Fogged Inn Read Free

barely see five feet in front of the car.”
    â€œAnd the ice. Terrible,” Henry affirmed. “But it’s Maine, right?”
    â€œWe’re just glad you could make it.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t have missed it,” Henry said.
    â€œWe spent the holiday at our eldest daughter’s house in Massachusetts. All three of our girls and their families were there. We are so lucky.” Caroline had said it like she truly felt it. “But there’s not a thing to eat in our house.”
    â€œPlus, we had the gift certificate that had to be used by today,” Henry added.
    I had handed them their menu books with the paper inserts that Chris and I changed daily.
    â€œOh, pea soup,” Caroline said when she looked at her menu. “How appropriate. For the fog.”
    â€œWe couldn’t resist. It’s hearty—full of pea flavor and ham. I tasted it this afternoon.”
    â€œYour beau is a great cook,” Henry said.
    I took their wine order. Merlot for him, chardonnay for her. I’d been selling the gift certificates only since the week before we’d opened, and none of them had an expiration date. But who was I to contradict a good customer, particularly one who had just driven in terrible weather? I’d kept mum on the whole gift-certificate-deadline topic.
    * * *
    I just finished telling this part of the story to Gus and Chris when a thunk and a bump echoed from inside the walk-in, and we all turned our heads to stare. “Now you know why I don’t allow strangers in my restaurant,” Gus said.
    It was true. Against all laws—of the United States, capitalism, and common sense—you didn’t get food at Gus’s unless he knew you or you arrived with someone he did know. When I first moved back to Busman’s Harbor, I’d viewed Gus’s rule as a characteristic, if extreme, example of the native Mainers’ feelings about people From Away. But during the high season last summer, with day-trippers clogging the streets, I’d come to treasure the refuge of Gus’s, where not only did everybody know your name, everybody knew everybody’s name.
    Chris and I had ignored Gus’s policy. If you wandered into our restaurant for dinner, you got served. And though I knew Gus hadn’t created his rule to prevent strangers from dying in his refrigerator, I was having a bit of a rethink about our position vis-à-vis the whole strangers thing when Dr. Simpson walked back into the room, trailed by Jamie and Howland.
    * * *
    â€œYou call the state police. I’ll call the State Medical Examiner’s Office in Augusta,” Dr. Simpson said to the officers. It sounded like she was repeating instructions to a reluctant student.
    â€œBut you said you don’t know how he died,” Howland protested.
    â€œExactly,” Dr. Simpson confirmed. “I don’t know how he died. I’m a part-time ME. I can sign off on unattended deaths with obvious causes, and accidents. But you’ve got a guy who looks like he’s in his middle forties, who’s not where he’s supposed to be, with no obvious cause of death. I need an autopsy and tox screens, and until we know what’s going on here, you need to treat this like a crime scene.”
    â€œCan we at least roll him over and see if he’s got a wallet or a phone in his back pocket?” Howland asked.
    Simpson shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
    â€œWait a minute. How long am I going to be closed?” Gus demanded.
    â€œAs long as it takes.” Jamie’s mouth was a grim line. He’d had, if anything, less sleep than I had, and he appeared to be fraying a bit around the edges.
    There was a banging on the restaurant door. I scooted to answer it.
    â€œHello, darlin’.” It was my brother-in-law’s father, Bard Ramsey, and three of his lobstermen cronies. The local lobstermen gathered at Gus’s most days for