Boiled Over (A Maine Clambake Mystery)

by Barbara Ross

  “Massholes,” I said before Bud could, just to vex him. He gave me a gap-toothed smile through his Santa Claus beard. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that this man was named Busman?” I asked Gus.

  Gus shook his head. “His name was Town. Edward Town. He named the settlement after himself.”

  “He named the town, ‘Town’?”

  “Of course not.” Gus laughed. “He named it Town’s End. But without a doubt, he was our founder. Just like the anonymous cod fisherman and the Wabanaki chief.”

  “Message received.” I didn’t want to think about how Bunnie would react to the idea of multiple founders, not one of them named Busman. “Keep going,” I said, hoping we’d eventually get to the answer.

  Gus then did something I’d never seen. He came around the counter and sat on the stool to my left. He never mingled with the customers.

  “Edward Town’s descendants lived on the land for three generations, but eventually they were burned out by the natives. After nearly fifty years of Indian wars, there were no Europeans left permanently settled on the mid-coast. England tried to reclaim the land from Massachusetts, saying Maine was no longer a colony because it wasn’t colonized. To repopulate, the English sent the toughest, fiercest, most independent people they could think of—the descendants of the Scots that England had used to colonize Northern Ireland. They were as different from the wealthy Massachusettsans, who thought they held title to the land, as they could be. The Massachusetts proprietors thought of the settlers as tenant farmers who owed rent. The settlers thought of themselves as free farmers who owned their own land. They quickly learned to distrust anyone From Away who came calling.”

  On my right, Bud grunted, making it clear he still held that sentiment.

  Great. My father’s forbearers were practically genetically wired to hate my mother’s ancestors. No wonder I’m a mess.

  “And the Scots-Irishman who settled this harbor, was his name Mr. Busman?” I asked.

  Gus looked at his watch. “Will you look at the time? Mrs. Gus will be wondering what happened to me. Time to close up. I’ll tell you about Busman the next time.”

  “Gus, you are killing me.” But I knew better than to argue.

  When I admitted my failure the next day at the at the Founder’s Weekend committee meeting, Bunnie’s brows knitted together so tightly I feared they’d form a vortex and swallow her whole face.

  She tap-tap-tapped on the ever-present clipboard with her pencil. “Well, that doesn’t really help us, does it?” she concluded. “Why don’t you come to my house for tea some afternoon this week, Julia, and we’ll talk about it?”

  Another invitation I’d have to figure out how to avoid.

  But everything else was going swimmingly. Bunnie had made some “important connections” with the Busman’s Harbor Art League and our art show was going to be juried. I suspected making “important connections” was as difficult as walking into the Art League gallery on Main Street and introducing herself, but everyone seemed excited, so I kept my opinion to myself.

  There was a discussion about whether crafters could have tents at the art show or just artists, which lead to a discussion about “What is art?” Mercifully, Bud cut this short by miming slitting his throat, falling off his chair, and twitching on the floor of the Tourism Bureau office as he fake bled-out.

  At least I didn’t totally disgrace myself. Dan and I had done a good job of lining up the meals. We were just waiting for permits so there could be food trucks at the concert.

  Stevie had taken on the job of finding the band with his usual enthusiasm. It was late in the season to be booking, but he’d collected a few dozen demo CDs. He wanted some of us to go on a series of outings to hear the finalists. Vee and Bunnie had agreed to go with him.

  “Come along, Julia,” Stevie said. “It’ll be fun.”

  I worried about what kind of music that group might choose, but the Snowden Family Clambake Company was set to open in less than a month and we still had so much to accomplish. I threw Dan a look. I was fifteen years younger than he was, but he was almost fifteen years younger than the others.

  “I’ll go along to hear the bands,” Dan said, receiving my silent message.

  “Great!” Stevie boomed. “We’re going to have a blast.”

