Crab Outta Luck

by Ellis Quinn

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Mayonnaise.”

  “That’s what it is.”

  “So, what?—some special mayonnaise, that one from Japan?”

  Jonas shrugged a shoulder, his smile shifting his thick beard to one side. Cherry laughed and bit into her crab cake.

  Bette side-eyed her, said, “You’re making your own mayonnaise with Cherry’s eggs, that’s it, right?”

  Now Jonas rolled his eyes. “Would you please just tell me what happened, all I’m getting is the gossip. My old friend Bette talks a man into confessing murder and she won’t even tell me about it?”

  Margaret said, “Troy Murdoch was looking to confess, she was just there when it happened,” one cheek puffed out with crab cake.

  Bette said to Jonas, “We-ell, since you brought us these fine crab cakes . . .”

  Jonas said, “I just brought em, those are the ones who sent em,” nodding toward the bar. They looked to see Maurice and Jerome sitting there on high stools, nodding and raising their beer glasses.

  “Aww,” Bette said, then cupping her hands around her mouth to be heard over the din, calling out, “Thanks, guys!”

  Maurice winked and raised his beer.

  Jonas pointed around the table saying, “And all your drinks are on me.”

  Bette faced the table again. “Aww, you don’t have to do that, Jonas—”

  Margaret said, “Let him do it.”

  Bette said, “All right, I’ll tell you what happened . . .”

  She told Jonas about going out on the boat with Troy and how she worried he might be out to get revenge on Donovan for usurping his role as the successful businessman-son, but then how Troy stopped the boat at the exact spot where it had been grounded and how she’d started to worry, wondering how Troy knew where the boat had ended up if he’d never been there. Then told the sadder part, and she was respectful of Troy and his confession, glossing over the misery of the poor man who’d accidentally killed his own father.

  Jonas asked: “Were you scared?”

  She winced, then nodded. “For sure. But it was okay in the end. I drove the Miss Connie up the river and docked at Lydia’s place. I called Marcus, and then me and Donovan sat with Troy in the Miss Connie. Troy had a beer with Donovan, but he was pretty quiet. Marcus and Jason show up, and Troy went in the car with them, no trouble.”

  “Well, I think you’re pretty brave, Miss Bette. Your grandma Pearl woulda been proud a you.”

  “Shucks,” Bette said, “maybe Margaret’s right. He was ready to crack and I was there at the right time.”

  Jonas said, “I bet you Troy was glad you were there for him. I think he needed the right person sitting on the other side of the confessional.”

  Cherry raised her beer glass saying, “Here, here,” then offered a toast to Bette. They all raised their glasses—even Margaret.

  Jonas said, “Way I hear it, Troy gives you a lot of credit for being there when he needed help.”

  Pris said, “Where'd you hear that?”

  Troy said, “Maurice and Jerome were saying it. Said Troy’s only going to be charged with involuntary manslaughter. They don’t think he was trying to kill his dad.”

  “I don’t think he was,” Bette said.

  Pris said, “No, no one thinks that.”

  A loud hurrah had them all turning to see a new arrival coming through the open double doors, hands raised in triumph over his cream and green ball cap. Jonas chuckled and said, “Look at this clown,” everyone watching Bucky Snead work through the crowd, getting patted on the back, people tugging on his arm; Maurice swiped Bucky’s cap off his head and swatted him with it as he joined his crabbing friends at the bar.

  Jonas said to them, “I better go congratulate Bucky—you ladies take care.”

  They all wished Jonas well, then Cherry said, “I better get headed back to the Bean,” wiping her mouth with a napkin.

  Margaret said, “Let me walk you there, I should get home to Irving, anyway. Pris, I’ll see you. Bette . . . be looking for you at yoga next Wednesday.” Bette said she’d be there, and she and Pris watched Cherry take Margaret’s arm and walk her through the bustle out to the street.

  They stared across at each other, the clatter and talk swirling around them, and a throbbing warm feeling filled her heart. They both smiled, eyes narrowing. The ringing of her phone broke the happy moment. She checked the screen but didn’t recognize the number, so moved it away.

