Fogged Inn (A Maine Clambake Mystery Book 4) Read Online Free Page B

do women do that to themselves?”
    “Whoops, here comes Mrs. Deakins. I gotta help her with her grocery bags. Love you.”
    “Love you too.”
    And he was gone.
    The Bennetts had arrived after the Caswells, and before the man who was now dead in Gus’s walk-in. I was certain of it. I’d just brought the Caswells their wine when the Bennetts entered the restaurant.
    “Quiet tonight,” Phil Bennett remarked when I had taken his coat.
    “It’s the weather,” Deborah had said. “Terrible out.”
    “Your walkway could use more sand. I nearly lost my footing.” Phil’s clipped tone made it sound as if he were speaking to an incompetent staff member.
    “Of course. I’ll get right on it.”
    As I had moved away to hang up their coats, the Bennetts noticed the Caswells. I wasn’t surprised the two couples knew each other, or at least had a nodding acquaintance. All four of them appeared to be around the same age and had probably met at some town meeting, volunteer opportunity, or social event. But that wouldn’t make them best buddies necessarily, so when I returned with the menus to find the Bennetts sitting in the opposite corner of the dining room, I wasn’t surprised by that either. If you’re having dinner with your spouse in a practically empty restaurant, there’s no point in listening to the conversation of the only other guests, or in having them overhear you.
    “Can I get you something to drink? Wine, beer, or a cocktail?” I asked the Bennetts.
    “Alcohol. That’s something new,” Phil had responded.
    It was. We’d just gotten our liquor license on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Gus had never had one for his breakfast and lunch place, and it had seemed to take forever for ours to come through, though I was assured by the town employees I dealt with it had been at record speed. Before that, working on a temporary license, the restaurant had been strictly BYOB, which had further shaved our razor-thin profit margins. We’d had just enough time and cash before the Thanksgiving holiday to stock the bar.
    “I’d like a perfect Rob Roy,” Phil said.
    “And you?” I had trouble, as always, looking Deborah in the eye. She’d had so much work done, her face was like a mask. Her cheekbones were prominent, her nose perfect, her eyes wide open, but the total effect was somehow frightening.
    “Ginger ale.”
    We didn’t have a real bartender, but Chris had worked as a bouncer for years and stepped behind the bar at Crowley’s in emergencies. My experience level was about the same, filling in for sick or otherwise absent bartenders at the Snowden Family Clambake. We figured we could fake our way through, but just in case, I’d stowed a little book of cocktail recipes behind the bar.
    The bar itself had been a bit of a controversy. Gus had never had one, but Chris and I felt strongly that we needed one. Gus’s vision was for a neighborly gathering place, and that wasn’t going to happen without a bar. And it wasn’t going to happen on nights the New England Patriots played if we didn’t have a TV.
    Gus had a long unused candlepin-bowling lane on the opposite side of the front room from the lunch counter. I’d convinced him that Chris could use his carpentry skills to cover the lane over without harming it and put the bar in that part of the room. Chris had also built a back bar to house a sink, small fridge, and TV. It stood behind the bar a few feet out from the wall where it wouldn’t harm either the candlepin lane or Gus’s “décor,” which consisted entirely of white-washed wallboard. Gus was insisting we uncover the lane in the spring when we closed the dinner restaurant and Chris and I moved back to our tourist season pursuits. We’d agreed, even though I had never, ever seen anyone bowl there.
    I returned to the Bennetts with their drinks.
    “Thank you, Julia,” Phil had said, tasting his. “Excellent,” he pronounced.
    Whew.
    The Bennetts had owned a summer home out on Eastclaw