Betterton

By Joseph John Szymanski

Why does a rich, handsome, ambitious and talented 26-year old former SEAL settle in a small town on the Chesapeake Bay, and unknowingly carry a rare dagger around his waist?

Want to know more about antiques, auctions, starting your own business, planning for the future?

What are your chances of finding something worth $75,000 every Wednesday at a country auction?

What happens when a murder results from a rare dagger from Baghdad, worth over a million dollars?

Why is it that a homicide brings out the worst and the best in people?

Why is it that a possible murderer on the loose is easier to explain, but difficult to comprehend fully, in a small town where everyone knows the suspects involved?

Is the suspected foul play a crime of passion, revenge, theft, or just malice aforethought?

$ Betterton has a storyline that will have you yearning for more. Author Joseph Szymanski takes the reader on a racer-dip of suspense and uncertainty in a cliff hanger that will take your breath away!

ANSWERS INSIDE!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440177729

Joseph John Szymanski

Based on his 10 years as a technical writer and 43-year-career as an art dealer and familiarity with the Chesapeake Bay lifestyle, Szymanski blends facts with fiction to heighten the suspense that goes beyond anything you’ll see on the Antiques Roadshow. He says, “Reaching a climax in sex is one fleeting moment of ecstasy, whereas making a discovery in art is something you can brag about for the rest of your life.” Whoever buys SPARPOINT ROWS, correction SPARROWS POINT, receives a reserved seat on his private jet. Szymanski’s other previously-published ambiguous – correction -- ambitious novels include BETTERTON, ROCK HALL and ABERDEEN.

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Copyright © 2009 by JOSEPH JOHN SZYMANSKI

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4401-7771-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-7772-9 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 9/29/2009

CONTENTS

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

GLOSSARY AND

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

PREFACE

Betterton starts out as a story of a small town on the upper Chesapeake Bay at the mouth of the Sassafras River in Kent County, Maryland. From a historical standpoint, around 1850 Richard Turner, a Quaker, moved his family from Baltimore and purchased a parcel of land from Edward Crew, including a wharf called Crew’s Landing. In 1860 Turner named the Bay side hamlet after the maiden name of his wife Elizabeth. His family eventually built a mill and warehouse for shipping products, mostly seafood and produce such as corn, soybean and peaches harvested locally via steamboat ferry to Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Wilmington. When incorporated in 1906, Betterton supposedly prospered with dozens of restaurants, hotels, amusement arcades, a gambling hall, shops, and a sandy beach for tourists who wanted to escape the summer heat and humidity of big cities, especially Baltimore. A ferry service between Baltimore and Betterton thrived until the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was completed in 1952, and afterwards, people traveled by car everywhere and made Ocean City their primary beach resort destination.

The ferry is long gone, and Betterton has slipped gradually into a sleepy hamlet spread over about one square mile. It appears that the townsfolk have little interest in commercial or residential development. The town has no hotels, motels, restaurants, grocery stores, nor filling stations. There’s not even a cafe where anyone can meet for a beer, cup of coffee or ice cream sundae. Less than 10 percent of members of its 100 families living there have college degrees. But Betterton’s beach, a 300-foot long sandy playpen on the Chesapeake Bay, is generally free of sea nettles, and remains the main attraction.

Today information over the Internet includes statements about a renaissance occurring in Betterton, which is wishful thinking. From the author’s viewpoint Betterton is still a town unchanged, and everyone likes it that way. The sleepy hamlet has remained almost as it has existed for a couple of generations, and the few families living there all year round refuse to waiver despite the needs of future generations.

But change is coming. It’s just around the corner, unexpected and significant, because, blowing in from Baltimore, is a rich, handsome, talented, and ambitious 26-year old former Navy SEAL Lieutenant. Could he be the unknowing instigator of a renaissance there?

While this novel is essentially a tale of two towns, Betterton and its neighbor Rock Hall, the author has altered the names of real people, locations, and events. Any resemblance of characters in this story to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

One final comment here: As you probe deeper into this book, you will eventually discover that Betterton is more than a story about one or two towns and the people currently living there. Betterton is a way of life or state of mind or psychological complex, something like an itch that suddenly makes you want to scratch it, or a sick feeling in your stomach from something bad that you’ve experienced, or better yet, a moment when you see a sign flash across your mind that says, YOU CAN BE SOMETHING BETTER THAN YOU ARE.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