  Chapter 26

  August

  It was after ten-thirty when I got back from the blueberry camp to Busman’s Harbor. Chris was working his bouncer job at Crowley’s, and ordinarily I would’ve gone there automatically. But I hesitated, worried about what Chris had said in the early hours of the morning. I love you. A long day had gone by with no communication between us. If I did go, would it be awkward? Or worse, if I stayed away, would he take my absence as rejection, or at a minimum as a freak-out? Maybe it was.

  My back was stiff from the hours in the car, plus Chris and I hadn’t spent much time sleeping the night before. The stress and the sleeplessness and the driving caught up to me. I stood for a moment outside the car, undecided. Then I thought about Chris, his handsome face, his lips, and last night. I pulled my mother’s umbrella from the backseat of her car and headed to Crowley’s.

  Chris wasn’t in his usual spot at the door. I asked the burley substitute bouncer where he was.

  “Dunno. Got called in last minute. I’m missing my girlfriend’s birthday party.” He didn’t seem happy about it. He handed my ID back to me and I passed through the front door. The bar was crowded and noisy, as I’d expected. Tonight’s band seemed particularly raucous.

  “Where’s Chris?” I shouted to Sam, part owner and bartender.

  Sam said the same thing the guy at the door had. “Dunno.” Then he added, “You know Chris. Thinks he’s Australian. Goes on walkabout. No notice, nothin’. I’d fire his ass if he wasn’t so good.” Sam handed me a draft. “I thought for sure you’d know where he goes. It’s different with you, different from all the old girlfriends.”

  My cheeks went red, though I couldn’t have said for sure which I was more embarrassed about. That I didn’t know where Chris was, or the reference to “all the old girlfriends.”

  I took the beer and looked around for an empty table. I didn’t want to sit with the significant others of the staff members, where I’d have to field more questions about Chris’s whereabouts. I saw someone waving frantically from a corner table. Reggie Swinburne sat with a man whose back was to me. I waved back, hoping that would be enough, but he countered with the universal gesture for come over here. I crossed the room toward them.

  Reggie jumped to his feet and pumped my hand. “Julia.” His Colonel Mustard mustache danced as he spoke. “Join us. This is my young friend, Zach. Zach, meet Julia Snowden.”

  Zach’s eyes widened at the mention of my last name, but caught himself and resumed his pleasant expression. A lot of people reacted to hearing the name Snowden. They knew the clambake company, or they knew my family. Or they’d heard about the murder this spring on Morrow Island. Or maybe, lately, they’d heard about the Snowden Family Clambake’s connection to Stevie Noyes’s body.

  Reggie had a half-full mug of beer in front of him. Zach, confirming my impression he was under twenty-one, had a soft drink. The band thanked everyone and took a break. It was still noisy, but at least we didn’t have to scream.

  “I’ve been teaching Zach here the joys of birdwatching,” Reggie said.

  Zach was a good-looking kid, square-jawed with dark hair, deep brown eyes and long, dark lashes. Even sitting, I could tell he was short and slight. There was something so familiar about him. Especially around the eyes.

  “Bunnie’s not with you?” I asked.

  “Not her kind of scene,” Reggie said.

  I wasn’t surprised.

  “Those Parkers came back,” he continued. “Such a racket over there, with the music and the parties and the revving of the motorcycles. I persuaded Zach here to come along for a drink to get away from it all.”

  It was hard to believe Crowley’s on a r
ainy August night was any quieter.

  “If it keeps up, I’ve a mind to call the cops,” Reggie continued. “Stevie wanted those Parkers out. Maybe they or some of their motorcycle cronies had something to do with his murder.”

  Zach looked alarmed at this idea. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  Reggie called out, “There’s a cop now!” He waved in the direction of my childhood friend, Jamie Dawes, familiar from his many traffic details around town.

  Jamie waved back, but didn’t come in our direction, thank goodness. Zach excused himself and went to the men’s room. I finished my beer, said good-bye to Reggie and headed for the door.

  “Julia.” Jamie came up beside me. “Join me for a beer?”

