“Is it a man or a woman?”
The voice was deep and powerful, the figure stocky but small. The Legionnaire from the Website photographs.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”
Hy tried to relieve Annabelle of the lopsided plate.
“Liberate a lobster!”
The Legionnaire slapped pamphlets down the full length of one table.
The lobster slid off the plate and dove to the floor.
Hy bent over, picked it up and put it back. Annabelle elbowed her again, almost sending the lobster off the plate a second time.
“Hy, what have you done?”
Hy stiffened. “How could I know?”
Annabelle put the plate down in front of Wally Fraser. He was surprised—he’d seen the lobster fall to the floor. He shrugged and began to eat it anyway, keeping an eye on the action at the same time.
Hy watched numbly as three pamphlets landed in front of Ian, Ben and Harold.
Seeing Parker, the Legionnaire froze.
Parker pressed his lips together.
Their eyes locked.
Neither spoke.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Parker and the Legionnaire just kept staring at each other. Parker broke contact first. His brow furrowed. He looked down at the table. In a defiant gesture, the Legionnaire slapped a leaflet down in front of him, crossed the floor, and delivered one to everyone in the room. No one got in the way—not even Germain. His blood pressure had shot up and he was so red in the face his cheeks were almost purple. Estelle waddled over and made him take one of his heart pills.
Ian looked at Parker, trying to figure out what had just happened, but Parker’s face gave away nothing. He was staring down at the pamphlet and stroking his mustache.
Ian read: Lobsters are like you.
There followed the Lobster Liberation Legion’s entire manifesto, a radical message of the right to life of, not just lobsters, but of all the shellfish in the sea.
The Legionnaire climbed onto the stage. “Free yourself,” came the jubilant yell. “Join the LLL—The Lobster Liberation Legion!” arms raised and hands open. The remainder of the pamphlets went flying up into the air. They fluttered and landed, most of them, on the dessert table on top of Olive’s cream pie, Annabelle’s chocolate squares and Moira’s chewy brownies. One wedged itself, upright, into the thick butter icing of April Dewey’s heavenly white cake.
Everyone had stopped eating, a few with forks halfway to their mouths. They put them down, staring instead in a mix of shock, horror, amusement and anger. There was some tittering, some muttering, some sounds of outrage. Some were looking everywhere but at the Legionnaire, others were pushing the leaflet around on the tables, not knowing quite what to do, and one or two were reading it.
No one said a thing. But they’d have plenty to say afterwards. Gladys later remarked that if this was the kind of purpose the Hall would be used for in future, she wasn’t sure she cared to support it anymore. Madeline refused to take on door duty ever again.
There were two men huddled near the stage. They looked like fishermen, but Hy didn’t recognize either. One of them was tall and thin, the other short and plump. The tall one vaulted onto the stage, a handful of pamphlets crushed in his fist, and lunged at the Legionnaire, who refused to budge, legs apart and arms akimbo.
“Shut it!” he yelled, bringing his raised fist down. The Legionnaire leaped out of the way.
“Bug-lovah!” yelled his friend, as he hauled himself up to join in the assault. Without stopping to think, Hy dashed to the rescue up the side stairs to the stage and took the Legionnaire’s arm, dragging the Legionnaire into the kitchen and out the back door. She paused for a moment to lock the door from the inside, then pelted down the long wooden flight of stairs and into the parking lot over to the lobster camouflaged jeep, still holding onto the Legionnaire’s hand. Roughened red hands, long delicate fingers, an Irish wedding ring.
Man? Boy? Woman?
She looked into the hazel eyes above the bandana.
A woman. Another one.
Now there were two—at least two. Two lobster lovers, breeding like cockroaches. Camilla and her second-in-command.
“Who are you?”
No response.
“Are you with Camilla?’
The eyes blinked, but still no answer.
“Please, go away.”
There was banging on the door at the top of the stairs.
“You can’t keep doing this. Screwing up the invitations…”
The Legionnaire didn’t speak. She looked bewildered.
“…cutting Ben’s lines…”
Furrowed brow.
“…poaching for all I know.”
Hot anger blazed in her eyes. Her voice was muffled by the bandana.
“That’s not the Legion.”
How could she lie with such genuine eyes?
“Then who?”
“Not the Legion,” she repeated, emphatically, looking Hy straight in the eye. A sincere look. What did it mean?
The door burst open.
“Get in. Go. Now.” Hy grabbed hold of the door handle and opened it. “You’ll only make trouble. For me. For yourself.”
She took a quick look back.
The two men were pounding down the stairs.
“You better get out of here. Fast!”
The woman didn’t budge.
Hy stamped her foot. “Hurry.”
The Legionnaire stepped around her and strode purposefully across the parking lot toward the men. The tall one with the concave stomach raised his fist at her. He sneered, revealing one long, yellow front tooth crossed over the other. His mouth was large, wet and hungry. He licked his lips with a tongue burred with white. His nose looked as if it must have been broken more than once.
The Legionnaire kept walking toward him. She stopped a few feet in front of him and he and his short friend stopped too, unnerved. Hy came up beside her, mouth dry with fear. The Legionnaire said nothing. The men said nothing. They hadn’t expected this. Threats they were good at. More?
