A Crabby Killer (4 page)

C
laire had
mixed feelings about the discovery of the twine in the back of Barnacle Bob’s boat, not to mention the fact that he hadn’t shown up for work as usual that morning. She certainly didn’t want Bob to be the killer, but at least now they had an angle to follow that didn’t lead to Mae Biddeford.

Claire had promised to go to the festival with Jane, so she dropped Dom off at his car at the lookout bench, then picked up Jane and parked behind the beauty shop.

Apparently, the recent murder hadn’t put a dampener on the Crab Festival because the pier was swarming with tourists. Claire and Jane strolled past the tents, inhaling the tangy smell of fried clams and listening to the clamor of the crowd.

“Have you heard anything from Robby about the … ” Jane tilted her head in the direction of yellow crime scene tape at the end of the pier. “Incident.”

Claire glanced down through the throng of tourists. Although the rest of the festival was going on as usual, there would be no crab boil today. The police had finished processing the scene and cordoned off the area with an overabundance of yellow crime scene tape. Instead of scaring tourists away, it had acted as a magnet, attracting them to the end of the pier where they could gawk and point.

Claire watched a throng of seagulls flap noisily above the giant pot which had been too heavy for the police to take. There were no crabs in the pot, but the gulls still squawked loudly, probably angry that they were getting robbed of the scraps of the boil that tourists usually threw to them. There would be no more crab boils until they got a new pot.

“I haven’t heard a thing.” Claire shifted her gaze to the dock where Crabby Tours and Barnacle Bob’s had their boats. “We did go down and talk to Donovan Hicks earlier this morning because Larry said the victim had been seen down there.”

“Did you find anything out?”

Claire shrugged. “Not really, though we do need to follow up with Bob. He wasn’t in when we were there.”

Claire knew from experience that it wasn’t a good idea to let out too much information from the investigation—even to her best friend. People tended to jump to conclusions and that was never helpful, so she didn’t mention the twine or the fact that Bob had been unusually late.

They continued down the pier, passing the various vendors, most of whom they’d known all their lives. Claire paused in front of Sally Kimmel’s florist tent. Colorful, lush flowers filled the tent and the scent of lilacs wafted out. It looked gorgeous, as usual.

Sally was a gifted floral designer and Donovan’s sister. Claire wondered if she should go in and ask some questions, but she really didn’t know exactly what to ask. Sally was one of the few family members who didn’t work in the Crabby Tours business so she probably wouldn’t have had any idea why Donovan had been talking to the victim.

Jane had paused in front of the
Harbor Fudge Shop
tent across from Sally’s. She looked at Claire with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Well,
I
found something out.”

“You did? What?”

“The victim’s name.”

“Do tell.” Claire was tired of thinking of him as ‘the victim’. A name would be most welcome.

“Milton Blunt.”

Claire pressed her lips together. “Never heard of him.”

“Me, either.” Jane pulled Claire into the
Fudge Shop
tent. “Come on, I know you love the dark chocolate bark.”

“Did you find out anything else about him?” Claire went straight to a glass display case that had slabs of chocolate so dark they were almost black. Claire had quite the sweet tooth, but dark chocolate was the only dessert that she allowed herself to indulge in because it offered a variety of health benefits. She pointed to a batch of bark studded with almonds and held up two fingers.

“Not a thing. Just that he was a real estate developer.” Jane squatted down in front of a display of soft-centered chocolates and tilted her head to read the descriptions on the sides of the boxes.

Jane picked out a box and then beat Claire to the cash register, insisting on paying for both their purchases. Claire graciously accepted, although she didn’t like it when Jane paid. She knew Jane didn’t make much on her post office salary and Claire had plenty of money. But Jane had her pride and Claire didn’t want to wound it, even though she knew Jane needed the money now more than ever.

Claire broke off a small piece of the bark and put it in her mouth, savoring the bittersweet taste of the chocolate as it melted on her tongue. “How's your mom?”

Jane’s face pinched and Claire kicked herself for bringing it up. Jane’s ninety-three-year-old mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a year earlier and it had killed Jane not to be able to keep her at home and care for her herself. Luckily, she had been able to get her into a very exclusive—and expensive —assisted-living facility. Claire wondered where Jane found the money for that, but had the good sense not to be rude enough to ask.

“She’s doing okay.” Jane’s eyes glistened, making Claire feel even worse. “She gets incredible care where she is, so I’m lucky to be able to keep her there.”

“You did the right thing,” Claire soothed.

