The Pickle Boat House (17 page)

“Lord Almighty, I guess he would be upset, then, wouldn’t he?” Nurse Stewart said. “All right, then,” she said, and she smiled back at him in her own shy way. “I think it’s all right for you to go in, then. Just don’t tire him out—he needs his rest.”

McCall entered the hospital room to find Pickett hooked up to a skein of tubes and monitor wires. Hospitals freaked him out. He and his partner put their lives on the line every day, even in a small town like Nevis, and this was one place he wanted to stay the hell away from. He slowly approached the bed where the patient lay under a sheet not much whiter than his face. The old man didn’t move or acknowledge his visitor in any way.

“Mr. Pickett, I’m Officer McCall. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the night you got hurt, if you don’t mind.”

The old man opened his eyes and looked at the officer but didn’t say a word. He just frowned and continued to stare.

“May I have your full name, Mr. Pickett?” McCall asked.

“You just addressed me by name, you jackass. Get on with your questions,” Pickett growled through his clenched jaw. His dentures still floated in a glass beside the bed. His blazing eyes assured McCall that he was lucid enough to continue.

“Mr. Pickett, what were you doing the night of your attack?”

“I took Susie for a walk along the boardwalk, just like I do every night. Damn people walk their dogs along my property in front and ruin the grass. I don’t let my dog do that. Where’s Susie?”

“Susie’s fine. She is with your next-door neighbor, Ms. Hardy.”

For an instant, almost imperceptibly, the corners of Pickett’s mouth crept up. “She’d better take good care of her until I come and get her.” He struggled to sit up amid the tubes and wires but soon gave it up. “I’ll sue—”

“Yes, sir,” McCall interrupted. “I’ll tell her. Everything’s fine; Susie’s fine. Now, can you tell me what happened on the boardwalk when you were walking Susie? Did you see Earl Jackson, the man from New York?”

“I saw two men on the boardwalk … arguing. They were standing in the middle, blocking the way, ’specially the big guy. I was getting ready to give them a piece of my mind. Bastards, scaring my Susie! I pay taxes! I should be allowed to walk in town without having to walk around people. Sue all their asses! Yeah, I saw ’em. They were arguing. Big one cussing the little one out. The son of a bitch stabbed him and pushed him into the water. I tried to yell for help, but the pain in my chest … I couldn’t help the man. Oh, my God, the pain in my chest …” His hand went to his chest, and he began to gasp for air.

McCall grabbed his hand and drew in close to him. “Mr. Pickett,” he whispered, “who stabbed him?” Was it Ryan Thomas? Hector Young?”

“No, damn fool,” Picket whispered. “The biker—big guy, red beard … Rusty …”

Pickett’s hand went limp, his body gave a jerk, and the monitor at his bedside began to flash and beep. Suddenly, nurses, a crash cart, and emergency personnel materialized from nowhere, buzzing into the room like bees from a hive.

McCall found himself shoved out of the room and forced to stand in the corridor. His mind raced. A biker, and not just any biker. Rusty Clark, the biggest, meanest enforcer the Diablo biker gang ever had. More questions. Was this a chance encounter—wrong place, wrong time—or was there a connection between the New York man and the Diablos? McCall paced impatiently, drumming his fingers on his notepad, waiting for his chance to reenter the room. He approached the first nurse who came out the door: the same little nurse he had spoken with earlier.

“Excuse me, ma’am, Ms. Stewart,” he said. “It’s important that I finish up my conversation with Mr. Pickett. Will that be possible tonight?”

She looked up with her big brown eyes. I’m sorry, Officer, but I’m afraid Mr. Pickett just passed. He didn’t make it.” She gave a little half-stifled sob.

McCall’s eyes bulged as Ms. Stewart scurried on down the corridor. He watched her for a moment, then left the hospital, hat in hand and with no plan in mind.

* * *

For all McCall’s professionalism and thoroughness in investigating the case, he was smart enough to weigh the bang for the buck and consider calling it quits when the costs outweighed the benefits—especially the benefits to him personally. The Diablos and Rusty Clark were too much to chew without a live witness. Still, McCall was taken aback when, one afternoon, he received a call about the case.

