It was 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, which we affectionately called the 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. Just like my relationship with Lorel.
“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’s the same hard look she’d give when I wanted to tag along in middle school. The lights highlighted her sculpted cheekbones, 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 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.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, July 1
A few minutes after chugging out of Mystic Bay Harbor, I forgot to be mad at Lorel. Bertha’s boat, Queenie, headed into the sunrise. Those who make their living on the sea start work in early morning, while it’s still dark. Our six A.M. start was pretty late, a concession to me.
Sunrise at sea is breathtaking. Watching the sun kindle an orange and pink fire in the water, listening to the seabirds, feeling the freshening wind on my face, I felt alive. Plus, the ocean’s beauty made it easier to ignore the reek of the bait bags that we would stuff into Bertha’s lobster pots.
A slick cabin cruiser cut us off and Queenie bounced over its wake. The hull smacked the water as we crested each wave and dipped over the other side. Bertha winced and flipped them the bird.
I couldn’t help smiling as the boat bucked but Bertha pressed a hand into her lower back and adjusted her weight. She turned to me. “Just remember to wear your gloves when you handle the lobsters.”
“I was helping my dad haul pots on Miranda practically before I could walk,” I said.
“You lose a finger, Gully won’t let me eat at the Mermaid anymore. Don’t want anything coming between me and your aunt’s lobster rolls.”
Bertha was in full lobstering regalia, gray-green rubberized overalls over a Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band T-shirt, feet in black rubber boots. Her pewter hair was braided into two thin plaits. I, too, wore heavy rubber boots and I’d put a rubber apron over my shorts and T-shirt later. I hate wearing rubber, especially as the day grows hotter.
Bertha’s gold hoop earrings caught the light and she’d knotted a red paisley scarf around her neck. Bertha’s ancestors had made their living from the sea for hundreds of years, mostly honestly. When we were little girls, Lorel and I used to think Bertha was a pirate. I was pretty sure Bertha also thought she was a pirate.
Queenie chugged past Cat Island. Storm-stunted trees and bushes ringed a two-story, gray-shingled cottage. Movement on the lawn caught my eye and I leaned past the wheelhouse for a closer look.
“I thought that house was empty,” I said.
“Sometimes the Lupos let friends stay there,” Bertha replied.
The Lupos owned everything in this part of Mystic Bay. There were many grand houses in Mystic Bay, many with their own guesthouses. Leave it to Stellene Lupo to have a guest island.
“I’ll take you out there sometime,” Bertha said, “if Stellene un-fires me.”
“Un-fires you?”
“Last year I started doing some housecleaning, to make some extra money. Worked for Stellene last year. I contacted her about cleaning again this year, but she, well, her estate manager said she didn’t need me this summer. And would let me know when my services were required. Said it in that voice, you know, sounded like she’d been sucking on lemons.”
Bertha fished in her chest pocket and handed me a business card.
COTTAGE CLEANERS
Bertha Betancourt, prop.
Specializing in island properties
“See, the maids at Harmony Harbor didn’t like having to go out on the boat to get to the cottage. So I offered my services.”
“What’s it like inside that house, Bertha?” I slipped the card in my pocket.
“Well, Cat Island used to be a real artist’s retreat. Old Mr. Nuttbridge lived out there alone, painting. When he died, Stellene’s husband bought the island and house. ’Cours
e it looks all run-down and ramshackle on the outside but inside it’s all renovated.” Bertha whistled. “Like a magazine picture.”
“I wonder why she didn’t fix up the outside?”
Bertha shrugged. “It wasn’t a lack of money, that’s for sure.”
I squinted toward the island, just big enough for the cottage, some sheltering trees, and a small beach. Bertha nudged binoculars into my hands. “Thanks.” I trained the binoculars on the house and adjusted the lenses.
“I swear I just saw someone go around the house.” I swept my eyes over a tumble of rocks to a pier, its rotted wood sagging into the waves. “Stellene’s got to take care of that old dock or it’s going to crumble into the water.” A rocky beach was next. “There’s a kayak on the beach. Bright yellow.”
“Brand-new dock on the south side.” Bertha said. “That island’s a good place for a hermit. Nobody to bother you out here. Lots of excitement during a nor’easter, though, water’d wash right over.” She jutted her chin. “Maybe it’s just somebody out kayaking who wants to check out the house. But you can be sure Stellene has top-of-the-line security.”
