Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

If only the big fella could talk. He was a witness to murder. “Thank goodness he’s okay.” I washed my hands and looped my pink Lazy Mermaid apron over my head.

  Hector wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his muscular forearm. “Allie, I heard you went to see Madame Monachova.” The speed that news traveled in Mystic Bay always astonished me. “How’s she doing?”

  “She was sleeping. I’ll go back later to check in on her.”

  Aunt Gully stirred her chowder. “Poor woman. How on earth did she get blood on her cape if she wasn’t anywhere near the body?”

  The same thought had been troubling my every waking moment. How could that happen?

  “Hey, everyone.” Lorel and a man in his forties wearing a black T-shirt, khaki shorts, and very expensive running shoes edged into the kitchen. “I want you to meet someone.”

  Lorel’s guest had a slim build and his legs were muscular. Runner. His sandy, thin hair was combed over, and his teeth so blazingly white I thought they must be fake. He carried a huge basket of fruit piled into a pyramid and topped with an orange bow.

  He inhaled, “Ah! THAT AROMA. That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He held out the basket—full of oranges, grapefruit, mangoes, apples, and more I couldn’t see. “For you, dear Gully.”

  “Oh, my! That’s too much. Thank you.” Aunt Gully took the basket and looked around for a space large enough to set it down. Finally she put it on the desk in the office off the kitchen.

  “Greetings.” Hector put a lobster in the steamer.

  Aunt Gully smiled. “Well, beware of Greeks bearing gifts! May I help you?”

  “Aunt Gully, this is Don O’Neill. He’s a principal with Chowdaheads. Remember I told you we met at a conference?”

  I folded my arms and threw a glance at Hector. You “met” him after he’d been bombarding Aunt Gully with letters for a month.

  “How do you do?” Aunt Gully said. “Would you like a cup of chowder?” Instead of seeming surprised or annoyed that Lorel had blindsided her, she was being her usual charming self. She ladled the chowder into a mug with a spoon and handed it to him. “Crackers?”

  He took the mug. “I could eat this all day, Gully! You’re a talented woman. And so’s your daughter.”

  Lorel didn’t correct him.

  “Niece,” I said.

  “Well, it’s just the resemblance is so strong. I see where she gets her beauty.” He shoveled in a spoonful of chowder.

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Amateur.

  “Why don’t we go outside and chat.” As Lorel, Aunt Gully, and Don went out the screen door, Aunt Gully winked at me. I laughed.

  If it had been me, I’d have thrown him out, but Aunt Gully took the high road, as always. Well, soon she’d have him laughing, and telling her his life story, and out of here in a few minutes, convinced that he’d convinced her. He’d be wrong.

  “Your sister.” Hector shook his head. “She’s unstoppable. Nice fruit basket, though.”

  “It’s as big as Aunt Gully!”

  I watched Don, Lorel, and Aunt Gully sit at our meeting room, the wobbly picnic table just outside the kitchen door. “Watch Aunt Gully work. I give it five minutes. He’ll leave smiling, thinking that he’s won her over.”

  Bit banged through the back door and hefted a bucket of live lobsters next to Hector. “Allie! You’re okay!”

  He ran to me and threw his skinny arms around me. I hugged him back, letting my cheek rest on his silky black hair. Bit looked up, tears brimming in his beautiful green eyes. My heart squeezed.

  “I was worried about you! That guy got killed and I heard you were there.”

  At the steamer, Hector had gone still.

  “I’m fine, Bit. I’m fine really.” I gave him another hug.

  “And where’s Lobzilla?”

  “Good news. I just heard that he’s okay. He’s in a nice comfortable tank in Fred Nickerson’s lab at the college.”

  Bit brightened. “I’m going to ask if I can go see him.” To my surprise, his lips turned down. “Lots of people were making jokes about Lobzilla, but I didn’t think it was funny. He’s old. He deserved better.” Bit ran back outside.

  “I hope he doesn’t know too much about that business,” I said. “It was just awful, Hector, grotesque.”

  Hector dumped a basket of cooked lobsters on the stainless-steel table for me to pick. “You know how people talk. Saying all kinds of weird stuff. But it is weird.”

