Anchor Management

by Ellis Quinn

  “Things got worse between us all once Delilah was in Jack’s life. I picked him up that day he found her doing drugs and was his shoulder to cry on, but after that, Jack grew distant. Charlotte and Jack were always fighting, and Jack didn’t want anybody’s help anymore, not even mine. He ended up going to Baltimore on the weekends again, sometimes longer than the weekend.” He paused, eyes distant, folding his arms. “Then five years ago, it all changed.”

  “What happened?”

  He looked up, brows tented, mouth askew. “Delilah died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Vinnie.”

  “Yup,” he said, nodding his way through it. “Died of an overdose. And since then, Jack’s been clean and sober, and he’s worked at turning it all around. There was still a lot of friction between us all, a lot of pain, but sometimes things were real good here. Jack would never forgive Charlotte for some of the things she said to him, and Charlotte wouldn’t forgive Jack for the things he put her through.”

  Bette said, “It must have been wonderful to see Jack turn his life around. That must have felt good.”

  He smiled, returned to his seat and sipped his cocktail. “It was. Jack knew I was proud of him, I just wish we had more time. More time to make things right between us all.”

  “Gotta be grateful for those five years. Imagine if you hadn’t got them.”

  He liked that thought and smiled again. “You’re right, you know. I could lament what wasn’t, or appreciate what was.”

  Bette said, “Stephen appreciated seeing his brother turn around. I get that from talking to him.”

  “Stephen had his brother’s back, even when Jack was at his worst. It’s why I’m sitting on my boat today. I’m empty, I don’t know how Stephen could say he did it.”

  “You don’t believe him.”

  Vinnie shook his head no and took a drink. “Don’t know what could come between them that would lead to this.”

  “What would make Stephen say he did it, if he didn’t?”

  Vinnie shrugged his shoulders, reached down to pat Buster and cheer himself up. “He’s a Chessy, huh?”

  “Buster?”

  “Yeah, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever.”

  “I suppose he is,” Bette said and stroked Buster from the crown and down his back, Buster with his head tilted up and soaking in the adoration.

  Vinnie looked her way again, leaning forward, holding his drink in both hands. “Stephen’s been nothing but good. He’s quiet and keeps to himself, but he’s a hard worker when he’s on the water. Smart, too, though he didn’t go off to college like Sophia.”

  “Where’s she at?”

  “Penn. She just went back. Spent a few days here after Jack was killed, but I made her go back to school.”

  “She know Stephen’s in jail saying he did it?”

  “No way. She’ll come down again and she needs to focus.”

  “Maybe you and Charlotte are a team after all,” Bette said, “that sounded like something she would say.”

  Vinnie laughed. “You see the good in the bad, Bette.” Now he rose, and she was glad to have raised his spirits. He popped open the leather seat where the cooler was and brought out a couple cans of ginger ale, put them on the counter by the bar and entertainment center and pulled out the bottle of whiskey. “Stay for another, would you, Bette? You’re sure easy to talk to.”

  Bette hugged Buster from behind and asked him what he thought, then said, “One more, Vinnie, then I’ve got something real important to do.”

  AN HOUR LATER

  Who wouldn’t like a paper-wrapped bundle of deep-fried halibut? No one wouldn’t, she figured. So following up on frequent recommendations, she drove the Bronco south of the village to a beach-side shack selling fish and chips for the summer.

  The shack was board and batten, painted gray-blue with white trim; a serving window with white shutters opened on the beach side, and out back there was a propane tank, an ice chest, crates and a bicycle. It was a place at the public beach where you used to buy bait and fishing gear back when she was in the Cove. Now the place had been gutted and cleaned, and a sign up top read: Tucker’s Fish & Chips. Next to that, a Scottish flag.

  Tucker was a Scotsman in his late fifties, brisk and grumbling, but friendly. He wore an apron over a flannel shirt, and a ball cap over top of bushy white hair. He smelled like pipe tobacco.

