Muddy Waters

by Ellis Quinn

  For the first time, she saw Sam reject an offer. He scrunched his nose, looked apologetic, saying, “I don’t drink.”

  “You don’t have to drink their beer, Sam, but you gotta try their crab— Oh, wait!” She clapped hands to her cheeks like she couldn’t believe she forgot. “The Cracked Crab! Man, that’s where we’ll go. Shoot, it’ll be booked, but I bet Pris’ll get us a seat like that—” She snapped her fingers, flubbed it, did it again with a satisfying crack. “You ever had a crab feast?”

  “I’ve had crab before,” he said.

  “No, I mean a crab feast,” she said, putting great emphasis on the word feast, and now expressing it further: “F-E-A-S-T.”

  She was getting herself excited, looking forward to tying one on today, strapping on the old bib, rolling up her sleeves and getting elbow deep in grit and butter and sweet, sweet blue crab.

  She’d cheer Sam up somehow.

  “We’ll bring Cherry along, she said, Cherry and Pris’ll be busy, Pris is at the dunk booth, Cherry’s run off her feet at the café, but they gotta eat, right? We’ll make a real thing out of it. What do you say?”

  “I get the feeling I can’t say no,” he said, tilting his head amiably.

  She winked and said, “You better trust your gut—”

  Her phone rang.

  “Hold on,” she said, seeing it was Marcus calling. Checking in on her again, her protector. She wiped her hands and mouth with a napkin, stepped away from the island, answered, and held the phone to her ear.

  Marcus said, “You there?”

  “I’m here,” she said, “who you think’s answering the phone?”

  In a no-fun tone, Marcus said, “Is Sam there?”

  “Course he’s here, we’re having breakfast together.”

  “Was he with you all night?”

  She looked over her shoulder at her houseguest, his long, sandy hair hanging around his face, putting scrambled eggs in his mouth.

  “Yeah,” he was here. “What’s got into you?”

  “Did you check on him during the night?”

  “Just tell me what’s going on, Marcus,” she said, detecting the alarm in his voice and knowing he had news he didn’t think she wanted to hear.

  “When did he go to bed?”

  “Before me,” she said, getting mad because he wasn’t complying with her wishes. “He went to bed before me, he was here when I woke up in the morning. Why do you want to know? What happened?”

  Marcus sighed, and she could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, or laying one of those big hands across his forehead, troubled. Behind him there was a clicking sound, the sound cop lights made when the sirens weren’t on but the bulbs were spinning. There were voices too, the squelch of a cop radio. She said again, “Tell me what happened.”

  Marcus said, “There’s been another murder, Bette. Another woman strangled.”

  “What?—no,” she said, her voice reduced to a whisper. She stepped out of the kitchen, keeping her eye on Sam. She moved down toward the pantry, and Buster’s clicking toenails followed behind. She looked back, making sure Sam was still eating the breakfast she prepared. She moved to the kitchen door, and let Buster outside, stepped out into the sunlight and said once more, “Tell me what happened.”

  “Another woman’s been strangled, Bette. Strangled like Julie. This is big. Bad. That’s two murders. We’ve got somebody in town preying on women. We’re at a loss here, we might have to shut the crab festival down. I don’t know how to get word out, or get it done. So I’ve got cops coming in from all over Sunderland County, getting extra officers in here. I got a call into the state troopers, too—”

  “Did you get in touch with Brian yet, Julie’s husband?”

  Marcus put his hand over the phone to say something aside to somebody, giving another police officer instructions. When he came back he said, “No. We haven’t heard from him yet. Look, we searched Julie’s house, we went all through it, and we didn’t even find pictures of this guy called Brian. It didn’t look like anything had been taken. The house hadn’t been touched. There’s no sign of any husband. The only way Brian exists is because Pris and Margaret and Joy have told me they’ve met him.”

  She said, “What should I do?”

  “You hang tight. Meet up with that aunt of yours, the two of you stay together and stay in touch.”

  “She’s at the dunk tank.”

  Marcus made an annoyed sound. “Pshh, that dunk tank.

  “I’ll meet Pris at lunch.”

