by Barbara Ross
Why did he make it sound like that was a question?
“It’s just that, as you know, you have a razor thin margin of error. Of course, if it were up to me . . .” he continued, secure in the knowledge it absolutely was not.
My father had dealt with First Busman’s Bank from the day he’d set up the business. They’d supplied the initial loan, and in our family we were brought up to be loyal to First Bus. But in the past decade they’d been bought by a regional bank that was swallowed up by a bigger bank that was swallowed up by a bigger bank still, like so many fish. A European financial conglomerate now owned First Bus. I was sure no one at corporate headquarters in Madrid could find Busman’s Harbor on a map if they had a gun to their head. Something I admit, I’d occasionally fantasized about. Whenever we talked, Bob made it clear he had to answer to his corporate masters on the loan committee and their problems around the globe meant they could care less about the loss of fifty seasonal jobs in coastal Maine.
“I get it, Bob,” I said, and I did. “Thanks for your concern.”
I ended the call before it could go any further, my buoyant mood shot to pieces. As I’d reassured Bob, I knew the numbers—how much we had to clear every day and every week until Columbus Day—as well as I knew my own name. I also knew the consequences of failing. The Snowden Family Clambake would shut down. We’d lose the Jacquie II. Fifty people including Sonny and Livvie, Etienne and Gabrielle would lose their livelihoods. Most likely, they’d have to move out of town to get work. I’d put the money I’d saved from my years in venture capital into the business when we’d renegotiated the loan. So I was all in, too.
Worst of all, if the loan was called, my mother would lose her house in town with all its memories, the place where’d she’d lived her entire married life and raised her family. And we’d lose Morrow Island. Though Mom hadn’t been on the island since Dad died, I thought, somehow, losing it would kill her, or at least change her profoundly and not for the better. I had the same compulsion my father did when he founded the clambake—to keep Morrow Island for my mother. It was a part of her and she was a part of it. The two could not be separated.
By the time I finished the phone call and the black thoughts that came from it, I’d reached our little ticket booth. Livvie was already hard at work, selling seats for the dinner cruise and handing out will-call tickets to the Internet purchasers for lunch. I stood for a moment, absorbing the bustle of the town dock, the heat of the sun on my face, and the excited chatter of our passengers. My mood began to shift back. It was the first day of clambake season!
I stood on the quay, collecting tickets as the passengers climbed the gangplank. The sun cast everything in the flat, bright light that brought so many artists to Maine. The crowd seemed like the usual mix of sunblock-slathered tourists, with a tilt heavier to retirees than families because many schools in the northeast were still in session. Most passengers had heeded the warning on our Web site to bring layers of warm clothing. No matter how toasty it felt in the harbor, once we motored out of its protective arms into the North Atlantic, the weather would turn cool and breezy. In every crowd, there was at least one family who dressed not like they were traveling on a wild ocean to get to a rustic island, but like they were going on a Disney ride with the same theme. We kept blankets aboard the Jacquie II for the midriff-baring teens and sun-suited babies.
The news of Ray Wilson’s murder had been all over the Maine media—the television news, Sunday papers, and the radio. But tourists often traveled in a magic news-blackout bubble, especially if, as was common in the harbor, they were staying at B&Bs that don’t offer in-room TVs or Internet service. As I came aboard the Jacquie II, I had high hopes it would be a normal day with a normal group of customers.
But the moment my foot hit the deck, Sonny stepped beside me and hissed, “Three in the bow.”
I looked toward the front of the boat where a trio of college-age boys was seated on the bench along the bulkhead. They laughed loudly and shoved each other so boisterously the woman sitting next to them moved her little boy protectively to her lap.
Sonny nodded toward the boys. “They already tried to buy beer. I asked for IDs and they backed off.”
