A Theft of Crabs: A Historyland Highway Mystery

By Buck Bodwell

A Theft of Crabs is a tale of a Virginia marine policeman's efforts to investigate and solve a John Doe murder. The story takes place on a peninsula known locally as the Northern Neck and near and within the modern day towns of Warsaw and Tappahannock, Virginia. As the policeman works to solve the mystery, a back story unfolds of one slave's attempt to fulfill a commitment to his master, Francis Lee, a signer of the U. S. Declaration of Independence. The back story spans more than two centuries. The two stories ultimately converge to create a poignant ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543912050

Book preview

June Parker Marina, Tappahannock, Virginia—Saturday, 10:00 a.m.

There’s Taliafarro now, Shirley said motioning toward the boat ramp. Why don’t you go tell him all about it? Shirley managed the marina’s combination snack bar and tackle shop.

Cause it won’t do no good, Charlie said, waste o’ time. And after a moment’s pause, Well … eyes rather milk a skunk then talk wid him.

How come?

Well, you know … anyhow, he don’t give a crap about my crabs.

Well, for shore he won’t, if he don’t hear about it. It being his job to find out who’s stealing ’em.

Shirley’s response pried a tiny crack in the steel door of Charlie’s unusually closed mind. He got up slowly from the table, picked up his cup of coffee, and shuffled out the door.

Charlie waved his hand and caught the Virginia Marine Police (VMP) officer’s eye as he backed his boat down the ramp. The seventeen-foot long Tidewater Skiff fiberglass boat is easily identified with dark blue diagonal stripes on each side followed by the word POLICE in large blue and gold letters. A flying canopy, outfitted with an air horn and flashing lights, straddles the boat’s mid-section. Down river, and in the Chesapeake Bay, the police boats are larger. Here, where the Rappahannock begins to narrow rapidly, smaller boats are slower but more maneuverable. Taliaferro put the white Expedition in park and lowered his window.

Be need’n a word wid you off-suh, Charlie said, That is if’n yo ain’t in too much of a hurrah.

OK, he said, Give me a sec while I pull the boat off the ramp.

At six and a half feet tall, Jethro Eli Taliaferro, or Jet as he is known to his friends, is an imposing presence. With chiseled features, a stern countenance, and a hard body, few people care to cross him. Noticing the concerned look on Charlie’s face, Jet reminded himself to smile. The men climbed the stairs and entered the shop. Jet poured a cup of coffee, paid Shirley, and took a seat facing Charlie on the picnic table outside. Charlie appreciated Jet’s gesture to create privacy.

How’s Darlene? Jet asked, making a grimace as he took a sip of the slightly burned coffee.

Charlie’s brows furrowed, How come you know Darlene? She was his wild child, and nothing she did surprised him.

We went to high school together, Jet said softly, adding, We weren’t friends, but I knew her.

Oh, yeah, well she’s fine … I guess. Don’t hear much from her no more. She up and moved to Richmond, then married up with a damn drummer and then they moved to Ohio. Got three kids now, but I don’t see them much. The thought of Darlene still agitated Charlie. His wife argued that his pressure and rules were the reason Darlene left so soon after graduation.

Look heah off-suh there’s something crazy go’n on wid da crab pots. Jet cocked his head and leaned forward. Eyes got nigh on to ninety pots strung out between the orange roofed house at Naylor’s and da cliffs. I tends them on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Fridays dey’s OK. By OK I mean if you call getting a poor share of what I used to get ten years ago. An all that cause of the stupid dumping of those river cats. Them cats are eating anything that moves, crabs to boot. These days, bout all I sees is jimmies and very, very few sooks. Those in the crabbing business refer to the smaller male crabs as jimmies, while the female crabs are called sooks. But that don’t make me no never mind. Heah’s the thing: come Sunday, I get almost nut’n … jimmies nor sooks. Somebody’s been hit’n ’em hard.

So you think someone’s been stealing your Saturday night crabs?

Charlie frowned. Why else would so many pots be out of line and half da time da doors left open? Crab pots are rectangular boxes made from chicken wire, each about two and a half feet wide and two feet in the other two dimensions. Chicken necks, fish heads, or dead trash fish are used to bait the traps. At either end, a six-inch cone of chicken wire allows the crabs to enter. The crabs crawl over and around the traps trying to get to the bait. When they find an entrance, they crawl in and enjoy a rare feast. But once inside the crabs cannot manage the severe turn required to get back out the entrance. I lay’s a neat line, less gas and less chance of missing a trap that a way. Come Sundays some of these heah traps are as much as fifteen feet out of line. Now, I might see one get moved somehow once in a blue moon, but not half of them every Sunday. Can’t see dem catfish moving dah pots around by themselves, ken you? Charlie grinned, realizing that he might have said something funny.

