by Lee Hollis
“What?” Hayley asked, her eyes narrowing, suddenly a little suspicious.
“Just a small accident,” Karen said. “Nothing, really.”
Hayley decided to ignore them and continued unpacking her brownies from her Tupperware when Liddy stepped behind her to take a look.
“She just nailed you in the ass with whipped cream,” Liddy said.
There was a wall mirror next to the mystery section, and Hayley spun around to see for herself.
Sure enough. Her entire backside was covered with frothy whipped cream.
“Seriously, Karen, is this what it’s come to?” Hayley said, wiping the cream off the butt of her jeans. “What are we, back in the third grade?”
“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Karen said, eyeing her friends, who were all now trying their hardest to stifle their laughter. And not succeeding.
“No, of course not. First you threaten me in the supermarket, and now you go out of your way to make me look foolish.”
“I never threatened you, so stop making things up. And as for looking foolish, darling, you’re doing a bang-up job all by yourself,” Karen said with a self-satisfied smile.
Oh, no, she didn’t.
Liddy saw what Hayley was about to do and hurried over and put a comforting but firm hand on Hayley’s shoulder. “Honey, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
But Hayley was through being nice. She picked up one of her almond fudge brownies, walked over to Karen, and mashed it on the front of her white cashmere sweater. There was utter silence in the library.
For once.
“Oops. Sorry. Accident,” Hayley said.
Karen looked at the chocolate stains on her sweater, then picked up one of her cherries jubilee pies and reared back. But Hayley saw what was coming and just as Karen flung it, Hayley ducked, and the pie sailed across the library and splattered all over Agatha Farnsworth’s face.
Liddy howled with glee, only making Agatha madder than a wet hornet. Agatha picked up a white chocolate bundt cake and hurled it at Liddy. Liddy grabbed the sides of her big floppy pink hat and ran screaming for the front door as the flying cake chased her. It missed its target by two inches and went crashing to the floor. But Liddy slid on the frosting and her legs flew up into the air and she landed flat on her ass.
The coven of witches rushed to Karen’s defense and started pelting Hayley with some vanilla bean scones. She fired back with a plate of no bake cookies, which were hard and would probably hurt if her throwing arm was as good as it was when she played softball in high school.
It was a free-for-all, and the few locals who showed up early to get their pick of the best desserts in the sale stood motionless outside the glass windows of the library, staring in awe at the food fight that was in full swing inside.
Finally, there was a lull because the only dessert left to throw was a lone fruit cake and nobody really liked fruit cake.
Everyone was covered with bits of brownie and cream and frosting and cake, and there was a feeling in the room that they had just done something that would go down in the annals of Bar Harbor history.
And it was something nobody should be proud of.
Karen Applebaum was still in a state of shock as she stared at the damage to her three-hundred-dollar white cashmere sweater. She dropped the last small piece of pecan pie she had scooped up to use as a weapon, and glared at Hayley, who was picking bits of angel food cake out of her hair.
“This is all your fault, Hayley Powell. You’ve ruined the bake sale for everyone,” Karen spit out.
Every last instinct told Hayley to keep her mouth shut and just walk away. But Karen insisted on egging her on, and she had finally reached her breaking point.
So she stepped over Liddy’s crushed bag of Pepperidge Farm oatmeal cookies, and, fists clenched, approached Karen, who slowly stepped away from her, now regretful for stirring Hayley up into such a fit of anger.
“I’m done playing games with you, Karen. So back off,” Hayley said, her voice seething. “Or else.”
“Or else what?” Karen scoffed.
“Or else I might just have to kill you,” Hayley said.
She didn’t really mean it. She just wanted to show Karen how pissed off she was. And nobody there actually took her seriously. But the words were now out there and they were words that would soon come back to haunt her.
In a really big way.
Chapter 10
It may come as a surprise, but the annual library bake sale turned out to be a smashing success. The spectators standing outside the library were so entertained by the food fight, they wrote checks for new books on the condition the women repeat the same show next year.
