by Ellis Quinn
“The FBI said there’s a guy who does this. He’s got two names: farther north, they call him The Lovelorn Killer, the FBI is calling him the In Sympathy Killer.”
She felt a tingle in her toes, and could see where this was going.
“Seems there’s someone who likes to insinuate himself into a woman’s life and weed out competitive suitors. . . . When I saw this picture, I remembered seeing him here when I arrested Cherry.”
Marcus passed her the phone, and she tilted the screen and saw a drawing of a man fitting a very distinct description. She gasped, lifted her head, whipped to the right and ruined everything.
The drawing was of the man called Calvin. And Calvin stood waiting for a chance to talk to Cherry again, though the counter was busy. When he heard her gasp, he looked up, and when he did, he would have seen both her and Marcus staring at him. And he recognized Marcus now as a Chesapeake Cove police officer.
In his hand he held a tall paper cup of steaming coffee. It slipped from his fingers, hit the floor and burst with hot coffee. Not a drop splashed him, because he was off before it hit the ground.
Calvin darted deeper into The Steaming Bean, heading toward the step up to the patio. Pink scrunchy Stacy bolted after him. The girl could really run. Those long legs hiked after Calvin, her cowboy boots clomping on the old wooden floor. She leapt as Calvin mounted the step up and she landed on his back, clinging like a monkey.
Marcus raced after them and Bette followed behind Marcus, all the Bean’s patrons shocked, getting out of their way.
With Stacy on his back, Calvin wheeled, doing a two 360s—a real 720—and flung Stacy off him. She crashed onto a table for two, sending teacups and home-baked donuts flying in the air as she toppled over in a somersault and crashed against the back wall.
All Bette could think was Buster Crab was out back watching the hens and he could be in danger. This man Calvin was a killer, might be armed with a knife right now, and what on earth would happen to her dear beloved dog if he tried to intervene . . .
She and Marcus clambered up into the patio sunroom, Marcus slowing to make sure Stacy was okay and Bette following behind Calvin, watching now as Calvin looked over his shoulder at her, yanked open the door, and leapt into the backyard—right into three-hundred furious pounds of Jason Mitchum.
NINE DAYS LATER
Though the day was cool, the sun was out, the sky blue and cloudless, and she was outdoors in just a thermal T and an untucked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She was feeling fine and fancy-free, taking advantage of a day where she had nothing else on her mind. Baby boy Vance was back at school, all the drama of the murder case over with now. Vance was returning to school armed with wonderful stories to engage his friends with. If they believed them. Things had been quite outrageous.
For now, she was going to enjoy the weather and take her first tentative steps on a new endeavor. She was at the public beach, Tucker’s fish and chips behind her, the orangey sand of the beach almost an empty swath this time of year. Too cold for sunbathers. There were a few people out though, sitting on blankets, reading, others walking along the surf every once in a while. But she was in the grassy delta between the fish shop, the beach, the public trail and beyond the public trail more grass and then the parking lot.
In front of her stood the teak easel from her mother’s closet. On the easel a taped down square of heavy watercolor paper. She was painting the beach, and a gathering of three boats together about 150 yards off the shore. Watson was at her feet, happy and well-fed and napping. Once she finished here, she might treat him to some halibut bites from Tucker’s and a run in the waves.
A thunk behind her had her turning to see Stephen having hip-checked his pickup truck’s door and heading her way across the grass, holding two tall paper cups, one in each hand. She waved, then turned, began pulling at the straight-line strips of glue she’d put down on her painting so the color wouldn’t seep into the ships’ masts.
“What do you think, Buster? Is it good? Is it terrible? I got about thirty seconds before Stephen gets here. . . . Do I crumple it up?”
She rinsed her brushes and let the painting stay on the easel. Stephen crossed the grass to her, and said, “Afternoon, Bette. I just came from Cherry’s.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” she said as he passed one of the paper cups. She levered up the plastic lid and smelled powerful apples. “Mmm . . . Cider. Real cinnamon sticks and everything.”
“Don’t thank me, though,” he said, “I asked Cherry if she knew where you were, she said you might be here and sent the cider for us both.”
“She’s a good friend,” Bette said and sipped her cider.
“She sure is,” Stephen agreed.
“How’ve you been doing?”
“Taking it a day at a time. Dad and I are trying to get our feet on the ground again. Jack being gone doesn’t help me one bit. I needed him on the boats. Going to miss him.” He looked down at the grass, despondent.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to know Jack better.”
“You would’ve liked him.”
“How’s your mom?”
He grimaced. “Doing what she has to do,” he muttered. Stephen sipped his cider, looking at her painting.
She said, “What do you think?”
He looked over to the beach, and out to the boats beyond. “Wow,” he said. “I think it’s pretty fantastic, Bette, honestly.”
“You’re only saying that because you like me.”
“I like you, and everything. Like you well enough to tell you if you might be wasting your time. But I think you’re really good. How long have you been painting?”
“Forty-five minutes,” she said.
Stephen laughed, held out his cider cup in case hot cider squirted out his nose. He got control, swallowed, said, “Forty-five minutes?”
