Clammed Up

by Barbara Ross

  Every customer got a plastic tray containing two bright red, pound-and-a-quarter lobsters, a string bag full of steamed clams, an ear of corn, a potato, an onion, and an egg. All the accoutrements—the bib, the nutcrackers for opening the claws, a pick for getting the meat out of small places, a dish of melted butter, and a cup of clam broth—were also piled on the heavy tray. Once the food was delivered, a temporary hush fell over the crowd as everyone got down to work. Though I’d seen it all my life, I still found it funny to see nearly two hundred adults wearing bibs.

  I circulated among the customers looking for people who needed help, playing the host as I’d watched my father do for most of my life. I’d learned over the years it was best not to make assumptions. People speaking foreign languages might be expert lobster eaters, while people dressed head to toe in L.L. Bean—the uniform of Maine—might have no idea what they were doing.

  The clambake got its name from the steamers, the small, soft-shelled clams that opened as they cooked. Knowledgeable diners grabbed the clams by the neck, dredged them in broth to remove any remaining sand, dipped them in the butter, and swallowed them whole. Though the lobsters were the alleged stars of a Maine clambake, my heart belonged to the clams, which tasted salty and delicious, like you were eating the sea itself.

  For some of our more experienced guests, the ritual of eating the lobster was as important as the food itself. Those customers had strong opinions about how lobster eating should be done and provided commentary on everyone else’s approach. “You’re putting lemon on that? Blasphemy!” Some people ate only the big front claws. Others ate almost everything but the brain and the shell, picking through the body and the small claws, determined to get every bite.

  On the other hand, some of our first-time guests reminded me of the restaurant scene in Splash! where Darryl Hannah, playing the mermaid, picked up the lobster and bit directly into its shell. I approached a middle-aged couple and showed them how to use the nutcrackers to open the claws. Visibly relieved, they thanked me profusely.

  “First time in Maine?”

  Mouths full, they nodded enthusiastically.

  “What do you think?”

  The husband swallowed and dabbed melted butter from his chin, another lobster-eating ritual. “To tell you the truth, we’ve been trying to figure out all day how to move here.”

  I nodded and smiled. It was a common reaction to a great vacation. But it wasn’t as easy as it looked on a lovely June afternoon.

  As the servers cleared away the plastic trays with the lobster carcasses, clamshells, and corncobs, the guests sat back, groaning about how full they were. But somehow they still managed to eat dessert.

  Gabrielle’s blueberry grunt was an intense concoction made from the tiny, low-bush berries for which Maine was famous. It was baked with a sweet, dumpling-like top. In June, the grunt was made from berries picked last summer and lovingly frozen by Gabrielle in single layers on cookie sheets then transferred to plastic bins.

  Every Maine family had multiple recipes for blueberry desserts—duffs, grunts, slumps, crunches, crisps, pies, and coffee cakes. Throughout New England and the Maritime provinces of Canada, it was possible to get into quite a lively discussion about which was which, with some people insisting a slump was a grunt and vice versa. Whatever you called it, with vanilla ice cream melting over it, Gabrielle’s blueberry grunt tasted like heaven.

  As the meal ended, the guests drifted back toward the dock with full tummies and the memory of a beautiful day spent with family or friends. At least that was our goal.

  After a headcount, the Jacquie II took them back to Busman’s Harbor where it picked up the dinner crowd.

  Chapter 18

  Like most of the staff, I stayed on the island between lunch and dinner. The truth was this lull between the meals was my favorite part of the workday. It reminded me of one of my best memories of growing up—Livvie’s birthday parties. Livvie was born on Patriot’s Day, a holiday in April celebrated only in Massachusetts and Maine, as a former part of Massachusetts—though bizarrely it was spelled Patriots’ Day in Massachusetts and Patriot’s Day in Maine. It was the last gasp holiday in coastal Maine when families could relax and celebrate together. After that, the lobster traps went in the water, shops brought in their summer inventory, and everything in town had to be painted, planted, or repaired to prepare for the tourist season. Livvie’s party always included Jamie and his parents, Etienne, Gabrielle and Jean-Jacques, the aunts, uncles, and cousins on my father’s side, and all Livvie’s little classmates at the elementary school.

