Black Rock Bay

by Brianna Labuskes

  Max Verdon was working the taps, just like he had been when she was sixteen and trying to sweet-talk him into selling her the strawberry wine he’d kept behind the counter. He was a bit paunchier than she remembered, his stomach pressing out against the buttons of his shirt, his jowls shivering while he laughed. His hair had gone gray but was still thick, while the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened.

  “Well, Lord love a duck, look what the cat dragged in,” Max called when he spotted her.

  The collective gaze of the room snapped to her and Izzy where they’d been hovering in the doorway.

  A flush crept up her neck, and she cursed her pale skin for always giving her away.

  She ignored the attention and crossed toward the bar, leaning her forearms against the wood. “How are you, Max?”

  “Great, can’t complain, can’t complain.” Max smiled all the way to his eyes. “Beth just had her second. My fourth grandbaby.”

  “Congratulations,” Mia murmured. The place was overhot, especially coming in from the cold, and a bead of sweat pearled on her neck before slipping down along her spine. She unzipped her field jacket, then tugged off her hat, shaking out her hair as she did. “Hey, did Sammy make it in tonight?”

  “Come and gone.” Max was already moving toward the bottles, and Mia snuffed out the flicker of relief his answer brought. “Still an Eagle Rare girl?”

  She wasn’t. She wasn’t an anything kind of girl. At most she had white wine at work parties where it would be noted if she didn’t imbibe. But she nodded.

  “On the house,” he said, winking as he slid the tumbler across the scarred wood.

  “Make that two.” Izzy, who had lagged behind Mia, probably scoping out the exits, shuffled up beside her. There was a pause, and then Max reached for a second glass, reluctant. On the house was limited to islanders.

  “Cheers, love.” There was a teasing note in Izzy’s voice as she took the drink, seemingly unruffled.

  Max ignored her, still looking at Mia. “We’ll catch up, yeah?” But he was already walking away. It was the kind of empty promise that dressed up disinterest in kind words. And it worked for her, as she had no desire to chat about her life.

  They weaved through the high tops that were set up near the entrance and then made their way toward the back.

  “Sammy apparently left already,” Mia said quietly, so as not to be overheard. The last thing they needed was for someone to get it in their minds that the mainland cops were talking about Sammy Bowdoin.

  “Convenient,” Izzy said, just as softly.

  Mia shrugged as they slid into the second-to-last booth.

  “You’ve got to explain this island, man,” Izzy said, twisting enough so that her back was against the wall, Mia mirroring the position almost without thought. This wasn’t somewhere she was comfortable leaving herself vulnerable. “It feels like it’s got its own set of rules.”

  She brought the glass to her lips. Despite her hesitancy to drink, there were certain things that were comforting in life, like Michael Jackson on the neon jukebox in the corner and Eagle Rare still tasting like silk and summer nights against her tongue. “There’s no explaining St. Lucy’s.”

  “Try,” Izzy countered, lifting her own tumbler for an experimental sip. Her mouth pulled back in a tight grimace, but then she shrugged and took a hefty swallow.

  They sat in silence for a bit, but it was comfortable. Izzy wasn’t pushing, and Mia was trying to figure out where to start.

  “Survival,” Mia finally said.

  Izzy had been watching the old fishermen at the table next to theirs. Mia recognized them but didn’t remember their names. They hadn’t glanced over once, for which Mia was thankful.

  “What?” Izzy asked.

  “Everything here is about survival,” Mia said, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. “We survive because we rely on each other. The minute outlanders start encroaching on that, we go on defense.”

  “You’re talking like you’re still one of them,” Izzy commented, though there was no accusation, only curiosity, in the tilt of her head.

  “Once an islander, always an islander,” Mia recited, the words as familiar as her own name. “It’s a tough life out here. I think you could glamorize it.”

  “Oh, no,” Izzy cut in. “No. No, no, no. This is not glamorous. Do you realize I haven’t been able to feel my right pinkie toe since we stepped off that goddamn ferry?”

