Anchor Management

by Ellis Quinn

  “Bring him up to the back door, I’ve got some old towels, we can dry him off.”

  “You gonna keep him here?”

  “Me? unh-unh, darling niece, we’re gonna find a length of cord and you’re gonna walk him over to The Fortune,” Pris said, marching up the beach. “I got no time for four wet doggy feet, all covered in sand and tromping through The Promise.”

  * * *

  Though she asked the dog a ton of questions walking him on a rope back to her place, leaving her bike in Pris’s garage, the dog had no answers for her. He trotted next to her, his short fur all fuzzed up from the vigorous towel-drying she’d given him, and he’d look up at her every once in a while with a cheerful expression.

  She said to him, “You know I used to have a dog just like you when I was a little girl—isn’t that crazy? His name was Buster, what’s your name?”

  The dog still had no answer, only those hopeful golden eyes.

  “Those eyes,” she said. “You’re a heartbreaker. Vance is gonna flip his lid when he gets a look at you.”

  Back at The Fortune she saw that Vance’s Jeep wasn’t in the driveway, her son probably giving Cherry a ride back home. Or perhaps back to The Steaming Bean—Cherry must be worried about how her business was doing.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” she said to the dog, and they walked around to the kitchen side door together.

  She got him arranged in the laundry room down the hall from the pantry, a large wood-paneled room with a washer and dryer and a generous floor space for him to lay out on. There was an old baby gate in storage and she used that to block the doorway so he wouldn’t be so closed off from her. Blankets were pulled out from the cupboard and put down for his bedding, and she put a load in the dryer to generate some more heat in the room. “You gotta be cold, swimming across the Bay like that in October. You hungry?”

  The dog sat on his fat padding of folded over blankets and cocked his head at her, smiling and panting.

  She went into the kitchen and prepared him something to eat. Cooked him some rice, put it in some broth, found leftover chicken in the fridge which she shredded and blended in to the rice. After it’d cooled, she brought it to the laundry room and set it down on the other side of the gate. The dog ate hungrily, and she reached to stroke his back. “I guess I ought to take you to the pound tomorrow. A handsome boy like you’s gotta have someone out there looking for him.”

  THE NEXT MORNING

  The next morning she made the breakfast she’d intended to prepare for Vance the morning before; complete with bacon, eggs, biscuits and white gravy, cheese grits, and hash browns. Leftovers were put aside for the dog who Vance had indeed flipped over when he’d come home last night after taking Cherry back home.

  Vance said, “Make sure not to give him too much rich food at first. Looks like he’s been lean for a while—his ribs stand out. Maybe just the chicken and rice, some kibble if you go to the store, and then add in the richer stuff a little at a time. Not too much water all at once. He could be dehydrated if he’s been on his own too long, and if he’s been drinking from puddles, you should get him checked for worms or giardia.”

  She called him a know-it-all and said, “I’ve had a dog before, buddy.”

  “Dad wouldn’t let us get one.”

  “Had one just like this guy when I was a little girl here at The Fortune.”

  “You’re taking him to the pound, right?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Someone’s got to be searching for him.”

  Together they took him for a walk through the property on a rope lead, and she lamented that he didn’t have a proper collar and leash.

  Vance said, “They’ll arrange that at the pound.”

  She said, “I wonder if I could foster him?”

  They went out around the old barn and the empty stables and across the grassy field, and when they were almost back at The Fortune, she asked him again: “You sure Cherry was okay when you took her home?”

  “She was fine, Mom. Well . . . better than she was when we got back from the police station.”

  “And The Bean was quiet when you went by later?”

  “Yeah. Cherry was pretty bummed, but that woman there, Terry, she was saying it would pick up again and not to worry.”

  “It will pick up,” she said. “When I got suspected of murder, it was a few days of suspicious looks and then it all was gradually forgotten.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t run a business here in town.”

  “I know she’s hurting. I’m not making light—I didn’t like it at all. It was terrible. If there’s something I can think of to help her, I’ll do it.”

