Anchor Management

by Ellis Quinn

  His pursed lips thinned further, and a small measure of anger flared in his eyes.

  She said, “Is the secret worth all this pain? The pain in your family, and the pain in this town too.”

  He shook his head again, admonishing himself. A thousand thoughts a second racing through the kid’s head. He looked up again, then looked away to the louvered blinds. He said, “Is it sunny today?”

  “Gray again,” she said. “Summer is officially over.”

  Stephen placed his plastic knife and fork together over his half-eaten fish and chips and lowered his head. “I think I’m done here.”

  “All right, Stephen. Did you get enough to eat?”

  He nodded again and said, “Thanks again, Bette.”

  She said, “I’m going to send in Marcus, okay? The best thing you can do right now is tell him what you told me. You do not deserve to be punished for a murder you didn’t commit. You hear me?”

  THAT EVENING

  They picked up takeout from The Cracked Crab and arrived at Cherry’s place fifteen minutes early. Now the three of them stood on Cherry’s stoop in the cold, staring at each other with bewildered eyes, heads cocked and listening. From inside Cherry’s pretty cottage, piano music played. It soared loud, then dwindled to soft tinkling. Then swooped to dramatic heights once more. The tune was melancholy and haunting. Bette said, “I know this song,” and Vance nodded.

  “It’s Blackbird.”

  Pris said, “The Beatles?”

  Vance tilted his head nearer the door. “Don’t you hear it?”

  The melody was there, but Cherry transformed the song into something spiritual. They had to assume it was Cherry playing the piano—and since Stephen had mentioned Cherry’s piano-playing, who else would it be?

  Cherry played with astonishing ability. At times incredibly fast, all ten fingers had to be moving on the keys at once, playing complementary but separate melodies. Then she would slow, and the tinkling imitated falling rain. She turned Blackbird—already a pretty song—into a powerful and personal saga that astounded all of them. Cherry was in her cottage pouring out her heart, and the song brought sudden wetness to Bette’s eyes. She shook her head and sniffled, and could see Vance’s eyes gleaming as well. Pris folded her arms, staring into the distance and shaking her head in disbelief. Cherry’s talent was astounding.

  And then it ended. Not with a sudden stop, but a fading spring-shower sound from the seventh octave. Then with a clunk of the piano’s foot pedal, the performance was over.

  Pris said, “Amazing.”

  Bette shivered, the effect of the song’s emotion getting to her. Under her boiled-wool jacket, her skin went to goosebumps.

  They all took a few seconds, and it was Pris who moved first, pulling open the wooden screen door to rap the brass knocker. There was the sound of footsteps inside, the door opened and Cherry stood there looking small and more vulnerable than Bette had ever seen her. She was dressed in baggy cotton pants, house slippers, and an oversized sweater. She smiled and said, “You guys are early.”

  Pris said, “Was that you on them eighty-eights?”

  “The piano?”

  “I don’t think that old rainbow-painted hunk of junk upright you got out on that back porch has ever sounded so good in its life.”

  Bette said, “Really, Cherry. That was unbelievable.”

  Cherry dipped her face away like it embarrassed her. “Oh, I hope you didn’t hear that.”

  Bette said, “We heard it. I’ll never un-hear it.”

  “I was just getting some . . .” Cherry looked over her shoulder, down the hall to toward the back porch. She looked back and showed them that embarrassed face again. “I was working some things out.”

  “Next time you want to work something out,” Pris said, “make sure you invite me over. I’d pay to sit and listen to that.”

  Cherry shrugged and said, “I just play for myself,” and invited them in.

  Bette heaved high the huge bag of takeout and said, “We got dinner already. They had our order ready when we got there.”

  “I have plates out,” Cherry said.

  Pris shrugged off her jacket, saying, “Bette’s made about a hundred crab cakes, I said she should have brought them for dinner tonight, but she says she’s crab caked out now.”

  “I couldn’t even look at one right now,” Bette said.

  They all gathered in the foyer, and Cherry stood with toes pointed inward, hugging her own arms.