  “Good. I just want you to be careful, want you to watch out.”

  “And what about Sam?”

  “Not so sure now about him, are you?”

  “I am sure of him, Marcus,” she said, a little too snidely, but she wanted to make her point. “He was here all night, I’m sure of it.” Though she wasn’t really.

  “I’ll take your word for it. Not a light sleeper, are you?”

  “If he got up, I woulda heard him. Or Buster woulda heard him and let me know.”

  “Well, do what you think is right, Bette, but I’m telling you right now, we have a strangler in Chesapeake Cove.”

  THAT AFTERNOON

  None of her friends were easily available during the Crab Festival. Pris was busy at the dunk tank booth today, but one call to her aunt, and Pris’d arranged for a table at the Cracked Crab at one o’clock, and swore she’d be there. A table for six. She’d called Cherry and begged her to come take a break for lunch, come down to the Cracked Crab and have a feast with her. “We’ll make it quick,” she assured her.

  Sam had brushed his hair, and with it pushed away from his face, it showed off he was a handsome boy. If he’d take better care of himself, he’d be a catch. He hadn’t shaved yet, and he still had a scruff that went down his neck. But just the fact that he’d groomed a little to come out for lunch made her feel better, and she hoped somehow it made him feel better too. He even wore the clean clothing she’d folded for him this morning.

  On the way into the Crab she introduced Sam to the ritual: introducing yourself to the tall wooden sea captain who stood inside the foyer of the ancient shuckhouse that had been converted into the bustling Cracked Crab, the finest crab shack on the whole Chesapeake Bay. She taught Sam how to salute him, pat him on the shoulder, assure the wooden man today was not a day of mutiny and everybody was on board for a good time and a hearty feast. They walked up the stairs, met the maître d’, the maître d’ knew they were coming because Pris had called, and she escorted them through the packed restaurant. The worst part had been bypassing the long line-up to get in, a certain guilt at her privilege, but this wasn’t about her today, it was about Sam. Sam needed this. This was for a good cause.

  The maître d’ wound them through the restaurant, out the back and down to the deck by the waterside, the best seat in the house. A table for six, gingham cloth under an umbrella, long placard that read Reserved, right by the balcony’s edge where they could sit and look out at the Bay. It got Sam smiling, so this was definitely the right track.

  They took their spots, and then Becky Hanes was there, ready to take their order. Despite the busy crowd and the demanding load on the young girl, she was chipper and ready to please.

  “Hey, Miss Whaley, how y’all doing?”

  “Doing great, Becky, how’s your mama?”

  “She’s great too, I’ll let her know you’re asking. She was talking about you just the other day.”

  “Tell her I said hi, make sure you do it. So hey”— she gestured across the table—“this is my friend, Sam. He’s an artist.”

  Becky was all smiles and charm, greeting Sam and introducing herself, and it got Bette wondering if a four year age difference was a really big deal. Sam at twenty-two, Becky at eighteen— Oh, shoot, no, girl might be seventeen . . .

  Today wasn’t about matchmaking, so she let that idea drop like a hot potato, and Becky asked for their order. She said, “I don’t know who all’s coming. Pris swore she’d ma
ke it, Cherry did too, Margaret’s busy at the dunk tank with Pris, and if Pris is here, then she has to stay, Joy Kim’s working the quilt sale . . .” She looked questioningly at Sam. “Pitcher of beer?” Sam shook his head. He didn’t drink.

  She said, “No, not beer. Pris and Cherry are working, Sam doesn’t drink. Tell you what, Becky, bring four Cokes. And today, we want a feast. I mean a F-E-A-S-T.”

  Becky tucked her pad away without writing anything down, and she said, “A bushel of blues, potato salad, corn on the cob. You want some Cherrystone oysters with that?”

  “Might as well,” she said, and rubbed her hands together like she was hungry.

  “Something to start?”

  “Might be a few fore Cherry and Pris get here,” she said. “Some bread’d be great, Becky. And how about a plate of crab cakes?”

  “Will do,” Becky said, then skipped away from their table.