“Meet me at Tenth and Walnut at two p.m. I have information about the Earl Jackson case. My client doesn’t like publicity.”

At Tenth and Walnut, a man of small build approached McCall and handed him a large envelope. “I think this will be enough to complete your investigation. The evidence inside exonerates Hector Young and supports a finding of accidental drowning.”

Officer McCall took the envelope and thumbed through the contents. Just as the man had predicted, the stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills attested to Mr. Young’s innocence and pointed instead to an accidental tumble into the cold waters of the Chesapeake Bay. “Looks just about right,” said McCall without missing a beat. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY
DADDY ISSUES

Van and Jean wasted no time searching for the missing descendants of Jeremiah Harwell. Van knew the documents housed in the courthouse well enough, but sharing the librarian’s limited expertise and time with other patrons made the search unproductive, especially when one voracious researcher kept the librarian in constant motion.

Van put her head down on the stack of books and crossed her arms over her head. “Jean, I have run out of options,” she said. “I don’t even know where else to look. Maybe I should try to hire someone to pick up the trail. I’m thinking … See the lady at that front table over there? Nice clothes, expensive jewelry?”

“Yeah, I’ve been hating on her a while, too.”

Van laughed quietly. “Besides that. Dressed like that, she’s obviously not from around here. She’s kept the librarian hoofing, using some of the same resources that we have. Some documents haven’t even been filed back before she has them at her table. She’s doing genealogical research, too.”

Jean watched the woman for a moment, then whispered, “Maybe we—meaning
you,
of course—should strike up a conversation with her.”

“I love the way you think,” said Van, and she got up from their table and walked over to where the stranger sat.

“Excuse me, I hate to bother you,” she said. “I couldn’t help but notice some of the references you’re using. Are you a genealogist?”

The woman looked up and laughed. “I am. May I help you with something?” Her voice was quiet and polished, and she exuded a confidence and authority that was a bit intimidating. Van took an instant liking to her.

“May I sit?” Van asked. The woman nodded. “I promise I won’t keep you; I can tell you’re very busy. I’ve been working on a difficult area in my family tree, and I’ve hit a brick wall. I need to make a connection between two individuals, and I just can’t find
anything
. I’ve been through all the wills and land records that I can think to search, used every online genealogical site I can find, and still nothing. I couldn’t help but notice, you look so good at it. I thought maybe you could suggest what else I might do before I break down and hire a pro. I apologize for being so bold. Normally I’m not at all forward with strangers, but this is so important, and genealogy seems to be a sharing sort of hobby.” She trailed off into a whisper and a nervous, hopeful smile.

The woman laughed again. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a sharing hobby for me. It’s how I make my living. I’m a professional researcher.” She extended a beautifully manicured hand. “Margaret Douglas.”

Van shook her hand. “Vanessa Hardy. Everybody calls me Van. Nice to meet you.”

“In what time frame are you running into problems? It’s local history?”

“First, if you’re a professional researcher, then time is money to you. Can I pay you for your time?”

“No, that’s all right. I can’t help you too much, anyway. I’m working for a client right now. But I could use a short break. So what do you have?”

Van heard the sharp intake of Peggy’s breath as Van spread her extensive Ahnentafel chart across the table and traced down through the names, explaining as she went. She felt a surge of pride in all that she had found and documented on her family.

“I’m trying to make a connection between a Jeremiah Harwell and William Harwell. They both lived and died in the Nevis area in the seventeen hundreds. I can trace my line back to William but can find nothing to support his being the son of Jeremiah. There wasn’t a huge population in Nevis back then, but William just seems to come out of nowhere, like he’s from outer space.”

Leaning forward on her elbows, Peggy studied the chart for a while before she spoke again. “This is so extensive, I’m afraid … it might take me a little bit longer than I thought, just to take this all in. Forgive, me, I really underestimated you. You’re much better at this than the average researcher.” She gave another smile that could light up a room. “Would you be willing to let me take a copy of these and study them before I give you any advice?”

“I would be absolutely thrilled to give you a copy and let you do that. I really do appreciate your help, and as I said, I’m more than willing to pay you.”

