Muddy Waters

by Ellis Quinn

  Muddy Waters

  A Crab Feast Cozy Mystery

  Ellis Quinn

  Copyright 2021 by Ellis Quinn

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  www.ellisquinnmysteries.com

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  A Crab Feast Cozy Mystery Novel

  Muddy Waters

  by Ellis Quinn

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  Cover Design by Ellis Quinn

  Created with Vellum

  About the Author

  Ellis Quinn lives on a haunted goat farm in the woods surrounded by animals.

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  www.ellisquinnmysteries.com

  Also by Ellis Quinn

  THE CRAB FEAST MYSTERIES

  Crab Outta Luck

  Anchor Management

  Muddy Waters

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Afterword

  A trombone slide knocked Bette’s hat off. When she stooped to retrieve the hat, the trombonist stooped as well. She and the trombonist knocked heads together and the trombonist’s hat fell at her feet. They picked up each other’s hats, then exchanged them.

  The trombonist was a rosy-cheeked high school student, wide eyed behind his glasses. He shouted over the music, “I’m so sorry, Ms. Whaley.”

  “My fault for walking too close,” she shouted back. “No harm done. Except when we knocked our heads like coconuts.” She rubbed where they’d knocked, then donned her hat. “We must have looked like the Three Stooges.”

  The young trombonist looked around for a third stooge while the rest of the marching band continued playing. Then, mystified, he looked down at Buster at the end of the leather leash. She said, “Well, two of the Three Stooges, anyway.” The trombonist was too young to know who The Three Stooges were.

  Now he patted Buster’s head, then backed into the file of musicians, and she tossed a few dollars from her jacket pocket into the old top hat on the cobblestone sidewalk with a little placard that explained how the money raised would go to fund The Reginald G. Crockett High School’s marching band trip to the Marching Band Nationals in Savannah.

  The kids all smiled at her around their instruments, nodded thanks, and the trombonist counted himself back in, cheeks puffing out as he found his cue. A cute trumpeter at his side elbowed him, and they tried not laughing while they blew their horns on When the Saints Go Marching In, a song associated with New Orleans; a city where they boiled crabs instead of steaming.

  The high school band played on Chesapeake Cove’s crowded Main Street sidewalk, out front of Hilda’s Gilded Lily gift shop. The entire town had been transformed. Red, white, and blue banners hung over the street from light pole to light pole, and matching bunting decorated the windows of the shops. It was the weekend of the Chesapeake Cove Crab Festival, running from Wednesday afternoon to Sunday night.

  The town center was packed like sardines, and the town blockaded vehicle traffic from Main, so the roadway bustled with tourists, and vendors, and buskers. The town population ballooned from 1,200 to almost 10,000 if you included all the hotel rooms and rentals and B&B and AirBnB occupancies, and that all the people with summer homes were in town, too, most of them bringing guests.

  Bette waded through the busy crowd and followed the flow until Madsen Street. The crowd thinned, but ahead she saw the doorway of The Steaming Bean teeming with coffee drinkers and biscuit eaters. Tourists loitered out front, drinking paper cups of coffee and munching baked goods held in napkins; there were no empty seats in Cherry’s front patio; a lineup of eight deep ran from the propped open front door.

  “Holy Hannah,” she sighed, and queued up as number nine.

  The line moved quick and once she stood waiting indoors, she saw why. Cherry and Terry worked double-time behind the counter, and Cherry had hired extra help. At least six staff bustled, and Cherry had it all under control.

  A woman around Bette’s age collected her coffee and croissant from Cherry, turned to walk deeper into the café, then saw someone she knew sitting at the frontmost table. First thing Bette noticed about the woman were her boots. She coveted them. The most beautiful shade of brown leather. The supple leather looked burnished and brass zippers ran the side. A thin brass ring dangled from the zipper’s pull. Buster’s colors, his fur and eyes. Probably why she liked them so much.

  The women at the table and the woman with the boots noticed Buster now, cocked their heads and saying Aww and waving at him. Bette dipped down to pat his head and show them what a good boy he was. Buster was patient and well-mannered and great in stores and cafés. He would sit at her side, never pull on the lead, and kept his nose out of other people’s crotches. Good manners, indeed.

  The woman with the boots was saying to the women she knew she was sorry she hadn’t been around much, and one of the other women was saying how they knew she was a recluse, anyway, and all she wanted to do was create. The woman with the boots said, “It’s true, I know I am,” and they all laughed.

  It hit Bette who the woman with the boots was. Now she straightened her posture. It was Julie Hartfield, the artist Steven Dawson had told her about. The one she’d intended to meet up with and see if she could strike up a friendship. She’d been painting for a few weeks now, and feedback had been positive. Pris hadn’t started a watercolor group yet, but it would be on its way soon, she imagined.

