A Side of Murder

by Amy Pershing

  But by the time Mr. Wylie got to Article 46—the proposed development of a fifteen-unit gated housing development on Skaket Point by Gorman Properties—I’d completely tuned out and was busy creating next Sunday’s dinner in my head. Aunt Ida’s New England clam chowder to start, I thought, followed by a traditional New England corned beef and cabbage boiled dinner (Tip: To make sure you do not boil it to death, use a slow cooker.) with a really hot fresh horseradish sauce. Then maybe homemade vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce for dessert.

  I was worrying about how to keep this from being an all-white meal—maybe lots of parsley garnish, which I knew was a cheat—when Jenny poked me unceremoniously in the side.

  Trey Gorman, in neatly pressed chinos and a crisp white shirt open at the neck, was making his way up to the dais while an assistant began placing large placards showing the planned development on easels. At first, Trey looked both confident and happy to be there, but I thought I saw his smile falter a bit as he looked out over the audience.

  I craned my neck to see who it was who had thrown him off his stride. And then I understood. Tyler Gorman, Jr., Trey’s rather forbidding father, was sitting in the front row, his face just as I remembered it from our childhood—stern, dismissive, cold. Once again sitting in judgment of a son who was, it appeared, coming up short before the session had even started.

  Nonetheless, Trey managed to pull it together for the presentation, going over the plans for the development thoroughly and clearly in a businesslike manner. His case was further buttressed by the promise that all construction would be done by local contractors and the houses would be certified green. He resolutely avoided looking at his father. Not that I blamed him. The man perpetually looked like he smelled something bad.

  When Trey had finished his piece, Selectman Wylie opened the floor to discussion.

  “We’re up!” Jenny whispered.

  “We?” I whispered back. “I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

  “It’s about the environment,” Jenny said indignantly, turning to me and forgetting to keep her voice down. “We all have a dog in this fight.”

  A few other people in our row turned to look at her disapprovingly. You aren’t supposed to voice an opinion aloud at a town meeting unless called on by the moderator. And even then, you addressed the moderator, not another person attending the meeting. It was a good rule, and one that kept the personal attacks to a minimum. Jenny looked suitably abashed and mouthed a quick “sorry” to her neighbor.

  But when called upon to present the findings and concerns of the Friends of Crystal Bay, she was cool and collected and ready to apologize to no one. She went through each possible impact step-by-step, speaking without the benefit of notes, of course. I was very proud of her.

  “Development is inevitable on the Cape and, when done well and sustainably, can contribute to preserving what we love best about this precious spit of land on which we live. The Friends of Crystal Bay have no doubt that Mr. Gorman is sincere in his stated wish to develop Skaket Point with those goals in mind,” she went on, the very voice of reason. “And so it is both of our responsibilities to ensure that all possible environmental impacts have been considered and, if determined to be harmful, mitigated. I’m sure Mr. Gorman agrees with that assessment.”

  Mr. Wylie nodded to Trey, who stood and smiled first at Jenny, then at the rest of the town council ranged around the folding table on the dais, and finally at the sea of faces in front of him. It seemed to me that he came alive in this kind of direct question and answer format, where his charm could come through.

  “Ms. Singleton and the Friends of Crystal Bay are absolutely right, of course,” he said, pushing a golden curl off his golden forehead (which, I must admit, distracted me for a moment). “Skaket Point is one of the last undeveloped parcels on the bay and its unspoiled dune formation, marsh, and beachfront not only add to the beauty and environmental stability of the bay but also, I must admit”—and here he grinned boyishly—“to the value of the land on which we are proposing to build these homes.” He grinned again. “I am, after all, a businessman, ladies and gentlemen. I do not wish to kill the goose that lays the golden egg.”

  His candor was rewarded with some quiet chuckles from the audience.

  “Please refer your comments to me, Mr. Gorman,” Tom Wylie reminded him, but it was too late. I could see that Trey had the crowd eating out of his hand.

