by Ellis Quinn
“It’s not how it sounds, Marcus. Detective. Prissy was being dramatic.”
Pris said, “I was being dramatic, Marcus.”
Marcus had his head down, hand scribbling on his little notepad. Bette asked him what he was writing.
He said, “Two days back and you’re going after Royce, huh? I thought you’d have let all that go.”
“I did leave all that go. I told you I found his floats.”
Now Marcus’s eyes met hers again, and they stared at each other. She would do anything to see him smile. Smile like she used to see him smile. Instead, they locked gazes. His big crystal blues on hers, but all she could see was him surmising her. Contemplating her. He said, “All right, how long you back for?”
“For good.”
He nodded. “I’m going to want to talk to you.”
“I can’t believe you think you need to talk to me.”
“That’s how these things go, Bette. You had an altercation with the deceased yesterday.”
Bette wanted to protest, wanted to fight back, but then thought how she’d lost control and become so emotional yesterday and embarrassed herself in front of everybody and all the trouble it got her in. She felt tongue-tied; her mouth was open, but she said nothing. Pris and Marcus stared at her, and in her periphery, she could see the walking girls breaking up, beginning to spread out at the guardrail, looking like they wanted to head back to town now.
In the wake of her newfound friends seemingly abandoning her, she found her words, saying to Marcus, “Great, Marcus, now all anybody’s going to talk about”—she looked at the women she’d gossiped on the church grounds with this morning heading away—“is how I’m a suspect in Royce’s murder”
Marcus was patient, looking at her. He said, “Nobody said a thing about murder yet, so now—you have an alibi for last night, Bette?
“An alibi? So I am a suspect? Was he . . . murdered?”
“Just tell me you were somewhere I can verify. Were you somewhere someone saw you?”
“No,” she said, slumping. Unless you want to talk to Ripken. “I was at home. I was a Fortune.”
“And you were there by yourself?”
“Of course I was there by myself,” she said, looking at him grimly.
He wrote that down on his pad.
“Marcus, Royce wasn’t the most popular guy in town. You know that. I can’t believe you think I’d have something to do with . . . this,” she said, gesturing down toward the legs and boots she could still see between hunched over ambulance people.
“You never did like him.”
“Nobody liked him, Marcus. You’ve lived here longer than me. You know that. The guy crabbed where he wanted it, the guy hunted where he wanted. . . . How many times you have to drag him in for something? Fighting, drinking . . . He’s a liar, a cheater, and you think some crab floats on my property are going to set me off?”
“Everybody else was afraid to confront him except you.”
“I didn’t confront him. If I’m willing to go and talk to him, doesn’t that make me less likely than someone who bears a deep-seated grudge?”
“Or maybe you were the pot most ready to boil over,” he said.
“Boil over?” There came that seething red heat on her cheeks and neck again. “How can you—”
Pris squeezed her elbow. Bette bit her lips, scowled at Marcus.
Marcus said, “Maybe you shouldn’t say anymore, you’re only making it worse.”
“Worse?”
Prissy stroked her arm, took grip just above her elbow. “Come on, Bette, come on and let’s stretch our legs, head back to town—Mister Marcus, you know our number, call if you think you need us.”
THAT AFTERNOON
What had been Earl’s Restaurant when Bette was last in the Cove was now a pretty place for coffee called The Steaming Bean. On a quaint tree-lined side street just a half block up from the wharf, Earl’s used to be a place where the watermen would get their cup of joe in the mornings, Earl filling up their thermoses and his stout wife Emma frying up eggs from a dozen hens they kept in the backyard and packing sandwiches. Now the street was filled in by businesses, far more welcoming, and busy with foot traffic—it’d been a narrow street with homes and an auto garage, but now the homes’d all become little shops, boutiques, and eateries.
The plain white cottage home that had been Earl’s was now bright mango-peach, tropical and friendly. A patio out front with rainbow-striped umbrellas popped open over a half dozen tables. Gold letters up top, fixed on the board and batten under the white line arrow point of the roof trim, read: THE STEAMING BEAN.