“I used to paint. As a kid. These are my mom’s things—I found them in Fortune,” she said, gesturing to the small stand and the open wooden suitcase with brushes and paint tubes and palettes. “I had to buy new paint, the ones in the case were too old to use. But the brushes and everything, the easel, even the paper . . .”
“Your mom painted?”
“My mom did a lot of things. She was an amazing musician. She painted beautiful pictures. But she always wanted to be a lawyer.”
“It never happened?”
Bette winced but smiled. “She got pregnant instead.”
“It’s all your fault,” he said, and she bumped him with her elbow.
“We made the best of it. All of us in The Fortune together. I found these old paints when I was hiding on Buster.”
“Why were you hiding on Buster?”
She cocked her head, embarrassed. “We, uh, were playing hide and seek.”
“I see,” he said, hiding a smile behind his cup of cider.
“He’s really good at it,” she said.
“I’m sure he is.”
“That last summer before she was gone, she would bring me out to the backyard of The Fortune, and she taught me how to paint. Once she was gone, I never tried it again. I was such an angry kid growing up here in the Cove. It was tough being a teenager here. But something about seeing this case of paints and the easel made me want to do it again.”
“You’ve got natural talent,” he said.
“I don’t know if I’m seeing things or not,” she said. “I’m anxious to admit that it really isn’t that bad.”
“If that’s what you did after forty-five minutes of trying, I’d say you have a bright future ahead of you in the world of watercolors.”
“It’s very peaceful.”
“It’s a great way to pass the time, and who knows where it could take you. Hey, there’s a woman in town you should meet up with. Ever hear of Julie Hartfield?”
“No.”
“Artist in the Cove. You’d like her. All she does is paint. Paints for a living.”
“I’ll look her up. Wonder if there’s a group that meets.”
>
“Tell Prissy,” Stephen said, “and she’ll get one started if there isn’t.”
“That’s a good idea,” she laughed.
They both regarded her painting for a while, the watery sky, the reflection of the boats on the Bay and the swath of complementary beach that amplified the blue. She rinsed her bush and dried it on a towel.
Stephen sighed and said, “I really wish I’d seen it.”
She knew what he meant. “I know. I wish you’d seen it.”
“That man killed my brother. I deserved to see it.”
“It was something,” she said, “I keep going over it in my head.”
“Tell me about it again.”
She closed her brush in a plastic protector and put it in the case, folded her arms and turned to Stephen. “That police officer, Stacy, she went flying off that Calvin guy’s back. Poor girl went right over a table, the people eating there jump back seeing this girl doing a somersault right through their lunch. And he keeps running, and I’m behind him, and he’s looking back at me and he launches out that back door—”
“Right into Jason Mitchum.”
“I swear to you, Stephen, I have never seen anything like it. In movies, sure. In real life? I didn’t think a person could really do that.” She formed a clawed hand now, held it up by her face, pretending she was lifting someone by their neck. “Stephen, Jason lifted that Calvin by his throat, and held him up over his head, guy’s skinny jeans kicking.”
“I wish it was me standing out back.”
“No offense, I’m much happier it was Jason.”
“And then Buster bit him?”
She snorted, looked at a Buster. He was awake now, looking up at the newcomer and thumping his tail in the grass.
“Buster knows what’s up,” she said. “He sees Jason, knows that Jason’s got a bad guy. He’s jumping up, biting on Calvin’s legs and pulling on his pants.”
“It sounds like a cartoon.”
“When Jason set him down again and put him in that headlock, Buster here grabbed a big chunk of the guy’s butt. Wouldn’t let go, head shaking and everything.”
“Guy didn’t stand a chance.”
“It’s going to be the trial of the decade. Thank goodness it’s not in the Cove. Looks like they’re taking him back up north.”
“Minus a bite out of his butt cheek.”
“Who’s a good boy?” she said to Buster, who thumped his tail harder. She squatted down and patted him, and he narrowed his golden eyes in the sunlight and got sleepy again. He fell to his side and rolled over so she could get his belly. Stephen laughed at her wonderful dog’s antics.
“So that was about it. Jason squeezed the fight out of him, and the guy was afraid of dogs. Cowered from Buster. He curled up whimpering, and then Jason grabbed him by his belt and carried him back through the restaurant like he was walking through the airport with his carry-on.”
Stephen laughed and said, “Can’t believe I can find something funny in what happened.”
She stood then, regarded him and said, “You come all the way to the public beach here to have me tell you that story all over?”
“I was talking to Cherry,” he said.
“And?”
“I was thinking about what you said. About my secret and whether it was worth the trouble of hiding.”
“I thought we got your secret.”
“You mean Jack being with his mom when his mom died?”
“Your mom was holding that over you. I just don’t know who you were talking to in the park that day.”
“I see,” he said, nodding. “That was a secret about my brother, but you overheard me in the park talking about a different secret. Another one that I was keeping from my father.”
“Could this be why you’re so adamant you and Cherry aren’t in a relationship, though you spend a lot of time together sneaking around so nobody sees?”
“I suppose,” he said, smirking since she’d seemed to figure it out already.
She said, “Vance suspected that the woman in the video from the Brewery’s security camera—the one turned out to be your mom—could’ve been a secret girlfriend, and boy was he hopeful.”
