Dori’s Market
Groceries, kerosene, tobacco and feed
Fishing tackle, jeans, boat parts, and seed
Bait, crab nets, shells, and whatever you need!
Authorized John Deere dealer
And if you bellyache my price is too high,
Do your dealing in Crisfield, like my brother Ty!
Two middle-aged men in worn ball caps stood on the wide concrete stoop outside the general store. Both turned to stare pointedly and whisper to each other before touching the bills of their hats and hurrying inside. Bailey felt her cheeks grow warm. She could have sworn they were talking about her. This odd behavior was making her uncomfortable, and she wondered if she should have insisted Elliott come along with her. Even if she had been born here, she didn’t know a soul on the island, and they certainly couldn’t all know why she was here. Could they?
“Bailey Elliott?”The screen door opened and a stocky woman stepped out. Her graying hair was twisted into a no-nonsense bun, and she wore a gingham apron over a blue checked housedress and knee-high rubber boots. “God a’mighty, Creed’s getting slower and slower. I expected you here for dinner, girl!”
“That’s Miss Emma,” Maggie said before dashing back the way they’d come.
“Emma Parks?” Bailey asked. “Yes, yes, I’m Bailey Elliott.”
“About time you got here.” Emma’s doughy face was lined and weathered, her whiskey voice as husky as a man’s, but Bailey was instantly charmed by the older woman’s warm smile and the mischievous sparkle in her guileless blue eyes. “Need help with your suitcase?” Emma shifted a bulging grocery bag from one arm to the other and extended her free hand. “I’ll be glad to carry it for—”
“No. No.” Bailey laughed. “I’m fine. Do we have far to—”
“Just down a piece.” She hurried down the steps, wiped her hand on her apron, and offered it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bailey.”
She murmured something in reply as Emma’s calloused hand closed on hers in a visegrip.
“I hope you’re hungry. I’ve got fried chicken, biscuits, green beans, and red potatoes keeping warm on the back of the stove. And a fresh-baked blueberry pie. I didn’t make it, mind you. I’m not the pie baker my mama is—Mama does all the baking—but I’m not a bad cook. Not a soul on Tawes can match my crab cakes, but my pie crust . . .” Emma shook her head. “Not fit for pigs. I hope you like fried chicken.”
“I love chicken,” Bailey assured her. “But I didn’t expect you to serve me lunch. I thought . . .” She glanced at the store. “Perhaps the grocery has sandwiches.”
“Nonsense. Can’t have it said my guests go hungry. Mary Wright opened a bed-and-breakfast two years back, but she never did get any guests. Mary can’t cook worth a darn. Not that I get many myself. Just you and Daniel this month, and you can’t count Daniel as a regular paying guest.” Emma chuckled heartily as she led the way down the unpaved street, past a young man painting a boat and a fenced pasture where a boy and a black-and-white dog herded a flock of sheep toward a red barn that seemed like the backdrop in a Norman Rockwell illustration.
“Daniel’s doing some carpentry work for me in trade for his lodging until he gets his cabin finished,” Emma continued. “He’s got property out on the point, his mama’s family’s old farm. Daniel’s a Catlin, but his mother was born a Tilghman. The old Tilghman home-place burned years back. Hit by lightning. All gone but the original summer kitchen. That was brick. It would have gone too, but the rain put the fire out before it got that far.”
Bailey switched her overnight bag to her other shoulder and hurried to keep up with Emma’s determined stride.
“Daniel cleared the site and built over the old half cellar, adding three new rooms and a porch to the old kitchen,” Emma said. “Pretty as you ever seen. Daniel’s a real craftsman.” She stopped to wait for Bailey to catch up. “Pay no attention to these nasty boots. I was tending crabs in my shedding house. I sell soft-shells on the side. Anyway, the time got away from me, like it does, and I just headed down to Doris’s for bread crumbs. I wanted to make crab cakes for supper. You like crab cakes?”
