In the hallway hung another list of prohibitions. GAME ROOM CLOSES AT 9:00. NO NOISE AFTER 10:00. BREAKFAST SERVED PROMPTLY AT 8:00, NO EXCEPTIONS. NO WIFI, NO TV, NO FOOD SERVED AFTER BREAKFAST. Well, that would certainly make you feel at home.
“Sit down. You’ll have some tea,” Sheila Smith said, leaving no room for argument. “Michael, get us some tea. And cookies. The shortbreads. From the tin by the stove.” She pointed me toward one of the deep, mahogany-trimmed chairs and settled herself in the other. She wasn’t as attractive as her husband. Her mousy gray hair was worn in an old-fashioned pageboy. She was thin, even a little frail looking. I wondered if she was older than her handsome spouse.
“So, how long have you run the restaurant?” she asked. “Is the hunky chef your husband?”
I shrank from the questions, especially since to the extent I’d envisioned the conversation, I was the one doing the asking. Figuring it was better to give a little to get a little, I answered. “Five weeks. Chris is my boyfriend.”
“How long have you been together? Do you live together? How did you meet?”
“Since the summer. Not officially. We actually met when I was in seventh grade and he was a junior in high school, but I hadn’t seen him for years until I moved back to town last March.” I recited my answer with a “Just the facts, ma’am” delivery, hoping she’d get the hint and move off my personal life. Ironic, I understood, because I was there to probe into hers.
She leaned in confidentially, though she didn’t lower her voice. “So hard to work with loved ones, isn’t it?”
Michael Smith chose that moment to enter with the tea things. It was awkward timing but saved me having to answer. Sheila fixed me a cup and handed it to me. She’d evidently decided I took cream, no sugar. She did the same for Michael and finally for herself. Then she passed the shortbreads in my direction. In the interests of appearing cooperative, I took one.
“We order these from Scotland,” she said. “So expensive. That cookie you’re eating costs more than a dollar. So enjoy it.” She put the plate back down without taking a cookie or offering one to Michael.
It was too late to put it back, so I did as she commanded. “Delicious,” I said, which it was. Though I would have said so regardless of how it tasted. Then I seized the initiative, figuring maybe that way I could change the dynamic of the conversation. “How long have you run the inn?”
“Oh my,” Sheila answered. “We bought it last fall, but it had to undergo extensive renovations. We opened over Memorial Day weekend.”
I tried to picture the house in earlier times. I had a vague memory of flaking white paint and sagging porches. The inn was right at the entrance to our little downtown, which should have been a great location, but over the years it had a For Sale sign on its small front lawn more often than not. Owners died, went broke, or gave up the business. It was one of those places that never seemed to take hold. In earlier times, people might have said it was cursed.
In June, I’d visited every hotel, motel, and B&B in the harbor, passing out Snowden Family Clambake brochures for them to give to guests, but somehow I had missed the Fogged Inn. I was surprised I hadn’t heard it had reopened, the harbor grapevine being what it was.
Of course, I said none of this to the Smiths. Instead, I asked, “What brought you to Busman’s Harbor?”
“Michael has always wanted to run a bed-and-breakfast—to live in a big sea captain’s home overlooking a harbor. So when we retired and this inn came on the market, he thought it was our destiny to own it. We sold our place in Westchester County outside New York City and, well, here we are. It’s been challenging, let me tell you. A constant struggle. The traveling public isn’t what it used to be. But we are living his dream. Our dream,” she corrected.
Michael cleared his throat. “I think you had some questions for us about the man who died?” It was the first time he’d spoken since Mrs. Smith had joined us.
“Yes, thank you. Did you speak to him that night? Do you have any ideas who he might have been?”
“The poor man,” Michael murmured.
“No idea,” Sheila said breezily. “None at all. Didn’t talk to him.”
“Did you happen to notice what time he left?”
“Absolutely not,” Sheila answered for both of them. “We told the state police all this.”
I continued, undeterred. “You paid for your meal with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“Came in the mail,” Michael answered. “Introductory offer, it said. I’d cooked us Thanksgiving dinner. It was just the two of us. We’d been living off turkey in one form or another for days. A meal out sounded like just the thing, even though the roads were treacherous. We didn’t have to go far.”
It was true. Though the Fogged Inn was on the other side of Main and Main, it was only a mile and a half or so from Gus’s restaurant.
“Do you still have the envelope the gift certificate came in?”