Boiled Over (A Maine Clambake Mystery) (13 page)

“All right. I’ll find a way to contact you if I’m able to get my hands on those pictures.”

I gave him my cell number and thanked him. By the time I got in Mom’s car, big drops of rain splattered the windshield. The weather Sonny had warned me about had arrived.

It was a three and a half hour drive from the Mi’kmaq camp back to Busman’s Harbor. Most people, used to the tiny, crowded states of the Northeastern U.S., didn’t realize how big Maine was. It took the same amount of time to travel from Portland, Maine to New York City as it did to travel from Portland to the Canadian border. I was spending the better part of my evening driving across a relatively small part of Maine.

The rain, which escalated occasionally to a downpour, and the fog, which crept in on the stretches where the road hugged the sea, had me sitting straight up in my seat, concentrating on my driving. Radio reception was so spotty, I stopped trying, and my mother’s old car offered no way to amplify the tunes stored on my phone. I rode along in the silent car, alone with my thoughts.

I sorted through the jumble in my head. What had I accomplished by playing hooky? More important, was I any closer to my goal of helping Cabe? Both the teacher Adam Burford, and the group home manager Emily Draper had confirmed my strong impression of Cabe. He was an honest, generally positive kid. He might seem a little closed off, but there were reasons for it. Now that I knew his background—the repeated losses, the false accusation, and the time spent in an institution—I was even more impressed by the strength of his character. Adam and Emily could tell a jury what a great kid Cabe was, but I didn’t want it to come to that. Given what Cabe had been through, it was important he never spend a single night in jail.

My mind drifted to Binder and Flynn. I was keeping four things from them—Cabe’s employment application, his phone call, the existence of the image on the thumb drive Phil Johnson had given me, and the possibility of more useful photos Phil had sent with his editor to Montreal. Maybe I should give the information to Binder. I wrestled with the dilemma as I drove along. It was my natural instinct to turn it over. But, I was mad. Binder had led me to believe I was part of the team and used me to get information, while keeping me in the dark about what he knew. Maybe Flynn’s disgruntled attitude was part of the act, too. No, that was real. The man just didn’t like me.

I’d gone to the Mi’kmaq camp to find Cabe, and instead had found the photographer, Phil Johnson. Coincidence? Phil claimed he’d never seen anyone meeting Cabe’s description. But he’d looked away from me when he said it. Could I trust him? Perhaps Cabe was at another camp. The woman at Wild Blueberry Land had said there were five.

What had I learned from the photo Phil had put on the thumb drive? Two things, admittedly neither of them big. The hairy kid had been on the pier in the morning before the body was found. That could be completely meaningless—there’d been at least a hundred people on the pier by the time the shot was taken. And Bud Barbour had been there, too, or at least, Morgan was. Bud was supposed to have been at his camp up north, avoiding the Founder’s Weekend crowds. He’d sworn to us all he wouldn’t be on the pier for the opening ceremonies.

As I drove on through the rain, I thought about Bud.

May

The day before the third Founder’s Weekend committee meeting, I went to Gus’s in the late afternoon. There weren’t many customers at that time of day and Gus was known to be more expansive. I scraped the mud off my boots before I walked down the stairs to the restaurant. In New York it was springtime, with lunches outside and beautiful, flowering shrubs in Central Park. In Maine it was cold and wet. The day and a half we’d later remember as “spring,” was a month away.

I sat down at the counter. Bud Barbour dawdled at the other end. Morgan lay quietly at his feet, red bandanna around her neck as always. Gus had all kinds of rules, including, “No Animals,” though he, like everyone else, made an exception for Bud’s black lab.

I tried to out wait Bud and Morgan, but finally gave up. “I hear you’re the expert in the history of our peninsula,” I said to Gus.

“Ayup.” Gus didn’t go in for false modesty. He was more about accuracy.

“Can you tell me,” I asked, desperately hoping for a shortcut, “who the founder of Busman’s Harbor was?”

Gus waggled his a bushy white eyebrows at me. “Which time?”

“Which time what?”

