Curses, Boiled Again!

by Shari Randall

  “Who’s responsible?” I said. “Seriously, do you know who did this?”

  Mrs. Packer drew herself up.

  “Obviously,” she said. “It’s that awful Ernie Moss. He’s been out to get the mayor ever since he put the kibosh on that idiotic street-widening project Ernie proposed.” Mrs. Packer’s eyes flashed. “I’m going to make him pay.”

  Aunt Gully shot us a warning look. There was no need to engage with Bliss Packer.

  We edged out of the room. Four security guards stood by Rick’s and Rio’s cubicles. Two hospital staffers in white lab coats conferred by the door. A sense of urgency surrounded the room that wasn’t apparent in the mayor’s.

  “Touch and go with Rio,” Mrs. Yardley whispered. “She’s so slight, like a bird. You can’t believe she eats all that food on TV. They had to use a child’s gown on her.”

  Aunt Gully nodded at a gray-haired woman who pushed a walker slowly out of the elevators.

  “Is that Cindy Opalski?” she whispered to Mrs. Yardley.

  “Yes, I believe it is.” Mrs. Yardley nodded.

  I caught Lorel’s eye. Was there anyone in Mystic Bay that Aunt Gully didn’t know?

  A shout rang out. Two of the security guards hurried down the far corridor by Rick’s and Rio’s rooms.

  Mrs. Yardley threw up her hands. “Reporters. People trying to get photos to sell to Web sites. Can’t remember this many reporters trying to get into the hospital since that rock and roller ran his motorcycle off the pier at Gold’s Marina ten years ago.”

  We followed Mrs. Yardley back through the corridors of the hospital, our footfalls—Mrs. Yardley’s rubber-soled nurses’ shoes, Aunt Gully’s pink tennis shoes, my sandal and walking boot, Lorel’s ballet flats—echoing loudly in the ghastly fluorescent-lit hallways.

  Was Bliss right? Was it possible that Ernie, or someone else, wanted to kill the mayor? Could someone hate so much that they would poison three other perfectly innocent people in order to get to him? It wasn’t just crazy, it was depraved. Evil.

  We said good night to Mrs. Yardley. She waved, smiling wistfully at Lorel. The one who got away.

  “Nice to have connections to sneak you into the hospital, Aunt Gully,” I said as we got back into the car.

  “Lorel, are you … bummed out that we didn’t get on the TV news?” Aunt Gully’s peppery tone made me smile. She always enunciated carefully when using what she called “young people’s lingo.”

  Lorel shrugged.

  Aunt Gully settled back. “I don’t do things for the cameras, Lorel. I’d still like to thank Rick and Rio. They did me a huge favor by nominating me for the competition. I owe them a lot.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Yardley can smuggle you in tomorrow, Aunt Gully.” I clicked my seat belt. As the dome lights went out when Lorel started the car, the lines of Aunt Gully’s face settled into an uncharacteristic frown. “What is it, Aunt Gully?”

  “It’s terrible,” she said. “Why would someone hurt all those innocent people? What did poor Rick and Rio, Mayor Packer, and Contessa Wells ever do to hurt someone?”

  I leaned forward. “What street-widening project was Bliss Packer talking about?”

  Aunt Gully sighed. “Ernie’s been trying to get the town council to widen Pearl Street and raise the speed limit to make it easier for cars to get to Kahuna’s.”

  “There’s no place to widen it to,” Lorel said.

  “A speedway to Kahuna’s?” I scoffed.

  “Ernie didn’t win many friends with that idea,” Aunt Gully said.

  “Mrs. Packer actually thinks that Ernie Moss would poison the mayor using his own lobster roll? In front of all those people? What else would that accomplish but ruin his own business?” Lorel said.

  “Agreed,” I said. “Ernie Moss doesn’t strike me that way at all.” I remembered the way he cradled Megan. “Maybe if the mayor had hurt Megan. Ernie’s definitely the protective type.”

  “It must’ve been an accident,” Aunt Gully said. “A terrible accident.”

  Lorel parked in the driveway of Gull’s Nest. “I’ll be back late tomorrow after my meeting.”

  Aunt Gully patted Lorel’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine, right, Allie? The Mermaid’ll be open tomorrow and back to normal.”