“Just go.” Hy said in a tone of disdain.
The tall one pointed a finger within an inch of her face.
“You brought the bitch here. Now you get rid of her.”
The words echoed in Hy’s head. You brought the bitch here. Now you get rid of her. The email.
“Or else,” snarled the short one. His eyebrows were thick and wild—stray black hairs so long they looked ready to fly away. He had a pug nose and small teeth, gaps between each one of them. His belly thrust out aggressively. He had almost as much girth as height. He had to look up at Hy to make his threat. She was looking down on him. That helped.
“Or else what?” She spat out the last word with contempt.
“Or else don’t count on havin’ any teeth ta eat bugs or baked goods,” said the tall one, looming closer, his skinny chest thrust out in an unconvincing threat.
“Hey! What’s going on out here?”
Ian. Standing in the glare of the outside light at the top of the stairs. Thank God.
The tall man shot a surly look at Hy, but he backed off. The short one did too, but as he moved back he clenched and unclenched his fist in a muted threat. Mutt and Jeff, thought Hy. The two men cleared off, heading at a run across the parking lot and down Cottage Lane to Mack’s Shore.
“Thanks.” The Legionnaire turned and went back to the jeep. She grabbed something from a pile on the passenger seat and shoved it at Hy.
“Here. You might find this interesting.”
Another DVD. Hy had forgotten about the other—it must still be in her bag. She stuffed this one in her skirt pocket. The Legionnaire got in the jeep, shut the door and rolled down the window. Her hazel eyes smiled above the bandana.
�
��See ya.” She waved and sped off.
Ian came up behind Hy.
“What was that all about?”
She shrugged.
“Are you all right?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. But before she could reply he burst out:
“Jesus Christ! Will you look at that?”
Ian was pointing at the sandwich board. She hadn’t noticed it in the drama of the last five minutes.
On the board, in slashes and drips of red and black spray paint, nearly obliterating the original cheerful invitation, it read:
LOBSTER MURDER!
TORTURE IN THE SHORES HALL!!
FREE THE LOBSTERS!!!!
“FUNDRAISER FOR HELL.”
“So that was what Parker was talking about.” Ian folded the board and stuck it under his arm. They went back up into the kitchen and he set it down. The women crowded around.
Line by line, they read the sign. Ian laughed, but not one of the women even smiled.
“We’ll have to be getting a new board,” said Olive. “Wood don’t come cheap.” She was counting the night’s take and recording it in her little black book down to the last penny.
“Oh, c’mon, Olive. Harold made this one from scraps. He can do it again. It won’t cost anything.”
“I suppose…”
“Well, that’s not what I wrote,” said Annabelle, as if anyone would think it was. “That Parker was right when he said it was strange. It sure is. Ben’s going to be as mad as a hornet about that lobster lover.”
“You better come home with me,” Ian said to Hy. “Just wait here while I get my jacket.”
Hy didn’t want to be left alone with the ladies, and Annabelle’s questions. She had seen truth in the Legionnaire’s eyes, genuine bewilderment. If it wasn’t the Legion doing these things, then who?
“Did you find out anything?” Annabelle.
“Not really. It’s another woman. She denied the Legion did any of that stuff—cutting the lines, the invitations, all of it.”
“She’s lying.” Moira.
“I’m not so sure. She looked really sincere.”
“Well, look what she has done. It’s damn obvious to me. Who else could it be?” Annabelle again. “You didn’t find out anything else?”
Hy shook her head. She felt the DVD bulging in her pocket.
“Who were those two bullies? They looked like fishermen, but not any of ours.”
Hy shrugged. “No idea.”
Back in the main room, a group of angry men were picking up the pamphlets. They weren’t intentionally cleaning up, they just wanted to get rid of them.
“It’s hard enough to earn a living as it is…” Hal Dooley was snatching pamphlets off the desserts and tearing them up.
“C’est Ça.” Germain, his colour returned to normal, grabbed some off the floor. He reddened from the effort. A few of the younger fishermen, Nathan’s friends, were swearing and crushing the papers into balls or ripping them and stuffing them into the garbage. Moira followed them around with a recycling bin, trying to get them to toss the papers in it, without any success.
A few people continued to eat their meals. Parker was one of them. Ian found him sucking on the last tiny lobster leg. Ben was still eating too. He’d polished off a piece of lemon meringue pie, a slice of April’s cake, and now he was demolishing a fudge brownie and a couple of peanut butter cookies.
“Mm…delicious.” Parker tossed the little leg onto the heap of red shells on his plate.
“Worth your ten dollars?”
Parker gave a thin smile. “Perhaps. Not the lobster. It was tough. Tasted like it was boiled to death. Ha!” He smirked again in appreciation of his own wit, stroking his mustache. “Which of course it was,” he added, in case Ian or Ben had missed the humour. “Boiled to death, but—” after a pause, “not to die for.”
This time he smiled. It was a surprise, a pleasant smile, genuine for a change—a nostalgic smile.
“That potato salad, on the other hand, with a generous amount of egg, grated as was the onion, with rich homemade mayonnaise, reminds me of the kind my grandmother used to make, down on the coast of Maine.”
