“One other thing she mentioned: She says her husband maybe has some connection with the sheriff here and the state’s attorney. I don’t know if he knew them before or just became friendly since coming down.”
“Okay.” Hunter felt her neck bristle. Sheriff Clay Calvert had worked against her throughout the Psalmist case, and held a nasty grudge because she’d gotten most of the credit for solving it. Calvert was a fourth-generation Tidewater Countian who stubbornly refused to take Hunter seriously.
“Anyway, let me know,” she said, willing herself not to think about the sheriff. “I’ll do some checking in the meantime.”
Luke smiled. It was a warm, selfless smile. If Hunter had to wake up to someone, that would be a nice face to see in the morning. Although Winston, her longhaired tuxedo cat, wasn’t so bad, either.
“What’s your sermon going to be Sunday?” she asked as they stood in the lobby.
“Falling.” He held up his sling.
“Of course.”
Chapter Five
Luke drove the scenic route back, over the snaking creeks and tributaries of the south county, the rising sun shimmering through the loblolly pines. Even in this most picturesque corner of Tidewater, the human signs of summer were on full display beside the road. Luke stopped on the oyster-shell lane at Crawford’s Neck, where nine empty Bud Light cans had been dropped in a sequence. He kept a litterbag in the back of his car and got out to pick them up.
About a half mile farther on, near Man Ray Point, he spotted what looked like a woman’s one-piece bathing suit. Over the next mile, various items appeared—an athletic sock, an old pillow, more beer cans, a single deck shoe in the center of the road, jockey shorts, pieces of a Styrofoam cooler, a green rubber glove. When he stopped at the flashing light intersection by Bayfront Drive, he caught a faint whiff of throw-up in the breeze.
Ah, summer.
Summer brought strangers to Tidewater County and sometimes strange crimes. This year, someone had supposedly been peering through apartment windows in the middle of the night, although for some reason nothing had been reported yet in the local media. The problem with a small town is that it’s a small town, Luke sometimes thought—similar to other small towns in the obvious ways, but at the same time thoroughly unique in ways that only a native could fully appreciate.
He turned left, onto a long gravel drive that dead-ended at the old cedar-shingle church where Luke had served as head pastor for the past six years. It was going to be a busy day, with an afternoon meeting of the Outreach Committee and a lengthy phone call with Mrs. Crowley, the church’s major donor. And then in the evening, Luke and Charlotte were scheduled to have dinner with Charlotte’s parents, always an interesting challenge.
He keyed in Susan Champlain’s number as he sat in the parking lot, gazing out at the Bay, the runabouts and sailboats and, farther out, the freighter ships headed from Baltimore to the Atlantic Ocean. Seeing Hunter had given him a charge, reminding Luke a little of his own more idealistic inclinations before he’d gone into the seminary.
He wanted to ask Susan if she would come in at the end of the day, to talk with him about volunteering. But there was no answer, just an automated male voice, so Luke left a message.
“J. MICHAEL BUNTING called,” Aggie announced as he came in. “And Mrs. Crowley. And a Dr. Edward Fengler.”
“Dr. Fengler?” Luke said. “No, I don’t think he’s a doctor.”
Aggie looked defensively at her notes. “That’s what he said. Dr. Fengler.”
Eddie Fengler was a boat captain who for some reason wanted Luke to publicly endorse his eco-tour back-bay charters.
“Is everything all right?” Aggie said, suddenly looking ill herself.
“Yes, sorry, fine,” Luke said. He summoned a smile. “I think Sneakers is going to apply to be head pastor for the pet blessing service.”
“Is he qualified?” she deadpanned.
“Probably as much as I am. If not more so.”
Aggie nodded. Often she ignored, or missed, his attempts at humor. But occasionally she went with him. She was being playful today, he suspected, because she still didn’t know why Susan Champlain had come in the day before and was hoping he’d tell her all about it.
