Curses, Boiled Again!
Page 25
Aunt Gully had that on steroids and sprinkled with glitter. Shelves that ran along the top of the wall of the shack were crowded with her mermaid collection, what she called her mermaidabilia. It was the kitschiest, tackiest, tchotchke-est mermaid stuff ever—mermaids on dolphins, mermaids with hula skirts. Cowboy mermaids, mermaids with maracas. Customers had started bringing Aunt Gully mermaid tokens from their homes. We even had a life-sized wooden mermaid figurehead standing outside the door of the shack.
Just when I was sure I was getting a migraine, someone dropped a coin in Aunt Gully’s jukebox and Tom Jones was singing. I pulled my eyes away from the mermaidabilia. There wasn’t an inch to spare in our tiny lobster shack, but now some teenage girls were dancing with Aunt Gully and the man in the Red Sox shirt. A little boy about three years old stood on a chair, marching in place, conducting the music with a plastic fork.
It’s nuts. Absolutely nuts. The lobster shack had only been open a few months. We’d never gotten through a Fourth of July holiday. Now we had to get through Fourth of July and cater a party for one hundred one percenters at Harmony Harbor.
Still, excitement kindled in me. I couldn’t wait to get behind the walls of Harmony Harbor.
* * *
That evening at Aunt Gully’s cottage, Gull’s Nest, Lorel, Aunt Gully, and I relaxed on the patio, taking advantage of the cool evening air. A storm two days earlier had left behind calm clear weather and a reprieve from the humidity that was typical of summer in Mystic Bay.
The old-fashioned wall phone in the kitchen shrilled. Aunt Gully went inside to answer it.
Music thumped as a car rolled down the street. The scent of charcoal, lighter fluid, and grilled hamburgers and hotdogs was in the air. Summer people were moving in for the holiday weekend. Down on the beach at the end of the street, fireworks crackled in a trial run for the Fourth. The sulfurous smell drifted on the breeze.
Strings of fairy lights strung over the patio mimicked the fireflies over Aunt Gully’s garden. Lorel bent over her smartphone. Usually her texting was work-related, but tonight I wondered if she was texting with Patrick.
I tried to swallow my words but I couldn’t help it. “Lorel, listen, I know your affairs are none of my business—”
Lorel didn’t look up. “That’s right, Allie, my affairs are none of your business.”
I drank the last of my lemonade. Sweet and bitter.
“I—”
“Allie. I’m not discussing it. If Aunt Gully can stop nagging me about Patrick, so can you.”
“I—”
Lorel raised her head, her look hard even under Aunt Gully’s string of fairy lights. It was the same hard look she’d give when I wanted to tag along in middle school. The lights highlighted her high cheekbones, her sculpted chin, her strong jaw. She looked like the cool blond heroine of a Hitchcock movie.
I changed tack. “Well, I took your morning shift today. You owe me.”
Lorel scrolled on her phone. “I already told Aunt Gully I’ll take your morning shift tomorrow.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I stretched my legs on the chaise, inhaling the calming scent of Aunt Gully’s basil plants. I could already imagine those wonderful extra hours in bed.
“A little something to celebrate our catering venture!” Aunt Gully set a tray with shortcakes, strawberries, and whipped cream on the table.
“My favorite!” I sat up. “Thanks!”
Lorel waved it away.
“Who was on the phone, Aunt Gully?” I heaped my shortcake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.
“I’ve lined up helpers for the night we’re working The Stellene Lupo Affair,” Aunt Gully grinned. “Harmony Harbor, here we come.”
When I finished my shortcake, I set my plate on the tray with a sigh.
Lorel’s phone buzzed. “Gotta take this.”
She went inside, no doubt heading to the small downstairs guest bedroom. Growing up we’d shared one of the bedrooms upstairs under the eaves but now she slept in the little room on the first floor that had been Uncle Rocco’s study. Since our mother had died giving birth to me, Aunt Gully had been more than an aunt to us. When my dad was out lobstering, we lived with her and Uncle Rocco.
“Probably Patrick.” Aunt Gully pressed her lips together in a little red lipsticked downward bow.
I frowned. “Aunt Gully, I can’t help it. I know she’s a grown woman and all, but her dating Patrick again makes me just furious.”
Aunt Gully shook out the tablecloth. “Everyone has to make their own mistakes, Allie.” Her eyes were worried. “Maybe she’ll meet someone new in Boston. Take her mind off Patrick.”
“Guys as hot as Patrick aren’t exactly a dime a dozen.” Though hotness alone didn’t explain Patrick’s allure, did it? Why did Lorel keep taking him back? He always hurt her. He always had another woman. It always ended in tears. My eyes met Aunt Gully’s and I realized it was simple. For all his faults, despite them, Lorel loved Patrick.
“Oh, I forgot.” Aunt Gully folded her tablecloth. “Bertha asked if one of you girls could help her on her boat tomorrow morning. Her sciatica’s flaring up and her doctor told her to get some help with her lobster traps. Lorel said you needed a break from work and that she was taking your morning shift. So you wouldn’t mind helping Bertha, would you?”
I let my spoon clatter onto the tray. Thanks a lot, Lorel.
Praise
“A mystery as richly layered as a genuine Connecticut lobster roll!”
—Liz Mugavero, Agatha Award-nominated author of the Pawsitively Organic Mysteries
“Curses, it’s over already! Shari Randall introduces a lively cast of characters who had me dancing through this book. Allie Larkin charmed me with her sense of humor when faced with a heartbreaking injury. The climactic scene is like nothing I’ve ever read or seen and I loved it!”
—Sherry Harris, author of the Agatha Award-nominated Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mysteries
About the Author
A librarian and military wife, SHARI RANDALL lives in a drafty house by the sea. She loves books, art, antiques, travel, stationery shops, tea time, and dancing. Friend her on Facebook to learn more. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapte
r 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Excerpt: Against the Claw
Praise
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CURSES, BOILED AGAIN!
Copyright © 2018 by Shari Randall.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher/Beinstein & Andriulli.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN: 9781250116710
Our books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / February 2018
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.