  She ordered six one-piece halibut with fries and coleslaw, which Tucker wrapped in grayish newsprint and tied with packaging string. He put all six orders in a cardboard box and carried them out to the Bronco for her, though she told him he didn’t have to.

  “Need to stretch m’legs,” he grumbled, “don’t take it as any kind of special treatment.”

  “I promise I won’t,” she said, and opened the Bronco’s back cargo.

  Tucker was smitten with Buster, who skittered out to meet him, jumping down and running in circles.

  “Aye, boy,” he said, patting him on the back and scratching his neck. “Hope this fish and chips is safe wi’you in the back.”

  Bette offered Tucker a tip for carrying the box, and Tucker raised his hands, looking offended. “Just because I’m a Scotsman, you think I’ll take your dollar?”

  Bette laughed and said she’d see him around, and Tucker said, “Let’s see how you like me fish and chips first.”

  * * *

  But now she was at the police station, carrying in the box of fish and chips on her own (though she had to bump the wheelchair button to get through the front doors).

  “Ho, ho, ho,” she said, popping the box down at the reception desk in front of pink scrunchy Stacy, who rose and told her Marcus was expecting her.

  She presented Stacy with a package of fish and chips, and said, “Thought I’d bring lunch by. Can I bring in one to Stephen when I see him?”

  “You’ll have to ask Marcus,” Stacy said, then thanked her for the free lunch. “You’re the best, Miss Whaley. Thanks so much.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Behind reception in the bullpen of desks, big Jason Mitchum sat typing at a computer. He pushed back his squeaking chair from the desk and said, “If Stephen can’t take it, I got dibs.”

  Bette said, “Don’t worry, Jason, I got you your own.”

  Jason said, “Is that fish and chips?”

  “Tucker’s,” she said and wagged a package at him. Then to Stacy she said, “I hope one’s enough for him,” and Stacy giggled.

  Jason waved her to come join him in the bullpen, and she did, placing the hot paper bundle on his desk. He said, “You really are the best.”

  “I take it you’re hungry?— I guess that’s a stupid question, you’re probably always hungry.”

  Jason popped his arm up and flexed a massive bicep that pulled taut the black sleeve of his uniform. He said, “Tournament in two weeks, I need all the calories I can get.”

  “I’ve been getting a lot these days, you think I can enter? Maybe I could toss a caber and I don’t even know it.”

  “Go on and poke it,” he said, still with the bicep pose, nodding his head to the side.

  She laughed and said, “I don’t want to get you in trouble, Jason, fooling around at work.”

  He said, “Take it from me, I’ll be back with the Highland trophy,” and untied his bundle of fish and chips.

  “Something tells me you’re right,” Bette said. “Is Marcus around?”

  “He’ll be out in a minute, he’s just in the back— Nope, there he is now,” he said, nodding his chin back at reception where Marcus had come out and was standing with Stacy.

  “See you around,” she said to Jason, and made her way back to reception.

  “You’re right on time,” Marcus said.

  “If I’m known for anything, it’s my punctuality. Want some fish and chips?”

  “I wish you’d told me you were going to bring lunch. I just ate. And drink too much coffee from the machine.”

  She said, “You doing okay? I mean, after this morn
ing out on the pier . . .”

  Marcus eyed Stacy, and said, ”I’m doing fine. I’ve never had somebody who gets to me like she does.”

  “She’s like a character out of a movie. Pure Disney villain.”

  “Good thing your Buster isn’t a Dalmatian. Where is he?”

  “Watching the Bronco for me. I’m real glad you’ll let me talk to Stephen.”

  “He’s allowed visitors.”

  “But I’m here on official business.”

  Marcus eyed Stacy again, who was listening but pretending not to, unwrapping her bundle of halibut and chips. Marcus admired her lunch. “I had a microwave burrito from the general store.”

  “I should’ve told you. It was spur of the moment.”

  “You’re not here on official business, Bette,” he said, “but come on, let’s take you to the back.”

  She said, “Hold on,” grabbed one more paper bundle from the cardboard box and said, “Can I give one to Cherry, too?”

