Crab Outta Luck Page 12

  She looked at the logo on the front, Snead Charter. Wondered when he’d stopped the pump-outs; wondered if that was when he added in the chartering on top of crabbing. Something Royce should’ve done. Should’ve listened to his son. Only, who would want to charter a boat by mean old Royce? There’d be no repeat customers.

  Cap in hand, she went back to Pris. “I mean, it’s possible. Those two’re known for getting into drunken fistfights. All of them—Jerome and all those old crabbers that they hung around with. One minute they’re fighting, the next they’re singing songs and laughing together, clapping each other on the back. It’s just their way.”

  “So you think maybe they got in a tussle on that boat, things went too far?”

  “Bucky did say it was his fault.”

  “Yeah,” Pris agreed, frowning.

  Bette knew the feeling. It fit. But did it feel right? Maybe in time she’d let it settle and it would go into place. Bucky was no cold-blooded murderer, just like she wasn’t. At least, that’s what she would figure. But one thing that could’ve happened: as the two of them got drinking on the boat, words getting heated, then they start fighting . . . And who knows? Maybe it did have something to do with some scheme they were up to.

  She waved Bucky’s hat over her head, trying to get Marcus’s attention. When she could see him turn her way, Jonas pointing her out to him, she showed him the hat, pointing to it and mouthing through the glass: I’m going to put it on your car.

  He nodded and went back to Jonas. Pris and she walked over to Marcus’s SUV and Bette plopped Bucky’s hat on his side mirror.

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Nine days after Royce’s body washed up on the shore of the causeway he was laid out in a pine casket for his viewing, 10 A.M. at the Yarborough Funeral Home on Woodley Street, just south of the village. A bright and sunny September day, the front yard of the old Colonial funeral home interspersed with a good chunk of the local population able to get away mid-morning to say farewell to Chesapeake Cove’s grumpiest crabber. At least one person here could be coming by to say good riddance, to get a last look at the man they killed.

  Some were dressed in funeral blacks, some of the blue-collared friends of Royce were wearing their cleanest dress shirts and jeans. Pris worked the crowd with her solemn charm, shaking hands and giving brief hugs, wearing a black dress and a brimless black hat pinned in place. Bette stood at the back of the throng, on the sidewalk next to Cherry, who wore a long flowing silky black dress and a short jacket. They watched the crowd silently for a long while, standing by the black street-side sign, white replaceable letters spelling out: In Memoriam, Royce Murdoch, Viewing 10 AM, Service 11 AM, Memorial to be held at The Cracked Crab 12 PM, All Are Welcome.

  Cherry looked around the crowd and down the street. “Any sign of Bucky?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Bette said. “Maybe he’s already inside.”

  Cherry said, “I wonder if Royce’s son is going to show.”

  “Hard to imagine not showing up to your own father’s funeral.”

  “Bad blood can run deep,” she said.

  “Sure. But he must’ve cared at least a little, sending his dad money every month.”

  The crowd began to thin as more people were allowed to enter under the portico and the fluttering American flag, passing single file through the single door. Bette and Cherry kept to the rear, and soon Pris joined them, standing on the lawn and waiting for them to reach her. Pris said, “Bette, you look very nice in your suit,” and linked an arm under hers.

  “I’m going to need some more funeral clothes,” Bette said, “the way this’s been going. Two in a month? . . . I just picked it up from the cleaner the other day.”

  * * *

  Royce Murdoch, dead at sixty-five, finally looked at peace. The mortician had served him well. Cheeks shaved, hair combed, dressed in a steel-colored suit with a pinstripe, he didn’t look like a man that had been beaten, thrown overboard and drowned. Also didn’t look like a man notorious for lying, cheating and fighting and drinking and driving his son out of the Cove. Looks could be deceiving.

  Pris said, “He looks good.”

  Cherry said, “Bucky did well, getting this organized.”

  Bette said to Royce, “Rest in peace.”

