A Time to Swill

by Sherry Harris

  “Okay,” Mary said.

  A few minutes later I was out on the beach answering Mary’s questions with the boat in the background. Mary stuck to her word and the filming only took a few minutes. I noticed one of the fishermen who was out this morning was still fishing on the beach.

  I pointed toward him. “That guy was on the beach when it happened. He might have seen more than I did.” Maybe if I helped Mary, she’d be more willing to help me.

  “Great. Thanks. Thanks for going on camera.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I did it for selfish reasons, not that she’d ended up sharing any information with me.

  “I looked through the footage of the day you were rescued,” Mary said.

  “Find anything interesting?” I asked.

  “No. Sorry. The man kept his head down. He didn’t want to be recognized.”

  I thought that over for a minute. “If he didn’t want to be recognized, it must mean it was because he thought someone would know him.”

  “I agree.”

  “But why would he care?”

  “That’s what I want to find out,” Mary said.

  So did I, but for very different reasons. I walked Mary to the door and we both promised to call the other if we heard anything. I’m fairly certain we were both lying.

  * * *

  I arrived at work just before ten thirty and helped Joaquín take the barstools down from tables. He chatted about this and that. By the time we were cutting fruit, I realized Joaquín had no idea what had happened at my house this morning. He would have mentioned it. He usually took out his fishing boat in the wee, predawn hours, fished, took his fish to the market in Destin or over to Russo’s, showered, and came to work here. Not an easy life, and he worked harder than I did by a long shot.

  “There was, um, an incident at my house this morning.”

  Joaquín raised his well-sculpted eyebrow. “Did Steve show up again?”

  “No.”

  “Then do tell.” He leaned on to the bar and set his chin in hand with a flourish.

  By the time I finished my story both of Joaquín’s eyebrows were raised and he was shaking his head. He pulled me to him in a hug. Then thrust me back, but held on to my shoulders.

  “This is terrible. What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think I should be doing?”

  “Crying into a mimosa.”

  I looked at him for a long moment. “What good would that do? It’s right up there with worrying.”

  Joaquín dropped his hands and placed them on his hips. “You are something else, Chloe Jackson.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” If I had the day off, I could go to the library and do some more research. “You know what? Maybe I do need some time off.” I sat on a barstool as if I was weak-kneed.

  Joaquín’s eyebrows raised in alarm and I felt guilty, but not guilty enough to retract my statement.

  “Yes,” he said. “Go home and rest.”

  I went around the bar and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be back in later. Four at the latest.” I didn’t say I’d go home or rest.

  “Take the day if you need it.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  I drove straight to the library. Minutes later I was using the microfilm again, trying to find background on the people who went missing with Raquel. I worked on Blake Farwell first. The Farwell family had been early settlers here—originally from the Boston area. They moved here in the late eighteen hundreds so they could fish all year long. I didn’t find anything amiss in his early life. There was a photo of him at eighteen, when he’d caught the biggest fish during the Destin Fishing Rodeo.

  I knew Jed Farwell, one of the heritage business owners, who ran the Emerald Cove Fishing Charters. It was busy year round, unlike a lot of businesses, with tourists and locals who wanted to go deep sea fishing but couldn’t afford their own boats. I wondered if Jed was related to Blake. I typed a note in my phone reminding me to ask someone. Then I looked up the disappearance on my phone. The article about their disappearance said Blake was a local businessman, not what kind of business he ran. Apparently, he had enough money to belong to the country club, unless someone had taken him as a guest. I made another note on my phone.

  Susan Harrington was next on my list. It said that she owned the Fair Winds. Susan had been married to Phillip Harrington, a defense contractor. An article was almost completely devoted to a devastated Phillip, pleading for any news about his wife. It included a picture of an anguished-looking man in a white suit. The article also echoed similar pleas from Ralph, Mrs. Barnett—it didn’t even list her first name—and Samuel Farwell.

  Considering what a big deal this must have been at the time and what a small town this was, there wasn’t a lot of coverage. Most of the following days rehashed what had happened before. The Coast Guard made official statements, saying they’d gone from search and rescue to search and recovery. There were also articles on anniversaries of the day the boat disappeared, but they didn’t offer up any new information.

  I found another article. This one was about Fred Russo being rescued by the Coast Guard after he went out searching for the missing foursome. Apparently, on the second day after the Fair Winds disappeared something had happened to his boat. He had been stranded out on the Gulf for over twenty-four hours. The article continued, saying his wife, Delores Russo, had reported him missing when he didn’t come home by sundown and she couldn’t reach him.

  I’d forgotten that Fred had been married to Delores. What a scary time that must have been for her. First four people disappearing, and then Fred. I sat tapping my finger on the desk. I was hungry. Maybe I needed to go to Russo’s to buy some groceries.

  CHAPTER 25

  Russo’s was almost empty when I arrived at twelve thirty. It was good for me, but bad for Fred. It was hard for a smaller grocery store to compete with the bigger chain supermarkets that lined highway 98 a few miles north of here. The store was a bright, cheery space, with artfully arranged fruit, a small bakery that had amazing scones, a meat market, a deli, and a seafood counter. The canned goods and sauces were high end.

