Elcira

The Cranberry Farm, Cranberry, CT 1833

Elcira closes the potting shed door and locks it with the key from the hook on the main house door. She taps on the door twice and then once. She waits for the response. One tap, a pause, and then two. Good. Now, they need to keep quiet. At least it won’t be too hot in there, with the late spring breezes from the North carrying the sweet aroma of fresh-cut hay from the stables and surrounding fields.

The birds know.

They are witnesses. From a distance, they call to one another to spread the word so that all know to stay away. She sees them circling the fields, respectfully keeping their distance from the barn, even now, months after the incident. The field mice were safe for a while, but no longer. The birds have mustered up the courage to return. Now that the hawks and vultures make their way homeward or off to their next meals, everything is returning to normal, or almost everything. Some secrets need to stay locked away, hopefully for good.

The sparrows come first. They like having no competition. Like the mice, they did not have to worry about what might be hanging around in rafters or on rooftops.

Elcira steps into the lilacs, letting the pillows of fragrance slip over her face like a veil. She closes her eyes for a quick respite to reflect on the day Chester planted this yellow variety, one of the seven hues along this border, protecting the shed from the prying eyes of neigh-boring farmers and others who chance to come by to transact business or lodge a complaint. More of the latter these days than the former since the incident. But those visitors are not the ones she is concerned about today. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the refreshing aroma of life for her and the bees rushing to carry the first buckets of nectar back to their hives near the pond.

The snort of her neighbor’s Morgan startles her. The riderless horse, still bearing its bridle but no saddle, nestles up to her.

“What are you doing here, Charlie? Did the colonel send you?” she asks, rubbing her hand on his snout. She grabs the reins of the chestnut-colored beauty and walks him to the well. “Want some water?”

She lets the bucket down with a splash and pulls it up using the crank. She places it before him. While the horse drinks, she pulls on the reins to position him closer to the well, lifts her skirt, and places her boot on the stone wall to boost herself onto Charlie’s back.

“Good boy,” she says, patting his neck. “Let’s take you home now.” It’s not a long ride. The colonel’s home used to be part of the farm,

closer to the road than the main farmhouse.

When Colonel Daniel Townsend returned to Connecticut after the war with Britain, known as the Second War for Independence, in 1815, he was a lieutenant, already married and with a child. Elcira remembers her mother talking about these eligible militiamen in his charge.

Go with your father, Ellie. You are the one who can ride like the wind. Your sisters cannot impress a young militiaman like you can. Besides, you are like me. You need to feel the breeze in your hair.

Her mom was especially fond of the looks of this dashing young man who would come to the horse farm to do business with her husband. Mom always dressed to attract the eyes of men and women alike. Elcira remembers the way men looked at her, even married men, like Townsend. Elcira’s father provided the U.S. Army and the Connecticut Militia with Morgan horses, one of which was Charlie’s father. Elcira learned to ride at an early age, but Mother taught her to ride bareback, like a man, not like a lady. It’s all about keeping your skirt between you and him. Good advice for more than horses.

The ride to the cottage at the edge of the property is not long, nor is it difficult to negotiate, so long as the ground is hard and not awash in mud like it is today. A gallop would not be advised if one wants to keep from looking like a pig in its pen.

At the house, Elcira dismounts and ties Charlie to the post near the back door. She hears men talking inside. Sneaking around to the screen and peering in, she sees Deborah, nanny to her children and daughter of the colonel’s freed slave, standing with her hands folded in front of her.

“Can you present evidence of birth, Colonel?” asks a husky-voiced male, out of sight.

“Of course, I can,” says Townsend, his voice polite but with a hint of authority only the colonel could convey. “I find this visit most disturbing, gentlemen and lady.”

“The likes of her need to follow the rules, or they’d be subjected to a fine whipping, and a fine, that’s right, isn’t it, Constable?”

One doesn’t need to get too close, nor would one want to, to recognize the lisp and slurred speech of the country store owner, Mabel Crossan. What is she up to now? Deborah has been working here since Elcira’s first child was born, and she has lived with the colonel since birth. Why would they be questioning her legitimacy now, when she is about to give birth to her child, Chester’s child? Maybe that’s it. Mabel wants to know who the father is. If she knew what Chester had done to Deborah, maybe she would accuse Deborah of killing him, instead of Elcira.

Mabel has tried to keep her away from her store for years since Deborah was able to take her first steps. But Deborah’s mom was one to be reckoned with, even though she was born a slave. Those who

didn’t love her feared her, and she was good friends with the colonel’s wife. That was the kind of friendship Mabel despised.

“Perhaps if you just show us what proof of age you have, Colonel, we can get on our way. A birth certificate, perhaps?” A second male voice, higher in pitch than the first, sounds like the pastor.

“You all have known Deborah all her life. Why question this now? You must realize how odd this is, given the Gradual Emanci-pation Act grants freedom to women who turn twenty-one after March first of 1784. God grant you wisdom. Forgive me, Pastor. But this is 1833. As you can easily see, Deborah is pregnant with her first child. If she was forty-eight years old, would she be in that state?”

“I see your point, Colonel, but there have been reports of slaves coming North without having been freed, and we do have to abide by the law, which requires a pass when traveling.” The Pastor steps into the light. A halo of red hair makes the top of his head glow like the moon in the slightest light.

“So, that’s what this is about? A pass is required when traveling from town to town, not for transport within one’s own jurisdic-tion. Have you forgotten what my role is, Pastor? Admit it. You’re conducting a witch hunt.”

“Can’t you do something, Constable?” asks Mabel of Tucker. “You’re the law here, not the colonel. Maybe we should come back when he’s not here.”

Elcira opens the door and enters. “Deborah, I need you to mind the children. Their lessons are just about completed.”

“Oh, lookie here,” says Mabel, standing at the front door with her arms folded and her black, ankle-length dress looking like death personified, “The Widow Murderess herself.”

Elcira holds the door open for Deborah. “I believe you can accept the sworn testimony of two respectable individuals who can attest to her age. Isn’t that correct, Constable Tucker? I’m one, and Colonel Townsend is the other. Now, if you don’t mind, we have work to do. This is a big farm that we manage here.”

“We?” asks Mabel, “Listen to her. I will not rest until this town is rid of the likes of you.”

“And just who do you mean, Mabel?” asks Townsend. “Surely you don’t mean the negroes. Once they all have their freedom, they will no longer be restricted to where they can go.”

