Torn asunder, p.1
Torn Asunder, page 1
Murder in Maine
I left Zoey at a table with Jamie. Someone had thoughtfully grabbed her a meal. She was the bride, after all.
Everyone had their food and was back in their places on the picnic benches. The conversation had quieted as people focused on their lobsters. I worked my way through the crowd, showing someone how to use the nutcracker on their lobster’s claws, tying on another person’s bib, answering questions about the meal and the history of the island. Servers ran to and fro with more water and iced tea, and there was regular, but not overwhelming business at the bar.
All seemed to be going well when I heard a loud thump and saw several of the people at Jamie’s parents’ table jump up. The man in the blue blazer had fallen backward off his bench.
“He’s allergic!” a woman screamed. I didn’t see who.
The man lay on the deck of the dining pavilion, gasping for air. I ran toward him, cursing under my breath. He was bright red, clutching his throat. My heart raced, fearing what could be happening . . .
Books by Barbara Ross
Maine Clambake Mysteries
Clammed Up
Boiled Over
Musseled Out
Fogged Inn
Iced Under
Stowed Away
Steamed Open
Sealed Off
Shucked Apart
Muddled Through
Hidden Beneath
Torn Asunder
Collections
Egg Nog Murder
(with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)
Yule Log Murder
(with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)
Haunted House Murder
(with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)
Halloween Party Murder
(with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)
Irish Coffee Murder
(with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)
Easter Basket Murder
(with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)
Jane Darrowfield Mysteries
Jane Darrowfield, Professional Busybody
Jane Darrowfield and the Madwoman Next Door
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
TORN ASUNDER
Barbara Ross
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Murder in Maine
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RECIPES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
900 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2024 by Barbara Ross
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-3573-7
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This book is dedicated to Luke Donius, extraordinary husband and father, professional scientist, and amateur gardener. You are the best son-in-law we ever could have wished for.
CHAPTER ONE
I walked my friends Zoey Butterfield and Jamie Dawes through the first-floor function rooms of Windsholme, the mansion built by my mother’s ancestors on Morrow Island. My stomach fluttered with equal parts excitement and anxiety. I cared so much what they thought.
In the old main salon, the round tables and accompanying chairs were set out, seating for one hundred of Zoey and Jamie’s nearest and dearest. Fourteen crisply ironed white tablecloths sat on a sideboard, ready to be put into service. Another sideboard held the salad, dinner, and dessert plates lovingly designed and handmade by Zoey, on which we’d serve the wedding feast. The day was beautiful, not always a given in early June in coastal Maine. The sun shone through the French doors, bathing the enormous room in a rosy, nuptial glow.
Zoey sighed. “It’s perfect.”
I nodded enthusiastically, hoping my smile looked affirming. In truth, I would have been happier if this wedding, in which I was doing triple duty as the maid of honor, wedding planner, and venue manager, had come later in the season, after we’d had a chance to work out some kinks. Zoey was my closest friend, as well as my boss and business partner at Lupine Design, her ceramics company. Jamie had been a neighbor and good friend since our kindergarten days waiting for the yellow school bus that took us to Busman’s Harbor Elementary. I loved him like a brother and wanted only the best for him.
I cared about every wedding we would hold this summer in our newly renovated space. But for those other events, I was working with a team of people related to or hired by the happy couple. For this wedding, I was the team.
When they’d announced their engagement the previous summer, Zoey and Jamie said they would hold their wedding on any summer weekend we had available. Then, this spring, there’d been a sudden flurry of news and activity. The bride’s former teacher, who was to be the officiant, was going to be in Europe and was only available in June. Jamie’s elderly parents weren’t getting any younger. Et cetera. Et cetera. As a result of all this, he and Zoey ended up grabbing the first weekend in June, the first wedding we’d host. I’d barely gotten the staff hired for the traditional Maine clambakes we ran on the island from Father’s Day through Columbus Day. The last summer employee, a server, had signed on three days before. Thank goodness, he’d been available immediately.
“Let’s keep going,” I said. “The rehearsal’s in two hours, and we still need to get dressed.” I led them through the big oval foyer, where the ceremony would take place. The three of us inspected the winding grand staircase. Zoey ran her fingers along the banister, as if she was imagining herself floating down the steps in her flowing white gown. Jamie looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe the day was nearly upon us.
