A Side of Murder

by Amy Pershing

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  I spent the rest of the afternoon hacking at Aunt Ida’s briar patch with some old loppers I found in the toolshed. This was hugely therapeutic. By dinnertime, I was too beat to do anything but scarf down some cold fried chicken and soggy coleslaw and run my grievances with Jason in a loop over and over again in my head.

  Was that all the day had been? A chance for Jason to get the information he needed?

  To cheer myself up, I reached for the Tupperware container that should have held at least a half dozen chocolate chip cookies only to discover that Jason had somehow eaten all of them when I wasn’t looking. This made me mad at him all over again.

  Which may have been part of the reason why I did what I did with Trey Gorman.

  TWENTY

  No, not that. Just flirt a little. Get my groove back. Of course, I had a whole day to wait until my coffee date with Trey, but I was perfectly capable of holding my grudge against Jason for a day or two.

  But first I had to make a living. I’d promised Krista an interview with Mr. Logan on the changes in the Cape’s dining scene. It had not escaped me on my annual summer visit to the ’rents that while I was away making myself all sophisticated, the Cape was doing the same thing. Somehow over the years it had managed to transform itself into a foodie destination. Farmers markets, country inns, bistros, and coffee bars had popped up like mushrooms after a long rain, offering everything from heirloom tomatoes to burgers made with grass-fed beef to truffle pâté to Hawaiian poke bowls (maybe the best food fad ever).

  I didn’t think that Mr. Logan was going to go as cool as poke bowls, but I was interested in this healthy food idea of his. And his ideas about Estelle, just incidentally.

  So, time to get to it. On Wednesday morning, I marched out to Grumpy, who apparently did not share my work ethic. The truck refused to do much more than cough a few times before not even doing that. I called Jenny, who, with the boys off to school, was happy to come pick me up and take me to my next assignment.

  The ramshackle building that had once housed Reedie’s Bait and Tackle was reached by way of Levi’s Way, a long narrow road off of Route 6 that led to nowhere except Reedie’s landing on Big Crystal. At that time of year, the location was eerily quiet and isolated. This was the stretch of shoreline that Jason and I had zoomed by the day before, mostly protected and with almost no houses in sight except a few big houses tucked back into the woods. And even these were mostly still shuttered.

  The boat launch, too, was deserted now, though by late June it would be crowded with people sliding fishing skiffs and small sailboats down the ramp into the water. There were a handful of moorings about twenty feet out from the landing, but only two with boats on them, one a Chris-Craft cabin cruiser with two fishing poles standing at the ready in their rod holders, the other a sleek gray-black number with a tall wheelhouse completely sheathed in dark, tinted glass. The name on the transom, Mad Max, was as macho as the boat.

  Really? I thought. Who wants a boat that looks like Darth Vader designed it? So off-Cape. It occurred to me that I was in danger of turning into my Aunt Ida.

  Jenny turned the Range Rover into the sandy patch that passed for a parking lot behind the old gray-shingled bait shack. Tacked to the back wall was a banner reading, “Coming Soon! Bits and Bites—for the Best Lunch and Best View on the Cape!” Well, as a name, Bits and Bites was a bit twee for me, but I liked Mr. Logan and I wasn’t going to let it put me off.

  Jenny and I got out of her car and followed a newly laid brick walkway that curved around to the front of the building. I noted the freshly painted white trim, the sparkling clean plate glass window facing out to the bay. The view alone, which stretched all the way across to Nickerson Island and the Outer Beach, would probably ensure Bits and Bites’ success. From where we were now standing, I could see a small beach in front of the building that had been hidden to us from the parking lot. Pulled up above the tide line was a tidy little Sunfish, its sail neatly furled, ready for action. I felt a twist of envy for the carefree soul who was clearly already using that baby to escape for a few hours on the bay.

  I turned back to what I couldn’t help but think of as Reedie’s and knocked on the front door. I could hear hammering coming from inside, and called out a hello. Within seconds the noise stopped and Mr. Logan, hammer in hand, appeared like some kind of cheerful elf in front of me.