Mabel looks at Elcira, then Deborah. “Stay out of my store.” “Come on, Mabel,” says the constable. “There is nothing we can do here.”

As they leave, Colonel Townsend nods, pulling on his beard. “They are going to be trouble.”

“Yes,” says Deborah, her right hand on her extended belly. “What got her started?”

Townsend places his hand on Deborah’s hand. “They are convinced this little one is mine. They would love to have me relocated elsewhere in the state.”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” says Deborah. “Thanks for letting Charlie come and get me,” says Elcira. “He loves you. He always has,” says the colonel.

“I had better let our guests out of the shed before it gets too hot in there.”

Elcira walks up the road to the house and stops at the potting shed, clutching the brass key in her hand, wishing she had the second one they found on Chester’s body. She could have another key made or have the lock changed, but that would raise eyebrows and create suspicion. It is bad enough that witch Mabel has given her the moniker Widow Murderess. The fact that this key was found on the hook in the house should have eliminated all doubt of her innocence, but some just won’t let sleeping dogs lie.

Elcira

Mommy, Deborah’s sick!” Susie runs barefoot from the house, shouting.

Elcira drops the basket of provisions for the kitchen back in the cart. “Is Mrs. Ryan there? She can help her.”

“She won’t,” says Susie.

“Stay there,” says Elcira. “I’m coming.” She won’t help her? What’s all this about?

The children are all on the floor surrounding Deborah. The older ones know what is happening, while the three youngest, Sally, Wally, and Tubby, have no memory of Mommy giving birth. Sally was old enough, but Mrs. Ryan managed the whole process while she took her nap, so she missed all the excitement and beauty.

“Mrs. Ryan?” Elcira runs to the center of the house to find her cook, cleaning woman, and occasional midwife stirring a pot hanging from the tripod in the fireplace. “Did I hear correctly? You won’t help Deborah.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cranberry. I can’t.” She puts the ladle on the tiled table and wipes her hands on her apron. “It’s bad enough she’s in this house all day with those children. I can’t be seen helping her give birth.”

“And who is going to see you?” Elcira looks around. “Where’s Agnes?”

“She can’t do what I can do for her,” says Mrs. Ryan. “She’s just learning how to cook.”

“She could get Colonel Townsend.” Elcira runs to Deborah’s side and wipes her brow with her skirt. “Felix, go run down and fetch Colonel Townsend.”

The oldest, a scrappy nine-year-old with curly brown hair and pants too short for his legs, jumps up and runs, also barefoot.

“Will someone go find Agnes?” asks Elcira. Susie points out the door to the outhouse.

“Go get her. Make sure she’s cleaned up, and you two will help me with Deborah.”

“Is she gonna die, Mommy?” asks her second-oldest son, a lanky seven-year-old with longer hair than his brothers.

“No, Marty. We are going to bring a new life into this world, Deborah’s very own child.” Elcira feels the mixture of fear and anger rise up to fill her eyes, making everything look dreadful and watery. Damn you, Chester.

Deborah lifts her head and reaches for Elcira’s hand. She mouths the word, Sorry.

After all these months, wishing this day would not come, Elcira needs to face the fact that Deborah is giving birth to Chester’s child. If the child looks like Deborah, with dark skin and similar features, they will be able to adjust. It will be just like any other Negro child born on the farm, and all will be fine. But, if the child has his father’s features?

She can’t let herself think of anything else. This will go well, and all will be well.

“You boys are going to help prepare this room for the arrival of Deborah’s baby. Marty, go get two clean sheets out of the closet. Sally, grab a broom and sweep all this dirt out the door, and don’t make a cloud of dust.”

“I’ll help,” says Tootsie, scratching her leg where she was stung by a bee.

“Don’t scratch that, Tootsie. I told you what could happen,” says Elcira. “Grab a sheet and follow behind your brother to keep the dust from returning to the room.”

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen is Mrs. Ryan.

“Is it against your religion or whatever is keeping you from being human to tell us what to do so we don’t lose this child?” Elcira’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

Mrs. Ryan turns around and goes back into the kitchen.

“Fine,” says Elcira. Dear Lord, find it in your gracious heart to slap some sense into that woman.

The boys return with the clean sheets and spread them alongside Deborah, where their brother and sister swept the floor.

“Deborah,” says Elcira, “you must help us now. We’ll get you onto the sheets, but we will do it by lifting your legs and turning you around.” Elcira angles Deborah so that the back of her head is all Mrs. Ryan will see from the kitchen. Elcira will be able to quickly wrap the baby in a sheet and keep it out of sight, if she has to. Mrs. Ryan has refused to help, so she will not be the first to see the baby. Will Elcira be able to keep her from seeing it at all? She will if she has to. The longer she can keep the gossip hounds at bay, the better.

Susie returns with Agnes in tow. Agnes, a stocky girl with blond hair and bright blue eyes, looks like an angel in her cream-colored dress and white apron. But instead of an angelic voice, no sounds come out when she opens her mouth. Agnes has not spoken since the bandits killed her parents. That was three years ago. The schoolteacher, Mrs. Crane, adopted her, but it is far from the best of all possible arrangements for Agnes who needs to be around children and needs to have responsibilities. The Cranes treat her like a child, protecting her from life itself. When Agnes completed her studies at the end of last summer, Elcira gave her a job as Mrs. Ryan’s assistant. Now, Elcira wonders if Mrs. Ryan has neglected that job as well. The murder of Agnes’ parents has gone unsolved. Sometimes, it can be a blessing, like the unsolved murder of Chester, but even then, the situation comes at a price. The Widow Murderess. People seem content to let old wounds fester around here.

“Agnes, honey,” says Elcira, “sit here and hold Deborah’s head in your lap. When she lifts her hands over her head, hold on to them with all your might. You’re a strong girl. You can do this.”

Agnes nods and smiles. She will be too busy to notice much. She is good at concentrating on one thing at a time, and her body will shield Deborah and the baby from Mrs. Ryan, who most likely will avoid getting too close.

Felix returns. “Well?” asks Elcira.

“He isn’t there. His horse is gone, too.” Felix squeezes himself between his sisters.

“He had to go into town,” says Deborah, straining to talk. “Move over, I want to see,” says Elcira to Felix.

“Mom!” Suzie bends forward, staring between Deborah’s legs. Deborah lets out a moan, raises her hands, and Agnes grabs them, holding tight.

“Stop fussing behind me. Boys on the right, girls on the left. Now.

