The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “Bull kelp.” The man wore a squashed bowler hat and mumbled his words around the pipe between his lips. “Some folks say it’s mermaid whips, used to tame the sea horses.” His laugh was rusty, creaking like something exposed too long to the sea air. From under the hat deep-set eyes twinkled. “Not from here, are you?”

  Lena shook her head and recovered her voice. “No, it’s my first time at the ocean.”

  “Thought so.” He nodded and chewed his pipe.

  The man, Lena noted, was barely taller than her shoulder. He looked like one of the craggy boulders come to life. “Do you live here?”

  “Came here with my father’s fishing boat ’fore this town was anything at all, and I’m still here now that it’s nothing again.”

  “You’re a fisherman?” She could see five or six boats bobbing not far offshore now that the fog had cleared.

  “Used to be.” He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his face. “Now I just help out on the boats, some.”

  Lena thought quickly. If he’d been here that long, he might be just the person to ask. “I want to hire a guide. Perhaps you could tell me whom to talk to?” She wasn’t prepared to reveal too much about her reasons for coming to Knoster.

  “Fishing guide? That’s the kind of guide most tourists want.” He squinted out toward the open water.

  “No, a travel guide.” Lena scuffed the toe of her boot in the grainy sand. “I’m not really a tourist. I need a guide into Scree.”

  The man turned toward her, his furrowed face scrunched tightly as a raisin. “You don’t look the type to have business in Scree.” He sucked his pipe thoughtfully as his eyes traveled from the pointy toes of her boots to her dark, windswept hair.

  Lena attempted to appear dignified. “Nevertheless, I am here on business. And I’m willing to pay.”

  Overhead a seagull whirled and screeched as it dropped a clamshell to smash against the rock. In a sharp dive the bird dropped and swallowed the exposed animal in a gulp.

  “They’re clever that way,” said the man. “Know how to get what they want.” He tapped his pipe against his leg and pulled out a pouch of tobacco. He took his time refilling the pipe. Lena waited.

  “Looks like you know what you want too. Name’s Milo. If we’re going to talk business, we’d best introduce ourselves.” He shuffled toward her and extended a brown-clawed hand.

  “Lena Mattacascar.” She held out her gloved hand, which he took and shook without comment.

  “Well, Lena Mattacascar—it just so happens you asked the right man. There’s only two folks I’d trust to take me into Scree. Two folks who really know the land and can help you find whatever it is you’re looking for.” He paused, waiting for her to say just what she was looking for. When she didn’t, he continued. “And I suspect it’s not the usual tourist curiosity. But it’ll cost ya.”

  She nodded.

  “Margaret Flynn—you can find her down at the Parasol.” He nodded toward the row of shops lining the harbor. “And Mr. Tobias Beasley. But he don’t do that kind of thing much anymore. Lives in a big house outside of town.”

  Lena started at the name Beasley. “Is that the Mr. Beasley with a library?”

  “You’ve heard of him. Yep, that’s him, all right. Used to be a practicing medical man. Gave it up a few years back. But I can say this for him: He helped out some of those poor folk living in the forests up there. A shame the way they been treated. Beasley and Flynn’re both strange folk, I won’t deceive you. But they know things about Scree others don’t.” He turned back toward the sea, nursing his pipe, hands buried deep in his pockets.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Lena looked up the narrow harbor lane, wondering just how far it was to the Parasol. “There’s one thing more.”

  “Go on.”

  Lena could feel her face turning red. “Does Knoster still have the Pleasure Dome?”

  Milo nodded. “Fancy carousel. Still runs on the weekends, hoping to draw in tourists. Not far from the Parasol. You can’t miss it. The front’s covered with cupids and doodads.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Milo.”

  “Not often I get to help folks looking to go into Scree.” Lena wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught the muttered words “a fool’s errand” as she walked away.

  EAVESDROPPING LENA AT FIVE YEARS OF AGE

  Late at night. Banging on the front door. I sit up in bed, and in the darkness there are shadows cast from the gas lamps outside my bedroom window. Creeping into the cold of the upstairs hallway, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard, I seek out the listening grate. All day Mother’s been sharp, hardly talking, even when she tucked me into bed. And there had been no story.

