Boiled Over (A Maine Clambake Mystery)

by Barbara Ross

  “Reggie’s quite the outdoorsman,” Bunnie said, blushing.

  Blushing? Really? Blushing Bunnie?

  “He’s a birder and a fisherman. He loves to hike and hunt and . . .” Bunnie continued on, but I had trouble paying attention.

  She and Reggie are a couple? It’s improbable that she and the Kellys are friends, but she and Reggie?

  Bunnie was still prattling, not a word or an activity I’d ever thought to associate with her. “In the fall, Reggie’s taking me duck hunting. He’s been teaching me to shoot. He bought me a shotgun.”

  By that point, I was speechless. Completely blown away. I looked at Bunnie in her Lily Pulitzer shift and ballet flats, her little matching bag sitting on the bench beside her. Did she even have a clue what she’d have to wear to sit in a duck blind in Maine in the fall? Love is blind, I reminded myself. Blind and stupid.

  “Now that our committee duties are over, I do hope you can finally make it to my house for that cup of tea,” Bunnie said.

  Was she talking to me? It was true, Bunnie had invited me to tea before, but at the time it felt more like a summons to the principal’s office.

  Chapter 15

  April

  Vee gave me a ride to the second Founder’s Weekend Committee meeting in the well-used maroon Subaru station wagon the sisters shared. Clumps of melting, dirty snow sat by the roadside reminding us that though winter was over, she hadn’t gone far and might come back at any moment for one last curtain call.

  Bunnie’s dark green SUV was already in the Tourist Bureau parking lot when we arrived, as was Stevie’s minivan. I was somewhat surprised to see Bud’s battered pickup there, too. Dan’s bike leaned against the deck rail. At least one of us had we decided it was spring.

  Bunnie ran the meeting on a tight agenda, moving from old business to new. She’d booked the windjammers, which had an open Saturday as they sailed from Bar Harbor to Portland for celebrations in those cities. That meant the date for Founder’s Weekend was fixed. We were off and running.

  “Now the games,” Bunnie said, crossing the old agenda items off her list with such force I thought her pencil might go right through the paper and come out the other side of the wooden clipboard. “I’ve listed trap hauling, lobster crate running, and cod fish relay.”

  Dead silence.

  “Trained seals,” Bud muttered. Morgan stirred at his feet, turning her head to make sure he was all right.

  More silence.

  “Will someone tell me what the matter is?” Bunnie demanded, drumming her pencil on her clipboard. “These are exactly the contests we have every year at the Shrimp Festival.”

  Finally, Dan Small cleared his throat. “I think, ah, Bunnie, that’s the problem. The Shrimp Festival is for us. We have it this month, in April, before the tourists get here. We dash across floating lobster traps and run relay races holding dead fish to celebrate our way of life. Not to amuse a bunch of—”

  “Massholes,” Bud finished, using the preferred local term for the inhabitants of the great Commonwealth to our south.

  Bunnie stopped tapping her pencil, brows knit. “I don’t get it.”

  “Because you’re a—” Bud started.

  Mercifully, Vee jumped in. “The Shrimp Festival celebrates our former way of life. There used to be thirty shrimp boats in this town and two canneries. Now there are no boats, not full-time anyway. If we don’t bring in tourists this summer, ten years from now we’ll be having bed-making contests and getting all weepy and nostalgic for our way of life back when we had a hospitality industry.”

  That shut everyone up. People misjudged Vee based on her ever-present heels and hosiery. Down deep, she was as practical as they come. After some brainstorming, we added the B&B bed races and the pie-eating contest to the list, and agreed to go ahead with the local games.

  Vee volunteered to do publicity. Stevie would book the music for the concert and arrange for the fireworks. Bunnie asked Dan and I to organize the food. I was happy with the assignment, something I knew how to do.

  “What would you like to contribute, Bud?” Bunnie asked sweetly.

  “I’m just keeping an eye on the rest of you,” Bud grumbled. “Making certain this shindig doesn’t get out of control.”

