Curses, Boiled Again!

by Shari Randall

  We took our leave, wishing Ernie good night, though I knew that was futile. The man had just had his whole life blown up in front of him. How could he sleep? Perhaps the doctors had also given him a sedative. Ernie was going to need it.

  We nodded to the police officer outside Kahuna’s Kove and got in the van. I just hoped the reporters didn’t have Gull’s Nest staked out. We didn’t have a private police force to run interference for us.

  Chapter 10

  No news trucks staked out Aunt Gully’s cottage, but two unfamiliar vehicles were parked in front of the house. One was a white pickup truck with Maine license plates. The other, a little red sports car, gleamed expensively under the streetlight. Paul Pond and Chick Costa stood by their vehicles, deep in conversation.

  We pulled into the driveway next to Lorel’s BMW.

  “Aunt Gully, you just go in. I’ll get rid of them for you,” I said.

  “Allie, don’t be silly.” Aunt Gully turned to look at the men. “They’ve had a bad shock, just like me. I’ll invite them in for some chowder.”

  I caught Lorel’s eye. I couldn’t imagine why these guys were here. Didn’t Paul Pond say he wanted to leave? Maybe they’d heard if you showed up at Aunt Gully’s you got free food. This was true.

  I looked through the van window at the two men: rangy Paul Pond, overalls over his Pond’s T-shirt, working that Maine seafarer look. Chick Costa leaned on his car, which probably cost as much as Aunt Gully’s cottage, his sweater still knotted around his neck, sun-bleached hair slicked back, a chunky watch gleaming on his wrist. He’d changed out of his Chick’s World Famous Lobsters T-shirt into his signature yellow polo shirt and navy blue sweater.

  “How did they find her?’ I said.

  “She’s still listed in the phone book,” Lorel said.

  “Nobody’s listed in the phone book anymore,” I said.

  “You girls behave.” Aunt Gully gathered her things. “Let’s see what they’re up to.”

  The two men approached the van, Paul Pond tall and stooped, hanging back behind Chick’s broad-shouldered frame.

  Aunt Gully opened her door. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Gully, how are you?” Chick said.

  Aunt Gully lifted her chin. “It’s been a difficult day.”

  “True, that,” Chick said.

  Paul Pond offered Aunt Gully a hand as she stepped from the van.

  “We should discuss the network’s position,” Chick said.

  “Network’s position?” Aunt Gully’s brow furrowed.

  “They called about an hour ago. They want a meeting tomorrow afternoon,” Paul Pond said.

  “Aunt Gully, have you checked your cell phone?” Lorel’s exasperation showed.

  Aunt Gully shrugged. “I always forget my cell phone. Let’s go inside and have a bite to eat and you gentlemen can tell me about it.”

  “Very kind of you,” Paul Pond said.

  Aunt Gully settled the men at the dining room table and served them each a steaming bowl of chowder in her vintage Fiestaware, the red, yellow, and orange (Aunt Gully did not believe in matching) bright pops of color on her vintage tablecloth, this one a map of Hawaii, with hula girls and surfers. The unnaturally cheerful colors contrasted with the strained expressions of those sitting around the table.

  We ate quietly. Paul Pond’s and Chick Costa’s sober faces brightened after their first spoonfuls of chowder.

  “Mighty fine chowder, Mrs. Fontana.” Paul lifted his spoon in appreciation.

  “Thank you. Please call me Gully.”

  “Paul.” Paul nodded and returned to his soup.

  “We’ve got to talk damage control,” Chick said.

  Aunt Gully waved him off. “When did you get into town, Chick?”

  “Drove down this morning, bright and early. Now, the network—”

  Aunt Gully turned to Paul Pond. “Tell me about your shack, Paul. I understand it’s been in your family for quite a long time.”

  “My many times great-grandfather started lobstering back in the 1800s. Shack’s been in my family for so many generations I’ve lost count. I’ve worked there since Moses wore knee pants,” Paul said. Everyone but Chick laughed; his eyes were on the phone on his lap.

  Paul continued. “It’s right on Kitt’s Harbor, prettiest place you’ll ever see.”

  “How about you, Chick?” Aunt Gully passed a tray of her homemade dill bread.

