“That’s great,” I said, genuinely happy for my friend.
“Yeah, my time at the restaurant will count as experience on my application to the CIA. Harvey was even going to write me a letter of recommendation.”
“Where?” I wondered if the CIA, headquartered in Langley, Virginia, had a setup similar to the bureau’s. Our building housed a full-service cafeteria, and it wasn’t great food, but at least I never had to leave the building. It took me two years, but I’d finally convinced the chef to serve rare roast beef sandwiches.
Now I really felt sorry for Abby Lee. Here was her chance to leave Trouble, and the man who had mentored her was now gone. “You were going to move to Virginia?” I didn’t know much about cooking—aside from the occasional side dish—so I wasn’t one to judge, but I knew she deserved better than slaving away in a cafeteria.
“Huh?” She seemed as baffled as I was. “Why would I move to Virginia?”
“You said CIA, right? The Central Intelligence Agency?”
My confusion was rewarded with hysterical laughter. “No, silly. The Culinary Institute of America. They have a campus in San Antonio that has a program in baking and pastry arts.”
Duh. Why didn’t I know that? I managed to feel like an idiot while being impressed at the same time. “Seems like you have it all planned out,” I said. I loved the island just as much as she did, but it was good to hear Abby Lee talk about her future away from Trouble. “Do you think you’ll still apply?”
Abby Lee grimaced. “Probably. I just need to figure out how to break the news to my mother.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand,” I assured her. “And again, I’m sorry about what happened to Harvey.”
From what I remembered about Harvey Boyette, he had always been a gracious person. He had owned The Poop Deck since a time before I could even remember. Everyone in town loved him, and he would be sorely missed. I shivered in the damp, warm air just thinking about him, my most recent memory being his lifeless body lying in my parents’ backyard.
Talking about Harvey was a solemn subject, but it didn’t stop me from prying. “What do you think of Harvey’s wife?” I remembered my mom mentioning something about Harvey getting hitched to some woman from Florida. According to her, it was all the town could talk about for weeks. Personally, I thought it was kind of romantic meeting someone at his age and getting married after only a few days—a whirlwind romance they called it.
“Sheila,” Abby Lee said, with just a hint of bitterness in her tone. “She doesn’t come around much, but when she does, she thinks she owns the place.”
I thought about that for a moment. “She was Harvey’s wife,” I pointed out. “I’m sure she considers The Poop Deck partly hers.”
“Maybe,” she said. “The staff can’t stand her, though. Harvey always tried to intervene when she was around, but she undermines everyone. Including Harvey.”
“Interesting,” I said.
We walked the rest of the way to our respective homes in silence, enjoying each other’s company. I made myself a vow to spend more time with Abby Lee while I was in town.
CHAPTER FIVE
Right on schedule, the daily gossip arrived earlier than the morning newspaper. Mom broke the silence during breakfast with a full report surrounding the circumstances of Harvey’s death. “The police don’t think Harvey Boyette died of a heart attack.”
Thick maple syrup got stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was halfway through eating Mom’s famed blueberry pancakes when she reiterated the early morning news coverage.
“What? You’re kidding!” I sputtered.
She was aghast at me even suggesting such a thing. “Why, Julia Bernard Cannon, I would never joke about something like that.”
Sheesh. “I know, Mom. It’s just an expression.”
“According to Edith Clemmons, the police department is looking into leads. They’re even going to be interviewing all the employees over at the restaurant,” she said. Even after all these years, Mom still refused to call the restaurant by its name. She thought the name was vulgar.
I silently wondered why the town bothered to publish a newspaper at all. Or better still, why my folks even bothered subscribing. Between Mom, Aunt Lula, and half the meddling women in Trouble, news managed to circulate just fine without one. “How do you know all this”—I stopped to look at my watch—“at eight thirty in the morning?”
She shrugged. “Edith’s son works for the department. And while I may not approve of some of Harvey’s marketing decisions, he was a nice man,” she said. “Please be a dear and call the florist. I’d like to send some flowers from the family.”
Contrary to popular belief, things could move very quickly in small Southern towns, even those programmed on island time. After the immediate news of Harvey’s death, plans for the funeral arrangements quickly spread throughout the island. The service was to be held only two days after he’d been discovered in my parents’ backyard. According to my sources—the rumor mill—Widow Boyette had said there was no reason to delay the inevitable. It seemed a reasonable enough request.
I really hadn’t planned on attending the service, but my mom insisted as soon as she caught wind of me trying to skip out. “It wouldn’t look right if you didn’t pay your respects,” she said.
Of course it wouldn’t.
It’s not that I didn’t want to go; I loved Harvey just like everyone else around the island. I just felt awkward about attending. Funerals always unnerved me for some reason. Mainly because I never knew what to say. I had only ever been to two funerals—Uncle Jep’s and Maw-Maw Marie’s—and all I remembered about both of them was the adults fighting over land, property, and jewelry. Fortunately, I was too young when my other grandparents had passed, and I was excused from attending their funerals.
Aunt Lula, on the other hand, was just as persuasive on the matter but for different reasons than my mom. She thought I should go if only to offer my friend Abby Lee moral support. “Poor lamb, it’s almost like she’s lost a father,” she said. “Again.”
