Curses, Boiled Again!

by Shari Randall

  “Tell you what, Aunt Gully, just go home and have a lie-down. I’ll head over to the shop and help Hector and Hilda,” I said. “It’s my usual shift anyway.”

  Aunt Gully exhaled. “Well, I’m not going to sit around. I’ll go check on Megan and bring Ernie some chowder.”

  “Great idea, Aunt Gully.” I didn’t believe some chowder was going to make anything better. We’d just watched the Mosses’ lives implode in front of hundreds of people, but Aunt Gully had an almost pathological need to take care of others.

  Lorel pulled into the driveway of Aunt Gully’s house, parking next to her brand-new BMW sedan. Living in Boston, I hadn’t needed a car. Now that I was living at Aunt Gully’s, I often borrowed the same van in which I’d learned to drive. I tried not to think about how pathetic that was.

  Aunt Gully’s cottage was the same 1920s style as its neighbors, with a broad front porch, tidy gray cedar shingles, and lace curtains at the windows. Unlike the neighboring cottages, Aunt Gully’s door was painted bright blue, garden gnomes ran rampant, and rainbow-hued whirligigs spun among the bushes flanking the porch. A sign above the door, carved by Uncle Rocco, read GULL’S NEST.

  Lorel and I unloaded the van while Aunt Gully put on the teakettle. The ancient black wall-mounted phone rang, jangling my nerves. I lifted the receiver and a loud voice brayed “Gully!” Aunt Gully’s chum Aggie Weatherburn. The news had spread. I gave Aunt Gully the phone, and she settled in Uncle Rocco’s lumpy Barcalounger, the phone cord stretched from the kitchen wall around the corner into the living room.

  I turned to Lorel. “Now what?”

  Lorel smoothed her already smooth hair. “It blows over. I hope.”

  “Except someone’s dead.” Contessa’s pale face flashed before me. I cringed, trying to shake the horrible image. “I didn’t think food poisoning could act that fast. It doesn’t make sense. Kahuna’s has been in business for years. There’s no way he would’ve used anything but the freshest ingredients in that lobster roll.”

  “Just thank God it wasn’t Aunt Gully’s roll.” Lorel yanked shut the lace curtains on Aunt Gully’s broad living room windows.

  “I’m heading down to the Mermaid to let Hector and Hilda know what happened,” I said. Hector and Hilda Viera were the shack’s only other full-time employees.

  “Just remember, Allie,” Lorel whispered, throwing a glance at Aunt Gully. “No comment, okay? You can say that Aunt Gully’s deeply saddened by what happened”—her cool blue eyes held mine—“but that’s it.”

  Normally, I would’ve rolled my eyes at Lorel’s bossing, but I was too stressed. I waved at Aunt Gully, grabbed the keys to the van, and drove back along the water to Pearl Street.

  Aunt Gully’s Lazy Mermaid lobster shack was in one of the oldest parts of Mystic Bay, an area once known as Fishtown, but now referred to by real estate agents as Mystic Bay Village. Tiny streets lined with painstakingly restored Greek Revival homes and trim fisherman’s cottages flowed into two distinct areas: Spyglass Hill, an area of large, historic whaling captains’ mansions overtaken by expensive, sprawling vacation homes, and Pearl Street, a twisting lane that led to specialty shops, small homes, and a bustling marina.

  My tires crunched into the gravel parking lot of the Lazy Mermaid. It was empty. I’d never seen it empty.

  The Lazy Mermaid was three cedar-shingled buildings. The main building was bright with fluttering blue pennants and an American flag. This is where customers lined up for Aunt Gully’s lobster rolls and took them to picnic tables scattered on the grass and pier. Inside was space for only four tables and counter space with ten seats. For years the building had housed a bar/restaurant called Petey’s. When Petey had had to sell the property, Aunt Gully had jumped at the chance to make her dream of owning a lobster shack a reality.

  Behind the main building stood a small shed that held seawater tanks of live lobsters. Behind that was another freestanding shack, where Aunt Gully planned to expand. A broad pier led to the Micasset River, which flowed behind it all into Long Island Sound.

  Who could have imagined that underneath years of Petey’s grime and spilled beer was a sparkling gem of a restaurant waiting to be born? One weekend the entire corps de ballet had come from Boston to join with Aunt Gully’s friends to clean, paint, strip the sticky wood plank floor, toss three Dumpsters’ worth of trash, and then throw a celebratory party that people in Mystic Bay still talked about.

