Muddy Waters

by Ellis Quinn

  Inside the front window now, she could see the man of the house at work in the kitchen. Back to her, he chopped carrots on a cutting board while steam billowed from a pot on the stove. The lighting was soft and amber, hanging down from the high ceiling in pendants above the island.

  “All right,” she said to Buster, “be on your best behavior.” Buster circled her twice before settling into a sit position at her side. “Good boy,” she said and knocked.

  Marcus was there in a moment, opening the door and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. “Bette, good to see you.”

  She said, “I can’t believe you still have time for me tonight.”

  He shrugged and said, “There wasn’t much else to do on the crime scene. We’ll know tomorrow. Come on in.” He held open the door and stepped back.

  She raised both bottles of wine to show him, and said, “I didn’t know if you wanted red or white, so I got both. French white, Spanish red.”

  “Excellent choices,” he said, “either one, I don’t think we can go wrong.”

  “Sounds like you want to drink both,” she said and he laughed.

  “I did tell you I have time for you tonight, but it looks like a busy day tomorrow, let’s keep it to one. Come on in, Buster,” he said.

  Buster skittered past, tentative in the strange house. Somehow her dog knew to mind his manners. He stood in the foyer, checking Marcus’s pad out.

  She said what she thought Buster was thinking: “Some place you got here, Marcus. It’s really beautiful.”

  The place was small and cozy. Open concept, with geometric room shapes and bump outs, a step down to a lower living area with a picture window out the back with a view of the river reflecting the blue of the sky; there were timber beams, wide plank floors stained dark, a central fireplace in stone that rose the tall height of the ceiling.

  Marcus said, “You like it?”

  “I’m surprised. And yet when I saw it, I somehow thought”—she shrugged—“I don’t know, it suits you.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. “I built it.”

  “You built this house yourself?” She showed him a dubious smirk.

  “I did. At night and on weekends over the last few years.”

  “You got the perfect spot and everything. Remember we used to grab soft shells out there.”

  “I remember.”

  “You still get them?”

  “Not every year, but if it’s the right time and I’ve got nothing to do, I’ll go out and see what I can find.”

  “Is that what we’re having for dinner?”

  “I hope you were expecting soft shells,” he said and gestured to the kitchen.

  Buster circled the house with clicking doggie nails, checking everything out before stopping by the fire, sitting and staring into it.

  “I thought you were going to serve me re-heated chili.”

  “I’m going to knock your socks off with this new pasta dish I learned.”

  “Oh yeah, what is it?” she said, slipping her shoes off and walking ahead of him into the kitchen.

  He said, “You’re not going to believe it, it’s easy as pie.”

  “Pies ain’t so easy.”

  He said, “Everything is in the box. Pasta, powdered cheese, you just add butter.” He snapped his fingers.

  She brought all five fingers to her pouting lips and gave the bright smack of a chef’s kiss and said, “Mwah. Perfection. I love mac and cheese. Looks like we’ll have the white wine.”

  “You have an adventurous palate, Bette Whaley.”

  He patted a stool at the island for her to sit so she could watch him finish prepping dinner. She said, “What wood is this house made of?”

  “Hemlock and cedar.”

  “But what’s the wood on the sides?”

  “The siding?”

  “That’s a good name for it. Yeah, the siding.”

  “It’s cypress.”

  “And you stain it black? Or you paint it?”

  “Not stain or paint,” he said, stirring whatever was in the pot. “It’s charred. An old Japanese tradition called shou sugi ban. The wood’s chard with fire and it makes it naturally resistant to the weather.”

  “Holy cow, Marcus. You’re really into this stuff. Did you char it yourself?”

  “I don’t have that much time on my hands,” he said and laughed. “No, I had it shipped here.”

  “From Japan?”

  He tapped the edge of his stirring spoon on the pot, wiped his hands with the towel again and said, “No. I’m not some millionaire, Miss Whaley. There’s a company here in Maryland does it the old way.”

