by Ellis Quinn
“What does any of it matter?” Vinnie growled, then waved over the photographer.
Charlotte shook her head, irritated, and folded her arms. Vinnie said to the photographer that something came up and they’d have to do this another time. Then to Hilda: “I’m so sorry, Hilda, I have to run. Something’s come up, but we’ll be back. I promise, okay?” He aimed a finger at Hilda, gave her his friendly small-town mayor smile, turned on his heel and left grumbling, head down, shoving his workman hands into his neat and pressed cotton chinos.
The door bell jangled as he bustled out to the sidewalk and tromped to the right.
Hilda shrugged, said, “Whenever you want to do it,” to Charlotte, putting up her hands. “I know what you must be going through, and it was only two days ago. This must be so hard for you both.”
Charlotte’s lips pursed. She exhaled slowly, nodded. “Thank you,” she said, then went out the door, heading to the right and following Vinnie.
When they were gone, the disappointed photographer following out behind them, Bette went to Hilda.
“So weird that he would still go through with this right now.”
“You know Vinnie,” Hilda said, “work-work-work.”
“But still . . .”
Hilda nudged Bette’s elbow, saying, “How’s Cherry doing?”
“Holding up.”
“Boy, did Charlotte make me regret bringing Cherry up there on stage.”
“Cherry’ll be okay.”
“You tell her I’m sorry again. She’s not taking any phone calls right now. Or maybe she doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“Oh no, Hilda,” Bette said, “she bears no grudge. That had nothing to do with you. It was a kind gesture you made.”
“I don’t know what got into Charlotte, why she would do that. The whole town knew it should be The Steaming Bean getting the anchor.”
Bette said, “Charlotte’s got it in for Cherry. Her brother wanted to buy the café.”
“Old Quinton wouldn’t know what to do with a café. Just because he drinks coffee doesn’t give him any business sense. Sides, he’s happy doing nothing but tinkering on Vinnie’s boats and doing his odd jobs.”
Bette said, “Hey,” and swung the leash so Hilda would lean over the counter and look down. She was smitten with what she saw. “Know anybody missing a handsome dog like this?”
* * *
The thing about Charlotte asking where Stephen was that night had been sticking in her like a burr. Charlotte must’ve meant the night Jack was killed. Had she told Marcus they didn’t know where Stephen was? Surely Marcus must’ve questioned Stephen by now.
“Let’s take a detour, Buster,” she said, tugging on his lead to guide him to follow, heading to Madsen Street. The patio tables outside The Steaming Bean still empty. The umbrellas weren’t even open today. She looked in the windows, saw Terry wiping down the counter, no customers needing service. It was still probably visited by tourists, the Covers not deciding yet if they should visit the business of a potential murderer.
What did they worry Cherry would do, poison them? They would have to come around soon.
She withdrew her phone from her pocket, texted Marcus.
Bette: if you’re free I think I should buy you lunch today
It was a few minutes, sitting on a bench and scratching Buster’s jowls before her phone dinged again.
Marcus: I’m free right now
She smiled, texted him back to meet her at his brother’s place, and walked across the street, poked her head in and caught one of the servers walking by. “You ask Jonas if I can bring my dog in?”
The guy didn’t need to check, saying, “You know what, go round that side, Bette”—pointing to his left—“go round behind the building, there’s a patio there.”
“A patio?”
“For the staff. I’ll meet you out there, take your order.”
“That’s great, and when Marcus comes,” she said, “tell him to meet me out there.”
* * *
Marcus arrived at the back patio to find her with crab cakes and potato salad, a Seabolt lager for herself and a Coca-Cola for him. All Marcus was interested in at first was the dog, saying, “Wow, who the heck is this guy?”
She laughed, put her feet on either side of Buster and stroked his back while Marcus came to cup his big hands on Buster’s face and waggled his lips and looked into his eyes. “Now that is a handsome dog,” he said.
“His name’s Buster. He’s a stray. Know anybody who’s looking for a dog like this?”
“No. You ask yet at the pound?”
“Not yet. I was on my way there and then something happened.”
Marcus was intrigued. “What happened?”
Leg under the table, she pushed back the chair opposite from her with the toe of her shoe, nudging her chin at it and telling him to take a seat.
He took off his cop hat, set it down on a low side table.
The area behind the Blackwater Brewery was a tidy and comfortable outdoor space where the staff could come out and relax on break or for a meal; four round tables on a rectangle patch of decking, looking down over a sloping yard that ended in a high barrier of thick pines. Overhead were strung Christmas lights, off during the day; the sun shone on them, and Bette and Marcus had the space to themselves.
Marcus sat, saying, “I can’t believe you’d buy me lunch.”
“What’s so crazy about that?”
“It’s bribery. I’m an officer of the law.”
“Oh, you think I’m trying to bribe you? That’s how I get to you? Through your stomach.”
“That’s the old joke they say about cops. Surprised you didn’t invite me to the donut shop.”
“I would have if it was breakfast. Besides, it’s not bribery—Pris would say it was inter-agency friendliness.”
“The department would probably disagree,” he said, and then smiled. “You and Pris being detectives and all”—he eyed her, smile curling to one side—“so it’s a good thing you and I are old friends.”
