Chapter 5
For the rest of the day, things were fine.
Just fine.
Between Ben holed up in his office and the dogs refusing to acknowledge my desire to hide in my bed, I had to go on like it was business as usual.
Walking the pups, going to the grocery store, letting Charlemagne out to slowly explore the house “just for now”.
.. It was, on the surface, normal. Boring even.
But that was it, the surface. Under the veneer of chores and daily routine, everything was unsettled and raw.
I still couldn’t forget Tubbs’ blank, empty stare or the way he lay so still.
The smell of alcohol and coppery blood a sense memory I could’ve gone eternity without.
Word had gotten out that Tubbs had died and, while that might have just been a “oh how sad” moment for a lot of people (and, let’s be frank, a who?
meh. moment for most others), someone had mentioned I’d been the one to find him, and that had renewed some negative attention in town.
I couldn’t ignore the curious, wary looks some people gave me when I took Muffin for a walk, or when I went to get one of those really good lobster rolls from Denny’s Seafood, Salads, And Milkshakes.
I was tempted by their rum raisin milkshake but discretion being the better part of valor decided not to try it while also having a seafood-based sandwich.
My week was already upsetting enough without finding out what that combo would do to my stomach.
The regatta did start, albeit a bit late, with an opening ceremony on Friday morning that attracted most of the town, providing what I hoped as a distraction for any bored gossips who might want to make a quick buck with another pap shot of me around town.
With the exception of Cove Groceries and Bull’s China Shop, the shops closed for all of part of the day while residents crowded the beach and Bluff Road to watch the seven remaining yachts do a sort of exhibition round, sailing through the cove around some specially placed buoys before anchoring in the deep water past the New Yacht Club.
Tubbs’ boat had been towed over to an old dock near the lighthouse, leaving a gap-toothed space in the marina’s line up.
Already the tabloids had picked up on the gruesome discovery strikes small Maine town, Hollywood angle.
Again.
I stayed indoors, texting Max.
Max: Seriously, what the hell is going on in that town?
Me: No freaking idea. I don’t guess you suddenly need a new PA? You know I know the drill.
I wasn’t really kidding, either. It had been something I’d floated before—I was obviously never going to hit the big time, or even the medium-time, with my career.
It was fading faster every day that I didn’t take another too young for me part or exploit the Witte case like Rory Flick, my agent, kept pushing for me to do.
Max: Babes. Even if I wanted to, Kathleen would kill me if I fired Jake to hire you on.
Ugh. Jake. Twit.
Max could read my mind.
Max: Don’t start, D.
I sent a selfie of my scrunched-up expression, tongue sticking out.
Max sent one back of his middle finger.
Before I could send back a more creative reply, Muffin let out a whimper and flung himself onto the sofa beside me, followed by the scrambling sound of Tony’s tiny feet trying to make it up.
A loud rumble of thunder shook the windows, setting off a cascade of barks and howls.
A black and white blur shot into the room and leaped onto the back of the sofa before ricocheting off my shoulder and using my head as a purchase point. “Hey! Ow!”
Charlemagne crashed into television and shot out of the room as the rumble of thunder faded.
“What the hell was that?” Ben demanded, half-striding, half-jogging down the hall from his office. “Is everyone okay?”
“Thunder,” I griped, pushing Muffin’s massive body off me so I could get to my feet. “And Charlemagne deciding to practice Parkour off my head.”
Ben’s brows crunched up. “It’s a clear day outside. That wasn’t thunder.”
“What else could it have...”
Muffin and Tony joined the chorus of sirens with their howls.
#
THE OLD YACHT CLUB burned for most of Friday, the creosote-soaked timbers of the old dock and deck making it a total loss. Lester Cove didn't have a fire department and relied on the county's services, which took almost half an hour to get there.
"By that time, it was far too late," Bitty O'Neill sighed. The fire was still smoldering Monday morning. "Can you believe it?"
"Two fires in a week. That one in the Dumpster by the marina and now this," her husband, Ron, muttered, examining my nails under the bright light on his table. "Hon, you really need to use cuticle cream. These are tragic."
"I'm a nervous nibbler," I admitted. Ron's protege, a young person named Cody from over in Fish Head, sat at the other table in the small nail shop, working on Denise Gleave's nails.
