“Please stand back,” the cop warned, extending an arm in front of her. His voice was deeper than she expected.
She apologized and introduced herself. “I was wondering, do you know if this show will have a nurse or EMT on duty? It just occurred to me, with all these crafters demonstrating, there just might be an injury.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I really don’t know, ma’am. You’d have to ask the organizers. But there will be an officer on hand for security, and we’re all trained in first aid.” He was polite, but managed to convey a sense of being affronted.
“Of course. Just a random thought. Um, you wouldn’t happen to know any more about Bill Thompson, would you? Or that body they found this morning?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks flush.
This time, the affront was accompanied by annoyance. “I really couldn’t say, ma’am.” He rocked on his heels and tapped a finger on his equipment belt.
“Sorry. Forget I mentioned it. Maybe I’ll see you around this weekend.”
The vendor returned with a trolley of boxes and thanked LaFlamme. She eyed Ginny with little warmth but said nothing.
The afternoon was passing. Ginny had just enough time to return to her room, shower, change, and arrive at the opening dinner and reception. She left the improvised fairground, wondering why her mind kept drifting to weaponry.
Chapter Five
The blue-on-cream flowered blouse would do just fine, and Ginny chose it rather than the more business-like white silk. Her black linen trousers came out of her suitcase a bit crumpled, but a few passes with the courtesy iron solved that problem, and the short-sleeved, royal blue jacket would keep off the evening chill. She slipped on her high-wedge sandals, worried the ground was still soft enough to snag the heels she’d also brought along. Peering at her image in the mirror, she ran a brush through her short wavy hair, pleased with the results of her most recent frost-and-dye. Maybe at her next appointment, she would let her hairdresser choose a lighter shade of sandy brown. She was growing grayer as time went on and letting her natural color show was beginning to have some appeal, if only because it would mean less time and expense. At least her hair still had some fluff to it.
“You look lovely, Ginny,” Linc Shattuck said when she entered the common room. He leaned in close and cupped her elbow in his hand. “I have my car out front and thought we—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Linc. I’ve already made plans to walk over with Alisoun Hodges. It’s only a couple of blocks and the weather is lovely tonight.”
His lips tightened at the mention of the ranger’s name, but he rallied manfully. “Well, then…whatever you want. But let me know if you want to leave early or would like a ride back. I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Thank you, I will. Is there any news of Bill Thompson?”
He frowned. “Er…no. I’ve heard nothing. And his…er…husband hasn’t been in touch, except to say he wants to keep his booth open. I’m not sure how to handle that.”
He looked to her with a question in his eyes. Ginny was sure he wanted her to volunteer, but she resisted the urge to offer her help. “I’m sure someone will be able to do that. Someone who knows Bill’s work, perhaps? You could mention it at the dinner.”
“Yes, yes, that’s a good suggestion.” He studied a schedule he pulled from a tightly wound roll of papers, absently patting the rest of the roll on the corner of his mouth. “Would you mind tending that booth on Saturday, after you’ve cast your ballot? John, Bill’s husband, will help, but he’s really not an art expert. He’s supposed to be here tonight, I think, and you can make arrangements with him.”
The request felt flattering but left Ginny confused. “I could do that, I suppose. But don’t you usually shift docents around so they all get a chance to enjoy the art?”
“Yes, usually. But most of the time each vendor only needs lunch and a rest break. If Bill doesn’t show up, it was felt there should be a single person to stay at his display, for better continuity, if you see what I mean. Naturally we’d make sure you have sufficient breaks, and I’ll check in personally with you as often as I can.” He patted her hand. “I know you’re especially good with customers.”
The flattery hid some underlying anxiety. Ginny attributed it to the burdens of running a major show like this and nodded her agreement. She caught Alisoun’s eye across the room and waved to her. “I’ll see you at the reception, then, Linc.”
She made her way to Alisoun’s side and murmured, “I hope you don’t mind, but I told Linc we planned to walk to the reception together. Is that all right with you?”