  “But more importantly,” he continued, not even bothering to pretend he was talking to the selectman, “though I grew up outside of Boston, I spent every summer of my childhood here in Fair Harbor, sailing on that bay.”

  Well, that was stretching it a bit. Trey had visited his grandmother for precisely two weeks every August, not all summer. But he had learned to sail at the very snooty Fair Harbor Yacht Club and if it had made him a fan of Crystal Bay, then great. Good on you, Yacht Club.

  Trey proceeded to consider each objection raised by Jenny and the Friends of Crystal Bay, agreeing with some and offering suggestions for mitigating impacts or asking for time to consider the implications of others (particularly the deepwater docks) and how they could be addressed. By the time the discussion was over and Trey had agreed to resubmit his plans at next month’s meeting for further review, both sides seemed satisfied with the outcome.

  I stood a bit apart from Jenny outside the auditorium as she accepted the congratulations of her fellow Friends of Crystal Bay, somehow growing taller and more self-assured as her friends and neighbors crowded around her. At one point, the throng parted deferentially for a man in an impeccable blue suit who was moving forward to shake Jenny’s hand. He sported improbably white teeth, a chin like the prow of a ship, and the patently insincere smile of the career politician. His thinning brown hair had been carefully combed and gelled over the top of his head. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. He gripped Jenny’s hand in both of his own and leaned, in my considered opinion, way too far into her personal space. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Jenny looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I noticed that she did not return his smile.

  I was distracted by a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Trey standing behind me.

  “I thought I saw you in the auditorium,” Trey said hesitantly. “I just wanted to say hi, see how you thought the meeting went.” He seemed unsure of himself, and I wondered if he’d been getting some quality feedback from that father of his.

  “I thought it went well,” I said truthfully. “I thought you and the Friends found common ground.”

  The smile grew wider. “Did you really? That’s great. That’s exactly what I was hoping for. I really can’t afford any more delays.”

  “Absolutely,” I assured him, adding, “You may have to make some concessions though.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But there was nothing on the table that was a deal breaker, do you think?”

  I was wary of reassuring him any further. “Well, regulations are regulations. It’s up to you whether you think the plan is still economically viable, depending on the concessions you may have to make.”

  His face grew clouded, almost sulky, as he said, “Yeah. But the docks are a big selling point. Without that access for pleasure craft . . .” He trailed off and then smiled that smile of his. “Anyway, I was wondering if you meant it when you said we could get together sometime?”

  I gaped at him, once again aware of all his goldenness. “Get together?” I repeated idiotically.

  “Yeah, like for a coffee?”

  “Um, sure,” I said. “I’d, um, like that.”

  Trey noticed Jenny coming toward us, and said quickly, “How about Nellie’s Kitchen, say, tomorrow morning?”

  “I can’t,” I said, remembering my picnic with Jason. “I have . . . other plans . . . tomorrow.” I’d had no social life for months and suddenly my dance card was full. How great was that! “And
then on Wednesday I’ve got to work on an assignment for Krista. . . .”

  “You write for the Clarion?” Trey’s eyes lit up. I could almost see the visions of good publicity dancing in his head. Not that I blamed him. And not that I’d ever let his goldenness get in the way of my purely objective reporting. Yeah, we’ll see about that, Sam.

  “Thursday, then?” he asked eagerly.

  “Thursday would be fine.”

  “Ten o’clock good for you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

  I turned and walked back to Jenny who had finally escaped from her adoring fans.

  “Who was your friend with the superhero teeth?” I asked her as we pushed through the double glass doors out to the school parking lot.

  “No friend of mine,” Jenny said shortly as she beeped the car’s doors open. “That was Curtis Henson.”

  “Aha,” I said. Curtis Henson was the Cape’s district attorney. Curtis Henson also had a very high profile off Cape in Massachusetts political circles. Which was why he was now running for state DA. No wonder he’d seemed familiar. I’d seen the guy’s campaign ads on local TV when he’d run for county DA a few years ago. Everybody on the Cape had.

  “Was he asking for your support as he climbs the political ladder?”