“The first founder of Busman’s Harbor was a Wabanaki Chief. The Wabanaki tribes called this land Ketakamigwa, ‘the big land on the seacoast.’ They came here seasonally and farmed, fished, lobstered, and traded with other tribes, and eventually with the French.”

“And their village was right where the town is?”

“Probably not,” Gus conceded. “The steep, protectable harbor wasn’t needed by people who didn’t have enemies. They would’ve wanted a sheltered beach for drying fish and clamming. Archeologists think their longest seasonal settlement was where Camp Glooscap is.”

I wondered if Stevie knew that. “And this founding chief’s name wasn’t, by any chance, Mr. Busman?”

“Alas, his name’s been lost to the misty dawns of time.”

Gus poured me a cup of coffee I was sure had been sitting on the burner for hours. I didn’t want it, but I didn’t protest. Another of his rules was you couldn’t come to Gus’s just to sit and yak. You had to buy.

“The first European settlers,” Gus continued, warming to his subject, “were fishermen. In those days, for cod to be sent home to England, it had to be dried on wooden racks. There was fierce competition among the fishing crews for the best areas for drying operations, and it didn’t take long for captains to figure out that if they left a small group of men over the winter, they’d have a huge advantage come the spring.”

“When was this?”

“1615.”

“Before the Pilgrims?”

“Definitely. Those Massachusetts-come-latelies are always claiming the credit.”

“Massholes,” Bud interjected. It was the first time he’d looked up from his coffee cup.

“These fishermen, was one of them was named Busman?” I asked, not particularly hopeful.

Gus laughed. “Not too many auto-buses in the early seventeenth century.”

“Maybe he was French?
Bisou
man? Perhaps a bit of a kisser? I’m sure it got lonely staying all winter.”

“Ha-ha,” Gus said. “By the way your French is terrible.”

“Well, do you know his name?”

“Nope,” Gus answered. “But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be recognized as our founder. Imagine how lonely and cold it was in that fishing station. How long the days were, and how heavily time weighed. The nameless people do all the hard work.”

“Ayup. You tell it, brother,” Bud called from the end of the counter. He got up and moved to the stool next to mine to join the conversation.

“The first permanent settler arrived in 1642. Like most Maine settlers, our founder wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his family and servants to farm and fish. Of course, that made the Puritans to the south deeply suspicious and set up years of conflict between them, especially after Maine became a colony of Massachusetts.”

“Massholes,” I said before Bud could, just to vex him. He gave me a gap-toothed smile through his Santa Claus beard. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that this man was named Busman?” I asked Gus.

Gus shook his head. “His name was Town. Edward Town. He named the settlement after himself.”

“He named the town, ‘Town’?”

“Of course not.” Gus laughed. “He named it Town’s End. But without a doubt, he was our founder. Just like the anonymous cod fisherman and the Wabanaki chief.”

“Message received.” I didn’t want to think about how Bunnie would react to the idea of multiple founders, not one of them named Busman. “Keep going,” I said, hoping we’d eventually get to the answer.

Gus then did something I’d never seen. He came around the counter and sat on the stool to my left. He never mingled with the customers.

“Edward Town’s descendants lived on the land for three generations, but eventually they were burned out by the natives. After nearly fifty years of Indian wars, there were no Europeans left permanently settled on the mid-coast. England tried to reclaim the land from Massachusetts, saying Maine was no longer a colony because it wasn’t colonized. To repopulate, the English sent the toughest, fiercest, most independent people they could think of—the descendants of the Scots that England had used to colonize Northern Ireland. They were as different from the wealthy Massachusettsans, who thought they held title to the land, as they could be. The Massachusetts proprietors thought of the settlers as tenant farmers who owed rent. The settlers thought of themselves as free farmers who owned their own land. They quickly learned to distrust anyone From Away who came calling.”

On my right, Bud grunted, making it clear he still held that sentiment.

Great.
My father’s forbearers were practically genetically wired to hate my mother’s ancestors.
No wonder I’m a mess.