  Pris said, “You’re not going to answer it?”

  “I don’t recognize the caller.”

  “What’s the number?”

  Bette checked the screen again. “It’s a 434 number. Where’s that?”

  Pris said, “Charlottesville. I think you should take it.”

  “Who would call me from Charlottesville?”

  “Take it and find out.”

  She frowned at her aunt, picked up her phone and put it to her ear, one hand covering the other. She said hello and a man on the other side with a smooth and confident Southern drawl told her he was Dewey Duckworth calling from Long, Duckworth & Carmichael. She asked him what that was.

  “Charlottesville’s finest coalition of dangerous esquires, Miss Whaley.”

  She glanced at smiling Pris and rose from the table so she could hear the man better, saying as she crossed through the Happy Hour crowd, “What does that mean, Mr. Duckworth?”

  He said, “We’re lawyers most people would be frightened to hear from.”

  She chewed her lip as she made it out to the brick pavers outside the Blackwater. “Have I done something wrong? I’m not sure why you’re calling me.”

  “Not you, Miss Whaley, my-my-my . . . your Auntie Pris is a wily old scoundrel, I—”

  “My Aunt Pris?”

  “Yes, my dear. I’m calling about your husband, a one Mr. Roman Waters.”

  “What about him?”

  “We’ve been in touch with Mr. Waters, sent the man a letter he’s signed for. A strongly worded letter outlining how your inheritance is untouchable and any further harassment on his part will be considered vexatious—nothing boils a Duckworth’s behind more than a bee in a bonnet, so I let your Roman know I’ll come after him with a flyswatter the size of a Cadillac.”

  “That’s what the letter said?”

  “Not quite so colorful, I’m afraid, but the same message all done up with a pretty bow in the scary legal mumbo jumbo that a man like your husband I imagine will heed. N’if’n he doesn’t, I daresay my second letter will likely to turn his hair white—he doesn’t already have white hair, does he?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, then his hair will go white as snow. The man doesn’t have a leg to stand on, so I’d like to assure you you can rest your weary head of this matter. It has been dealt with—any more contact with the rascal shall be done through me, y’hear?”

  Through the front window of the brewery she could see Pris still sitting at the table, watching Bette’s way with a knowing smile, sipping on a Seabolt Lager. That warm feeling cocooned her heart again. She thanked Mr. Duckworth, and he told her to think nothing of it, and she assured him she would have no further contact with Roman, and if she heard from him, she’d direct him Mr. Duckworth’s way.

  Dewey said, “And how is Miss Priscilla?”

  “She’s doing better than ever, Mr. Duckworth.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said, “you tell her I’m expecting her at the Fauquier Fox Hunt and Ball. It’s been a long time and we sure do miss her ‘round here.”

  “I’ll let her know, Mr. Duckworth—and thank you so much again.”

  They exchanged final niceties and she closed the call. She shook her head at her wonderful aunt, and Pris raised her beer glass to her. Her phone rang again. This time she recognized the number and answered immediately.

  “Hey, baby boy, what’s happening?”

  Vance said, “Don’t baby boy me, Mom, I’m still mad at you.”

  Bett
e laughed and said, “You’ll get over it.”

  “And baby boy? I think I’m the adult in this relationship—imagine getting on a boat with a strange man and not letting anyone know where you’re going.”

  “He’s not a strange man.”

  “Not a strange man, Mom? You know what he did.”

  “It was an accident. And I was fine. And plus, Vance, it’s a week ago already. You’re going to have to let it go.”

  “I can’t believe with all the grief you gave me going away to school, that you can be so glib.”

  “You’re starting to sound like your mother.”

  “I can guarantee you I wouldn’t have got on a boat with a guy who might have murdered somebody.”

  “I have my reasons, I told you. I promise I’ll be good from now on.”

  “I might have to come down and check up on you.”

  “Anytime you want.”

  “Good, because that’s why I’m calling.”

