Against the Claw

by Shari Randall

  “She didn’t have a wallet,” Franque said. “That cheap bag was stuffed with stacks of cash.”

  * * *

  I texted Bronwyn and a few minutes later she knocked at the screen door of the Mermaid’s kitchen.

  Aunt Gully insisted we eat, so we took lunch, chowder for me, a lobster roll for Bronwyn, chips, and drinks out to the picnic table behind the shack.

  Bronwyn wore her beige Mystic Bay Police Intern polo and black biking shorts. “How’s Lorel doing?” She had leaned her bike against the lobster shed.

  I shrugged. “She’s not one to share.” Some sisters shared everything, but that wasn’t Lorel and me. We were too different. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  Bronwyn bit into her roll. “About the Girl with the Pitchfork Tattoo—”

  My heart rose. “Did someone ID her?”

  Bronwyn shook her head. “A few people came in, some legit, some nuts. Some disappointed people thinking that she was their family member. I mean, she fit the description for several missing persons, some who’ve been missing for years. Some of these folks were clutching at straws, since she died so recently. It’s sad.”

  I sipped lemonade. “I’ve been thinking about it. This girl could’ve gotten the pitchfork tattoo after she went missing.”

  “Precisely. All this Girl with the Pitchfork Tattoo stuff is misleading,” Bronwyn said.

  “So the police are going on—”

  “The basics. Missing persons reports. Age, height, weight, hair color. Eye color. Dental records would work. But they can only match those after they have a potential ID.”

  “What color were her eyes?” I shuddered, thinking of her face.

  Bronwyn licked her fingers. “They think brown. The autopsy wasn’t as helpful as they thought. The body had deteriorated quite a bit.”

  I set down my spoon.

  Bronwyn smiled. “You’d never want to be a medical examiner. Thing is, I think they’ve discovered something big.”

  “What?”

  Bronwyn chewed a handful of chips. “Just a feeling I got. Sometimes with identifications, the police’ll withhold something, something only a friend or family member would know.”

  “But you don’t know what that something is?”

  Bronwyn’s round, cheerful face was usually an open book to me, but since she’d begun working with the police department she’d become more reserved. More careful.

  She ran a hand through her hair. “The investigators are playing that close to the vest. Hopefully I’ll be able to find out soon. There’ve been some leaks to the press. But it sounds like you found out something from Franque?”

  Had Bronwyn Denby changed the subject on me? I told her what Franque said.

  “That’s cool. Wish I didn’t have to run.” Bronwyn put on her bicycle helmet. “I’ll pass it to the investigative team.”

  “I have a feeling Franque’s probably already called them,” I said.

  “Thanks for the lobster roll, Aunt Gully,” Bronwyn called in through the screen door of the shack. “Talk to you later.” She wheeled her bike into the parking lot.

  I set my chowder aside. What did Franque’s memory mean? The girl had a lot of cash? And what was the “something big” that the police were holding back?

  Bit Markey emerged from the lobster shed with a bucket. His nose was sunburned but he was smiling.

  “You got some sun.” I gathered my trash and tossed it in a bin.

  Water sloshed as Bit set down the bucket of live lobsters. “Sammy and I went out in his canoe.”

  “Cool. Where’d you go?”

  “Cat Island and the Harbor Patrol didn’t even hassle us this time.” He grinned, picked up the bucket, and hurried into the kitchen.

  They’re probably too busy with all the drama with Patrick and the girl I’d found, I thought with a pang.

  Chapter 29

  That evening, rehearsal was halted while the director blocked Eden’s scene. Henry and I sat in the darkened audience toward the rear of the theater.

  Onstage, Eden spoke with the director while crew jockeyed scenery into position. Our director, a New York hotshot in skinny jeans and a polo shirt, was usually peremptory with cast and crew, but now was deferential, almost servile in Eden’s presence.

  There was a quiet buzz of repressed excitement. Cast and crew hovered in the wings. Several sat in the audience. The secret was out. Everyone in the theater knew that the “German soprano” was the chart-topping pop star. Professionals who’d performed with some of the most famous names in theater lurked in the wings, star-struck. Thank goodness. This took pressure off me. I couldn’t stand to talk any more about Patrick or the Girl with the Pitchfork Tattoo.

