Upstairs, Skyler woke up with an overwhelming desire to have sex with Rufus, but the feeling quickly subsided when she realized that she was alone and in her bed in Maine…and that she hated the man for the way he treated her at the end.
There had been a lot of ends.
There had been a lot of relationships.
They always started so wonderfully and ended so poorly, but that’s usually how it happens. And, of course, she always blamed the problems on him. He always managed to make a crucial, unforgivable mistake. He screwed around. He became too needy. He didn’t have enough ambition. He had too much ambition. He was a grade school gym teacher. He was a Wall Street asshole. He lost interest in sex. He bought a fucking cat! The list went on and on. And she played each one out in her head.
And while she regularly doubted herself and her own ability to nurture a healthy long-term relationship all the way to ‘I do,’ it usually came down to him. He was the problem and she just wasn’t designed to be in a relationship. And she certainly was not going to be anyone’s wife just to be a wife, because that’s what society kept reminding her that was what she was supposed to do. It wasn’t revolutionary; she wasn’t reinventing women’s liberation. But it was high time that she accepted it. She was aromantic. Anti-relationship. She had great friends, a wonderful life—and an occasional sexual liaison was all she really needed. She was done with baggage and done trying to make two halves a whole.
And, disgusted with herself, she was done with self-analysis for the day.
Skyler got out of bed just in time to see Brenda and the dogs walking away from the house, but she was too tired to pull on clothes and catch up. She took a long shower, dressed, and called Tanner’s cell.
“Good morning,” he said. “I just got off the phone with Sheriff Little. He has a clue.”
“A clue, you say? Sounds very Scooby Doo. Are you allowed to tell me?”
“You’re on the case, aren’t you?”
“Indeed,” Skyler said. “What else am I going to do?”
“Enjoy your summer vacation and pig out on Brenda’s food.”
“Oh, I’m going to do both of those things, too, don’t you worry. So, tell me.”
“Apparently, the Sheriff got a mysterious envelope delivered to his place late last night. Inside was a Starbucks receipt and a message indicating that Patty was at Miami International Airport the morning she was killed.”
“Is it credible? Who sent it?”
“I don’t have many answers for you. The receipt is real, but after a few phones calls, the Sheriff’s department determined that the Starbucks in question doesn’t have security cameras. Whoever bought the drink, used cash. And they have no idea who got their hands on the receipt or who sent it to the Sheriff, but it’s been sent to Portland for fingerprint analysis.”
“So, whoever killed Patty probably took her purse—since one wasn’t found near her body—and the receipt was…” Skyler’s voice trailed off and she thought hard for almost half a minute.
“Skyler? You still there?”
“I am. I was just thinking. Would it be very hard for the police department to get ahold of passenger manifests? Lists of people who flew from Miami to Portland. Or to Boston, I guess, right? And if she did fly in, they could check the rental car companies and Ubers and stuff from the airport. Or maybe she had her car parked there.”
“Right. See, you should have gone into law enforcement, babe,” Tanner said. “Sheriff Little is on all of that, I suspect. He’s waiting to hear back from the airlines and credit card companies.”
“Good. I’m going to wait until Brenda comes back with the dogs and then I’ll come see you at the restaurant. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Oh, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll be here.”
Skyler hung up and before she could set the phone down on the counter, it rang.
“This is Skyler Moore.”
“Miss Moore, this is Drake Black with the Boston Globe. I got your name and number from the Chowder House in Wabanaki. I understand you are their official spokesperson.”
“I am. How can I help you?”
“I’ve just started working on a weekend getaway travel piece on your little town and you might not believe this, but Wabanaki has never once been mentioned in the Globe. Our paper is 145 years old and Wabanaki is only 80 miles away. It just seems so unlikely.”
“It does, doesn’t it. Especially since Vice President Farr lives here.”
“I thought that was Kennebunkport.”
She sighed deeply. “That’s the Bushes. Surely you know that much.”
“Of course. So even with a former vice president, Wabanaki has managed to stay off the radar.”
“Wabanaki is a sleepy little town that’s been overlooked for a very long time. Many of the business owners would like to see that change, I’m sure. But you didn’t really call to tell me that Wabanaki doesn’t get much press, now did you, Mr. Black?”
“No. And not to slight you in any way, but I can’t get anyone at the police department or the Mayor’s office to call me back. I called to talk about the murder of Patricia Little at the Old Wabanaki Chowder House restaurant. I’m in town now and I’d love to meet you if you’re free.”
She considered the request for a quick moment; could this be spun in a way that Wabanaki and the restaurant come out looking good, or would this be a complete disaster? She decided to roll the dice. “I’m actually having lunch at the restaurant today. Would you like to join me?”
“I would, indeed. Noon?”
“Let’s make it 12:30,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”
Skyler hung up and went down stairs just as Brenda was coming in the back door with the dogs. She brought Brenda up to speed.
