Anchors Away and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  ***

  Chapter Five

  “Fanny.” Yeah, because that nickname was ever funny and hadn’t gotten old decades ago. He really needed to come up with some new material to impress me these days. Arse.

  I eye rolled despite myself. “I’m a bit busy, Robert,” I said, just keeping my temper in check as Petunia wagged her little tail and looked up at him with the kind of gentle eagerness she reserved for every single person who might or might not offer her food. She wasn’t exactly a discerning creature. He ignored her, instead choosing to loom over me—or try to as I straightened up to my full height and challenged his few superior inches with confidence and a particularly prickly need to show him who was boss. Sure, maybe I shouldn’t have let him get to me, but honestly, his continuing existence was the sort of irritating thorny bramble that made my particular rose garden lose points for quality.

  He didn’t move away, typical Robert, doing his awkward, socially inept best to put on a superiority show for whoever might be watching. Made worse, thank you very much, since Crew left town and this disaster of a human being in charge. I was going to have a firm and unhappy talk with the handsome sheriff as soon as I kissed him into submission.

  Who was I kidding? The kissing would diffuse me enough I’d let this whole Robert mess drop. I was a sucker for Crew Turner’s lips.

  My hateful cousin snuffled, wriggling that hideously heavy mustache of his under his nose like a dying caterpillar in its final moments before expiring from sheer ugliness. His beady eyes made my skin crawl, how he hooked his thumbs in his belt and stuck out his rounded pot belly as if planning to use it as a weapon in his war against all things normal and decent. I refused to flinch or back down, keeping a firm grip on Petunia’s leash if only as a not so subtle trick to restrain myself from smacking the so-called acting sheriff for being publically revolting.

  “Going to have to chat about the parking problem outside Petunia’s,” he said, grinning then, showing his uneven and yellowing teeth, the black bristles of his facial hair making me queasy. I forced myself to stare in his eyes so I wouldn’t lose my lunch and crossed both arms over my chest.

  “You honestly don’t have anything better to do, Robert?” I raised an eyebrow at him. His gaze flickered over my shoulder, following someone behind me and, when he tipped his hat, I turned at last to see Geoffrey looking in our direction. Though, oddly, the accountant was looking at me, not at the man who actually gave a crap he was there. More creepiness. Awesome. Where was Crew when I needed him to clean up this multi-yuck town?

  “’Fraid there’ll be some tickets issued,” Robert said without a hint of regret. If anything, he sounded gleeful, like he could barely contain the joy he felt dinging my business for something out of my control.

  “Look,” I snapped, “just because my guests sometimes—briefly!—park on the side of the street,” recently marked as no parking thanks to newer, tighter laws brought in by the council, “doesn’t warrant tickets. I have them move the instant I realize they’ve broken the law.” A ridiculous and asinine and frustrating law. Argh.

  Before Robert could comment—and he looked determined to do so, despite the fact I’m sure my intent to stomp him into the ground was written all over my face—Mom spoke up from behind the table.

  “Really, Robert,” she said, her voice mild and her words light but all the weight of her Momness snapping his head around and flashing shame and guilt briefly over his face, “we’re a bit busy here. Maybe you’d like to find something constructive to do and leave Fiona alone.” Mom’s gaze lifted at last, her small, gloved hands stopping their quick, concise movements where she tucked a pair of stray sandwiches tighter together on the tray in front of her. Her flat, even expression held zero kindness or warmth, the face I associated most with the end of her principal rope when she was still acting in that role at the local high school.

  I know she’d used it on Robert in the past, when we were kids. I’d witnessed her dressing him down in this very clean and cold manner, had always marveled at her utter control and the slicing surety she wielded despite her small stature and the relatively innocuous delivery of her “request” for obedience. Why it worked I still didn’t know, except that despite the fact it wasn’t aimed at me I still felt the chill and the tightness in my stomach and was very happy she hadn’t aimed that particular weaponized perfection at me.