“I know.” Jane looked away and Claire searched for more words to lift her sweet friend’s spirits. Jane was the kind of person who always had something nice to say, the kind of friend that lifted you up and always looked on the bright side. Claire wished she could be as positive and sweet as her friend, but she was more suspicious in nature.

A yellow blur rushing into the tent caught her eye. “What the—“

Jane’s reaction was quicker than Claire’s and she jumped to the side, blocking the passage of the exuberant golden retriever puppy.

“Whoa, there.” Jane picked the puppy up, smiling as it licked her face. “Where did you come from?”

“Probably the animal rescue tent.” Mooseamuck Island was home to many animal lovers, Claire included. They had a very good animal rescue operation and a tent was set up at every festival to show off the animals looking for homes.

“Let’s bring him back.” Jane struggled to hold the wiggly puppy in her arms as they headed down the pier. Claire’s spirits lifted for her friend—nothing like a puppy to take your mind off your troubles.

The animal rescue was five tents down—a big, red sign stood out in front. Claire saw a swoosh of blonde hair disappear around the back of the tent and then she was distracted by Mae Biddeford darting out of the opening with a harried expression on her face. Mae glanced left, then right, then noticed Claire and Jane coming toward her with the puppy.

“Oh, there he is.” Mae’s face lightened with relief. “I’m so sorry. He just ran out. I don’t know where Sarah’s gone off to. She’s supposed to be helping me.”

Sarah appeared from the side of the tent. “Sorry, I’ll take him.” She held her arms out to take the puppy from Jane, her face breaking into a wide smile as the puppy settled into her arms and licked her face exuberantly.

Claire’s heart warmed at the rare expression of pure joy on Sarah’s face. Claire knew something weighed heavily on the young woman and, as a result, she rarely smiled. A puppy seemed like just the thing Sarah needed.

“Are you going to adopt him?” Claire asked.

Regret washed over Sarah’s fine features as she put the puppy down in a playpen filled with three others just like him. “No, I can’t. I mean, I have the restaurant and all.”

“You need to take more days off from that restaurant. Then you might have more time and won’t have to sneak off to meet young men at the festivals,” Mae teased with a mischievous smile on her face.

Sarah’s face tightened. “I wasn’t … I mean … I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Claire felt sorry for Sarah, but she really didn’t need to act so upset when Mae was obviously teasing. Claire figured she must have been meeting Shane McDonough behind the tent. She’d seen the way the two of them looked at each other, but why meet in secret? She didn’t see any reason for it. They were often seen together at the restaurant and it was no secret that they were very close.

“Meow!”

Claire looked down to see the Maine Coon cat that frequently appeared at her patio door. “Is this cat up for adoption?”

“Oh, no. That’s Porch Cat. You know him, don’t you?” Mae asked. “He’s just making the rounds.”

Mae held out a small, orange, square cat treat and Porch Cat sniffed it thoroughly before deciding it was okay to eat. He gently took it from Mae and ate it, making little crunching sounds.

Porch Cat looked up at Claire and winked, then turned and trotted out of the tent, flicking his tail in the direction of a tent across on the opposite side of the pier and two spaces down. Claire looked in that direction and saw it was Barnacle Bob’s tent and he was in it.

Claire grabbed Jane’s arm. “Let’s go over there. I have a question for Bob.”

Jane gave the golden retriever puppy one last scratch behind the ears, and they said good-bye to Mae and Sarah, then headed to the other tent.

Inside, several large displays highlighted the different boats in Barnacle Bob’s fleet and the tours they offered. In the middle was a podium where Bob’s daughter, Lisa, was taking cruise reservations.

Bob peered over Lisa’s shoulder at the reservation book. He was in his late fifties, tall with skin that was leathery from years on the ocean running the family business. He usually looked fit and healthy, but today his unshaven face was pale and haggard with dark circles under his eyes.

“Hey, Bob. Rough night?” Claire asked.

Bob’s head jerked up and he fixed red-rimmed eyes on Claire. “I’ll say. I haven’t felt this under the weather in a long time.”

“Do you have that flu that’s going around?” Claire asked.

Bob ducked his head. “I wish I could say that was it, but I have to admit I had a bit too much to drink last night and I slept in. Haven’t done that since I was in my twenties.”

Claire laughed. “I remember sleeping in a few times when I was that young, too. But it’s not like you to tie one on.”

Bob glanced at Lisa. “Certainly not. I actually didn’t even think I drank that much, but judging by the way I feel this morning, I must have.”

“Where were you drinking?”

