by Shéa MacLeod
“Well, this group, just a little over a year. I was in Colorado before that. They had a very nice costumers’ guild there. I was a member for ten years.”
“So you must know everyone here,” I nudged.
She glanced around. “Most of them, yes.”
“Who is that man with Tabitha Yates?”
Mary’s expression twisted into one of distaste for a moment before smoothing out. “Anthony Yates, her husband. Poor man. She doesn’t treat him well.”
“She doesn’t treat anyone well,” I said tartly. I wondered if her expression of distaste had been for Anthony or for his wife. I was betting on the latter.
“Viola had a run-in with her at one of our local restaurants,” Cheryl said by way of explanation.
“Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Mary said. “She’s not well-liked by anyone in the group. She’s had run-ins with most of us, I’d say. She had the temerity to inform me my outfit was not flattering.” Although Mary’s outrage was clear and understandable, I kind of had to agree with Tabitha on this one. Still, I had enough social grace not to point that out.
“Why do they put up with her?” I asked. “Why not just tell her to leave?”
“Because she and Anthony have money. Money they donate to the group. It helps keep the cost down for many of our events. People are sort of half afraid of her. She’s ruined people’s reputations before, or so I’ve heard.”
“How is that even possible?” I asked. I could certainly see Tabitha’s presence making people miserable, but ruining reputations? Seemed overly histrionic. This was, after all, not actually 1805.
“The costuming community is a small and insular one,” Mary explained. “And with the internet, it’s easy for rumors about members of a group in one state or country to get around to members of other groups. You can find yourself blackballed from events if someone like Tabitha Yates puts her mind to it.” She leaned in. “Last year right before I joined, a handful of Portland members attended an event in New Orleans. Tabitha told everyone at the event that one of the Portland costumers—Anna was her name—was flirting with a married man. She wasn’t. Ella will tell you, but everyone believed Tabitha. It got all over the internet, and Anna’s costuming friends started blocking her on social media. Poor girl was shattered. She left the group soon after. She doesn’t costume anymore, poor thing.”
It sounded a bit ridiculous to me. Like a bunch of mean girls from high school getting together to mob whomever they didn’t like. Admittedly, that sort of thing happened in the writing world, too, but I had no time for it. I had a business to run.
Mary kindly introduced us around. There were two other married couples—the Patels and the Knightlys. The Patels were an older couple and very sweet; the Knightlys—Kieran and Mirabel—in their fifties and Bohemian with brightly-colored costumes and jolly dispositions. I liked both couples instantly.
Jayne Verity, in a peacock velvet spencer, was nearly as elegant as Tabitha Yates, and almost as unpleasant. She was stand-offish in the extreme, barely acknowledging our presence before turning her attention to the shoreline. Her boyfriend, Bryon LeMott, was already three sheets to the wind. Thanks, no doubt, to the contents of his silver pocket flask.
Gwen Bates was Ella Cayse’s second in command. She was too busy to say more than “hello,” but she seemed nice enough.
There were two twenty-something girls who spent the entire sail complaining there were no “suitable young men of good fortune.” Clearly, they’d been reading too many Austen novels.
The final member of the voyage was the same age as Mary—mid-thirties—with golden curls, huge brown eyes, and a dress so low-cut I was surprised her boobs didn’t pop right out. I doubted the sailors would have minded. Several of them slid her side-long glances, of which she was very aware. She’d smile smugly and bend over a little to give them a better view.
“That’s Lisa James,” Mary told us in a low voice. “She’s a bit…flighty. More interested in male attention than in doing anything really useful.” Her lips twisted sourly, and I wondered if Lisa had taken male attention away from Mary. It would no doubt be easy enough to do. Lisa was sunny and pretty with a bright laugh and a flirtatious way about her, while Mary was the exact opposite. She seemed very shy anytime one of the male crewmembers came near.
Finally, the first mate—a handsome, muscled young man with a close-trimmed beard and bright blue eyes in a tanned face—came down to the deck and urged us to gather around. Then he and the rest of the crew belted out sea shanties accompanied with a concertina played by a chubby Asian sailor with a bright smile and dimples. Some of the costumers knew the lyrics and joined in. The rest of us clapped along, enjoying the fun.
We were half-way through a song about a sailor falling for a mermaid when the ship’s bell clanged wildly. We all glanced at each other, startled as someone shouted, “Man overboard!”
Chapter 3
Man Overboard
“Crew to starboard!” the Captain bellowed from behind us. “Man overboard!”
I had no idea which direction starboard was until everyone rushed to the right side of the ship to hang over the side. Cheryl and I joined them, craning to see around the crowd of heads.
There were half a dozen tourists in street clothes on the ship. They’d been snapping pictures of us like we were zoo animals and now they had their phones out videoing the whole thing.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice rose above the rest of the noise.
“What happened?” someone else asked.
Sticking out of the water was a pair of pink stockinged legs. Out around the legs billowed layers of white cotton petticoats. It was… ridiculous.
“Oh, my stars and garters, it’s Tabitha,” Mirabel Knightly said, knocking her bright orange bonnet askew in her efforts to see over the side. “Whatever is she doing?”