  They were almost the last to pay their respects. At the back of the low ceiling chamber came a late arrival; a well-dressed man in his forties, face somber, posture slumped.

  Cherry said, “Who’s that?”

  Bette frowned, looked to Pris, who said, “Looks like Troy made it after all.”

  Bette said, “That’s Troy Murdoch?” But she could see it now. At first glance, the guy looked like the antithesis of Royce. The suit he wore was expensive, fit him well, was stylish; his shoes were brogues, polished to a shine; silk tie in satiny gunmetal. But the bare bones of the man were a Murdoch; a blue collar foundation; strong body and big hands earned from working on a crab boat from when he was little till when he ran from his father and the Cove in his twenties. Looked like he’d made something of himself up in Annapolis.

  Troy straightened his suit jacket a moment, looked out over the gathered crowd. The funeral room at Yarbrough was a wide and low space, padded folding chair seating in two segments, open alley between that led straight to the casket where his father lay. She watched Troy take it all in, run his hands in slow strokes down his tie like he would never get it flat, mouth working around. Funeral goers, some seated, some still milling, all began to look his way and she watched as Troy lost his nerve, averting his eyes, looking aside, seeing the doorway to the small parlor reserved for close friends and family. He headed into it.

  Bette knew the feeling, that all-eyes-on-you feeling coming back to the town where you grew up, being measured and assessed; also that feeling of abandonment, like you’d betrayed them all by leaving, and obversely that worry of being abandoned by the people of your home—that piece of you missing from the puzzle of the Cove, once returned, well, maybe the shape of your missing had changed while you’d gone and your piece wouldn’t return into place or, maybe, while you were gone, it was the shape of you that changed, and you’d never get yourself to settle into the big picture, at least how you remembered it.

  “Poor guy,” Cherry said, as Pris led them near the front, to the bank of chairs on the right-hand side.

  “Save me a seat,” she said to Pris, and squeezed her hand.

  Alone, she headed up the alley to the back of the seating and went to the door to the parlor. Troy was in there, standing with his back to her, looking out the front window with his hands laced together behind him, face shaded by the low scoop of the scallop valence. Jerome was in the parlor too, and Maurice, both of them sitting in upholstered chairs on either side of the brick fireplace, Maurice hung low, elbows on knees, staring despondently at the rug. She paused in the doorway, unsure whether she was welcome; last time she’d seen these two men was at the Cracked Crab where she’d berated and fought with their now-deceased friend, the one they were here today to honor. But Jerome looked her way and nodded. She gave a wave and a sober smile. He could see her watching Troy’s way and nodded his head, indicating she should go talk to him.

  Bette approached Troy, saying softly, “Hey Troy, how are you doing?”

  Troy didn’t look her way, eyes still gazing out the window. He said, “I’m doing all right.”

  “I’m Bette. Bette Whaley, I came in to—”

  “I know who you are,” he said, not unkindly. He finally looked her way. While he was well-groomed and prepared for the funeral, she could see the weariness in his eyes. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days; had even touched up the darkness of bags under his eyes with makeup. “I remember you from high school.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure,” he said. “You were younger, but I saw you around.”

  “I wanted to offer my condolences over the death of your father.”

  He pursed his lips, kept his eyes on hers. “Thank you
,” he said.

  “While your father and I didn’t always get along—”

  “Dad never missed an opportunity to make an enemy.”

  Now she pursed her lips and nodded. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m just really sorry about what happened to him. It was terrible. You know—”

  There was a murmur in the hall, and she looked back over her shoulder to see that Marcus Seabolt had entered the building, walking past the parlor doors, removing his trooper hat, dressed in his official uniform.

  She returned to Troy. “I just came back to the Cove myself after being away a long time. I think I left before you did even. I know it’s hard coming back, if you ever want to talk . . .”

  Troy nodded grimly, looked out the window again.

  “You let me know,” she said, “and once again, my condolences.” She turned then, nodded to Jerome and Maurice, who showed her no disdain, and went out into the hall where the murmur was rising.