  It was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do. For one thing, he was a cop and I still had Cabe’s employment application and the thumb drive Phil Johnson had given me. For another, my sister believed Jamie had a crush on me, but I had chosen Chris, and Chris was, at this moment, I-had-no-idea-where. Things had been awkward between Jamie and me for a couple months, since we’d sort of accidentally, drunkenly kissed, and I felt terrible about it. I sensed graciously accepting the offer of a beer would go a long way to smoothing things over.

  We sat on stools at the bar and ordered drafts, which we both sipped slowly. I asked after his parents; he asked after my mom. The band returned from its break and started up again, which made conversation difficult.

  “How’s the investigation going?” I shouted.

  “Okay, I guess. Progress.”

  “Do you know where Stevie was killed yet?”

  Jamie looked around and hunched toward me. I did the same, which brought us nose-to-nose. Uncomfortably close.

  “Unofficially? No,” he said.

  “Officially?”

  He grinned. “Still, no.”

  “Lieutenant Binder told me the body was brought to the pier by car or boat.” I wanted to show I was already the recipient of inside information, so it was okay to talk to me. “Could a woman have moved the body?”

  Jamie considered. “Possibly. If she came by car and pulled up real close.” He sat up on his stool. “Enough shop talk. How do Livvie and Sonny like living on Morrow Island?”

  I’d just started to answer when I realized who Reggie’s friend Zach was—the hairy guy from the RV park. I kicked myself for not recognizing him, even without the scraggly beard and hair. I knew he looked familiar. I wanted to ask why he’d been on the pier in the morning before Stevie’s body was found. When the kid looked hairy and crazy, it hadn’t seemed like the kind of place he’d want to be. But now that I’d seen him looking perfectly normal in a crowded bar, that seemed like a ridiculous conclusion. I looked over at the table where they’d been, but there was a new group of people there.

  Jamie and I finished our beers and I stood to go. I was glad we’d been able to chat casually about mostly inconsequential things. I hoped it would help make things more comfortable between us. I didn’t suggest that he walk me home, and he didn’t offer.

  Chapter 27

  The house was quiet when I got in. I guessed Mom and Richelle were long in bed and I was relieved. I was exhausted physically and emotionally. I climbed into bed, but knew I wouldn’t sleep.

  Away from the curious eyes of Jamie, Sam the bartender, and the significant others, I gave in to my emotions about Chris. I rocketed from fear to despair to fury.

  Where was he?

  Was he in some kind of trouble?

  Had he run off because he’d told me he loved me and I’d remained silent?

  How dare he disappear without a word.

  Of course, I’d played hooky and driven over two hundred and seventy miles today without a word to him. Let she who is without sin . . .

  I wanted to ask Chris what, for him, the saying “I love you,” meant. Did it mean, “I want to spend my life with you?” Or did it mean, “It’s been great. See you later!” Maybe he said it to all the women who climbed out of his bed before sunup. Though I’d done that before, and this was the first time he’d said it. What if he really meant it? What if he’d told me he loved me and I’d run away?

  I wasn’t naive about the rumors about Chris. He’d been a bad boy in high school and some people around town claimed he was a bad man still. In the spring, there’d been rumors he’d supplied drugs to a friend of Livvie’s. She’d made a plea deal with the state and supposedly given them evidence, but nothing had come of it, so I didn’t give any credence to the rumors. Nasty, small-town gossip.

  More important to me, though, in our time together, I’d never seen a single indication Chris wasn’t what he appeared to be. An honest citizen, a small businessman, a warm and caring man.

  Focusing on these thoughts, I calmed myself and drifted off to sleep.

  I didn’t miss the next call when it came in the middle of the night. I shot up out of a deep slumber on the first ring of my cell phone. The display showed the time as 3:07, the number as BLOCKED.

  “Julia?”

  “Cabe! Oh God, Cabe. Where are you?”

  “I’m safe. I’m fine. For now.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you. I’ll go with you to the police station. I’ll get you the best criminal lawyer in Maine. You’re only wanted as a witness.”