Bob scrunched his face up as if trying to remember where he had been drinking was painful. “I remember starting out at
Duffy’s Tavern
. I only went in for a beer to celebrate my divorce.” He looked sheepishly at Lisa. “Anyway, someone kept putting drinks in front of me and I kept drinking them. After that, the next thing I remember is waking up. I guess I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking. I’m usually only good for a couple of beers.”

Claire felt a pang of sympathy. Bob was acting like the divorce was no biggie, but she knew how crushed he was when Molly hit him with those divorce papers last year.

“I’m sorry about the divorce,” she said.

Bob shrugged. “Ah, it’s nothing now. We been separated a long time and we’ve both moved on.”

“So, you must have closed
Duffy’s,
then,” Claire prompted.

Bob rubbed his hands down his face. “I guess so. The truth is, I don’t remember. I know I was there and then I was in my bed. My car was still in the fishermen’s lot over there.” Bob nodded toward a small lot which was reserved for the cars of the fishermen who owned boats at the dock. “So I guess I musta’ walked home. Either way, I won’t be doing that again.”

“Getting divorced or tying one on?” Lisa quipped dryly.

“Neither.” Bob glanced at his watch. “I gotta run. Got ten minutes before the next cruise and I gotta captain it.”

Claire watched him sprint down the dock, her heart twisting. She liked Bob. He was a good guy, a family man who had worked hard at his business. But he’d just admitted he was drunk and couldn’t remember where he was last night
and
he had the same brown twine in his boat that had killed Melvin Blunt.

In Claire’s book, that made him a key suspect … the only question was
why
would Bob Cleary want to kill a real estate developer?

T
he next morning
, Dom sat at the Formica table in
Chowders,
mulling over what Claire had told him about her conversation with Bob Cleary at the Crab Festival.

Bob had all the makings of a primary suspect, but they needed more information. What was his motive? What exactly were his movements that night? They’d agreed not to ask Robby anything about the case just yet, so they’d need to rely on town gossip to get their answers … and breakfast time with the locals at
Chowders
was the perfect time to do that.

Dom tapped his finger on the side of his warm coffee mug, letting the sounds of sizzling bacon and clattering dishes fade to the background as he thought about the case and waited for the others to show up.

He’d tried to finagle a way to find out if the ball of twine was still behind the counter, but Sarah had been preoccupied. Not her usual talkative self. She’d practically ignored him and he didn’t want to seem pushy. It was a minor point, anyway—surely most anyone could buy twine like that. He made a mental note to check that out.

Dom poured some more cream into his coffee mug and watched it swirl around while he fought off the doubts that crowded his mind. He now knew the victim’s name was Milton Blunt, but he hadn’t done any research on him so he had no idea who he was or why he was on Mooseamuck Island. Would he be able to figure out why he was killed or who the killer was without the same type of access to information that he'd had when he’d been a consultant to the police? He was much older now—his skills, perhaps, not as sharp. What if he couldn’t figure it out?

But he
had
figured out who the killer was in the murder they’d had earlier that spring. Grudgingly, he had to admit it had been with Claire’s help. And he’d probably need her help now, too. The thought of it prickeled his nerves. But he had to admit it hadn’t been quite as annoying to work with her on the last case they’d solved here on the island as it had been back in Boston all those years ago. Maybe old age had tempered him.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

The voice made him jump. He looked up to see Claire slip onto the chair across from him. She raised a brow, a slight smile curling her lips. “I guess you were deep in thought.”

Dom lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was thinking about what you said about Bob. We need more information.”

“I know. We’ll have to ask around.” Claire glanced around the restaurant. It was quickly filling up with locals and Dom assumed she didn’t want them all to overhear and figure out they were investigating. Smart.

He spotted Norma, Jane, and Mae coming in the door and inclined his head slightly. Claire looked at the door, saw them too, pressed her lips together and nodded. They’d have to talk shop about the case some other time.

“You two talking about the murder?” Norma asked in her usual, blunt manner as the three of them sat at the table.

“We were talking about the weather,” Claire said. “Why? Did you hear something?”

“Something about what?” Tom Landry appeared at Claire’s elbow, taking the seat beside her. Claire noticed it just happened to be the seat across from Mae.

“The murder.” Norma waved impatiently at the waitress who headed toward them, pulling a notepad from her pocket.

They ordered—egg whites and whole wheat toast for Dom, oatmeal for Claire and a variety, ranging from pancakes to fruit salad, for the others.

While they waited for their breakfast, they talked about the Crab Festival. Claire pulled the basket of teabags from the center of the table and started rooting through it. Alice pulled her knitting needles out of her bag. She was knitting something with thick, heavy yarn. Dom glanced out the window at the bright pink sun over the ocean and started to itch just thinking about wearing whatever wooly garment Alice was knitting, especially when the day promised to be a scorcher. Eventually, the conversation turned to the murder.

