“What do you know about shamans?” Jimmy asked.
McCord stiffened a little, his head tipping a couple of degrees off vertical. “Shamans?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Son of the shaman,” McCord said. “You didn’t come almost halfway around the planet to ask me that.” He lifted his mug again, blowing across the top and staring at Jimmy.
“You have one here?” Jimmy asked.
“Monty. Been here for a couple of decades.”
“Monty?”
“Ed something. Edwin? Edmund? Montgomery. Everyone calls him Monty.”
“What’s he like?” Jimmy asked.
McCord took a swig of coffee and placed the mug back on the table with a little click. “Hell if I know. I see him wandering through. Know him enough to talk to. Older guy, but you’d never guess how old he was to look at him. Clean living and fresh air, I guess.”
“I’d like to meet him. He around?”
“What’s this about anyway?” McCord asked.
“Wild goose chase as far as I can tell,” Jimmy said, taking a swig of coffee. “Flanagan suggested I should come out here.”
“Jack Flanagan?” McCord asked.
“You know him?”
McCord nodded. “Know of him, at least. Monty curses his name on a semi-regular basis.”
“How regular? Quarterly?”
McCord snorted. “Try daily.”
“Any reason?”
“As far as I can tell, just because he’s alive,” McCord said.
“That strike you as odd?” Jimmy asked.
“You don’t know Monty.”
Jimmy laughed. “Monty a complainer, is he?”
McCord leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and cradling his mug in both hands. “What are you really looking for, Jimmy?”
“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “I was talking to Flanagan about this new grievance. He sent me out here.”
McCord’s eyebrows rose slowly. “New grievance?”
“Maisie McIlheny. Challenging the shaman rule.”
McCord’s expression slammed down like a storm shutter in a gust front. “What exactly were you talking about?”
“With Flanagan?”
McCord nodded.
Jimmy watched a vein in McCord’s neck throb for a few heartbeats. “I wondered who was stirring up the women.”
“How do you mean?” McCord’s scowl relaxed a fraction.
“More women challenging the rule. This McIlheny woman is the second in two stanyers. It’s like they’re picking up momentum. One tries and fails, then another one.”
McCord said, “And you think this has something to do with Troy Harbor?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know, Steve. Flanagan said I should visit. I’m visiting.”
McCord pursed his lips and peered into his coffee cup.
“Where are the women, Steve?” Jimmy asked.
McCord looked up. “What women?”
“The women shamans,” Jimmy said. “I asked Flanagan. He sent me here. You’re too good a rep to not know what’s going on in your own town.”
“There aren’t any women shamans. By definition.” McCord took a long pull from his cup. “That’s the company position, isn’t it?”
“That’s what home office says,” Jimmy said. “They keep winning the arbitrations.”
McCord placed his cup onto the table with the faintest of taps. “That seem right to you, Jimmy?”
“Right’s kinda slippery,” Jimmy said. “What kind of right? Fair? Correct? Conscionable?”
McCord shook his head. “You need to talk to Monty.”
“What’s he going to tell me?”
“All the residents of Troy Harbor either work for the company or are married to somebody who does.”
Jimmy nodded. “That’s kind of a given, isn’t it? What’s the problem, Steve?”
“We have a nice quiet town here.”
“We both want to keep it that way,” Jimmy said.
McCord stared at him for several long moments. “You like pie?”
The non sequitur surprised a laugh out of Jimmy. “Who doesn’t?”
“Eunice Winston up at the Muddy Grounds makes a damn fine apple.” McCord raised his eyebrows. “Just up the street between here and the tram station. Feel like taking a walk after your long flight?”
“Will Monty be there?” Jimmy asked, weighing the offer.
McCord flexed one shoulder up and down in a half-hearted shrug. “Might be. Tide’s comin’ in. If he’s on the beach, he’ll be back soon.” He paused for a couple of heartbeats. “Unless you wanted to go chasing down the beach after him?”
“He have a cottage?”
