by Ellis Quinn
Vinnie said, “I think it’s best not to even think about it right now. Let Marcus do his job. A lot of speculating won’t do us any—”
Bette followed Vinnie’s gaze, looking up to see a young couple descending from the shuckhouse dining room down to the patio. Both well-dressed and tanned. The guy in jeans and a sport coat that his big muscles filled out. He was a good-looking young guy with brushed back hair. The girl on his arm was also fetching; long and lean, hair tied back in a tidy bun. She wore a short suit jacket over a skirt.
Vinnie said, “There’s Donovan.”
Bette said, “That’s Donovan?”
If there was anybody could knock out Royce, wrangle him in trotline and nets and throw him overboard, it was this guy. Nowhere near as big as say Jason Mitchum, but definitely a strong, capable young man.
When the couple made it to the bottom of the stairs, the gang of women with Cherry called the girl to join them, and Vinnie waved Donovan to come over. He introduced him to everyone, and he shook Bette’s hand.
To Troy now, Donovan said, “My condolences. I can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a good guy.”
Troy cocked his head, his mouth moving around. “It’s nice of you to say.”
“I mean it. Past that hard shell, the center wasn’t too bad.”
Slowly, Troy began to nod. “There were times . . .”
“Anyway, I sure am sorry,” Donovan said. “Wish I’d been around, wish I’d been with him, you know?”
Bette watched them shake hands but didn’t like the way Troy had trouble meeting Donovan’s eye. There had to be an underlying animosity here. The moment felt tense.
Troy said, “Maybe it would’ve turned out different.”
“I’d have had his back,” Donovan said as they let their handshake go.
Troy put his hands in his pockets, finally looked at Donovan, both of them big and imposing guys. The muscles in Troy’s jaw flexed. He said, “Police told me you can get your boat back in a few days, they’re almost done with it.”
Donovan said, “I’m not worried about that dumb old boat—you shouldn’t either.”
Troy nodded and narrowed his eyes.
Now a mature and proper blonde woman came from behind Vinnie, put an arm around his shoulder. She was a few years younger than him, attractive and well-kept. She smiled and met everyone’s eyes. “Troy,” she said, “my condolences. I liked your speech very much.”
Troy turned from Donovan. “Thank you.”
Vinnie said, “Charlotte, don’t know if you’ve met Bette,” took his wife’s hand and held it. “Bette, this is my wife, Charlotte.” Then to Charlotte: “Bette’s Pearl Whaley’s granddaughter, she’s moved to the town now, out in Whaley’s Fortune.”
“Such a beautiful home,” Charlotte said. “Pleasure to meet you.” She extended a graceful hand and they shook. Where Donovan’s grip was huge and strong, Charlotte’s was soft and noncommittal.
Charlotte’s gaze moved past Bette’s shoulder, and Bette turned to see Cherry cutting through the crowd to join them. She arrived and put her hand on Bette’s back, saying, “Sorry about that, got pulled away for a moment.”
Charlotte looked to Cherry, expressionless but for a small measure of displeasure, then to Vinnie. She said, “Well, we better get going,” and patted her husband’s arm, putting her nails in and pulling her husband away from the conversation.
Cherry made a face as Charlotte and Vinnie moved away, and Bette asked her what was going on.
Instead of talking about Charlotte’s rude departure, Cherry pulled Pris in to their clutch. Troy, Steve, and Donovan closed in to talk to each other, probably about the Cove and crabbing, and Cherry whispered, “Donovan’s girlfriend is over there with Mavis, you two need to come over . . .”
* * *
Cherry led Pris and Bette back to Mavis and the group with Donovan’s girlfriend. There were two younger women she’d seen at the funeral; Donovan’s tall, beautiful girlfriend; and besides Mavis Treacle from the walking group, Joy, and Chunky Glasses Margaret were in attendance, both of them with goblets of white wine held between two hands.
Joy saw them coming, put out a hand and said to Bette, “Have you met Lydia?”
Bette took Joy’s hand (damp and chilled from the wine) and came to stand at her side. “No, I haven’t,” she said.
