A Crabby Killer

C
laire Watkins wrinkled
her nose against the stinging assault of chemicals. She slid her eyes toward Mary Lou Prichard, seated in the hairdresser's chair to her left. Mary Lou had her nose buried in the latest issue of
Elle Magazine,
happily oblivious to the fact that whatever treatment was being put on her hair smelled like rotten eggs.

Claire shifted in her seat, pointed her nose away from Mary Lou, and looked out the window at the Crab Cove pier where preparations for the annual Crab Festival were under way. The festival was one of many events that the Mooseamuck Island residents put on to lure tourists to their quaint, New England paradise just off the coast of Maine.

Though most of the locals would have preferred to limit the ferry service in the hope that ‘outsiders’ never found the island, and to keep the population from tripling in the summer, they also knew that most of their businesses survived on tourist money. So, it was with mixed feelings that they hosted the festivals and events that attracted the tourists.

Various tents and tables were being set up along the waterfront. Tomorrow, Saturday, the festival would be in full swing. The tents would be loaded with vendors, hawking everything from hot dogs to sea glass jewelry. The docks would be crowded with tourists and locals.

But right now, there were only a handful of people setting up, in addition to the fishermen who were normally there. Next to one of the tents, local fisherman and tour boat operator, Donovan Hicks, waved his arms around in a heated conversation with a tall, lanky man that Claire did not recognize. She supposed the man must be a tourist or some sort of vendor. He’d probably tried to talk Donovan down on the price of one of his whale watching tours or fishing cruises and Donovan had taken offense. Donovan could be a little hot-headed.

A short, stout woman walking down the dock with an overloaded tote bag caught Claire’s eye. Mae Biddeford. Claire watched as she purposefully clattered down the dock. She turned the corner, almost running into the strange man who had just ended his conversation with Donovan and was staring at the fisherman’s back as he stomped off toward the end of the dock where he parked his fleet of tour boats.

Mae stopped short in her tracks. The man turned to face her. From Claire’s vantage point inside the beauty parlor across the street, she could see the startled expression on Mae’s face. She watched the tote bag slip from Mae’s hand and thud onto the dock. Jars of dark purple jam bounced out and smashed on the wooden boards, leaving a gooey, glass-infused clump.

Claire wondered why Mae had so many jams. She knew Mae traded them for services and goods just like the rest of the longtime residents of Mooseamuck Island who still used the barter system that their grandparents had worked out before them. But with that much jam, Mae must have had one heck of a purchase to make.

On the dock, Mae was engaging in a heated conversation with the tall, lanky man, ignoring the mess at her feet. She waved her arms wildly as she yelled. The man leaned down, getting in her face and yelled back. Claire was too far away to hear what they were saying, but she strained forward in her seat anyway.

What was
that
all about?

Mae was certainly overreacting to the jam-dropping incident. After all, it wasn’t even the man’s fault that she’d dropped the bag.

Claire’s training as a criminal psychologist kicked in as she studied the body language between Mae and the stranger. The fight was about more than some spilled jam, she was sure of it. The way Mae flailed her arms suggested that she was frustrated and angry--much more angry than simply bumping into a stranger warranted. And the man’s demeanor seemed almost menacing.

Claire felt a tingling premonition—something wasn’t right.

As she watched, Mae wagged her finger in the man’s face. He turned and stormed off toward the parking lot leaving Mae on the dock, staring after him with a strangled look on her face.

“You ready?”

“What?” Claire tore her gaze from the window to see her hair stylist, Florence Ryder, standing next to her.

Florence jerked her head toward the sinks in the back. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh, okay.” Claire got up from the chair, the long, black plastic bib swirling around her. Before she disappeared into the back room, she gave one final glance over her shoulder, just in time to see the man pull out of the parking lot and head up Moose Hill Road in a dark blue Mercedes.

D
ominic Benedetti parked
his Smart Car in the scenic overlook and gazed out over the sparkling Atlantic Ocean. He unfolded himself from the car, took a deep breath of the salty sea air, then turned and started walking down Moose Hill Road in concordance with his self-imposed exercise regimen.