Hayley also wound up forking over a nice chunk of change out of her own pocket, in an attempt to make things right, and as an apology for her own participation in trashing all the treats before the official sale opened to the public.
By the end of the day, after all the checks and donations were counted, Agatha proudly announced that this year’s earnings were on par with last year’s, although they did fall short when she subtracted the cost of the cleaning supplies the women used to mop up the mess. And there was one first edition Mark Twain that got smeared with peanut butter fudge, so restoring the binding might cut into the final take as well.
Hayley was exhausted when she pulled into the driveway later that night. After making some macaroni and cheese and salad for the kids, she plopped down in her rocker on her outside deck, and sipped a cocktail while staring up at the shiny stars that dotted the black sky.
What a day.
At least she had tomorrow off, and could regroup, and then hit the ground running on Monday doing damage control over her very front and center role in the disastrous scandal that would surely be the talk of the town.
After finishing her cocktail and wrapping herself in a comfy shawl her grandmother gave her, Hayley fell into a deep sleep.
When she woke up twenty or thirty minutes later, she went inside and sat down at her computer to check her e-mail. There was one delivered at 10:15 P.M.
It was from Karen Applebaum.
That caught Hayley’s attention. She opened the e-mail and read it.
Hello, Hayley, I know I’m the last person you expected to hear from, especially after what happened today, but I’ve thought about everything, and I owe you an apology for my appalling behavior today and at the supermarket this past week. I really think it is in both our best interests to bury the hatchet. There is absolutely no reason there can’t be two food and wine columns in town, and I was hoping you could come over to my house to talk. I know it’s late, and it’s a Saturday, and I was going to call you, but I’m embarrassed and it’s easier for me to write you. I’m sure you might be out with friends or on a date ...
Boy, she really didn’t know Hayley at all.
But if you do get this e-mail, please, please, just come on over. I’m only a few blocks away. I feel awful and I want to hash things out and nip this escalating feud in the bud. Thank you, Hayley. Yours, Karen.
Hayley was leaning toward dealing with all of this tomorrow, or even on Monday. Maybe Karen was setting her up. Maybe she would show up at Karen’s house and Karen would greet her with a twelve gauge shotgun. She watched enough true crime shows on cable to know that was a very distinct possibility.
Finally, Hayley decided she didn’t want to wait until Monday. Why not clear the air now? Both of them could just move on with their lives, acknowledge each other with a smile if they happened to dine at the same restaurant, compliment each other’s columns publicly while trashing them in private, and just live a peaceful coexistence with no more drama.
Yes, that was the best course of action, and Hayley was going to do her part and drive over to Karen’s. She’d resolve the situation and be back home before the kids even realized she was gone.
It was getting chilly, the temperature dipping below fifty, so Hayley threw a coat over the torn sweats she was wearin
g (she certainly wasn’t going to gussy up for Karen Applebaum), fired up the wagon, and drove the four blocks to Michigan Avenue where Karen lived.
Hayley pulled the car up front and was surprised that all the lights were off in the house. She got out of the wagon and walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.
No one answered.
Had Karen gone out? Hayley rang the bell again. Nothing. She could just wait in the car until Karen got home. But what if she was there half the night waiting? What if Karen never came back?
Hayley tried the door. It was unlocked. She poked her head in.
“Karen, are you home? It’s me, Hayley Powell,” she said.
Still nothing.
Hayley stepped inside.
“Karen?”
Hayley had the urge to bolt back outside, jump in the car, drive straight home, and just pretend she never got Karen’s message.
But curiosity was getting the best of her.
She looked around in the dark but couldn’t see much. There was a glow coming from the den and the faint sound of a woman’s voice. Probably the TV.
