The bar itself had been a bit of a controversy. Gus had never had one, but Chris and I felt strongly that we needed one. Gus’s vision was for a neighborly gathering place, and that wasn’t going to happen without a bar. And it wasn’t going to happen on nights the New England Patriots played if we didn’t have a TV.
Gus had a long unused candlepin-bowling lane on the opposite side of the front room from the lunch counter. I’d convinced him that Chris could use his carpentry skills to cover the lane over without harming it and put the bar in that part of the room. Chris had also built a back bar to house a sink, small fridge, and TV. It stood behind the bar a few feet out from the wall where it wouldn’t harm either the candlepin lane or Gus’s “décor,” which consisted entirely of white-washed wallboard. Gus was insisting we uncover the lane in the spring when we closed the dinner restaurant and Chris and I moved back to our tourist season pursuits. We’d agreed, even though I had never, ever seen anyone bowl there.
I returned to the Bennetts with their drinks.
“Thank you, Julia,” Phil had said, tasting his. “Excellent,” he pronounced.
Whew.
The Bennetts had owned a summer home out on Eastclaw Point since I was a kid, and every year they brought houseguests out to our clambake. We offered a harbor tour on the way to Morrow Island, our private island. Twice a day, during the high season, we served two hundred guests a real Maine clambake meal—chowder, steamed clams, twin lobsters, corn on the cob, a potato, an onion, and an egg—cooked over rocks heated by a roaring wood fire.
I looked from Phil to Deborah and was struck again by her face. I tried to remember from my teen years working at the clambake if Deborah had always looked like that. The smooth mask created by the surgeon’s scalpel was the only image I could conjure.
Phil looked at his menu. “What is this fish?”
I cleared my throat. “Hake. It’s a light, white fish. Tonight, we’re serving the loin, which is the thicker cut, nearer the head.”
He knit his brows together. “Never had it.” The implication was clear. If Phil Bennett hadn’t eaten it, it wasn’t worth eating.
Chris, it had turned out, not completely to my surprise, was a genius at creating meals that were both elegant and affordable. If we wanted to be popular with the locals, we had to keep our prices down. Chris had chosen hake because it was fresh, tasty, and inexpensive in the early winter.
“I’m sure you’ll love it,” I urged.
Phil had thrown me a skeptical look. “What’s this pineapple-avocado salsa the hake is served on? Is it spicy?”
“Not spicy,” I answered. “But sunny and happy. The perfect antidote to a foggy, icy evening.” I’d grinned like an idiot, hoping for a smile back. No dice.
“What else does it come with?”
“Rice and broccoli.” Which is printed clearly on the menu you’re staring at. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry Caswell wave to get my attention.
“Hrrumpf,” Phil responded “I’ll leave you to make your decision.”
As I left the Bennetts and crossed the dining room toward the Caswells, ready to take their order, a man had entered the front room. He was alone and without a reservation, which hardly mattered given the empty state of the restaurant. When I’d offered him a table he said, “I’ll sit at the bar, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 4
The buzzing of my cell phone woke me up. Four short hours of sleep had taken its toll, and I’d dozed off sitting upright in my mother’s chilly kitchen.
“Julia? Jerry Binder. I understand you found our body.”
Lieutenant Jerry Binder of the state police Major Crimes Unit in Augusta. Suddenly, I was wide awake. “Not exactly.”
“We’re over at Gus’s,” he said. “I need you to come by and walk me through this.”
“On my way.”
When I got back to the restaurant Gus’s pickup was still in the parking area, and Dr. Simpson’s little SUV, a crime scene tech van, and the State Medical Examiner’s official car were parked on the street. Chris pulled up in his cab before I reached the front door.
Officer Howland waved us inside.
“Julia, Mr. Durand, come on in.” Binder met us at the bottom of the stairs. He had warm brown eyes, a ski-slope nose, and a fringe of brown hair surrounding his otherwise bald head. Tom Flynn, his second-in-command, was behind Gus’s counter, talking to someone who was inside the walk-in. No doubt its door had been open all morning as the ME and crime scene techs wandered in and out. We’d have to throw away everything that was in there. But I supposed we’d have had to anyway. As Jamie had said, the health department no doubt took a dim view of food that was stored with a corpse.
“Is he still . . . ?” I asked.
“No,” Binder answered. “Loaded in the medical examiner’s van and on his way to Augusta.”