by Sarah Graves
* * *
Ten minutes later Sam and Mika were gone, headed up to the house.
I’d locked the door yet again; goodness, this worrying about murderers was exhausting, and now I ate another pinwheel cookie. If I kept on, we wouldn’t have anything to sell. But I didn’t care—not enough to stop, anyway.
“Get these things away from me, please.”
I waved at the plateful sitting in front of me on the shop’s little cast-iron café table. By now it was nearly 10 A.M., with a few customers already sitting in their cars outside, waiting for us.
Sam and Mika had said they wanted to clean up and unpack, and get something to eat. Ellie thought I should go, too.
But I just couldn’t. For one thing, I wasn’t sure how I felt and I didn’t want to see the happy couple until I was certain that I could behave well in front of them.
Which right now meant not bursting into tears: How could he, my mind kept repeating. She’s a lovely girl, obviously, but how could he spring her on me like this?
Also I was too young to be a grandmother; when I’d had Sam, I was practically an infant myself, but I hadn’t thought he would carry on the tradition.
Besides, Ellie and I were involved in a murder case, not to mention enough chocolate cherry cheesecakes to sink a barge.
“If I were sure the guy from Miss Halligan’s didn’t see us,” I said, “I might leave you here alone to finish the decorating. Or if George were here.”
Ellie’s husband was still working in Bangor, where the storm was not expected to be so bad.
“He says that it’s triple time,” she’d said to explain why he hadn’t come home, “if they stay on the job and work right through the holiday.”
Triple his usual pay rate, which for George, with a family to support, was no small thing. I turned the OPEN sign in the front door, unlocking it yet again but officially this time, and in response three rain-jacketed local women got out of their cars and hurried in through the raindrops.
Jane Drummond, a cheerful, freckled person who ruled Eastport’s Laundromat with an iron hand, wanted a dozen needhams.
“Because my daughter is coming. Bringing my grandson for the fourth,” she confided, and the other two murmured appropriately.
“I hope they’ll be able to have the fireworks,” Jane added with a worried glance at the ghastliness outside.
The radar, Sam had reported before leaving the shop, had the storm still aimed right at us, despite Wade’s suggestion that it might be trending east and out to sea.
“Oh, I’m sure the fireworks will go on as scheduled,” said Pearl Fellowes calmly, and asked for a dozen pinwheel cookies.
“And one of the pastries, please, dear,” she added, brushing back salt-and-pepper curls. “My kids aren’t coming this year,” she added. “I’m not convinced, but they say we’re going to get rained out.”
She took the white paper bakery bag I handed her; I took the money and rang up the sale.
“So I think I’ll just eat these myself in front of the TV,” she finished wickedly, and went out.
Finally Anne Talmadge, a regal-looking woman with white hair in a braided coronet and high, round cheeks as pink as the inside of a seashell, stepped up to the counter.
“Good morning. I’m here to collect two dozen cheesecakes.”
Nervously I called for Ellie, who was in the kitchen, and she came out wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Oh,” said Miss Talmadge when Ellie had explained that not all the cakes were complete, but that they all would be delivered by us late tonight for the auction tomorrow.
Not, in other words, right this minute. But now it seemed the plan had been changed.
“They’re concerned that if the storm should blow in, they’ll be too busy. Rescuing distressed mariners and all,” Miss Talmadge explained.
Which actually made sense. But it also meant trouble for us.
“So they’ve moved the auction up to this evening,” said Miss Talmadge, and looked at us expectantly; after all, what difference could a few hours make?
“They’ve alerted the TV stations’ crews to come early,” she added, “so they can still do their stories about the auction and the cheesecakes and . . .” She stopped, tapping her forehead with her index finger. “Oh! And I almost forgot, they want four more. Of the cheesecakes, that is. Demand just keeps growing, and they don’t want to disappoint anyone, of course.”
“I see. Well,” said Ellie, and I was glad that she’d taken the conversational lead, since if I had, I’d have been gnashing and foaming. “Well, we’ll just have to take care of it, then.”