  Marcus said, “Cherry’s out already.”

  “Really? Aw, that’s great,” she said, then scooted to the bullpen again. She tossed a second package of fish and chips onto Jason’s desk.

  Jason beamed. “For me?”

  “If you’re gonna throw around those heavy hammers, better get in your calories,” she said and winked.

  She trotted back to the reception, turned, and snuck back to Jason who peeked out to reception, popped up that bicep pose again, and she poked it with two fingers. It was like poking her refrigerator.

  * * *

  With two bundles of hot fish and chips held at her chest, she and Marcus walked a hallway in the back of the police station. He said, “I don’t know what got into Stephen, coming down and saying he killed his brother.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “I have to take him for his word, but I’m surprised. Talk to him, Bette, you have your way.”

  “If I get him to confess, is it admissible?”

  “Just tell me what he says, and I’ll figure it out from there.”

  “I don’t think there’s any way he did it, Marcus, I talked to Vinnie, he said Stephen and Jack always got along.”

  “They never had trouble. Not between the two of them, at least. Okay,” he said, “go in the break room, I’ll bring him in to you.”

  Marcus held the door for her and she walked to the table in the center of the small break room, the blinds down on the single window, the louvers shielding the light. One half of the room was a kitchenette; a countertop with cupboards above, a sink, a microwave, a fridge, and a well-used coffeemaker. The room was quiet but for the hum of the heating system.

  She set the two bundles on the table, and pushed out both chairs, sat down and waited.

  In a few minutes, the door opened again and Marcus walked Stephen in, Stephen with his hands cuffed out front. Stephen gave her a weak smile. He said, “Good afternoon, Bette. Thanks for coming to see me.”

  “Brought you lunch,” she said. “Come have a seat with me.”

  Marcus said, “I’ll leave you two alone. You’ve got fifteen minutes, Stephen.” Then he made eye contact with Bette before closing the door.

  Stephen sat across from her with his handcuffed hands between his legs and scooted the seat forward before resting his elbows on the table.

  “Tucker’s fish and chips,” she said. “You had it before?”

  “All the time,” he said, breathing in the package's smell, then picking it up and handling it carefully, feeling the heat and rubbing his thumbs on the package string. “You’re a kind woman.”

  “I care about you, Stephen. I care about you, and I want to make sure you’re doing the right thing here.”

  “I don’t even know anymore. This has all been so crazy.”

  “Get the package open,” she said, untied her string and folded open the newsprint. There was plastic cutlery which she pulled from its plastic wrap, Stephen doing the same. The battered fish was a bright gold color, the edges crisped. It came with a slice of lemon, a small container of coleslaw, and a generous portion of perfect looking French fries. They squirted vinegar on their fish, ketchup on their chips, and ate. Stephen ate hungrily. She said, “What’s the food like here?”

  “Not terrible,” he said. “It’s like . . . like the cafeteria at high school.”

  Bette said, “You guys have that Rhonda Carlisle as your lunch lady?”

  “She’s retired now,” he said, “but she was there my first two years.”

  “You know she used to be a knockout? Tried to steal Margaret Whelan’s boyfriend back then, and Margaret stitched her up good.”

  Stephen laughed and had to cover his mouth.

  They continued to eat, then Bette said, “Your mom come by to see you yet?”

  He shook his head, one cheek puffed out with French fries. He wiped with a napkin said she hadn’t. “I don’t know if she’s mad at me, or if she’s working behind-the-scenes to get me out of here. Or making things worse somehow. You never know. I’m relieved that she hasn’t come. She’s not going to be happy with me.”

  “You have to understand why.”

  “Mom’s just always mad.”

  Bette said, “I mean, she knows you didn’t kill Jack. I know you didn’t kill Jack.”

  Stephen sighed, and his shoulders grew heavy. He let his fork drop, wiped his mouth with a napkin again. The chain of his handcuffs rattled, and he put his hands in his lap. She looked at him, and their eyes met. He chewed on his lower lip then said, “What if I did, but it was an accident?”

