“Shoemaker.”
“—They let you handle things as you see best, Mr. Shoemaker. Two busy men deep in their craft. Being in the newspaper business, I’m sure you’ve met people like that before. I suppose if he ever came down here, I could free up a little time and give him a grand tour.”
Shoe nodded. All this money and no one providing oversight. It was a bit eye opening. Waste not, want not was a guiding credo for the Newport crowd, and Weathersby was known for his cutthroat business acumen. Then something else struck him as odd. “I don’t see any kind of storage facility here. The barge . . . do you send them right to the Museum?”
“Too time consuming to do it bit by bit. We’ve got a warehouse on the Nevis waterfront. Number 17. When we get a sizeable load, we freight it by rail to D.C.”
“I would guess some of the larger specimens could fetch a hefty sum on the black market.”
Darby laughed and gestured back toward the tent they had exited. “It’s not like you could hide that mastodon in your pocket and be off with it. And if you wanted to steal something smaller, you’d have to be sharp enough to know your bones. An inside man, a big boat, and lots of unsupervised time here, that’s what it would take. And none of that is remotely possible with the security measures I’ve instituted. I’ve personally cleared every one of these workers, and as you experienced earlier, nobody sets foot off that pier without being challenged and sorted: authorized individuals sent this way, lookie-loos directed outside our roped-off area. No, we’re a Fort Knox in miniature.”
Until now, Shoe had assumed everyone was connected to the dig, but south of the pier he saw a scattering of what looked like townsfolk—pant legs rolled up as they waded through the shallow water holding buckets. Another few were positioned on the far side of the security rope quietly watching the dig. Among them? Rudy Becker. Tailing him, no doubt. If he didn’t detest the man so much, Shoe would have had his own laugh. Did he really think Shoe was hot on the trail of some clue related to the Weathersby murder? Shoe watched as Rudy realized Shoe had made him. He left the rope and tried to blend in with a family saving their beach pickings in a silver bucket.
“The pier isn’t yours?” Shoe asked, seeing a boat on the opposite side of the pier discharging more people with more buckets. And if Shoe wasn’t mistaken, it was Hanner Mackall on the bow.
Darby looked that way. “If it was, they’d all be gone.”
“Does Hanner Mackall work for you?”
“Hanner Mackall? Don’t know the name.” Darby clapped Shoe on the back as if they were chums and gently shook him several times. “Think you have enough?”
“Certainly, Mr. Darby. Thank you, and sorry for keeping you so long.”
“Quite all right, son. You tell your Mr. Tanner I’m expecting good things.” Darby began to walk away and then turned suddenly. “D-a-r-b-y, right?”
Shoe laughed. “Got it!”
And then Shoe crossed the beach to find out why Rudy had suddenly developed an interest in paleontology.
Chapter Fifteen
Mirror Image
Shoe stayed well above the high-water mark so Rudy couldn’t keep track of him without looking obvious. When he had drawn close enough to touch his back, he shouted, “Rudy Becker! Were you looking for me?”
Rudy whirled around. “Shoemaker! Monkey’s aunt! What brings you to the cliffs?”
“Why are you following me?” Shoe asked.
Rudy’s eyebrows arched liked a drawbridge rising to let an ocean vessel sail through. “Following you? Your editor friend, Tanner, gave me something to do down here.”
“He did nothing of the sort. He would have told me.”
Rudy shrugged. “What can I say?”
“Start by telling me what story he gave you.”
“And have you scoop me? Sorry, bud.” Rudy checked the dock and said, “Want to share a ride back?” He began walking.
“Let’s cut out this cat-and-mouse stuff. I know Emerson paid you a visit.”
Rudy ignored him, climbed the pier, spoke a few quiet words to Hanner Mackall, and hopped into the bobbing craft. “In or out?” Rudy asked.
Shoe hesitated. The Captain had gamely stayed put while Shoe conducted his interview, and he was watching him now from the deck of his boat. How would he react to being stiffed? His services might be needed again. Mackall was also watching, as creepy as before, his expression unreadable. And then there was Rudy, hands on his hips, smiling like Louis Carroll’s Cheshire cat.