Clambake customers were usually self-selecting. Spending four hours on a boat and an island doesn’t attract a rough crowd. But once in a while there are problem people, and we can usually spot them before we leave the dock. When you work with the public, and in particular, when you sell alcohol, you develop a sixth sense. As Sonny and I watched, the middle boy in the group pantomimed looping a noose around his neck, then reached above his head, pulling the imaginary rope tight. His head lolled to one side and his tongue stuck out while the other boys hooted and hollered.
“That’s it,” I said under my breath and marched over to the boys. I’m tiny, but they were seated so I stood over them. “Get off.” I kept my tone conversational, but I didn’t say please.
“Why?”
“We were just foolin’ around.”
“You can’t kick us off. We paid!”
I walked calmly to the bar, opened the till and extracted a wad of twenties from under the money tray. I returned to the boys, peeled off three for each of them, slightly more than they’d paid, and repeated, “Get off. Now.”
The middle boy looked like he wanted to argue, but then shrugged and slunk off, followed by his friends. “Bitch,” he said once he was safely on the gangplank.
There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Sonny gave me a nod that said he approved of my actions, despite his pronouncement yesterday about taking every dollar we could, even from the ghouls.
George, our captain, started the Jacquie II ’s engines and I released the last of the lines holding us to the dock. I stood, paying close attention to set a good example, while Captain George went through the safety speech. And we were off.
We toured the inner harbor as far as the footbridge while Captain George pointed out the sights—the hotels, restaurants, and the biggest of the yachts. Across from The Lobster Deck, he tooted our horn and they echoed back with their giant ship’s bell. “If you don’t get enough lobster at the clambake,” Captain George intoned into the mike that carried his voice throughout the ship, “The Lobster Deck has it any way you could want it, bisque, fried, salad, sandwich, baked and stuffed, and over pasta. You name it. They also have a full menu including clams, mussels, oysters, and Maine rock shrimp!”
The harbor businesses supported one another. The more tourists who came to the area and had a great experience, the more business there was for all of us. The Lobster Deck displayed our brochure prominently where the long lines of customers formed to place their orders.
The Jacquie II swung around to the back harbor, past Gus’s restaurant and the shipyard. Most of the boats were out, either fishing or hauling lobster traps, but enough were still moored to give our customers a feel for the working side of Busman’s Harbor. The crowd on the Jacquie II was happy—drinking, chatting, and taking photos of the harbor and each other. It was a beautiful day and almost all the passengers were crowded onto the open top deck. We headed out to the big bowl of the outer harbor.
Busman’s Harbor had six islands, three with structures on them. Chipmunk was the largest by far. It housed a summer colony, complete with its own ferry. The hundred houses there were passed from family member to family member or were snapped up by neighbors. They almost never came on the market.
From Chipmunk, we sailed toward Bellows, a towering piece of rock with a deserted stone monastery on top. Our guests oohed and ahhed at the harbor seals. The tide was low, so most of the seals were hauled out, sunning themselves on the rock ledges. The many pups were still small and especially adorable. They would grow quickly on their mother’s rich milk and in another month most of our visitors wouldn’t be able to tell the babies from the others. Captain George steered around Bellows twice to make sure everyone got a good look. He cut the engine so we could hear the social animals on the isl
and barking at one another, even as the social animals on our boat did the same. “Get in the shot!” “Get out of the shot!” “Stand next to your brother!” “Stop hitting your brother!” The happy, familiar sounds of summer at the bake.
The final island before the mouth of the harbor was Dinkums Light. As it came into view, the “lighthouse people” rushed to the bow, snapping photos and chattering as excitedly as if they were birders adding to their life lists. Dinkums was worth the excitement. Though not tall, the light was picturesque, with its stone keeper’s house, boathouse, and fuel house still intact.
From Dinkums, we passed through the mouth of the harbor into the Atlantic. Morrow wasn’t far, two miles southeast along the coast. We never lost sight of land, but the wind came up and the passengers pulled on their hoodies or windbreakers. Then, just when they were ready for the trip to be over, it was. The dock on the Atlantic side of Morrow Island came into view, and the guests could see the bonfire where their food would be cooked. The crowd buzzed with excitement.
