Saturdays at Sweeney's

by Ashley Farley

  “I’m telling you, he’s depressed.” Jackie stood at her second-story window looking down on her son, who’d been on the dock staring out at the water for the past hour while she and Bill were talking in their bedroom. “Can’t say I blame him. I’d be depressed too if I thought I might have to go to jail.”

  “I have no intention of letting Sean go to jail. I’ll talk to him about the case over dinner. Maybe that will set him at ease.”

  She left the window and walked into his outstretched arms. Holding tight to her husband, she had a sinking feeling that things would get a lot worse before they got better. “I’ll set the table on the terrace,” she said when she finally drew away from him. “Our nature boy is always more comfortable being outdoors.”

  “Good thinking,” Bill said as he pressed his lips to hers. “Keep the faith, Jack. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Two hours later, they gathered at one end of the teak dining table and offered the same blessing they’d been reciting since the boys were old enough to say, “God is great.” Bill carved the flank steak while Jackie loaded their plates with Caesar salad and roasted potatoes. They talked while they ate, discussing Sean’s crab business and how they wanted to spend the Fourth of July week when Cooper came home for vacation. Sean seemed subdued throughout dinner, and he didn’t have much of an appetite, but he spoke without slurring his words, and his thoughts were coherent. He gave her no reason to question his sobriety.

  “I talked to Faith about our weekend plans today,” Jackie said as they were taking their last bites. “We’ve decided to have our Memorial Day cookout here again this year. Can I count on the two of you to help me get ready?”

  Sean said, “Whatever.”

  Bill cut his eyes at Sean. “We will both pitch in. It’ll be fun for everyone to get together.”

  She cleared the table, took the dishes to the kitchen, and brought out a strawberry shortcake.

  “Son, we need to talk about your court case. I’ve decided to hire a criminal defense attorney. It’ll cost more.” Bill paused as he forked off a chunk of cake. “A lot more, actually. But he’ll be able to better represent you. There’s a slim chance he can get the charges dropped completely. If not, you’ll have to pay a fine, take a drug course, and perform community service. But you won’t have to do any jail time.”

  “Does that mean I can have my car back?”

  Jackie’s jaw slackened. That was not at all the response she’d anticipated. She locked eyes with her husband, who shook his head, signaling her to let him respond.

  “That depends on a number of things,” Bill said. “Just because the district attorney is dropping the charges doesn’t necessarily mean I’m ready to give you your car back. I thought you’d be relieved to hear you won’t have to go to jail.”

  “What d’you mean? I’m already in jail, living in this house with the two of you.”

  Bill smoothed out the little bit of hair he had left on the top of his head. Jackie recognized the gesture. Her husband was stalling while he gathered his composure.

  “You’re mistaken, son. You’ve been living in a detention center since you got home from school. Congratulations, your lousy attitude has earned you a transfer to cell block C.”

  Jackie admired the patient but firm way her husband responded to their son.

  “If you’d like to continue living under our roof here at Moss Creek Penitentiary, you will abide by our rules. First of all, you will pay me a percentage of your summer earnings to help cover the legal fees. You will start making those payments immediately. Secondly, you will attend weekly sessions with Moses. And thirdly, you will find a job doing something other than busing tables.”

  Sean’s head jerked back. “Why? I’m earning good money there.”

  “You’re earning minimum wage, less than you make off a dozen crabs,” Bill said.

  “But I like working at the Roost.”

  “This is nonnegotiable, son. Your mother and I feel your time would be better spent in a different kind of job, one that will enable you to learn something about yourself or give your life some direction.”

  The heavy teak chair skidded across the bluestone as Sean pushed back from the table. He jumped to his feet, his fists balled at his sides. “I’m almost twenty-one years old! You can’t tell me what to do.”

  Bill set his fork on his plate and slowly wiped his mouth with his napkin. “As long as you’re living under my roof, I most certainly can.”

  Jackie and Bill watched their son stomp off toward the house and slam the door.

