Musseled Out

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Musseled Out Page 16

by Barbara Ross


  “I’ll calm down when you stop lying to me,” Livvie shouted back.

  The front door slammed and I heard the cough of an ignition catching, a sound I’d recognize anywhere as Livvie’s ancient minivan. The rattling engine disappeared down the drive, followed by Livvie’s soft footsteps and barely muffled sobs as she headed upstairs.

  Page and I both stood to go to her. My mother put a hand on each of our arms. “Give her some time.” She pulled a deck of cards out of the junk drawer and shuffled them, dealing us hands for Old Maid. Page played her cards stoically. My chatty niece had gone silent.

  Chapter 27

  Twenty minutes after Sonny left, the house phone rang, its shrill sound shocking in the silence.

  “Oh, Lord, who is that?” Mom asked.

  I picked it up, worried about cops or even reporters, but afraid to leave it if it was news from or about Sonny.

  “Julia, it’s Vee,” the grandmotherly voice said. “Genevieve has offered to cook us dinner tonight, as a thank you. Fee and I thought your family might like to join us.”

  I glanced at the clock. 7:30. At the mention of food, my stomach rumbled, in spite of the whoopie pie. I didn’t want to leave the house, but I knew we needed to eat, or at least feed Page, and the warm familiarity and happy memories of the Snuggles Inn seemed like just the place.

  “Mom, it’s Vee, inviting us for dinner.”

  Mom, looking strained, nonetheless nodded her assent.

  I told Vee yes and went upstairs to check on Livvie. I found her asleep in the guest bedroom. She lay on her side. Her belly was, if anything, more pronounced than it had been a day ago.

  I showered the saltwater off and slipped into a pair of black slacks from my New York life that were still in the closet. I threw a clean white blouse over them and headed down the back stairs.

  Mom, Page, and I crossed the street to the Snuggles, bearing a bottle of wine of unknown label and origin Mom had dug out of her pantry. It was the best we could do in a pinch. Fee saw us coming and opened the front door. As I stepped into the Snuggles’ familiar Victorian foyer, the smells emanating from the kitchen were a heavenly concoction of brine, wine, and garlic, and my stomach growled in response. I hoped no one else had heard it. I kissed each of the Snugg sisters on a powdery cheek.

  “Genevieve’s made a delicious hot lobster dip for us,” Fee said. “It’s in the parlor.”

  Page beelined to the coffee table in the front room and inhaled two crackers with dip. She was normally a polite kid, especially around the Misses Snugg. She must have been starving. It was eight o’clock. She was a growing girl who’d been swimming all afternoon.

  “I’ll take this to the kitchen.” I held up the wine bottle.

  Genevieve stood at the stove, her back to me. The blunt cut of her dark hair grazed the collar of her tailored white shirt. She was in her familiar black, this time well-cut slacks and a vest. The string of one of Vee’s frilly aprons cut across her hips and was tied at her tailbone.

  “Thanks for inviting us,” I said, offering the wine.

  She took it from my hands, glancing at the label. “Oh, good. Perfect for cooking.” She put the wine on the countertop next to the stove. “The Snugg sisters thought your family could do with a nice meal. I just hope it isn’t awkward.”

  Because my brother-in-law was suspected of involvement in the murder of her business partner?

  I didn’t respond directly. Instead, I asked, “What are you making?” I looked into the simmering pot.

  “One of my mussels dishes. For the first course.”

  “Can I help?”

  She pointed to Vee’s aprons hanging from a peg at the entrance to the back stairs. She set me chopping apples and pears for what she called her autumn salad. She diced and chopped, too. She was five times faster than me, and cut up an onion, celery, several tomatoes and a pepper for the mussels in the time it took me to finish the fruit. In our matching black and white outfits, we looked like caterers.

  “It must have been so difficult for you when you heard about . . .” I hesitated, unsure about whether to use the name “David” or “Mr. Thwing.” I finally went with, “the death of your partner.”

  Genevieve put water on to boil for pasta. “Shrimp and lobster scampi for the main dish,” she explained, showing me how to chop fennel for it. She didn’t reply to what I’d said.