Bailey nodded. “I like almost anything but sushi. I prefer my seafood cooked.”
“So do I, girl. So do I. I hear sushi’s all the fashion in Baltimore.”
The way Emma said it, it sounded like Balt-mer, and it was all Bailey could do to suppress a giggle.
“Not on Tawes. Course, most islanders love raw oysters and clams, but with all the pollution in the bay, they’re not safe to eat anymore. Why take the chance, I say.”
Emma stopped for breath. “That’s it.” She pointed to a white two-story house with blue shutters and a wraparound porch. A painted sign on a lamppost read simply, MISS EMMA’S B AND B. “I thought ‘B and B’ sounded better than ‘boardinghouse,’ more welcoming, but nobody’s ever called it anything but Emma’s Boardinghouse, so . . .”
“I’m surprised that there isn’t more commercial development,” Bailey said. “You’re so close to the metropolitan areas.”
“Oh, people get offers. But money isn’t everything. Folks that do sell generally sell to other islanders. We like things the way they are.” Emma motioned to the wide front door with the etched-glass panes and the pretty grapevine wreath. “Go right on in. Make yourself at home. I’m going around to the back door and get rid of these muddy boots before I track up my clean floors.”
“Thank you,” Bailey managed before Emma chattered on.
“If you want to freshen up before you sit down to the table, there’s a private bath off your room. Upstairs. The Robin’s Nest. I like to name all my rooms. Can’t miss it. Down the hall. Last room on the right.”
Emma was still talking when Bailey pushed open the front door and stepped into the foyer. The interior of the house was cool, bright, and spotless, with gleaming antique furniture, starched white curtains, and a faint scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. She stood still and listened, soaking in the peaceful atmosphere. For a moment there was no sound but the faint tick of a mantel clock.
“Ouch! Son of a . . .” A male voice broke the silence. “Damn it to hell!”
Bailey looked into the living room. Beyond, in the connecting archway, a lean figure stood on the fourth step of a ladder.
“Don’t laugh,” he said. “It hurts.” He shook one hand in the air. “Fetch me that bag of finishing nails, will you? On the floor there, beside the drill.”The voice was deep, clear, and slightly tinged with the island flavor.
Amused, Bailey set down her overnight case and crossed the living room. She couldn’t tell whether the carpenter was young or old, but from the way his long legs filled the worn blue jeans and his shoulders stretched against the green plaid shirt, she assumed he hadn’t reached his dotage. The workman’s hair, clean, and dark brown with a slight curl, was snugged back into a short ponytail and secured with a rough leather tie.
“Do you mind passing me the nails?” he asked impatiently. “Before I bleed to death?”
“Not at all.” Bailey picked up the small paper bag of nails and handed them to him.
“I just have the . . .” He glanced down. Dark brows, straight nose, nice chin, in the tanned face of an outdoorsman. For a split second, surprise registered in his dark eyes, and then white, even teeth flashed, the charm in that boyish grin making his face intriguing. “Ouch again. You must be Miss Emma’s guest, the one with the name like the drink.” He took the nails, removed three, and handed the bag back before tucking two between his lips.
Turning back to his project, he hammered two nails expertly into the section of trim, and then descended the ladder. Blood stained his left index finger and the palm and wrist of his left hand. “Pardon me, Ms. Bailey,” he said, cupping the offending digit. “But if I drip blood on Miss Emma’s Aubusson carpet, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Daniel Catlin!” Emma appeared at the far end of the dining room. “What kind of talk is that? I’ll thank you to keep a de
cent tongue in your head in front of my guests.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Daniel glanced back at Bailey. “I think I’ve been put in my place. Excuse me.”
She chuckled. “It’s all right. I hear worse in my classroom every day.”
“Is that blood?” Emma demanded. She snatched off her apron and wrapped it around Daniel’s hand. “How did you do that? Never mind. Come into the kitchen. It needs peroxide and a Band-Aid. Let me see. Stop your fussing. You’d think you’d cut the thing off.” She looked at Bailey. “Please come and have your dinner. This won’t take a minute.”