  When the official party was over and the classmates had been collected by their parents, my father would yell, “The OPK are gone!” Other People’s Kids. That was when the beer and wine came out, the steaks and burgers went on the grill, and the adults settled in for the real party. That was my favorite part of the day, too—wild games of tag with Jamie, Jean-Jacques, and the cousins. The adults, focused on their own fun, were much less occupied with our behavior than when the OPK were there.

  I always felt the same way during the interlude between the first and second seatings on Morrow Island. The tourists were gone and it was just the staff working hard and then eating a meal together. It was our time to catch up on one another’s lives and the latest gossip.

  Though I loved the clambake, it was a well-kept secret the very best meals on Morrow Island were the ones Gabrielle and her kitchen staff cooked for the help. If the dinner guests had any idea what we were enjoying while they motored to the island on the Jacquie II, they would be jealous. In honor of the first day of the season, Gabrielle always made tourtières, traditional French Canadian meat pies. You could have as many arguments about what made up a traditional tourtière as you could about blueberry slumps or grunts—probably more. Toutières always had ground or diced pork, except when they had beef, veal, game, or salmon. They always included diced potatoes, except when the potatoes were mashed. They were always spiced with some combination of cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, and allspice, except when they were spiced with a combination of rosemary, thyme, and sage. The arguments went on and on, but they didn’t matter to me. Gabrielle’s tourtière—diced pork, diced potato, cinnamon, and clove—was the best I’d ever eaten. And the best I would ever eat, I was sure.

  I cut a generous slice of the meat pie and helped myself to a salad made from soft Boston lettuce, fresh peas, and leeks from Gabrielle’s garden then carried my plate to a picnic table where Sarah Halsey sat alone.

  I took a fork full of tourtière and brought it to my mouth, anticipating the taste of one of my favorite foods. I chewed.

  Something was terribly wrong. The meat pie was absolutely delicious, but it wasn’t Gabrielle’s. The taste of Gabrielle’s tourtière was so distinct to me, so bathed in nostalgia I sensed the fraud instantly. I was certain Gabrielle had not made this tourtière.

  I swallowed my disappointment along with the meat pie and turned to Sarah. We talked about her son Tyler, and her mother Marie, and about Livvie and Page. Other people came along and joined in the conversation.

  In some ways, the staff at the clambake was quite hierarchical. At the top were Etienne’s men who ran the fire pit, the women who worked with Gabrielle in the kitchen, Captain George and the boat crew, the bartender, and, it must be said, the family. Then came the college kids who made up the bulk of the waitstaff, anchored by a few long-term employees like Sarah. Finally, at the bottom of the pecking order were the high school kids, the jacks-of-all-trades or JOATs as we called them, whose job was to run, run, run—answering the calls of “More butter!” “More chowder!” “More iced tea! ”—and to get those items to the table while they were still hot or cold, whichever it was supposed to be. But at staff dinner, we all sat together with no distinctions between us.

  Eventually, the conversation at our table turned to the murder. It was like we couldn’t help ourselves. It was the biggest thing that had happened in Busman’s Harbor in ages and the clambake was inv
olved.

  “I hear you were in Crowley’s Friday night when the wedding party came in,” I said to Sarah.

  Her pale face turned an instant scarlet and she stammered, “I–I . . .”

  “Really?” someone farther down the long the table called out. “Tell us everything.”

  Sarah was still tongue-tied. I hadn’t meant to embarrass her. As Chris had said, she was a grown woman entitled to a night out. Did she think we were somehow judging her?

  “Nothing much to tell,” she finally managed, and the conversation moved on.

  I was sure that wasn’t the end of it. She’d be getting questions all night, maybe longer. I was sorry for my part—that I’d been the one to let people know she’d been there. But really, what did Sarah find so embarrassing? Had she overindulged? Was she there with someone she shouldn’t have been? A married man? Crowley’s wasn’t a bad place to hide in plain sight, with its tourist trade and high prices that kept the locals away.