Felix, keep them in line.”

They line up and kneel, legs tucked under them, sitting on their heels.

Elcira lifts Deborah’s legs, bends them at the knee, and holds them. “Susie, you hold this foot here and don’t let it slip. Tootsie, you do

the same on this side. Now, we’re ready.”

As they count out the minutes between contractions, stomachs growl, and tongues run across their lips. The aroma of garlic, onions, beef, and allspice makes its way from the pot on the hearth to their noses.

Deborah’s moans and pushes are more frequent now, and every-one’s brows, including Agnes’, are wet. She looks into Elcira’s eyes, making a connection she will never forget. Elcira wonders if the girl keeps a journal. She knows she can read and write.

The hours pass quickly as each one includes more frequent moans and pushes until something starts to appear. The boys lend their hands to their sisters to keep Deborah’s legs planted so Deborah won’t slip.

“I see the head,” says Elcira, trying not to get too excited, but unable to contain her emotions.

“Ooooh,” says Deborah, taking a breath after the last big push. “Work twice as hard,” says Elcira, placing her hands on either side of the emerging head. “Now. Push!”

One long, painfully loud moan fills every corner of the room. Mrs. Ryan sticks her head out of the kitchen and watches. Elcira can feel her eyes on her, but she needs to focus.

“Agnes, push against Deborah to help her push.”

Another moan, even louder and longer, suddenly ends in panting as the baby’s body emerges, slowly at first, and then in a swoosh once the shoulders appear.

Elcira quickly wraps the baby entirely in the sheet and cradles it close.

“You need to cut the cord,” says Mrs. Ryan. “I can do that.” “No,” says Elcira, “you focus on dinner. I have this.” Deborah looks worried, and then the baby cries.

Everyone sighs.

“It’s a boy,” says Elcira.

All the children stare at the red-stained newborn, wanting to see his face. Elcira cleans him off and takes him away.

“Mom? What are you doing?” asks Susie, jumping up to follow her to a table in the corner of the room.

“Go get some fresh water from the well and bring it here.” Elcira turns around. “Agnes, continue to hold Deborah. Tootsie, cover Deborah’s legs. Boys, just stay where you are.”

Elcira stands between the baby and the rest of the people in the room and stares into the big brown eyes of the newest member of the Cranberry family, Chester’s son.

“Mom,” whispers Susie as she returns with the water. “He’s white.” “He’s your brother.” Now, everything changes.

Felix

The second floor of the Cranberry farmhouse bursts into activity before the rising of the sun, while the downstairs has been busy for hours. The smell of baked bread drifts up the

stairs to tickle the noses of the children, drawing them out of their slumber and drawing them down the stairs as if in a trance. Felix, the oldest, is the last to venture down, for it’s his turn to gather up the chamber pots. Being the strongest, he transfers the contents to a large bin, which he carries down and to the outhouse in two trips. With seven children, one’s turn should only come once a week, but the younger ones must pair off with someone older.

Felix waits at the top of the stairs, holding the large bucket with both hands on the handle. He keeps the top closed until the last minute, and then when Tootsie and Sally head for the stairs, he pops the top open and shoves it close to them.

Screaming, they race down with Felix bounding after them, laughing. “Felix,” shouts Mom from her room at the end of the hall, “I

know what you’re doing. Stop teasing your siblings.”

After emptying the bucket, Felix climbs the stairs. All of them have come down, and he can hear them chattering at the table.

The door to Mom’s room is closed, as it used to be when Father was alive. He wouldn’t dare knock but would wait patiently until the door opened.

“Are you spying on us?” Father would growl at him. “No, sir. I’m just waiting to empty the pots.”

Felix would feel his knees weaken when his father spoke to him. Even now, almost a year after his murder, Felix shakes at the closed door. He knows it’s because Deborah is in the other bed with Henry in the basket near her, but the memories are hard to forget.

The door opens.

“Good morning, darling,” says Mom, kissing him on the forehead. “Can I see him?” Felix asks.

Deborah is dressed and standing before the mirror, combing her hair. Her skin glistens in the light of the oil lamp.

Felix walks around the bed, stepping carefully as if a sound would cause the little one to cry.

“He’s getting big,” says Felix. “They grow fast, don’t they?” Deborah chuckles.

“You were once that size,” says Mom, tying a scarf around her neck. “All of you were in that very basket.”

“Really?”

Felix kneels next to the basket and peels back the blanket from Henry’s chin. Big eyes study Felix’s face, and little pink hands grab the air between them. Felix looks closely at Henry’s skin and then back at Deborah.

“Are they always this light when they’re born?” he asks.

Deborah turns and kneels beside him. “Not always,” she says. “He’s special that way.”

“Special?” Felix looks into her eyes. “What makes him special?” “He has all of you as his family.”

Felix looks at his mom and then back at Deborah. “Are you going to be living here now?”

“Let’s go down to breakfast, and we can all talk about that,” says Mom. “Deborah and Henry will join us in a little while. Henry needs his breakfast first.”

“Oh,” says Felix, remembering how mom fed the little ones. As he leaves the room, he hears Deborah singing softly.

None of the other children understand except Susie. She was the one who saw Dad with Deborah in the barn. Felix was the only one she told. At first, he didn’t know what to make of it all.

Now, Mom is explaining how much better it will be to have Deborah live here in the house rather than be alone in the Colonel’s house when he’s away.

“Can’t she stay there when he’s home and here when he’s away?” asks Sally, wiping snot from her nose with his sleeve.

“It’s just easier this way,” says Mom. “Besides, we love Deborah, don’t we?”

Everyone cheers.

“Good,” she says, “it’s settled, then.”

Deborah comes down the stairs alone. “Agnes is with him,” she says, taking her seat at the table with a family member.

Felix spots Mrs. Ryan staring at Deborah from the kitchen. He looks over at Mom and sees that she sees her as well.

Deborah reaches for the plate of eggs. “Does anyone want some more?”

“Me, me,” says Wally, holding his plate up.

She scrapes the last of it onto his plate and holds the empty plate out for Mrs. Ryan. “Could we have some more eggs, please, Mrs. Ryan?”

Mrs. Ryan looks at Elcira and walks into the kitchen without taking the plate.

Felix can hear her say, “That’s all there is.”

“Mrs. Ryan,” says Elcira, “did you not hear Deborah?” “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, ma’am.”

Elcira stands and walks to the kitchen door while Felix clears the empty plates from the table. “There’s something wrong with your manners.”

