Anchor Management

by Ellis Quinn

  She sat up with Buster and inspected her find. Sure enough, there with the teak easel was a matching teak case, like a brief case, but with brass clasps. Her mother’s painting set.

  A big unstoppable smile spread her face and she sighed, then said to Buster: “What do you say you and me go for a walk on the beach? Vance is having dinner again with Cherry, but I’m dateless. Take me out for dinner, Buster Boy. I really feel like some fish and chips.”

  * * *

  At the Chesapeake Cove wharf she overheard the fishermen talking as they geared up for night fishing, even when she stood as far as the boardwalk. She couldn’t believe her unexpected luck.

  She and Buster had walked the beach from Fortune to town. She even let Buster off lead to run in the surf. Then they were up on the beach trail, strolling the boardwalk in the blue dusk. It was there she overheard the fishermen and grew attentive, hoping for some juicy gossip.

  There were four boats close together, all the men moving around carrying nets and heavy buckets loaded with gear. Probably heading out for stripers or black drum or whatever was good at night and in season out on the Bay this time of year.

  The clarity of the voices carried on the wind must have had something to do with the chill in the air. There was a brittleness to the night. The evening had deepened to cobalt and early stars twinkled above. The dark allowed her to lurk in the shadows like a real private detective and get a clue that would break open the case.

  The lights in the boats were bright, and she was sure the fishermen would have trouble seeing her on the boardwalk pretending to walk her dog. One of the boats blasted AC/DC too loud, and she would lose snippets of what they were saying in the guitar solos.

  Unfortunately, there was no murder-related gossip to overhear.

  So far she’d learned that so-and-so was having an affair with so-and-so from down at the school. Heard also that so-and-so had lost a tooth in that fight down at the something place. Somebody’s sister who lives in Delaware said her friend’s brother had a girlfriend whose boyfriend got stabbed outside her work. The names were unknown to her, and she had trouble making sense of the fishermen’s accents sometimes, which were stronger than hers. She heard nothing that would tell her who’d killed Jack Dawson.

  The growling of her stomach told it was time to give up on the sleuthing and for her and Buster to go get some grub.

  “What do you say?” She gave Buster’s leash an easy tug to jingle his collar, and he looked up. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? Let’s head on up to the Crab. I’ll order ahead . . .”

  Buster’s leash in one hand, she withdrew her phone from a jacket pocket and scrolled through her contacts to find the Crab’s phone number. Buster pulled ahead and she mis-dialed. “Easy, buddy,” she said, “don’t make me call my ex-husband by accident.”

  Buster persisted, nose down but not sniffing, ears pointed forward and shoulder muscles straining. His front feet sought traction on the gravel path.

  “All right,” she said, “all right. Gosh, you are strong.”

  She let him lead, thinking he wanted to go to the bushes to relieve himself. He beelined toward a small garden of boxwood and cherry trees nestled within a raised cedar shaving bed, a railway tie wall behind it.

  “Okay,” she laughed, “okay,” and let him pull her to the garden. She stood with hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched against a cold breeze, and waited for him to lift his leg. But he didn’t. He sat.

  She was about to ask him what his problem was when she heard voices coming from above.

  Above the six-foot tall railway tie wall there was a park bench, and past the park bench there was a playground out back of the Crockett Community Center. It was a place where kids could run from fort to fort on plank bridges, or use monkey bars or climb chain link nets; there were swings and teeter-totters and a geodesic dome.

  A man’s voice from above: “You know why I can’t tell the truth. I told you why.”

  Great, more gossip.

  A different man said, “You have to tell the truth. Your mother doesn’t matter.”

  The first man said: “Right. My mother doesn’t matter.”

  Wait—it was Stephen Dawson’s voice. She was sure of it.

  The second man said, “Why do you let her control you?”

  The other man’s voice wasn’t Vinnie.

  Stephen said, “You don’t understand—”

  “I don’t? I have it same as you, you know that,” the other man said.