If his ears strained any harder, though, he was going to get a cramp.
"Hey, Cody," I called, flashing him Smile Forty-Six: the I know you're snooping, you rat smile I learned from Lena Wendt on the set of Touch Grass: A Solomon Grass Adventure when she liked to gossip about all the famous men she'd hooked up with.
She'd flash that smile whenever folks on set would suddenly find a reason to be really close while she was spilling her secrets, the smirk that dared the eavesdropper to say something, to admit they were listening in.
Cody did the same thing everyone who'd ever come under the glare of that smile did: blushed, ducked his face, pretended not to be there all the while darting glances our way.
"Well, stop it," Ron ordered. Cody jumped before realizing Ron wasn't talking to him. Denise hissed as his file scuffed her nail. "Be careful, Cody! Denise is one of our best customers."
Denise smiled kindly at Ron before raising a brow at me.
"I've heard what some of the folks are saying, Damien, and I want you to know we don't believe it.
Belinda was distraught this morning after some out-of-towner asked about the.
.." she trailed off, her own expression twisting like she'd smelled sour milk.
"The serial killing child star in Lester Cove. "
"Oh my god," I groaned, dropping my chin to my chest. Ron squeezed my knuckles firmly when I tried to pulled away to cover my face. "I think I need a lawyer."
Bitty straightened from her spot by the door, the chime in her shop alerting her to an incoming customer. "Well, it might not be a bad idea," she sighed. "If this sort of thing keeps happening, you're gonna need to C-Y-A !"
Ron rolled his eyes as Bitty darted back into her auto repair shop through the shared door. "Don't let her get to you. I love that woman more than anything but she does catastrophize a bit. Now. Are we going with Harvest Moon or Aurora Green?"
"Aurora," I sighed. "With the silver glitter topcoat." Ron hummed in agreement, setting to work on my left hand while expounding on the loss of the Old Yacht Club.
"That used to be the place to go," Ron said, filing my nails into a neat round tip.
"We had prom there. It was beautiful—they hung these silver stars from the ceiling, had lights going.
.." He trailed off, chuckling. "Probably sounds pretty dull to you, huh?
Used to those Hollywood parties with the red carpets and champagne and junk. "
"It sounds nice, actually. Like a real party and not a networking event," I admitted. "Like you could just hang out and have fun instead of being on."
Ron paused, glancing up at me with a curious, sympathetic smile. "You never have fun at those parties? They always look like they're a blast when Bitty looks at those premieres and junk."
"They're a drag and a half."
Gwendolyn Terhune, clad entirely in silver and gray, stood in the doorway between Bitty's shop and Ron's.
Her hair twisted into her usual complicated braid around the crown of her head, she looked like an elvish queen as she struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other dangling her sunglasses from her fingertips as she surveyed her tiny, temporary kingdom.
"I'm your eleven-fifteen," she announced. "We spoke earlier?"
Ron nodded. "Have a seat. Damien's just getting a color change and a bit of a neaten up so we won't be long."
Gwendolyn eyed the red plastic chairs with something close to disdain, but strode over and gracefully folded herself into one without an ill word. "The parties really are dire, aren't they, Damien?"
"I'm pretty sure our experiences would differ but I found the networking events to be pretty dull." Unless I was drunk off my ass or, in a few rare cases, rationing out an edible to make the evening more bearable. “I’m sorry about Tubbs,” I offered, well aware that every eye in the salon was lasered in on me. Ron, Bitty, and Denise might be nice folks but gossip was gossip, no matter how they felt about me personally. And Cody was salivating, waiting for something to happen as he dripped polish on the table between him and Denise. “I’m sorry about Tubbs,” I offered, back of my neck warming under the weight of four combined stares. “It’s never easy to lose a friend.”
“Have you lost a friend before, Damien?” she asked, leaning in with an interested expression. “Someone you cared about? Someone you were close to?”
“Just my grandfather, when I was little.”
She nodded, sitting back as if my answer was just what she’d expected.
“Death is never easy, no matter what anyone says. It’s always unexpected but sometimes.
..” she trailed off, lips pursed. “Sometimes it’s less surprising than others.
Gerald always did have a problem with the drink,” she sighed, something in her mood lightening.
I’d like to say I was good at holding my tongue but, well, here we are. “So you’re sure it really was an accident.”