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financial reasons. Unlike the Snowden Family Clambake, Gus’s restaurant was on a secure footing. His house was paid for, his middle-aged children were prosperous, and Gus was the tightest of tightwads. I had to imagine that he and Mrs. Gus were pretty comfortable. But if he wasn’t running the restaurant, I didn’t think Gus would have the slightest idea what to do with himself.
    But then, I was the pot getting all judgy about the kettle. When Chris and I had agreed to serve dinner at Gus’s place, I’d assumed we’d do it seven days a week. After all, that’s what Gus did. And that’s what my family did at the Snowden Family Clambake during the tourist season.
    But Chris had balked. “Julia, what part of ‘off season’ don’t you get? This is when we spend time with friends, enjoy our hobbies, and take an occasional nap. That’s why we work like dogs during high season.”
    As far as I knew, we worked like dogs during the high season to make money to survive the long winter and cold spring, but point taken. I’d always had workaholic tendencies. Long weekends away at boarding school without much to do except schoolwork, the pressure of business school, the crazy hours and relentless travel of my venture capital job had all reinforced my habits. But I had to admit, most of my workaholism came from inside me. I could have snuck off campus like my friends did at prep school, had more fun during college, and taken time during my work-related travel to do a little sightseeing, but that wasn’t me. Maybe I wasn’t that different from Gus.
    “Besides,” Chris had continued. “If we work seven days, when will I finish my house? When will I get my deer?”
    That took me aback and made me reflect once again on the new life I was living. Throughout my sporadic dating life and short-lived relationships in Manhattan, I couldn’t recall a single man telling me he needed time to bag his deer.
    So we’d agreed. We would close Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Chris had returned to his life, his friends, and his off-season routine. I had nothing to return to.
    I grabbed the trash bag, gave Le Roi a rub behind the ears, and headed for the stairs.

Chapter 6
    Just as the Dumpster lid slammed, I heard male voices. I recognized Binder’s baritone instantly, followed by Jamie’s familiar cadence.
    “Do you think . . . gone into the water?” Binder asked, though I couldn’t make out the middle part.
    I couldn’t hear Jamie’s answer either, but it sounded affirmative. I spotted them walking along the high bank of the back harbor. Jamie pointed into the water and said something I didn’t catch. The deep, briny smell told me it was low tide. They’d be looking at exposed rock and even some of the harbor bottom. They were trailed by a scowling Sergeant Flynn, who stared into the water, hands in his coat pockets, saying nothing.
    As I walked toward the three of them to see what they were up to, Binder caught sight of me. “Julia!” He said something to Jamie, who nodded and walked off in the opposite direction. “Let’s continue our interview.”
    “Chris isn’t here,” I called back to him. He and Flynn were at the edge of the parking lot by then.
    “No problem,” Binder responded. “We’ll catch him later.”
    I considered putting them off. Chris being there had been such a comfort at the earlier part of the interview. Plus, I valued his help in recalling what had happened. It was important to get it right, and I didn’t completely trust myself on the details. I wondered if this reinforcement of my memory was exactly what Binder wanted to avoid, and if interviewing me separately was a strategy rather than a happenstance.
    But a man was dead, and the person who’d killed him, quite possibly in the restaurant while Chris and I slept above, was still on the loose. I wanted that person caught as soon as possible. I agreed to the interview in the interest of keeping things moving.
    I opened the back door, and Flynn and