“I’m not the one who lets Negroes sit with family at table.”

“I suppose you don’t. Deborah is family. And you will serve her the way you serve me, or you can leave.”

Pots and lids bang, followed by Mrs. Ryan exiting the kitchen, tossing her apron on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” says Deborah.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” Elcira picks up the apron and puts it on. “Felix, run to the hen house and get some fresh eggs. Susie, slice some bread and toast it on the grill in the fireplace. Deborah, sit back and relax. Welcome to the Cranberry household.” After breakfast, it’s time for chores. Mom takes one of their school slates and writes down what each child is responsible for. Instead of writing out their names, she lists the days of the week. Each child knows which day of the week they represent. Sunday is Susie, Monday is Marty, Tuesday is Tootsie, Wednesday is Wally, Thursday is Tubby,

Friday is Felix, Saturday is Sally.

Felix helps the younger ones read the chart, and he recalls the song Deborah taught them about the days of the week. The actual chores change day by day and week by week. The seedlings turn to plants, the colts learn to be led, the chicks become hens, and the apple blossoms become fruit.

Ushering them off, he turns to watch his mom and Deborah clear the table.

“I can do that,” he says.

Deborah reaches for him and hugs him. “You are becoming a man.”

“Why do you say that?” Felix looks at his mom, confused. Deborah walks up the stairs. “Time to check on Henry and

Agnes.”

Elcira comes over to him and rubs his head. “What?”

“I’m going to need your help with this place.”

“But Mom.” He lets her pull him close. “I’m only nine.”

Deborah

Deborah gathers the muslin cloths she uses to wrap Henry and soaks them in the boiling water in the large copper kettle hanging from the iron tripod in the hearth. After they boil

for a while, she uses a long wooden stick to lift them out of the water and place them in a smaller pot to soak overnight. Using a knife, she shaves the bar of lilac soap into the water. Tomorrow, she will scrub, boil, rinse multiple times and wring them out before hanging them to dry in the sun.

The younger children watch with wide eyes, taking turns stirring the water with the stick to make the soap dissolve.

“It smells nice,” says Sally, sniffing the bar of soap.

“Yes, we’ll need to make more soap soon. Keeping all of you in clean clothes is hard work.” Deborah takes the pot and sets it out of the way in a corner of the main room, so it won’t be disturbed with the normal bustle of the kitchen.

“Can I empty the kettle?” asks Felix.

“It’s too hot and too heavy for you,” says Elcira, entering with Henry in her arms. She hands him to Deborah. “I cleaned him up and wrapped him in fresh muslin.”

“Thank you.” Deborah takes her son into the other room to nurse him. “You don’t have to care for him. That’s my job.”

“And you helped me with my job for all seven of mine,” says Elcira. “Mommy, was I that small?” asks Tootsie, leaning over Henry as

he suckles.

“You were all that small, even smaller. He’s growing fast. By the Fall, he’ll be following you around.”

“I remember you crawling after me everywhere I went.” Felix says to Tootsie. “I had to run upstairs to get away from you.”

“And you would cry,” says Deborah. “What a loud cry that was, too.” “Me?” asks Tootsie. “How come Henry doesn’t cry?”

“He does,” says Deborah, “but not like you. He’s a very happy baby.” “Mom, wasn’t I a happy baby?” asks Tootsie.

“You were all happy babies.”

“Not so much now,” says Felix, poking his sister in the side. “Come on, we have chores to do. We need to cut up some turnips and bring them to the horses.”

“Can I go too?” asks Marty.

“What does it say on the slate?” asks Felix.

Marty picks up the slate from the desk against the wall and reads, “Hay for the horses.”

“Come with us to the root cellar, and we’ll go with you to the silo.” “Take the pushcart,” says Elcira.

Deborah stares at her baby’s lips. They seem larger as he suckles her breast, big, pink lips around her near-black nipple. She puts her head in her hand. “He looks more like yours than mine,” she says to Elcira when the children are all out and about.

“You are safe here.”

“That’s not what I mean. Will it help him or hurt him?” A tear forms, and she lets it fall onto her cheek. “If we want to pass him, now would be the time.”

“Pass him? You mean say he’s mine and not yours?” “It would go better for him, wouldn’t it?”

“This was Chester’s doing, so he’s already part of this family through him. I will never turn my back on Henry or you. If the truth comes out, we will both be in jeopardy.” Elcira pulls a chair over and sits beside Deborah. She touches Henry’s cheek.

“Some think the Colonel is his father. He hasn’t denied it because he cares about me, but it can hurt him.” Deborah bites her lip. “I don’t know what to do.”

“When is he coming back?” asks Elcira. “We can talk to him.” “His regiment is on some mission throughout the state. He may

not be back for weeks.”

“A lot can happen in that time. We’ll think of something.” Felix, Marty and Tootsie run in, gasping for breath.

“The lock is broke,” says Tootsie.

“Someone broke into the root cellar,” says Felix.

“It’s all gone,” says Marty. “And the hay, too. The silo is empty.” “The only hay we have is what’s in the barn,” says Felix.

Elcira jumps out of the chair and grabs her rifle. “Watch them,” she says to Deborah.

“What are you going to do?” asks Deborah.

“I’m going to take two of the men and go see the constable.” “You know he would love an excuse to come back here and look

around,” says Deborah.

“I know. But they need to know I’m serious and not afraid of them.” Elcira heads toward the stable to get her horse and the men.

Deborah lifts Henry up and covers herself. “Agnes, please come and take Henry.”

“What are you going to do?” asks Felix.

“We’re going to take the wagon and visit a friend.” Deborah hands Henry to Agnes and turns to Felix. “Find your brothers and sisters and meet me at the barn.”

The ride into town to find the constable and return with him will take Elcira at least two hours, plenty of time to get to Shady Farm, on the New York side of the border between the states.

“Where are we going?” asks Susie, sitting beside Deborah in the wagon.

“I have family nearby. They own a small farm in New York.” “New York? Is that far?” asks Wally.

“Not far,” says Felix. “We learned that it’s the next state over from Connecticut.”

“That’s right,” says Deborah, talking loudly so the children in the back can hear. “My dad moved us here when I was your age.”

“Is it like our farm?” asks Tubby.

“Not nearly as big, but it has a stream flowing through it, and I remember catching fish in it. There’s also a big hole in the ground that we called a cave.”

All the way, Deborah keeps them occupied with stories of her childhood. She avoids the toll roads, keeping to the dirt roads, making the trip longer.

