We taped the mast together and then I tied the starched apron onto it, using the sash strings. The white semicircle looked pretty cool, even if it wasn’t the typical triangle shape used for sailing.
“Not bad,” I said, setting the contraption aside carefully. “Is there a prize for originality?”
“There’s one for creativity.” Madison looked pleased as she surveyed our work. Then she studied her hands. “I’d better wash up before we go. I’m all sticky.”
“And I’d better feed you, Quince,” I said to my cat. We kept food and dishes here at the store for occasions like this one. After a short period of getting used to the routine, he enjoyed being at the store, with a rotation between his favorite napping and people-watching spots.
Since we were returning to the store after the tour, we rode together in Beverly to the lab. The facility was located on the edge of town, an old mill building that had once produced woolen cloth from sheep dotting the Maine hillsides. College of the Isles and a local development organization had turned the defunct mill into business incubators. And now a couple of spaces were dedicated to seaweed, according to the sign.
“Sea’s Best,” Madison read. “And Sea Gold. Huh. I got the impression Jamaica and Patrick were in business together.”
“Me too.” I found a space to park and pulled in. This time of day, the parking lot held only a few vehicles. I recognized Jamaica’s bug and Ruben’s rental SUV, but a battered blue pickup truck was unfamiliar to me.
As we climbed out, an old Volvo wagon pulled in. Sophie. “Hey,” she called, climbing out. “Here for the Business After Hours?”
“We are,” I called back, stopping to wait for her to reach us. A few more cars pulled in while we waited. They were getting a great turnout.
The four of us pushed through a glass door into a dimly lit lobby where an empty desk sat. Corridors stretched in both directions, with posted signs indicating where the different enterprises could be found. Straight ahead, an open door revealed a brightly lit conference room. I spotted Lukas with a plastic cup in his hand, talking to Theo.
“I think we’re meeting in there,” I said, walking that way.
Inside the conference room, people milled about, drinking fruit punch and eating cheese and crackers and grapes from a big platter. No seaweed dishes in sight, surprisingly. I said as much to Jamaica, when she joined me at the table.
Tossing her braids with a laugh, she lowered her voice. “To be honest, cheese and crackers were quick and easy.” She glanced around. “The chamber kind of sprung it on us last minute.”
More people pushed into the already crowded room, and I recognized faces from the Taste O’ the Sea event at the Grille. Local dignitaries, most of them, here to learn more about two of the town’s newest enterprises. I’d have to say that seaweed growing ranked among the most unusual, too.
I looked around for my friends and saw Sophie standing next to Lukas, smiling at something he was saying. Guilt panged. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since seeing Jake at the pub. And now certainly wasn’t the time. I’d have breakfast at the Bean tomorrow, I decided. I’d corner her there.
At Ruben’s whistled signal, I stuffed a cracker holding Brie into my mouth and washed it down with punch. Time to get started.
First, we all took seats and watched a short film. This took us through the seaweed life cycle and explained the process of farming the plants. Instead of gathering plants in the wild, which had been done for centuries, spores were carefully harvested from mature plants and germinated in a lab under strict and sterile conditions. Once large enough, they were set out in the water on lines that held them in place as they grew. After six months or so, the lines were retrieved and the plants harvested for further processing.
After the video ended to sporadic clapping, Ruben said, “We’re going to split into two groups for the tour. Jamaica and Patrick have almost identical lab setups, and since the rooms aren’t large, that will work better.”
I ended up in Jamaica’s group, along with Grammie and Madison. We followed the seaweed farmer down a hallway, where she unlocked a door. “How did you get into seaweed farming?” Grammie asked.
Jamaica pushed open the door to let us enter. “I studied marine biology in college, and I’ve always been interested in how we can make our oceans more sustainable. I also grew up on a small farm in Vermont, so you could say it’s in my blood. What I’m doing now brings everything together for me.”
Seaweed farming did sound perfect for her. I glanced around the lab with curiosity. Tables were set up with microscopes and other mysterious equipment that Jamaica told us was used to extract seaweed spores. Gurgling tanks full of seawater incubated them as they sprouted and grew. Right now the seaweed babies were just brown fuzz on the growing tubes.
