Musseled Out

by Barbara Ross

  “What?” he demanded. Then he mumbled, “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Livvie sent you and your dad pumpkin whoopie pies.” I thrust the plastic container toward him.

  It seemed as if it took him a few seconds to figure out who Livvie was. “Thanks,” he slurred.

  His eyes were red, and I could tell even from where I stood that he needed a shower. I remembered his disheveled appearance at breakfast the day before. Though he’d seemed with it then, he certainly wasn’t now.

  So this was what Sonny meant when he said Kyle was “under the weather” and couldn’t haul traps on Monday. He wasn’t hungover from alcohol, as I’d guessed based on what Bard said. It didn’t take a genius to know what was wrong. Abuse of prescription painkillers was a problem everywhere, and nowhere more than in northern New England with our high seasonal unemployment and proximity to an international border. The victims could be seen walking around town, glassy-eyed, nodding off. No family I knew was completely untouched. And then there was the collateral damage of the money needed for the drugs, which led to housebreaks and even armed robberies. Sometimes it felt as if we’d been invaded by a siege of stumbling, dangerous zombies. Now Sonny’s family had been hit as well.

  “Your dad around? I see his truck.”

  “Can’t drive it, can he, with his arm.” Kyle swung the door toward me.

  I put my foot out and stopped it. “Know where he is?”

  “Off with his girlfriend.” Kyle pushed the door toward me again.

  “Know when he’ll be back?” I’d been right about the feminine touches in Bard’s house. Bard had a girlfriend.

  Kyle didn’t even bother to answer that one. “Tell Livvie thanks for the cupcakes.” His mouth went slack and the belligerence seeped away, replaced by a sadness that seemed to go to his core. “Livvie’s always been good to me,” he mumbled, closing the door completely.

  I got back in the Caprice feeling crushed. Poor Bard. Poor Sonny. Poor Kyle. Yes, Kyle had lost his mother young. Yes, he’d been brought up by an aunt who resented getting saddled with her sister’s children, and who counted the days until she could get out of town. And Bard had drunk heavily for a lot of those years. But Bard and Sonny had tried to do their best by Kyle in their own limited ways. The Ramsey men loved and supported one another, anyone could see that. Kyle’s addiction must be breaking Bard and Sonny’s hearts.

  Where did Kyle get the money to feed his habit? During the good lobstering months, his work as Bard’s sternman probably kept him in cash. But in months when lobsters were scarce, like now, and were made even scarcer by the troubles with Coldport, I didn’t think Bard would be inclined to pay Kyle much. Nothing at all on the days he missed work on the Abby. What did Kyle do to support his habit?

  It was too depressing to think about.

  I started the Caprice and headed up the hill to Mom’s house, pushing away the sad thoughts.

  Chapter 17

  As I pulled into Mom’s garage, I spotted Genevieve Pelletier on the front porch of the Snuggles Inn. I crossed the street to say hello.

  She held a smartphone tightly to her left ear, occasionally pulling it away so she could shout something into it. “We’ll stay closed in Portland tonight and tomorrow out of respect, but we’ll open on Friday. The other locations should keep to their normal hours.”

  She listened, nodding so her sleek black hair fell forward across her face. Then she said, “I don’t know. The police haven’t released his body. Our corporate attorney is looking for any family at all.” She clamped the phone back to her ear, then shifted it again when she talked. “You’re right, of course. Whether or not family turns up, we’ll do a memorial ourselves.”

  She spotted me on the walk. “Got to run,” she said into the phone. Then she gestured for me to join her on the Snuggles’ deep porch.

  The outdoor furniture had been put away. Sonny had done the task for the Snugg sisters, lugging the heavy oak rockers and glider to their overstuffed two-story stable-cum-garage. Genevieve sat on a Victorian dining chair she must have carried from inside. I settled for a plastic milk carton.

  “Business,” she said, semi-apologetically, gesturing toward the smartphone. “It keeps going no matter what. Columbus Day weekend is coming and Portland will be full of tourists. We can’t afford to lose the takings.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about the business side.”

