Ginny hesitated a moment. “I thought I heard an argument about boat fuel.”
Loretta opened and shut her mouth, glancing at her boss. He frowned and shrugged. “You heard that, huh? Well, everybody knows there’s a feud going about that.” He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. “But that’s neitha heah n’ theah. Tell you what, you pay for half the stew and forget about the feud. Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”
Fine, Ginny thought. The long day with all its tensions caught up to her just then, and she longed for a shower and bed. She got out her credit card. “If you say so. The cioppino was delicious, the best I’ve ever had. And where can I buy a six-pack of Cloutier’s beer to take home with me?”
Chapter Four
Never a heavy sleeper, Ginny woke well before dawn on Friday. The inn was so quiet she fancied she could hear the cobbles in the narrow inlet. At the thought of them, she was seized with the notion of an early-morning, pre-crowd visit for a bit of private contemplation.
The eastern sky was brightening, but the sun had not yet peeped over the horizon when she reached the inlet. One look at the deep shadows made her change her plan to clamber deeper down the rocks. They looked even more jagged and treacherous than they had in the full light of day.
She thought for a moment. If she continued along the Marginal Way, Perkins Cove was only half a mile off. The tiny neck of land was crammed with shops and restaurants. Surely, someone would be serving coffee when she arrived there. Then she could work up a good appetite on the walk back to the B&B in time for the full breakfast promised.
Very few others were abroad at this hour, and of those, most were joggers getting in their early-morning run. The air was full of morning scents—roses and phlox in the gardens, the wet salty tang of the sea, an alluring whiff of coffee from someone’s kitchen. The wind sang over the rocky headlands and whistled in a stand of gnarled pines sheltered by the curve of Oarweed Cove. Ginny dawdled there, amused by a gull harassing an eider duck for its hard-earned mussel.
From this vantage, the parking area and some of the buildings of Perkins Cove picked up the first rays of the new day. Even now, the lot was half full of cars, no doubt belonging to tourists out for a fishing expedition. The thought of coffee pulled Ginny on. One of the cafes had to be open.
She bypassed the big, well-known restaurant at the edge of the parking lot, preferring someplace more intimate. Maybe a luncheonette; that old-fashioned word brought up memories of tall stools along a counter, tightly-spaced booths, and sassy wait staff. But would anything so simple still exist in the highly competitive enclave between Oarweed Cove and The Basin?
A tall, rangy woman was wiping down the white metal tables in a narrow, graveled yard in front of a gray-clapboard building. Its window was hung with fishing nets and lobster buoys, and a weathered, hand-painted shingle proclaimed the place to be “Chowders.” A rickety, covered stairway on one side led to a second-story shop with framed paintings in the windows. Enticing aromas wafted from Chowders.
Ginny flagged down the woman. “Any chance of coffee yet?”
Danea, according to a nametag matching the shingle, straightened and shook out her cleaning cloth. “Just about, I think. Could use some myself. Come on in.”
It wasn’t exactly a luncheonette, but close. Three tables, with two chairs each, filled one side, while the rest held a compact kitchen, a small counter with a register, and a display case of cold bottled drinks. Racks of bagged chips, candy bars, fridge magnets, and postcards covered most horizontal spaces.
“Haven’t cleaned the tables yet in heah,” Danea tossed over her shoulder. “Mack! Coffee done?”
“Two minutes,” a masculine voice replied.
“Cinnamon rolls just out o’ the oven. Gimme a minute, and I’ll get a slice for ya with the coffee.”
Ginny nodded agreement and strolled to the single, salt-stained rear window. The place was only about thirty feet deep and ten wide, tight quarters for any shopkeeper. That explained the tables out front.
The sun balanced on the horizon now, and the direct shafts of light nearly blinded her. The rocks rising up in the cove cast long, black fingers across the water, and the damp, seaweed-covered stones of the beach reflected glints into Ginny’s eyes. She scanned the curve, from the pines she’d just passed under, across the parking lot, past the restaurant, and out to the fabulously costly private homes at the tip of the neck. As her eyes adjusted, she could pick out more details—fish bones, bird droppings, a twist of netting, many shells. She puzzled over a large, shadowy lump, and her breath caught.
