"Positively."
"I see."
The interior was dark and smoky from numerous candles. Two massive fireplaces bookended the great room. Zanita could understand why the locals loved to congregate here. There was a definite old-world sea shanty atmosphere to the place. It was dank and mysterious and thoroughly captivating.
In one corner, a woman dressed in period clothes from Revolutionary days was singing an old maritime ballad. It wasn't until Zanita focused in on the lyrics that she realized exactly what the catchy tune was implying. The bawdy song was relating a crude tale of the goings on "in the riggin'."
And it rhymed, too.
"Oh my god." She blushed.
Tyber grinned.
They sidled up to the bar and soon learned that the fare, besides clam chowder, was a retro combination of burgers, syllabub, and mead.
"I notice that the chowder is
New England
style," she said pointedly to Tyber.
"And what else would it be?" The barkeep, a hearty woman in her fifties, had overheard her comment. "This is
Nantucket
, dearie." Smiling, she leaned over the bar to confide, "And if I were you, I wouldn't breathe a word about any other kind in here. To a New Englander, there is only one kind of chowder!"
"I agree," Tyber concurred wholeheartedly with a much too earnest expression. "What kind of kooky deviant would prefer, say, red chowder?"
Zanita stepped on his toe.
"I'll gladly pay you on Tuesday for a hamburger today!" Zanita said, imitating Whimpy.
The barkeeper gave her the Mysterious Face of Mars look. Obviously not a Popeye fan. "Sorry, we just take cash here." She pointed to the sign above the bar that said CASH ONLY.
Tyber rolled his eyes at Zanita. "That's fine. I'll have the chowder and some ale." The woman smiled brightly at the chowder order. He pulled out a twenty and paid her.
"Do you know where we might locate the Sasenfras family?"
"Sasenfras? Never heard of them, and that's not a name you're likely to be forgetting." She wiped the rim of a glass. "But I've only been on the island for about ten years. You might want to ask Junior Zaccheus Plante."
"A junior, hmm," Tyber murmured to Zanita. "Where do we find him?" he asked the man.
"Why, he's sitting at that table in the far corner." He pointed out an ancient, grizzled seaman who looked as if he had stepped out of a Hemingway story.
"That's 'Junior' hmmm?" The man was at least eighty if he was a day. Tyber briefly wondered how old "senior" was on this island.
"Yeah, that's him. If anyone knows, he will."
Tyber thanked the man, and taking Zanita's elbow, steered her through the thick crowd to the back corner table.
"Junior Zaccheus?" The old man squinted up at them. "I'm Tyberius Evans and this is my wife, Zanita."
"Humans and dolphins are the only two species that have sex for pleasure!" Junior barked, stone-faced.
Tyber, who had had plenty of experience with eccentric types, didn't even flicker an eyelash. "Ah, yes. I was wondering if we might have a word with you?"
"Have two words, if that's your pleasure, sonny. Talk is cheap." He cackled at his own amazing wit—inspired no doubt by the four empty tankards on the table. He invited them to sit down.
Zanita smiled prettily at the old tar. He was a real character, and she had an affinity for characters. In fact, most of the ones she had met were members of her new family. She glanced sideways at her husband. And not just by marriage.
"Have a drink, boy." The old man turned and winked saucily at Zanita.
"Thanks, I just had one." Tyber showed him his empty mug.
"I ain't asking."
"Then… I'm drinking." He threw Zanita a look that said plenty and motioned to the waitress to bring them two tankards.
Junior pierced Tyber with a stern look. "Can you tie a square knot?"
"Yes."
"Hrrrrr." He scratched his scraggly beard. No one inquired as to what that sound meant.
"We were told you know just about everyone that's lived on this island." Tyber sipped methodically at his Guinness stout.
"Maybe I do," the old man answered shrewdly. He downed his tankard in four swallows and waited for Tyber to follow suit.
Tyber swiftly drank his ale and placed the empty on the table.
Junior signaled for another round.
The waitress, who seemed to be forever walking by with a full tray of tankards, slapped a pair on the table. Zanita wrinkled her nose at the potent brew and slid a tankard over to her husband. "Have you lived here all your life, Mr. Plante?"
"Yeah, lived here all my life—except for Dou-ble-u Double-u Two. I know most folks hereabouts. Who you looking for, little lady?"
Zanita was not partial to being called "little lady," but in view of this swabbies curmudgeon status, she decided to let it go. "His name is Sasenfras."
He took a gulp of ale and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. "Which one?"
Tyber and Zanita glanced at each other.
"There's more than one" Tyber inquired dryly.
"Hell, yes. At least there was. Now, you probably are looking for Sasenfras, the Crier."
"Sasenfras, the Crier," Tyber echoed blandly. He took a deep, even breath. Sometimes life was a parabolic curve. At those times, he felt it was best to simply ride the swoop.
"Ya, he went on over to the Vineyard, last I heard."
"That's the one!" Zanita exclaimed excitedly.
"What can you tell us about him?"
"He was a strange duck. Proclaimed himself town crier one afternoon and after, that went up to the clock tower three times a day at seven a.m. noon, and nine p.m. That's when the clock strikes fifty-two times."
"Fifty-two times?" Zanita was fascinated by this local lore.
"Ya. Fifty-two times. Been a custom for a hundred and fifty years, though no one can say why."
"Wow."
"The Crier would climb the tower like a freakin' monkey." Junior Zaccheus chuckled at the memory. "Always was healthy as a horse. Looking for ships coming in and the harbor seals. I think he had too much of that whacky tobacky, if you know what I mean."
"Why did he look for seals?"
