Against the Claw

by Shari Randall

  I turned the radio off.

  “A break!” I breathed. “Finally! She does have someone who cares.”

  “Fantastic,” Verity said.

  We discussed who the girl might be as we headed back to the Mermaid. Just as we were about to turn onto Pearl Street, Verity spun the wheel toward the Plex. “I had a brainstorm. Maybe Henry ran over to the Plex to keep Eden company.”

  I slouched in my seat. “No, Verity! No police!”

  “I’ll just be a sec.” Verity cruised slowly past crowds clogging the sidewalk. “Please, I’m besotted. I may never get to see him again.” A truck pulled out from a space right in front of the Plex. Verity swooped in. “Henry may need a happy moment.”

  “Verity!” I groaned.

  Verity ran up the steps as a woman exited. Despite the humidity, the woman was dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a shapeless long-sleeved tunic with embroidered red, white, and blue dolphins. A brown pageboy haircut swung in front of her face, which was already almost hidden behind big, round glasses. A plastic shopping bag swung from her arm. She strutted, stiletto heels ringing on the cement sidewalk, toward a Range Rover. The red soles of her designer shoes flashed with each step.

  That strut. Those gorgeous shoes. That had to be Zoe Parker. But why had she disguised herself like this? I got out of the car and hurried after her. The designer shoes certainly were hers, but the rest of her outfit looked like she bought it at a rummage sale. What was up with her hair? Was that a wig?

  “Zoe?” I called.

  The woman hunched her shoulders and threw herself into the Range Rover. She ignored me as I waved from the sidewalk. The Range Rover screeched from the curb.

  I got back in Verity’s car. Moments later, she returned.

  “No Henry.” She slid the box into the backseat.

  “Did you see that woman with the brown hair and dolphin tunic?” I said. “Going out when you were going in?”

  Verity snorted. “Hard to miss that dolphin tunic.”

  “That was Zoe Parker.”

  “Zoe Parker? In that outfit?” Her eyes widened. “The guys at the desk were talking about her, well, about the lady with the dolphin tunic. Said she wanted to identify the body of the Pitchfork Tattoo girl. Then she got a text and suddenly she said she was mistaken. She ran out.”

  “Why would Zoe know the Girl with the Pitchfork Tattoo?”

  “If it was Zoe,” Verity said. “Are you sure? ’Cause when she was in my shop she looked like something out of Vogue or Ebony.”

  “Maybe I’m mistaken.” But my gut told me otherwise. That strut was Zoe Parker.

  “Now what?” Verity started the car.

  “I have to figure out how to get that phone back on Miranda.”

  Verity said, “I wish Bronwyn wasn’t so ethical.”

  “The cops might think we tampered with the phone since we moved it.” I wrapped my hair around my finger.

  “Do you think the mobby-looking guys’re still watching Miranda?”

  Harbor Patrol had an office in the marina. “We have to assume they are. We’ve got to go right into their lair.”

  “How do you think they fit into all this?” Verity asked.

  “Remember Patrick had backers for New Salt, right? Lorel said they weren’t nice guys.”

  “But these guys are Harbor Patrol,” Verity said.

  I thought aloud. “Harbor Patrol manages the harbor and marina, but they aren’t cops. There’s an actual Mystic Bay Police boat for law enforcement. And of course, there’s the Coast Guard. But they’re for big stuff. I think Patrick was smuggling in his drugs and the Harbor Patrol guys were helping. Nobody would suspect a thing if they were going all over the bay in their boats.”

  “Why were those guys following Patrick?”

  “Lorel said Patrick owed lots of money. I bet he had something they still want. Drugs. Information, on his phone, I bet. Money.” Money. Who had said something to me about stacks of money? “We have to get the phone back onto Miranda. Then make sure the real police get there to find it right away, before the bad guys can.”

  “Right. And now the bad guys know what we look like. We can’t just waltz back in there. I don’t suppose Lorel would help us out and put the phone back for us?” Verity asked.

  I looked at her.

  “Okay. No Lorel.”

  Bit Markey and his friend Sammy clacked down the sidewalk on skateboards, slaloming through tourists, oblivious to surprised looks and angry gestures.