What? I blinked. Four more cheesecakes, mixing time and time in the oven for each pair, not to mention the glazing, decorating, and frosting that had to go on afterward . . . it was impossible.
Only not to Ellie, apparently. “Don’t worry, Miss Talmadge,” she said. “We’ll deliver the cakes in time, you can count on it. Just tell them everything’s under control.”
Which I thought was a serious overstatement. Even if it all went perfectly, getting those cakes to the auction site by tonight would be a squeaker, and I said so when Miss Talmadge had gone.
Ellie frowned. “We have no choice. Or I don’t, anyway.” She turned to me. “Jake, those cheesecakes are going to tell every caterer and wedding venue in the state that we mean business.”
I just stared. Not that Ellie was wrong; what we were doing was impressive. But it hadn’t even occurred to me that she’d been thinking about it like that.
“I know,” said Ellie, “when we started this, we only talked about having a store. Local customers, cookies and pastries, busy in the summer. But if George didn’t have to be away so much, life would be a lot easier, you know? And not just for me.”
Of course, I realized. She wanted to make more money, and why wouldn’t she? George wasn’t the only one with a family to support, after all; she was half of their team. She looked at me in appeal.
“Jake, nobody can do that kind of hard, physical work forever. And especially not as much as George does, day in and day out. And we’ve still got Lee to put through college, somehow.”
We stood there in silence a moment, contemplating the amount of money that project would take: mountains of the stuff.
“I get it,” I said finally. “A dessert catering service, why not? And with the publicity the Coast Guard auction brings . . .”
She nodded emphatically, her eyes shining with enthusiasm even though she, too, was exhausted. “Exactly. We could have steady work all summer, big jobs, maybe even into autumn and winter.”
She stopped, biting her lip. “Or I could. If you didn’t want to.”
“Oh, please,” I replied. “Of course, I want to. There’s just one thing, though.”
I loved the Moose and I loved being here, doing the baking and tending to the customers. A sweet little bakery in a quaint island town . . . what could be better?
But a catering business on top of all that was something else again. Weddings, anniversary parties, family reunions . . . I wanted to bake the equivalent of a dozen cheesecakes each week the way I wanted diphtheria.
“How about if I do the cake-baking part,” Ellie proposed into my silence, “and you take care of the—”
“Yes!” I agreed hastily. “You can bake. All you want, and I will help you. Anything you need, Ellie. But not right now.”
Ellie looked stubborn and I could see her getting ready to resist my next idea, which was that she should catch a nap.
“I can stay here for a few hours,” I insisted.
But she was shaking her head, one gold curl wispily escaped from her repositioned hairnet bobbing determinedly.
“No time,” she declared firmly. “I’ll need to start the next two cakes right now if we’re going to meet our new deadline.”
And there was no arguing with her; in fact, she insisted that I get out of there myself for a little while, a suggestion that at first I resisted as strongly as sh
e had.
But she had an ulterior motive. “Listen,” she said, pressing another needham into my hands, “about Sam’s new wife.”
Fortunately, I’d already bit in, so the chocolate and potato molecules were already diluting the fear chemicals that the mere mention of “Sam’s new wife” triggered the release of.
Or any kind of wife. I’d been telling myself that his alive-and-well status (not to mention the whole clean-and-sober part, for which I was on my knees giving heartfelt thanks, emotionally) made up for almost any other possible complications.
“And yes, we will hash over that whole new-marriage thing, I promise,” said Ellie. “I know you’re upset.”
We always did talk things over; it was another of the secrets to our long friendship. But now that thought pinged a guilty memory; that GPS tracking device that her husband George had incorporated into her boat’s electronics.
I still hadn’t told her about it; meanwhile, Sam’s new situation kept going around in my head like something spinning in one of Jane Drummond’s washing machines:
Sam is here; he is fine; he is ... married? And to a young woman I’d never even met?