  “True. Why was that lobster by the body?” I went to the stove to stir Aunt Gully’s chowder. As my fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of the spoon, a memory surfaced. “Hector, that wasn’t the only weird thing about last night.” I told him about the Witch’s Rock, the wooden spoon, and what Delilah had told me. “By the light of the half-moon, the spell is cast to change a person’s mind.”

  To my surprise, Hector threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. Don’t tell Hilda—”

  Hilda came into the kitchen. “Don’t tell Hilda what?”

  Hector pressed his lips together. Hilda gave him a look. He sighed. “Tell her, Allie.”

  I told Hilda what I’d found on the Witch’s Rock altar by the Parish cemetery.

  Hilda’s dark eyes widened. “Not good. Not good.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hector said. “Gully’s got too much good juju to be bothered by some silly spell.”

  “Mark my words—bad thoughts become bad actions. I hope I’m wrong, but this is not something to take lightly.”

  “You know, maybe it wasn’t even Aunt Gully’s spoon.” As I said the words, I didn’t believe them. Beltane wanted Aunt Gully to change her mind. The ceremonial candles were arranged just as Delilah had described. The little bundle of licorice for the spell was missing, but it could have blown away, or been burned. I’d ask Aunt Gully if she was missing a spoon, just to be sure.

  Minutes later we watched Aunt Gully wave as Lorel and Don O’Neill left.

  Aunt Gully came through the kitchen’s screen door, thoughtful, quiet.

  Hector and I shared a glance.

  “Where’s Lorel?” I asked.

  “Heading back to Boston.” Aunt Gully washed her hands and put on her apron.

  “Well?” I handed a plate of lobster rolls through the pass-through to Hilda.

  “Maybe.” She tasted her chowder and added some white pepper. “Maybe I should listen to your sister. Give Don’s company a listen.”

  “Really? Was it the fruit basket that changed your mind?”

  “Just kidding.” She winked at me, but then turned serious. “You know me, Allie. I’m happy here. This is my dream come true. But—” She stirred and tasted again. “Am I being too hasty? Maybe your sister’s right. Maybe I could grow. I should be practical, consider things like retirement. I told Lorel I’d think about it. With all that happened to you last night, I just got to thinking about how life can turn on a dime. That’s all I’m going to do. Think about it tonight in my bathtub with a nice glass of book club brandy.” She lifted her hand holding the spoon skyward and started to sing.

  “Wait a sec.” I pointed at the spoon. “Have you lost a spoon lately, Aunt Gully?”

  She shrugged. “Can’t say I keep track of my work spoons but I may have left one behind at the historical society. Why do you ask?”

  I turned so she couldn’t see my face. Hector threw me a glance. “Just wondering.”

  Chapter 17

  I left an hour later for the college. I’d promised to cover Madame Monachova’s Sunday-afternoon beginner ballet class. Her students were subdued. Several told me they planned to visit her at the hospital. After class, I packed up, determined to do the same.

  Once outside, I saw students hurry across the green toward the chapel and the back entrance to the campus.

  “What’s going on?”

  A girl read from her phone. “Cops are at the frat house.”

  I remembered the news. Max Hempstead had been a member of a fraternity.
/>   Maybe someone at the fraternity house could tell me if there was any link between Max and Madame Monachova.

  I joined the crowd gathered at the back gate of the college. The road here was quiet, flowing past campus into the shady tree-lined lanes and rolling hills behind the college arboretum. Several stately homes lined the road. One sprawling white building had Greek letters nailed over the door. The house itself was in good repair, but several sagging, worn couches lined the front porch. A dozen recycling bins and trash cans stood waiting for pickup outside, several overspilling with liquor boxes and empty bottles. At least the frat recycled.

  A gray sedan pulled from the curb—a state police car. I jogged forward but it pulled away before I could see who was in it. Some guys came down the steps and were mobbed by friends.

  I crossed the street. As I climbed the stairs onto the porch I noticed a weather-beaten sign: ABANDON HOPE ALL WHO ENTER HERE. Under the Greek letters was a small shiny brass plate: Parish House. The door was ajar and I went in.