McCord gave a single, slow nod. “Head for the pier, hang a left, and follow the water. He’s got the stone cottage on the other side of the headland.”
“The other side?”
“He likes his privacy.”
Jimmy looked into McCord’s face for a few seconds before tipping his mug and draining it. “This is pretty good coffee, but you know what it needs?”
“Pie?” McCord asked, the hint of a smile twitching his lips.
“Pie.” Jimmy stood. “You coming?”
McCord stood but shook his head. “You’ll do better without me there.”
Jimmy let that idea roll around in his head for a moment. “Your town,” he said.
McCord smiled. “Company town. I’m just the caretaker.”
Jimmy held out his hand. “Fair enough. I’ll check in before I leave.”
“Your pilot need anything?” McCord shook Jimmy’s hand.
“Probably refueling. Him and the bird.”
McCord nodded. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks.”
“All part of the service,” McCord said.
* * *
Jimmy found the restaurant by following the aroma of fresh bread and brewing coffee. A sandwich board on the sidewalk read “Fresh Coffee – Made Weakly!” A bell jingled when he pressed through the glass door.
A woman wearing a white bib apron and a welcoming smile looked up from behind a counter along the back. “Howdy. What can we do you for today?”
Jimmy took a quick survey of the room, mostly empty except for four women plying knitting needles and crochet hooks at a corner table. They surveyed him in return with variations on interest, concern, and a smidgeon of challenge. He nodded. “Ladies.”
He crossed to the counter and took a stool in front of the woman. “I heard Eunice Winston makes a damn fine apple pie.”
“You come to check yourself?” the woman asked, putting a hand on her hip and leaning on the counter.
“I’m willing to risk it,” Jimmy said.
“You want somethin’ with it?”
“Coffee smells good.”
“Tastes better,” she said. “You want some?”
“Please.”
“You want something with the pie?”
“Like what?” Jimmy asked.
“Scoop of ice cream? Slab of cheddar?” She shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. “Bowl of chowder?”
Jimmy’s stomach grumbled and he nodded. “Sold.”
One of the women at the corner table cackled. “Way to upsell him, Eunice!”
Jimmy glanced in that direction but all four of them had their heads down.
The white-haired woman on the far side of the table looked up from her needles, giving Jimmy a steely-eyed stare. “Not every day we see the big boss here. Makes me wonder what he wants.”
“Bet it ain’t pie,” the woman to her right said, shooting a side-eyed glance at Jimmy.
“Don’t mind them. They’re just bored,” Eunice said, pouring a heavy china mug full of coffee and sliding it onto the counter in front of him. “One tick. I’ll get your chowder.” She bustled off through a swinging door.
The faint sounds of crockery clattering came out of the kitchen interspersed with the clicking of knitting needles from the corne
r.
Jimmy looked over and saw the white-haired lady gazing at him, fingers working her knitting without looking.
“We know who you are, Mr. Pirano.”
He nodded. “I’m not surprised. Not everyday somebody drops a flitter on the pad, is it?”
A brief smile twitched at her lips. “Nothing travels faster than gossip,” she said.
“What’s the gossip say about me being here?”
Her fingers paused their task for a moment and she glanced down, pulling up some loose yarn before picking up the stitch again and staring him in the eye. “Says you’re fishing,” she said.
Her answer surprised a short laugh out of him. “True enough, I guess.”
“For what?” she asked.
Jimmy shook his head and sipped his coffee. “I don’t really know.”
She snorted. “Damned poor fisherman, if ya ask me.”
The brunette next to her snickered but kept her head down.
Eunice came back with his bowl of chowder and a plate of biscuits. She slid it in front of him with practiced ease and a big grin. “Get that in you. See how you like it.”
Jimmy leaned over the bowl and took a whiff. The blended aromas of onion, bacon, and thyme wafted on a breeze of fresh seafood. He looked up at Eunice. “Smells great. Thanks.”
She nodded at the table in the corner. “They giving you guff?”
