Trouble Island Read online

  “That sounds great,” he said. “Lead the way!”

  Dev strolled across the lawn, taking the path we’d followed the previous afternoon, down the gravel road toward the pier. As we got closer, we saw a bunch of people gathered—maybe a hundred or more—and they all seemed very interested in us.

  “Who’s that you got witcha, Dev?” a white-haired man in a baseball hat that read ALDEMERE FARM asked as we wove through the crowd.

  “Just some guests from the inn, Bill,” Dev called back with a smile.

  “Colton Sparks’s guests?” a woman with curly red hair asked, but Dev pretended not to hear. They all know Colton Sparks is here with guests? Just how quickly did word travel on this island?

  When we got to the front, Dev waved at a girl about our age who had her long blond hair in a ponytail under a Red Sox cap. She waved back, then returned her attention to a group of men and women in work gear—lobster people.

  Frank tugged on my sleeve. “First opportunity we get, we need to look at that note,” he whispered into my ear.

  I nodded. “Yeah. But we need a second away from Dev.”

  Just then a voice announced, “Welcome to opening day for Rubble Island’s lobstering season!” A gray-haired man with a curly beard was speaking into a megaphone.

  Everyone cheered.

  “I’m Bruce Fenton, and as most of you know, Rubble Island decided a few years back to limit our lobstering to the warmer seasons. This makes us unique among Maine’s lobstering communities and is just one more thing that shows what a special island this is.”

  “Let’s keep it that way!” a female voice screeched from the back of the crowd, and a bunch of voices shouted their support. The audience began applauding loudly.

  When the noise died down, Bruce called, “We agree on that. We all need to do everything we can to protect our way of life here.”

  I caught Frank’s eye. I was thinking about what Colton had said the day before—how the islanders wanted to keep Rubble Island for themselves and didn’t like outsiders. This sounded different, like the islanders felt they were somehow under threat.

  “Anyway,” Bruce went on, “I think we’re mostly locals here, and I know none of you like to hear me yammer on. Let’s get to the good stuff, shall we? Who’s ready to get this year’s lobstering season started?!”

  “We’re ready!” a twentysomething guy with a blond goatee yelled back.

  On the pier, the lobster people took their places.

  Bruce raised the megaphone to his lips, paused for dramatic effect, then yelled, “Let’s go!”

  At least ten different lobstering crews jumped into action, among them Dev’s friend, moving large wire lobster traps onto a collection of lobster boats tied up at the docks.

  “What are they doing?” I asked Dev. “What’s the rush?”

  “Oh, they’ll all place their traps on the ocean floor today,” Dev explained. “It’s kind of first come, first serve, so everyone jostles to get the best spots. Each crew ends up with his or her own territory, and they use colorful buoys to tell them apart. See those patterns? Those are the crews’ insignias. Each boat or company has its own.”

  We watched the action for a few minutes. The lobster people were clearly focused, but everyone seemed to be in a good mood, smiling and laughing with one another, even if they bumped into one another or had to pass each other on the dock.

  “Does anyone ever pull up another boat’s traps and steal their lobsters?” I whispered to Dev.

  He turned, his eyes wide. “Not if they want to live. This is a small island. Everyone knows where to find you.”

  After we watched for another twenty minutes, the crowd started to disperse. Dev’s friend waved at him as she got on a boat with an older woman. Dev waved back and called out, “Good luck!”

  “Who’s that?” Frank asked.

  “My friend Trish. That boat’s been in her family for three generations. Her grandmother was the first lobsterwoman to own her own boat on Rubble Island. Now there are a bunch of female-led crews. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Very cool,” I agreed. “It looks like hard work, though.”

  “Definitely,” Dev said. “But they love it. Hey, you guys want coffee?”

  I looked around. “Back at the inn, you mean?”

  Dev shook his head. “No need to go back there. Jerry at the Gull makes the best cappuccino I’ve ever had. You in?”

  “Sure,” Frank said. “Sounds good to me!” He shot me a look that said, Probably lots of islanders at the Gull.

  I nodded.