  Well, that was easy. I paused in a darkened, wood-paneled foyer. A long living room opened to the left, stuffed with couches and several wall-sized flat-screen TVs. The smell of stale beer hit me. I wrinkled my nose. As I turned to admire the ornate chandelier overhead, my shoes stuck—the floor was sticky, with beer and probably other stuff I didn’t want to think about.

  “Hey!” A guy with sandy hair and tortoiseshell glasses popped up from a leather couch in the living room.

  “Hi.” From his hopeful expression, I think he thought I was looking for a boyfriend. There was an indistinct quality to his speech and I looked closer at his chapped lips. He had braces on his teeth and there were two tiny pieces of tissue where he’d cut himself shaving his round pink cheeks. I forced a smile.

  “I’m trying to find someone who knew Max Hempstead.”

  The guy puffed out his chest. “I was just talking with the cops about Max.”

  He’s trying to impress me. I suppressed a smile. “I’m sorry. Were you and Max close?”

  He stuck out his hand. His fingertips were orange. I hesitated, then shook. The cheesy dust from his snack transferred onto my hand. I wiped it surreptitiously.

  “Cooper Forsythe the Third. They call me Coop. I didn’t know Max real well, I just moved in here. But he was a fun guy. Pulled the best pranks. We had rush—”

  “Rush?”

  “Rush Week. It’s where you go to the different fraternity houses and interview. Then if you’re lucky the frat you want picks you. But this is a small school and there’s only one frat, so you either get in or you don’t. My dad was a legacy. Same with Max, he’s, well, was a legacy, too.” He frowned. “I didn’t know him well. He was a junior. He was always busy. Double major. History and business.”

  “Not marine biology?”

  Coop held out the snack bowl to me. I shook my head. He swept up the last of the chips and licked his fingers. “Everyone takes marine bio because you get to go out on boats with Professor Nickerson. Max liked being on the water.”

  “Anyone here who knew him well?”

  “His big brother.”

  His brother? “His brother’s here?”

  “Not his brother, brother. I think he was an only child. We all get matched with an older fraternity brother. Nate Ellis was Max’s big brother, he’s president of the frat. He was just talking with the cops. They were close, so he took it hard.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “He said he was going to the freshman bullpen.” Coop nodded toward the stairs. “After you.” I took a breath and headed up. He followed so close behind I could smell the salty snacks on his breath.

  “Why do you want to talk to him? Are you a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?” I turned, not sure I hoped I looked like a cop or not.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I get it. You’re a private eye hired by the family to solve his murder.”

  This story was better than anything I had prepared. “Something like that.”

  “Oh, I know.” He tapped his nose, smeared it with orange dust. “You’re not at liberty to say.”

  I gave him what I hoped was a mysterious smile and resumed climbing the stairs.

  “One more floor.” We went along a gallery lined with beer posters and deer heads, their antlers strung with Christmas lights and—I squinted—multicolored bras and panties of every type, through a doorway, and up a narrow stairway. Ugh. Everything I’d heard about frats is true.

  We passed a bathroom. Towels and shower slides were piled on the floor. The reek of sweaty clothes and sneakers was overpowering. I held my breath.

  “There he is, in the freshman bullpen.” Coop hurried in front of me and through an open door. I stepped into a long narrow room that appeared to run the length of the house. Eight beds lined the walls, each with a small desk and chair next to it. Computer screens and equipment crowded every surface. There was a footlocker at the end of each bed. The funk of sweaty workout wear and sneakers asserted itself despite the cool air flowing in open, unscreened windows.

  It was incredible that these guys had this elegant old building yet the students slept in a shabby ward furnished with a mix of yard-sale castoffs. At least their bedding matched, probably bought by their doting moms. I tried to ignore the posters of naked women on the walls and stepped around a heap of dirty laundry. The smell and misogyny and the general air of something kept under wraps had me on edge.

  A stocky guy bent over a bed, packing a gym bag.

  My guide leaned one hip against the door frame. “Nate, you got a visitor.”

  Without turning, Nate said, “As long as it’s not the cops.”

  “Nope. And no worries with the cops, I kept it on script.”

