by Ellis Quinn
“Why would I say that?”
Stephen pointed over her shoulder toward shore. “No, that boat,” he said.
She swiveled where she sat and looked toward shore. A small cabin cruiser, maybe twenty-five feet, nosed up and tilted on the sandy beach a few hundred yards to the north of the oyster farm. The sight reminded her of the night they’d found Donovan McNeal’s Miss Connie he’d loaned to Royce Murdoch nosed up on a sand bar in the Toppehannock River. It had been Bucky Snead aboard the boat that night, harmless old Bucky. But with just the three of them out in the middle of nowhere—she and Aunt Pris and Cherry—finding a mysterious boat, whoever was onboard, appeared to be a great danger to them. The sense of danger returned. She huddled into her cardigan and said, “Looks strange the way it’s abandoned there. Whose boat is it?”
Steven said, “Remember last week when I saw you painting on the public beach?”
“I remember.”
“I mentioned Julie Hartfield. That’s Julie’s boat.”
Now she joined Steven, the two of them standing at his boat’s controls, looking out over the visor. “I just saw her this morning,” Bette said. “She was at Cherry’s café. I was going to talk to her, but she was busy.”
“The whole town’s busy,” Steven said.
“Cherry was run off her feet.”
Steven shielded his concerned eyes from the sun with a hand at his brow. “I don’t see anyone. Maybe Julie’s gone for help.”
“Do you have ropes? Maybe we can tug her back in the water.”
“I don’t have long enough ropes. Hopefully she will.”
“This old hunk of junk have enough horsepower?” she said, patting the gunwale, trying to lighten them both up.
“More than enough,” he said, packing up their lunch wrappers and stuffing them in the paper bag. He scrunched it into a ball, tossed it in the trash, turned the key and got his motor rumbling. This was a new Steven, and she liked this one, too. All business, all purpose. Shades of his father showing through.
When they were closer, Steven cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered out Julie’s name. Did it three times, but there was no sign of any life at the boat or in the marshy grass beyond.
Steven said, “I better go take a look.”
Bette said, “I guess you should,” and as Steven rifled through a storage cabinet, pulling out a pair of hip waders, she added: “Although . . .”
Steven sat one of the boat’s seats, shoving his legs into the hip waders while Buster jumped up, excited by this change of events. Buster thought it was time to go swimming, and he was all in. Steven said, “Although what?”
“I know Julie was excited about her husband coming home.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said, standing up now and snapping the elastic suspenders in place over his shoulders. “Can you get us in close?”
“I can do that,” she said, assuming her spot at the boat’s controls. She brought the motor to life and headed closer to Julie’s boat at a slow speed.
Steven said, “So what does that mean?”
“You know, it sounded like she missed him . . .”
“You don’t want to me to interrupt their afternoon tryst?” he said and smiled. “Think they’re out having a picnic in the grass or something where no one can see them?”
“Would you like it? You and Mr. Aquaculture getting interrupted?”
“About as much as you and Marcus,” he said, climbing now onto the prow of the boat, enjoying a friendly laugh to himself at her expense.
She shouted over the visor, “Maybe I’d like to see top speed on your fancy boat right now, you better find something to hold on to real quick.”
“You better not,” he said.
Buster was at her side, and she patted his head as she got the boat closer. Steven shouted Julie’s name again, but there was still no response. She brought the boat to an idle, and Steven jumped into the water.
“You want to help him, don’t you?” she said to Buster, who fidgeted at her side. “I know you’re desperate, go on then, good boy.”
That was all Buster needed to hear, jumping off the gunwale, and splashing in the Bay. He circled around the front of the boat and joined Steven, both of them tromping through the sparkling water to the shore.
She watched as Buster ran up and down the beach and then settled to sit attentively at the side of Julie’s boat as Steven climbed aboard. Bette went onto the prow and waited.
Steven checked the boat’s controls, walked around the back deck, then she saw him disappear into the cabin. Almost immediately he backed out again, and when he turned her way, she could see his face had gone ashen.
She shouted, “What is it?”