  “So you’re a magical mermaid.” Henry grinned. “Freaking awesome.”

  “The technical term is sea sprite.” I smiled but was conscious of my sweaty rehearsal clothes. “I’m only in the show for a couple of set pieces, one when Eden sings in her grotto and one at the end, when Ondine and her lover go to mermaid heaven.”

  “A tragic but beautiful end.” Henry gave me a sly, sideways smile.

  “That’s showbiz.”

  “And you do it all in the harness,” he said.

  “Mostly I’m sitting on that boulder.” I pointed to a craggy resin boulder stage right. Two crew members draped it in netting and fake seaweed. As Henry turned his head, the scales-of-justice tattoo on the back of his neck peeked above the collar of his snug T-shirt.

  “So you’re not exactly dancing,” Henry said.

  “Lots of arms, some harness work. It’s perfect since I can’t dance full-out on my ankle yet,” I said.

  “How’d you hurt your ankle?” Henry turned toward me and put his arm on the back of my seat. My heart rate kicked up a notch. I became hyperaware of the heat of his skin, only a millimeter from mine.

  I told him the whole story, from the tumble down the stairs back in Boston to my harness training.

  “I hope you’re healed one hundred percent soon.” Henry’s voice was soft in the dim light. “It’s hard when you can’t do what you love. What makes you feel alive.”

  Violin music swelled from the orchestra pit. Eden’s voice soared.

  Henry’s eyes met mine.

  “Not just feel alive, you know? What keeps you alive,” Henry said. “Like oxygen.”

  My mouth went dry. “Like oxygen.”

  Eden’s song ended and the cast burst into applause. Henry took his arm from the back of my seat and clapped. “I hear her sing almost every night and I still can’t get enough.”

  The spell was broken. “I heard you and Eden left Harmony Harbor.”

  “Yeah.” Henry snorted. “Stellene and Eden. Two divas together. Fireworks!” He made an exploding gesture with his hands. “Stellene’s pissed because she can’t get on her yacht. It’s a crime scene but all she talks about is taking Tinsley to Greece. So we’re going to stay with Mac Macallen in Mystic Bay.”

  “Oh, the guest barn,” I said.

  “The barn’s fantastic, but it’s probably only a matter of time before people figure out we’re there. I mean Eden. Nobody cares about me.”

  I care. His eyes held mine and I had an overwhelming urge to kiss him.

  Verity slid into the row behind us, bumping the back of my head with a box. “Ow!” I rubbed my head.

  “Eden’s amazing.” Verity handed the box to Henry.

  “My top hat’s in here?” Henry said.

  “Oops! I forgot. This is Eden’s dress.” Verity looked at the ceiling. She was a terrible liar. “I’ll get the top hat to you at Harmony Harbor as soon as I can.”

  “We’ve moved from Harmony Harbor,” Henry said.

  “Oh! I bet they’re sad you’ve left,” Verity said.

  “Well, maybe Tinsley.” Henry laughed. “When we were at Harmony Harbor she followed me like a puppy. She’s bored to death but can’t go out until she heals completely from her kidney transplant.”

  A shoc
k went through me. “She had a kidney transplant?”

  Verity gasped.

  Henry nodded. “When she was in Greece, she did some binge drinking, some local stuff that was practically poison. Ended up hospitalized, kidneys shut down. Almost died, plus she lost the sight in one eye.” I remembered the way Tinsley tilted her head when she talked to me. “She was on dialysis, then they got a donor. Just like her dad, I guess. Tinsley really wanted us to stay but Eden, when she makes up her mind, there’s no changing it.”

  Suddenly the nurse made sense. The way Tinsley always covered her mouth with a scarf. Like a surgical mask? “That’s why she wasn’t with the guests at Stellene’s Fourth of July party,” I said. “Why she had a nurse and stayed away from the crowds.” Except when she was talking to me in the conservatory.

  “Guess so,” Henry said. “Doesn’t seem that she’s very good at following doctor’s orders.”

  Abruptly the houselights came up.

  Verity jutted her chin toward the front row. “Who’s that guy?”

