Fogged Inn (4 page)

“I'd like a perfect Rob Roy,” Phil said.

“And you?” I had trouble, as always, looking Deborah in the eye. She'd had so much work done, her face was like a mask. Her cheekbones were prominent, her nose perfect, her eyes wide open, but the total effect was somehow frightening.

“Ginger ale.”

We didn't have a real bartender, but Chris had worked as a bouncer for years and stepped behind the bar at Crowley's in emergencies. My experience level was about the same, filling in for sick or otherwise absent bartenders at the Snowden Family Clambake. We figured we could fake our way through, but just in case, I'd stowed a little book of cocktail recipes behind the bar.

The bar itself had been a bit of a controversy. Gus had never had one, but Chris and I felt strongly that we needed one. Gus's vision was for a neighborly gathering place, and that wasn't going to happen without a bar. And it wasn't going to happen on nights the New England Patriots played if we didn't have a TV.

Gus had a long unused candlepin-bowling lane on the opposite side of the front room from the lunch counter. I'd convinced him that Chris could use his carpentry skills to cover the lane over without harming it and put the bar in that part of the room. Chris had also built a back bar to house a sink, small fridge, and TV. It stood behind the bar a few feet out from the wall where it wouldn't harm either the candlepin lane or Gus's “décor,” which consisted entirely of white-washed wallboard. Gus was insisting we uncover the lane in the spring when we closed the dinner restaurant and Chris and I moved back to our tourist season pursuits. We'd agreed, even though I had never, ever seen anyone bowl there.

I returned to the Bennetts with their drinks.

“Thank you, Julia,” Phil had said, tasting his. “Excellent,” he pronounced.

The Bennetts had owned a summer home out on Eastclaw Point since I was a kid, and every year they brought houseguests out to our clambake. We offered a harbor tour on the way to Morrow Island, our private island. Twice a day, during the high season, we served two hundred guests a real Maine clambake meal—chowder, steamed clams, twin lobsters, corn on the cob, a potato, an onion, and an egg—cooked over rocks heated by a roaring wood fire.

I looked from Phil to Deborah and was struck again by her face. I tried to remember from my teen years working at the clambake if Deborah had always looked like that. The smooth mask created by the surgeon's scalpel was the only image I could conjure.

Phil looked at his menu. “What is this fish?”

I cleared my throat. “Hake. It's a light, white fish. Tonight, we're serving the loin, which is the thicker cut, nearer the head.”

He knit his brows together. “Never had it.” The implication was clear. If Phil Bennett hadn't eaten it, it wasn't worth eating.

Chris, it had turned out, not completely to my surprise, was a genius at creating meals that were both elegant and affordable. If we wanted to be popular with the locals, we had to keep our prices down. Chris had chosen hake because it was fresh, tasty, and inexpensive in the early winter.

“I'm sure you'll love it,” I urged.

Phil had thrown me a skeptical look. “What's this pineapple-avocado salsa the hake is served on? Is it spicy?”

“Not spicy,” I answered. “But sunny and happy. The perfect antidote to a foggy, icy evening.” I'd grinned like an idiot, hoping for a smile back. No dice.

“What else does it come with?”

“Rice and broccoli.”
Which is printed clearly on the menu you're staring at.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry Caswell wave to get my attention.

“Hrrumpf,” Phil responded

“I'll leave you to make your decision.”

As I left the Bennetts and crossed the dining room toward the Caswells, ready to take their order, a man had entered the front room. He was alone and without a reservation, which hardly mattered given the empty state of the restaurant. When I'd offered him a table he said, “I'll sit at the bar, if you don't mind.”

The buzzing of my cell phone woke me up. Four short hours of sleep had taken its toll, and I'd dozed off sitting upright in my mother's chilly kitchen.

“Julia? Jerry Binder. I understand you found our body.”

Lieutenant Jerry Binder of the state police Major Crimes Unit in Augusta. Suddenly, I was wide awake. “Not exactly.”