“I think you better call Marcus.”
“You’re not funny,” she said.
“No, Bette, call Marcus. Call the police.”
“Is something wrong?”
Steven nodded.
“Oh, no. What is it?”
“There is somebody on board.”
Dread tightened her scalp, and her fingers went numb. “You can’t be serious. Are they . . .” She didn’t want to say it. Said instead: “Alive?”
He shook his head no. She withdrew her phone from her pocket, dialed Marcus’s number and while it was ringing, said to Steven, “Is the somebody wearing knee-high brown leather boots?”
Steven nodded again.
TWO HOURS LATER
Bette found Pris where her aunt worked the busy Crab Festival, taking cash at the heated dunk tank on Main Street. Pris was in her glory, bringing passing tourists into the fundraiser, challenging a man with an Orioles ball cap to show how good his arm was if he was from Baltimore.
That was all the man needed to hear, and he took the challenge, proud to represent Baltimore. Pris ushered him in as Bette arrived, adjusting her ball cap that was too big for her head, sitting low on her brow, the Chesapeake Cove town emblem embroidered on the front.
“We’re going gangbusters, Bette, hon,” she said, grabbing Bette’s arms above the elbows and giving a good squeeze.
“That’s great, Pris, but I—”
Pris could tell something was wrong. “What is it? You got all pale, I thought you was out on the water with Steven and his brand new fool boat. Expected you to get some sun,” she said, touching the tip of Bette’s nose.
“I was. I was out on the boat.”
“Okay, hold on and watch this,” Pris said, as they walked together toward the dunk tank where one of the young guys from the Reginald G. Crockett Pep Squad sat on the levered seat above the dunk tank’s water.
The dunk tank stood about eight feet tall; a cylinder with a clear window in the front so you could see the dunkee submerged. In theme, Pris had tossed two dozen rubber crabs in the water and they jostled on the floor, wavering in the current. The tank’s water was heated to protect the participants in this late-October dunking.
All around the dunk tank, previous participants clapped their hands and cheered the man with the Orioles hat as he stepped up to the pitcher’s mound, fifteen feet back from the target. They’d already been dunked, all of them other members of the high school pep squad. Young girls and guys with their wet hair pushed back from their faces, hiding in their oversized beach towels.
The man from Baltimore stood in a convincing pitcher’s stance, his wife behind him, encouraging her husband, shouting to the high school kid on the seat, “You’re about to get wet!”
“I bet you’re wrong,” the kid mocked, bone dry, sitting in swim shorts and an RGC high school T-shirt, safe behind netting that would protect him from errant pitches. “I don’t think this guy could hit the broad side of—”
The man from Baltimore must’ve been some kind of softball pitcher because he wound up a powerful windmill and fired off an underhand pitch that nailed the target with a loud whack. The seat snapped away and the kid never finished his sentence, dunking down into the water, arms flapping, cheeks billowed out and eyes closed. He hit the bottom and sent the rub
ber crabs swimming around his kicking legs.
The gathered crowd and the pep squad all cheered. The man’s wife patted his back, and he beamed. Another proud and happy participant in the Chesapeake Cove Crab Festival, and raising money for a good cause.
The kid popped out of the water, squeezed water out of his eyes and nose, then pushed back his hair. He shouted, “Lucky shot!”
The man’s wife said, “Luck had nothing to do with it, sonny, Ronnie here’s pitcher for the Towson Tornado!”
Humble Ronnie clarified for those gathered, “Beer League, everybody, Beer League,” worried they might think he was a conceited hotshot.
“Who’s next?” his wife said.
Ronnie said, “I think I found where I’m going to camp out the rest of the day.” He brought out his wallet and located Pris, nodding to her. “I’m going to go again,” he said, “ a couple more times,” and passed Pris fifty dollars.
“Get somebody dry up on the seat,” his wife called out.
Pris’s eyes went wide with excitement and she turned to Bette. “Oh, hun,” Pris said, “you’re gone love this.”
“Okay, but, Pris, seriously, I have some news.”
“Hold on, though, girl, this is gone be good.”
