by Lea Wait
I hadn’t been to a bake since high school, when friends had gathered on Pocket Cove Beach. In those days a lobster bake hadn’t been a novelty. In fact, I’d avoided a number of them.
I’d had enough lobster and corn and clams working the steamer on the wharf for summer folks. Once in February I’d pulled a sweatshirt from the bottom of a pile in my room and refused to wear it. It still smelled of lobster.
But that was over ten years ago. Ten years since everything I’d owned—from my hair to my underwear—had smelled of lobster.
I was ready for a lobster bake.
Was Trixi a little young to eat lobster? I’d save the meat from a couple of legs for her.
I smiled as I headed up the hill.
I wasn’t sure I’d accomplished anything so far today. But I felt more relaxed than I had in days. Probably Pete and Ethan had already figured out who’d killed Jesse. Dave was healing. I hoped Gerry Bentley had decided to buy a house near Seattle, or Portland—the other Portland.
The cloud moved, and the sun returned.
What could go wrong at a lobster bake?
Chapter 40
“This needle work of mine doth tell
When I was young I learned well,
Though by my Elders I was taught,
Not to spend my time for naught.”
—Verse on eleven-year-old Sally Wales Turner’s sampler, 1810, in the Leominster area of Massachusetts. Sally stitched a large house, an orchard, and an asymmetrical border on her unusual oval-shaped sampler.
Trixi was curled on the blanket I’d left for her in the cat bed. But she’d pulled the blanket out and arranged it to her satisfaction on the floor. She looked tiny and vulnerable, and meowed piteously when I reached down to gently stroke her.
“I’m sorry, little lady. But I have to go out again. I’m sorry you don’t have your brother and sister to play with.” I looked around and found a bottle cap. She immediately claimed it as her own, chasing it on the bare floor outside the large rug that covered most of the living-room floor.
I changed her water. That made me feel a little less guilty.
“I won’t be gone long,” I promised, hoping my words wouldn’t make a liar of me. “I have to visit Dave at the hospital and tell him how you’re doing.”
She looked up at me, doubtfully.
I suspected she’d rather have me stay home.
I glanced in the mirror over the hall sideboard on my way out.
Whoa.
I’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt after church, but since then I’d been walking all over town, and the wind had blown my hair into an arrangement I couldn’t call artful.
I was supposed to be going to an event. Not that one dressed up for a lobster bake. Lobsters were notoriously messy—and that didn’t count the butter on the corn or the clam broth.
But I should look as though I cared.
I changed my jeans, put on a long-sleeved T-shirt, and took a sweater, in case the evening chilled off. It was August, after all. After looking in a mirror I changed my grungy (but comfortable) sneakers for sandals, and put on dangly sea-glass earrings.
Not exactly ready to greet the queen, I grimaced as I combed windblown snarls out of my hair and added lipstick. But better.
Did I have anything to take to Dave in the hospital? I snapped a couple of pictures of Trixi with my phone. “See, lady? I’m going to show Dave how well you’re doing here.”
She looked unimpressed.
I drove to the hospital.
Dave was sitting up—in a chair!
“You’re better, I see.”
“Not ready to run any marathons. And still on painkillers. But I’ve graduated from injections to pills, and the nurses have me walking a little.” He looked me over. “You look nice today. Different.”
Was that a compliment or a put-down? “Thank you. So—no infection?”
“No infection,” he agreed. “Thank goodness.”
“So when can you go home?”
“The doctors say I’m not ready for climbing stairs,” Dave said. “But if I keep my leg elevated for a few hours and sit instead of stand in my classes, I should be okay to be at school the first week in September.”
“That’s great!”
“Luckily, my bio lab is on the first floor. My doctors weren’t enthused, but since it’s my left leg they’ve said I can even drive back and forth to school by then. They’re getting me a temporary handicap sign so I can park close to the entrance for a while. The principal’s even agreed to hire an aide to work with me for the first couple of weeks to help with handing out papers, rounding up stray students, and setting up the classroom.”
