by Ellis Quinn
Bucky nodded, eyes down, and said, “That’s why I’m here.”
“It was you the other night?”
Bucky was instantly apologetic. “Miss Whaley—Bette, I meant no harm, I swear it.”
“You scared us about half to death, Bucky.”
“I didn’t know it was you till later.”
“What were you doing on that boat? You know who’s boat that was?”
“I know,” he said, “I know how it looks.”
“What were you doing out there, Bucky?”
He said, “It wasn’t nothing to do with Royce. I left my tools on his boat and I wanted to get them.”
“Why are you sneaking around at night?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know where the boat was. Took me forever to find it.”
It was a good answer, and she wasn’t sure if Bucky would have the craft to connive it. “You’re sure?”
“I swear, Bette, it’s not what you might be thinking.”
She said, “Must be special tools for you to go creeping around with a flashlight, doing what you admit right now is not a good thing for you to be doing.”
He looked dumb for a moment, eyes scanning around the items on her island countertop; recipe books, recipe cards, stacks of mail . . . He said, “I was on that boat with Royce earlier in the day, and he dropped me off and I left my tools on there.”
“Why didn’t you report the boat to the police? Why go sneaking?”
“I’d just as soon grab my tools fore I do.”
She could picture a set of tools, one gnarly looking chrome socket wrench caked in blood . . . She shivered, and the kettle popped, making her jump again. She would have to get a silent kettle. “Hold on, Bucky . . .”
She poured hot water on the grounds, stirred, covered the French press and brought it to the island with two cups. “Takes a minute. So tell me about these tools.”
He grimaced, looking reluctant. “They’re not special. No . . . they are. They are special. . . . They’re a very good set of tools. But I didn’t . . .” He was reluctant to say, head rolling around, lips curling back. He pushed through it. “They’re not really mine. They are now. Bette, some Polo wearing city boys I took out for a charter left a toolset on my boat. Shoulda reported it, turned em in, but those boys were awful smug, drunk as skunks, obnoxious, and they wouldn’t miss it, anyway.”
“I don’t get why you still wouldn’t tell the cops.”
“On account it might implicate me, Bette.”
“They’d give you the tools back after they did their search.”
“No, they wouldn’t, Bette. They’d wonder how a guy like me’s got such a brand new set a high end tools, and I ain’t got no receipt to show em.” He looked her in the eye.
“You don’t have to tell them about the toolkit, Bucky. Tell them you were there looking for anything you want. Make something up.”
Bucky tilted his head up, mouth hanging open in something like awe—as though he never thought to skip the incriminating part of his story. “Didn’t find them anyway,” he said. “Now the cops got the boat.”
“I suppose you’ll blame us for interrupting you.”
They stared at each other a moment, Bucky looking sorry and haggard. She plunged the coffee, poured them both a cup. “Cream and sugar’s right here,” she said, dragging over the servers.
Bucky reached into his frayed work jacket and produced a small pewter flask. Big fingers twisted off the cap, and he poured a generous serving of bourbon into his coffee, then gestured the flask toward her, encouraging her to have a shot if she’d like.
She put up a hand. “No thanks, Bucky.” So much for sobering him up.
He screwed the cap back on, and the flask returned to his inside pocket. She said, “How d'you know it was me out on the boat? You know it was Prissy with me too?”
“I know. I heard. S’why I’m here.”
“You hear when you took off you knocked Prissy into the drink?”
“I heard she’s okay.” Then his eyes moved to hers. “Tell me she’s okay.”
“Pris is just fine. Takes more than a cold dip to put out her fire.”
The points of his brow curled upward. “Is she mad at me?”
“She don’t know it was you yet, Bucky.”
He covered his face again and rubbed his eyes. “She’s going to be mad at me.”
Bette said, “Tomorrow you’re going to tell Marcus.”
“About the tools?”
“Hang the tools, Bucky. You’re going to tell Marcus about that boat. Tell him you were the one we saw that night, that you were just out there looking for any old thing. You don’t have to implicate yourself.”
“They’re going to think I was trying to clean up.”
She nodded. “They think I was trying to clean up.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking for evidence, Bucky, because I know it wasn’t me who killed Royce. I’m trying to save my hide.”
“All right,” he said, putting up his hands in defense of her raised voice. He quietly sipped his whiskied coffee.
“So that’s what you’re going to do. I want you tomorrow to go on up and see Marcus. Set him straight. Tell him it was you on that boat and anything else you know. And then later that day . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to have to talk to Pris.”
“I know I will. I know it’s coming,” he said, hanging his head, bony shoulders poking up the collar of his jacket.
She picked up her phone and dialed.
Bucky jolted. “You’re not calling her right now, are you?”
She gave him a look. “I’m calling you a cab, Bucky. Cab’s going to take you home and tomorrow is the start of a new day. Put your best foot forward. Pick up your boat off my jetty. Talk to Marcus. Talk to Pris.”
He groaned and rubbed his forehead.
She said, “I’ll give you a tip. You buy her a hot toddy to warm her up and maybe she won’t tan your hide.”
