Anchor Management Page 8

  Buster cocked his head the other way.

  She took a seat next to him on the cotton rug and put her arm around his shoulders, her back against the kitchen cupboards. Both of them hugging, looking out past the island to the kitchen sitting room where Ripken eyed them sleepily, curled in a formless fur-shape on the back of the leather couch. She said to Buster, “Look at that cat. Everything I do for him, he considers me like I’m a servant.” She shook Buster in her arm. “You seem to like him. What should we think of him?”

  Buster licked her cheek.

  “You think he’s just a cat being a cat. I hear you. He’s a cat’s cat. This is the way cats are. I do think he likes to play mental games with me,” she said, whispering into Buster’s folded over triangle ear behind the cup of her palm so Ripken wouldn’t overhear. Then she ruffled Buster’s crown and pretended to bite his nose with the tips of her fingers. “But do you know what I’m saying about the apple cookies? You do? What do you think?—see the way I see it is I already said I was going to make them. It’s not a big deal. We used to love my grandma’s cookies, Marcus and I. We’d steal them right off the window sill here above our heads, then sneak off and eat them together . . . Nah, you know what?—it’s nothing. I want to try out my grandma’s recipe, and I would love for Marcus to try them. I’m not after him . . . But I haven’t been divorced a month, and, I don’t know, maybe Pris is right. You think Pris is right?”

  With him still in the crook of her arm, they faced each other, and she looked in his golden eyes, touched the tip of her warm, dry nose to his cold, wet one.

  “You’re right. Pris doesn’t know she’s talking about. Marcus and I are old friends. He even said that at the restaurant. I forgot that. You were there, you heard him. We’re old friends. It’s not weird for me to invite him over to try my cookies. It’s not too forward at all. I don’t even mean anything by it.” She nodded, mouth down-turned and firm. “Nothing at all,” she added even louder.

  “You know what worries me, though?” She glanced at him again. “What if the apple cookies don’t come out right? Can you imagine? What if I say Hey, Marcus, come by for some cookies, and they’re terrible? I mean, the ones I used to make in Bethesda were just fine. They weren’t as good as Pearl’s. What if I try Pearl’s recipe and they come out tasting like baking soda? . . .” She laughed then unhooked her arm from around Buster and chuckled into her palms covering her face. “Maybe it is too forward. What am I thinking? If we were just old friends, I wouldn’t care how the cookies turned out. But then again if—”

  At first the sound was like the staccato of a woodpecker’s knocking. But not distant, not coming from up high in one of the rotten oak trees. This was a rattling tap on the wall of the house. It reminded her of Pearl in this very kitchen. Mid-baking, going to the Dutch door, opening the swing top and leaning out to bird watch while she waited for the oven to heat up.

  Sure, there were times woodpeckers would beat their beaks against the house. Sometimes that could mean you had a bit of rot on the windowsill or something, but she seemed to remember it could be the woodpecker was just looking for something very hard to beat their beak against to show off their hard-beak masculine prowess to any nearby lady woodpeckers, letting them know of their copious genetic potential should one of those lovely woodpecker ladies feel like mating. But that seemed like a springtime thing . . .

  She considered she might have some wood rot when the rattle came again—a dull thumping that beat against the kitchen wall behind her.

  “Hold on,” she said to Buster and stood up at the sink and peered out the window. There was nothing happening outside, and she arced her head from left to right, trying to get the widest angle view onto the wraparound porch.

  This time when the knock came again, she jumped and gave a soft sound of gasping fright. It was very close. Just on the other side of the wall. And it seemed to have more weight behind the rapping than a woodpecker—almost like the sound of a knuckle beating on the wall.

  Now she backed away from the window and worried a canine tooth over her lower lip. “Just hang on another second,” she said to Buster, keeping her eye on the window and backing into the kitchen sitting room, passing Ripken who didn’t even look her way.

  She reached behind her and felt for the handle of the fireplace poker. This was a daylight repeat of the night Bucky Snead had been lurking around her house and knocked over her garbage cans. There was a killer on the loose again, and this one was more nefarious, using a bladed weapon to end an innocent person’s life . . .

  When she wielded the fire poker like a baseball bat, hoisted up over her left shoulder, Buster snapped to attention, getting to his feet and his demeanor changing. It was like he fed off her energy and knew what to do. He headed down the hall, past the laundry room and pantry to the kitchen side-door, and she followed.

  At the door, she peered out and saw nothing, clicked open the door and pushed it wide. Buster went out ahead of her.

  Behind her in the kitchen, she heard the knocking again. What the heck was it? Was it a lure? A way to draw her out so she could be stabbed? It’s not a bad idea, save chasing her around the house, running up the stairs and such, trying to knock down a bathroom door if she locked herself in there. Just rap on the door instead, and wait for somebody to show up, and then whammo . . . stab-stab-stab . . .

  Buster trotted ahead, nose turned up, ears perky and alert, his trotting gait lively and ready for action. His presence brought her surprising comfort.

  She said to him, “We got this. We got this, buddy. I got your back, you got mine,” like this was a buddy cop feature.

