“So what did happen?” Chris asked. “What time did he arrive last night, do you remember?”
“A little after seven thirty, I think.” That was what I remembered, but it didn’t jibe with what Fee had said about the stranger leaving the Snuggles at six. Gus’s was a five-minute walk from the inn. What had the man done from six to seven thirty? In nicer weather, he might have taken a stroll around the village, but last night had been dark, cold, foggy, and icy.
“Who was in the dining room by then?” Chris did the cooking, and even though the food preparation area was open to the front room, his focus would be on the meals. Mine was supposed to be on the guests. So I wasn’t surprised he was relying on me to remember which customers had arrived when.
“The Caswells were already there,” I answered. “They were the first ones. And the Bennetts were definitely there.”
“The Bennetts. Which ones are they?”
“You know, the Bennetts, Phil and Deborah.”
“Sure.” He didn’t sound sure.
I clarified. “He’s tall, full head of white hair, skinny arms and legs, but he has a gut. Acts kind of full of himself.”
“You mean like he was something in the real world.” Living in a resort town, Chris had plenty of experience with entitled retirees.
“Yes, like that,” I confirmed. “She’s the blonde with the . . .” Here I floundered a bit.
Chris chuckled. “You’re making that face, aren’t you?”
“What face?” I asked innocently.
“The one where you pull the skin on your face back to your ears and breathe like a fish.” He was laughing now, and so was I.
“You got me,” I admitted. “She’s the one with all the plastic surgery.” I cleared my throat. “It’s not nice to laugh at our guests.”
“I’m not laughing at our guests. I’m laughing at you.”
“It does feel a little mean,” I said. “Why do women do that to themselves?”
“Whoops, here comes Mrs. Deakins. I gotta help her with her grocery bags. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
And he was gone.
The Bennetts had arrived after the Caswells, and before the man who was now dead in Gus’s walk-in. I was certain of it. I’d just brought the Caswells their wine when the Bennetts entered the restaurant.
“Quiet tonight,” Phil Bennett remarked when I had taken his coat.
“It’s the weather,” Deborah had said. “Terrible out.”
“Your walkway could use more sand. I nearly lost my footing.” Phil’s clipped tone made it sound as if he were speaking to an incompetent staff member.
“Of course. I’ll get right on it.”
As I had moved away to hang up their coats, the Bennetts noticed the Caswells. I wasn’t surprised the two couples knew each other, or at least had a nodding acquaintance. All four of them appeared to be around the same age and had probably met at some town meeting, volunteer opportunity, or social event. But that wouldn’t make them best buddies necessarily, so when I returned with the menus to find the Bennetts sitting in the opposite corner of the dining room, I wasn’t surprised by that either. If you’re having dinner with your spouse in a practically empty restaurant, there’s no point in listening to the conversation of the only other guests, or in having them overhear you.
“Can I get you something to drink? Wine, beer, or a cocktail?” I asked the Bennetts.
“Alcohol. That’s something new,” Phil had responded.
It was. We’d just gotten our liquor license on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Gus had never had one for his breakfast and lunch place, and it had seemed to take forever for ours to come through, though I was assured by the town employees I dealt with it had been at record speed. Before that, working on a temporary license, the restaurant had been strictly BYOB, which had further shaved our razor-thin profit margins. We’d had just enough time and cash before the Thanksgiving holiday to stock the bar.
“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.