Tea, Anyone

by S. R. Mallery

Abby shivered. This better work. Closing her eyes, she again stroked each card––hesitantly.

  No gentle astral projection this time. A violent, back-and-forth jerking of her body in the Packard seat came on so fast, so hard, she had to cling onto the seat’s edges, to prevent toppling over.

  Again, a huge hissing sound echoed throughout the car. She waited. One minute, two minutes, three. Then absolutely nothing. No lights. No gentleness. Just a hard smack down into the same rowboat she and Simon had been in before, heading for the Eleanor ship loaded with crate after crate of East India tea. As Simon sat on a bench just ahead of her, steadily rowing in the darkness toward the yellow craft with two others on board, Abby suddenly remembered what had happened the last time she had been back there.

  She whipped around to observe behind her. Glancing back toward the Boston harbor dock where the gunfire had blasted previously, Abby observed the crowd was now filled with British redcoats blending in with hundreds of Bostonians. Considering the situation, everyone was relatively quiet, as all eyes fixated on the rowboats. She heard the distant military orders ring out, “Order arms,” and immediately the soldiers rested their muzzle-loading flintlock muskets with their attached bayonets, atop of their right shoulders.

  From out of nowhere, she flashed on one of her American history texts. That’s right. The Boston Tea Party turned out to be incredibly peaceful.

  Then she turned forward again to face the large, yellow ship.

  “Easy to see in the dark, ain’t it?” someone said behind her.

  She half-rotated around. “Why so bright a color?”

  “They say ‘tis simply to fool pirates and privateers into thinking ships like these are not old, slower vessels, because those plain ones are easy marks for coming aboard to get some prize.”

  Ahead of them, the glow of December’s half-moon bounced off the vessel’s copper-planked keel, creating a glistening band of shiny burnt amber.

  Her gaze headed southward. “Another brightness.” She pointed toward it.

  Simon paused his rowing. “Yes, copper, to ward off sea-worms.”

  She then eyed the glorious configuration of ropes, masts, and sails in awe––the main mast with its top-gallant, lop, boom, and stay sails and the foremast, with its flying jib and fore-spirit sails. But soon, they were up against the craft itself and within seconds, the men from their rowboat were bustling up a rope ladder flung out over the ship’s side.

  Simon went before her then turned back, half swinging on the ropes. “Hoist yourself up, lad.”

  Can I do this? Remarkably, it was as if she were an Olympic athlete. She hitched herself up the ladder like a pro. What the––? In less than ten seconds, she found herself onboard, surrounded by the Indian-clothed colonists and British crew members.

  And then there was Simon, who steered her toward the aft of the boat, where the colonists shouted directions on how to get at the onboard tea crates. Slightly above them, Abby noticed the British captain on the top deck with someone standing beside him.

  “That be the captain and his first mate,” someone pointed out in mid-crate handoff.

  She glanced up again. The captain’s face was lit by several lanterns. He looked solemn, resigned. The first mate’s expression was inscrutable, but for a moment he seemed to be looking directly at her and Simon, but in such dimness, it was hard to tell.

  Surrounded by large, wooden crates that were stamped “British India Tea Company,” Abby watched the camouflaged colonists at work, not sure what to do. Wasting no time, they had formed a human chain, as they handed the heavy loads from one person to another in lines, then hoisted the boxes over the boat’s edge and dumped them into the harbor. With each dump, the crowd on the dock whooped and cheered, making the crisp air electric with excitement and spurring the colonists to even more frenetic action.

  Suddenly, a British sailor sidled up to Abby and Simon. “Come with me,” he said low. “I have something of import to show you.”

  His dirty clothing smelled, his brown wavy hair had sloppily detached from his tied back ponytail, to expose a bedraggled looking man.

  Simon’s eyes flashed caution. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Thomas is the name. I operate under Captain Goddard and his first mate, Wallace Lansbury.”

  “What is this all about?” Abby added.

  Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to another, his eyes furtively glancing all around him. Just like a guard dog.