“I’d like to take my bag upstairs first,” Bailey said. “And I really should call my . . . my friend—to let him know I’ve arrived safely. I promised him I would.”
“Have you got a cell?” Emma asked. “You do? Well, good luck, girl. Our reception on Tawes is terrible. No towers nearby.”
“Oh,” Bailey said. “Is there a house phone I could—”
“Sorry. That’s out too. Happens all the time.”
Promptly at three, Bailey stood on Forest McCready’s front porch and rang the bell for the third time. There was no answer, no sound from within, and no sign that anyone was in the house. Frustrated, she pulled the attorney’s latest letter from her purse and read it for the fourth time today. She wasn’t mistaken about the time or the date. What could be wrong?
What could go right? As Emma had predicted, she hadn’t been able to get a signal on her cell. Not at the B and B, not on the street, and not here at the lawyer’s office. The same message kept popping up: NO SIGNAL. She’d had a few minutes to spare, so she’d stopped at Dori’s Market and asked to use a pay phone.
“Sorry, can’t help you, miss,” the clerk had said. “Phone’s out. Haven’t had a dial tone since last night.”
Despite Emma’s warning, Bailey was surprised that her cell wouldn’t work. She’d never had problems with the service before, not even when she was on vacation at a friend’s in Nags Head last summer. With a sigh, she tucked the phone back into her bag and tried the doorbell again.
“You looking for the squire, lady?”
Bailey turned to see the burly teenager who been cutting the grass earlier standing at the foot of the porch steps, a large pair of hedge clippers in his hand. “I have an appointment with Attorney Forest McCready.”
“Squire McCready’s not to home.” The boy gestured toward the bay. “He’s likely in Annapolis today. Or Baltmer.”
“But I had a three o’clock—”
“You must be wrong about the day. He’s not here. Miss Maude cooks for him, and she went to Crisfield on the mailboat this morning. If Miss Maude’s not here, the squire ain’t either.”
CHAPTER TWO
“But I had an appointment. . . .” Bailey took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry; this isn’t your fault. I’m certain it’s just a mix-up in the dates.”
“Must be. Gone Fishin’s not in the squire’s slip.” The boy pointed toward the back of the house. “No way off here but by water.”
“I’ll just leave Mr. McCready a note confirming that I was here at three.” She fumbled in her purse. “If you do see him, please tell him that he can reach me at Emma’s B and B.”
He flushed and stared at his shoes. “No need for that, ma’am. No place else you could be staying.” He tugged the brim of his ball cap and returned to his hedge clipping.
Bailey wedged the folded message in the outer door and retraced her path down the front walk. Halfway to the street she hesitated, experiencing the oddest sensation that someone was watching her. Turning back, she studied the draped windows. There was no sign of the young man she’d spoken with and nothing unusual about the house, so why was she feeling a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck? She shivered, suddenly cold, despite the warmth of the afternoon.
She glanced around, seeing no one, not the slightest movement on the street or from the adjoining yards or homes, other than a slight stirring of leaves on the massive oak trees and the flutter of a blue jay’s wings as the bird landed on a nearby branch.
Her imagination was getting the best of her. What she needed was a good run. Ever since she was a child, whenever she’d been stressed, running had calmed her. She glanced down ruefully at her bone-colored Italian heels and her straight linen skirt, neither conducive to jogging. Maybe a walk through Tawes would ease some of her annoyance at being stood up by the estate attorney.
Twenty minutes later, although the day was a near perfect one, and the homes, outbuildings, and oyster-shell streets exuded a nineteenth-century charm that would have been the highlight of any house-and-garden tour, her mood hadn’t lightened one iota.