  On script? Had they lied to the cops?

  Nate looked up. Surprise registered on his face. I, too, felt a shock of recognition. I’d seen him before. Where?

  The party. I’d seen him running off with Isobel Parish.

  Nate had the same bland good looks that my guide would have when his braces came off and he got more skilled at shaving. Nate’s longer, sun-streaked brown hair and impressive beard were at odds with the pressed, button-down shirt he wore. He jutted his chin at my guide. “Thanks, Coop.”

  Dismissed, Coop slid back around the corner. I watched him go, making sure he headed down the stairs.

  “Are you a … cop?” Nate nodded toward a chair with socks drying on the back.

  “No, and no, thanks, I’ll stand.”

  His brow furrowed; he was trying to place me.

  I launched in before I lost my nerve.

  “Rough day?”

  He nodded. “Max was my little brother—not related,” he said. “Not a bad kid. Some of them are real dorks. He was pretty together.”

  “He was a junior?”

  Nate nodded. “But he was older. He did a gap year, built schools in Guatemala or someplace for a month or so, then just traveled around Asia. Wish I’d done that. So who are you, if you’re not a cop?”

  “My name’s Allie. I was at the party last night. Where he died.”

  Nate nodded and dug in his bag, avoiding my eyes. He’d been so talkative and now he clammed up.

  “Were you at the party?” I knew he was.

  “Yeah. But only for a while. There were several parties that night. You know, Halloween, right? I jumped around.” His evasiveness set me on edge even more.

  I had to get to the point. “Listen, did Max do any dance classes?”

  “Dance?” he scoffed. “Oh, I thought you looked familiar. I saw you at the Arts Center. You’re with the dance department.” He relaxed. I guess he didn’t remember me from the party. His eyes traveled to my legs. These guys were so predictable. “Max, dance? No. He played lacrosse and sailed. TA’d for Professor Smith.”

  “Teaching assistant?”

  “Yeah, his usual TA left to have a baby. Usually it’s grad students who TA, but Professor Smith is the frat adviser and he—” Nat
e stopped himself and cleared his throat. What had he meant to say?

  “Max helped in the office. Research, running papers.” At my quizzical look, he said, “Running papers through plagiarism software, catching cheaters.”

  “Did Max study marine biology?”

  “Max is—was a super student. Brilliant. He had to take marine bio for a science requirement but ever since he just liked visiting with Professor Nickerson. He was even visiting him when they found the superlobster.” For a moment Nate looked stricken.

  I wondered if Nate had seen his friend’s body. I couldn’t remember seeing him, but there’d been so many of us in the dark cemetery.

  His jaw worked and he turned his back as he swiped at his eyes. I was reminded how young these guys were. I knew I had to wrap this up.

  I pictured Max arguing with Isobel, helping Fred Nickerson in the shack at the Mermaid. Both times he’d carried a backpack. “Did the police take his backpack?”

  Nate cleared his throat. “Backpack?” He was quiet for a moment, a moment that told me I’d struck a nerve. “The cops took pictures, took lots of stuff.” He turned back to me and jutted his chin at the narrow bed next to him. The covers were rumpled. “The cops searched everything. They took Max’s footlocker and all his stuff from his drawers.”

  He edged around the bed. “They told me to come down after I talk to the chaplain about Max’s service. I really should go now.” He looked me up and down. “We could meet up later to talk.”

  Ugh, these guys. “Maybe. Do you think the cops found it? The backpack?”

  We went down the stairs.

  “Probably it was in his footlocker. Max always kept it locked. Guys steal stuff. Morons.”

  Nate held the door for me as we left the frat and crossed the street. His expression softened as we approached the chapel. “Max was a legacy but he wasn’t a typical frat guy. You can’t study in the frat—too much going on—unless you’ve got superhuman study power with all the noise. Max would go to the basement of the chapel. There’s a library there and some study carrels. Normally nobody goes there unless they’re desperate.”

  “Thanks for talking with me.”

  Now Nate smiled and I felt the force of his all-American charm. I imagined him having to beat off his fellow students with a lacrosse stick. “You should come back later. We’re having a party in Max’s honor.”