Anchor Management Page 7

  “I know,” Bette said. “But look, see?” she said, pointing to Buster, “I told you about that little white spot on his chest that looks like a crab.”

  “Yes, you did, hon. Buster Crabbe. I get it. Olympic swimmer who played Tarzan in the old Tarzan serials.”

  “He was known for swimming,” Bette added to confirm Crabbe’s swimming credentials as yet another great reason this dog had to be called Buster.

  When Pris’s hands returned to the pockets of her jacket, Bette sipped from her thermos cup of coffee. Still hot, but it wasn’t the same as stopping at the Steaming Bean before or after their walk. She’d heard from Cherry last night that she’d given Terry the day off. The Bean wasn’t even open today. Terry had put up a sign in the window saying CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. There were no renovations planned.

  She said to Pris, “I’m going to take him to the pound after the walk.”

  Pris said, “I’ll go with you. We’ll go together. And let me buy you lunch.”

  Coming from the far side of the church now, she could see Joy Kim strolling their way, and cutting across the park, three of the other walking ladies. “Yeah,” she said, “I’d like that. Marcus said the pound’s full-up. Said maybe they’d let me foster Buster.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Pris said. “And who knows? Maybe this doggy really doesn’t have anybody out there in the world. Maybe you two was meant to be.”

  “Don’t get my hopes up.”

  “Then don’t look so morose, child. I’m only trying to cheer you.”

  They both smiled at each other, and Bette sniffled. Then Joy was there saying, “Ladies, good morning, hey, I heard Marcus brought Stephen in for questioning,” even Joy getting into the spirit these days, right off the bat jumping into crime talk.

  Pris said, “It’s about time he did.”

  Joy said, “You think so? Stephen’s a good guy.”

  Bette said, “It makes about as much sense as Cherry needing questioning”—she looked up to see both Pris and Joy staring at her, gainsaid—“I know, I know. The blowup and all, and how Jack was found in her café . . . but still, it’s Cherry.”

  Pris said, “We know Cherry didn’t do it. We don’t know Stephen didn’t.”

  Joy said, “It just doesn’t seem likely.”

  The other ladies joined up with them now, only one old girl from their crew still missing. They stood around a while and gossiped. Mostly about the murder, and this new bit of information that Stephen had been taken in for questioning.

  One of the walkers said, “But they let Stephen go, right?”

  “Just brought him in for questioning.”

  Bette said, “Just like Cherry.”

  Someone else said, “Why would Stephen kill Jack? I thought the brothers got along well.”

  “They did,” Joy said. “But Jack was a handful. And you know, back when they first came to town, Vinnie had the same reputation.”

  “Vinnie did?”

  “He didn’t take guff from anybody, if you know what I’m saying. He’s a charming sort of guy, a real smooth talker, but he used to back up his words with his fists if someone wanted to challenge him.”

  Now emerging from the tree line, strolling straight toward them across the grass, was Margaret, her chunky glass’s lenses glinting early morning sunlight. Even from here, Bette could see Margaret had brand-new sneakers; bright white, red racing stripes, modern fancy-looking lock-style shoelaces.

  “Morning, Margaret,” they all said as she entered their gaggle.

  “Nice morning, ladies.”

  Bette said, “Good morning, Margaret.”

  Margaret said, “Still got that dog, do you?”

  “Apparently. New shoes?”

  Margaret smiled and bounced on her toes, her new sneakers’ leather squeaking. “I think anyone wants to tangle with me on the walk today is going to be eating a lot of my dust . . .”

  * * *

  Though it was kind of her fault Marcus brought Stephen in for questioning, there was a certain relief she could enjoy, knowing it would dilute the scrutiny over Cherry. The walking gang had broken up after their hour-long stroll through the twisting, hilly streets of the Cove, and now she and Pris were walking the circle of the roundabout, the sun higher now, Isaac Crockett’s statue rim lit in fiery yellow. They headed to the pound, but were taking a detour to stop for lunch. Bette chose the Blackwater Brewery.

  “You were certainly hanging back today, Bette.”