"Oh, that was due to his great love, Winnie. She claimed they spoke to her, told her tales of the sea. She was one of them hippie beatniks; quite a bit younger than him, but the crier was smitten with her."
Zanita was surprised at this new picture she was getting of a younger Sasenfras—the Crier, carefree, wild, in love. And slightly demented, by the sound of it.
"One time the Crier went to a town meeting and announced loudly that one day he would take the ferry off-island and go to
France
. Just like that! Everyone got a good laugh out of that one."
"Why
France
?" Tyber finished his ale and reluctantly started on the next one, which impressed Junior into ordering yet another round. Information never came cheap; Tyber sighed.
"He was always talking about going to some fancy French cooking school; the Crier loved to cook. Was good at it, too. Remember he made the best fish stew..."
"So he married Winnie instead and lost his chance?" Zanita gave her husband a concerned look as he swallowed some more brew. Why some men insisted on these macho competitions, she'd never know. It was clear Junior was measuring Tyber's worthiness for information by the amount of stout he guzzled.
"No, wasn't that way, Missus." She had graduated from "little lady" to "Mrs." Tyber must be doing pretty good, Zanita thought. "Winnie wanted him to go to
France
and was looking to go with him on some grand adventure. She always wanted to go to
Europe
and travel like an adventurer. That's what she said. Like an adventurer from Michener's book."
First Melville, then Hemingway, now Michener. Quite a writer's reunion we have going here, Zanita marveled. "What happened then?"
"Well, as I recall, he went to the Vineyard with her to make some seed money. Something about his brother helping him out. Don't know what happened after that."
Tyber set his tankard down with a clink. "His brother?"
"Yeah. Lived on the Vineyard in some fancy house, although the truth is, he was originally a bog worker who got airs when his wife inherited the place over there. Never liked him much. He was a hungry type, too, if you know what I mean."
"Yes… I think I do." Tyber had that look he always got when his mind was working out details. Zanita loved that look. His light blue eyes took on a mystical, searching expression; his well-shaped masculine lips came together and smoothed out, and one of his eyebrows lifted slightly above the level of the other as he captured and discarded ideas. She watched him, almost spellbound, for a full minute. He was an extraordinarily handsome man, but it was his mind that always fascinated her.
Still, Zanita was surprised at this new twist. "Can you tell us anything else about the brother?"
"Let's see… the Crier was real superstitious, I remember that. Heard the brother changed his name when his wife came into her inheritance."
"Do you recall to what?"
Junior scratched his beard, again. "Twinkle or Glitter… something like that."
"Sparkling," Tyber and Zanita said together.
"That's it."
"What was his name before?"
Zanita was surprised by his answer. "Why, Sasenfras! Strange, too, for two brothers so alike. Sasenfras just went by plain Sasenfras, and Merville always hated the name and so was only called Merville to his face, even though he was really a Sasenfras."
"Merville," they both said together. Junior gave them an odd look, probably wondering why they were parroting him in unison.
"He never wanted anything to do with his own family, feeling they was beneath him. Was kind of surprised he offered the brother a job."
Yeah, as long as no one knew he was his brother. And he could steal the man's wife. Tyber slowly sipped his brew as almost everything fell into place.
There was only one thing that eluded him. He snagged a passing waitress and asked if he could borrow one of her pencils.
With it, he began writing on a napkin, letters and numbers tumbling across the length of paper.
"You got something?" Zanita whispered to him.
He stopped figuring and gave her a big grin. "Oh, yes. I got something."
He had broken the code and with it the final piece of the mystery.
"I called Todd from the tavern and asked him to prepare a special formal dinner tomorrow night." Tyber flopped backwards and lay spread-eagled across the bed. Fully clothed, boots and all.
Zanita shook her head. Her husband had imbibed five stouts with Junior. For an investigator, information always had its dastardly price. She unlaced his boots. "Really, Tyber? Why?"
"It seems the right way to do it." He linked his hands behind his head and grinned.
"Do what?" She tugged first one boot off, then the other.
"Reveal all, of course. I think it's traditional in these cases." As she slipped his socks off, he sighed happily, wiggling his toes.
"Traditional, huh?" She tickled those toes.
"Yeppers. As investigators, we have a custom to uphold. Gather all the suspects together; get everyone nervous as hell until we point the finger at the guilty party. It'll be expected of us." He lifted his head an inch and squinted at the foot of the bed. "Are you tickling my toes?"
"No."
"Okay." His head flopped back down.
"By whom is it expected?" She bent over him, unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped them. This was a very wifely thing to do, she realized. At his feet, she grabbed the denim material at his ankles and began yanking his pants off.
Tyber obligingly lifted his hips to help her. Apparently, physicists were very sweet when sloshed.
"By everyone. It's called the climax." He wagged his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
"Ohhh, I see."
"Mmmm-hmmmm. So get your best bib and tucker ready. It's going to be a bumpy night."
"At the dinner?" She started undoing his shirt.
"Nope. Under the canopy." He suddenly wrapped her in his arms and quickly rolled over, pinning her beneath him.
"Tyber!" She placed her palms against his chest. "You're drunk!"
"Uh-uh." He winked lazily at her.
"Ahuh."
"You didn't think I'd forget about all this lace, did you, baby? Remember, there's always a climax to the story…"
She snorted. "You're being bad again."
"Can't help it; I'm a physicist."
"You mean a pirate! What am I going to do with you?" She blew out an exasperated breath as she released his hair from the band holding it back. The silky strands slid forward to tease her face. As always, it had the scent of moonlit nights; a unique Tyber scent.