I put the binoculars back in the wheelhouse.
The sea grew choppier as we left the sheltered water of Mystic Bay. Queenie rolled with the swells but Bertha walked the deck as if she were crossing Pearl Street. Actually, Bertha’s step was steadier on the boat than on dry land.
“So, what’s the real reason you want to get out here and help an old gal with her pots? Don’t get enough fresh air at the Mermaid?” Bertha said.
I didn’t want to admit I hadn’t exactly volunteered. “Good to get away sometimes, right, Bertha?”
“Don’t I know it, I was married three times, wasn’t I?” She threw a look toward my ankle. “I see you’re out of that big boot contraption you had on your ankle.”
My ankle had broken in two places in a fall down the basement steps of a house I shared with other dancers in Boston, setting in motion my move back to Mystic Bay to help Aunt Gully at the Mermaid. “Yes, now I just have to wear this wrap.” I slid my foot out of my boot. “It’s made of some space-age stuff, light and waterproof. The wrap’s so light sometimes I forget I have it on. Doctor says I’m about ninety-five percent. I can go back to full-on dancing this fall if all goes well.” I hoped. I was desperate to dance again.
Bertha raised her rubber-gloved hand, fingers crossed. “But didn’t I hear you’re dancing at the Jake this summer?”
The Jake was what locals called the Jacob’s Ladder theater complex that hosted Mystic Bay’s Broadway by the Bay. I had a role in a new experimental musical. “Yes, I’m Queen of the Mermaids in Ondine. I get to work in a harness, you know, like Mary Martin in Peter Pan. But mostly I sit on a rock and wave my arms.” I put my boot back on.
Bertha patted my arm. “You’ll be back on your toes again soon, my girl. And I’ll be in the front row to see you.”
“Thanks, Bertha.”
We swung up to one of Bertha’s buoys, weathered orange and red stripes barely visible over the ocean swells. Like most lobstermen and women, Bertha knew where her spots were. Buoys marked the end of lines that held several lobster traps. Many didn’t even use buoys any longer, instead using GPS coordinates to keep track of their pots, but Bertha did things the old-fashioned way.
Long Island was a smudge on the horizon. Far-off boats resembled bathtub toys. The boat swayed as Bertha cut the engine. The thunk and rush of water under the keel was our accompaniment as we readied to pull up the pots. Bertha whistled a Springsteen song as I reached out with the hook and snagged her buoy, pulling the line connected to the lobster pots toward the boat. I threaded the line up and over the lobster hauler and pushed the lever. A metallic whine filled the air. Water splashed as the hydraulic winch raised the lobster trap, a three-foot-long black metal cage. When the pot was level with the side of the boat, I stopped the winch.
Bertha grunted and her powerful arm muscles bulged as we moved the pot into position on the rail so we could open it. I flipped open the cage and cleared out the things that were not lobsters—crabs that had wandered in, small fish, seaweed, other debris from the sea floor—and tossed them overboard.
One small, brown-mottled lobster waved its crusher claw in a tiny show of defiance, but we wouldn’t have kept it anyway. Young lobsters with a carapace smaller than just under four inches or females with eggs were returned to the water to keep the lobster population healthy.
Bertha tossed the little fighter back into the water. “Adios, amigo. Catch you later.”
Two lobsters remained. I pulled them out of the cage and measured their bodies with a gauge. “Keepers.” I put them in a large plastic bucket as Bertha baited the trap and tossed it back into the water.
We fell into a rhythm. The repetitive motions—hook, loop, winch, lift—and the tangy sea air lulled me into a contented calm.
Bertha squinted at the sun. “It’s eleven o’clock. One more stop and then we’ll head back. Get your aunt to cook up one of these lobsters for me.”
“Sounds good.” Though I’d started daydreaming about hamburgers. After almost two months cracking claws and picking lobster meat every day, lobster rolls were losing their appeal.
We chugged back toward Mystic Bay, again passing north of Cat Island. Now that Bertha’d mentioned lunch I couldn’t think of anything but hamburgers. My stomach growled.
“Last stop,” Bertha said.