Just to double check, Hayley made her way through the living room to the den and there on the screen was a repeat episode of the Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network. Figures. Hayley watched the show regularly and knew Karen stole half her recipes from that show. There was a quilt balled up on the sectional couch. Someone had been lying there recently watching TV. Suddenly something big and furry jumped at her and she screamed. It was a cat. A really fat cat. But its hefty size didn’t slow him down when he scampered up the stairs to hide. Hayley calmed down. She continued looking around.
Still no sign of Karen.
Hayley was about to leave when the thought occurred to her that Karen might be upstairs sick or incapacitated. She decided to make a quick check of the bedroom before she left. She rounded the corner into the kitchen and was heading back to the hallway to head up the stairs when she slid on something and fell facedown, smashing her forehead on the hardwood floor.
Ouch.
Hayley felt for blood on her forehead. There was none, but she knew a nasty bruise was sure to follow.
What had she slipped on? She felt around on the floor. Hayley’s hands suddenly felt wet and sticky. She felt some more and picked up a small rubbery object in her hand.
She crawled to her knees. She didn’t know where the switch to the overhead lighting was, so she opened the oven door. The light inside came to life, and illuminated a body sprawled out on the floor.
Hayley gasped.
It was a woman’s body.
Hayley shook the left shoulder. “Karen, is that you? Are you okay?”
Then she remembered the wet and sticky substance on her hand.
Dear God. Please let it not be blood.
But it wasn’t. It was milky and white. She smelled her palm. It was clam chowder. The rubbery object she had picked up was a clam.
Hayley placed her palm down on the stovetop and pulled herself up to her feet. The light from the oven was bright enough so that she could see the light switch next to the range. She reached over and snapped it on. A blinding light flooded the room, and Hayley, squinting, stepped back away from the body.
She recognized Karen Applebaum instantly.
Even though the poor woman was facedown in a turquoise-colored porcelain bowl of New England clam chowder.
She was still wearing the dessert stained white cashmere sweater.
And she was very much dead.
Chapter 11
Hayley gasped and threw a hand to her mouth. She couldn’t believe it. She knelt down and shook Karen, but instinctively she knew it was too late.
Hayley looked around, spotted a telephone on the wall next to the kitchen counter and stumbled over to it, grabbed the receiver, and dialed 9-1-1.
Bar Harbor being such a small town, several police officers were dispatched instantly and were banging at the door within seven minutes. Hayley ushered them in, and led them into the kitchen and over to Karen’s body.
Officers Donnie and Earl were among them, two young wet-behind-the-ears patrolmen. Earl gently took Hayley by the elbow and steered her into the living room away from the body. He sat her down on the couch and asked her to stay put until the chief got there. He wanted to question her himself.
Hayley knew Police Chief Sergio Alvares would want to personally talk to her for two reasons. For one thing, she was the one who had found the body. And second, they were related. Sort of.
Sergio Alvares was a strapping, impossibly good-looking man from a tiny town in southern Brazil called São Francisco that was nestled along the coast three and a half hours from the nearest metropolitan area of Curitiba. He was the only son of a poor farming family, who worshipped him and wanted great things for him. But Sergio quickly fell into the party scene and spent his early adult years bouncing between the wild, uninhibited nightlife of the two biggest urban areas of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo.
One spectacular night during Mardi Gras in Rio, he found himself on the private jet of an American mogul flying to Miami Beach for a party on Star Island, thanks to the lustful maneuvers of the businessman’s beautiful college-age daughter. The excitable girl thought she had found her future husband, and her father, seeing how excited his baby girl was over her new plaything, offered to groom Sergio as an executive in the family business as long as he kept her happy.
But Sergio had an independent streak, and had no intentions of marrying the rich girl. And being the hot-blooded outspoken Brazilian he was, he had no qualms about telling both father and daughter to back off. He was only twenty-one at the time and the last thing he wanted was to get tied down so young. That moment would prove fateful. The girl and her mega rich daddy took off back to Dallas in their jet, leaving Sergio stranded in Miami. He had no friends. No place to stay. And most importantly, no money to get back to Brazil.