“Everything has to be sterile, including the water,” Jamaica told us. “We can’t allow any contamination or it will ruin our crop.” She explained how the seawater filling the tanks had temperature, pH, light, and filtering requirements. “It goes from this”—she showed us a spore, which was almost invisible—“to this.” She held up a full length of slippery kelp, about fifteen feet long. Everyone oohed and ahhed.
“I think it’s amazing,” Grammie said. “We’ve always regarded seaweed as a nuisance, but now it’s a real moneymaker.”
“Well, we hope so, Mrs. Buckley,” Jamaica said. “That’s what we’re aiming at. Maybe in a few more years, there will be dozens of us growing weed in the water.” She gave us a sly smile, knowing how her words sounded.
“That’s a whole new topic,” Theo called out to laughter. “Check with us next year.”
The tour broke up then and everyone milled around, either leaving the building or grabbing more refreshments. I asked someone for directions to the ladies’ room. The one closest to the front door was occupied so I went to the end of the hall, past the nurseries.
No one was in this area now, and motion-sensitive lights flared on as I walked down the hall. It was kind of creepy at night, all the doors shut and my shoes squeaking on the waxed tiles.
The restroom was unisex, with room for one, so when I heard voices outside the door, my first thought was that it was other people wanting to use it. But when I opened the door after washing my hands, I saw two figures partway down the corridor, not right outside.
Jamaica and Patrick. Something about the intensity of their body language made me hesitate, Jamaica’s folded arms and Patrick’s hunched shoulders.
“It’s really not cool, Patrick,” Jamaica said. “It’s half mine.”
Patrick made a nasty scoffing sound. “You should’ve thought about that before—”
“Before I bounced your ass?” Jamaica’s brows rose. “Business doesn’t have anything to do with our former relationship.”
The scowl on his face said he didn’t agree. “Get an attorney then. See how far that gets you.”
“I plan on it.” Jamaica stabbed a finger toward him. “You’re not going to get away with stealing my work.”
Behind me, the automatic flush finally decided to do its job—loudly. I winced when they both glanced my way at the noise. Pretending I hadn’t been listening, I stepped out of the bathroom and let the door shut with a thunk.
The pair gave each other one last glowering stare before Jamaica whirled around and went into her lab. Patrick stalked down the hallway ahead of me, heading toward the main area. Trotting at his heels, I wondered if I should try to talk to him. After witnessing his hostility toward Jamaica, who I liked, I really didn’t want to. What if Hailey had gotten on his wrong side too? I shuddered slightly at the possibility.
“Hey, Patrick,” I called, deciding I needed to take advantage of this opportunity. He stopped dead and turned around, regarding me with a blank expression as I caught up. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
He crossed his arms, a cynical expression on his face. “Really? About what?”
Half-formed sentences flitted through my min
d as I tried to settle on an approach. Mr. Prickly certainly wasn’t making it easy. “Are you doing okay?” I moved slightly closer, my voice soft. Maybe an appeal to his better nature would work. He had met Hailey, right? Anyone who had would at least feel sad about her untimely death.
“I don’t know what you mean.” His gaze darted to Jamaica’s lab door. Did he think I was talking about the two of them?
“I was there … I found her. Hailey. When I was climbing.” I wasn’t faking the shock and sadness in my voice.
He reared back slightly. “Huh. I didn’t know that.” Arms still crossed, he regarded me with narrowed eyes. “That must have been rough.”
“It was,” I agreed. “But the terrible thing is, no one saw it happen. But people were around.” I made my eyes wide. “Theo was taking pictures. And I saw your boat. Did you notice anything while you were on the water?”
“My boat?” He thought about denying he was there, I could tell by his expression. But maybe he remembered telling me he had arrived at Shorehaven by water. “Oh, yeah, I was out there in my boat that morning. I visit my seaweed site every day. So does Jamaica.”
Jamaica? I hadn’t even considered her a possible suspect. “Was she out there that morning too?”