  Instead of responding vocally, Robert tipped his hat to Mom and turned away, one foot stepping on the edge of Petunia’s leash. The pressure tugged on her collar, making her yip in surprise and I had to jerk myself under control to keep from yelling at him to be more careful. He seemed genuinely surprised by the hurt he’d caused, though, so I let it go, turning my back on him and bending to pat Petunia on the top of her head while she licked her lips and stared up at me with bemused confusion. A quick nab of a sandwich quarter relieved her stress and she was happily tail wagging and watching me with those adoring and ever hungry brown eyes all over again.

  Mom met my eyes when I straightened, hers snapping anger. “Seriously,” she said, then sighed before turning back to her work. “I really wish we had another set of tablecloths,” she fretted then, wringing her gloved hands over the food. “These white ones are going to show ever single crumb.”

  All we had at Petunia’s were white, but the yacht club colors were blue and gray, right? I tied my pug’s leash to the leg of the table and grinned at Mom. “I’ll be right back.” I was sure I’d seen some tablecloths at the last event I’d attended, a cocktail party that devolved into too much drinking and Crew busting up three fights between wealthy boat owners who really should have known better.

  Mom beamed at me, waving me off when I gestured to Petunia. “She’s fine,” she said. “Just hurry, Fee! People are hungry.” She wasn’t wrong. A short line had formed behind the cordon keeping them from the tables and Olivia’s unhappy expression told me we were later than she would have liked. Um, it was barely past breakfast, only shortly before 11AM. Considering we had a busy business to run? She was lucky we took this on in the first place.

  Grunt. Gratitude was in short supply these days, I guess.

  I hurried toward the front doors of the club, the long, squat building’s weathered gray shingling looking more old fashioned than the kind of chic I thought the board should be aiming for. A good coat of paint never hurt anything, as far as I was concerned. Whatever, not my concern, though I would have thought Olivia would be pressuring Lester and his people to upgrade now that business in Reading was booming. After all, every other part of town had seen some kind of facelift or cosmetic improvement in the last few years as funds became more readily available and tourism expanded possibilities. As I stepped into the dim and slightly musty interior of the club’s front entry, the old laminate tile under my feet squeaking against my sneakers and the dark paneling screaming the 1970’s had been here and done that, I exhaled past the urge to sneeze and wondered why the club of very wealthy and locally prominent boat owners would be the only holdouts.

  I turned the corner past the large common room and the bar, heading down the length of the t-shaped building toward the kitchen area, passing the offices on my way to storage. I’d spent enough time here as a kid learning to sail on quiet Cutter Lake I knew the ins and outs and honestly was continually surprised by the lack of upgrades. Not a single thing had changed, most definitely not since I’d been here and well before, from the light switch covers someone thought were cute because they were anchors but were more suited to a child’s room to the carpet under my feet that switched out from the linoleum, likely navy blue a long time ago but now an indiscriminate shade I wasn’t about to look closely at, thanks. The whole place felt like time stood still, as if the last scraps of Reading’s history lived in this building and refused utterly and completely to give up the ghosts of our small town’s past.

  I was so wrapped up in my mental judgment of the place, wondering if I should write a shaming column about it—was it dragging us d
own as a whole? Would a refresh bring more status to Reading or was I turning into a snob?—that when I reached for the storage room closet door and jerked it open, I couldn’t help the shriek that escaped my lips at the sight of something writhing in the near darkness.

  The answering meeps of shock gave me the warning I needed not to strike out at the unknown shapes now untangling themselves from what I quickly assessed was a passionate embrace, and my eyes adjusted enough to the low light I made out the sheepish and nervous faces of the young couple I’d disturbed.

  I grinned and giggled, unable to help myself, while Keira Campbell flushed darkly enough I could see it clearly on her round cheeks, her dark ponytail loose at the nape of her neck, a few curls escaping with static pulling them toward the hand of the young man who was just letting her go.