  Nana Crane watched with her birdlike eyes but held her tongue. I haven’t seen Poppa for two days. I wonder where he’s gone. But I’m afraid to ask.

  I can hear the bolt slide open on the front door and the mumbling of a male voice. Is it Poppa? No, another man’s voice. Mother invites him into the parlor. Good, I can hear the words more clearly when they come from the parlor. It’s freezing outside. I put my ear to the grate and wrap my icy feet in the hem of my nightgown.

  “Your husband’s down at the precinct in lockup. Started a fight in a bar last night and gave a fellow a nasty blow to the head. Sent the gentleman to the hospital. Far as anyone could see, it was unprovoked. Same thing last month, Mrs. Mattacascar.”

  Mother’s words are too low to hear. I wonder what a precinct is.

  “I understand, ma’am, but bail’s going to be larger this time. Here’s what the judge has ordered.”

  Papers rustle.

  “I’ll pay it, of course, I’ll pay it. First thing in the morning.”

  In the morning, before I finish breakfast, Mother hurries out. Nana Crane pours a glug of tea into my mug of milk.

  “Your father has bad blood. Nothing your mother does can change that.”

  I stir the milk, wondering what makes some blood bad.

  ALONG THE HARBOR ROAD A HODGEPODGE OF SMALL SHOPS AND eateries were clustered close enough together to hold each other upright. Unlike the rest of the faded town, these shops were painted bright blues and corals, deep greens and sunflower yellows. It’s alive here, Lena thought. I’ve found the heart of Knob Knoster. Two men gutted and sold fish from a cart while an opportunistic cat slunk nearby, waiting for breakfast.

  She inhaled the smell of chowder and frying fish. Shops were just opening for the day. Most were trinket stores that sold shells and models of whaling ships, snow globes with models of the gilded opera house inside, and fancy silver spoons with a fishing boat riding atop the handle. She imagined what type of shop the Parasol might be and pictured the store where her mother bought gloves and hats—a milliner or a dress shop.

  She did not expect the Parasol to be a tearoom and public house, but that’s what it turned out to be. And one block behind it, Lena could see a gilt sign announcing the Pleasure Dome. Her foot tapped with excitement. But first things first.

  The Parasol was one of the largest buildings on Harbor Row. It was painted a garish green. A purple sign above the door showed the black outline of a woman’s face peeking out from under the edge of a ruffled parasol. In the window, a hand-lettered sign read OPEN. When she entered, Lena found herself standing in a small room with eight tables. Only one was occupied, by an elderly woman and a small boy. A larger sign reading PUBLIC HOUSE pointed through an adjoining doorway toward the back of the building. It was clear that the public house was the larger of the two establishments. She hesitated just inside the door until a girl about her own age came out bearing a tray with a teapot and cups.

  “Excuse me,” Lena said.

  “Be with you in a minute. Got some customers ahead of you.” She gestured to the open tables. “You can sit anywhere you like.”

  Perhaps I should take a table and buy something, Lena thought, if I’m going to ask questions. She sat down at the nearest table and waited. When the waitress finally made
her way to the table, Lena saw that her face was a star map of freckles; even the backs of her hands were dotted with the sandy spots. This girl couldn’t be Margaret Flynn.

  “Do you want anything with your tea?” She handed Lena a sheet of paper with a selection of breads, scones, and muffins neatly listed.

  “No, just the tea will be fine. I came here really to talk to Margaret Flynn.” Lena watched the girl’s pale eyebrows rise in her freckled face.

  “Are you a friend of hers?”

  “No, but I have a business proposition to discuss.” Lena folded her hands in her lap, noting that the girl was staring at them.

  “She’s the owner. I’ll see if she’ll talk to you. She’s in the back.”

  “Tell her it’s about Scree,” Lena added as the girl hurried off through the open doorway.

