Boiled Over (A Maine Clambake Mystery) (9 page)

Chris took me back to the harbor on his dinghy. We didn’t attempt to talk over the noise of its little motor and the sea. We were both shaken by what we’d seen—or hadn’t seen—at the playhouse. The word
premeditation
came to mind, though my brain was still unwilling to link the words
Cabe
and
murder
.

Chris tied the dinghy up behind the
Dark Lady
. To make ends meet, he rented out the cabin on a lake he’d bought from his parents and moved onto his boat for the summer. We climbed onto the deck. He kissed me hard, and then, without words, we headed to his cabin below.

Afterward, we lay in his spacious bunk. I loved the way the shape of the
Dark Lady’
s bow brought our heads together in the dark. I shifted my position and lay my head on his breastbone, that indentation between the pectoral muscles that is one of the sexiest parts of a man.

“How come you never left town?” I asked. Most young people left. Jobs were hard to come by, especially in the off-season. And most of the jobs that did exist, didn’t pay well. Chris strung together landscaping, cab driving, and bouncing—and living on his boat in the summer so he could rent his house.

“I wasn’t going to college. You know that.” When he spoke, I could feel the hum of his diaphragm, like the bass of a sound system turned all the way up.

“That’s not true. You played football—”

“Played football and raised hell.” He laughed. “If you think I was college material, you can go over to the high school and ask my old guidance counselor. He still works there. He’ll set you straight.”

“So you just stayed? Because you had no options?” I sat up on the bunk, facing him, grateful for the dark.

“Jesus, Julia. I’m not pathetic. Is that what you think of me?” I started to protest, but he kept talking. “Of course I had options. The service. A lot of kids joined. Or just leave town to look for work. It’s a big world out there. I didn’t go because I love it here. That’s why I bought my parents house when they went south. I can’t imagine not smelling the ocean everyday. I can’t imagine being happy where the land is flat, or where the winters are warm. This harbor is my place. I’m dug deep.”

I wasn’t surprised by what he’d said. I hadn’t pictured some
Crocodile Dundee
future where he followed me to Manhattan. Being with Chris was a lifelong dream, but I had to accept it for what it was, the world’s most wonderful summer romance.

“Come here.” He reached out for me in the darkness and I settled back into his arms.

The sun was barely a glint on the horizon when I rolled out of the bunk and felt around for my clothes.

Chris stirred. “What time is it?”

“Early. Go back to sleep.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I do.”

“Julia, you’re thirty. I doubt your mother thinks—”

She probably didn’t. Not that my mother’s WASPy reserve would ever allow us to discuss such things. But I’d brought my mother a houseguest and then disappeared. I wanted to get back before she and Richelle woke up. The least I could do was make some breakfast and spend a little time with them before I had to run off to work again.

“Bye,” I called softly.

Chris was already back snug under the covers, his eyes firmly closed. “Love you,” he mumbled.

Wait. What?

The sun was just coming up over Eastclaw Point as I scurried up the walk to my mother’s house. Once inside, I wondered, how far was I planning to carry this charade? Should I mess up my bed and put on pajamas? Ridiculous. As Chris had pointed out, I was thirty years old.

In the end, I took a shower and put on clean clothes, then went down to the kitchen to fix breakfast.

I tried hard not to think about what Chris had said. Or rather mumbled. For a few moments at a time, I convinced myself I’d misunderstood him. It was too soon, too fast, too much. But was it? I’d mooned about him from afar for more than half my life. But we’d only been officially going out for six weeks, if you didn’t count the months we’d met for lunch at Gus’s. Besides, what good could come of it? I couldn’t envision any future for myself that didn’t involve going back to Manhattan, and last night Chris had declared he was never leaving Busman’s Harbor—which hadn’t come as a surprise.

Mom arrived downstairs before Richelle. If she noticed I hadn’t slept at home, she didn’t mention it.

“I’m sorry I invited Richelle and then took off,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. She needed a place to stay. Besides, she’s delightful.”

“Morning.” Richelle was in a nice nightgown and matching bathrobe. She noticed me noticing. “Jacquie took me to Topsham yesterday to pick up some clothes.” Topsham was the closest town down the coast offering shopping plazas and big box stores.

