Part 7 (1/2)

After dessert, most of the guests drifted off to the point on the west side of the island to watch the sunset. You don't get many over-ocean sunsets on the East Coast of the United States and Morrow Island's was spectacular. Tonight, the sun was like a giant fireball sinking into the sea. The clouds above echoed bright pinks and blues onto the water below. Couples who probably rarely had time to watch sunsets held each other, and a man hoisted a sleepy toddler onto his shoulders. Sometimes I just loved what we did.

Around me, the staff cleaned up quickly. Most of us would leave with the guests on the Jacquie II as soon as the sun was down. I noticed Lieutenant Binder hadn't gone over to the point with the other guests, but lingered at his picnic table. I couldn't resist approaching him. ”How's the case going?”

”Fine.”

I smiled. ”You're going to have to give me more than that.”

Binder smiled back. Lobster and beer will do that for your mood. But before he could say anything, I heard a shout and saw Etienne pointing at something behind me. I whirled around. The side porch that ran the length of the Windsholme was engulfed in roaring flames.

Chapter 20.

”Move guests to the boat!” I yelled to Captain George, but he and some of the more experienced staff were already herding our customers toward the Jacquie II. It was the safest place for them, and if the fire spread, Captain George could pull away from the dock and be out in open ocean in minutes. A few people protested or lagged behind to watch, but most of the guests were models of calm cooperation.

I sprinted for the fire hose and picked up the nozzle. We practiced with the hose when we drilled the staff every summer, but far as I knew, it had never actually been used on a fire. It was kept near the pavilion because the commercial kitchen was the most likely starting point for a fire. Supposedly there was enough hose to get up the hill to Windsholme. I ran with the hose toward the mansion, while Sonny and Etienne struggled to open the big valve. The expression, ”No man is an island,” was ironically never truer than when you were actually on an island. We all had to depend on one another. It would be a long time before help arrived.

About ten feet from the flames, I stopped and waited, desperately hoping there was enough water pressure to get up the hill. Windsholme's side porch was completely consumed by the fire. I backed up a foot or two because my cheeks and the end of my nose felt like they were burning. Smoke clogged my nose and mouth and I coughed and sputtered. I tried to steady my hands.

The water came with such force I staggered backward and almost dropped the hose. I felt strong arms at my back and Jamie's voice shouting, ”I got you.” I trained the water toward the fire, desperately wis.h.i.+ng I knew what I was doing. Do you aim toward the center of the fire, or work your way from the outside in? How could I not know?

The fire roared. With a crash, part of the side porch roof plummeted onto the burning deck. The French doors to the dining room began to burn. Soon, the fire would be inside the house.

I rushed forward, aiming a torrent of water on the doors, but quickly fell back, half pulled by Jamie, half driven by the heat. Around us, burning embers filled the air and I could feel Jamie behind me beating them off my shoulders and back. The fire blazed on, impervious to the water I directed at it.

”Jamie, what should I do?” I shouted.

”Rockland Fire Department. Let me take it.” The man who'd had the boy on his shoulders reached in and took the hose with such authority I immediately handed it over. ”Count the guests and employees. Make sure everyone's accounted for,” he shouted.

Oh, my G.o.d. ”Do you think someone could be inside?” It hadn't occurred to me.

The man didn't answer. He was completely focused on the fire, which was already responding to his expertise.

I ran to the Jacquie II to make sure all the guests were onboard. Along the way, I directed every employee I pa.s.sed to get on the boat. They all wanted to help, to do anything they could to save Windsholme. Gabrielle outright refused to go aboard. I understood her refusal. Unlike all the others, the island was her home. In the end, all the other employees did as I asked. The Jacquie II pulled out of our dock with everyone on board except Sonny, Etienne, Gabrielle, Jamie, Lieutenant Binder, Detective Flynn, the firefighter, and me.

The Coast Guard fireboat and the harbormaster's boat carrying the Busman's Harbor Fire department arrived at the same time. Sonny had reached them on the radio. By then, the fire was under control. Two men in full fire gear finally took the hose from the exhausted Rockland firefighter.

”Thank you!” Without thinking I embraced him.

He smiled wearily. ”I wanted to show my in-laws a real Maine clambake. I didn't count on the after-dinner show.”

”You and your family have free pa.s.ses to the clambake for life. We were so lucky you were here.”

”You were lucky in a lot of ways. Lucky this happened during a damp spring instead of a dry fall. Lucky for those thick stone walls and slate roof. If that structure had been wood, the whole thing would have gone up.”

Windsholme's stone walls and slate roof. I'd never felt lucky about them before. I'd felt only their crus.h.i.+ng financial burden. I'd always seen the house as an albatross. But in that moment, I realized losing Windsholme would leave a mansion-sized hole in my heart. Behind us, Detective Flynn unlocked Windsholme's front doors and firefighters wearing flashlights on their heads tromped inside.