  Pris said, “Get over here,” and gave her a big hug. Cherry hugged her back and took a turn with Bette, who passed the bag of food to Vance. Then they traded, and Vance hugged her as well. Bette watched his hands cup Cherry’s narrow back.

  “So glad you’re out,” Vance said.

  “I’m glad I’m out too. Come on, let’s get the food on the plates.”

  * * *

  Cherry’s dining room table had been set with plain white plates and silver cutlery. There was a bouquet in the center of the table, freesia and magnolia. They set up the containers in the kitchen, steam buckets with clams and oysters in broth and drawn butter. They filled their own plates before rejoining in the dining room. Cherry poured the wine.

  They’d engaged in nothing but small talk since they arrived, but it was Pris who’d had enough. She set down her wineglass after draining half of it, smacked her lips, folded her arms and leaned back in the black dining room chair. She said, “Before we start, why don’t you tell me how come you told Mister Marcus you didn’t have an alibi for when the anchor was stolen if you were with Stephen.”

  Cherry rolled her head on her neck and looked exhausted. She played with her cutlery for a moment, then set it back down. She said, “Neither of us . . .” Then she exhaled and closed her eyes. “No, it was Stephen. Stephen didn’t want his mother to know he and I were hanging out. That we were friends. He insisted it was going to make things a thousand times more difficult for him at home with his mom. And he said it’s just going to make Charlotte hate me more than she already did, too. I didn’t want to agree to it, but Stephen has it hard with Charlotte. We just kind of figured the actual murderer would turn up and then we’d be off the hook. We didn’t think it would go this far.”

  Pris leaned forward. “You two are hiding a relationship.”

  Bette watched Vance, who now studied Cherry, picking up his goblet of wine and taking a sip to hide his dread.

  Cherry said, “Me and Stephen?” Then she laughed. She said, “No. You don’t know how off you are on that one. We’re just friends. We have a relationship, yeah, because we’re friends. It’s not like what you’re trying to insinuate.”

  And Cherry’s eyes darted in Vance’s direction, but she stopped herself. Bette took it to mean Cherry might be interested in him too.

  Bette said, “This is supposed to be Cherry’s party, everybody’s got long faces. I think we need to drink some more of this wine and tuck into the steam bucket.”

  “Suits me fine,” Cherry said with some relief, “this was turning into a tougher interrogation than what Marcus put me through.”

  * * *

  Over coffee, the three women sat in Cherry’s front room while Vance took care of the dishes and threw away the takeout containers.

  Bette said to Cherry, “Charlotte sure is hard on Stephen.”

  Cherry sat with her legs folded underneath her on upholstered chair by the fireplace. She sipped her coffee, set it down again on the saucer. “She sure is.”

  “That’s what you and Stephen had in common?”

  “Not just my mother. My Dad too.” She frowned, and her gaze went faraway. She said, “It wasn’t quite like Stephen’s situation. It’s not like that. And it’s not like Royce Murdoch either, not the way he was with Troy. I guess we’ve all got our own special vectors of torment. My parents aren’t harsh like Charlotte, but they were rigid. I didn’t want to do what they wanted to do, and they made my life in California thusly unlivable.”

  Pris said, “P
arents can place a lot of expectation on their children’s shoulders.”

  Vance came in the sitting room with his own coffee, saying, “Dishes are all done.” He sat on the arm of the couch next to Bette. “Hope I did them right. My mom has a lot of high dishwashing expectations that I try to live up to.”

  Bette said, “He’s making light, but we definitely put demands on him.”

  Cherry smiled at Vance and said, “You’re just lucky everybody’s wants and needs line up in your family. Something tells me Vance could be a handful if he didn’t get his way.”

  Bette said, “He was a good boy. Only scared me half to death a few times.”

  Vance said, “By jumping out of woodpile?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “That was nothing.”

  Vance said, “I remember that time dad almost called in sick to work he was so upset I got that D in English. Whew, I vowed never to do that again.”

  Bette said, “Stephen seems to bear a lot of weight. He’s got a lot on his mind, you know. Introverted, smart, but put-upon as well.”