  “It’s fascinating,” she said. “And beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said, and came to stand across from her on the other side of the island. He pulled open a drawer, withdrew a corkscrew, and opened her bottle of white, big hands closing the levered wings of the opener and popping the cork out. He poured two glasses.

  She said, “How long were you there today?”

  “On Julie’s boat? Oh, I don’t know, hours and hours. I just got home about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Well, I’m glad you were still up for dinner. I’ve been looking forward to it, though if you canceled, I would totally understand.”

  “No,” he said, “I was looking forward to it too.” They touched glasses and sipped the wine. Marcus liked it.

  She set her glass down, and said, “What did you learn?”

  “You here pumping me for information, detective?”

  “I’m here for mac and cheese, mister.”

  He laughed, returned to the stove. Over his shoulder, he said, “Not a laughing matter, but Julie was strangled.”

  “My gosh,” she said, and touched her own neck.

  “Terrible, I know,” Marcus said. “No clues yet, but like I said, we’ll know some more tomorrow.”

  She said, “Does her husband know yet?”

  “Can’t get a hold of him. Brian Hartfield, right?”

  “Brian, yeah, that’s what I heard.”

  He stirred, shrugged. “We’re having some trouble on that. In fact, there’s no marriage on file for Julie.”

  “Common-law or something, you know the way young people are these days.”

  He laughed again, and said, “Okay, grandma. Maybe those whipper-snappers were in some arrangement.”

  “An arrangement where Julie was pregnant,” she said, sipping wine.

  Marcus turned, puzzled. “Where’d you hear this?”

  “I don’t like to reveal my sources.”

  “Ah, it was Prissy.”

  “Fine, it was Prissy. Oh hey, and remember I told you on the boat today how Julie was saying she was excited her husband was coming home this weekend and she was going to surprise him.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I’m sure he’ll show up, I just wish we had a way to get in touch with him. We’re going to want in that house tomorrow. All right,” he said, opening the oven and checking on whatever he was cooking, “looks like we’re ready for dinner.”

  “Mind if I wash up?”

  He hooked a finger out of the kitchen to the main room, saying, “Just around the corner, first door on the right, just behind the kitchen.”

  Buster was still by the fire, laying now on his side. He looked up as she passed then thumped his tail twice. She went to the bathroom door. The back room was dark, no lights on, just a little ambience from the fading blue light on the river’s surface. The light lit the square edges of jumbled furniture in there, and she walked ahead, snaked a hand around the corner and found a light switch. It illuminated an unfinished space stuffed with his carpentry equipment; sawhorses, an air compressor, stacks of flooring lumber, and power tools everywhere. Marcus’s home wasn’t finished yet, and it was somehow endearing to think he’d scrambled to hide his mess because he knew she was coming.

  But something caught her eye. A picture frame on the mantle on the side of the stone column fireplace th
at faced this living area—which would be an amazing place to sit and admire the river when it was complete. What caught her eye was that the frame lay face down. Not like it’d fallen, but that it’d been placed that way. Something he didn’t want her to see? Pris said he’d never been married but he dated a lot over the years. A man like him was bound to have a history that was his own business. Why on earth would she feel jealousy over a dumb picture she couldn’t even see? The bigger thing to do here was to let her friend have his secrets.

  She continued to the bathroom, proud of her maturity.

  * * *

  Coming out of the bathroom with clean hands, she beelined to the picture frame, making sure Marcus couldn’t see her. She darted into the darkened room filled with construction stuff, tip-toed across his unfinished plywood floor and used the light on her phone to find the frame. Turned it over quick, and didn’t like what she saw.

  A young Marcus, gosh, maybe in his twenties. He stood out front of what looked like a pagoda or something, and there was a pretty woman by his side. They held hands. Gross. She wore a traditional looking Japanese kimono thing, very fancy and it sunk her stomach to think this was maybe a marriage ritual. Only he’d never been married. The woman was Asian, likely Japanese, pretty. No, darn it. Beautiful. She was beautiful, her shiny black hair all done up fancy.