  We stood to go and I thought I was home free.

  “Oh, Julia,” Bunnie said. “How’s your research going? Have you discovered who Mr. Busman was?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  I had done nothing. It was all I could do to keep the clambake afloat. An acquaintance from New York had just booked the island for her June wedding. I was excited about this new line of business, but it meant more work and more fighting with Sonny.

  Growing up, I’d heard at least a dozen stories about who Mr. Busman was, none of them believable, and I wasn’t going to take a chance and blurt one of them out.

  “Well, that won’t do,” Bunnie said. “Julia, get to work. We need this information for publicity and such, and for my opening remarks. Perhaps you’d like to come to my house for tea and we’ll work on the project together.”

  As we were leaving, Dan Small took pity on me. He leaned in and whispered, “Talk to your friend, Gus. He knows more about the history of this town than anybody.”

  Chapter 16

  August

  I stayed behind when the Jacquie II left the island. Chris could take me back to the harbor in his dinghy. I checked on Livvie who was sleeping peacefully, Le Roi snuggled in the crook of her knees. What a loyal cat—giving up cadging lobster from customers to watch over one of the island’s human inhabitants.

  When I came downstairs, Sonny stood in the living room. “Livvie okay?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Julia.” Sonny stared at his boots. “I’ve wanted to tell you. No, that’s not true. I haven’t wanted to tell you. But I’ve got to—”

  “Sonny, you’re freaking me out.”

  “Cabe was living here.”

  “In this house?” I couldn’t imagine.

  “In the playhouse.”

  “What?” My voice shot so high, I thought only dogs could hear me. “In the playhouse Chris fixed up especially for me?”

  “When was the last time you were there?”

  Touché. “Sonny, what were you thinking?”

  “Cabe hated where he was staying. I needed him on the island early and late. I thought it was a win-win.”

  “You didn’t know anything about him. You have Page here, and Livvie.”

  “I thought you’d taken care of that, didn’t I?” Sonny yelled. “You were supposed to have checked him out.” He paused, breathing heavily. “Besides, no one was in danger from Cabe. We both know that.”

  I did know that. Cabe was never a danger to my family. “Did you tell Binder and Flynn that Cabe lived here?”

  Sonny lowered his voice even further. “No. I was hoping you would.”

  “Me?”

  “That way, I don’t have to take time off, go into town.”

  I trusted myself to tell them a lot more than I trusted Sonny. At least, I knew it would get done. When I told them, they’d certainly come out to the island and they could interview Sonny then.

  From outside, I heard Chris and Page approaching. They were arguing good-naturedly about something, probably the Red Sox. Page was the only person in the family who had no reservations about my relationship with Chris and that meant the world to me. He was great with kids, meeting them at their level, but never talking down. It was the kind of thing that made a little girl’s, and a grown girl’s, heart melt.

  Chris pushed open the screen door with Page right behind him. “What’s going on?”

  “How’s Mom?” Page asked Sonny.

  “She’s sleeping.”

  Chris looked from me to Sonny and back. It was obvious something was up.

  “Go get ready for bed, honey,” Sonny said.

  But Page would not be moved. “Is this about Mom?” she demanded.

  “I promise.
We are not talking about your mom,” I answered.

  “Okay.” Page trundled up the stairs.

  Sonny and I filled Chris in.

  “He was staying at one of those boarding houses where they rent to more kids than they have beds. He absolutely hated it,” Sonny said. “That’s why I offered him the playhouse.”

  “Do you know which boarding house?” There were a few around town that fit Sonny’s description.

  “Never asked.” He gave me a look that said let’s not get into who didn’t ask what.

  “Have you searched the playhouse since Cabe left?” Chris asked.

  “Took a quick look. Didn’t see anything.”

  “We should look now,” Chris said. “Before Julia talks to Binder in the morning.”

  “Good idea,” Sonny agreed.

