Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon 2014 Anthology

by Patricia Abbott

  The future? I’m not sure yet. Naturally I shall report to the police that Taylor’s gone missing and will show them her accounts, as amended by me, of course. With the stout fence still in situ, I can’t imagine there’ll ever be any danger of Taylor making an unwelcome reappearance. Should there ever be any sign of a landslip, however, it’s just possible that when I hear Mina has left Ecuador for good, I might just take Georgie there for a long holiday. And we might come back to a new home. With completely different identities, of course.

  Back to TOC

  Rounder Jon

  Eldon Hughes

  “Rounder Jon never escaped the Meska Té.”

  I’d muttered it the first time. I’d been listening to these three slick-suited strangers at the end of the bar, egging on the locals. They’d wandered in an hour earlier and made a run at me. I’d shrugged like I didn’t know what they were talking about and moved off down the bar. I was hoping they were just fishing. Maybe they’d get bored and go try somewhere else. Plenty of other bars on the beach, right?

  No such luck. They settled in and started buying drinks for the regulars, trying to drum up stories about the old tide runner. They were looking for gossip, trying to dig up a lead. Now, I’m all for good conversation. A spirited discussion sells more booze. But the less they heard what they wanted, the pushier they got. They’d already stomped right past rude and on into boring. This time I announced it for the whole bar to hear.

  “Rounder Jon never escaped the Meska Té.”

  “What was that?” The youngest and loudest turned to face me, trying to assault me with the question. “What would you know about marsh crawlers...grandpa?” He sneered at me, actually sneered, like we were all in some late night B-movie.

  I shrugged. “I know they don’t like being called marsh crawlers. I know the story’s nothing but a legend. The Jonny Man never escaped from the Meska Té. I know,” I said, “because I was there.” I announced that last line to the room, too.

  The place got so quiet you could hear the smoke haze drifting in the air. I turned my attention to wiping a small puddle of spilled beer off the bar, working the rag in slow circles across the deep red grain of the old wood.

  It didn’t take long. The three of them rearranged themselves along the bar, coming to rest in front of me. I looked up and everyone else went back to their own conversations.

  The older gent with the antique slick-backed hairpiece was in the center now; the man in charge. He rested himself on a stool and glanced, left to right, at his companions. Then his gaze came back to settle against mine. I heard a quiet thud and the subtle ring of soft metal as a coin was pinned between the wood and his well-manicured fingers.

  I knew that sound. I’d heard it a few times before. Very few people these days have ever seen a gold coin outside the souvenir ads in a magazine. A man drops one in front of you, he’s not fishing. He’s hunting.

  “Another round for the three of us, friend. One for yourself, if you’ve a mind,” he said. “You can keep the change, if your story’s good enough.”

  His voice was so smooth, his manner dripping with class. But even homicidal maniacs can look classy until the knife comes out. I sighed, a deep breath that left me hollow even as a lead weight formed in the pit of my stomach.

  There was the tiniest glint of a cold humor in his eyes as the old man eased his hand away. I made a casual pass with the rag and the gold piece disappeared into my apron pocket. My arm hadn’t hesitated, but I was pretty sure he’d caught the single eye blink.

  It’d been a half dozen years since the Jonny Man had stumbled ashore with a strong box half full of raw gold ore. Said he’d gotten it from some mine in Mexico. Anybody else would have raced to a safe deposit box, or sold it. Not Jon. He’d found some guy to melt it all down and turn it into gold coins. One side had a tiny island, with an even tinier palm tree silhouetted against a full moon. The other featured a giant, slanted “J” with a pirate flag flying from the top of the letter. It was Jon all over, pure braggadocio—bold, foolhardy, romantic. He used them as calling cards for serious clients. If the old man had one of Jon’s coins, then he was unfinished business. The weight in my stomach grew a twin.

  “That drink?” the jittery boy with the sneer said.

  “And the story, of course,” the old man followed.

  I nodded and set us all up with a round before leaning against the back bar.

  I stopped with the glass not quite to my lips. Business was business. But a good drink...

  In my book, the air of a good whiskey is the best part. It’s a promise of what’s to come, carried on the aromas of the past. This wasn’t some corporate, manufactured liquor, batched together in clean rooms by some sterile computer and then focus-grouped out of any character it had ever had. This was the real thing. Single malt, made by hand, by people who had seen grandchildren grow up since then, or died trying. Drop for drop it was worth a hundred times what it cost to bring it to my glass. But price doesn’t determine value. Memories do.

  I let the aroma take me back to peat and rich dark earth; to salt carried on the wind of a distant sea. I felt the rhythm of the blood in my veins as it slowed to match the dull low thumps of the ocean breakers outside and waited for it all to sync up, beat for beat, tide for tide, remembering when.

  The smallest sip and the world sped up again.

  A mirror ran the length of the bar behind my head. I turned to face it, looking around over their heads, taking the time to see what the three hard cases behind me could see in the reflection. Lots of real wood, not that fabricated crap. There was just enough light to keep the shadows alive. Crowded, but not too crowded. No one appeared to be listening, but I knew half the house was hanging on every word.

