by Delynn Royer
“Oh yes.” Mary Patterson nodded, but didn’t move from her position, which had become defensive the moment she recognized him. Otherwise, her expression remained benign.
“This is Trixie Frank. She’s a reporter for the Morning Examiner.”
Mary’s assessing gaze alighted on Trixie as she joined them. “Miss Frank.” She returned her attention to Sean. “Looking for a room?”
“Looking for some information.”
“I can’t imagine what I would know that would interest the New York City Police Department.”
“You work here at the inn, Mrs. Patterson?”
She raised her chin with some pride. “Sure do. I own it too. My father built this place.”
Trixie cut in. “We understand John Murphy and his fiancée spent some time here last week before he was killed.”
Mary looked put off by Trixie’s interruption. Or perhaps it was just that she felt unfairly outnumbered. The smile she offered Trixie was cool. “Yes, they came for the holiday. Mr. Murphy wanted to show Miss Stewart his property. I didn’t get the idea she was thrilled with it.”
“City girl?” Sean asked.
“Seemed like it.”
Sean smiled. “Did Mr. Murphy stay here often?”
“Once a month or so after he started buying up the land around here.”
“When was that?”
Mary appeared to think. “About a year back. I heard he was planning to develop this area into some kind of resort for the high hats. I don’t know if it was true or not.”
“Really?” Sean asked. “He didn’t talk to you about it?”
“I’m just the innkeeper. I didn’t ask the man about his business. I asked him what he wanted for breakfast.”
Sean nodded. “Yes and yet you traveled all the way into the city for his funeral.”
Mary’s stance, already defensive, stiffened. “I figured Egan could use the company.”
“You’re a friend of Egan’s?”
Mary brushed away a strand of hair that blew in front of her eyes. It was a sharp gesture, impatient. “He and my husband were friends. They served in the Merchant Marines together during the war.”
Sean recalled what Egan told Nell at the funeral. That he’d been in Boston when word reached him of his brother’s murder. If so, wouldn’t it have been most logical for Egan to go directly to New York when he heard? Then what Mary said didn’t make sense. “So, when Egan heard his brother was dead, he came here to see you first? From Boston? Or did you meet him in New York?”
Mary’s expression hardened. “Detective, if you don’t mind my asking, what does all this have to do with the price of beans? Egan told me that you grew up in the same neighborhood, but that you and his brother weren’t exactly friends.”
“That’s true. It’s not easy to be friends when one of you is a cop and the other is a crook, but that’s all water under the bridge. All I’m interested in now is finding out who killed the man. I imagine Egan would want the same thing.”
“I’m sure he does,” she said, still wary.
“So, did you two return here together yesterday, or did Egan stay behind?”
At this question, some of her defensiveness faded. She sighed, surrendering, but only so far. “I don’t know what Egan did. I caught the train back. This place may not look like a lot to you, but I’ve got a business to run.”
“Of course,” Sean allowed. “And I bet it might have become very profitable if Mr. Murphy’s plans to make this area into a swanky resort were successful. It sure is hard to imagine, though.” Sean gestured vaguely, indicating their surroundings. “Nothing more than dirt roads and shacks.”
She appeared unruffled. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”
“You think he could have pulled it off?”
“Hard to tell. You get the right fellas in a room together and just about anything’s possible.”
Sean gave her a dry smile. “But he didn’t talk to you about any of that, right? You’re just the innkeeper? Coffee black and eggs over easy?”
Her mouth quirked up in a smile to match his. “Scrambled, actually.”
After a beat of silence, Trixie spoke. “We’re interested in a British schooner Johnny owned called Fíorghra. You know it?”
Mary’s smile faded and her gaze flicked to Trixie, her defenses raised once again. “Can’t say as I do.”
“We think it might be anchored somewhere off the coast.”
“It’s no secret that there are plenty of ships lying offshore. They’re none of my concern.”
“Then who would be concerned?” Trixie pressed.
Mary shifted the position of her rake on the ground. She seemed bothered by the question or perhaps she was just running out of patience. “You might try the boys down by the docks. I can’t guarantee they’ll tell you much, though. Some don’t take too well to outsiders.”
“Anyone who might be more helpful than the others?” Trixie asked. “Someone who could stand to earn a few extra dollars?”
Mary gave Trixie a look that made Sean think that she was about to tell the other woman to take a flying leap off Montauk Point. “Ask for Scotty MacPherson. For the right price, he’ll run his boat out for anyone.”
“Thanks,” Trixie said, unfazed by Mary’s annoyance. “And just one more thing. When you said John Murphy never talked to you about—”
Sean put a hand on Trixie’s arm. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Patterson. We won’t be taking any more of your time.”
“But—” Trixie tried to pull away but Sean clamped down.
“Come along, Miss Frank.”
Sean could feel Mary Patterson’s measuring gaze following them as they walked to the gate and let themselves out.
“Hey! Ow.” Trixie complained when the gate slammed closed behind them. “What was that all about?”
“Sorry.” Sean released her as they reached the car.