“What about grocery shopping? And the stairs in your house?” I asked.
“I haven’t figured it all out yet,” he admitted. “For now, I’m planning to sleep on the convertible couch in the living room.”
“I could move some of your clothes downstairs for you,” I volunteered. “And get you some groceries.”
“That would be great,” he said.
“But,” I added, “I’m not going to go near that poison garden of yours!”
“No problem. Growing season’s almost over anyway.”
“Here, let me show you how one of your little girls is doing.” I showed him the pictures of Trixi on my phone. “See? She can climb the drapes. And she moved her blanket to her favorite corner and smooshed it up to make a soft nest.”
“You sound like a new parent,” Dave said, shaking his head. “Yes, she’s very cute. And thank you for showing me the pictures. I’m not at all worried about her, I assure you.”
Had I gone a little overboard?
“So with a little help from my friends, to quote someone famous, I should be all right. But I keep thinking about Jesse. He had such a rough life, and he’d worked so hard to find a place where he was comfortable. And someone killed him. For what? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’ve been talking to people around town, and I haven’t come up with any serious suspects. I’m going to meet his cousin tonight, though. Maybe he’ll say something to give me an idea.”
“You’re going to meet Simon?” Dave asked.
“Over at Aurora,” I confirmed. I didn’t think it was necessary to mention that Patrick had invited me.
“So he’s still around.” Dave hesitated. “Do you know if he’s planned a funeral for Jesse?”
I hadn’t even thought about a funeral. “I don’t know if the medical examiner has released his body yet.”
“I’d like to be at the funeral,” Dave said. “If you get a chance, would you tell Simon I’d like to say a few words at the service?”
“I will,” I promised. “I’ll let you know what he says. In the meantime, have you heard anything new about the Save the Cormorants plan?”
“Sarah called. Her friend Ted has designed a couple of logos. She’s going to bring them by tonight for me to see. And Ruth called twice to see how I am. The Audubon people are monitoring this whole situation. They’d like the island to be an official refuge for seabirds. That makes sense to me, too. That’s what Jesse would want. But since he only owned half the island, the decision will rest with Simon.”
“I’ll try to find out how he feels,” I promised. “And I’ll check back with you tomorrow. You’ll still be here?”
“Another day or two,” Dave said. “It seems forever, but I’ve only been here since Thursday afternoon. Three days. The doctor says I’ll be able to get out Tuesday.”
“Make up a shopping list,” I said. “You’ll be tired when you get home. Write down what you’d like and I’ll take care of it before you’re released.”
Several of us should also make casseroles or cakes or whatever so Dave wouldn’t have to cook at all during his first week at home. Maybe Gram could call on the culinary resources of the Ladies’ Guild. Something else for my to-do list.
I waved good-bye and was happy to see Dave pick up one of the mysteries I’d brought him. No
hospitalization was fun. Under Dave’s circumstances it was nightmarish. At least he would be going home Tuesday.
I wished Jesse had known that.
He never knew his friend was going to be all right.
Chapter 41
“Knowledge and virtue both combined
Like flower and fruit in youthful mind
Yield charms of brighter lustre far
Then wealth can boast or beauty wear
Virtue and wit with science joind
Reform the manner please the mind
And when with industry they meet
The whole character is complete.”
—Sampler completed by Susan Jane Hazen (1826 – 1901) from Hartford, Vermont. Susan completed her sampler in cotton and silk on linen in 1837, when she was eleven. She included a picture of Dartmouth Hall, in Hanover, New Hampshire, with its distinctive cupola. Several members of her family attended Dartmouth College.
As I’d suspected, a catering truck (TRADITIONAL MAINE LOBSTER BAKES—YOUR CHOICE OF LOCATION!) was in the driveway at Aurora.
I was deciding whether to knock on the door or go around to the back of the mansion when Patrick waved from the direction of his house.