  Now she wished she’d been the mature woman she’d patted herself on the back for being. She set the picture back down without a sound and tip-toed back to the step up to the main room. Buster eyed her. He looked disappointed.

  “I know, I know,” she said, “I’m a terrible person.”

  Then she walked into a wonderful smell of something baked. Something amazing, something familiar.

  “Oh wow,” she said, returning to the kitchen and trying not to show on her face what a heel she was. “What did you make? That’s not Mac and cheese, that’s . . .”

  Marcus sat on a stool at the island, their servings on plates, the lights turned down. Their plates were close and kitty corner at the edge of the island.

  She said, “Crab cakes.”

  He smiled devilishly. “Crab cakes,” he repeated and pushed her stool back with a foot.

  She mounted the stool and sat. “You’re cruel, you show off.”

  “Why’s that?” He refilled her wine glass.

  “Showing off you know Jonas’s recipe. I can tell this is his recipe just by the smell. Golly, that’s incredible.”

  The crab cakes were perfect. Crispy and golden brown, plump and almost perfectly round. He’d served a salad, mashed potatoes that looked buttery, and roasted Brussels sprouts. She flicked out her napkin and set it in her lap. Marcus had talent in the kitchen, too.

  He set his elbows on the table and held his hands under his chin. Light sparkled in his bright blue eyes. “Who ever said it was Jonas’s recipe?”

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Margaret Whelan had Joy Kim laughing so hard the retired schoolteacher had to support her weight against a white picket fence, her knees pressed together. “Stop,” she begged through chuckling gasps, “stop.”

  Margaret kept going. “You know what I’m saying though, right?”

  Joy couldn’t breathe. She wagged her hand in a sawing motion at her neck, trying to encourage Margaret to stop.

  Margaret said, “You know what Bette’s like.”

  Bette had her back to them now, but she said over her shoulder, “You’re not bothering me.”

  Margaret said, “Oh no, I know I’m not. Your throat’s all red from the sun yesterday.”

  Joy laughed again.

  Ahead, Prissy paused the walking group, waiting to see why she had three stragglers off the back end. The walking ladies were going down the Hammock Road, a nice flat terrain which she appreciated today. It kept them out of the town center, where their normal passageways would be far too busy. It was quiet and serene, a residential-but-rural neighborhood with high conifers. No sidewalk, but they walked the road’s edge on a padded bed of fallen needles.

  Pris doubled back, looking amused and saying, “Is Joy gone be all right?”

  Bette said, “Margaret thinks she’s funny.”

  Pris said, “What I miss?”

  Joy went to explain it, gave up right away, laughed again, covering her cute bowed lips with her hand.

  Bette said, “I’m glad somebody’s having fun today.”

  Margaret said, “Just speculation. All anybody’s talking about is how there’s another murder . . .”

  “That’s three now,” Pris said.

  Margaret said, “I was just surmising motives to kill Julie. Such a nice woman, who’d want to hurt her?”

  Joy thought she could finish the story now, tried to speak, gave up again, looked to Bette and began laughing, putting a hand at her stomach.

  “Just saying the woman was an artist, might be a rival artist what killed her. Someone jealous,” Margaret said, brow low, shaking her head and making her jowls jiggle. “Someone with terrible motivations, deep-seated anger issues. Possibly a redhead.”

  Joy cackled.

  Pris saw the humor now, but kept her face straight. She said, “But Julie wasn’t poisoned, now was she?”

  Joy guffawed, and folded over the short picket fence, both hands curled on their points, looking like she was going to throw up in somebody’s garden. Instead, she laughed into a patch of sunflowers.

  Bette did her best to act unperturbed, but knew her cheeks were hot.

  Margaret said, “Once Bette’s temper flares off, might be no stopping her. She looks wily, probably knows a hunnerd ways to kill someone.”

  Still folded over the pickets, Joy laughed into the garden, saying in breathy chuffs, “Maybe we ought . . . ought to re-examine . . . the Royce Murdoch ca-hase . . .” She could barely finish.

