by Ellis Quinn
When her phone buzzed she jumped. It’d got her heart racing, and she made an uncomfortable giggle at her own reaction. Marcus laughed as the interruption loosened some of the tension. It didn’t even occur to her not to check her phone—she flipped it over, saw she’d just got a voicemail message from Roman. Never should have looked.
She flipped the phone face down again, growled with frustration, grabbed the bunny ear ties of her kerchief and tightened them like she could strangle off the vexing thoughts of her ex-husband.
Marcus said, “Someone else going on your hit list?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” she said, setting her palms down on the island counter and taking deep breaths.
Marcus stayed on his elbows a moment while she still gathered calm, then slowly he stood, upended his coffee, then set the cup down on the counter with a soft clunk. “Thanks for the coffee, Bette. I should get on out of here . . .”
She sighed, shook her head. “Sorry, it’s . . . divorce stuff.”
“You’re getting a divorce?”
“Got a divorce.”
Marcus’s mouth slimmed. “That guy Roman?”
“Yup. But just when you think it’s over—it’s not over.”
No words of sympathy from her big old friend, just him staring down at her with that expressionless mug, not letting her know what he was thinking. He said, “You here alone?”
“Yeah. Me and a cat who was tormenting me just before you got here, now seems to have run off to find new prey.”
“Well, you take care, Bette. I’ll be in touch.” With that, he reclaimed his hat, holding it to his chest and meeting her eye.
She said, “I know you know in your heart, Marcus, I could never kill Royce. Now, if Roman turned up dead, I’d expect you at my door.”
Marcus didn’t smile or answer; no change in his expression either.
She snuffled, frowned, and cocked her head at him. “Hey, you know I’m kidding—I’m only trying to be funny, Marcus.”
“You were always trying to make me laugh,” he admitted, nodding gently, giving her a soft but uneasy smile.
She folded her arms, looked around. “I did not kill Royce Murdoch.”
A long beat of eye contact, then Marcus nodded once, said, “Thanks again for that coffee,” then turned to head out of the kitchen. At the edge of the hallway, he paused, half-turned his profile to her, saying, “I hear word going round that Detective Prissy’s on the case—you think you could maybe remind her who’s the real detective around the Cove and try not making it harder for me to do my job?”
“My aunt Prissy, you’re well aware, does what she wants, but if she finds out anything, you’ll be the first to know, I swear it.”
Marcus said, “If she’s gonna get in my way, I might just think she’s aiding and abetting.”
“Aiding and abetting . . . Who, me? Helping me cover a murder? Come on, Marcus . . .”
“You just tell that nice but very busy woman this town’s already got a detective, would you?”
Now he continued down the hall, but she followed and called out to him as he was heading out the screen door, putting that cop hat on his nice head of hair: “Hey.”
Marcus paused on her front stoop, holding the screen door. “What?”
She shrugged a shoulder, said, “Can I drag in Royce’s traps now or are they like evidence?”
THAT EVENING
Bette sat on the back bumper of Pearl’s old Bronco, hands on knees, loafer toes shuffling crescents in the granular scratch of The Cracked Crab’s parking patch. The whole stamp of ground they were planted on was over top of millions of crushed oyster shells that had been shucked in the hundreds-year old shucking house that existed before the shucking house that would eventually become The Cracked Crab. The night air was briny, and though the afternoon had been gray, the storm never came, and now the night sky was clear. Stars twinkled above while her stomach growled below. She checked her watch.
Dinner tonight for three at the very place where she’d embarrassed herself, going toe-to-toe with a man who didn’t even deserve her attention. What she should’ve done—what her grandma Pearl would’ve done—is drag Royce’s grubby floats up, smash his traps, and steam up any crabs that were in them. But Bette Whaley liked to make a spectacle, apparently.
The sound came now of inflated rubber on the macadam—a bike headed her way—and she turned to see Cherry rolling down the path between the courthouse and the post office on a beach cruiser. She dismounted, keeping one foot on a pedal and coasting up to the Bronco, long ankle-length skirt flapping behind her, black, printed with tiny flowers on vines. Then she hopped off, smiling, and walked the bike to meet her.