  Discretion. Nice. I admire both the deed and sound of the word. Be a good name for this place.

  “Come on, old man. We don’t have all night,” the young one said.

  I looked at my new drinking companions, then at my watch. “It’s not quite night yet, lad,” I assured him. “And this won’t take all of it. But, a true tale does require a bit of telling.”

  I gestured to the empty bar stool in front of him, and looked to include the other man among them. He was still standing, his gaze keeping a steady bounce between the crowd and the door.

  “Relax, gentlemen. Take a load off.”

  “We don’t have time for—” the boy started. I’d decided to call him Ferret. He looked like a ferret; jumpy, eager, head yanking around trying to find something to pounce on. He might have finished the sentence, but the elder statesman laid a hand on his arm.

  “Come on, Mister C, this old guy don’t know nothin’.”

  A bony hand squeezed the arm once. Ferret shut up and sat down. Not that he stopped moving. There was something weird going on right beneath his skin, like he couldn’t keep his bones from vibrating. Maybe it was just imagination, but I thought I could feel him, humming down the stool and across the old plank floor, a soft staccato rumble reaching underneath the bar to where I was standing.

  Mr. C said, “Please, tell us more about Rounder Jon, and what you think you saw.”

  I took another sip and started in.

  “There are a thousand tales about Rounder Jon floating all over the Back Bay. Folks’ll say Rounder Jon once made the run to Cuba and back in a single night, all by the dark of the moon. Or that he escaped from the palace in the old capital with a box of cigars off the desk of old Castro himself. Heck, most of the tales are probably true. But he never escaped from the Meska Té. No one does. That’s not to say he didn’t have dealings with them.”

  Ferret said, “Well, I heard he got involved with some strangers from up north, got scared and ran off with the wrong man’s money.”

  “First off, son, best to remember you’re the stranger here. And hearing things is a sign of mental illness. You might want to have that looked at.”

  I thought Ferret was going to come across the bar, but the old man had a hand back on h
is arm and some stern words in his ear.

  He sat back down and Mr. C nodded at me. “And what do you know of these marsh crawlers?” He raised a hand. “The Meska Té. Please. Tell us.”

  “The Meska Té are an old race. Not old like we think of it—founding fathers, moon landings and such, but old like before Columbus got his first boat.”

  “You mean Indians, First Nations.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They might be even older. They’re ancient. Like they were around to give the world a push, start it turning the first time.

  “Some say they might have been nomads, once. Centuries ago, before anybody else floated in from the sea, the Meska Té were already settled along the Back Bay. I’ve heard some folks say there aren’t many left. Others will swear there are thousands of them out there, living in secret up and down the coast, hiding in the marsh grass that runs between the beach and the swamps. I don’t know what anybody knows for sure. If some government official ever tried to make a count I’d bet it was never recorded anywhere. That is, if they got back out to tell anybody.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ferret asked.

  “The marshlands can be deceptive. Some places you walk off into the high grass and think you’ve stepped into another world. Might be, you have. You can wander for the rest of your life and never find your way out again, unless you’re one of the Meska. That’s kinda how they want it. See, the Meska Té consider themselves to be a part of the Back Bay. They are its protectors, in particular, the areas where the tall grass meets the sea.

  “That made things difficult for the Jonny Man. Rounder Jon’s chosen occupation had him running boats in and out of the marsh lands and glades. High powered boats have never been too kind or considerate of the natural way of things. Put him in a hard place with the Meska. After all, the marshlands are more than just their home. They are their food source, their temples.”

  “Their temples?” Mr. C asked.

  “Sure, every culture revolves around food and survival. That which nurtures and protects us becomes sacred.”

  “Pretty deep thoughts for a bartender.” It was the third guy. The one with a voice that sounded like it came from the deep end of a mine. He talked softer and slower than either of the other two, but the voice was solid. Like something you’d build a house on, or a prison.

  I shrugged. “I used to read a lot. Anyway, the Meska Té aren’t much different from you and me, once you get past what they look like.”

  “I heard they run around on all fours,” Ferret said.

  “Sometimes they do.” I nodded. “When they are taking down prey, for example. They are faster on four limbs than anything that runs on just two.”

  “That’s weird.” There he was, sneering again. “Standing like a man, but crawling around like a crab. How fast could they be?”

  “Crabs have eight legs, son,” I said. “Panthers have four, though. How far you think you’d get in a foot race with a panther?”

  The elder statesman cut us off before I could talk Ferret into making the bet.

  “Tell me more of what they look like. Describe them for me,” he pushed.

  “Mostly they’re shorter than the average man. Kinda like we used to be, two centuries ago. They can be paler, or darker, sometimes both. Their skin tends to change, patterns and shades that blend with the colors of the beach in the moonlight. And they only have four fingers...well three fingers and a thumb, when they’re adults.”

  “Adults?” the old man asked.

  “It’s a rite of passage,” I nodded. “The pinkies get sacrificed to prove their faith and commitment to the family.”

  I held my right hand up, open, in front of me. “Their hands are long and thin, much thinner from front to back than yours and mine are. And there is a flap of skin that webs the gaps between each digit.”