“Glad you’re here!” he called. “Everyone’s out back in the field.”
I waited for him. “Sounds like fun. Did your mom invite many people?”
“Simon and you and Uncle Gerry and his wife,” Patrick answered. “Oh, and I think Jed Fitch and his wife—Carole?”
“I know them.”
“I’ve never been to an actual lobster bake,” Patrick confided. “I assume you’re an expert.”
“Not an expert,” I cautioned him. “I’ve been to a fair number, but none since I got back to Haven Harbor last spring. Most of the ones I used to go to were on Pocket Cove Beach.”
“The caterer told Mom bakes were usually on beaches. But too many people know her. In June, that was all right, since not many tourists were around. But in August? She decided we’d have the caterers put up their equipment here, where we can have privacy.”
Being a famous movie star had its downside.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said. “What’s important is the food, and the seaweed.”
“The seaweed? People eat seaweed?” Patrick asked seriously.
“People do eat seaweed,” I assured him. “It’s a Maine crop. But not at a lobster bake. Seaweed is critical to the bake process. All the food at the bake—lobsters, clams, onions, potatoes, corn, and eggs—is steamed under rockweed or kelp.”
“Eggs? I didn’t know people ate eggs at a lobster bake.”
I tried to keep from laughing. This must be one of those things Mainers knew that people from away didn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to laugh.
“Several raw eggs are always put under the layers of seaweed, with the rest of the food. The eggs are timers: When they’re hard-boiled, the rest of the food is ready.”
“So people don’t eat the eggs,” he said.
“It depends. There’s no rule against it, and wasting food isn’t good. But sometimes several eggs have to be broken and tested before the rest of the food’s declared done. There’s no rule for how long a lobster bake takes. It depends on the amount of food, and the type of wood, and how dry the wood is, how much seaweed is used—even on the air temperature and the winds.”
The caterers were digging a deep hole for the fire. Sand on a beach wouldn’t catch fire. Grasses in a field might.
“Right you are,” said a young woman leaning back on her shovel. “The way we set up our bakes, the food takes about thirty minutes to cook. But if there’s wind, or more food than usual, it can take twice that time.”
“Fascinating,” said Patrick. “And anyone could do this?”
“Anyone can, and often does,” she assured him. “But hiring us ensures it’ll be done well and safely. And you don’t have to gather driftwood and seaweed. We bring it all to you and do the work.” She smiled. “Plus, we bring haddock chowder to start with, and whoopie pies for dessert. Why don’t you go over to the bar and get a drink? We’ll serve the chowder in about half an hour, after we get the fire going.”
“Good plan,” said Patrick. “Thank you!” His hand lightly on my back headed me over toward where picnic tables and chairs were arranged overlooking the harbor and a young man was standing behind a table covered with a red-and-white tablecloth and a selection of glasses and bottles.
“What would you like to drink? May I suggest a cocktail now, and champagne when the lobster is served?” he said. “We also recommend the Sweet-grass Winery’s cranberry gin. A local product. And such a lovely color.” He held up a bottle to demonstrate.
“I’ll try the gin,” I said. “I’ve never had that.”
“Make it two,” added Patrick. “This evening is a Maine experience.”
The young man poured our cranberry gin into martini glasses. I held mine up to the light. “You’re right. It’s a beautiful color.”
“And tastes remarkable,” Patrick agreed, sipping his. “When I’m painting again I think I’ll have to try a wash of this color over a gray-blue sky. Like a sunrise.”
We walked slowly toward those already seated. Skye waved, and I waved back. I recognized Gerry Bentley walking slowly down the hill toward the Harbor. A tall, thin man wearing slacks and an oxford shirt was with him. Definitely not a Mainer. He must be Jesse’s cousin, Simon Lockhart.
Jed and Carole Fitch were sitting together on matching lounge chairs, while Uncle Gerry’s pregnant wife was surrounded by pillows on another. Mrs. Bentley and Carole were holding glasses of orange juice; the others were holding cocktails. I took a sip of my cranberry gin. Delicious. And, I could tell immediately, potent.