Bette said, “I’d love a coffee but I don’t think I’m in the mood for caffeine right now, Prissy, I’m jittery as it is.” She held out flat her shaking hands to prove it.
Pris gripped them, held them steady, stroked Bette’s knuckles with her thumbs. “Herbal tea, hon. I can’t wait for you to meet my new friend, Cherry—you’re gonna love her. She’ll make you right.”
“She works here?”
“Owns the place,” Pris said, releasing Bette’s hands with a soft slide, tickling her palms with her fingernails like she used to when Bette was little.
Owning the cafe would make Pris’s friend too busy to join the walking group—but why on earth would anyone Pris’s age want to run a hectic business like this? Pris headed alongside the half wall that enclosed the patio, and Bette followed.
Pris said, “Cherry just settled here in the Cove—she’s from California.”
“Over the Bay on the Patuxent?”
“No, California on the Pacific. She’s from the west coast.”
“I do love what she’s done with the place. I love the colors.”
“Cheery, isn’t it? Bet you feel better already,” Pris said, winking, hip-bumping open the door for Bette to go ahead.
“Not really,” Bette muttered as she passed, low and quiet so Pris wouldn’t hear. It wasn’t Pris’s friend’s cheery cafe’s fault she couldn’t be cheered. She’d just been suspected of murder by a man from her past whom she cared a great deal for when she was a googly-eyed teen. Her stomach slithered.
The cafe was warm and homey inside; most of the house’s walls removed, the space was open and painted the color of maple sugar, amber light coming from table lamps and shaded lights above the glossy pine tables; a step-up at the back wall led to another seating space; on their left was the serving counter, a hulking black-painted wood monstrosity with ornate carved corners and pressed-tin tiles; it looked like something historical from an architectural salvage place—a bar from an old big city speakeasy.
Behind the counter a girl with glasses frantically worked, taking orders, joking, spinning to pour or crank on the espresso, grinding beans, then darting back to take cash or call out someone’s order was ready. When the girl saw Pris as they passed near the counter behind a lineup of three, her face lit up even brighter—an absolutely contagious smile on her young face. Maybe there was hope Bette’s spirits could be lifted.
The girl winked at Pris; she was beautiful, tall and graceful, hair flat to her scalp in thick glossy cornrows, tied high on her crown, long goddess braids falling over one shoulder of her white dress shirt. From a swing-door behind the counter, an older white woman emerged holding a tray of steaming biscuits. The woman’s chunky red earrings jostled as she slid the tray into a glass display case. “Red currant biscuits,” she said aloud.
The younger woman, clacking keys now on the antique cash register, repeated it, calling out, “Hot red currant biscuits from the oven.”
Chairs scraped on the floor as a few customers rose to claim some freshly baked biscuits. The girl smiled, then took the next customer’s order. The older woman slid in behind the younger one to take over the cash register, cheeks rosy red from the frantic pace, her silvery hair tied back with a cowboy’s handkerchief. She waved to Pris.
“We’re gon be on out the back,” Pris said, then waved for Bette to follow as they passed
through the front room seating and up the step at the back wall.
What Pris called “out the back” was a covered and screened in patio room on wood decking. Timber supports held up trellis rafters, and the roofing material was opaque corrugated sheeting that let the sunlight filter in, muted and soft. The rafters were strung with cords that held paper lanterns in rich colors, tiny lights twinkled in them, and carved wooden herons in flight supported over some of the tables gently twirled from the motion of the ceiling fans.
There were only two available tables; a four top and a table for two by the back window that looked out on the garden. They took the one by the window and as she sat, Bette could see that not only was the backyard large and teeming with gardens, there was a wood fort with a sheet metal roof raised up in the center on short stilts; it was painted in bright colors, and almost two dozen chickens clucked and strutted up and down the fort’s ramp—they had free rein of the fenced-in space.
“Cherry’s got her own chickens?”
“Don’t you remember Earl and his wife? They had chickens.”
“I don’t think I ever ate here,” Bette said, setting her butt down on the padded chair. “This was a place for the old dudes.”