  “You’re coming for a visit?” Her voice had gone up an octave.

  “Weekend after this one. I’ve got three days off—Friday, Saturday, Sunday—I want to come down and see you.”

  “Check up on me.”

  “You know it.”

  “I’ll get you a room ready.”

  “All in all though, Mom, I am proud of you.”

  “Despite my recklessness?”

  “I never thought I’d have to worry about you doing crazy things.”

  She said, “You haven’t done anything to make me worry—I guess it was getting boring around here.”

  “I promise to spice things up. Let me take care of the dangerous activities and you promise to stay out of trouble.”

  “I don’t want that either.”

  “It’s not in me, anyway.”

  She smiled and said, “I promise to be good.”

  “I’ll take it,” he said.

  They made arrangements for the coming weekend, what time he’d arrive, and if there was anything special he wanted to eat. Inside the brewery, Pris collected their things, spoke to Jonas for a moment, went across the bar, said Hi to the crabbing boys and shook Bucky’s hand. Bucky removed his hat and held it over his heart as he spoke to Pris earnestly for a moment. Then Pris was coming out the double doors, handing Bette her purse.

  Vance said, “You take care, Mom, and I’ll see you the weekend after next. I’ll talk to you before then, anyway.”

  “Take care, baby boy,” she said, “I love you”—then closed the call before he complained about being called baby boy again.

  Pris said, “Was that Vance?”

  “It was. Guess what? he’s coming for a stay. Three days, weekend after next.”

  “We’ll start making plans.”

  “He probably’s just going to want to take it easy.”

  “You can make plans for taking it easy, too, Bette,” she said and hooked an arm under hers.

  Bette slung her purse, put away her phone, and they headed to the mouth of Madsen Street.

  They strolled a bit in the beautiful weather, nodding to people they knew on the street. It was a while before Bette said, “So Dewey Duckworth, huh?”

  Pris nudged Bette with an interlocked elbow. “Good old Dewey.”

  “He sure sounds fond of you.”

  “That man is a rogue, through and through. Don’t let that Southern charm fool you, the man is a real devil.”

  Bette side-glanced to see Pris smiling very wide. “Were you two a thing?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell now, Bette.”

  “He said he wants to see you at the Fauquier Fox Hunt and Ball. What’s that?”

  “Highfalutin country club cocktail event. I might take a drive down.”

  “He sounded like Colonel Sanders.”

  “He doesn’t look like Colonel Sanders,” Pris said and nudged Bette’s ribs again. Then said, “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Got a snappy goatee?”

  Pris laughed and nodded.

  There was a brief chirping whoop-whoop behind them, startling them, and they turned to see a Chesapeake Cove police SUV crawling up. It passed them by, looped around and pulled onto their side of the road. Marcus stepped out, tossing his hat back on the passenger seat before strolling their way with his hands in his pockets.

  “Nice night for a walk, ladies,” he said.

  “That’s all we’re doing,” Pris said, “no driving.”

  Marcus knew what she meant right away. “You ladies coming from the brewery? Happy hour?”

  “How come we never see you at happy hour, Marcus?”

  “I’m always working,” he said, coming up to stand next to them and lean on a telephone pole.

  “Well, young Miss Bette and I are strolling out to the beach. We might even go barefoot all the way back up to Fortune.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful end to a beautiful day,” he said.

  Pris said, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you so chipper, Marcus.”

  “I’m just glad the way things turned out. This one had me worried,” he said, nodding his chin to Bette.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “Come into town like a dynamo, throwing drinks in people’s faces—”

  “I did not,” she said, laughing.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t the best welcome home for you. But I think I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You think?” She scowled at him.

  “I guess it’s all right,” he said slyly.

  Pris slunk her arm out from under Bette’s, said, “I’m going to go window shopping, if you two don’t mind.” She walked with a wry smile, putting her hands behind her back, stopping in front of the windows of an antique store. They were at the bottom of Haunted Hill.

  Bette chortled, then covered her mouth.