“He’s got nothing to worry about,” Stephen said and then scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.
“You can tell me what your secret is.”
“And Cherry hasn’t told you yet?”
“I swear she hasn’t.”
He chuckled, bounced on his toes, one hand stuffed in his front jeans pocket, face working around with anxiousness. He exhaled, then said it. “It wouldn’t have been a secret girlfriend sneaking down the alley to meet with me. It would’ve been a secret boyfriend.”
“I see,” she said, smiling wide. “And you two were lurking around the park that night, that other guy’s voice I heard, he’s your boyfriend?”
“We weren’t lurking, Bette. We have to meet in secret.”
“I’ll leave you alone about it,” she said and grinned.
Stephen chuckled and said, “I appreciate it.”
“Have you told your dad yet?”
“I told him last night. Secrets aren’t worth the trouble.”
“He didn’t care?”
“I thought he would, but all he did was say he loved me and hugged me.”
“You guys have been through a lot.”
“We have,” he said. “It’s crazy how it’s brought us together. Even Mom, in a way. I’d like to think it would make Jack happy that his death might be the thing that heals our family and brings us together.”
They hugged and laughed and talked a while longer. Stephen played with Buster and took him for a run on the beach while Bette watched and finished her cider. Then she walked out to the sand and joined them, throwing a stick out into the waves for Buster.
Stephen collected their cups and tossed them in the trash. Bette peeled her painting from its board, tugged off the tape, and rolled the painting into a tube. She hugged him again, then tucked the painting under his arm.
“You’re giving it to me?”
“Hide it in a book or something, and if you’re feeling down some time, look at it and remember how you can start over. How it’s never too late to try something new, to connect with the past, to find things about yourself you didn’t know.”
He unrolled it, admired it again, then re-rolled it and bopped her on the head with the paper tube. “No way I’m hiding this away, Bette. It’s a nice sentiment I should think about every day.”
It was good to see so much weight removed from his shoulders that the cheerful soul inside him could shine.
As Stephen waved and trod across the path and over the grass, returning to his pickup truck, Bette packed up the paints and brushes and put the lid on her water jar. A man rode a bicycle on the path, headed her way. She closed the snaps on her mother’s painting case, looked up again because it occurred to her the man was familiar.
“I’ll be,” she said. Then to Buster: “Get a load of this ringer.”
It was Marcus riding the bike, and he slowed now, recognizing her and looking guilty. She put her hands on her hips and watched as he came to a stop and dismounted, left his bike in the grass and crossed her way with his hands in his pockets.
He said, “What are you doing out here?”
Hands still on hips, she said, “You tell me what you’re doing out here,” jutting her chin toward his bicycle.
“Oh, uh, getting some exercise.”
“Is it like riding a bike?”
He laughed, said, “I fell off once. Only once, though, and my legs are burning.”
“I hate to tell you this . . .”
“What?”
“They’re going to hurt worse tomorrow.”
Buster came to greet him, and Marcus got down and wrestled with him.
She said, “So how’s it looking? Think you’ll be able to stay upright, say if you were creeping down Haunted Hill on that thing?”
“I h
adn’t really thought about it,” he said, down on all fours and roughhousing with her dog.
“I’m sure. That why you went out and bought a brand new bike?”
“I’m taller now than when I last used my old one.”
“I’m thinking I’ll need to get on my bike some more fore Halloween comes around.”
Marcus stood now, but Buster jumped and hugged him around the waist. Marcus hugged Buster’s head while he looked at her easel. “So what are you doing out here?”
“Painting. What does it look like?”
Buster jumped down, and Marcus lined up with her easel, stooped with hands on knees, and studied a painting that wasn’t there. “So life like,” he said, waving a hand across the front of her easel where her painting had been. “I love how you painted the water, looks like the waves are actually moving.”
She flicked his ear, and he rose, laughing. She said, “Stephen was just here. I gave him my painting cause he was so nice to me. Take a lesson from him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Getting better and better. Seems happy. How’s Charlotte’s service coming along?”
He chuckled, and Buster jumped up on him again. Marcus stroked his face. “I was coming through town and saw Cherry giving Charlotte pointers.”
“Pointers on what?”
“Charlotte’s cleaning windows on the Main Street businesses and Cherry was showing some streaks she’d left.”
Bette laughed hard and then sighed, saying, “Oh, that’s terrible.”
Marcus said, “Just wait till Charlotte has to do Madsen Street next week.”
“The Bean?”
“It might break her,” Marcus said.
“Or teach her humility.”
“Oh, this guy,” Marcus growled, shaking Buster’s jowls. “I’m so glad you decided to adopt him.”
“Oh, I didn’t decide to adopt him.”
Marcus stopped, looked disappointed, stroked Buster’s face and said, “You didn’t?”
She played with Buster’s ear while he mouthed Marcus’s hand. “Nope, Buster decided to adopt me.”
Marcus rolled his eyes at her lame tease and she laughed at him.
“Marcus, I have to say, this is the first time I’ve seen you so, I don’t know. Unofficial. I like it when you’re not working.”