A Time to Swill

by Sherry Harris

  “To find Rip.”

  “Wait. Let’s talk this through before confronting him.”

  That made sense, but my thoughts swirled around as I pictured Rip and me out on the ocean, the red boat chasing us. Him acting like he knew nothing about it. The whole getting shot at was probably faked. I’d thought we were just lucky they didn’t hit us, but instead they must have missed us deliberately. The man I thought might be my Darcy was anything but. I sat back down.

  “He betrayed me,” I said.

  Ann stood up and started pacing around the room. She was always so still it made me nervous.

  “He betrayed both of us.” She shook her head, and her hair tumbled around her. “I was feeding him information about the illegal liquor that was coming into Emerald Cove.”

  I’d forgotten about that. Ann had been worried a few months ago that something could happen to her. She’d confided in Rip, so if something did happen to her, someone would know what she was up to.

  Part of me didn’t want to believe Rip owned the red boat, but Ann had known Rip, trusted him, longer than I had. If she believed he was bad, I guessed I’d just have to accept it too. It hurt.

  “What did your friend in the Secret Service say?” Last June Vivi had suspected that illegal liquor, untaxed, was being brought in and used. She’d asked Ann to look in to it. When Ann had confided in me with concerns about her safety, I’d mentioned to her that I’d read about a case in Illinois where the Secret Service had stepped in and shut down a ring similar to the one that was operating here. In the end Ann had reached out to a friend in the Secret Service.

  “The trail went cold. All the sources I developed, the drop points I’d found, none of it panned out. He wasn’t too happy with me and got in trouble for a wild-goose chase. It will take a while to rebuild a relationship with him.”

  “Is there anyone down here who isn’t on the take?” If I couldn’t trust Rip, who could I trust? Were Joaquín and Michael up to no good? What did I really know about any of these people? I’d only been down here for a few months. The place was up to its proverbial ears in shady pasts and shadier dealings. Maybe I shouldn’t even trust Ann. Her reputation as a fixer meant she was doing things for people I probably didn’t want to know about. I sagged back on the couch. Maybe this wasn’t the place for me. Maybe I should go back to Chicago and live in one of my brothers’ basements until I could get back on my feet. They’d both offered.

  “There are good people here. But it’s a hard life for most,” Ann said.

  “So we have to continue to look for answers,” I said.

  “And you have to go about like before. You have to continue your relationship with Rip so you don’t let him know we suspect him.”

  I was shaking my head before she even said Rip. “I’m not that good an actress.”

  “You have to be if you want to help Ralph.”

  * * *

  After Ann left I yanked open my closet and stared at my suitcase. It wouldn’t take long to pack. The boxes of books I’d shipped down here I could ship back, or I could donate some to the library. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wiped at them with my hand. Rip owned the red boat and must be colluding with the bad guys. Disappointment and acceptance circled like seagulls being fed on the beach.

  Running was something I was good at. I reached for my suitcase. But up until now I’d always been running toward something, not away. I pulled back my hand and slammed shut the closet doors. Thankfully, I didn’t see Rip that often and he didn’t know me well enough to know what normal behavior was for me. I could do this. I had to. For Ralph and Vivi.

  I couldn’t sleep, so I took out the supposed email exchange between Steve and Boone. I got out my rarely used laptop and opened my Gmail account to find old emails from Boone. I took a couple of deep breaths before I opened the last email he’d ever sent me. I couldn’t help but read the content. It wasn’t about anything too significant, just how his day had gone and that he missed me. It said he’d be home in seventy-three days. We just didn’t realize he’d come home in a coffin. He always signed his emails with Love, Boone XOXOXO. I signed mine the same way, but seeing it here, now, knowing that he was in love with me instead of just loving me as a friend made me sad all over again.