  From her table by the window Lena watched the activity on Harbor Row. She could see the edge of the long wooden pier and two old men, knobbly as pelicans, who were leaning over the edge with fishing poles. The morning sun warmed her face. She wondered if Jimson had begun his work in the library—and if he’d be dismissed once Mr. Beasley discovered that he knew nothing about libraries.

  The waitress returned with a pot of tea and a rose china cup. “She’s coming,” the girl muttered before bustling back to the kitchen.

  Dressed in purple silk with an impressive girth not even her corset could tame, Margaret Flynn commanded the room. Her large breasts flourished over the plunging neckline of her dress, and although bustles had fallen from fashion a decade earlier, Margaret Flynn still wore one, sashaying grandly as she entered the room. A mound of gray hair was held in place with a silver comb.

  “What’s this talk about a business proposition and Scree?” Her voice was as large as she was, and Lena shrank a little in her chair. “You don’t look the type. Too pale-faced and puny for most men’s taste.”

  She loomed over Lena, who shrank even deeper into her chair.

  “Men like women with a little flesh on their bones . . . Though you do have good hair and your eyes aren’t half bad,” she added grudgingly.

  “I don’t understand.” Lena felt that her voice sounded as pale and puny as Margaret Flynn’s description of her.

  “Working girl looking for a business proposition. I sent a trainload of them up to Scree last spring.” She pulled out the chair opposite Lena and edged her bulk down into the seat.

  Slowly, Lena began to understand. “Oh. Not that kind of business.”

  “Pity. Some men have a taste for the exotic.” She nodded toward Lena’s hands.

  Burning with embarrassment, Lena buried her hands in her skirt. She tried to keep her voice level. “I need a reliable guide into Scree. I was told that you would be one of the best there is.”

  Margaret Flynn’s muddy eyes widened. “One of the best! Why, I know Scree better ’n anyone. Know the good and the bad. I traveled up there with my first husband. He was a miner. We crossed the country one side to the other. The things I saw . . .” Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, as if the memory required a great effort. “After he died, I earned an honest living as a working girl. The men up there”—she leaned across the table, and Lena was unable to take her eyes from the mounds of flesh that threatened to topple from her dress—“the men up there are hungry.” She gave Lena a broad wink. “Then I took up guided tours. Took folks into the wild places no one else would go. People’ll pay a lot of money to catch a glimpse of Peculiars.” She fanned her face. “Married a customer of mine and we came to Knoster. A whaling man. Left enough money for me to buy this place when he died.”

  Behind Lena, the door opened and a breeze ruffled the back of her hair.

  Lena nodded and tried to sort out her thoughts. Questions burned her throat.

  “What business could a girl like you have in Scree?” Margaret asked, but her eyes were no longer on Lena’s face. She was looking at a point behind Lena’s head.

  Lena felt a presence at her shoulder.

  “Miss Mattacascar, you’re headed to Scree? And here I thought you were staying in Knob Knoster with your mother’s cousin.” The voice behind her was familiar and this time oozed charm. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you and Maggie. Why would a young lady such as yourself want to go beyond the borders?”

  With one finger, Margaret scrubbed a bit of lipstick from a front tooth and smiled as the marshal pulled up a chair. “Thomas Saltre, I didn’t know you were in town.”

  Lena went cold, then hot. He was looking at her with a question on his face. His eyes fastened to hers. She had to think quickly. “Curiosity, I guess. I’ve heard that there are good business opportunities there and thought that since I’m so close I’d go. I might never have another chance . . .” Her voice faltered, as if it had run out of steam. Sweat prickled beneath her arms.

  “Wouldn’t be looking for anyone in particular, would you?” His voice was mild, but underneath, it was as sharp as a razor. A dimple winked on the left side of his mustache. Lena could see why Margaret Flynn was preening.

  “Who’d she be looking for in Scree? ’Less it was a husband.” Margaret looked over her shoulder. “Ruby, bring my gentleman friend some tea and a plate of cakes.”

  The freckle-faced waitress, who had been hovering within earshot, leapt and scurried back to the kitchen.