Luke went in his office and closed the door three-quarters of the way. He’d prepared a statement about the church’s policy on pet worship, which he now polished and e-mailed over to J. Michael Bunting at the Tidewater Times. Then he returned the call from Mrs. Crowley, who spoke for close to an hour, often without pause. She had a harsh, emphatic voice, which reminded some, including Luke, of Donald Trump.
At noon, Luke was beginning to edit through his sermon on Gratitude and Falling when Aggie knocked twice and poked her head around the door.
“Surprise,” she said. She had a crab-cake sandwich she’d picked up for him at the Old Shore Inn, along with sides of Shore Slaw and curly fries in Styrofoam containers.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Luke protested.
“Oh, no, no trouble,” she said. “I was there, anyway. My treat. I can tell it’s a very busy day for you.”
“Yes.”
She hurried out to get him a bottled water from the refrigerator in the lunch room. Sometimes, Aggie did things like this out of a genuine kindness. This time, he knew, it had something to do with the three-quarter closed door. But he was gracious, and didn’t mention that the Old Shore was where they were going for dinner that night with Charlotte’s parents.
“Oh, I saw Susan Champlain, by the way,” she said, as she returned. “Over at the inn. I was going to say hello, but she seemed deep in conversation with someone and didn’t notice me. Let me get you some extra napkins.”
When she came in again, and set out his napkins, Luke said, “Who was it, I wonder?”
“Pardon?”
“The person she was talking with, I mean.”
“Oh. You mean Susan Champlain? I don’t know. A gentleman I’d never seen before. A nicely-dressed man, with elegant shoulders. One of the guests, probably. They were in the club room there.” She stepped away. Luke felt his curiosity outwrestling his resolve.
“Anything else?”
“No, thanks,” Luke said.
Gratitude and Falling, he told himself, gazing back at his sermon notebook.
THE AIR WAS breezy on the bluff at Widow’s Point that night, tossing the pine branches against the oily, dimming sky. Sixty feet below, two dozen gulls had gathered by the edge of the water, although much of the sand wharf had been covered by incoming tide.
By the time the 120-pound object thudded on the beach—several minutes past eight—the birds were gone, flapping frantically to the north and to the west. Belasco was in flight, as well, walking through shadows down the sheltered access road, feeling a brief, unexpected giddiness. Killing was mostly a process now, a learned skill, which Belasco sometimes traced to childhood, to brothers and friends who’d thought it was funny to shoot at stray dogs with a .22 rifle and to douse the tails of cats with gasoline and light them on fire. Belasco regretted all that at times, because of the costs that came due later. But there was something different about tonight; tonight was lovely. The eastern sky was darkly majestic, bruised shades of backlit charcoal. It reminded Belasco of a painting, a seascape. But then, these days, what didn’t?
Chapter Six
Besides splitting Maryland geographically, the Chesapeake Bay also serves as something of a social and imaginative divider. The Eastern Shore is the more casual side, with old wood-frame houses, crab shacks and fish fries, cattail marshes, oyster-shell roads and a thriving seafood industry. The Western Shore, where Charlotte’s parents kept their sailboat, has a more cosmopolitan energy, with yacht clubs, boat harbors, townhouse developments and boutique shops.
Tidewater County’s Old Shore Inn was something of an anomaly, its Victo
rian-style elegance suggesting the early 1900s. It was by far the priciest hotel in Tidewater and the only one that asked men to wear jackets to dinner.
As they walked over the narrow polished floorboards to the dining room, Luke peered in the club room—all leather and old brass—and he imagined the chair where Susan Champlain had been sitting earlier in the day, talking with a “gentleman” Aggie had never seen before. Obviously, Aggie had come here looking for her, Luke decided.
“What are you doing, exactly?” Charlotte asked, sidling up against him, and holding Luke’s good arm. He’d decided not to wear his sling tonight, mostly because of the comments it would elicit from Charlotte’s father. Charlotte looked fetching but casual in a beige dress and jacket.
“Me? Nothing.”
