Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  I could practically feel Bronwyn’s dismay. “Allie, you should’ve—”

  “I know, I know. Bronwyn, I’ll come talk to the police. I promise.” I hesitated. “Anything new about Max’s murder?”

  She was quiet for a moment. I crossed my fingers that she’d have new information and that she’d tell me.

  Bronwyn sighed. “No, nothing new here. They’re having a heck of a time with the murder weapon. It wasn’t a sword, no matter that the crazies think the ghost of Otis Parish used the family heirloom to slay the lacrosse star.”

  “So they know that it wasn’t the Parish sword? So what was it?”

  “The medical examiner said it was a weapon that was tapered and slightly curved.”

  “Tapered? Curved?” What could that be? A memory struggled to surface.

  “Listen, I have to go. Talk to you later?”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  At the Mermaid, everyone fluttered around me making sympathetic noises. I was thankful they settled down quickly after it became apparent that I wasn’t badly hurt.

  “I feel so bad about your van, Aunt Gully.”

  She hugged me. “The cargo is the only thing I care about. Besides…” She looked out the window toward the river flowing by our dock. “You and your sister were right. It’s been time for new wheels for quite a while.” She shook herself and spread a red checked tablecloth over a table in the corner, then set a miniature pot of yellow chrysanthemums on it along with one of those candles stuck in a Chianti bottle.

  “Have you heard the news?” Hilda said. “There was a break-in at the historical society.”

  “I was just there last night!” I said.

  She nodded to the television in the corner of the shack. Leo Rodriguez and Beltane stood in front of the Parish Annex, the small library building I’d visited with Fern the night before.

  “I’m with…” He looked at his notes. “Beltane.”

  She regarded him with serene disdain. “Just Beltane.” Her look said, Silly mortal.

  He paused a beat. “Beltane is the manager of the Mystic Bay Historical Society. Tell us what happened,” he said.

  “Early this morning I came in to work.” Beltane gestured toward the annex. “I noticed that several shelves in our research library had been disturbed, with books scattered to the floor. I called in our librarian and some of our researchers. They are going through our collection to see what, if anything, has been taken.” She looked Leo right in the eye, her voice smoky and deep. “Our historical objects are precious, and irreplaceable, as you must realize.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Leo said, then shook himself. “Was anything damaged?”

  “So far, it doesn’t look like anything was badly damaged.” Beltane’s words were measured, but tension simmered underneath her unruffled exterior. Her fists were balled. Of course she was angry.

  “How did the vandals, or thieves, get into the building?” Leo continued.

  “The police have yet to determine that.”

  He turned toward the camera. “Well, yes, we’ll keep you up to date on this breaking news. From the Mystic Bay Historical Society, I’m Leo Rodriguez.”

  “Oh, the way she looked at him. Like she was going to pull his soul out through his eyes,” a woman at the counter said, shivering.

  “Maybe the thief was the ghost of Otis Parish,” a customer said. “Looking for something to read.”

  “Allie, weren’t you there yesterday?” Hilda asked as she handed a customer a cup of coffee.

  “With half of Mystic Bay at the Harvest Festival.” Who would knock a bunch of old books off the shelves? Perhaps some were valuable and the vandalism was supposed to hide the theft? Fern’s words stirred in my memory: What’s the first thing conquering armies do? Destroy museums and libraries. I remembered Beltane’s word, silenced.

  Silenced. Erased.

  I pressed the tote bag with Fern’s paper and the magazine to my side. I wasn’t letting this get away from me. I felt like a fool. I’d lost the backpack and I wasn’t losing this.

  Gladys and Fred came in through the screen door, Fred carrying the gigantic prize check.

  “Our winners!” Aunt Gully beamed as she greeted them. “Come right in! I have your table right here.”

  Fred wore a fresh plaid shirt and pressed chinos with a blue sweater vest. His tie was printed with bright red lobsters. Gladys wore a white polo shirt tucked into black slacks, topped with a black sweater embroidered with pumpkins and purple ribbons. She’d applied a slick of red lipstick.

  Well, well, well. A date.

