The Death in the Drink

by Shéa MacLeod

  The living room still looked like a Regency wardrobe threw up in it. Day dresses and fancy gowns hung from the picture rail. A mound of white underthings was draped over one end of the couch. And a box—overflowing with shawls, hats, and gloves—perched precariously on the coffee table while shoes littered the Aubusson rug. Ignoring the disaster, I stumbled into the kitchen.

  I was halfway through my first cup of coffee when my mother phoned. My tone might have been slightly grouchy as I answered the phone. “’Lo.”

  “Hello to you, too.” She sounded uppity. No doubt my morning growl had offended her.

  “Sorry. First cup.” No more explanation was needed. My mother knew me too well.

  “Ah, I see. I thought it might be safe. I should have waited until ten, I suppose.”

  “No. I think I’m fine.” I swallowed another mouthful and eyed the coffee maker. It was one of those single cup things with reusable pods. Maybe I should brew another cup while I was drinking this one. It felt like it was going to be one of those sort of days.

  “Are you coming?” she asked without further explanation.

  I blinked. “Coming where?”

  She sighed heavily. “Pay attention Viola. To your sister’s thing.”

  Victoria had a thing? This was the first I’d heard of whatever this “thing” was. “What thing?”

  My mother gave another aggrieved sigh. “Do you not pay attention to your emails?”

  “First cup, remember.” As if I’d check email before coffee. Perhaps she didn’t know me that well after all.

  “Now that both boys are in school full time, your sister finally got her real estate license.”

  “Good for her?” I’d known she was studying for it but didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Victoria was five years younger than I. She’d never had to work more than a part-time job at a coffee shop since Mom had supported her until she got married. Victoria’s husband had made a very good living and preferred her not to work. Frankly, I thought he was a chauvinistic bore. Apparently, she did too, because two years ago she divorced him.

  “I’m throwing a little party for her,” my mother continued. “To celebrate. Next Friday.”

  Way to give me advance notice. “I don’t know, Mom. I’m kind of in the middle of a deadline right now.” I eyed my laptop sitting closed in the middle of the kitchen table and felt a stab of guilt. I hadn’t done any writing since the costumers showed up. I also might have felt guilty since I was lying to my mother. Sort of. I did have a deadline—a self-imposed one—but if I really wanted to, I could extend it. Point was, I didn’t want to. My mother’s shindigs were always full of people who thought writing wasn’t a “real” job. Plus, my mother had never once thrown a party for me when I published a book, but my sister got one for getting a license. And then there was the fact that she completely ignored the fact I had a boyfriend and kept trying to set me up with men she met in random places. It irked me. I was surprised she hadn’t tried hooking me up with a serial killer. Then again, who knows? Maybe she already had. That guy from the truck stop had looked really shifty…

  “Don’t be a party pooper, Viola. Do you want to hurt your sister’s feelings?”

  “Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll try.”

  “I’ll see you at six next Friday.” And she hung up. Just like that.

  I laid my head on the table and groaned. There was not enough coffee in the world to deal with my mother on a rampage.

  I was in for it now. I’d have to go to the party. Which meant I’d have to drive to Portland. On a Friday. In rush hour traffic. Maybe I could convince Lucas to be my date. Then again, I wasn’t sure I was ready to do that to the poor man. My mother could be a bit much.

  I checked the time. Nine-thirty. Enough time to shower, get dressed, and run to the grocery store for picnic items before Cheryl arrived to help get me in my Regency getup. But first… more coffee.

  FORT CLATSOP WAS ON the other side of Youngs Bay. It was a clever recreation of the original fort Lewis and Clark had built back in 1805 in the middle of what is now Astoria and named after the local tribe. In fact, you can see the outline of where the fort used to be painted in white lines like the chalk outline of a murder victim. Since they couldn’t tear down half the town to rebuild the fort, they moved the site out onto the peninsula to a nice little portion of the National Forest.