I was happy that, when they gazed upward, they didn’t see what I did: a man hanging from the stair rail, the best man at the last wedding we’d held on the island seven years earlier. It was his murder, and the fire that had consumed the derelict mansion in its aftermath, that had forced the decision about what to do with the house and resulted in its subsequent renovation. I shuddered, pushing all thoughts of those awful days firmly out of my mind, and turned back to look at Jamie and Zoey. Their wedding would be a fresh start, chasing the ghosts away.
They were an attractive couple. I’d always thought so. Jamie was tall and well-built with bright blue eyes, dark brows and lashes, and the kind of tannable skin that shouldn’t have come with his blond hair.
Zoey’s brown curls were loose for the party tonight. I was used to seeing them tied up with a bandanna as she worked in the pottery studio. She was curvy and sturdy, of the earth, with large features, including an oversized mouth. She shouldn’t have been pretty—and wasn’t, if you looked at each of her features individually. But, when they were taken in combination, in a face that was constantly in motion—curious, surprised, fascinated, determined—she was beautiful.
We passed through to the mansion’s original dining room. “We’ll have breakfast here in the morning for the wedding party,” I said. “Then we’ll take the table to the main salon to use as the head table for the wedding reception. The pocket doors between the dining room and the grand foyer will be opened to make more room for people to stand during the ceremony and for dancing.”
I glanced at Zoey as she took it all in. I’d been surprised, more than surprised, by her strong desire for a highly traditional wedding. She had no living relatives. Her mother had never married, and Zoey had never met her father. She was an artist, a brilliant potter. Her friends were scattered across the country in the places where she’d honed her skills and learned the business. Close as we were, she and I had never shared wedding fantasies until hers was happening. At first, I’d th ought Zoey’s drive for the white gown, the head table, the formal meal, had been to please Jamie’s family. Later, I understood it came from somewhere inside her. Maybe it was a desire to live a life different from her mother’s. Maybe the white wedding was something she’d dreamed of as a child, seeing the photos of her friends’ parents’ weddings when she stayed over, invited by their sympathetic mothers during bad days of her childhood. Those photos had probably meant stability and safety to her.
The wedding rehearsal would be at four o’clock. The rehearsal dinner, with fifty or so out-of-town and special guests invited, was this evening. It would be a traditional Snowden Family Clambake meal: twin lobsters, the softshell clams called steamers, an ear of corn, a potato, an onion and an egg cooked over a wood fire, covered by seaweed and saltwater-soaked tarps. In deference to the bride’s gown and the guests’ good clothes, the wedding meal tomorrow would be more sedate, easier-to-consume lobster tails, beef, or vegan entrées.
We toured the upstairs guest rooms. The bulk of tonight’s guests would leave the island on the Jacquie II, the tour boat that brought our customers to Morrow Island. Then they, along with fifty or so additional guests, would arrive again the next afternoon in the same way for the wedding. The members of the wedding party would be staying overnight with us to be on hand for photos the next day. Windsholme wasn’t an inn and wasn’t licensed as such. Those who stayed would be our guests. During the renovation, our architect and general contractor had persuaded us to provide walls, plumbing, and electricity for a bath for every room as a hedge against future need. We’d been finishing the bathrooms as time and finances allowed.
Zoey looked into every bedroom designated for the wedding party. “All good,” she pronounced when we reached the last one. Jamie nodded his agreement, although I thought he was less interested in the flowers and chocolates provided for each guest than in how well-stocked the bar downstairs would be. He seemed happy with his last bachelor quarters, a series of three connected rooms that ran along the front of the second floor, ready for him, his best man, and his single groomsman.
“Do you want to see your room?” I asked Zoey.
“My room? Aren’t I staying with you?”
“Of course, if you want to.” Zoey had spent many nights on Morrow Island, always staying with me in my apartment at the end of the hall. Fashioned out of the old nursery, the living space ran the length of the house, with views of the water on three sides. There was a single bedroom and a bath as well. “I thought you might want your own space.”
“To fret and be nervous in?” she responded, “I don’t think so.”
“Good,” I said. “Done. Shall we go down?”
* * *
I put a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun as the three of us came out onto the big front porch that spanned the façade of Windsholme. A cool breeze blew off the water. The information Zoey had meticulously assembled warned tonight’s guests to bring shawls and sweaters. I hoped they’d take heed.
“They’re here,” Jamie said, calm as you please. He pointed to the water, where my brother-in-law, Sonny, steered our Boston Whaler toward the dock. We ran down Windsholme’s great lawn to help with the boat and greet the first arrivals. By arrangement, this first boatload held staff.