  “Much of the crew wants to escape this ship. In truth, some of them are hoping to simply jump off here in America, even at the risk of being court martialed.”

  Simon’s eyebrows shot up immediately. “Why should we trust you? After all, it might serve you well to garner our confidence then reverse course and have us hanged.”

  Leaning in close, Thomas spoke low. “Something about the two of you I deem trustworthy. Lord knows I need to trust someone. There are things happening on this ship that should not be.” He paused. “Evil is at work here. Bad things have happened to different mates of mine and no one knows why.” He motioned for them to follow him toward the stern.

  The sounds of crates smacking the water and the swell of the Bostonians’ whoops, yells, and, “hoorays,” caused Thomas to turn around often to ensure Simon and Abby stayed behind him every step of the way.

  A narrow hallway led them all to a door. There, he hesitated.

  “Come on, man, you cannot stop now.” Simon raised his fist to bang on the door.

  “Good lord,” Thomas muttered, shaking his head. “Do not alert the others!”

  He pulled out a large metal key, and opening the door, stepped inside. Simon and Abby followed.

  This looks like a movie set.

  The room––wood-paneled walls and planked floor ––held a narrow bunk bed, a dressing table, shelves crammed with what looked to be nautical books, two cabinets, and a small, mahogany desk. Atop of that sat a lantern, quill pen, ink, and paper.

  “For logging daily events,” Thomas said.

  Off to one side was a tiny closet of an opened bathroom with a serviceable size commode.

  “This is all very well, Thomas, but truly, why are we here?” Simon asked. “This appears to be similar to many other captain’s quarters.”

  Thomas walked over to the bed and reached down under it to open up a drawer. Quickly, he reached inside of it and withdrew some sort of a journal with frayed edges.

  “Captains often use this sort of drawer for such things,” he said.

  “All right.” Simon’s voice was tinged with impatience. “Now what?”

  “Two days ago, someone told me he overheard Captain Goddard complain about his first mate, Wallace Lansbury. More than that, the captain let it be known that in his heart, because he felt there was something so amiss with the man, he had written down his thoughts about this issue in his personal journal, to be handed over to the authorities when the Eleanor returned to London. Indeed, the captain had made it quite clear that he felt Wallace most likely had something to do with both the men who had disappeared during our voyage, as well as the death of two others on shore in London before their departure.”

  “Why are you showing this journal to us?” Abby asked.

  Simon nodded. “A fair question, Robbie. Indeed, what are we to do with it?”

  “I was hoping that perhaps you could keep it to share with someone of authority in Boston,” Thomas replied.

  “But ‘tis only a British matter, is it not?” Abby cocked her head. “What good would it serve should the colonies be in possession of it? Surely these days no one would listen to us.”

  Simon chuckled. “You’re a smart one, Robbie, I’ll give you that.”

  “I fear that if the evidence stays here,” Thomas continued, “Wallace will surely snatch it. He’s a regular in this room, and being the first mate, is privy to the captain’s hiding places. Then we shall never have any proof of his potentially evil deeds.”

  He handed the journal
over to Simon, who immediately began to thumb through it.

  “No time for that,” Thomas said. “Hide it quickly! It shall––”

  In a flash, the tiny room was crammed with several Redcoats, who glowered at Simon and Abby.

  Deftly, Simon hid the journal beneath his vest. Boy, he’s quick.

  “Your American insurgency is finished for the evening,” one of the redcoats snarled. “We have all been ordered not to bear arms against you colonists, but now, ‘tis time for all you criminals against the British crown to exit our ship. Be off with you, I say!”

  Along with the Sons of Liberty hired hands and a few British crew members quickly jumping off the boat, the return to Boston harbor dock was definitely far more chaotic than their earlier rowboat trip to the Eleanor. A general scramble to quickly leave had the colonists bumping, shoving, and pushing into one another in their rush to get back to the wharf––for some serious celebrations.

  Back in their rowboat, Abby glanced over at Simon, who absently touched his vest.

  Wonder what that Wallace Lansbury guy has done that’s so evil?

