Fogged Inn (5 page)

For a minute, Gus, Chris, and I stared after the police. I couldn't imagine where they had gone, or what had been so important they'd left the crime scene during an active investigation.

Gus rose from the table. “If they're going to let me open tomorrow, I need to buy some food.”

“You can use the refrigerator in my apartment for storage,” I offered. “And I'll clean as much as I can out of the little one behind the bar.”

“Thanky.” Gus strode over to the counter and hefted the stack of homemade wooden boxes he used to transport Mrs. Gus's pies from their kitchen where she made them. “Want a pie?” He turned toward us, offering the boxes.

“Save them for tomorrow,” I said.

Gus's beak nose wrinkled. “I don't serve day-old pie. Besides, what would Mrs. Gus do tomorrow morning?” After a recent illness, Mrs. Gus had cut down to making five pies a day, which made pieces harder to get, and therefore more precious. With this in mind, ignoring the vow I'd made after Thanksgiving dinner to eat lighter until Christmas, I asked if there was a pecan. When Gus said there was, I accepted it and thanked him.

Chris and I remained at the table after Gus left.

“I was the last one in the walk-in, wasn't I?” Chris said. “Around ten? I've told the cops that twice. I want to make sure it's what you remember.”

“It is,” I confirmed.

“And was the dead guy still sitting at the bar when I went in there?”

“Yes, but he left just after.” I'd thought about little else all day. I was sure I was right. Unlike the rest of the crowd who'd driven to Gus's, the dead man had walked over the hill from the Snuggles. The accident at Main and Main didn't affect him. He was free to go, even if the rest of them were not.

“Where'd he go?” Chris asked.

“I thought he'd gone back to the Snuggles.”

“And came back here and got himself killed in the walk-in?”

“We can't be sure of that,” I said. “Maybe he was killed somewhere else and dumped in there.” Maybe that's why Binder had taken the techs with him. Somewhere there was another crime scene. Maybe it wasn't even murder. Maybe the ME was wrong about the injection and, as I'd said to Jamie, when they did the autopsy they'd discover he'd died of a heart attack or a stroke. Which still didn't make sense. Why would he have been in our walk-in?

Chris took my hand. “We locked the doors when we went up to bed. There's no sign of a break-in. That means Mr. Anonymous and possibly his killer were in the restaurant when we went upstairs.”

I shuddered. Chris was right, but until he said it, I hadn't thought it all the way through, as he had, and come to the obvious conclusion.

“Did you actually see him go out the door?” Chris asked.

“I'm not sure. I can't remember. Did you?”

“No.” Chris thought for a moment. “When was the last time you checked the bathrooms?”

The bathrooms. Because we still felt like guests in Gus's space, I was hypervigilant about inspecting the restrooms last thing at night before I went up to bed. But the previous night had dragged on and on, with our guests trapped in the restaurant by the accident. It was so late by the time we got everyone out, I'd staggered off to bed without looking in the washrooms.

I admitted this to Chris, who shrugged. “It doesn't matter, Julia. He couldn't have hidden there the whole time. We had guests who were using the restrooms right up until we closed.”

He was right about that. I specifically remembered that the Bennetts, who had the farthest to drive, had used the facilities immediately before they left. That was almost three hours after I'd last seen the man at the bar who'd died in our walk-in.

“You can't lock your apartment,” Chris pointed out.

We'd had this discussion before. “I've told you, Gus says the lock broke ages ago. Besides, what difference does it make? We lock the outside doors to the restaurant.”

“Normally, no difference,” Chris conceded. “Julia, face facts. We were locked in the building with a corpse, and possibly a killer.”

“I get it. Don't keep saying it. It freaks me out.”

Chris's features relaxed. “Okay.”

“What were you going to do with your day off?” I asked. “Originally.”