As they approach the farm, the children pile up close to each other to look.

“Hello!” shouts a tall, thin negro man in overalls. “Who are all these beautiful children? And what can I do for you?”

“I’m Deborah Townsend from Old Cranberry, Connecticut, and we need some root vegetables and hay for our horses and pigs.”

“I’m sure we can help with that. I don’t believe we have an account set up with you. Will that be cash or credit? Or maybe we can negotiate a trade?”

“A trade would be perfect. We have some lovely Morgan horses, as well as some hogs,” says Deborah.

“And we have chickens,” says Sally. “Lots of chickens, hens with eggs.”

“Well, why don’t you all come down to the barn? We can work this out,” he says, smiling as though they have known each other their whole lives. “You said, Townsend? That wouldn’t be Colonel Townsend, would it?”

“Yes, it would,” says Felix.

“Well, well, he’s an old friend. In fact, my cousin and his family went to work for him years back.”

“That would be me,” says Deborah.

“Well, why didn’t you say you’re family?” He wraps his arms around her and pats Tubby on the belly. “Let’s get some food in you folks and do some business.”

After a relatively long and pleasant visit, they return with a wagon full of turnips, potatoes, carrots, squash, and hay. Sitting in the back with the hay makes all the children itchy. But they couldn’t be happier to pull up and see their mom and two of the farm hands talking with Constable Tucker.

“Your mom doesn’t look so happy, Susie. You all better jump off and run into the house. I’ll take this to the root cellar and barn.”

“I can help,” says Felix.

“Then you stay. The rest of you go inside and stay there.” Deborah directs the horse around to the barn and steps down.

As long as she stays here, Constable Tucker will stay away. He doesn’t need to investigate this barn again. That incident is history.

She has been in the barn many times with the children over several months. She often needed their help since her growing belly kept her from bending. While watching Felix unload the hay today, she senses something is bothering him. He keeps his head low when he is near her, and occasionally, he turns quickly as if someone is behind him.

“What’s wrong, Felix?” she asks, carrying a basket of onions from the wagon to a smaller handcart.

“I’m fine,” he says, but he is not convincing.

She walks over to the bales of hay he just stacked and leans against them. “Come,” she says, patting the hay, “sit here and talk to me.”

He hesitates, taking each step slowly and cautiously. She pats the hay bale again, but he doesn’t sit. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

“Does what bother me, Felix?” She thinks he knows what he is asking, but she wants to hear him say it.

“Is this where Dad-? Does it bother you to be here?” “I’ve been here with you many times, Felix.”

He turns his head and steps away, his hands in his pockets. “Come here,” she says, opening her arms to him. She doesn’t wait for him to come but goes to him instead, wrapping her arms around him.”

“How is Henry our brother?” he asks.

She slips behind him and folds her arms around him, clasping them across his chest to whisper into his ear. His hair is soft and curly, and it smells of lilacs. He has washed up. She can feel his chest rise and fall with an occasional spasm, as though he is holding back tears. “Henry is your dad’s son, just like you and your brothers are his

sons, and your sisters are his daughters.”

“Why did he want another son?” Felix bows his head. “Didn’t he love the ones he had?”

“Of course he did,” says Deborah. “He loved you very much.” She can feel her chest tighten as she recalls the day he died. What can she tell Felix? What will he understand?

“But Henry is your son.”

“Yes, he is.” Deborah presses her face into the soft curls of Felix’s hair. “Your father didn’t know he would have another son.”

“He didn’t?” Felix turns and looks at Deborah. “You’re crying.” “I’m sorry, Felix,” she says. “I’m sorry you don’t have your father

to hold you like this and answer your questions.”

Felix places his hand on her shoulder. “He wasn’t that kind of dad, not like Mom. He would place his hand on my shoulder and squeeze tight. He made promises, but he didn’t keep them.”

She places both hands on his shoulders.

Felix pulls himself away and goes back to his work. “Next time he grabs my shoulder, I am going to make him tell me he loved me. That’s what I’ll do.”

Deborah feels him slip out of her grasp.

He looks at her and nods. “Thank you, Deborah.”

***

Excerpt from THE WIDOW MURDERESS by Bill Cusano. Copyright 2025 by Bill Cusano. Reproduced with permission from Bill Cusano. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

“Americans,” said my goddaughter, licking cheese and tomato sauce off her fingers, “eat twenty-three pounds of pizza every year.”

I looked at her suspiciously. There’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that Lily is precocious for a seven-year-old, but she also sometimes falls prey to what in artificial intelligence is known as hallucinations, and makes things up if she believes they’ll create a better story. “I don’t eat twenty-three pounds of pizza,” I said, even though we were in fact sitting at the Provincetown House of Pizza and contributing to the statistic.

“Not every American,” Lily conceded. “It’s an average.” She brightened. “So that means, some people eat way more than that!”

“That’s a lot of pizza,” I agreed. The truth is, I do regard it as a treat of sorts. I am part-owner of the Race Point Inn in Provincetown’s East End, and pizza is never featured on our Michelin-starred restaurant’s menu.

Besides, I like spending time with my goddaughter. When my best friend Mirela brought Lily back from Plovdiv in Bulgaria—where her sister had regarded the baby as an inconvenience and readily signed adoption papers so Mirela could bring Lily to the States—I hadn’t been quite as enthused. (To be fair, neither had Mirela: if there were ever someone who manifested zero maternal instincts, it’s her. As a mother, she’s something of a work in progress. That had not, however, stopped her from once becoming the fiercest mother bear ever out in the dunes when the baby’s life was threatened.)

In my defense, there aren’t that many non-parents who can truly embrace the demands of a baby, which morphed into the demands of a toddler, which finally metamorphosed into the very smart conversations one could now have with the girl sitting at the table with me.

“Did you know,” she said, “that some indigenous people call the earth Turtle Island?”

“I did not,” I said. She knows the word indigenous. Of course she does. “Are you going to eat that piece?”

She shook her head, intent on her thought. “The way the turtle shell is curved works okay for half the earth,” she said. “That makes sense. But what about the bottom half? And where does the turtle sit, or stand, and how come people don’t fall off the turtle? And if we’re on Turtle Island, why don’t we just float away? But if we did, what would we be floating on top of?”

“Good questions,” I said. Somewhere in the back of my mind an expression flitted by, turtles all the way down, but I couldn’t remember who said it or what it meant, and didn’t want to further complicate the conversation. I picked up the last slice of pizza and took a bite. “You could look them up and see.”