  There was a small parking lot butting up to an interpretive center and museum complete with gift shop. Out behind that was the fort itself, built from logs. During the summer, volunteers dressed in period clothing and performed demonstrations and answered tourists’ questions. In the spring, you could watch a video before heading out to poke around by yourself. Seeing as this was a special group, one of the rangers accompanied us.

  Although tourism was light this time of year, there were still a handful of visitors around to stare. We must have looked like lunatics, parading through the center as if we’d just popped out of a time machine.

  “Is there some kind of reenactment going on?” I heard an old lady with a poodle perm and a flat, mid-Western accent ask her husband.

  “Weren’t no women with Lewis and Clark,” he responded, scratching his beer belly.

  I half whirled to inform them there very well had been a woman with Lewis and Clark, and her statue stood right outside the museum door. But Cheryl grabbed my arm and dragged me outside behind the rest of the group.

  “Can’t argue with stupid,” she muttered.

  She had a point. Grumpily, I followed, though I may have shot the oblivious idiot a few mental daggers.

  The ranger stopped in front of the entrance to the fort and began droning on about the history of the expedition. I tuned him out. I’d heard it a dozen times before. Yes, it was interesting, but I had more important things to do. Like figure out who among these people was a killer. And what Bryon and Jayne were hiding.

  The two of them stood to one side looking bored. Which was sort of Jayne’s normal expression. Bryon was sucking from his flask, cheeks and nose already inflamed. Which, come to think of it, was sort of his normal look. He swayed a little, and Jayne gripped the arm of his navy frock coat, leaned down, and whispered angrily in his ear. He gave her a stubborn look, but tucked his flask away.

  They were keeping well away from Anthony Yates. I had been surprised to see him with the group, expecting him to have stayed at the B & B in mourning. Or to be helping the police with their inquiries. It seemed odd he had come along. But people grieve in their own ways, I suppose. Maybe being alone freaked him out.

  I moved slowly around the group, edging my way toward the Patels. I hadn’t really had a chance to speak to them yet. Maybe they’d seen something or knew something.

  “Now let’s go inside and see how the expedition lived.” The ranger finished up his introduction and waved everyone inside.

  “Are you enjoying the tour?” I asked the Patels, moving up to walk beside Katherine Patel. She was a lovely woman, tall and red-headed with ivory skin and an elegant grace. Her husband was the same height, making him short for a man, with fine features and bronze skin. He walked with a pronounced limp.

  Katherine laid her hand on her husband’s arm and gave me a glowing smile. “We’ve been before many times, of course, but it’s always amazing. Don’t you think so, Maurice?”

  He smiled benignly and patted her hand. “Yes, dear. Very nice.” He had a slight Indian accent. I wondered where they’d met. University maybe?

  “So you live in Portland?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m from there,” Katherine said.

  “Me, too, though I live in Astoria now.” We chatted briefly about parts of the city we knew from growing up. She was several years older than me, and we had an enjoyable few minutes comparing our memories and how things had changed. Like the original Rose’s Deli location that had closed a few years ago. I finally steered the subject toward my goal. “How long have you been a part of the Portland Regency group?”

  “Oh,
four or five years. Wouldn’t you say so, Maurice?”

  “Yes, that sounds right,” he agreed with cheerful placidity. His cane crunched against the gravel path as we moved slowly into the fort.

  “You must know everyone very well,” I said, hoping she’d come to it on her own.

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” She paused to poke her head into one of the cabins. I joined her. A Pendleton blanket was tucked neatly on one of the bunks and a hand-woven basket hung on the wall. “But, yes, I would say we know most of the members. We’ve been to every major event since we joined. Such a lovely time. Such wonderful people.”

  “Has everyone been with the group the whole time?” I prodded.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. Do you, Maurice?”

  “No. Definitely not.” He shook his head, his top hat going a little wonky. It gave him a slightly rakish look. He tugged on one of his white cotton gloves. “The young girls. They’re new.”

  “Yes! Lenore and Beth. Sweet girls. They joined perhaps six months ago or so. During the summer. We always have a big picnic up at Pittock Mansion mid-summer. That’s when they started coming.”