“And the Scots-Irishman who settled this harbor, was his name Mr. Busman?” I asked.

Gus looked at his watch. “Will you look at the time? Mrs. Gus will be wondering what happened to me. Time to close up. I’ll tell you about Busman the next time.”

“Gus, you are killing me.” But I knew better than to argue.

When I admitted my failure the next day at the at the Founder’s Weekend committee meeting, Bunnie’s brows knitted together so tightly I feared they’d form a vortex and swallow her whole face.

She tap-tap-tapped on the ever-present clipboard with her pencil. “Well, that doesn’t really help us, does it?” she concluded. “Why don’t you come to my house for tea some afternoon this week, Julia, and we’ll talk about it?”

Another invitation I’d have to figure out how to avoid.

But everything else was going swimmingly. Bunnie had made some “important connections” with the Busman’s Harbor Art League and our art show was going to be juried. I suspected making “important connections” was as difficult as walking into the Art League gallery on Main Street and introducing herself, but everyone seemed excited, so I kept my opinion to myself.

There was a discussion about whether crafters could have tents at the art show or just artists, which lead to a discussion about “What is art?” Mercifully, Bud cut this short by miming slitting his throat, falling off his chair, and twitching on the floor of the Tourism Bureau office as he fake bled-out.

At least I didn’t totally disgrace myself. Dan and I had done a good job of lining up the meals. We were just waiting for permits so there could be food trucks at the concert.

Stevie had taken on the job of finding the band with his usual enthusiasm. It was late in the season to be booking, but he’d collected a few dozen demo CDs. He wanted some of us to go on a series of outings to hear the finalists. Vee and Bunnie had agreed to go with him.

“Come along, Julia,” Stevie said. “It’ll be fun.”

I worried about what kind of music that group might choose, but the Snowden Family Clambake Company was set to open in less than a month and we still had so much to accomplish. I threw Dan a look. I was fifteen years younger than he was, but he was almost fifteen years younger than the others.

“I’ll go along to hear the bands,” Dan said, receiving my silent message.

“Great!” Stevie boomed. “We’re going to have a blast.”

August

It was after ten-thirty when I got back from the blueberry camp to Busman’s Harbor. Chris was working his bouncer job at Crowley’s, and ordinarily I would’ve gone there automatically. But I hesitated, worried about what Chris had said in the early hours of the morning.
I love you.
A long day had gone by with no communication between us. If I did go, would it be awkward? Or worse, if I stayed away, would he take my absence as rejection, or at a minimum as a freak-out? Maybe it was.

My back was stiff from the hours in the car, plus Chris and I hadn’t spent much time sleeping the night before. The stress and the sleeplessness and the driving caught up to me. I stood for a moment outside the car, undecided. Then I thought about Chris, his handsome face, his lips, and last night. I pulled my mother’s umbrella from the backseat of her car and headed to Crowley’s.

Chris wasn’t in his usual spot at the door. I asked the burley substitute bouncer where he was.

“Dunno. Got called in last minute. I’m missing my girlfriend’s birthday party.” He didn’t seem happy about it. He handed my ID back to me and I passed through the front door. The bar was crowded and noisy, as I’d expected. Tonight’s band seemed particularly raucous.

“Where’s Chris?” I shouted to Sam, part owner and bartender.

Sam said the same thing the guy at the door had. “Dunno.” Then he added, “You know Chris. Thinks he’s Australian. Goes on walkabout. No notice, nothin’. I’d fire his ass if he wasn’t so good.” Sam handed me a draft. “I thought for sure you’d know where he goes. It’s different with you, different from all the old girlfriends.”

My cheeks went red, though I couldn’t have said for sure which I was more embarrassed about. That I didn’t know where Chris was, or the reference to “all the old girlfriends.”

I took the beer and looked around for an empty table. I didn’t want to sit with the significant others of the staff members, where I’d have to field more questions about Chris’s whereabouts. I saw someone waving frantically from a corner table. Reggie Swinburne sat with a man whose back was to me. I waved back, hoping that would be enough, but he countered with the universal gesture for
come over here
. I crossed the room toward them.