“Aunt Sydney,” she said to me with dramatic excessive patience, “I already did. I know how to do research! But no one knows.”

When I was seven, I probably didn’t even know the word research. I sighed. Maybe she could make it her dissertation topic. At the rate she was going, that was probably going to happen sometime next year. “It’s their story,” I said. “Lots of cultures have stories to explain how things work.”

“But if everybody’s got a different story, how do we know which one is true?”

We’d gone from alimentation to geography to metaphysics in under four minutes, which had to be a record of some kind. I was rescued by the arrival of my husband. “I see you didn’t save me any pizza,” he said, sitting down at the table and reaching over to tousle Lily’s hair.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” I said.

“Uncle Ali,” said Lily, “How do we know whose story is true?”

“Story?” He raised his eyebrows, amused, and gave me a smile, which always—even after twelve years together—takes my breath away. Ali is Lebanese-American, and is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

“Origin myths,” I told him. “Turtle Island.”

He said to Lily, “Truth can be different from facts, you know? Different stories are true for different people. In my religion, we don’t think the world started with a turtle. We think Allah created it, and did it in seven days.” He paused. “Does that sound like a fact to you?”

She shook her head. “My mom can’t even do a painting in seven days, sometimes,” she said.

“So they’re not facts, our stories, but even if we know they’re not factual, they tell us some truths about who we are,” he said.

“What truths does your story tell?”

He considered the question. Ali always treats Lily like a miniature adult. It works okay more often than not. “Well, it tells me that Allah is good, because the earth is good. It tells me Allah pays attention. It reminds me that he wants me to live in a way that I pay attention, too. And I think that people who tell the story of Turtle Island must be very close to the earth and nature, and the turtle reminds them of that.”

“Okay.” She was probably filing it all away to ask Mirela about later. “Are you going to order a pizza?”

Ali smiled. “I think not,” he said. “I was just passing and saw your Aunt Sydney’s car here so thought I’d stop in to say hello, because I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It hasn’t been forever, Uncle Ali,” Lily said seriously. “It was last week.”

“Well, it feels like forever,” he said. “What are you ladies doing after lunch?”

“I don’t know about Lily,” I said, “but this lady has work to do.”

“You have to take me home first,” Lily said.

“I know.”

“My mom gave me the key,” Lily said.

“I know. She told me. And you haven’t lost it?”

She made a face. “Of course not, Aunt Sydney. I’m responsible.”

“You certainly are,” I said, smiling. I stood up and began clearing the table. “Want to help me with this? What time’s your mom coming home?”

She finished her soda, sucking noisily on the straw. “When she’s done at the gallery.”

That could be anytime. Mirela isn’t just any artist; even in Provincetown—itself an important art colony, the oldest continuous one in North America—she’s one of the town’s hottest artists. She came to P’town from Bulgaria one summer to work, back when Bulgarian students came here in droves; they still come, but in somewhat smaller numbers; Provincetown is changing. She spent that first summer waiting tables at Joon Bar and The Mews, driving a pedicab, and painting seascapes, mostly of the harbor. The paintings sold, and she stayed on, eventually becoming a US citizen; but over those years her style changed. Now she creates abstract works that sell for tens and even hundreds of thousands of dollars. She’s also marginally psychic, and some of her paintings carry eerie messages that scare the hell out of me.

Lily is, of course, her loudest critic, and often complains that her work doesn’t look like anything in particular; I privately agree with that assessment.

Very privately.

Ali stood up and opened his arms for a hug. “I’ll see you soon, habibi,” he said. It’s an Arabic endearment he reserves for Lily. He generally uses Italian ones with me. He thinks they make him sound sexy.

He’s right.

Lily duly deposited at Mirela’s house in the West End, Ali and I returned to the Race Point Inn, which was doing its usual brisk business. It was late June, the start of the tourist season, when Provincetown’s population makes the switch from three thousand residents in the winter to eighty thousand in the summer. The inn’s open year-round, and we’re generally booked up completely from April to December. I’ve been part of the inn now, one way or another, for over fourteen years, and yet am still absorbing what that entails: people, people, and more people.

Ali disappeared into our residence, which is the penthouse on the top floor of the inn, and I went in search of Wendy, the inn’s manager and—I could swear—magician. She soothed ruffled feathers, dealt with crises, handled difficult people, all the things I’m not terribly good at. We all have our areas of specialty.

Mine is murder.

***

That’s not really true, of course; I haven’t actually killed anybody yet, though I’ve come close a few times. In my fantasies, anyway. No; as Julie Agassi, the head of the Provincetown Police detective unit, tells it, if there’s a dead body anywhere in town, I’m going to be the one to have found it. Or known about it. Or been somehow involved with it. And it’s true that I seem to have a Jessica Fletcher/Miss Marple-level of amateur connection to crime.

It started one summer morning when I went to take an early dip in the Race Point’s pool—at the time, I was employed as the inn’s wedding coordinator—and found the body of my boss floating in the water with me. A thousand times ick, as well as a sorrow I’ve never really gotten over: Barry had been the kindest, gentlest man I’d ever known.

So of course I wanted to be part of bringing his killer to justice.

After that, it felt somehow natural for me to be on the scene of other crimes. Provincetown isn’t very big, and my work brings me into contact with a tremendous number of people, so it’s logical, really, that I’d have more success in figuring things out than would the State Police, dispatched from up-Cape to investigate homicides and not necessarily all that familiar with our little quirks down here.

And quirky doesn’t even begin to describe Provincetown. The town is a vibrant art colony. It’s also a gay-resort destination. And an old fishing village that still retains the remnants of the commercial fleet, along with the Portuguese families who worked it. Once upon a time, one of the whaling capitals of the world. And before that, the summer home of an indigenous population. All that history, all that mix makes for people who most decidedly do not do things by the book. Some outsiders find that disconcerting.

I find it… home.

Wendy was sitting in the empty restaurant drinking coffee and going over the evening’s menu with Martin, the maître d’. “It doesn’t matter; she says we have to take it off,” he was saying.

I pulled up a chair. “Take what off?”

“The salmon en croute,” said Martin. “She is not pleased with the quality of today’s delivery.”

Wendy was shaking her head. “Seriously? I don’t get it. Everybody likes salmon,” she objected. “Even people who don’t like fish, like salmon. She’s got it; for heaven’s sake, what else does she want to do with it?”