  Artist friends of Aunt Gully’s painted a mural of fishbowl castles and sea creatures, using a special finish to give the walls the opalescent sheen of a shell. The ceiling was similarly painted in a fish-scale pattern. Aunt Gully’s antique-dealer friend Aggie had found a figurehead of a mermaid, which had regal pride of place by the door. Well, after Aunt Gully put a bikini top on the figurehead’s naked torso. “It’s a family restaurant,” she said.

  Dozens of knickknacks from Aunt Gully’s mermaid collection crowded a shelf by the ceiling. Plastic lobsters and octopuses, nets, and an old wooden lobster pot brightened the walls. Plastic red and white checked tablecloths added cheer to the already eclectic décor.

  But the shack was empty as I walked in.

  “Allie, what happened!” Hector rushed forward. “It’s all over the news! Is your aunt okay? I couldn’t get through to on her phone.”

  Hilda, like Aunt Gully, believed that tea cured all. She brought me some, the cup shaking in her hand.

  Hector’s and Hilda’s eyes widened as I told them what happened.

  Leo Rodriguez’s face filled the television screen high on the wall.

  “Breaking news from Mystic Bay and the food festival, now closed by tragic events. As we reported earlier, Broadway star Contessa Wells has died at Mystic Bay Hospital after falling ill with the other judges at the Mystic Bay Food Festival. Joining me now is one of the contestants in the Best Lobster Roll contest, Chick Costa, owner of Chick’s World Famous Lobsters in Chatham. Very sad events, Chick.”

  Chick Costa had changed out of his yellow polo shirt and into a yellow T-shirt that said CHICK’S WORLD FAMOUS LOBSTERS, CHATHAM. He pulled back his shoulders so the T-shirt was taut across his bulging bodybuilder pecs.

  “Yeah, very sad, Leo.”

  “Tell us what happened, Chick.”

  “Well, it’s of course tragic.”

  Leo Rodriguez glanced at the camera and then back at Chick. “Tell us what you saw.”

  “Well, before my lobster roll even got served, they all got sick. All the judges. Right after they served the Godlobster roll from Kahuna’s.”

  Hector whistled. “Kahuna’s!”

  “Then they fell ill,” Leo Rodriguez prompted.

  “Yes. Everyone got sick and then the EMTs came and took everyone away to the hospital. It’s a tragedy,” Chick said. “I’m just glad my lobster roll had no part in it. Wasn’t even on the stage at that point.”

  “We know there was a meeting with the YUM Network, the organizers of the event. Can you tell us what they said?” Leo asked.

  “Well, they said it’s tragic of course, but you know, Miss Wells was an older lady, and she might have had some undisclosed health problems. Maybe a heart problem.”

  “There you have it, right from one of the contestants.” Leo Rodriguez put a finger to his ear. “And now we’re going to Mystic Bay Hospital for a follow-up on the judges. Thank you, Chick Costa of Chick’s World Famous Lobsters in Chatham. This is Leo Rodriguez reporting live from the canceled, I repeat canceled, Mystic Bay Food Festival. Over to Terri LeDuc.”

  The news switched to a woman in a chic navy blue suit standing in front of Mystic Bay Hospital. She glanced at her notes and then looked up suddenly, composing her face to read sadness and gravity.

  “Leo, I’ve just talked with a Mystic Bay Hospital spokesman. As you know, we’ve reported on the tragic death of Broadway and Hollywood star Contessa Wells. Despite treatment en route and here at the hospital, Miss Wells died shortly after arriving at the ICU at noon. The other judges, May
or Keats Packer and YUM Network stars Rio and Rick Lopez, of Foodies on the Fly, have received treatment, and doctors are cautiously optimistic that all will recover. Doctors here, however, have told me that this is one of the most unusual cases they’ve seen, and they’ve asked for toxicology tests from the state crime lab. We’ll let you know just as soon as we have those reports.

  “And I have this exclusive information.” The camera zoomed in as Terri looked into the camera with wide hazel eyes. “One of the medical personnel who attended Miss Wells spoke to me anonymously. He was deeply, deeply moved. He was a fan of Miss Wells.” She took a deep breath, composing herself. “He was with the celebrated actress as she drew her last breath.”