Chunky Glasses Margaret introduced her to Lydia, saying, “Bette was Pearl’s granddaughter, just come back to the Cove after being divorced and leaving Bethesda.” Great way to sum it up, Margaret.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I was just talking to Donovan.”
Lydia was polite and charming, her caramel colored hair pulled back for this austere occasion, making Bette think when that hair was down, Lydia would be stunning. Her dress was sedate, her jewelry minimal. Lydia said, “Donovan was so broken up when he heard about Royce. He couldn’t believe it.”
“It was a shock,” Pris said, then shook Lydia’s hand and introduced herself.
“I know you from around town, Pris,” Lydia said, smiling.
Pris said, “How did Donovan hear about Royce?”
Lydia said, “We got the call from Donovan’s brother out in San Diego.”
Bette said, “His brother lives in San Diego?”
“No, we were in San Diego. Donovan and I. I had work out there, a giftware expo, I have this client who does fine China and—”
“And Donovan was in San Diego when it happened?”
“Yeah,” Lydia said. “Donovan’s brother, Adam, he lives in the Cove, he called us that morning. I think that’s what got Donovan the most. He wished he was home. He didn’t always have the best relationship with Royce, you know how the man was, but Donovan respected him. Always said if you could scratch that surface there was like a wellspring of knowledge in the man about crabbing, and the area, and all the waterways . . .”
Bette said, “Is that why he loaned Royce that boat?”
Lydia nodded, eyes lowered. Glumly, she admitted, “Royce was on hard times, and he’d been good to Donovan. Was helping Donovan get set up by giving him advice.” Now she looked over her shoulder where Donovan was talking with Steve Dawson, Vinnie’s son and local crabber. Troy had left the group. “Donovan has big plans”—she smiled again—“He’s a big guy with lots of gusto, lots of drive. And he’s smart, too. But he always said he needed the know-how of a guy like Royce.”
Bette looked to Pris and they both showed expressions of curiosity. Lydia hadn’t mentioned the money Royce had loaned Donovan as a reason.
Innocent Joy took the momentary pause to ask: “What happened to Royce’s boat?”
Lydia shrugged. “Don’t know. Donovan said he blew out the motor or something. Said Bucky was working on it for Royce.”
Pris said, “That’s a recipe for disaster,” and Margaret chuckled.
“Royce said he only needed the boat for a while, and Donovan was glad to help out.”
Bette got right to the point, eyes flicking toward her aunt. She said to Lydia, “Did Royce hide the boat or something, not want to give it back?”
Lydia looked confused. “No. Donovan didn’t need it. He had some guys who could’ve crabbed off it, but he was happy to help out Royce instead. Royce needed to keep crabbing for money—probably to fix his boat—and he needed it more than Donovan needed the profit he would have made. It was only a few weeks, and Royce kept the boat in my boathouse.”
Bette’s shoulders slumped as yet another avenue of investigation was closed. Probably closed. Lydia could be lying—but the girl honestly seemed more befuddled by the questions than defensive.
Lydia looked to all of them in the silence, a smile creeping as she realized this was more than a nice group of ladies introducing themselves—she’d just been interrogated. She sipped her wine.
Cherry said, “Have you talked to Marcus yet?”
“The detective? no, we’re going to go see him after the memorial. We just got in this morning. Maybe you could j
ust pass this all along to him.” She smirked, showing no hard feelings.
Joy looked flustered, took Lydia’s arm and said, “Let’s all go to the buffet—you’re too skinny, Lydia,” and they all followed behind.
THAT EVENING
Here’s what she surmised about Jonas’s crab cakes: the crabmeat he was using was definitely local, definitely from blues, and definitely jumbo lump—but what made the crab cakes so good beyond the crabmeat? mayonnaise. She was sure of it. Maybe a homemade mayo with some spicy dijon, maybe a honey lemon dijon with extra lemon. Lots of parsley, crumbled up saltines, name brand saltines, yeah, and a touch of Old Bay. Jonas had told her they were the best crab cakes in town, and she could believe it. She didn’t remember a better crab cake, though her mother’s were excellent and Pearl’s could also make your eyes roll up from pleasure, too. Sly Jonas refused to divulge much from his recipe, getting playful with her while Cherry laughed along at her consternation. Maybe Cherry was in on it; maybe she was supplying Jonas fresh eggs from her hens to make that mayo.