Uh uh. Becker wasn’t getting off so easy. Shoe thanked the Captain for his time and palmed him a silver dollar. “I’m coming,” he shouted at Mackall, and put a foot into the vessel just as Mackall pushed away from the dock. With one foot on the dock and one in the boat, Shoe tottered precariously.
In two quick steps Mackall had him by the arm and yanked him into the boat. “Better watch where you step next time,” he muttered, and headed starboard. He gave the ship’s enormous brass bell a hard clang as he passed and continued about his business.
Shoe headed aft. His groin muscles were screaming for attention and he suspected he’d split a seam in his trousers. Mackall was at the wheel in the cabin, where he’d probably remain throughout the trip, as the Captain had. That was good, because Shoe wasn’t sure whether Mackall had just admonished—somehow, the tone was all wrong—or threatened him.
Rudy had already staked out the short bench near the cabin door. It would keep him out of the wind and away from Shoe; the only other seats were on the long bench running down the portside of the craft. Shoe moved forward and latched onto the doorframe opposite Rudy’s perch. “Yeah, you know, Emerson. Bottomless pockets. Don’t play coy.” As soon as the name was out of his mouth, Shoe regretted mentioning Emerson. Not because of Rudy. He was sure they were both investigating Mena’s murder at the solicitor’s request. No, it was the boatman’s eavesdropping. Shoe shot a glance at Mackall. He seemed to be engrossed in reading gauges and logging information.
Rudy maintained an unruffled air. “Big bucks, you say? I should look him up. He in Nevis?”
“If he’s retained you, you do realize you’ve lost half a day following me to the cliffs? I’m on assignment for Riley Tanner. If you’re so tuned in, you should know that. When we dock, I don’t want to see or hear you anymore. Got it?”
“That include that little chickadee been decorating your arm?”
Shoe pictured a quick knuckle sandwich in the middle of Rudy’s smirking mug. It wouldn’t be the first time that Rudy had horned in, nor the first time he’d rubbed it in either. A solid punch invited an overnight in the hoosegow, though, and Shoe couldn’t afford the downtime. “You chasing my tail tells me you’ve got zip. Wise up, sucker.”
“Whatever you say.”
Shoe glared at him for a moment, but all he got in return was that famous Rudy Becker grin that charmed the ladies and set all their boyfriends on edge. He took a seat in the aft and watched the cliffs dwindle and the tree line build.
Apparently unable to forego vanity for even a moment, Rudy got up and began checking his reflection in a small mirror that Mackall had hung on the outside of the rear wall of the cabin, turning his head to and fro as he admired his silhouette. “Do you ever wonder why our paths seem to constantly be crossing?” he asked, still looking at himself.
Shoe had no idea where this was going. He took it at face value and laughed. “Because you’re too lazy to pick up your own leads? It’s much easier to follow successful people like me around and poach a little around the edges.”
“While that method of business can be a very successful one, you’re so far off base you need to reassess how smart you really are. Come over here,” he said, talking to Shoe’s reflection. He turned around when Shoe balked. “Seriously,” he said.
Shoe joined him.
“Here, here, and here,” Rudy said as he touched his eyes, mouth, and chin on the mirror’s surface. “Doesn’t ring any bells?” He was smirking.
Shoe st
udied the features, all handsome, and shrugged. “Just a cuckoo. Get to your point.”
Rudy held up a finger, commanding him to wait. Then he reached out and touched those same features in Shoe’s reflection.
Shoe’s eyes flitted from one face to the other. Same bedroom eyes. Same broad mouth. Same dimpled chin.
“No wonder people confuse us. I would say 100 percent Dad, wouldn’t you?”
Shoe turned and looked Rudy hard in the face. It was as if he had never really looked at him before and it sucked the air right out of him. “No. Can’t be . . .”
“Certainly can, and is. Brothers. Welcome to the family,” Rudy said, slapping him on the back. His point made, he sat back down on his bench.
Running his hand across his face, Shoe considered the horrid thought. “Uh uh. Not buying it for a minute, Becker. What’s your angle?”
“No angle. I hate to be the one to tell you that your—our—father was a philanderer, but, well, facts are facts. I am an illegitimate son, with an official birth certificate to prove it.”