Dom had never had to worry about his weight before, but now that he was in his sixties, he was no longer a young man and his fondness for Italian pastry and desserts had caused his pants to tighten. So, he had taken to parking his car at least one mile from his various destinations around town. So far, it was working—he’d managed to rack up quite a few miles on his new Nike sneakers just this week alone.

Today’s destination was
Chowders
, a restaurant that catered to the locals and where he was about to test out the diner’s version of tiramisu.

He walked with a spring in his step, the corners of his lips tugging as he thought of how his wife used to joke about how thin he was. What would she think now? He was surprised to find that the mere thought of her didn’t hurt as much as it used to.

He’d been married to Sophia, the love of his life, for forty-five years. Her cancer diagnosis had destroyed him and when she’d died two years ago, a big part of Dom had died with her. But over time, the knife that pierced and twisted in his heart every time he thought about her had become less painful.

He would have thought that the fact that it didn’t twist as deeply now would be good, but it made him feel sad and empty. Grief had rushed in to fill the hole left after her death and now that the grief was receding, what did he have left?

The only thing Dom really had left in his life, besides his daughters who lived far away, was his love of investigating. Formerly a police detective and, in his later years, a police consultant, Dom had been instrumental in solving several high-profile cases in Boston, Massachusetts. He’d been in the papers more than once and he was the closest thing they had to a celebrity on the island.

This celebrity status had gotten him accepted by the islanders, which was quite a feat since the locals on Mooseamuck Island did not readily accept ‘outsiders’ into their ranks. He had to admit, he’d been flattered and excited when they’d started coming to him to solve various problems.

At first, it had been simple things like finding a lost set of keys or getting a cat out of a tree, but recently he’d solved the island’s first murder case in decades. After several years in retirement, he had to admit that case had bolstered his ego and made him feel useful again. The only fly in the ointment was that he’d had to pair up with Claire Watkins.

Claire was nice enough as a person, but in his heyday down in Boston, Claire had also been a consultant on many of his cases. The department felt her expertise in human behavior would help them analyze the actions of the suspects so they could zero in on the identity of the killer. Claire relied on gut instinct, emotion, and body language—all that touchy-feely stuff that Dom couldn’t get on board with.

Dom felt that it was critical to use logic when investigating. He liked to dig out the clues and follow them the old-fashioned way. Dom and Claire had butted heads more than once, but they’d always been professional and cordial. Over the years, they’d solved a lot of cases together and formed a relationship of grudging respect. But Dom still preferred to work alone and do things
his
way.

He remembered his surprise when he’d discovered Claire lived right down the hill from him on the island that Dom had adopted as his home after Sophia's death. On the job, they'd rarely talked about personal matters and he’d had no idea his former antagonistic partner resided here when he’d decided to make the island his new home.

Unbeknownst to him, Claire had grown up on the island and had moved here years earlier to take care of her dying father. That past spring, when murder had visited the island, they were called upon to team up and use their skills to ferret out the killer. It had worked well, and Dom had to admit that the case had done a lot to bolster his ego and alleviate his fears that age had dampened his ability to detect.

Dom might even admit that investigating with Claire had been fun … sometimes. But he still didn’t want to team up with her on any future cases, should there even be any.

But today, all he had to look forward to was trying out the dessert that Sarah White, the owner of
Chowders
, had concocted. He had talked her into introducing an Italian menu and had become her unofficial taste-tester. It was an enjoyable job and Dom, with his Italian heritage and love of its food, was perfect for it.

Sarah was a relative newcomer to the island, having bought the diner from its longtime owner a few years back. She’d kept the chef, and the menu hadn’t changed too much, which was fine with the clientele who had been frequenting it for generations. It was a little off the beaten path, so not many tourists ever found it and that was fine with the locals—they preferred to keep it to themselves.

Sarah was a few years younger than Dom’s youngest daughter, and he had come to think of her as a surrogate daughter. It was probably her sad demeanor that made him feel fatherly. Dom didn’t know much about Sarah’s personal life before she came to the island, but his investigator's instincts told him that she had a burning secret which she kept close to her vest.