“Danea,” she croaked. “You’d better call the police.”
“What for?”
“There’s a body on the beach.”
****
By the time Ginny returned to Cobble Cove Inn, breakfast was nearly over. Not that she could remember what hunger felt like. She had scarcely tasted the stale coffee and cold pastry Danea coaxed her to eat after the ambulance finally left Perkins Cove with its sad load.
The police had been brusque, but kind, once they determined she had nothing more to relate than what time it was when she noticed the body. Neither she nor Danea had approached it, and the small crowd that gathered like ghouls to gawk at the proceedings stayed well behind the police tape. Ginny dropped into a chair at an empty table and cradled her head in her hands, wishing she could erase the images in her mind.
Camille set a cloth-covered basket and a menu beside her. “Good morning, Ms. Brent. I hope you slept well. Did you enjoy the inlet?” She studied Ginny’s face and gasped. “Good heavens, what happened?”
Ginny closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. “Sorry. I’ve had a shock. Nothing to do with you. Could I have some coffee, please?”
“Of course. Can I help in any way?”
“Thank you. Just coffee.” She listened with relief to the receding whisper of Camille’s sneakers on the rug. It was an accident. It had to be. He just fell out of the boat and drowned, didn’t he? Please don’t let it be Bill Thompson!
Someone sat down at her table. A napkin rustled, and a sweet, warm scent tickled her nose. “Sugar,” the someone said. “Sugar is great when you’ve had a shock.”
Ginny risked a glance. A pair of friendly green eyes met hers. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Trust me. I’m a ranger up at the Rachel Carson Preserve. We know about shock. You need carbs. Have a blueberry muffin.” The woman sliced and buttered the muffin and set it on Ginny’s plate. “I’m Alisoun Hodges. Alisoun with a ‘u’ like in Chaucer. Try this, it will help.”
Coffee appeared at her elbow, and Camille’s hand patted her shoulder. “She’s right, Ms. Brent. I’ll be right back.”
Ginny nibbled on the muffin and washed it down with the fresh, hot coffee. Hunger must have contributed to her shock. Renewed energy flowed through her, and when Clyde brought her a plate of scrambled eggs, she had no qualms about eating them. When the plate was clean, she felt ready to face what she had witnessed.
“Better?” Alisoun asked solicitously. “Your color is stronger. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I’d rather leave it to the police,” she began.
Alisoun made a face. “I’m afraid the word is already out. Just didn’t know it was you who found the body. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
“All I did was call the police. I didn’t see…I didn’t go near it.”
“You did the right thing. Let the cops deal with it. That’s what they’re paid for.”
She shuddered again. Details of the scene kept emerging in front of her eyes, like the pure white feather tangled in the dark hair. And there’d been—no, best not to think of it.
“I have to tell you,” Alisoun said, “bodies wash up on beaches a couple times a year here in Maine. Did it take long for the cops to arrive?”
“Seemed like forever, but it must’ve been only a couple of minutes. And then a little later a police boat showed up just
off shore.”
“Harbor Patrol. They’ll take it from here, Ginny. No need for you to worry. Just relax and let them take care of it. You can enjoy the art show in spite of it.”
The idea of enjoying anything right now startled her. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Oh, yes, you can, and you will. Bet you didn’t know I’m a judge, too. We’ll enjoy it together.”
Ginny made a huge effort and turned her mind away from the disturbing morning. “Have you been to Oil & Water before, Alisoun?”
“Twice. Linc keeps luring me in with food.” She smiled good-naturedly, her green eyes twinkling. “You came all the way up from New Hampsha? How was traffic?”
Ginny gave a noncommittal shrug, and Alisoun laughed. “That bad, huh? Good thing you came early.”
“Can I pick your brain? Linc sent me a schedule, but how do things really work this weekend?”
Alisoun rearranged her chair and buttered another muffin for herself. She radiated a brisk outdoorsy energy to match her lithe, athletic body. Her hand curled around a massive camera and lens as she enthused about the early summer daybreak atop Mount Agamenticus a few miles inland. “I had to apply for a special pass to be there at four-thirty this morning, but my God, the light over the valleys was incredible.”