  They stopped at his Jeep, all loaded up and ready for his return to school. The dog sat at her side, no tension on the rope lead.

  Vance said, “You better call every day and let me know how it’s going here.”

  “You know I will. You can call me anytime, if you’re worried.”

  “Keep an eye on Cherry.”

  “Don’t fret it, Pris and I have got that girl’s back.”

  He nodded, smirking to one side. “I’m surprised: I really believe you, and you make me feel better. But watch yourselves, too. Someone murdered Jack Dawson, and that someone is here in town. Remember that.”

  “I’ll be careful, baby,” she said, and they hugged. She kissed his cheek.

  Vance got down now in a crouch and held the dog’s neck, giving him a good massage and looking in his bright gold eyes. “You watch after my mother, you hear, buddy?—and make sure she takes you to the pound so we can find your actual family.”

  “I will, I will,” she said.

  Vance tested her: “What are you going to name him?”

  She bit her tongue. “Nothing. I’m sure he already has a name. Vance, baby boy, I want him returned to the family that’s missing him right now, I swear.”

  Vance hummed in his throat, rubbed the dog all over for a minute. “You could give him a bath first.”

  She squatted down next to her son and rubbed the dog’s forehead. The dog loved all the attention, eyes going narrow and sleepy. She said, “Gotta wash all that grit out of you. No offense, but you stink like a swamp monster.”

  “He really does,” Vance said, and they both laughed.

  Then it was time for Vance to head home and she saw him off, watched him put his sunglasses on and get his Jeep in gear. She and the dog watched him head up the drive, and she waved while Vance gave her a double-honk before he was gone.

  She said to the dog, “Now, about that bath . . .”

  The dog eyed her warily.

  * * *

  For a dog that had swum bravely to her from the middle of the Bay, today he hated water. “What,” she asked him, incensed and soaked almost head-to-toe herself, “you don’t like clean water?”

  Here’s how the dog’s bath went: An old kiddy pool was brought out from one of the sheds, dragged to the garden and filled halfway with water from the hose. From the bathroom, she brought down her finest shampoos and conditioners, fluffy clean towels, and her hair dryer. She donned clam diggers and a tank top, braved the October chill, bringing the dog out to the garden on his rope, and the dog refused to step over the lip and into the makeshift bath tub. She chastised him. Pulled his rope-leash to no avail. Got behind him, lifted his hind-quarters and tried to wheelbarrow him into the kiddy pool. Fell. Went into the tub on a knee and an elbow and drenched half her body in freezing cold water. Then she coaxed him with food. Nope. Found an old stuffy and stood in the center of the tub, taunting him with it. Squeak-squeak-squeak. He sat and yawned. She warned him: “You’re getting in this bath one way or another, so you can yawn and look away all you want, it’s just a matter of time.” He yawned and looked away again. She got a hold round his neck and tried to backward haul him into the tub. He was stubborn and heavy and she ended up busting up laughing at her own grunts. “I’m outmatched,” she laughed. Gave him one more yank, arms
around his muscular shoulders, but now she was wet and distracted and lightheaded from laughing at herself and she slipped right off him, the back of her calf hitting the pool lip, and she stumbled backward, falling down in a splashing sit-down, right on her rump, making her teeth clack together. Instant cold flooded her seat and crotch and waist and thighs, sitting upright in the pool with her ankles resting on the lip. She whooped and shrieked from the cold’s assault and laughed even harder. Now the dog popped up and wagged his tail, eyes bright and lively.

  She shouted: “You’re impossible!” and slapped her hands on the water, then ran them in arcs, splashing him. The dog wriggled his entire body with excitement and bit at the fans of water she sent his way. When the excitement proved too much for him, he jumped the lip, splashed into the water next to her, circled her in hopping jumps, nudging her, mouthing on her hands and arms like a maniac, soaking her completely.

