Muddy Waters

by Ellis Quinn

  She leaned now on one of the wrought iron pilings and watched four log canoes racing out on the Bay, two competing teams, the crews rowing like mad. Cheers rose from the shore beyond the seaport, where crowds gathered at the finish line.

  Whoever the crew in blue shirts were, they won by a log length, and she clapped, though no one over there could hear her. Then she crumpled up her funnel cake paper wrap, tossed it in a bin and headed up to the Main Street.

  There was a distinct police presence that was larger than usual. Marcus must have shone up the Marcus Signal and surrounding police in Sunderland County answered the call. She texted him now.

  Bette: you in town?

  * * *

  Marcus held up near her face a duplicate serving of the same thing he ate, hidden in wax paper. “Give this a try,” he said.

  He’d told her where to find him, and she’d walked to Main Street and searched for a tall man in a cop hat at a food truck with a crab-sitting-on-a corn-cob up top, parked out front of the bank.

  “What is it?”

  “Corn on the cob. You’ve never had it before?”

  “Ha ha, very funny, Marcus. I meant how’s it done?” She took from him the wax paper bundle and it was piping hot. “Geez, Marcus, a little head’s up,” she laughed, tossing the corn from hand to hand till her skin grew accustomed to the temperature.

  “That’s not hot,” he said, “you’ve got dainty hands.”

  “Dainty, yeah, but I’ve been gardening these—”

  “And painting, I see,” he said, taking a bite of his corn and smug-smiling past the triangle point of sticking-up wax paper.

  Bundled corn cob in one hand, she held up the palm of the other and saw errants swipes and swabs on her fingers of watercolor paint, faded but not gone. Marcus plopped a bundle of napkins in her open hand.

  “There,” he said, “emergency oven mitts.”

  She thanked him and folded the hot corn into a folded taco of quadruple layered paper napkins. Inside the wax paper, a half cob of corn glistened with butter, the humps of bursting golden kernels flecked with reddish spices. She smelled the familiar spice recipe of Old Bay seasoning.

  “Might be one of my favorite smells,” she said, and bit into the bulbs of bursting, juicy corn. Her knees dipped a little at the heavenly combo of butter and Old Bay and a hint of vinegary green chili hot sauce. A sheet of overwhelming nostalgia wavered through her, memories of Cove summers, happy times when she was little, Mom and Pearl and Pris, eating outside, salty breeze in her bouncy red hair and sunshine on her freckled cheeks. Teen times, too, less happy, more stomach-twisting, but not all bad, some of it quite good, a lot of it with this man right here with her, though back then he was a boy, only a glimmer of the bright light he’d become.

  Marcus said, “Good, right?” watching her like he did on their dinner night at his home, entertained by her culinary enjoyment. If Marcus liked watching her eat, their relationship had a lot of potential. “Silver Queen corn, like we used to get.”

  “Not too sweet,” she said, taking another bite. “I like the sweet, but—”

  “This tastes like being a kid in the Cove?”

  “You got it,” she said, showing him a smile as he chomped three generous bites in a row, working left to right, like a typewriter. His lips shone with the butter and an inappropriate thought raced through her of what kissing those lips again. She turned aside, knowing her cheeks had blushed, and delicately ate a few bites of the delicious fairground corn.

  She cleared her throat, said, “So, uh, any new leads on the case?”

  “My Miss Bette’s always working,” he said, and rotated his corn so a new row could be chomped.

  “You know that’s not true,” she said. “I wouldn’t be working at all if the Cove police could keep this town just a hair or two safer.”

  “Can’t be the cops’ fault,” he said, eyes on his corn. Chomp, chomp. “We were doing fine round here till a certain redhead showed up, now we got murders everywhere we look.”

  “You think I brought some bad luck with me?”

  “Brought the city ways along in your luggage, now you’re turning the Cove into Baltimore.”

  “I didn’t live in Baltimore, Marcus, I lived in Bethesda,” she said with a mouthful of spicy buttered corn.