His dark eyes gleamed with an expression I couldn’t decipher. “I’m pretty sure I saw her. But back to your original question, no, I didn’t notice Hailey on the cliffs. I was busy navigating. Lots of rocks around there.”
“I’m sure,” I said, thinking of the ledges near the cliffs. “Oh well.” I started walking again, this time with Patrick by my side. He kept glancing at me, his mood seeming to have lightened.
“You said you saw Theo up there.” His voice was almost a whisper.
My senses sharpened. Where was this going? “I did. He was taking pictures. Along with other people watching the sunrise. It’s a great spot for that.”
His lips curved in a satisfied smile. “I bet.” He lowered his voice even more. “You are aware that Theo hated Hailey, right? She was trying to push him out of the program.”
CHAPTER 13
While I stood there, frozen in my tracks, Patrick gave me a jaunty wave and sauntered off. His revelation had been calculated to throw suspicion in a new direction, and I had to admit he had succeeded. All by itself, maybe not, but it matched what Lukas told me at the pub. Hailey had attempted to undermine the other teaching assistant’s work, which, in the competitive academic world, was a gauntlet toss. Some healthy jockeying for position was to be expected, sure. I’d experienced it myself at college when other designers competed with me for awards. But still, there was an ethical line and it was beginning to seem that Hailey had crossed it. And most damning of all, Theo was aware of her tactics. According to Patrick, anyway.
A chill ran down my spine. Means, motive, and opportunity. Theo had all three. An unwelcome image formed in my mind: the confrontation on the cliffs, a struggle ending in a fierce push. Hailey flying backward, clutching at Theo’s jacket as she fell. The scenario was plausible. But had it actually happened? Had Theo meant to kill her or had it been an accident? And maybe, just maybe, he was innocent and this was all in my head.
“Iris?” Grammie called. “Ready to get going?” She and Madison were standing near the front entrance, looking impatient.
I shook off my dark and tangled thoughts. “Yes, I’m ready. Madison and I have more work to do on the boat tonight.” Right now, that was the last thing I wanted to do, but the paint needed time to dry before the race late tomorrow afternoon.
Back at the shop, Grammie drove off in her Jeep, heading for home. Before we got started, Madison tuned to lively rock music on her phone while I made chai tea. With those mood-changers, I was able to push aside thoughts of Hailey’s murder, for the most part. A couple of times I was tempted to tell Madison about my encounter with Patrick, but I couldn’t bring myself to raise the topic. The subject was a like a gloomy pit I was dancing around, trying to pretend it wasn’t there. One word about it and I’d slide back inside.
Using Quincy as our model, we painted the cardboard boat in orange and buff stripes with white sections at the chest and feet. It was going to be really cute. Unfortunately, our muse was quite uncooperative and kept trying to walk on the freshly painted cardboard. After he tracked kitty prints across the wooden floor for the second time, I gave up.
“He’s going to have go outside,” I said, getting up and chasing the cat, who naturally ran into the main room. I finally nabbed him as he was getting ready to leap up onto an antique patchwork quilt. “No, you don’t. You’re coming with me.”
Leaving Madison to wipe up the latex paint prints—again—I carried Quincy out to the alley behind the store, where Beverly was parked. “Sorry to do this, Quince,” I said, feeling guilty. “But you’re making a mess.”
This time of night, the alley was in near total darkness, lit only by a light over my back entrance and a streetlight down at the end. On both sides, three-story buildings loomed over this narrow passageway used mainly for trash and deliveries. Not wanting to linger, I hurried over to Beverly, parked a short distance away.
Despite struggling with a very unhappy cat, I managed to get the rear passenger door open. “I’ll give you a treat if you go nicely into your cage,” I said. He hated that thing, but I didn’t like transporting him loose in the car.
Keeping Quincy tucked firmly under one arm, I unlatched the cage then positioned us to do the “one two three, cat inside and door is latched” maneuver I’d perfected.
