by Barbara Ross
I had no idea how he got away with this. It certainly wasn’t legal for restaurants to arbitrarily decide not to serve certain guests. But all the members of the Busman’s Harbor PD ate at Gus’s and never interfered with his policy. They probably needed a break from the tourists as much as the rest of us did.
I knew and accepted all Gus’s rules. Since I’d returned to Busman’s Harbor in March, Gus’s had become my home away from home, the place I retreated to when I felt smothered by living and working with family. Even more important, Gus’s was where I’d remet Chris Durand all those years after he was a high school god and I was a seventh-grader with a whale-sized crush. And it was where Chris and I had carried on the early part of our romance, our pre-romance so to speak, “happening” to turn up for lunch at the same time three days a week.
Evidently, Binder and Flynn, who’d come to Gus’s a couple times with members of the Busman’s Harbor PD the last time they were in town, qualified as insiders. They were well into their lobster rolls when I approached their table. Both were too busy chewing to jump up from their chairs, but Binder gestured I should sit down.
I slid into an empty seat. “I just came from Camp Glooscap.”
Binder swallowed and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Anything about the next of kin?” He didn’t reprimand me for butting in, so I must have understood his subtle invitation to help correctly.
“Nothing,” I admitted. “I talked to my friends who were the very first residents of the park and who often had Stevie over for cocktails—”
“The Kellys,” Flynn interrupted. “Talked to them yesterday.” His tone implied he was way ahead of me.
“So they said. I did find out some things going on over there you might want to check into.”
“The Parkers?” Binder asked.
“Yes, did you talk to them?”
Binder shook his head. “I don’t think they’re big fans of the police.”
“I talked to the neighbor, Reggie Swinburne. He said Stevie’s been trying to get the Parkers off that site. He’d threatened to call in a crane.”
“I haven’t found any court filings, or even calls out to the campground by the local PD.” Flynn addressed Binder, even though I was sitting right there and was clearly part of the conversation.
“Reggie told me Stevie liked to take care of things himself. Didn’t like bringing in outside resources.” I was determined not to be ignored.
“Interesting,” Binder said.
“Stupid,” Flynn retorted.
“But not unusual around here,” I added.
Binder fished out his wallet to pay Gus. “Anything else?”
“Richelle Rose, the tour guide who fainted, is coming to stay at my house for a few days.”
“That’s nice.” Binder wasn’t interested in Richelle. She was a witness, no more, and not a particularly good one, because she’d passed out—which meant he didn’t wonder, as I did, why she’d fainted. As far as he was concerned, she’d seen a gruesome, burned body. He wasn’t standing where I was and didn’t understand how little she could have actually seen.
“Did you find the man who was on the balcony with the big camera?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Binder answered. “The room was rented by a woman with a corporate credit card from a large Canadian media firm. It will take a while to track it down.”
“A woman?” I was momentarily confused. “The person I saw was a big, tall man. Broad-shouldered.”
Binder smiled. “Women do, occasionally, share hotel rooms with men.”
Flynn hid a grin behind his hand, while I blushed. “Of course, but—”
“Tall. Dark. Handsome. I remember your description.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
“Maybe a little,” Binder allowed. “Is there anything else about him? Anything at all distinguishing?”
I hesitated. I was sure of what I’d seen, but uncomfortable about saying it. I’d just come from living in New York City, the most diverse place on the planet, and I was still adjusting to coastal Maine. I won’t say everyone was white, but most people were, which meant when they weren’t, you tended to notice it more. Maine was, in fact, the least diverse, whitest state in the union. It was also the state with the oldest population. Some days on the midcoast, it seemed like everyone I met was a clone of Chuck or Cindy Kelly.
But I felt sure of what I’d seen on that balcony.
“Just say it,” Flynn snapped.
“I think he was a Native American. That is, he looked like he was. I had an impression—”
“Impression?” Binder prompted.
“That’s all it was. I’m not certain. I was fifty feet away and he was three stories up. I could be wrong.”
“Thanks,” Binder said. “It may help us find him.”
“Has your friend Cabe Stone by any chance been in contact?” Flynn asked.
I was surprised he’d addressed a question directly to me. “No. And we’re not friends. He’s an employee. You’re still looking for him as a witness, right?”
“For now,” Flynn answered. “But we’ve found some surprises in young Mr. Stone’s past. If you have any influence over him, or anyone you know is talking to him, have them tell him to contact us immediately.”
“Okay,” I agreed, as much to move the conversation along as anything else. Flynn had an intense stare and an emphatic way of expressing himself that made me feel guilty, even when I wasn’t. I changed the subject. “Do they know what time Stevie died yet?”
“The condition of the body makes it difficult to be specific, but Stevie was killed and probably placed under your clambake stove sometime over Friday night into Saturday morning. He was killed elsewhere and moved to the pier.”
In other words, during the period when Cabe was supposed to be guarding the Claminator. But he was nineteen, a kid. The odds he got distracted or wandered off were high. Maybe he even fell asleep, though the whole process of moving Stevie’s body must have made noise.