  “Oh, I’ve always been a lobster lover.” He looked up, took the tray and several slices of bread. “My family owns a chain of sandwich shops called Seaside Sandy’s all up and down the coast. Then about ten years ago, I saw a place called Grand Clam was going under. Family run, poorly managed. Typical. Some of these family-run outfits have no idea how to turn a profit.”

  Paul Pond lowered his eyes.

  “But the location on the water was primo. Got it for pennies and turned it around. Did a fair amount of testing and surveys to get just the right lobster roll. Rick and Rio tried it and liked it. And here I am.” He spread his hands. “Just like you guys. But you got here a little faster than most, Gully.” Chick’s smile was cold despite his perfect white teeth and square jaw.

  I didn’t like the way he said that, but Aunt Gully smiled right back at him.

  “Rick and Rio came on the second day I was open. Barely knew what I was doing.” Aunt Gully chuckled. “They were in disguise, as they do on their TV show. But they liked my lobster roll and next thing I know, I get an invitation to the contest.”

  “Overnight success.” Chick folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  “Aunt Gully’s been making her lobster rolls for years.” I leaned forward, my face hot.

  Chick cleared his throat. “Well, the network’s talking about canceling the Best Lobster Roll contest for this year. I don’t want that. I want a redo. That’s my position for the meeting tomorrow.” He looked around the table. “Thought it might be best to present a united front.”

  Paul Pond took a piece of bread and sopped up the last of his chowder, avoiding looking at Chick. Aunt Gully blinked. Lorel’s face was composed, thoughtful. Oh, God, she’s actually considering this, I thought.

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “I held Contessa Wells in my arms. It’s absolutely gruesome.”

  “So some old lady died, yeah, that’s sad.” Chick tried to look sad. “You heard the network, she had undisclosed health problems.”

  “That’s what the network says.” I tried to keep my voice level. “The news said the lobster roll’s being tested.”

  “And it wasn’t our lobster rolls. We shouldn’t pay because of what Ernie Moss did. Not. Our. Fault.” Chick’s finger poked the air with each word. “You know as well as I do that winning this contest is golden as far as marketing’s concerned. Two news cycles from now and nobody’s gonna remember some dead old lady.”

  I shot to my feet. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  Chick stood, flipping his key chain so we couldn’t help but see the Ferrari emblem. “Maybe the other Larkin sister’ll talk sense into you guys.” Chick winked at Lorel. Lorel met his eye, no change in her expression. Ice princess.

  “Gotta jet. See you guys tomorrow.” None of us offered to see Chick out.

  When she heard the door close, Aunt Gully turned to Paul. “What an awful man.”

  Paul Pond stood and ran his hands along the straps of his overalls. “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time. You do whatever you think’s best for your business,” he said. “But I’m inclined to agree with your daughter.” He nodded at me. Aunt Gully didn’t correct him.

  Aunt Gully drew a shaky breath. “Is that what people say about me? That I shouldn’t have been in the contest?”

  “Gully, you didn’t know it, but I stopped by your place yesterday. Checking out the competition.” Paul smiled. “Speaking as a man who’s eaten a lot of lobster rolls over the years, you deserved to be in the contest.” He jutted his chin at his empty bowl. “And your
chowder’s just as good as my grandmother’s, and that’s saying something.”

  Aunt Gully took his hand in hers. “Thank you.”

  “Getting late. Best be getting back to the inn. Then back to Maine.” He winked at Aunt Gully. “Got a family business to run.”

  Aunt Gully saw Paul Pond out then gathered the empty bowls and went into the kitchen.

  I leaned toward Lorel. “You aren’t seriously considering what that jerk said.”

  “He’s a jerk. Agreed.” Lorel adjusted the sleeves of the camel-colored cashmere sweater she’d put on over her Lazy Mermaid T-shirt. “But we’ve got to do what’s best for Aunt Gully and that’s helping her business succeed,” she whispered. “It’s all she’s got now that Uncle Rocco’s gone.”

  “She’s got us,” I whispered. “Aunt Gully’s a decent person and no decent person wants any part of a contest where one person died and three people almost died. Anyway, we should ask what she wants to do.”

  Over the sound of the little television in the kitchen, I could hear Aunt Gully running water in the sink, pots and pans clinking, getting her fix of soap bubbles and the evening news.