Martin made a face; I could only imagine what “she” had said to do with it. She was, of course, Adrienne the diva chef, by whose graces we had earned and kept our Michelin rating. She also had absolutely no care for anybody’s feelings; staff had been known to quit their first night of service because she’d completely terrorized them. My co-owner, Mike, seemed to be the only person who took her tantrums in stride. “It is not a local fish,” Martin was saying, his French accent somehow making the remark more persuasive. “And she has two other piscatory dishes on the menu…”

Wendy snorted. “For heaven’s sake,” she said again, but she said it with resignation. We all knew the truth: what Adrienne the diva chef wanted, Adrienne the diva chef got. “I’m going to have to reprint the menus.”

“Such is the nature of our curious enterprise,” said Martin, shrugging; he knows which battles to fight. He turned to me. “Sydney? Was there something you needed?”

“I wanted to check in with Wendy about the TV crew,” I said. We were being featured on one of the local-things-to-do, early-evening programs out of Boston, which was both a Good Thing—it helps to be known as a Weekend Waypoints destination—and also was going to be disruptive of staff and guests alike.

“Arriving tomorrow morning,” she said, changing gears briskly and seemingly effortlessly. “Mike wants you to do the interview, did he tell you?”

“He did.” Mike and I had become co-owners of the inn when its former owner gave up Provincetown for Amsterdam and his new love. Mike had been the manager, so he slipped easily into the role of keeping on top of the practical side of things, whereas once I gave up coordinating weddings, I tended more toward the public-relations side of ownership, attended business guild meetings, helped organize events, went off-Cape to conferences… and, apparently, did interviews for Boston television stations.

I also valued Wendy’s impressive organizational skills. “Where do you suggest it will disrupt people the least? The interview, I mean? The part I’m doing?”

“You’re doing the whole part,” she corrected me. “You’re going to have to stick with them, and take the producers to lunch here, I have a table for you at one o’clock.” She pulled out her smartphone and started scrolling. “Juliet Mills and Bruce Peterson,” she read. “And rooms thirty-four and eighteen will be empty and prepared for the cameras, but you have to be out of eighteen by lunchtime because we have an early arrival for it.”

I raised my eyebrows ever so slightly. “Thirty-four? Do you think that’s a good idea? You know they’ll have done their homework.” I could still hear Lily’s voice saying she knew how to do research; there was absolutely no way television producers didn’t.

It wasn’t that thirty-four is a bad room—it’s actually quite nice, with antique furnishings and a window overlooking the largest of our patios, the one with the arbor. It had been two years since Ali and I had stood on that patio exchanging wedding vows when we were interrupted by a man’s body falling very nearly on top of us.

From room thirty-four.

“They requested it,” said Wendy. “It adds a little pizzazz, knowing a murder happened here.”

Two murders, in fact, if you counted the body in the pool years before that. My instinct was to downplay that particular facet of the Race Point’s claims to fame. But Wendy leaned into it, and her decision had proved successful. There was even talk, sometimes, of a possible haunting. And people liked that. “Your call,” I said, making a face.

“I’ve put together a schedule,” Wendy went on, her voice brisk. Potential ghosts weren’t playing into her agenda—for the day, at least. “They’ll spend the morning shooting the inn, then after lunch they’ll go down Commercial Street, do shots of the town. They call it B-roll. Back here for a wrap-up before dinner service starts. Nine of them in all: producers, director, the on-air talent, and cameras and sound.”

“Okay.” I knew better than to argue: Wendy knew what she was doing. Nothing could go wrong.

Which just goes to show how little I understand about fate, or life, or anything.

***

Excerpt from Trafficking in Murder by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2026 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.

When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.

The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover.

He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door.

Without so much as a warning.

My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles.

The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend?

“April.”

My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office.

Whang.

A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface.

A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient.

“I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.”

The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes.

“Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name.

My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees.

A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.”

Haven’t heard that in a while.

Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes.

I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way.

Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped.

A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early.

“Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm.

“Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area.

“Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.”

I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant.

He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought.

“Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair.

I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.”

From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable.

I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.”

“Miss.”

I turn toward the voice.

“I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.”

My first slam-and-crash date request.

It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared.

Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest.

“If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table.

“Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?”

I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.”

“April, he’s not coming in.”

“That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.”

“Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.”

With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk.

“I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?”

“Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.”

“Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.”

The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.”

Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress.

“Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.”

“You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs.

“It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds.

“Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.”

“Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks.

“Been there a few times.”

“You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso.

Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment.

Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say.

When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude.

The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take.

Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out.

While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain…

A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather.

I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps.

Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow?

A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace.

I don’t smell burning wood.

My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub.

Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa.

“Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?”

I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—”

A metallic odor hits me.

“Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived.

Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene.

I can’t be implicated in this.

***

Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The car bumped hard, the undercarriage hitting the edge of the shoulder, as it careened off the Garden State Parkway, heading for a stand of trees. The bump woke me up, and I jammed on the brakes and fought the steering wheel, cutting it hard left, but it was too late. The car fishtailed as the front smashed into a tree, the rear swinging right as the brakes took hold and crashing into another tree. I was flung forward, my hands coming off the wheel and banging against the console.

My hands were cut and bleeding as I sat staring at the road, the car twisted at a forty-five-degree angle. Pain throbbed from my right temple, and I realized I must have hit the windshield or the roof. A heaviness pressed down inside my head above my eyes, and I felt an urge to close them and go to sleep.

I forced myself to stay awake and get out of the car. I knew I was still technically drunk, but the crash had pumped enough adrenaline into my veins that I was hyper-aware, despite the likely concussion. I tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck shut, the right fender crunched in and bent on the top where it met the hatch.

A car passed going north on the other side of the Parkway. I looked back up the south-bound lane and saw no traffic. I stepped onto the road and half-jogged across, stepping over the median and across the north-bound lane. I glanced back at the car, slanted cock-eyed in the grass just past the Exit 6 sign for North Wildwood, then hurried through the grassy stretch alongside the road and into the woods that bordered it.

My only thought now was to avoid getting a DUI. I could deal with the car later. What a disaster. I had just bought the damn thing yesterday afternoon from a guy in Buena with a badly running nose and a burning desire to take my cash and go meet someone to make him well. That’s what I got for taking a lead on a cheap car from a guy holding up the end of the bar at a beer-and-a-shot place down the street from my house. I could have asked Lou to hook me up, but the price was right, and I just wanted something to get me through the summer. So I hitched a ride to Buena from a buddy who was headed to Margate, where I met Drew, the guy with the dripping nose. Drew had that pressing business to attend to, so he was fine with giving me the uncompleted paperwork.