  “Yeah, although maybe not in those exact words,” Jenny said. “But he can ask ’till he’s blue in the face. The man’s a disaster on environmental issues.”

  As she climbed up into the driver’s seat she added, grinning, “And how about you? Was that Trey Gorman you were talking to? Colluding with the enemy now, are we?”

  I laughed. “If having a coffee is colluding, then I guess so,” I admitted. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Jenny said. “Trey Gorman’s not a bad guy. He grew up off Cape”—which is Cape Codder speak for not to be entirely trusted—“but I’ve known his grandmother since forever. She’s a good lady. I’m sure he’ll do the right thing.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I said.

  But then I thought about the look on Trey’s face when he’d seen his father at the town hall. The same look I’d seen on his face as a boy. That insecurity, that desperation to please. And suddenly I wasn’t as confident as Jenny that Trey would do the right thing at all. That father of his was one scary dude.

  EIGHTEEN

  You know how Oprah is always asking people what their one true thing is? Well, this is my one true thing: Crystal Bay is the most gloriously beautiful body of water in the world. On a crisp May morning, dazzled by the sunlight sparkling on its deep blue waters, entranced by the new green mantling its small, uninhabited islands, taking great breaths of the fresh salt breeze, one could be forgiven for thinking that this was what the dawn of the world had looked like.

  I’d had a busy morning. Jason and I were going to have a picnic! No, Downer Self admonished me, you and Jason are going to talk about Estelle’s death. I decided to ignore Downer Self.

  By eight o’clock I was flouring the chicken pieces that had been marinating in buttermilk overnight. I’d found a cast-iron pan deep in one of Aunt Ida’s cupboards, which would be perfect for frying. (Tip: Cast-iron pans are the absolute best for fried chicken. They hold the heat like nobody’s business.) While the chicken was popping and sputtering in the hot oil, I sliced some red and white cabbage (much prettier to use both) as thin as I could; added some equally thinly sliced sweet onion and a little grated carrot; and mixed it all with a simple dressing of mayonnaise, caraway seeds, and white wine vinegar. (I’m not a big fan of sweet coleslaw, but you could add a little sugar if that’s your thing.)

  I put the fried chicken on a couple of cookie racks to keep it crisp. (Tip: Never let fried chicken cool in its own grease. That makes it—surprise!—greasy.) The cookies came next. I like my chocolate chip cookies flat and chewy with crispy edges. (Tip: Use a lot of high-fat butter, preferably Irish or French, brought to room temperature until it is so soft you can stick your finger through it. Unless, of course, you like your cookies puffy.) I felt obliged to sample three or four, just as a test. They were awesome if I do say so myself (and you shouldn’t, Aunt Ida would have added).

  I also made lemonade using deep cold well water from the tap, the juice of a couple of fresh lemons, and some simple syrup. (Tip: Simple syrup is just equal parts sugar and water cooked for a few minutes over low heat until the sugar dissolves. It’s simple to make. Hence the name. And unlike granulated sugar, simple syrup stays suspended in whatever you mix it into.)

  I showered, dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, red hoodie, and red Vans. No makeup except for lip gloss, but I did do that thing where you brush your hair upside down and then do a dramatic slo-mo hair flip. For all the good it did. I wished, not for the first time, that I had Krista’s sleek black bob or Jenny’s blond curls.

  I took Diogi for a short walk along Snow’s Way, then drove the two of us to the Harbor Patrol offices at the municipal pier. Jason, dressed in his official khakis, was already down at the dock, throwing gear into the patrol’s twenty-two-foot Zodiac rigid inflatable. Zodiacs are essentially big rafts—shallow-draft, aluminum hulls surrounded by an air-filled neoprene collar. Because they are relatively lightweight and don’t have a very deep hull, they are great for shallow waters. But because they are so open, with low sides and bow, they are not so great for hair. I was surprised we were using the inflatable, and not just because it would ruin my hair.

  “Are we going gunk-holing?” I asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Jason said. He took one look at my darling red, white, and blue outfit and threw me a grungy yellow foul weather jacket.

