CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On the walk back from Fenwick’s house, I stopped at the police station. “Are the detectives in?” I asked the civilian receptionist.
“I’ll see if Lieutenant Binder or Sergeant Flynn is available.”
“Thank you.”
She punched three numbers into the phone on her desk, announced me, and then listened. “I’ll send her right in.” She pursed her lips in a tight look of disapproval. I’d never understood why she objected to my relationship with the detectives, but she certainly did.
“Julia. Come in.” Lieutenant Jerry Binder stood as I came through the door. Sergeant Flynn acknowledged me but didn’t turn from whatever he was doing on his computer. “We’ve got your statement here,” Binder said. “Can you review it and sign it?”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Binder smiled. “We knew you’d turn up eventually.”
I read the statement. It was pretty straightforward. I’d arrived at the scene after the crime had been committed. I didn’t have a lot I could add. Binder handed me a pen and I signed with a flourish. “Any progress?” I asked.
Finally, Flynn looked up from his laptop. He’d always been less open to my help with their cases than Binder, but when I got him on his own, outside the context of an investigation, we’d made halting steps toward real friendship. He grunted and looked at Binder, knowing his partner would be the soft touch in this situation.
“In a minute,” Binder responded. “What information do you bring?”
That was the arrangement. They didn’t just give information. They expected to get some.
“You will have heard that Phinney and Zoey had a loud disagreement at a town meeting,” I said.
They both nodded. “From multiple sources,” Binder confirmed.
“There was someone else who fought with Phinney that night. Karl Kimbel. He’s a developer and landlord in town and a vocal backer of the pedestrian mall. He has big plans for the town. He and Phinney might have gone on battling each other for years.”
Flynn closed the laptop and turned toward me, giving me his full attention. “You’re suggesting this as a motive for murder.”
“If the fight over the pedestrian mall is a motive for Zoey to kill Phinney, it would logically be a motive for someone else.”
“You mean leaving aside the fact that Mr. Hardison was killed in Ms. Butterfield’s basement,” Flynn said.
“Their shared basement,” I corrected. “I don’t see what that proves.”
“And leaving aside the fact that Mr. Hardison was killed with the lethally sharp wire that potters use to cut pots off the wheel.” Flynn was relentless, but this was new information.
“The medical examiner’s report has come in,” I guessed.
Binder nodded. “Yes. There is no doubt about the weapon. Our people have linked it to the wire found in the Lupine Design studio.”
“But you haven’t found the actual length that was used in the murder?”
“Not yet,” Binder answered. “It could have been dumped in the woods somewhere or in the ocean.”
“Do you have any indication Zoey left the building between the time of the murder and the time the body was discovered?” I asked.
“Not so far.” Flynn clearly wasn’t happy about that answer.
“The killer took that wire from the pottery studio on the first floor down to the basement,” Binder added.
“Proving premeditation,” Flynn explained, in case I wasn’t getting it. “This wasn’t an act of self-defense or something that happened in the moment. It was planned.”
Great. Intentional murder. But the situation still didn’t add up. “Have you figured out what Phinney was doing in the basement?” I said. “He must have let the murderer in. Which means whoever it was probably called and asked to meet him.”
Flynn picked a pen up off his desk. He stared at it as he took the top off and put it back on. Multiple times. He seemed very invested.
Binder ignored him. “We have Hardison’s phone. It was in the basement with him. There were no calls in or out. In weeks. Verizon verifies there were no calls to the home or business numbers, either.”
“Then how the heck did he end up at his store in the middle of the night?” It was hard to imagine.
“An interesting question.” Binder stood, pulling his sports coat off the back of his chair. “You’ll have to excuse us. We have a meeting with a witness out of the office.”
“What witness?” It couldn’t hurt to ask.
Binder laughed. “Nice try, Julia. I’m sure we’ll see you soon.”
* * *
On the way back to Mom’s, I spotted Zoey sitting on the porch at the Snuggles. I crossed the street to say hello. “How are you doing?”
Zoey looked up from her phone. “Fine, I guess. The truth is, I’m not used to having spare time. I haven’t had a vacation . . .” She stopped, her brow wrinkled. “I can’t remember ever having a vacation. I worked every minute when I was in school, and then I dove into learning the pottery business.”
“I get it.” This winter had been the first time I’d had any spare time in years. I hadn’t gotten particularly skilled at filling it, either. “Do you want to go to Gus’s for lunch?”
A broad smile lit up her pretty face. “Gus’s? I’ve never had the nerve to go in there. I would love to.”
