A Side of Sabotage

by C. M. Surrisi

  Now I’m really feeling like a jerk.

  Me: I’m sorry, Zoe. That sucks.

  * * *

  Zoe still doesn’t come to breakfast, but I’m a little too weary to give the situation any more energy right now.

  Mom is standing at the café counter in her real-estate clothes—pants, blouse, blazer—and draining a cup of coffee. Her briefcase lies open on the seat of the stool next to her. Several pictures of houses lie atop it. She’s obviously waiting for a house-hunting client.

  Owen Loney blends into the background in his usual spot, nursing a mug of coffee. Clooney’s in full order-taking swing. The toddler mom and dad are wiping Cream of Wheat out of their kid’s hair at a table by the wall.

  “Look,” Dominic leans over and whispers to me. “That dad’s wearing black. Black shoes, black jeans, black T-shirt.”

  I grip his arm. “Does he look like the guy from last night?”

  Ben, who’s been seated on the other side of Dominic, says, “No way, too tall.”

  Dominic leans back. “You’re right. Too tall.”

  The cinnamon bun in front of me distracts me for a moment. I use my fingers to separate the sweet, warm stretches of sticky goo trailing between the plate and my mouth.

  “Incoming,” Ben says.

  We all turn to the door. Martin Candor walks in and looks around. When he locates Mom, his face brightens. “Margaret, good to see you.”

  They take seats at a table and pore over listing sheets. She tells him about taxes, mortgage interest rates, availability. He’s giddy like a kid.

  Dominic says, “You know”—he strokes his chin and studies Candor critically—“he’s about the right size.”

  “Ha ha,” I say. “Moving on.”

  26

  Later that morning, we slog through boxes at the carriage house. Ms. Stillford tells us to keep going without her as she leaves in her old Volvo for the yarn shop in Rook River. Ella and I start pulling old Down East magazines out of a box, and the guys slide torn and bent cardboard boxes down from the rafters.

  “Where’s Zoe?” Ella asks me.

  “She’s at home, I think.”

  Ella flips through a magazine.

  I add, “She still misses Scotland, and she’s bummed no one will dance with her or listen to ancient Scottish folk music or whatever.” I feel Ella’s gaze on me. “I’m not being mean. She’s having a super hard time. And I don’t know what to do. I have a major mess on my hands with the café and no time to Scottish-dance.”

  Usually, Ella would make a sassy New Yorker quip at a time like this, but I can tell she’s not going to. “Quinnie, let’s concentrate on Gusty’s and making sure your family business is safe. I understand how she feels, and we’ll listen to lutes and bagpipes soon. I’ll tell her that, if it helps. You have a lot going on.”

  “You’ll tell her that?”

  “I will. In my own way.”

  I blink back tears. Ella’s an amazing friend . . . and also, Ella is right. I need to maintain my focus. Now if only I can continue to pay as little attention as possible to Dominic leaving in six days.

  Ben and Dominic, meanwhile, are reassessing our suspects by size. “Yeah. Could have been either of the Lewises,” Ben says.

  “What about the health inspector?” Dominic asks. “If he’s crooked, like you think, it could have been him. Maybe he’s in really deep.”

  Ella says, “Monroe Spalding says, ‘Sometimes they’re in so deep they don’t even make a shadow.’”

  “Who’s Monroe Spalding again?” Zoe asks from the driveway. Her hair is clean and up in a bouncy ponytail. Her clothes look fresh. She’s seems much better than when I texted with her this morning. It looks like Ella’s going to get her chance to make good on her promise.

  “He’s the detective in my dad’s crime novels,” Ella says. “He knows his stuff.”

  When Zoe gets close enough to me, I hesitate a second to see if a hug is welcome, then give her a big one. She smiles and hugs me back, although I’d have to describe it as weak.

  “So I suppose”—Zoe digs in her pocket—“he would think this is valuable evidence?” She takes out her phone and shows us a picture of a dark figure sneaking across the street toward the café.

  “That’s him!” Dominic and Ben shout at the same time.