  “My mother will leak our secret.”

  “Stephen, let her.”

  This scoop was unbelievable. She stooped to pat Buster’s head and mouthed, Good boy. Head cocked, she aimed an ear to the top of the railway tie wall.

  “If she leaks it, people will never understand, they’ll have her version of what we—”

  “That’s why I think you should tell the truth.”

  Stephen said, “And where would that leave you?”

  The other man said, “Let me worry about me. If you don’t come clean, they’re going to come to you blaming you for Jack’s death. Secrets aren’t worth it at some point, you have to—”

  Na na na naa naa-aa

  Behind her, the night fishermen revved up their motors and the rock music was cranked. The voices of Stephen and his mysterious compatriot were lost. The boats roared, and the men shouted; the fishermen left the piers and motored out into the Bay and then really let their motors out. She could still hear Thunderstruck from out on the water as they disappeared toward the horizon, heading northward.

  When they were gone, the playground above her was silent.

  * * *

  She was breathless, hustling the Blackwater Brewery’s alleyway. Buster led the way, and she stamped sneaker feet on asphalt behind him, heart pounding in her ears. Dinner at the Crab had been abandoned. She needed a moment to sit and think and talk this out, and it couldn’t wait till she got home. Plus, she was still starving and had promised her tummy fish and chips. But an order of crab cakes would hit the spot just as sweet.

  When she and Buster Crab bumbled onto the deck, she found someone had rearranged it. At the table where she’d sat with Marcus, a potted fig tree had been placed for a comfy canopy. Next to the table someone had put a thick dog bed in black-watch plaid. Her heart flooded with huge affection, knowing it must have been Jonas who arranged for the comforts.

  “Check this out, Buster boy,” she said, getting right in the space and vibing it. “Wow.”

  Buster drank from a stainless water bowl and she crouched to read on the bowl’s side: Buster Crab

  “Aww,” she moaned, eyebrows tenting at the sweet gesture.

  She plopped down on the chair and brought out her phone. The back door of the brewery opened and Jonas came out drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

  “Saw you and Buster come flying down my alley on the security cam. You guys okay?”

  “Jonas, you put out this bowl?”

  He watched Buster drinking from it and laughed. “Yeah, want you two to feel welcome. In the restaurant or out.”

  “You are the sweetest,” she said, and showed she meant it, meeting his eyes and showing him gratitude. “You are. And the dog bed . . .?”

  “Can’t have your dog getting ugly elbows laying on wood deck all the time.”

  “Well, my Buster sure appreciates it.” Then: “At least I hope he’ll be my Buster.”

  Jonas came and sat on the chair on the other side of the table. “Any word from the pound?”

  “Called this morning. No one’s been looking for him, far as they know.” She patted Buster’s side as he still drank.

  “There’s hope,” Jonas said with the right amount of seriousness.

  “There is,” she agreed.

  Jonas said, “So you two came flying down my alley looking only for crab cakes?”

  “Crab cakes, yes, and also I gotta call your brother. Official detective business.”

  “Can I listen in?” His smile glea
med in his dense black beard.

  “I think you’re an honorary member of Pris’s and my fictional detective agency,” she said, bringing her phone awake.

  “Cool,” he said, sitting back. “Do I get a badge or any kind of decoder ring? You know, something like that?”

  She said, “Your brother will not let us do anything fun like that.”

  “Always a stick in the mud, that guy,” he said, and as she dialed Jonas added: “Let me grab some cakes. You want to split a pitcher with me?”

  She paused her call. “You don’t have to work?”

  “I got time for you,” he said. “Some cakes, salad, and lager?”

  “I would love that, Jonas,” she said.

  “Coming up,” he said, “and extra for Buster. Say hi to Marcus for me. Bet you wake him up.” Jonas went back inside and left the door open for cool air. The sound of the busy kitchen was a nice accompaniment.

  She dialed Marcus, and it took seven rings before he answered. When he did, he was groggy. “Hello?”