  Cherry said, “He feels all the expectation is on him with the crabbing business since Jack wasn’t Charlotte’s son.”

  Pris’s saucer rattled and Bette caught in the corner of her eye, her aunt coming close to spitting out her coffee. Pris leapt forward and set the cup on the table, then coughed.

  “You okay?” Bette rubbed Pris’s back.

  In a choked voice, Pris said, “Jack wasn’t Charlotte’s son?”

  Bette said, “No. Vinnie just told me that yesterday.”

  Hoarsely, Pris said, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her eyes were watery from the coffee going down the wrong pipe.

  Bette said, “Vinnie already had baby Jack when he met Charlotte. They became a family, Charlotte assumed Jack, they had Sophia and Stephen.”

  Pris wiped her mouth with a napkin, and still hoarse, said, “What happened to Vinnie’s first wife?”

  Cherry said, “She bailed on the marriage. Personal problems. Bad enough about these personal problems, she gave up Jack to Vinnie and never sought custody.”

  Bette said, “She had a problem with drugs. She’s gone now. Passed away. Least Jack got to meet her.”

  Cherry said, “Charlotte and Vinnie don’t even realize Stephen knows that. Stephen thinks his sister Sophia’s figured it out, but they never talk about it.”

  Bette said, “It’s like the both of them know it’s a secret and they carry it, tip-toeing around their mother. Charlotte hates the idea that people might think Vinnie had a wife before her—”

  Vance said, “What would that matter?”

  Cherry looked at Vance, and said, “It’s not in line with the perfect family image she likes to present.”

  “Nobody’s falling for her perfect family image,” Vance said. “She’s struggling to keep it all together and—”

  Bette said, And she flies into a rage whenever it’s threatened.”

  Cherry said, “Stephen says Charlotte thinks Jack acted out as much as possible, got into as much trouble as he could, all to cause as much damage to her reputation as he could. Out of spite or something.”

  “After the crab feast, when I got out of there because I was mad . . .”

  “You went to the café,” Bette said.

  Cherry said, “I did. Stephen caught up with me later, and he was ranting and venting about Charlotte more than I was. Mad that she treated me like that, and how it was just like her.”

  Bette said, “You should’ve seen Charlotte the other day, eh, Pris?”

  Vance said, “Out on the pier?”

  Bette said, “Charlotte went crazy on Marcus. Marcus is even-keeled as you’re going to get, but she even had him in a red zone.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Cherry said. “Stephen says that’s how it is around the house. She’ll go off on Vinnie. She’ll go off on Jack. She’ll go off on him. Only Sophia was safe.”

  Prissy folded her arms and said, “Charlotte would do anything to protect Stephen and Sophia’s reputation. Protect her own, protect Vinnie’s . . .”

  Bette said, “Stephen told me Jack stole the anchor, and he was trying to get him to give it back before Charlotte found out. Told Jack they didn’t need Charlotte on their back. But he said Jack had been drinking again."

  Cherry said, “If it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Stephen, who wanted Jack dead?”

  Vance huffed and said, “I guess Charlotte.”

  Bette said, “I can’t believe a mother could kill her . . .” She raised her eyes.

  Pris looked at her and said, “Jack wasn’t her son, Bette.”

  Bette looked to Cherry and said, “Stephen’s got a secret,” and then watched her face for a reaction.

  Cherry’s expression didn’t change. She said, “Yeah?”

  “I just wondered if you know what it might be.”

  Jerry shrugged and chewed her cheek. “No,” she whispered.

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Behind The Steaming Bean, Bette slipped out of the patio and into the backyard for some fresh air and some Buster-time.

  “Hey, Buddy,” she said, “You minding these birds?”

  Buster rose from where he lay and headed her way, bum wiggling and tail going around in circles. She patted his burly sides, and he checked his body weight against her knees. She told him he was a good boy and then looked around the yard to make sure he’d done well guarding Cherry’s chickens. Buster seemed to have a knack for guarding, though she was sure he’d drifted off into a doggy nap. All the birds clucked and hopped and strutted around the gardens, staying off the brick pavers and poking through the shrubbery, looking for grub.

