The Death in the Drink

by Shéa MacLeod

  We climbed as gracefully as possible onto the bar stools, giving her the evil eye. “It’s Cheryl’s fault,” I informed her. “She convinced me to join this costuming group on a sail around the bay. We had to wear Jane Austen clothes.”

  “Regency clothes,” Cheryl corrected.

  “I see. How was the sail?” Nina asked, setting out a couple of clean glasses.

  “It was great until the body turned up,” I said.

  Nina blinked. “Another one?”

  I couldn’t blame her. I did have a tendency to find bodies wherever I went.

  “Can I help it if somebody wound up in the drink?” Cheryl pouted.

  “Ghastly. Do tell.” Nina reached beneath the bar and pulled out two wine bottles. While we told her about the possibly-not-accidental drowning, she poured me a glass of Malbec and Cheryl a Cab Franc. “Poor woman.”

  “Poor woman, my backside. She was a holy terror. Although, nobody deserves dying like that,” I admitted.

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Well, her husband seems to think there’s something more to it,” I said. “He was very dramatic about it.”

  “Although no one else saw anything suspicious,” Cheryl pointed out, taking a sip of her wine.

  “It’s always the husband,” Nina said. “Trust me, when you’ve watched as many true crime shows as I have, you know.”

  “Spouses get a bad rap, but you’re not far wrong,” I agreed. There was a reason the police looked at families first.

  “I’m sure Bat will investigate thoroughly.” Cheryl’s tone was prim. Probably trying to steer me away from thoughts of investigation. I admit I was curious, but I felt no burning desire to turn Tabitha Yates’s death into a murder investigation. I’d had enough of those.

  “Speaking of Bat,” Nina leaned her elbows on the bar, revealing a rather generous amount of cleavage, “how’s that going?”

  Cheryl’s cheeks darkened. “Fine,” she mumbled, burying her nose in her glass.

  I grinned. “They’ve been all swoony. You should have seen the way she threw herself at him on the ship.”

  Cheryl sputtered, but couldn’t come up with a defense. “We’ve only been on three or four dates.”

  I gave her a pointed look. “They’re with each other anytime he’s got a few hours off.”

  Nina smirked. “Sounds pretty ‘fine’ to me.”

  The door swung open with a jangle of the bell, and in walked Lloyd. Lloyd was what some might call the neighborhood barfly. He spent an inordinate amount of time hunched over the end of Nina’s bar, sipping a glass from her cheapest bottle of wine. He could make a single glass last nearly an entire day. When he was done, he’d slap a single dollar bill on the counter as a tip and saunter away. He gave the place atmosphere.

  He heaved his lanky body onto the stool at his usual spot and Nina poured a glass from the bottle she kept for him. He lifted the glass in toast to us. “Ladies. Looking good.”

  “Thanks, Lloyd,” we chimed.

  He nodded, took a sip, then hunched over his glass with a morose expression. On anyone else that might have been concerning; on Lloyd, it came standard.

  “You know,” he said slowly, eyeing us, “I once had a friend who was into costuming.”

  “Oh, Lord, here it comes,” Nina muttered under her breath.

  “She always made her own clothes,” he continued, oblivious to Nina’s displeasure. “Even the corsets. She once made this hoop skirt for an event, but she miscalculated and made it so wide it wouldn’t fit through the door. She bounced right off the door frame and fell on her backside. Took two men to hoist her back up.”

  Cheryl and I desperately held back giggles. Lloyd’s expression never changed. The man had no idea he’d said anything funny.

  “Thing is, of course, you have to be careful with hoop skirts. Did you know thousands of women died in the nineteenth century because of hoop skirts?”

  Of course, I knew that. I’d discovered it while researching a book. A rather ugly side of fashion history. And not one that needed rehashing at the moment.

  “Anyway,” I said, steering the conversation back to the topic at hand. “I’m betting Cheryl won’t see Bat for some time. Not until he finishes the investigation.” I nudged her. She ignored me.

  “Another death?” Lloyd piped up, distracted from hoop skirts.

  Which led to another round of explanations.