  “But they think I did it, don’t they?”

  I didn’t respond. Lieutenant Binder had boxes and boxes of evidence in his office attesting to how many people had reasons to hate Stevie, yet even in the face of all that, Binder continued to focus on Cabe.

  “I can’t go to jail, even for one day. I know you won’t understand, but I just can’t.” He sounded so young.

  “Cabe, I know about the last murder you were accused of.”

  “I didn’t do that, either! I wasn’t even indicted.”

  “I know. What I am trying to say is, I know why you don’t want to spend any time in jail. I understand. I want to help.”

  There were muffled sounds from the other end of the phone. Cabe was sobbing. It broke my heart. I had to do something for this poor kid. “Tell me what happened that night, Cabe. I’m trying to help you, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  I waited. Finally, he spoke, his voice steadier. “Sonny and I came on the Whaler from Morrow Island after the clambake dinner on Friday night. We set up the Claminator on the pier and unloaded the wood for the fire. Sonny went back to the island to sleep. He was going to come back in the morning with Livvie and Page, the food, and another load of wood.”

  “What time did Sonny leave?”

  “Around one in the morning.”

  This all jibed with what Sonny had said. “Then what happened?”

  “As soon as Sonny left, I piled the wood under the Claminator. I was in a hurry to get the fire laid. I knew it would be much harder in the morning when the pier was crawling with people.”

  “Was there anyone else around? Did you see anyone?”

  “No, it was quiet. The other vendors had set up their rigs to some degree like we had, but they were gone for the night. There were a few people out on their balconies at the Lighthouse Inn, sitting out talking or having a smoke. I didn’t pay too much attention. ”

  “What did you do after you put the logs under the Claminator?”

  Only the sound of his breathing traveled through the night air.

  “Cabe?”

  “I went to the boarding house where I used to live and slept for a few hours.” He exhaled. “Please don’t tell Sonny.”

  The kid was probably facing a murder charge, yet he was afraid Sonny would be mad. I didn’t want to scare him off. “Of course not,” I assured him, like the two of us were talking casually, no consequences. “What time did you leave the pier?”

  “Around two, I guess. I was back by five-thirty.” He paused. “Julia, I am so sorry. This never would have happened if I’d stayed with the Claminator like Sonny asked me to. No one could have left a body there.”

  Or Cabe could
have been surprised by a killer and perhaps been another victim. “Did you know it was a man named Stevie Noyes in the fire?” Would Cabe ever have met Stevie? I tried to think where and when.

  “Yes. It was on the news today.”

  “Did anyone see you at the boarding house?” Since the police didn’t know exactly when Stevie had been killed or when he’d been put in the woodpile, an alibi would be only partially helpful to Cabe, but it seemed better than the nothing he had now.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Give me the address.” As soon as Cabe told me where it was, I knew the place.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “Sonny shouldn’t have asked you to stay on the pier all night. It was wrong. Of course you had to sleep.” He was silent. I tried again. “Tell me where you are. I’ll come.”

  “Sorry, Julia.” He was gone.

  Chapter 28

  I awoke the next morning straight out of a vivid dream. I’d chased Cabe across a rain-drenched blueberry field. The low bushes ensnared my boots and every time I got close to him, he disappeared, only to pop up far across the field. I’d chase him again, shouting his name, which he didn’t seem to hear, and the whole cycle would repeat. I was seething with frustration when I swung my feet onto the wooden floor and climbed out of bed.

  Wind-driven rain hammered my bedroom windows. Outside, the harbor was shrouded and hushed.

  I went down the hall from my bedroom to my office. The foghorn bleated from Dinkums Light, clearly audible through the closed windows. Sonny and I held a brief consultation over the radio and decided to cancel the lunchtime clambake. The marine forecast was terrible. He’d been on the radio since dawn, and most of the working boats in the harbor weren’t going out. With our covered pavilion, we could run the clambake in almost any weather, but guests who came for lunch wouldn’t leave with happy memories.