Sonny drew himself up to his full height, six foot two of bull-necked, barrel-chested, redheaded man. “You should pay a premium for a small number, delivered direct, by an injured man.”
Chris put his hands on his hips and also stood tall, matching Sonny in height if not in weight. “You should give me a discount. You’re married to Julia’s sister.”
Sonny shot me a look like I was the root of all his troubles. “Five dollars a pound. Done.”
“Done.”
Honestly, why did they have to go through this routine every single time? It had to be a guy thing.
Sonny left. Chris already had a big pot of water on to boil. “What are those going to be?” I asked.
“Your family’s recipe for corn and lobster chowder.”
“Yum.”
“Do we have any reservations for tonight?”
“Just two,” I answered. “I can’t figure out if the commotion out there today will attract a bigger crowd or drive people away.”
“Great. At least we know what to prepare for.”
At four o’clock there was a sharp rap on the kitchen door. Livvie arrived with the desserts.
“Thanks.” I helped her carry in three chocolate-frosted chocolate cakes and a pan of creamy rice pudding.
“Gotta run,” she said. “Picking up Page at swim team.”
I went upstairs and changed, then made sure I had both the salad station and the bar set up so I could easily serve. Before I unlocked the door to the dining room, Chris handed me a steaming bowl of chowder. “Eat while you have the chance. Have you eaten at all today?”
I thought back over the day. I’d been served endless drinks—coffee, tea, hot chocolate—but hadn’t eaten a thing. “Not since breakfast.”
He passed me a chunk of crusty bread and said again, “Eat.”
I dipped the spoon into the soup. It was Grandmother Snowden’s Depression-era recipe, meant to stretch plentiful and inexpensive lobster meat as far as it would go. Chris made it now as a hearty dish with big chunks of lobster. The lobster meat, corn, onions, and cream combined to create a sweet and savory delight.
“Wait,” Chris said, and garnished it with crunchy corn nuts.
“Man, this is good.”
Chris flashed his handsome, full-faced smile, proud of his work. “Push it tonight. We’ve got lots.”
It turned out we were flooded with customers. People sat at nearly every table and the bar was full. Even nights when we’d had plenty of time to prep, we weren’t staffed for this number of people. I ran my legs off, which in some ways was good, because I had a plausible excuse for not lingering when people asked questions about either the body in the walk-in or the body in the harbor, or both.
I was surprised to see both Deborah and Phil Bennett and Barry and Fran Walker. Though it seemed like weeks, they’d just been in the restaurant three nights before. I was grateful Chris changed the menu daily. Fran and Barry were on their first course when Deborah and Phil wandered in.
“I couldn’t face cooking tonight.” Deborah was friendly as always. Phil trailed behind her, wearing his usual look of mild annoyance at the inevitable shortcomings of others. They didn’t stop to say hello to the Walkers, whose own local friends stopped by their table all evening. Barry regaled them with the story of the stranger at our bar. “Didn’t talk to any of us. Didn’t say anything. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard he’d been murdered.”
Binder and Flynn came in and sat at the bar when we were at the peak of business. “You’re back.” I pushed bottles of Sam Adams over to them, along with a couple of menus.
“We came to show the world we weren’t afraid to eat here,” Binder said. “We thought you might have a problem due to the recent unpleasantness.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “Evidently not.”
“People are ghouls,” Flynn said.
“I don’t think so,” I responded. “They just need a place to digest the latest news.”
When I delivered their chowder, Binder leaned toward me. “Julia, we’ve been back in town less than an hour and we’ve had another complaint about you barging around asking uncomfortable questions.”
Phil Bennett. I’d been so busy, I hadn’t seen him approach the detectives. “That wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “Deborah Bennett waylaid me out on their road.”
Binder looked genuinely confused. “Julia, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Phil Bennett, and I’m telling you I haven’t been bothering his wife.”
“It wasn’t Bennett who complained.” Who then? Barry Walker? “It was Michael Smith.”
“Michael Smith? He isn’t even in the restaurant.”
“We ran into him on the walk outside.” Binder paused so that could sink in. “And what were you doing out by the Bennetts’ house anyway?”