Excerpt from The Goddess of Shipwrecked Sailors by Skye Alexander
A burly man with a nose that looked as if it had been on the wrong side of too many right hooks stood behind the bar at Misery Tavern. Even though the pub was far from warm, he wore only a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and trousers held up by suspenders.
Lizzie stepped up to the bar, ignoring the curious stares she got from the locals. “I’m looking for Jacob Watkins.”
“You found him,” the burly man said.
“I’m Lizzie Crane, your second cousin from New York City.”
“Is that a fact?” He didn’t seem particularly interested.
“Polly Crane’s daughter. You and she have the same grandparents on your mother’s side.”
The man folded his muscular arms over his chest. “What do you want from me, Cousin?”
Lizzie slid onto a stool. “How about a drink for starters?”
“And what sort of drink might you be wanting?”
“A pint of ale, but I don’t guess you’d serve me one.”
“You’re right there, girlie.”
“A Coca-Cola then, please.”
He pulled a pale-green bottle from an icebox, uncapped it, and set it on the counter along with a glass that looked none too clean. Lizzie handed him a dollar and he made change. Something about him seemed familiar, but she couldn’t imagine why––this coarse man bore no family resemblance to her pretty mother.
Now that her eyes had adjusted to the low lighting, Lizzie noticed a collection of framed photographs hanging on the pub’s walls. Many pictured clipper ships, their sails billowing in the wind. “Are you a sailor?”
“Nope, I’m a barkeep.”
“Why do you have all those photos of ships hanging around?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Cousin.”
Lizzie chose not to use the glass and drank straight from the bottle. The bubbles tickled her throat. “I’m trying to get to know you. Until a few days ago I didn’t even know you existed.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I’d like to hear about your parents and grandparents,” she said, trying to get this taciturn man to open up.
Watkins pointed to a faded photograph of a bearded man in old-fashioned clothes standing in front of Misery Tavern. “My father was a sailor. When he quit the sea he started this pub in 1870.”
“So you’re following in the family business.”
“Looks that way.”
“It must’ve been easier running a tavern in 1870. I guess Prohibition’s put the squeeze on you.”
“I get by,” he said.
“Misery’s an odd name for a tavern. I thought people came to a pub for a bit of fun. Why’d your father call it that?”
Watkins poured himself a cup of coffee from a pot kept warm on a cast-iron stove behind the bar. “He named it for Misery Islands. The ship he crewed on ran aground there in a storm and sank. He managed to row to shore. All but him died.”
“That sounds miserable indeed.”
“When a ship goes down, rich men lose their investment. Poor men lose their lives,” he said, bitterness in his voice.
“I’m glad your father survived. What was the name of the ship?”
“Peregrine.”
“Say, didn’t William Gardner own her?” Lizzie asked, thinking of the graceful wooden model she’d seen in Matthew Gardner’s parlor. The last of his grandfather’s clippers.
Watkins narrowed his eyes and tugged at his mustache. “How do you know that?”
“I’m working for his grandson, Matthew Gardner.” She started to tell him that Gardner had hired her and her band of musicians to perform during the holidays, but decided it might be better to let Watkins think she was in service there as a housemaid.
A buxom woman about Lizzie’s age wearing a too-tight dress with a too-low neckline edged behind the bar, balancing a tray of dirty dishes on her shoulder. “Who’s she?” the woman asked Watkins.
“My cousin, up from New York.”
Lizzie smiled, trying to appear friendly. “Hi, I’m Lizzie Crane.”
The woman slid the tray of dishes into a pass-through to the kitchen. “Didn’t know Jacob had a cousin in New York.”
“I only learned about him on Christmas day,” Lizzie said.
“Get on with your work, ’tis none of your business,” Watkins told the woman, who tossed her head defiantly before sauntering back to her customers.
“Your wife?” Lizzie asked.
“My wife’s dead. The influenza.”
“I’m sorry.”
Dozens of Lizzie’s neighbors and friends died in the flu epidemic of 1918. By some miracle, she and her family had been spared when so many, especially in poor neighborhoods, had perished.
Jacob nodded at her empty Coca-Cola bottle. “You want another one?”
“No thanks. I only wanted to make your acquaintance. Mind if I stop in again sometime?”
“It’s a public place. That’s what ‘pub’ means, y’know.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Lizzie said. “Say, Cousin, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could get a real drink, would you?”
Watkins leaned his elbows on the bar and stared at her, hard. “How do I know you’re not a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“Do I look like a fool?”
Lizzie laughed. “Okay, it was worth a try. So long, then.”
Only after she’d left the pub did Lizzie realize why its owner looked familiar. He’s the man I saw arguing in the cemetery yesterday with Matthew Gardner about a mysterious lady each man claims is his.
Lizzie’s thoughts flashed back to the previous night, when a policeman brought news of finding the body of a thief outside Misery Tavern. In the dead man’s pocket was a cryptic letter addressed to Gardner that said, “The lady is not so easily won.” Could this be the same lady her cousin and her employer were fighting over? If so, she had blood on her hands.