The Edge

Chapter 14

Devine’s phone alarm kicked off at five a.m.

He pulled on sweatpants, stout court shoes, and a thick hoodie, then jogged out onto the dark and empty main street and turned left.

He stopped at the harbor for a minute and watched some boats heading out. Men were lifting metal cages and large wooden boxes on the dock, and hefting some of them into boats cleated to slips. He also saw other men in small dinghies motoring or rowing out to the moored boats. The day apparently started early for those who labored on the waters. Under the lights that illuminated the area, he recognized the man who had confronted him outside the bar and Devine had falsely accused of being an informant. He was in the stern of a good-sized boat that was making its way out of the harbor. He looked like he was not yet over his boozing from the previous night.

Devine continued on. He had already noted the square of dormant grass and leafless trees about a quarter mile down where the small main business area ended. He reached it and did a quick twenty-minute HIIT, or high-intensity interval training routine, to get his heart pumping and his blood flowing. This was followed by push-ups, pull-ups on a tree limb, squats, lunges, jacks, and isometric holds, where his body shook from the effort of holding statue-like poses for less than a minute. This was followed by more core work, followed by even more intense lower-body exercises, which every Army grunt knew was where real strength came from.

He did wind sprints forward and then backward, because all-out charges were often followed by the same level of retreats, and you never wanted to fully look away from whoever was shooting at you.

His breathing was always precisely timed and measured to sync with his body and effort.

He finished with Army low crawls on the wet grass that led to high-kickers and then an exhausting set of burpees.

He slowly cooled down, letting his heart rate and breathing normalize before heading back. It was nearly six thirty when he stepped into the shower back at his cottage.

He dried off, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and headed out. The inn served a continental breakfast, but, as he had mentioned to Harper and Fuss, Devine had spotted a breakfast restaurant, Maine Brew, down the street. He wanted some time to think before he met up with the local police. And he wanted to go over again what he had learned, and not learned, so far.

A short walk through windy cold brought him to the blue-painted door of the restaurant. It was pretty full at a little after seven. The place looked like it had been recently renovated; the clusters of tables and chairs in the middle of the sturdy wood composite floor, and the red vinyl booths that ringed the perimeter, looked new. The counter was long and had deli-style refrigerated, glass-fronted cabinets that were filled with all sorts of meats, salads, sandwiches, and other prepared foods.

Two waitresses were working the tables. At the counter a third young woman was taking care of the half dozen customers seated there on bolted-in whirly stools. The place was definitely bustling, Devine observed, but there might not be many places to get breakfast in town, either.

The sign on a metal stand at the entrance said to seat yourself, so Devine did, at a booth at the very end of one wall and farthest from the kitchen.

A young waitress hurried over with a laminated menu that was clipped to a wooden board. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked.

“Coffee, black, and a big glass of water, no ice.”

“Coming up.”

She hurried off while Devine looked at the menu. There were some healthier selections, like avocado toast and stone-cut oatmeal with fruit, but he decided to opt for an old favorite, with one modification thrown into the mix.

When she brought the coffee, which was piping hot and smelled wonderful, he ordered the Lobsterman’s Breakfast, which basically covered all major food groups, with a piece of fried cod — the one modification — thrown in.

She left the menu behind after he gave his order, and he ran his gaze down it. The owner was Annie... Palmer? Devine did a double take at the name. Palmer was a pretty common surname, but in a town with fewer than three hundred people could she be related to Earl?

He took out his phone and Googled the restaurant. On the website he saw a photo of a smiling young woman. He glanced up to see the same woman working the breakfast counter.

Annie Palmer was in her late twenties, with dark hair, brown eyes, and of medium height. The woman didn’t seem to be carrying an ounce of fat on her. But with her job he assumed she never stopped moving. There was no mention of any connection to Earl in the online materials, but there wouldn’t necessarily be, either.

His breakfast arrived, and it was as good as the coffee. He was surprised how much he liked the combo of fried cod, scrambled eggs with bacon and ham, and thick pieces of buttered toast. He took his time eating and watching everyone around him without seeming to do so. He caught several people staring at him and making no pains to disguise it.

He thought back to his encounters with Dak and, later, his sister. Alex seemed truly brokenhearted about her sibling’s death. But then what had her parting comment been about?

Did she mean that not everyone thought Jenny was a good person, maybe including her?

These musings were interrupted by someone coming over and approaching his table.

Annie Palmer tucked a strand of hair back into place behind her ear and slid him a fresh cup of coffee. She had also brought one for herself. Up close, he could see the smattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose. She sat down across from him.

Devine glanced over to see that the counter crowd had mostly dissipated. In fact, the place only had a few tables still occupied. He eyed his watch. He’d been here nearly fifty minutes. It had felt like five seconds.