LATE THE NEXT MORNING
Bette said to Vance, “I found my Grandma’s secret.”
Vance said, “She was a spy for the British in the Revolution?”
“Nothing so dastardly, smart mouth, and how old do you think Pearl was?”
“Dad said she’d live to a hundred-twenty.”
“Your father gets a lot of things wrong.”
Vance was calling from the port in Delaware, the research vessel he’d been aboard just coming to shore. He was excited to be calling her from a real live pay phone—like you see in the movies from the olden days, Mom. She was sitting in the wide window well of the kitchen’s sitting room, back against the side, shoulder to the glass, sock feet braced against the far side. In her lap was an aged recipe card.
“So what was Great Grandma’s secret?”
“Well, it’s a bit of a letdown now, but I’ll tell you: Winter wheat. Hard red winter wheat.”
“I have to say, I’m shocked. That’s salacious.”
“You’re incorrigible. You like my apple cookies, don’t you?”
“I love them. I wish I had some right now, and I’m not being facetious. I really wish I had some right now.”
Totally homesick, she knew it (and wouldn’t pick on him about it). “They were good, but never quite like my Grandma’s. I had her recipe, she shared, she wasn’t sneaky with me, but I was in the pantry this morning—”
“Great Grandma had elves working in there the whole time?”
She laughed out loud and it felt good. “No, that’s the hard red winter wheat I’m telling you about. I just bought all-purpose from the Bethesda Kroger, and she’s here in the Cove buying local flour for her baking.”
“Actually, that is kind of interesting—”
“I knew you’d like that.”
“But I want to take a moment and defend my mother’s apple cookies here.”
“I guess you never did try your Great Grandma Pearl’s. We only came
down a few summers, and she baked them in the fall.”
“Tell me about this local wheat.”
She told him about the plain brown bags of flour she’d found, how they were stamped with the grain types and the name of the mill. Looked the mill up to see they only milled Chesapeake Bay grains, done in this old barn built before the Civil War. It fascinated Vance, and she knew it would; kid loved science-y stuff like that, would probably look up the soil content in the area and have a whole essay for her when he came to visit. The discovery of the flour brought back the recollection of Pearl buying different flours for different purposes; a strange thing to have forgotten. Then she had to sit down for a breather, getting flooded with memories of picking apples in the fall, strawberries in the spring, making preserves . . . so much time had gone by since Pearl was the most important thing in her life once her mother’d passed. Pearl was her mama, at least for a while. Then she’d shot up quick, went into those teen years and, well . . . but there were no regrets. There couldn’t be. Sure, she might have got incorrigible herself, young girl becoming a woman robbed of her mama, mad at the cruelty of the world, and in walks Roman, ready to sweep her off her feet and take her to places where big things happened. There were no regrets. There couldn’t be; on the other end of this phone call was the greatest thing she’d ever done, and she wouldn’t argue it couldn’t have happened without Roman.
“And on Pearl’s recipe card for her apple cookies,” she said, “I see in her handwriting HR Winter Wheat.”
“Like H.R. Pufnstuf.”
“Pretty much, cause I don’t know what either of them are.”
“But now you know.”
“Now I know, and I’m so happy. What’s your puffin stuff?”
“Old kid’s show, kind of creepy. We used to watch them on Youtube in first year.”
“Thought it had to do with your puffins, maybe the name of a boat you were on.” His fourth year had been puffin-intensive.
There was a beat of awkward silence where she waited for him to say something so she wouldn’t have to get into what she should probably tell him next. “Hey, you know what else is creepy?”
“What?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“Tell me,” he said, invigorated.
“I, uh . . . there was a murder here.”
“In the Cove? Wow. I don’t know what to say . . .”
“I . . . I may or may not be a suspect.”
Long pause. Very serious: “Which is it?”
“I know what it should be.”
“Mom . . .”
“I’m gonna be cleared, don’t worry. It’s stupid. I know the man, the victim, knew him from the Cove before I left, there’s this silly old rivalry between the families . . .”
“You knew him?”
“He’s older, my mom’s age, he’s—”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“He wasn’t the nicest man, but it’s terrible what happened to him.”
Vance asked her why she was a suspect and she told him a toned down tale of what transpired out the back of The Cracked Crab, and how someone knocked Royce on the head then threw him overboard tangled in trotline.
“I don’t like this at all, Mom.”
“Don’t worry about me, Vance, I swear. Plus, me and the detective on the case? we go way back. He knows I didn’t do it.” She hoped. “And your great aunt Pris is also hot on the case. She’s got my back. The other night we chased down a lead that’s going to break the investigation wide open, mark my words.”
“What do you mean, chase down a lead?”
“I can hear the worry in your voice, baby boy, and I’m telling you there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Okay, but what does that mean chase down a lead?”
Persistent. Maybe the Whaley in him. “We searched out this boat we thought might be where the guy was murdered.”
“Mom . . .”
“It was fine. We found it. No problems.” -ish. “I told you, me being accused of murder lit a fire under Pris and now her corn’s popping.”
“Two minutes in the sticks and you’re talking even more down-home.”
“I think I like being back here.”