  “You’re telling me you killed Jack by accident?”

  “What happened with Troy Murdoch?”

  “He’s in jail, Stephen. He’s in jail for murdering his father. Even if it was an accident. . . . And look,” she said, “Troy did kill his dad. Did it by accident, but he was telling the truth when he confessed.”

  Stephen groaned and swayed where he sat. He said, “This whole thing got so out of control.”

  She said, “Do you think Marcus can tell you’re lying as easily as I can?”

  “I don’t know what to do here, Bette.”

  “Are you protecting somebody?”

  “That’s my mother talking.”

  “I heard her tear a strip off Marcus the other day. That is what she’s saying. Who’re you protecting?”

  “I hate being here like this. I hate this whole situation. It’s bad enough Jack’s gone . . .”

  She said, “Who took the anchor, Stephen? Was it Jack?”

  Stephen nodded, but his eyes lowered to the food.

  She said, “Eat up. We don’t have too much time together.”

  He did reluctantly, picking up his fork again and stabbing some French fries. He paused. “Jack stole the anchor, and I stopped him. I talked him out of it, told him to put it back. Jack gave me the anchor.”

  She looked up. “You had the anchor?”

  “I didn’t put it back. I didn’t put it back because I thought he would take it again. He’d been . . . drinking. I took the anchor and hid it on Dad’s boat.”

  “The Mayor Mayknot?”

  He nodded again. “Then I went to go see Cherry. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “You two a thing?”

  “Cherry and I?” He looked surprised. “No. We have a lot in common. Cherry was at her café. We sat and talked about parents who never seemed pleased no matter what you try to do. It’s what we usually talk about.”

  “Cherry’s parents are the same way?”

  He looked up, and she saw it surprised him she didn’t know that already. He put the fries in his mouth at last and ate them.

  “Cherry’s amazing,” he said. “She’s an amazing human being. She doesn’t deserve the scorn she gets from my mother. All because of Uncle Quinton. What was he going to do with the café, anyway? You ever hear Cherry play piano?”

  “No,” she said.

  “She doesn’t deserve my mother’s wrath.”

/>   “Where’s the part in your story where you kill your brother? I don’t see it yet.”

  “I know,” he said, stabbing more French fries then shoving them in his mouth. He chewed and shook his head, eyes turned down, going over all the events that had led to him sitting in jail like this.

  She said, “Jail’s for real, Stephen. Troy Murdoch is a good human being too. He did a bad thing. He’s going to serve his time. It’s not even that long, but he does it willingly because the truth is what’s important. He killed his father by accident. Don’t think of law and order and blame and protection. Just think about honesty.”

  Stephen said, “Of course I couldn’t kill Jack. I don’t know what happened, Bette. I think Jack followed me there. Followed me to Cherry’s. I don’t know how he figured I hid the anchor on the boat, but he must’ve grabbed it and brought it back. I don’t know what he thought he was doing. I’d talked him out of it already. Why the hell would he do that?” He looked to her, tears quivering in his eyes.

  “Do you know who could have done it? Who could’ve killed him?”

  “No,” he said. “Jack was on the mend. All the ghosts of his past, all the enemies he might’ve accumulated back then, they had their chance the last five years and never took it. He got himself straight, Bette. It’s not fair.” He rolled his eyes up to the florescent lights and the ceiling tiles, and shook his head again. Brought up his handcuffed hands and wiped at his eyes. “Bette, what if I was there with Cherry, the two of us in the café, and my brother was out back dying? I could’ve helped him. He was dying so close to us . . .”

  “Or you could be dead too, Stephen.”

  “That might be less painful,” he muttered.

  She said, “The other night I was out walking my dog.”

  He nodded, listening.

  “I overheard you. I wasn’t spying, but I heard you talking with someone. Another man.”

  His lips pursed and his eyes grew wider. His face tilted up and his skin blanched.

  She said, “Does any of this have to do with the secret your mother could reveal?”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I didn’t listen in, but I heard you. That’s all I heard, Stephen. Your mother has a secret over you.”