  Mia grinned. Her partners before Izzy had been varied. Tony Bianchi, the man Izzy had replaced, had been the worst kind of cop. Lazy but smart enough to fake it, ambitious enough that there was always a threat of her getting tossed beneath the wheels of a bus, but not enough to actually work for anything. Throw in a little misogyny and racism, and it had made for an erratic, untenable partnership. The one before him had fallen asleep at her desk regularly.

  Izzy was a vast improvement.

  “Some people do,” Mia said quietly, the smile fading. Many of the artists who made their home on the island in the summer romanticized the struggles of those who lived there year-round. But winter wasn’t rosy cheeks and marshmallows in hot chocolate. It was worrying about supplies and studying weather patterns in case the plane couldn’t come in.

  “Not me.” Izzy shivered, overdramatic clearly for the sake of killing the tension that was coiling in the air. Mia appreciated it, like she had the whole day.

  “All right, St. Lucy’s.” Mia glanced around as if she could see the history written in the very walls of the bar. “The Montrose family came over from the mainland in the early 1900s. They built the mansion on the cliffs on the north end of the island.”

  “Like the lighthouse on the west,” Izzy said, always so good at holding on to the important things and then dropping them into place.

  Mia nodded, though it hadn’t been a question. “There were already people living on the island, but the influx of cash from the Montrose family building the mansion created a small boom that doubled the population from fifty to about a hundred.”

  After swallowing the last of her bourbon, Izzy laughed. “You guys have an odd sense of booming around these parts.”

  “Doubled,” Mia repeated for emphasis. “When you’re on a small island, that kind of increase is huge. So all of a sudden there was a bar”—Mia gestured to encompass the building they were in—“an actual doctor’s office, a clothing store. It was quite revolutionary, or so the story goes.”

  “Wow, a clothing store and everything.” Izzy clutched her imaginary pearls, clearly pretending enthusiasm.

  “Before that, people either made everything or had to wait months for shipments from the mainland,” Mia said. “The Montrose family changed the island, some say for worse, some say for better. But for the standards of the time, they modernized it at least.”

  Mia took a fortifying swallow before continuing.

  “The Montroses all eventually died off, and, right around midcentury, the mansion was sold to the Bell family,” Mia said, tipping her head. “The Montrose family had hosted artists in residence during their summer holidays, and the Bells continued that tradition right up until that summer Monroe died.”

  “They never came back?”

  “No.” Her thumb finding the delicate skin of her wrist, Mia traced over the thin line that was there until she found her thready pulse. Her ulcer seethed beneath her breastbone, already angry that she was drinking on a mostly empty stomach. They hadn’t had a chance to eat anything, and between the lighthouse and the figure in the woods, she’d lost her already-weak appetite.

  “That’s about it.” Mia shrugged. “St. Lucy’s has the basics but not a lot of luxury. The winter is pretty much all one rolling storm, with small breaks in between.”

  “Oh God, does that mean it gets worse than this?” Izzy pointed toward the door, and Mia couldn’t help the gleeful tint to her own laugh, the smugness that was your birthright from growing up in a place like St. Lucy’s.

  “This is child’
s play,” Mia said, and Izzy buried her face in her hands. “And since you didn’t bother to check, I can tell you we have several fronts rolling up the coast toward us right now. There’s a good chance we’ll get stuck here if we don’t solve this in the next day or so.”

  Izzy groaned, a pitiful wail, not even bothering to lift her head.

  “It gets better.” Mia leaned in. “Our cell service and internet have the constitution of a fainting Victorian lady. They have a tendency to give out completely at the merest hint of bad weather.”

  Peeking at her, Izzy pouted. “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Just your abject misery,” Mia said, shameless, but then sobered. “But it is something to take into account. We might be cut off from backup. Not able to look anything up, even. Sometimes the hot spots are feeling generous, but more often than not it’s a crapshoot whether you get bars.”

  Finally straightening, Izzy just nodded, seeming to take it in stride. “Okay.” She drummed the table.