“Get some work done on my house. Then Sam's tonight for the game.” As soon as his summer tenants had moved out of the cabin he'd bought from his parents, Chris had torn the second-floor walls back to the studs. It was a long, slow process building it up again. He paid for the upgrades, including the heating system, electricity, and plumbing, as he made money. The work all had to be done by the spring so he could rent out the cabin for the summer.

The “Sam” he'd referred to was Sam Rockmaker, bartender and part owner of Crowley's. Chris played poker with a group of guys at Sam's house every Tuesday.

“Do you want me to stay? Are you nervous about being here?” Chris asked.

“No. You go. I'm fine. The cops have been all over the building. This is probably the safest place in the harbor.”

Chris stood and bent over to give me a fast smooch. Then he was out the door and I was alone in the empty restaurant.

* * *

I went upstairs to my apartment. Le Roi was at the top of the stairs, vocalizing in my direction, upset at the day's intrusions on his rigorous routine of napping, eating, and napping again. Even though he'd been an outdoor cat on predator-free, car-free Morrow Island, he'd taken to the life of an indoor town cat like a champ. We'd both felt instantly at home in the apartment over Gus's restaurant.

The place was a big studio, tucked under the eaves of the old warehouse that Gus's restaurant had once been. There was a high central ceiling and four dormered nooks, one on each side of the building. The one facing south contained my bed, still in the unmade state it had been in when first I, and then Chris, answered Gus's summons this morning. The east-facing nook contained the bathroom, the north-facing one the kitchen. The fourth was part of the main living space and held a giant, multipaned window facing west that framed a view of the back harbor. Outside, the boats belonging to the hardiest, most dedicated lobstermen were still in the water, but all the other slips were empty.

Now that feeling of home had gone, replaced by a creeping unease that tensed the back of my neck and pinched my shoulders. What if, as Chris had suggested, the stranger or his killer had hidden in my apartment while our guests dined and Chris and I worked downstairs? Had the murderer or victim sat on my couch, touched my stuff?

And then there'd been the cops this morning. They had searched the place too. I'd given them permission to do so when I signed the release. I shivered as I gazed at the rumpled bed. At least nothing embarrassing had been left out. But I wondered, had they been in my bathroom? Had they opened my drawers? They must have.

I went into the kitchen nook, preparing to clean out the refrigerator for Gus as I'd promised. The warehouse attic had been converted to living space during World War II. Gus and his family had moved out in the late 1950s, and nothing had been done to it since. The appliances were tiny and ancient. The freezer was a small metal box inside the refrigerator. If left unattended too long, it had to be defrosted with the hammer and chisel Gus kept in a toolbox behind the lunch counter in the restaurant.

As I'd remembered, there wasn't much in the old refrigerator. Chris and I had spent most of the previous weekend at my mom's, enjoying Thanksgiving with my family and our guests. Even without the holiday, it was hard to get motivated to buy food and cook with a restaurant right downstairs. I threw out some expired cartons of yogurt, the remains of a sub, and a few wilted stalks of celery. When I was done, I took the plastic bag out of the kitchen barrel, planning to take the garbage to the Dumpster behind the restaurant.

Gus didn't need to reopen right away for financial reasons. Unlike the Snowden Family Clambake, Gus's restaurant was on a secure footing. His house was paid for, his middle-aged children were prosperous, and Gus was the tightest of tightwads. I had to imagine that he and Mrs. Gus were pretty comfortable. But if he wasn't running the restaurant, I didn't think Gus would have the slightest idea what to do with himself.

But then, I was the pot getting all judgy about the kettle. When Chris and I had agreed to serve dinner at Gus's place, I'd assumed we'd do it seven days a week. After all, that's what Gus did. And that's what my family did at the Snowden Family Clambake during the tourist season.

But Chris had balked. “Julia, what part of ‘off season' don't you get? This is when we spend time with friends, enjoy our hobbies, and take an occasional nap. That's why we work like dogs during high season.”