Jimmy glanced in that direction and shook his head, grinning. “Not at all. Thing is, she’s right. I’m a damn poor fisherman.”
Eunice looked at the group in question and her eyes narrowed. “That seems like an awkward thing to say to the boss.”
The white-haired lady stared right back, never missing a beat with the needles.
“She’s right,” Jimmy said again. “I have no idea what’s in the water, no clue as to how to catch it, and nothing to use for bait.” He shook his head and stuck a spoon into the bowl in front of him. “That’s a damn poor fisherman. No argument from me.” He took his first tentative taste of the chowder and forgot about the audience for a tick while he gave the bowl some well-earned attention.
“Lemme check the pie,” Eunice said. “Rate you’re going through that bowl, you’ll be needing it sooner rather than later.”
The group at the table laughed but it seemed that maybe—just maybe—the ice had begun to melt.
* * *
Jimmy thumbed the tab and left the diner, heading back toward the shoreline. The midafternoon sun felt good on his face, an onshore breeze pulling the scent of fish and fuel from the harbor.
McCord met him halfway. “How was the pie?”
Jimmy patted his stomach. “You didn’t lie but she makes a mean chowder, too.”
McCord nodded and fell into step as Jimmy continued toward the flitter. “She does. Everything she touches turns to gold. Even that diner.”
The words seemed freighted. Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Franny Osborne used to run the diner for us,” McCord said.
“It’s a Pirano property?” Jimmy asked.
McCord nodded. “The only eatery in town.”
“You have a pub?”
McCord nodded again and pointed to a utility building near the docks. “Couple of the boys started brewing their own beer in one of the empty sheds. It’s pretty good.”
“But that’s not one of ours?”
“No,” McCord said. “The Urquhardts run it. They pay us rent on the shed. It falls under the ‘ancillary products’ rule.”
Jimmy nodded. “You were telling me about the diner.”
“Oh, yeah. Anyway. Franny got tired of the business. Got old enough to retire and moved to the highlands to be near her great-grandkids. The building stayed empty for a couple of stanyers until Eunice stepped up and said she’d do it.”
“Only eatery?” Jimmy asked. “How’d it stay closed that long?”
McCord ran a hand over his mouth as if wiping away a smile. “Let’s just say, nobody missed Franny’s cooking.”
“Hard to miss what you didn’t use?”
“Yeah,” McCord said. “Something like that.” McCord stopped at the edge of the flitter pad. “Eunice didn’t have any real qualifications for running the place but nobody else wanted it. I gave her a shot at it. Took her about three weeks to get the place cleaned up and ready to serve. It’s made a small but steady profit ever since.”
“What’d she do before that?” Jimmy asked.
“Born and bred here. Knows everybody in town. Deckhand on one of the trawlers. Never worked up the chain. Seemed content from all appearances.”
“Suddenly took a hankering to run a diner?”
McCord snorted. “I think she got tired of not having a place to go to dinner after a day underway.”
“Think he’s back from his walk?” Jimmy asked.
McCord glanced at the harbor. “Probably. Tide’s gonna be full in another stan or so. He won’t want to get his feet wet.”
Jimmy started down the street toward the pier.
McCord fell into step. “You met the girls?”
“The sewing circle there?” Jimmy asked.
“Knitting circle,” McCord said. “They’re there most days. Keep Eunice company.”
“I don’t know that ‘met them’ is the right phrase.”
McCord grunted as if he’d been punched. “I’m not going to have trouble with them, am I?”
“Not from me.”
“Nan give you any guff?”
“Nan?” Jimmy shook his head. “Didn’t get any names except for Eunice.”
“Whip thin. Shock of white hair. Sharp tongue.” McCord glanced at him.
“She had some words. Nothing I’d take offense at. She had me pretty well dialed in. Maybe better than I do myself.”
McCord’s head bobbed a couple of times and he stared at the paving under their feet. “She’s the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“She lived here long?”