  She smiled. “I know we don’t make money when we’re closed.”

  I smiled, too. “Actually, I do know something about running an eating establishment. My family owns the Snowden Family Clambake.”

  Her eyes registered zero recognition, so I added, “We’ll be your competition in Busman’s Harbor. That is, if you go ahead with your plan to open here.”

  “Oh,” she said vaguely. “David said something about some guy.”

  “My brother-in-law, Sonny. He’s attended the hearings on our behalf.”

  At that moment, Sonny appeared, as if he were a genie and I’d conjured him simply by saying his name. He walked up the steep hill from the marina, head down, steps deliberate. Genevieve spotted him, too, and raised her hand to wave. I thought for few seconds they knew each other. Sonny continued until he was in front of the Snuggles. When he got closer, Genevieve, as if realizing a mistake, lowered her arm.

  Sonny looked past her, straight at me. “Hey, Julia. Know where Livvie is?”

  “At Lorrie Ann’s. She’s got her cell if you need her. She’s expecting a ride home.”

  “Her phone’s going straight to voice mail,” he groused.

  “It’s a little crazy over there.”

  “Thanks.” If Sonny had questions about why it was crazy at the Murrays’ or what Livvie was doing there, he didn’t ask them.

  “Sonny, this is Genevieve Pelletier, David Thwing’s business partner. Genevieve, this is my brother-in-law, Sonny Ramsey.”

  Both of them needed a moment to take in this information. Then Genevieve said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sorry for your loss. Mr. Thwing was a . . .” Sonny’s eyes widened as he realized the verbal trap he’d created for himself. “. . . a person,” he finally finished.

  Fortunately, Genevieve didn’t appear offended by Sonny’s tongue-tiedness. “He certainly was,” she replied.

  “Got to go.” Sonny turned and booked it across the lawn.

  “Wait!” I caught up to him when he reached the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”

  He stared at a crack in the cement. “Police station.”

  “What, again?”

  “Same questions, same answers.”

  I kept my voice low, as he had, so Genevieve wouldn’t hear. “Sonny, tell them the truth, please. Tell them where you were on Monday after you went to your dad’s.”

  “Thanks, Julia. I never thought of that.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you. Neither does lying.”

  Sonny rubbed a big hand over his freckled brow. “Are we done here? Because I’d hate to be late to my interrogation.” He rumbled off down the sidewalk.

  I turned back to Genevieve, who grinned. “So he’s the one who gave David such a hard time.”

  “The very one.”

  “Funny, I thought I knew him. He must look like someone I know. I just can’t figure out who.”

  “Now that you know who I am,” I said, “I have to ask. Will you go ahead with your plans for Busman’s Harbor?”

  Genevieve’s big eyes narrowed. “The location here was David’s pet project. I don’t know much about it yet. But it’s my decision. I own the business one hundred percent now. I’ll be the one to decide whether we go ahead or not.”

  “I understand.” I’d sensed in Genevieve a steely resolve, a backbone strong and straight as a knife, and I’d been right about that. Plus, she’d just revealed a motive for killing David Thwing. With him dead, she owned their string of five restaurants outright. I said my good-byes and walked across the street to Mom’s house.


  Inside the house, I called for Le Roi, but he didn’t come. No doubt he was miffed about being shut up in a new place and abandoned. In the kitchen, I eyed the shiny new cappuccino machine. It looked like more trouble to figure out how to use it than it was worth, so I put the kettle on for tea instead. I fixed myself some toast and jam and headed to my office upstairs.

  As I passed my mother’s room, I noticed a rubber plant knocked over on the floor. Dirt was scattered across her peach-colored rug. Uh-oh. This was not a good start to the Mom-cat relationship. “Le Roi!” I bellowed. But if I sounded angry, why would he come? “Le Roi,” I said more softly.

  No sign of him. I righted the plant, returned what dirt I could to its pot and vacuumed the rest.

  At my desk, I fired up my computer, searching the Web for stories about Genevieve and Thwing.

