Tips for Living(33)
I pulled my hand out, alarmed, and felt Ben’s body stiffen. What was he doing walking around with a knife like that? Chill. You are a paranoid mess right now. I slid my hand back in.
Eventually we made a turn onto the straightaway that cut across a bay just outside of Pequod, a strip of flat, sandy land with nothing but seagrasses and water on both sides. The landscape looked so magical in the waning crimson-and-orange light that if I had even half of Hugh’s talent, I would paint it.
All that talent gone, I lamented, starting to slip into melancholy. Hugh would never paint again. But I recovered quickly, sat up tall and tightened my thighs around the saddle. Removing both hands from Ben’s pockets, I stretched my arms out to the sides, attempting to take in the striking beauty all around. I was perfectly balanced, thanks to Pilates. My core supple and strong. Ben opened the throttle, and we flew down the road with the wind at our backs. For a few short, ecstatic moments I forgot all my troubles. Then a dark thought swept in.
I might not ever feel this free again.
“Two-for-one hour” was just gearing up at the Tea Cozy. The cranberry-colored clapboard roadhouse used to be a tea parlor, though the Cozy has always served stronger brews than tea in its cups. Protected by a police department paid off by the gangster Dutch Schultz, it was the most popular of the “Rum Row” establishments that opened up near the coast during Prohibition. Mostly because Captain William McCoy, a rumrunner known for his high-quality giggle water, stocked its shelves. The Piqued like to encourage the myth that the phrase “the real McCoy” referred to the enterprising captain’s goods.
The Cozy lived up to its adjective. The main room had a stone fireplace, wood-beamed ceilings above wide-board pine floors and booths with small, shaded lamps on the tables. Yet from the moment I entered, despite the glowing hearth and warm decor, I felt a shiver so deep in my bones I had to keep my coat on.
Kevin Coates, the African American owner and a former state wrestling champ, signaled us from the far end of the busy bar as we walked into the room. Kevin is a leading member of Pequod’s small African American community. His roots go back to the years when escaped slaves came north and took tough and dangerous jobs on whaling ships alongside Native Americans and white men. Kevin is descended from one of those slaves who eventually became a whaling captain. The Coates family has seen a lot of social and economic upheaval in Pequod over almost two centuries. He wanted to talk about the murders.
“You hear anything off the record? Was it a botched robbery? A home invasion? Did someone have a big, fat grudge?”
Ben and I shook our heads. In an unspoken agreement, we feigned ignorance of anything that hadn’t already been reported. We certainly didn’t tell Kevin I’d been taken in for questioning.
“The police are being tight-lipped so far, Kev,” Ben said.
Kevin continued to speculate as Ben put in our order for two vodka tonics.
“If there’s a serial killer on the loose, we should form neighborhood watch committees like they did for that Zodiac Killer.”
A boozy woman sitting a couple of stools down the bar chimed in. “I’m going to the shelter tomorrow and adopting a pit bull.”
After a few more similarly anxious comments, we escaped to a booth in the back.
“People are really scared,” I said.
Ben’s expression darkened. “Yes, they are. These murders are going to create a lot of anxiety even after the killer is caught. We’re a small town. The sense of basic personal safety is gone.” He squinted and pointed under my eye. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what happened to your face?”
I touched the tender wound. “Nothing. Just scratched it with my nail.”
If I only knew for sure that was the case, I’d feel a lot less stressed.
“It looks angry. You should take care of it.”
“I will.”
We sat in awkward silence for a moment. I was grateful when Sinead O’Halloran-Rudinsky appeared with our drinks. A big-boned, muscular Irish lass in a black waitress uniform, Sinead wore her straight brown hair in a bowl cut. Unfortunately, it made her look a bit like a prison matron. She had come here from Dublin as an au pair and fallen in love with Tidy Pool Al the day he repaired her employer’s hot tub. With their twins in college and the two younger kids heading there soon, she works weekdays at the Pequod Savings Bank and weekend shifts here to earn extra cash. Somehow, she still makes it to our Pilates class.
“Hi, Sinead,” Ben and I said simultaneously.
“Evening, Ben, Nora,” she said, setting out the drinks. “A sick thing, these killings, isn’t it? You’d never dream this could happen in Pequod.” She reached out and touched my shoulder. “Nora, I know this must be hell for you. Even after that shite thing your ex did. And then Helene signing up for Pilates? That woman was shameless. I wanted to say something, but I took my cue from you. You were such a lady about it.”
I felt my face flush.
“So you knew who Helene was when she joined the class? You knew about her and my divorce?”
Sinead nodded. “I did. Lizzie Latham told me after the Walkers moved here.”
I turned to Ben, livid. “Did you hear that?”
“Easy, Nora . . .” Ben warned.
I drew in a slow, steady breath. “That’s just great.”
“What did I say?” Sinead asked, her face coloring.