  “Hi, Fee,” my former employee, now a barista at Sammy’s Coffee, whispered before clearing her throat. Hey! I remembered her name. After she left my employ. Awesome. “This is Luke. Luke Patterson.”

  The handsome young blond waved weakly in my direction, dimples showing. “Hi, Miss Fleming,” he said, voice soft and contrite. “Did you need something?”

  I reached past Keira’s shoulder and switched on the light, blinding the three of us a bit while I pointed at the shelves and the stack of blue and gray tablecloths inside. I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face and barely held in my amusement as they eased past me and into the hallway, looking like they were both ready to bolt.

  “Sorry,” the nervous girl said, patting at her clothing, tugging the hem of her t-shirt down while Luke did the same. “Can you not tell my dad I was here?”

  Hey, Keira was eighteen if I recalled correctly, and Luke looked about her age, so as far as I was concerned they were old enough to make their own mistakes in dark storage closets without me calling them out to her father. From the brief encounters I’d had with David Campbell, his temper was about as in check as the passion these two clearly had for each other. The boat owner and local hardware store owner wasn’t exactly known for his kind hearted manner. I could only imagine his reaction if he found his daughter with someone he didn’t approve of. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I winked before Luke’s last name registered. “Patterson?”

  He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “My dad’s Lester,” he said, pale blue eyes flickering to Keira before landing on me again, his about as stressed as hers. “Our fathers don’t exactly see eye-to-eye. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.”

  Far be it for me to crush this little Romeo and Juliet affair. “You two were never here,” I said, grabbing a handful of tablecloths and turning off the light, closing the door behind me. “And neither was I.”

  I walked away without another word, hearing them whispering behind me and feeling, briefly, a bit hurt they didn’t trust me. On the other hand, I was an adult, so maybe not to be believed? Huh, since when did I become the responsible and judging type that young people didn’t think was cool and hip?

  I snorted to myself, hugging the tablecloths to my chest as I made my way back down the hall. Maybe if I wasn’t old enough to think terms like “cool” and “hip” were still exactly that, I’d be eligible for instant trust. Sigh. Getting older kind of sucked.

  I’d almost reached the corner when my sneaker simultaneously caught on the gross carpet and the stack of cloths in my arms decided to go in the opposite direction of my near fall, sending me almost to my knees. Grunting in irritation, I gathered the fallen fabric, hearing the distant sound of a door closing—the kids leaving, I assumed—and the sudden and harsh but muffled exclamation of someone’s voice quite close by.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  Now, I’ve never been accused of minding my own business, so this moment was no different. I found myself in the somewhat compromising and yet enviable position of crouching beneath the window over the door where the shout had come from. One glance upward and I easily read the black lettering on the crystalized glass. Lester Patterson, Club President. And, even as my mind processed the name, the voice came through loud and clear.

  “I’m done with this conversation, Nortz,” Lester said, his shadow nearing the door. I gasped, reaching faster for the fallen tablecloths, straining my ears to listen as the knob rattled. Wouldn’t do to have them find me eavesdropping when it really was an accidental listen in to their private conversation. But when the door didn’t open, the sound of Chris Nortz’s voice swelling with anger, I stopped, breathless, all of my goods recovered but unable to move until I knew what he was going to say.

  Busybody? Check.

  “My cottagers are sick of being treated like second-rate citizens.” I only knew Chris because of my father, to be honest. He and Dad played the occasional game of golf and Dad’s little cottage/cabin in the woods fell under the cottager association’s umbrella of which Chris was the head. “Your boats are a menace and if you don’t take steps to keep those noisy, dangerous machines away from our docks, I’ll be taking this to town council!”

  Interesting. Lester’s reply was even more so.

  “Stop being such a baby,” he laughed like he found Chris’s concerns shallow and beneath him. Typical Patterson. My bias was showing, obviously. “Besides, Olivia won’t take a single act against me and you know it. You and your little club want peace and quiet? Go find another lake to live on. This one’s mine.”

