Now that feeling of home had gone, replaced by a creeping unease that tensed the back of my neck and pinched my shoulders. What if, as Chris had suggested, the stranger or his killer had hidden in my apartment while our guests dined and Chris and I worked downstairs? Had the murderer or victim sat on my couch, touched my stuff?
And then there’d been the cops this morning. They had searched the place too. I’d given them permission to do so when I signed the release. I shivered as I gazed at the rumpled bed. At least nothing embarrassing had been left out. But I wondered, had they been in my bathroom? Had they opened my drawers? They must have.
I went into the kitchen nook, preparing to clean out the refrigerator for Gus as I’d promised. The warehouse attic had been converted to living space during World War II. Gus and his family had moved out in the late 1950s, and nothing had been done to it since. The appliances were tiny and ancient. The freezer was a small metal box inside the refrigerator. If left unattended too long, it had to be defrosted with the hammer and chisel Gus kept in a toolbox behind the lunch counter in the restaurant.
As I’d remembered, there wasn’t much in the old refrigerator. Chris and I had spent most of the previous weekend at my mom’s, enjoying Thanksgiving with my family and our guests. Even without the holiday, it was hard to get motivated to buy food and cook with a restaurant right downstairs. I threw out some expired cartons of yogurt, the remains of a sub, and a few wilted stalks of celery. When I was done, I took the plastic bag out of the kitchen barrel, planning to take the garbage to the Dumpster behind the restaurant.
Gus didn’t need to reopen right away for financial reasons. Unlike the Snowden Family Clambake, Gus’s restaurant was on a secure footing. His house was paid for, his middle-aged children were prosperous, and Gus was the tightest of tightwads. I had to imagine that he and Mrs. Gus were pretty comfortable. But if he wasn’t running the restaurant, I didn’t think Gus would have the slightest idea what to do with himself.
But then, I was the pot getting all judgy about the kettle. When Chris and I had agreed to serve dinner at Gus’s place, I’d assumed we’d do it seven days a week. After all, that’s what Gus did. And that’s what my family did at the Snowden Family Clambake during the tourist season.
But Chris had balked. “Julia, what part of ‘off season’ don’t you get? This is when we spend time with friends, enjoy our hobbies, and take an occasional nap. That’s why we work like dogs during high season.”
As far as I knew, we worked like dogs during the high season to make money to survive the long winter and cold spring, but point taken. I’d always had workaholic tendencies. Long weekends away at boarding school without much to do except schoolwork, the pressure of business school, the crazy hours and relentless travel of my venture capital job had all reinforced my habits. But I had to admit, most of my workaholism came from inside me. I could have snuck off campus like my friends did at prep school, had more fun during college, and taken time during my work-related travel to do a little sightseeing, but that wasn’t me. Maybe I wasn’t that different from Gus.
“Besides,” Chris had continued. “If we work seven days, when will I finish my house? When will I get my deer?”
That took me aback and made me reflect once again on the new life I was living. Throughout my sporadic dating life and short-lived relationships in Manhattan, I couldn’t recall a single man telling me he needed time to bag his deer.
So we’d agreed. We would close Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Chris had returned to his life, his friends, and his off-season routine. I had nothing to return to.
I grabbed the trash bag, gave Le Roi a rub behind the ears, and headed for the stairs.
Chapter 6
Just as the Dumpster lid slammed, I heard male voices. I recognized Binder’s baritone instantly, followed by Jamie’s familiar cadence.
“Do you think . . . gone into the water?” Binder asked, though I couldn’t make out the middle part.
I couldn’t hear Jamie’s answer either, but it sounded affirmative. I spotted them walking along the high bank of the back harbor. Jamie pointed into the water and said something I didn’t catch. The deep, briny smell told me it was low tide. They’d be looking at exposed rock and even some of the harbor bottom. They were trailed by a scowling Sergeant Flynn, who stared into the water, hands in his coat pockets, saying nothing.
As I walked toward the three of them to see what they were up to, Binder caught sight of me. “Julia!” He said something to Jamie, who nodded and walked off in the opposite direction. “Let’s continue our interview.”
“Chris isn’t here,” I called back to him. He and Flynn were at the edge of the parking lot by then.