  “You handled that well, honey,” she said. “I guess this is what they mean by tough love.”

  “If the attitude we just witnessed is any indication, our love will need to get a hell of a lot tougher if we want to get through to him.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Sam

  After a restless night of worrying about her mother and the future of their family’s business, at six on Wednesday morning, Sam gave up on trying to sleep and shuffled to the front door for the newspapers. She enjoyed reading the Post and Courier for local news and goings-on in and around Charleston, but they subscribed to the Prospect Weekly solely for mention of Eli’s many successes as a PPD detective. She hated contributing a dime of her hard-earned money to Donna Bennett’s tabloid. Every year when she wrote the check to re-up her annual subscription, she considered canceling. But she couldn’t do that to Eli. He would never admit it, but he got a kick out of seeing his name in print.

  In the kitchen she skimmed the front section of the Post and Courier while she brewed coffee and waited for the water to boil for poached eggs. She was spooning two eggs onto toast when Eli stumbled into the kitchen, bare chested, with his cotton pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. He fell onto the banquette and removed the rubber band from the Prospect Weekly. He blinked and then rubbed his eyes with his balled fists.

  “Uh-oh.” He brought his hand to his mouth as his eyes scanned the front page.

  “Uh-oh what?” she asked, glancing down at the paper as she slid his breakfast plate in front of him. The headline on the front page of the Prospect Weekly read, “Lovie Sweeney Reveals Secret Recipes.” Sam snatched up the paper. “What the heck?” Beneath the headline was a photograph of an index card with the recipe for their steamed crab spice blend scrawled across it in Lovie’s scratchy handwriting. The article, written by staff journalist Janice Beckman, reported that the fire at Captain Sweeney’s Seafood Market had put an end to fifty-nine years of business for the Sweeney family. As a parting gift, Lovie was sharing three of her treasured top-secret recipes. In addition to the spice blend, those recipes were for her cheese grits casserole and pecan pie.

  “Ugh!” Sam rolled up the paper and slapped it against the granite countertop as though swatting a fly. “I’m going to kill her! She’s not getting away with this.”

  Sam strode angrily out of the kitchen and across the great room to the master suite. She dug through the laundry basket on the floor for a pair of running shorts and a dry-fit tank. She dressed, brushed her teeth, and slipped her feet into her navy Crocs.

  She collided with Eli in the doorway on her way out of the room. “Where are you going?” he asked, stepping aside.

  “Where do you think I’m going?” she snapped. “I’m going down to that rag of a newspaper and give Donna a piece of my mind.”

  “I’m going with you,” he called after her. “Give me a minute to dress.”

  “I’ll wait five minutes,” she called over her shoulder. “If you’re not out by then, you’ll have to drive your own car.”

  Eli hurried out, running shoes in hand, three minutes later. She shifted her Wrangler into gear and took off down the driveway. “She’s obviously guilty, Eli. I don’t understand why you haven’t arrested her.”

  “I told you, honey,” he said, combing his dark, wavy hair into place with his fingers. “We don’t have any evidence.”

  “What do you call that?”

  He follo
wed her gaze to the rolled-up newspaper sticking out of her handbag in his floorboard. “A game changer. Donna has some explaining to do. This definitely links her to the rotten fish as well as the fire.”

  “Although the recipes are important, they aren’t the real issue,” Sam said. “What matters more is that Donna broadcasted to the entire Lowcountry that Sweeney’s is out of business, which is simply not true. When I was a little girl, the Prospect Weekly, which was the Prospect Daily back then, had a solid reputation for providing unbiased world and local news. Sure, they printed a weekly society column like all newspapers back then. But nothing they ever printed defamed any of our townsfolk. Donna’s parents would roll over in their grave if they saw how their daughter has cheapened their paper.”

  The newspaper’s offices had once occupied both floors of a redbrick building at the corner of Main and Maple. The decline in print circulation in recent years had forced the paper to reduce the size of its staff. As a result an attorney’s office had taken over the entire second floor.