  I hadn’t noticed the man in the front row. His bushy brown hair was pulled back in a man bun. He turned and I recognized the man I’d seen with Eden at Harmony Harbor.

  “Lars,” Henry said. “Eden’s partner.”

  “Are they a couple?” Verity blurted. “Eden and Lars?”

  “Yeah. They’ve been together for years.” He gave me a look. “Did you think Eden and I were—”

  “Um, no.” I exchanged a look with Verity.

  “We traveled together here on the yacht and I think that made some people assume we’re a couple. I heard some people at the party talking. We’re just old friends,” Henry said.

  That was what I’d sensed. They acted almost like brother and sister. Eden had known how he liked his tea. The blanket and pillow on the couch of the yacht—he hadn’t slept in the stateroom with Eden, he’d slept on the couch.

  Henry stood. “Please don’t tell anyone where we’re staying.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “I won’t. I don’t even know,” Verity said.

  Henry took the large box, thanked Verity, and joined Lars.

  I turned to Verity. “Did you really forget the top hat?”

  Verity smiled. “You bet I did.”

  Chapter 30

  After rehearsal, I showered and changed, and Verity drove us to New Salt. A sign on New Salt’s door said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT. Music thumped, but it was Irish folk music. Spar was giving Patrick an Irish wake.

  Verity’s phone rang. “I have to take this. I’ll catch up,” she said.

  I walked into the bar.

  A dozen women, all in their mid-twenties to thirties like me and Lorel, all beautiful, in black dresses too short and heels too high for a wake, crowded one side of the room, flicking mascaraed looks at each other. They made me think of crows trapped in a cage. A murder of crows.

  There was also a knot of middle-aged men in too tight navy blazers and suits. Cops and Harbor Patrol, many of whom stopped by the Lazy Mermaid for free coffee.

  “Hey, when’d you go all Miami Vice?” One cop joked with two men in dark jackets over pastel polos, heavy gold watches, and slicked-back hair. The men laughed too loud then sipped their beers. A couple of the cops shifted their weight and threw shamefaced looks toward the dining room, where Mrs. Yardley sat with friends in a booth.

  Kate, the hostess who’d seen me run up to Patrick’s room, stepped through a door to a patio. She leaned on the railing overlooking the marina and lit a cigarette.

  I joined her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She glanced at the girls at the bar and rolled her eyes. “It’s a wonder Patrick got any work done. It’s a wonder anyone got any work done. All these beautiful people busy hooking up.”

  In my mind a little video clip played, Lorel climbing those narrow, steep stairs to Patrick’s room, a little drunk, leaning on Patrick’s muscular shoulder. I pushed the image away.

  Kate pulled a wrap tight across her shoulders. “Nothing lasted with Patrick. It was just sex. You had to understand that.”

  Light caught on the delicate gold nose ring and deepened the lines that ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth. Kate was older than I’d thought. She was quiet for a moment, a moment that told me that these were Patrick’s words to her. “You have to understand that.”

  Another woman carrying a torch for Patrick Yardley. I swallowed my impatience.

  I remembered the night I’d stormed up to Patrick’s room, still wondered if the story Margot had told me was even true. What had she said? I heard he was living with some waitress who moved in with him back in May. “A young woman worked here recently, who was dating Patrick—”

  Kate finished her drink in one long gulp then swirled the ice cubes. “Lots of girls worked here. And dated Patrick.”

  “Really recently. Um, you know my sister, Lorel, right? Was he living with someone else right before her? Or at the same time?”

  “Your sister was a little different for Patrick.” Kate blew a long stream of smoke. “Classy. Not that I was keeping track, but they all marched right past my hostess stand. But, yeah, there was one. Just before Lorel. She was different, too.”

  “Different? In what way?”

  “First woman who seemed to call the shots with him,” Kate said.

  My heart fell. Lorel didn’t call the shots with Patrick. “What was her name?”

  She frowned and rubbed her eyes. “Hayley, I think. She worked here for a while, a month or two ago. Then left. Petite. Cute. Long straight blond hair.” She put her hand almost at her waist. “Beautiful,” she said begrudgingly. “Lots of girls work here then leave. A regular revolving door, that’s New Salt.