Dom rounded the corner, bringing
Chowders
into view. It was late afternoon, well before the dinner crowd. Dom noticed with satisfaction that the parking lot was empty. He preferred to taste test the desserts without an audience.

His brows tugged together when a dark blue Mercedes pulled in. He watched as a tall, lanky man got out. Probably a tourist, Dom guessed, since he’d never seen him before.

The man went into the diner. Dom was still a good two hundred feet from the building, but he had a clear view through the plate glass window in the front. The man approached the counter behind which Sarah stood. Dom couldn’t see perfectly nor could he hear, but by the gestures of their arms, he could have sworn the man and Sarah were having a violent argument.

His gut tightened and he broke into a trot. Was Sarah in trouble?

He was about a hundred feet away when the man slammed the door on his way out of the diner. His face twisted in a viscous snarl, he got into his car and peeled out of the parking lot.

Dom kept up the pace, reaching the diner a few seconds later. “What was that all about?”

Sarah turned to him. “What?”

“That man. It looked like you were arguing.”

Sarah avoided eye contact. “No. Not really.”

“Then why did he rush off like that? What did he want?”

Sarah shrugged. “He wanted a pizza. We don’t make pizza.”

Dom stared at her across the counter. She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. Her gaze was steady, but her face was flushed and her hands trembled.

“Are you ready for the tiramisu?” She tried to make her voice sound light, but Dom was not fooled. He knew something was wrong. He could tell she didn’t want to talk about it, though, so he let it go.

“Sure.” As he took a seat at the counter, his great, bushy eyebrows started to tingle—a sure sign that something was amiss. But he didn’t need his eyebrows to tell him the angry stranger had Sarah rattled about something.

There was more to the man’s visit than met the eye and Dom didn’t think it was anything as benign as wanting a pizza that Sarah couldn’t serve.

D
om slid
his fork through the creamy dessert. He brought the generous bite to his mouth and inhaled the tantalizing smell of coffee and chocolate. He nibbled the espresso-infused lady fingers. They were perfect—not too soggy, but not dry, either. He put a dollop of the creamy filling on his tongue. It was sweet and satisfying, but it could use more tang—maybe he should tell Sarah to add a smidge more mascarpone.

Sarah had moved over to the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen, leaving Dom seated alone at the counter to perform his taste test. The counter was open to the kitchen and he could see her chopping onions, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that swayed halfway down her back. The rhythmic chop-chop-chop had a meditative effect. Dom closed his eyes and lost himself in the taste of the tiramisu, which triggered memories of the delights that came from his Nonna’s kitchen when he was a boy.

He was savoring the final bite when the door whooshed open and Mae Biddeford came in, looking distressed.

His eyes fell on the dark purple-stained tote bag she had clutched against her chest. The chop-chop-chop sounds stopped and Sarah looked up from the cutting board, the line between her brows deepening. “What happened to your bag?”

Mae flushed. “Gosh, I am—”

The door whooshed open again and Claire Watkins came in, her damp, gray hair curling haphazardly around her head.

“Hi.” Claire frowned at Mae’s bag, and Dom figured Claire was wondering the same thing he and Sarah were about the stain.

“Hi, Claire.” Mae followed Claire’s gaze to the tote. “I was just about to apologize to Sarah. You see, I was supposed to bring some blackberry jam jars I made special for
Chowders
so Sarah could see if they were something she wanted to put in the diner, but I dropped the jars and they broke.” She gave a half-shrug, half-grimace. “I can be so clumsy sometimes.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Sarah soothed. “You can bring more jars some other time.”

“I did manage to salvage some things.” Mae rummaged in the bag, pulling out a broken piece of glass and a ball of brown twine which she set on the counter. She pointed to the glass that had a brown paper label with
Chowders
written in white and a light blue starfish above the words ‘Blackberry Jam’. “This here is the label and then I wrap the twine around the top of the jar and tie it in a bow. Gives it a nice, homey appearance and the twine is biodegradable.”

Sarah studied the two items. “These look great. I can picture what it would look like and I think the jam jars will be wonderful.”

A look of relief passed across Mae’s face, but Dom had his eye on Claire. He could tell she was assessing the situation more intently than just a casual encounter.