Chapter 16
I tossed the lines to one of our employees on the dock, then stood quietly while Captain George made the second safety announcement of the day, the island version. Morrow was a relatively safe place, or it had been until Saturday, and George hadn’t yet worked, “Please don’t get yourself hung from our staircase,” into his spiel. We did have some rules—watch your children, stick to the paths, and, of course, stay out of Windsholme. Looking up the great lawn from the dock, I was relieved to see the mansion’s front porch wasn’t hung with yellow crime scene tape. Whatever the state police had used to secure the big front doors was much subtler.
Windsholme stood at the highest point on Morrow Island, facing the open ocean. Below it was a wide plateau of land that was once the formal gardens. It held the badminton net, bocce court, horseshoe pit, and croquet field with picnic tables scattered around the periphery.
Also on the plateau was the pavilion that contained the bulk of seating for our guests. It had a roof and clear plastic curtains that rolled down, so we could run the clambake even on cool or rainy days. Sunny days were better, but many people thought there was nothing like a bowl of creamy clam chowder and a lobster to ease the pain if bad weather happened to interrupt their Maine vacation.
Attached to our pavilion was the commercial kitchen where Gabrielle reigned. She and her small staff prepared everything that wasn’t cooked on the fire. Also attached to the pavilion were the bar, the little gift shop where my mother had worked during her clambake years, and the public restrooms. Our water and electricity came over from the mainland in big conduits. The town of Busman’s Harbor turned them on in mid-April and off just after Columbus Day.
Behind the pavilion was Gabrielle’s glorious vegetable garden, which produced some of the best food I’d ever eaten. With no deer or rabbits on the island, and not even many land-based birds, the garden thrived.
The guests exited the Jacquie II and scattered. Some took the footpath across the island to the little beach, others headed for the playing fields. Some lingered at the picnic tables with a beer, soda, or glass of wine.
As always, the bonfire drew a crowd. The fire was in a little cove a ways from the dock. It meant the kitchen staff had to carry the trays of uncooked food a fair distance, but we had to keep the fire away from everything else. A fire on an island wasn’t funny. It wasn’t like you would get the trucks from the local department rolling down the street.
As he supervised the clambake, Etienne wiped the sweat from his brow with the blue bandanna he always kept in his back pocket. Then he carefully explained to the customers what he was doing. Early this morning, on a concrete slab, Etienne had placed kindling and oak logs in layers alternating with rocks that had to be the exact type and size so they heated through but didn’t explode. When most of the wood had burned away, he and his crew stepped in to rake out the charcoal and debris and then repiled the rocks that would actually cook the meal. Some bake masters don’t actively participate in this hot, dangerous job, preferring to supervise from the sidelines. But Etienne wasn’t that type of man or boss. Sonny worked silently next to him, his face glistening with sweat.
As soon as the rocks were piled up, the kitchen crew came running with the trays of clams, lobsters, sweet corn on the cob, Maine potatoes, onions, and eggs. Once all the food was on the pile, the men covered it with rockweed, a North Atlantic seaweed, and then with canvas tarps.
“You see the eggs?” Etienne held one up to the crowd while his crew hosed down the tarps. “They are magic eggs!” He played to the children in the crowd. “How are they magic? As your food cooks, I reach into the pile and pick out one egg, open it and eat it. If the egg is perfectly hard-boiled, your meal is ready. Time to eat.”
I gave Etienne and his crew a wave and turned away. While I had the chance, I wanted to take a quick tour around the island to see if there were any visible signs the crime scene techs had been there. I started toward Windsholme.
The big double front doors were secured with something that looked to me like a garbage bag tie. I didn’t test it. I was sure it was stronger than I was. Same with the French doors to the dining room along the side porch. I walked around to the back of the house. Though it looked from the front like Windsholme was three stories tall, in the back the land sloped away and you could see that it was really four. The ground floor housed the great furnace, storerooms, and laundry as well as the first level of Windsholme’s two-story kitchen. While I was at the back of the mansion, I tried peering through the windows, but I couldn’t see anything and didn’t want anyone to catch me.