  “Oh, I saw her,” he said when I finished.

  That caught my attention. “Tabitha Yates? Really? When? Where?”

  “Coffee shop.” He propped his head on his hand and looked like he might doze off.

  We waited for him to explain. When he didn’t, Nina prodded him. “And? Come on, Lloyd. Don’t leave us hanging.”

  “Oh. Well…” He took another sip. “I was getting my coffee. Americano. I don’t like them lattes. Too sweet. All those flavors. I like my coffee simple. There was this place back in—”

  “Lloyd,” Nina snapped, “what about the woman?”

  “Right. She was in front of me. Ordered one of them soy mochaccino whatsis. You ever have one of them?”

  “Yes, Lloyd.” My patience was wearing thin. “What happened after she ordered?”

  “Guess they got it wrong, ‘cause she started cussin’ and carryin’ on.” He shook his head and ran a boney hand through his wild, gray hair. “She had that poor girl in tears.”

  “Nasty woman,” Cheryl muttered. “And I don’t mean in a good way.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “The woman…what’s ‘er name?”

  “Tabitha,” I prompted.

  “Her. She took the lid off her drink and dumped the whole thing right on the floor. Splashed some on my boots.” He held out one foot for us to examine.

  I glanced down at his footwear. They were standard working boots with waffle-stomper soles and brushed leather uppers. Though how anyone could tell something had been spilled on them, I couldn’t say. The things had seen better days, for sure. They were heavily decorated with splotches of paint and old grease stains.

  “What did Tabitha do then?” Cheryl asked.

  He shrugged hunched shoulders. “She stormed right out the door. Didn’t even wait for a new drink or nuthin’. Don’t think she paid, either.”

  “Wow,” Nina said. “She’s even more delightful than you told us, Viola.”

  “No wonder somebody pushed her overboard,” I muttered.

  “We don’t know that,” Cheryl insisted. “Bat is still investigating.”

  He was. But I was more convinced than ever that this was no accident and that somebody on that ship was a killer.

  Chapter 5

  The Price of Being Nosey

  “I don’t like it,” Lucas said with a frown. “You getting mixed up in another killing. It’s dangerous.” He helped himself to another scoop of spaghetti marinara, adding a generous spoonful of fresh parmesan. He’d come over for dinner and, of course, I’d had to tell him about the sail gone awry.

  I heaved an annoyed sigh. “We don’t know yet that it was anything dastardly. She could have just been doing something stupid and fell over.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Ugh. “No,” I admitted. He knew me too well.

  “Listen, I know you’re going to poke your nose in no matter what I said. It’s your nature.”

  “Are you calling me nosey?” I demanded, half offended.

  “Yes.” I didn’t even get the courtesy of a pause before he answered.

  I stuck my tongue out. “Rude.”

  “Just being truthful.” He arched a brow. “Point is, if you’re going to run around involving yourself in disasters, you need to be prepared. You need to know how to protect yourself.”

  “You did promise to teach me some self-defense moves.” I was sure he’d be better than Bat, even though Bat was perfectly competent. He’d also be less likely to strangle me out of annoyance. Probably.
>
  “I did. And we’re starting tomorrow.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a thing.”

  “A thing?”

  I took a bite of garlic bread. “Yeah. The costuming group is having afternoon tea at Flavel House.” Flavel House was a Victorian mansion, the biggest and fanciest in all of Astoria. It was now a museum and the site of one of the very first murders I’d ever investigated. The tea was a special event just for the costumers as part of their weekend. I hadn’t planned to have any more to do with them until Tabitha Yates went overboard. “Cheryl and I are going. Research, you know.”

  “Sure,” he said dryly. “When is this tea?”

  “Two o’clock,” I admitted reluctantly. I had a bad feeling I knew what was coming next.

  “Fine. We start at nine tomorrow.”

  “Nine?” I whined. “That’s ridiculously early. You know I’m not a morning person.”

  “Too bad. That’s the price you pay for being nosey.”