  “Wonder if there’s been three less murders in Bethesda since you’re gone.”

  “You beating around the bush?” She said, “This your way of avoiding telling me you have no leads?”

  She got him on that one, and now he finished his corn, bundled up the husk in wax paper, and wiped his mouth. “Hold on,” he said, putting up a finger before tossing out his garbage in a metal drum lined with a garbage bag. When he returned, she passed him her handful of wax paper. He took them with a comical scowl and she watched him go back to the drum with her waste, tucking the clean napkins in her coat pocket.

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” he continued, coming back and putting his hands on his hips, “no new leads, but we do have some more information.”

  “Oh, yeah? What can you tell me?”

  “I can tell you we don’t have too much yet.”

  She made a disappointed sound, and he nodded in agreement, gesturing for her to walk ahead, merging into a vacant patch amidst the passing throng of festival-goers. They traveled along with the crowd for a moment, then Marcus put tented fingers on the center of her back, guiding her to the opposite side of the street.

  Over the sound of the RGC marching band, two buildings. behind them, today out front of a Victorian manse converted to a sportswear store, Marcus said, “No prints on Julie. Whoever strangled her wore gloves.” His voice was loud, close to her neck, tickling the fine hairs near her ear, and with his fingers touching her back and his words of murder and strangulation so close and intimate, he gave her an intense case of the heebie-jeebies. It got her jumping and wriggling, stepping high and dancing away from him, her scalp tight and her arm hair standing on end.

  She trotted ahead and ducked under the blue-and-white striped awning above one of the windows out front of Crabby’s ice cream shop. Marcus caught up with her and they stood together with the crowd passing them close by on the sidewalk.

  “There were no prints?” She had to shake her shoulders and scratch the back of her neck to chase away the shivers.

  Marcus nodded and tipped his cop hat to a passing couple who knew him. “No prints, and no DNA evidence on the boat other than Julie’s.”

  “So, she wasn’t . . .?”

  “No. No sign of sexual assault.”

  “It’s not much of a relief, but it’s something. I wonder, then, what’s the killer’s motive.” She looked aside to him. “And what about Miranda Headley? Sexual assault?”

  Marcus shook his head no again. “No. Only strangled.” He faced her, both of them amidst the bustling crowd but somehow separate, a few feet removed and under the awning’s shade. “What do you make of that Pete Headley?”

  They both chuckled and smiled, and she said, “He’s odd. Quiet and . . . I don’t know, disconnected or something. Reminds me of Sam in a way, I guess.”

  “And how is your houseguest?”

  “He’s fine, Marcus. He’s polite and helpful around the house, and we’ve been having a good time painting together.”

  “Painting the walls?”

  “No, Marcus, painting painting. You know, watercolors. Though Sam only uses black ink. He’s pretty amazing.”

  “I’m glad you feel good helping him.”

  She looked aside at him again. “He still one a your suspects?”

  Marcus said, “Yep,” eyes still watching the festival crowd. “You want an ice cream?”

  “No.”

  “Milkshake?”

  “Yeah,” she said, hands in her jacket pockets, rolling his way as they both got in the lineup that ran toward the sidewalk and crawled to the right to stay out of the pedestrian traffic.

  In line, he nudged her elbow with his own, leanin
g close to quietly say, “Turns out you were right about Julie being pregnant.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, “she was?”

  “Yup.”

  Crabby himself appeared in the ice cream shop’s ordering window, Joe Watson, middle-aged when she left, older now with white hair and bald up the middle. He waved Marcus up to the front and Marcus said, “No, Joe, I don’t mind waiting in line.”

  Joe wouldn’t hear of it, and the people ahead were happy to let a police officer up front when he was on duty. Marcus tipped his hat to everyone, but she hung back, shout-whispering to him to order her a mint milkshake.

  She stood at the curbside and when Marcus returned he had two drinks with straw, and passed her one.