  “We’re here to see Donna Bennett,” Sam announced to the attractive middle-aged woman behind the counter in the reception area.

  The woman peered at them over her tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Who may I say is here?”

  “I’m Samantha Sweeney, and this is my husband, Detective Eli Marshall.” She snapped the paper open in front of the woman’s face. “We’re here about this.”

  The color drained from the receptionist’s face. “I’ll let her know you’re here.” She punched a number on the desk phone and spoke softly into her headset. “There’s a Samantha Sweeney and her husband here to see you.” She listened for a minute. “I’ll tell her.” The woman looked up at them. “Mrs. Bennett is in a meeting right now. Her assistant will be out to speak with you shortly.”

  “She’s not getting rid of me that easy.” Sam rounded the desk and burst through the double doors behind the receptionist.

  “Wait! You can’t go back there.”

  Sam increased her pace. With Eli on her heels, she marched down the corridor checking the nameplate on each door until she found Donna’s office. She barged through the closed door. Donna sat behind her desk with a smug, cat-that-swallowed-the-canary expression on her face.

  “Your receptionist said you were in a meeting. Do you pay your employees bonuses to lie for you?” She dropped the paper on Donna’s desk. “You have some explaining to do.”

  Donna sat up straighter in her chair. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  Eli stepped in line beside Sam. “You’re under obligation to reveal your sources, if not to Sam, then to me.”

  Donna pressed her lips tight.

  “We can either talk here or down at the station,” Eli said. “Your prerogative.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” Donna said. “Lovie Sweeney mailed the recipe cards along with a typed letter to one of my reporters.”

  Sam gawked. “That’s not possible! My mother—”

  “Sam!” Eli said. “Let me handle this.” He jabbed at the paper with his finger. “Did your reporter think to check the credentials of her source?”

  “Why would she have any reason to doubt her source?” Donna asked in a nonchalant manner. “We all know that Lovie Sweeney is the sweetest, most honest woman in town.”

  Sam rolled her eyes at Donna’s sugary-sweet tone of voice.

  “We need to speak with this reporter. Get her in here.” Eli inclined his head at Donna’s desk phone. “And ask her to bring her supporting documents.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Anything to get you to leave my office.” She lifted her phone’s receiver and summoned Janice Beckman to her office.

  Sam recognized Janice as the reporter who had been with Donna at the market the day after the fire. Her snug-fitting denim dress and silver platform heels were only slightly more appropriate than the red-sequined dress she’d worn that day.

  Eli held his hand out to her. “I’m Detective Eli Marshall, and this is my wife, Samantha. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the article you wrote for this morning’s paper.”

  “I’ll help in whatever way I can, although I don’t know much. I received these in the mail.” Janice handed him a manila file folder.

  “I assume your fingerprints are all over these,” Eli said.

  Janice’s face fell. “I had no reason to question my source.”

  Eli opened the file. The letter lay on top. Sam read over his shoulder—a three-sentence statement with Lovie’s typed signature declaring the fire at Captain Sweeney’s Seafood Market had ended the fifty-nine-year business she had started in 1958 and that as a token of her appreciation she was sharing her three most treasured top-secret recipes.

  “Anyone could’ve sent this letter. The message, including the signature, is typed in the default font for Microsoft Word on standard printer paper. Did you think about calling Lovie Sweeney for an interview? Her story could’ve embellished your feature.”

  “Am I in some kind of trouble, Detective?” Janice asked.

  “No, you are not in trouble. Although next time, I caution you to be more thorough in your investigation.” He dismissed Janice with a nod. “You may go now.”

  He waited for Janice to close the door before turning his attention back to Donna. “You, however, are in a boatload of trouble. I have more reason than ever to believe you may have started the fire at Sweeney’s.”

  Donna scrunched her face up, and Sam thought, She really should consider a facelift.

  “What did I do?” she asked in a shrill voice.