“But for right now, did you see the way she looked around at this kitchen?” Ellie went on.
I had, actually. Her glance had gone swiftly from the sinks, to the ovens, to the stainless-steel worktable. And then . . . she’d relaxed a little.
“Like she knew just what she was looking at,” I agreed. “Like she had experience with it, even.”
As if it had made her feel at home. Ellie nodded, meanwhile rummaging for something in her apron pocket.
“Also she dropped this.”
“What . . . Oh.” I peered at what Ellie held: a silver charm bracelet. It was what I’d heard clink as it fell, I now realized, and what was on it was illuminating in the extreme.
“Look at these charms,” said Ellie of the silvery miniatures: a little spoon, a tiny measuring cup, a flour sifter cunningly complete with an eensy silver crank handle, and a screen.
“Ohh,” I breathed. They were, well . . . charming, actually. “But what’s that other thing?” I asked of the tiny object Ellie bent and plucked from the floor now.
She held it up between thumb and finger. “Look, a rhinestone. Not out of the bracelet, though. From something Miss Halligan was wearing, probably.”
Those T-shirts that the Rose’s proprietor often wore did shed bits of glittery stuff occasionally. Ellie dropped the gleaming rhinestone into her apron pocket; her daughter would love it.
Still holding the silver charm bracelet, I touched the tiny measuring cup dangling from it hesitantly with an index finger. “So, do you think Mika’s really a baker of some kind?”
Ellie looked hopeful. “We’ll find out, I guess. But if she is, then she probably knows her way around an oven like ours. Also she’s nervous, eager to fit in, wants to make a good impression, and to try to help, maybe. Right?”
I started getting the picture. “So if we’re correct about this, then once she’s rested up from her trip, we could ask her.”
Ellie nodded enthusiastically. “Or even sooner. Much better than sitting around the house trying to make small talk, yes?”
“Oh, certainly.” I tried imagining Bella, freshly confronted with Sam’s sudden marriage, playing hostess to his new wife and trying to take care of my dad and Maxie at the same time.
“Good heavens,” I said, picturing it. Bella could be slightly difficult if you didn’t know her well. Like dynamite could be explosive. “I’d better get up there right away.”
Saying this, I grabbed my bag with the bracelet in it, plus my car keys and rain gear, hauling on the latter as well as I could while rushing along fairly urgently. When I glanced in the mirror behind the counter, my oilcloth rain hat was on backward.
But the hell with it; at least it was on my head, which the way I felt I regarded as a major accomplishment.
“Okay. Assuming she’s on board with all this,” I told Ellie, “I’ll have Mika down here in . . .”
I grabbed the remaining chocolate brioche from the display case on my way by. I could smooth over just about any trouble with Bella, I had discovered, by applying enough chocolate brioche.
“. . . half an hour?” I finished.
Ellie looked pleased. “Yes, she could be really helpful to me if she does know how to do things in a kitchen. Meanwhile, you could take a nap, yourself.”
We’ll negotiate that part later, I thought. I was relieved to have a plan, at least, for dealing with some of the knotty problems we were confronting. Not the one about my son getting married without telling me, of course; there wasn’t enough brioche in the world to smooth over that little misstep.
I yanked the shop door open, and then three things happened fast: first the little silver bell over the door jingled merrily as usual. Next I got a faceful of thick, chilly drizzle; it tasted of sea salt.
And finally a man in a clear plastic raincoat and rubber shoe covers ran into me, knocking me backward halfway into the shop again as he tried entering it himself.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he apologized.
“No problem,” I managed, but then I saw who our visitor must be, with his briefcase and his plastic clipboard and an official State of Maine name tag pinned to the pocket of his sport jacket.
And the white compact car outside had an official state plate on it, too. “Hi,” he said as I turned to peer closer at him.
He was a health inspector; his name tag said so. “I’m here to follow up on a complaint,” he said as he looked around.