Regardless, the dinner and company was excellent, though she’d kind of hoped Marcus would show, but Jonas said his brother was on shift. It was her and Cherry at the bar, Jonas hanging out with them when he could (the brewery’d been busy), and she and Cherry had a beer and split an order of crab cakes and each had a small bowl of potato salad—chock full of egg and pickle, just the way she liked. Pris had her yoga night (Margaret would have to wait for some other time to see Bette’s guns revealed) and couldn’t make it, so Bette’d dragged out her old cruiser bike, veteran of many Haunted Hill Ghost Challenges, oiled the chain, inflated the tires and tightened bolts.
She rode into the village from Fortune on a perfect early fall evening, the sun low and golden. By the time she and Cherry’d left the Blackwater, the sky’d lost its amber and faded to purple. But the sun still rimmed the horizon and after she and Cherry rode over to Cherry’s cottage, instead of heading north up the road to Fortune, Bette went south to hit the boardwalk and bike along the beach to enjoy the beautiful night.
Now with the steady thrum of her rubber wheels on the sun-bleached boards of the boardwalk, she breathed the warm salt of the Bay, felt the cool of the breeze, and felt, well . . . free.
No longer a suspect in Royce’s murder, a sound suspect in custody; she had the promise of new friendships, maybe some old friendships rekindled; there were emerging new possibilities of all kinds, plus she loved being with her beloved but perplexing aunt, and with it all there was a strange feeling of being home. She’d spent just over twenty years in Bethesda, made a home there for her family, and yet it wasn’t home.
The Cove was her home, and as unwelcome as her return may have seemed, the truth couldn’t be denied: though she’d fled at twenty for a man who would fail her, her roots went deep in the Cove; all through the town, through its streets, through its people, through its history—recent and ancient. Her puzzle piece would fit back into the picture of the Cove, it would just take some time and some care.
For now, she would enjoy what she had. Maybe there was a piano dangling over her head, her ex-husband Roman waiting for the right moment to let go the rope, but tonight she wouldn’t look up. She’d enjoy the way the breeze rustled her hair, enjoy the beating of her heart as her legs learned how to pump pedals again, enjoy the smells and sounds of the Cove. She wore a chunky but very breathable cardigan, belt untied, the open halves fluttering behind as she raised up and leaned on the handlebars and coasted the bump-bump of the old boardwalk. When you were alone, when you were independent, adventure could happen. There was something exciting about that.
The stretch of the Cove’s beach isn’t long, maybe just a couple hundred yards of orangey sand—made more orange tonight by the otherworldly glow of the setting sun. A lone dark figure sat on the beach looking out over the chop of the Bay, forearms resting on his knees. There was something familiar about the rake of his hair, the angle of his nose—it was past him it occurred to her who it was: Troy Murdoch.
At the next bench, she rode up on the grass and circled back, eyeing the sad and lonely figure again. She wheeled onto the sand and stepped off her bike, setting it down. Jean cuffs rolled a twist higher, and sneakers slipped off, she walked out barefoot in the cool sand. Troy looked over his shoulder to see her coming, squinted, recognized her, then nodded, a somber smile going to one side.
“Evening, Troy,” she said. “Just biking by, thought I’d come say Hi. How you doing?”
He chuckled, rubbed his cheeks. At his side now she could see a six pack of beer; one half-empty bottle poked into the sand between his feet, only two in the case with the bright circles of their caps on.
She said, “That kind of night, huh?” brushing her hair back from her face as the breeze kicked up.
“Yup.” He pulled one of the unopened beers out of the case and handed it up to her. “Join me for a minute,” he said.
She accepted it, cracked it, put the cap in her cardigan pocket and took a seat in the sand next to him. They both swigged a minute, looking out over the water, her snatching glances at his profile. He was a good-looking man, and it reminded her of that picture of his father at the memorial yesterday at the Crab. Young and clean shaven Royce, his life ahead of him and full of promise. Had he always been the way he was, or had life twisted him up and made him mean?