“Well, I’m sure there are people right here in the restaurant who are glad that man is dead,” Alice said matter-of-factly.

Dom snapped his head in her direction, then glanced nervously at the kitchen where Sarah was busy chopping. Did Alice know something about Sarah’s fight with Milton Blunt?

Claire looked up from her job of dunking the tea bag into her mug, her brow creased into a ‘v’. “What do you mean, Alice?”

“Well, you know who he was, don’t you?” Alice kept her eyes on her knitting, her needles clacking in perfect rhythm as she talked.

“No.”

Alice wound a strand of purple yarn over one needle, pulled the other through and then looked up from her work. “Mae, Tom … I know you do.”

Claire’s head jerked around to look at Mae and Tom. Dom’s eyebrows tingled with interest at this new development.

Norma smacked her hand on the table. “Who the
heck
was he?”

Mae and Tom stared at each other like deer caught in the headlights.

“You guys don’t know?” Real estate agent Josie Learner leaned over from the next table. Apparently, she’d been listening to their conversation and was eager to fill them in.

“No,” Dom and Claire both said.

“That was Milton Blunt.” She paused and Claire and Dom both nodded. They already knew his name. “He’s a big real estate developer. He’s had his eye on some land here to develop into condos for years. The owners have refused his offers, but this time he’d decided to stay on the island for good. He said he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“What property is that?” Dom ventured.

“The farms of Mae Biddeford and Tom Landry.”

C
laire dropped her teabag
, the string disappearing into the steaming cup of tea. She stared at Mae. Why hadn’t Mae mentioned that before? Her gaze slid over to Tom. Or Tom for that matter. If Blunt had been making them offers on their properties, surely they would have recognized him yesterday morning?

Across the table, Mae fidgeted in her seat. Tom’s eyes were glued to his pancakes as if making sure the little pieces soaked up just the right amount of maple syrup was the most important task in the world.

“Neither of you recognized the victim yesterday?” Dom's eyes drifted from Mae to Tom.

“Well, I barely got a look at him,” Mae said. “It was ghastly. When the coroner moved him, I just barely saw a contorted face and I had to turn away.”

Claire remembered how Mae had shown up late for the meeting that morning. Why
was
she late?

Tom shrugged. “I thought it might be him,” he stuttered. “But I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to say.”

“Well, ain’t that a hoot.” Norma slapped the table. “Sounds like you guys have a good motive.”

Claire shot Norma an angry look. Did she have to go and say
that
? She could see the comment had garnered Dom’s interest, but she was sure he would have picked up on the motive anyway, so she couldn’t really blame Norma too much.

Dom cast a frowning glance over at the door and Claire spun around. Zambuco.

The room fell silent as the tall detective waltzed in. Claire was glad to see he’d changed his mustard-stained shirt. This time he was wearing a pink knit shirt with tan chinos. The man had no fashion sense.

His eyes drifted around the room, then came to rest on Claire’s table. He lurched in their direction, whistling what sounded like marching band music under his breath.

“I figured I’d find you all here.” Zambuco tapped on the edge of the table with his thick fingers. The waitress came over and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll have a root beer. Lots of ice.”

“What can we do for you, Detective?” Claire asked innocently.

Zambuco zeroed in on her with his beady, dark eyes. “Have you been going around asking questions about the murder?”

“Of course not,” Claire said. “We’re just sitting here eating breakfast. The murder is the furthest thing from our minds.”

Zambuco scowled at the entire table, making everyone fidget. Claire could feel the other diner patrons staring at them.

“Would you like to join us?” Jane, always polite, scooted her chair over and indicated for Zambuco to pull a chair from the other table and sit next to her.

Zambuco’s face softened as he looked at Jane. Claire frowned at the flush on Jane’s cheeks. Claire’s eyes flew back to Zambuco. He was still looking at Jane.

Claire wasn’t sure, but the looks on both of their faces seemed to indicate they were regarding each other as much more than detective and potential witness. Claire pushed the thought out of her mind. She was sure her dear, sweet, graceful friend would not be interested in the annoying, overbearing, klutzy Zambuco. Jane was just being polite.

Zambuco tore his gaze from Jane and fixed it on Mae, his face now all hard lines and his eyes sharp. “I hear you had an adversarial relationship with the victim.”

“I … well, I wouldn’t say that it was adversarial.
Or
that it was even a relationship,” Mae said indignantly.

“But he wanted to buy your family farm, isn’t that correct?”