  I wanted to ask why that would be, though I knew the answer. Sonny and Chris, both convinced of Cabe’s innocence, wanted to see if there was anything incriminating in the playhouse before the police searched it. I started to say, “Wai—” but the expedition was unstoppable.

  Sonny went to the kitchen and pulled three powerful flashlights off a shelf. “We’re going outside for a minute,” he called upstairs to Page, then led the charge.

  There were outdoor lights around the house, dock, and clambake pavilion, but once we’d walked beyond their influence, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I know because I stopped, flashlight pointed at the ground, and tried it.

  A million stars were overhead. A meteor streaked across the night sky. The Perseids. I’d forgotten. I loved the clear, open Maine skies. Chris came up behind me and put a reassuring hand under my elbow.

  “Look,” I whispered. A shooting star plummeted toward us.

  “Beautiful.” He kissed my neck. The Maine skies weren’t the only thing I’d miss when I was back in Manhattan.

  “What’s goin’ on back there?” Sonny yelled.

  We hurried to catch up until I ran smack into Sonny, who’d stopped on the great lawn and trained his flashlight on something in the distance.

  “Ow! Watch where you’re going,” he protested.

  I grabbed the back of Sonny’s belt, Chris kept hold of me, and we crept up the lawn, then through the woods to the playhouse. Even with the flashlights, we had to move slowly. Running into a branch would smart.

  Sonny stopped on the porch of the little house, about a foot in front of the door. He mumbled something I couldn’t catch.

  “What?”

  “The screen door opens out,” he hissed. “Back up.”

  Chris and I did as requested and soon we were inside the playhouse—our intended trysting place. Where we’d never actually trysted.

  Sonny lit a lantern and we spread out to look around. The house was tiny, a small front room and bunkroom. I wondered why all three of us had come. But who would have agreed to stay behind? I hated to admit it, but I was there because I worried Chris and Sonny’s unwavering belief in Cabe’s innocence might lead them to destroy anything suspicious they found. Sonny believed in Cabe because he knew him, as I did. Chris didn’t know Cabe well, but Chris always stood firmly on the side of the underdog. There was nothing that would move Chris more than the plight of a young man without resources, wanted by the police.

  “Nothing here,” Sonny called from the bunkroom.

  “Here, either.” Chris and I had searched the cupboards in the sideboard and under the cushions on the settee. There really weren’t many places to look.

  “That’s a relief,” Sonny said. “At least I haven’t kept anything from Binder and Flynn they’d think was useful.”

  “But don’t you see?” I protested. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Exactly.” Sonny was losing patience with me.

  “But Cabe must have had some things here. He owned more than one shirt, more than one pair of underwear. If there’s nothing here, it means that after the Founder’s Weekend celebration, he had no intention of coming back.”

  “Crap.” Sonny said it, but we all thought it.

  Chapter 17

  Chris took me back to the harbor on his dinghy. We didn’t attempt to talk over the noise of its little motor and the sea. We were both shaken by what we’d seen—or hadn’t seen—at the playhouse. The word premeditation came to mind, though my brain was still unwilling to link the words Cabe and murder.

  Chris tied the dinghy up behind the Dark Lady. To make ends meet, he rented out the cabin on a lake he’d bought from his parents and moved onto his boat for the summer. We climbed onto the deck. He kissed me hard, and then, without words, we headed to his cabin below.

  Afterward, we lay in his spacious bunk. I loved the way the shape of the Dark Lady’s bow brought our heads together in the dark. I shifted my position and lay my head on his breastbone, that indentation between the pectoral muscles that is one of the sexiest parts of a man.

  “How come you never left town?” I asked. Most young people left. Jobs were hard to come by, especially in the off-season. And most of the jobs that did exist, didn’t pay well. Chris strung together landscaping, cab driving, and bouncing—and living on his boat in the summer so he could rent his house.

  “I wasn’t going to college. You know that.” When he spoke, I could feel the hum of his diaphragm, like the bass of a sound system turned all the way up.

