loan. I tossed and turned and started calculating again.
Eventually, counting our potential losses had the same effect as counting sheep, and I nodded off. But then, in that split second of twilight between conscious and unconscious, a vision of that awful, inert body hanging from the stairs leaped into my brain. My eyes flew open and I was wide-awake again. I couldn't stop picturing how dead Ray Wilson was. Even in the few moments I'd stared at his body, I'd known there was no spark of life.
I started the counting again, and the cycle repeated-the nodding off, the awful vision, the wide-awakeness, then back to the counting. I don't know how many times it happened, but it felt like most of the night. I must have slept some, but even those periods were disturbed by a dream where I ran from place to disconnected place- Manhattan, Busman's Harbor and towns I didn't recognize-struggling to tell people a man was about to be killed, but unable to produce a sound.
At dawn, I gave up and climbed out of my girlhood bed. Sunrise came early in coastal Maine. I looked longingly at the door connecting my room to Livvie's old bedroom, wis.h.i.+ng she were there so I'd have someone to talk to. I dressed quickly, though I had nowhere to go.
I considering putting on coffee and making breakfast, but the house felt like a cage. I had too much energy to be indoors. I headed out, not thinking about where I was walking, but somehow making a beeline for Gus's.
The restaurant was packed with lobstermen, fishermen, the crew who ran the whale watch, and the ferrymen who took people to the summer colony on Chipmunk Island. Was it my imagination or did the noise level fall when I walked into the place? The murder on Morrow Island was the biggest news to hit Busman's Harbor in years. It had to be the main topic of conversation, but no one came up to ask questions. No one spoke to me at all, a benefit of that famous Maine reticence.
I looked around hopefully for Chris Durand, but he wasn't there.
Jamie Dawes was, however, sitting at a round table with the officer who'd taken him out to the island. They were in uniform, which I thought was a hopeful sign, ready to get to work nice and early. I briefly debated whether it would be weirder if I walked over to their table, or weirder if I didn't. I decided on weirder if I didn't and approached.
”Hey, Jamie.”
”Julia. This is Officer Howland. I'm not sure if you met yesterday.”
”Not properly. h.e.l.lo, Officer. I think you were in my brother-in-law Sonny's cla.s.s at Busman High.”
Howland grunted in my direction around a mouthful of eggs.
”Are you going out to Morrow today?”