“Thanks,” he said. “Does the boss usually make table calls?”

She smiled and it was warm and genuine, and the woman looked like she was used to doing it. “The boss does everything that she needs to do to keep this place afloat.”

“Well, it looks to me like you have fair winds and following seas.”

“In Maine, that can change in a heartbeat.”

“I suppose. You’re young to be running your own business, but then what do I know.”

“I’ll be thirty in two years, but some days I feel a lot older.”

“Don’t we all.”

Small talk over, she took a sip of her coffee and gave him a serious stare; her freckles seemed to enlarge with the change in demeanor. “Jenny?”

“Yes.”

She looked down, but not before Devine could see her lips tremble.

“It was a shock,” said Palmer, lifting her chin to look at him.

“I’m sure.”

“I guess you’re working with Chief Harper and Wendy?”

“I am.”

“They’re good people, but probably not very experienced in this sort of thing. We... we don’t have many murders in Putnam, thank God.”

“But they know all the local angles, which I’ll need to learn, too.”

“So you think it was someone from Putnam who killed her?”

The query was blunt, and Devine could sense that Palmer craved a blunt response.

But he could not give it.

“I don’t know. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. I haven’t even gotten the lay of the land yet.”

“I heard you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. Really hit the ground running.”

“That’s my job. But going fast is not always good. One might jump to conclusions that later turn out to be wrong. I avoid that if I can. I’m Travis Devine, by the way, but you probably already knew that.”

“And I’m Annie Palmer, but you obviously already knew that I owned this place.”

He held up his phone. “Not much privacy anymore.”

“No, there’s not.” Her face flushed and he wasn’t sure why.

“So, any relation to Earl?”

“He’s my grandfather.”

“And your parents?”

“House fire, fifteen years ago. Neither one of them made it out alive.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“I was away at summer camp.” Palmer put a hand to her mouth and, in spite of obviously trying hard not to, she briefly teared up.

“I’m sorry,” said Devine, handing her a napkin from the holder on the table. “I didn’t mean for you to recall painful memories.”

“It’s okay.” She wiped her eyes and let out a long, cleansing breath. “Then Bertie, that’s my grandmother, died a few weeks ago. Always thought Gramps would go first. He did too, I’m sure.”

“That is so incredibly hard. For both you and your grandfather.” He paused. “I understand that he found Jenny’s body?”

She had to know that he knew this, thought Devine, but she still looked troubled by his query. “He just stumbled on it. I mean, what else, right? It was terrible.”

Devine assumed his poker face and just nodded. “I suppose he recognized Jenny?”

“Yes, yes he did. I mean, he’d known Jenny her whole life.”

Devine thought about the distance from the edge of the bluff down to the rock shelf where Jenny’s body lay in the darkness, partially covered in water, and mentally shook his head in disbelief at what she had said. And there was something else.

“When I was by his place, I saw that your grandfather has special pedal controls on his station wagon? And some extra handholds?”

“Yes. He has bad arthritis and some spine issues. He had neck surgery that didn’t turn out too well. He can’t really use his legs and feet to work the gas and brake, but he can do it with his hands. He’s still pretty strong in the upper body. The handholds let him pull himself out of the car. But he doesn’t drive much anymore unless he has to, or he’s in a stubborn mood. And he can’t drive his truck anymore. Too hard to get in and out. Mostly, he just walks... slowly.”

“So were you friends with the Silkwells?”

“Yes. They were the most famous family here.” She attempted a smile. “We didn’t move in the same social circles, to the extent Putnam has any. But Alex isn’t that much older than I am. We used to hang out some growing up. She’s an amazing artist.”

“But you didn’t see or talk to Jenny on her last trip here?”

“No, I didn’t even know she was in town.”

“She’s been described as a really good person.”

Before answering Palmer took a sip of coffee. “Yes, yes she was. Outgoing and friendly.”

“Not like her sister, then. You said you know Alex?”

Palmer scrunched up her nose for a moment before saying, bluntly, “If anyone says they really know Alex, you know what I would say?”

“What?”

“That they’re lying to themselves.”

That might have been her most honest statement yet, thought Devine. “Interesting. Why do you say that?”

She shrugged. “She never really lets anyone get close.”

“And Dak?”

“What about him?”

“Good person?”

“I’m probably not the one to ask.” She rose. “Got cleanup duty now. The glamorous life of a small business owner.”

“I’d like to chat again, if that’s okay.”

She looked around at the four walls of the place, and her expression was not exactly one of unbridled joy. “Well, you know where to find me, pretty much every waking moment.”

He glanced at her hand and saw no ring there. “Husband? Kids?”

He knew this question was not particularly appropriate, but criminal investigations seldom were.

“Have a good day, Mr. Devine.”

Putnam was getting more interesting, and puzzling, by the minute.