  “To tell you the truth, my guiding days are over. Used to ride a horse, hike for miles.” She laughed. “I’m citified now. But I can draw maps. Tell you where to go, what to watch out for. But I wouldn’t recommend going. Things are restless in Scree since they sent all those convicts there.”

  Lena glanced up. The marshal’s light eyes under the sandy eyebrows were assessing the situation. She was sure of it. She quickly looked down again. The waitress brought another pot of tea and an assortment of iced cakes. The girl looked curiously at Lena now, lingering longer than she needed to pour a cup of tea.

  “I can tell you who to talk to, help you out a little.” The marshal’s voice was gentle now, like the lap of waves in the inner harbor.

  “Now, don’t be sending her to Beasley. He’s odd. Rumors are that he—”

  “Thank you, Maggie, for your hospitality, but I can’t stay.” The marshal swiftly and effectively cut off Maggie’s words. She shut her mouth with a snap.

  “I need to escort this young lady back to her cousin’s domicile. It’s so easy to get lost in unfamiliar territory.” He gallantly stood and came around to pull out Lena’s chair.

  Lena hesitated, but it seemed she had no choice.

  “I’ll be back later for the cakes and anything else you have.” He winked and dipped his head.

  Margaret Flynn beamed. “This is all on the house, honey,” she said to Lena. “Any friend of Thomas’s is a friend of mine. Thomas, you see that she doesn’t go places she shouldn’t.”

  He fit his thick hand across the small of Lena’s back and gently nudged her forward. “Oh, I’ll look after her. You can be sure of that.”

  The wind from the sea caught Lena’s protests and sent them spinning into the sky as they walked out of the tearoom. Firmly, the marshal steered her out onto the pier.

  “I’ve a little proposition that I think will benefit us both, Miss Mattacascar. But it’s best to talk about such things in a place where we can have complete privacy.”

  The pier was built of thick cedar planks faded by years of sun and salt. Wide cracks let her see between the boards as they walked, and her stomach lurched as the shore gave way to a rush of blue. She had never stood over water before. They passed the two fishermen still angled over the side of the pier watching their lines bob in the water. Black cormorants perched like carvings on pilings, and seagulls wheeled overhead. No people strolled the far end of the pier. Alone now with the birds, they walked toward the pier’s end.

  The wind stung Lena’s face and made her eyes water. She clutched her shawl more tightly across her shoulders while strands of her black hair whipped out behind.

 
“I think this is far enough.” The pressure on her back eased. He smoothed his mustache with two fingers. “Miss Mattacascar, I want you to talk with Tobias Beasley. Ask him about being your guide into Scree. It would be a favor to me.” His smile was heartbreaking.

  “Why should I? Why should I help you at all?” She dared not look at his eyes, soft now and inviting.

  “Because, Miss Mattacascar, it would be beneficial to us both. You have your own reasons for wanting to visit Scree. I need to know what Tobias Beasley is up to. And I believe that it would behoove you to help me. Your father, Saul, is a wanted man, is he not?” He dropped her father’s name casually like a rock into a pool. The surface rippled.

  She was trapped. She did want to find the man who had so easily abandoned her and her mother. And she certainly didn’t want the marshal finding him. Most of all she needed to discover if Peculiars really did exist.

  The marshal’s familiarity put her on edge. How old was he anyway? It was difficult to tell, but Lena guessed he was in his mid-twenties. Young to have so much responsibility. “How would this help me?” Lena worked to keep her voice level, thinking that she could never tell him the real nature of her quest.

  He smiled his slow, thin smile. “You mean besides distracting me from the case of a missing felon? I’d find you a reliable guide into Scree, Miss Mattacascar. If you still decide to go, I wouldn’t stop you.”

  A felon? She had not heard her father called a felon before. Was that worse than a convict? She didn’t know. “What would I have to do?”

  “Keep an eye open at Beasley’s house. Your father isn’t the only man I’m interested in. See if Beasley is doing anything illegal.” The marshal took her hand and pressed it between his two strong ones. “Answer a few questions for me. May I call you Lena?”