  Aunt Gully got out of the car and headed toward the house. As she opened the door, I saw a flurry of paper fall from the doorjamb in the porch light. Aunt Gully picked them up. “Oh, look! Business cards,” she said. “Four different TV stations!”

  “Aunt Gully has a funny definition of normal,” I said.

  Chapter 19

  Verity lived on the first floor of a tumbledown 1850s house a block off the main drag of Mystic Bay. Prerenovation, her landlord called it. Since her shop was jam-packed, she used two of the bedrooms of her three-bedroom apartment to store stock.

  Verity sat on the wide plank floor, surrounded by a wall of boxes and green plastic trash bags stuffed with the clothes from the Wells House.

  “I thought you’d be done by now.” I tossed my purse on the couch.

  “I did, too. I’m in awe. Look at this.” Verity stroked the boning of a green silk ball gown. “Those tiny stitches were all done by hand. Nobody does that anymore. I’m in vintage heaven.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll last. I’ve got to work at the Mermaid tomorrow.”

  “I’m glad Aunt Gully can reopen.”

  I pulled a stuffed garbage bag toward me and set my booted foot on a low stool. My ankle throbbed, payback for that vault onto the stage. I’d have to be more careful or my ankle would never heal properly.

  I reached in the trash bag and pulled out several evening bags, popped them open, searched the insides, then set them on a shelf. Once, I’d found some diamond earrings and a clip of money inside a yard sale purse.

  “Look at this.” I pulled out a little golden spoon.

  “Ha. I find those sometimes in eighties stuff. Cocaine spoons.”

  I set it aside. Deep inside a gold sequined clutch I spotted a small twist of tissue paper. I unwrapped it. Multicolored pills and capsules tumbled into my palm.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Looks like she took a bit of everything.”

  I rewrapped the pills and set them on Verity’s fireplace mantel.

  “How did Contessa even function with all that stuff?” I asked. “Though maybe I’m assuming that stuff was Contessa’s. Could be Juliet’s.”

  Verity nodded. “I researched Juliet online. She had a huge drug problem. Fried her brain.”

  I shuddered thinking of Juliet, locked inside the big house on Rabb’s Point.

  “What happened at the meeting?” Verity’s question brought me back.

  I filled her in on the latest, including my realization about Ernie Moss in the YUM footage.

  She grinned. “So you saved an innocent man from the gallows. Not bad work, Allie!”

  I hung a vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress on a hanger. “Maybe not. Lorel says that Ernie still could’ve put poison in the rolls. I just can’t imagine how or why he’d do that. At least the judges are getting better. We saw Mayor Packer. And his wife.”

  Verity scoffed. “Bliss Packer’s a loon. She’s always in the shop, trying to squeeze herself into dresses that are two sizes too small.” She glanced at her watch. “Rick and Rio’s show’s on now.” She flicked on the TV.

  Jangling guitar and banjo music filled the room with Rick and Rio’s bluegrass theme song. Their trademark silver Airstream motor home flashed onscreen.

  “I love that little motor home,” Verity said.

  “Eating from coast to coast,” I said. “That’s my kind of trip.”

  We helped ourselves to bowls of chocolate-chocolate-chip ice cream topped with cherries, crumbled potato chips, and whipped cream, and settled in to watch. It was an episode where Rio and Rick visit a Maine restaurant famous for its—what else?—lobsters.

  Rio, Rick, and the restaurant owner raced to see who could pick a lobster fastest. As Ri
ck knocked lobsters to the floor, Rio speedily and neatly separated the lobster meat from the shell. She finished before the restaurant owner.

  “Queen of the lobstahs!” Rio raised her arms in victory.

  “She’s fast!” I licked my spoon.

  “Did you hear that Rio wants to build a spa in Mystic Bay?” Verity set aside her bowl.

  Where had I heard that? “One of Aunt Gully’s friends mentioned it.”

  “Rio and Rick want to turn that old farm near the Jake into a spa.”

  “Gruber’s Farm, right? That would be perfect. People could walk over to Broadway by the Bay shows from the spa. All that’s there now are a couple of falling-down barns.”

  “Rick and Rio and some other celebrities from the YUM Network are in on it. It’s going to be one of those healthy-eating spas.” Verity wrinkled her nose. “Yoga, kale.”

  “For a treat you get a glass of iceberg water.” I laughed. “Still, that’s good for Mystic Bay.”

  Rick and Rio gave their signature send-off: “Here’s to the best food in America.”