She said, “How long are you going to stay in the Cove?”
He shrugged. “A few more days. Got to tie up some of my father’s things. But I’m needed back at work.”
“You’re in Annapolis?”
“Travis Bank Building, eighteenth floor.”
“Long way from the Cove.”
“Not long aways enough, sometimes.” He took a deep swig.
“You got a family there?”
“Yeah. Well, divorced. I see my kids on the weekends.”
“I’m divorced, too. Just happened. My kid’s in college.”
“My girl’s in college, too. My oldest, I mean. Where’s your boy?”
“Usually on the ocean,” she said and laughed. “Marine Biology. Here in Maryland.”
Troy nodded, looking out at the waves. He sighed, shook his head. “We’ll have to do our best to keep them apart. The Feud, and all.”
“Oh, right, the old Whaley-Murdoch Feud.”
Troy said, “You mean, the Murdoch-Whaley Feud,” and winked. They both laughed, and Troy clinked his bottle against hers. They drank to the stupidity of it all.
He said, “How do people get like that?”
“Feuding? Who knows? Grudges run deep sometimes, but you know, I never felt it. Not really.”
“Me, neither. Not really.”
She chuckled, swigged the beer. “You kind of feel it? You’re sitting with me right now. I’m as Whaley as Whaley can be.”
“I’m pure Murdoch, though my dad would’ve argued it because I wear a suit to work. I mean, I felt it when I was here growing up in the Cove, because my dad talked it up.”
She said, “Pearl didn’t like to talk about it. But I know about the land grab, or award, I guess, know about the fire . . .” She sighed, looking out at the water and trying to imagine what the Bay was like two hundred years ago.
Troy looked her way. “And the murder? . . .”
She faced him, frowning. “What murder?”
He cocked his head, twisted up his mouth. “Floyd Murdoch?”
She shook her head no.
“Oh,” Troy said, sounding regretful now. He looked away at the waves. “Floyd Murdoch and Bridget Whaley. Bridget would be . . . I guess your Grandma Pearl’s aunt.”
“She murdered someone?” She was incredulous.
“No. Not Bridget. This would have been . . . uh, just after The Great War. World War 1. Floyd and Bridget were a hot item, apparently, but had to keep it secret—”
“Because of the Feud?”
“Right, because of the Feud. Once their parents found out, though, both the Whaleys and the Murdochs,
they forbade it big time. Like, saying it was a land grab, the other one was up to something, how you couldn’t trust a Whaley, or trust a Murdoch. But they were in love, Bridget and Floyd, the way my dad says it. And Floyd stole Bridget away in the night—”
“To elope?”
“Yeah. On horseback, too, of all things.”
“And what happened?”
“Bridget’s dad—your great-great-grandfather—killed Floyd. Shot him.”
“Oh, no . . .”
“Yeah . . . Floyd didn’t die right away. Took two days. Bridget’s dad shot him in the stomach, through his side. Shot him off the horse.”
“I never heard this.” She covered a hand over her mouth, truly wowed by the horror of it.
“It’s not a good one to talk about. Some of the other feuding was silly, but this . . . Now, your great-great-grandfather claimed it was an accident. It was pitch black, he didn’t know who it was, didn’t know it was Floyd. But the Murdochs didn’t believe that for a second. Figured he’d done it because Floyd was a Murdoch.”
She tugged her hair away from her face, held it in bunches at her temples, staring into the sand, her bare feet bracing her beer bottle. “How on earth could they still have been feuding in . . . what, 1918?”
“Hard to believe, but there it is,” he said and laughed before upturning his bottle and finishing it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head.
“Don’t be sorry. Nothing to be sorry about. We’re not those people. And, for what it’s worth, I can believe Floyd might have been shot by accident in the dark.”
“But still . . .”
Troy looked her way, eyes drunken but soulful in the dim light. “I hope I didn’t mess up your evening with that dumb old tale.”
She groaned, thinking of poor Bridget seeing the man she loved killed, then thinking of that gun on the mantle, home at Fortune, wondering if that was the trophy gun used to shoot down some love-struck kid trying to run off with a Whaley woman.
