Simmer Down

we review that later?”
    Naomi agreed but reminded me of the importance of this insightful exercise. When we’d wrapped up our meeting, I jumped on the Internet to search for anything I could find about Oliver’s murder. Most of the links led me to pages with brief accounts. Nowhere could I find new information. One page, from the food section of a newspaper, mentioned the murder but focused on Simmer and “its up-and-coming young chef, Josh Driscoll.” The article included details about Josh’s background and sample menu items, and the number to call for reservations. A lengthy description of the design and decor of the new restaurant, together with polished quotes from Gavin, made me suspect that he’d had enough clout to persuade someone to include the material.
    I did find Oliver’s obituary, which appeared with a photo, but was surprisingly brief. It stated that he was survived by his wife, Dora, and that a private memorial service was planned for a later date. After everything Adrianna had said about Dora’s extravagance, I wondered why she wasn’t giving her husband a lavish funeral.
    “Chloe?” Naomi said as she put on her winter coat. “I’ve got to run out and drop off this thank-you present to Eliot for welcoming us so graciously to his gallery. Be back in an hour or so, okay?” I wondered what the gift was. Probably New Age candles or a book on speaking openly with your inner child.
    “Sure. I’ll see you later.”
    Back to the important work of surfing the Web. I searched for information on hermit crabs. My goal was to learn how to keep Ken alive. In minutes, I’d discovered an entire population of people out there frighteningly devoted to their pet crabs. I learned that Ken would need a bath once a week. I’d have to dump him into a bowl of water and let him slide around for a few minutes while he washed out his shell. I could handle that.
    What I could not handle was that Ken was going to molt. Yuck! He would burrow himself in the sand and look dead for a few days, and then would move from his shell into another, slightly larger, shell. I immediately concluded that Ken’s cage would have to be shrouded during this process. The sight of a shell-less Ken would make me puke. But I’d have to buy him some alternative shells. The site I was looking at even sold a large number of hand-painted hermit crab shells in various sizes. For eight ninety-five plus shipping, Ken could sport a Spiderman, tie-dye, or bull’s-eye shell. And here I was dressing (housing?) him in plain brown! I decided that if Ken decided to actually move in my presence, I’d reward his good behavior with a decorative shell or maybe with a decorative cage background or the toys and fancy lighting the site also sold.
    I read a long paragraph on how to determine whether or not your hermit crab was dead, and I silently cursed Walker for having given me a pet that required study to determine whether he was even alive. And should the crab, in fact, be dead, I could click on the link that took me to the Hermit Crab Memorial Page. I went ahead and clicked on the assumption that Ken wouldn’t make it much beyond New Year’s. Oh, this had to be a joke! Should Ken pass on to “Hermie Heaven,” I could go and post a eulogy on the site. Pages and pages of memorials to dead crabs loomed in front of me with wistful words from their owners. “Oh, Bingo! You were the best little guy. It’s so hard to lose a pet, and you will be missed more than words can say. You will always be loved. See you again . . Oh, good God. “Only a tiny bit of time with a tiny bit of a crab, but a giant hole in my heart.” And my favorite: “I never had the chance to name you. I took you home, but it seems the car ride was too much for you to handle. When you hardly moved and then your leg fell off, I knew.” The other crab forums were filled with pleading messages from owners seeking help from other hermit crab fanatics: “Hermit crab missing legs!” and “Can I use a hamster ball with my hermit crab?” and “Something has gone dreadfully wrong!” and “Traveling with crabs?”
    Some hermit crab owners, I concluded, were more devoted to their pets than Dora had evidently been to Oliver. He’d rated nothing better than a short obituary. Where was his wife’s loving eulogy to him?
    After learning more than anyone should want to know about the hermit crab world, I took a quick look at the Full Moon’s locations. Lunar, Eclipse, and the