About 3:00 A.M. we all climbed the Boston Whaler to head back to the harbor. Binder finished up a whispered conversation with Sergeant Flynn, the Busman's Harbor fire chief, and my hero firefighter, then touched my arm. ”You're closed down again until we can determine if this is another crime scene.”

I'd known right along we wouldn't be open tomorrow. We'd need to get the building inspector out to the island to a.s.sess the damage. Best-case scenario, if there were no structural problems inside Windsholme, we could get the porch secured so it wasn't a safety hazard for the clambake guests and be open the following day. The crime scene issue could cause a further delay. ”You think the fire was set?”

”That's what I'm about to find out,” Binder answered.

”How long will it take?”

His mouth was set in a grim line. ”As long as it takes.”

More devastating than the fire itself was what it represented. I'd been happy all day believing Ray Wilson was murdered by a stranger, his body strung up to scare or intimate Michaela. Morrow Island was barely involved.

Clearly, Binder was no longer sure about that scenario. The fire caused him to take a second look at our island. If it was set, who could have set it? Was there a stranger lurking on our island even now? Whatever had happened, we were closed for business again. And ever closer to financial ruin.

I sat in the Whaler, looked up at the beautiful stars, and tried to absorb the blow.

Chapter 21.

When daylight crept into my room the next morning, I wanted to cover my head. What was there to do, now that the clambake was shut down for a second time?

The answer was there was so, so much to do. I had to contact the town offices to arrange for the building inspector to go out to the island and tell us what to do about the ruined porch. Most important, I had to talk to my favorite banker, Robert Forman Ditzy. I wanted to call him first thing, before he called me.

I got cleaned up, dressed, and took my coffee upstairs to my office to wait for Sonny. On the long boat ride home, we'd agreed to do the call together. Sonny was the ”good cop,” or should I say ”good old boy,” who'd originally put the loan together with Bob the Banker. I was the ”bad cop” who'd charged in from out of town at the eleventh hour, demanding that the loan be renegotiated and hammering out the agreement we were operating under now. The phone call required both cops to get through it.

I looked at the clock. Still way too early to call the bank or the town. The minutes ticked slowly by. The office where I sat was originally my dad's. I hadn't changed it much since I took it over. For one thing, I hadn't had time. For another, sitting in the same room where he'd run the Snowden Family Clambake, with its familiar piles of paper and metal filing cabinets, made it feel like Dad was watching over me. ”What would you have done?” I'd asked the air so many times that spring, longing for my father.

His big oak desk sat in a rectangular bay of windows at the front of the house. From it, I could see the full expanse of the inner harbor where the Jacquie II was bobbing quietly in her berth. Bobbing quietly, instead of being cleaned and prepped for the clambake.

I read through a few e-mails, most from suppliers confirming we'd canceled our orders-again-and expressing sympathy or shock we'd had such a run of bad luck. I stood up from the desk and stretched. Craning my neck, I peered down the steep hill at our ticket kiosk on the dock. If Livvie was there, it would mean Sonny had dropped her off and would be at the office any minute. It was empty.

The New York Times Quentin Tupper had dropped off for me sat on a pile of invoices, forgotten where I'd left it Sunday night. I stared at it, longing to sit in the coffee shop around the corner from my old apartment in Soho and read the paper. Or even to be back at my job in venture capital, when the businesses I worked with weren't my own with the exhausting emotional cost that involved. I had to admit if I'd been brought in as a consultant to a.s.sess the Snowden Family Clambake, I would've advised shutting it down.

I picked up the Times and shuffled through it. The fat paper even included the New York area local sections we normally don't get in Maine. How had Tupper gotten his hands on it?

I pulled out the real estate section. It wouldn't hurt to look. A girl could dream. I'd given up my expensive Manhattan lease back in March. I stole another look at our ticket booth. Still no Livvie. I had time. I opened up the paper and started fantasizing about New York City apartments.

”That's right. Leave when the going gets tough. Like you always do.” Sonny stood in the open doorway to the office, his red brows set in a scowl over his deep-set blue eyes.

I frowned. What on earth is he referring to? ”Oh, the real estate section,” I mumbled, setting down the paper. I let it go. I didn't need to explain or apologize. And there was no advantage to getting into an argument. We had to save our fighting spirit for the phone call.

”Let's get this over with,” he said.

I pulled the speaker phone forward on the desk and punched in the bank's number, including Bob Ditzy's extension, which I'd memorized during our almost daily phone calls when I'd first arrived in the harbor.

Ditzy answered on the first ring.