She steered him toward the dining room, where Lowell and Judy Carrington—Charlotte’s parents—were at a window table, early as always, her father leaning way back and waving them over. Lowell Carrington was a tall, urbane-looking man, his white hair fashionably disheveled. Luke could see from the way his chair was turned that he’d been watching the pleasure boats come in; Judy, small and hunched over, frowned at her menu as if it were written in Mandarin. Charlotte’s parents lived in an old-moneyed suburb of D.C. Once or twice each summer, they sailed across the Bay to Tidewater County and docked near the Old Shore Inn, so they could visit with their daughter and a couple of old friends who kept second or third homes here. Lowell Carrington had once been an economics professor at Georgetown and had served as a White House advisor during the Bush 41 administration. He was long retired now although he “dabbled” in real estate, as he put it, buying and selling luxury properties in the Bahamas, where the Carringtons owned a winter home.
These dinners followed a pattern—the four of them greeted one another with exchanges of “Great to see you!” and “You look wonderful!” then sat and began the process of evaluating the specials and new entrées—taking turns picking an entrée for discussion, something someone would say “sounds good”; in each case, Charlotte’s mother would then say “Where’s that?” and her father would invariably find something wrong with it.
Midway through the standard entrées discussion, Luke weighed in: “I wonder what rosemary-infused cannellini beans are like.”
“Where’s that?” Judy said.
“The rockfish.” Luke pointed to it on her menu. “It says it comes with rosemary-infused cannellini beans.”
“Maybe they’ll let you switch it out for french fries,” Charlotte said. “Ketchup-infused.”
Lowell Carrington gave her a mock scowl over the top of his menu, probably not realizing that Charlotte was serious. Luke decided he’d stick with cannellini beans.
They were well into their entrées—the butter-poached lobster for Judy, filet mignon and lobster tail for Lowell, lump crab cakes for Charlotte and the rockfish for Luke—when Lowell Carrington said, “So, Luke, have you ever thought about going on television?”
“Television? No. Not seriously.”
“Because I met a fellow the other week, he’s done this successfully in other markets. You broadcast your Sunday service—live or delayed—and begin to build an entirely new audience. From what he says, you can get in some markets now for just a few thousand dollars.”
“Interesting.”
“Then at the end of the broadcast, you sell your CDs or DVDs and direct people to your website—that’s where you recoup the upfront. And, of course, at the same time, you’d be spreading your message to a larger audience. It’s a business model that’s worked in a number of markets.”
Luke nodded, forking a cannellini bean.
“I’ll give you this fellow’s name, if you’d like to talk to him.”
“Appreciate it,” Luke said. “Although, I don’t know the congregation is quite ready to go in that direction.”
“Well. You won’t know until you ask.” He smiled, his hard hazel eyes giving Luke a pointed look.
“Yes. We have asked, actually. Over the winter. The congregation was asked whether or not they wanted to broadcast the Sunday service online. It was more than three-to-one against. The feeling was, it might discourage people from coming to church.”
Lowell frowned, as if Luke had just made a serious math error.
“Because from what this fellow says, it’s just the opposite.”
He went back to his food and an awkward silence replaced the camaraderie. Luke heard distant sirens, then saw red and blue emergency lights whirling along the coast; no one else seemed to notice.
“So are they going to keep the church where it is, or move to a new building?” Judy asked Charlotte.
“Still up in the air,” Luke said. “Eventually, we’re going to need a larger building. I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”
“It’s funny, we were looking at it today,” Lowell said, “and from certain angles it’s even more run-down than I thought. Judy was saying it looks like something from an old horror movie.” A flush rose up Judy Carrington’s neck. “But with a little work, you could make her a pretty elegant old building. You know, it’s all cyclical, that kind of thing. First they say you’re old and worn out; before long, they’re calling you a classic. Kind of like us, right, Jude?”
Judy Carrington, although caught by surprise, smiled and glanced at Luke.
