The Clam Bake Murder: A Windward Bay Mystery (2 page)

“You look...”

“A million bucks? Almost human? Animal, vegetable or mineral?”

“You look
amazing
!”
I couldn’t stop staring. Computer programs had all sorts of sophisticated facial recognition software, allowing you to instantly find one photo out of a million with the face you were looking for. But I could have sworn, right then, that the face I was looking at would not have jived with Cousin Alice’s face from a decade ago, not with any
software. It was spooky, how much she’d changed. It was also difficult to discern exactly
how
she’d changed, a specific feature or characteristic you could point to and say,
I see you’ve had some work done there.
The transformation was more subtle than that, and more puzzling, almost as if she’d changed from the inside out, in ways only known to the humors within her.

“Thanks, doll. It’s good to be back. Way too many Cache memories swirling around, but it’s all good. Anything new with you?”

I told her about the Cut Rounds and my previous thwarted attempts to dazzle the higher-ups in Ainscough’s. She had to decline a sample, though, because her New Year’s resolution had been to cut all sugar out of her diet.

“Gordo kind of insisted,” she said with an attempt at wistfulness so fake it made me cringe for her. “And I was getting a bit hefty. He said his clients were starting to notice.”

And there it was—the puzzle of her changed appearance solved, at least in part. Alice had lost a frightening amount of weight, but you couldn’t really tell how much just by looking at her figure, which had always been petite. No, it had sharpened her facial features instead, so much so that her beauty took my breath away. And not only mine. The number of gazes she attracted in the first five minutes of our chat would have been enough to sell tickets.

“Well, I’d say his clients won’t be able to help but notice you now,” I replied.

That seemed to cheer her up a little, but only for a moment. “Their wives are always so...glamorous. Gordo’s been patient with me, though. You should see the stuff he buys me—top of the range, always the best. He’s there at every fitting, chooses most of it himself. I feel like his own personal runway model sometimes. And when he’s pleased, he sure knows how to show it.”

Yes, and when he’s displeased, I bet he knows how to show that, too.

“He’s been good to me, Syl. He really has. I just hope his deal goes through this time. He’s got everything riding on it.”

“Oh? What deal is that?”

She scrunched her face into a dotty frown. “Did I say something I shouldn’t have? I get confused sometimes.” Her hands started to shake, so I held them like I had when we’d been kids, when we’d been best friends and could tell each other anything. “Mmm, something smells good,” she said, pulling away. “Maybe the clams are ready. Should we go see?”

“Yes, let’s.”

“And you really like my new look?”

“Absolutely. Just make sure you don’t run into any of your old boyfriends, or you’ll be spending the next week fighting them off.”

She stretched the end of her wrap so that it covered both of us while we walked. “Sylvia, you’ll always be the sweetest person I know. I mean it. Don’t let anyone change you. Stay just the way you are. Promise me you’ll stay sweet, and I’ll promise to try one of your cakes.”

“I’ll change my name to Mary Poppins if I can shift a few of those babies,” I said pathetically.

“I hope everything works out for you,” she said. “Cousin Sylvia. You deserve it.”

“Thanks. And for you, Cuz. Now, about those clams.” I tried my best to steer the conversation away from Maudlinsville—it was frankly freaking me out, Alice being this sentimental—but whatever shadow had come over her was not going to be shrugged off by light banter alone. I was certain Gordo was at the back of it. That controlling POS had done a number on my cousin, had all but squeezed the light out of her, but I wasn’t about to give up just yet.

“Please don’t tell Gordo I mentioned his deal,” she pleaded. “He might not like it.”

I zipped my mouth shut, locked it and dropped the key down the front of my dress. She laughed at that, and we headed for the smoldering bake. On the way, I bought us an appletini each. We both downed it in one go, so she bought us another round. After devouring the clams and corn, and a Cut Round apiece—which she declared a triumph of evil genius—we went back for more appletinis, and more...and more.

By the time The Cache reached full capacity, with pretty much the entire town joining in, Alice and I had appled more ’tinis (or ’tini’d more apples) than we could handle. And bit by bit, the old Cousin Alice began to emerge, in ways the Cache knew well. First she kicked off her sandals, then tossed her wrap. Next, her inhibitions...

Trouble soon followed.