  As soon as they docked, they were deluged with good cheer and fierce colonial loyalty. A wave of people surrounded them, thrusting and jostling them so completely, Abby ended up in front of a small tavern several blocks away from the Green Dragon Tavern. Crunched against a mob of mostly men slapping each other on each other’s backs, it was anyone’s guess where Simon wound up. She decided to return to their room and simply wait for him.

  Wending her way back through the cobble-stoned––and by this time, ale-stained streets, Abby worried she’d never return to their small room. But finally, she made it, and there was Simon at the tavern’s door, looking out of breath.

  “My lord,” he said, “that was quite a crowd.” He patted his vest smugly. “Still got it. Let’s sneak back to our room to see what the good Captain Goddard had to say, shall we?”

  While the frazzled serving wench and others waited on the colonists out in the main room, Abby and Simon stayed in their own quarters, making sure the door was bolted shut. Sitting on a bed side- by-side, they opened up what immediately appeared to be a very detail-oriented journal and scoured each page. At first, they took their time, reading one dull entry after another. About half-way through, they paused.

  Simon rubbed his eyes. “This doesn’t seem to be much of anything, don’t you agree?”

  Abby nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid––”

  Several loud knocks on the door made them jump.

  “Simon, Robbie, get your arses out here to help out. Now!” Brendan barked.

  “Hold your horses. We shall be there in a minute,” Simon barked back.

  After that, they sped up their examination. Three-quarters through the journal, and again, nothing was revealed beyond a daily accounting of a harsh trip over.

  This time the knocks were definite bangs. “Get back to work, the both of you,” the tavern owner shouted.

  “Yes, sir,” Simon said and was about to put the journal back.

  “Wait a minute,” Abby said. “I see something.”

  She grabbed the journal, turned to the next page and gasped. It was obvious it had been ripped out.

  They stared at each other. “My lord. Was this an important page?” Simon asked.

  “I wonder.” When two more explosive bangs came in rapid succession, Abby shuddered.

  Simon jumped up and slipped the journal under his pillow. “A dead end, I fear. Talk about lunacy…I fear we’ve been had, Robbie.” He sighed. “At any rate, we shall never know. Back to work it is, lad.”

  She didn’t answer. Abruptly the air turned windy, taking on a life of its own. Delicate bolts of lightning zigzagged all around her, and as soon as dust particles flitted across her face, there was a swish this time. Then she plopped down onto a seat.

  She stayed still for a few moments, breathing hard. Then her shaky breaths grew softer and softer, until she recognized she was home. In her Packard––and feeling sick to her stomach.

  Oh, no. Not again with nothing to show. Brooke will kill me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was five forty-five and Abby had just dutifully lit her morning meditation candles. Gentle flute strains from a CD served as an anti-stressor background, as the five candle flames flickered in and out, and her repeated hmmmmm chant vibrated through her nose and upper mouth.

  She drew a long, deep, diaphragm-filling breath. This was just what she needed. She almost smiled as she continued on with her daily routine––but soon, it became useless. Today, her whirlwind mind was going at Indy 500-warp speed while she rehearsed the things she would say to Brooke about her last trip.

  By six o’clock, she gave up and sat down with her tea, nuts, and fruit. She took out a pad and pencil and mapped out her itemized facts she had gotten from her BTPT––Boston Tea Party Trip. As she scribbled, she visualized Brooke’s face.

  Gotta make this good.

  After she had jotted down five items, she sat back and read them out loud, her voice, a false bravado.

  “One. Captain Goddard’s journal with the torn-out page.

  Two. Suspect is the captain’s first mate, Wallace Lansbury.

  Three. The man showing us all of this is named Thomas. No last name.

  Four. My roommate and partner in Boston is named Simon Leighton.

  Five. Two possible people murdered in London by Lansbury. Several crew members disappear from the Eleanor on its voyage to America.”