Everyone burst out laughing as the pink stockinged legs kicked furiously. A few snapped pictures on their phones while the crew rushed to lower the life boat.
“They are never going to let her live this down,” I snickered. Personally, I considered the whole thing poetic justice. No doubt Tabitha Yates would feel utterly humiliated. Maybe she’d think twice before being mean to waitresses. I guess Lucas had been right about karma, after all.
“She’s been under there a long time,” Kieran Knightly said.
“Why doesn’t she right herself?” Cheryl sounded a little nervous.
Humor fled and I felt a stab of dread as I watched the pink legs sink beneath the water of the bay. “I don’t think she can swim”
The first mate stripped down to his boxer briefs—very anachronistic of him—and dove gracefully over the side, slicing through the water like an Olympian. Lisa and Cheryl let out little gasps of appreciation. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, but Lucas was sexier, and I was more intent on what was going on in the water.
“He’s going to freeze his bollocks off,” Kieran Knightly leaned over the side, his top hat getting in the way of my view. I wondered vaguely if his enormous sideburns were real, or if he’d pasted them on for the occasion. I was fairly sure sideburns were a Victorian thing, not a Regency one, but my experience was limited to BBC costume dramas. “Can you see her?”
“Nope,” Cheryl said, straining to see around his bulk. “I think she’s slipped under. If the first mate doesn’t get to her fast, she’s going to drown.”
“I hope not,” Mary piped up. “I’d hate for anything bad to happen to anyone. There’s no one in our group I’d wish ill on.”
I noticed her exchange glances with the Knightlys. I was betting there was someone they wished ill on, and that someone was the nasty Tabitha Yates. Not that I blamed them. She could use a lesson in humility. But I wouldn’t wish drowning on anyone. And I felt a touch guilty for having found the situation so funny. It wasn’t funny anymore.
The first mate’s head broke the surface and he swam with sure strokes toward the spot where Tabitha had disappeared. I sh
uddered. It had been several minutes since the call. That didn’t bode well for Tabitha.
The lifeboat hit the water and rowed toward the spot where the first mate bobbed. We weren’t far from the Astoria Bridge and the spot where the Columbia River met Young’s Bay. Although visually there wasn’t much difference between the two, I knew that dangerous currents could lurk beneath the most placid water, and the mouth of the Columbia River was infamous for its treacherousness. What if Tabitha was swept out to sea? Or sucked to the bottom?
Visions of sea monsters lurking in the deep crowded my mind, and I shuddered. I’m not a fan of deep water thanks to my overactive imagination. Even swimming pools give me the heebie jeebies.
“This isn’t good,” Cheryl whispered. “It’s been too long. Right? How long can a person hold their breath under water?”
“Me? About fifteen seconds,” I whispered back. “Someone with a lot of breath control, maybe four minutes.”
She bit her lower lip. “It’s been longer than four minutes.”
“I know.”
One of the other crew members joined the first mate. They dove again and again, disappearing beneath the water for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes. Finally, they came to the surface, holding a limp body between them.
“She’s not moving,” Mary gasped.
That much was obvious. The still figure was dressed in nothing but a chemise—an under slip made of white cotton. Her face was bone white, her lips blue.
“Is she dead?” Mirabel Knightly said in a wavery voice. Her eyes were red rimmed as if holding back tears and she clutched her hands together so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “Why is she half naked? She’ll freeze.”
“I can’t tell from here,” said Kieran Knightly, patting her on the back. “They probably had to take her out of her clothes to get her to the surface.”
I turned to catch the reactions of the rest of the costumers aboard the ship, but it was impossible. There was so much chaos. I faced the water again in time to see the lifeboat making its way back to the ship. The first mate was attempting CPR. I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to work.
Finally, the boat returned to the side of the ship and the crew on the boat made their way back up the rope ladder carrying the still figure of Tabitha Yates. As he reached the top, the first mate shook his head. “No use,” he said. “She was under too long.”
The Captain was grim as he helped his men haul Tabitha’s body aboard. As they laid her on the deck, no one was laughing.
“This is ghastly,” Mary said, gripping my arm, her bony fingers jabbing like knives into my flesh.
I was stunned and felt a little guilty. Tabitha Yates was an unpleasant woman, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. Imagining being pulled beneath the waves, drowning, made me shudder and my throat tighten.
Anthony Yates fell to his knees beside the body of his wife, sobbing. He gathered her in his arms like a child, rocking back and forth, his grief palpable.
“I’ll need to call the police,” the Captain said heavily. “Even though it was an accident, they’ll need to investigate.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Anthony wailed.
“What?” the Captain demanded. We all stared at Anthony. He stared back at us, jaw set stubbornly.
“She was pushed!”
Chapter 4
Soy Mochaccino Whatsis
BAT ARRIVED ON THE ship dressed in a cheap navy suit with a white-collar shirt and his signature blue-and-yellow-striped tie. The perfect image of a homicide detective. The only thing that was less than detective-like was the slight swelling of his usually perfect nose, accompanied by a pair of spectacularly black eyes. The minute he saw me, he rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. For once, I could understand the gesture. The black eyes were my fault, after all.
