Anchor Management

by Ellis Quinn

  “Bitter?—how dare you—”

  Cherry said, “You’re mad because I outbid Quinton on purchasing the building.”

  Vance said, “Who’s Quinton?”

  Eyes still up on the debacle in the pavilion, Bette said, “Charlotte’s brother.”

  Charlotte looked indignant. “That’s ridiculous. You’re outrageous . . .”

  Cherry’s weariness flared up with anger and she scowled at Charlotte, who stood now haughty with her arms crossed. “You. You’re the one who’s outrageous,” Cherry said, jabbing an accusatory finger at Charlotte. “Everyone can see it. You don’t think they see it? You stood up here and announced a repeat winner, and everyone knows—”

  “What?” Charlotte said, voice raised. “That you should win it? How conceited. How prideful.” She clucked her tongue. “How amazing do you think your little coffee shop is?”

  “Oh, this is terrible,” Pris groaned and squeezed at her temples.

  “You have no idea how embarrassing your behavior is,” Cherry said.

  “My behavior?—in case you didn’t notice, I’m not the one on stage with my hand out looking for an award I didn’t win . . .”

  Cherry’s hands went to fists at her sides, and she said through clenched teeth, “No, you’re the spiteful b—”

  “O-ho-kay, ladies,” Vinnie said, rising from his table now in his blazer embroidered with little anchors, waving his hands, trying to distract the combatants. But it was his son Jack who was the first up the pavilion steps to stop the proceedings.

  Vance whispered, “Who’s this guy?”

  Bette said, “That’s Charlotte and Vinnie’s son, Jack—works at Vinnie’s crabbing business.”

  “This is a real live soap opera.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see this,” she groaned.

  “It’s fine,” Vance said, “I just feel for Cherry.”

  Jack was on the bandstand now, getting between the two antagonists, Cherry and Hilda on one side, Jack making eye contact with Cherry—then extending a hand toward his mother, creating a physical barrier between them. Bette’d only seen Jack one time before, a Happy Hour at the Blackwater Brewery earlier this week.

  Where Jack’s brother Stephen was like his father—average height and dark haired—Jack was more like his mother, taller and fair-haired. With his eyes still on Cherry, he addressed his mother: “Mom, okay, that’s good. . . . Everybody go back to your corners.”

  Hilda said, “Back to our corners?”

  Cherry’s fists were still balled, her pretty brow furrowed with angry lines. She said, “I don’t need to go back to my corner—I’m just leaving.”

  Jack extended a hand as if he wanted to hold Cherry’s arm, prevent her from going, continue being the bandstand’s anger management counselor, but Cherry pulled her arm away before he could touch her.

  One foot down on the first step, Cherry turned and said to Jack, “You want to fix problems, fix your own problems first.”

  Jack’s jaw slumped, his eyes widening. He didn’t know what to say, moved his hand away as Cherry stomped down the pavilion’s stairs. He moved to follow, but Charlotte pulled him back by his flannel shirt, saying, “Just let her go.”

  The crowd hushed now, all heads oscillating to follow Cherry as she stormed with a surly face and crossed arms down the center aisle back to their table. Bette rose, and Vance followed. Pris held Cherry’s forearm, saying, “It’s all right, hon, come on and sit down with me again.”

  Cherry said, “I’m going home, Pris. I want to be alone right now.”

  Bette said, “You sure you don’t want someone to go with you?”

  Cherry grabbed her sweater from the spot where she’d been sitting, tucked it under an arm. The surly expression tightened now to stoic. “I’m going back to my cottage. I just need some time to cool off. I’m sorry, everyone.”

  Bette called after her: “Are you sure?”

  Vance made to go, pushing his chair back, saying, “I’ll walk her home.”

  Bette patted his back, saying, “Yeah, maybe you should go with her.”

  But Pris put up a hand to stop him. “Just let her go, young Vance, I know the girl. When she wants to be alone, she wants to be alone.”