Shoe should have decked him, but somehow, deep within, childhood memories were surfacing and merging. He’d always questioned whether his father was a faithful husband. Too many unexplained absences. Too many parental arguments. Although his mother never discussed her worries, she often seemed put out by her spouse. “Your mother, do I know her?”
Rudy shook his head. “And no need to draw her into this. She said she learned of your father’s marital status after the fact, and I believe her. She was a lovely, saintly woman, and it—no, in answer your question.”
Shoe nodded. “W-w-why? Where . . .”
Rudy shrugged. “I don’t question why. The where is simple enough. I was born in Baltimore, and grew up in Chester, Pennsylvania, a skip and a jump from you in Philadelphia.”
Shoe dropped down like a rock next to him. “Of all the people. . .”
“Yeah, kicker, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, hunky dory.” Rudy S Becker. The middle initial made sense now.
“Nothing in this life ever makes sense, Shoe.”
“This changes nothing.”
“Of course not,” Rudy said. “I think we can agree that we won’t be spending Christmases together, but I thought you should know. What you do with it is your own business.” He got up and moved away.
Shoe let him, too busy noodling through Rudy’s life-shattering revelation. The top of the Bayland roller coaster could now be seen rising majestically above a waterfront crowded with broad warehouses and marine activity. Thankfully, their time together could now be marked in mere minutes.
Mackall cut the engine and eased the boat back into its berth, gently bumping against the padding on the pylons. Shoe flipped him a coin and disembarked first. He could hear Rudy shuffling closely behind. The man could never seem to pick up his feet. Still fighting the inclination to deck him, Shoe increased his speed. To his chagrin, Rudy did likewise.
“Say, Rudy,” Shoe said, turning suddenly. He smacked into the newsman and with an extra little shoulder move sent him tumbling into the water. He waited until Rudy bobbed back to the surface, and when he was sure the man could at least doggy paddle, he yelled, “Man overboard. We need help!”
Apparently, falling off the pier was nothing to get excited about. Hanner Mackall calmly pushed him out of the way, extended a fishing pole to Rudy as he thrashed about, and began pulling him toward several watermen who were on their hands and knees waiting to pull him out.
“Put some handrails up here,” Shoe admonished. “This could have been a grand catastrophe.” Actually, it couldn’t have been grander—Rudy Becker, his half-brother?
The show attracted a small crowd who, by the sound of their laughter and jeers, were enjoying a dandy floundering about in a nice suit. Shoe didn’t hang around to gloat but instead pushed his way through and beat tracks. He had a dedicated imbecile to shake and a story to knock out.
Chapter Sixteen
Wrong Guy
Shoe sat alone in Betty’s, finishing up breakfast and his exclusive for Tanner. Fannie’s mother had the touch: chicken hash, poached eggs, and fresh-baked bread lightly toasted to a delicate shade of brown. Darby, not so much. He was a pompous ass, but Shoe made him likeable for the sake of avoiding litigation. The article was standard newspaper fare and he rolled it out quickly: precocious child rises to prominence against odds that would have crushed a lesser man. Blah, blah, blah.
When he was satisfied that he had it all down, he polished off the eggs and sifted through what, if anything, he had learned from yesterday’s jaunt. There was the connection between Darby and the Weathersby clan. Any other day he wouldn’t have mulled it over twice. The family was known to be philanthropic. After all, how many mansions could a wealthy family build or round-the-world trips take before they had to start giving piles of money away? He supposed there was a certain satisfaction in helping others and seeing a family name emblazoned across a building of higher learning or a scientific collection. Still, did it have any significance for him and the murder? Weathersby had Nevis roots, so it made sense to throw money this way. At the moment, Shoe couldn’t make any more of it than that. He decided to let it dangle a while.
And then there was Hanner Mackall. Something didn’t quite measure up. In his experience, there were good eggs that scrambled up light and fluffy, disappointing ones that didn’t amount to much of anything when you scooted them around in the pan, and then there were the bad ones—stank from the moment you cracked ’em open and got a good whiff. Mackall was like that. The essence of the man hit you immediately. Rotten through and through, and by far the biggest creeper on the dock. He was certain Mackall had threatened him. Still, that didn’t make him a cold-hearted butcher of innocent women and children.
He caught Fannie’s eye as she stood behind the diner counter, stacking Danish on a pedestal cake stand. “How much, Fannie?”