  “I actually thought to myself, Patrick’s finally met his match.” Kate snorted. “She stayed even less time than most. He didn’t hire them for their work ethic, that’s for sure. She was gone fast.” She took a long drag on her cigarette.

  “Do you know where she lives?” I asked, “or where she moved after she left Patrick?”

  She shook her head. “We worked different shifts. Maybe another one of the servers or kitchen staff would know.”

  So Margot wasn’t lying. Poor Lorel.

  I hurried through the restaurant, to the stairs to Patrick’s room. I wanted to see if there was anything in his bedroom that could tell me about Patrick’s last hours, would tell me why he was at Stellene’s yacht. Police tape crossed the bottom of the stairway. Just as I was about to slip under the tape, a man came through the door at the top of the stairs and started down.

  I stopped short and turned aside, pretending to check my phone. The guy was trying to be quiet but he was heavy. It was one of the men I’d seen earlier, with the too tight jackets and slicked-back hair. He bent awkwardly and hunched under the tape, knocking it away from the wall on one side. He put it back, patted his hair into place, and walked back to the bar.

  And what are you looking for, Mr. Miami Vice? I made sure the coast was clear then hurried up the steps. A notice posted on the door was written in all kinds of legalese. I ignored it and turned the handle. There were scratches on the wood by the lock.

  Had that guy broken in? Just now?

  I slid in and closed the door, dampening the Irish music from downstairs. I flicked on the light and gasped.

  Drawers from Patrick’s desk and bureau had been pulled out and the contents dumped on the floor. Clothes had been pulled from their hangers and the pockets turned out. I stepped carefully around clothing and papers and went to the bedroom. The mattress and box spring slumped off the bed frame, as if someone had checked underneath. Bedding ripped from the mattress was piled in a corner.

  In the bathroom the cabinet was open, bottles, boxes, and toothpaste jumbled in the sink. Even the top of the toilet tank had been removed.

  I kicked through the pile of clothes on the floor, shirts and ties, workout gear, a leather jacket. I bent to pick up a blue striped tie, ran my fing
ertips over the costly silk. Lorel had bought it for Patrick. I tossed it back into the pile of clothing.

  There was Irish music blaring and lots of conversation below, but not loudly enough to hide the sound of someone tossing furniture around like this. Had this been done earlier, before the wake? Had it been like this before the police came? Or had the police done this?

  What did Patrick have that someone wanted badly enough to do this? What were they looking for?

  Drugs? Money? Maybe a list of Patrick’s drug clients?

  What had Lorel said? His backers. Not nice people.

  I eased the door open and hurried downstairs.

  Just as my foot touched the bottom step, Mr. Miami Vice turned the corner.

  For a moment I froze, then I dipped my head sideways, so my hair would fall forward and hide my face. I giggled and pretended to sway. “Oopsies, ladies’ room isn’t up here. It’s over there.” I scurried across the hall to the ladies’ room and slammed the door.

  Two girls waited in line for stalls.

  My pulse raced. I felt unsafe, exposed. Who were these people searching Patrick’s room?

  I counted to twenty and peeked out the door. The man was gone. I returned to the bar.

  Hayden was there, surrounded by a bunch of guys holding bottles of beer.

  “Hayden, you have to see something.” I tugged his hand and he followed.

  Hayden pointed at the police tape. “Allie, you went inside?” Disbelief tinged his voice.

  “Yes. Just go in,” I muttered. “You have to see it.”

  Hayden was quiet as he surveyed the first room, then pushed into the bedroom and the bath, taking stock. His breathing quickened. “Allie, go downstairs, okay?”

  “But Hayden, the guy who was up here, he’s downstairs in the bar,” I said.

  Hayden took a deep breath and took both my hands in his. His forehead was creased, his warm brown eyes worried. “Okay. Show him to me. Then, I want you to stay away from this, okay? Don’t get yourself involved. Please, Allie.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. I nodded. My stomach twisted. What had I done? Broken through police tape, gone someplace I wasn’t supposed to be. Why was Hayden acting like this? He wasn’t a cop. He worked for a marine insurance company.