‘We still have a number of leads to follow up on,’ she said. ‘The advantage of this happening in such a small community is that people tend to notice if anything is unusual. If you’ll excuse the French, we have a saying on the island: you can’t take a shit today without someone smelling it tomorrow.’

14

THE WIFE

The Belly pub, nestled at the corner of Bay and Bramwell streets, glowed warm and orange against the drizzly night. Wrapped in floral green wallpaper, its main lounge was lined with rows of wooden bench seats. The walls were cluttered with framed black-and-white photos of Belport in the 1930s and ’40s. A fire crackled in a large stone fireplace set below a mantelpiece carved from driftwood.

When Abby got good enough with her taxidermy, the Belly’s owner, Sheila Gosnell, promised to mount her prize piece above that mantelpiece. Sheila had likely envisioned a proud buck with wide, twisting antlers. Abby wondered what she might say if she presented her with Trevor the ringtail.

Abby and Bobbi sat in a booth by the fire; Abby was on red, Bobbi on white. It was Bobbi’s idea to go out for a drink, but it was Abby who really needed one. She wondered if her best friend had picked up some sort of psychic SOS signal she’d put out after finding what was inside the first-aid kit.

‘It’s been too long since we did this,’ Abby said, clinking glasses. ‘I thought you were off drinking – in public, anyway – until Maggie popped that baby out and could join you.’

‘I thought I owed you after unloading on you in the car the other night,’ Bobbi said with a shrug. ‘But there’s something I need to talk to you about. What happened to your thumb?’

Abby looked down at the fresh bandaid she’d wrapped around the neat slice made by the X-Acto knife. After washing off the blood, she’d found only a nick barely wider than a paper cut, but like a paper cut, it hurt like a motherfucker.

‘Taxidermy mishap,’ she said. ‘Speaking of, there’s something I need to talk to you about too.’

Bobbi leaned back in the booth and rested a hand behind her head. She tipped her glass and said, ‘Ladies first.’

Abby took a gulp of wine, then started to talk. She told Bobbi about Mountain Stud and the blond man unzipping his jeans. Bobbi listened with her lips tightly drawn, her expression giving nothing away. The only time she spoke was to send away Jim Biggins, a Belly regular who’d wandered drunkenly over to ask Bobbi about the murder. Although, after a few too many Woodstock and Cokes, it came out murra.