  Marcus was confronted by a ring of funeral-goers looking for answers. He was saying with hushed restraint, “I didn’t come here to talk about Bucky, I came here to pay my respects.”

  “Well, why isn’t he here?” one of them said, “you still got him locked up, you know Royce was his best friend, he oughtta be here, he was the one made all the arrangements—”

  “Yes, Bucky oughtta be here,” Marcus said, “but he’s not.”

  Someone raised their voice. “That’s your doing.”

  Marcus held up his hat, keeping them at bay. “Now come on, this isn’t what I’m here for.”

  “It’s a sin Bucky not being here,” a crabber with his flannel work shirt tucked in said.

  Someone else said, “Just like the cops to do something like this—what, couldn’t get your paperwork done on time? Hard-working man’s sitting in a police station, his best friend’s—”

  “It has nothing to do with that,” Marcus said. “Bucky’s been arrested, he’s—”

  “Arrested!” The word passed through the crowd, people already seated rose to come over.

  Marcus rubbed his forehead, saying now, “Bucky was arrested on suspicion of murder.”

  The crowd asked together: “What for?”

  “It’s just the way it is, all right? We have evidence, and he doesn’t have an alibi . . .”

  “That’s outrageous, Bucky would never . . .”

  Marcus waved them all down, saying, “Look, if anybody has something to say, preferably something useful, something like information that would help with the case—come down to the station after the memorial. Everybody got it?”

  He pushed through the crowd, his hat leading the way, saying, “Now, if you don’t mind, I came here to pay my respects.”

  * * *

  The service began just after 12 P.M. Marcus left so as to cause no further commotion. Everyone settled and took their seats. There was organ music, someone from the St. Michael's church came in to read a passage. Jerome got up, told stories about old Royce that brought chuckles to the crowd. Not even sugarcoating it, saying all the mean things Royce’d done, but how he loved his friend. Maurice got up after that, eyes hazy and bloodshot. He had trouble getting through his speech, and it was much like Jerome's. Lots of talk about the good old days, some of the things they'd done together. That whopper of a buck Royce’d got, that twelve-point back in ’95. Maurice was kind enough not to bring up the conspiracy theories around that one, how Royce’d not harvested that deer in the most fair manner. He talked about their drinking, and their fighting, too, recounting it like it was the glory days. Bette was pretty sure Maurice’d been drinking already this morning. Then Maurice got sniffly, choked off his speech, put up a hand and said, “Well, anyway . . . I guess that’s that.” He left the podium.

  It was quiet a long moment and Bette thought they were done, looking to Pris who then looked to the organ player, expecting her to begin playing. But a chair brushed on the carpet, and everyone turned to see Troy rising, walking up to the podium in his good-fitting suit, retrieving a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He adjusted the mic, rubbed at his nose, sighed. He read over the note one more time, cleared his throat.

  “Some of you may remember me, though I've been out of the Cove for a while. For a good long time when I was younger, I thought I was going to be a crabber. Thought I would be in the Cove for good. Royce was my dad, if you don't know me.” He never looked up, just kept his eyes turned down to his paper.

  “And there was a time we ran the crabbing business together. I know what Maurice and Jerome said about him is all true. Dad liked to drink and he liked to fight. Sometimes I swore he thrived on conflict. But he stuck by me when my mom died. Maybe he wasn't the best dad, but he was always there. For that reason, even when we weren't getting along, I swore we could make a go of it. But it wasn't to be. I did everything wrong. He did everything right. It was his way or no way. I guess in some ways I’m a lot like him. Stubborn. Didn't matter how many projections I showed him or any number of spreadsheets I could prove it with, there was no way but Royce’s way. We had our troubles.”

  He was quiet for a long time, and everybody got uncomfortable with the only sound being Troy’s breathing on the microphone. Then Troy crumpled his paper and put it in his pocket. “Royce was an old kook. And no one could get along with him. But he was my dad . . . deep down, I did care about the man. I wish I had a chance to say goodbye or say something. . . . If there's one good in any of all this, it’s that he died where he lived, died down there in the water with all of his crabs.”