I reached out and hooked Bertha’s red and orange buoy, looped the line into the winch, and pushed the lever. The engine whined, then coughed. The line went taut, jerking the boat to starboard. Bertha and I both stumbled and grabbed onto the boat to steady ourselves. The boat turned and listed closer to the water.
“Whoa!” I shouted.
Bertha hurried over. “Didn’t expect that.”
I checked the line. “It’s caught on something.”
Bertha tugged on it. “We’ll wait a second. Sometimes these things fix themselves.” A gull shrieked overhead then scudded across the water. Queenie drifted and swayed, then righted herself.
Bertha started the hydraulic winch. The engine groaned but nothing happened. “Ornery old gal.” She swore and banged the winch with the flat of her hand twice, then tried again. It ground back to life.
“Maybe it’s a good catch, Bertha!”
We leaned over, eager to see what was in the pot as the line rasped.
The dull metal trap broke the surface of the water, covered with debris, seaweed, and—fabric? I leaned forward. A heap of black fabric. A sweat jacket, a flash of pink. I reached to pull it in, but what I saw made me stop. It made no sense.
“What the?” Bertha reached for the trap then jerked her arm back as if she’d touched a flame. She grabbed my arm. “What the devil’s that?” Her hand on my arm was a vise.
A sweatshirt and jeans. A tangle of black hair cut close and jagged, slick with seaweed.
My mind formed a thought: A body.
Chapter 4
Suddenly I was choking. I couldn’t get any air.
Bertha screamed. She was right next to me but the sound seemed far off, as if coming from Cat Island. She screamed and screamed and pulled my arm and stumbled backward.
“Bertha!” I grabbed her shoulders, but she thudded to the deck.
“Oh, Allie!” Bertha’s breath came in little gasps. “She’s dead, she’s dead, isn’t she?”
I fell to my knees next to Bertha and squeezed her shoulders.
“Bertha. Stay here.” Of course Bertha wasn’t moving. She clutched her chest and winced, her skin purpling above her gray T-shirt.
“I’ll call for help.” My rubber boots made me stumble to the wheelhouse. I keyed the radio mic. Thank goodness it was the same kind of radio that my dad had on his boat. My hands worked the mic automatically to call for the Coast Guard.
“I’m.” My mind blanked. Pull yourself together, Allie. “We’re on Queenie. Just northeast of Cat Island. We’ve found a body. And
Bertha looks awful.” I lowered my voice. “I’m afraid she’s having a heart attack. Please hurry.”
I rushed back to Bertha’s side and helped her onto the bench seat along the side of the boat. She slumped against me, her stocky frame a dead weight. I eased her down, tucking a life preserver under her head. This can’t be real. But it was, as real as the slick deck under my feet, the seabirds circling, the sweat on Bertha’s brow.
The body and the trap dipped as the boat gently rocked and I made sense of what I was seeing. A woman, a young woman. The figure was slight, the jeans were gray with pastel flowers embroidered on the side from waist to hem. My eyes moved to the sweatshirt, dripping, flecked with sand and seaweed. Her arm was stretched over her head, a bright pink band around her wrist. I pushed myself to my feet, drawn to her by some strange magnetism. Could she be someone I knew?
I can’t look at the face. I know it won’t be there. There will be spots where things have been eaten away.
Still, I couldn’t help myself. My blood pounded in my ears as I pulled aside a scrap of seaweed. Her hair was black and plastered to the side of her head. The girl’s eyes were closed, thank God. A silver ear cuff gleamed. Her skin was ashen, her mouth drooped, like a melted wax mask had slipped. My stomach lurched.
I cut my eyes to the pink leather band caught on the pot. A bracelet. A black smudge ran underneath. No, it was a tattoo. My hand trembled but I pushed up the cold, sodden fabric of her sleeve. A tattooed line branched into three tines. A trident? A pitchfork?
There was another tattoo under the cuff. Seawater smeared black letters on her cement-gray skin. I turned my head to read them: HELL.
The boat rocked and dipped. My stomach dipped with it. I squeezed my eyes shut and stumbled to the back of the boat, praying I wouldn’t get sick.
Gulls screeched overhead and landed on Queenie’s bow, fretting and watchful.
Bertha sat up. We huddled together. I sat for a few minutes with my head between my knees. We drifted and rocked while the unspeakable thing caught on the lobster trap hung off the side of the boat.
Against the Claw Page 2