  Terri LeDuc read from her notes. “He said, ‘Miss Wells struggled to take a breath. I held her hand in mine. I could tell she wanted to say something important so I leaned close. She looked right into my eyes and spoke her last word.’”

  Hector, Hilda, and I leaned toward the television screen.

  Terri LeDuc stared into the camera. “Her last word was ‘Contessa.’” She paused a beat. “Reporting live from Mystic Bay Hospital, I’m Terri LeDuc.”

  “That’s weird.” Hector leaned back. “Her last word was her own name?”

  “She was in terrible shape.” I told them how Hayden Yardley and I had tried to help her.

  Hector clapped one of his big, callused hands over mine as Hilda hugged me. “You poor thing! And your poor aunt! Poor Contessa, of course.” Hilda’s eyes welled.

  “I wonder what’ll happen to the Wells House. It’s worth a fortune,” Hector said.

  “And her sister,” Hilda said.

  “Her sister?” I said. “Oh, I’d forgotten. I thought she died years ago?”

  “Yeah, the crazy one who lives in their house on Spyglass Hill,” Hector said.

  Hilda gave him a disapproving look, grabbed a dishrag, and wiped down the counter. “Neither of the Wells sisters has lived here in like forty years. Few years back they renovated it and rented it out. But Contessa came back what, two or three months ago?”

  Hector nodded.

  Hilda continued. “While you were dancing in Boston, Allie, so you wouldn’t have known. Well, everyone says what an angel Contessa is because her sister is—”

  “Off her rocker,” Hector said.

  Hilda frowned. “Contessa brings, well, brought in private nurses to care for her. They say she’s harmless, but you can imagine what it’s like to live with someone like that. Most folks think Contessa is a saint.” She frowned again. “Was a saint.”

  “So sad,” I whispered. “So what happens to the sister now?”

  Hilda shrugged. “Probably an institution. I don’t think there’s any other family.”

  “What’s the sister’s name?” I asked.

  Hilda looked at Hector. He shrugged. “Not sure, everyone just called her Contessa’s sister, or the Crazy Lady.” He snapped his fingers. “Juliet! Like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “How’s your aunt?” Hilda asked.

  “Okay, but she’s taking it hard. Megan Moss had to be hospitalized, she’s so upset.”

  Hilda clucked and straightened already straight salt and pepper shakers.

  Hector looked out the window toward the end of Pearl Street, where it wound along the river to Kahuna’s. Kahuna’s was located on a pier by the marina.

  “I thought something was wrong,” Hector said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s hardly any traffic. At this time of year, with the food fest, Pearl Street’s a solid line of cars looking for a place to park, like the mall at Christmas.”

  We all looked out the window that faced the street. Pearl Street was as quiet as I’d ever seen it. The usually terrible traffic had driven a wedge between the residents of Pearl Street and Kahuna’s, and now, I realized with a jolt, residents would have the same concern with the Lazy Mermaid.

  Pearl Street traffic activists had won a fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit on the street. The Lazy Mermaid was certainly adding to the congestion. Aunt Gully was born and raised in Mystic Bay, had worked at the elementary school, and was part of Mystic Bay life. But still. Could traffic issues be the reason someone sent those threatening letters to Aunt Gully?

  “What’s that?” A piece of cheap white poster board was pinned to a light pole just outside the Lazy Mermaid’s door. Our little doorbell jangled as I stepped out of the shack.

  STOP OR WE’LL STOP YOU! was written in marker over a pot with two red claws sticking out. A stop slash on top. It was signed “Lobster Liberators.” My hands shook as I took a photo with my phone and then pulled down the sign.

  “Look at this.” I showed the paper to Hector and Hilda.

  “First those crazy letters, now this!” Hilda breathed.

  “There was a sign like this at Kahuna’s. I saw it when I went jogging this morning,” Hector said. “Somebody threw red paint on the sign, too.”

  First the letters, now signs, and the disaster at the food festival. How I wished Aunt Gully hadn’t dismissed those letters so easily. “I’m taking this sign to the police.”

  Hilda’s brow furrowed. “Do you think there’s a connection to those crazy letters?”

  “I’m going to find out. Did we get another letter today?”