  We crowd around her to study the shot. A blurry black figure is taking a stride—right foot forward—across the street. There is little clarity, but even from the blur, you can still get a sense of size and direction.

  “Hey, from Zoe’s window, it looks like he came from up the road,” Ella says.

  “Or from the beach,” I say.

  “Well, he ran back that same way when he left.”

  “I wonder if we could figure out exactly how tall he is from this,” I tell the group. “Like by comparing him to something else in the picture? Then we could compare that height to the suspects?”

  “Easy peasy,” says Dominic.

  “Yeah, no problem,” says Ben. He takes the phone and enlarges the image with his fingers. “I’m sure there’s something in here we can use, right, Dom?”

  We’re finally getting this under control. It’s morphed from spot observations to a real investigation with a photo crime lab and everything.

  Ella says, “So who’s on the suspect list right now?”

  I say, “Hubert, Slick, the inspector—”

  Dominic adds, “Toddler Mom, Toddler Dad, Mrs. Lewis, and Mr. Lewis.”

  * * *

  Zoe’s photo launches us on a mission to get pictures of all the remaining suspects, so we can keep track of their heights instead of going back and forth about them. After that, we’ll compare them to the figure in Zoe’s picture. We’re lucky that so many of them congregate at Gusty’s. I can even go in and measure the height of the counter or a table for reference during the afternoon lull.

  After we’ve snapped a few photos and made a few comparisons, we realize pretty quickly that we should compare shape as well as height. For example, it’s clear that Hubert wasn’t the man in black because of the width of Hubert’s shoulders and length of his legs. I had no idea until we started this project how different people are from the waist to the floor. You can be the same height as someone else and have longer legs by a lot.

  We can’t add the inspector’s height to our spreadsheet, because he hasn’t been back in town since we started, and the picture we have of him with Slick by the kitchen door is useless. He has one foot downhill and he’s slouching. But we have plenty of pictures of Slick. Ella took a great one in front of Restaurant Hubert, where he and Hubert are talking to Mrs. Billingsley. She’s shaking her finger in Hubert’s face, like she’s telling him what’s wrong with his food, and he’s clammed up and looking annoyed. Ella said she almost spat out laughing while it was happening, nearly giving away her hiding spot in the bushes.

  “She was telling him things like, ‘The beets have no taste,’” Ella says. “And ‘This place will never be five stars if the pickled radishes burn the roof of people’s mouths!’”

  We’re in my room that night, studying the picture in order to compare Slick and Hubert.

  “At least my dad humors her,” I say.

  “Maybe your dad ought to give her that sour look that Hubert’s giving her.”

  “That lady can’t leave soon enough for me,” I say. “Although, if she left Groucho behind, that would be cool.”

  27

  At seven the next morning, I wake up feeling like things are coming into focus and life is getting under control. Zoe seems to have calmed down, we thwarted the most recent assault on the café, and we have a solid investigation underway. Soon we’ll be able to identify the culprit and turn over credible evidence to Mom—hopefully before the end of the competition. That’s going to wrap up in the next couple of days, and maybe then Dad can relax a little.

  Of course, there is the little problem that Dominic is leaving in five days now, and he and I haven’t really tal
ked about it. My gut tells me we’re supposed to talk about it. We don’t just wait until he gets in the car and wave good-bye to each other, do we? How stupid would that be?

  So why am I not saying anything? Why is he not saying anything? I guess I don’t know what to say. Maybe it just comes to you. Or maybe you have to make it come to you.

  But what if the wrong thing comes to you? How stupid is this? I’m getting out of this bed and going over there right now and saying something—whatever comes to me. I kick off the covers.

  * * *

  I dart and weave around the Moldartos’ half-filled boxes on my way to the stairs. His bedroom door is open. I smell him before I see him. It’s the smell of soap and wet hair. I pause for a second. “You dressed?”

  “Hey. Come on in.”

  I stick my head through the doorway and look around the room. Dominic’s wearing jeans and his T with the omega symbol on the front. There is no getting around it—the shirt is a rag, and it’s too small for him. He’s grown a foot in the past year, easily, and I haven’t seen that shirt for months.