This was true. Abby Lee’s own father had died when she was five, leaving her with only her mother to raise her. And from all she’d told me last night, from the very day she started work at The Poop Deck, Harvey was like a surrogate father to her. It was only right that I attend the funeral service to support my friend. I wanted to pay my respects to Harvey, of course, but I was really going for Abby Lee. It was time I earned our friendship back.
When I’d hastily packed my bags for my trip back to Trouble, I hadn’t planned on attending a funeral. Hell, for that matter, I hadn’t expected to find Harvey Boyette dead in my parents’ backyard, either. Heaven knew I had enough dark suits for work to suffice for several funerals and then some, but those were back at my apartment. With limited options—I didn’t really want to spend money on yet another drab suit to add to my collection—I rummaged through my childhood closet for something decent to wear. Bingo. Behind half a closetful of Lilly shifts, I found an old navy dress hidden in the back. It was as close to black as I was going to get, and even better still, it fit.
It seemed the whole island came out for Harvey’s funeral and ultimately the gathering at Sheila’s house after the service. I can’t say I was too surprised. He was a stand-up guy, and everyone loved eating at his seafood joint. It looked like everyone, most of whom had only a few days before eaten their weight in crab and fried catfish at my parents’ house, was packed in and around Sheila Boyette’s living room like a can of sardines.
The Poop Deck handled the catering at Sheila’s. Just a light fare consisting of crab dip, fried oysters, and half-portion shrimp po’boys on a platter. Personally, I thought it was kind of tacky having the kitchen staff from The Poop Deck work on the day of his funeral, but in the last few hours I’d gotten the distinct impression that was the kind of woman Sheila was—cheap and tacky. I’m sure she
figured she could save a few bucks on catering if the food came from her deceased husband’s restaurant. But then why wasn’t it a potluck? I was sure the women of Trouble would have gladly brought over enough casseroles to feed the entire town.
As if reading my thoughts, Aunt Lula whispered in my ear, “We offered to bring over food so she didn’t have to lift a finger, but the woman wouldn’t accept. Said she had food allergies or some such nonsense. As if we’d try to poison her.”
Unless you were over sixty and part of the centuries-old Texas/Louisiana turf wars, everyone was pretty much civil toward each other—it’s the Southern way. But Sheila Boyette, on the other hand, was a newcomer to the island, and she didn’t leave a good first impression. To hear my mom tell it, Harvey had met her about four years ago on a fishing trip to Florida and surprised nearly everyone when he announced they’d been married by, and I quote, “a bona fide boat captain.” Sheila didn’t necessarily warrant the standard Yankee reception, being from Florida and all, but there was speculation about her true nature just the same.
You would have needed a defective hearing aid to miss the whispered chatter among the mourners.
“. . . gold digger.”
“Not a nice bone in her body . . .”
“. . . woulda keeled over too if she was my wife.”
“Sure played him the fool . . .”
If Sheila overheard what the others were whispering behind her back, she didn’t mention it. For that matter, I doubted that she even noticed what people were saying directly to her. She spent the entire time drinking bourbon and Coke, draping herself on the arm of a man I didn’t recognize.
If the stars weren’t already aligned so badly, I would have been surprised to see Justin again. But there he stood by the buffet, talking to Mr. Irsik, in his unofficial police garb.
Shifting his eyes away from Mr. Irsik, he caught me staring and shot off a nod of recognition. He excused himself from the conversation—which was no small feat when talking to Stanley Irsik. The man could talk your ear off about offshore fishing whether you cared to listen or not.
There was no way to politely slip away from where I was standing. Justin had already spotted me. I don’t know why my first instinct was to run anytime he was within a ten-yard radius. “Hey there,” I said.
“Hey, yourself,” he said. “Going to take some getting used to . . . seeing you around, that is.”
There. That was why my first instinct was to flee whenever he was around. I wasn’t going to allow him to make me feel guilty about being absent the last five years. Mom did that plenty enough already.
“I’m here for the summer, so you might as well get used to it.” I didn’t mean for it to come out snarky, but it did.
“No need to get defensive. I meant it as a good thing,” he said.
I certainly wasn’t expecting him to say that. I still imagined him holding a grudge after I dumped him before we left for college. “How so?”
“Maybe we could get together sometime. I don’t know, dinner, or something.”
That had me speechless for a moment. The way I remembered things, we broke up, he was hurt, and I moved on. I thought he had, too. The few occasions I had managed to come home over the years, we’d pretty much avoided each other. It was easy, since I never came home for more than a weekend or so. Mom always kept me busy at home, and he focused on police work. Now I was here for the whole summer.
“Gee, I don’t—”
He wasn’t going to let me come up with an excuse. “Come on, Jules. All that was years ago. What is it they say? Water under the bridge? What’s dinner between old friends?” He looked so eager and hopeful, and I hated to turn him down when he put it that way.
“I’ll think about it, OK? I have to spend some time with my folks first,” I said. It wasn’t completely true, but I knew he couldn’t argue about that. “And I’ll be working at Palmetto Pink.”
