Musseled Out

by Barbara Ross

  “Did you see anyone? At the marina when you left or out on the water?”

  “No one.”

  “If you were hauling traps all day, why were there no lobsters in the tank on the Abby yesterday?” Livvie’s question—where are the lobsters?—echoed in my ears.

  “I didn’t catch any lobsters.”

  “You didn’t catch any lobsters!”

  “Julia, will you quit repeating everything I say? It was just one of those days.”

  It was certainly possible to haul traps for a full day and not get any lobsters, particularly at this time of year when lobstermen were moving their traps to deeper water, trying to get ahead of the migrating lobsters. The traps would come up empty, or the lobsters inside would be too big or too small, or egg-bearing females that had to go right back into the water. So it was possible Sonny had worked all day and had no lobsters to drop off at the lobster pound, but unlikely. Bard Ramsey was a highly skilled lobsterman. I was sure the Ramsey family traps were well placed.

  “What about your GPS? Won’t that show where your boat went?”

  “Stop talking like I need some kind of alibi. I told you. I wasn’t with Peter. I didn’t have anything to do with Thwing’s death or whatever happened on that boat.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  He rolled his big shoulders, which were spanned by the suspenders that held up his orange overalls, still called oilskins even though they were now made from PVC or rubber. “It’s obvious isn’t it? Thwing is out with Peter, looking at properties for his restaurant, like you said. The stupid landlubber gets his leg caught in the trapline and goes overboard with the traps. Peter jumps in to save him and detaches the traps before hypothermia sets in. Thwing is then hanging on the rest of the line, which gets caught in the propeller and hauled under the El Ay. Peter’s unconscious from the cold by then. He drowns. End of story.”

  Though Sonny narrated his version of events as if he were telling a story about a trip to the grocery store, his voice was husky with emotion.

  “Lieutenant Binder says Thwing was bashed on the head before he went into the water.”

  “Those traps fly off the back of the boat at tremendous speed. If you got caught in the line, you’d hit your head about a dozen times on the deck and the rails before you went over.”

  I had to admit, it was the most plausible version of events I’d heard. We stood in silence for a moment. I put my hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry about your friend, Sonny.”

  “Thanks. Now will you please tell your sister I had a good reason for missing Peter’s boat yesterday and get her to back off?”

  “You want Livvie to accept my say-so without hearing what the ‘good’ reason was? How long have you known my sister? You must know that won’t work.”

  “Julia, please.”

  “I don’t want to be in the middle of this,” I said, reflecting once again that I never should have said yes to Livvie’s request that I talk to her husband. I looked up and faced Sonny squarely. “You need to tell your wife what happened yesterday morning.”

  “But you can see that—”

  “Talk to your wife, Sonny.”

  Chapter 9

  “Ms. Snowden! Are you here to give your statement?”

  Sergeant Flynn stood in the open doorway of the police station, eyeing Sonny and me where we stood at the end of the sidewalk, obviously engaged in an intense conversation. No one was fooled. Flynn didn’t believe I’d happened to arrive to give my statement just as Sonny was leaving, and neither Sonny nor I believed Flynn believed it. I squinted at Sonny, throwing my best “tell it to your wife, buddy” look, and answered Flynn. “Yes, that’s what I’m here for.” Why not? Better to get it over with.

  When Flynn ushered me into the multipurpose room, I was surprised. During their previous investigations, Binder and Flynn had taken the whole space over and filled it with whiteboards, computers, and boxes of documents. This time, they sat together at a small table in the corner. Maybe it was too early in the investigation for all that other stuff. My hopes rose. Was it possible the medical examiner might still conclude, as Sonny had, that Thwing’s death was an accident?

  Lieutenant Binder stood up from his seat at the long conference table. “Julia.” Binder’s voice was warm when he greeted me.