  After a few more deep breaths I checked what I’d come here to verify. The address he sent his emails from. Most of them came from his own Gmail account. But some of them were from an official government account. I compared the email addresses Steve had received from Boone to the ones I had. The email addresses matched letter for letter and symbol for symbol. Darn. I’d been hoping that the address would be different. That it would be some proof that something fishy was happening. But I suppose Vivi’s lawyer, Ann, or Michael would have already checked this.

  It was midnight here, so it was around 9:30 a.m. in Afghanistan. I emailed one of Boone’s buddies who was still stationed there. I snapped pictures of both email addresses, inserted them into the message, and asked him if anything looked off. And added a brief explanation of why I was asking.

  My phone rang, and it was Boone’s buddy. Before Boone was in Afghanistan I had no idea how easy it was to communicate with someone in the military if they weren’t out in the field for an operation.

  “Chloe. This is messed up. Boone wouldn’t do that.”

  My heart pinged happily that he agreed with me. “Do you remember him talking about his dad?”

  “Naw, but that probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like we’re all out here sharing our feelings around a campfire. In our off time we’re playing poker, working out, and calling home.”

  If only I’d kept a calendar of when I had and hadn’t heard from Boone. Then maybe I would know where he was when the will was written. Even though it was never said because it couldn’t be said, I knew when I didn’t hear from him that he was probably off doing something dangerous.

  “Did the emails look the same to you?”

  “Almost anyone can copy an email and make it look legit. You need to see the account the emails were sent from. If you run the cursor over the email, you’ll see the actual address.”

  “Of course. I should have thought of that.” Getting access to Steve’s email account might not be easy. I was sure he wouldn’t just hand it over to me. He might if forced to by a court, but that could take months.

  “Do you know the people who witnessed the will?”

  “No, but there are thousands of people over here. So don’t take that as a sign the will isn’t legit.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Please call me if you remember anything else.” We chatted for a few more minutes before we hung up. I was exhausted from all I’d heard today, but I needed to sleep because tomorrow might even be longer.

  * * *

  At nine Tuesday, after a run, shower, and getting ready for work, I called Green and Long in Birmingham. I blocked my number before I dialed. Step one in the digging I’d told Ann I’d be doing.

  “Green and Long. How may I help y’all?”

  The woman’s voice who answered was rich, with a deep Alabama accent. “May I speak to Ted Barnett, please?”

  There was a momentary pause. “I’m sorry, Ted no longer works here. Are you a current client or is this a new need?”

  Now I paused while my mouth dropped open. My thoughts tumbled more than waves on the shore. If that was the case, I guess my suspicion that Steve had something on the firm was wrong. What else had I gotten wrong with all of this? “When did he leave?” My voice wobbled a little.

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you that, honey.”

  “But I’m his girlfriend and he told me this was where he worked.” I was a competent liar, which I’m not sure was something to be proud of. It started when my brothers taught me to play poker as a child. I’d lost more than my share of bubble gum and candy to them before I learned what it meant to have a poker face or, in this case, a poker voice. I made my voice wobble a little more.

  “I’m sorry—”

&
nbsp; “Please,” I said, “I’m—” I paused again. “Pregnant. And I haven’t seen Ted for a week.” If this person had any heart at all, she’d give me some kind of information.

  She lowered her voice. “Men are dogs.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that as my thoughts flashed to Rip. “They are,” I said in the wobbly voice.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said.

  “How would you feel in my place?” Betrayed. That’s how you’d feel.

  “I heard he went to Destin to practice law with his cousin.”

  “Thank you.” This time the wobble in my voice was authentic as I thought about what a liar Rip was.

  By nine thirty I’d parked by the Sea Glass and walked around to the north side of the harbor. This time I was looking for Oscar Hickle. He owned the Hickle Glass Bottom Boat company with his daughter and granddaughter. They took people on tours of the bayous and Choctawhatchee Bay, which separated us from the mainland. Oscar had been up to some mischief in June and wasn’t a big fan of mine. Who knew how he’d react to seeing me?