  “Well, my goodness, if it isn’t Samantha Barnes!” he exclaimed, smiling broadly. “I can’t believe my eyes!”

  I could hardly believe mine. Was this bustling little man really the same Mr. Logan I had known a decade ago? He looked much the same—slight but wiry, thick gray hair, clear blue eyes—but where was the defeated slope of the shoulders, the hesitant smile that always seemed to be apologizing for something?

  “Mr. Logan,” I said, “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “Come in, come in!” he said, opening the door wide. “Of course I remember you, Samantha! You were one of the best waitresses we ever had.”

  Which was an out-and-out lie, but well-meant and I took it in the spirit in which it was intended.

  “And you were one of the best bosses I ever had,” I said, laughing. There was a lot of truth to that. He’d been a lovely boss.

  “Oh, this is my friend Jenny Singleton, Mr. Logan,” I said. An idea hit me. “Actually, Jenny, maybe you could take a few photos of the place? The camera on your phone is much better than mine.” Which was true. If you’ve ever wondered who it is who stands in line for the new iPhone the minute it comes out, that would be Jenny.

  “Of course,” she said happily. “How about a photo, Mr. Logan?” And without waiting for actual permission, she started snapping away. “And maybe I’ll just take a little three-sixty video of the space while I’m at it.”

  Mr. Logan looked confused but didn’t protest.

  Jenny and I stepped into the small but cheerful dining room, with its new-construction smell of sawn wood and fresh paint. A bandsaw sat on a workbench in one corner, and I could see that Mr. Logan had been hammering freshly cut lengths of framing into place around the picture window. The window filled the space with light. The walls were painted sky blue, setting off the simple pale birch tables and chairs.

  “This is charming,” I said. “You’ve done wonders.”

  Mr. Logan’s face glowed with pleasure and even his thick gray hair seemed springier at the compliment.

  “Please,” he said, gesturing with the hammer toward one of the tables, “have a seat. I was just going to make some coffee. Can I offer you a cup?”

  Jenny declined, but I live on the stuff and accepted eagerly.

  I was curious to see where the magic was going to be made (as we chefs like to say sarcastically), so I followed Mr. Logan into the kitchen. It was still a half-finished mess. Canvas drop cloths were bundled in one corner, painter’s tape and stirring sticks had been tossed in the other. Stacks of paint-encrusted roller trays were piled precariously under a long stainless steel prep counter itself cluttered with paint cans, somebody’s cell phone, some car keys, various spackling knives, empty Diet Coke cans, sandpaper, and all other detritus left behind by workmen. On the plus side, a new six-burner stove and commercial dishwasher, all shiny and virginal, were waiting for opening day.

  I prepared myself for another twist of envy. This was what I’d always wanted—my own restaurant, my own kitchen, designed to my own specs. But nothing happened. I was happy for Mr. Logan, but I wasn’t envious. What was that about? I wanted a Sunfish more than I wanted a restaurant?

  Mr. Logan turned and saw that I’d followed him into the half-finished kitchen and shooed me back out.

  “No, no, no,” he said. “This isn’t ready for prime time yet. The workmen are off buying more supplies. You go back and sit down. I’ll just be a minute.”

  I went obediently back to the dining room, wher
e I inspected a series of framed black-and-white photos of sailboats that Mr. Logan had hung along one wall.

  “I can hardly believe that this was once Reedie’s bait shop,” I shouted back into the kitchen.

  Mr. Logan came out with two mugs and a French press full of some really wonderful smelling coffee. He set it on the table, then reached down to pick up a battered plasterboard sign that had been leaning against the wall. It read “1 Pint Worms $2.” I laughed out loud.

  “I’m tempted to remind people by putting this up,” he said, “just as my little joke.”

  Jenny laughed at this but advised him against it. “Might put the customers off their food.”