“We're over at Gus's,” he said. “I need you to come by and walk me through this.”

“On my way.”

When I got back to the restaurant Gus's pickup was still in the parking area, and Dr. Simpson's little SUV, a crime scene tech van, and the State Medical Examiner's official car were parked on the street. Chris pulled up in his cab before I reached the front door.

Officer Howland waved us inside.

“Julia, Mr. Durand, come on in.” Binder met us at the bottom of the stairs. He had warm brown eyes, a ski-slope nose, and a fringe of brown hair surrounding his otherwise bald head. Tom Flynn, his second-in-command, was behind Gus's counter, talking to someone who was inside the walk-in. No doubt its door had been open all morning as the ME and crime scene techs wandered in and out. We'd have to throw away everything that was in there. But I supposed we'd have had to anyway. As Jamie had said, the health department no doubt took a dim view of food that was stored with a corpse.

“Is he still . . . ?” I asked.

“No,” Binder answered. “Loaded in the medical examiner's van and on his way to Augusta.”

Dr. Simpson and the state ME talked in low voices in a corner. When Binder mentioned her title, the ME looked up, nodding a greeting to Chris and me. Gus sat slumped on the last stool at the counter. Jamie stood behind the counter, looking as exhausted as I felt.

“You're here,” I said to Binder. “That must mean you suspect something.” The only cities in Maine big enough to employ homicide detectives were Bangor and Portland. Murders, child abuse, and other serious crimes were investigated by two state police Major Crimes Units, one for the southern part of state, one for the northern. If Binder and Flynn were in town, it meant they suspected this was more than an unattended death.

Binder gestured toward Dr. Simpson. “Your sharp-eyed local ME spotted an injection site between the ring and index fingers on the deceased's left hand.” Binder looked at Jamie. “Any sign of drug use, prescription or otherwise, in the victim's room at the B&B?”

“No, sir,” Jamie answered without hesitation. “But then, there wasn't much of anything there.”

Dr. Simpson and the ME pulled on their coats and prepared to leave. Binder indicated one of the larger tables in the center of the room. “Let's go back to the beginning, shall we?” he said to the rest of us. “Why doesn't everybody sit down.” We gathered around the table. I sat across from Binder and Flynn. Chris sat next to me, a comforting presence. Gus and Jamie were at the ends.

“Mr. Farnham,” Binder said as Flynn pulled out his pen and notebook, “You weren't here last evening.”

“That's right.”

“And your role in all this is that you found the body this morning.”

“Well, that, and the body's in my damn refrigerator.”

Binder allowed a small smile. “Yes, and that. But what I'm getting at is, you weren't here last night, which is what I want to talk to Ms. Snowden, Mr. Durand, and Officer Dawes about. So, if you'd like to go home, we'll contact you later when we're ready to take your statement.”

“The heck I will.”

Binder hesitated a moment, then seemed to accept Gus wasn't leaving. “Okay.” He turned to face Chris and me. “I understand the deceased ate here in the restaurant last evening. What time did he arrive?”

“Around seven thirty,” I said.

Binder looked at Chris, who nodded his agreement. “I was cooking,” Chris explained. “Julia would be more aware than me. But that's what I remember too.” We'd already been over this ground with Jamie.

“Who was in the restaurant when he got here?”

“Chris, me, Caroline and Henry Caswell, Deborah and Phillip Bennett.”

Flynn wrote the names down and read the spellings back to me. “That's it?” he asked.

I felt a little defensive. “It was a Monday night and right after the Thanksgiving holiday.”

Flynn glanced at his notes. “So the Caswells and the Bennetts were here, and then the victim arrived. Tell us about that.”

“There's not that much to tell. He came in by himself. I offered him a table. He said he wanted to sit at the bar.” Binder and Flynn looked at me expectantly, so I went on. “I turned on the football pregame show with the sound off for him, gave him a menu, and offered him a drink.”

“Please describe him,” Binder said.

“You saw him in the walk-in.”

“I'd like your impression from when he was alive.”