  Everyone getting a lot of fun today at Bette’s temper and chagrin, and she couldn’t wait to point out if she was so mean and scary how come they felt so safe making fun of her?

  “While this is a very morbid subject,” Pris said, “I’m glad you two can find such humor in it.”

  Margaret smiled, proud of herself.

  Joy had finally let it all out, and she stood straighter now and faced them, sighing heavily, fighting some stray giggles. Her cheeks were bright and rosy, her eyes wet enough she had to wipe them. She sniffled and said, “I’m not laughing at the murder. Soon as Margaret set in on Bette, you should’ve seen your niece’s face. I’m so very bad,” she said and broke up again.

  “I have an alibi, anyway,” Bette said.

  Margaret nudged Joy with an elbow and said, “Look at Miss Bette being so serious.”

  Joy had to wipe her eyes again, fighting the laughter by deep breathing.

  Bette said, “Well, I do. I was out with Steven.”

  There was a momentary pause, and Prissy said, “But you saw Julie in the morning.”

  “Probably what set her off,” Margaret muttered out the side of her mouth toward Joy.

  Bette said, “Pris, is there another group of walking ladies? I’d hoped this one would be more mature.” She pronounced “mature” with great Masterpiece Theater haughtiness.

  Pris said, “We’re the youngest old girls Chesapeake Cove’s got. Most motivated, too.”

  “You fit in here just fine,” Margaret said. “Once in a while the spotlight’s gonna shine on you, it’s up to you to stand tall in its glare.”

  “I stand tall,” she said.

  Margaret put an arm around her, gave her a good squeeze against her side.

  Bette finally smiled. “Maybe I don’t like being teased.”

  Margaret smiled warmly in return. Two buddies. Then said, “Just like Ted Bundy, what I heard. Guy hated being teased.”

  “Oh, you,” she said and pushed Margaret off, Margaret stepping away in her fancy new sneakers to pat Joy on the back.

  “We know it wasn’t me,” Bette said. “Perhaps riding me without a saddle, hitting my hindquarters with a crop, isn’t the
best way we can do good in this town.”

  Joy sighed again and said, “Maybe it’s the right thing to do. Get you riled up, you and your dog’ll sniff around the bushes, get the rabbits running.”

  Margaret said to Pris, “Julie’s husband get in yet?”

  Pris shrugged and said, “Not that I know of. Haven’t heard anything yet.”

  Bette said, “Marcus told me there’s no record of Julie being married.”

  Joy said, “She’s married. We know she’s married. We met her husband.”

  Margaret said, “They might be common law, Bette.”

  Bette said, “But I heard she’d only been married for three years. That’s not long enough, is it?”

  Margaret thought about it a moment and said, “Maybe they been common-law for three years, and they were dating a long time before that. Enough to make it official.”

  “Marcus said he couldn’t turn up anything,” she said.

  Pris got them motivated again, and they headed farther north up Hammock. Bette said to Joy, “So, you’ve met her husband? What’s his name—Brian?”

  “Yeah, Brian. I’ve met him a few times, just around town with Julie.”

  “And they got along?”

  Margaret said, “Look at Miss Bette trying to get the heat off her. Put the blame on the guy that wasn’t even in town.”

  “He could’ve hired somebody, Margaret,” she said.

  Margaret had no answer for that.

  Bette said, “So he was good to her.”

  “I’ll say,” Joy said. “When I saw them together, he was always fawning over Julie. They seemed very happy. And when Julie was alone, she’d never say a bad word about him. Was always missing him because he was gone for work a lot.”

  Margaret said, “I heard he worked for the government, or something like that.”

  Joy said, “Julie told me one time she loved the house they bought here so much because of the privacy. It was a great escape for Brian, too. Apparently he worked high-pressure, loved to come home and relax, not be seen. Their place’s just up ahead”—she looked back, then ahead, then turned around confused—“no, we passed their street already.”