  Once he was in the pool, he was amenable: the bath had to be short before she went into hypothermia, but she scrubbed him good with shampoo, rinsed, scrubbed with more shampoo, rinsed, conditioned him, rinsed again. By the time they both jumped out, her teeth were chattering. She had to use the towels to dry her own body, then patted him down till he wasn’t dripping. With him in the laundry room again, she ran upstairs, got under a hot shower a minute, dried off again, got more towels (tomorrow was going to be a doozy of a laundry day), came down and dried him. Then she busted out the hair dryer, expecting another escapade from this silly but strong dog; however, he might not like clean water and baths, but he sure as heck loved the hair dryer, sitting there with a big proud doggy smile, chest thrust out, eyes narrowed to happy black lines while she fanned him with the blow dryer on low. She scratched the white spot on his chest and he loved it. It was funny: if she squinted, the marking could almost look like a crab; a medallion shape with two curved overhead arcs like crab claws. It hit her: Buster Crab. Like Buster Crabbe, the old-timey actor; a mix of her childhood dog’s name and this dog’s own personalized marking like a pendant he wore round his neck.

  “Not that I’m naming you or anything,” she told him, like Vance was lurking nearby and listening in, ready to pounce and remind her this dog already had an owner. Probably.

  When it was all done, the towels and her wet clothing in the laundry, the tub emptied and put back in the shed, the blow drier put away, she brought him upstairs and he sat outside the bathroom door while she got dressed in some warm things before heading into town.

  When she came out ready to go, he popped his eager head up, cocked it sideways. She put her hands on her hips and told him, “Well, that wasn’t too hard,” hoping he would appreciate her positive spirit. It would be easy to hold a grudge, but bygones were bygones, right?

  That’s when her whole body tingled with frightful electricity. From under the bed, right next to Buster Crab, Vance’s little cat emerged, pushing up the bed skirt with his face. She lurched forward, but Ripken was out ahead of her, right behind the dog, coming to sniff him from behind. Her brain jangled with awful animal encounter scenarios; a mixture of National Geographic and old Looney Toons fracases, where the big mean old dog finally catches up with Sylvester on the opposite side of the fence . . .

  Only, the two animals met nose-to-nose and touched their shiny wet honkers together, Buster looking over his shoulder at this unexpected feline arrival. There was a brief static click from a shock, and Ripken sneezed. Buster licked his nose and shook his head. They touched noses again and now Bette was over Ripken, hands out and ready to rescue him if he needed it. He didn’t. They kept touching noses, then Buster turned away and resumed panting. Ripken nudged against him, walked along his dog body with his little cat butt up in the air and purred. Buster wagged his head up and down, then rolled backward, showing his belly, his front paws like praying mantis legs, big doggie smile as he steamrolled right over Ripken. Ripken wriggled out and found a new angle in which he could rub up against his new doggy friend.

  She stood up and crossed her arms. “I’ll be . . . you two might be the cutest things ever . . .”

  * * *

  After a quick stop at the Cove Grocer to pick up a pound of sugar, a dog collar, and a leash, she climbed into the open back cargo area of the old Bronco and ruffled the dog’s face fur. She said to him, “Can’t show you around town at the end of a rope now, can we? Look what I got you . . .”

  She hooped the new hunter green nylon collar around his neck and clicked it closed. She thumbed the lever on the leash’s clasp and clicked on the collar’s loop.

  “There we go. Now you look like a respectable dog and I’ll look like a respectable owner.” She went to crawl through to the driver's side, then said over her shoulder: “Not that I’m your owner.”

  No, today she had to get him to the pound. Someone out there must miss him.

  She parked on Shuter Street, took Buster’s leash, and guided him out onto the sidewalk. He’d been good on the rope yesterday, walking from The Promise to The Fortune, but she hated the idea of him taking off on her in the middle of town.