  I snagged the jacket and looked at it in dismay. It was your usual rubberized model, complete with attractive brimmed hood and tastefully decorated with engine grease and dried eelgrass. I felt it did not complement my outfit.

  “It’s gross,” I said. What was I, ten?

  “It’s waterproof,” Jason pointed out with infuriating male practicality. “And it’s going to be choppy out there,” he said. “You’ll get soaked.”

  I wrinkled my nose in response. Yes, exactly. Ten years old.

  I shrugged into the foul weather gear and picked up the blue Coleman cooler holding our picnic. I’d rescued it from Aunt Ida’s unfinished basement and had scrubbed it clean, in the process evicting at least seven daddy longlegs spiders (eeuuw) from what they obviously considered their home.

  I hoisted the cooler to him over the side of the boat. Diogi, who had been eagerly sniffing seagull poops on the dock, looked up in alarm. He knew exactly what was in that cooler. I clambered into the Zodiac. Diogi took one panicked look and dove into the boat after me.

  Jason laughed. “Do you think he was more worried about his human abandoning him or his lunch disappearing with her?”

  “Definitely the lunch,” I said. “I’ve made it very clear to him that I’m not his human.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think you might be sending him mixed signals.”

  For a moment his face was serious, and I stared at him in something like alarm. But then he grinned and the moment was gone.

  “Has he been out on a boat before?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “He’s not my dog.” Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sam.

  “Well, we’ll take it slow at first,” Jason said. “But these yellow dogs are bred for the water. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  It was definitely not a problem for Diogi. Just in case, I crouched next to him in the bow of the boat and put one arm around him, but the moment Jason pulled away from the dock and began heading out into the bay, Diogi was the happiest dog in the world. I could have sworn that he was smiling.

  We scudded across the water, the Zodiac slapping the waves like a happy whale. Jason had been right about the chop. Spray flew up into my face, and my hair windmilled around m
y head until I reluctantly pulled up the hood of the jacket and cinched it tight around my face. Very attractive.

  Jason sat behind the wheel amidships, squinting out at the bay and steering with one hand. As the wind blew his hair back from his face, I was struck by the intelligence and maturity revealed there. It was the same intelligence and maturity that had so drawn me to him when I was just a girl, though a decade of life and experience had added a quiet calm that I now found even more attractive. I felt my heart twist and, in self-defense, turned away.

  I concentrated on the beauty of our surroundings. We were skimming through Little Crystal, the smaller, more contained part of the bay. It was still early in the season and only a few powerboats were out, most of them solid gray workhorses piloted by lobstermen or commercial fishermen. The pleasure boaters would come with the warmer weather. A few local sailors had already put their catboats in, though, and I was visited by a deep envy at the sight of their gaff-rigged sails billowing white in the fresh breeze. The spring-green marshes that edged the shoreline gleamed against the deeper green of the wooded hills rising behind them, the occasional shingled cottage or rambling old summer places known as “big houses” peeking through the pines and pin oaks.

  As we headed south through the channel markers at Skaket Point—red nun to our left, green can to the right—the view opened up into Big Crystal, a vast waterway dotted with small, green, uninhabited islands. Everything else was a bowl of blue—the water a deep navy in the channel shading to cobalt over the shallows, the sky a clear robin’s egg blue with puffy white clouds mimicking the sailboats below.

  Entering the big bay you could almost believe you were back on the old Cape, before development, before tourism. Most of the curve of the Fair Harbor shoreline to the west was Conservation-protected land. Houses were few and far between and most were old family big houses grandfathered in when Cape Cod Conservation bought up the land back in the sixties.

  To the east was the Outer Beach, a miles-long arm of low dunes and beach grass protecting the bay from the crashing breakers of the Atlantic Ocean on the beach’s far side. On its bay side, the promontory was edged with the salt marshes and meandering tidal creeks that Jenny and I had so loved as children. The only thing interrupting our view toward the marshes was Nickerson Island, sitting close to the marshes but kept separate from them by a winding river between the two.