Pris took Ronnie’s money, went over to Margaret Whalen, who sat at the official dunk tank table, in charge of the cash box. She passed the money over, and Ronnie got himself the first of ten new softballs for him to launch.
Behind the tall target screen, the next dry dunkee emerged. A tall, thin woman, with a towel around her shoulders. She wore a wetsuit and scuba booties. When the woman looked up, both she and Bette gasped.
It was Charlotte Dawson.
“Oh, no,” Charlotte said, shaking her head, then looking to Pris. “This was not part of the deal.”
Pris asked, “What wasn’t part of the deal?” Then said, “You’re getting triple credit toward your community service for your time here at my dunk tank.”
Charlotte said, “But not if she’s watching.”
“Who?” Pris said, looking over her shoulder. “Bette?”
“That’s not part of the deal,” Charlotte said, crossing her arms and harrumphing.
“What does that matter?”
Charlotte said, “I might not have much dignity left, but you have to leave me with something.”
Bette said, “I have no hard feelings, Charlotte, though I should. You put my son, Vance, in danger with your subterfuge. . . . But I think what you’re doing here is great.”
“I can’t do it if she’s watching,” Charlotte said, sticking to drama.
“Let her go, Pris,” Bette said, “I have more important things right now than watching Charlotte Dawson get dunked in the water.” Although she would love to see it.
“I won’t do it if she’s here,” Charlotte said to Pris, who looked puzzled.
Bette said, “Let her go, Pris, you come with me, I have something really important to tell you.”
“More important than this?” Pris thumbed over her shoulder toward Charlotte, but concerned now. If Bette would forego the chance to watch Charlotte get dunked, then what she had to say must be important.
Bette said over Pris’s shoulder to Charlotte, “Get up on that dunk seat. I’ll give you your dignity, though you don’t deserve it,” and walked Prissy away to talk in private.
* * *
Pris said, “Please, tell me I’m not a suspect.”
“Huh?”
“First you, then Cherry accused of murder. I don’t want to take a turn.”
“I think you have an alibi, Pris,” she said supportively. “I saw you this morning dropping off your sandwich from Cherry, and you’ve been here the whole time.”
Pris smiled and showed a compassionate expression. “I was kidding, anyway, hon. So tell me what happened.”
Bette took a deep breath, arms folded, turning her face up to the sky for a moment. She and Pris stood away from the dunking spectacle, in a quiet spot behind the target and out of pedestrians’ way. Bette’s back was to the Sun-Jammer beachwear store, and Pris had her back to The Cove Trading Post; tourists passed close by, and a bigger crowd had gathered to watch this big guy with the cannon arm send the next contestant into the water.
Bette explained her morning to her aunt, whose eyes grew wider each passing moment. “Steven was the one who found her, but once Marcus was there, I took a look down in the hull, and I could see it was Julie Hartfield. Just by her legs.”
“How did you know it was her legs?”
“She wore the same boots as she had in the café, and I really liked them.”
“This is terrible,” Pris exhaled. “You sure it was her?”
“It’s her. Steven said it, so did Marcus, and they both saw her.”
Pris lay a hand over her forehead, knocking up the brim of her oversized cap. “I just don’t want it to be Julie. She was a kind woman. I liked seeing her when I ran into her. She was a recluse, but—”
“That’s what she was saying at The Steaming Bean when I saw her. Talking to some friends and they all said how no one saw her and she was a recluse.”
“What did your Marcus say?”
“He’s not my Marcus, and he said there were no clues he saw at the scene.”
“Well now, how did the murderer get off the boat without leaving any footprints?”
“Must have jumped overboard and swam. Marcus and Jason were hiking up and down the beach when I left, looking to see any sign of him coming to shore.”
“Him?”
“Or her.”
Pris looked away, disappointed. “Course they could come up on a rocky shore. Leave no trace.” The weight of the bad news finally seemed to settle on her aunt, and Pris covered her face in two hands and bowed forward as if it was too much to bear. She groaned into her palms, then righted herself, taking off her ball cap and smoothing back the swooping side part of her silvery bangs.
