Part 2 (2/2)

Jamie gestured toward the empty chairs at their table. ”Yep. Waiting for the state police detectives and the crime scene team to get here from Augusta.”

”Thanks.”

As I walked back toward the counter, I was grateful for Gus's ”no strangers” policy. At least I wouldn't run into any of the wedding guests, though I had to admit that was unlikely so early in the morning. I grabbed a stool at one end of the C-shaped counter.

Behind it, Gus unhurriedly fried bacon and made pancakes, despite the size of the crowd. He didn't vary his pace for anyone. ”You're up early,” he said as he poured my coffee.

”Couldn't sleep.”

”Ayup. Clam hash?”

Among the cognoscenti, which is to say the locals, Gus's clam hash was famous. Like any hash, it's made with lots of onions and potatoes, but he uses clams instead of beef or corned beef. The fresh, diced clams give the hash a salty-sweet taste that cannot be beat. And if you ask for it, he will top the hash with one or two perfectly poached eggs.

”Yes, please. With one egg.”

”Because one egg is un oeuf.” Gus repeated the oldest joke in the world.

Sitting diagonally across from me on the long side of the counter was a man dressed differently from everyone else in the place. He had on a tweed sports coat and a tailored blue s.h.i.+rt, and was reading, my heart went pit-a-pat the New York Times. He was one of my people.

Suddenly, I was homesick for Manhattan. It was all I could do to keep from hiking out to the highway and sticking out my thumb. Back to the land of fresh bagels, high salaries and, best of all, no family responsibilities.

I stared at the backside of the man's newspaper. It had to be yesterday's. It would be hours before the Sunday Times made it to our end of the peninsula. But no, he was reading the wedding notices from the Times ”Sunday Styles” section. My favorite part of the weekend. Where had he gotten hold of it?

”Do you two know each other?” Gus asked.

”Quentin here's from New York City, too.”

”Not everyone in New York knows everyone else,” I said more grumpily than Gus deserved. I knew he didn't think that.

He put my order down in front of me. I cut into the egg and watched its exquisitely cooked yolk run onto my hash. I put a fork full into my mouth and felt my mood lift.

The man waved at me across the counter. He was pleasant looking, somewhere in his mid-forties, with dark blond hair, expensively cut. ”Quentin Tupper.”

Tupper. That explained his presence at Gus's. Like me, he was a legacy. The Tuppers were an old Maine family with many branches. If my father had been alive, he could have given me a complete genealogy and told me whose son Quentin was. But I'd never be able to ask my dad those kinds of questions again.

I leaned across the counter and stuck out my hand. ”Julia.” I left off my last name in case he'd already heard about the murder at the Snowden Family Clambake. It was the last subject I wanted to talk about.

Quentin asked me where I lived in the city, and I told him. As was so often the case when Manhattanites were out of town, we discovered we lived four blocks from one another and shopped at the same delis, lingered in the same coffee shops. While I sopped up the end of my egg with a piece of toast, we had a long chat about our neighborhood. I even forgot for one brief moment about the events of the previous day.

Gus's was all but empty by the time I finished eating. The harbor workers had places to go and it would be a couple hours before the after-church crowd arrived. Quentin Tupper finished his coffee and paid his bill. ”Lovely to meet you,” he said.

I said the same and he took off, leaving me alone at the counter with Gus.

The only people still in the dining room were Jamie and Officer Howland. I couldn't help myself. I approached them again. ”Still waiting, huh?”

Jamie nodded. ”They called. They were too late to have breakfast with us, but they're here now. We're meeting them at the station house.”

”You know it's really important to me to be up and running again as soon as possible, right?” I tried to keep any hint of whine out of my voice, though I'm not sure I succeeded. Officer Howland gathered up his trash and stomped off toward the barrel.

”Julia, I get it.” Jamie stood to leave. ”I told you yesterday, you can't rush this.”

”Well, if you think I can open tomorrow, can you try to let me know in time for me to place food orders?”

”I'll make sure the state police are aware of your time constraints,” Jamie answered formally. Then, in a friendlier tone, he added, ”Honestly, that's the best I can do.”

What could I say to that? I thanked him, returned to the counter, and asked Gus for my check.

Chapter 9.

Just as I was about to say good-bye to Gus, a familiar pair of legs came galumphing down the restaurant stairs. ”Hey, beautiful,” Chris Durand called.

The place was empty except for the two of us. And Gus, of course. I looked down at my new uniform-Snowden Family Clambake sweats.h.i.+rt, jeans, and work boots. Clearly, ”hey, beautiful,” was a meaningless greeting as far as Chris was concerned.

”Keep me company while I eat breakfast?” he asked.

”It's the middle of the day for you.”

”The cops want to see me again at nine. I figure I better get something in my stomach. Might be there for a while. My day is shot, anyhow.”

While Chris placed his order, I went to the dining room and sat down in the booth that, somehow over the last couple months, I'd come to think of as ”ours.”

Chris came in and sat across from me. He was so handsome that even all those years past my seventh grade crush, he took my breath away. He had light brown hair worn a little too long and the most astonis.h.i.+ng pair of green eyes. His strong chin, covered with a day's growth of beard, had at its center, G.o.d help me, a dimple. At thirty-four, his face had weathered from outdoor work, but that only added to his charm.

”How are you doing?” I asked.

”Moved down to my boat on Sat.u.r.day.” Chris owned a beautiful wooden sailboat, the Dark Lady, a thirty-three foot Maine-made Hinckley he kept in the marina just around the bend from Gus's place. He also owned a lakeside cabin he'd purchased from his parents when they couldn't take the winters anymore and fled south. Every summer, he rented out the lake house for the season and moved onto the Dark Lady. Even with three jobs, it was the only way to afford both.

”That's not what I meant.” I could tell he hadn't misunderstood. He was deliberately avoiding the topic of the murder.

”I know,” he admitted.

I'd discovered Ray Wilson's body on Morrow Island, and Chris had, apparently, been the last person known to see him on the mainland. The two events were separated by time and geography, but it still felt to me like we'd shared a traumatic experience. My sense was we needed to talk about it.

”Okay,” Chris said as if reading my thoughts. ”You first.”

I walked him through that morning. Waiting for Ray on the Jacquie II. Tony leaving to search for him. Michaela's nervousness on the boat. The moment when I opened the doors at Windsholme and saw what I saw.

”So he was just hanging there? That's tough.”

The sympathy in his voice brought tears to my eyes. It was the first time, awake and fully conscious, I allowed myself to feel the horror of what had happened . . . because I felt so safe when I was with Chris.

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