by Barbara Ross
“I’m done.” Quentin came through the kitchen door.
“What do you think?”
“What great architecture. It’s a shame your family stopped using it. I’m sure Windsholme can be salvaged.”
I scrunched my forehead over my nose in my best skeptical look.
“Think about it,” he urged.
I walked Quentin back to the Flittermouse. The buoys he’d found the day of David Thwing’s murder were piled in a corner of the deck.
“You haven’t tracked down the owner of the buoys yet?”
Quentin jumped to the deck and pushed one with the toe of his boat shoe. “Nope. Too busy.”
“You? Too busy doing what, exactly?”
He smiled back up at me. “You figure out your life yet?”
Touché. “Nope.”
“Let me know if I can be of service.”
After Quentin sailed off, I dug Le Roi’s carrying case out from the storage space under the eaves.
“Here puss, puss, puss.”
Le Roi was as determined not to go into the carrying case as I was determined he would. I didn’t want him running free on the boat, not with his love of swimming. As I lowered his enormous body into the carrier, he put all four catcher’s-mitt-sized paws on the sides and pushed back with all his might. He’d gotten heavier in middle age, like his namesake, Elvis, The King, but he still felt like one giant muscle. Finally, after a scene that left both of us panting, he was in his carrier and all I had to do was get it to the dock.
Chapter 15
In town, I lugged the carrier holding Le Roi, who felt like he weighed fifty pounds, up the hill to Mom’s house. I’d thought I was in great shape from working at the clambake all summer long, but evidently I was wrong. I staggered into the kitchen and released Le Roi, who took off like a shot into the bowels of the house.
A gleaming, chrome cappuccino machine sat on the counter. I looked twice to make sure it was really there. What a strange thing for my mother to have.
I left Le Roi food and water. In the garage, I found a bag of kitty litter Mom had bought to supply traction in the driveway during ice storms.
To cover my bases, I called Mom’s cell. Straight to voice mail, as I expected. I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote her a note explaining why she now had a cat. Temporarily, I emphasized.
The presence of the elaborate cappuccino machine was far more alarming than my mother’s unexplained absences. She had a born Boston Brahmin’s dread of ostentation combined with the habits of the thrifty Yankee housewife she’d become. I’d never known her to drink fancy coffee, much less own a fancy coffeemaker. Or any showy kitchen appliance for that matter.
I pushed the troubling chrome monster from my mind and grabbed my keys from the kitchen drawer. I wanted to check on Livvie.
Livvie, Sonny, and Page lived on Barbour Cove, a spit of land on the bayside of Eastclaw Point. It was a ten-minute drive from downtown Busman’s in the off-season, a cul-de-sac ringed by modest ranch houses, a rich mix of young families and retirees.
Livvie threw open her front door before I was halfway up the walk. She stood, strong and straight in the doorway, wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt open over a T-shirt. Was it possible she looked more pregnant than when I’d seen her the day before yesterday? She wore a ponytail bound at the nape of her neck to tame her luxuriant auburn hair.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the house was the rich aroma of Livvie’s pumpkin cookies, fresh out of the oven. The second thing I noticed was the gigantic flat-screen TV dominating the living room. “Wow, what is that?”
“It’s called a television,” Livvie deadpanned. But then, perhaps a bit defensively, said, “Our old one died.”
I recognized it as the same model Bard Ramsey had. And on the opposite wall from the new television was a spanking-new leather couch. Livvie followed my eyes as I took it in, but said nothing. One of the problems with working with family was we all knew pretty closely how much money each of us made. Bard was probably throwing some money Sonny’s way for his help on the Abby, though I didn’t think it could be much, because Bard and Kyle had to live off the lobstering proceeds, too. True, Bard was a highliner, but boat maintenance, fuel, and equipment were expensive. I doubted there was a lot to spare.
In the winter, Livvie usually made ceramics for a local pottery outfit to sell during the season, but she and Sonny had decided she’d skip it this year because of the toxins in the clay and glaze, so that bit of income wouldn’t be coming in. With a new baby on the way, it seemed like time for Livvie and Sonny to be cutting back, not buying brand-new stuff.