“We are old friends,” she said, “two old friends having lunch together,” meeting his gaze. “You’re on duty, so I didn’t order you a beer. It’s been a while, but I’m hoping you still like a soda pop.”
He lifted his glass of cola, held it out, and they touched their plastic tumblers together in a toast. “To old friends,” he said.
“To old friends,” she said, and they both drank.
“So tell me what happened,” Marcus said as they both moved crab cakes onto their plates, and opened up their napkins.
She said, “It was the craziest thing—Pris and I were in her garden, we’re talking, then we see this duck swimming our way from out on the Bay, we go to the beach and we see it isn’t a duck at all, it’s this crazy big guy right here.” She used her freshly manicured nails to scratch at the crown of Buster’s head while he made sleepy eyes at her.
“Great story and all, Bette, but I was talking about”—he wiped his hands on a napkin while chewing crab cake, making her wait before he used his clean hands to make sarcastic air quotes—“‘the case.’”
“Oh, the case, right.” She cut into the crisp crab cake, put a forkful in her mouth. “Mm, what I was wondering is if you talked to Stephen Dawson yet—cheez, these crab cakes . . .”
“I know—pretty good, huh?”
“Mm, your brother knows how to make a crab cake. I swear it’s the mayonnaise. I know he’s using local blue, jumbo and claw, just like everybody else, so . . .”
Marcus took his own bite, followed it with a quick swig of Coke. “The mayonnaise?”
“So creamy, and rich . . . and the seasoning . . .”
Marcus nodded and chewed, wiping his hands again, then forking a chunk of hard-boiled egg from the potato salad. “Jonas definitely knows how to—”
“Do you know the recipe?”
“Me?—well, I’m sworn to secrecy.” He popped the curl of egg into his mouth to silence himself.
“Your brother’s being a real skunk not telling me. You tell him I know his staff know the recipe, so I’ll just cozy up to one of them and catch them unsuspecting.” Another bite of crab cake, chased down with potato salad and a mouthful of lager. “I think Cherry’s in on it, too.”
“Jonas and Cherry are out to get you, is that it?”
She paused, a mouthful of crab cake at her lips, then looked his way. “Hey, what did you mean at the station when you said don’t be so sure Cherry’s not hiding something?”
He waved her off like he didn’t want to talk about it.
“No, come on, tell me.”
“It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, it’s gotta be something. Why would you say that?”
He thought a moment, slumped and sighed, prepared a discreet way to say something. “You’re very trusting. I—”
“I’m not trusting, Marcus, you make it sound like I’m a rube.”
“Not gullible, Bette. Remember—who was the one who got on the boat with Troy Murdoch? . . .”
“So? I thought Troy might try to harm Donovan.”
“You’re brave, not gullible. I don’t mean it like an insult at all.”
“I’m not insulted.”
“Good.”
“Should I be careful around Cherry? That’s what you’re saying? Cherry’s my friend. She’s Pris’s friend. You’re a fool if you think she could have killed Jack Dawson.”
“I’m no fool, Bette, I’m following procedure. I’m also looking out for you.”
“Fine,” she said, wanting to give it up, but still feeling a little mad. She took a calming bite of delicious crab cake. “Mm, taste the lemon?”
“Yup,” Marcus said, getting back to eating.
“What’s so important I need to know about Cherry?”
“Nothing, Bette. I’m making a big deal of nothing. I’m sorry.”
“You’re looking out for me. Thank you. What do I need to know?”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated, then shook his head with exasperation and wiped his hands again. “She tell you where she’s from?”
“Yeah. California.”
“She tell you where in California?”
She took a moment, scanning her mental index to remember if Cherry’d ever said. She showed Marcus a perplexed expression. “Why would that even matter?”—then moved her hand across to his side of the table to curve her palm over his big knuckles—“Oh no, Marcus, don’t tell me, no, she’s not from Spahn Ranch, is she? My word, my good friend is part of a hippy murder cult? Oh golly, I think you saved me, how can I ever repay you? . . .”
He chuckled and eyed her, his eyes narrowed with amusement. His free hand peeled her palm off him (holding her with just a finger and thumb like her hand was a filthy dead mouse caught in a trap), and returned it to her side of the table. Elbows on the table, hands clasped to one side of his cheek, he said, “Beverly Hills, smart aleck.”
Now she clutched her hands together under her chin, pretending to swoon. “Beverly Hills? it’s even worse than I imagined. The horror, Marcus, the horror . . .”
He said, “How’d you know the dog’s name’s Buster if he didn’t have a tag?”
Her defenses went up. “I’m calling him Buster for now.”
“And he swam in to Pris’s beach with that brand spanking new collar and leash?”
She scratched her ear, looked nonchalant. “I had to walk him in to town somehow.”
“What’d they say at the pound?”
“I told you I was on my way. I’m going to do it after lunch.”
“Okay,” he said, voice a little too high for her liking.
“Okay what?”
“Just okay.”
“Say it.”
“Didn’t you have a dog named Buster a long time ago? Something seems familiar about that.”
“Hmm. Maybe. Don’t recall.”