  Sam was awkward a moment, sitting with his shoulders hunched up and his hands between his knees, spine curled forward. He regarded the crowd, the back patio loud with laughter and chatter and clinking cutlery, people hammering crab, everyone with bibs tucked in their collars, faces glistening with crab meat and butter. But it was a place of happiness, and she was sure the decision to come to the Crab was the right one.

  Despite being a late-October day, the sun was bright, and the sky was blue. The Bay danced in jagged bronzy waves. Every so often a warm and salty breeze would come off the Bay and kiss her cheeks. On the deck below them, the one that bordered the shore, down where she’d given Royce Murdoch a talking to on the day he died, a raft of ducks gathered in a bobbing armada, waiting to be tossed scraps from the diners.

  She said to Sam, “What do you think? Great place, huh?”

  “I am hungry,” he said, smiling uneasily.

  “This is going to be great,” she said, pumping herself up as much as him.

  Sam said, “You don’t operate any of the booths or games during the festival?”

  She’d been caught. She shook her head no. She said, “I did a lot of the set up, and a lot of the organizing. The couple days before the festival started there were a few late nights, me and Pris and some of the girls hanging up the bunting. And I worked on a little logistics team too. But that was a week ago.” She shrugged, looked around sheepishly, and then brightened seeing Becky coming with a tray full of Cokes and bread and crab cakes. She set them all down on the table and said the food would be coming soon and wondered should she wait till Pris and Cherry arrived.

  Bette said, “Bring it when you bring it, if they ain’t here it’s just more for me and Sam.”

  Becky laughed, left the table again, and Bette plugged a paper straw in her Coke and took a long icy pull. She looked out at the Bay, thinking how she wanted Sam to open up to her, and how she’d just put up her shield just now—and here she was hoping Sam’d open up to her.

  She squinted against the brightness, turned to Sam and said, “Truth is, end of October is a weird time for me.”

  Sam’s eyes moved up to hers, alert now.

  She said, “I helped out, but the whole Crab Festival and the end of October is just . . . not always a good time for me. Emotionally.”

  Sam’s features melted, and a little of that awkwardness he showed seemed to ebb. He scooted closer to the table, put his straw in his drink, his eyes on hers. “End of October is not always great for me either,” he confessed.

  That admission would only be a hook for a future conversation, because now Pris made her entrance. Her aunt strolled the steps down from the shuckhouse to the deck, saying hey to all the people she knew. Lots of locals waved to her, one older well-dressed gentleman raising from his seat to pat her on the back then whisper something close in her ear, his greasy bib fluttering in the breeze, both of them then sharing a laugh.

  Sam smiled and said, “Here comes your aunt. She looks popular.”

  “She’s a dynamo. She’s always my rock.”

  Then Pris was at the table, plopping down exhausted right next to Sam, Sam scooting to give her space.

  Pris said, “Hey, Sam, how you doing today?”

  “Your niece is taking good care of me.”

  “I knew she would.”

  While Prissy engaged Sam in conversation, talking about how his night was and then asking about his artwork and about Bette’s too, she hung back and watched as her clever aunt drew Sam out of his shell.

  With the straw in her mouth, elbows on the table, her eyes flicked from left to right as Pris played a little question-and-answer with him. Soon, Pris had Sam admitting he’d been interested when he was younger in culinary arts.

  “Oh yeah? I could see you working in a kitchen.” Now Pris leaned back, narrowed her eyes and studied Sam. “I can see it. You’d look at home in a kitchen somewhere. Let me tell you what, how you do with seafood?”

  Sam brightened, looking nostalgic. “I used to make a pretty mean salmon meunière.”

  But this admission somehow brought Sam sorrow. His shoulders rolled forward, then his eyes lowered to the table.

  Prissy batted his shoulder with the back of her hand and said, “Look at me, young Sam,” and waited for him to look her way. “I don’t know what a moon-yur is, but you feel like sticking around the Cove here, I can guarantee you I’ll get you a spot in this here shuckhouse.” She nodded her head sideways to the crab shack looming large above the deck. “One of the finest crab establishments on the whole Bay. I have a little pull round here, I can wedge you in that kitchen anytime you want. You just let me know.” Now she met his eye again, showed him a serious and earnest face. “We’ll get you a spot in that kitchen, get your hands busy. Maybe someday you’ll make me up one of them moon-yur dishes.”