  “Where were you, when you heard?” I tried again.

  This time Genevieve looked up from her cooking. “Just ask me whatever it is you’re trying to ask,” she said levelly.

  “I went up to Round Pond to see the Harrises,” I told her.

  She stopped what she was doing and looked down at the countertop. “I see. I’m sure they didn’t have anything good to say about me.”

  “Mil didn’t.” Looking back over the conversation, Mil hadn’t said anything much beyond hmpft. “I think Bob takes a more nuanced view.”

  “It’s one of the greatest regrets of my life. I don’t know what to say, except I was seventeen and a stranger arrived from out of town and dangled in front me everything I had ever wanted in my life. I was too young, too eager. I jumped.”

  “When did you begin to suspect the stranger’s capital came from drug smuggling?” I gave up all pretense of chopping and focused completely on her.

  “Just now. I found out yesterday.” Her great eyes opened wide. “You believe me, don’t you? It’s important you do.”

  I didn’t. She’d been in business with David Thwing for seven years and never realized she was fronting a massive drug smuggling operation? My interview with the Harrises proved she wasn’t the naive thing she pretended to be.

  I was saved from responding by the sound of the doorbell, followed by excited chatter in the front hall. Genevieve swept through the swinging door ahead of me. “You’re here!” she cried.

  Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn stood in the doorway. Binder’s eyes widened when he spotted me, and then he recovered and extended a hand forward, offering another bottle of white wine.

  So that was what Genevieve meant when she said she hoped it wouldn’t be awkward.

  Everyone talked at once. Then, the hellos out of the way, for a telling moment, no one said anything at all. Binder and Flynn had no more been expecting us than we had been expecting them.

  My mother’s uncompromising manners came to the rescue. “Lieutenant, Sergeant,” she advanced on them, hand extended, voice warm. “How nice to see you.” Her breeding didn’t allow for awkward pauses, even when dealing with the people who had just threatened to arrest her son-in-law.

  “Jerry, please. We’re off duty.”

  “Tom,” Flynn said, barely moving his lips.

  Vee sailed in behind her and invited everyone into the dining room.

  The survivability of the dinner was built on four foundations: my mother’s and the Snugg sisters’ impeccable upbringings, Binder and Flynn’s professionalism, the presence of a nine-year-old, which ensured the conversation couldn’t veer off course, and Genevieve’s incredible food.

  I left Vee’s apron on and kept my role as kitchen helper. Genevieve and I brought out the first course, mussels served in the sisters’ fine china soup bowls. The aroma of tomato, onions, and thyme wafted through the room. I dug in.

  The flavor was amazing. There was sausage, which I recognized as chorizo, that put off a nice heat that contrasted with the brininess of the mussels. The bite of mustard came through, along with smokiness from the chorizo and smoked paprika.

  The table fell silent, and not from the awkwardness of the evening. We were too immersed in the food to converse.

  Page was seated next to me. I was afraid she might balk at the mussels, but she was a true Maine kid, raised on everything from the sea. She finished her bowl and started to ask for more. I put my hand gently on her arm and whispered, “There’s lots more food coming.” Her eyes grew wide.

  When the mussels were gone, Flynn jumped up to help Genevieve and me clear t
he table. He was like an eager puppy around her, over-piling the delicate dishes and then nearly dropping them on his way through the kitchen door.

  Next came the salad I’d helped with. The pears and apples were served over greens, along with dried cranberries, pine nuts, and crumbled Gorgonzola. In the dressing, I tasted sweet and citrus, thyme and rosemary. I could have made a meal of the salad alone.

  Genevieve didn’t serve our wine or Binder’s. She paired each course with a wine she’d purchased specifically for it. For the salad, it was a Chilean chardonnay, crisp and not at all oaky.

  As she poured, I watched Tom Flynn watching her. My attempt to make her a suspect had been silly and futile. For one thing, the cops wouldn’t be here, eating and drinking, if she was. For another, Flynn couldn’t tear his eyes off her. I was sure he was smitten.