  Bette waited to interject herself in the conversation but the line shifted forward. Still, she could overhear their talk. Julie was telling the women seated at the table how she was excited to surprise her husband. “Brian travels so much for work, but he’s coming home this weekend.” Julie had plans to visit her sister, but they fell through and her husband didn’t know it yet. They were going to spend the weekend together after all. “He’s going to be shocked,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

  Cherry came around from behind the counter now, holding an enormous paper bag and a coffee cup. Came directly to Bette, leaned in for a cheek kiss. Both sides, Bette saying, “You must be run off your feet.”

  “I’ll take it,” Cherry said. “After the last few weeks, the Bean needs to play catch up.”

  Yes, after all that terrible business with Cherry accused of murder and The Steaming Bean closed for a few days. Cherry presented the coffee to Bette.

  “For me?”

  “Lots of cream and lots of sugar, Bette. The way you like it.”

  “You didn’t have to, I don’t mind waiting in line,” she said, but Cherry rolled her eyes, not wanting to hear about it, withdrawing from the pocket on her apron a huge baked cookie in the shape of a dog bone.

  Cherry stooped, said to Bette, “Okay if Buster gets it?”

  “Now he’s seen it, good luck trying to get him to forget about it,” she said and laughed. “Sure, go ahead. He’d love it.”

  Buster assumed his treat position: sitting upright, chest thrust out, head back in a regal pose. His eyes went half-lidded like he was too proud to accept treats, but if you in
sisted . . . He took the home-baked treat from Cherry and held it in his mouth, cookie ends protruding out both sides of his snout, his lips draped over them.

  Cherry laughed and ruffled his head. “I gotta get back to work. We’ll catch up soon,” she said, and handed Bette the bag.

  “This is a lot of food,” Bette said, taking the heavy bag and holding it to her chest.

  “I have sandwiches in there for you and Steven. There’s one for Pris, too, if you can drop it off to her on your way to the marina.”

  “Pris is going to rile up an appetite today working the dunk tank,” Bette said.

  “Say hi to her, and give Steven my best, too,” Cherry said. Then backing away, added: “I packed your favorite in there,” nodding to the bag Bette held at her chest.

  “No . . . Browned Butter Brownies?”

  “With toasted honey-walnuts.”

  “You’re the best, Cherry.”

  Bette turned as Cherry trotted back behind the counter and then looked to walk Buster past Julie as an icebreaker. But Julie sat at the table with the other women now, settled in and engaged in conversation. It would be too awkward to introduce herself, so it would have to wait till another time.

  The lineup to order was shorter now, though people still congregated out front and the patio had no seating. A family approached the front door as she exited, and Bette held it open for a man and his wife and their little boy who admired Buster. “Can I pet your doggy?”

  “He’d love it if you do,” Bette said, and watched as the little lad tapped Buster on the nose, the dog biscuit still protruding on either side of his mouth.

  The man laughed and said, “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Buster Crab.”

  “Crab, huh? Is he the mascot of the Crab Festival?”

  “He’d like to think he is,” she said.

  The man chuckled, then ushered his wife and boy ahead.

  But now in the foyer, the man saw the lineup that was only about four customers deep. There were no empty tables. Julie still sat up front talking to her friends and wouldn’t have got a seat if she hadn’t run into people she knew.

  The man abruptly turned, putting his hand on his wife’s waist, leading her back to the door. He said, “Come on, folks, we’ll try somewhere that’s maybe not so busy.”

  Bette still stood with the door open, and watched as they left, smiling and nodding at them. She said, “You should’ve seen it fifteen minutes ago.”

  Twin stern drive Mercury V8 motors, ivory cream gel coat on the hull, Garmin radar, bow thruster, silver oak trim, 37 feet long with the swim platform; a tremendous purchase for a young person.

  Steven Dawson loved his new speedboat.

  From the marina, he toured Bette and Buster northward, far as the Toppehannock River. They circled the wide estuary, then went deeper into the Bay. They headed straight south, and he took her to see Bloodsworth Island because she asked him to. Some friends of hers in high school claimed they’d snuck on the island one time, which was a big no-no. The island was restricted because of unexploded military ordinance and patrolled by the Navy. Steven drove through the Surface Danger Zone, which was permitted, and they got close to the island’s notorious western shore, then looped around the Holland Strait, going in a figure-eight near Smith Island before coming up north again to the Hooper Islands. Buster Crab rode most of the way planted on the bow seats, snout up and proud, ears flapping, eyes squinted, loving every minute.

  At one o’clock they were starving. The day was chilly but bright enough they could sit in the sun and not be too cold. Steven unfolded the stowaway table and kicked out the support leg, gesturing like a boat show model showing off all the boat’s features. Bette brought out the paper lunch bag Cherry packed, put it on the table and withdrew the contents. Two fat homemade sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Ham and turkey, thick cheddar, sliced tomatoes, lettuce, and no onions. The brownies she would kill for, plus two more bone-shaped biscuits for Buster. Steven supplied the pop. Two bottles of cream soda that he popped the tops off with a steel opener and plugged long straws into. Motor shut down, they bobbed on the waves near the shore, about fifteen minutes south of Chesapeake Cove.