  “Should’ve been Aunt Gully winning that contest,” Verity groused.

  I didn’t want to talk about the contest. “Let’s finish up.”

  Soon we had every dress hung and each box stacked. Verity’s storage room was a rainbow of sumptuous fabric.

  “Good haul.” I yawned and stretched. “I’d better get home. I’ll be picking a lot of lobster tomorrow. I could use Rio’s help.”

  Chapter 20

  The sun rose entirely too early on Monday morning. Along with the scent of coffee brewing, the sound of Aunt Gully’s mixer rose from the kitchen. She was singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from Oklahoma. Even with a pillow covering my ears, the sound still seeped in. I reached for my headphones and slid from the bed to the floor to stretch.

  After floor barre and a shower, I went downstairs to the kitchen as Aunt Gully set golden-brown muffins on the table. The Mystic Bay Mirror was folded next to my plate. My early-bird aunt had already finished the crossword puzzle.

  The scent of lemony blueberry-raspberry muffins made my mouth water. I reached for one and managed an appreciative “mmm” as Aunt Gully whisked eggs.

  I scanned the newspaper’s headline. “Network Target of Food Fest Attack?” A photo of the empty stage, chairs upended, ran above the fold.

  Attack? Attack made me think of a military attack, or aliens. Something organized. Below the fold ran a picture of Ernie Moss, hand raised in an attempt to shield his face from the photographer. “Kahuna’s owner questioned.” The photo had been taken at the Mosses’ house. No wonder Lucia wanted the drapes closed.

  “And now for more on the Mystic Bay Food Festival fatality.” The news anchor’s voice made me turn toward Aunt Gully’s television. “We have Leo Rodriguez at the state police lab. Leo, what have you learned?”

  Aunt Gully stopped whisking eggs.

  * * *

  Leo’s handsome face filled the screen. “Let’s start with some good news. Doctors are confident all three of the hospitalized judges of New England’s Best Lobster Roll Contest—Rick Lopez, Rio Lopez, and Mayor Keats Packer of Mystic Bay—will go home soon.”

  “That’s good news.” Aunt Gully resumed whisking.

  “An autopsy performed on the fourth judge, Broadway and screen star Contessa Wells, showed no abnormalities, but because of her advanced age, doctors think the toxic substance affected her more strongly and led to her death.

  “The big news is that the lab isolated the substance that investigators think caused the dramatic illness and death.” Aunt Gully’s vigorous whisking stopped again. I held my breath.

  The report cut to a shot of a purple flower with long, almost bell-shaped petals. “Monkshood,” Leo said, “also known as aconite or wolfsbane.”

  “Wolfsbane?” Aunt Gully and I shared a look.

  “This plant grows wild and is highly toxic. Every part, from the root to the leaves, is dangerous,” Leo Rodriguez continued. “The question remains: how did such a toxic substance get into the lobster rolls served to the judges at the Mystic Bay Food Festival? Reporting live from the state police lab, I’m Leo Rodriguez.”

  Aunt Gully poured the eggs into the frying pan. “Monkshood! Sounds like something out of P. D. James.”

  “Where on earth do you find monkshood? Have you ever seen it in a garden?” I asked.

  Aunt Gully shook her head. “Looks like a weed to me.”

  Through the gingham curtains on the window, I could see Aunt Gully’s own garden, an impressionist painting of vegetables and plants. Roses would soon cover several trellises. Pots of succulents she called hens and chickens lined her flagstone patio. Herbs flourished in raised beds. Every inch of her small garden worked in the service of good food and beauty.

  I flipped through the newspaper. The Mystic Bay Mirror had nothing new on the poisonings, except one line that said police were investigating “lobster liberation” and “other” groups that might have reason to ruin the competition.

  “It says here the police are investigating lobster liberation groups.” I wished Chief Brooks would return my calls, but evidently he didn’t think Aunt Gully’s letters were a big deal.

  Aunt Gully set a bowl of fruit salad in front of me, along with a plate of scrambled eggs. “Do you think those letters … Allie, I can’t believe there’s a whole group of people who’d do something so terrible.”

  “If you get another letter, save it so I can bring it to the police.”

  “Yes, yes.” Aunt Gully started on the dishes.

  I turned back to the paper. The article about Ernie Moss was damning, simply by stating the facts—it was his lobster roll, after all—but also by reporting Ernie’s belligerent behavior. When taken to the Plex for questioning, he’d pushed several officers and they’d had to call in backup.