  In the spring, when there’d been a murder on Morrow Island, I’d been desperate to save the clambake business and determined to reopen as quickly as possible. Binder had been determined to preserve his crime scene and methodically investigate the crime. Our relationship had been tested again over the summer when an employee of the clambake had become a murder suspect. My view during that investigation was Binder had used me to gain information while lying to me, or at least withholding critical information about the case. He’d apologized and we’d made peace. The truth was, we both knew I’d been instrumental in solving each of those cases.

  It didn’t take long for us to go over my sighting of Peter Murray’s lobster boat. Binder nodded encouragingly as Flynn took notes. They also recorded my statement.

  “Did you see any other boats in the narrows?” Binder asked. “Maybe before you began to wonder about the El Ay?”

  “None.” I knew the question was critical. The crew of another boat could be suspects or witnesses. “Quentin Tupper lives across from Morrow Island on Westclaw Point. He visited me for lunch, then left from our dock on the Atlantic side around one-thirty p.m. He would have sailed around the island and crossed the narrows on the way to his dock. Maybe he can tell you if the El Ay was in the channel then.”

  I spelled Tupper’s name for Flynn and looked up his cell number on my phone. I felt terrible as I did it. Quentin Tupper answered to no one and accepted no obligations. His whole life was constructed so he didn’t have to be in any particular place at any particular time. The last thing he’d want would be to be questioned by the police.

  Then Binder asked me about my interaction with Thwing the previous morning.

  I told them what had transpired when I’d met Thwing on the pier.

  “So not a nice guy?” Binder said.

  “No, not nice,” I confirmed. But people rarely got killed just for being jerks. “The rumors are flying around town. Some people think Thwing’s murder, and especially Peter’s disappearance, have to do with Coldport Island.”

  “The lobster war,” Binder confirmed. “We’re investigating all possibilities.”

  I stood to go.

  “One more thing. Your brother-in-law was just here,” Binder said. Flynn looked up from his note taking, but didn’t announce he’d found me talking to Sonny in the parking lot. I didn’t mention it, either. “You might let him know he’d be better off telling us the truth about where he was yesterday.” Binder’s tone wasn’t accusatory. It was kind.

  Sonny had told them the truth about the crazy phone call, so they must believe he was lying about what he’d done the rest of the day. Again, Livvie’s question about the missing lobsters echoed in my brain. “I’ll tell him. You can’t believe Sonny had anything to do with David Thwing’s murder.”

  “I’m not willing to give you that reassurance,” Binder answered. “Besides, the direction this investigation follows may not be entirely up to me. By this time tomorrow, it may be out of my hands.”

  He stood, and Flynn did, too. They’d told me all they were going to.

  May be out of my hands. What did Binder mean by that? Was there some prosecutor in the background pushing him toward Sonny? Or was it because there were other agencies involved, like the Coast Guard and the Marine Patrol?

  I jogged the short route from police headquarters to my mother’s house. Still no car, still no Mom. My note sat unmoved on the kitchen table. I called Livvie.

  “Sonny’s home,” she whispered. “In the shower. Did you talk to him?”

  How had I gotten myself into this? “Yes, I did. He had a good reason for missing Peter’s boat.”

  “Did he tell you what this good rea
son was?”

  Livvie had been sad and scared when she’d first talked to me about Sonny’s lie, but now she was angry. I had to get out of this. “You need to talk to your husband.”

  “He won’t talk to me. I’ve never seen him like this. Tell me, do you believe what he told you, whatever it was?”

  I did. I believed he’d received the awful phone call. It was too bizarre to be made up. But I didn’t believe he’d floated around all afternoon without catching any lobsters.

  I hesitated too long. Livvie said, “I see.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay, Julia.”

  Clearly, it wasn’t. Before she could hang up, I asked, “When’s the last time you talked to Mom?”

  “I dunno. Sunday?”

  Livvie and Mom normally talked every day. “Do you know where she is? Because she’s not at the house.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. Our mother is a grown woman,” Livvie said. Exactly what I had thought. “I have more important things to worry about.”

  I had to admit she did.