“What? That I’d like to see.” He laughed, knowing full well how much I hated interacting with people. “How’d Lula get you to work there?”
“Don’t ask. Anyway, looks like I might have a full schedule.” What was wrong with me? Why was I being so stubborn? If he was willing to be friends again, the least I could do was meet him halfway.
He seemed disappointed. “Sure,” he said, like it was no big deal either way. “So what are you doing here, anyway?”
“I didn’t realize I needed an engraved invitation.” My defenses were up again. “I’m here for moral support,” I said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve known Harvey my whole life, same as you. Just because I left town doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”
“I see,” he said, rubbing his chin. It was a nervous habit he had developed over the years. He only did it when he thought too hard about something. For all I knew, he was on the defensive as well. I’d just turned down his dinner invitation.
“And while we’re on the subject,” I continued, “why are you here? Surely you have better things to do—like solve crimes. I heard through the grapevine you guys don’t think it was a heart attack.”
“Touché. Actually, I’m here on official business.”
I hadn’t put much stock in what my mom or the rest of the gossip hounds had spread all over town, but if he was here on official business, perhaps there was some truth to the rumors.
“Do you really think it was foul play?” It was one thing to suspect Harvey died from mysterious circumstances, but Mom would bust a gut if she knew someone was actually murdered in her own backyard.
Justin’s mood shifted again. “I didn’t say—”
He didn’t have to spell it out. “Do you think he was murdered?” I pressed.
Justin took a step back. “Whoa, hold on there a second. I said no such thing. And keep your voice down, will you?” He glanced around to see if anyone had heard me. “I’m just here to talk with his nephew.”
“Harvey had a nephew?” This was news to me. Until the day Harvey married Sheila, he’d lived the bachelor life with no other family to speak of. In all the years I’d lived in Trouble, there was certainly never any mention of a nephew.
Justin seemed pleased to know something I didn’t. “You seem surprised. Then again, you haven’t been around these parts in a while. Why do you care whether Harvey had a nephew or not?”
Another jab. His comment stung as guilt set in again. Damn, I told myself. I wasn’t going to let him or anyone else guilt-trip me. I was home now, wasn’t I? “Yeah, well I like to stay informed.”
Justin took his eyes off me for a moment to scan the room, looking for the mysterious nephew. “Nephew’s from Lufkin,” he continued, eyes glued to the crowd. “Took us a while to track down Harvey’s next of kin. After we notified him of his uncle’s death, he said he’d make the drive down for the funeral.”
I glanced around the living room, where most of the entertaining was going on, and didn’t see anyone that fit the description of an estranged nephew. Despite the large crowd, it wouldn’t be hard to spot a stranger, as I recognized everyone in the room. I thought back to the strange man that had been consoling Widow Boyette earlier on the couch. Maybe he was the mysterious nephew. “I don’t see him here, but I did notice a guy sitting with Sheila earlier,” I said. “And you’re here to talk with him why again?”
“I never said,” Justin replied. “We just want to ask him a few questions about Harvey.”
It was what he wasn’t saying that made my head go into overdrive. A theory slowly began to formulate. Harvey didn’t look the picture of a heart attack waiting to happen the day of the party. In fact, he looked pretty healthy for a man his age. So if his sudden death wasn’t due to a heart attack, Justin was indeed working an open case.
“Are you here to question him?” I insisted, fishing for more information.
His eyes narrowed down at me. Clearly he was getting annoyed with my
questions. “For what? He’s not a suspect, Jules. Get that thought right out of your head. I thought it would be nice to personally give my condolences while asking him a few questions about Harvey. That’s all.”
OK, maybe I was jumping to conclusions. But then, why would he ask an absentee nephew of all people questions about Harvey? Plus, he said he was here on official business.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said, even though it didn’t.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta pay my respects so I can get back to doing my job.”
Ouch. Did I detect a hint of sarcasm there? “Sure.”
Justin spun back around before leaving. “And hey . . .”
“Yeah?” It was wishful thinking on my part, but for a second there, I thought he was going to ask me out to dinner again. This time I’d say yes, to make up for being rude earlier.
“For what it’s worth, it’s good to have you back.”
It was a start.
CHAPTER SIX
Normally, the reading of the will is done in private, with only immediate family present, presumably in some stuffy lawyer’s office, but according to the family probate attorney, it was Harvey’s wish that the will be read immediately following the funeral.
Not surprisingly, everybody present was anxious to hear Harvey’s last will and testament, even though most of the people in the room didn’t stand to inherit anything. I had a sneaking suspicion half the town wanted the early scoop so it could be included in the early morning addition of the daily gossip, while the other half secretly hoped Harvey left them some sort of gift or token. It was kind of like the lottery—the odds were bad, but everyone played to win.
The probate attorney seemed out of place as he loosened his pale-blue necktie and looked uncomfortable with all the attention focused on him. I guess he wasn’t used to making house calls. As far as I knew, there were only two practicing attorneys in Trouble, and he wasn’t one of them. Like I said, it was easy to spot a stranger in this crowd. He must have been from the city. Houston, maybe Galveston.
Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1) Page 4