“You rode your bike here?”
“My cottage is just around the corner,” Cherry said.
Bette nodded. “I remember when I was younger, all I ever did was ride my bike around the Cove.”
“I’m starving,” Cherry said, walking her bike past the sandwich board advertising the crab shack’s evening specials, leaning it against the ox-blood painted wall.
Bette said, “I’m famished, too,” as she steadied herself, preparing to enter what must be the epicenter of Bette Whaley oriented gossip. Took a deep breath, Cherry held open the door, and they entered. She was greeted by an old friend. A six-foot tall bearded Sea Captain carved in wood. And old habits die hard; she gave the captain a quick knuckles-to-forehead salute—an old and hearty ritual.
Behind her, Cherry laughed. “What the heck was that?”
She laughed now, too, imagining through Cherry’s eyes how ridiculous that must have looked. “Old high school ritual.” She rested a palm on the captain’s varnished shoulder. “This grizzled old Sea Captain’s sure afraid of mutiny. You have to give him a salute to show that you’re unarmed. He’s afraid of getting stabbed in the back, so he likes to see you’ve got an empty right hand.”
Cherry imitated the salute she’d just seen Bette give, clicking the heels of her strappy sandals together and snapping knuckles to her forehead.
“Good,” Bette said, “now we can enter,” and she held open the second door for Cherry, who also patted the captain’s shoulder before she passed.
Bette followed, hiding behind Cherry’s mane of hair, Cherry saying to the hostess, “Table for three on the patio, please, Prissy’s reservation—Pris’s coming a minute behind.”
Sure enough, anyone who wasn’t a tourist eventually had eyes drifting Bette’s way as they crossed through the restaurant, went up the three steps, through the busy dining room, down the steps and onto the patio dock. All the waitresses, the bartenders, even the hostess now spotting who hid behind the girl with the beautiful braided hair—all eyes tracking the woman they liked to gossip had murdered Royce Murdoch. She bore the weight, walked unhidden aside Cherry now who whispered, “You feel those stares?”
“It’s like laser beams on my back,” she said, “I can feel the heat,” making Cherry snort, then slap an embarrassed hand over her mouth.
“Sorry,” Cherry gasped.
“I like snorters. Been known to snort myself, when the timing’s right.”
They were escorted to a picnic table out back looking over the Bay (and straight across from her, down the long dock, the picnic tables where the encounter with Royce had occurred).
“The scene of the crime,” Cherry giggled, scooting her chair closer, then raising her menu.
The burden of the stares proved too much, and though some of the faces began to turn away, it felt good to put up the shield of her tall crab shack menu. “If I wasn’t so hungry, I might be put off my dinner.”
“Don’t let the nerves get to you,” she said, “it’ll die down. Sorry—simmer down.”
Bette said, “The detective came to see me at my house today.”
“The good-looking one?”
“He’s the only one. Marcus Seabolt.”
“You know what I mean.”
She peeked out over top of the menu,
Cherry’s big brown eyes peeping back over hers. They both chuckled, then Bette said, “I think I’m still a suspect.”
“Don’t worry, Pris is on the case.”
“He warned me about that—”
“He did?”
“Yeah, but listen, I might have some details of my own he told me . . .”
But before she could divulge, Pris was there, bustling down the steps from the dining room in the shucking house, waving to all the locals who knew her, giving gracious smiles and nods, crossing the open-air deck to their table then collapsing to sit next to Cherry with an exuberant exhausted exhale.
“My word, what a day,” she said, plopping her purse at her feet. She’d got her hair done in a whole new style, short at the back and sides, her peppery silver in soft feathers coming from an off-center part.
“I love your hair, Aunt Pris.”
“Me, too, it’s beautiful,” Cherry said, touching it a moment, then: “So what’s this about your day?—You doing good?”
“Oh, I’ve got news, ladies,” she said, scooting and adjusting on the bench, still huffing a little from exertion as she held up her wrist and tried to read her watch without her glasses, adjusting for distance. “There we go,” she said, “just over 12,000 steps.”
“I hope that’s not the exciting news,” Bette said, putting her chin in a palm.
“Don’t be funny, girl, let me enjoy my victory—I might even have a couple of Rocks tonight.”