From Windsholme, I started down the path toward the beach, but then thought better of it and took a branching path to the playhouse.
When it was constructed in 1890, the playhouse stood on the edge of the great lawn, but that part of the side yard had long since reverted to deep woods. A perfect, tiny imitation of Windsholme, the little house had two rooms, a parlor complete with a fireplace and a bunkroom for sleepovers. As I approached it through the trees, I thought of my mother’s mother playing there in the 1930s, in a place bigger than the cottages where many harbor families lived.
During the summers, when our family lived in the house by the dock where Etienne and Gabrielle lived now, they stayed with Jean-Jacques in the playhouse. It didn’t have a bath or a true kitchen. They used the commercial kitchen and the public restrooms back at the pavilion. My father had tried to talk them out of staying there, but Windsholme itself was uninhabitable, and thrifty Etienne wouldn’t consider giving up the money they made renting out their house on the mainland for the summer. Besides, he pointed out, he needed to be on the island early and late for the clambake. My mother, who’d grown up playing in the tiny house, thought it was a great place to live. In truth, at times I envied Jean-Jacques.
In recent years, when there’d been so little money, none of it had been spent on maintenance of the playhouse. It was overgrown with vines, its screens broken and porch sagging. Sonny worried it was an “attractive nuisance” and muttered from time to time about bulldozing it, but there was no money for that, either. The last time I’d been in the playhouse, it had been full of dead leaves and spiderwebs. I gave the front door a shove.
The inside was astonishing—swept clean, furniture neatly arranged and a fire lay in the hearth. I tiptoed into the front room, half expecting to see three bowls of porridge on the dining table. Looking around, I noticed the glass in the windows had been repaired. I shivered in the gloom of the little house. The dense woods let little light in through the windows. Who could have done this?
The state of the playhouse freaked me out a little, but I had to explore the other room. The bunkroom was as tidy as the parlor. There was a mattress on one of the bottom bunks with an old wool blanket folded at the end of it. The original mattresses had moldered away years ago and we’d never replaced them. One thing you didn’t want to do when you employed as many high school and college kids as we did was
supply places that invited people to party and have sex.
My mind was still whirling, wondering who could have done this, when my eye caught three letters carved into the wooden side of a top bunk. CJD.
CJD. Christopher John Durand. I knew those initials as well as I knew my own because I’d written them over and over in my junior high notebooks. CJD loves JMS. Christopher John Durand loves Julia Morrow Snowden. Mrs. Christopher John Durand. Julia Snowden Durand. And so on, ad infinitum. Ad nauseam. I ran my hand over the initials. The wood was still raw. The carving was new.
I breathed easier, my pulse dropping. That explained it. Chris must have cleaned the playhouse this spring when he was working on the island with Etienne and Sonny—not a stranger. Chris.
But why had he never mentioned it? And what had the police made of the neat dwelling—and the initials?
From the pavilion, a gong sounded, signaling lunch. I left the playhouse, closing the door carefully behind me. Time to get to work.
Chapter 17
Our guests gathered at the picnic tables for the first course, Gabrielle’s New England clam chowder. For my money, it was the absolute best chowder on earth. Some chowder was so thick with cream and potatoes, a spoon would stand up in it, while some was so thin, it couldn’t possibly satisfy the working fisherman it was invented for. Ours was the perfect consistency, hearty, yet creamy, flavored with onions, bacon, and thyme. And absolutely no tomatoes. Locals still talked about how in 1939, a bill to make tomatoes in clam chowder illegal was introduced in the Maine legislature. It didn’t pass.
Chowder was always served with small, hexagonal oyster crackers. The Snowden family upheld this tradition, though I wasn’t a fan myself. The crackers were tasteless and added nothing to the soup. They were sealed in little cellophane packets that made them as difficult to open and eat as the lobster.