“This seems like something you can deal with. Have you spun a murder before?”
“No. It’s a little bit out of my realm, but I promised Tanner I’d help and I intend to do just that.”
“I actually had an idea when I was walking on the beach, what if I did an episode of the cooking show here? On location. It’d take some time to set up, but I need to start taping the new season starting in September. And Wabanaki could sure use the publicity.”
“I think that’s a marvelous idea. Could you do it at the Chowder House with Tanner? He’d get such a kick out of that. That would certainly boost his online chowder sales, too, I’d think.”
“I think he’d be great on television. Alright,” Brenda said as she reached for her phone, “I’m going to send a note to my producer and see if we can get this done. I think peppering the show with some on-location stuff would be fun. Of course, that will mean more travel. Am I crazy? I mean, I’m crazy, right?”
“You are crazy…and you’re going to need more steamer trunks.”
“Mmm. This is going to get expensive.”
After Brenda sent the email, the friends enjoyed coffee on the front porch until it was time for Skyler to leave for the restaurant. The dogs snoozed peacefully at their feet.
* * *
At quarter past noon, Skyler entered the restaurant by the back door and found Tanner sitting at his desk placing food orders on his computer. She explained that she was meeting a reporter and would have to postpone their lunch.
“Is it a good idea to talk more about Patty?” he asked.
“I’m going to steer him away from it as much as possible. But I’m thinking now that it won’t be the end of the world if a travel piece on Wabanaki included some salacious stories. It gives us a shade of color we never had before. City folks eat that shit up.”
“I guess,” he said, not completely convinced. “I just feel kind of guilty worrying about the reputation of my family’s business, and the town’s popularity, when an employee of mine, and a quasi-friend of all of ours, was killed here two days ago.”
Skyler let that sink in
for a half a minute. “Were you really friends with her?”
“No.”
“Neither was I,” Skyler said. “And…” She looked around the kitchen to make sure no one was in earshot before continuing, “…I don’t think Deputy Leonard Little gives a shit that she’s gone.”
“Apparently he didn’t give many shits when she was missing for three weeks.”
“See?” Skyler said. “So, let’s not speak ill of the dead, of course, and we can certainly reiterate the fact that our hearts go out to those who have suffered such a great loss, but let’s use this as an opportunity to put old Wabanaki on the fucking map.”
“You scare me sometimes.”
“I know,” she said with a sly smile. “And you love it.”
“More than you know.”
“Please don’t start this again.”
“Sorry.”
“I need to go find this Mr. Black fellow. Wish me luck.”
Tanner returned to his computer screen. “You won’t need it. You’re a public relations shark, remember?”
Skyler slipped into the restaurant’s main room and was surprised to see every table full and a dozen or so folks waiting for tables. Shea motioned for her to join a conservatively dressed, middle-aged man at a small two-top next to the bar.
Pleasantries were exchanged, the Globe reporter extended his business card, she gave him her own, and then they ordered drinks and food.
“You’re based in Washington, D.C.?” Drake asked, fingering her thick linen card.
“Yes sir, I am. I live in Dupont Circle and have an office set up in my home. I have an associate, an assistant, two summer interns, and a part-time bookkeeper. I set up my own shop a few years ago when I got tired of working for the man.”
“At one of the big firms?”
“Yeah, Wilma-Settler.”
“They have an office in Boston.”
“Indeed. They have seventy-three offices all over the world. I’m enjoying picking and choosing my clients now. Plus, because I’m the boss, I get to spend the whole summer here instead of there in the nasty hot humidity.”
“Why do they call this the Old Wabanaki Chowder House?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.
“Because it’s old.”
“Yes, 99 years. But was the word old used in the original name?”
“You know,” Skyler said thoughtfully, “I don’t think I know the answer to that. They were using old when I was growing up here back in the late seventies and eighties. I don’t know when it became the Old Wabanaki Chowder House, officially.”
“I officially became old when I turned 45. That hit me a lot harder than 40 did, for some reason,” Drake said.
They paused for a moment when plates of food were delivered to the table. Skyler thanked the waitress; Drake didn’t even acknowledge her presence.
“Without telling you my age, I will say that I can identify with your statement and that I agree. But,” Skyler said, absently adjusting the lobster roll on her plate, “I’ve stopped counting. I mean, look at women like Christie Brinkley, Iman, and Meryl Streep who look so fresh and amazing in their sixties. It’s how you live your life and it’s certainly all about your attitude and where you are in your head. I know women who roll over and die when they turn 65 because they think that’s the end. What’s the point of that? I’m going to keep on going.”
“Great attitude.”
“Thank you.”
“How old are you? For the record.”
“Next question.”
“I’ll just write down, ‘ageless’.”
“Perfect. Will you marry me?”
“Ahh. I’m married.”
“Of course you are.”
“Who do you think killed Patty?”