  THAT AFTERNOON

  The memorial for Royce Murdoch had a bigger turnout than the funeral. Since it was such a nice day out, The Cracked Crab had moved the function onto the deck patio by the waterside. Against the far railing by the Bay, on a long table covered with a gingham cloth, there were dishes and platters, and bowls of prepared food; crab stuffed tacos in crispy shells, fried oyster sandwiches, steamed shrimp, Bay scallops wrapped in bacon, potato salad, soft drinks, coffee and tea.

  At the end of the long table there was a large photo set on an easel of Royce Murdoch in his younger days. Not looking too shabby at all; still a touch of mean in those eyes, but a handsome edge to his jaw and a full head of combed hair. On the far left was a bar with two servers underneath an umbrella, taking orders, mostly the older crabbers coming up to get another bottle of beer.

  Cherry, Bette, and Pris arrived together, coming down the steps from the dining room in the old shuckhouse where the day-to-day patrons were seated, descending to those gathered to remember Royce Murdoch. Cherry split off, being called over by a woman she knew, kissing cheeks and being introduced to the woman’s friends. Pris took Bette by the hand, leading her toward the middle of the food table where Troy Murdoch stood solemnly, talking with a man Bette recognized and a younger man who also looked like he might be a crabber.

  The man she recognized had introduced himself at Pearl’s funeral: Vinnie Dawson, the mayor of Chesapeake Cove. She remembered him from back before she left, about ten or fifteen years older than her; a hunky, manly guy arriving in town wanting to be a crabber, full of charm and charisma. Now here he was twenty-odd years later, owner of a successful crabbing company and mayor of the Cove, looking good for his age with his close cut salt and pepper hair brushed into a widow’s peak, dove gray sport coat and chinos and a red tie with blue crabs on it.

  When Vinnie saw them coming, he turned from Troy to say, “Hey, Pris, hey, Bette,” taking Bette’s hand and giving it a squeeze. He looked her in the eye said, “How are you settling in? You good?”

  “I’m unpacked now—it took a lot longer than I thought.”

  “We all miss Pearl,” Vinnie said, “I was just thinking about her yesterday. I tell you what, you know what you doing yet in the Cove? . . .”

  “No, I don’t. It’s all been up in the air since I got here.”

  “Come by my office, or hey, we got tons of ladies here’ll get you involved; volunteer groups, councils . . . we’ll ke
ep you busy.”

  “I do like to keep busy,” she said.

  “Course you do,” he said, “you’re a Whaley,” and gave her hand a squeeze.

  She said, “Truth be told, Pris’s been keeping me plenty busy.”

  Vinnie said, “Pris keeps us all busy, now don’t you, darling?”

  Pris said, “Idle hands are the devil’s work, Vinnie.”

  Vinnie reached over to hug Pris, who kissed his cheek. “Hey, Pris, how you doing?”

  “Good-good,” Pris said, then to Bette: “You met Steven?” She gestured toward the young man at Vinnie’s side.

  Bette said she didn’t, and Pris said, “Works down at Vinnie’s crabbing enterprise—practically runs the place since Vinnie’s running around playing at mayor.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Steven said and they shook hands, the young guy clean cut and dressed in a work shirt tucked into his pants. A crabber; but quite the opposite kind of Royce and his cronies.

  “It’s me and my brother minding the business while dad galavants and cuts ribbons,” Steven said, Vinnie chuckling and shaking a good-natured fist at his son. “I was just saying to Troy here how we’re going to miss seeing his dad out on the Bay. Won’t be the same without him.”

  Troy said, “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Everyone bowed their heads. Vinnie muttered, “That darn old Bucky.”

  Steven said, “Couldn’t have meant it though. Can’t picture Bucky doing it on purpose.”

  Troy nodded. “You know how they could be. Probably just a matter of time before something bad like that happened. Out on the water and they get to drinking, and they’re no strangers to fighting.”