His name was Ray Moreno. Three years older than Alice, he’d been one of her first and proudest conquests back when she’d graduated from stringing along high school jocks to seducing men who “worked with their hands”—that was how she put it; something in that combination of strength, knowhow, and manly grime turned her on big time. And Ray, who mended boats in his grandpa’s workshop over at the Duke’s Ferry slipway, had supplied all three, plus uncommonly hunky good looks, with no questions asked. He and Alice had been the talk of Windward for a while, but had almost never been seen together away from the Cache. I’d never found out why they split, but Ray had by all accounts gone completely off the rails because of it. He’d driven to Bangor one night, and by the time he got back, a couple of months or so later, he’d gotten two separate girls pregnant, racked up a casino debt that would give Danny Ocean an ulcer, and dyed his hair peroxide blond. Not bad for one break-up.

But Alice always had been a heartbreaker.

Ray approached us with a grave, almost defiant look on his face, as though he was in the mood to prove something. He’d grown a full beard since the last time I’d seen him, and it suited him. “Hey, Sylvia.”

Taken by surprise that he’d addressed me and not Alice, I slurred something like “Heyeeyaself, Ray-Ray man.” Whatever it was, it elicited a belly laugh from my cousin, who promptly ran over and draped herself over poor Ray. She French kissed him, and when he pulled her off, she laughed so hard she had to double up, clutching her ribs. Her legs collapsed from under her. Curled up on the sand, kicking out to prolong the mirth, she looked ridiculous. I’d never ever seen her like that.

But Ray was far from impressed. “You two might wanna ease up on the suds.” He’d probably never even heard of an appletini. “There are families here,” he added. “Set an example.”

“Sorry, Ray,” I said. “We midn’t dean to...didn’t mean to get so loaded. It just happened.”

“Walk her home, Sylvia.”

But Alice was on her feet again by this time, and the mirth had run its course. “Why don’t
you
walk m’ home, Ray Moreno? Wha’s th’matter? Don’t thin’ y’ can handle m’ enmore, hmm? Win’ward made y’soft?”

“Shut up, Alice. You’re shit-faced. You’re talking shit.”

“
Don’t
tell me what to do. Not the likes of you. I drop dollars in paper cups for th’likes you.”

“Man, you always were a bitch. A spoiled, cast-iron—”

A vicious fist met the bridge of Ray’s nose before he could finish, and just like that, Gordo McNair was all over him, flinging everything he had with psychotic fury. The two of them wrestled on the sand. But Ray had a huge advantage in both strength and brawling experience. He landed several hard blows for everyone one of Gordo’s, and it was getting serious fast. If Deputy Langdale and a few volunteers from the nearby crowd of spectators hadn’t pulled them apart, I’m pretty sure Gordo’s clients would have had a lot more to talk about than his wife’s figure for the next few months. Dude was a mess.

Alice watched on with a blank, glazed expression. She was neither sorry nor amused for having started the trouble. Instead, her lips were pursed into a thin, white line I couldn’t help thinking was being held in place by pure, old-fashioned satisfaction. Her controlling husband and the ex who still hated her guts after all these years: had a part of her
wanted
this fight to take place? Had she, through the heady bubbles of several appletinis,
orchestrated
it somehow?

Both men refused to go to the hospital. And after Deputy Cherry Coke—I mean Langdale—had given them a major league tongue-lashing at his car, he told them to go home at once and cool off. One of Ray’s friends offered to drive him home, while the deputy gave Gordo and Alice a ride back to her dad’s old place at the south end of the bay, where they were staying. Uncle Sean had passed away a few years back, but he’d left Alice the house and his two fishing boats, one of which was a neat little rowboat I’d often taken out with his permission. Thanks to Alice, I still had that permission. And it would give me the perfect excuse to call on her the next day, to find out...well, just what the hell was really going on with her.

So ended my clam bake reunion with Cousin Alice. And my latest attempt at culinary domination. The Cut Rounds had all sold out; Desi Pastorelli had done a roaring trade out there in his van on the beach, prompting Gabe to approach Bronwyn’s about possibly buying a batch.

But the bad news?

Bronwyn’s had already started selling them! Somehow, someone—a someone with unmitigated gall—had not only stolen my idea and my recipe, they’d also sold two whole batches to the cafe. And to make matters even worse, Ainscough’s Hub Bakery in Portland was considering opting said recipe for their esteemed franchise menu...