  There were lots of stories about Le Shack—in glossy magazines like Portland and Down East, in newspapers like the Portland Press Herald and even some national press. The New York Times included praise for Le Shack in its “Twenty-four Hours in Portland, Maine” column and Food & Wine included it in a nouvelle seafood story. I’d read most of these articles while doing competitive research when Thwing first came to town. I dug deeper.

  The stories that featured the restaurant’s history or Genevieve’s personal background were identical to what she’d told me, which didn’t surprise me. Her meteoric rise made for fascinating reading, and would be catnip to any journalist.

  Going back in time, I found local articles about Genevieve’s summers at Bob’s Clams in Round Pond. Not all the stories mentioned her by name, but they all mentioned the people lining up for food every day of the season. I found a photo of Genevieve standing in the window of the clam shack between Bob Harris, the owner, and his son, Evan. Her hair was hidden under a kerchief, but she had the same wide-open eyes. They were all giving the camera big smiles, basking in their success.

  I expected to find stories in the local press after Genevieve left Round Pond, on the “local girl makes good” angle, but there was nothing. Perhaps there’d been some resentment when she moved on? Likewise, there was nothing about Genevieve prior to her summers at Bob’s Clams, which also surprised me. If she’d played on a sports team or been in a school play, or participated in any activities at all, she would’ve made the small-town paper.

  I switched focus to David Thwing. He was much older than Genevieve—the news stories about the murder said he was forty-four—and he had enough money to finance Le Shack, which I was sure was an expensive undertaking. The stories about his murder focused on the same biography Genevieve had given me, owner of Le Shack and four other coastal Maine restaurants. But that only accounted for five years. He must have done something before.

  I couldn’t find much. He’d owned a few businesses, a string of convenience stores, a chain of storage facilities. No prior interest in the food business that I could find. And as Genevieve had said, no social life—no marriage announcements or appearances at fundraisers or parties.

  I felt stymied. The articles about Genevieve and Thwing all read like some PR agent’s gloss. But if I couldn’t get to the real story about Genevieve and Thwing’s partnership, the police could. Flynn had acted so oddly toward Genevieve at Gus’s this morning. Perhaps she was already in their sights. Perhaps I could push it along.

  Chapter 18

  As I searched the Web for information about Thwing and Genevieve, the shiny cappuccino machine called out to me from downstairs, demanding I think about it. It made a mockery of every value I was raised with. It was showy, even show-offy. Worse, it was unnecessary. Mom had a perfectly serviceable coffeemaker.

  I called Livvie on her cell. “Did you give Mom an espresso machine?”

  “Julia, what on earth are you talking about?” In the background, I heard conversation punctuated by laughter. The gathering at the Murray house had moved from intervention to wake.

  “There’s an expensive coffeemaker sitting on the counter in Mom’s kitchen and I thought with all the new stuff you’ve bought—”

  “Hang on a second. I’m going out on the porch.” I waited while Livvie moved outside. “It’s none of your business, Julia, but since you seem so hung up on it, I’m going to tell you. Bard bought us the TV. And the couch.”

  Bard? I couldn’t recall a gift of any size he’d given Livvie and Sonny throughout their marriage. And where was he getting excess money all of a sudden? Especially while he was injured and in the midst of a war with Coldport Island.

  “Okay,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  I ended the call, but my discomfort about the cappuccino machine lingered. I went downstairs to look at it again. It had enough chrome on it to outfit a 1955 Chevy. It stuck out like a sore thumb in my mother’s perfectly serviceable, but un-flashy kitchen.

  What was it doing there? I dialed Mom’s cell again, and it went straight to voice mail. Again.

  I noticed the swinging door from the kitchen to the dining room was open a bit, caught on the Oriental rug. Most of the money and possessions from my mother’s once wealthy family were long gone by the time she was born. What little was left of the china, crystal, and silver that had passed to Mom from the mother who died when she was a child was in the corner cabinet and sideboard in our dining room.

  I pushed through the door. The normally latched, glass doors of the corner cabinet were wide open. In it, on a shelf holding twelve delicate, etched crystal goblets, was the cat.