  After I hung up, I sat for a moment in the still kitchen. How could I help my sister? My brother-in-law had offered me a portion of the truth, but it raised more questions than it answered. Who would have called him with such a terrible story and why? He’d accounted for his morning up until he’d gone to his dad’s house at ten o’clock, but nothing after that. He’d lied about where he’d been, even though the state police were in town conducting a murder investigation. And they didn’t believe him, either.

  The faster the murder got solved, the faster suspicion moved away from Sonny and perhaps he would tell my sister what he’d been doing yesterday afternoon. And the faster things could return to normal.

  At least that was the theory.

  Lorrie Ann had said to Sonny, “If you’d been there, this never would have happened.” What did she mean by that? How would Sonny’s presence have changed the outcome? And what did Lorrie Ann believe had happened aboard the El Ay?

  I decided to find out.

  Chapter 10

  The Murrays lived in town, a short walk from Mom’s. I didn’t have much of a strategy beyond asking Lorrie Ann what she meant when she said if Sonny had been on the El Ay things would have turned out differently.

  I assumed the Murray house would be filled with people. Lobstering was a dangerous profession, so the spouses tended to stick close together, supporting one another, especially in tragic circumstances. Normally, I would’ve expected Livvie to be there, but after the scene at the marina, I understood why she wasn’t.

  On the way, I stopped at the bakery and bought a dozen cranberry muffins. Since it was quarter to four, the owner threw in two more for free, emptying the case. I hoped when I got to Lorrie Ann’s house, I’d blend into the crowd.

  When I reached the Murrays’ block, I was surprised how empty it was. No parked cars lined the street, no children played in the yard.

  The Murray house was on the downslope of the harbor hill, attached to its neighbor on one side, without a view or much land or charm—in short, anything that would make it too expensive for a young working family to afford. The dark gray paint on the house was peeling; the roof shingles were frayed and missing.

  There was a toddler’s red tricycle on the front porch, which was crowded with cardboard boxes, outdoor furniture in various states of usability, and rubber boots and waders. Before I reached the steps, I heard a child whoop inside, then another protested and started to cry. A female voice I didn’t recognize calmed the crying child as I knocked on the door.

  I stood on the porch in the afternoon sunshine, suddenly feeling ridiculous with my white baker’s box tied with string. This was a house of mourning. I had no business here, but it was too late to turn and run.

  I heard a rumble across the floor. The door opened and Lorrie Ann’s mother stood there. “Oh, hello, dear.”

  I thrust the baker’s box forward a little too aggressively. “I’ve brought some muffins.”

  She blinked at the box zooming toward her, then turned into the house, pushing a walker in front of her. She had a rocking motion to her walk, one leg obviously stronger than the other. “C’min, c’min. I’m Belle, Lorrie Ann’s mother.”

  I took one step forward and was in the little living room, which was strewn with toys and dark because the curtains were drawn. A giggle erupted from behind the sagging couch and a little girl, maybe three, poked a head full of blond curls out. A toddler poked his head out too, his eyes trained on his sister for clues. Was I friend or foe?

  “This is Mavis and Toddy.” Belle rolled on past them toward the threshold to the kitchen. “PeeWee’s around here somewhere.”

  PeeWee?

  She answered my unspoken question. “Peter Junior.”

  A moment later, a whip-skinny boy darted out of the hallway and ran around the living room as the other children screamed and chased him.

  “Hush!” Belle hissed. She waved me toward the kitchen table. “Tea?”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “No, no. Nice to have company. Stop running!” she shouted toward the sounds of chaos rising in the living room.

  “Is Lorrie Ann here?”

  “Down cellar.” Belle rolled over to a door nearby, opened it, and bellowed, “Lorrie Ann, company!”

  “I told you, no visitors,” Lorrie Ann shouted back.

  “Well, ya got one anyway. Get up here.”

  “Inna minute!”