Cherry gave a soft high-five, said, “Drink local, Pris, we’ve got a brewery in town.”
Pris wagged a finger at Cherry, winking an eye, appreciative of the helpful reminder. “Good point—hey, how you girls doing?” She put her hands together and leaned elbows on the table.
“Bette thinks she’s still a suspect—Seabolt came to see her today.”
Pris cocked an eye Bette’s way. “At the house?”
Bette said, “Yeah.” Then: “Tell us your news, please—I’m anxious.”
Pris opened her mouth to spill the beans, but their waitress came table-side, avoiding eye contact with Bette, a weird and awkward smile on her young face. “How we all doing tonight?” She was a teenager in white shorts, waist apron, and a Cracked Crab T-shirt.
Pris said, “Hey, Becky, how’s your mama?”
“She’s all right, Pris, I’ll say you were asking.”
“You tell her take care. Your brother?”
“At school.”
“Where you off to next year?”
“It’s a long way yet, Pris, but I hope William and Mary.”
“Oh, yeah? You know that’s where my nephew . . . Bette’s boy”—she nodded her chin toward Bette, making the girl look at the subject of Cove gossip—“that’s where my nephew’s at learning about marine biology. Master’s program. Bette raised a good, honest boy.”
“I bet,” the girl said, blushing, knowing Pris was making her confront that there was an accused but innocent suspect of murder sitting at her table.
The girl got brave enough to look Bette’s way. “How’s he doing there, Miss Whaley?”
“Bette. He’s doing just fine, Becky. You Fiona Hanes’s girl?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You look like your mama.”
Pris ordered for them, rattling it off to the girl and handing back the menus, telling her, “Go on now and hurry, Becky, we’re all starving.” A bucket of a dozen hot steamed and seasoned Maryland Blues, a dozen Cherrystone Oysters, some stewed tomatoes, corn on the cob, green beans, and French fries. And a local beer; a brewery in town called Blackwater.
Bette said, “Is this news going to help me, Pris?”
Pris leaned in, and Bette and Cherry joined her, their faces getting close. “So I was out with the walking girls this morning—”
“Sorry I couldn’t make it; not feeling it—and I got boxes to unpack.”
“You’ll be back. So listen, I’m pumping them girls for information, but I get the distinct impression they’s all still on Bette being the murderer—”
“Are you serious?—Golly, I thought they liked me . . .”
“Sorry, hon. Listen, you’re gonna have to give them a few days to roll this around their tongues like wine. They do like you, but this is a juicy peach, thinking they walked with a murderer. They’re gonna come round, you’ll see, they’re just riding a wave right now.”
“I hope so.”
“Anyway, I gave up on those birds and I go into town, you know, Diana’s salon on Shuter street,” she said, lofting one side of her bouncy side part, “and Hazel tells me Royce had a falling out with a man he went crabbing with.” She nodded her chin once, pleased with herself.
Cherry said, “Who?”
“Donovan McNeal.”
Bette said, “Who’s that?”
“Young crabber,” Cherry said, “trying to make a go of it. Big dreams, you know? Plans to expand, maybe even dabble in some aquaculture.”
“Except,” Pris said, “I think the boy’s dreams exceed his wallet’s capability—Hazel said Royce loaned the boy some money.”
“How much?”
“Don’t know—but enough, it seems, that when Royce had some trouble with the motor in his old boat, he leveraged the niceness of his loan to borrow a spare boat this Donovan boy had.”
“This guy Donovan has two boats, but no money?”
“Inherited a boat and bought a boat, then found out crabbing isn’t easy. Not when you’re commercial.”
Bette leaned back, contemplating. “So what’s the big deal? Royce loaned him some money, then runs into a bit of trouble, and this Donovan helps him out. Sounds all right.”
“Sure does,” Pris said, “till Donovan comes wanting his boat back and Royce won’t give it up. Some part for Royce’s motor was on back order he said, or maybe he just couldn’t afford to fix it—”
“Then why’s he lending out money?”
Pris shook her head. “Donovan’s putting pressure on Royce about getting his boat back and then Royce up and told him it’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Told Donovan someone stole it.”