“Except for the accused of murder part.”
“Yeah, except for that. Hey . . . your dad calls, maybe don’t tell him that.”
“That you’re happy to be back in Chesapeake Cove or that you’re accused of murder?”
“Har-de-har. Which one do you think?”
“I will not tell Dad you’re a murder suspect, trust me. I don’t even take his calls.”
“Aw, don’t do that. . . . Has he been calling?”
“Uh-huh. You know Dad, I can hear the subtext in his voice when he talks. He called a couple days ago, before we embarked, and he’s like . . . well, I can hear he’s trying to get info on what you’re up to.”
It sunk her stomach. Digging up her garden, looking for juicy worms.
Vance said, “Calls again, just as we’re leaving, and I’m thinking No way, Dad, and just let it go to voicemail. Like, dude, I’m already at sea. Bon voyage. I haven’t even checked what the message was.”
“I need to do that, stop listening to his messages. Teach me how to do it.”
“I’m also good at leaving scabs alone.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s why I said it. So what kind of messages is he leaving you?”
“Oh gosh, I don’t know . . .”
“Is he mean to you?”
“Not outright. I think he’s mad Pearl died, because if she’d passed two years ago, when we were still married, he’d have a shot at slicing off a piece of the Whaley’s Fortune pie. But Pearl held on till he’d bailed on me, which makes it harder for him to roll round in my muck.”
“So what does he say?”
“Nothing, Vance, I don’t want you to think of it, okay? We signed all the papers, I’s dotted, T’s crossed, we are D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D, and there’s not a thing he can do to change that.”
“Don’t let him get to you then.”
Well, he could get lawyers to hold the house and the estate in trust while court proceedings occur and in the meantime what on earth would she do to pay the bills around here?—She could use some of the settlement from their marriage, but how long would Roman drag it out? Maybe longer than she could wait . . . Just write me a check, Bette, give me a piece of your pie and it’ll all be over . . . now, there was always the possibility that the lawyers could use the trust to pay the bills to make sure the taxes were . . . grrr . . .
“Who says he gets to me?”
“I can hear it in your voice.”
“Just a bad connection, I swear.”
Vance, trying to calm her, talking smooth: “If it’s untouchable, it’s untouchable, Mom. If there’s nothing he can do, there’s nothing he can do. Not saying he won’t try, but Dad had a lot of projects that fizzled.”
“You’re a rock, kiddo,” she said, wanting him to know she appreciated the support, and also wanting the issue of an ongoing battle with Roman to stay out of her son’s life. If there was any blessing to this at all, it was that Roman at least waited till their son was grown up and out of the house before he detonated their marriage. But the last thing she wanted was her son having his parent’s squabbles taking up a room in his headspace, not paying any rent. She summed it up: “The man took me out of here when I was a fledgling, pulled me into leaving with promises, and, look, I wasn’t unhappy, but your father was a big part of me not coming back home to the Cove as much as I wanted. I know he tried sometimes to make amends, but he’s—”
“I know, he’s Dad.”
“He’s Roman. Roman is Roman. But Roman never had nothing to do with Whaley’s Fortune and never will. So maybe you think you hear distress in my voice, but I want you to know: Your mother’s strong. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“How’s my strong mama settling into her new-bu
t-also-old home?”
Behind her son now she could hear a gaggle of young people bantering. Vance seemed distracted. There were girls’ voices.
“I’ll let you go, baby boy.”
“Tell me how you’re settling.”
She sighed, told him, “Everything’s good. Mostly unpacked, it’s weird being in this house again.” Especially alone—but she wouldn’t tell Vance that. “I’ve got to do some shopping when I get a chance.”
“And you’re not fibbing when you say Ripken’s being good? He can be moody.”
“We’re like peas in a pod.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Hey, you know what would make me feel better?”
More girl voices behind Vance; the phone’s mic brushed against his cheek. It sounded like he hadn’t been shaving at sea. He said, “Tell me.”
“You coming out to see me, first chance you get.”
“It’s a deal, Mom.”
“I can’t wait.”
“But you have to promise me you’re not going to try to solve this murder with Aunt Pris.”
“I can promise I’ll be careful,” she said.
“That’s probably the best I can hope for, isn’t it?”
“You know I’m a big fraidy cat, baby boy—you picture me looking for trouble?”
“I don’t want to think of trouble looking for you, Mom. You stay safe.”
“I promise,” she said. There was the bright laughter of young college women behind him, and she told him again to go off with his friends.
“I think I have to if I want a ride back to campus.”
She said she’d see him soon and didn’t make him say he loved her in front of his friends. He said it anyway.
The way Roman set it up was telling her she was the one who was unhappy. She wouldn’t see it until later, what he was doing. It started a year-and-a-half ago. He’d sit at the breakfast table in the morning eating what she’d prepared him, then his shoulders would get heavy and he’d say something like, “I just don’t know what it is I do that makes you so unhappy.” Then with that foul smell in the air he’d sigh, kiss her then go to work leaving her with that twist in her stomach wondering what it was she was doing that was making him think she was unhappy. She was happy. Wasn’t she?