  But despite the confidence Buster gave her, there were still the aspects of bodily fear. Sweat, tingling fingers, elevated heart rate, vision blurred around the edges.

  She licked her lips, peered around the corner, along the wraparound porch where the firewood was stacked. Saw nothing.

  But Buster sensed that something was amiss. He put his nose up, then down to the ground. He trotted toward the stacked firewood and a growl rumbled in his belly. His tail flicked back and forth, and his nails clicked on the wood.

  Now her pace increased further and her ears rang. She tightened her sweaty grip on the fire poker and rushed behind Buster, not sure what kind of action she could ever take at all . . . But this was real. So very, very real. Buster found someone. Buster found someone hiding behind her woodpile. She ran to close the space, ready to defend her dog from the killer who stabbed Jack Dawson in the back . . .

  * * *

  The man hiding in the woodpile burst out laughing and a skinny denim leg kicked out, sneaker heel scraping on the wood. Buster’s growl turned to snuffles, and his whole body wriggled, tail swishing around in circles. It was Vance her dog had found, cackling, saying, “Off, off, okay-hay”—laughing himself out of breath—“off, ha-off, off, okay, okay . . .”

  She whipped the poker down at her side till the tip scratched the wood. “Vance!” She scowled balefully at her dumb son, who should be at college right now. She stomped her foot. “Vance, you could give me a heart attack!”

  Vance wrestled with Buster, wrapping his arms around the dog while Buster licked his face and neck. Vance rolled onto his front, on elbows and knees (Buster briefly jumping on his back to hump him), then rose to his knees, pulled himself to stand with a hand braced on the stack of firewood. He laughed and wiped his eyes while Buster danced around, wanting to play more. “Oh wow,” Vance laughed, “oh my gosh, I couldn’t keep a straight face hiding there . . .”

  “There’s a killer on the loose,” she said, still mad at him even though she loved the sound of his laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” Vance said through laughter.

  “What if I’d hit you with this fire poker?” she said, jabbing it at him threateningly.

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “You could’ve scared me half to death, you know?—what if I’d gone out and bought a gun, came out here all jittery with a brand new twe
lve-gauge?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, I would, there’s a murderer out there—and what if I used Pearl’s gun?”

  Vance frowned, said, “Does Pearl have a gun?”

  “I haven’t found it yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised when I open a drawer someday and see some big Dirty Harry pistol in there.”

  “Hairy?”

  “Dirty Harry. Clint Eastwood? You’re too young,” she said, folded her arms showing him a petulant pout.

  He went into apologetic-son mode, opening his body posture and practically supplicating before her. “I’m sorry, Mom, I thought it was funny, I was just knocking on the wall and waiting for you to come out . . .”

  “There’s been two murders in this town and you think that’s funny?”

  “Kind of—and, hey, you think it’s funny me sitting at school knowing you’re out here looking for the murderer?”

  “Why aren’t you at school, anyway?”

  “I told my prof I had to help my mom. She just moved to a new town where she grew up, there was a murder that she helped solve, now there’s another one and she’s poking around—”

  “Vance, they’re going to think you’re lying.”

  “It’s in the paper, Mom.”

  “What, you get the Cove Echo out there. Come on, Vance.”

  “Online, Mom.”

  “Oh right.”

  “They were intrigued.”

  “So you’re skipping school? I don’t think I like that, Vance . . .”

  “Not skipping, Mom. I’m a graduate student now. Sort of on solo time at the moment and as long as I keep up on my work, I’m going to be just fine. I only took a few days off, I’ll be back on Monday.”

  “What, you think the case’s going to be wrapped up by then?”

  “What case?”

  “The murder case, Vance. Why you’re here and all.”

  He checked his watch. “Well, it’s going to have to be wrapped up, I’ve only got till Sunday night.”

  Bette laughed, said, “We should get cracking then,” and tilted out her cheek for him. He planted a kiss, hugged her, and apologized again.

  In the kitchen, Buster ran out ahead of them both, antagonized into excitement by Vance’s unexpected arrival.

  Buster ran into the kitchen sitting room to be the first to let Ripken know Vance was here. Vance panicked. “Mom, mom, mom,” he said, rushing ahead to stop Buster from mauling his cat.

  Bette grabbed the back of his shirt, said, “It’s fine, it’s fine. You think I’d let them out together if there was a problem?”

  Vance wouldn’t have made it in time, anyway, and now they both watched as Buster jumped with his front feet on the couch seat, poked his nose against Ripken’s middle, announcing Vance’s arrival. Ripken beat a puffy round paw against Buster’s nose, then planted it there and gently pushed. Buster snuffled then sneezed, jumped down and ran a circle, then looked over his shoulder at Ripken. Ripken didn’t budge, waiting instead for his human to arrive and deliver head pets. Vance did, going over to put his arms around his cat, pick him up and sit with him on the leather chair. “How you doing, Rippy? I miss you. You like your new dog buddy?”

  Bette began to tidy the kitchen, putting away her apple cookie ingredients. If Vance was home, they should probably go into town and get some more groceries. She said to Vance, “You want to come into town with me? I just have to go to the grocery and pick up a few things.”