  SURE ENOUGH, LUCAS had me out of bed and in the backyard by nine the next morning. I was dressed in black yoga pants, purple sneakers, and a sweatshirt that said, “My Blood Type Is Coffee” on the front in swirly white letters. I hadn’t eaten and had only managed to down a single cup of coffee. To say I was grumpy was an understatement.

  “Now remember, the first step is avoidance,” Lucas lectured. Good thing he was cute, or I’d have given him the finger and gone back to bed. “If at all possible, avoid getting into a dangerous situation in the first place. If you can’t avoid or prevent it, then you need to defend yourself, fight if necessary, and run like hell. Got it?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled. As if I would ever run for any reason. Well, maybe if a large, hairy man with a knife was chasing me, but even then, it was debatable.

  “I’m going to teach you the open-hand strike first. You’ve probably seen this in movies. Use the heel of your hand.” He held his hand to show me. “Then strike at the vulnerable places… the face, nose, throat.” He demonstrated, punching the air a few inches from the corresponding spots on my face. I glared at him. “Now you try.”

  “Really? Before my second cup of coffee?” I complained.

  “Viola…”

  “Fine,” I snapped. “On your head be it.” I punched out with the heel of my palm. He easily blocked it.

  “Don’t pull your arm back. Keep your elbow even with your ribs. And pretend you’re going to punch through my head and out the other side. That’s the kind of force you need to do real damage.”

  I did it a few more times with equal lack of luck. Not that I actually wanted to hit him. Well, maybe I did, but only because he wouldn’t let me have my coffee.

  “Good job. Now, I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with the kick to the groin.”

  I gave him a wide grin. “I dunno. Might need to practice that one.”

  “I think we can skip it today.”

  “Darn.”

  He laughed. “You really are cranky before your second cup, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” No point denying it. “You should know that by now.”

  “All right. Since I’d rather not lose a body part, let’s get you some coffee. Then we practice.”

  “Deal.”

  The rest of the morning was spent learning how to intercept strikes with the side of my wrist, get out of choke holds, and attack from the ground. It was actually sort of fun. By the time we were done, I was sticky and sweaty and sort of wishing I hadn’t promised Cheryl I’d attend that tea. But Lucas was right. I was nosey, and I wanted to see how the other costumers were dealing with Tabitha Yates’ death.

  CHERYL ARRIVED AT MY house shortly after one bearing yet another Jane Austen-inspired dress. This one was a solid lilac color trimmed with simple plum-colored ribbon. It came with a straw bonnet trimmed in pink flowers and a cream shawl. Cheryl’s dress was celery green—which should have been appalling but somehow worked on her.

  We parked three blocks from Flavel House and walked the rest of the way. I felt like everyone was staring. Which they probably were. It’s not something Astorians see every day… people parading around like they just stepped out of the 1805 edition of Vogue—or whatever fashion mag they had back then. Fortunately, we only got one cat call to which I gave the finger.

  The rest of the costumers’ group was already there gathered in the dining room. The main table was set for ten with Royal Albert china covered in red roses and heavy silverware that looked as old as the house. Above it sparkled an elaborate crystal chandelier. Two smaller tables were placed near the windows for additional seating, and a low fire burned in the fireplace to ward off the spring chill.

  “You don’t suppose Anthony Yates is coming?” I muttered to Cheryl. In fact, I’d been surprised they were continuing with the weekend at all. Then again, no one had seemed to like Tabitha much, so maybe they didn’t care that she was dead. Which seemed cold and callous, except she’d been so darned unpleasant.

  “He isn’t,” Ella Cayse said, hurrying up to welcome us. Her impressive bosom was partially covered up by a little lace triangle thing which Cheryl later informed me was called a fichu. Ella pointed to her right ear. “Sorry. Exceptional hearing. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “Er, that’s okay,” I said, feeling a little awkward, but refusing to apologize for my curiosity. “What were you saying about Anthony?”

  Ella shook her head. “Poor man. Devastated. But he assured me that we should go on as planned. I really couldn’t do otherwise. All these people paid good money for this weekend. What else could I do?”

  Cheryl and I made sympathetic noises, unsure what else to say.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve put the two of you at the table in the alcove window. You’ll be sitting with a lovely pair of sisters that belong to our group,” Ella said.