Alisoun’s green eyes twinkled. “Oho, was he putting a move on you? Come on, sistah, let us wash away the oily Mr. Shattuck with a brisk walk.”
Oily. Something shifted in Ginny’s head. “Tell me, Alisoun, if you know, where does Linc get his money?”
“Oh, didn’t you know? He mostly lives on a trust fund, but he also runs the W. Beaucoup.” She pronounced the final “P.”
“Is that a big boat?”
She laughed. “It’s not a boat, it’s a fuel supplier. Officially, it’s the Working Boat Owners’ Co-op, but most of us just call it the WBOCoop.”
****
Ginny and Alisoun displayed their invitations to the tuxedoed greeter, who checked off their names on his clipboard and gave them their seating arrangements before letting them enter the tent.
“Hmph,” commented Alisoun. “He’s the bouncer at Murphy’s.” The Club—either so exclusive or so well-known it needed no other name—had outdone itself with the catering. Rich linens covered the tables and were topped with generous flowers arranged low enough to permit easy conversation. To their regret, the two women were not seated together.
“Figures I’d get a gold table,” Alisoun grumbled.
“What do you mean?”
“See the bowl holding the flowers? Gold. Well, not real gold, of course. You spend five K for a table, shared among ten guests, it gets you into the tent and a chance to mingle before and after dinner. For ten K, you get platinum bowls, like at your table, and an artist eating with you. Diamond, and notice there’s only one, will set you back twice that and you get three famous artists plus a local politico.”
“Whoopee. I’m glad I’m only worth platinum.” Ginny grinned. She glanced at the cards on the diamond table. “Oh, Jared Michaels is here? He’s a protégé of one of my favorite artists. I’ll have to go find him. Come with me?”
“Thanks, but no. I see some people I need to talk to. If we don’t meet up before then, I’ll find you after the reception, and we’ll walk back together. Don’t want to give Linc a chance to smarm in on you, do we?”
Ginny snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and a dainty lobster canapé from another server. She slipped easily into the growing crowd, introducing herself and making all the right remarks to ensure the success of the event. Part of her success as a business owner was due to her genuine interest in people and to her long practice in social skills. Tonight, however, she detected an undercurrent of tension that puzzled her. The only sour note she knew of, in connection with Oil & Water, was the worry about Bill Thompson’s disappearance, but even so, she couldn’t account for the way guests fiddled with their drinks or glanced around as if wary of a storm.
“I see you got home safely last night,” a voice said in her ear.
She turned, startled. “Oh, hello, Fred. Yes, I did, no problem. Thank you for asking. I’m glad I took a cab, because the long drive and all the excitement caught up with me. I was very tired.”
“You don’t seem tired now. In fact, you look lovely.” He gave her a gallant little bow.
She repressed the urge to roll her eyes. What was it with these Mainers? Were they all such flirts? “I think I saw you on your boat this afternoon. A funny name…I can’t remember. Were you out after your traps?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but all I caught were babies. I threw them all back. I’d have tak
en you out if you wanted. Still can. T’morrah?”
“Thanks, but I’ll be tied up at the festival all day. And,” she added, holding up her hand to forestall him, “I’ll be leaving early Sunday to go home. But thank you for the offer. Again.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’d love to have you aboard the Sosoomy. Any time.” He offered her a business card, repeated the little bow, and excused himself.
The Sosoomy, Ginny whispered the name. “So-soo-mee. Ha! So sue me. Yes, that fits him perfectly, doesn’t it?” Shaking her head at the foibles of the man, she returned to her search for Jared Michaels.
Instead, she found Fred Thompson again. This time, he was in an intense discussion with a well-built man of about forty, who would have been very handsome if his face weren’t marked with tears and gray with strain. His nametag read “John Hixenheiser,” and she wondered how a man with such a Pennsylvania Dutch name ended up in Maine. Then she remembered she had seen it on Linc’s list of booths. The man looked like he could use a rescue from Fred, so she stepped closer and offered her hand. “Excuse me, you’re Bill Thompson’s husband, aren’t you? Is there—”
John’s entire body crumbled. “I can’t—oh, God—I can’t…” He covered his face with his hands and bent nearly double. Dry sobs shook him.