Drew said, “Just see Mitch at the title place here next week, he’ll handle it.”

I trudged through the patch of woods, distancing myself from the Parkway. I came to a two-lane road and ran across that into deeper woods on the other side. I was about ready to just sleep under a tree there, when through a gap in the branches I saw an open field.

I pushed forward to the perimeter of the woods and stopped, trying to make out where I was. If it was somebody’s back yard, I would have to be careful. But there were no lights, just a dark field spreading out before me. I looked to my left and saw a brighter patch on the ground and a hundred yards beyond that a low building, maybe a garage?

I walked through tall grass to shorter grass, and as I got closer to the bright patch, I realized what it was: a sand trap.

I was on a fairway of Wildwood Country Club, the home course of my friend Lou Scolletta, whose house I was supposed to have been at four hours ago. There was probably a caddie shack I could hide out in, but I opted for a makeshift bed in the grass of a hollow a few fairways over. I lay down and, in the brief period before I passed out, wondered if this was the best way to prepare for the first day on my new job.

* * *

There was no way I wanted a full-time job working for Lou. I knew just enough about Lou to know not knowing anything more was the prudent path. The fact that he had just fired the prior manager for dipping in the till did not make the opportunity more appealing.

But there was a crazy part of me that thought running a place—a restaurant, not McNabb’s Tavern, the decrepit neighborhood tappie in Southwest Philly where until last year I humped kegs, mopped up fluids, breathed a lot of smoke and told myself I was the “manager”—might be something I could do. Because I was nowhere right now. No degree, no trade—just fifteen years of bartending that had ended when the last McNabb standing decided—wisely—that this was no way to make a living. The new owners didn’t need a mug like me in the fern bar that McNabb’s was to become.

I knew The Seabreeze, the quintessential Jersey Shore restaurant. When Lou bought it six years ago, I helped out a few weekends bartending when some of the corner boys he had hired just disappeared on him. It wasn’t hard finding someone to cover for me at McNabb’s. Our weekends were slower in the summer anyway, with a lot of folks going to the shore.

Lou and I hung out more back then. He bought the place in 1977 when I was thirty and Lou maybe thirty-seven. It was sort of a vanity project for him; his main business was a Cadillac dealership in South Philly. The following summer, he showed up at my bar with his son Davy—guess the kid was sixteen. He wanted Davy to get a summer job. Could we take him on, washing dishes, whatever? I wondered why he didn’t hire him at the dealership, but I guess he wanted him to work for someone else.

So I hired him, and he was okay, typical teenager, hardly said a word. There really wasn’t that much to do—we had a kitchen and did some sandwiches, but it wasn’t much to keep a dishwasher busy.

I guess that was the first favor I did for Lou. And I did owe him big, seeing as how his dad got me out of the draft back in 1967. Plus, Lou got me my first restaurant job, which was really a pretty good gig at a nice South Philly restaurant. But with Lou, you never felt like he was looking for payback. He just came off as a great guy, not like he was some connected dude that you had to say yes to. I’m sure he sold a lot of cars seeming like a great guy.

I used to give Davy a ride home sometimes, which often led to Concetta—Lou’s wife—asking me in to eat. There was always food, loads of food. She’d give me a plate of pasta, red wine out of a jug—might be ten o’clock in the evening, but so what? Then Lou would show up, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash that I was there. Then he had me down to a little mom-and-pop restaurant near his dealership for dinner, and I met some of his friends. They were mostly older and had gone to Bishop Neumann or Southern, but a few knew guys from Kingsessing, my old neighborhood in Southwest Philly.

I thought about that pasta and how a mick like me was going to run a real restaurant, and, as I passed out in the wet grass at 3:30 AM, whether Davy was still having the same nose-dripping problems as Drew from Buena, a path I saw him starting down two and a half years ago.

* * *

The sound of a mower woke me up. The guy running it looked like he had seen worse. He pointed me to the caddy shack and gave me some coins for the payphone. Thank God Lou picked up, but then that’s Lou, he’s not surprised if some fuckup calls him at dawn. I washed up as best I could with cold water and no soap in the filthy sink in the shack’s bathroom, then waited outside the locker room, not wanting to meet up with anyone, until Lou arrived.

What a night. Blitzed out of my mind, drinking stingers like I was twenty in Somers Point, dancing with those crazy chicks, trying to teach me to moonwalk like Michael Jackson on that Motown show a couple of months ago. It was the Friday after a Monday Fourth of July, and it felt like the bar itself was stumbling under the strain of a week-long bender.

I had just stopped in for something to eat, then met these girls, three of them, late teens, which led to my dancing lesson. As it got late and the stingers took their toll, I figured maybe I’d just crash in the back seat for a couple of hours, then get breakfast somewhere, rather than roll in drunk at four in the morning and freak out Concetta.

Then two of the girls disappeared and the last one, Sharon, became glued to a chair at my table—that is, her butt was glued to the chair, but her face ended up stuck to the table itself, her long brown hair straggling out into the sticky remains of many ungodly drinks. At closing time, I struggled her to her feet and managed to get her to moan out where she was staying in Sea Isle City, a couple of towns south. After she vomited in the parking lot, I got her into the back seat and drove as carefully as I could, taking Route 9 to avoid the faster traffic.

I got the girl out of the car at her shabby rental duplex, leaving her sprawled on a chaise lounge in the screened porch. I banged on the door until one of her roommates appeared in a long t-shirt. We got her into bed and I talked the roommate through how to make sure Sharon didn’t choke on her own vomit.

I sat in my car, worrying about the girl. I was old enough to be her father, but being plastered in a Somers Point bar at closing time didn’t exactly qualify me to be in loco parentis. I was just a more experienced wastrel, a thirty-six-year-old failed bartender who would have been a disappointment to someone, if there was anyone left to fill that role.

When I left the girl’s rental, I figured it wasn’t much farther to Wildwood, and what the hell, why not take the Parkway? But of course, that’s what impaired judgment is all about. So fatigue and drunkenness once more exacted their toll on a stupid Irishman, and here I was creeping around at dawn like an escaped convict.

***

Excerpt from Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner. Copyright 2025 by Joel E. Turner. Reproduced with permission from Joel E. Turner. All rights reserved.