  “Marcus, it’s me, Bette.”

  “Bette?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Huh? No . . .” She could tell from his slow and sleepy breathing she’d woken him. “What time is it?”

  “Ten,” she said. “Now listen, first, did you steal those apple cookies off my window sill?”

  “Did you call me so late to ask if I took your apple cookies?”

  “No.”

  He said, “I was hoping it was something else.”

  “Listen: I got news, Marcus. Murder news.”

  “Hold on,” he said, and she could hear him shifting around, and what sounded like bed sheets.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I? Honestly . . .”

  “I’m up,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She related to him what she overheard at the park.

  “And you’re sure you don’t know the other man’s voice?”

  “It wasn’t familiar to me, no.”

  “All right, I’ll have to think on it.”

  “You see, though? Stephen knows a lot more than what he’s telling you.”

  “I figured that.”

  “I don’t know what this secret is,” she said, “but it sounds like Charlotte’s holding it over his head.”

  Marcus said, “Where are you? I hear background noise.”

  “Out behind the Blackwater, where I bought you lunch the other day.”

  “Mm. Jonas there with you?”

  “No, he’s inside getting us dinner. We’re going to split a pitcher. You wanna come out with us, have a beer?”

  “No, I got to be on shift in . . . four hours from now.”

  “Sorry I woke you, Marcus, but I gave you something good, right?”

  “I’ll look into it tomorrow, Bette, I swear.”

  Jonas appeared in the doorway with a pitcher of beer, and behind him a server brought out a tray of food.

  “My dinner’s here,” she said to Jonas.

  “You sound hungry,” he said. “I know when you sound hungry.”

  “I am hungry,” she said, “I lost track of time playing hide and seek in Fortune with Buster.”

  “We gotta get you outta the house, Bette,” he said and laughed.

  “Har, har. Jonas is here with my dinner now, and I’ll have you know Buster was real good at playing hide and seek.”

  “Probably not the hiding part.”

  “No— I hid, and he found me.”

  “I know how it works.”

  “Come out and have a beer.”

  “I have to work.”

  “Fine, go back to bed, let me and Jonas have all the fun, but let me tell you . . .”

  “What?”

  “I want my apple cookies back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

  “I bet. You went and ate them all.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Bette. Say hi to my brother.”

  They hung up, and she turned to enjoy a very late dinner with Jonas Seabolt.

  “Teach me how to make these crab cakes, Jonas,” she said, forking two onto her plate.

  “Not gonna happen, Miss Bette,” he said.

  “I make better crab cakes anyway,” she said.

  “Sounds great. You don’t need the recipe then.”

  “I wasn’t even coming in to town for crab cakes. Was coming for fish and chips.”

  “You should go to this Scottish place out at the public beach.”

  “You’re really not going to show me how you make them?”

  He pushed a bite past his beard and chewed, shaking his head no and chuckling through his nose.

  She laughed too and forked a huge bite into her own mouth. Then wondered what Marcus said when she called and he was groggy.

  I was hoping it was something else.

  What else? What did she think she was calling him for so late at night?

  She blushed.

  THE AFTERNOON TWO DAYS LATER

  A crowd gathered on the sidewalk out front of The Steaming Bean. Two Chesapeake Cove SUVs parked out front, three feet from the curb and blocking traffic.

  A woman at the back of the group, a tourist, said to her husband, “Can you see anything?” Bette overheard the man, on his tiptoes, say, “Looks like the cops’re arresting somebody,” his accent pure Boston.

  One hand out ahead, a prow parting the crowd, Bette pushed to the front in time to see the door of the café open and Marcus lead Cherry out, hands behind her back. Big Jason Mitchum was still inside, and the young blonde officer who’d been behind the police reception desk was with him. Bette’s first thought was Marcus was getting Cherry out of the way so they could haul out the person they were arresting, but when she saw the look on Cherry’s face, it hit her what was happening.

