A series of mysterious events occur in the fictional New England fishing village of Stoneyport. Join a pragmatic fisherman, a philanthropic restaurateur, the town drunkard, and a mentally impaired cleaning lady, as they combine efforts to unravel the inexplicable events unfolding before them. You may never eat lobster again!

DEERSKIN NECK

By Stephen M. Taylor

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Stephen M. Taylor
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-9943-2

Chapter One

Red and green letters against a white background embellished the portico of the only Italian restaurant and bar in Stoneyport. Taylorini's was owned and operated by Dorabella Arrighini. The bar itself was rectangular in shape and served as the centerpiece of the facility, booths lined the exterior walls, an outdoor veranda offered patrons the opportunity to smoke, as well as a charming view of the harbor, including Motif #2. Dorabella would be curtailing the menu after the weekend, settling down for the off season, remaining open only as a sandwich caf and bar.

"That dude's always here," whispered Angus, taking a seat at a booth, a dated wooden lobster pot dangling overhead as part of the dcor. He slid across the maple bench seat effortlessly, made smooth by Polyurethane and sundry asses before his. He lowered his chin to hands, fingers entwined, supported by elbows resting on the table before him, simply clad in denims and white t-shirt.

"Who, Jimmy?" asked the father, directing his gaze momentarily to the man at the bar, at the same time acknowledging him with a nod and sliding into position opposite the son. Like the younger man, the father wore denims, but instead of a t-shirt he wore a solid blue golf shirt with a collar and three buttons in the throat.

"How's it going?" responded Jimmy. He didn't expect an answer. It was just acknowledgement in kind. He took a sip from his dark brown bar bottle of Narragansett, returned to the introspection he'd enjoyed before the interruption.

"Yeah, Jimmy, the town drunk," mumbled Angus under his breath, and in a manner condescending of Jimmy's bibulous behavior. He glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes, the watch his father had given him for Christmas the previous year, the inexpensive watch with a black face and black leather wristband whose dials, in the dark, glowed green against iridescent numbers. "Ten in the morning no less."

"Go easy on him," advised Charlie. "He was in Iraq. "He glanced at the waitress in the black pants and white blouse, took in her figure unconsciously and ordered coffee. "Dora around?" he asked. Angus settled for a Coke.

It wasn't long before Dorabella appeared from the kitchen, coffee and Coke in hand. Likewise, she wore black pants and white blouse, partially obscured by a white chef's apron. She was taller than the average woman, five feet seven inches and of medium build. She usually wore her dark brown hair in a French twist, but this morning was different. She had one of those newfangled EZ Combs that held the hair on the back of her head smartly in place. She set the taupe cup and saucer before Charlie, the cup with the restaurant's moniker stenciled in dark green letters and gold trim. "Good morning, Charlie, how you doing?" She allowed for Angus with her eyes, set the red and silver Coke can before him. "Do you want ice and a glass?"

"Hi," answered Angus, without much conviction. He was unsure of Dorabella, thought she and his father were overly familiar and he was naturally protective of his mother. "No thanks, I'm good."

"Hey, Dora, I brought you something." Charlie reached over the seat and lifted the lid from the Styrofoam cooler at his feet. The brackish and translucent water sloshed when he pulled the container into view to where she could see the creatures, the blackish-green crustaceans with just a hint of orange garnish on their extremities.

"Lobsters," she stated, glancing into the cooler. She wanted to be appreciative and pretended to study the two creatures. "Those are beauts, Charlie. Speak of the devil, I just finished a pot of bisque. You guys want some? On the house?"

"For breakfast? Are you kidding?" Charlie visualized the red concoction in a bowl before him, the small chunks of lobster suspended, the pungent fish odor infusing his nostrils. "You make the best lobster bisque around, but I can't take it for breakfast, sweetie."

"How about you young man? I hear you're leaving us soon?" She turned her attention to Angus.

"No thanks," he answered. He looked briefly into her mahogany eyes, probably the richest brown he'd ever seen in eyes, with just a smidgen of sangria.

"Yeah, Joe College is leaving in a couple of days," interjected Charlie. He looked at his son, it was bittersweet. Charlie would miss him, but in a way, he would be glad upon his departure. Let somebody else, albeit an institution, take care of him for awhile. Let somebody else be responsible. One less person with which to share the family car.

"State, no?" asked Dorabella. She whisked away a strand of hair dangling over her eyes. She looked again at the lobsters.

"Yeah," said Angus.

"Fine school," she added. "I'm sure you'll do well."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Charlie. "I'm looking for someone to take his place, to help me out. You see a lot of people come and go. You know of anybody that might want a job?" He stirred his coffee absently, watched it change from black to hazelnut brown, as the cream dissipated.

She paused but a moment, bent over to adjust the condiment dispensers at the end of the table, so that her face was close to Charlie's and whispered, "How about Jimmy?"

Charlie rolled his eyes for her benefit, although she didn't see. "Jesus, Dora. Like, you ever seen him sober?" Charlie spoke in hushed voice. He took a sip of coffee, blew on it first, as if to cool it.

"I bet he'd get sober for a job," she countered. She straightened up, adjusted her apron.

"I'll think about it," said Charlie, but he wouldn't really consider it seriously. Working on a boat off the coast of New England was dangerous business, not work for the afflicted in any way.

"Cindy, maybe?" Dorabella shrugged her shoulders, suspected her new suggestion was worse than the first.

"Cindy, the cleaning lady?" Another afflicted one. He wondered what Dorabella was thinking.

"Why not?"

"Jesus, Dora, like she's ..." Charlie didn't finish his sentence. He was reluctant to use the word retarded. That was too mean. He took a swallow of coffee.

"Retarded?" Dorabella finished it for him.

"You know what I mean. She's slow or something."

"I'll bet she could at least drive the boat." She turned to the handful of customers entering the establishment.

"I don't know. We'll see. If you come across somebody let me know, okay?"

"I'll work on it, Charlie. Now what can I get you?"

"A couple of turkey sandwiches to go."

"You going out today?"

"Yeah. The last time for Joe College." He indicated Angus with his eyes. "Got to deliver some cobbler to Tony and Jake first."

"Jenny made cobbler?" asked Dorabella. Before he could answer she added, "What kind?"

"Cranberry I think." He lifted the napkin from the glass dish beside him on the seat, glanced into it at the cobbler.

"Makes sense. They're in season. I should have known. By the way, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure," answered Charlie.

"Since you're going out, Pasha loves my bisque. Could you take her some?"

"You're kidding me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah, she does."

"No problem," he said, and shrugged his shoulders.

The father and son left Taylorini's and moseyed out Deerskin Neck to make their delivery. Near the end of the neck, they entered the gift shop of Tony and Jake, which also served as the office for the sixteen room motel...