Jacquie?
No one called my mom Jacquie. Calling our boat the
Jacquie II
was my father’s idea of a joke. My mother was Jacqueline, nothing shorter.

“We had a delightful day,” Mom said. “A little shopping. Out to lunch.”

Hearing that, I was sure I was in an alternate universe. My mom did not have girlfriends. She didn’t think shopping was a social activity. She thought it was about meeting basic human needs by making decisions and performing transactions as quickly as possible.

“Did you know Richelle came to Busman’s Harbor when she was young?” Mom continued. “Her aunt was Georgette Baker. Remember? The Blue Door?”

I did remember. Miss Georgette Baker had owned a B&B overlooking the back harbor. It was surrounded by a tall fence with a bright blue door. Not a gate, a real door. My memory of her was vague. Through my childish eyes she’d seemed very old. I wondered how old she’d actually been.

“Well, just the one summer,” Richelle said quietly. “She was my great-aunt.”

“Really?” I was surprised. “All the times we talked about how much you loved Busman’s Harbor and how you tried to lead every tour your company sent here, you never mentioned you’d spent a summer here. Or had a relative who lived here.”

“It was so long ago. I didn’t think anyone would remember Georgette.”

“Of course we remember her,” my mother said. “Don’t you, Julia?”

I nodded to confirm I did. I took the pan of scrambled eggs off the burner and over to the kitchen table where my mother buttered toast.

“How long do you expect to stay in town?” I asked Richelle. I thought it was more polite than, “How long do you expect to stay in our house?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment this morning. Jacquie’s taking me. Still not allowed to drive.”

“That’s very nice of you,
Jacquie
.” I couldn’t resist trying to get a rise out of my mother, but she just munched on her toast.

When we finished breakfast, I glanced at the digital clock on the stove. I wanted to deliver Cabe’s employment application to Binder and Flynn before work. I excused myself, went to our home phone, and called Pammie to make sure she’d be at the ticket kiosk.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Twenty-four hour bug.”

I walked the block and a half to Busman’s Harbor’s ugly, brick, fire-department-town-offices-police complex. Inside, the building was quiet. I crossed behind the empty police reception desk and looked into the community room the state police had used the last time they were in town. Binder and Flynn sat at one of the room’s central tables, heads bowed, deep in conversation. Around the perimeter of the room were a whiteboard with notes scrawled on it in thick black marker, two computer workstations, and dozens and dozens of cardboard boxes.

“Knock, knock.”

“Julia Snowden!” Binder seemed delighted to see me, ready to stop whatever they were doing. Flynn, as always, seemed much less so.

“Come in. Sit down,” Binder said.

Ignoring Flynn’s scowl, I did. “What is all this? I asked, indicating the scores of moving boxes.

“
This
has to do with the identity of your friend, Stevie Noyes.”

“His identity? You mean you found his next of kin?”

“No. We found out who Stevie Noyes actually was.”

Actually was?
“He wasn’t Stevie Noyes?”

“Not always. The dental records you so helpfully pointed us toward got a hit at a federal pen in Pennsylvania. Stevie Noyes used to be T.V. Noyes, big-time stock swindler. He did a federal bill of ten years for a stock con he ran in the early nineties. These boxes contain the trial transcripts, witness lists, and so on. There was a civil suit against him, too, an attempt to recover damages. We’re still waiting on that stuff.”

“I can’t believe it. Stevie Noyes was the nicest person in the world.”

“So everyone has told us. He did his time. Apparently, he was a model prisoner. Taught computer classes to inmates. After he got out, he inherited some money from an uncle and bought the RV park. Hasn’t had so much as a parking ticket since.”

“But that doesn’t mean the people he swindled don’t still feel wronged.” I started to feel hopeful. Maybe Stevie’s past would take the focus off Cabe. “Have you found Stevie’s family and notified his next of kin?”

“Working on it,” Binder answered. “The family situation’s a little screwy. We’ll release his identity to the press today, regardless.”

“A stock swindle, time in prison, and a screwy family. There could be a lot of people who might be interested in killing Stevie Noyes. Maybe finding Cabe isn’t so important,” I suggested.