That was even earlier than Ginny’s awakening. “Are you entering photos in the festival?”
“Not this time. I will for the fall show in Portland, though. I’m just judging this weekend. I’m local, and oddly enough, that seems to be a point against me. Still, I sell a lot of images to tourists, and I’ve had a couple of books published. Tour guides mostly, but they pay the bills.” She glanced around the dining room and lowered her voice. “Don’t let Linc get you fussed. He’s a little weird, but he’s a fantastic organizer. He’s done a lot for the arts in Maine.”
“Do you know Bill Thompson?”
“Has he turned up yet? He’s a sweetheart. Not a mean bone in his body. I just saw him yesterday morning, heading out on a lobster boat, sketching like mad. He never uses a camera.”
“Some artists don’t.” Ginny nodded in agreement. “Is someone else going to set up his booth for him?”
Alisoun shrugged. “His husband, I guess, if anyone. Not my problem.” She crumbled the last of her muffin and set her napkin on the plate. “Well, I’m off before Linc thinks of something for me to do. If I were you, I’d make myself scarce, too.”
“Can you recommend a good place for lunch? Are there any special events today?”
“There’s always something happening downtown. We don’t have to be at the tent until six, for the dinner. I’m gonna go watch the crafts people set up their tents, keep out of the formal judging areas till it’s time to make decisions. See you around?”
****
Slipping out of the inn without running into Linc, Ginny took her time strolling to the trolley stop and rode back to Perkins Cove. All signs of the early police activity were gone, but just to be sure, she ambled along the harborside, full of shops, boutiques, and tiny eateries. The crowds seemed happy to be enjoying the warm weather and the sun glaring off the water; a long line had formed for the boats that offered tours of the harbor and bay. She wondered if anyone on one of the tours had seen Bill Thompson sketching out on the ocean. Perhaps she should ask Alisoun, or Bill’s husband, if she met him.
No, she reminded herself firmly. If there was anything to be discovered, it was up to the police. She was here only to perform a service to the arts community of Maine, not to solve a crime. It was best to leave the mystery of the body alone.
In spite of her curiosity.
She settled on an ice cream at noon and perched on a bollard near the fuel station, as pleasure craft and working boats filed in to fill their tanks before heading out to sea. Ginny distracted herself by noting how many were named after or about women—Elma Sue, Mary Riordan, QE17, Martha’s Vinegar. Pleasure boats tended toward boasting—Maid It, Destiny, Success. The working boats often displayed a wry humor—Bottom Dollar, Po Boy, and several named Claws and Effect with a roman numeral, which she assumed were part of the tour-boat fleet in Lobster Cove, farther north.
Most often, Ginny noticed, the captain or crew of each working boat operated the pump after swiping a card through a reader, just as a driver would at a gas station. Pleasure craft tooted a horn and an attendant would come out, pump the fuel, and accept cash. A few boats were waved off to another fuel station. One owner vigorously protested this treatment, jumping onto the pier and poking a finger in the attendant’s chest. The argument grew heated, with other captains joining in to back up the attendant. A woman from the Nuclear Fishin’ tried in vain to settle things down.
The objecting boater pivoted until Ginny caught a glimpse of his profile. Was that—? Yes, it was Fred Thompson. Suddenly, the fight became personal to her, since her rescuer was involved. She sharpened her hearing, but the only words to float clearly above the background noise were “trouble” and “contract.”
One of the Claws and Effect boats tootled irritably, and Thompson took a step back from the confrontation. For a moment, the background noises faded, and Ginny distinctly heard one of the combatants say, “And keep your grubby paws off my traps, if you know what’s good for you.” But she couldn’t tell who said it.
****
Thompson got back aboard his boat and gunned the engine, earning glares and shouts from other sailors caught in his backwash. Ginny was glad she hadn’t let him extend their acquaintance the night before and vowed to avoid him if she could. Anyway, it was time to head for the park to see if any of the crafters were setting up their booths outside the main event tent. Like Alisoun, until the official evaluation period, she would stay away from the artists whose work she would be judging. It wouldn’t do to become too friendly with any of them and perhaps bias her opinion of their art.