As far as I knew, we worked like dogs during the high season to make money to survive the long winter and cold spring, but point taken. I'd always had workaholic tendencies. Long weekends away at boarding school without much to do except schoolwork, the pressure of business school, the crazy hours and relentless travel of my venture capital job had all reinforced my habits. But I had to admit, most of my workaholism came from inside me. I could have snuck off campus like my friends did at prep school, had more fun during college, and taken time during my work-related travel to do a little sightseeing, but that wasn't me. Maybe I wasn't that different from Gus.

“Besides,” Chris had continued. “If we work seven days, when will I finish my house? When will I get my deer?”

That took me aback and made me reflect once again on the new life I was living. Throughout my sporadic dating life and short-lived relationships in Manhattan, I couldn't recall a single man telling me he needed time to bag his deer.

So we'd agreed. We would close Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Chris had returned to his life, his friends, and his off-season routine. I had nothing to return to.

I grabbed the trash bag, gave Le Roi a rub behind the ears, and headed for the stairs.

Just as the Dumpster lid slammed, I heard male voices. I recognized Binder's baritone instantly, followed by Jamie's familiar cadence.

“Do you think . . . gone into the water?” Binder asked, though I couldn't make out the middle part.

I couldn't hear Jamie's answer either, but it sounded affirmative. I spotted them walking along the high bank of the back harbor. Jamie pointed into the water and said something I didn't catch. The deep, briny smell told me it was low tide. They'd be looking at exposed rock and even some of the harbor bottom. They were trailed by a scowling Sergeant Flynn, who stared into the water, hands in his coat pockets, saying nothing.

As I walked toward the three of them to see what they were up to, Binder caught sight of me. “Julia!” He said something to Jamie, who nodded and walked off in the opposite direction. “Let's continue our interview.”

“Chris isn't here,” I called back to him. He and Flynn were at the edge of the parking lot by then.

“No problem,” Binder responded. “We'll catch him later.”

I considered putting them off. Chris being there had been such a comfort at the earlier part of the interview. Plus, I valued his help in recalling what had happened. It was important to get it right, and I didn't completely trust myself on the details. I wondered if this reinforcement of my memory was exactly what Binder wanted to avoid, and if interviewing me separately was a strategy rather than a happenstance.

But a man was dead, and the person who'd killed him, quite possibly in the restaurant while Chris and I slept above, was still on the loose. I wanted that person caught as soon as possible. I agreed to the interview in the interest of keeping things moving.

I opened the back door, and Flynn and Binder passed through it. I offered them coffee and realized I hadn't eaten all day. I stared at the walk-in with the yellow crime scene tape across it, and then remembered Gus's pie. Binder accepted the offer of a slice. Flynn, of the toned body and slim waist, declined.

We settled into a booth and, though Flynn opened his notebook, we took time to chat. I'd been involved in three of their cases before this one. The first time had been the previous spring when the best man at a wedding was murdered on Morrow Island. The other two had been during the clambake season.

My relationship with Binder had its ups and downs. Sometimes he seemed to value my contributions, even seeking me out to get a local take on things. Other times he went all “official business” and shut me out. Despite these bumps, I liked him and thought he was a good cop.

I thought Flynn was a good cop too, but his attitude toward me ran the gamut from annoyance to open hostility. He didn't want me involved in his cases. If he'd ever verbalized this directly, instead of giving me stony glances and sniping, I would have pointed out that I'd been instrumental in solving all three of them. He would have said, no doubt, that the police could have arrived there on their own. And who knows? Maybe they would have—just not as quickly.

I asked Binder about his wife and young boys. He reported all was well. They'd spent Thanksgiving with his in-laws in Eastport and he hadn't been called out once. He was the kind of man whose face glowed when he talked about his family. The pride he took in his work, which was considerable, would never come close to the pride he showed for his wife and sons.