  Russo had gotten into trouble last June when I first arrived, but it seemed like the heritage business owners had forgiven him for his transgressions. I wondered if he was earning back their trust—that always took longer. I yanked out a grocery cart from the others and shopped as I looked for Fred. He was a hands-on owner who usually was out interacting with his customers.

  I found him in the snack aisle, rearranging bags of chips. Fred had a big, hook nose and a belly to match. He was always dressed in a nice sports shirt and slacks, but he was just standing there, staring down at a bag of chips as if his mind was elsewhere.

  “Hi, Fred.”

  “Chloe, I heard you were back. It’s good to see you,” he said when he spotted me. Fred’s face wasn’t as animated as usual.

  “I was in the other day but didn’t see you.”

  “How was your trip home?”

  Home was such a weird concept to me right now. Chicago had always been home, but Emerald Cove was my home now. Although Boone’s house might not be home for long. I pushed away the wave of sadness at that thought and focused on Fred.

  “I am back.” I was surprised he hadn’t heard about my adventures at sea, or maybe he was just acknowledging I was in the store. “I needed groceries.”

  “You’ve come to the right place, then. And I really appreciate you sticking with us.” He waved a hand around at the store. “I know groceries are cheaper at the chain stores.”

  I felt guilty because I did shop at the other stores sometimes. “You have a unique selection and the best produce in town.” I pointed to the bag of cheddar and caramel corn popcorn. “Take that, for example. It’s the best.”

  Fred handed it to me and I popped it into my cart.

  “Heard you had a rough day when you got back.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking about my
boating experience or Steve or both, so I just nodded.

  “I’m worried about the stress on Ralph with all this being dredged up again.” Fred started to shelve bags of various types of flavored popcorns.

  I was glad he didn’t hand anymore to me because I would have taken them. I’d broken the don’t-go-to-the-grocery-store-hungry rule. “I’m worried about him too. And Delores. This has to be terrible for both of them.” I grabbed a bag of cheddar and sour cream chips. This might be the start of a theme—cheddar everything. “I was reading about what happened in the Emerald Cove Daily.”

  Fred stopped shelving and turned toward me. “Oh, you have, have you?”

  “What happened when you went out to search?” I asked. Might as well be blunt. I often was, whether I wanted to be or not.

  “The second day I went out to search, my boat broke down.”

  “I read that, but did you see anything or find anything?”

  “I found some debris. Bits of wood floating. They looked like they might be part of a boat. One that had some kind of catastrophic event.”

  My eyes kept getting bigger with every sentence. “That must have been awful for you.”

  “It was.”

  “Did anyone identify it as being part of the Fair Winds?” I went over the timeline in my head. If Fred had found debris on the second day he was out but didn’t come home until the third day, that would coincide with the Coast Guard changing from rescue to recovery. They must have believed the debris that Fred found was from the Fair Winds.

  “Nothing definitive. I picked up what I could. But it was a common make of boat. There were hundreds of them at the time.”

  “Why wasn’t that in the paper?”

  Fred looked behind him as if he was checking to see if anyone would overhear our conversation. It was odd, because what would it matter after all these years?

  “I also found a scarf. One that belonged to Susan Harrington. One she’d had with her when they disappeared.”

  “That wasn’t in the article I read.”

  “They decided to hold that bit back in case there was foul play.”

  I pondered that for a couple of moments. “They thought someone blew up the boat and left the scarf as a clue after the fact?”

  “Yes.”

  So the Fair Winds turning up blew that theory out of the water, so to speak. “And people still don’t know about it?”

  “Just me and the investigators. They swore me to silence. And for once I kept my promise until right now. I can’t believe I told you. Chloe, you have to promise to keep this to yourself.”

  “I will.” Something was off here. That no one had ever mentioned this. “I don’t get it. Did the Harrington family have some kind of pull to keep this a secret?”

  “Not the Harrington family, but Susan’s family.”

  “What was her maiden name?” I asked. Not that I’d know the family, because I was so new here.

  “Green.”

  Green. Green. I lifted my chin. “Was Susan originally from Birmingham?”

  “Yes,” Fred said.

  “Was she part of the family of lawyers? Part of Green and Long?”

  “That’s the one.”

  The firm Rip had worked for and his cousin still did. The shady one, according to Rip.

  “Why did you go out searching?”

  “They were my friends. Lots of people were out searching.”

  “And if Raquel was found alive, she’d be back with Ralph.”

  Fred shrugged. “I always knew Ralph was Delores’s first love. I didn’t mind being second best, and she was good to me.” Fred’s eyes misted up. “I was right. Delores left. Just not right away.”

  “I’m sorry.” That was a lot to deal with.

  “I told her to go, but some part of me hoped she wouldn’t.”

  Poor Fred. He’d lost his friends and his wife.

  “Fred, you’ve got a call,” a woman called out over the intercom.

  “I need to finish my shopping,” I said and Fred had given me a lot to follow up on. “Go take your call.”