  “Thanks,” she said, took it and pulled sweet ice cream in her mouth. Then gagged.

  She bent over to spit out the vile milky concoction, then worried Marcus would scold her for littering or spitting on the street or something, and forced herself to swallow. “Oh gross, what the heck is that, licorice?”

  Marcus was unamused, passing her the other cup, raising an eyebrow. “That’s mine,” he said, and they exchanged milkshakes.

  “Licorice, Marcus?”

  “Licorice and orange. Tiger’s tail.”

  Her voice raised an octave: “In a milkshake?”

  “You were just expecting mint,” he said, and she watched him take a drink out of the straw of his gross milkshake. The straw she’d just pulled from. He’d used it as well, with no hesitation.

  She cleaned her palette now with a wonderful squirt of icy mint ice cream and closed her eyes. “Wonderful,” she said.

  “So’s mine,” he said, as they waded out into the pedestrian traffic on the street.

  She said, “You worried about tonight?”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “You know. How you called in the extra cops and said you might have to close the whole festival down. Will there be another murder?”

  He stopped her now, and they stood face-to-face while festival foot traffic flowed around them. “Take this serious, Bette. I want you to promise me you’ll play it safe.”

  “I play it safe,” she lied, teeth clenching on the straw, narrowing the milkshake’s flow.

  “Do you?”

  She shrugged, slurped. Looked around. “I want to play it safe, Marcus.”

  “I worry about your safety.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll watch out for myself.”

  “Look out for Cherry. And for Pris, too. Y’all keep an eye out for each other. Stay in touch.” His shoulder radio squawked, and he cocked his head to it.

  She waited for him, looking up and around at all the people in her hometown, here enjoying themselves, all the spectacle and the fun, and wished she could better enjoy it.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll see you around, Bette.”

  “You come by next week, let me return the favor, make you a nice big dinner.”

  He showed her a soft and honest smile. “I’d love it.”

  Teeth clenched on the straw, she smiled. Marcus winked, turned, then worked into the crowd of people, heading south with purpose, pedestrians parting and giving him way.

  She watched him till he was gone, that big hat bobbing above the crowd down a side street. She slurped the milkshake dry, then worked through the crowd to find a garbage.

  Just beyond the garbage she saw her new but strange buddy, Pete Headley walking the side street she’d come up from the seaport. His hand was out and gripped in it was the small hand of his little son. He’d brought the little guy to the festival, after all.

  It brought a smile to her face, and Pete’s tragic circumstance came into focus, making her feel bad for considering him a bad parent last night, given the torment life was putting him through.

  There was a vendor behind her selling peanuts, popcorn, candy apples and hot drinks. There was no line, and she ordered two hot cocoas, then hurried to catch up with Pete.

  MINUTES LATER

  Pete’s cute son was tickled to have the cocoa presented to him, but looked to his father for permission first.

  He said, “Dad, can I?”

  Pete still looked haggard, but in the light of day he didn’t seem so bewildered. It must’ve been a bad night for him, and she shouldn’t judge his character by one strange roadside interaction.

  Something about the way he cocked his head, then put his hand on his little man’s shoulder seemed familiar.

  “You sure can,” Pete said to his son. “Make sure you thank Ms. Whaley here.”

  The little boy put forward both hands, his brown eyes wide and innocent. He wore a Chesapeake Cove ball cap, and his little round ears stuck out on either side like silver dollars. He had cute trembling lips, and again she couldn’t deny a certain familiarity. She said to the boy, “You can call me Bette.”

  Pete patted his son on the back and said, “Bette here is the woman who I told you helped me home last night.”

  The little boy said, “I didn’t know where you went.”

  “Neither did your father,” she said, chuckling and trying to keep it light. This boy’s mother’s death seemed—just like Pete had told her last night—to not yet have registered. Like the little boy was too young to comprehend the permanency of someone you loved leaving this mortal coil. Something about the boy’s loss profoundly angered her. This little kid had been robbed. Robbed in very much the same way that a ten-year-old Bette Whaley had been robbed. Only for her it had sunk in very quickly. This little boy was afforded the innocent grace of incomprehension. “What’s your name?” she asked him.