  Max came around with another pour of Eagle Rare, and this time Mia slipped him a twenty that he didn’t refuse. He left just as easily, a small pat on her head reminding her that most people here still thought of her as sixteen years old.

  “So should we split up?” Izzy asked, once Max had left.

  “Hmm?”

  “We came here to talk to the locals, right?” Izzy tipped her head toward the rest of the tables, bringing Mia’s mind back to the reason they were on St. Lucy’s at all: Robert Twist. “I’m guessing I won’t get very far, so point me to the biggest gossip here, and you can go for the more subtle route.”

  Mia swallowed a laugh as she glanced around. There were a few options, from what she could remember. But her gaze caught on Patty Masterson where she perched on a stool by the dartboard. The game would give Izzy an in, and Patty’s loose lips would give her a chance to actually get some information out of someone.

  She angled her chin toward the back. “Patty Masterson. She’ll give you a little trouble, but you might be able to pry some gossip out of her.”

  Izzy was quiet for a minute, watching the woman in the acid-washed jeans yank darts from the board. Then she gave Mia a two-finger salute, whispered, “Wish me luck,” and sauntered off, drink in hand.

  Mia watched her go before scanning the rest of the bar. She’d have to be more strategic in her pick. She didn’t want to waste time on someone who only wanted to rehash everything she was trying to forget.

  She had just decided on approaching Father Williams when the door slammed open with the wind.

  “Sorry, Max,” a voice called, and Mia stilled. That voice. It was one was she knew well, knew in anger, knew in lust, knew in fear and sadness.

  Glancing over toward the front of the bar, Mia locked eyes with Cash Bishop.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IZZY

  Patty Masterson wore neon blue lipstick with a kind of don’t-give-a-shit attitude to which Izzy aspired. She immediately liked the woman on gut instinct alone.

  “Can I get in on this?” Izzy asked, gesturing toward the dartboard with her half-empty glass.

  Patty cracked her gum and popped her hip like a mean girl in a bad ’80s teen movie. Her eyes were assessing as she tapped a long, pink acrylic nail against her thigh. “You’ve got money, sugar?”

  There was liking the woman and then there was being fleeced. Izzy had no desire to be just one more outsider who lost all their cash thinking they could hustle a local. She made a show of patting her pockets before pulling out a single bill. “Five bucks?”

  For a second, Izzy thought she’d lost her with the paltry offer, but then Patty sniffed and plucked the cash out from between Izzy’s fingers. As she slipped it into the overflowing cup of her bra, she cracked her gum once more, then held up the darts.

  Up close without the kindness of dim lighting, the woman looked older than she had from across the room. Now, Izzy could see the droop of the skin around her lips, her jawline. Midfifties instead of early forties, if Izzy had to guess. Her foundation was two shades too dark, and gummy clumps of mascara had fallen from her lashes to settle onto the puffy bags beneath her eyes. The blue lipstick had smeared, leaving a waxy streak by the corner of her thin mouth.

  After setting her glass aside, Izzy took the darts with a friendly smile and lined herself up at the single strip of duct tape on the floor. Now the question was: Should she throw the game? Would Patty be more impressed or annoyed with Izzy winning?

  It didn’t matter anyway, because at the exact moment Izzy released the dart, Patty cracked her gum, loud and obnoxious enough for Izzy’s hand to twitch just wrong.

  “So you’re here with Mia Hart.”

  The metal tip had sunk into the wood just outside the board, and Izzy tamped down her amusement. Patty played dirty.

  “Sure am,” Izzy said, even though it hadn’t been a question. Everyone must have seen them come in together. She lazily lobbed the next dart. It landed dead center. “Izzy Santiago. Rockport PD.”

  Patty waited until Izzy’s arm was drawn back for her final throw before speaking again. “Because of that reporter the boys had to fish out of the bay?”

  This time Izzy had been ready for the interruption, and the metal tip slid in next to the previous one she’d thrown. Double bull’s-eye. “Heard he came in here a few times.”

  It wasn’t really an answer to Patty’s question, though the confirmation was there in the way Izzy didn’t deny it. Patty’s lips pinched in at the corners, so Izzy figured she’d picked up on it.