  The sound of Chris spluttering was so loud it was impossible to miss. “You’ll pay for this, Lester,” he snarled. And stomped toward the door. I had a split second between the realization I was about to be uncovered and the knob turning to spin with a gasp and leap for the door opposite, jerking it wide and throwing myself inside before slamming it shut behind me. I leaned against it, hearing the muttering retreat of Chris Nortz, wincing at my obvious escape and looking up with what I’m sure had to be a deer in the headlights on an oncoming tractor trailer into the startled gaze of Doreen Douglas.

  She stood up from behind her full desk, a faint smile warring with concern as she looked down at the bundle of now messy cloth in my arms. Her expression firmed into welcome as she circled toward me, holding out her hands and helping me while the short, round, elderly woman who’d hired Mom in the first place divested me of half of my load.

  “Fiona, how shortsighted of me.” She ushered me out of her office, closing and locking the door behind her with the full keyring she returned to the pocket of her pale yellow cardigan sweater. “Of course you need the club’s colors. Forgive me for not being out there when you arrived.” She hurried me toward the exit and the bright sunlight on the other side, squinting her pale hazel eyes into the sunny day. She waved to Mom, lines wrinkling around her lips and creating folds in her neck, her well-advanced visible age doing nothing to slow her down, it seemed. I followed her at a rapid pace, her shorter legs in hose and practical shoes carrying her faster than I expected across the parking lot to where my mother quickly emptied first one table then the next. With a swift and efficient flick of her hands, Doreen draped the three tables in a trio layer of crisscrossing coverings, diving in to help Mom reassemble the food display just as Olivia, her eyes tight and jaw set, purposely met my eyes while she removed the cordon with an abrupt gesture and let the line of people flood the tables.

  You’re welcome.

  I stepped away, letting Mom handle the influx of people, Doreen at her side.

  “You two are darlings for taking this on,” the yacht club treasurer happily beamed at Mom. “I know how busy you are these days.”

  “Our pleasure,” Mom said. “Anything for you, Doreen.”

  Thanks for including me in that particular offering, Mom. Grumble. “I thought this was Olivia’s venture?” Way to sound all happy to be there, Fee.

  Doreen smiled despite my lack of enthusiasm. “Originally,” she said, “but anything at all to bring new faces to the club, and I’m delighted to participate.”

  Was that the problem? The fact there weren’t many
new people buying boats and using the moorings? This was a lake, after all. Was the appeal of the yacht club waning despite Olivia’s efforts? If only they’d update it, I was sure things would turn around.

  But I didn’t get to suggest it. Doreen chatted with my mother, the pair old friends while they quickly restocked the vanishing foodstuffs. I retrieved my dog, hearing the women laughing over something they’d shared while working together—Doreen retired from her position as bookkeeper for the school board a decade before my mother. Come to think of it, she’d served in that capacity for most of the town at one point, though I’d held off using her services. Something about having a local know my financial business bothered me, Mom’s friend or not. Rather than intrude on their catch up time and seeing they had things well in hand, I instead led Petunia away from temptation and the bits of dropping food left behind by over eager kids who grabbed and ran. Her disappointment was audible, deep, wrenching groan ending in a yelping yawn that made her sound like a petulant three-year-old.

  “Oh, get over it,” I said, tugging on her harness at the end of the leash and leading her toward the pier. A string of costumed adults were climbing into a pair of heavily decorated canoes, balloons and streamers trailing in the water, the wobbling of the two craft as the excited crews laughed and piled in without the kind of care they likely should have taken making me wince and hope for the best. Robert stood to one side, and to my utter shock, he wasn’t alone. Rose, her narrow face attempting a coquettish smile, hung off his arm.

  Oh. My. God. I suppressed a stomach heave at the adoration she beamed up at him. When? What? Why? Gag. The fact Daisy’s step-sister was into my disgusting cousin just plummeted her in my estimation. Regardless of how she treated my bestie, having any kind of romantic feelings for Robert ruined her for me forever.