Shooting at Loons

“They keep making the stretch size of net mesh bigger and bigger to save the little game fish,” she said unexpectedly. “Wish they’d take another look at the size of our mesh.”

10

I tell you, wife, it did me good

To sing that hymn once more;

I felt like some wrecked mariner

Who gets a glimpse of shore.

I almost want to lay aside

This weather-beaten form,

And anchor in the blessed port,

Forever from the storm.

—John H. Yates

As long as I was taking care of business with the deeds office and Social Services, I stopped by the Sheriff’s Department and asked for Detective Smith. I wanted to tell him about Andy Bynum’s files, but I wasn’t any luckier there. The clerk on duty said she reckoned he ought to be back by two, though she wasn’t real sure, which left me at loose ends.

When I drove in that morning, large ragged patches of blue had begun to show through. Now, as I retrieved my car from beneath the courthouse live oaks at a little before one, the gray clouds had all turned white and they sailed clean and fresh against pure cerulean.

Ignoring the promises I’d made to my wounded face at dawn, I gingerly smoothed another layer of makeup over the scratches, dug a pair of oversized Jackie O. sunglasses out of my glove compartment, and drove down to Front Street. Might as well take F. Roger Longmire’s relayed blessing and enjoy Beaufort. There was a whole complex of shops right on the water that I hadn’t visited this trip, so I parked there and went inside.

From the luscious aroma that met me at the entrance, I could tell that the Fudge Factory was still doing business, but I resisted. At least, I resisted till I’d finished browsing in the Rocking Chair Book Store, where I picked up Glenn Lawson’s book on how the Army Corps of Engineers cooperates with business and agri-industries to despoil our wetlands (I wanted to see some facts and figures on the broader environmental issues), an ecological field guide to seacoast biota, and—in case the weekend dragged—a paperback mystery. Then, savoring a tiny square of still-warm fudge, I strolled along the boardwalk. At one point, I thought I saw Chet Winberry out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked back, whoever it was must have stepped into one of the shops.

Oddly enough, I did see someone I recognized. Zeke Myers, the stocky man who’d been so furious with Linville Pope about the boat she sold him, was leaning with his back against the railing and a dour expression on his face.

Pennants snapped in the wind, the smell of fried fish mingled with salt water, and knots of vacationers lingered along the walk to compare boats. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or disappointed when I realized that the Rainmaker was no longer among the gleaming craft tied up there. Part of me was miffed that Lev hadn’t called again, hadn’t turned up in my courtroom to apologize, hadn’t tried to move the moon and stars to lure me to his bed again before he left—not that it would have done him any good, of course.

(“Oh yeah?”)

The other part... well, the other part was academic, I told myself, since by now the Rainmaker was probably somewhere on a canal in the middle of the Great Dismal Swamp.

The parking lot was nearly full as I threaded my way around cars to stick the books in my trunk. A gentle tap of a horn made me look around.

“Hey, Deborah!” It was Linville Pope in a black convertible that I instantly coveted, sleek and sporty, with butterscotch leather interior. For me, I was probably looking at a whole year’s salary. For Linville, probably one commission on a sale.

She slowed to a crawl. “You are not by any miracle leaving, are you?”

“Sorry,” I said, slamming closed the trunk lid of my suddenly dowdy-looking car.

“Listen, if you are going to be around later, why not stop by my house for a quiet drink? Say five-ish?”

Without hesitating, I said, “Thanks, I’d love to.” I didn’t know what her ulterior motive was for asking, but I figured it might give me clues to whether Barbara Jean’s accusations had validity and whether Linville was the one I chased last night.

Cars had begun to pile up behind her, so Linville gave me a wave and kept moving.

The Rainmaker’s departure meant I no longer had to avoid the waterfront, and the deck at the Ritchie House looked so inviting with its pink umbrellas and white chairs and tables that I decided to have a late lunch there.

The main lunch crowd had departed, but half the tables were still filled with boat loungers who lingered over coffee or early drinks.

They are a class unto themselves, these rootless wanderers who have cut their ties to land and live year-round on the water, moving like schools of restless fish up and down the Intracoastal Waterway. Sit in any waterfront restaurant or lounge and you’ll see them drifting south in the fall, heading north in the spring. From huge sailing yachts to modest houseboats, they idle in on the changing tides, seldom straying further than a short stroll from the docks. The men in turtlenecks and gold-trimmed captain’s hats, the women suntanned and vivid in silk scarves and tailored slacks, like calls to like. They pull several tables together in saltwater camaraderie and speak of “the Vineyard,” Saint Croix, Hilton Head. Often they’re not quite sure whether they’re in North or South Carolina. The towns, the bars, the marinas must blend together over the years.

They remind me of migratory birds and I was bemused by their chatter and pleased when the waiter seated me near the railing where I could watch their coming and going. As I peered around the edge of the menu, I was startled to see Mrs. Docksider, Lev’s partner’s wife, heading across the deck toward me.

Did this mean that the Rainmaker was only out cruising around the sound?

“Judge Knott.” She was very thin and conveyed such porcelain fragility that I was surprised by her deep voice and strong Boston accent. “I’m Catherine Llewellyn, Lev Schuster’s partner.”