“He looked like he was in his middle to late forties.” I'm not great at judging ages. I was going by the wrinkles around his eyes, a certain heaviness to his body. “He had long, dark, wavy hair that fell to below his collar, and large features—big blue eyes, big nose, big mouth. Big eyelashes,” I added. “Thick, both top and bottom.” Unusually thick, which was why I'd noticed.

I paused, trying to sort out my first impressions from what I'd seen this morning. My memory of the empty eyes staring up at me blotted out everything else. I took a deep breath and looked at Binder.

“Did you notice any distinctive—”

“You mean the scar.”

Binder nodded, and I continued. “I didn't see it at first. He had long hair, and the scar kind of crept up from his neck to his ear. It was pretty well hidden. If anything, I might have vaguely thought he'd had acne when he was younger.” I stopped, looking across at Chris. Binder and Flynn waited silently. “Later, I noticed his ear.”

“Tell me about that,” Binder coaxed.

“We just set up the bar. We only have the basics. He asked me for a lot of specialized labels, fancy ryes and such. Finally, I put every bottle I had on the bar, and he chose.”

“What did he go with?” Flynn asked.

“Wild Turkey.” I shrugged. “That's as exotic as brands get at Gus's Too. Anyway, all this required a fair amount of conversation. I was distracted because two more couples came in and needed to be seated, but I did notice his ear. It's some kind of prosthesis, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Binder confirmed. “The ear is not his.”

“Will that help you identify him?”

“Only in the sense that we know we're looking for a man who was missing an ear. According to the ME, ears aren't like prosthetic limbs with unique serial numbers. Their only function is cosmetic.” Binder paused. “Who were the other couples?”

“The Smiths and the Walkers. Michael and Sheila Smith, and Barry and Fran Walker.”

Flynn wrote that down, obviously for follow up later.

“And then what?” Binder prompted.

“Just regular restaurant stuff.” Suddenly, we were busy. Not that the restaurant was crowded, but everyone had come in at once. I juggled taking orders, getting drinks, and bringing the Caswells their starters—pea soup for her, salad for him. Chris was a skilled home cook but not yet used to the pace of restaurant cooking. For us, this constituted a rush.

“Until?” Binder prompted.

“Until a little more than an hour later, when Officer Dawes came in and told us no one could leave.” The Caswells had been settling up. They hadn't ordered dessert, and their gift certificate was going to cover just about the whole meal. Everyone else was eating his or her entree. Jamie had come to the door, in his heavy policeman's raincoat, and told us there'd been an accident.

Binder looked at Jamie. “Officer Dawes has already told us about the accident.”

There was a single road in and out of Busman's Harbor. Main Street started at the two-lane highway at the end of town and traveled through the downtown, past the shops and hotels. It continued up the hill along the inner harbor, past the Snuggles Inn and my mother's house across the street. Then it looped around, following the contour of the harbor hill, passing the back harbor and Gus's, the marina, and the shipyard until it turned again and intersected itself across from the library at the only traffic light in town. Plenty of smaller roads branched off it, supplying access to almost all the residences in Busman's Harbor proper, but only Main Street got you in or out of town. So when Jamie had come into the restaurant, nose red from the fog and icy drizzle, to say there'd been an accident and two vehicles were blocking the intersection of Main and Main, I was surprised but not shocked. It had happened before.

“So then what?” Binder asked.

“The Caswells decided to order dessert after all. They split a brownie sundae.”

He smiled. “And then—”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Officer Howland was at the kitchen door. “You're all needed.”

Jamie, Flynn, and Binder jumped up. “We'll continue this at the station later,” Binder said.

“Hey, wait,” Gus called. “Can I open tomorrow?”

“We're not finished here,” Binder said. “I'm taking the team with me now. We have something else we need to attend to, but they'll be back. If they finish today, and I think they will, you can open tomorrow as long as you can operate without using the walk-in.”

“Where are you going?” I called as they all trooped out the kitchen door. I wasn't surprised when no one answered.