  When Dev pulled ahead of us, Frank moved to my side. “Quick look at the note?” he whispered.

  “Good call,” I whispered back, pulling out my phone. But no sooner had I brought up the photo than Dev waved.

  “Hurry up, guys!” he yelled. “We have to beat the crowds!”

  Sure enough, as soon as I turned around, I saw half the spectators from the season opening headed in the same direction. Assuming there was only one barista, there’d be a long wait if we didn’t hustle.

  “Shoot,” Joe muttered, putting his phone back in his pocket.

  I shrugged. “Yeah, but if the whole town’s headed to the same place, maybe we’ll get some intel on who’s got it out for Colton, and why.”

  “Let’s keep our ears open and see what we can find out,” Joe suggested.

  We followed Dev to a small red cottage just off the pier with a hand-painted sign out front: THE GULL COFFEE SHOP AND GENERAL STORE.

  But as Dev pushed open the screen door, the place went silent. It was beginning to make me kind of paranoid, this ability we seemed to have to stop conversations all over Maine dead in their tracks.

  Dev cleared his throat. “Hey, everyone. I want to introduce you to my friends, Joe and Frank Hardy. They’re staying at the Sea Spray because their aunt won a contest.”

  “So they’re not part of Colton Sparks’s entourage?” a man sitting at the counter asked. I realized it was the same guy who I’d seen on the pier wearing the ALDEMERE FARM hat—Bill. There was no disguising the scorn in his voice.

  “We’re not,” I said. “I mean, we’re traveling with him, but we don’t know him that well.”

  We heard murmurs and mutters as the Gull customers discussed this new nugget with their neighbors.

  Finally the woman behind the counter spoke up. “Well, welcome to Rubble Island, Joe and Frank Hardy,” she said warmly. “Can I getcha somethin’ to drink?”

  Dev led us over and introduced the woman as Jerry McNath, lifelong Rubble Island resident and the owner of the Gull. We ordered our cappuccinos, and Jerry got to work making the espresso and steaming the milk. Around us, the other customers seemed to fold back into their separate conversations.

  As Frank and I watched Jerry work, I decided it was time to be direct. And anyway, the curiosity was killing me. Leaning over the counter, I let out a nervous laugh. “So what is it that Rubble Island has against Colton Sparks?”

  Jerry kept her focus on frothing, but I could tell she’d heard me. “Do you boys know anything about the history of the island?” she asked.

  “A little,” Frank said.

  “Well, let me fill you in.” Jerry pulled out three bowl-like mugs. “Rubble Island is older than the United States. It was discovered by Native Americans, probably back in the sixteenth century. Before Europeans ever settled on the mainland of North America, Rubble Island was used as a fishing outpost for both Native Americans and Europeans. That’s right—the Norwegians and the English used to send boats out every summer to fish our waters. They got a taste for American seafood long before any white person thought about settling here.”

  That surprised me. “Did the Native Americans live here, then?”

  “No, they never settled here full-time. Too remote, I think. But they would make fishing trips and camp for a few days. They’ve found a bunch of Native American artifacts up on Lighthouse Hill—that’s where researchers think they might’ve stayed.”

  Jerry poured a shot of espresso into each cup, then picked up her metal pitcher, poured in generous dollops of foam, and pushed the cups across the counter.

  “Hope you like ’em bone dry. That’s the only way I make ’em. And I don’t do any fancy pictures. You want that, go to Portland or something.”

  She said Portland with the kind of scorn most New Englanders seemed to reserve for Yankees fans.

  “So who did settle here first?” Frank asked.

  Jerry smiled. “Funny you should ask. In the 1800s, Rubble Island became one of the first artist colonies in the United States. It was only active in the summer, but it housed some very influential artists of the day. In the 1930s, we became a federally recognized wildlife preserve. There are species of birds here that aren’t found anywhere else in the continental US. And of course… well, since the 1920s or so, we’ve been a working fishing and lobstering island.”

  “Only since then?” I asked.