  “I have a lot on my mind and I’m trying to get Buster to walk to walk well on his leash.”

  “Seems to walk just fine, you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you. And I want him to have good manners.”

  Pris batted at Bette’s arm for Bette’s insolence and saying, “That boy would do anything you ask him. He’s got eyes for you.”

  Sure enough, at the end of the leash, Buster trotted along beside her, tilting his broad head up every once in a while to flash her a smile and some golden eyes.

  “I thought maybe you were scared of getting your hat handed to you again by Margaret,” Pris said.

  “I wasn’t going to tangle with her in those new shoes. She has too much to prove.”

  “Hey, look at this,” Pris whispered.

  They were walking past The Steaming Bean, closed for the day, and out front of the brewery a tall woman in high heels and a business suit stormed her way past the tavern doors. It was Charlotte, in bright blue, her lips shining red even from this distance.

  Pris said, “Looks like she’s got a mad on.”

  “Mad at Jonas?”

  As they approached the doors, Pris got ahead to open one. “No,” Bette said, “go around back.”

  “Around back?”

  She wagged the leash and said, “I got a dog with me. I can’t just go walking into a restaurant.”

  “Jonas won’t mind.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Just come around back with me.”

  They left the front doors, strolled up to the end of the Brewery’s street front, and walked the clean but narrow alleyway that ran between the Brewery and a fence line with hedges that separated an old cottage, now a boutique with expensive nautical clothing.

  Back at this seating area where the staff congregated, Pris looked about and said, “Cozy spot.”

  “It’s not too bad.”

  “This where you had your lunch date with Detective Seabolt?”

  “Maybe,” she said (not taking the date-bait), then passed the leash to Pris. “Take him and have a seat. I’m going to go in and order.”

  “You’re going to go in and spy on that Charlotte.”

  “Would you just hold my dog, please.”

  “Gladly,” she said, sitting down and stooping to hug Buster from behind, ruffling her hand on his white crab spot. “I think the guy’s growing on me.”

  “We’ll get you an ointment after the pound,” Bette said and heaved open the staff door, Pris laughing behind her and calling out to order a pitcher of the lager and how she wasn’t doing all this walking for nothing.

  Bette passed through the storage and the pantry area, and ran into Jonas.

  Jonas was startled to see her and said, “I didn’t know you were working today, Bette. Quick, quick,” he said, then clapping his hands, “get your apron on. These dishes ain’t gonna wash themselves.”

  “Very funny, Jonas,” she said, slipping into his personal space, both of them comfortable giving each other a hug now. He asked her, “What’s going on?”

  “I got a stray dog I’m watching out for.”

  “Oh yeah, Marcus told me.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah, and you don’t have to go to the back.”

  “Pris and I are here, we came for some lunch, I just went back cause I’ve got the dog with me.”

  “You can sit out back or you can come in. It’s up to you.”

  “Maybe we’ll go in,” she said. “Let me spy if there’s a spot for us.”


  “I got to go and say hi to Pris,” Jonas said, “meet this dog of yours.”

  “He’s not mine, Jonas,” she said over her shoulder. Not yet, anyway.

  Now she was at the kitchen pass-through, spying out at the brewery’s seating area. The place was at half capacity, lots of space for them to take a seat if they wanted—but almost dead center in the room was Charlotte. And while no one else would complain about a dog in the restaurant, she was sure Charlotte would.

  All thoughts of dogs and eating evaporated as she watched now the heated exchange between Charlotte and the person whom she’d come into the restaurant for. It was Stephen, sitting at a table by himself, Charlotte standing beside, spitting hushed words at him. Stephen looked like he was at the edge of his control, jaw muscles flexing, taking the brewery’s menu and curling it into a long tube. It’d be great to see him whack his mother across the nose with it. Bad Charlotte, bad. But Stephen let the menu unfurl and fall to the table, and shifted closer to his mother so he could spit some venom at her as well. Though they were hushed and restrained, they were attracting the attention of the other seated patrons who were glancing over in their direction now.