OK, Charlie, I’ll let my dispatcher know. And I’ll try to keep an eye on your trap line.

Won’t do no good, mumbled Charlie, then in a loud voice, Dey’s taken ’em on Saturday nights. You gonna get in your boat and look for ’em at night?

Charlie, there’s more than one way to figure out who’s taking them. I’ll start an investigation next week.

As Jet pushed the skiff off the ramp, he jumped deftly onto the bow, managing to keep both feet dry. Then, he made his way back to the helm. The fifty-horsepower Mercury engine fired right up, and Jet idled the boat slowly out of the creek between the rock jetties and into the river. Behind the small semi-protected wheelhouse was a seat. Most trips, Jet preferred to stand up while driving the boat to get the best view. The river always surprised you when it became necessary to swerve rapidly to avoid a floating tree. Today, the surprise was of the pleasant variety. Overhead, a bald eagle cruised above the river, looking for a late breakfast or more likely a snack for its chicks. In just the past ten years, the eagles had returned to the river, now competing with the omnipresent, ever-aggressive ospreys. Later today, both the temperature and humidity would rise into the nineties. Then the visibility would drop to less than a mile. But this early in the morning, Jet’s view of the river and its surroundings was magnificently clear.

Jet nudged the throttle forward. He guided the boat up the south side of the river. For several miles along this stretch, the river runs west to east before resuming a north-west to south-east direction. Several residents along the river between Mallory’s Point and Jenkins Landing were complaining about young kids racing jet skis too close to the shore.

The Rappahannock tends to be more shallow on the inside of its sweeping turns. Over the centuries, a large bend at Mallory’s Point produced many acres of alluvial buildup that has become tidal cordgrass marshes. Shallow channels that twist and turn, sometimes for a half a mile or more, lace the marshes with many branches and dead ends. The marshes breathe and cleanse the brackish water with each change of the tides. Even here, forty miles up the river from the Chesapeake Bay, the water rises and falls several feet between high and low tides.

Little protective estuaries like Mallory’s Point offer an ideal environment for nurturing newly hatched crabs called zoea. When a zoea molts, it morphs into a megalops. At this stage, it resembles a baby lobster. In the next molt, the crab, though still tiny, finally resembles the adult crab and becomes a juvenile. Protected by the cordgrass, the juveniles eat, continue to shed their exoskeletons, get larger, and learn to fight the minnows that try to devour them. When large enough, they leave the sanctuary of the marsh and take part in the annual fall migration to the Chesapeake Bay.

Jet felt lucky to get the assignment to patrol this section of the river. As a young boy, and later as a teenager, he and his pals crabbed and fished for catfish from the banks of the local creeks that feed into the river. The boys ranged the shoreline and marshy projections from below the US 360 bridge to Fones Cliffs, five miles up the river. At such times, they used a small motor boat that belonged to an uncle. At other times, they paddled an old canoe that belonged to another boy’s family. On the Tappahannock side of the river, Jet knew many of the families. At least those who lived there all year long.

Most folks who live on this part of the river are wealthy. Old Virginia money made two centuries ago and since invested and carefully nurtured by each generation. Families from Richmond, Petersburg, and Fredericksburg built the grander, more luxurious mansions. People still making their fortunes in light manufacturing, retailing, wholesaling, and trucking, and only coming down on spring and fall weekends. In the summer, with the kids out of school, the wives drive the kids down, set up camp, and stay for the season. When the seasonal population peaks, especially on holiday weekends, visitors overwhelm the local stores and eateries. At times like that, the permanent residents shop, play golf, and eat out only on weekdays. On Friday and Sunday afternoons, traffic builds up as more and more cars queue to cross the Tappahannock bridge. The narrow two-lane bridge is the only means for traveling between the central part of the Northern Neck Peninsula and Richmond.

As Jet rounded Mallory’s Point, he gained a clear view of the shoreline ahead. Wooden piers constructed in a variety of styles and lengths jut from the steep banks over the course of the next mile. Above the piers, a mixture of modest cottages and expensive, white-columned mansions dot the shoreline. Nothing moving now, Jet thought. Probably going to have to wait until the weekend to nab the reckless jet skiers. Should be able to cull