  “You allowed this article to appear in your newspaper, for starters. Sensationalism, I believe they call it. This is not public knowledge, but whoever started the fire at Sweeney’s stole her box of recipe cards. And you have three of those recipes in your possession. You saw an opportunity for a front-page story, and you fabricated the letter to make it look as though Lovie Sweeney sent it.”

  “Someone mailed them to my reporter,” Donna snarled. “The envelope is in the file.”

  Eli thumbed back through the file until he found the envelope. “Right. Typed in the same font and postmarked Prospect. Who’s to say you didn’t mail the cards to Janice yourself?”

  Donna placed her hand on her chest as though offended by his accusations. “Why on earth are you trying to pin the fire on me when everyone knows Sam started it?”

  Sam brought her fist down on Donna’s desk. “You’re a liar, Donna Bennett. And you’re not going to get away with this. I’m going to put your rag of a newspaper out of business if it’s the last thing I do.” Sam spun on her heels and stormed out of Donna’s office and out of the building.

  Eli caught up with her in the parking lot. “Are you okay, honey?”

  “No! I’m not okay! I’m furious.” She eyed the folder in his hands. “Are you gonna do something about this or not?”

  He slumped against the hood of her Wrangler. “I’ll try, sweetheart. But I’m not making any promises. I know she looks guilty, but the evidence has to hold up in court. Your mother’s medical condition places us at a disadvantage. We can’t put Lovie on the stand to testify that she didn’t send the letter or that the recipe box was in the market at the time of the fire in the first place.”

  “So you’re saying she’s guilty as sin, but without more proof, you can’t arrest her.”

  Eli hung his head. “Pretty much, yes.”

  “That means I’ll never get my insurance money. I’m going to save my market with or without your help. I’ll post a banner at the market so everyone who drives by will see it.” Sam tossed her hands in the air in front of her. “It will say, ‘Coming Next Spring. Captain Sweeney’s Seafood Redo.’”

  NINETEEN

  Jamie

  Jamie and Lizbet said goodbye to Annie in front of her house and walked along the uneven sidewalks, heading south for one block to Tradd Street and then west for three to the Hornes’ house. It was the Wednesday night before Memorial
Day weekend, and they’d just finished working a party for a young couple engaged to be married in December.

  “I don’t feel right living at your house for free,” Jamie said, ducking under a low-hanging crape myrtle branch. “We made a deal. You and Brooke need to give me some chores so I can earn my keep.”

  A slow smile crept onto Lizbet’s lips. “Be careful what you wish for. We’re having a truckload of mulch delivered on Saturday.”

  Jamie grinned. “As it happens, I’m an expert at spreading mulch.”

  Since Jamie had quit his job at the Roost and accepted the Horne sisters’ offer of a place to live, on the nights he’d stayed in Charleston, he and Lizbet had gotten into the habit of having a nightcap with Brooke on the porch before turning in. But Brooke was already in bed when they got home.

  “I’m not surprised. Brooke was exhausted when I saw her earlier. She’s been working around the clock on a big project.” Lizbet unlocked the bolt and turned the knob. “Do you want a beer?”

  “I probably shouldn’t. I have to get up early tomorrow and drive to Prospect. I’m meeting Sean at seven to work the inlet.” Jamie walked over to the swing and plopped down. “Let’s sit for a minute anyway, since Brooke has vacated her throne. I guess I won’t get to tease her this evening for being a swing hog,” Jamie said with a laugh.

  Butterflies fluttered in his stomach when Lizbet sat down next to him. “It’s so nice out tonight.” He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the swing, feeling the gentle breeze on his face.

  Lizbet inhaled deeply. “I smell fresh-cut grass and ligustrum. Summertime is here.”

  Jamie opened his eyes. “How do you know so much about gardening?”

  “My mom taught me. But I still have a lot to learn.” She settled back on the bench, tucking one foot under the other leg. “Tell me something about yourself, Jamie, that I don’t already know.”