  “Le Roi!” I yelled. Then instantly regretted it. He was asleep, stretched out in a V shape against the two back walls of the cabinet. The goblets were between him and me. The last thing I wanted was for him to move. How he got in there without breaking anything I would never know. And what pinhead had left the doors open?

  I crept forward. He opened one eye, but returned to sleep. Gingerly, I moved the glasses two at a time to the dining room table. When they were all moved, I scooped up Le Roi and dumped him on the floor. “Bad cat.”

  I returned the glasses to the shelf and firmly latched the doors. As I turned to go, I looked again at the dining table. A silver bowl of seasonal gourds served as the centerpiece. Exactly like the one on the dining room table at Bard Ramsey’s house. Except Mom’s bowl was sterling and Bard’s was pottery, but otherwise, exactly the same.

  I had a sudden, horrible flash of intuition. My mother was dating Bard Ramsey!

  Bard was apparently giving gifts of appliances. And Kyle had confirmed he had a girlfriend. Was that why Mom was never around? Was she off somewhere with Bard?

  The thought of having the Ramsey men more involved in our lives made my heart sink. Not that there was so much wrong with Bard. He was a leader, and had been apparently sober the last few times I’d seen him. But in comparison to my dad? I couldn’t even . . .

  I thought about calling Livvie back, but she’d seemed annoyed by the last call. I pushed back my horrible thoughts, grabbed my tote bag, and headed to the police station.

  At the police station, the door to the multipurpose room was propped open, a wooden wedge stuck under it. The place was a beehive, with more uniformed and plainclothes agents than I’d ever seen buzzing around. My friend Jamie dashed by, rolling his eyes at me as he went. I suspected the local cops weren’t enjoying this invasion.

  The civilian receptionist directed me to the folding table where Binder and Flynn sat, both staring into laptops.

  “Julia.” Lieutenant Binder leapt to his feet as soon as he spotted me.

  “Ms. Snowden.” Flynn rose more slowly.

  I greeted the men and took a seat in the metal chair across from them.

  “What brings you in?” Binder asked as he sat back down. His voice was neither wary nor warm.

  “The Thwing investigation.”

  Binder smiled. “I figured that part out. But what specifically? Do you have new information?”

  I didn’t. My goal was to make sure they used the information they had. “No. I’m con
cerned about all these out-of-towners.” I gestured around the crowded room. “They might not pick up on the local angles.”

  Flynn raised both brows. “Such as?”

  “Maybe you’ve heard the lobstermen in town are involved in a so-called gear war with Coldport Island.”

  Binder picked up a ballpoint pen and held it horizontally between his index fingers. “We’re aware.”

  “Don’t you think that might be the reason Thwing and Peter were killed? Lobster wars have turned deadly before.”

  Flynn sat up even straighter. I was surprised it was possible given his normal military bearing. “Ms. Snowden, we work in a state with a shoreline longer than California’s. I assure you, the Maine State Police Major Crimes Unit knows what goes on between lobstermen.”

  “It’s just that no one seems to be following up.”

  “We’re investigating every possibility.” Binder waved toward the dozen or so agents doing paperwork or talking on cell phones. “There’s double the number of agents in this room out in the field. Everything is being considered, including the trouble with Coldport Island.”

  “What about Genevieve Pelletier?” I asked.

  Flynn looked up sharply. “What about her?”

  “She’s not some innocent girl. With Thwing gone, she owns the entire five-restaurant chain. That seems like motive to me.”

  “She’s not a suspect,” Flynn said in a tone that didn’t allow for argument.

  I didn’t let him deter me. “She’s not the naive chef who doesn’t understand the business she pretends to be.”

  Flynn went pink in the face. “That’s not a crime.” He shifted in his seat. “Le Shack is a highly successful business. The Snowden Family Clambake narrowly avoided bankruptcy this year. Thwing was poised to compete with you. Your brother-in-law was badmouthing him all over town. As I see it, Sonny had a stronger motive to kill David Thwing than Ms. Pelletier did. So did you, for that matter.”

  The breath whooshed out of me. “Are you kidding? Am I a suspect?”