Without hesitation, Ginny slipped an arm around his shoulders and led him to a nearby chair. Very gently, she eased him into it and shielded him from curious onlookers until he regained some semblance of control.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “So sorry. They found a b-body, the cops did. They want me to come in, but it’s not B-Bill, oh God. It can’t be him, so I came here to find him. He’s got to be here, all his work is here. Why can’t I find him?”
Ginny bit back the string of harsh words she wanted to spew. So it was Bill Thompson’s body she’d found on the beach that morning. It had to be. The thought made the world tilt, and she squeezed John’s shoulder to keep her balance.
He lifted tortured eyes to her. “I can’t face it, I can’t. He has to be here…” Fresh tears leaked down his cheeks.
She couldn’t face it, either. Surely, there were friends or relatives who could help. Where had Fred gotten to? No one should have to depend on the kindness of strangers at such a time. All she could do was stroke John’s back and look around desperately for help.
Only a few minutes later, though it seemed like hours, a woman in a UPS uniform hurried up. “John,” she said, kneeling beside him, “it’s me, Carlene, from work. Okay? It’s Carlene, John. Come on, I’ll help you. We’ll go together.”
He held tight to the woman, and her presence seemed to help. “I can’t find Bill, Carly. Where’s Bill?”
Ginny relinquished her hold and stepped away. So much grief. She wanted to weep herself. Carly got John to his feet and urged him away. Ginny took a deep breath and rotated her shoulders.
“Here, you need this.” A glass of champagne was pressed into her hand. “I’d get you something stronger, but I don’t know what you like.” Alisoun stood beside her, teary eyes belying her crooked, forced smile. “That poor man. I can’t imagine.”
Ginny gulped a mouthful of the bubbly, wishing it were scotch. “Thank you, Alisoun. I wish I could’ve helped him, but…” She shook her head with regret. “So much pain.”
“He’s a good man,” the ranger said thoughtfully, “though you wouldn’t believe what some people say about him.” She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head toward the corner where Fred stood glaring at Ginny.
“What is his problem?” Ginny turned her back to him and took a few steps away. “He was the perfect gentleman last night.”
“You do know he and Bill are cousins, don’t you?”
“He told me they were distantly related.”
Alisoun snorted. “If you call first cousins distant. Their fathers feuded over the inheritance. Most of the money went to the lawyers, and the two sides of the family haven’t spoken in years. Then when Bill and John got married, things got even worse. Bill tries—tried—to stay out of the fight, but this is a small town.”
“Say no more. I come from a small town, too. Which reminds me. How did a Hixenheiser end up in Maine? It’s such a Dutchy name.”
“Is it? I always wondered.” Alisoun thought a minute. “John came up here for work. He’s a UPS supervisor now, but when he first got here, he did some of the driving now and then. The story goes he delivered some art supplies to Bill, and it was love at first sight. So, he ended up staying, they got married, and as far as I know, they lived happily ever after. Until now. Dammit.” She cleared her throat roughly and blinked a few times. “I heard Fred accused Bill of pulling his traps. Not that Bill would do anything like that. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You don’t think—”
“Fred attacked Bill? No. Anyway, he was seen out on his boat at the time.” She chewed at her lip for a moment, then leaned in close to Ginny, and murmured, “But I wouldn’t put it past him to hire someone.”
****
The formal part of the evening began then, with Linc announcing dinner would be served as soon as everyone was seated. Ginny managed to switch places to sit beside Jared Michaels, so she had a pleasant dinner companion. The talk glossed over Bill’s disappearance—though it lurked behind every conversation—to focus on the excellent meal and the hopeful prospects for good attendance at the festival, given the fair weather forecast.
“Has anyone taken a lobster tour?” Jared asked into a pause. “I was thinking I could do that tomorrow evening.”