  “Ernie didn’t help himself.” I cleared my dishes.

  “Some people are their own worst enemies.” Aunt Gully shooed me from the sink.

  I hurried upstairs to dress. It didn’t take long to slip into my Lazy Mermaid T-shirt and jeans. When I went back downstairs, Aunt Gully was packing extra Lazy Mermaid aprons in her tote bag. “I think we’ll be busy today,” she said.

  I thought of the news coverage. Ernie on the front page should quash any rumors about Aunt Gully’s lobster rolls.

  “I hope so, Aunt Gully.”

  As we got into the van, Aunt Gully resumed her singing. A spanking wind came up from the water, setting her whirligigs spinning. The sky was a blue so bright and clear it almost hurt to look at it. My spirits lifted.

  We parked in the farthest spot of the Lazy Mermaid parking lot and crunched across the gravel. Hector and Hilda waved as we entered the kitchen. “Let’s get back to work,” Aunt Gully said.

  “But, how many people do you think’ll come?” Hilda fretted. “It’s Memorial Day, but…”

  “You mean, do people think they’ll get poisoned if they eat here?” Aunt Gully harrumphed. “No. Mystic Bay’s made of sterner stuff than that. Let’s get ready for a big crowd. A really big crowd.”

  * * *

  I looped my Lazy Mermaid apron around my neck as I passed the weather-beaten shed housing our lobster tanks. A collection of old buoys, their colors sun faded, covered the rough gray cedar shakes. Aunt Gully and I went down to the pier to supervise lobster delivery. Our lobstermen knew she’d accept no culls or sleepers. “Happy lobsters are delicious lobsters,” Aunt Gully said.

  Back at the shack, Hector readied our steamers while Hilda and I mixed a massive stainless steel bowl of coleslaw. Aunt Gully raised the American flag by the front door. She blew it a kiss, her salute to Uncle Rocco, who’d been a Marine.

  Aunt Gully believed we’d get a crowd. Lorel had confided to me she thought our numbers would suffer due to the tragedy at the lobster roll contest. She probably had some kind of spreadsheet with sales statistics, but Aunt Gully went on feel.

  Aunt Gully’s feel
beat Lorel’s spreadsheets.

  Cars pulled into the parking lot at ten. Even though it was an hour before our official opening time, Aunt Gully opened the doors. The thought of someone “going hungry”—though none of the foodies at our door looked in danger of starvation—jolted her into action.

  I pulled my hair back into a braid and put on a hairnet Aunt Gully’d bedazzled with sequins. “Gorgeous, dahlink,” Hilda said. I laughed.

  I needed a laugh. Picking lobster was hot, messy work. Using my hands and tools similar to nutcrackers, I twisted and cracked to separate the hot, cooked shells from the delectable meat. Aunt Gully spread the torn meat on the golden buttered-and-toasted rolls. Hilda took orders and rang people up. Several of Aunt Gully’s friends were on hand to help. Hilda and I switched places every hour or so, since picking lobster isn’t the most fun thing in the world. I set my boot on an inverted milk crate, tried not to channel Cinderella, and sank into the messy monotony of cracking claws.

  “I hope we sell as much lobster as Aunt Gully thinks we will,” I said.

  Hector crossed his fingers. The top of the pinkie finger of his left hand was missing, an offering to the sea gods when he got a little casual with a lobster. “Never get casual with lobsters,” he said.

  Hector and I fell into the easy rhythm of people who work well together. As the lobsters cooked and their mottled brown shells turned bright red, Hector moved them from steamer to worktable where I picked the meat into a tray. As we worked, I filled him in on our visit to the hospital.

  “I’ve missed all the drama about Ernie Moss’s parking plan,” I said.

  “You know how bad the traffic gets in summer. With Ernie’s plan, it’d be even worse for the people who live here.” Hector rubbed sweat from his bald head. With his hoop earring he looked like the man on the bottle of cleaner. “I don’t want to take my life in my hands every time I walk down to the marina. Get run over by some out-of-towners who can’t wait to get a lobster roll. Present lobster rolls excepted.”

  “What did Ernie propose?” One of Aunt Gully’s friends moved the tray of picked lobster meat to the other end of the kitchen, where she and Aunt Gully assembled lobster rolls.