Skyler knew this was coming. “The authorities are working on that. There just is no answer to that question yet and no credible suspects. It’s a real mystery. And it’s only been 48 hours.”
“Was she disliked?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t know Patty all that well, since I’m only a summer resident here. Plus, she was about 10 years younger than me. But she’s lived in Wabanaki all her life and she never got into any trouble that I am aware of. She had a few close friends and a loving husband, and...”
“A police deputy,” the reporter interrupted, “the son of the Sheriff?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a suspect?”
Skyler grimaced. “I don’t believe so, no. But not because he’s the Sheriff’s son. He wasn’t here. He was at home and was driving into work when he got word of her death.”
“So he says.”
“Mr. Black,” Skyler began, “you told me on the telephone that you work for the travel section of the newspaper, isn’t that correct? When did you become a crime reporter?”
“I’m not reporting on the murder per se, Skyler,” he said. “I can call you Skyler, can’t I?”
“Of course. That’s my name.”
“A very pretty name.”
“You need to stop flirting with me, Mr. Black.”
“Drake. And I’m not flirting. I’m married.”
“So you said. And I was kidding.”
“I’m writing a piece on this little seaside town and I think it’ll be the cover story of the Weekend Getaway section that’s coming up, but I can’t write about Wabanaki this month without mentioning the fact that a woman was brutally murdered in the most popular restaurant in town, now can I? Especially since it’s the first recorded murder here in, how many years?”
“I don’t have that statistic,” Skyler said, “but it’s been many decades. I vaguely remember a story about some drunk accidently killing his best friend back in the 1960’s over a card game gone bad. That’s it.”
“So, it’s a sleepy town.”
“That word gets used a lot around here, but it’s also full of life. There are more young families than ever before. We have a budding art scene that seems to be taking off. We’ve got a good number of folks who come back year after year to spend the summer in one of our high-end inns. We have several new homes that have been built in the last couple of years. Oh, and then there’s the Vice President in residence every summer.”
“Vice President Farr isn’t going to bring in the tourists,” Drake said dryly.
“Off the record…probably not. Very milquetoast.”
“I heard the Sheriff killed Farr’s dog, though. That’s an interesting bit for the story.”
“It was an accident. I realize it’s been getting some national press because of Farr, but I personally don’t really see how anyone would find that interesting. Dogs get hit by cars every day, don’t they?”
Drake jotted down a few words in his notebook. “Oh, it’s interesting. Human interest. Canine interest, if you will. Especially if it involves a former veep’s dog.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, lunch was lovely. I see why people like it here, despite the unfortunate event that happened down that hall.” The reporter motioned over his shoulder toward the restrooms.
“Yes,” Skyler said. “Unfortunate. And so very tragic. Our collective hearts, of course, go out to all who are affected by her untimely passing.”
“Indeed. Thanks for your time, Miss Skyler Moore, private publicist.” Drake got up from the table and started toward the front door. She looked down and noticed that he’d left enough cash and coins to cover the bill and exactly a 15% gratuity. And he hadn’t touched a bite of his food. Famished, she finished every morsel of her (free) lobster roll, pickle, and the last of the potato chip crumbs.
TWELVE
By midafternoon, it was officially confirmed that Patty Little had been in Miami. And while she did fly home alone on a one-way ticket and paid for her airport parking on the very day of her murder, there was absolutely no record of her flying south during the time since she had b
een missing, nor were there any electronic financial records of her taking cash out of ATMs or using her credit cards for food or hotel stays while she was there. And since Leonard was certain that she had no friends in South Florida—and no one believed she ate out of trash cans or slept on the beach for three weeks—they suspected she had a secret benefactor.
“That or she’d been hording cash for some time,” Sheriff Little explained when he sat down to discuss the case with his son at The Lobster Shanty.
“There’s no way, Dad. That woman never had more than a few dollars in her pocket at any given time. If she did, she’d have it spent within hours. She wasn’t very thrifty. And she was addicted to those scratch off games they sell at the gas station. It’s sad.”
“It is,” Maynard said. “It’s a tax on the stupid.”
“Tax on the poor. She wasn’t stupid.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t calling your wife stupid, I was calling the lottery stupid. It preys on people who really should be spending their hard-earned dollars on other things. Sure things.”
“I hear ya.” Leonard signed deeply and scanned the room. He watched as Porter bused a table and when their eyes met, he gave a little nod. Porter nodded back and disappeared into the kitchen.
“That guy,” the Sheriff said.
“Do you think he killed the alpaca?”
“I don’t know. But it happened again.”
“What?! There’s more?”
“Yeah. Gerald had a whole truck load delivered the other day to his farm. He’s using the horse stables to house them. Someone broke in the other night and slit one of poor animal’s throats.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I put Kristin on it. I’ve got my hands full with Patty.”
“What is going on around here?” Leonard asked, not expecting an answer. He pushed his food around on his plate. “I think I want to move out of Granny’s house.”
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