One of the other guests mentioned Claws and Effect, but added, “You’d have to check their schedule. The evening cruises fill up fast, even though you won’t get to see anyone hauling lobster traps then.”
“Really? Why not?” Ginny asked.
“Blue laws. From four o’clock Saturdays to just after sunrise Mondays, the lobsters have the day off. I only know ’cause my sister got fined once for hauling her gear in at 4:30. She only had the one trap and a storm was makin’ but she had to pay the fine anyways. But the evening tours are nice, ’specially this time of year, with the sun setting behind the hills.”
Ginny made a mental note to ask Alisoun if she had any photos of the sunset this time of year. They should be spectacular. Jared had his phone out and was tapping away. He nudged her with his elbow. “Look, here’s the schedule. There’s a dinner cruise at seven tomorrow. Maybe we could get a group together?”
“That’s a nice idea, Jared. Don’t invite Linc Shattuck or Fred Thompson, though. I need a break from them.” She laughed at his knowing wink and exclaimed over the elaborate dessert just set before her, though she had little taste for it.
Chapter Six
As forecast, the first day of the Oil & Water Arts Festival dawned clear and bright. Ginny Brent was up early to eat breakfast and walk to the site of the show with Alisoun Hodges. The vendor spaces surrounding the main tent bustled with activity, and Ginny waved to Colleen and Gary Grebus. The main tent was quieter, nearly hushed, since the artists were excluded while the judges cast their votes.
Ginny focused her attention on the art and took her time with her ballot. The sculpture competition was an easy decision, because one stunning creation of native stone and wood moved her deeply. The carved wood reached out slender arms and twiggy fingertips, begging to be touched, while the granite base counterbalanced it, as if to deny connection. She voted for it by its entry number, and only then learned its name—“Isolation.” It nearly made her weep.
Other votes were far more difficult. She vacillated between two watercolors, viewed three pastels several times over, and considered drawing straws over the oils/acrylics category. Finally, just before the deadline, she made her decisions and turned in her ballot. A few minutes later, the artists were admitted to their booths, and then the flaps were tied back and the public was allowed into the tent.
Ginny made her way to Bill Thompson’s booth and reluctantly allowed herself to think of
the news Linc had announced lugubriously a scant two hours earlier, as the Cobble Cove staff were clearing the breakfast tables. “I’m afraid I must give you all some bad news,” he said. “The body discovered on the beach early yesterday morning has been confirmed as Bill Thompson’s.” He paused until the gasps and shocked murmurs subsided. “His partner, John Hixenheiser, identified him late last night. Needless to say, this is a serious blow to the Maine arts community. Bill was well-known and well-liked, a superb painter. We will all miss him. The Oil & Water executive council is working on a memorial to be held sometime this weekend, and we’ll let you all know the details as soon as we can. In the meantime, we’ll keep his booth manned although we won’t be accepting any sales. There will be a sympathy card at the booth for anyone who wants to express condolences.”
It was what Ginny expected to hear. Her sleep had been filled with restless images of an empty, outflung hand. Such a waste. Such a terrible waste.
She entered the booth and found the condolence register, a handsome book of the kind used at funerals, with a pen attached to the hasp by a slender chain. It had been carefully centered on the small counter that would normally have supported a cash box and other paraphernalia. A simple vase of flowers stood beside it. Already, names filled half a page. Some signers had added small sketches.
Still under the spell of “Isolation,” Ginny drew the hand from memory and filled its emptiness with a fine-pointed artist’s brush. Then it seemed right to add a teardrop of paint about to fall from the tip.
“That’s so him.”
She whirled at the harsh intake of breath behind her. “John!”
The poor man seemed to have shrunk. He hadn’t shaved, his hair poked in all directions, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept—or rather, not slept—in them. On impulse, Ginny wrapped her arms around him. His return hug surprised her with its strength, but the tremors in his body shook her. “Oh, God,” he moaned. “What will I do without him?”
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