“Why didn’t you buy a cottage in Maine?” Ian risked another rebuff. “Why come here?”
“Nice place.” He sounded like Harold MacLean.
There must be more to it, Ian thought. Something to do with what had happened tonight. That look that had passed between Parker and the Legionnaire. Recognition?
“Yes, it is a nice place, but as you know…” This might be his last chance to propose taking cliff measurements. “…the ice damage has left your house in a very precarious position, too close to the edge. If you’d let me—”
“Well,” Parker pursed his lips. “I think that’s my concern, not yours.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “And I’ll thank you to keep out of my business and off my property.” The fact was, he didn’t like to think about the precarious position his house, his treasures, his relationship were in. He patted his mouth with his napkin, folded it neatly, twice, into a square, and set it on the table. He stood up and left the Hall.
Ian smiled. Some of these Hall events could be deadly dull. That could not be said of tonight. “Well now, Ben, that was quite an evening, wasn’t it?” Ben grinned back, but it was a bit forced. There were worry lines on his usually smooth forehead.
“It don’t take much to see this Legion is messin’ with my trap lines.” Ben was rolling a cup around in his hands. He crushed it.
“You could be right. There are a few strange things going on. Hy and I saw a vessel called The Crustacean move into Big Bay on Setting Day eve. Have you seen it?”
“Can’t say I have. Don’t know about anyone else, but I could ask.”
“Don’t you stay overnight on the boat? I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything.”
The colour rose in Ben’s already ruddy cheeks. He felt warmth flood through him. It wasn’t embarrassment, although he looked sheepish. It was the warmth of desire. Ian could feel the big man’s mood lighten, though he didn’t know why. Ben was wondering if Annabelle could come home with him soon.
Ian pulled his jacket off the back of the chair.
“Well, if you find out anything, let me know.”
“I’m goin’ to have to talk to the guys about all of this. See what we’re goin’ to do if it keeps up.” Ben’s expression darkened again. He hated confrontations. Ian gave him a pat on the shoulder and went in search of Hy.
“Thank you, ladies, for putting on a magnificent meal as usual,” he said when he returned to the kitchen. They smiled or lowered their heads or got back to their chores in response to his compliment.
Hy was helping Annabelle and April shove plastic cutlery, paper cups and plates into garbage bins, while Moira looked on with disapproval. Madeline and Olive were washing dishes. Hy thought Gus would be upset that she’d missed all the fun.
“Can you leave?” Ian asked her.
“Well—” Hy looked around at the other women working.
“Go on.” Annabelle grabbed Ian and Hy by the arms, and pushed them in the direction of the door. “Hy—you cooked, set up, served and stood up to a couple of bullies. Leave the cleaning to us.”
The gesture was meant as a small apology for the hard thoughts she’d had that evening and it made Hy feel a lot better. But if there were more trouble, the friendship might not survive. She’d have to figure out a way to stop whatever it was she’d begun. Can of worms, she thought again.
“You go and do—” Annabelle winked—“whatever it is you do.” She knew Hy sometimes stayed over at Ian’s. They made no secret of it. People talked, but no one could really figure out what was going on between them. Hy said that nothing was, and Annabelle believed her…to a point. Nothing yet, but something was going on beneath the surface. Certainly something. Sh
e doubted if they even knew themselves.
Moira had joined Madeline at the sink. As Hy and Ian left, she slammed a large plastic serving dish into the rack. Ian would not get any muffins—or cleaning services—for a couple of days as Moira fumed over the two of them going off together.
They’d have been surprised to know how carefully she watched them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Legionnaire headed down Cottage Lane, the way the two men had gone. She heard the buzzing of a motor, stopped, and squinted into the distance. It was still light and she could see a small boat—a Zodiac?—headed for the far cape, this side of Big Bay.
Sheldon’s boys. She hadn’t expected them to show up this quickly. She turned around, drove back past the Hall and down Wild Rose Lane.
She looked up at The A as she got out of the jeep. He wouldn’t be there, he was still at the Hall, but that’s not why she’d come. She saw the shadow of movement flit across the big windows. Guillaume. Her real enemy. She wondered why he wasn’t at the Hall too.
She’d come down because she was interested in the low-slung cedar shingle building. She’d been watching late one night and seen Guillaume go in and out of it. Her keen senses told her there were lobsters in danger in there.
She killed her lights, cut her engine and let the vehicle roll silently down the lane as far as the pond. She made her way to the cookhouse in the twilight, glancing frequently up at the house to see that she wasn’t spotted.
The door was unlocked. She peeked in and crept inside. She stared, unblinking, at the stainless steel appliances, smudged with the fingerprints of use; black granite counter, dusted with white powder; white ceramic floor, tracked with red clay footprints.
She followed the sound of the water to the back of the room, moving forward with tentative steps, glancing behind her frequently as if she might be discovered at any moment, with no way out. Like a lobster in a trap, she thought grimly. Ceramic tile gave way to concrete underfoot, rocks and streaming water—an artificial pond. It was empty, but there had been lobsters in there.
Revenge of the Lobster Page 12