In the kitchen, dozens and dozens of big, dark orange cookies sat on cooling racks. “Get a little carried away?” I asked. Livvie baked when she was stressed.
“Swim team bake sale.”
That took me back to the smell of chlorine and the loud echoes in the pool area of the Y, where I’d spent so many of my childhood Saturday mornings. Livvie had been a champion freestyler. Best in class as soon as she was old enough to compete, state champion two times in high school. “How does Page like it?”
“Loves it.”
“She’s always been a fish.”
“Help me fill these?” Livvie pointed to a big blue bowl of cream cheese filling she’d been mixing. So the cookies were to become whoopie pies. Whoopie pies, sweet filling between two cake-textured cookies, were the official snack of the state of Maine, where they’d been invented. Some people in Pennsylvania disagreed with that version of history, but I was sure they were mistaken.
Livvie handed me a rubber spatula and we worked side by side, piling a thick layer of filling on the flat side of a cookie and then placing another on top, sandwich-style. The recipe she used was our grandmother’s on our father’s side, and the task made me nostalgic. To me, these delicious treats meant fall.
“I’m glad Page loves the team, but it makes the afternoons awfully long,” Livvie said. “She doesn’t get home from practice until after six.”
I looked more closely at my beautiful sister. She had puffy circles under her hazel eyes and her pregnancy glow had been replaced by a waxy paleness. Her worries about Sonny were taking a toll. And I wondered if maybe I wasn’t the only one having a problem adjusting to the slower pace of the off-season. With no winter job to go to, Sonny helping Bard, and Page tied up after school, the days would be emptier than usual for Livvie. At least until the winter forced Sonny’s dad’s boat out of the water and the new baby arrived.
“Sonny told me about the phone call he got from the hospital the morning David Thwing was killed.” Livvie kept her eyes on the task at hand, not looking at me.
“That must have been upsetting for you to hear.” I followed her lead and concentrated on filling the pies. “Do you have any idea who would do such a thing?”
“None. It’s so awful. Whoever it was must have wanted to hurt Sonny.”
“Or they really wanted to keep him off the El Ay. Did he tell you where he was the rest of the day?”
“Nope. Despite a rather loud ‘discussion.’” She finished stuffing the last pie on her cooling rack and picked a pumpkin cookie off mine. As usual, I was slower in the kitchen. “We try not to fight in front of Page. It upsets her. But sometimes it can’t be helped. She was upstairs doing homework, but I’m sure she heard us.”
I had an awful thought. “You don’t think he’s cheating on you?” She wouldn’t be the first pregnant woman that had happened to.
Livvie laughed. “Sonny? Cheat at cards, yes. Cheat on the size of a lobster a tenth of an inch, maybe. Cheat on me? Never.”
I admired her sureness. It was the same certainty I had with Chris when it came to other women. Both our men were confounding us with different kinds of secrets.
“What was he doing on the Abby that’s worse than lying to police so he ends up being a murder suspect?” I asked. “You don’t think—?”
“My husband killed his best friend? No. Or
that Thwing guy, either.”
I wished I had her certainty. As we worked, I ticked through the ledger. Sonny’s hot temper. Sonny’s over-the-top, seemingly personal hatred of Thwing. Sonny’s dogged loyalty. I had no doubt Sonny would hurt anyone who threatened Livvie or Page. Or me or Mom. Or Kyle. Or Bard. Or maybe the Misses Snugg? As the circle in my mind grew, the cold pit of dread in my stomach expanded.
What was I actually thinking? That my brother-in-law might have murdered someone? I didn’t want to believe it. In addition to the devastation it would cause my sister and niece, the truth was, after all these years with that aggravating man, I loved him. He was my family.
When the whoopie pies were finally all stuffed, Livvie put one on a plate for each of us and poured us each a glass of milk. I bit into mine, rolling the flavors across my tongue. The sweet of the pumpkin contrasted with the tang of the cream cheese—the perfect dessert.