  They stood suspended in a kind of standoff. Izzy was a prime target for the town gossip, and that town gossip knew she was the same for Izzy. Each held the upper hand in some way, but one of them was going to have to blink first. Izzy didn’t want it to be her.

  Finally, cracking her gum again, Patty tipped her head toward the board, a silent order for Izzy to collect the darts. “Patty Masterson,” she said, finally introducing herself, as Izzy picked up the chalk to write the score. “And, yeah, he came in here.”

  “Ever ask you any questions?”

  “Sugar, everyone asks me questions. Just like you are right now.” There was a teasing quality to her raspy voice, but beneath it was something sharper, not quite a reprimand but a warning shot. Patty wasn’t going to be played. As if Izzy hadn’t gotten that sense already.

  She passed the darts off to Patty. “All right, what did he talk to you about?”

  Patty’s eyes were locked on her face. “Asked a lot about Mia.”

  Izzy’s heart paused and then thudded too hard as if it panicked at the skipped beat. Mia had recognized Twist. Hadn’t known him but had recognized him. And apparently he was asking about her? “Oh yeah?” Even to Izzy’s own ears, her voice sounded reedy, too high.

  “Everyone asks about Mia,” Patty said, throwing it out like it was a careless afterthought. But there was something about her stance, about the pinched corners of her lips that belied any attempts at indifference.

  They called it a suicide pact. Izzy could guess what people asked about. The rush of anticipation that came before a good interview turned to charcoal in her mouth. There was always someone to be blamed in those situations, and Mia was the one who was left to shoulder it. “The lighthouse.”

  Patty nodded. “The lighthouse.”

  She said it with just enough suggestion to hint at the scandalous, but with enough familiarity for Izzy to know it was a well-worn phrase. It all made Izzy want to sweep Mia out of the bar. Protect her from invasive, prying eyes. But that wasn’t her job. This, this was her job.

  “Twist was asking questions about Mia?” Izzy reiterated, trying to focus on the important part. The guilt and wariness and anger she could deal with later.

  Patty was barely paying her attention, anyway. She’d lined herself up at the duct tape with an exaggerated stance that caused all her curves to press against the seams of her clothes. Predictably, her first throw landed dead center.

  “You know Mia
was the only one who came out of the lighthouse that night,” Patty said, as she aimed her second dart.

  “I’d heard something like that.” She couldn’t stop her eyes from finding her partner across the room, where she was holed up in a booth with a tall, dark-haired man. They were just curves and lines in the shadows, and yet still their body language was textbook: suffocating tension.

  Patty followed her line of vision. “Those two.” She clicked her tongue before turning back to the board. She landed the second bull’s-eye. “They were all over each other as teens.”

  So that was Cash Bishop, then. Izzy glanced back over but still couldn’t make out much.

  Patty’s third dart sank into a square on the thinnest ring, earning her enough points to not just beat but crush Izzy’s score. The swing of Patty’s hips was victorious. “Five bucks only gets you one throw, sugar. Come back when you’ve got something else.”

  Paying for information was always a gamble, and putting a price on it was even trickier. “What will twenty get me?”

  “Oh, you were holding out on me, Detective.” Patty fake pouted, but the smugness underneath the exaggerated disappointment was obvious. She knew that she well and truly had the upper hand now. “Throw in a double shot of whiskey and that’ll get you a few answers.”

  Izzy got herself another as well, one she knew she wouldn’t actually drink. But it was a simple trick—it enforced the message that they were drinking buddies, could lull whoever was being questioned into a false sense of security.

  When Izzy returned to the high top, she slid a twenty across the table beneath the glass tumbler. By the next blink, it had disappeared.

  “Twist was asking about Mia?” Izzy asked once again. Maybe she sounded like a broken record, but now that she was paying for the answer, she was going to push until she got it.

  One sharp, pink nail tapped against the glass in an uneven staccato as Patty studied Izzy’s face. “If you know about the lighthouse, then you know about the rumors.”