  “Chick Costa’s a jerk but he makes sense, Allie.” Lorel stood. “We’ve got to watch what’s happening and react the right way. We’ll watch social media, the news, and see how public opinion goes. That’s how you manage a crisis.”

  A crash came from the kitchen.

  We ran into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding the bright orange shards scattered on the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum. Aunt Gully pointed at the tiny television on the shelf of her vintage Hoosier cabinet.

  “Poison!” Aunt Gully clutched her chest with a soapy hand. “They found poison in Kahuna’s lobster rolls!”

  Chapter 11

  We stayed up late to watch the news, but there was little beyond the report that a “toxic substance”—which Aunt Gully translated into poison; were they even the same thing?—had been found in the Kahuna’s lobster rolls served to the judges. Test results would come soon from the state police lab.

  After I called Verity to fill her in, we’d all stumbled to bed, Lorel and I to the bedroom we’d shared at Aunt Gully’s since we were little girls. Bedsprings creaked as Lorel tossed all night. My sleep was fitful as images—the lobster libber sign, the threatening letters, Contessa’s scarf, Rio’s red boots, Aunt Gully’s pink apron—swam in and out of my dreams.

  When my phone rang the next morning, I struggled to form the word “hello.”

  “Allie!”

  I rolled over, smiling. “Dad! How are you?”

  “Question is, how are you two doing? The food fest’s all over the news.” Dad’s rich tenor voice touched something in me and tears sprang to my eyes. I cleared my throat.

  “We’re fine, Dad, really. Hard on Aunt Gully, that’s for sure.”

  Aunt Gully had been exhausted when she finally went to bed. We talked her into a cup of tea with a large shot of her book-club brandy and tucked her in.

  “You girls staying with her?”

  “Yes.” Lorel and I still had bedrooms at my dad’s house just around the corner from Aunt Gully’s, but growing up we’d spent so much time at Aunt Gully’s she had a bedroom with two matching twin beds for us, cozily tucked under the slanting roof, my bed with the same purple crocheted afghan she’d made me when I was eight and everything had to be purple.

  Lorel’s side of the room held little but the bed and a photo on the bedside table of my dad and mother holding Lorel. The wall on Lorel’s side of the room had a single seascape. Posters of bands, dancers, and figure skaters still covered the wall on my side of the room.

  I curled up on Lorel’s bed and set the phone on speaker.

  “Hi, Dad.” Lorel sat up and yawned.

  “Lorelei, honey, how are you?” My dad and Aunt Gully were the only ones who could call Lorel by her given name without getting a death glare.

  “Okay, Dad,” Lorel said. “But it’s been crazy.”

  “I expect it’s going to get crazier,” he said.

  We filled him in on our upcoming meeting with the YUM Network, the “toxic substance” found in Kahuna’s rolls, the judges, the Mosses, the mayor, the lobster libbers, and Contessa Wells.

  “Just the other day Esmeralda was saying what a blessing it is that you two girls help Gully with the shack.”

  Lorel and I shared a look. What Esmeralda meant: Aunt Gully has you two so she won’t need her brother to help.

  Dad had been dating Esmeralda Lima for nine months. She’d sailed into Mystic Bay on her yacht, the Sea Queen, had taken one of Dad’s whale-watching cruises, and decided to stay on. All the men of a certain age in Mystic Bay had been captivated by the flamenco-dancing widow, but she’d had the good taste to pick Dad. I wished she’d had worse taste in men. She’d taken her trip to get over a previous relationship. She was a quick healer. She asked Dad to sail with her on her yacht to the British Virgin Islands. Dad left his whale-watching business in his partner Sprague McCoy’s hands while on this trip with Esmeralda.

  Neither Lorel nor I were happy about Dad’s infatuation with the woman we called the Firecracker. From what we knew of Esmeralda, she changed her men as often as she changed the color of her nail polish. Ever since Mom died when I was born, Dad had always put us first. He’d dated a few Mystic Bay ladies over the years, but nothing serious. I didn’t mind Dad having a companion, I just didn’t want to see him get hurt.

  “Now, your aunt says everything’s under control. Is that true?”

  “Absolutely.” Lorel looked at me.

  “Yes, Dad, don’t worry,” I said.

