12

For two days after the dishwasher crisis, everything at Gusty’s works like it’s supposed to. But my suspicions are growing. Is it a coincidence that we were flooded with suds right after the odd inspection violations? Is it a coincidence that the inspector visited the day the Secret Diner competition was starting? I don’t think so. But what proof is there? I keep working on that part of the equation in the back of my mind.

Gusty’s is reasonably full at every meal, and my friends and I try to identify Secret Diner candidates. The man who took a picture of Gusty’s has been spotted eating there several times and driving past the café toward Hubert’s at other times. I check him over again. Not on vacation. No chitchat. He orders all the classics. Sometimes he looks at the food on his fork. He’s my number one choice for Secret Diner. I know he’s Clooney’s pick. She gives him the royal treatment—the Maine version, anyway, which isn’t exactly the finest kind of royal treatment. I’ve dubbed him Lone Man.

The fish head soup is a hit. Although not everyone gets the humor in it, Ms. Stillford and Zoe’s parents laugh out loud when they see it on the menu. The Lewises put their heads together, point to it, and chuckle. But the joke is lost on Mrs. Billingsley, who complains that it’s decent soup but Dad should “get that weed out of the fish’s mouth. And the bowl still needs to be heated.”

I’ve insisted on hanging around the café—no better way to monitor things—but I’m starting to think my buddies would like to do something else.

“Just for a few hours, Quinnie,” Zoe says. “Please. This is making me a little bonkers.”

“We could go sailing,” says Ben.

“I don’t know,” Dominic says. “It looked pretty choppy out there.”

“I could show you guys how to do some Scottish dances,” says Zoe.

Ben grabs his throat and chokes himself.

Dominic says, in his best Scottish brogue, “I dunnuh think so.”

Ella looks the other way.

I tell Zoe, “Maybe some time when there’s not so much going on. Maybe after the Secret Diner thing, okay?” I hold my breath to see if she dives into a funk, but she seems to shake it off. I think she knew the Scottish dances were a long shot.

“We could watch a movie at my house, except my dad is writing and he really likes it quiet,” says Ella.

“No offense, E, but I need to move,” Ben says. “Zoe, want to come running with me?”

“I need fresh air too,” says Dominic.

I decide to meet everyone halfway. “What about a walk up to Hubert’s and back?” I’m thinking of it mostly as a reconnaissance trip, but a walk would at least give everyone some fresh air.

It’s quiet for a few seconds.

“I’ll go with you,” Ella says.

“Me too,” says Dominic.

“I’ll run circles around you as I’m going by,” says Ben.

“I’ll just see you guys later,” Zoe says.

Great. I guess her feelings are hurt because no one wants to Scottish jig or whatever. But really, that’s a little much to ask.

* * *

By the time Ella, Dominic, and I get to Restaurant Hubert, we’re deep into a conversation about Slick and Hubert and their possible relationship with the inspector. Could Slick have broken into Gusty’s to sabotage the dishwasher, and if so, how? There was no evidence of a break-in. As we approach the restaurant, it looks quiet. There are only a couple cars in Hubert’s lot. We walk past the place, all the way to the historical marker on the point. We sit on the bench and watch the surf crash and swirl as we construct various conspiracy theories. I don’t really know how long we’ve been there when Mom calls my phone.

“Where are you?”

“On a walk with Ella and Dominic. We’re at the point.”

“Something’s wrong with the refrigeration unit. Your dad needs a hand. Can you head over and help him out?”

* * *

I walk through the back door of Gusty’s at the heart of lunchtime. Dad is frantically shifting meat into ice chests. Clooney is slapping the lids on and handing the chests to Owen Loney, who brushes past us to carry them to his pickup.

“What happened?” I ask Dad, but he doesn’t answer due to the fact that he’s sticking a thermometer into the meat packages. “Can I help?”

Clooney calls to me. “Quinnie, can you get these orders out? Except table six—I’ll do that one.”

At table six sits Lone Man, of course. I leave him to Clooney, but that still gives me plenty to do. The dining room is almost full.

I won’t lie, I love this. I’ve wanted to be a server at Gusty’s forever, but Dad has said I have to wait until I’m fifteen. But this refrigerator emergency is giving me my chance. I roll up my sleeves and start checking the tickets against the plates coming up.

It’s a whirlwind. Dad, Clooney, and I are slipping and swaying around each other as I rush out orders of Gusty burgers and lobster fries, clam chowder, fish head soup, lobster rolls, crab cakes, fried oyster sliders, BLTs, grilled cheese, garlicky coleslaw, pickle-pea salads, brown-sugar baked-bean slices, blueberry pie, and whoopie pies. Phew.

The problem is the whirlwind doesn’t last. On a normal day at the start of the summer season, the lunch rush would last from eleven forty-five to one o’clock. Now it’s twelve forty-five, and Clooney is at the cash register checking the last few people out. What’s even more frightening is that a whole blueberry pie is still in the case. Usually Dad has to bake fresh for the afternoon because he sells out at lunch. Maybe the fish head soup isn’t working.

By one fifteen, another repairperson is in the kitchen, this time a guy examining the walk-in cooling unit.

I try to ask what happened, but the conversation is too intense. All I can do is listen.

The repair guy is asking what the temp was when Dad noticed it.

Dad says, “I walked in the cooler at about eleven this morning and I could tell immediately that it wasn’t quite cool enough. I looked at the thermostat, and it said forty-five. We never let it get higher than thirty-eight. That’s when I called. I transferred all the meat to nearby refrigeration at the proper temps, but I’m worried the cooler’s gone on the fritz or the compressor’s out or something.”

“Do you lock this door?” the repairperson asks and points to the small tumbler lock on the base of the unit, to the right of the refrigeration door.

“No,” Dad says. “No need to. Only two of us come in there. Why?”

The repair guy separates the curtain of plastic strips that dangle in front of the open door and motions for Dad to follow. “Well, the temp gauge is in here, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Who sets it?”

“I do,” says Dad.

“So, you set it at forty-five.”

“No. I set it at thirty-eight.”

“I don’t know then, because the compressor is fine. It’s cooling to the same temp you see on the temp gauge.”

Dad leans around the door and checks out the temp gauge, and yells, “Clooney!”

Clooney hustles to the scene. “Ayuh?”

I can tell Dad is trying to moderate his tone. “Did you by any chance raise the temp in the cooler?”

“Sure didn’t,” she says with a little surprise in her voice.

“Well, it’s set for forty-five, and I set it for thirty-eight.”

“Still didn’t,” she says.

The repair guy senses the tension rising. “Really anybody could have bumped into this in here, knocked a shoulder into it. Maybe that’s what happened.”

Dad shakes his head. “Yeah, maybe. Thanks.” He fiddles with the gauge and then walks out of the cooler and closes the door. “Let’s get this thing cooling back down. Any charge for the call?”

“That’s alright, Gus,” the repair guy says. “I didn’t have to fix anything.”

“Can I give you lunch? On the house?”

“How about a lobster roll and whoopie pie to go?”

“Done.”

Dad looks to Clooney, and she tells the man, “I’ll get it for you.” As she turns away, she looks over her shoulder at Dad. “Didn’t use the wrong soap in the dishwasher, either.”