Flynn was his usual reticent self. In answer to my very direct questions, and prodded by his boss, he admitted he was still dating Genevieve Pelletier, a renowned chef from Portland whom he'd met on a previous case. His ears glowed bright red and he didn't look at me as he spoke. His tone certainly didn't invite follow-up questions.

“Young Flynn here is trying for a transfer to Portland,” Binder said. “I need to take advantage of his skills while I still have him.”

“Probably won't come through,” Flynn grumbled.

“And you, Julia,” Binder said, “you've stayed in Busman's Harbor for the off-season and gone into the restaurant business.”

“It was Gus's idea. He thought it was important for the community to have a gathering place in the evenings over the winter. Chris and I agreed to take it on.”

Binder nodded, though he couldn't quite suppress a frown. He had his doubts about Chris. He'd once arrested him, and though Chris hadn't committed that crime, Binder's suspicions lingered. Not entirely without reason. I, too, had taken time to trust Chris, whose disappearances on his sailboat over the summer had nearly derailed us. But his pirate days were in the past.

Flynn picked up his pen and cleared his throat loudly, signaling his impatience with the coffee klatch. Jerry Binder was the more polished of the two, but I didn't doubt that I was to some degree being “handled” with this trading of personal disclosures. The kinder, gentler version of good cop, bad cop.

“So let's get back to it,” Binder said. “You told us earlier the victim arrived around seven thirty.”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

Flynn consulted his notes from the morning. “He sat at the bar here. You gave him a Wild Turkey. Then what?”

“Two more couples arrived for dinner. In quick succession. We got quite busy.”

“The Smiths and the Walkers,” Flynn read back. “Who came in first?”

“The Walkers.” Almost as soon as I'd poured the stranger's drink, the street door had opened and Barry and Fran Walker clomped down the stairs into the restaurant. Fran, as always, carried an enormous pocketbook. It had made her look as if she were moving in instead of simply coming for dinner. She was bent over, partially weighed down by carrying it. Barry fussed behind her.

“Hurry up, Fran. We're late for our reservation.”

At the bottom of the stairs that led into the restaurant, Fran straightened up and stared through the front room into the almost empty dining room. “I think they'll find room for us,” she had said in her typical dry way.

Unlike the Caswells and the Bennetts, I'd known the Walkers all my life. Barry Walker had run the art supplies and frame store on Main Street since before I was born.

That evening, Barry had been, as always, shaggy and shambling. He was quite round, had a bald pate, and wore his sticky-outy gray hair in a style I always thought of as “a half Bozo.” Fran, her flyaway hair tucked into an unsuccessful bun, looked exhausted. Even in the low light of the restaurant, the lines beneath her eyes were like caverns.

I had hung up their coats and prepared to lead the Walkers to a table in the center of the dining room when the front door opened and another couple arrived.

“We're the Smiths,” the man had said. “We have a reservation. Sorry we're late. The weather's so bad, I wasn't sure we should come.”

By the time I'd greeted the Smiths, the Walkers had taken a booth in the third corner of the dining room.

“Welcome to Gus's Too. Let me seat you.” I smiled my most gracious hostess smile.

“No, dear,” Mrs. Smith had answered. “We'll take care of it.” They had walked into the room, nodding to the Caswells and the Bennetts as they did, though not to the Walkers. Neither the Caswells nor the Bennetts acknowledged them. In fact, I was pretty sure I saw Caroline Caswell lean forward to study her wineglass in order to avoid the greeting. The Smiths had seated themselves in the remaining unoccupied corner booth. I had four couples seated as far from one another as Gus's dining room allowed.

“You're sure about that?” Binder said when I relayed this. “They deliberately sat far away from one another?”

“They did. What I'm not sure about is why they did it. I didn't think much about it at the time. I thought it was an example of the bus seat rule.”

“The bus seat rule?” Flynn pulled his head up from his notes.

“From high school chemistry. Electrons fill up all the empty orbits around the nucleus before they start pairing up. Just like when you get on a bus, you head for an empty row, if there is one, before you take a seat with another passenger.”

