Shooting at Loons by Margaret Maron Page A

her work clothes.
    For a moment, they reminded me of my brother Seth and his wife Minnie. Must be nice to be a grandmother and still have a husband look at you that way.
    She showed me towels and hair dryer, then went off to bathe while Chet trailed along. “To help,” he explained.
    The Winberrys were not what you’d call wealthy—the bulk of Chet’s practice had been Neville Fishery before his appointment to that state commission, and Barbara Jean’s little fish meal factory probably didn’t net her much more than Chet’s salary these days. I gathered it had been quite profitable all during her childhood, however, and family investments allowed her and Chet to raise their only daughter in comfortable luxury.
    This had been her bedroom and the adjoining shower had pale yellow tiles, each hand-painted with a single spring flower and no two alike, so that it took me longer to look at each tile than it did to wash my hair and bathe.
    Another five minutes with towels and blow dryer, then I slipped into a cream-colored silk jumpsuit that did good things for my hair and skin. Body lotion, makeup, chains of crystals and pearls to soften the tailored shirt top, more crystals for my ears; finally a flat Mexican purse woven of turquoise and red and gold to add a touch of color.
    “Very nice,” Chet said appreciatively, but it was clearly Barbara Jean who delighted him more. Her short navy-blue dress had long skintight sleeves. Cut high in front to accent a string of antique pearls, its low back revealed skin that was still smooth and supple.
    Chet was tall, yet Barbara Jean topped his shoulders in her high heels as they led the way down to their boat landing. He pulled her close and I heard him murmur, “That the perfume I bought you last week?”
    When she nodded, he smiled back at me. “Old lady looks pretty good to’ve cooked up a half-million fish today, doesn’t she?”
    “Is that what she did?” As we walked along their dock, I was trying not to catch a spike heel in the cracks between the wide, salt-treated planks.
    “Well, not in my kitchen,” she said dryly. “But yeah, the Washington Neville brought in its largest haul of the season today. Let’s just hope the wind doesn’t shift till after Linville Pope’s party. The smell of cooking menhaden smells like jobs and income to most of us, but it stinks to her. She’d rather see our black workers on welfare or fetching and carrying for the white tourists.”
    “Now, honey,” said Chet as he handed us into the stern of their rakish little inboard speedboat. “You promised to be nice tonight.”
    “I promised not to spit in Linville’s face,” she grinned. “Nothing was said about being nice.”
    “Fireworks?” I said hopefully, leaning forward from my seat behind them. “Drinks tossed? Fistfights? Hair-pulling?”
    “Not by me.” Barbara Jean parodied ladylike virtue. “My factory is sitting in the middle of some choice waterfront property that Linville’s dying to develop, but you won’t hear me bring up the subject.”
    Chet started the motor with a moderate roar that immediately leveled off to a quietly expensive purr as we slid gently away from the landing dock. The low sun shafted beams of gold up through bands of mauve and blue-gray clouds. The wind was so light it barely ruffled our hair and Chet kept our speed just above a fast walk as we rounded the point and headed northwest.
    “So brief me about Linville Pope,” I said. “Other than the fact that you don’t like her, what else should I know to keep me from putting my foot in my mouth?”
    “You want the chamber of commerce gloss or to back of Rose’s dirt?”
    “Oh, the catty version, by all means.”
    “Trailer trash from Cherry Point,” she said flatly.
    Seated behind the wheel, Chet laughed and reached out a hand to tousle her blonde curls. “Deb’rah said catty, honey, not bitchy.”
    She considered. “Okay, maybe not trailer trash, but her father was career