  Hector wiggled his eyebrows at me from the pass-through as I went behind the counter and into the tiny office off the kitchen where I hung up my tote bag.

  I hurried to rejoin Hector. Aunt Gully set menus in front of Fred and Gladys.

  “Is she matchmaking? Why bother? They’re already a match,” Hector said.

  “How about cups of chowder to start off your winner’s dinner?” Aunt Gully said.

  Hilda stood behind the counter and took photos. “Your sister asked me to,” she said. I wondered why she hadn’t asked me. Hilda read my mind. “She said you’re too wrapped up in The Nutcracker. She thought you’d have rehearsal today.”

  Lorel. I’d forgotten to call her and tell her about the accident. I texted her, then slid the phone in my pocket.

  I remembered the plaque I’d seen last night. Gladys was on the board of the historical society.

  Fred headed to the restroom as I carried over bowls of chowder. I was itching to ask about the vandalism, but Gladys was already talking to Aunt Gully about it.

  I set the bowls down along with some oyster crackers.

  Gladys pursed her lips. “I just heard. The inventory is complete. Only one thing missing.” My heart dropped. I knew what she was going to say. “A diary from one of the Parish family members, one of a kind, written by Rosamund Parish.”

  “Allie, are you okay?” Aunt Gully said. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  Gladys jabbed her spoon at me. “You were in there. I saw you go in yesterday with Fern Doucette.”

  Her tone was accusatory. I swallowed. “We left right after—” Right after Lyman Smith threw us out. “Right after Lyman Smith came in. That was yesterday evening. Everything was fine then. I hope the police talk to him.”

  “Oh, they have.” She smirked and sipped her soup.

  “What did he say?”

  Aunt Gully shot me a warning look but I ignored her.

  “The diary was found in Fern Doucette’s bag this morning. The police got a tip.” She smiled and my stomach soured with dislike. “Lyman told her that she’s not welcome at the historical society anymore.”

  Poor Fern!

  Fred returned from the restroom, rubbed his hands together and sat down. “We’re looking forward to this. Gladys has never had a lobster roll before.”

  I forced a smile. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  I headed for the kitchen, my mind whirling. Fern wouldn’t steal the diary, would she?

  An empty plastic crate leaned against the kitchen wall. I took it outside to stack with the others behind the shack.

  A cool gust of wind blew a paper cup across the gravel. I bent to pick it up and carried it to the trash bin. Then I put the crate with the others behind the shack.

  A box was overturned under the kitchen window, just where I’d seen the Peeping Tom last week. Orange and black tinsel dangled from the gutters; Aunt Gully hadn’t had a chance to pull down all the Halloween decorations. I sighed, thinking how many hours it would take to undecorate the shack. The tinsel looked ready to fall, so I tugged on it. It didn’t move. What was holding it up?

  When I looked up I noticed a tiny black box stuck to the underside of the eaves, held in place with a strip of black masking tape. The tape had caught on the tinsel. I froze.

  A red light on the box blinked. It was a video camera, aimed in the window of the shack.

  Chapter
39

  I dashed into the shack. “You’re not going to believe this.” I pulled everyone toward the back door, away from the window, and told them about the camera.

  “Do you think the Peeping Tom was back?” Hilda said.

  Aunt Gully put her hands on her hips. “Enough! Hector, do you have a baseball bat at home?”

  “What? For Don O’Neill? Don’t you want to wait until after the Celtics game tonight to kill him?” Hector said.

  Aunt Gully pushed up her sleeves and started steamrolling toward the back door. I grabbed her arm.

  “Wait a second, Aunt Gully. Don’t you want to catch him?”

  She took a deep breath. “Don O’Neill sent me the nicest note telling me to enjoy the Celtics game tonight. I thought that was awfully big of him after I kicked him out.” She folded her arms. “He was just trying to lull me into a false sense of security.”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s set a trap. Aunt Gully, You haven’t made a fresh batch of chowder since yesterday, have you?”

  Aunt Gully’s eyes widened. “Why, I think I know where you’re going with this. You devious little sweetheart! No, I haven’t.”