  Pete patted his son’s back again, and Pete and his son said at the same time, “Drew.”

  “Good to meet you, Drew,” she said, and shook his small hand.

  Pete helped Drew peel back the tab on the plastic lid of the hot cocoa, leaned close and pursed his lips to blow cool air, making a hollow, ghostly sound within the cup. The little boy watched her still, and she met his gaze. He said at last, “You have that doggy.”

  “I do have a doggy,” she said.

  Pete glanced at Drew, puzzled by what his son meant. Drew looked to his father and said, “She had the crab dog.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said, frowning now and looking up at Bette. “Buster Crab, was it?”

  “That’s his name,” she said, her frown deepening as her memory Rolodex flickered until landing on a sheet with the appropriate information. She said, “Oh, I met you just the other day at the café.” And that was his wife with him, too, so she had met the second murdered woman. And Julie was there that day, as well. Could it be possible they had another serial killer in town working out of The Steaming Bean?

  Pete said, “And where is Buster Crab now?”

  She said, “He’s very busy. Being the mascot of the parade comes with many responsibilities. I think he’s down at the town hall prepping the majorettes for the parade.”

  Drew’s eyes widened with wonder, his young imaginative mind picturing Buster Crab leading the Chesapeake Cove Crab Festival parade. She laughed, and did nothing to dissuade him from whatever fantastical images her funny comment provoked. Pete chuckled too and rubbed a circle on Drew’s back and stood.

  She presented him with the other cup of cocoa. He said, “For me? You’re not having any?”

  “I had funnel cakes this morning, corn on the cob, I just finished a milkshake . . .”

  “What’s the point in coming to a fair if you don’t indulge?”

  She laughed and agreed. She said, “Everything all right this morning?”

  “Better than I was last night,” he said, and showed an embarrassed expression.

  “I can’t imagine how this must be.” She avoided using indicative language for his son’s sake. Let the boy enjoy the festival. There was plenty of time to come to terms with grief. She knew all about it.

  Pete accepted the cocoa, popped his tab and took a sip. He said, “Thank you. Looks like I owe you again,” and
held up the cocoa cup like he was toasting her.

  “Nonsense, if there’s anything else I can do, you just have to let me know. I’m glad to help. If you need me to watch Drew, want me to talk to anybody . . . specific . . . around here, give me the word.” The police.

  “You’re a professional helper-outer.”

  “That’s what my business card says.”

  They shared a laugh, then strolled farther down the hill so she could show Drew the crabbers demonstrating their rituals of the catch. She walked them to the historic seaport behind the Maritime Museum and enjoyed seeing Drew’s reaction to the spectacle around the docked crab boats.

  They stood at the back of a crabbing boat with its auto-dipper tucked against the side. A youngish fisherman with his plaid shirt sleeves rolled up to his bulging biceps, showed the gathered tourists how you take the crabs out of their crab pots. It was a Dawson crabbing vessel, and sitting behind the fishermen was Steven Dawson, his butt parked on the corner of a wooden chest, one hand on a thigh, other hand holding a Diet Coke. He smiled and waved to her, and she waved in return.

  She and Pete and Drew had a good spot off to the side of the gathered group, and right up front. Drew had one hand on the black painted chain that separated them from the drop off down to the water, his other hand held the cocoa, and he occasionally sipped while he gaped at the man showing now how you handle a Maryland blue crab without getting your fingers snapped in its dangerous pincers.

  “It still hasn’t sunk in,” Pete said quietly to her.

  She got closer, and said, “It’s probably a blessing.”

  “I think you’re right. This is what we wanted when we came here, Miranda and I. I have such fond thoughts of this place, I just wanted my son to see it.”