  “Verity, I’ve got an idea. Stop here. I need to talk to Bit. And get a newspaper.”

  Chapter 33

  “Are you guys ready?” I said.

  In the backseat of the Tank, Bit and his friend Sammy nodded.

  “This sounds like secret-agent stuff,” Bit said. Sammy and Bit did a hand-slapping, fist-bump thing.

  “We’re just putting something back where it belongs,” I said.

  “Decoy ready.” Verity’d changed back into the hot black wiggle dress from the day before. She’d added a black straw hat and sunglasses. She’d stand out like a sore thumb at the marina.

  Perfect.

  I took the phone in the bag of rice from the glove box and rewrapped it in a sheet of newspaper.

  “Operation Put the”—I glanced at the boys in the backseat—“Stuff Back Where It Belongs is about to start.”

  We rolled into the lot behind New Salt. “I’m pretty sure I saw a wall phone in the kitchen.” I didn’t want to use my own cell for the call I was about to make. I didn’t need to get caught making another phone call to the police in twenty-four hours. “When I’m sure I can use the phone, I’ll wave out the door and you guys go into action.”

  “Got it!” Sammy and Bit fist-bumped again.

  Everyone got out of the car. My stomach twisted. This plan had to work.

  The marina bustled. Crowds of tourists, not just boaters, strolled along the dock. Verity and the boys looked at me expectantly.

  “Remember what I said. Act casual. Walk slowly. We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. Except for you,” I said to Verity.

  I handed the newspaper-wrapped phone to Bit. “Miranda’s the last boat on the right.” I pointed. The boys nodded. “Wait for my signal.”

  I knocked on the kitchen door. Chef Sean opened it. “Hey, how are you? Allie, right?”

  “Yes, hi, Sean. I need to make a phone call and my phone’s dead.” I pointed to the wall phone next to a broad screened window overlooking the parking lot and marina dock. Verity and the two boys waved. “Could I use that?”

  “Sure, sure.” He went back to his worktable. His knife flashed as he chopped a mound of onions.

  The phone was one of the old-fashioned wall ones like Aunt Gully’s. I waved out the window then dialed Detective Budwitz.

  Heads swiveled as Verity minced toward the Harbor Patrol office. Sammy and Bit dashed the opposite way down the dock toward Miranda. They took off like sprinters bursting from their blocks. No!

  Almost immediately, two older men in khaki shorts and golf caps collared the boys and started lecturing them loudly. One of the men actually waved his cane.

  Uh-oh.

  Budwitz’s phone rang and rang.

  “You guys are staying open?” I said to Sean but I kept my eyes on the boys.

  “The owners thought it best to keep going,” Sean said.

  “How many owners are there?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. Let those kids go, you meddling old men!

  Bit and Sammy hung their heads as the men on the dock wagged their fingers and lectured. The boys glanced at each other and slowly backed away from the men. Bit held the newspaper-wrapped package close to his chest.

  Sean’s knife was a blur. “Patrick had quite a few backers, some local, some from Boston. We’ll close when we all meet to scatter his ashes. We’re working on that with the Yardleys.”

  Budwitz, pick up! Just when I was sure it would go to voice mail, he answered.

  “Budwitz.
”

  “Um.” I lowered my voice, turned my back on Sean, and hunched over the phone. “Could you please come to the Mystic Bay Marina? Behind New Salt. You’ll find something you need to see on a boat called Miranda.”

  “Who’s this?” Budwitz barked.

  “Please hurry. Miranda, it’s a boat at the end of the dock, behind the New Salt restaurant.” I hung up.

  Now the two old Golf Cap Guys followed behind Bit and Sammy. One still held Sammy by the shoulder of his T-shirt but Sammy squirmed sideways and broke free. He and Bit sprinted away from their captors, knees high. The men shouted and followed.

  Verity turned at the noise and headed back, wiggling and tripping in her tight dress.

  Sean came closer, the knife held in midair. “What’s all the yelling about?”

  “Not sure. Thanks.” I hurried out to the parking lot.