  The boat itself wasn’t at the dock, so Leah or Edith must have had it out on a tour. I walked over to the small kiosk they worked out of and found Oscar reading the paper and chewing on a pipestem. He looked up with a pleasant smile until he realized it was me.

  He set down the paper and pipe, got up slowly, and came over to the window. “Just read my horoscope and it said I was in for some trouble today and now here you are.”

  Oscar had a deep tan, like many longtime locals. It made his blue eyes even brighter. We’d seen each other a few times at the Sea Glass. He didn’t come in as often as some of the other heritage business owners did. But Leah and Edith came in on a regular basis. “I’ve been called worse than trouble before.”

  “I’m right sure you have,” Oscar said. He craned his head out the window, looking left and right up the harbor walkway. “Got any more fake boyfriends with you?”

  “No fake or otherwise boyfriends.” I had a momentary thought about Rip. “It’s just me today.”

  “Well, get it over with. I ain’t got all day and I’m guessin’ you don’t want to buy tickets for a tour.”

  “I need information.”

  “Call 411.”

  Oscar was a laugh riot this morning. I expelled a long sigh. “I know you don’t have any interest in helping me out and don’t exactly trust me. But Ralph Harrison is in trouble. He’s been questioned by the Coast Guard. You want to help him, don’t you?” I waited. “Please?”

  Oscar worked his jaw around. “I guess if it will help Ralph out. He’s a good man.”

  “Have you been out on any midnight tours?” I’d been on one with him in June. He could almost motor through the bayous with his eyes closed.

  “Not since you and Ann Williams made sure that Edith took the keys away from me.” He winked. “They don’t know I have a spare.” Oscar raised his hands. “Don’t be tellin’ them that.”

  “As long as you aren’t out at midnight running illegal liquor.”

  “That business all dried up. Pardon the pun.”

  I frowned. “You haven’t heard any rumors about it just shifting to somewhere else?”

  “Rumors ain’t facts.” He leaned in. “But I did hear about a red boat been seen out late at night by a couple of the boggy boys.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The boggy boys were people who grew up on the Boggy Bayou on the north side of Choctawhatchee Bay. They were longtime locals who hunted and fished for mullet together. There used to be a town of Boggy, Florida, but it had long since been renamed Niceville. The detail about the red boat sounded authentic. “Where?”

  “Over toward Rocky Bayou.”

  Rocky Bayou was a section of Niceville. “Thank you.”

  “You aren’t my favorite person.” He rattled the paper at me. “You be careful trying to help Ralph. These here horoscopes say there’s lots of trouble. Mercury’s in retrograde.”

  * * *

  Things were slow this morning at the Sea Glass, so at eleven I was reorganizing piles of papers, notebooks, and assorted lost-and-found items that had been shoved into the cabinet space under the cash register.

  “What’s this?” I held up a dusty, three-ring binder that had the word “Drinks” printed on it to show Joaquín. He sat on a barstool, drinking coffee and looking like he needed it.

  “That’s the drinks book.”

  “What’s ‘the drinks book?’ ”

  “It’s all our proprietary drink recipes. Haven’t you been using it?”

  “No. This is the first time I’ve seen it. No one ever mentioned it.” I didn’t make drinks that often, only on the rare occasion when I was here alone.

  “How have you been making drinks?”

  “I’ve been looking up recipes on my phone.”

  “Chloe, every bar has their own twists on drinks. That’s one of the reasons the same drink tastes different wherever you go.”

  “Well, this is the only bar I’ve ever worked in.” I was feeling a tad defensive, which I blamed on my restless night’s sleep. “You might have mentioned it before now. I’ve never seen you use it.”

  “That’s because I have all the ones in there,” he pointed to the book, “memorized.”

  “There’s more than what’s in here?”

  “Some that Vivi and I have developed together and haven’t added the recipes to the book.”

  A customer walked in. The regular who always was grumpy and almost always ordered a whiskey sour. “I’ll have your drink for you in a moment, sir.”