...with no mention of me whatsoever!

Chapter Two

Ohmygod those cut rounds ohmygod!!! Plz promise ul hav more 4 next time. Barbara D. Xxxx

Bravo on the cut rounds. I think I saw them on a TV show about old England. They’re every bit as delicious as they looked.

Bronwyn, please give me the recipe for your cut round cakes! I’ll give you a DVD player + Steven Seagal Box-set if you’ll let me have it. Thanks! Jane Fawcett

Thank god u got rid of those egg custerds. That shef shud die. Luv the cut rounds tho. Keep the new shef. Peace. K

The following day, Gabe let me go home early from the bakery. I still had a bit of a sore head after all those appletinis, and the news about the stolen recipe had puzzled him. He couldn’t apologize enough. Either one of his own employees, whom he’d trusted implicitly, had betrayed us, or an outsider had sneaked into the back of the bakery unseen, during business hours, and rifled through my recipe folder. Though I couldn’t for the life of me remember bringing the recipe into work—I’d done all my experimenting at home—Gabe remembered seeing it in the folder.

Personally, I was convinced it had to be an inside job, and for a simple reason. No one, no matter how psychic, would think to sneak into a bakery and steal a recipe for a cake that hadn’t even been tasted yet. Unless the baking smell had some alchemic property I wasn’t aware of, rendering passers-by helpless to find out its secret. No, either Desi Pastorelli or Peter Sinclair had done the dirty on me, and I was determined to find out which.

I gave Alice a ring from home, to ask if I could come round, but there was no reply. So I watched a couple of episodes of The Good Wife on DVD—my friend Charlene Clarke had lent me Season One, and I’d quickly become addicted. I was almost ready for Season Two.

Manuka had a bit of a limp, and kept licking his sore paw. I assumed he’d gotten into a fight with another cat, which wasn’t uncommon; he fancied himself as the cock of the block, and often invaded neighboring feline territories in an effort to prove his dominance. There were a couple of dried drops of blood on the kitchen linoleum. I didn’t know how long they’d been there. “Aww, come here, my little tough guy.” I applied some Manuka honey, his namesake, onto his paw and gently rubbed it into the wound he’d already licked clean. He struggled, but I knew it would be worth it.

As a tiny kitten, he’d sneaked out of his first owner’s house one morning to go exploring in the garden next door. His little brother had gone with him. But, unbeknownst to the intrepid furballs, a bad-tempered Alsatian lived there, and his bite was worse than his bark. He chased the two brothers into a corner and started to maul them. Only a timely intervention from the dog’s owner had saved their lives, but they were both badly injured. It was touch and go whether they’d ever fully recover.

Luckily, the kittens’ owner, an elderly woman named Cecile, dabbled in holistic medicine. As soon as she saw the wounds, she fetched the Manuka honey, famed in New Zealand for its antibacterial and antiseptic properties. She applied it judiciously, then called for the vet. One of the brothers became feverish, lost an eye and part of his tail, and never ventured far from the house again. He later became Cecile’s favorite lap cat. The other healed so quickly and completely it astounded the vet. When I saw the ad online—Cecile was selling most of the litter—there was a picture of the fully-healed brother licking his injured sibling while all the others looked on, and I knew right then, I had to bring him home. And when Cecile told me the full story, I immediately named him Manuka.

Since then, he’d never been sick a day in his life. Miracle stuff, that honey.

At around four-thirty, shortly after I’d Manuka’d Manuka’s sore paw, the doorbell rang. I clocked the jeep belonging to the Chief of Police outside, and assumed this had something to do with the beach brawl yesterday.

“Afternoon, Chief Mattson, Deputy Kramer. What brings you—”

“Sylvia, do you mind if we come inside for a minute?” Mattson had always been easy to get on with, had a silly, almost juvenile sense of humor at times, but when he meant business—boy, he meant business. This was one of those times. And he’d brought a storm cloud with him. Jerry-Lee Kramer, ambitious and career-minded, had a permanent scowl on his face as I invited them both in. He reeked of Olbas oil, and produced his handkerchief at least once a minute the whole time he stayed, either to cough, sneeze, or blow his nose.