“Yeah, the crabbers,” Pris said, shifting her chair in close to the table. “Cherry loved the chickens, so she kept them when she bought the place. Fresh eggs every day.”
Bette snatched up a menu held in a stainless diner’s stand. “What do you recommend?”
“Thought you weren’t in the mood—had to drag you in here and all.”
“It smells really, really good in here. Got my stomach growling.”
“You oughtta know by now to trust your auntie.”
“You always know what’s best for me.”
“But you don’t always listen,” Pris said smugly, then held up a menu to read.
Bette said, “Hey—”
Coming up the step now was the young girl with the glasses. She held a tray with coffee cups on saucers and a plate of those red currant biscuits. She came straight toward their table.
Bette whispered, “Your friend Cherry knows about service.”
Pris turned to look over her shoulder. “There she is,” she said happily.
The young woman set down the tray at their table, then pulled over an empty chair from the four top and set it at the outside of the table.
Pris said, “Bette, I want you to meet my friend Cherry here.”
Bette said, “Oh, you’re Cherry?” Then felt stupid and showed it on her face. She rose to greet Cherry.
Cherry laughed, and they both shook hands. Cherry’s hand was warm and soft. She said, “Oh, you thought Terry was Cherry?”
Bette said, “Who’s Terry?”
Pris groaned and said, “Keep up, Bette. Cherry’s Cherry, she hired Terry, Terry’s the woman out front. Anyway, Cherry, this is my brilliant niece, Bette, who’s got a lot on her mind this morning.”
Bette let Cherry’s hand go and rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Cherry. Pris said you owned the cafe, and you were friends, so I thought Cherry’d—”
“Be the woman your Auntie’s age?”
“Pretty much,” Bette said, embarrassed enough to rest her palm over her forehead and feign a look of faintness.
Cherry laughed and hugged her. The warm greeting was unexpected but very welcome. She hugged her back.
Cherry said, “Your aunt’s the finest woman in the Cove and I wouldn’t be here without her guidance.”
“That’s my Pris,” Bette said. Their embrace came apart and the two of them sat at the table.
They all removed coffee cups and the platter of biscuits and the bowl of whipped butter, and Cherry set the tray aside on the table behind them.
Pris said to her, “You got a minute, Cherry?—looked busy out there.”
“I can spare five or ten, Terry’s got control.” She turned then to Bette, elbows on the table, hands hugging the backs of her arms, leaning to talk close. “Pris’s been so excited you’re back in the Cove, she’s been bubbling over.” Then that big smile faded a moment, and she said solemnly, “Sorry it took your Grandma Pearl passing to bring you here. I loved seeing that woman. She always brightened my day.”
“I’m glad Pearl had you all to keep her in good care. Wish I’d been around more,” Bette said glumly.
“I wanted to introduce myself at the funeral, but I didn’t think it was the time. I catered the memorial—your Aunt Pris arranged it,” Cherry said, nodding and smiling to Pris.
“Oh, that was you?” Bette said, raising her face, “Okay, yeah, I remember—it was fantastic, those sandwiches . . .”
“Crab and avocado grilled cheese?—You want me to fix you up one right now?” Cherry said, butt-shifting out of the chair, already on her way to do it.
Bette stopped her, saying, “No, it’s okay, Cherry, sorry, I don’t feel much like eating right now.” Her eyes flicked down to the platter of biscuits; hot steam rose from their baked-golden crusts, the tops spotted with cranberries, flecks of lemon zest peppered on the top. “I mean, I’m going to eat some of these biscuits,” she said, and they all laughed.
Pris said, “There’s been a bit of a hubbub this morning, Cherry, maybe the news ain’t made it down here on Madsen Street, but it’ll be coming. It’s bad news, and Babette’s been implicated.”
Cherry said, “Implicated in what?”
“A murder,” Pris said, letting Cherry take the beat to show a shocked face before continuing: “Old Man Royce’s body washed up on the shore by the causeway this A.M. and Marcus Seabolt thinks somebody killed him.” In Bette’s periphery she caught Pris side-nodding her head in her direction.
Bette sighed, rubbed her face, told Cherry: “I did something really stupid yesterday and now it’s coming back on me.”