  During the summer, Aunt Gully would have to cook up chowder every day to feed hungry customers. Now that business had slowed, Aunt Gully cooked up a huge pot of chowder every couple of days. She said her chowder was even better now because the chowder had a chance to rest and the flavors mellow.

  She opened the window near the stove. “I do declare, it’s time to make some chowder,” she enunciated clearly. She went to the shelf and pulled down a supersized jar of red pepper and set it down on the counter next to the stove with a thump.

  She came back to us and whispered. “I have an idea. I’m going to pop over to Delilah’s for a few ingredients.”

  We high-fived. Aunt Gully went to the office for her purse. “I’ll be back soon. Then it’s time to make chowder.” She waved and stepped outside.

  Hector hummed as he turned back to the steamer and Hilda and I plated lobster rolls.

  A crash came from the dining room.

  One of Gully’s Gals stuck her head through the pass-through. “Somebody call an ambulance!”

  My heart pounded as we raced into the dining room.

  Gladys slumped forward, her head on the table, empty bowl and plate on the floor.

  Hilda and I pulled her upright. Her arms were covered with red splotches.

  “What on earth?” Hilda said.

  I heard a customer giving our address to the 911 dispatcher.

  Hector lifted Gladys in his strong arms and lowered her to the floor. Hilda cradled Gladys’s head on her lap. Angry red blotches covered Gladys’s neck and face, and her cheeks were swollen.

  Fred’s eyes were huge behind his thick glasses as he wrung his large, callused hands. “Oh, Allie, I think my Gladdy’s allergic to lobster! She said she couldn’t catch her breath!”

  Hilda bent over Gladys. “She’s breathing. You’ll be fine, Gladys, just hang on.”

  The wail of an ambulance approached and moments later it pulled up to the front door of the Mermaid. Thank goodness we were just a few blocks from the Plex, the police department, and the fire department.

  I patted Fred’s back, then held the door open for the EMTs, and stood back as they went to Gladys.

  * * *

  After the EMTs wheeled Gladys out on a stretcher with Fred trailing forlornly behind, I’d cleaned up the spilled food, straightened the table and chairs, all the while trying to steady my nerves. I’d heard about people being allergic to lobster, but I’d never seen a reaction like Gladys’s.

  “Hi, Allie.” Fern Doucette came in, closing the door softly behind her. She wore a stained GRAYSTONE COLLEGE sweatshirt over baggy black leggings. Exhaustion had drained her face of color and her freckles stood out on her pale skin.

  “Fern, are you okay?”

  She shook her head no and sat heavily on the chair I’d just righted. “Allie, did you see the news?” She wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  I nodded and slid into the seat across from her. I’d reset the table with Aunt Gully’s cheerful red-checked tablecloth, candle, and yellow mum, which contrasted with Fern’s worried expression.

  “I was helping Beltane with an exhibit early this morning when Royal and Lyman dropped in. They went to the annex and came rushing back, saying there’d been a break-in and theft. Royal and Lyman actually demanded that I open my bag. Well, they asked to see everyone’s who was there, me, Beltane, and two volunteers who were dusting, but I knew the way they were looking at me that they were searching ‘everyone’s’”—she made air quotes—“bags just to prove they weren’t targeting me. Well, it didn’t work. Now everyone thinks I’m a thief. Except for Beltane. She’s the only one who’s standing with me.”

  I was starting to see Beltane in a new light. I couldn’t believe that Fern would steal or destroy any historical objects. I’d seen how reverently she’d treated Rosamund Parish’s diary. “How do you think the diary got in your bag?”

  Fern sniffled. “Allie, meet me at the historical society tonight. Seven o’clock. It’s the monthly meeting. I need you to tell Lyman and Royal and everyone else that you were with me and that I didn’t steal that diary. You saw me put it on the shelf!” She showed me her tote bag, cream-colored burlap with the Virginia Woolf quote stenciled in black: For most of history, anonymous was a woman. “Everyone knows my bag. I think Lyman planted the diary in my bag this morning. It was hanging on a peg in the mudroom off the kitchen.”