  People on the dock turned to stare as the boys dashed to the boat, their footsteps thudding on the wooden planks. To my horror, Mr. Miami Vice stood at the end of the pier, talking on a cell phone. How had I missed him? He was still watching Miranda?

  Watching for me?

  The boys jumped aboard and dove into the wheelhouse. The two old men shambled after them. “You hooligans can’t play here!” they hollered.

  I ran past Verity as she huffed toward the boat.

  The Golf Cap Guys stood on the dock and shouted toward Miranda. “You boys better have a good story! Where are your parents?”

  Mr. Miami Vice saw me and smirked. I passed the two old men and leaped on aboard. Sammy and Bit, chests heaving, sat on the cooler, just as Verity had the night before.

  The two older men stopped short of boarding. “Do you know these boys, young lady?”

  “They’re with me.” I caught my breath. “We all knew Miranda’s owner, right, boys?”

  “The dead guy,” Bit said to Sammy.

  “Oh, yeah, on the boat.” Sammy nodded.

  “This is Allie’s boat, anyways.” Bit folded his arms. Sammy mirrored the action.

  Not anymore.

  Verity panted up behind the two men, hand pressed to her side. She took off her hat and fanned herself. For a long moment, all the men looked from her to me to the boys.

  Sammy stood and straightened his Red Sox T-shirt. “We should pay our respects to the dead guy.” He bowed his head. Bit stood and did the same.

  I blinked. The Golf Cap Guys looked at each other. One took off his cap and the other followed suit. They bent their heads. Verity bowed her head. I dipped my chin but kept an eye on Mr. Vice. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but his hands were balled into fists, his stubbled jaw hard with repressed energy.

  Sammy cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to remember our brother, ah—” Sammy looked up at me.

  “Patrick.” My throat closed up.

  “And are sad that he died,” Sammy continued. “We hope that he’s in heaven.”

  Fat chance.

  “With you, our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  Verity burst into tears.

  The Golf Cap Guys looked at each other. “Amen.” They put their caps back on. “Very sorry for your loss,” one said. The other nodded to me then the two men walked back up the pier.

  I wanted to wipe the smirk off Mr. Vice’s round face. “So, were you a friend of Patrick’s, Mr.—”

  “We’re all friends of Patrick’s.” He spat on the dock. “Well, nice service, kids.” He made a right-this-way gesture.

  “We’re not leaving. I wish to commune with Patrick’s spirit for a bit.” Verity stalked in front of him onto the boat.

  “That was a beautiful service.” I threw a glance toward the parking lot. No police car. Hurry. “How did you know how to do that, Sammy?”

  “My dad’s a chaplain in the navy,” Sammy said. He and Bit clambered over coiled rope to the rectangular metal lobster pots in the back of the boat. Mr. Vice shifted from foot to foot. My pulse quickened. Had he seen the boys put the phone back in the cooler?

  A gray car swooped into the parking lot. “Look,” Verity said. “That looks like an undercover cop car.”

  Mr. Vice gave me a long look then sauntered away down the pier.

  “Verity, take the boys and go,” I said when Mr. Vice was out of earshot.

  Bit tugged my hand. “Just run with us, Allie!”

  “This isn’t the way we planned it,” Verity said.

  “Half what we planned. You guys did great.” The boys beamed and fist-bumped again. “Go with Verity. Wait for me in the Tank. I’ll be right with you. I want to talk to the police for a minute but I don’t want you involved. There’s a chance they’ll let me go.” A snowball’s chance.

  Budwitz and a woman in a dark suit and sunglasses strode toward us. Verity glanced back at me, and then tugged the boys’ hands. The woman was Detective Rosato. I groaned. The two detectives stopped short of coming on the boat.

  “Miss Larkin.” Budwitz put his hands on his hips. “Was that you who called? I thought I recognized your voice. I hope this is important. We take false police reports very seriously.”

  Verity and the boys reached the parking lot, throwing looks over their shoulders.

  “Yes. Hi, Detective Budwitz. Detective Rosato.”

  Detective Rosato’s face betrayed no emotion.

  I thought quickly. “I was here last night for Patrick Yardley’s wake. And I thought, maybe the police don’t know that this was Patrick’s boat. It might be important to the investigation. I wanted to be sure you knew that this boat was his.”

