Officer Mooney did some investigating up on the cliff and discovered a crow bar and a sock full of chicken feed. I called Bubbles and told her what was going on. She told me to come home. I told her I would if things got worse. I still had much to do on the cottage if we really did want to sell it.
When I got back to the cottage, before I even got the door open, Jim pulled up in his old Honda and invited me over for dinner and a movie. I didn’t need to think about it.
“Does dinner come with a tall gin and tonic?”
“I think I can manage that. I even have fresh limes.”
I got Shorty from the cottage and the three of us went up to Jim’s.
Fifteen minutes later I was in my rocking chair with a cold beverage and catching Jim up on the latest chain of events. Jim listened, nodding now and then while he sliced vegetables and heated up his wok. A plastic tub of scallops waited patiently to be added to the mix. The troubles of the day seemed to dissipate as I looked out the bay window at the pretty yard of wildflowers. Jim had a new American primitive framed on his wall. It was an idyllic print of summertime in Maine. Lighthouses, simple barns, people on rocky beaches having picnics – it was all such a carefree contrast to the havoc Clyde was wreaking.
Jim’s bookcases spoke volumes about his keen interest in psychotherapy. There were no summertime trash novels in the mix. Even his movies were serious and intellectual. Maybe that’s why we got along. My John Candy movies balanced out his Felini and Orson Welles.
I had another gin and tonic with dinner and then a glass of wine afterwards. Ten minutes in to Eye of the Needle I was snoring. Jim threw a magazine at me and told me to spend the night in his guest room. I didn’t need my arm twisted.
I slept soundly until after nine the next morning. I stumbled out into the hallway, rubbing my eyes and yelling hello to the house. Nobody answered. Shorty and Jim were gone. My mind raced with evil possibilities.