  Near to where they bobbed, and extending out from the shore by a series of steel buildings, pilings jabbed out of the water like denuded trees in a swamp, and between these posts, lines extended, the lines supported by bright buoys like beach balls, in blue or red or white or orange. Long black buoys barricaded the perimeter so no hotshots in speedboats or jet-skis could bomb through.

  She said to Steven, “What do you suppose that is?”

  “It’s a grow-out.”

  “What’s a grow-out?”

  “An oyster farm. They harvest gametes from tetroploids and eggs from diploids and”—he interlaced his fingers—“bring them together to make a triploid. They have huge tanks of custom algae they grow and the triploids feed off that until they grow an eye-spot, then they put them on substrate . . .”

  “I wish I knew this when Vance was here. He’d absolutely love this.”

  “When he’s here next, let me know. I can probably get him in for a tour.”

  “He’d love it. Thanks, Steven. So what’s the grow-out?”

  “They introduce the oysters to Chesapeake water in those buildings and they stay there for a month while they grow their shells, then it’s three more months in that building.” He pointed to the steel warehouse on the farthest left. “Then it’s time for the grown up water.”

  “And that’s the grow-out.”

  “You got it. They’re in baskets below those buoys and the flowing water helps them develop deep cups in their shells.”

  Bette said, “Sounds like it’s— What’s that thing when something can be done over and over again. Sustainable.”

  “It’s sustainable.”

  “Have you ever tried the farmed ones? They as good as wild?”

  Steven shrugged and said, “I’ve tried em. I couldn’t tell the difference. They were tasty as all get out. Brinier even, maybe. It’s all in how you prepare em. And if the growing conditions are the same as wild, grown in the same water, what could be much different? Plus, here’s the thing: the aquaculture oysters go from brood stock to oyster in less than half the time in the wild.”

  Bette nodded, chewed and swallowed. “Aquaculture. Do you know Donovan McNeal?”

  “Yes, I do, Bette, we were all together at Royce Murdoch’s memorial,” Steven said, looking off to the water, the wind tossing his thick mop of dark hair.

  “That’s right. Is he involved?” Pris and Cherry said Donovan had been looking to get into aquaculture as well as crabbing.

  Steven shrugged. “Mostly his brother.” He looked down, then away.

  “Oh, really,” she said and smiled.

  Now he looked at her, lips pursed, brow puzzled. “What?”

  Now she shrugged, acted nonchalant. “I’ve never met Donovan’s brother. What does he look like? Name’s Adam, right?”

  “Yeah, he looks like his brother, Donovan, I guess. A little. Softer, less . . .”

  “Pumped up?”

  “No, he’s pretty pumped up. He keeps in good shape.”

  Her smile widened, and she hid it by stuffing the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth.

  Steven asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “Not a thing’s funny,” she said, speaking with a mouthful of food hidden behind her hand. She snuffled laughter.

  “I know what you’re getting at, and you can imagine all you want, Bette.”

  “Is he the one?” she said, still hiding a stuffed mouth behind her hand. “You can tell me.”

  Steven looked sideways for a moment, finishing his own sandwich, expression amused, but eyes turned down. She might have figured it out: Steven’s secret boyfriend could be Donovan McNeal’s brother. Now she had to get her eyes on this guy Adam McNeal.

  Steven said, “The best part about a secret boyfriend, Bette, is the part where he’
s a secret.”

  “You know, your subconscious brain isn’t always so subconscious. Let’s itself out in little leaks.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, say I had certain feelings for somebody. Let’s say—”

  “Marcus?”

  She shook her head, flabbergasted. “I don’t have feelings for Marcus.”

  Steven grinned. “This is all imaginary, anyway, Bette.”

  She looked across the table at him. Jaw set firm, she muttered, “Say it’s Marcus then.”

  Steven was still amused. “This is your game. We’re playing by your rules.”

  “Touché,” she said. “But I don’t have feelings for Marcus.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” His smile was smug.

  “Stop it.”

  “You stop it.”

  She scowled at him again. He was taking the fun out of it.

  Now Steven was on a roll. “Okay, so what you’re saying is: say you had a crush on, oh, I don’t know, maybe somebody like, I don’t know . . . Marcus, and say you got a new boat, and you drove it into the Bay with a friend and nobody knew you had this crush on Marcus but maybe it was time to stop for lunch, and, hey, wouldn’t it be nice to stop out in the Bay across from, like, the police station. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that.” She tossed an errant tomato slice in her mouth and crossed her arms, trying her best not to look petulant.

  “And then you’d say— Hey, I know that boat.”