  “All right then. Remember, I’ll be back in a jiffy if you need me. Things’ll look up. They always do.” Dad’s sympathetic voice was soothing.

  “Right, Dad.” I meant it.

  “Stick together,” he said, as always. “Love my girls.”

  “Love you, too, Dad,” we chorused.

  When we got downstairs, Aunt Gully was just hanging up the phone. She looked so dejected, I rushed to her. “What is it?”

  Aunt Gully sat heavily in a kitchen chair. “That was the director of health and sanitation for Mystic Bay. Robbie Vasquez. He’s ordering the closure of the Lazy Mermaid until the state police have a handle on the substance that was in the lobster rolls.”

  All my calm from the conversation with Dad evaporated. “What! It wasn’t your rolls that made everyone sick!”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lorel said.

  Aunt Gully blew out a breath. “Well, he has the authority. He said until the state police definitely knew what caused the illness, he had to protect the people of Mystic Bay.” To my surprise, she chuckled. “Robbie Vasquez always was the most cautious soul you’d ever see. Won’t dip a toe into the water unless he’s wearing water wings. Well, I guess it’s better safe than sorry. But I told him I’ve got people depending on me. I’ve got to call our lobstermen.”

  Several lobstermen and women delivered their catches right to our dock. The Lazy Mermaid had seawater tanks for the lobsters, so none would die, but Aunt Gully believed that keeping the lobsters too long stressed them and affected their flavor.

  “I’ll get in touch with our other suppliers.” I mentally started a list with the bakery that supplied our rolls.

  “Robbie said he’d do an inspection later today,” Aunt Gully said. “Personally.”

  “Well, he’ll be impressed,” I said.

  “I’ll call Hector and Hilda,” Lorel said. “When can we reopen?”

  “Robbie said if all goes well, tomorrow. He’ll let me know.”

  Aunt Gully’s phone shrilled. She was now back in stride, humming the song “Tomorrow” from Annie as she answered.

  “I have to pick up some things at Dad’s.” I’d moved most of my stuff back after my injury and it was split fairly evenly between Aunt Gully’s and Dad’s house.

  “Don’t forget you girls promised to go to church with me this morning,” Aunt Gul
ly said.

  “We did?” Lorel and I exchanged looks. I couldn’t think of an excuse. “Be back soon.”

  I walked around the corner to Dad’s house, a tidy cottage with MERMAID MOTEL carved over the door. My sister and I had gone through an extended mermaid phase, pretty much expected for two imaginative little girls who lived on the beach. The Lazy Mermaid was Dad’s nickname for me and I loved that Aunt Gully’d used the name for her shack. Lorel, to her credit, didn’t seem too jealous.

  The Mermaid Motel’s cedar shingles were dark brown and none of Aunt Gully’s whirligigs spun by the door. Dad’s idea of decorating was to hang old lobster buoys on the shed in the backyard. Since Lorel and I’d left for school and Boston several years earlier, the house had taken on a bit of a man cave feel, though Dad kept everything shipshape.

  Like Aunt Gully’s cottage, the top floor had two bedrooms with a bathroom in between. Lorel, ever practical and organized, had moved most of her stuff to her Boston condo. But Lorel’s white four-poster was still in her room, along with a vanity that had been our mother’s.

  My dad had allowed me to paint my room a sea green when I was in my mermaid phase. Little fluorescent stars I’d glued to the ceiling still gave off a dim glow. My bookshelves were stuffed with Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew mysteries that had been my mother’s, Harry Potter, and biographies of famous dancers. Rows of dance trophies lined a shelf and battered old toe shoes hung from my ballet barre in front of the window.

  Tucked in one corner was an oversized rocking chair. My mother had rocked Lorel in it. She never had a chance to rock me in it; my dad and Aunt Gully had done that. Still, when I curled up in this chair, often with a favorite book, I felt embraced by the mother I never knew.

  I tossed a few clothes in a bag, removed my walking boot, put on some music, and ran through the exercises of my floor barre.

  Every morning since my injury, I did floor barre, an adaptation of the dancer’s regular exercises that are usually done standing, plus Pilates, since it allowed me to isolate my left ankle and foot. Along with my regular physical therapy sessions, I was doing everything I could to stay in top shape to speed up my recovery and my return to the ballet company. How I missed dancing.