  Budwitz and Rosato shared a glance. Maybe they didn’t know.

  “Thank you, Miss Larkin. You may go,” Budwitz said.

  Relief and confusion flooded me. “I can? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Detective Rosato pulled her phone from her jacket pocket.

  I stepped onto the dock. Dismissed. “Also, you should know that some of the Harbor Patrol guys have been very, very interested in this boat.”

  They looked at each other. Such good poker faces.

  “Thanks,” Budwitz said.

  That’s it? Thanks? “Okay.”

  I moved as quickly as I could back to the Tank without actually running. I threw a glance back at them. After I helped her with the last murder investigation in Mystic Bay, I thought Detective Rosato and I had an understanding. Evidently not. I was a little hurt.

  I got in the Tank and slammed the door. “Drive! Before they change their minds.”

  Chapter 34

  At rehearsal that evening, the magic of the previous day evaporated. Cast and crew were devastated, going through the motions. What if the police arrested Eden? What would happen to the show? Mac Macallen sat in the last row, his tie askew, his shoulders slumped. I sighed and adjusted my mermaid tail.

  “Places.”

  Halfway through Act One, just as Eden’s understudy finished her song, the theater door banged open. Heads turned toward the sound.

  Eden strode into the theater. “Well, chickens, we’ve got a show to put on!”

  “Eden!” Everyone burst into applause.

  Eden’s understudy muttered, “Great, just great.”

  After rehearsal, Eden and Mac swept through the dressing room. She wrapped me in a hug. “Being interrogated wasn’t totally awful. Now I’m dying to do a legal drama. Maybe I can get Lars to write another show for me.”

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” I said.

  Her eyes glowed. “The show’s going to be wonderful, Allie.” Mac Macallen beamed at her side as they left the theater.

  Relief coursed through me. I dressed and shouldered my dance bag. I couldn’t wait for opening night.

  As I headed for the door, I became aware of sobbing. Who was crying? An old television in a corner blared a news show theme. Voices stilled as a sudden quiet spread through the chatter of the dressing room. People crowded around the television. I joined the group, craning to see.

 
Onscreen, Leo Rodriguez stood in the marina behind New Salt. With a shock I recognized the woman with him—Kate, the hostess I’d spoken to last night at the wake. Leo Rodriguez held a microphone toward her, as curious tourists crowded behind them.

  A voiceover said: “The Girl with the Pitchfork Tattoo finally has a name.”

  The words hit me like a rogue wave. My bag slid from my shoulder to the floor. Cody put his arm around me.

  “Police have announced a break in their search for the identity of the young woman whose body was discovered in Mystic Bay last week. The young woman’s been identified as Hayley Castle, an actress who recently appeared at Broadway by the Bay.”

  Several cast members murmured the name.

  The camera cut to the hostess. After I spoke to her, Kate must’ve asked her coworkers about the girl. Someone there must’ve called the police.

  My head pounded. Leo spoke but I could barely make sense of his words.

  A photo of a young woman flashed onscreen. A straight cascade of blond hair flowed over her shoulders from a middle part. A strong jaw, wide-set dark brown eyes, heavily lined with mascara and eyeliner. Silver ear cuffs. Small pert nose. A stubborn face.

  Behind me, a girl gasped. “No!”

  Long blond hair, Kate had said. She called the shots. Patrick had finally met his match.

  “Did you know her?” Cody whispered.

  “No. Just glad she has a name now. Thank God. What a relief.”

  The girl who had gasped melted back from the group to a corner, her face stricken. I followed her.

  “Did you know Hayley?” I asked.

  “She’d just finished a road show of Hair when she had that photo taken,” the girl whispered, her voice hoarse. “She was in Mame with me here. In the chorus.” She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “I didn’t pay attention to all that stuff on the news. That artist’s sketch didn’t look like her. They said the girl had short black hair. Hayley had such beautiful long blond hair. They made such a big deal about the tattoo, but I never even noticed that tattoo. Sometimes she wore a flesh-tone wrap on her wrist. I thought she sprained it.”