They all shook their heads.
Everyone in the group knew Fran and Barry Walker, she of the giant pocketbook, he of the Bozo hair. Marley said Fran Walker worked as an aid at a nursing home. That surprised me, because she was more of an age to be cutting back, not taking on new responsibilities. She’d always worked alongside Barry at Walker’s Art Supplies and Frame Shop. I wondered if the nursing home was instead of or in addition to her responsibilities at the store.
“I hear their daughter’s back in town,” someone said. Quinn Walker had been one of Livvie’s and my favorite babysitters when we were young.
“She’s divorced,” Marley informed us. One certainly could stay on top of things working at the only market on the peninsula. “She and her kids are living with Barry and Fran.”
“How old are those kids now?” Livvie asked. Quinn had a boy and a girl.
“Middle school.”
The moms in the group sighed, an acknowledgment of the challenges of living with adolescents. Maybe that was the reason Fran had looked so exhausted the night before.
Nobody knew much about the Smiths, which didn’t surprise me. They had bought the Fogged Inn, a B&B at the edge of Main Street, just as you entered town. Experienced residents knew not to invest too much friendship in new B&B owners. They came to town full of romantic dreams, but as I knew from a lifetime of observing Fee and Vee at the Snuggles, inns were an enormous amount of work. In Maine, the average B&B proprietor lasted less than two years, so new owners had to prove they were in it for the long haul before the locals put any work into getting to know them. Somebody in the group said her cousin’s ex-husband’s sister had done chamber work for the Smiths over the summer and reported they were “weird.” I took that as the usual Busman’s assessment of outsiders in the early going.
The evening wore on and the conversation drifted to other topics. I applied myself to my knitting project, allegedly a pair of socks for Chris, though I’d dropped so many stitches on the first one it looked more like I was knitting a small, gray funnel cloud.
Chapter 9
I awoke in the morning to the sound of Gus stomping up the stairs to my apartment. When I returned from the Sit’n’Knit, I’d found my refrigerator filled with eggs, bacon, and milk. Gus had taken advantage of my offer.
I snuggled deep under the covers and played possum. I thought it would be less embarrassing both for Gus and me. Chris stirred beside me. He’d arrived at midnight after his poker game broke up. He didn’t always drive down the peninsula after his game. Often he slept at his cabin. But he must have known I’d be uneasy in the apartment by myself.
I hated that uneasiness but couldn’t deny it. The studio had felt like home from the moment I’d come up the stairs with Gus six weeks earlier. I hated and resented this person, whomever he was, who’d murdered a man and taken that from me.
Gus tramped back down the stairs, and I edged closer to Chris’s body heat. The big window in the west-facing dormer framed a black sky, unbroken by even the slight hint of sunlight. It was tempting to stay in bed, but I knew Gus would be mobbed with people curious about the events of the day before and he’d be back upstairs soon for more supplies. I put my feet on the cold, rough floorboards and headed for the bathroom. By the time I got out, Chris was up. As soon as we were dressed, we climbed down the stairs into the restaurant.
As I’d expected, every table, booth, and counter stool was occupied. People milled in the entrance area, waiting for a spot to open up. Chris spoke to Gus, then went back up the apartment stairs to get more food. I picked up a full carafe of coffee, put another one on to brew, and walked through the front room and the dining room refilling mugs.
The talk of the town was the dead man and the possible reasons for his death. The news about the injection site hadn’t got out, so the speculation was wild. Aside from the usual suspects—heart attack, stroke, drug overdose—there was talk about cyanide, ricin, and terrorist attacks. The speculation about the victim’s identity was even wilder and ran from a wanted fugitive to “Joan’s brother’s wife’s cousin.” In a small town, some people would never admit there was a human on earth they couldn’t find a personal connection to.
I tried to keep my head low and keep moving, but it was inevitable people would ask me questions.
“Didja have a hostage situation here in the restaurant when I came calling yesterday morning, darlin’?” Bard Ramsey’s voice boomed across the dining room, quieting conversation at the tables around him. “Because that’s what I had to figure when you wouldn’t let me and the boys in for breakfast.”
“Nothing like that,” I responded.