  She took one more sip of her herbal tea before she put her note into a manila envelope and stood up. She was ready to give out her info. Almost. Grabbing her nearby mala beads, she draped them between her middle and index finger, then counting two of the smaller beads, she chanted only one line from her usual prayer. “May you be safe from inner and outer dangers…”

  On her way out, she glanced at the invitation resting on her coffee table. She picked that up and also read it out loud.

  “Wilfred and Dolores Bennett invite you to help them celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary at their home at 145 North Bingham Avenue, Hillside, New York.” At the bottom of the invitation, in scripted handwriting, her stepmother had written a terse note. “Abigail, we expect you to be there––Dolores.”

  OMG. Both Brooke and my family on the same day? Is the universe testing me? Talk about dangers.

  Abby’s timid knock on Brooke and Henry’s back door produced little reaction. Henry was in his bedroom, planted at his desk and checking out an old, unsolved murder case he had lectured about to his students, eons ago. Brooke was busy flinging on her sweats and woolen socks, thinking only of the morning coffee most probably percolating at that very moment in the kitchen.

  At first Junie was the only one to respond. Finally, Brooke heard her cat’s paws loudly scraping against the back door. Just inside the kitchen, she eyed Junebug on her hind legs, desperately letting the world know she wanted to be with whomever was outside.

  It’s got to be Abby. Soft knock. Bad news.

  Brooke yanked the door open. There was Abby, her face flushed, her lower lip getting a heavy tooth-scraping workout. “Don’t tell me, Abby. Just don’t.”

  “Look, Brooke, I’m getting closer and closer. Remember I told you it sometimes takes more than one time to get valuable facts to use.” Henry stepped into room and Abby turned to him. “But unlike the last time, this time I got some real information for you guys.” She handed Henry her envelope.

  He nodded. “Good, thanks. Want some tea?”

  Brooke ignored Abby’s smile and Junebug’s ecstasy as the cat rubbed around Abby’s legs like she’d just found her long-lost auntie.

  Coffee. I need coffee.

  By the time Brooke entered the kitchen and poured some coffee, she could hear the two of them in the living room, quietly talking. Trying not to think of Chief Bruner’s probable anger, she took four big swills of the straight black stuff and joined them. Down onto the sofa, she grabbed another f
ull swallow.

  “So?” Brooke asked, looking only at Henry.

  “Actually, Brooke, this might be helpful. We have two full names, one first name, the Eleanor ship, Goddard, the captain’s name. We could probably pick up some things here, don’t you agree?”

  She gulped, Chief Bruner still scrambling around in her mind. “I sure hope so.” She took the paper and studied it for several seconds before turning to Henry. “Okay, let’s get to it, Henry. You and I will divvy up these things. You do the ancestor stuff, I’ll check out the history of the Eleanor and murders that may have happened at that time in London.”

  He nodded and rose. “Thanks, Abby. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll get cracking on all of this.”

  After he left the room, the silence was deafening––except for June’s purrs and Brooke’s loud, double-timed finger taps on the sofa.

  Finally, Abby spoke. “Okay, okay. I know you don’t believe me, but I swear I’m getting closer. I just—”

  “You just what?”

  Abby sighed. “Forget it. I don’t want you to get any more pissed off than you already are. I was just going to ask you a question. Actually, it’s more of a plea.”

  Are you kidding? Brooke said nothing.

  “You’ll probably think it’s weird me asking, but here goes.” Abby picked up June and gently draping the grateful cat over her shoulder, began to stroke her. Her giant purrs sounded like a small lawnmower.

  A deep breath and Abby started in. “You must have gathered by now I don’t have a great relationship with my parents, particularly my stepmom.”

  Again, Brooke kept silent. Yeah, so?

  “Well, they’re having their twentieth anniversary on Saturday and expect me to go.”

  “And you’re telling me all this because…?”

  Abby’s next words cascaded out so fast, Brooke felt as if she were in a wind tunnel, heavily blasted by air.

  “Because I need you to act as my emotional buffer. Brooke, look, I know you don’t believe me most of the time, but you’re tough, and I figure I could use some of that strength to face them. The last time I saw them it was kind of a disaster.”