  “Of course I’ll go with you. But why would Lyman…” Of course I knew why. He wanted to get rid of Fern, or at least discredit her, so any accusation she made against him for plagiarism would look like retaliation. Fern threw her arms around me and waved as she left. I stood, pushing in our chairs, wondering what would happen at the meeting that night.

  Voices and laughter billowed from the kitchen and pulled me from my thoughts. Aunt Gully started singing. This would be good. I rushed to the kitchen.

  Aunt Gully had found a chef’s toque and put it on, tilting it at a flirty angle. “And here I am, making my chowder, just like I do every day. With my secret recipe. I need a lot of clams.”

  She put in half as many clams as usual. Thank goodness she was using a smaller pot because I had a feeling this particular batch of chowder wasn’t going to be edible.

  Hector came into the kitchen. “I took a quick look at the camera,” he whispered, his back to the window. “It’s the transmitting kind and appears to be working fine. Hope Don enjoys the show.”

  “I hope she won’t be too hammy. Aunt Gully…” I caught Aunt Gully’s eye and made a “slow down” motion.

  She nodded and tightened the strings on her apron. She started whistling “Get Happy,” a Judy Garland tune she sang as a victory song. She was on a roll.

  I knew that Aunt Gully usually started her chowder by sautéing salt pork, a step she now omitted, instead heaping the clams with huge tablespoons of butter. She stirred vigorously as she hummed. She added the chopped vegetables as usual, tossing in several extra handfuls of garlic and shallots and a handful of tomalley, the “green stuff” from lobster.

  Hilda turned her back to the camera. “Good grief,” she whispered

  “And now for my secret ingredients.” Aunt Gully spoke in an exaggerated whisper. I rolled my eyes. She was talking right at the camera.

  She opened a little brown paper bag from Delilah’s shop. I had a hard time acting casual as I plated two lobster rolls and handed them through the pass-through.

  Aunt Gully tossed in two bundles of licorice root, the same spell-casting stuff Beltane had left in the dining room. Next, she pulled out a bunch of chamomile, scattering the dried flower heads with a flourish. Then, a dried fish head, and—I almost choked—a chicken’s foot.

  “Can’t forget the pepper!” She shook in a generous portion of cayenne pepper and stirred. She bent over the pot and inhaled.

&nb
sp; “Ah, perfect! Now I’ll just put the lid on and let it simmer for two hours.”

  Hector pushed through the screen door outside and bent over laughing. “Oh, Hector,” she called in her sweetest voice. “If you’ll bring me that special cooking tool we talked about.”

  Hector wiped his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” He jogged away.

  “Special cooking tool?” I said.

  Aunt Gully’s eyes glittered. “Special.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Hector returned, whistling, carrying a baseball bat over his shoulder. We gathered at the back of the shack. Hector handed the bat to Aunt Gully with a bow.

  “First we’ll put on our little play for Don. Ready?” Aunt Gully said in a low voice.

  Hilda and I nodded.

  “Roll ’em!” Aunt Gully stage-whispered.

  Hilda and I walked to the back of the shack, carrying a stepladder and carton. “Time to take down these decorations,” I said as I set the ladder almost directly under the camera. “I had a hard time taking down the tinsel. It’s stuck.”

  “Yes. We must take them down.” Hilda sounded like the computer voice from a very cheap GPS. “It will be time to decorate for Thanksgiving very soon.” She climbed the ladder and tugged the tinsel with the same robotic acting style. Hector and I started giggling. Aunt Gully poked us with the bat and shushed us.

  “Oh, my! Come look. It’s a cam-er-a!” Hilda shouted. Her wooden acting set me off; I had to choke back my laughter.

  Hector put his hands on either side of his face and imitated Hilda’s pronunciation. “A cam-er-a!” I burst out laughing.

  Some Gals peered around the corner of the shack. I put a finger to my lips. Hector whispered to them and waved them back out of camera range.

  Aunt Gully barreled over to the stepladder. “God bless America! A camera, you say? Let me see.”

  Hilda climbed down.

  “Stand back, everyone!” Aunt Gully took a practice swing, gauging the distance to the camera.