  Ferret snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Hey, friend. You asked, I’m telling. You don’t want to hear? Your fingers fit the door handle just fine.”

  “I knew a guy had webbed fingers once.” It was Gravel Voice again. He looked at Mr. C and nodded. “His father and mother were cousins or something.”

  “Anyway,” I said. “There must have been a hundred of them waiting for us that night when they dragged us off the beach, who knows how many hiding out in the shadows.”

  I gestured with my glass, asking them if they were ready for a refill. Mr. C shook his head.

  The other two pushed their empties toward me. I poured while I continued.

  “Everywhere I looked I saw these big, round eyes shining back at us. You ever catch an animal in the glare of a flashlight in the middle of the night? Even when they’re in the shadows, the Meska Té’s eyes glow, like they’re mirroring back light you can’t even see.

  “And strong? Let me tell you. I’d bet not one of those guys topped out at a hundred pounds. But two of them had hold of Rounder Jon and had him stuck solid. That’s saying something. You know how big the Jonny Man is.”

  “I don’t,” Gravel Voice said. “Never had the pleasure of dealing with him, at least not face to face.”

  “No? Huh. Well he’s half again bigger than me, and a lot stronger. I’m just an old guy; but even when I was at my best I wasn’t as strong as Rounder Jon.” I slid their glasses over and plugged the bottle.

  “One time we were out in a cigarette boat, forty plus feet long. Man that thing could move. Twin inboard turbos and extra-long range fuel tanks, all of them near to full. We ran up hard on a sandbar. We were going way too fast, trying to get shut of some unfortunate business associates. You understand.” I looked at Mr. C, but he didn’t even blink.

  “He climbed out of the boat and stood there, waist deep in saltwater and sand. He reached down and lifted the nose of that big ass boat clear out of the water. Dropped it down free of the sandbar, jumped up behind the wheel and off we went. Got away clean as a baby’s dream.”

  “Is that what you were up to the night they grabbed you?” Gravel Voice asked. “Did they interrupt you...doing business?”

  I shook my head. “No, we were settling a social matter. I was there to be a witness.”

  “A witness,” Mr. C repeated.

  The bells over the front door made an old fashioned jingle, just before the door opened. The sound of the ocean surf got suddenly louder, and an orange red glow from the sunset bathed the front of the bar, making the scuffed wood floor look like smoldering coals. A tall, thin shadow walked toward us. The shadow and the glow slid sideways out of sight as the door closed behind him, revealing a craggy, friendly face.

  “Hey, Joe,” I called. “Sound system’s warmed up, ready for you to plug in.”

  “Cool.” He was carrying a battered guitar case. “Franky Fingers and Willie ought to be around in a bit.” A round of applause went up from the house.

  “You want one to get you started?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings any.”

  I looked at Mr. C. “Gimme a sec.”

  I grabbed a mug and pulled the tap, then met Joe at the end of the bar. He took it and drained it in one long drink.

  “Cools the blood, warms the soul.” He sighed and handed back the empty mug. “Anything I can do for you before I set up?” he asked.

  “Call the boys and tell them to shake a leg. The natives are getting restless.”

  “Sure thing.” He popped his guitar case open and I went back to the gents down the bar.

  “You’re in luck,” I said. “Franky Fingers, Willie and Stringfellow Joe. The place is gonna swing tonight.”

  “What did you mean about being a witness?” There was that deep, gravelly voice again, cutting right across any thoughts of the night’s profits. “Are you saying you gave Rounder Jon up to the police?”

  I looked at him, then at them. I smiled and shook my head. “Getting caught by the cops might have been a blessing. Rounder Jon got caught by an angry father.”

  “A father?” Mr. C asked.


  “Tenecate, ruler of the Meska Té. And, the father of a certain grassland princess, Neeshawah.”

  “He did her, didn’t he?” Ferret said. He was so excited he reached across and grabbed my arm. There was this slimy wet smile on his narrow face. I looked away. I didn’t want to follow where the gleeful look in his eyes would take me.

  I shook him off. “No. If he had, they would have staked his body head down on the beach, sliced him up and left him alive so he could watch the tide roll over him.”

  “That’s pretty dramatic,” gravel voice said.

  “Remember the finger thing? They’re big on dramatic. Probably why they put up with Jon.” My grin was small, and didn’t last long. “The Meska would see it as a sacrifice, an offering. Give him one last chance to make amends. He could make his peace, feed the crabs and, through them, the marshlands.”

  I refilled Ferret’s glass and set it back down in front of him, just to show I’d taken no offense at the contact. “No, what the Jonny Man did was much worse. He fell in love with Neeshawah, and her with him.”

  “This Tenecate wasn’t too fond of the idea,” Mr. C said.

  “I should say not.” I refilled Gravel Voice’s glass without asking.

  “He’d been caught more than once on their land, and been told in no uncertain terms to stay out. But Jon? Well, he always said the safest place to hide was where folks were afraid to look. So, whenever he was pursued, especially by the law, he’d lay up in a cove, cover the boat over in high grass. The damage his boats did to the wildlife and the way he defied Tenecate would have been enough for them to feed him to the sea.