  Sam nodded, and that sadness was replaced with a gentle smile again. A lock of his heavy hair fell forward, and he tucked it back behind his ear. “Maybe . . . You know, maybe someday I just might . . .”

  “You let me know, Sam. Me and Miss Bette there are going to watch out for you.”

  Both of them had eyes on Sam, enjoying seeing him smile, but so engaged they jumped out of shock when Cherry thumped down next to Bette.

  “Oh my gosh,” Cherry said, “I’ve got like fifteen minutes,” and pulled one of the crab cakes to her plate. She flicked her long braided hair over her shoulder, reached across to Sam and said, “Hi, I’m Cherry. I’m a friend of these two.”

  Cherry and Sam were the same age, and Sam seemed comforted having someone more similar to him. He reached over the table and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Cherry,” he said. “I’m Sam.”

  Bette said to Cherry, “He’s the one I was telling you about. One that was staying with Julie.”

  Cherry looked at her watch quick, and sliced off an edge of the crispy crab cake with her fork, saying, “That was so terrible. I’m so sorry.” She shoved the bite in her mouth, and chewed, then said, “And what do we think about this new victim?”

  “How did you hear about that?” Bette said, then edged over so Sam couldn’t see her expression, shaking her head so her red hair fell down to cover her face. She looked at Cherry and flashed eyes Sam’s way, did a hidden cut-it-off neck-sawing motion with her hand.

  Cherry grimaced, not knowing it wouldn’t be a good subject to broach right now.

  But then Pris was engaged, saying, “What new victim?”

  There was no point in avoiding it now, so she rolled her eyes, looked up to the underside of the umbrella hanging over their heads. She said, “There was another murder last night, I thought you were doing us all the decency of not mentioning it.”

  Pris stared at them all, a bite full of crab cake in her cheek now, lips parted in awe. Her eyes quivered and her brow lowered. With hot crab cake in her mouth, she said, “How oo I aw oh iss?”

  “How do you not know this?” Cherry said. “I’m surprised you don’t, Miss Know-it-all.”

  Pris shook her head and chewed, then said, “What happened?”

  The
y looked to Sam, and he regarded them all in return. He said, “Another woman was murdered?”

  Bette pulled a crab cake onto her plate, cut it in half. “I didn’t mention it to you. But, yeah, Marcus called this morning and said that another woman had been strangled.”

  Sam gawped. “Strangled?”

  Pris said to Bette, “Just like his friend Julie?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Pris said, “Who’s this other woman?”

  Bette said, “Marcus didn’t tell me much, what did you hear, Cherry?” Too busy trying to pin it on Sam.

  Cherry chewed, swallowed, said, “I don’t know. A woman, in her thirties, I think. Heard she was a tourist. She had a husband and a son with her. They’re fine. They weren’t home.”

  Pris said, “Where was this, a hotel or something?”

  Bette and Cherry shrugged.

  “Don’t know,” Bette said, “but I’ll talk to Marcus later.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Prissy said and touched her hand to her forehead. She said to Cherry, “Does this town attract serial killers?”

  Cherry said to Sam, “It’s hard to believe, but we had one in town.”

  Sam said, “A serial killer?”

  Pris said, “But he wasn’t taking all his victims here. Just one. But all up and down the eastern seaboard, this young man . . . Well, it’s a story for another time, maybe.”

  “I’m trying to be positive these days,” Bette said. “And speaking of positive . . .”

  Now coming to them, weaving between packed tables, were three members of the Cracked Crab staff in their black shorts and black T-shirts, little black skirt aprons around their waists. The stack of condiments in the center of the table was lifted, everyone moved their plates and glasses, and sheets of craft paper were laid down over the gingham check. A bushel of Maryland blue crab caked in spicy Old Bay was spread on the center of the table in a steaming hillock. Bowls of half cobs of corn and potato salad were put on either end.

  She looked to Sam and said, “See what I mean? Ain’t this a feast?”

  Sam smiled again, and she loved to see it.