  Hector and Hilda shook their heads. For the past three days, the threatening letters had been slipped under the door. Had the letter writer stopped because they’d been busy at the food festival?

  A news van sped past our window.

  “We’re closing today out of respect for Contessa Wells.” I turned the sign on the door to CLOSED. “If any newspeople call just refer them to Lorel.”

  Chapter 7

  As I hurried up Pearl Street to the Plex, I turned the lobster libbers sign over in my hands. No contact information. No Web site. Just a crude drawing and a few words. “Stop or we’ll stop you.”

  A threat. Just like the anonymous letters.

  What would be a good way to stop people from eating lobster or going to lobster shacks? I thought of the post I’d seen on the Mystic Bay Food Festival site: “Maybe it was the lobster libbers.”

  Just an hour earlier, the idea of lobster libbers seemed ridiculous, a bad joke. Come on, lobster libbers? But this paper in my hand put the food poisoning at the food festival in another light. Could it be the work of an organized group? Could they have caused the death of poor Contessa Wells, and almost killed three other people, for their cause?

  It was insane, just insane.

  As I pulled open the Public Safety Office door, the receptionist looked up from her computer screen.

  “Well, if it isn’t Legs Larkin.”

  My old middle school nickname. I smiled. “Hi, Bron. How are you?”

  “Been better.” My friend Bronwyn Denby worked as a receptionist at the Public Safety Office while studying for her criminal-justice degree. She held up her wrist, encased in a blue cast.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Bike race. Two miles from the finish, my tire hit some loose gravel.”

  “Ouch, sorry.”

  “How about your ankle? Didn’t slow you down too much on television.”

  My confusion must’ve shown. Bronwyn pointed to the television mounted near the ceiling. “They played some video from the food fest. Saw you vault up onto the stage. Pretty impressive with your foot in a boot.”

  “Didn’t do my ankle any good, that’s for sure. Hope my physical therapist didn’t see that.”

  I put the sign onto the counter and told her about Aunt Gully’s anonymous letters. Bronwyn whistled and ran her fingers through her dark, pixie-cut hair.

  “Did you save the letters?”

  “No, Aunt Gully threw them away. She thought someone was playing a joke.”

  “Too bad.” Bronwyn shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone doing this to Aunt Gully. Everyone loves her.”

  “Not Finella Farraday,” I said.

  “I ca
n’t see Finella making this crazy sign. She might chip a nail,” Bronwyn said. “Listen, everyone’s up at the food fest now.” She put on a plastic glove and put the sign on a broad shelf behind her desk.

  “Fingerprints!” I said. “I forgot about fingerprints.”

  Bronwyn laughed. “I thought you watched CSI? Where did you find the sign?”

  “Tacked to the light pole right outside the front door. And get this, Hector saw another sign by Kahuna’s.”

  Bronwyn jotted notes.

  “Just be careful, okay, Legs?” The serious expression in Bronwyn’s gray eyes confirmed my feeling that the disaster at the food fest wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter 8

  I barely saw the shops I passed on the way back to the Lazy Mermaid—the Tick Tock Coffee Shop, Sirius Pet Grooming, Mystical Arts and Crafts, Millie’s Psychic Vibes. The same words turned in my mind: Food poisoning. The lobster libbers.

  Poisoning.

  After helping Hector and Hilda close, I pulled the van out of the Lazy Mermaid’s gravel parking lot. As I came to the fork in Pearl Street where I usually turned right toward home, a sudden thought made me turn left toward Kahuna’s.

  Yellow police tape crossed the front door of the sprawling restaurant. A shock went through me. The police had closed Kahuna’s?

  A woman stroked white paint over the large Kahuna’s sign by the road, covering red streaks that slashed an X over the image of the swaggering Godlobster. I stopped and shot a photo.

  Had lobster libbers also sent threatening letters to Kahuna’s? Who were they? Why had Kahuna’s sign been smeared with red paint and not the Lazy Mermaid’s?

  Chapter 9

  Several vehicles lined the curb by Gull’s Nest, but I was relieved to see that no news trucks were among them. I parked and hurried into the house.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Verity.

  DOING BANG UP BUSINESS. ALL THESE PEOPLE WITH NO PLACE TO GO.

  THANKS FOR TAKING CARE OF LEO, I texted back.