up with the demand; the plates were already disappearing fast. “I’ll be right back.”
"Irving!” Andi hollered at her photographer, who had wandered off somewhere, as I hurried back to the kitchen for more pies. I paused to smooth my hair down and add a bit of lipgloss, then headed back outside, pie in hand, to an empty table in the corner of the yard where Irving was assembling his tripod.
"I thought we’d get the inn in the background of the shot,” he said.
My kind of guy, I thought. Maybe I’d give him a whole pie, just for himself.
I stood smiling, the pie held in front of me, the inn behind me, as Irving fiddled with the camera. Just as he snapped the first shot, a flurry of activity broke out at the edge of the lawn. I looked over just in time to see Henry Hoyle bending over and clutching his stomach.
Andi, who had been asking me questions about the inn and jotting down my answers, paused with her pen mid-stroke. Her sharp eyes focused on Henry’s plaid-covered back.
"What’s wrong with him, I wonder?” I asked.
"I don’t know,” she said, “but he’s not the only one.” As we watched, two more people staggered up from their chairs and doubled over, clutching their stomachs.
"I’ll be right back,” Andi said, pushing her chair back and calling Irving to join her. She hurried over to where Henry was wiping his forehead. “Looks like we got a case of food poisoning!” she yelled as she trotted over to where now three more people had started groaning. I winced as the murmur of concern instantly escalated to a roar.
"Somebody call the doctor!” yelled a squat man I didn’t recognize. I turned and ran into the inn – partly to call the doctor and partly so I wouldn’t have to watch the fiasco unfolding in my back yard.
***
By the time I had gotten in touch with the Bar Harbor Hospital and asked them to send over medical assistance, almost half a dozen people were suffering from stomach cramps. As I filled glasses with ice water to take to the afflicted, Charlene burst into the kitchen.
"It’s a nightmare out there,” she said. “What do you think happened?”
"Gertrude said something about food poisoning,” I said, “but I’m hoping it’s just a stomach bug.”
"Some stomach bug,” she said. “On the plus side, at least the Daily Mail get a good story out of it.”
I grimaced. “I can see the headline now: Fifty people transported to hospital after lunch at Gray Whale Inn .”
“I told you that reporter would be trouble.” Charlene brushed a few crumbs off of her sweater. “Do you think it could it be the clams? We kept them on ice the whole time, though.”
I sighed, looking out at the melee in the back yard. “I wish I knew.”
"Sometimes I think maybe someone put the evil eye on you.”
"Well if they did, the curse only seems to go active when someone from the press appears.”
Charlene peeked into the cookie jar, withdrew an oatmeal cookie and said brightly, “See? It could be worse.”
"How?"
"It's only a part-time curse."
***
The article in the Daily Mail was every bit as bad as I had feared. Fifteen Hospitalized after Dinner at Gray Whale Inn , blared the headlines. Police Suspect Food Poisoning. Next to it were two photos: one of yours truly, proudly displaying a pie with the inn as a backdrop, and one of Gerald Whitestone with a plate of half-eaten pie in his hand and flanked by a policewoman and an EMT.
I crumpled the paper and tucked it into a drawer to read later, hoping that none of my guests would pick up today’s issue down at the store. My plan to host the clambake had backfired. Instead of the residents of Cranberry Island going home full of clams, pie, and goodwill – and the island coffers overflowing with extra revenue – the day had ended with a phone call to Emergency Services. And an article about the inn that wasn't exactly scrapbook material.
When Charlene dropped off my copy of the Daily Mail , she said the paper was already sold
"Irving!” Andi hollered at her photographer, who had wandered off somewhere, as I hurried back to the kitchen for more pies. I paused to smooth my hair down and add a bit of lipgloss, then headed back outside, pie in hand, to an empty table in the corner of the yard where Irving was assembling his tripod.
"I thought we’d get the inn in the background of the shot,” he said.
My kind of guy, I thought. Maybe I’d give him a whole pie, just for himself.
I stood smiling, the pie held in front of me, the inn behind me, as Irving fiddled with the camera. Just as he snapped the first shot, a flurry of activity broke out at the edge of the lawn. I looked over just in time to see Henry Hoyle bending over and clutching his stomach.
Andi, who had been asking me questions about the inn and jotting down my answers, paused with her pen mid-stroke. Her sharp eyes focused on Henry’s plaid-covered back.
"What’s wrong with him, I wonder?” I asked.
"I don’t know,” she said, “but he’s not the only one.” As we watched, two more people staggered up from their chairs and doubled over, clutching their stomachs.
"I’ll be right back,” Andi said, pushing her chair back and calling Irving to join her. She hurried over to where Henry was wiping his forehead. “Looks like we got a case of food poisoning!” she yelled as she trotted over to where now three more people had started groaning. I winced as the murmur of concern instantly escalated to a roar.
"Somebody call the doctor!” yelled a squat man I didn’t recognize. I turned and ran into the inn – partly to call the doctor and partly so I wouldn’t have to watch the fiasco unfolding in my back yard.
***
By the time I had gotten in touch with the Bar Harbor Hospital and asked them to send over medical assistance, almost half a dozen people were suffering from stomach cramps. As I filled glasses with ice water to take to the afflicted, Charlene burst into the kitchen.
"It’s a nightmare out there,” she said. “What do you think happened?”
"Gertrude said something about food poisoning,” I said, “but I’m hoping it’s just a stomach bug.”
"Some stomach bug,” she said. “On the plus side, at least the Daily Mail get a good story out of it.”
I grimaced. “I can see the headline now: Fifty people transported to hospital after lunch at Gray Whale Inn .”
“I told you that reporter would be trouble.” Charlene brushed a few crumbs off of her sweater. “Do you think it could it be the clams? We kept them on ice the whole time, though.”
I sighed, looking out at the melee in the back yard. “I wish I knew.”
"Sometimes I think maybe someone put the evil eye on you.”
"Well if they did, the curse only seems to go active when someone from the press appears.”
Charlene peeked into the cookie jar, withdrew an oatmeal cookie and said brightly, “See? It could be worse.”
"How?"
"It's only a part-time curse."
***
The article in the Daily Mail was every bit as bad as I had feared. Fifteen Hospitalized after Dinner at Gray Whale Inn , blared the headlines. Police Suspect Food Poisoning. Next to it were two photos: one of yours truly, proudly displaying a pie with the inn as a backdrop, and one of Gerald Whitestone with a plate of half-eaten pie in his hand and flanked by a policewoman and an EMT.
I crumpled the paper and tucked it into a drawer to read later, hoping that none of my guests would pick up today’s issue down at the store. My plan to host the clambake had backfired. Instead of the residents of Cranberry Island going home full of clams, pie, and goodwill – and the island coffers overflowing with extra revenue – the day had ended with a phone call to Emergency Services. And an article about the inn that wasn't exactly scrapbook material.
When Charlene dropped off my copy of the Daily Mail , she said the paper was already sold
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