“Good to see you again so soon,” said Jed, standing. “You’ve met my wife, Carole.”
“I have,” I agreed, nodding at her. “Earlier this summer. Please, sit down.”
Jed sat, but to my surprise, Carole stood. “I haven’t talked with you in a while, Angie. And the food won’t be ready for a while. Would you mind taking a little walk with me? I’d like to stretch, and it’s a glorious day.”
“Of course,” I agreed. Why had Carole chosen me to be her walking companion? Her husband was right next to her. “The weather is spectacular. August is one of my favorite months in Maine.”
Patrick seemed surprised, but took Carole’s place on the chair and turned to Jed. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you. I heard you can arrange for plowing and roof raking in the winter.”
I smiled to myself. Yes, Jed could arrange for such things. He did them himself. The real estate business in Maine was quiet during winter months.
“I’d like to walk around the house,” Carole Fitch was saying. “I haven’t seen it since it’s been fixed up.”
I followed her, glancing back to see if anyone was paying attention. No one was.
She walked toward the house.
Carole had been plump when I’d seen her in June. Now she was thinner, her large dark eyes were deeper in her face, and her short hair was thinner than it had been only two months ago. She seemed almost lost inside her long, loose dress.
Gram and Jed had both told me Carole had cancer. What was the etiquette for such things?
“I’ve heard you’re having health problems,” I said.
“Cancer,” she answered, without hesitating. “Breast cancer. Stage four.”
“That must be difficult,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too maudlin.
“It sucks,” she answered, with a small smile. “That’s about it. Plus, what’s worse, is Jed’s taking time off to take care of me, and the boys are both in college. Without his income, they may have to drop out. This summer George is working down at the lobsterman’s co-op.”
The job I’d had as a teenager. Not easy.
“And Linc, our older boy, is sterning for any lobsterman who needs a backup.” Another rough job with an undependable income. “Neither of them can earn enough t
o pay for their college. It’s impossibly expensive today.”
I’d taken a couple of classes at Arizona State, but I wasn’t an expert on colleges. Or college tuition. But college was important to Carole. “That’s rough.”
“Not rough. Impossible. I never went to college, and Jed and I agreed years ago we’d find the money to send our boys if they wanted to go. They’re bright, both of them. They deserve to go. And now they may have to drop out. And it’s all my fault.” Her voice shook, but was determined. “I hope you never have to go through anything like this, Angie. Cancer doesn’t just kill one person. It tears families apart.”
“Jed told me you’re having chemo. I’ve heard of people going into remission, or getting rid of cancer totally. You can’t give up hope!”
“Remission happens. But not often with the cancer I have.” Carole stared at Aurora. “Skye’s done such a beautiful job of restoration, hasn’t she? Aurora almost looks the way it did back in the late sixties and early seventies, when Jed and I and Skye were all young and full of dreams.”
I hadn’t been around then, but I’d seen pictures. “It looks beautiful.”
“She had the money to do it. What must it be like not to worry about how much things cost?”
“For most of us spending money the way she does would be a fantasy,” I agreed. Like wanting a lobster bake and having it catered in your backyard.
Carole turned toward me and touched my arm. “You understand, Angie. I hoped you would. We both grew up in Haven Harbor. We know how hard people work to get by.”
“Most have two or three jobs,” I agreed.
“Jed’s been doing odd jobs for people for years, in addition to selling property, but it’s not enough. Not now, with the boys needing more money, and my medical bills. When I heard you were coming tonight—Patrick mentioned it to Jed—I felt it was meant. I have to ask a favor of you.”
“What do you need, Carole?” My mind raced through possibilities. I didn’t have any money to help them out. Carole and her family needed more than needlepoint right now. Maybe she wanted me to help with food? Or rides to Portland? I could do those things.