  Pittock Mansion was Portland’s answer to Hearst Castle or Monticello. The magnificent mansion—built by one of the city’s earliest and richest residents, the founder of the city newspaper—and its expansive grounds stood sentinel overlooking downtown. It was popular with tourists and locals alike.

  “Now, of course, Ella Cayse started the whole thing, and Gwen is her sidekick,” Katherine said.

  “Don’t tell Gwen that,” Maurice Patel muttered.

  Katherine tittered. “True. She’s very sensitive about that. She’s been there from the start, you see, and considers herself just as much of a “founder” as Ella.”

  I murmured something encouraging.

  “The Knightlys and Mary Rett have been part of the group as long as we have,” she continued. “And the Yateses. Poor Tabitha.” She shook her head, looking genuinely sad. She was probably the first person I’d met, other than Anthony, who seemed truly upset about Tabitha’s death.

  “I’m sorry. We’re you and Tabitha friends,” I asked.

  “Oh, no. She wasn’t exactly friendly. But death is always sad, don’t you think?”

  I murmuered agreement.

  “Lisa James is new,” Maurice supplied. He gave no indication one way or the other as to how he felt about Tabitha’s death.

  “Well, new-ish,” Katherine corrected her husband. “She used to come a couple years ago, but she got involved with a man and had no time for it. I suppose now she’s single again, she’s bored. That’s why she’s here. Though that isn’t nice of me to say, is it?”

  “Hey, if it’s the truth,” I said. “What about the other members?”

  “The sisters have been coming a little over a year, I think. Lovely ladies. A little eccentric though.”

  “Very,” muttered Maurice.

  I found it amusing that a bunch of people who like to dress up in two-hundred-year-old fashions considered anyone eccentric. “And the others?” I asked.

  “Oh, you mean Jayne and Bryon?”

  I nodded. Finally, we were getting to it.

  “Jayne’s been coming to our group for about four years. I don’t really know much about her. She’s very…”

  “Standoffish,” her husband supplied.

  “She seems nice enough,” Katherine said lamely, though she didn’t sound convinced. I realized that Katherine was the sort of person who tried to find good in everyone. A truly kind soul.

  “And Bryon?” I asked.

  “That one.” For the first time her tone was tart. It was clear she didn’t like Bryon one bit. “He’s new. This is his second event. She goes through them. Boyfriends, I mean. We liked the last one better. This one… I think he might do drugs.”

  “He’s a drunk,” Maurice said with some disgust.

  “No doubt about that,” I agreed.

  “And he’s not very nice. Disrespectful. Handsy. I hope she dumps him.” Katherine glanced over to where Jayne and Bryon stood apart from the rest of the group. “She’s a pretty girl. I’m certain she can do better.”

  “Were Jayne and Tabitha close?” I asked.

  Katherine frowned a little in thought. “Well, I don’t know how close they were, but they did often spend time together at events. I think they had a lot in common.”

  Which surprised me. Tabitha had been loud and obnoxious. Jayne was almost silent in her sullenness. Or maybe that was what appealed to Tabitha. She could shine while Jayne was around, despite the fact Jayne was the more attractive of the two.

  “I suppose they were hanging out together on the ship,” I said.

  “Not really. They seemed to stay apart. Maybe they had a falling out.” She shrugged.

  “So you didn’t see either Jayne or Bryon anywhere near Tabitha?”

  “Oh, you didn’t mention Bryon. Yes, Maurice saw Bryon standing just a few feet from her, didn’t you, Maurice?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You didn’t see them, ah, doing anything?”

  Maurice’s brow raised. “Like?”

  “Fighting?” Kissing?

  He shook his head. “Nothing like that. They were just talking.”

  Excitement rippled through me. “When was that?”

  “Right before she fell.”

  Chapter 10

  Stone Cold

  “So that’s two people who saw Bryon near Tabitha right before she went into the drink,” I said as Cheryl and I gathered our picnic baskets from the car. “He was much closer to her than he claimed.”