When we finished, Livvie began silently packing the cooled cookies in plastic tubs.
I gave her a hug. My poor sister. I longed to lift the weight off her shoulders.
Livvie returned my hug. “I love you, too. I’m going to take some of these whoopie pies to the Murrays. Come with me? I’m not sure Lorrie Ann will see me if I come by myself. She hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
I shook my head. “I know she won’t let me in. I visited yesterday. Belle invited me inside, but Lorrie Ann asked me to leave.”
Livvie was resolute. “Let’s see how she reacts to the two of us.”
I looked at my sister. She was asking for my support. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s give it a try.”
Chapter 16
I drove Livvie into town in the Caprice. She said Sonny would pick her up when he returned from lobstering. In addition to the large container of whoopie pies Livvie had packed for the Murrays, she put three smaller plastic storage boxes on my back seat.
“What?” she asked, catching my expression. “One each for Mom, you and Chris, Bard and Kyle. I’ve put the rest away for the bake sale.”
“Mom would have to be at home to eat hers.”
“Don’t start with that again.”
On the ride, I asked her what Peter Murray was like.
“You know Peter,” she said. I did, sort of. He and Sonny were the odd couple. The big football player and the tiny wrestler. Blustering, take-no-prisoners, in-your-face Sonny, and quiet, conflict-avoiding Peter.
“He’s always been in Sonny’s shadow,” I said. “I don’t feel like I know him much at all. For example, was he a good lobsterman?” I remembered the peeling paint and worn roof shingles of the Murray house.
Livvie laughed. “Good heavens, no. He was a dub, for sure.” A dub was a lobsterman who consistently returned to the harbor with a small catch. “Sonny thought Peter had no talent for lobstering. Wondered how he fed his family.”
“And Lorrie Ann, what’s she like?”
Livvie sighed. “I would have liked us to be friends. Our husbands were best friends. But we’ve never warmed to each other.”
“You don’t like her?”
“She’s fine. We’re just not friends. And unlikely to be, with what’s happened.”
“Were she and Peter happily married?”
“Devoted. Sonny used to tease that Peter had found the only woman in the harbor shorter than him. But privately, to me, Sonny would say Peter had found his perfect match. She’s bossy, and Peter needed someone to tell him what to do.” Livvie was quiet for a moment, then spoke again. “When you saw Lorrie Ann yesterday, how was she handling things?”
“She was fine, but I don’t think she’d accepted her situation.”
There were no cars parked at the Murray house beyond Lorrie Ann’s ancient SUV sitting in the short driveway. “Where is everyone?” Livvie asked. She, too, expected the house to be crowded with lobstermen’s wives.
Lorrie Ann answered the door in her bathrobe, hair uncombed. Over the last twenty-four hours, the enormity of what had happened to her husband must have sunk in, and from the looks of things, it had sunk her with it. The cries of an unattended baby echoed down the narrow staircase. Despite the noon hour, PeeWee and Mavis were still in their pj’s, staring at the blaring television.
Livvie didn’t ask permission; she barged in. “Get Toddy,” she directed me. “Upstairs, second door,” she added unnecessarily. I only had to follow the sounds of his wails.
From his crib, Toddy lifted his arms to be picked up. He was a sodden mess so I took him directly to his changing table. As I fumbled for dry diapers, Livvie’s conversation with Lorrie Ann floated up the stairs.
“Have these kids had anything to eat?” Livvie asked. Her tone was kind, but all business.
“Some muffins?” Lorrie Ann didn’t sound too sure.
I managed to get Toddy changed and dressed, though my diapering experience with Page was nearly a decade in the past.
I carried Toddy downstairs and found Livvie in the kitchen heating canned soup on the stove and toasting bread. Lorrie Ann sat at the table crumpling a tissue.
“Where’s your mom?” Livvie asked her.