“Will you two be getting away at all, once the season is over?” she asked.
“Probably, yes,” Charlotte said. “Although we haven’t decided where yet.”
Charlotte’s mother took a long sip of her vodka and tonic.
“Us three,” Luke said.
“Yes. Technically, we’re a family of three,” Charlotte said.
Lowell hissed good-naturedly.
Something was going on, Luke saw—more police lights speeding toward the coast road.
“A dog is fine, but it’s never the same as family,” Lowell said, “your own flesh and blood.”
“He is flesh and blood, though,” Charlotte said.
“And fur,” Luke added.
“Yes. And fur.”
Charlotte’s father surprised them both by laughing. He could be a good sport when he wanted to be. Charlotte gave him her sweet sideways smile in reply, and Lowell patted her hand. It was a rare tender moment.
Over dessert, Lowell turned to Luke: “You know, Lucas, I’ve mentioned this before, but if you ever get tired of what you’re doing, consider coming down to the Bahamas. I could set you up in real estate down there, luxury properties, you could pull down some very nice commissions.”
Luke gave him an arch look. “Get tired of what I’m doing?”
“No, I don’t mean your work, of course. I mean—the circumstances. Living here.”
“Ah.” The salary, in other words. Luke was content, though, to be a servant, as he thought of it, earning a servant’s wage. But he knew better than to argue the point with Lowell Carrington.
“The crowds here in summer,” Judy said, her nose crinkling as if she’d caught a bad smell. “The traffic.”
“Summer people,” Charlotte said. “They bring strange things.”
“It’s true,” Luke said.
“Case in point.” Lowell set down his drink, stretching his chin forward. “I drove our rental car down to check on the boat before coming here and saw a lovely sight on the way back—not more than a half mile from where we’re sitting now. I was crossing one of those creeks back there with the little bridges? And this fellow was out in his boat—fishing, I assume—and as I drove over the bridge the man stands up and begins to urinate off the side. I tooted my horn at him and the fellow just waved. Kept urinating.”
“Oh, my,” said Judy.
“Yes, a very lovely sight.”
“And, of course, that would never happen in the Bahamas,”
Charlotte said.
“Well, it might. But let’s not compare this to the Bahamas.”
“Do you know who lives down there?” Judy said, to Luke. “One of our neighbors?”
“No. Who?”
Charlotte said, “Anna Nicole Smith used to live there, I know.”
“Sean Connery,” Lowell said.
“Really,” Luke said.
“Really. Good man.” He signaled for another drink. “But no, I’m just throwing the idea out, something to think about. Come down and have a look, if you’d like. You’re always welcome.”
“We will,” Luke said.
“Think about it, that is,” Charlotte added.
“Yes.”
“I just wish we didn’t have to go back on Saturday,” Judy said, turning to Luke. “We so wanted to see your service.”
“Anytime. We’d love to have you,” Luke said cheerfully. But, in fact, missing the Sunday service was as much a part of the Carringtons’ visits to Tidewater County as was dinner here at the Old Shore Inn.
As they walked out into the parking lot, Luke saw more police lights down the coast. He clicked on his phone and checked messages. Nothing from Susan or Hunter. Nothing from anyone.
“Can’t beat that breeze, can you?” Lowell Carrington said.
Luke just nodded and they breathed it together. He had a point.
SNEAKERS WENT INTO the usual gyrations as they came in the cottage, getting down on his side in the foyer, wiggling and thumping.
“He’s getting better at that,” Charlotte said.
“Yes, he must’ve been practicing.”
Luke let him out the front door and they both jogged toward the bluff, Sneakers stopping periodically to sniff and to water the lawn. Coming back, Luke felt weighed down again by the previous night’s thoughts, recalling the pitch of concern in Susan Champlain’s voice, the haunted look in her eyes. The house was dark when he came in, except for the stove surface light in the kitchen. Sneakers was lapping energetically at his water; Charlotte’s classical music played very faintly from her office.
The Tempest Page 4