Gus was busy cleaning the grill when we came through the back door. I figured as a former tenant I still had the right. He gave me a curt nod, then brought his eyebrows together in a frown when he spotted Zoey behind me. I ignored him and led her to the best booth with the best view in the nearly empty dining room. There was only one table occupied by a couple of snowbirds, back already from points south, who I recognized but didn’t know. We had missed the lunch rush.
Despite the empty restaurant, Gus took his time getting to us, which was good because it gave me time to explain the deal to Zoey. Gus’s unchanging ten lunch items were listed on a corrugated sign with moveable letters that had never been moved. There were menus somewhere but no one who had been to the restaurant more than once ever asked for one. Hesitating when Gus came to take your order would bring a frown or worse, a bark. “Don’t have all day.”
Though Zoey had been in town for three years, I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t been to Gus’s. Strangely, perhaps even uniquely for a restaurateur, Gus only served people he knew, or people who arrived with people he knew. Though Zoey didn’t seem the type to be intimidated, she was probably right to steer clear of Gus’s, especially given her fraught relationship with his buddy Phinney.
“First time here, go with the burger, the BLT, or the grilled cheese,” I counseled. “And definitely, definitely get the fries.”
“I’m game,” Zoey said.
Gus finally arrived with his stubby pencil and an order pad. “Twice in one day,” he said to me. “To what do we owe this great honor?”
“I was here this morning,” I explained to Zoey. To Gus I said pointedly, “Zoey’s never been to your delightful establishment. After three years in town, full-time, fixing up her building and providing jobs”—I emphasized each of Zoey’s bona fides—“I thought she should enjoy your hospitality.”
Gus grunted and waggled his eyebrows. I shot him a look. You better behave.
Gus took our order. I went with the BLT, Zoey the grilled cheese. She was momentarily perplexed when he asked if we wanted tonic. I ordered a root beer so she could guess it was old-fashioned New England word for soda. Zoey got it and went with the root beer, too. All told, the ordering had gone off well, with only one death-ray stare from Gus at the tonic stumble.
“What kinds of pie do you have left?” At Gus’s you ordered your slice of the delicious pies Mrs. Gus made when you ordered your meal, otherwise you might miss out. I wasn’t optimistic about the selection this late in the day.
“I’ve got two slices of pecan with your names on them.” In the winter and spring when Mrs. Gus lacked fresh fruits, her pies ran to chocolate peanut butter, coconut cream, and the like. Pecan was a particular favorite of mine.
“We’ll take them.” I looked at Zoey. “You’ll see.”
She smiled sweetly, not at me but at Gus, working her way in. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“I had dinner at Crowley’s with Alice Rumford’s nephew last night,” I told her after Gus left us. I didn’t know why, in that moment, I was moved to confide in her.
Her eyebrows shot up. “The dishy one who was at the public hearing? Like a date?”
“ ‘Like a date’ is a good description. I still don’t know what it was, and I was there. Mostly, I think it was two adults, potential friends, having a companionable meal. I would like to count it as a date, because then it would be my first since the breakup and I could check that box and get it behind me.”
“Uh-huh.” Zoey was thoughtful. “Then count it.”
We joked about the pros and cons until Gus brought my meal. At Gus’s you get your food when it’s ready, regardless of what might be going on with the dishes for the rest of your party.
“Eat.” Zoey gestured for me to go ahead.
“Yours will be here soon,” I assured her.
“All the more reason.”
I bit into my sandwich, which did not disappoint.
“Tell me about your ex,” Zoey said.
I don’t know what it was about her, but for some reason the whole story came tumbling out. How I’d had the worst crush in the world on Chris when I was in middle school and he was the quarterback on the high school football team. How we had met again in this very restaurant, fallen in love, moved in together, and run a business. And then how it all unraveled. The secrets and . . . “They weren’t really lies, more the withholding, the hidden parts of his life. I couldn’t trust him so I broke it off. He moved out. Gus needed the apartment back so dot-dot-dot, I’m living with my mother.”
In the middle of the tale, Gus had finally showed up with Zoey’s food. She’d taken my word for it and put a couple of the best French fries in the world into her mouth. “I see what you mean,” she said when she’d swallowed the fries.
I laughed, “Salt, fat, carbs, crunch. What could be better?”
“Mmm-umm. Nothing in the world,” she agreed. “Do you regret it? Not the fries. The breakup.”
“Every other day.” I looked for the right words. “That’s not right. I regret that it didn’t turn out the way I hoped. I’m mourning something that was never going to be.” Just saying it made me feel ridiculous.
Zoey was sympathetic. “It seems to me like thirteen-year-old you fell for eighteen-year-old him. Then he turned out to be a whole lot more complicated than you thought. You’re probably a whole lot more complicated, too. So the question is, does the thirty-something you love the thirty-something him? Or is it just the idea of him?”