  * * *

  After I put away the groceries I made a quick caprese salad. I pondered Green and Long while I ate. Their fingers were all over the past and the present. I needed to find out more about them. I didn’t have time to drive up to Birmingham nor did I know anyone there to ask for help. But Rip might talk to me about it.

  I dug through my purse and pulled out my phone, which I’d silenced when I went into the library. There were six calls from Rip and one from Joaquín. What could have happened now?

  CHAPTER 26

  I called Joaquín first because he might need me to come back in.

  “I’m sorry,” I said when Joaquín answered. “I silenced my phone.” Hopefully, he would think it was so I could take my nap. “Do you need me to come in?”

  “No. I need you to call Rip.”

  I jerked the phone away from my ear in surprise and looked at it for a moment. “You want me to call Rip?” That was just plain old weird.

  “He came in looking for you not long after you left. Then, after he left, he started calling every half hour to see if you were back, even though I told him I’d call if you showed up.” Joaquín let that hang in the air.

  “He was looking for me? Why?”

  “He heard about what happened this morning on the beach and was worried. That man has got it bad for you.”

  I blushed. Thankfully, for once no one was around to see it. “Oh.” That was brilliant, Chloe.

  “I’m surprised he’s not camped out on your doorstep.”

  “He’s not.” I took the phone and walked through the house to the back. Nope. Not there either. “I’ll give him a call, then.”

  “Hang on.”

  I waited, thinking about Rip. Maybe I’d been mistaken about what was going on with him and Ann the other night. Why was I so sure a man like him couldn’t be interested in a woman like me? Joaquín must have put the phone on mute.

  “That was Vivi. She said under no circumstances are you to come back in today. It’s slow and we’ve got things covered.” Joaquín lowered his voice. “Fortunately, she wasn’t here when Rip came in.”

  Whew. “Okay, tell her thanks. And thank you, Joaquín. I owe you.” I hung up and listened to all the voice mails that Rip had left. He’d sounded increasingly worried with every call. My heart didn’t quite know what to do with all the feelings his anxious voice created. My body was singing the “Hallelujah Chorus,” but I told it to knock it off. It would be so awful to get involved with Rip and then find out that I didn’t own this house or the bar. My life would be a mess and I didn’t want anyone else to get caught up in the fallout.

  I called Rip back and left a message when he didn’t answer. I let him know I was fine and that I was resting. Ha. I asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner. I’d bought a nice piece of tuna at Russo’s that I intended to grill tonight. Maybe I could get more information about the Green family from him. I ended the call and felt a little guilty, like I was using Rip for information. But so be it. I needed answers. And he was easy on the eyes and maybe on the heart.

  * * *

  I had a new target in mind. The family members of the people who’d disappeared on that boat had a stake in what happened. Phillip Harrington was first on my list, but would be hard to approach. He didn’t have a presence on social media except for an old account that he never updated. His last post was three years ago. I’d be suspicious, but not everyone in their seventies was as addicted to social media as someone my age.

  I found Phillip Harrington’s address. He lived in Seaside, which was about seven miles to the east of Emerald Cove. Showing up at his door would be tricky, but I needed to take a chance. Any other day I would have loved to go walk around Seaside. It was a charming planned community. I’d read that it was the first New Urban community that heralded a return to walkable towns.

  Fifteen minutes later I was enjoying the drive along 30A, with
its coastal lakes, glimpses of the ocean, and a long bike path. I should get a bike and do some riding. When I arrived in Seaside it wasn’t hard to find a parking spot because it was the off-season, if there even was one in this area anymore. Visitors had to park in designated spots and walk to where they wanted to go. The highway split the town in two—one side was the beach, with homes, shops, and restaurants, and the other was the inland side, with more homes, shops, and greenways.

  I sent a longing glance at Sundog Books as I wended my way toward Phillip’s house. But I wasn’t here to wander. I had work to do. I admired the picket fences as I walked along. No two fences on a block could be the same. I loved that the houses had cute names and that some were big and some tiny. Many of the big houses had coach houses or apartments above garages that could be rented out. A stay in Seaside was on my someday list of things I’d like to do.

  My phone buzzed with a text as I arrived at Phillip’s house. I glanced at it to see that Rip could come to dinner. Great. The house was medium-sized for houses in Seaside. Its modest size belied its price, which would easily be in the millions, like all the other houses here. It was pink, with a deep veranda on the front porch. Potted ferns and white wicker furniture shouted, Come by and sit a spell. I just hoped I wouldn’t be kicked off of said porch in the next few minutes. I took a deep breath for courage and twisted the bell.

  A few moments later the door whisked open. A tall but slightly stooped man with a bushy white mustache and thick, white hair stood there. I’d read that Phillip was a retired program manager for a defense contractor in Fort Walton Beach. He was one of the few people involved in all this who was retired. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him in the Sea Glass.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “Mr. Harrington, I’m Chloe Jackson. I work at the Sea Glass.” I stuck out my hand, so he opened the screen door that stood between us. His hand was dry and cool. I wished I could say the same for mine. “I wanted to talk to you about the reappearance of the Fair Winds.”

  “Are you a reporter too?”

  “No. My interest in the story is somewhat complicated. I’m the one who found her.”