“Do you know where Stevie was killed?” I asked.
“No idea yet,” Binder answered.
“How do you think his body got to the pier?”
“We’re still working on it,” Binder said. “Had to be a car or a boat. Mr. Noyes was a small man, but you wouldn’t get far carrying or dragging his dead weight.”
Cabe was supposed to have been on the pier all night, but he didn’t have access to either a car or a boat. Though the foolish way people left their keys in their cars in this town . . . the same with small boats. People were always “borrowing,” them. I’d done it a few times myself.
The two cops stood to go. I got up as well. “Lieutenant Binder, have they determined how Stevie died?”
“Yes, they have. Your friend Mr. Noyes was stabbed. Seventeen times.”
The news knocked the wind out of me. Poor Stevie. For such a nice man to have been the victim of such a brutal attack.
I was sure the killer couldn’t be Cabe. He was a good kid, as Sonny had said. But I also had my own reason to believe in him. He had saved my life.
Chapter 11
July
At the height of the season, I was working thirteen-hour days at the clambake. Chris was landscaping all day, then driving a cab, then working as a bouncer at Crowley’s, and then driving drunks home in the cab after closing. It was challenging to find time to get together.
So, several nights a week when the Jacquie II brought the dinner crowd back to Busman’s Harbor from the clambake, I’d hop off the boat and head for Crowley’s.
I didn’t normally hang out in bars, but I had to admit, being the girlfriend of a bouncer had a cool, “I’m with the band” vibe. I always sat at a table in the back with the significant others of the bartenders, waitresses, kitchen staff, and of course, the band.
Sometimes during the week, things would be slow enough Chris could take a break and sit with us. The atmosphere at the table was easy and jokey, and the high school geek in me loved sitt
ing next to the handsome ex-football player, an experience I’d never had in my life until then. But when Chris was busy, and I was on my own, I couldn’t shake the feeling I didn’t quite fit in. I felt like a fraud.
Often Chris would give me a lift in his cab the three short blocks to Mom’s house, or even better to the vintage wooden sailboat where he lived in the summertime. But sometimes, duty called, as it did one particular night.
It was a Tuesday and slow. I hoped Chris and I could get together after the bar closed, but just before last call, he took the car keys off a belligerent drunk who was staying in a summer rental way up the peninsula. That meant he’d be driving the guy home in his cab and I was on my own.
I always felt safe in Busman’s Harbor at night, particularly right after closing time when the streets were usually crowded with clusters of people heading back to their homes or hotels. But, maybe because it was a Tuesday, the street was empty as I made my way out of Crowley’s.
It was still empty when I took the turn onto Main Street and an SUV, big and black, driving erratically with its headlights off, jumped the curb and barreled toward me. My brain couldn’t seem to process what I saw. I froze.
Two hands grabbed my upper arms and jerked me backward into the protected doorway of an art gallery. The car roared by, missing me by inches. Brakes squealed and I heard the driver over-correct, then correct again. By the time I looked up, the car was already beyond the short portion of Main Street that had streetlights. It was a dark blur headed out of town.
I turned and threw my arms around my rescuer. Cabe. He too, was pale and trembling.
“Thank you, thank you. If you hadn’t been here . . .” I let him go.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I breathed in deep and blew out slowly. “Yes. I’m fine. Just shaken up. You?”
He smiled. “Same.”
“Did you get a license number?”
“It happened so fast.”
“Me, neither.” I pulled out my cell phone. “But we should call the police anyway.”
Cabe put his hand over my phone. “And tell them what?”
“That this guy just tried to kill us. He’s drunk, for sure. And dangerous.”
Cabe didn’t move his hand. “Julia. Really, what will you tell the cops?
“That a black—”
“Dark blue—”
“Maybe dark green, SUV—”
“I thought it was a van.”
Whatever it was, it was big and high off the road. It could even have been a pickup truck. I had just the vaguest impression of the back of the vehicle as it careened out of town. The taillights were off, but what else? I wasn’t even sure if a guy was driving. It could easily have been a woman. Cabe had made his point. A black-blue-green SUV-van-pickup that we didn’t have a license number for, and was already out of town, had done what? Missed hitting us?
“I’ll walk you home,” Cabe offered.
“I’m okay,” I assured him. I was less than a block from my house. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m just headed to my place.”
“Thank you.” I wanted to hug him again, but didn’t. The first time had been spontaneous, a shared reaction to our mutual brush with death. Now a hug would be awkward and inappropriate. I was his boss. A much older woman in his eyes. But Cabe always had a particular vulnerability about him. Despite his strength, he was slight. His dark blond hair fell in his light blue eyes, except when he worked at the fire pit, where he wore it in a samurai-style top knot that I thought of as “Cabe’s weird hairdo.” His features were regular and still boyish. I wondered how often he had to shave.
It was that vulnerability that made me want to hug him, and I wasn’t normally a hugger. It was also what had softened Sonny toward him. Despite his bluster, Sonny was really a big ball of mush.
“It wasn’t nothing,” I said. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you—”
We left it at that.