The guy wires on one crafter’s tent, reflecting jewel-like light, caught her eye. She meandered over to the tent and found the stays were trimmed with multi-colored bits of glass, some threaded on the ropes and some dangling. Touching a finger to them, she set them in motion and smiled with delight at the rainbows they produced.
“They’re fun, aren’t they? You wouldn’t believe they’re rejects.” A round-faced, wispy-haired woman grinned at her. “Hi, I’m Colleen Grebus, lampworker. I make beads, my husband Gary there blows glass.” She nodded toward a rangy man struggling to mount a large black box onto a stand.
“Can I help?” Ginny offered, hoping they would decline. That box looked heavy.
The man shook his head. “Thanks, I got it. Coll, would you—” He nodded at the stand, and the woman steadied it. One last heave and the box settled into place. Gary busied himself hooking up tubing to a pair of gas tanks.
“Propane and oxygen,” Colleen explained. “The box is an annealer, where we put the finished pieces to cool slowly. Otherwise, they’d explode from the heat differential between inside and outside. But we’re only doing beads and small stuff tomorrow. People love to see how it’s done.”
“Does it take long to get enough glass ready?”
“For Gary, it would take three days. He needs a lot more glass than I do. Me, I can heat all I need in a few minutes with my propane torch and these glass pipes and rods.” She gestured at an assortment of various-colored glass. “I’ll make a few beads while he schmoozes with customers.”
“I’ll have to come back tomorrow and join the spectators.”
“If you want, you can take a stint as a helper.”
Ginny gave her a startled look. “Really? I’m sure I’d break something.”
Colleen’s laugh was delightful. “Oh, I do that all the time. Glass is great, though, you just re-melt it.”
“Must cut down on expenses, then.” Ginny couldn’t help chuckling, grateful for the distraction from her disturbing thoughts. “And you sell your products? Could I ask, do you make enough to live on? I mean, they’re beautiful, but…”
Colleen la
ughed again. “Oh, no, this is a hobby. Josephine over at She Sells Sea Gems has been after us to sell stuff there, but we don’t want to be tied down to production for sales. It’s more fun just to make what we like and maybe sell a few things at shows like this.”
“So, you don’t do this full time?”
“Not at all. Gary’s a computer tech and I’m…don’t tell anyone or they’ll put me to work. I’m a nurse practitioner.”
“Oh, I never thought about that.” Ginny frowned. “I mean, we have security people. I wonder if we have first aid workers? I’ll have to ask the organizer.”
“Are you a crafter? Artist?”
“No, I’m a judge. Ginny Brent. I’m not in on the planning stages. I just point and say, ‘That’s good, that’s good, that’s awful.’ ” Colleen was so easy to talk to, Ginny was sure she had a great rapport with her patients.
“Well, don’t say ‘that’s awful’ in front of my work,” Colleen replied with yet another laugh. “Hot glass makes serious burns.”
“Is that a threat?” Ginny faked a cringe to show she was joking. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll stop by over the weekend and maybe pick up a pretty pendant like the one you’re wearing. I presume you made it?”
Fingering the elaborate swirls of blue and green glass at her throat, Colleen nodded. “I’ll see you then.”
Ginny moved on, savoring the afternoon sun and admiring those crafters who worked so hard to bring their wares to this show. They weren’t included in the fine arts judging, though there would be a People’s Favorite award for which they could compete. Some spaces, marked by small flags driven into the gravel, were still empty, and she assumed the vendors assigned those spaces would set up on Saturday morning. One end of the parking lot was given over to food vendors and a small covered stage, currently under construction, where local bands would provide entertainment.
The unmistakable figure of a cop appeared as she rounded the end of the main tent. The figure held a position in front of a pop-up tent. LaFlamme, according to his badge, looked far too young to be carrying a gun, but then college grads looked like high schoolers to her now. She wondered why he seemed to be guarding the tent, until she noticed the many woodworking tools arrayed on a bench. Wicked shahp! she thought with a shudder. She leaned in for a closer look.
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