  Marie Halsey arrived at the table and sat in the only open seat, right next to her daughter. If she noticed Sarah’s discomfort, she gave no sign of it.

  “Did you like the tourtière?” Marie asked me. “I made it. My own recipe.”

  “You made it? Not Gabrielle?”

  “She wasn’t up to it. Opening day. You know.” Wasn’t up to it? Gabrielle had been there for twenty-seven opening days. Had some crisis occurred in the kitchen? From where I’d stood among the guests, our first day had seemed remarkably glitch-free. Sure there were some hiccups. At one point, I’d witnessed a JOAT literally running in circles while customers shouted orders at him. For the most part, though, I thought our training sessions, plus a high percentage of returning employees, had kept things pretty calm.

  But there’d also been a murder and police all over the island. Normally, making a traditional dish like tourtière was an activity that soothed Gabrielle. Something she would turn to in times of stress. If she couldn’t even manage to cook, she must be deeply unsettled by the events on the island. I couldn’t blame her. There’d been a vicious murder a few hundred yards from where she’d been sleeping.

  I cleared my place and worked alongside the rest of the staff, setting the tables for our dinner guests. Etienne loomed beside me. I glanced down at the fire, which was burning well.

  “Do you think Sonny can handle the bake tomorrow at lunchtime?” he asked. “The police want to interview me in the morning.”

  “Again? Etienne, it will be your third time.”

  He shrugged. “I know. They believe I must have heard something that night, but I did not.”

  I called Sonny over and he agreed to help out right away. “I already checked in with Livvie. Reservations tomorrow are strong for a Tuesday—but it’s still a Tuesday. I can handle it.” Tuesdays were always the slowest day of the week.

  We talked some more about logistics, getting Sonny out to the island early. As our conversation ended, we saw the Jacquie II maneuvering toward the dock with the dinner crowd aboard.

  “Back to the salt mines,” Sonny said.

  Chapter 19

  Greeting the guests coming off the boat, I was surprised to see Lieutenant Binder, Detective Flynn, and Jamie Dawes, the last three to disembark. “What are you doing here?”

  “Heard so much about this famous clambake, thought we’d check it out,” Binder answered. “Unofficially.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jamie was in jeans, a polo shirt, and sneakers. Binder and Flynn had sort of tried for casual. Their ties were gone and their shirtsleeves were rolled to mid-forearm, but the ugly cop shoes weren’t fooling anyone. From behind them, Jamie gave me a whatya-gonna-do grin and I rallied.

  “Well, gentleman, you’re in for the best meal of your lives. Jamie, you know the drill.”

  Jamie led them off toward the bocce court.

  We did it all again. The later crowd, as usual, was mellower, less interested in exploring the island and more interested in alcohol, which was good for the bottom line. Binder and Flynn seemed to enjoy themselves and devoured every consumable piece of their twin lobsters. They must have been telling the truth about being off duty, because each of them, Jamie included, had a beer. I personally delivered their blueberry grunt. Binder groaned, but still picked up his spoon and took a bite. “My God, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  While they ate, I watched Le Roi, the island cat, as he wound his way from table to table. Le Roi was a Maine coon cat and had their distinctive big-boned body and long hair. He was named Le Roi, which means the King, after Elvis Presley. When Gabrielle adopted him eight years ago, he had the sleek muscularity and swivelly hips of a young Elvis. Now he looked a lot more like Vegas-era Elvis, but he was still the undisputed king of the island. Could there be anything better in this world than to be the sole cat on an island where over a thousand pounds of seafood was served per day? Maine coons were generally known for their caution around strangers, but Le Roi was past all that. As I watched, he casually rubbed himself against the legs of an elderly woman who reached down and fed him a large chunk of lobster in return for the affection.

  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 wishing 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 p
lummeted 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 God. “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 passed 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.”