could see the whole, nearly straight line of the beach that terminated on the south with several acres of wind-bent oaks, and the private fishing pier on the north for Port Leo’s nursing home. The pier, she remembered, didn’t get much use, but two healthy-looking old ladies, their faces shadowed by big, neon-colored sun hats (one magenta, one turquoise), stood on the pier, trolling simple rigs with slack lines.
The elderly women reminded her of David, begging her to attend his Poppy’s party. David was looping a hook back into her flesh, securing it into her jaw, making sure she could not dash from whatever shadow he might cast across the water of her life.
She saw Heather Farrell easing herself down the mangy slope of grass to the flat of the hard-packed beach, a notebook under her arm, a sandwich in her hand, the girl chewing and tossing a scrap of crust to a hovering gull. Other gulls swooped near, pleading with cries, waiting for the generosity to be extended. Heather popped another two morsels upwards and then ran, leaving the gulls to sort out the buffet. She sat, kicked off her shoes and ate, keeping her feet just beyond the encroaching tide.
Claudia sat down next to her.
‘You wolfed that down,’ Claudia said. ‘You hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.’
Heather dusted the crumbs from her fingers with a quick slap. She tucked a fleck of mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth onto her thumb, then wiped her thumb on her jeans. ‘Do you always criticize other people’s table manners?’
‘We’re not at a table.’
‘Slap me. You really are a detective.’ Heather watched the Gulf inch toward her feet, then retreat. She kept the notebook close to her, on the other side from Claudia.
‘Brought this for you to sign.’ Claudia produced a statement. ‘Read it first and make sure it’s correct.’
Heather scanned the document and signed her name at the bottom. ‘There. Perfect. Satisfied?’
‘You sleep okay last night?’
‘Sure.’
‘Amazingly unrattled by finding a dead body.’
Heather dragged a hand through her hair. ‘What am I gonna do, run home to Lubbock?’
‘I can help you find a real place to stay.’
‘Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction, officer?’ Heather asked. No insolence laced her voice. ‘Little Mischief’s not in Port Leo proper.’
‘The sheriff’s department might consider you a vagrant. Heather. Camping out here.’ She could call David, ask him to check on this beach later this evening.
Heather shrugged. ‘I moved.’
‘Where to?’
‘A friend’s house.’ She wiggled toes at the froth of the surf as it kissed her heels. ‘Since you’re gonna ask me for all the details, her name’s Judy Cameron. She lives on the west side of Port Leo. I’m crashing there. So you don’t need to follow me around. I’m perfectly safe.’
‘Judy have a phone number?’
‘She didn’t pay the bill and got disconnected, but her address is still in the phone book. 414 Paris Street. Beige brick house with a motorcycle out front.’
‘Why don’t I give you a ride back there now?’
‘Why don’t you quit hassling me?’ Heather asked. ‘Look, I’m all warm and gooey inside from your concern, but I’m fine. I’m a grown woman.’
‘If there’s anything you haven’t told us about Pete’s death, you’re going to be hip-deep in trouble. I won’t be able to protect you then.’
‘Shouldn’t you have another cop here to play bad, if you’re good?’ Heather laughed. ‘You ought to watch more TV and get your shtick down.’
‘Why’d you buy Greyhound tickets this week? Two of them?’ Claudia asked.
Heather turned her gaze back out across the bay to the hump of Santa Margarita Island. ‘You’re a busy bee.’
‘It was easy to check.’
‘Judy and I thought we’d go to see friends in Houston. That okay with the local Nazi regime?’
‘I don’t want you leaving town before this inquest.’
‘You can’t expect me to wait around forever.’
Claudia fished a card out of her pocket. ‘In case Judy kicks you out.’ She jotted numbers on the card and handed it to Heather. ‘That’s got my home and my office number. And my ex-husband’s number – he’s a deputy with the sheriff’s department.’
‘He cute?’ Heather asked.
‘Very,’ Claudia said. ‘Call. I’m around twenty-four/ seven.’
‘I’ll program you on my speed dial. Thanks.’
Claudia dusted the sand from her rump and walked away. When she reached her car, she watched Heather sitting, notebook open, sketching with a pencil, the sunset painting the low clouds orange and purple, the light beginning to fade.
Two pelicans glided across St Leo Bay with graceful swoops, the tips of their wings barely brushing the water. Claudia watched them fly, and then she drove back to town.
The two old women lumbered inside the nursing home, their cackles of laughter drifting down the beach to Heather. A Caspian tern, squeaking its nasally call, dove down into the darkening water, its bill bloodred but not from prey. The tern shot back into the sky, wet, dinner-less. Heather watched it. You don’t always get what you want, babycakes. The tern tried again, farther out into the bay. Heather watched the surf-walking boy and the two chatting girls leave the beach. When she looked back out, the tern was gone. Shame. She opened to a blank page and began to sketch out the muscled wings, the probing beak, the egg-shaped head.
She stopped as the sun set behind her. She wished Sam were here, to drink red wine, cuddle up close to her, run his tongue along the backside of her ear. But he wasn’t coming. No escape from the Hubble guardians. No escape at all -
A hand grabbed her shoulder.
17
Whit Mosley and Faith Hubble had first made love – an altogether too kind term, considering the bourbon and muscle cramps involved – in July. They met at a wind-down party after three days of ShellFest, Port Leo’s annual salute to all things crustacean and culinary. Over ten thousand fairgoers, both locals and tourists, jammed the St Leo Bay area to guzzle beer, buy crafts, stomp to forgettable jazz and blues and country-western acts, and to deplete the shrimp and oyster populations through structured gluttony. Lucinda judged a shrimp recipe cook-off, glad-handed voters, and raced back to her Austin condo with Sam in tow to hear a classical piano concert at UT.
Faith didn’t. She lingered in town, hanging out at the Shell Inn, drinking bourbon in a back booth with a clutch of old high school girlfriends. The women’s group slowly merged with two more groups, which is what happens in a small bar where nearly everyone knows everyone else and has been drinking for three days. Tables were pushed together, drinks ordered again, and Faith sat next to Judge Whit Mosley. She vaguely remembered his brothers from her school days, knew he was the youngest of the wild and handsome pack of Mosley boys. Even though now a judge he dressed like a townie bum without two dimes, in his frayed, sun-faded orange polo shirt and weathered khaki shorts and Birkenstock sandals. But the legs leading to the sandals were nicely formed, and she liked his odd gray eyes and the direct and knowing way he smiled, not at all put off by her height or weight. She grinned at the quiet way he indulged the drunken boasts of his friends when the topic turned to fishing, not joining in but not deflating his buddies’ hackneyed tales, and although his polo shirt was old and the neon orange a color out of style, the chest and arms beneath the fabric were tanned and firm.
He didn’t look like any judge she ever knew.
She had been lonely for a long time, plowing all her time into Lucinda’s career, and no one had given her