“I might have known you’d be here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I crossed my arms, forgetting for a moment I was wearing stays. My boobs heaved up and nearly out. I quickly put my arms down as Bat fought down a blush and turned his gaze heavenward. I wasn’t sure if he was praying, or asking “why me?” I was betting on the latter.
“It means that wherever you go, trouble follows.”
“Well, you’d know, Batman.”
He scowled. In high school he’d been a star baseball player, hence the nickname, Bat. Naturally I’d had to take it a step further because I knew it annoyed him. And also because it amused me to imagine him dressed up in gray tights, wearing a cape Adam West style.
“Bat!” Cheryl rushed across the deck and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank goodness you’re here. It was horrible!” Possibly she was being overdramatic, but the two of them had only been dating a short time. I supposed it didn’t hurt to play up the damsel in distress angle. Cheryl pulled back and batted her lashes at Bat. “How’d you know?”
He tried to disentangle himself, but it wasn’t working. “I’m here on duty,” he muttered, his blush deepening as a tourist in a Hawaiian shirt snapped pictures of him and Cheryl. “I’m here to investigate the accident.”
“Oh, it was no accident,” I informed him a little too brightly.
He rubbed his forehead again. “Care to explain?”
“According to her husband, the victim was pushed.” I nearly crossed my arms again but remembered in time and settled for folding my hands genteelly over my stomach. Really, how did those Regency women not constantly poke eyes out? This was ridiculous.
Bat finally extricated himself from Cheryl’s embrace. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and backed off. She glanced at Lisa James hovering nearby and gave her a smug smile. That clarified matters. Cheryl was marking her territory lest the flirtatious Miss James decide to try for the local detective. I’d like to see her try.
“Did anyone else see it?” Bat asked.
“Nobody,” Cheryl said. “Right, Viola?”
“Nobody that I can tell,” I agreed. “Could just be the claims of a grieving widower. Then again, he was the only one standing near her. Maybe he did it.”
Cheryl snorted. “If I was him, I’d have done it. That woman was a menace.” She clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead, am I?”
I waved her concern away. “I doubt anyone would disagree with you.”
“So she had enemies?” Bat asked, pulling out his old-school policeman’s notebook.
“Plenty, from what I could tell. Nobody liked her. She was rude and arrogant and a pain in the butt. Still, I don’t see how anyone could have pushed her. Like I said, no one went near her,” I said.
“Why don’t you let me do my job?” Bat gave me a stern look. “You two can go. If I need anything else, I can talk to you later.”
I didn’t want to leave. Things were just getting interesting, but Cheryl pulled me down the gangway. “Thank goodness. It was creeping me out, having that body right there on the deck like that.” She shuddered.
It had been a bit macabre. The Captain had his men lay a colorful woolen blanket over Tabitha Yates’s body, but other than that, she hadn’t been moved. This wasn’t technically a crime scene, unless you believed Anthony Yates. Granted, I’d never seen a woman with so many people who disliked her, but that didn’t mean one of the costumers killed her. They all seemed such nice, harmless people.
“Do you think Anthony’s right?” Cheryl asked once we were back in the car. “Do you think someone pushed Tabitha overboard?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be totally surprised,” I said. “I mean, you didn’t see her the other night. She was a terror. She had that poor waitress in tears. Had to have had enemies up the wazoo. But I would have thought if someone pushed her, somebody else would have noticed. I didn’t see anyone go near her.”
“Nope. Only Anthony. But he couldn’t have done it. He was so sad.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t. She was pretty awful even to him. Would be a great way to take the focus off hi
mself. ‘Somebody pushed her, but it wasn’t me.’”
She frowned. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to just let everyone think it was an accident?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “Of course, he could have panicked.” It was one thing to murder your wife. Another to get away with it.
“I can’t believe Anthony would hurt a fly, let alone his wife. He seems so… harmless.”
He did, that was for sure. Unassuming. Totally forgettable. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer. If Tabitha had even been murdered. Could just be an accident after all, no matter what Anthony said. She had been yawning. Maybe she’d just nodded off or something. Seemed far-fetched, but stranger things.
“I could use a drink,” Cheryl said.
“Me, too.” I was feeling oddly shaky. I’d seen more dead bodies recently than I cared to think about, but this was the first time I’d seen someone die quite so up-close. “Let’s see what Nina’s up to.”
OUR FRIEND NINA DRIVER owned a wine bar in downtown Astoria called Sip. It was a warm, cozy place with a hardwood bar, red-painted walls, bistro tables, and dark beams giving it a slightly European flair. Fairy lights wrapped around black-painted support pillars and paintings by local artists graced the walls. The most recent offering was a pink flower-like painting with shades of Georgia O’Keefe.
Nina was at her usual spot behind the bar. A wine-red jersey dress hugged her voluptuous figure, and she still wore knee-high leather boots despite it being spring and a fairly sunny day. Her hair—recently dyed an ash blonde—was piled on top of her head and held in place by an antique ruby hair comb which matched her necklace. It was still early, so she was alone.
As we sashayed to the bar wearing our Regency finery, Nina’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”