  If I’d been uncomfortable before, this conversation caused ten times more awkwardness. “I’ll go,” I said to Belle. “I only came to bring the muffins.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Belle responded. She was petite, shorter than my five foot two, and had steel-gray hair pulled back in a bun and a throaty, smoker’s voice.

  The kettle whistled and Belle poured the water into three mugs, quickly dunking a single tea bag in and out of each of them. She rolled toward me and set the mug down, without the offer of milk or sugar, or one of the muffins I had brought. She made a second trip with her mug and then eased herself into the battered kitchen chair opposite me, wincing as she did.

  “Had my hip replaced a month ago,” she explained. “Too many years standing on the line at the cannery.”

  The cannery had closed when I was ten, done in by frozen food and better packaging and shipping that brought fresh fish to American supermarkets. Nonetheless, if Belle had worked at the cannery from the time she was a teenager, it would have meant twenty years on the line, a long time to be standing all day.

  The basement door flew open, and Lorrie Ann stood, panting slightly and holding a huge basket of folded clothes. With three children under six, apparently household chores didn’t stop because the man of the house was lost at sea.

  “Oh, it’s you. Come to try to patch things up between me and your unreliable brother-in-law?”

  I jumped to my feet. “Lorrie Ann, I am so sorry about what’s happened. I’m sure Sonny never thought any harm would come to Peter. He was”—how to say this?—“unavoidably detained.”

  She made a noise like humpf.

  “Do you want to sit? Would you like some tea? I’ve brought muffins.” I was babbling, offering her food in her own house. She stared out at me from under her long brown bangs and said nothing. She was small like me, though curvier.

  She didn’t respond, but she didn’t move, either, so I kept trying. “I am so sorry about what’s happened. I understand you’re . . .” I hesitated to use the word grieving, because I saw no signs of grief. If Lorrie Ann still held on to hope, I didn’t want to be the person to take it away. “I do wonder,” I continued, “why you thought Sonny being aboard the El Ay would have made a difference. What do you think happened?”

  She still didn’t respond, so I tried again, more calmly. “If you know what happened, or what might have happened on board your husband’s boat, you need to tell the police.”

  “I’ve spoken to the police t
wice,” she said wearily. “Endless questions.”

  I was dying to know what the questions had been, and how Lorrie Ann had answered, but she remained standing, laundry basket still in her arms.

  Throughout our conversation, Belle sat at the kitchen table, eyes ping-ponging between her daughter and me. There was a crash, a yelp, and a cry from the living room. Lorrie Ann said, “Mother.”

  Belle got up and wheeled away to investigate.

  “Please go,” Lorrie Ann said to me. “I asked my mother not to let anyone in, but she’s . . .” Her shoulders moved up and down, an invitation to fill in the blank about her mother. Independent? Contrary? Thinks she knows what’s best?

  “Of course,” I said. I was in her home, after all, and it was obvious she wasn’t going to answer my prying questions.

  She didn’t walk me to the door. I made my way back across the living room, dodging the running children and the toys.

  Belle looked up, a teary Mavis in her lap. “Come see us again,” she said in her smoker’s rumble.

  I let myself out.

  I stood on the sidewalk in the sharp-focused, deeply slanted shadows of the late afternoon. The Murray household seemed to be in a state of suspended animation. Peter might have been away on an overnight fishing trip. I hoped if he had drowned, as everyone but Lorrie Ann seemed to believe, the Coast Guard would find his body, and find it soon, for his family’s sake. How long could Lorrie Ann go on as she was, refusing the support of her friends, acting as if nothing had happened?

  What to do next? Sonny claimed that, after he’d missed meeting Peter, he’d gone to his dad’s house, arriving around ten. There he’d seen both his father and brother, Kyle, who’d been “under the weather,” unable to accompany Sonny to haul traps.

  If Sonny was lying about what he’d been doing the afternoon of the murder, he could only lie about it easily because he’d ended up on the Abby alone. I went along to the Ramsey house to confirm what Sonny had told me. The more parts of Sonny’s story I could nail down as true, the more I could zero in on the lie and the reasons behind it.