  The wine helped, and somehow we stumbled through the salad with talk about the weather, and the Red Sox post-season performance, always reliable Maine topics. My mother enumerated the fall nature walks in and around the harbor as if Binder and Flynn were in town on a sightseeing trip.

  After the salad, Flynn and I helped clear again. In the kitchen, I watched in wonder as Genevieve poured the pasta into a big bowl and assembled the shrimp and lobster scampi in a matter of minutes.

  During the main course, my mother asked Binder about his boys. “First and third grade,” he told us. “Luckily, they both love their teachers this year.”

  “And tell us about your wife?” Vee asked. Thank goodness, because I was dying to know in that way you do when you like someone and want to know about his or her spouse.

  “Name’s Hailey. She’s state police, too. Motorcycle officer.”

  I never would have guessed.

  From Flynn, the ladies extracted the information he was from Providence, as I’d recognized from his accent. His brother was a city cop, as was his dad, who would retire as a captain in the spring.

  “Why did you leave Rhode Island?” It was the first question Genevieve had asked of anyone all night.

  He stared into his plate and mumbled something about it being a small state.

  “I won’t be able to help out at Gus’s tomorrow,” I told Fee and Vee, changing the subject to let poor Flynn off the hook. “I have something I need to do.”

  “Oh dear,” Fee said. “We hoped you and Chris would take care of the restaurant in the morning. We promised Gus we’d sit with Mrs. Gus so he could look at long-term care facilities. I don’t want to let him down.”

  “I’m not sure about Chris.” I wasn’t sure about anything related to Chris. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in twenty-four hours.

  “I’ll do it,” Genevieve volunteered. “It would do me good. I’m used to a busy restaurant.”

  The Snugg sisters and I looked at one another. There was no question Genevieve was capable. Fee nodded. “It’s settled. Vee and I will come over in the morning and make sure you’re set up.”

  The scampi was a triumph. The lobster added a richness beyond the shrimp’s, and the fennel gave it a delightful crunch.

  By the time we were done, Page was slumped over the table, eyes closing. Flynn jackrabbited out of his chair to help clear, and I started to make our excuses for leaving. But then Fee and Vee brought out coffee and Fee’s homemade apple pie, and Page found her second wind. Vee’s pies, like all her baking, were terrific, though good apple pie depended on good apples no matter who was cooking. These were perfect, firm, not mushy, and tart. Vee’s pies had a light, flaky crust, while her friend Mrs. Gus’s crusts were sturdy and sweet, made from a recipe she’d vowed to take to her grave. I wondered if I’d ever eat a piece of Mrs. Gus’s pie again.

  Page ate half of her dessert, then closed her eyes, her forehead moving toward the tablecloth. I shook her awake gently. She was far too big to carry, so I pulled her up to stand as Mom said our good-byes.

  At Mom’s house, I helped Page upstairs, found a pair of not-too-too small pajamas in a bureau drawer and tucked her into her pink princess bed after making her brush her teeth. Le Roi, with his unerring sense about which human in the house most needed comforting, ran into her room and jumped on the bed. After he settled himself at her side, I turned off the light and was closing the door when she called me.

  “Aunt Julia?”

  “What, honey?”

  “I know my dad’s in trouble. How bad is it?”

  I sat on the side of her bed. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s okay,” she reassured me, turning on her side and snuggling into the covers. “Everything’s going to be fine. Because my dad would never, ever do anything wrong.”

  Oh Page, I thought, as she drifted off, I wish I had your certainty.

  Chapter 28

  I said good night to Mom, whose own eyes were puffy with fatigue, and headed to my bed. The combination of the wine, the rich food, and the drama of the day—not to mention my 6:00 AM rising and hauling lobster traps—had taken its toll.

  After I settled into bed, I heard noises coming from the bathroom. Thinking Page might be having trouble sleeping, I crept into the hallway. The toilet flushed, water ran, and Livvie stepped out, turning off the light as she did. She’d removed the jeans, sweater, and socks she’d slept in earlier. She stood in a T-shirt and underpants, looking ridiculously young, like the girl who’d been pregnant with Page a decade before.