He chuckled. “No, I have not talked to Stephen Dawson yet. Why?”
“You talk to Charlotte and Vinnie yet?”
“Of course. A half dozen times.”
“Right. And did they say anything about Stephen?”
“No, why, Bette?”
Close to the table now, getting Marcus to lean nearer to hear her because she was going to whisper, she related to him the odd conversation between Charlotte and Vinnie she’d overheard at Hilda’s shop.
Marcus leaned back again, contemplating. “You bring that dog in with you?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen dogs in there before.”
Marcus looked down at Buster, expression cool. “You gave him a bath? He doesn’t look like he’s a stray to me. Very clean and well-tended.”
“He was filthy. I brushed his tangles out. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable. What do you think, Marcus, isn’t that strange they don’t know where their son was the night of the murder?”
“Maybe the night of the murder. You said yourself you weren’t sure.”
“But if they are talking about the night of the murder? . . .”
“Stephen’s a grown man. They don’t have to know where he is all the time.”
“But why was Charlotte talking about it? Why’s it important this one night that he was missing?”
“Look, Bette,” he said. “I agree. This is interesting. Maybe Stephen was supposed to do something for his mom and didn’t show, or who knows . . .?”
“You’ll look into it?”
“I will.”
“You don’t think it was strange neither of them mentioned it to you?”
“But maybe it’s not what you’re thinking.” He leaned over his plate, moved his fork around a little, stabbed a mouthful of crab cake. “Can I give this to Buster?”
“Sure.”
He passed the forkful around the side of the table and offered it to Buster, who sniffed warily, then took and ate the piece. Marcus said, “Train him to identify what’s in the crab cake, maybe.”
“Good idea. I’ll work something out, get him to pick ingredients out of my kitchen he knows are in it. I like your thinking.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What if it’s not something you have in your kitchen?”
“Oh, come on, Marcus, just tell me the recipe, would you?”
He reached over to pat Buster’s head, saying to her, “You better get cracking on his training. Probably don’t have a lot of time before his real owners come forward and reclaim him. You know, once you take him to the pound.”
“I’m going to take him to the pound, Marcus.”
“I’d sure hate to have to arrest you for dognapping.” He leaned in, looking smug.
“I’m going to go, Marcus. I had important news, and I knew you had to be hungry.”
“Thanks for lunch. It was an awesome surprise.”
“You get enough to eat?”
“I did. Hey—”
“What?”
“If it makes you feel better, if you do go to the pound, I know they’re full up right now. Tell them you’ll foster him.”
“If? If? I told you—” She thumped her hand on the table, rattling cutlery and getting Buster to jump. She palmed his head, saying, “Sorry, buddy, but I just remembered . . .”
Marcus said, “Remembered what?”
“Stephen Dawson. Pris and I were out front of The Steaming Bean the morning after the murder, and we saw Stephen across the street, standing there by himself and looking at the café, all despondent.”
“His brother was just killed, Bette.”
“No, I know. It was just odd.”
“Everybody does grief their own way.”
“Keep it in mind.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him about it,” he said and pushed back from the table.
“That’s it? You don’t take a long lunch?”
“You’re keeping me real busy, Miss Whaley,” he said, winking and putting his cop hat on again, “now I got to go track down Stephen Dawson.”
THE NEXT MORNI
NG
The dog incensed prissy. Not his presence, but that Bette’d called him Buster.
“I think my name makes far more sense, Bette.”
“Watson?”
Pris waited for Bette to catch on, but she didn’t see the significance of the name, standing there in the dewy grass of the park next to the St. George church. Pris had her sneaker feet spread out quite far for a woman of sixty-eight, and she angled her left hand toward the toes of her right foot, using her right hand to grip her wrist and yank her stubborn left hand closer. “You, hah, ungh, don’t get it?”
“His name’s Buster.”
“Well, he oughtn’t a have any name since someone’s going to claim him soon. His rightful owner, you understand?”
“I understand, Aunt Pris, what I’m asking now is if I shouldn’t even call him Buster, why on earth would I consider calling him Watson when I don’t even get why?” Buster sat at her side, leaning his haunch on her leg, and also waiting for an answer. She was pretty sure the guy liked being called Buster Crab.
Pris stood up and tugged down her sweatsuit jacket to cover her middle and said, “Watson? Sherlock Holmes and Watson, Bette? . . . I woulda thought you’d remember we’re working a case.”
“I get it now,” she said, “but are we really working a case?”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve had that magnifying glass out, walking the town and looking for clues. How was your lunch yesterday with Mister Marcus?”
“Ha ha, I get it. You’re a riot—”
“You’re either working a case, young niece, or you’re working that man.”
“Pris, I’ve been divorced four weeks. Give me some credit.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re working a case. Can we get back to it now, please?”
“All right,” she said, “But why can’t I call him Buster?”
“That was your mama’s dog’s name.”
“Exactly. My dog too, when I was little and living in the Cove.”
Pris showed a warm look of sympathy for a second, then cupped Bette’s cheeks. “Bette, hon, you can call him whatever you want. But don’t get attached, you hear me? Somebody’s missing that dog.”