  Hushed exchanges between mother and son came quicker and more guttural, both of them talking through clenched teeth. Then Stephen put both hands flat on the table with a quiet whomp and stood up over his mother. In a raised voice, he said, “I’m not gonna do just anything you tell me to.”

  The restaurant went quiet at the abrupt disruption. And in the silence, Charlotte smiled at Stephen like this was no argument at all, and she flicked her hair aside and said something to him calmly and quietly. Then, with mustered dignity, crossed the restaurant and left through the front doors again.

  “Shoot,” Bette whispered, then trotted back through the kitchen, the pantry and storage, out the back doors to find Jonas down playing with Buster, Pris laughing and talking away.

  “Quick,” Bette said. “Quick, we gotta go in!”

  From the ground, Buster licking at his beard, Jonas said, “There should be a lot of tables. Did it get busy?” He struggled to his feet, still wrestling with Buster who wagged his tail in big circles.

  “No-no. We just . . . this spot . . . I want to get—”

  Pris figured it out, standing up and saying, “Jonas, can we can bring the dog in?”

  Jonas gathered himself, standing now, adjusting his Blackwater Brewery polo shirt, struggling to conform it to his bulk. He said, “After you, ladies,” gesturing toward the alley.

  “Old Jonas,” Pris said, “doesn’t want us taking the dog through the kitchen.”

  He said after them: “We don’t have many standards but we do have some.”

  * * *

  Bette hustled Buster down the alley, Pris hurrying behind, complaining to her to wait up.

  As they rounded the corner onto the main street, Bette filled Pris in on what she witnessed.

  “Don’t dawdle,” Pris said, “we gotta get in there.”

  They went in through the front doors trying to act casual, like they weren’t brimming over with excited energy and weren’t breathing heavy from their hustle down the alleyway.

  “Oh look,” Pris said, “there’s a spot over there,” pointing out the seat next to Stephen. Stephen looked up and met their eyes.

  “Hey, Stephen,” Bette said. “Grabbing some lunch?”

  “I was going to.”

  His tone was dejected, and he’d slipped one leg down from the stool to rest on the floor. “Oh, you’re not staying?” Her fingers tingled with dread anticipation her prey was going to flee.

  “No, I’m staying, I already ordered. I’m committed now.” He nodded his chin to Buster. “Who’s this guy?”

  Pris said, “That’s Bette’s new dog. Well—he might be if no one shows up to claim him.”

  “He was a stray?”

  Bette said, “He was out swimming by himself in the Bay.”

  “Out in the Bay all by himself?”

  Pris said, “Whyn’t you come over and sit with us, Stephen. Keep us company.”

  Stephen looked reluctant at first, but agreed, brought his fizzy drink along to their table, set it down, then stooped to greet Buster Crab. “Look at these golden eyes, dude. You are one handsome doggy boy.” He rubbed Buster’s jowls, making her dog’s lips smack.

  A server came out from behind the bar, a tray held at his shoulder, looked befuddled a moment at Stephen’s empty table, then realized he was with Bette and Pris and brought Stephen’s crab cakes and potato salad to their table. He put out Stephen’s plate, and said to Bette, “Don’t worry, your order’s coming out in a sec, I’ll bring it right over so you can all eat together.”

  When the server left, Pris cleared her throat and said, “We ordered ahead.”

  “By phone,” Bette said, hoping her cheeks wouldn’t blush, holding up her phone and wagging it like she had something to prove.

  Stephen didn’t notice their strangeness and saddled up on the extra stool at their table, unfolding his cutlery from the napkin.

  Pris said, “I’m sure you’re gonna be run off your feet down at the boats.”

  Stephen puffed out his cheeks and said, “With Jack gone?—yeah, that’s for sure. I needed him down there. He needed me. We were a good team.”

  “Didn’t see much of him around town,” Pris said.

  “He liked to stick to the docks, work on the boats. he loved being out on the water. Got out there as much as he could.”

  Bette encouraged Stephen to start without them, but he said he’d wait if their order was coming right out.

  “Such good manners,” she said, making Stephen blush.

