Blueberry Blues Read Free Page A

me to her parlor, a cozy room filled with slipcovered couches and a beautiful blue rag rug. A pitcher of lupines, blazing purple and blue, decorated the coffee table, and little dishes of dried lavender dotted the hutch and end tables.
    "Your house is beautiful,” I said. And it was.
    "Thank you,” she said, thawing only slightly as we sat down on the pale blue couches. She retreated to the corner of one and crossed her arms.
    I clasped my hands and leaned forward. “I was just talking with Charlene a few minutes ago, and I want to apologize.”
    Mabel’s narrow eyebrows shot up. “Apologize?”
    "When they asked me to take over the clambake, I didn’t realize you had done it for so many years.”
    She bit her lip. “Well, you’re the professional, I suppose.”
    “Still. You’ve done it for years, and from everything I’ve heard, it went off splendidly.” I chuckled. “Hand it over to the professional, and half the island gets carted off to the hospital.”
    A smile tugged at the edge of her lips. “Bad luck, I guess.”
    "Do you think so?” I asked.
    "What else would it be?” she said primly.
    I looked at her hard. “Some people think someone tampered with the pies.”
    Her blue eyes didn’t waver, and she shrugged. “I can’t think why they would.”
    "Me neither,” I said, studying her. “But since it turned out so disastrously…. I wonder if you’d be willing to take it back over next year?”
    She shook her head sharply. “I don’t think so. It’s a lot of work, you see, and I’m not as young as I used to be. To be honest, it was a bit of relief.”
    Was it, I wondered? “Are you sure?”
    Mabel nodded. “I think I’m done with the clambake.” She glanced at her watch. “I hate to hurry you off, but I must be going. I have tea with a friend shortly, and I hate to be late.”
    "Can I use your restroom before I go?”
    She sighed. “I suppose so. It’s down the hall.”
    "Thanks.”
    The bathroom was as sweet as the rest of the house, decorated in white and lemon yellow. Once the door was shut behind me, I suppressed a twinge of conscience and opened the medicine cabinet, glancing through the contents.
    Heart medication, wart remover, something that looked like it might be for diabetes. I was about to give up when a brown bottle caught my eye.
    I pulled it down and read the yellowing label: Ipecac. The bottle was full; I unscrewed the lid and took a whiff, wrinkling my nose at the smell.
    It was the same stuff I’d found in my trashcan that morning.
    ***
    “Ipecac,” I announced to Charlene at the store that afternoon.
    My friend handed me a mug of coffee, pulled up a stool across the counter from me, and unsnapped the lid of the Tupperware I'd brought with me. “How do you know?”
    "I found it in her medicine cabinet; it's the exact same bottle I found in the trash.”
    "Do you think she did it?” Charlene asked, helping herself to one of the brownies inside. “Just to get the clambake back to herself?”
    "If so, she's changed her mind. I offered to let her host it again, and you'd have thought I wanted to send my overflow guests to her spare bedroom.”
    "So it's not Mabel. Who else might have it in for you?”
    "There's a bakery over on the mainland that wanted the business,” I said.
    "The one that keeps trying to get me to sell their gluten-free muffins?” Charlene made a face. “They taste like baked cardboard.”
    "Still. The owner was here that day.”
    "True,” she said. “Anyone else have it in for you?”
    "Other than Andi Jordan?” I asked.
    "Her photographer was pretty cute.”
    "He took a beautiful photo,” I said, reaching for the Daily Mail at the end of the counter. The inn looked gorgeous, framed against the pine trees and the green grass. If only it weren't for the policemen – and Gerald Whitestone, hunched over and looking sickly, a plate of my half-eaten pie in his hand.
    "Except for the sick guy eating your food,” Charlene said helpfully.
    "Why