Sonny was in charge of the fire that would cook the Clambake meal. With him were his two assistants. Fortunately, both men had worked at the Clambake the previous summer and knew how to get started without him. Sonny would return to the town pier immediately to pick up the rest of the wedding party for the rehearsal.
My sister, Livvie, was also on the early boat with her cooks. Livvie oversaw the parts of the Clambake meal that came out of our small kitchen: the clam chowder that was the first course, the heated clam juice for dredging the steamers, the melted butter for dipping the lobster meat, and the blueberry grunt, swimming in vanilla ice cream, that we served for dessert. The cooks were also in charge of prepping the food for the wood fire, washing the potatoes, peeling the onions, and shucking the corn during late summer when it was fresh. This time of year, the ears were frozen, and therefore had been pre-shucked, making the job a tiny bit easier. Livvie’s two cooks had been with us for years. As they walked toward the kitchen, Livvie gave me a wave and hurried behind them. “Gotta get going so I’m on time for the rehearsal!” Livvie was the other attendant for Zoey.
The other passengers were the caterers. So far, we had booked only weekend events at Windsholme, so I hadn’t hired any permanent staff. Instead, I’d given each bride and groom a list of suggested caterers. I was thrilled when, after their tasting, Jamie and Zoey had chosen Carol Trevett. She was experienced and professional, and I knew her. She’d come out in advance to inspect Windsholme’s new kitchen and pronounced it “excellent,” which made me unexpectedly blush with pride. I was more invested in the renovation being successful than I’d thought.
Carol had brought two assistants, both middle-aged women. One was tall and thin, dark-haired, with intense blue eyes. Carol introduced her as Mel. The other was short and round. Cassie Howard. I knew her from around town.
Finally, last off the boat was Jordan Thomas, the Snowden Family Clambake’s newest hire. He had a gym bag with him, presumably filled with night things and fresh clothes, because he’d agreed to take on some extra duties this afternoon and then to stay over and serve breakfast to the wedding party in the morning. He was nineteen, a lanky kid with a flop of sandy-blond hair, wide brown eyes, and a face that would be boyish when he was fifty. I would have preferred to use one of our experienced staff, but Jordan had both restaurant and banquet experience. When I’d emailed his references in California, they’d been effusive in their praise and said they were sorry to lose him.
With the caterers came big plastic containers of food and ingredients, some for the hors d’oeuvres they’d serve during the cocktail hour this evening and some for the feast tomorrow. Carol had also agreed to prepare the vegan entrée chosen by some of tonight’s guests in lieu of the clambake. We always offered chicken or hot dogs for non-lobster-eating customers, but Zoey had insisted there would be demand for a vegan alternative, and she wasn’t wrong.
Jamie, Zoey, and I pitched in to fetch and carry.
* * *
After we’d delivered the food to Windsholme’s kitchen, my brother-in-law, Sonny, and I huddled as the others went about their business.
“Have you been watching this storm?” His bright red eyebrows beetled together.
“Yes.” How could I not? At the Snowden Family Clambake Company, we always kept an eye on the weather. More than half our picnic tables were outside. This storm, originally a Spring hurricane, had long since been downgraded to a tropical storm and then to whatever came after that. Perhaps just a storm. Nevertheless, since it was once a hurricane and therefore had a name, its journey up the East Coast had been breathlessly reported. Currently, the storm was predicted to flash through our area overnight, bringing strong winds, high seas, heavy rain, and maybe even a bit of unusual June thunder and lightning.
“I’m hoping we can thread the needle tonight,” I told Sonny. “We’ll get everyone back on board the Jacquie II before it starts. The storm is supposed to end before dawn, so we’ll have time for any cleanup in the morning. Everyone arrives back for the wedding at two tomorrow afternoon, so no problem.” I sounded more confident than I felt.
Sonny drew his lips in, looking unconvinced. He’d recently shaved off his winter beard, and the skin on his chin beneath the freckles on his cheeks was whiter than white. I didn’t blame him for the skeptical look, nor did I doubt the cause of it. Forecasts were fine, but unfortunately Mother Nature never listened to them.
“Do they know?” He jerked his head toward Jamie and Zoey, now back on Windsholme’s front porch, holding hands and talking.
“I’m sure Jamie does,” I said. “Probably Zoey, too, but she’s deliberately ignoring it. Too many other things on her mind.”
