The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine Page B

like to enjoy our dinner, Tom. We’ll talk soon.”
    â€œIs that right?” Tom said, slurring the words. He placed a hand on Toby’s shoulder and drew his face up close. But by now his two companions had risen from their stools, and one of them grasped Tom by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he said to us, as he coaxed Tom to turn around. “C’mon, Tom, it’s time for us to go.”
    â€œWanna have another drink,” said Tom.
    â€œAt home, Tom. We’ll have one at home. C’mon.” His two friends began to lead Tom away. “Sorry about that,” said the one who hadn’t yet spoken.
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Toby. “Be sure he gets home safely.”
    â€œWe will.” They propelled Tom unsteadily toward the door and left.
    Angie wanted to know what that had been all about. I explained who Tom was and what he had recently gone through.
    â€œHe’s a complete mess,” said Toby.
    â€œHe’s not a bad sort, really,” I said. “Let’s put it behind us and enjoy our dinner. And the view.”
    We did. A chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc smoothed the way for the “crab dégustation,” a four-course dinner devoted to various preparations of the delectable crustacean, a specialty of the house at this time of year when the local catch is at its peak. A second round of wine by the glass went down as easily as the bottle, and the meal flowed along agreeably.
    Over dessert we began to plan the next day. I proposed that we go to Whole Foods in Sebastopol to get the supplies we would need for our Gourmet Club. Angie surprised me by saying that she hadn’t flown all the way across the country just to see Whole Foods. She could do that in Gloucester. “The point of Whole Foods is that they’re all alike, wherever you go. They’re the McDonald’s of health food.”
    â€œOh, come on, Angie. I’m talking local culture here. You should see this place. Outside, there’s an accordion player dressed like a French marionette. And sitting next to him is an old man with a long white beard and a hat with a pot of daffodils on top of it, and his fat bulldog is sitting there with a smaller version of the same hat. It’s some kind of happening, every time I go there. And that’s just the outside. The produce is like nothing you’ve ever seen in New England—watercress with leaves as big as quarters, and fresh out of the stream.”
    â€œI believe you,” Angie said apologetically. “But I have something else going.”
    â€œYou haven’t found a boyfriend here already, have you?” I blurted out my fear under the influence of several glasses of wine on top of the Pimm’s Cup.
    â€œOf course not.” Angie pouted. Toby hunched around to nudge me with his elbow. He knows what I think about Angie’s tumultuous romances. And he knows I go overboard with protective feelings.
    â€œSorry, sweetie,” I apologized. “I’m just disappointed. I was looking forward to your company tomorrow. What’s up?”
    She looked a little uneasy, and her glance at Toby made me guess that she hadn’t planned to discuss this in front of him. But she soldiered on. “Well, you know this case you’re working on about the missing icon of the angel Michael? I told one of the sisters at Grace Quarry about it, and the next day she said that it was providential I was coming out here this week, because she had a dream about me. In this dream I was talking to the angel Michael and he had something important to say to me, but Sister Theresa couldn’t hear what it was. You know how I’ve always felt about angels.”
    Since she was a toddler, Angie has loved anything to do with angels—statues, pictures, trinkets, stories. When she was about four she used to talk with angels. When I’d take her for a walk in the Millbrook Meadow, she’d stop at