The cops still looked puzzled, so I tried again. “You know, it's like when guys line up at urinals—”

“Got it.” Binder cut me off.

“Or so I'm told,” I added. “I assumed the couples wanted to sit as far apart to have as much privacy as possible. In any case, I didn't have much time to think about it.”

I'd taken drink orders from the Walkers and the Smiths and returned to the bar. The stranger sat there quietly, nursing his bourbon. I asked if he was ready to order.

“Can I just get a burger or something?” he asked.

While planning the restaurant, there'd been long menu discussions among Gus, Chris, and me. All afternoon, Gus served burgers, along with hot dogs, grilled cheese, lobster rolls, and fried clams. He was vehement he wanted something different for the restaurant at night. Chris and I agreed.

We'd settled on our limited menu: two appetizers, three entrees—meat, fish, and poultry—and two desserts. But would we grill a burger if someone asked? We decided, no, for now. Chris would be crazy busy in the kitchen without being a short order cook too.

“What did the victim eat?” Binder's question brought me out of my mental digression.

“Pea soup.”

“That's all?” Flynn pressed.

“There were croutons in the soup, and I put a basket of rolls on the bar. I can't remember if he ate one.”

“Did anyone else order the soup?” Binder asked.

“Quite a few people.” The foggy, icy night made it an attractive option. “Barry Walker and Caroline Caswell ate it as their starter. Deborah Bennett had it, along with a salad, as her dinner.”

“Excuse me.” Binder moved out of the booth, jabbing at his cell phone as he went. Flynn got very interested in something in his notebook, and I fussed with the ketchup container on the table so we could avoid talking to one another, or looking at one another for that matter, while Binder was gone. When he returned, he said, “The crime scene techs will be back in a little while to take the soup for analysis.”

Unconsciously, my gaze drifted toward the walk-in and its crisscross of crime scene tape. “But I thought the ME found an injection site.”

“She did. But unless our victim was a drug addict, why would a healthy adult man let someone inject him? Perhaps he was subdued in some way. Slowed down, docile, or confused. How much of the Wild Turkey did he drink?”

I thought back, reconstructing the evening. “Three. Doubles.” I hesitated. “I'm pretty sure.”

“If he arrived at seven thirty and left at ten, as you believe, that's what—six ounces over two and a half hours. He was probably impaired but not enough to let someone shoot him up, unless he wanted it. We'll have the techs take the Wild Turkey. Did he have anything else to drink?”

“Water.”

“Bottled or tap?”

“Tap. I filled his glass myself, from the spigot behind the bar.”

“Ice?”

“Yes, from the bucket behind the bar.”

“Any left?”

“I threw it in the bar sink at the end of the night.”

Flynn scribbled furiously. Binder must have noticed my puckered brow. “Don't worry. We're doing this out of an abundance of caution. And I might as well warn you, when the techs come back to get the soup and the bourbon, they'll be searching through the rest of the food as well.”

“Looking for poison?”

“Looking for a syringe. Gus found the victim alone, with no sign of a needle. If he injected himself, it's possible he hid it in one of the pots, even buried in Gus's hot dogs before he lost consciousness.”

“Do you think that's what happened? He killed himself accidentally in Gus's walk-in?”

“Or his killer could have hidden the needle in the food.”

“Oh.” That scenario depressed me even more than the first one.

“Either way, if we find the syringe, we'll know a lot more about the manner and means of his death. So I hope we do.”

There was a sharp knock at the kitchen door. When Binder opened it, Jamie stood outside. Binder leaned toward him and they held a whispered conversation. Flynn put away his pen and notepad as they spoke.

Binder turned back toward me. “I'm afraid we have to interrupt this again. We're needed urgently elsewhere. Is there anything else about last night you need to tell us?”

“No?” The word came out as a question, with a rising inflection at the end, because somewhere at the back of my murky, sleep-deprived mind, an unformed thought nagged.