  * * *

  When Bette had lived at Fortune with her mother and Grandma Pearl, her mother had a room in the Fortune’s 1910 expansion wing, first door on the left as you enter the second-floor hall, the view looking over the Chesapeake Bay. Back then, it had been her mother’s music room/junk room. Before Mom died, the room held guitars, a phonograph sound system, two big speakers, lots of books, and a leather chair. Some time after Bette’s departure from the Fortune when she was nineteen, Pearl converted the space into a guest room, a comfy double bed against the wall where Mom’s stereo had been. But the old leather chair her mother had sat in was still here. She’d been sitting in it a few times this week as she tidied the room for Vance’s arrival, angling it to the window so she could sit in her mother’s chair and watch the waves.

  Vance was in bed now, looking vulnerable, sheets and blanket up to his chin, wondering what she was doing in his room.

  “Just saying good night,” she said.

  “Good night, Mom.”

  “You want me to tuck you in?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “You sure?”

  His head moved on the pillow to face her. “You really want to tuck me in, don’t you?” Vance’s cat whom she’d been cat-sitting while he was away at college had curled right up next to her son’s head on the pillow. A quick look would make you think he’d been asleep wearing one of those Russian ushanka winter hats, and it had gone askew.

  “I wouldn’t hate it,” she said, leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb.

  He eyed her for a long time, showing her no expression. Ripken shifted to get closer and warmer. He said, “Are you going to tell anybody?”

  “Not a soul, I promise.” She crossed her heart.

  With a measure of reluctance, he said, “Okay.”

  She got off the doorjamb and took a step into the room; he brought out an arm from under the covers and held up a hand to halt her. “Not even Pris?”

  She laughed and said, “I promise I won’t tell anyone,” walking a broad circle around his big metal chicken sitting on the floor, bedside near the foot board. She said, “Honestly, Vance, what got into you over that chicken?”

  “Look at it. Why don’t you want it?”

  “I think you spent almost a hundred dollars trying to win it,” she said, coming to sit on the bed with her arms folded.

  He said, “It was for a good cause.”

  “You’re right about that. You know what?—it’s really good to have you here. It’s been a weird time moving home.”

  “You like it here?”

  “Definitely. I just gotta find my way to fit back in.”

  He said, “You looked right at home at the crab feast.”

  “I felt at home. Don’t worry, your mother’s going to figure herself out.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, looking at her with tender eyes that reminded her of when he was just a little boy. She took a chance and wove her fingers through his hairline and scratched his head. Not too long, because he was twenty-two now and didn’t like too much fondling from his mother. So she patted him on the cheek, then squished his mouth to make his lips pucker.

  “Stop,” he said, laughing, and pushed her hand away. Ripken stopped purring and turned a dirty look over his kitty shoulder.

  “You got everything you need? Need some water?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You know where the bathroom is?”

  “Yes, Mom. I’ve been here before.”

  “Okay, you take care. See you in the morning. What you want for breakfast?”

  “It doesn’t matter much,” he said. “You don’t have to cook for me.”

  “I want to cook for you. Bacon and eggs?”

  “That’ll be amazing,” he said
and smiled, closing his eyes.

  She left him alone then walked around his chicken again, went to the door and flicked off his lights. “Door open or closed?”

  He told her closed, and she obliged, stepping then out into the hall.

  The phone rang, the closest one in the kitchen, and she decided she would try to get it, darting down the stairs and rushing through the family room, getting to the kitchen counter and answering before the seventh ring.

  “I got it, hello? Hello?”

  Pris said, “Why you huffing?”

  “I was upstairs with Vance.”

  “I need you to get your shoes on,” Pris said, and Bette asked what for. “There’s a kerfuffle. I’m over at Cherry’s. Your beau is here—”

  Bette said, “Bo?”

  “Marcus. Your beau.”

  “He’s not—”

  “The Crockett Anchor’s been stolen, Bette, and Marcus is here to question Cherry.”

  JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Cherry’s cottage was in the village, tucked back from the street and hidden by gardens in a quaint enclave of little homes just northwest of the Crockett statue roundabout. Marcus’s police SUV was in the short driveway, and Pris’s new pickup truck parked street-side. Bette pulled the old Bronco up ahead of Pris’s vehicle and parked in front of Cherry’s neighbor’s place.

  It was cold walking up the drive past the SUV, and she huddled into her cardigan. Should have brought a coat, but she’d headed out of the house as soon as she’d hung up with Pris, not even remembering to tell Vance where she was going. She’d sent him a text when she’d stopped at the first stop sign, letting him know she’d be back soon.

  Coming through Cherry’s garden gates she could see now the three of them through the front window of the cottage, gathered in Cherry’s family room: Pris admonishing Marcus Seabolt, protective of Cherry and trying to comfort her; Cherry standing upright and not looking like she needed consoling; Marcus’s back was to Bette, head low, holding up his notepad and writing something down.

  Through the unlocked front door, Bette stepped into the foyer and removed her shoes, lining them up next to Pris’s. Cherry’s small cottage was neat and organized and always clean; decorated like her café in bright rich tropical colors, ebony statues sat on tables and small watercolor paintings of the Bay that Bette admired hung on the walls.

  Pris spied her coming into the family room, saying to Marcus: “You’re in trouble now.”

  Marcus looked over his shoulder with a tired expression, seeing her, then saying, “You didn’t need to come out, Bette. I’m almost done here, anyway.”

  Bette joined their group, all four of them standing in the center of Cherry’s family room with just the table lamps on. She said, “Tell me what’s going on, Marcus.”

  Marcus looked weary; the guy was always working, and it showed. But he still looked good in his black Chesapeake Cove police uniform, now in long sleeves instead of short. He tucked his notepad into his chest pocket, clicked closed his pen and slid the tab to clip on the pocket next to the pad. “I’m sure Pris’s already told you—but the Crockett Anchor’s gone missing.”

  Pris said, “Mister Marcus thinks Cherry here has something to do with it. You believe this?” She looked at Marcus with indignation.

  Marcus said, “You’re acting like there wasn’t a big kerfuffle at the crab feast tonight.”

  Cherry crossed her arms and said, “What kind of fool would you think I am to steal the Crockett Anchor after what happened to me tonight with the whole town watching?”

  Bette said, “He’s saying it’s your motive.”

  Marcus said, “It’s not me saying it’s her motive,” and it silenced all of them, each of them knowing who he meant.

  Marcus nodded to Cherry, said, “Thanks for your time. I don’t need to bother you anymore. Pris, always a pleasure.”

  Pris said, “Not always.”

  Marcus raised his eyebrows, turned to Bette, saying, “You want to walk out with me?”

  With her shoes slipped back on, the two of them walked out into the chill of the night air, pausing in the center of Cherry’s garden, tied up and put away for winter, just potted rhododendron on the steps leading up to her door.

  Marcus said, “Before you say it, too—I know it’s foolish to think Cherry would do that.”

  “Charlotte sent you out here.”

  “Practically twisted my arm.”

  “You don’t have to listen to her.”

  “No, but the Crockett Anchor was stolen. If there’s a crime, I do need to investigate.”

  “A crime?” She scoffed. “Probably a prank or something.”

  “Prank or not, it’s missing and that would suggest a theft.”

  “It has no value.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can take it when it don’t belong to you.”

  “No, I know. You hear about what happened tonight?”

  “At the crab feast?”

  “Yeah. There was some drama up on the bandstand.”

  “I heard,” Marcus said.

  “Charlotte’s version?”

  “Of course I heard Charlotte’s version. But Jonas already talked to me, called me to tell me about it earlier.”

  She said, “It’s a shame you couldn’t make it. Would have loved to see you there.”

  “I had to work,” he said.