  It turned out he was even better on the leash. As she strolled the sidewalk, she stopped to chat to familiar faces, showing off the dog, calling him Buster, and seeing if anyone recognized him. Everyone adored him, but no one knew of a missing dog. She stopped out front of Helga’s salon that Pris went to and recommended for her.

  Her hair had been done last week, and when she looked in the window, Helga waved for her to come in. She looped Buster’s leash secure around the tree out front and asked if he’d wait, she’d be inside and see him from the window. The other stylists were working with customers, but Helga was free. “How about we do your nails, Miss Whaley?”

  “What’s wrong with my nails?” she laughed, wiggling them, proving that they did need some care. What the heck—she always had time for gossip, especially when she was on a case.

  * * *

  With her nails tidied and clipped and sparkling with a thick clear-coat, she led Buster again along the sidewalk.

  No gossip was gleaned, no new clues about the Crockett Anchor or Jack Dawson’s murder, only that Jack had a wild past. Nobody knew anyone who was missing a heart-squishingly handsome brown dog with golden eyes.

  But walking Buster to the pound on Merriweather Street, she turned the corner onto Main, saw down to the roundabout—Isaac Crockett standing proud on his high plinth, his copper skin gone to a frosted green patina—and halfway to Isaac saw Charlotte Dawson and Vinnie walking into a shop, a man with an expensive-looking camera following behind. Vinnie had a wooden rectangle tucked under his arm the size of a laptop.

  It was Hilda’s shop up ahead. The Gilded Lily.

  She said to Buster, “Let’s see what’s going on.”

  * * *

  She could see them in there, Charlotte and Vinnie standing and talking to a solemn-faced Hilda. The man with the camera was moving around the shop now, looking up and around like he was checking out the lighting. A photo op. The guy must be from the paper, and this was something to do with the Crockett Anchor. So soon?

  She slipped in with Buster, barely making the door’s bell jingle.

  Now she was right behind them, Hilda gone back to the sales counter to ring someone in, Charlotte and Vinnie standing close, Vinnie saying in a hushed and irritated voice, “I told you I don’t know.”

  Charlotte said, “I know you say you don’t know. But I want you to think. I expected him to be home because he was supposed to take out the boat the next morning. He said he would be at the docks.”

  Vinnie said, “I told you I don’t know where he was. Stephen’s a grown man. We don’t need to keep tabs on everything he does. He’s not a child anymore.”

  Charlotte clucked her tongue, adjusted the fit of her aquamarine jacket, and from the corner of her eye caught that someone was standing behind her. She turned with a forced smile, and when she saw it was Bette standing there with a dog in the store where she probably didn’t think dogs belonged, t
he smile faded. “How are you, Bette?”

  Bette said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Charlotte nodded, then looked down with an expression of restrained disgust at the dog again.

  Bette said, “I found this dog, I’m looking for its owner.”

  “Found a stray, did you?” Vinnie said, his expression pained and lost, trying to keep up the good charm of the Cove’s mayor despite his troubles. He rubbed at his forehead like he had a headache.

  Now he moved his other arm so he could show Bette what was held at his elbow: a wooden plaque with a brass anchor affixed, an emblem on it reading: Crockett Anchor Award. Underneath that: The Gilded Lily. A makeshift award to substitute for the anchor now held in police evidence, only two days after Jack Dawson was murdered. Charlotte must have put a rush on to get it made, all under the grief of a murdered son.

  Vinnie continued to rub his forehead, and said, “I don’t . . . I’m sorry, I don’t think today’s the day. Look . . . we’ll do it another time,” giving Charlotte a sidelong glance.

  Charlotte tried to show a polite smile for Bette’s benefit and touched Vinnie’s arm, but he pulled away, going to the counter where Hilda stood.

  He put the plaque down, and Charlotte followed after him. Bette went clockwise, pretending to shop in Hilda’s dog-friendly store, but listened with the widest-open she could make her ears.

  While Hilda still served the customer, putting the items in a bag, Charlotte hissed to Vinnie, “We should know because he’s taking over the business.”