  “That’s not true. You played football—”

  “Played football and raised hell.” He laughed. “If you think I was college material, you can go over to the high school and ask my old guidance counselor. He still works there. He’ll set you straight.”

  “So you just stayed? Because you had no options?” I sat up on the bunk, facing him, grateful for the dark.

  “Jesus, Julia. I’m not pathetic. Is that what you think of me?” I started to protest, but he kept talking. “Of course I had options. The service. A lot of kids joined. Or just leave town to look for work. It’s a big world out there. I didn’t go because I love it here. That’s why I bought my parents house when they went south. I can’t imagine not smelling the ocean everyday. I can’t imagine being happy where the land is flat, or where the winters are warm. This harbor is my place. I’m dug deep.”

  I wasn’t surprised by what he’d said. I hadn’t pictured some Crocodile Dundee future where he followed me to Manhattan. Being with Chris was a lifelong dream, but I had to accept it for what it was, the world’s most wonderful summer romance.

  “Come here.” He reached out for me in the darkness and I settled back into his arms.

  The sun was barely a glint on the horizon when I rolled out of the bunk and felt around for my clothes.

  Chris stirred. “What time is it?”

  “Early. Go back to sleep.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “I do.”

  “Julia, you’re thirty. I doubt your mother thinks—”

  She probably didn’t. Not that my mother’s WASPy reserve would ever allow us to discuss such things. But I’d brought my mother a houseguest and then disappeared. I wanted to get back before she and Richelle woke up. The least I could do was make some breakfast and spend a little time with them before I had to run off to work again.

  “Bye,” I called softly.

  Chris was already back snug under the covers, his eyes firmly closed. “Love you,” he mumbled.

  Wait. What?

  Chapter 18

  The sun was just coming up over Eastclaw Point as I scurried up the walk to my mother’s house. Once inside, I wondered, how far was I planning to carry this charade? Should I mess up my bed and put on pajamas? Ridiculous. As Chris had pointed out, I was thirty years old.

  In the end, I took a shower and put on clean clothes, then went down to the kitchen to fix breakfast.

  I tried hard not to think about what Chris had said. Or rather mumbled. For a few moments at a time, I convinced myself I’d misunderstood him. It was too soon, too fast, too much. But was it? I’d mooned about him from afar for more tha
n half my life. But we’d only been officially going out for six weeks, if you didn’t count the months we’d met for lunch at Gus’s. Besides, what good could come of it? I couldn’t envision any future for myself that didn’t involve going back to Manhattan, and last night Chris had declared he was never leaving Busman’s Harbor—which hadn’t come as a surprise.

  Mom arrived downstairs before Richelle. If she noticed I hadn’t slept at home, she didn’t mention it.

  “I’m sorry I invited Richelle and then took off,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. She needed a place to stay. Besides, she’s delightful.”

  “Morning.” Richelle was in a nice nightgown and matching bathrobe. She noticed me noticing. “Jacquie took me to Topsham yesterday to pick up some clothes.” Topsham was the closest town down the coast offering shopping plazas and big box stores.

  Jacquie? No one called my mom Jacquie. Calling our boat the Jacquie II was my father’s idea of a joke. My mother was Jacqueline, nothing shorter.

  “We had a delightful day,” Mom said. “A little shopping. Out to lunch.”

  Hearing that, I was sure I was in an alternate universe. My mom did not have girlfriends. She didn’t think shopping was a social activity. She thought it was about meeting basic human needs by making decisions and performing transactions as quickly as possible.

  “Did you know Richelle came to Busman’s Harbor when she was young?” Mom continued. “Her aunt was Georgette Baker. Remember? The Blue Door?”

  I did remember. Miss Georgette Baker had owned a B&B overlooking the back harbor. It was surrounded by a tall fence with a bright blue door. Not a gate, a real door. My memory of her was vague. Through my childish eyes she’d seemed very old. I wondered how old she’d actually been.

  “Well, just the one summer,” Richelle said quietly. “She was my great-aunt.”