Mae pursed her lips and nodded primly. “That is correct. But my farm is not for sale.”

The root beer came and Zambuco grabbed it from the waitress. The ice cubes clinked together as he chugged half of it down. “I hear he was putting the pressure on.”

Mae patted her lips with her napkin and then threw it over her half-finished breakfast. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Zambuco turned his attention on Tom Landry. “And I heard the same of you.”

Tom looked up from his pancakes. “He offered and I refused.”

“And did he accept your refusals and go away, or did he try more persuasive techniques?” Zambuco asked. “I heard Blunt liked to play hardball.”

Crash!

The dishes smashing in the kitchen tore Zambuco’s attention away from Mae’s face and Claire was grateful for that because if he’d seen the way her face crumbled, he might have pulled her into the station for questioning right then and there.

Claire glanced at the kitchen to see a red-faced Sarah staring down at her feet. Sarah looked out at the dining room and shrugged. “Sorry, they slipped.”

Claire's heart warmed as she watched Shane McDonough slide his arm around Sarah's shaking shoulders.

"I'll pick them up," he said. "You get back to cooking."

Claire couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. Shane was a fourth generation islander, a real looker and an all-around good guy. He was a carpenter, but she'd noticed he'd been spending more time in Sarah's kitchen helping her than out building additions over the past year. She could see the two had a budding romance and was happy for Sarah.

Claire thought Sarah was way too serious for her young age. She knew Sarah's demeanor had a lot to do with the deep, dark secret she harbored and she was glad Sarah had Shane to help ease that burden—even if she hadn't shared that secret with Shane, Claire knew from her years as a psychologist that having someone who genuinely cared for you helped even if you couldn't tell them all your problems.

Dom hadn’t been distracted by the crash like Zambuco. Sure, he was looking in the direction of the crash, too, but Claire could tell by the way he was patting his eyebrows that he was already adding Mae, and probably Tom, to
his
suspect list.

Zambuco brought his attention back to the table. Thankfully, Mae had recovered.

“Well, he wasn’t a nice man, if that’s what you mean,” she said.

Tom nodded his head in agreement. “No. Not nice at all.”

Claire noticed Tom and Mae exchange a look. They were probably just as surprised as she was that they had agreed on something. The two of them were always arguing about something, with Mae claiming Tom’s goats ate her berries and Tom claiming Mae planted on his land. She hadn’t known them to agree on anything since first grade, but apparently a common enemy gave them a bond.

“And did you have an altercation with Mr. Blunt?” Zambuco persisted.

Mae shook her head.

Claire remembered the argument she’d seen the day before on the dock. Why was Mae keeping it a secret? Then again, considering the man just turned up dead, it probably was smarter to keep it secret.

Guilt gnawed at Claire’s chest. Part of her deep down inside was still a police consultant and that part knew she should speak up about the argument she had witnessed. It was the right thing to do.

But another part of her remembered the murder case earlier that spring when she’d seen Norma fighting with the victim. She’d been forced to tell Zambuco that she’d witnessed the fight, thus casting Norma onto his suspect list. That hadn’t gone well for Norma, and Claire had been guilt-ridden over it. She pressed her lips together and looked down at her oatmeal. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake of betraying a friend again.

Claire noticed the look of concentration on Dom’s face. He was probably picturing Mae as the killer. But Mae couldn’t have done it. She was too small and she was an old lady. There was no way she could have wrestled Blunt into that crab pot. Tom, on the other hand, was still strong and wiry. He labored on the farm every day and had muscles of a man thirty years his junior. He could have done it. But Claire didn’t want to think about that. Tom was one of the sweetest, most gentle men she knew. He was no killer.

Norma thumped her cane on the floor to get Zambuco’s attention. “So you mean this Blunt guy just came to town to try to steal the farms from these poor folks?” Norma fixed her sharp glare on Zambuco. “No wonder someone killed him. Sounds like he deserved it.”

Claire was surprised to see the corners of Zambuco’s lips twitch upward. Was he actually going to smile?

“Ahhh, Ms. Hopper. Did you know the deceased? I seem to recall you were a suspect in our last murder.”

Norma laughed. “You’d like for it to be me, wouldn’t you? That would make it easy. But I must confess, I didn’t know him.”

Something didn’t sit right with Claire. If Blunt was here for Mae and Tom’s land, why was he spending so much time down at the docks? She was desperate to get the spotlight off of Mae and Tom.

“I heard quite a few people say they saw him down on the docks. What business would he have down there if he was here to try to persuade Mae and Tom to sell their land?” Claire asked. “And what was he doing down there in the wee hours of the morning the day he was killed?”