“Oh, no, not necessary. Your tree looks very interesting. I’m in the middle of something, but I’ll see if I can help you. Give me a couple of days.”

Van copied all her documents and gave them to Peggy with her phone number. She gave Jean a smug little look as they left for home. This was going to pan out. She just knew it.

* * *

Peggy spread Van’s documents out again on the table in front of her and started circling names and dates. After a while, she began nodding in agreement with a remembered conversation, and a slow smile spread across her face. She grabbed her phone from her purse and autodialed. It was a short, efficient conversation in whispery tones.

Peggy made a series of notes before requesting additional references from the front desk, backtracking over some of the reference materials used by Van and Jean. She worked another couple of hours before packing everything up and leaving the courthouse. Outside, she paused and surveyed the parking lot. He was late. No sooner had she settled on one of the benches than she caught sight of a small blue sports car zipping up to the building. The car came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the steps. Peggy got in on the passenger side. But then she slid all the way across the seat, wrapped her arms around the driver’s neck, and smacked him full on the lips.

“Hey, sweetie. When I didn’t see your car I thought maybe you might not be coming.” She looked up tentatively at her boyfriend.

“Leave you sitting here all alone? Not a chance. You know that by now, Maggie, baby. Missed you so much.” The driver leaned in and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

Peggy pulled back and giggled, her lips quivering around the kiss. “I love you, too,” she said, caressing his cheek with her hand. She dropped her hand to his, where it remained for the rest of the drive.

“You realize you’re the only one who calls me Maggie?”

“Because I’m the only one who truly appreciates how wonderful you are.”

She laughed. “Where are we going for dinner?”

“Anywhere my baby wants. Fasten your seat belt,” said Hector, and he floored the gas pedal, spewing gravel and dust in his wake as he headed out Route 261 away from Nevis.

They chose an out-of-the-way restaurant in a small strip mall a short distance out of town. Choosing a table away from the door, Hector seated her first and then took her hand in his as he sat.

“How’ve you been?” he said. “Like I said, I’ve missed you.”

“I’m having the best time in this little courthouse. The same names keep popping up over and over again: births, marriages, children, land sales, death, wills, estate inventories. I feel like I know them personally. You can trace a person’s entire life three hundred years ago. It’s fascinating! I think I’ll find what I’m looking for—I’m flying through records.”

“You know, don’t you, that the longer it takes you, the longer we can be together? I can’t see you when we get back to New York. Nothing’s changed. I should already be back there, but I think I can juggle that for a little while, before anyone starts looking for me.”

“He still won’t change his mind?”

“Nope.”

“If he hates me so much, why doesn’t he fire me?”

Hector began to sneer. “Oh, you’re good enough to work for the company—just not good enough to date his son.”

“You could defy him.”

Hector laughed. “He’d disown me, and then you wouldn’t want me. I’d be a penniless nobody.”

Peggy gave him a disgusted look. “You know that isn’t true, and I don’t care about the money. I’ll always love you. You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.” She began playing with the straw in her water glass. “We could just disappear and start a life somewhere else.” She looked up at him with earnest eyes, full of hope.

“Maggie, seriously, we could never run far enough.”

“You really think he’d find us?”

“I know he would. My father never loses. It’s the whole point to his life.”

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings with this,” she said. “So don’t get mad, okay? Why don’t you stand up to him? Are you so afraid of him?”

“Absolutely. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m terrified of the bastard, of what he could do to me—and to you—if he knew we were still together. You have no idea.”

They sat in silence—he in anger and pain, she unable to understand or empathize.

“Ah, Maggie, Maggie,” Hector said, taking her hand, “let’s talk about something else. I don’t want to talk about anything but us. Live in the now with me, lovely Maggie,” he teased, trailing kisses up her hand.”

Maggie smiled but automatically withdrew her hand as the waiter approached to take their order. Hector ordered rack of lamb for each of them, to be followed by Smith Island cake for dessert. Waiting for the meal was a pleasure as they got lost in the private bubble of their relationship. It seemed too short a time when the waiter returned bearing a plate of lamb.