Boiled Over (A Maine Clambake Mystery) by Barbara Ross

is”—Chuck paused—“I’m embarrassed to say this, but it took me awhile to realize he never talked about his family or where he came from or what he did before he started Camp Glooscap. Once or twice I asked him outright, but he was skilled at changing the subject. Eventually, we understood his past to be off limits.”
    “He was such a nice man,” Cindy said. “We didn’t want to press him. But there was a sadness there, I’m sure of it. His life before Busman’s Harbor was something he didn’t want to dwell on.”
    “Did anyone here have a problem with Stevie?” Binder definitely hadn’t asked me to go down this line of questioning, but I couldn’t help myself.
    “Why would you want to know?” Cindy asked. “I thought Stevie’s murderer was the young man who ran away. The one who works for you.”
    So even the Kellys, who hadn’t been into town all weekend, knew about Cabe Stone.
    “Cabe is only wanted for questioning as a witness,” I clarified. Chuck harrumphed skeptically, but I pressed my point. “There’s no one you know of who had a problem with Stevie?”
    I expected more protests about what a great guy he had been, but a look passed between husband and wife.
    “Someone’s bound to tell her,” Chuck said.
    “There has been a little problem in the campground,” Cindy started. “Such a shame. You see, Stevie has always given out the sites by seniority. The more years you’d been coming and the longer you stayed per season, the better your campsite. If somebody moved on or died, and you were at the top of the list, you had a chance to move up. The system was fair and worked well.”
    “Until this year.” Chuck took up the tale. “The Parkers moved to an assisted living facility and sold their beautiful motor home. They’re both in their late eighties. It was just a matter of time.”
    “It’s a lovely spot.” Cindy pointed to a campsite on the other side of the little beach from theirs.
    I could tell it would have a terrific view of the sunrise over the bay. The camper parked behind its fireplace was pretty barebones, much smaller and more worn than any of the others in the prime waterfront locations.
    “Reggie Swinburne, who has the spot behind it, thought he should get the site, because he’s next in seniority and he’s here half the year, almost as long as we are. But then the Parker kids just moved that, that thing into the spot. They claim they’re entitled to the site because their parents rented it,” Chuck said. “But, it doesn’t work that way. They have to go to the back of the line. And, they only come on weekends .”
    “For the weekends ,” Cindy repeated. In case I didn’t get it. “Weekend people do not get waterfront lots. They’re back in their own little area.”
    Oh geez, I thought, the dynamics of a resort town. The natives looked down on the seasonal homeowners, who looked down on the monthly house-renters, who looked down on the weeklong hotel-stayers, who looked down on the weekenders, who looked down on the day-tripping tourists, who looked down on the natives. In Camp Glooscap, the whole cycle would play out in microcosm.
    “This Reggie Swinburne and the Parker children, were they angry at Stevie?”
    “They were angry at each other,” Chuck said. “There’s been a lot of back and forth. Loud music all day and late into night, revving motorcycle engines, reckless riding through the camp on All Terrain Vehicles. Yelling and threats. Reggie expected Stevie to do something about it. And the Parkers said if anyone tried to move their rig, they’d burn Camp Glooscap to the ground.”
    “Oh my. Did you tell the police about this when they interviewed you?”
    “All they wanted was to know if Stevie was missing and the names of his friends and relatives so they could try to locate him. They didn’t ask about anything happening at the campground.”
     
     
    When I left the Kellys, I walked over to the dilapidated trailer they’d pointed out