  Jerry nodded. “Fun fact, boys: lobster has only been considered a luxury food since World War II. Before that, they used to feed it to prisoners, and back in colonial days it was goat food. Have you ever looked at a lobster? It looks like a giant bug or an alien. You have to wonder, who was the first guy to think about eating that? But then the marketing suits got hold of them, and whoo! Now nobody can get enough of ’em.”

  I took a sip of my cappuccino. Dang. It was perfect.

  “Anyway,” Jerry went on, “my point is, Rubble Island has a long history and plenty to recommend it all on its own. We don’t need Colton Sparks to ‘discover’ our island and bring all his fancy chef folks out here. We don’t want to be ‘discovered.’ We want to be left alone. I prefer Polly’s food to anything Colton Sparks dishes up, anyway.”

  I could tell Frank was about to ask something, but Dev spoke first. “How much time do you guys have today? I could show you around some more.”

  Frank shrugged. “Kind of… all day?” he said, at exactly the same time I coughed and said, “Well, we really should get back to the inn.”

  In the awkward moment that followed, Frank and I stared at each other. I tried to subtly point at Frank’s jeans pocket, the one I knew held his phone. We have to read that note!

  Dev looked from me to Frank. “It would be a shame if you came all this way and just saw the village and the inn. I could take you on a tour of the hiking trails that wind through the preserve, show you sights the tourists don’t even know about!”

  Frank looked at me. “That sounds gre—”

  “I need to use the restroom,” I said loudly, cutting Frank off. Maybe a little too loudly, judging from the expressions on the faces of the other customers around us. I didn’t care—as long as Frank got the message.

  “Uh,” he finally said. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I need to go too. Coffee, you know! Ha!”

  Jerry frowned. “The bathroom here isn’t exactly public, but I’ll let you use it if you’re dyin’.”

  I nodded. “I’m dyin’. Thank you!”

  “Yeah, definitely!” Frank echoed.

  Jerry gestured to a black-painted door behind the counter. “Come on back here, then. Knock yourselves out.”

  Dev smiled. “I’ll wait for you guys,” he said, lifting his phone. “Trish says they have almost all the traps placed. Maybe she can meet up with us later.”

  “Her phone works on the lobster boat?” Frank asked, sounding impressed.

  “Oh yeah. A few years ago, they built a cell tower out here—entering the twenty-first century and all that—but I think it works best with local carriers.”

  Truth. I’d had on-and-off service since we’d arrived.

  “You go first,” I said, gesturing to the bathroom and widening my eyes at Frank.

  He nodded and touched the pocket of his jeans. “Right.”

  In our developed-over-time Hardy brothers secret language, this meant, I get it. I’ll read the note on my phone, then pass it on to you. Let’s do this.

  After a short wait, Frank came out with a wide-eyed look. He held out his phone, shoving it into my hands.

  “Hey, Joe,” he said, all faux casually. “You have to check out this supercute puppy video I just watched. I bookmarked it for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the phone eagerly and swerving around him into the bathroom.

  I was so excited to read the note that I forgot that bathrooms have doors and light switches. At the last minute, I remembered to close the door behind me, which plunged me into pitch darkness. I didn’t want to open the door again and draw attention to my foolishness, so I felt around the wall on either side of the door, searching for a switch, but when I finally found it, I was so excited that I fumbled the phone out of my hands.

  “No!” I watched it drop into the toilet in slow motion, remembering a second later to dive for it, and by some miracle, grabbed it with both hands just before it hit the water.

  “Yes!”

  But my relief was short-lived. No sooner had I lifted the phone out of the bowl than I heard that unmistakable bloop delete sound.

  Turning the screen to face me, I desperately hoped I could still save the image, but as my finger furiously mashed at the icon, I heard the dreaded whoosh. I’d deleted the photo of the note—forever. I sat down on the toilet, doing everything I could think of to get the photo back, even googling Get photo back deleted accidentally why help!!

  It didn’t turn up any useful results.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Are you still in there, Joe?” Frank called. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s fine! I’m fine!” I yelled, standing up and flushing the toilet for appearances. Frank read the note, I reminded myself. Frank can tell me what it said.…

  I opened the door to find Frank, Dev, and half of Rubble Island watching me curiously.