“Didn’t you hear what she said back there?”
Sean opened the passenger door. “You mean, about getting the right guys in a room together? Yeah, I heard it. Get in.”
Trixie didn’t move. “So it wasn’t true when she said Johnny never talked to her about his plans for the land.”
“Right, I know. Get in.”
“But she lied.”
“Yeah, kid. People do that.”
“Why didn’t you call her out on it?”
Aware that Mary Patterson was still watching them, Sean leaned in close to Trixie’s face. “Because we don’t know why she lied. People lie all the time, Trix, sometimes for reasons of their own that have nothing to do with your case. We’re not after a scoop, we’re after information. Sometimes a witness reveals more by what she doesn’t say than by what she does. It won’t do us any good to confront her. We might need her later. Follow?”
Trixie’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Yikes.”
“What?”
“You’re scaring me. Those are the most words I’ve heard you string together all at one time since we met.”
Sean gave her a narrow look. “Just get in the car.”
She winked. “Can I drive?”
He scowled, and she moved as quick as he’d ever seen her. “Okay, okay! You coppers got no sense of humor.”
Sean slammed the door behind her and rounded to the driver’s side. Trixie wisely stayed quiet while he got into the car and started the engine. By the time he’d turned them around to head back the way they came, though, her reticence had worn thin. She ventured cautiously, “So, Mary Patterson was at the funeral yesterday? I didn’t see her.”
“She was with Egan.”
“So you said. They must have come late.”
“Yeah, they were hanging back.”
She
gave him a sidewise look. “Do you think she’s Egan’s girl? Or Johnny’s?”
“Hard to tell.”
“John Murphy was engaged to Lenore and probably still canoodling with his wife. You’d think two women would be enough for him.”
Sean gave her a sidewise look of his own. “You’d think.”
Trixie wrinkled her nose at him. “Well, either way, she knows more than she’s telling.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. Unless you think a dame innkeeper from Montauk is somehow mixed up with the two corrupt New York City detectives who killed John Murphy.”
“Well, when you put it that way...”
“Right. Let’s go find Scotty MacPherson.”
* * *
The fishing village of Montauk was little more than a rustic outpost—a smattering of wooden shacks, warehouses and fishing docks scattered around the horseshoe of Fort Pond Bay. Aside from a train depot that housed the local post office and Western Union, there were few businesses to serve the local citizenry that were not associated with fishing supplies. Sean counted one grocery, a general store, a butcher shop and a small restaurant. Judging by the number of outhouses in evidence, the concept of indoor plumbing hadn’t yet caught on in this part of the island.
Sean parked Trixie’s car near the train depot and they walked to the docks where the smell of fish and bait was pungent and a hustle-bustle of commercial activity greeted them. Although the bulk of the fishing season was over, there were some large boats unloading their morning catches of cod.
Sean and Trixie garnered only a few measuring looks from the men, indicating that, although they’d been marked as new faces, they were not objects of curiosity. These villagers were accustomed to visitors.
Down from where the fishing boats were docked, Sean and Trixie found some empty slips where smaller seafaring craft, mostly rowboats, were kept. In one of the occupied slips, they found a speedboat named Purity. The interior was splashed with water. She’d been used recently. It was just one more piece of evidence that suggested John Murphy’s bootlegging business was indeed based here on Montauk.
It was less than fifteen minutes later that they located one Scotty MacPherson, a sea dog of about sixty. He was imbibing his lunch along with a few of his mostly Scandinavian brethren in a makeshift saloon in the back room of a fishing supply shop.
Dressed in baggy red-striped trousers and a black cap that sat askew atop his fuzzy gray head, the man spoke with a thick Scottish burr that grew only thicker with each new swig of whiskey. Even Sean, who knew some Gaelic, had to listen hard to decipher the man’s blathering, but miraculously, three words rang clear as a bell. One Hun’red Doolers! It was that afternoon’s price for Mr. MacPherson’s nautical services.
“You got that much stuffed in your BVDs?” Sean asked Trixie from across the scarred oak table where the two of them had shared in a “guid” round of “willie-waucht” with Mr. MacPherson. That too—a bottle of Johnny Walker and their convivial company—had been part of the price of negotiation.
Trixie had taken her first shot with a cough and a watering of her eyes. Those that followed, however, seemed to go down easier so that, by the time the three of them agreed on a price, Sean began to detect a slurred touch of the Scots in her own speech.
In the end, a handshake and a toast—”Slainte! Up wi’ yer glasses and devil take the hindmaist”—concluded the bargain. Thirty minutes later, Sean and Trixie were suitably bundled up and seated aboard the Scotsman’s weather-beaten but seaworthy speedboat, the Maighdean Chuain, or “Maiden of the Sea.”
The wind sprayed them liberally with cold salt water mist as the Maighdean Chuain left Fort Pond Bay and picked up speed across the Sound. It was uncommonly mild weather and, as a consequence, they were not alone in their travels. They sighted a number of other seafaring craft across the horizon. Sailboats, schooners, speedboats and a Coast Guard cutter.