Bang. A nearby trash can fell over, the lid rolling away with a rattle. Startled, I jerked upright, hit my head on the metal doorframe, and dropped Quincy. Ignoring my throbbing head, I lurched forward and grabbed him before he could dart off. He had the bad habit of running toward trouble.
A scraping sound came from the same direction, as if another trash can was being pushed along the pavement. Narrowing my eyes, I squinted into the black shadows behind the adjacent buildings. Was it a raccoon? They loved getting into trash. Or worse, it might be a black bear. Once they got a taste for human garbage, they could become quite the nuisance.
Then a footstep rang out. Or what I imagined was a footstep. “Is someone there?” I called, my voice wobbling.
Silence. The hair on the back of my neck rose and I had the prickling sense that I was being watched. Not wanting to linger any longer, I bolted for the back door, leaving the car passenger door wide open.
Madison looked up with surprise when I dashed into the side room, panting. “I thought you were taking him out to the car.” She dabbed a bit of white paint at the end of the cardboard tail, matching Quincy’s.
Still holding onto the cat, I collapsed onto a folding chair. “I was. But something was out there. It knocked down a trash can.”
She made a final dab and set the brush across the can. “An animal?”
I’d heard footsteps. Or had I? With every minute that ticked by, my memory became hazier. “Maybe.” At her wide-eyed look, I amended that. “I mean, yeah, most likely.” Who would hang around in the back alley, anyway? It wasn’t a very pleasant place even in broad daylight.
Madison eyed the two of us, huddled together in the chair. “Why don’t I finish up while you keep him under control? There isn’t much more to do.”
I snuggled Quincy, burying my nose in his soft fur. “Sounds like a plan.” Hopefully by the time we left, whatever—or whoever—was lurking would be long gone.
* * *
Lit by shafts of bright sunshine, the alley was more dingy than menacing the next morning. But as I rolled Beverly to a stop in my usual spot, I noticed the tipped-over trash can still lying on its side. No scattered garbage as you might expect, though. No spilled bags, even. Hmm. Why would an animal try to open an empty can?
The truth hit me like a splash of cold water. Someone had been loitering back here last night. Part of me was relieved, to be honest, to know I hadn’t overreacted. But who would do such a thing? And why?
After locking the car, I trotted over to the fallen can. Maybe my spy had left something behind. But no, the entire area was surprisingly pristine, without a gum wrapper or a glob of discarded food in sight. I checked the other cans. They were all empty, which meant the noise hadn’t been someone making a late-night garbage run.
Decidedly unsettled, I set the tipped can upright and put the lid back on. There wasn’t anything worth reporting to the police, plus what would they say anyway? Avoid dark places alone. Even if accompanied by an attack cat.
The thought of Quincy defending me made me smile. Grammie was bringing him down later, when we opened. Right now I was headed to the Bean for breakfast—and hopefully a heart-to-heart with Sophie.
Naturally the Bean was packed, the usual summer morning crowd augmented by festivalgoers. I stood at the rear of the line, using the time inching forward to think about the day ahead. Business as usual—sell aprons, meet new customers … oh yeah, and sail a cardboard boat in the icy-cold harbor.
By the time I reached the front of the line, my mouth was watering, teased by the aromas of baking waffles and maple syrup.
“Hey, Iris. Great to see you.” Sophie stood ready to take my order. “What can I get you?”
My original plan had been a modest muffin with coffee. But the words that came out of my mouth were, “Belgian Benedict, with two eggs and extra hollandaise. And my usual large coffee.” I glanced over my shoulder at the line snaking behind me. “I was hoping we could catch up this morning, but I guess I wasn’t thinking. You’re slammed.”
“We are,” Sophie said, entering my order into the computer. “But grab a seat and I’ll take my break.” She tipped her chin to a two-top where a couple was getting ready to leave. She made a shooing motion. “Quick, grab that table. You can pay later.”
I hovered with a sheepish smile as the couple cleared dishes, gathered belongings, and finally departed, then plopped into one of the seats. Grabbing a restaurant seat during Maine’s busy season was almost a contact sport.
Thread and Dead--The Apron Shop Series Page 11