“Yeah. She’s lived here longer than I’ve been alive.” McCord cast another a glance at Jimmy.
The comment surprised a laugh out of Jimmy. “Older than the Ole Man?”
An offhand line, but McCord worried the side of his mouth a bit before nodding. “Maybe. She’s over a hundred. Looks more like seventy. Acts more like seventeen, but she’s a hell of a lot shrewder than anybody I’ve ever met. Any age.”
“What’s her connection with Monty?” Jimmy asked.
McCord shrugged and cast a glance over his shoulder as if to see who might be following them. “None on record.”
Jimmy gave the man a stare. “But ...?”
“They’ve both been in Troy Harbor longer than I have. Maybe just familiarity. They helped build the town. Supported the earliest crews.”
“What was her position?” Jimmy asked.
McCord frowned. “That’s the hell of it. Far as the records go, she didn’t have one.”
“Didn’t have one or you don’t have the records?” Jimmy asked.
“The archives are all online. I know who did what when from the first day. The official record anyway. She must have had a job or she’d have been kicked upstairs. I’m damned if I can find it. It’s all apocryphal. All anecdotal. No data.”
“Married?”
“A few times. Couple of her exes are still alive.” He shrugged. “None here.”
“What’s Nan’s full name?” Jimmy asked.
McCord stopped and looked at Jimmy. “You’re not going to cause trouble with her, are you?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not if I can help it. I didn’t come here to kick sleeping dogs.” He glanced back up the street and shook his head. “I’m not sure why I’m here, but I think I’m beginning to get a hint about what had Flanagan spooked. I’m hoping Monty will have the missing piece of this puzzle.”
“Annette Nelsen.” He spelled it out. “No middle name.”
Jimmy nodded. “So all those women are shamans. Right?”
McCord’s eyes
widened. “What?”
“The knitters. Eunice. All of them. They’re shamans,” Jimmy said.
McCord’s brows slammed down in a frown. “They can’t be. They’re women.”
Jimmy ran a hand over his scalp and stared at McCord. “You’re not that dumb. You think I am?”
“No. Crap. No. Of course not,” McCord said. “It’s just they can’t be shamans. They’re not sons of shamans.”
“Splitting my own semantic hairs isn’t helping me, Steve. Lemme rephrase it. How many women in this village have the gift?”
“How the hell would I know, Jimmy?” McCord’s face had taken on a ruddy hue that had nothing to do with the sun or wind. “Does anybody know what this mythical gift is?”
“I’m pretty sure Monty knows,” Jimmy said. “Shamans claim to recognize it in each other.”
“Leaving the rest of us to trust them,” McCord said. He shook out his hands and blew out a breath, turning his head to stare out to sea. “As far as I know, it’s religion. That’s all. Some people get it. Some don’t. Some believe in some deity or other. Some believe in whelkies. Some believe in nothing.” He looked into Jimmy’s face. “What I believe is that every time one of these women goes up against the company, things get shaken up a little bit more.”
“Shaken up how?” Jimmy asked.
“People get tenser. More anxious.”
“You see that here?”
McCord nodded. “Shows up in the stats. More arguments. Fist fights.”
“You know it’s because of the shamans?”
McCord looked away for a moment before squinting at Jimmy. “No. Not exactly.”
“Could be coincidence?” Jimmy asked.
McCord shook his head. “Maybe. I noticed it last stanyer with that Davis woman. Happened over the winter when the crews were all ashore. Tempers get short.” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
“I do,” Jimmy said. “What’s changed your mind?”
McCord looked back out to sea as if searching the horizon for his next words. “Generally, things smooth out when the boats go into the water. People got stuff to do. Work out their differences.”
“I hear a but,” Jimmy said.
“It settled down a bit but started ramping up again in the early summer. About the time McIlheny decided to file her grievance.” McCord looked at Jimmy. “Why a woman on the other side of the planet would make a difference to the fishermen here? No clue.”
Cape Grace Page 11