  Vance came into the kitchen, setting Ripken down on the floor, producing the keys for his Jeep. He jingled them, saying, “Let me take you into town. You know what, I think it’s coffee time. Maybe we should go to the Bean . . .”

  He wasn’t here to see his mom, for crying out loud. “Oh, you want to buy your mother a coffee, do you?”

  “It’s the right time of day,” he said. “Afternoon pick-me-up?”

  Sure, sure. Nothing to do with Cherry at all . . .

  * * *

  The top was off of Vance’s Jeep despite the cold, and she had to raise her voice to be heard. “I did take him to the pound.”

  Vance shouted: “Did you for real, Mom?”

  “Why does everyone keep saying it like that?”

  “I think we all see how smitten you are with the guy.”

  Her hair whipped round her, slashing her cheeks and she grabbed handfuls at the sides of her head and wishing town was even closer as her son’s old Jeep Wrangler bounced and bumped over the gravel road into the Cove.

  Bette continued: “He had no microchip, no tattoo—”

  “No what?”

  “Tattoo! . . . You’re driving too fast.”

  Vance geared down and took the next set of ruts slower.

  Bette said, “The woman at the pound said no one’s been there looking for a dog like him, and she put out an email to the other pounds around the Bay, and she emailed me this morning and said there’s nothing yet—none of the other pounds had anyone looking for a dog that meets his description.”

  “I bet you were jumping for joy,” Vance said.

  She shrugged, made a no-big-deal sound in her throat that went unheard over the wind and the Jeep’s sturdy motor. As they picked up speed hitting smoother road, she shouted, “I’m trying to be realistic.” She wasn’t.

  Her phone vibrated in her cardigan pocket. A text from Prissy.

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: Did you make your apple cookies yet?

  Bette: Not yet. Later

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: Dinner for 3 tonight

  Bette: 4

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: What do you mean 4?

  Bette: What do you mean 3?

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: Me and Detective Seabolt. Who’s 4?

  Bette: Vance is here

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: Skipping school?

  Bette: He’s in trouble. And what do you mean Marcus is coming for dinner?

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: I’ll tweak his ear when I see him

  Bette: Marcus or Vance?

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: Who do you think?

  Bette: Did you invite Marcus to my house for dinner?

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: Told him you were making his apple cookies

  Bette: They’re not his apple cookies Pris and I haven’t made them yet

  Fabulous Ms. Priscilla: You better get to hurrying

  She growled and thrust her phone away in her cardigan pocket again.

  Vance said, “Problems?”

  They went round the Crockett statue and headed along Main toward Madsen.

  “Your Aunt Pris is complicating my life.”

  * * *

  Vance checked his hair in The Steaming Bean’s glass door before they went in. All Bette cared about was the change in café traffic since the last time she’d passed. No longer closed for a renovation that wouldn’t occur, and no longer open to half capacity, today the Bean bustled. She couldn’t be happier.

  Things looked back to normal.

  She opened the door and interrupted her son’s preening, then acted like she hadn’t done it on purpose. “Sorry, were you fixing your hair?”

  Vance said he wasn’t and acted like she was ridiculous for suggesting he had been. “You might want to fix yours.”

  Now she closed the door again and checked her own reflection. The Jeep ride had made her hair into a fuzzy lion’s mane. She bent over and did her best to shake out her hair, grumbling they should have taken the Bronco and how it was cold and why did he have the top down on the Jeep anyway when it was October.

  Vance went in without her, left his mother raking fingers through her hair and bent over like a crazy person.

  When she caught up with him, he was standing in the Bean’s foyer, looking at the counter.

  “Why’d you leave me back there?”

  Now she saw at the counter Stephen Dawson talking to Cherry, Cherry all smiles and tucking braids behind her shoulder.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have encouraged Stephen to come to The Bean after
all.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said to Vance, putting a hand on his back. “What do you want for caffeine, another cappuccino?”

  “Whatever,” he said.

  But then Stephen was finishing up with Cherry, taking a coffee in a paper cup and a to-go bag full of pastries or something, saying bye to Cherry.

  As he passed, Stephen gave her a nod, and an enthusiastic ‘how you doing?’ before he shouldered past the Bean’s door and went outside.

  Stephen had been true to his word.

  Cherry was quick coming around the busy counter to say hello to them, even making eye contact with Vance and doing her head-tossing thing, where she got her long black braids over a shoulder.

  Bette said, “Quite a difference here,” looking around at the Bean full of customers.

  “I know,” she said, giving Vance a brief hug, then coming in for one with Bette. They hugged, and she patted Cherry’s back.

  “Don’t say it wasn’t you now,” Cherry said.

  Bette said, “Wasn’t me what?”

  “Stephen and Vinnie have been here four times in the last two days, getting their breakfast and lunch.”

  “What could I have to do with that?”

  “Oh, okay,” Cherry said with extreme skepticism, nodding like she didn’t believe a word.

  Vance eyed her. “You invited Stephen here?”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Bette lied. “They just know where to come to get the best coffee and the best biscuits in town.”