  “I don’t remember any sisters,” I said.

  “Oh, they weren’t on the ship,” Ella explained. “They weren’t comfortable with ‘all that bobbing around’ as they so eloquently put it. But they love joining us on our more sedate adventures.”

  I was disappointed. I’d hoped to sit with the main group and find out more about Tabitha and who hated her and why.

  “Buck up.” Cheryl nudged me with her elbow. “Maybe the sisters will have some juicy gossip.”

  She had a point. I felt better about the seating arrangements.

  The tables had been draped in white cotton cloths. Each table had its own set of china. Ours was a simple-but-elegant white china with a wide, duck-egg blue band around the edge, rimmed in silver.

  As we seated ourselves, two women entered the room. I could only assume they were “the sisters” as they were dressed in identical rose cotton gowns with white lace mob caps plopped over graying hair and crocheted gloves on their hands. They were in, perhaps, their early sixties with sharp, dark eyes and laugh lines around their mouths.

  “Oh, ho!” said the slightly taller one. “So you’re to be our dining companions? How jolly!” She was trying to sound British, but it only half worked. She obviously knew it, because she promptly gave up with a loud laugh. “I’m Lin.” She shook our hands firmly. “This is my sister, Marie.”

  Other than a couple inches in height, Marie and Lin looked very much alike. Same dark eyes, same quirky smiles, same small, straight noses.

  “Bet you didn’t know we were twins,” Marie chimed in with equal cheer.

  “Uh, no, we didn’t,” I admitted.

  “Not identical, obviously.” Lin plopped into the chair next to me and adjusted her mob cap which had gone askew. “But near enough people get us confused from time to time. Curse of the family. Five sisters. All young and beautiful.” She laughed hilariously. “How old do you think we are?”

  Cheryl and I exchanged horrified looks. Oh, good grief. Not this game.

  “Be honest,” Marie urged, taking her own seat at a more sedate pace. “You’ll never guess.”

  “Um, fifty-five,” Cheryl said, obviously lying th
rough her teeth.

  “Sixty-two, give or take a year.” I decided to be honest.

  The sisters laughed as if we’d both said the most hysterical thing ever. “We’re seventy!” they declared in unison.

  That was a shock. They didn’t look a day over sixty-five.

  “Well, it looks good on you.” I meant it. And I hoped I looked that good at seventy.

  They giggled, tittering behind gloved hands. Seriously, it was like a scene from Sense and Sensibility.

  “Are you girls single?” Marie asked, giving us a sly look.

  I snickered over the “girls.” I was forty-three, and Cheryl was a year older. Though, I suppose, that like my mother who is nearing seventy herself, the sisters thought anyone under the age of fifty was a kid.

  “Afraid not,” I said. “I’ve got a boyfriend, and Cheryl just started dating our local homicide detective.”

  The sisters’ eyes widened, but before they could ask any questions, Ella stepped to the front of the room and rang a little silver bell. “Hello, everyone. Thank you for coming. I know we’ve just had a great loss.” There were a few eye rolls. Nobody seemed the least bit sad. “But we must soldier on. Tabitha would have wanted it.”

  I strongly doubted that. Based on what little I knew of the woman, she’d want everyone in deep mourning, sobbing endlessly and assuring everyone that she was the best.

  “Tea will be served shortly, and afterward there will be a guided tour of the house. And don’t forget, tonight is the party at Camelia’s B & B.” She sat down at the head table, and everyone clapped politely.

  “Are you coming tonight?” Lin asked.

  “Of course we are,” I said without waiting to consult with Cheryl, despite knowing nothing about this party. Another chance to check out the possible suspects? Yes, please. “Though I’m surprised they’re going ahead with a party so soon after one of your members died.”

  Lin waved her hand. “Nobody liked Tabitha.”

  “She was a bitch,” supplied Marie. I tried not to look shocked at such a sweet-looking lady using such a word. It was unexpected.

  Lin nodded sagely. “And that is not a term we use often. But if the shoe fits…”