  “I guess you were already getting set up to take over the business.”

  “Me?” he looked sheepish a moment. “I don’t know why we both didn’t run it. Directors on the board of the same corporation. That’s the way it was though, one person’s supposed to be in the lead.”

  Bette said, “Vinnie wanted you up front?”

  “Dad? No, he—”

  The server interrupted, coming out now with a pitcher of Seabolt lager and two orders of crab cakes and a potato salad for them to split. They set up their plates and tucked in.

  Pris said, “You were saying?”

  Stephen chewed, swallowed, took a swig of soda. “Who was in charge didn’t matter to me. Nor to Jack. Was Mom who got up in arms about how the business was represented and how Dad had to pick one of us.”

  Pris said, “And it was you?”

  Stephen shook his head and shoved a forkful of crab cake in his mouth. “Unh-unh,” he said, then wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin. “Didn’t decide.” He drank some pop, then looked glum a long moment. “Now he doesn’t have to.”

  Bette said, “Hey, don’t fret on it now, we wanted to sit with you to have you feel good, not bring up the bad.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind—hey, how’s Cherry doing? She hasn’t been answering her phone.”

  “Cops brought her in,” Bette said, watching his expression, then saying, “for questioning, you know, see what she knows.”

  Stephen nodded. “No way that woman stole the anchor. And no way she would have harmed my brother.”

  “She’s closed down the bean while the town gets that in their head too.”

  Stephen said, “I saw that. Came out to see her, but she was closed.”

  “You’d have gone in?”

  “I don’t think she did anything, Miss Whaley—”

  “Bette.”

  “I don’t think she hurt my brother, Bette. My dad doesn’t either.”

  His mom surely did.

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” Bette said, “and if you’d like to help her, there might be something you could do.”

  Stephen showed an honest interest. “Yeah? Sure, what can I do?”

  Bette said, “Her café’s suffering cause of town gossip, you know how it goes—”

  “I su
re do.”

  “Maybe if you could go by the Bean and maybe bring your dad with you, it could help dispel this notion the town has that Cherry’s a murderer. If you and your dad show up, it would go a long way to helping her bounce back from the social judgment she’s facing.”

  “She’s closed because people think she killed my brother.”

  “Yup, that and the fact the place is half empty.”

  “Oh wow,” Stephen said. Then he nodded, contemplating it, nodding quicker as a plan formed in his mind. “Yeah, I can do that. I can definitely do that. And if it’d help Cherry . . .”

  “It sure would,” Pris said.

  “You get her to open,” Stephen said, “and I’ll be there with my dad.”

  Bette held up the pitcher, pouring tumblers for Pris and herself. She nudged it his way, said, “You want in on this pitcher, Stephen.”

  He was still nodding, chewing and moving his mouth around. “Yeah, I think I do,” he said. “I do.” He tipped back his soda pop and drained it, then offered his empty tumbler. “Thanks so much, Miss Wha— Bette. Thanks so much, Bette.”

  “My pleasure, Stephen,” she said, as she filled up his cup with lager.

  THE AFTERNOON TWO DAYS LATER

  Never in her life had she more trepidation over baking apple cookies. She said to Buster, “I think it’s just a nice thing to do. Plus, I want to try this recipe”—she showed him the yellowed paper card with her Grandma Pearl’s handwritten recipe—“got my grandma’s hard red winter wheat flour and everything.” She patted the paper sack of the special local flour. When Buster didn’t answer, she looked down where he sat at her side on the woven cotton rug by the sink. “You know what I’m saying?”

  Buster cocked his head.

  “I think you know what I’m saying,” she said.

  She was standing at the kitchen counter, making sure she had all the ingredients for her apple cookies according to her grandmother’s recipe. She had the dark brown sugar, the hard red winter wheat flour from the mill here in Chesapeake, butter from a local farm, salt, baking soda, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a couple apples from an apple tree right here at Whaley’s Fortune. Sun shone in the windows, just before lunchtime on a Thursday. There were more flecks of yellowish color in the tree canopies as leaves began their change.