  “Might be time to retire the omega T.”

  Dominic looks down at his taller, skinnier self. “Yeah. I’m throwing out a bunch of stuff. I thought I’d try it on for old times’ sake. Too small, huh?”

  “Not for me.”

  He smiles, peels it off, and tosses it to me. “Done. Want any of my other junk?” He reaches for a white T-shirt with Gusty’s of Maiden Rock—Home of Gusty Burgers and Lobster Fries on the front and pulls it over his head. A second after that, on goes his signature slouchy hat, right on top of wet hair. This is so him.

  Dominic digs more clothes out of his closet and throws them in a box. When I see what he’s tossing, I realize how much of a Mainah he’s become: L.L.Bean fleece, storm jacket, boat shoes, plaid shirts. He drifts to the shelf where his Funko Pop collection is displayed. After studying it like a chess board, he carefully selects one.

  He clears his throat. “Quinnette Boyd, please rise.”

  I stand, brush some hair out of my face, and hold my hand out, palm up.

  “I present you with my Sherlock Holmes Funko Pop, in recognition of your service to Maiden Rock, Maine.” He hands it to me like an Oscar.

  “I’d like to thank the Academy—”

  “Uh, excuse me.” He snatches it back out of my hand. “Who exactly are you thanking for this classic collectable?”

  I straighten up and put my hand out again. “Okay. Okay. I’d like to thank Dominic Moldarto, and I accept this passing of the geek baton. How was that?”

  “Much better.”

  “But it’s too soon.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m not halfway done.” He looks under his bed and pulls out a dark blue Vans shoe. “Do you see the other one of these?”

  I get up and start digging around in the bottom of the closet. It’s not there. I look under piles of clothes and boxes. Not there. “Nope. I don’t see it.”

  “Man, I’m going to miss that shoe.”

  He’s standing there with one shoe in his hand and his wet hair curling under his cap, smelling like a shower, being so completely who he is, and I know, like I know that Moxie runs in my veins, that I am going to miss him with my whole heart.

  “I don’t want you to pack,” I say, instead of I don’t want you to leave.

  “I don’t want to pack, either,” he says, instead of I don’t want to leave. “Maybe we should go eat breakfast.”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “We have to catch this guy soon,” he says, instead of I’m leaving soon.

  “Yep, pretty soon.” Neither of us wants to put a number on it, even though we both know it’s five days until Dominic’s gone.

  We have our arms around each other’s waist as we walk down the stairs. We let go as we walk into the bright morning light. I’m calling this progress.

  * * *

  When Dominic and I reach the café, we spot Ella’s dad standing by his car and talking to Martin Candor. They’re in a mildly animated conversation.

  “I didn’t know they knew each other,” I say.

  “Maybe they don’t,” Dominic replies. “Maybe they’re just saying ‘Hey’ and talking about the weather.”

  Ella walks up to us. “What? What are you looking at?”

  “Your dad is talking to Martin. Does he know him?” I ask.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  We watch them walk through the café door—Martin Candor, followed by Mr. Philpotts.

  “Far be it from me to point out that he could be the Secret Diner,” Dominic says. “That’s another issue I’m still curious about.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask. “He’s been checked out. He’s a real architect.”

  “Didn’t Ella’s dad set the contest up with the Rook River paper?” Dominic asks. “Isn’t he the one who convinced the Secret Diner to visit?”

  Ella shrugs like she can’t deny it but isn’t convinced by Dominic’s theory either.

  Mom waves to Martin. “Martin, you ready for a second look at a few houses?”

  “Hi, Margaret. I sure am.”

  He joins her at the counter, and she starts talking intently about financing, possession dates, and recent updates to wiring and plumbing.

  Before we can decide whether that settles the question of Martin’s secret identity, if he is neither a crook nor a critic, Clooney reaches our table. “What’s it going to be? Special is bacon waffles with blueberry syrup.”