Reggie jumped to his feet and pumped my hand. “Julia.” His Colonel Mustard mustache danced as he spoke. “Join us. This is my young friend, Zach. Zach, meet Julia Snowden.”

Zach’s eyes widened at the mention of my last name, but caught himself and resumed his pleasant expression. A lot of people reacted to hearing the name Snowden. They knew the clambake company, or they knew my family. Or they’d heard about the murder this spring on Morrow Island. Or maybe, lately, they’d heard about the Snowden Family Clambake’s connection to Stevie Noyes’s body.

Reggie had a half-full mug of beer in front of him. Zach, confirming my impression he was under twenty-one, had a soft drink. The band thanked everyone and took a break. It was still noisy, but at least we didn’t have to scream.

“I’ve been teaching Zach here the joys of birdwatching,” Reggie said.

Zach was a good-looking kid, square-jawed with dark hair, deep brown eyes and long, dark lashes. Even sitting, I could tell he was short and slight. There was something so familiar about him. Especially around the eyes.

“Bunnie’s not with you?” I asked.

“Not her kind of scene,” Reggie said.

I wasn’t surprised.

“Those Parkers came back,” he continued. “Such a racket over there, with the music and the parties and the revving of the motorcycles. I persuaded Zach here to come along for a drink to get away from it all.”

It was hard to believe Crowley’s on a rainy August night was any quieter.

“If it keeps up, I’ve a mind to call the cops,” Reggie continued. “Stevie wanted those Parkers out. Maybe they or some of their motorcycle cronies had something to do with his murder.”

Zach looked alarmed at this idea. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

Reggie called out, “There’s a cop now!” He waved in the direction of my childhood friend, Jamie Dawes, familiar from his many traffic details around town.

Jamie waved back, but didn’t come in our direction, thank goodness. Zach excused himself and went to the men’s room. I finished my beer, said good-bye to Reggie and headed for the door.

“Julia.” Jamie came up beside me. “Join me for a beer?”

It was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do. For one thing, he was a cop and I still had Cabe’s employment application and the thumb drive Phil Johnson had given me. For another, my sister believed Jamie had a crush on me, but I had chosen Chris, and Chris was, at this moment, I-had-no-idea-where. Things had been awkward between Jamie and me for a couple months, since we’d sort of accidentally, drunkenly kissed, and I felt terrible about it. I sensed graciously accepting the offer of a beer would go a long way to smoothing things over.

We sat on stools at the bar and ordered drafts, which we both sipped slowly. I asked after his parents; he asked after my mom. The band returned from its break and started up again, which made conversation difficult.

“How’s the investigation going?” I shouted.

“Okay, I guess. Progress.”

“Do you know where Stevie was killed yet?”

Jamie looked around and hunched toward me. I did the same, which brought us nose-to-nose. Uncomfortably close.

“Unofficially? No,” he said.

“Officially?”

He grinned. “Still, no.”

“Lieutenant Binder told me the body was brought to the pier by car or boat.” I wanted to show I was already the recipient of inside information, so it was okay to talk to me. “Could a woman have moved the body?”

Jamie considered. “Possibly. If she came by car and pulled up real close.” He sat up on his stool. “Enough shop talk. How do Livvie and Sonny like living on Morrow Island?”

I’d just started to answer when I realized who Reggie’s friend Zach was—the hairy guy from the RV park. I kicked myself for not recognizing him, even without the scraggly beard and hair. I knew he looked familiar. I wanted to ask why he’d been on the pier in the morning before Stevie’s body was found. When the kid looked hairy and crazy, it hadn’t seemed like the kind of place he’d want to be. But now that I’d seen him looking perfectly normal in a crowded bar, that seemed like a ridiculous conclusion. I looked over at the table where they’d been, but there was a new group of people there.

Jamie and I finished our beers and I stood to go. I was glad we’d been able to chat casually about mostly inconsequential things. I hoped it would help make things more comfortable between us. I didn’t suggest that he walk me home, and he didn’t offer.