By mid-afternoon the Fitzgerald family had sampled all the delights the Fishermen’s Fair had to offer, and were beginning to wilt in the heat. “How about a swim?” offered Nita. “Let’s go back to the cottage and get changed.” Located right on the beach, the inn had never bothered to install a pool. Why would anyone want to swim in chlorinated water when they had the Atlantic Ocean literally on their doorstep?
Headed to the car, they stopped to say goodbye to Officer Finch. Latecomers were having an easier time parking close to Ashawagh Hall, so his job now was keeping small children from running into the road and stopping traffic to let people cross.
“You were right about the clam pie,” said Fitz, “and the peach cobbler. Can’t say I was taken with the Bonac chowder, though. We’re used to the red Manhattan kind, with tomatoes, or the creamy white New England style. Yours is just, well, gray.”
Finch chuckled. “We don’t need to disguise the clam juice. Like to see the clams swimmin’ in it, make sure the cook didn’t skimp.”
“Last night we went to Sam’s Bar and Restaurant for dinner,” Nita told him. “No skimping there, and a reasonable price. The dining room at the Sea Spray is a bit steep. One of the other guests mentioned Sam’s, so we drove into the village and gave it a try. We had a pizza pie with oysters on top, a first for us.”
“Why don’t you come back up to Springs for dinner tonight?” suggested Finch. “If you turn left up by where you’re parked, down near the end of that road you’ll find Jungle Pete’s Restaurant.”
“Jungle Pete’s? Sounds exotic,” said Fitz. TJ nodded enthusiastically, picturing potted palm trees, live parrots, and maybe some scary masks and stuffed animal trophies on the walls.
“Anything but,” Finch replied, dashing TJ’s hopes. “Pete Federico got that nickname during the war, when he served with the Marines in the Pacific. You’ll like the place. Real friendly to regular folks like yourselves, good home cookin’, and they have live music on Saturday nights.”
With thanks for his suggestion, the family said goodbye to Finch and headed to the car. As they passed Pollock’s driveway, they saw the big green Olds convertible parked beside the house.
“Wow,” said TJ, impressed, “a Rocket 88. Bet it can go a lot faster than it did this morning.”
“That was plenty fast enough,” Nita said, with a hint of reproach in her voice. “Wonder why he was in such a rush.”
“Finch seems to think that’s his usual speed,” replied Fitz. “No traffic lights and few stop signs on these country roads, I’ve noticed. Hardly any streetlights, either. Have to watch yourself with drivers like Pollock around, especially at night.”