  We all order the special, except Ben, who arrives late and orders an egg-and-bacon sandwich, a cinnamon bun, and two milks. I don’t know where he puts it.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Ben says through bites of bun, “about how this conspiracy might be working.”

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  “Well, suppose Hubert’s at the head, because he wants to get all the business in town. He has a loyal guy in Slick. He pays Slick to take care of the logistics. Slick then hires the inspector to do the dirty work—flagging violations at Gusty’s, breaking into the café.”

  “So, one to ten, how much do we think the guy we saw the other night was the inspector?” Dominic asks.

  I have to think hard about this. “At this point in time, based on what we know, I’m giving it an eight,” I say. “Because he would know exactly what to mess with at Gusty’s to make the café most vulnerable.”

  “We need another picture of that guy,” says Ben.

  “Well, then,” Dominic says, “today’s your lucky day.”

  28

  As if he heard we were looking for him, the inspector strides into the café like he’s expecting to be saluted.

  “He’s so pompous,” Ella whispers.

  “He’s so the right size,” Dominic says.

  Clooney rushes to the kitchen, and a few seconds later Dad comes out, wiping his hands on a white towel. He and the inspector meet by the counter. I can tell Dad is trying to get him to walk into the kitchen, away from the diners, but the inspector’s not moving.

  “I’m going to stand near him,” Dominic says, getting up. “Ella, you get our pictures.”

  I slip to a seat at the counter, darting my eyes between my friends, the inspector, and Dad. But before Ella can snap a pic, Dad and the inspector head back into the kitchen. It’s five long minutes before they step back out.

  “Here’s your re-inspection report.” The man unclips a sheet of paper and hands it to Dad.

  Dad’s eyes race over the front of it, then he flips it over and looks at the back. I watch his eyeballs go to the bottom of the back page. His shoulders relax.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “It’s looking okay—for now,” the inspector says. “You probably want it to stay that way.”

  Dad tilts his head slowly, as if he’s trying to figure out if there’s some special meaning to what the inspector just said. He must conclude there’s not, because he breaks into a smile and sticks his hand out to the man. “We sure do,” he
says.

  The inspector shakes Dad’s hand but doesn’t smile back. “Right, then.”

  “Cup of coffee?” Dad asks him. “Latte? Americano? On the house?”

  Now the man smiles. “You wouldn’t be trying to induce me to keep giving you good inspections, would you?”

  Dad laughs.

  “Because that would take a lot more than a latte,” the inspector continues. He laughs loud and heartily slaps Dad on the back.

  Once the inspector is gone, Dad wipes his hands on the towel again, picks up a coffeepot, and approaches Owen Loney in his seat at the counter’s end. “More coffee, Owen?”

  Owen pushes his mug toward Dad. “What did that fella want?”

  “He said the place is looking okay, and I probably want to keep it that way,” says Dad.

  “Sure you would,” says Owen.

  “I don’t think that’s what he meant,” says Dad.

  “Maybe he wants . . .” Owen rubs two weathered fingertips together like he means money.

  “Damn right that’s what he wants, and I’ll tell you, that’s not gonna happen. He’s messing with Gustav Boyd the Third.”

  Yes, Dad! I’m about to jump into their conversation when a nasally voice starts talking loudly into a cell phone. I turn to see Mrs. Billingsley and Groucho at a nearby table. She’s bossing around someone on the other end.

  “Just tell me what you’re going to do about it, because that was a very expensive dress, and it’s worthless to me without the belt. Honestly, a person brings one dress to a dry cleaner, and you people can’t keep track of the matching belt . . . yes, very expensive . . .”

  Thankfully, Mr. Philpotts comes up to the counter, blocking out the painful conversation.

  “Gus, my fine man,” Mr. Philpotts says, “I’ll have one of your tasty double espressos.”

  “Coming up,” says Dad.

  A hissing cloud of steam appears as Dad manipulates the levers on the ornate Italian coffee maker. Dense black liquid streams into a tempered glass, and Dad places it in front of Ella’s dad with a flourish. “Here you go.”