That raised my hackles. Even dead, Muldoon was screwing us up. I couldn’t imagine a health inspector working during a storm on a holiday weekend, but it was the only explanation I could think of; Muldoon must’ve gotten one last harassing complaint in before his murder, I thought as Ellie’s warning glance shooed me out.
She was right to get rid of me. She was much better equipped, temperamentally and in every other way, to deal with Professor Bleach-Bottle, here.
So I hustled past him, telling myself firmly that I wasn’t against normal inspections and that I surely was for proper food sanitation, for the Chocolate Moose and everywhere else.
But I didn’t like being hassled, and especially not by dead guys, and also I was not taking any damned naps, no matter that I’d told Ellie I would.... Oh, I am in a fine mood, all right, and I deserve to be, too, I told myself irritably.
And the weather didn’t help. By now it was late morning, which on a normal July 3 would be a red-white-and-blue carnival scene in Eastport, Maine. But Water Street was so empty you could have rolled a bowling ball down it and not hit anyone, and the gray, heaving water of the bay couldn’t have looked more unfriendly if there’d been shark fins sticking up out of it.
Then, as if all that weren’t enough, on Key Street I parked the car in my driveway and dashed through the pouring rain to the house, and met Bob Arnold just coming out.
He’d been looking for me, he said.
Eleven
Bob and I met back downtown, where he hustled me into one of the last empty booths at the Waco Diner. The rest of the place consisted of a long counter with a dozen stools plus an adjacent dining room, both areas now full of impatient customers.
“I don’t get it,” I said when the harried waitress had taken our orders and brought coffee. “I thought most of the tourists had left town. What’re all these people doing in here?”
In the next booth two small kids battled stubbornly over a French fry. “That is not,” their mother recited tiredly, “the only French fry. There are more. You don’t have to fight over the . . .”
“The smart ones are gone. But the damn weather forecast,” Bob groused, “is talking now about how maybe it’ll be a near miss.”
He waved an arm at the packed eatery. “And ‘maybe’ doesn’t help me. All ‘maybe’ does is create this. Some left, but lots didn’t. Can you imagine if we were having the storm right now?”<
br />
As if in agreement with him, the lights flickered. Just once, but it was enough to make his point.
“Okay,” I said, “so what do you need me to do?”
Like I didn’t have enough. Back at my house, by now Bella was probably so upset she was cleaning between the floorboards with Q-tips and swabbing out the refrigerator with bleach.
But if Eastport did lose power, I couldn’t imagine how we would feed and shelter all these people.
“Start calling everybody you know,” Bob said, “ask them to call everyone they know, and . . .”
Our burgers and fries arrived; I hadn’t thought I wanted the food, but once I got started on it, I ate like a starving person.
“. . . tell them all, if they’ve got any spare rooms,” Bob said, preparatory to taking a bite, “that we might need them.”
Which wasn’t likely—the available spare-rooms part, that is. People’s own relatives were in town for the holiday, so even some attics and sheds in the backyards were being occupied.
He waved around hopelessly, then took another big bite of his burger and chewed. We ate in worried silence for a while until he changed the subject.
Or more likely, he finally got around to what he had really wanted to talk about all along. “How’s Ellie?”
He wiped his hands and nodded for the check. I drank more Coke, figuring that if I could pound enough sugar and caffeine down, I had a chance of staying awake.
“Seems like I should be asking you,” I said. Behind me the kids gave up fighting over their food and tumbled from the booth.
“Any word from the detectives? Maybe some early lab results?” I asked.
Yes, I was, in fact, quite nakedly fishing for even the tiniest scrap of info. Bob knew it, too; he wasn’t stupid, which made keeping my own cards close to my vest unusually difficult.
Luckily, he was preoccupied by the public-safety situation he was facing . . . or so he wanted me to think.
“What? Oh. No.” He got up. “Health guy from Augusta stopped by my office wanting directions to the Moose. Here in town for the fourth, he said. Kill two birds, and all. But nothing new on the crime front, otherwise.”