Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Same here,” said Ted. “Did you have a good drive?”

  “Not bad,” said the stranger. “Bit of traffic in Portland but otherwise clear sailing.”

  Lucy and Phyllis picked up on that last, and their eyes met. Was this a clue to his identity? Was he a fisherman? A yachtsman?

  “That’s great,” said Ted. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m usually ready for a coffee around now. We don’t have Starbucks, but we’ve got our own Jake’s. How about it?”

  “Sounds great,” said the stranger.

  Ted opened the door, holding it for the visitor, who stepped outside. Ted followed and the two walked past the plate glass window with the old-fashioned wooden blinds, their progress followed by the two women inside the office. Then they were out of view, leaving nothing behind except questions.

  “Who is he?” asked Phyllis.

  “Why is here?” asked Lucy.

  “What’s Ted up to?” asked Phyllis.

  “I wish we had some answers,” said Lucy.