  “You ready?” Dev asked, looking slightly concerned. “I bought us some water and snacks. Are you allergic to nuts?” I wondered how long I’d been in there, exactly.

  “No, nuts are great,” I replied, waving at Jerry, who nodded with an amused smirk. “As am I. I feel great.” But when Dev turned and began leading us back outside, I shoved the phone into Frank’s hand. “I deleted it,” I said though gritted teeth.

  “You deleted it?” he whispered back. “Seriously?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just—”

  “Are you guys sure you’re up for a hike?” Dev called back. He had walked farther onto the pier, and I realized that Frank and I had fallen really far behind. Worse, we must’ve looked pretty rude, whispering away while he was standing right there.

  “We’re sure,” I said, shooting Frank a look that said, later. “Sorry. We were just catching up on back-home gossip. We can’t wait to see more of Rubble Island.”

  Dev smiled. “Great. Because I can’t wait to show it to you.”

  7 SOMETHING’S OFF

  FRANK

  THAT WAS AMAZING,” I SAID as we stepped from the gravel road onto the Sea Spray Inn’s lawn later that afternoon. “But I’m going to be sore tomorrow!”

  Dev laughed. “Sorry, guys. I hope I didn’t overdo it. There’s just so much to see! I think the island’s really one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. Unfortunately, a lot of the prettiest stuff is up a steep slope or through spiky brush.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Joe said, clapping Dev on the back. “You can’t find the sights you showed us today on a postcard. I had no idea Rubble Island had so much to see.”

  So much was right. We’d spent hours wandering through the woods and along the rocky cliffs that led down to the sea. Dev had shown us a whirlpool where the tides formed a tiny tornado in the sea, and the remains of a shipwreck from the early 1900s. We’d also seen more wildlife than I had ever seen in one place before. It was clear why the nature preserve was so needed.

  By the time we got back, it was nearing dusk. Lanterns on the porch cast slanted golden light over the lawn, which was beginning to take on an inky darkness. We’d seen the beginning of a spectacular sunset over the water on the far side of the island just before we turned back.

  “Looks like clouds are moving in,” Dev said, pointing to the sky above the harbor. Now that he mentioned it, the wind was picking up. “I hope that doesn’t cause trouble for Colton and his awards tomorrow.”

  “Why would it?” Joe asked.

  “Living on an island ten miles out to sea, you learn to pay close attention to the weather,” Dev explained. “When a storm rolls in, the ferry can’t get out here, and neither can the mail, groceries…”

  “… or all the fancy chefs coming in for the awards,” I finished.

  Dev nodded. “I hope for Colton’s sake it blows through. I know he’s got a lot riding on these awards.”

  A lot riding on these awards? I wondered what Dev meant by that. Before I could ask, he climbed the porch steps and went inside. Colton was an already famous TV chef with restaurants all over the country. What could he have riding on a small awards banquet? I wondered if it had something to do with the note in his robe.

  As Joe and I walked into the lobby, we were greeted by a warm, comforting smell: garlic, butter, seafood, tomatoes. Mmm. I’d forgotten that one of the benefits of traveling with a celebrity chef was that said celebrity chef cooked you dinner.

  “Aunt Trudy?” Joe called. “Colton? We’re back!”

  She suddenly popped through the dining room door, wearing a big smile. “Oh, hello! I’m Trudy. I don’t think we’ve met before,” she said, holding out her hand to Dev.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said, nodding politely. “I’ve been showing your nephews around the island. Have you been having fun with Colton?”

  Aunt Trudy let out a squeal of delight. “Have I! Oh, you’ve all arrived just in time! The fish is perfect, if I say so myself. Did you get to see the whole island, boys?”

  I nodded. “Dev gave us the grand tour. It’s really amazing, Aunt Trudy. If you can get out of the kitchen, even for an hour, you have to take a look around.”

  She smiled. “Maybe after the awards I’ll get up early and do just that.” She turned to Dev. “Have you all worked up an appetite?”