  When Cherry’d been arrested, the cafe had closed. Cherry’d told Terry to put the sign on the door for the next few days as Marcus had led the poor girl from the cafe and out to his SUV. Last night Cherry said she wanted to give the cafe one more day of rest so she could take advantage and deep clean the already spotless place, and Bette and Vance and Pris offered their help. Terry was here as well, and all of them worked at wiping tables, getting every nook and cranny and seam and corner bleached and disinfected.

  “Don’t lick my hands,” Buster, she warned her dog, “They’re awful bleached.” She threw her arms around his shoulders so he could lick her neck and cheek instead.

  From the crouched vantage point, she saw something amusing. A low canopy of apple and cherry trees protected the center of the garden where the henhouse sat. Old trees that had grown wriggled and gnarled and spread their canopy over the middle of the yard. But from her crouch she could see now affixed atop the raised henhouse a big metal chicken. Vance must have bolted it there one night he came to visit Cherry. And now she wondered if the whole reason her son had played skee-ball that day of the crab feast, he’d done it trying to get that chicken because he knew Cherry liked chickens.

  “Son of a gun,” she laughed, and clapped her hand on Buster’s sturdy ribs. The wooden patio door swung open and closed behind her, and she turned. It opened and closed again. Everyone coming out to the yard. Vance and Cherry up front, then it was Pris and Terry behind.

  Their faces and rushed movements said something was happening. “What’s going on?”

  Vance said, “We just saw that Charlotte woman storming down the street, coming this way.”

  “Sign out front says closed, anyway,” Bette said. “Let her pound on the glass.”

  “She’ll come down the alley,” Pris said. Then more surly: “And I say we should just let her. Woman’s ready for a dose of reality, you ask me.”

  Cherry said, “I’m not ready for this right now, Pris.”

  Vance said, “The alley gate’s locked. She can’t come down.”

  Terry said, “We’ll just wait her out back here for a minute.”

  Everyone relaxed, stayed quiet a moment and heard no thumping or banging on the front door or any jangling of the metal gate that closed the alley, the one Vance told her he’d installed a lock on.

&n
bsp; “Oh, shoot,” Cherry said then, and Bette turned her head to see where Cherry was looking.

  At the back of the yard in the far corner, a raspberry-colored suit arm hooked over what she thought was an ivy-covered wall. But it wasn’t, and now the manicured fingers that poked out the sleeve of that raspberry suit arm flicked a gate latch and a wooden door swung open. It was Charlotte, coming in the yard.

  But how on earth would Charlotte know there was a gate back here that led from a different alley? Of course: she’d wanted her brother Quinton to buy the place, had been through it a bunch of times, probably testing the resolve of her real estate agent.

  Charlotte marched toward them, and Cherry put up her hands in surrender. “I can’t deal with this,” she said.

  But Charlotte was incensed, walking toward them with intense purpose. Buster’s hackles raised, and he growled, took one step forward. Charlotte’s demeanor didn’t change, but she halted her step, staying six feet back from them, Buster at attention at Bette’s feet.

  Charlotte jabbed a finger at Cherry, pointing over Bette’s shoulder, saying through gritted teeth, “I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re happy you ruined my family.”

  “I didn’t ruin your family,” Cherry said.

  “That’s what you wanted all along. You’ve got the café, stole it from my brother, and then you got your claws into my son. And you got Jack killed too.”

  “Cherry had nothing to do with that,” Bette said.

  “What do you know about it?” Charlotte was still livid, hands on her hips. She glared at Bette, nostrils wide and snorting.

  “I know Cherry had nothing to do with Jack’s death. And as far as Stephen’s confession—”

  “Everything is ruined! Everything we built in this town. And for what? For this?” Charlotte gestured a hand toward Cherry. “For her?”

  Vance slunk an arm around Cherry and she pressed herself against him.

  “Let’s take it easy,” Bette said. “Let’s take it easy. I don’t think Cherry’s ready for this.”