Dom flicked his eyes toward Sarah. She was acting as if everything was fine, but he could still see a slight tremor in her hand. He watched Claire’s gaze move from Mae to the piece of glass to Sarah.

Did Claire sense that something was amiss?

Dom wouldn’t be surprised if Claire suspected something wasn’t right with Sarah. Due to Claire’s training, she was a keen observer of people and Dom knew her skills were still sharp, even though she was in her seventies. And the look on her face right now had Dom wondering if Claire knew something about Sarah’s argument with the tall, lanky man that Dom didn't.

C
laire’s eyes
flicked from Sarah to the dark purple stains on Mae’s tote to Mae’s face. “That bag must have had a lot of jam in it. What made you drop it?”

Mae flushed. “Well, I guess the bag was a little too heavy for me. I should have realized a bag this size full of glass jam jars would weigh too much. I thought I could carry it all the way here, but it slipped out of my hand.”

Mae kept her eyes on the purple stain the whole time she was talking and Claire got the impression she was avoiding eye contact. Claire wondered why Mae was lying. Why didn’t she want them to know about the tall, lanky man?

“Anyway,” Mae continued, “I got the twine from Bob Cleary. He uses it on the Barnacle Bob’s fishing boats. So, I thought it would be cute to put it on the jam jars. You know, tie it all together.” They laughed at her little joke. “I’ve already cut up the rest of the twine into small sections, so if you think these will be okay, I’ll go right home and make some more.”

“There’s no need to rush,” Sarah said.

“Oh, no problem. I need to get this done today before the insp— … err … before I get busy with my duties on the planning committee.” Mae turned to Claire. “Should we meet here early tomorrow morning for breakfast?”

That was a good question. Several of the regulars who usually met for breakfast at
Chowders
were on the planning committee for the Crab Festival. The festival officially opened at nine but they needed to get down to the docks early to make sure everything was in order.

“I think we need to get to the pier by eight, so it might be much too early to have breakfast here. Maybe we should meet at the pier,” Claire suggested.

“Right. Of course,” Mae nodded. “We could have breakfast here after.”

“I’ll tell the others.” Claire fished her phone out of her pocket.

“Can I get you something while you text them?” Sarah raised her brows at Claire.

“What? Oh …” Claire had forgotten that she hadn’t actually come to
Chowders
for anything. She’d been on her way home and had seen Mae going in and followed her. She was hoping to learn about the mysterious man Mae had argued with on the dock, but since Mae clearly didn’t want anyone to know about the argument, Claire wasn’t going to let the cat out of the bag by asking.

But Claire was used to thinking on her feet, so she blurted out, “I’ll have a Greek salad. I forgot to make something for dinner.”

“Coming right up.” Sarah turned toward the back and started preparing the salad.

“I guess I’ll be going. Gotta work on that jam.” Mae bustled out the door, leaving Claire and Dom in the front of the diner while Sarah worked on the salad in the back.

“What have you got there?” Claire nodded toward Dom’s plate, which now held only a few crumbs and a smudge of creamy filling.

Dom smiled. “I’m testing out Sarah’s rendition of tiramisu.”

Claire raised her brows. “Any good?”

“Most definitely. Maybe it could use a little more mascarpone, though.” Dom slid his eyes over toward Sarah, who smiled and nodded.

Sarah brought the salad over in a to-go bag. As Claire paid for it, she got the feeling that Dom was watching her rather intently.

“Well, I’ll be on my way.” Claire nodded at Sarah, then Dom.

She briefly entertained the idea of asking them if either of them thought Mae’s story of dropping the jam was odd. She had the distinct impression something was ‘off’ in the diner, and she wondered if it had anything to do with Mae’s argument with the tall, lanky stranger.

As she turned toward the door, she saw Dom reach up and smooth out one of his eyebrows. The gesture gave Claire pause. After working with him all those years, she’d become very familiar with his gestures.

She was trained to notice people’s body language—their ‘tells’, as she called them—and interpret their meaning. And Dom preening his brows could mean only one thing—he knew something was going on … and it looked like he had no intention of cluing her in.