  Her eyes were still swollen from crying. I put my arms around her and hugged tight. She followed me to my room and sat on the end of my bed. The scene felt nostalgic, a call back to all the holidays and spring breaks during the years when I’d been away at prep school or college and Livvie had been home, raising hell and driving my parents crazy. Both accomplished in the company of Sonny Ramsey, the love of her life.

  “Not sleeping at Chris’s tonight?” she asked.

  “Big fight,” I explained, rolling my eyes.

  “What a couple of sad cases the Snowden sisters are. What was your fight about?”

  I propped my pillow against my headboard and leaned back. “The usual.”

  “The usual, you can’t commit, or the usual, he won’t fill in the blanks of his life?”

  A couple of sad cases, indeed. “The latter.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear the whole fight. The funny thing is, I’m not even angry that he may be, somehow, mixed up in whatever happened aboard the El Ay. Or even in some crazy business with Peter. I’m furious because he lied to me. He’s still lying to me. And lying to the cops.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He admitted he was in Coldport the afternoon of the murder.”

  “Hauling Bard’s traps in Coldport waters and selling the lobsters at Coldport’s co-op,” I confirmed.

  “At least you can stop wondering where Bard got the money for the TV and couch he gave us.” Livvie scooted up beside me to rest her back against the headboard, too. “Sonny hasn’t admitted he and Peter were smuggling drugs, if that’s even true. I find it so hard to believe, because Kyle has a problem—”

  “I know about Kyle. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s hard for Sonny.”

  Livvie frowned. “Kyle sits up in his room at Bard’s all day. He’s silent. You don’t even know he’s there, until he comes downstairs and its obvious he’s heard every word you’ve said.” She was quiet for a long moment. “But that’s one of the reasons I find it so hard to believe Sonny would smuggle drugs. His family has been hurt by them.”

  If anything, Kyle’s problem made it more likely Sonny would want to kill Thwing, whom he already hated. Perhaps Sonny sensed, or even knew, there was something sinister about Thwing. I’d always felt his hatred of Thwing seemed personal.

  Kyle’s addiction wasn’t the only thing my sister had kept from me. Sonny’s story about her earlier miscarriage had crushed me. For what she’d been through, yes, but also that she’d been so alone. Not for the first time, I wished I’d been home more when
my father was dying.

  Livvie and I sat silently for a minute. “So what do you think is going on with Mom?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “This again.”

  “She’s never here. There’s a brand-new chrome cappuccino machine sitting in her kitchen and she came home today wearing makeup. I think she’s seeing a man.”

  Livvie laughed. “Listen to you, Nancy Drew.” It was wonderful to hear her laugh.

  “I think it’s Bard.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Livvie laughed again. At least I was good at amusing my distraught sister.

  “Think about it. His house has all those feminine touches nowadays. Kyle says he has a girlfriend. And he’s giving people gifts. You got a TV and a couch. Would the mother you grew up with buy herself an expensive cappuccino machine?”

  “No. Not my mother,” Livvie agreed. “But would it be so terrible if Mom were going out with someone?” She paused, but not long enough for me to answer. “Would it be so terrible if it were Bard?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, really. Bard’s not so bad. He’s been in AA now for two years, doing really well. He’s a good man. A good dad. Something terrible happened to him. He lost his wife, suddenly, when his boys were young. He did his best.”

  “How do you feel about Mom dating anyone at all?” I asked.

  That slowed her down. Her shoulders slumped and she got a little misty-eyed. “No one will ever replace Dad for her. Or for us. But it’s been five years. She needs to move on.”

  Our mother’s life had been stuck in neutral since Dad died. She hadn’t just lost the great love of her life. Up until Dad got sick, she’d been an integral partner in the Snowden Family Clambake business, spending every summer on the island and running the gift shop. She’d taken delight in going through wholesale catalogs and ordering the merchandise every spring, and in telling the trinket-buying tourists the story of Morrow Island and Windsholme.

  She hadn’t set foot on the island from the day of Dad’s diagnosis. She’d lost her husband, her job, and her place in the world. A string of devastating losses.

 

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