“Actually, as the investigation’s moved forward, we’ve become more interested in young Mr. Stone, not less,” Binder said.

“He may be in more trouble than ever,” Flynn added.

I couldn’t imagine why that would be. “How can you say that? You’ve just told me you have a boatload of possible suspects from Stevie’s past.”

Flynn folded his hands in front of him and gave me his full attention. “We think you know where Cabe Stone is.”

“What! Why would you ever think that?”

“The kid has no resources. He’s on his own. Someone’s helping him stay out of sight.”

“You can’t know that. And even if someone is, why me?” I looked at Binder.
Are you going to sit there and let him accuse me?
But Binder said nothing to stop Flynn or defend me.

“Your brother-in-law obviously knows more than he’s telling. I’d suspect him, but he lives out on that island with limited mobility and means of communication. We know the kid’s not hiding on the island.”

How do they know that?

“That leaves you.”

I jumped up from the chair, seething with the unfairness of the accusation. “Are you kidding me? I’m
helping
you. I gave you the identity of your victim. I pointed you to the dental records. You told me how helpful I was—like
two
minutes ago!” What a case of what-have-you-done-for-me-lately.

Binder stood up as well. “Ms. Snowden. Julia. This is serious. It’s important for Mr. Stone’s safety and the safety of anyone he may be with that he turns himself in. If he contacts you, tell him to call us. Now.”

Really, this is too much.
“He hasn’t contacted me, I swear,” I insisted. “And I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

I pivoted and walked briskly out of the office, and then out the station door.

I was so mad I was shaking. How dare Flynn accuse me. And on what possible basis? And all while Binder just sat there.

I felt in my tote bag for my phone to check the time. I had to get to the dock in time to board the
Jacquie II
. “Damn.” There was the employment application. I’d been so angry I hadn’t given it to the cops. Or told them Cabe had been staying on the island. I briefly considered going back, but it was late and I was mad.

When I finally fished my phone out of the bag, an icon indicated a voicemail. I walked toward the town dock, tapping the phone as I went. A single voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize. It had come in at 3:04
AM
when I was in a deep, well-earned sleep in the bow of the
Dark Lady
. I hadn’t heard it ring. I played the message.

“Julia. It’s me.” I stopped where I stood. Cabe. A tourist bumped into me, excusing herself. I stepped into the sheltered doorway of a shop and replayed the voicemail.

Cabe was whispering, but I understood him clearly. “You said once, if you could ever help me. I think I’m in a lot of trouble. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. Don’t tell the police about this call. This guy doesn’t even know I’m using his phone. You’ll get him in trouble. He’s passing through. I’ll call you back somehow. Julia, I can’t go to jail. I won’t survive it. Please help me.”

My breath came in ragged gasps. I’d suffered from panic attacks for years and knew what triggered them. They happened when my head and heart conflicted. I knew in my head I should turn around, march back into the police station, and turn my phone over to Binder and Flynn. But my heart wanted to reach out to Cabe, who sounded frightened and alone. Cabe, who had saved my life.

I breathed slowly and deliberately, until the threat of an attack passed. I starting walking again, pressing the
CALL BACK
icon for the message as I went.

“Allo?” A man’s voice answered.

“May I please speak to Cabe Stone?”

“Qui?”

“Cabe Stone, please.”

“Désolé, c’est une erreur.” Click.

Wrong number. The man hadn’t sounded suspicious or perturbed. He’d treated my call like any inadvertent wrong number. But what was up with the French? Was Cabe already in Canada? But French didn’t necessarily mean Canada. Tons of French-Canadians flocked to Maine for their holidays.

“Cabe, what did you do?” I demanded out loud. I was furious at the universe because I’d missed his call. I wanted to ask him why he’d run.

I’d just lied to Binder and Flynn without knowing it. I’d sworn I hadn’t heard from Cabe. How did Flynn know Cabe would reach out to me? More than that, how did he know I wouldn’t tell?

I changed course and headed home. I stopped at the end of my mother’s front walk, shaky and breathless. I knew I wasn’t going to tell. I was going to do anything I could to help Cabe.