Lorrie Ann’s chin quivered. “We had a terrible fight. She walked out. Yesterday, just after you left.” She glared at me like I’d been the instigator. But nothing had happened during my visit that should have precipitated a fight. Unless it was the mere fact that Belle let me in. I couldn’t imagine that was it. Stress levels in the house were no doubt high, but it had to have been a heck of a disagreement for Belle to walk out on her daughter and grandchildren in these circumstances.
“Do you know where your mother is?” I asked. The last thing the world needed was another disappearing mother.
“She’s with a friend.” Lorrie Ann sniffed. “I’ve been holding it together, really I have. The police were here again this morning.”
“I’m sure you have,” Livvie reassured her. “Did the police”—Livvie lowered her voice so the children wouldn’t hear, which was hardly necessary given how loud the TV in the living room was—“have any news?”
“None. There was a state cop. He asked me a lot of questions.”
“Lieutenant Binder? Sergeant Flynn?” I prompted.
“Flynn,” Lorrie Ann answered. “Mostly he asked about money. How much does Peter make lobstering? How much do we owe? I explained things were hard because on top of everything else, we’ve been responsible for Mom since her hip replacement.”
“Was that all he asked?” I wanted to know.
“He asked a lot about Sonny.”
“Sonny?” Livvie turned the burner off under the soup. “What kind of questions did he ask about Sonny?”
“How did he and Peter meet? Were they friends? Had they ever been in business together?”
“Business together?” Livvie’s voice rose.
“I don’t think they understand lobstering,” Lorrie Ann said. “I explained Sonny was just helping out. Or was supposed to help out.”
The kitchen went silent for a moment. Then Livvie called the older children for lunch.
I put Toddy in his high chair. When PeeWee and Mavis were slurping away, and Toddy was gumming some cut-up toast, Livvie inclined her head toward the living room and I followed her.
“I’m going to stay,” she said. “I’ll call some friends to see if we can get twenty-four-hour coverage over the next few days. Can you go to the store? The pantry is empty.”
I nodded. I would be grateful to get out of there.
“Milk, eggs, bread, hot dogs, peanut butter,” Livvie whispered.
I indicated I’d got it and slipped out the door.
When I arrived back at the Murray house, Livvie stepped out onto the porch and grabbed the grocery bags. There were two cars parked along the street and the sound of female voices came from inside when Livvie opened the front door.
“Marshaling the troops?” I asked.
Livvie smiled. “I only had to ask. Everyone wanted to help, but Lorrie Ann had told each of them not t
o come.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I dunno.”
“Does her behavior seem odd to you?” I asked.
“What’s odd if your husband is lost at sea and a stranger’s body’s been hauled up with your boat?” Livvie responded.
I had to give her that one. “When I was here yesterday, I thought Lorrie Ann was in denial,” I said. “She was doing laundry, acting like nothing was wrong.”
“So it hit her today.”
“You know her better than I do. Do you think she seems sad?”
Livvie frowned, a rare crease in her forehead. “No. Now that you ask. She’s acting more anxious than sad. She’s a nervous wreck. Jumps at every little noise.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“It’s probably the waiting,” Livvie said. “Dreading the call saying they’ve found Peter’s body. She can’t mourn properly until he’s pronounced dead.”
Livvie looked toward the door. “I need to get back inside. Where’re you headed?”
“Mom’s. I brought Le Roi back from Morrow Island earlier today. I want to make sure he’s settled in.”
Livvie rolled her eyes. “Le Roi at Mom’s. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“It’s not a good idea. It’s a temporary necessity.” I realized as I said this I hadn’t called the rental agent to see if the owner of the apartment over Gleason’s allowed pets.
“The whoopie pies are in your backseat,” Livvie reminded me. “Would you drop Bard’s off at his house?”
“Sure. Call me if you need me.”
Obedient sister that I was, my next stop was the Ramsey cottage. I climbed out of the Caprice and fetched a container of whoopie pies from the backseat.
The doorbell echoed inside, but I didn’t hear movement. Bard’s truck was in the driveway, so I tried again.
Heavy footsteps lumbered down the stairs and the sea-green front door flew open. Kyle Ramsey stood in the doorway.
