“I did. It was a home invasion or something, right?”
“Right. He was building a house up here, just about a mile up the road.” He pointed north with one of his large, meaty hands. “They stay here—stayed here—all the time.”
“Oh, my God. You knew him?”
“I knew him really well, and Miranda, his wife, she practically lived here the past year.”
“She did live here,” said the bartender, breaking his silence. “She was down here for dinner more nights than she wasn’t.”
“Has Sidney heard yet?” John asked the bartender, and I noticed that two young women down the bar had stopped talking to each other and were now paying attention to our conversation.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure she has. It’s gone all over town.”
“Is the house finished?” I asked, wanting to keep myself in the conversation.
“No, not yet,” John said. “If you walk to the end of the cliff walk you can look at it. It was going to be huge. Little bit of an eyesore, I thought, but don’t quote me on that.”
“What do you think will happen to it?”
“No idea, really. For all I know, Miranda will finish it and move up here.”
“Oh, she’ll definitely move up here.” This was from one of the two women eavesdropping. They were both in their twenties, one in a sweatshirt from UNH, and one in a windbreaker and a Patriots cap. The woman who spoke, the one in the sweatshirt, already had a raspy voice, as if she’d been smoking for all her young life.
“You think so?” John asked.
“Yeah, I mean she practically lived up here anyways, and she was always talking about how much she loved it, and how awesome the house was going to be, and on and on. She’s from Maine, you know. Orono. I mean, maybe she won’t want to move into such a big house now that her husband’s dead, but I just wouldn’t be surprised if she came up here. She can live anywhere with her money.”
“Why was she up here all the time if the house wasn’t finished yet?” I asked.
John answered. “She was supervising. She said she practically designed the place. Her husband used to come up weekends. We all knew him really well.”
“What was he like?”
“What was he like? He was nice but a little distant, I guess. Everyone felt like they got to know Miranda really well, and Ted not so much. Maybe just because she was here so much.”
“Also, Miranda always bought drinks for the bar and Ted never did.” This was from the woman with the Patriots cap, and as soon as she said it, her face went pale as she remembered that Ted had been murdered. She covered her mouth and said, “Not that . . .” and trailed off.
“Were they rich?” I asked.
Everyone in our little knitting circle of gossip immediately reacted—the two women each saying “Oh yeah” in unison, John exhaling loudly, and the bartender nodding his head in one slow, exaggerated motion.
“Filthy,” John said. “You should walk down the cliff walk tomorrow and see the house. You won’t be able to miss it. It’s got something like ten bedrooms. I’m not exaggerating.”
The solo guitar player broke into “Moonlight Mile” by the Stones, and my new friends talked about how rich Ted and Miranda Severson were. The woman in the hooded sweatshirt used the word “gazillionaire,” while John said they were “very well off.” I went to use the restroom, and when I came back the two women were putting coasters on the necks of their Bud Light Limes to go out and smoke cigarettes, and John had bought me a new beer.
“Since we’re gossiping,” I said, sliding back onto my stool, “it seems strange that she spent so much time here at a hotel without her husband. You don’t think she was seeing anyone?”
John stroked one side of his handlebar mustache. “I don’t think so. She always seemed thrilled when Ted came up.” A slight chilliness had entered John’s voice, as though I’d possibly asked one too many questions.
“Just wondering,” I said. “It’s so sad.”