  The wind had died down and the day, while overcast and cool, remained dry. After the tour, the rangers had moved several picnic tables together so we could dine al fresco. Sitting on the ground in stays wasn’t an option. The boning dug into all sorts of places. I don’t know how they do it in the movies.

  “It does seem suspicious,” she agreed. “After telling us he was nowhere near her.”

  “Exactly. Why would he lie unless he pushed her?”

  “Unless he was afraid he’d be accused of it,” she pointed out. “Innocent people do lie occasionally. Especially when the police are involved.”

  I sighed. “True. But then why would Jayne be all bent out of shape? They’re hiding something, I tell you.”

  “We should tell Bat.”

  I shook my head. “Bat will want proof of…whatever this is. Cold, hard facts. Right now we have no idea what’s going on, never mind any evidence.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Cheryl tucked her basket over one arm and daintily lifted the hem of her gown with the other hand. “What surprises me is Anthony being so quiet today. I’m surprised he hasn’t attacked Bryon already. I half expected him to launch himself across the fort and ring Bryon’s neck.”

  I was with her on that. “Bet he won’t make it through the picnic without doing something crazy.”

  Ella had thrown table cloths over the picnic tables and added bud vases filled with cut flowers from the grocery store. Instead of paper plates and cups, the costumers had brought china tea sets and plates, proper silverware, and cloth napkins. The sisters had even brought a teapot complete with a little candle-operated warmer for keeping their tea hot.

  We began unpacking our baskets. I’d gone for pretty typical picnic food: a pre-made sandwich, grapes, a bag of chips, and some cookies. Apparently, I got it wrong. The costumers took picnicking to a whole other level. There were three kinds of deviled eggs, little crustless tea sandwiches, mini meat pies, Scotch eggs, homemade fruit tarts, lavender cookies, and petit fours. The sisters had brought a Victorian sponge—a vanilla sponge cake layered with whipped cream and jam. Very British. I wasn’t sure it was period correct being from the Victorian era, but it sure looked tasty and no one seemed to mind an edible anachronism.

  On the edge of the group, Bryon staggered around in a drunken haze. It was, frankly, embarrassing. However, no one seemed to
pay him any notice, even when he tottered off down the trail mumbling to himself. Seeing my chance to question him alone, I was about to follow when Jayne stormed after him. A moment later they returned. Bryon was wiping his mouth and Jayne was calling him disgusting.

  I took the opportunity to pull Lenore aside. “Why did you lie to me about Bryon kissing Tabitha?”

  She blanched. “I-I—” Tears gathered in her eyes and her pasty cheeks turned pink and blotchy. I’d taken a gamble, confronting her as if I knew she was lying. Sometimes gambling pays off.

  “Tell me the truth,” I coaxed. “What did you really see?”

  “I didn’t see them kiss,” she admitted. “But he really was close to her. Close enough he could have maybe pushed Tabitha over.”

  “Then why did you throw in the kissing part? Why not just tell me the truth?”

  She shrugged, looking a little lost. “I wasn’t sure anyone would believe me. And I really wanted him to get into trouble. He’s been so awful to me and Beth. Called us names. I figured if everyone thought he was having an affair with Tabitha, they’d throw him in jail. He belongs there, you know.” She glanced around. “He doesn’t just do drugs. I’m pretty sure he sells them.”

  I doubted that. Lenore wasn’t exactly a trustworthy source. But since she wasn’t the only person to have seen him close to Tabitha around the time she died, I decided she was probably telling me the truth.

  “Did you tell anyone else the kissing story?” I asked. If she’d told Bat, I’d have to march her ass to the police station and make her confess the truth.

  “No,” she admitted. “I chickened out when Beth told me lying to the police was a crime. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  Thank goodness for Beth. At least one of them had a level head.

  “All right, then. No more lying, okay?”

  “Fine,” she mumbled before taking her seat at the picnic table.

  I shook my head as I rejoined Cheryl. “I was right. Lenore was lying about Tabitha and Bryon kissing. But she really did see him close to her right before she went into the water.”