  “I’m sorry we never told you about the book. We’ve never had anyone work here who didn’t have prior experience working at a bar. You wouldn’t know it existed, or to look for it.”

  “It’s okay. Things were off-kilter, first with Boone’s death and then with me finding a dead body by the dumpster.”

  “Not to mention how crazy summers are here.” Joaquín started to stand up.

  “Just stay put. I’ll use the book to make a whiskey sour.”

  “Okay.”

  I was surprised that Joaquín agreed. I noted some history about the drink typed above the recipe, but that would have to wait. “Egg whites?” I looked at Joaquín. That sounded disgusting.

  “Don’t add the egg whites. He doesn’t like them, and there’s always a risk of salmonella if it isn’t handled properly. But they add a nice, frothy component to the drink.”

  “Whatever you say.” I was conscious of Joaquín following my every move as I filled a shaker three quarters full of ice, added two ounces of whiskey, squeezed fresh lemon juice to equal an ounce and simple syrup. I shook it like my life depended on it, then strained the drink into a rocks glass. I scooped up one of our pink flamingo picks and threaded a cherry and lemon slice as a garnish.

  I did a Vanna White flourish with my hand and Joaquín nodded his approval. I took it over to our customer.

  “What’s the matter with Joaquín today?”

  I thought he was just tired from his two jobs, but that wasn’t anyone’s business. “He’s training me.”

  The man snorted. “Just my luck.”

  When I first started working here this guy always made me bristle. But I was used to him now. The first drink I’d made for him in June was an old-fashioned. He didn’t spit that one out, so I figured I did okay. I hovered over the man, waiting for him to try this one.

  “You got nothin’ better to do than watch me drink?” he asked. “I’m going to have to tell Vivi she doesn’t need the extra help.”

  I smiled as I went back over to the bar. I’d dealt with worse at the library in Chicago. I was a bit surprised that the old man didn’t know I owned part of the Sea Glass. Vivi had told the heritage owners back in June. Usually things got around faster, but I didn’t fill him in.

  “Joaquín, why don’t you go home?” I said. “You look exhausted. It’s slow, and now that I have the drinks book I’ll be okay.”

  “I’m fine.” />
  “At least go take a nap. Look,” I pointed toward the ocean, “it’s starting to sprinkle. No one will be in here.”

  “Or it could drive everyone in here.”

  “If that happens, I’ll call you. You can be here in five minutes.”

  “You’re not going to let up, are you?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  “Promise you’ll call if it gets busy?”

  “Yes, and Vivi should be back soon. It will be fine.”

  “Okay, then.” He came around the bar and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  I picked up the drinks binder and read the history of the whiskey sour. According to this, the recipe first appeared in 1862 in a book by Jerry Thomas called The Bartender’s Guide. It also said that the recipe had been around from at least the 1700s. Drinks cycled in and out of favor. Back then, when scurvy was an issue for sailors or travelers at sea, lime and lemon juice were added to watered-down liquor, which was the origin of the whiskey sour.

  A group of women came in and all wanted wine or wine spritzers. That I could easily handle. While I was preparing their order Ann Williams came in, sat at a table with her back to the wall, and pulled out a thick paperback book. I tried to read the cover from here but couldn’t. It reminded me that I’d brought some books in to put on a shelf that currently held sand dollars, starfish, and ajar of sea glass.

  I served the group of women their drinks, checked with the curmudgeon, who was nursing his drink, and headed over to Ann. She set her book splayed open on the table. The spine was broken. I cringed when people did that, but at least I could see the cover. Under a Dark Sky by Lori Rader-Day. She was a Chicago author and had spoken at our library once.

  “Great book,” I said.

  “Has me hooked,” Ann said.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Just a cup of coffee. It’s chilly today.”

  As I poured Ann’s cup of coffee, I weighed what to tell her I knew. I somehow had to get my hands on Steve’s email account. Even if the emails weren’t essential in the legal resolution of the wills, they would prove to me that I was right about Boone. That he’d never do what Steve claimed he had.