  They stared at each other for a moment, and she got a chill and folded her arms. He touched the lapel of her sweater, then she watched as his hands closed the shawl collar of her cardigan around her neck. “It’s cold,” he said, “you should go on back inside. You didn’t need to come out to defend your friend, and if it was up to me, I wouldn’t bother with any of this until tomorrow.”

  “Charlotte was persistent,” she said, looking up into his eyes in the dim.

  “Very clear in her demands.”

  Cherry’s front door opened behind them now, Marcus let go of her sweater’s collar, put his hands on his hips and watched as Pris and Cherry filled the doorframe.

  Cherry stepped down into the garden in her slippers, her hand gestured forward holding a small ring of keys. She said, “I have nothing to hide, Marcus. If that shrill woman wants to make a big deal out of this, I’m game. An open book. These are all the keys you need for every room in the Bean. Even my safe, though you’ll see the Anchor wouldn’t even fit in there. Go on and check. I insist.”

  “I don’t have to do that.”

  “No, somebody said I’m a thief. So I’m telling you to do it. If Charlotte wants to make this into a thing, let’s make it into a thing. I didn’t steal any anchor.”

  Bette said, “He doesn’t need to do that.”

  Cherry said, “Take these keys, let’s get this over with.” Now she gestured behind toward the open cottage door. “I know you were looking around the house when I invited you in. I saw you checking everything out. Want to take a better look?”

  “That’s all right,” Marcus said, took the keys from her and held them in his big hand, then closed them in a fist.

  After an awkward silence, Bette gripped Marcus’s arm above his elbow, saying, “I’ll walk you to your car.” Then to Pris: “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Pris took Cherry’s hand, and the two of them went back in the cottage.

  She and Marcus walked together through the garden gate and at Marcus’s car door, he said, “Look, Bette, I know how dumb this is.”

  “But you’re still going to go to the café.”

  “You know I have to. I have to do my job. There’s a path through an investigation, I have to follow it.”

  “I’m not mad,” she said, patting his arm before letting it go. “I’ll do what I can here with those two hot heads.”

  “They’re sure mad.”

  “I can’t blame them,” she said. “But I’ll make a pot of tea, do my best to make things better.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said. “If anything, me going to the café will get Charlotte off my b
ack. But if you . . .”

  “Go on.”

  His tight, handsome features calmed. “I’m open to suggestions, Bette.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “You want my help?”

  He smiled, not looking at her. Then looked at her. “You did pretty good with Troy Murdoch.”

  She buffed her nails on her sweater, then gave a wry smile. “I was in the right place at the right time.”

  “Humble, too,” he said. “Just keep an ear out, okay?”

  “You know I will,” she said, then stepped back. “Take care. Good night, Marcus.”

  “Night, Bette. I’ll call you and let you know if I find anything.”

  “You won’t,” she said, hugging her arms and pivoting on a toe, trotting back through the garden to get in to Cherry’s warm cottage.

  Back inside, she slipped off her shoes and rejoined Cherry and Pris in the family room, the two of them looking sullen sitting side-by-side on the couch. She put her hands on her hip hips and scolded them. “You know, you don’t have to be so rude to Marcus.”

  Pris said, “The whole thing’s as ridiculous as all get out.”

  Cherry said, “Marcus is acting as Charlotte’s agent, Bette.”

  “He’s just doing his job. He’s under pressure.”

  “From Charlotte,” Cherry said.

  “From a citizen.”

  “That woman thinks she’s more than a citizen,” Pris said.

  “She does,” Bette agreed. “But all in all, I think Marcus is our friend.”

  None of them said anything for a long while, and Bette’s stern posture softened. She looked around and said, “Who wants a pot of tea?”

  * * *

  They went through two pots of rose-hip tea, sitting in the front room and complaining about Charlotte Dawson. Bette ran the kettle, served the tea in fine china printed with sailboats. Cherry had jumped up, gone to the cupboard and served them crisp, spicy gingersnap cookies that sang with honey-citrus.

  Their consensus was mutual: Charlotte Dawson was a bad woman. She’d done that thing to Cherry on purpose.