So Sergio started working odd jobs off the books to get himself an apartment and scrape together some cash. He made some pretty influential friends from the South Beach club scene, and soon was being wooed by a famous fashion designer, whose company had just gone public, making him an instant billionaire. Sergio always knew he was gay, but never labeled himself as such because in Brazil, especially at the hot spots where he hung out, it really wasn’t much of an issue. He had dated girls, boys, and some who you couldn’t tell what they were, especially during Mardi Gras. He was young and carefree, and just went with the flow, whatever felt right at the time.
The designer, who immediately fell in love with Sergio, would whisk him off on fabulous weekend getaways around the world, but soon became possessive and controlling, and Sergio was one man who didn’t take to the idea of being kept.
Especially by another man.
On one weekend trip to Maine where the designer and Sergio went to visit the estate of a wealthy blue blood in Northeast Harbor who adored the designer and his fashions, Sergio slipped away to explore on his own. He fell in love with the glorious mountains and peaceful carriage trails of Acadia National Park, the stark rocky shores, and, across the island from the more stuffy, old money Northeast Harbor, the down-to-earth, eccentric, colorful tourist town of Bar Harbor. Drinking at a bar with a few locals, Sergio felt right at home. The live-and-let-live attitude of the people reminded him of his own home in São Francisco.
So when the designer sent a driver to find him and deliver him back to the estate so they could fly home to Miami, Sergio refused to go. He knew he didn’t want a future as the boy toy of a famous fashion designer. He wanted to be his own man. So once again, Sergio started from scratch.
He bussed tables at a number of restaurants that buzzed with activity in the summer, cleared brush for the National Park Service in the fall, and shoveled snow out of driveways for cash in the cold, dreary winters. He did anything to scrape together enough money to pay for his one-room apartment above a hair salon on a tucked away side street off one of the busier main drags. He live
d on Ramen noodles and sent whatever spare money he could to his parents back in Brazil.
It didn’t take long for Sergio to become well-known in town. How many strikingly good-looking Brazilian men were there in Bar Harbor, especially in the freezing winter months, who actually liked to go ice fishing with friends?
Lex Bansfield got plenty of attention for his good looks, but Sergio was in another category altogether and the single women flocked to him. But it quickly became clear he played for the other team. This was never a big deal in Bar Harbor, being one of the first towns in the nation to pass a gay rights ordinance; it was mostly to draw the gay tourists, who had a lot of disposable income they could throw at the local businesses during the busy summer season. But New Englanders also prided themselves on keeping out of other people’s business, so, like in his beloved Brazil, Sergio happily found that very few people cared about his sexual orientation.
It was right about this time he landed a job as a dispatcher at the local police station. The chief’s wife, who everyone suspected had a thing for Sergio, strong-armed her husband into hiring him. The only trouble was, English was not Sergio’s first language. A few of his friends called him “Ricky Ricardo” because everyone had trouble understanding him, especially after he had a few cocktails. So the dispatcher gig turned out to be a disaster because if there was a domestic disturbance call, nine times out of ten the officers would show up at the wrong address because they didn’t understand what Sergio was saying.
Still, the chief loved Sergio’s personality and work ethic, and made him a patrolman. That was ten years ago. When the chief retired three years ago, there was only one person everyone in town felt deserved the job.
Right about the time Sergio became a patrolman, Hayley’s brother, Randy, returned to town to start anew after abandoning his ill-fated acting career in New York. There were only so many gay people in town so it didn’t take long for the two of them to hear about each other. But the last thing either of them wanted at the time was a relationship, so they tended to avoid each other. That’s when fate intervened. Randy threw a party for all his old high school friends, and it got a little out of control, and a noise complaint was called into the station. Sergio answered the call, and when Randy opened the door, it was practically a done deal. Sergio still charged Randy with making a public disturbance just so it didn’t appear he was playing favorites, and the court summons was now framed above their fireplace in the nicely appointed waterfront home they shared together, as a reminder of how they first met.