August
After Binder and Flynn left, I moved to Gus’s lunch counter.
“Afternoon.” Gus stood in front of me, ready to take my order.
I’d been hungry when I walked in, but suddenly I couldn’t make a decision.
“Pie?” Gus offered, as if starting my order with dessert would get me off the dime.
If you were smart, you ordered your dessert when you placed your meal order, choosing a slice from half dozen kinds of pie Mrs. Gus had made starting at four that morning. For one thing, if you didn’t order while pie was still available, you might be out of luck by the time you made up your mind. Mrs. Gus’s pies always sold out. Also, Gus didn’t like surprises. He wanted to know what you were planning to eat, and by extension, how long you were planning to stay, right up front. Gus ran his establishment for the working men and women of Busman’s Harbor. Tarrying wasn’t encouraged.
Today’s pies were blueberry, peach, Boston cream, pecan, and peanut butter. I’d sampled every one of those flavors countless times, and each one caused me to swoon. But I considered the upcoming pie-eating contest and said, “Just a BLT and an iced coffee.” Strictly speaking, iced coffee wasn’t on Gus’s limited menu, but sometimes when he was in a good mood, he’d pour some of the coffee sitting in the pot over ice for you.
He put my bacon on the grill and two slices of Mrs. Gus’s homemade wheat bread in the toaster and returned with my iced coffee. I gulped it down, eager for the caffeine blast before I had to run to the pie-eating contest. When I looked over the rim of my glass, Gus was still firmly planted across from me.
“The police seem very interested in our boy.”
“Cabe?” I knew who Gus meant. I nodded, yes they were.
“What do the cops know? Why would a young man like that want to kill Stevie Noyes?”
So Gus knew it was Stevie, too. Despite Binder’s efforts at keeping the identity of the body quiet, I doubted there was a person in town who didn’t know. “The cops aren’t obligated to share their theories with me, Gus.” It came across crabbier than I meant it to. I was grateful for how open Binder was being with me, even if Flynn suspected me of harboring Cabe.
Gus took my bacon off the grill, sliced a ripe, summer tomato, and assembled my sandwich. “You’re going to have to help them.”
“Binder and Flynn? Don’t be silly. They’re professionals.”
“They were professionals the last time they were in town when they arrested two innocent people.” Gus put my sandwich in front of me with a thump. “And back then it was two grown people who knew how to handle themselves. This is a nineteen-year-old kid on his own.”
“Do you know anything about Cabe? Where he’s from? Who his family is?”
“I got the feeling he didn’t want to talk about that stuff.” The counter was empty except for the two of us, but nonetheless Gus moved closer and spoke softly. “He showed up here, hungry, a couple months ago. I gave him some food, had him do some chores. I didn’t really need the help, so I sent him along to you.”
“I remember. I hired him on your say-so, Gus. You’re the one who got me into this mess.”
“No, I’m the one who got him into this mess. And I’m counting on you to help me make it right.”
Chapter 12
Bunnie had given me a neatly typed list of rules for the pie-eating contest, which I followed to the letter. It was a good thing because, despite the threat of pie splatter, she sat throughout the contest in the front row, tapping a pencil on her omnipresent clipboard.
The contest was under the same tent where the pancake breakfast had been held that morning. The tables had been efficiently broken down and the chairs reset theater-style by the diligent Rotarians. At a long table in front of the audience, ten citizens of Busman’s Harbor sat with their hands tied behind their backs, ready to consume as many blueberry pies in twelve minutes as they could. I was in charge of enforcing the rules, managing the timer, and declaring a winner. Vomiting, the typed rules told me, was cause for immediate disq
ualification. Yuck.
Vee and Fee Snuggs stood at the ready to shove new pies in front of the contestants as soon as I ruled the previous pie “eaten.” Despite the August heat, the sisters wore white rain ponchos over their clothes. The audience whooped when they appeared, their costumes indicative of the amount of mess to come. Obviously, they’d thought through their wardrobes more thoroughly than I had.
And we were off! I ran up and down the row, declaring pies “done,” which I admit was kind of a subjective judgment with hands-free eating. Often, several contestants raised their heads to indicate they were finished at the same time, and Fee, Vee, and I ran back and forth in front of the table, their flowing ponchos giving them the appearance of spry ghosts. The audience cheered their favorite contestants so vehemently, I assumed money was changing hands.
The crowd counted down the last seconds on the clock and then roared its approval. While Fee and Vee untied the contestants’ hands, I counted the empty pie tins and prepared to declare the winners.
When I named Dan Small fourth runner-up, he rose to accept his prize then pointed to his cheek, indicating he wanted a congratulatory peck. What did I have to lose, aside from the easily replaced Snowden Family Clambake T-shirt I wore? I gave him a kiss on his blueberry-streaked cheek and the audience whistled and stomped. From there, the game escalated, with each runner-up wanting more and more contact, until the winner, a kid from the high school, swept me into his arms, bent me over Fred Astaire-style and pretended to . . . well, thank goodness he pretended.