This book is published with contributions from the following friends: The first is Paul Gregory, legendary agent and producer, who managed, in his own words, to plow through one of the early revisions, gave it a Heads Up, and suggested the possibility of transforming it into a television series. …The second is Dr. Ellsworth Boyd, a colleague at Washington College, who was a steady wind behind my sails, helping to reset my compass, and guiding me with advice and encouragement… The third is the late Gordon Beard, whom I’ve never met but used words from his humorous pronunciation guide Basic Baltimorese, to give certain persons in this book a colorful Damon Runyonesque speech. Finally and most importantly are Stanley and Elle Piotrowski, Rudolf Veltman, Joseph Buron, Richard Parlow, and Mike McGrath who provided valuable regenerative feedback designed to make this novel something special…Oh, I almost forgot to thank Andy Musser for being Andy Musser, the best friend God ever put on this earth. And I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge the inspiration from my late wife Renate and support from my brothers Tom and Frank and their spouses. My sincere gratitude is extended to everyone specified above, with the hope that BETTERTON will meet their expectations. Joseph J. Szymanski.

CHAPTER 1

It’s the dawn of a new day, the first Monday in September, as the early morning sun glitters off the foamy waves of the Chesapeake Bay. The waves slap one another and roll inward towards each shore. The turbo-shaft engine of a Black Hawk helicopter roars like a Boeing 747 warming up on a runway. The blades of its rotors whip the air above the Bay and give the copter plenty of lift and thrust to propel it anywhere at speeds up to 200 miles per hour. The identification BLUE ANGEL 329 is stenciled on both sides of the exterior frame in glossy black paint over a base layer of camouflage. The pilot is outfitted in a bright orange aviator’s suit with shiny silver captain bars on his lapel and wears an unusually large helmet with electronic mics extending to his mouth like two straws bent in a cup. Tinted goggles, the kind skiers wear on snowy ski slopes, completely cover his eyes until he moves them to his forehead and blares out in a southern accent, Captain Grant calling Flight Control. He pauses and lowers his voice, Blue Angel three-two-niner approaching eastern shore of Murlin and entering the Chesspeek Bay…finally.

A female voice behind him says with a chuckle, Would I be out of line if I said you’re talking through your hat, Captain? I mean, with all that audio gear attached to your helmet. Aren’t you feeling a little heavy headed?

The pilot laughs as his body shakes a little inside his loose fitting suit, and acknowledges, Heavy headed or hatted? No, I’m feeling like a million dollars after taxes. What a gorgeous day to be over the Chesspeek Bay, Major.

The rays of the sun reflect off his captain bars again onto the instrument console with all its electronic dials, meters, gauges and switches, only two feet from his face. He glances towards the middle of the console at the gas gauge that indicates full capacity and the altimeter with its white arrow twitching at 1,000 feet. Within the next 10 seconds the copter moves steadily inward across Maryland’s eastern seaboard, as Captain Grant accelerates his copter upward. He talks into his helmet mic, Blue Angel three-two-niner… elevating from 1,000 to 2,000 feet, approaching the Chesspeek Bay Bridge and hurtling over the double spans.

As the copter crosses over the second span, its silver-colored girders begin to shimmer in the direct sunlight. Sitting behind and to the right of the pilot is a stunning dark-haired 27 year old woman dressed in a light blue two piece business suit. A small gold-plated oak leaf is pinned to one lapel and a badge pinned to her upper pocket identifies her as Major Liz Carter, Pentagon Special Forces. Because of her small aluminum-framed seat wrapped with canvas, something resembling a beach chair, her tight fitting skirt seems to have a mind all its own, and with each bounce of the copter, the hemline crawls slowly upward, exposing more of her thighs than she would like.

She looks repeatedly at her Rolex, calculating the time and location of the flight. From her purse she removes a small mirror and lipstick, and attempts to apply a touch to her lips just as unexpected gusts lift the copter upward. Her hand holding the lipstick is swept halfway up the side of one cheek. She bellows out, It would be nice if you’d give me some warning of upcoming turbulence.

Major, you should’ve taken a cab from Dover to Wilmington and caught the Metroliner heading north to New York.

That was my original plan, Captain, but when I heard you’re flying to Bawlmer, I decided to hitch a ride with you. I was raised in Bawlmer, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen the Chesspeek Bay from the air. I’m in no hurry to get to New York as long as I get there by 10 pm.

Do you know what’s aboard besides you?

Yes, I met the Honor Guard, Captain Kasoff, who was transferring a coffin from the cargo plane at Dover Air Force Base to the rear compartment of this Black Hawk.