  Mr. Logan and I sat down at the table. As Mr. Logan poured coffee into our mugs, he said, “Now tell me everything you’ve been up to, Samantha Barnes. I hear you’re a top chef in the Big Apple.”

  I was surprised that Mr. Logan hadn’t seen The Video, but then reminded myself that the man was at least sixty and probably wasn’t spending a lot of time on social media.

  “Actually I’m taking a little break from the chef thing,” I said. “I’m doing some writing for the Clarion, and Krista thought we might give you a little advance publicity for Bits and Bites, maybe run an interview with you about the changes you’ve seen in the Cape food scene over the years.”

  “I’d love that,” Mr. Logan said, holding up one of the mugs. “Cream, sugar?”

  “No sugar, milk if you have it.”

  “Well, that right there is one of the changes,” he said, chuckling. When did Mr. Logan start chuckling? “Nobody takes sugar in their coffee, nobody takes cream. Always milk now. And a good thing, too. People need to take care of their health, their bodies. That’s why Bits and Bites is going to offer vegan, gluten-free, and vegetarian offerings.”

  This was good stuff. We talked for an hour about everything from the changing demographics of restaurant goers to the move from “exotic” foods in favor of eating locally.

  “In fact, that’s why all of our greens and most of our vegetables are going to be from Tanner Farm,” Mr. Logan said.

  “You’re going to work with Miles as a supplier?” I was delighted with the news. The more steady restaurant clients Miles had the better.

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Logan said. “I’m taking the contract over to him today. He’s local and he’s organic. And an awfully good fellow to boot. Plus, we’re going to credit Tanner Farm on the menu. I think it’s important that people know where their food is coming from. Too many kids these days think food grows already wrapped in plastic.” He smiled at his own little joke.

  “It’s true,” I said. “There was a study in Britain a few years ago, where they found that almost a third of primary school children thought cheese was made from plants and a quarter thought fish fingers came from chicken or pigs!”

  Mr. Logan laughed and Jenny, still with the phone aimed around the space, moved closer to us.

  “Of course,” I added, “the Brits used to be even more clueless about food. There was that great fake documentary the BBC posted on April Fool’s Day back in the fifties, the one about the spaghetti harvest in Italy, with the spaghetti farmers happily plucking pasta off the spaghetti trees.”

  “I’m actually old enough to remember that,” Mr. Logan said, his eyes sparkling. “It was on the Johnny Carson show, too. Turns out, a lot of people fell for it. Wanted to know where they could get their own spaghetti trees.”

  I laughed again, saying, “I’ve really enjoyed our time together, Mr. Logan.” This was true, but all I could think of was how I was going to move this conversation to Estelle.

  Jenny looked at her watch. “Sam, I hate to hurry you, but I’ve got an appointment to see—” She cut herself off and I wondered if it was an appointment with the real estate agent, Brooklyn Stever.

  “You go ahead, Jen,” I said. “I can walk back through the Point. It won’t take long.” This was true. Bits and Bites was only about three miles away by the sandy private ways that roughly followed the shoreline of the bay. It was a nice walk and would take me under an hour.

  Jenny held her cell phone out to Mr. Logan. “I like this photo of you by the window. What do you think? Are we okay to run it in the paper? You can scroll to see the others.”

  Mr. Logan shook his head and backed away from the proffered phone. “I’m sure if you like it, it’s fine.” Then he admitted helplessly, “I don’t actually know what you mean by scroll. These mobile cellular telephones are a mystery to me.”

  Jenny smiled tolerantly and hurried off while I leaned forward in my chair. Might as well jump right in.

  “Did you hear about the . . . incident . . . at the old Inn the other night?” I asked delicately.

  “About Estelle?” Mr. Logan said, his kindly face troubled. “I did indeed. What a terrible thing.”

  “I was there actually,” I said. “I found the body.”

  Mr. Logan rocked back slightly in his chair. “How awful. Did you remember her from before?”

  “Estelle would be hard to forget,” I said.

