LITMIR.BIZ

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politically incorrect that old-fashioned gesture was. For all she did not like about Lenny, he wasn’t a chauvinist. He meant the gesture in the same polite and helpful way he would if she were his grandmother.

      There was a lot to be said for homegrown Maine boys in today’s world. Maybe Monique should snap him up.

      “Ev’ning, Ms. Parker.”

      The chief greeted her plain-faced in the doorway of his office and gestured her to a visitor’s chair in front of his desk. That couldn’t be good, either. If he wanted her to sit down before he told her anything, he must be expecting an untoward reaction.

      “Thanks for calling me in, Chief.” She wondered if she sounded sober. She hoped so.

      As she settled into the chair, she heard the door click shut behind her. Whatever he had to say, Mia was sure she didn’t want to hear. But, let it rip, like a Band-Aid off tender flesh.

      That was definitely the wine.

      The chief sat down in his chair and placed his hands flat on the old-fashioned green blotter. “I thought you might like an update.”

      “Oh.” She bunched her shoulders and then let them sag. “I’m ready, Chief Montcalm. Lay it on me.”

      “We’ve removed the body and brought it here to our small crime lab. There was no ID with the body, but we did determine from the clothing remnants the body has been there for a long time.”

      She almost stood. “If the body’s gone, can I have my building back now?”

      “I’m afraid not. The crypt and the surrounding area will need to be studied.”

      He tried to make his words sound kind and conciliatory, but she slumped in her chair.

      The chief officially calling it a crypt somehow made things seem more creepy or maybe the wine was... She stopped the thought and brought her mind back and tried hard to listen, the way he did when she spoke.

      “Since the circumstances are suspicious by nature of the body being in the wall, this has to remain a police matter. I called in the state’s criminal investigation division.”

      More people, more time. She dropped her chin to her chest. Of course he called the CID and processing an old skeleton most likely moved slowly through the state system. So they would probably not be there tomorrow. Her brain buzzed with calculations of lost time and the impact delaying the work would have on getting the restaurant open, especially if the state investigators couldn’t get here until, say, Monday.

      She might have to cancel the finishing work set up for next week, go bankrupt, move to the poorhouse and let the town of Bailey’s Cove be completely taken over by a population of non-Maine city dwellers seeking to escape on the weekends and for a week or two during the summer.

      It wouldn’t be so bad if these people were all lovely friendly people who wanted to visit a great small town and then go quietly away, but there was that ten percent who couldn’t help leaving their mark by damaging what wasn’t theirs. The town council had decided to take things slow and Mia agreed with them. If too many visitors arrived before the town’s infrastructure was upgraded, Bailey’s Cove wouldn’t be able to protect itself and could turn into a place the natives would not recognize.

      Then when the tide of visitors ebbed, the town’s two-hundred-year-old structures like Braven’s tavern, Pardee’s Donut shop, the town founder’s home overlooking the town from up on Sea Crest Hill, the boathouse, even the docks would all bear the marks of these visitors. No amount of tourist dollars would make up for that kind of damage. Meanwhile Edwin Beaudin would have packed up and left Pied Piper–like because townsfolk listened to Monique’s granddad.

      “Ms. Parker?”

      She snapped her gaze up. Two glasses of wine next time and that would be it. She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead.

      “I get it. More people, more time. Okay.” But she didn’t get it. She didn’t get how she was going to do this. Her life wouldn’t end but getting back on her feet could take half a lifetime and she’d have to do it away from Bailey’s Cove, out there where life had definitely not been good to her. In Boston, where she had completed her college degree, she had been downsized from her job and lost the first love of her life. In Portland, her home state, she’d lost another job and gained a fiancé who eventually left her.

      The chief gave her a look that spoke of an apology.

      “What now?” she asked. She’d let the chief finish first, then she’d don her rags and go find a bridge to live under.

      “Because of the age of the case, the CID expects to be here in two weeks, three at most.”

      Mia took a big gulp of panic. The partially demolished wall was the center of everything. Even if she were allowed to demo and build around the wall, the work would come to a disastrous halt by the end of two weeks for sure. “That long?”

      “And I can’t let you in the building until they give the okay.”

      The big darkness hovering in the background inside her head began to descend over her thoughts. “I can’t go in at all? Not at all?”

      “And they’ll need the scene for at least a day or two after they get started.”

      She couldn’t help fidgeting in the chair. She’d already spent her savings, dug deep into the bank loan, and the teeny tiny trust fund set up for the historic building’s renovation would evaporate if the project failed.

      Her fingernails suddenly looked too long and she had the urge to bite them all off. Something she hadn’t done in over a decade.

      “So do you have any idea who that is in the wall?” The chief’s tone was quietly demanding.

      She looked up. “Who it is? No. Should I?”

      “You’ve done research on the building.”

      “I know some of the building’s history, but I have no idea who might be in the wall. Do you?”

      Chief Montcalm frowned. “It needs to be considered that this might be the remains of someone from very early in the town’s history.”

      She snapped her gaze up to meet his. “How early?”

      “I don’t really know anything for sure, but I can ask the CID if they will allow me to call the university. The university might send someone here to check out the site sooner than two or three weeks.”

      “Call them!” She huffed out a breath and shrugged. “Sorry, if you call them, I might get those three workers off the street and back on the job sooner. Will the state let the university take over the site?”

      He gave her a solemn nod. “If the university is interested, they could send a forensic anthropologist.”

      “And the state will agree?” Some of the two-to-three-weeks darkness started to lift.

      “An anthropologist would most likely be called in on the case anyway and someone could be here as early as tomorrow, most likely Monday.”

      “So, this anthropologist might come and go before the CID could even get here.”

      He leaned forward over the top of his big wooden desk. “There is always the chance the anthropologist could be here longer. They like to be thorough, but they would definitely start sooner.”

      “And you want my input?” Her wine addled input.

      “You have the most at stake and obviously, the sooner I get your input...”

      “Call them. Please call and see if they’ll allow the university to send someone.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “I’m feeling very sober now, sir, and I’d be very grateful if you called. The least that might happen is Bailey’s Cove would learn more of its history. More history might mean we could bump up the flow of tourists a bit.”

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