She’d seen very few of the residents as she explored the town, but she had passed a middle-aged woman hanging clothes in a backyard, a man planting annuals around his front steps, and a teenage girl on horseback. All of them had reacted as though she were a hooded leper carrying the black plague. The housewife had abruptly picked up her half-full basket of wet laundry and hurried into her house. The gardener had answered Bailey’s cheery “Good afternoon!” with an aggrieved grunt, and the rider had glared at her suspiciously, kicked her palomino in the ribs, and galloped away down the center of the street without uttering a word.
“This must be a movie set,” Bailey muttered as she approached the old church and surrounding cemetery from a side street. “Either that or this town is a treatment center for the socially challenged.”
A wrought-iron gate stood open, and Bailey couldn’t resist having a look around. Inside the churchyard, she noticed many raised brick graves and headstones dating to the eighteenth century. Drawn by her fascination with the past, she wandered along the worn oyster-shell path, examining the names and dates until she came to a section sheltered by a gnarled cedar tree.
All of the graves in this area bore the surname Tawes, and one—obviously a recent burial—was adorned with a container of honeysuckle and wildflowers. The polished marble headstone was etched with the silhouette of a running horse and the legend ELIZABETH TAWES SOMERS, BELOVED DAUGHTER, WIFE, AND SISTER.
Certain that this must be the great-aunt who’d remembered her in her will, Bailey paused to run her fingertips over the name on the face of the memorial. Elizabeth Somers had been only sixty-three at the time she died on March 16 of this year. Not old at all. Sixty-three was far too young. So much for Bailey’s conjecture about a white-haired old lady in her dotage. Maybe the house she’d been left wasn’t the Munster family’s summer cottage, after all.
Close by, deeper in the shadows of the cedar, lay another grave covered with thick green moss and decorated with a similar floral bouquet. Bailey’s throat tightened as she leaned to examine the inscription etched into the stone: ELIZABETH “BETH” TAWES, GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.
Lichen grew over the dates, and Bailey scraped it carefully away. Sixteen years. This Beth had lived only sixteen years, and she had died on . . .
Suddenly light-headed, Bailey snatched her hand away from the cold marble. Her birthday. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Was this young Beth her birth mother? Had she spent a lifetime steeling herself to confront a teenager who was already dead?
“Tragic, isn’t it?”
Startled by the voice behind her, Bailey turned to face a tall, horse-faced woman dressed in an immaculate beige suit and pearls. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”
“Did I give you a fright?” She smiled, revealing too-white teeth. “I’m so sorry.”
Bailey’s heartbeat slowed to near normal. “No, really. I was just looking at . . . The gate was open.”
“There’s no need to apologize. The church and cemetery are always open. I’m Grace Catlin, the pastor’s wife.” She extended a plump, manicured hand. “And you must be Miss Bailey Elliott?”
“Yes, I am. But we’ve never met. How did you—”
Grace chuckled primly. “Tawes is a very small island, my dear. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“Yes. Well . . . no.” Grace gave a small sniff. “You must excuse them, my dear. Tawes sees few mainlanders. For the most part, our parishioners are suspicious of strangers.”
“I can believe it. But I won’t be here long. I came to—”
“To see Mr. McCready about your inheritance, I suppose. Poor Elizabeth caused something of a scandal, her leaving her earthly goods to a mainlander.” Grace brushed an invisible speck from the front of her suit jacket. “Afraid you’ll sell the property to developers. No one wants to see Tawes become another St. Michaels. All Washington weekenders and million-dollar sailboats.”
“I didn’t come here to cause anyone problems.” Bailey brushed the dirt off her hands.
“Of course you didn’t. We’re really quite endearing, once you come to know us.” She smiled again. “Old-fashioned. Salt of the earth, as the saying goes. I was born here, you know. My family was one of the first to settle in the colony. Several noted Revolutionary War heroes. Are you interested in the island’s history?”
“Yes.” Bailey picked up her purse from the grass. “My fourth-grade classes are doing a unit on colonial history this fall.”
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