  He nodded. “You’re right there.” His face clouded, making him look momentarily like the old Mr. Logan. “It’s a shame about her accident. She was a fine waitress once. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but her regulars loved her.”

  Not everyone’s cup of tea. I had the opening I needed.

  “Well,” I said with false reluctance, “she didn’t make my life very easy, but maybe that was just me?”

  As I’d expected, Mr. Logan rushed to reassure me. “Oh no, my dear,” he said. “She was not very pleasant to a lot of people, especially the other waitresses. Suzanne complained about her constantly.” Then his mouth snapped shut, and I knew he wished he hadn’t said anything. He was of the school that believed in speaking no ill of the dead.

  Oh, well, at least I had a lead. Suzanne. Suzanne Herrick. I hadn’t thought about Suzanne in years. She was one of the few waitresses at the Inn with more seniority than Estelle. She’d taken Krista and me under her wing, taught us the ropes, even occasionally stood up for us when Estelle got particularly nasty.

  “Do you ever hear from Suzanne?” I asked. “She was awfully good to me.”

  Mr. Logan looked unhappy. “She’s not so great. Some kind of early onset dementia, they say.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said, meaning it. Suzanne had been a truly nice person. “Is she at Shawme Manor?”

  Shawme Manor is the closest nursing home to Fair Harbor, just a few miles up Route 6. I knew it had a special wing for dementia patients, because my nonna had spent the last sad years of her life there, slipping further and further into the absence of Alzheimer’s.

  “Yes,” Mr. Logan said. “I visit her when I can. She’s all mixed up, of course, doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

  “Maybe I should pay her a visit while I’m here.” Now, that made me feel a little guilty. To be sure, I did want to be nice to someone who’d been good to me during a tough time. But I also thought I might be able to learn something from Suzanne about Estelle. I knew from my grandmother’s experience that in the early stages of dementia, patients often had a much better grasp of the past than the present. It couldn’t hurt to sound Suzanne out. I tried to ease the guilt by telling myself that if Suzanne were in good mental health she would certainly want to help me. Nobody thinks a killer should go free just because their victim wasn’t a very nice person.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mr. Logan said doubtfully, as if he wished he’d never brought Suzanne up. “It might just upset her. She still knows me, you see.”

  I decided it was time to change the subject, as it was clearly distressing him. “And you, Mr. Logan, how are you doing? You’re looking really well,” I said.

  “Yup,” he said, cheerful again. “I was real sick for a while with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Looked like curtains, and then about t
wo years ago my doctors at Cape General got me started on that new immunotherapy. Six months later I was in remission. It was like I was given my life back.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  “It was more than wonderful,” he responded, suddenly very serious. “It was a sign. A message. Nothing is more important than your life. You have to fight for it. Illness will try to take it from you. Acts of God will try to take it from you. Other people will try to take it from you. You can’t let them. It’s yours, yours to live. You can’t let anything or anyone get in the way of that.”

  His intensity was a little unexpected and I wasn’t sure how to respond.

  And I certainly never dreamed at the time how important those words would be to my own survival.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I spent what was left of the afternoon working on “The Cape Cod Food Scene: A Decade of ‘Change for the Better’” featuring “veteran restaurateur Norman Logan.” I was pretty sure no one had ever called Mr. Logan a veteran restaurateur before.

  I e-mailed it to Krista and immediately got a reply asking me to come by in person, saying she had something she wanted to run by me.

  Uh-oh.

  Krista was not a consensus seeker. Krista just told everybody else what to do. So, if she was going to try to get my buy-in on some cray idea, I was pretty sure it was a super-cray idea. Like when I let her talk me into waitressing at the Inn. But I said that if I could get Grumpy to agree, I’d come in. I am congenitally curious.

  Grumpy was eventually convinced to actually do his job, and I rolled into Krista’s office a mere half hour later. I’d barely had time to sit down before Krista turned her PC’s monitor toward me.

  “Take a look at this,” she said.

  She clicked her mouse, and a face filled the screen. My face. My face talking.