Bette asked, “Why you chewing your lip?”
Pris shook her head, something bothering her, chunky red earrings in red wood dancing against her neck. “Anyone tell you yet she’s pregnant?”
Bette lurched toward her aunt. “What—no . . . Julie?”
“Uh-huh,” Pris said, looking at her gravely and swatting her ball cap against her thigh. “Three months along, from what I heard. Pleased as punch, she was.”
“Wait, only three months?” Bette considered it. “Did she tell her husband yet?”
Her aunt shook her head, earrings bouncing. “I don’t know, Bette. I know she was looking forward to telling him in person, and that was a few weeks ago when we sat beside each other at Helga’s salon.”
From out on the street came a wicked crack—the dunk tank’s target struck with a baseball. After the crack, a mechanical lever clunking, a roar of applause followed by a woman’s scream cut off by an enormous splash. She wished she could enjoy Charlotte’s dunking more, but she was too tight inside.
Pris said sullenly, “That man’s got an arm on him.”
Water splashed from the tank now and spritzed onto the pavement, then Charlotte surfaced and hooted. The crowd cheered.
“I don’t know Brian,” Pris said now, stroking her chin. “Never met the man, though I know some of the other girls have. He’s an engineering contractor or something, works overseas. Julie never. goes with him. Way she says it, it’s a perfect arrangement. She gets to stay here in her home, painting and whatnot, then when Brian gets home”—she bounced her eyebrows—“she said it’s like their honeymoon every time he gets back from a trip.”
Bette shook her head, feeling again that loss of opportunity. Everything she heard about Julie was wonderful, and she’d love to meet the woman, get to know her. But Julie was gone. She got closer to be Pris so she could be heard over the cheering. “Julie was saying to her friends at Cherry’s that she was going to surprise Brian this weekend by being home—she was supposed to be away but she stayed at home. It’s their anniversary.”
Prissy tut-tutted at how terrible that was.
Bette stood back again, dismayed, saying, “Man’s flying across the continent, coming home not even knowing he’s a widower yet.”
A shadow passed between them, and they turned their heads to see Charlotte Dawson returning behind the screen, her turn at the dunk tank over. She looked up, and they all met gazes. Charlotte stood soaking in her wetsuit, blonde hair hanging down her cheeks in dark tangles. Dark makeup half moons formed under her eyes, and her mascara ran. No one said anything.
Charlotte tightened her expression, stood straighter and raised her chin. She shook her hair, and it flopped heavily around her neck like a bouquet of wet rat’s tails. She hiked a haughty pivot and walked behind the screen with waterlogged poise, her bare feet making flatulent squeaks in her flip-flops.
THAT EVENING
Puffs of smoke chugged from the house’s stone chimney, and a bluish haze hung in the cold night air like a canopy. A sure sign of a recently started fire.
The home was unexpected. The design was simple but modern, and somehow elegant without being feminine. A salt-box style with the high edge at the front, the tall roof sloping toward the river side, timber beams jutting out below the roof’s overhang. Marcus Seabolt’s house was humble but well-presented, just like the man.
The house didn’t sit on a huge plot of land, yet still hid well from the neighbors. A beautiful view of the Hachette River showed beyond the house, smooth as glass and reflecting the starry denim sky. Sometimes when they were younger, they’d come down this way looking for soft shells. Here, the Hachette was still an estuary, very briny, and a good spot for crabbing and fishing.
She stepped out of the Bronco, gathered up the wine she’d brought, opened the tailgate and let Buster jump down. She warned him, “Don’t you go jump in that river. I’m serious, Buster, Marcus won’t let you in if you’re dripping wet.”
They walked the short drive, passed an old black pickup truck with big tires that must be Marcus’s off-duty vehicle. On the wraparound porch, she admired the construction. Corrugated steel ran from the deck to waist height, horizontal wood siding lined above it. She traced her fingers on the black wood in the dim light. It looked rough, but under her fingers the wood was smooth and soft, and she could feel the raised edges of the grain.