  “Marcus,” she said, stepping ahead of the crowd, “what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  “Not now, Bette,” Marcus said, “give me a minute.”

  “Minute to what—make a bigger fool of yourself?”

  Marcus marched Cherry past, heading to the rearmost police SUV. She followed along. Marcus said over his shoulder, “It’s not me making a fool of themselves.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, speeding up to get beside him. “You mean me?”

  “Lower your voice,” Marcus said.

  It stopped her in her tracks, sneakers scratching on the concrete. Never in her life had she thought of herself as a hothead. A fiery redhead. A month back in the Cove now and it kept coming up. And it wasn’t just Marcus saying it.

  She took a deep breath and trotted forward as Marcus opened the SUV’s back door.

  “Don’t you worry, Cherry,” she said, “we’re going to figure this out, you hear me? Look at me, Cherry.”

  Two tear tracks ran Cherry’s cheeks, and those pretty lips of hers Bette was so used to seeing smiling, wriggled as she struggled not to cry. The sight of her friend—such an innocent person—disturbed in this manner, handcuffs on her wrists, got her own eyes rimmed with tears. But instead of crying, she got madder.

  She stomped a foot as Marcus put his hand on the back of Cherry’s head so she wouldn’t knock it getting into the vehicle.

  “Hold on!”

  Cherry said, “I’m okay, Bette, I’ll be okay,” her expression not looking okay at all.

  Marcus said, “Would you go wait in that cruiser up front?”

  She stared at Marcus for a long moment, and he stared back stone-faced. Cherry sobbed. Was it possible she was wrong? Could Cherry have done it? There was no way. Absolutely no way.

  Calmer now, Bette said to Cherry, “I’ve got a lawyer for you. I’ve got a lawyer who’s gonna knock Marcus on his butt. Probably get him in jail for wrongful imprisonment or something, carting you out this way. He’s going to sue the whole department, he’ll have them in your kitchen scrubbing every corner on the weekends to make things right. You hear me?”

 
“That’s all right, Bette,” Marcus said, “but that’s not how the law works.” He eased Cherry into the back seat, made sure her feet were clear, and closed the door. Cherry hunched forward, and though Bette couldn’t hear the sobbing, she saw the wink of a tear fall from Cherry’s eye and into her lap.

  She said to Marcus, “Look what you’ve gone and done. Look at her. There’s no way she’s a murderer.”

  Marcus chewed on his lower lip for a second, scowling beyond her shoulder at the faces of the gathered crowd. He said to her, “Would you get in that cruiser up front, please?”

  “Fine,” she said, and stomped around him, headed for the cruiser.

  “The passenger seat, Bette.”

  “Fine,” she said again, going all the way around the front of the cruiser now, past the bullbar, Marcus heading for the driver’s door and her getting in the passenger side. She slammed the door and folded her arms. Marcus removed his hat, got in, and closed the door. They sat quiet for a moment, both of them looking out the front window.

  “There’s no way Cherry murdered Jack Dawson,” she said.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  She stared out the front window. So did he.

  “I know Cherry,” she said. “That counts for something.”

  “That might count for something in your world, Bette, but the law works a little different.”

  “Then the law is wrong.”

  Marcus had no retort, and they both looked ahead, listening to each other breathe. It wasn’t their first fight. She’d sat in many cars with Marcus like this, arms folded, jaw clenched. Holy cow, maybe she was a hothead.

  She unfolded her arms, ran her hands up and down her denim thighs, drying her palms. She adjusted her jacket, relaxed and lounged in the chair, trying not to seem so furious with him. But she was.

  “This your police car?” she asked him.

  “It is. Why?”

  She reached into the cupholder just below the truck’s fancy police computer and produced a hot-pink hair scrunchie.

  “You got nice hair, Marcus, but it’s not exactly long enough for a ponytail. At least not yet.”

  He took it from her, unsmiling, and popped it back in the cup holder. “It’s Stacy’s.”