  Marcus was looking at Pris, still smiling. He turned back and said, “What’s so funny?—Hey, you remember Haunted Hill?”

  “That’s what I was laughing about.”

  “Wonder if I could even ride a bike anymore,” he said.

  “They say it’s just like riding a bike. I think it’s one of those things you don’t forget—you know I’ve been riding my bike again?”

  “Ever come bombing down Haunted Hill?”

  “Not quite brave enough for that,” she said, “but I might switchback it . . . nice and slow.”

  “Oh, you might, huh?” He looked back toward Haunted Hill, turned back to face her. “I think we were tied 2-2.”

  “I hope that’s not a challenge.”

  “Why, are you chicken?”

  She smirked and nodded. “We’ll see what Halloween brings.”

  “Ghosts and goblins, usually,” he said.

  She chortled again, did the briefest snort, then covered her mouth.

  “I miss your laugh,” he said.

  “I don’t,” she said, then lightly reached out with the toe of her loafer and touched his knee. “Guess what?”

  “What?” he said, looking at her through calm and narrow eyes.

  “I was rooting through Pearl’s things and I found her super-secret recipe for apple cookies.”

  “I’m listening . . .”

  “I was thinking, sometime you might want to come by—maybe give me a heads up next time so I’m not in bare feet and sweatpants—and maybe you can tell me if mine’re as good as Pearl’s.”

  “Probably not going to tell you the truth,” he said.

  “Oh, Marcus,” she said, “you better not.”

  “Hey,” he said, getting serious, “for real: what you did was pretty amazing.”

  She shied away. “Margaret Whelan says Troy woulda confessed to anybody.”

  “That’s not what Troy says. I think he was glad to have somebody to talk to. You picture him laying it all out in front of Margaret?”

  “Can’t picture it at all.”

  “You did real good, Bette, though sometimes you make my palms sweaty . . .”

  They stared at each other for a moment, h
er mind racing to understand what sweaty palms meant—then, thinking of her You’re making me hot right now comment, she began to smile. The slightest blush formed on Marcus’s cheeks, and he said, “Uh, you know, from fear. Nerves . . .”

  “Afraid of what I might do?”

  “Going out to look for boathouses in the middle of the night, intruders in your home, going out on that boat with Troy . . . Yeah, you make my palms sweat . . .”

  “I’ll have to get you some cotton gloves, Detective,” Pris said from a dozen feet away at the shop window.

  Bette broke out laughing, and Marcus rolled his eyes. He stood upright, hefting off the telephone pole saying, “Welcome back to the Cove, Bette Whaley.” He put out his hand.

  “Oh,” she said, looking at his hand, running a lock of hair behind an ear. She put out her hand, too, looked at him, a measure of disappointment in her expression. He registered it, frowned. She put out both hands.

  Marcus’s boyish smile returned, off to one side and sheepish. He stooped to hug her and she put her arms around him and squeezed. It felt good to be in her friend’s arms again and she groaned a little, a broad smile spreading that she was powerless to stop. He hugged her tighter and she went up on her toes. They let each other go and she couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could Marcus.

  He put his hands back in his pockets, sniffled awkwardly, looked to Pris, then back to Bette. “You sure you two don’t want a ride back up to Fortune?”

  Pris returned, saying, “You’re not a taxi service.”

  “You two are police VIPs,” he said.

  “Inter-agency courtesy,” Pris said proudly.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Marcus said, taking a brief moment to look where his hat was before remembering he left it in the truck. He tipped an imaginary brim to them both, said, “Good evening,” and they watched him walk back to his truck, get in and drive away, giving them a brief wave as he passed.

  They both watched him go, saying nothing for a moment, then Pris said, “Sweaty hands, indeed.”

  “You’re cruel. You made him blush.”

  “I think you’re the one who makes Marcus blush, Miss Bette,” she said, tucking an arm under hers again.

  They pivoted, resumed their walk down to the wharf where they would connect with the beach, go barefoot and walk the way home. “Marcus was right about one thing,” Pris said, “you did have the strangest welcome home.”