“Pssh,” Bette exhaled a raspberry. “Sure sounds like Royce.”
Pris said, “Exactly. But this guy Donovan knows Royce and therefore does not be-lieve Royce.”
Cherry said, “He didn’t believe it was stolen?”
“Unh-unh,” Pris said, sitting back from the table as Becky arrived with a tray, three plastic tumblers with dark beer in them. They sipped and thought a moment, working it around each of them in their own heads. The beer was a spicy September ale that was smooth and put the smell of cloves in her nose when she exhaled.
Cherry set hers down, wiped at the pencil thin line of foam over her top lip, saying, “Mm, Bette, what did Marcus say today?—you had news of your own.”
“Right-right. So Marcus tells me Royce got knocked in the head then tied up in trotline and tossed overboard. He drowned.”
“Overboard?” Pris said. “Off whose boat? His wasn’t on the water . . .”
“Police might be looking for Royce’s boat, not knowing he wasn’t using it,” Cherry said.
Something was still bothering Bette. “Why on earth,” she said, “didn’t this Donovan guy call the police about his boat? You know, at least tell em it’s missing, file a report?”
“I know why,” Pris said, holding up her wait-a-minute finger while she imbibed more steps-earned beer calories. She set her tumbler down, and they all got close again. “This guy Donovan knew where Royce was hiding the boat and he was just going to go on and steal it back.”
“Crafty,” Cherry said.
“Out-snake the snake,” Bette said, then felt bad. “Rest in peace.”
The food arrived to the table, and for a glorious half-hour Royce and Donovan and being a murder suspect were put aside while they cracked and hammered crab, dipped meat in butter, slurped oysters washed down with local beer. The fries were gobbled, corn cobs taken down to the a
rmature; in a brief pause of wonderful gluttony, Pris put up that finger again, wiping at her mouth.
When she was ready: “I may’ve been saving the best for last, and since now we got a glow on and the serotonin’s flowing, I’d like to put forth a little supposition: No one’s seen Donovan or this boat of his Royce had in days. So hear me out—Donovan’s got a girl up north a tad, lives on the water around the Toppehannock estuary. Got a big old boathouse there and she might be letting Donovan use it. He’s got his boat at the harbor here in the Cove, th’other one, older thirty-five footer called Miss Connie, well . . . where else would he put it right now?”
“His girlfriend’s crib,” Cherry said, wiping her own mouth.
“The girl he goes with travels a lot for work. Event co-ordinator kind of thing. Think she’s been away a while.”
“You’re thinking that’s where this boat is,” Bette said, dabbing the meaty end of a crab leg—what her son, Vance, at the age of ten, would call a locomotor or endopodite—swiping up butter then suckling, thinking, knowing this was more Pris-trouble. But maybe not opposed to that trouble.
“I say we go out for a little night-fishing, maybe head up the shore round the Toppehannock estuary.”
Bette put the crab leg down, wiped her fingers and sighed.
Cherry asked, “What do you think? It’s a nice night . . .”
Only good things were pictured: going to this young woman’s riverside place, peeking in the boathouse window and seeing some crabber job in there, a boat where a murder may have happened while Donovan tried to steal it back. She could call up Marcus, let him know there was a new lead.
It sure would be good to get the accusatory eyes off her.
“Okay,” she said, “but I’m gonna want a piece of pie first.”
THAT NIGHT
The lemon meringue pie was maybe too much. Or it could be the indigestion she could get sometimes from apprehension; the crab-feast got her stuffed, then the next thing she’s feeling good and diving headlong into Pris’s investigative plan, and now came the anxious creep of second thoughts . . . Yeah, sure, it’d be better to just call up Marcus and say Hey, go on out to the Toppehannock and check on this boathouse for us, look for a boat called Miss Connie, we think this Donovan guy might have a reason to kill old Royce. Only Marcus wouldn’t comply. Instead, probably tell them to keep out of official police business—meanwhile she can’t get around the town without people talking behind her back and side-eyeing her, even her newfound friends in Pris’s walking club. Either way, she stood now in the kitchen of Fortune, hand on her stomach, thinking she should maybe have a soda water.