It was a good question. I had certainly believed that I loved him.
Gus picked up the plates and delivered the pie.
“Can I have a coffee?” I called to his back as he hurried away.
“Me, too,” Zoey said.
He made a sound that might have been a yes.
Zoey put a bite of Mrs. Gus’s pecan pie in her mouth. “Oh my goodness, this pie.” Her face softened as if she were consumed by bliss.
“Told you.”
“I was skeptical,” she admitted. “Usually pecan pie is cloyingly sweet. This is amazing. So nutty. And spicy. I’m glad I took your advice.”
“Real Maine maple syrup instead of corn syrup, lots of nuts and spices—cardamom for sure and some others. Mrs. Gus’s recipes are top secret,” I told her. “You’re welcome.”
Zoey took another forkful and our coffee arrived. “I’ve been seeing someone,” she confided.
“Really? Someone in town? Someone I know?” I was sure I possessed a complete inventory of the available men in our age group.
“Yes to here in town. I don’t know who you know.”
“Tell.”
“I can’t.” She flashed her big smile. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“By whom? The Secret Romance Society? I just spilled my guts to you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s too new to talk about. I will tell you this.” She leaned across the table. “I’m finding the secrecy adds a little somethin’-somethin’.”
“Really.” I spent more time trying to persuade her to tell me, with absolutely no results, while I finished the last of my pie. Then a movement in the front room of the restaurant caught my eye. “Geez, not again.”
“What?” Zoey turned her head and followed my gaze to where Chris stood at the lunch counter, shooting the breeze with Gus while he waited for his order. Gus didn’t believe in food to go. If you came to eat in his restaurant, you ate in his restaurant. But he and Chris had a special relationship. They looked out for each other while each one simultaneously thought it was his job to keep the other in line.
“Don’t look!” I said, too late.
“Your ex?” she asked.
“My ex. I ran into him yesterday. Twice.” I shrugged. “Small town.”
“I’ve never lived in a town with an ex.”
I stared at her. “Never?”
“Nope. Since I got out of school I’ve taken every breakup as a signal to move on.”
“Wow.”
“It sounds extreme, I know.” She looked down at her empty plate. “But it’s only helped me. Whenever a boyfriend and I would part ways, I’d do a general stocktaking. I’d always find I’d learned everything I could from the current job, or I was feeling creatively thwarted, or both. Time to move on. New town. New situation.”
A thought occurred to me. “What about this new guy? If it doesn’t work, will you leave Busman’s Harbor?”
“Good question,” Zoey said. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
Gus handed Chris a brown paper bag with a Hannaford logo on it. Chris handed Gus some bills, turned, and walked back across the front room in his long strides. Thank goodness, he hadn’t spotted us. Zoey was curled around in her seat, staring.
She turned back to me. “You know he’s really, really handsome, right?”
* * *
On the way back to the house I thought about what Zoey had said. Did keeping a romance a secret add to the intensity? Phinney had a secret girlfriend when he was eighteen. Even his close friend Bud didn’t know her identity. Had the secret been part of the attraction?
Back at the house, Mom was stirring the contents of a pot on the stove. The kitchen smelled wonderful.
“Something new,” Mom said without looking over her shoulder. “Mushroom soup.”
“I love mushrooms.”
“I know.”
I didn’t move from the back hall. I didn’t plan to take off my boots. “I had a big, late lunch at Gus’s with Zoey.”
“You’ll eat when you’re ready,” Mom said. “How is Zoey doing?”
“Weirdly fine,” I answered. “Did you ever hear of Phinney Hardison having a girlfriend?”
Mom turned to face me. “A girlfriend? You mean recently?”
“No. Back before he went to sea.”
Mom grimaced. “Julia, how old do you think I am? Phinney had been at sea for years before I married your father and moved to the harbor full-time.”
“I know, I know. I thought you might have heard rumors.”
“Honestly, no. Never.”
“Do you know Alice Rumsford well?” I asked. “She told me she thought you were very brave.”
Mom blinked. “Brave? Me? I can’t think why she would say that.”
“She also said she admired you.”
“That’s nice.” Mom turned back to the pot. “She’s the one who’s admirable. She has done so much for the town.”
“You’re admirable,” I insisted. “You built a business, had a long and successful marriage.”
“And two charming and intelligent children,” she finished.
“There is that,” I agreed. “It must be very satisfying to be my mother.”
Mom laughed and turned back to face me. “Why are you asking about this?”
“No reason,” I said. “Something I’m noodling.”