Mr. MacPherson had assured them that he was familiar with the Fíorghra, which had been anchored off Montauk Point for over a month, conducting a brisk business when weather permitted, and that, as late as that morning, it still had some stock to unload.
He had even bragged that it was he who had piloted John Murphy’s speedboat, Purity, out to meet the British-registered schooner the day before Thanksgiving. As for the nature of Mr. Murphy’s business aboard the Fíorghra, however, the garrulous Scotsman would venture no comment.
Although she sat huddled against the wind right next to Sean, Trixie had to raise her voice over the roar of the motor when they were no longer within sight of land. “You have a plan when we get there?”
“Not much,” Sean admitted.
“I doubt that flashing your badge will get us far.”
“No, but that money you have stashed in all your most interesting places might. If we have to, we’ll buy a few cases of whiskey and toss it overboard if the Coast Guard spots us. I have a feeling, though, we won’t need to go that far.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I think I know who we’re going to find when we get there. We’ll either be welcomed aboard or shot on sight. Still glad you decided to come along?”
Her spunky reply was full of piss and vinegar, not to mention three shots of Johnny Walker. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to scare me off, Detective.”
Sean could offer only a mirthless smile. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.
* * *
“Yonder! Thar she be!”
The Scotsman’s shout signaled their first sighting of the Fíorghra as it floated serenely off in the distance, one of three similar vessels anchored roughly within one mile of each other. As the Maighdean Chuain sped gamely toward the four-masted schooner, it wasn’t long before Trixie could make out the Union Jack flag flapping in the wind. She estimated the saloon vessel was close to two hundred feet in length. No canvas billowed from her steel masts, indicating the ship was at rest with no immediate plans for departure.
There was no time for Trixie to worry over what Sean thought they would find. They approached the schooner within minutes, the Maighdean Chuain cutting its speed and then coming to a full stop within a few feet of the larger vessel. One of the crewman, a strapping young man wearing a black cap and with a stubble of beard, leaned over the side and called to Scotty by name.
“Weel now, swankie! Ye got veesitors,” MacPherson called back in tipsy greeting and caught the rope the man tossed down. Despite his inebriated condition, the old Scotsman made quick work of tying it fast to their bow, bringing them in close enough to brush against the fenders of the larger vessel.
A monkey ladder was thrown over the side and Trixie looked at Sean. “What now?”
“Ladies first.”
“I’m not sure that should apply in this situation. What about that thing you mentioned about getting shot on sight?”
“Not to worry. I meant me.”
“Oh.” Trixie wasn’t sure she found this assurance comforting, but in for a penny, in for a pound. She grasped the ladder to climb up.
When she reached the top, the young crewman in the black cap offered a gap-toothed grin and one calloused hand to hoist her up and over the rail as if she weighed nothing. The fellow topped six feet and was good looking in a rough hewn sort of way. “Welcome aboard, love.” He spoke in a brash Cockney accent.
“Thanks,” she said only to realize six other men stood on deck behind him. The unorthodox welcoming committee looked stragglier than their gentlemanly young crewmate. They all smoked cigarettes and grinned. Despite their benign expressions, each to a man was armed with a revolver tucked in his belt.
Thankfully, Sean appeared on deck behind her. “Which of you is the supercargo?”
The first crewman answered. “‘E’s occupied in the chart’ouse right at the moment. Wot’s yer fancy, bloke?”
>
“Word is you got the good stuff,” Sean said.
“Pure as when it left the distilleries.”
“Good. Then I’ll wait. I need a word with your supercargo.”
“Aye,” the crewman said amiably enough. “I’ll take you to ’im, but you’ll need to give over what you got in your pockets.”
“Fair enough.” Sean removed his gloves and raised both hands. “It’s on the left.”
The crewman reached inside Sean’s coat to extract his Colt and then checked him for other weapons before stepping back. “And wot about your girl, bloke?”
“Trix, take off your coat,” Sean said, not breaking eye contact with the crewman. “Show the gentleman you’re not armed.”
Despite a brisk southwest wind, Trixie loosened her scarf and removed her coat. Shivering, she lifted her arms and turned around once. “All clean,” she said. “See?”
As she donned her coat again, she gave the boys a smile for good measure and received three grins, one hoot and two wolf whistles in return.
“Sorry, bloke.” The crewman gestured for them to follow him toward the bridge. Trixie couldn’t help noticing as they fell into step that one of the other crewmen casually brought up the rear. “Can’t be too bloody careful, you know. There been pirates about, and we ain’t seen you round ’ere before.”
“That’s because we haven’t been,” Sean said. “But I have some business with your boss.”
He laughed. “Which one?”
“Not the dead one.” Sean sounded grimly amused.
Their guide apparently found this amusing as well. “Then you’re in luck. She’s just come aboard.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Trixie didn’t get the joke. She? Until about a minute later when the crewman led them to the charthouse just off the bridge where Egan Murphy and his sister-in-law, Nell, looked up from a table where they were sharing a bottle of the Fíorghra’s finest Scotch whiskey.