Cherry said, “I heard.”
“You did? Really?”
“All the gossip comes through here—it’s a coffee shop. Pris wasn’t kidding saying news hadn’t reached here but it would. It’s all anybody’s going to talk about all afternoon.”
Pris said, “I think this one’s gonna last more than an afternoon.”
“What did you hear?” Bette said to Cherry, “What are people saying?”
Cherry vacillated, determining how she’d best say it, and Bette told her: “Don’t sugar coat it.”
“Not bad,” Cherry said, looking up at the swaying heron above their table. “Just . . . you really let Royce have it. Threw a drink in his face and—”
“Hey, no, wait. I almost threw a drink in Royce’s face. I didn’t do it.”
Cherry shrugged and gave an apologetic smile. “I guess some people like to embellish.”
“It’s a national pastime,” Pris said, sipping her coffee.
Bette sighed, dragged over the cream and poured a generous serving into her coffee. Hang the caffeine shakes, she wanted the coffee bad right now. Plus sugar . . .
Pris said, “Try one of these biscuits, Bette, Cherry’s the best baker in town.”
Cherry said, “I hope these are okay, it’s a new recipe.”
They spread soft whipped butter and it melted into the doughy mattress of the torn open biscuits. They were warm and lovely, tender but slightly chewy; the cranberries were dried but still plump, and when she exhaled Bette could smell the fruity lemon. “Wow, these are good,” Bette said, crumpling against the table.
“Thanks,” Cherry said, sipping coffee then biting a biscuit. She patted her lips with a napkin. “Terrible about Royce, though. I feel bad for his family.”
“And here’s us stuffing our faces without a care in the world,” Pris said, then added: “Oh. Cept you, Bette.”
Cherry said, “You’re so mean, Pris.” Cherry’s brow furrowed as she contemplated. She asked Bette: “Do you have an alibi?”
Pris said, “No, she doesn’t. I was with her at her place till seven, but after that she was alone, far as I know.”
Bette pulled off another bite of bi
scuit with her teeth. Mouth full, she tried to say: “I was alone with Ripken.”
Cherry asked who Rippen was and Pris said, “Ripken. That’s my nephew’s cat. Bette’s cat-sitting for her son.”
“He’s at sea,” Bette murmured, hand covering her mouth while she still chewed.
Pris said, “Boy’s a scientist. Marine biology.”
Cherry said, “I wonder when was the last time anyone saw Royce?”
Pris and Bette looked at each other and shrugged. They both said they didn’t know. Pris said, “No one liked Royce, Bette,” and rubbed her wrist, “so don’t worry, there’s gonna be no shortage of suspects in this town.”
“Still, an alibi would help since you had that blow up at The Crab,” Cherry said.
Bette said, “I hated myself as soon as I did it, now I hate myself even more. I never should have gone after him. Shoulda—”
Cherry said, “Don’t fret it. Pris is right. No one liked Royce—that man had a way of rubbing the kindest in the Cove the wrong way. He used to visit Earl’s every day, but he’s never come in here but once.”
Pris scoffed. “Royce isn’t your clientele, Cherry, darling.”
Cherry said, “I worried it’s . . .” and held out an arm.
“The time?” Bette said, looking at Cherry’s thin and simple watch. Cherry and Pris frowned in her direction. Oh no, stupid, we’re talking about Royce. “Oh. That. Maybe. Wouldn’t surprise me about Royce. That puzzle piece snaps right into place.”
“Maybe it’s best he didn’t come in anymore then,” Cherry said and shrugged lightheartedly.
But Bette went after her. “But Royce did come in here?”
“One time.”
“And then never again?”
“No,” Cherry said, not seeing where this was going.
“And it’s better he didn’t come in?”
Cherry looked to Pris, then back to Bette. “It’s better he didn’t come in,” she said sweetly.
Bette narrowed her eyes on Cherry, scrutinizing her. “So you’re saying you didn’t like him, either.”
Cherry narrowed her eyes. “We avoided each other.”
Bette cocked her head, lips firm. “Because you didn’t like him?”