She shook her head and placed a clear domed lid back over the pastries. “You know better than that.”
“Thanks. Then how about a little more coffee and I’ll be out of your hair?”
She came over with the coffee pot. “Learn anything new at the cliffs?”
That he suddenly had a brother—no, half-brother—whom he despised more than anyone else he could think of? And a cheater for a dad? He wouldn’t be able to contain the venom. “It’s still one giant jigsaw,” he said instead. “Do you know anything about Hanner Mackall?”
She stopped pouring. “Are you serious? Everybody knows the Mackalls. I know I’ve told you about Moll Mackall Dyer.”
If she had, it sure hadn’t stuck. Shoe hated to admit he sometimes tuned her out. “Yes, but I’ve forgotten the particulars.”
She gave him one of those pointed looks of hers. “Oh, there isn’t a kid between here and Solomons Island who doesn’t know that story.”
“I’m getting old here, Fannie.”
“Moll Mackall Dyer was a colonial witch.”
Shoe nodded. She was dead serious. Apparently, her bobbed hair was allowing the winter chill to freeze her brain over. “And?”
“Her self-righteous, god-fearing neighbors accused her of witchcraft. Drove her out of town. She died of exposure in the woods. Fearing a final death curse, the locals banished all the Mackalls and the Dyers. So the families fled into the forest and basically didn’t come out again. They’re an odd, close bunch who hate anything and anybody religious, keep to themselves, marry each other, and eschew the company of others. They own all that area south of Chaneyville—some pretty big farms and a sawmill. Totally self-sufficient. The kids don’t even get schooled in town. They also own a section of the cliffs. If you’re thinking of sticking your nose in their business? Don’t!”
“Eschew?”
“Not just a pretty face, Mr. Shoemaker.” She kissed him on the top of his head. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yeah, just one question. Did they ever make it to the docks? Own any boats?”
/> “Sure. Before the railroad came in, everything went by water. But the locals wouldn’t fool with them. If they wanted to ship anything, the Mackalls did it themselves. They take tourists down to the cliffs, too. Out-of-towners don’t know how crazy they are. Like I said, don’t go poking around. They have short handles and long memories.”
“No, I got it the first time. I’ll leave him be. Just curious, that’s all.”
After she returned to the counter, Shoe left two bits next to his plate and headed for the wharf. Leads and Jack, they were one and the same, and they’d both turn up at the waterfront.
He paused at the intersection of Bayland and the boardwalk and let a hurried pack of athletic types—matching long-sleeved club shirts, shorts, and tall socks—jog past. His stopping wasn’t a matter of indecision; he knew exactly where he was going. In Philly, you never stepped out into the street without looking both ways. Twice. His mother always said the wagon you didn’t see was the one that was going to hit you. Anyone who ever tried to cross Chestnut Street in the middle of the afternoon could vouch for that. But what if the danger was behind him? He threw a casual glance over each shoulder, saw nothing. Yep, it was what you didn’t see—a demented crazy murderer still at large, and possibly Rudy looking to even the score after his unexpected swim—that would level you. He stepped into the human flow and headed toward the seedy side.
With Fannie’s warning still echoing in his ear, he wandered toward the Captain’s boat. He desperately wanted another look at Mackall in his element. Best bet was that the boatman was smuggling—maybe liquor, perhaps something else. It was fairly common along the coast and when the activity was plied discreetly, a man made a tidy profit. The Coast Guard wasn’t concerned. They went after the big operations. At any rate, Shoe wanted Mackall off his suspect list before he slipped up and antagonized the boatman further. He didn’t relish having to watch his back.
The waterfront was a hive of activity this morning—mostly crates and unpacked merchandise coming out of warehouses. He matched the pace of, and hid behind, a large piece of furniture being carted out to one of the boats. Anything that couldn’t be procured in town—finer furniture, mail-order clothes, and other necessities—initially came into Nevis by steamboat—the Chessie Belle or its sister ship, the Madison Lady—and then traveled by local boats to the smaller wharfs along the peninsula. By the looks of what was scribbled across the unfinished back of this piece, the Buckmaster family near Sollars Wharf was getting a brand-new hutch.
The Dame on the Dock Page 10