This operation is called Angel Flight. We’re bringing home a fallen warrior, a comrade who was killed in Iraq. His family will meet us at the Inner Harbor. From there, they’ll take him on a ferry for his last ride across the Chesspeek Bay for burial in Betterton.

Liz declares, The road to victory is paved with men and women who gave their lives for our country. She pauses to look again at her watch, and continues, I don’t mean to be callous, Captain, just grateful that you gave me permission after clearance from Colonel J.R. Spencer, my boss at the Pentagon. If I don’t catch the Metroliner at Penn Station in Bawlmer, I can easily take the intercity train. It runs every hour on the hour. No big deal.

Captain Grant turns around to get a better look at Liz. It’s nice to have you on board this morning, Major, he says in a baritone voice.

It’s a pleasure to hitch a ride with you this morning, Captain.

He asks, Are you involved in Iraq?

As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to New York to interview some applicants for surveillance work over there.

Grant lowers the altitude of the copter to 1,000 feet again, and the turbulent winds calm considerably. The copter proceeds on a course that the compass registers North by Northwest as Liz glances out her side window to see the shoreline of the Bay. He gazes at the compass and says to no one in particular, North by Northwest…Wish I could’ve taken Hitchcock on a helicopter ride to Mt. Rushmore.

You must be a movie buff, Captain…to remember that Hitchcock thriller.

No. I just like Hitchcock and the suspense and thrills he injects into his films."

She says, Well, I’m delighted that the flight is steady again. Thank you, Captain, That’s more like it. My name is Liz Carter. She brags facetiously and continues, At the Pentagon, they call me Liz, the Biz Wiz. I don’t know whether or not that’s a compliment.

Captain Grant continues, Well, Major, I promised to get you to Bawlmer, alive and all in one piece, didn’t I?

That’s precisely what you promised me, Captain, but promises are one thing, control is another, and sometimes, control is uncontrollable. She pauses and stretches her head towards the window, and says, I see the Eastern Neck Wildlife Refuge and Rock Hall coming up on our right side…and farther up is Betterton, but you can’t see it from here. It’s probably another 24 miles.

He smiles and says, We’re turning leftward now and the Patapsico River’s coming up on our left side.

Captain Grant lowers the copter to 500 feet, where both occupants can see the entrance to the Potapsco River. With relative ease he steers his copter leftward and moves to the center of the river, and close enough to see almost every detail of the gold and red colored autumn leaves and white shingles on the porch-front houses lining the shore.

He turns partly around in his seat again and tells her, It won’t be long now. We’re passing Bethum Steel at Sparis Point on your right. See those giant towers belching a few puffs of smoke from the steel mills. That’s Sparis Point all right. My father often told me stories about those Bessemer furnaces in war time, in the 1940’s. He said you could see from 20 miles away the nighttime glow and blow of those hot exhaust gases coming out of those smokestacks. A lot of steel went into those Liberty ships, and most of it came from Bethum Steel. He pauses to gaze again at the speed indicator on the copter console.

I’m enjoying every word, Captain. Like I said before, I was born and raised in Bawlmer, and never grow tired of hearing ‘bout its history.

On the left, we’re approaching Locuss Point, with the historic Fort McHenry, the massive Domino sugar refinery and sign, and two marine terminals for giant cargo ships.

Within seven minutes Captain Grant maneuvers his copter over the target pad of the Inner Harbor heliport, where water ends and concrete begins. When the wheels of Blue Angel three-two-niner touch down, Captain Grant turns off the engine and walks around the copter to open the door for Liz, and asks, Did you say your name was Major Liz Carter? I didn’t even have time to log you in this morning.

She answers, That’s right. You sure kept your word about getting me here safe and sound. With a touch of levity, she taps the top of his aviator’s helmet like a Queen knighting a subject, and says, Captain Grant. I appoint you Tops of Props!" A second later Liz turns, stands at attention, and holds her salute as the pilot takes a few steps and reaches for the rear door of the Black Hawk helicopter.

Four middle age men, from a local mortuary, dressed in black suits, rush and stand by the helicopter as Captain Grant opens the rear door. First stepping out of the helicopter is Army Captain Harvey Kasoff, senior ranking officer of the deceased soldier’s service branch. Kasoff gives the four men permission to remove the coffin, draped with the American Flag.

Following Kasoff, they walk with precision, slowly and solemnly, to a ferry moored nearby where a special ramp has been lowered for them to carry the coffin onto the ferry for placement in a private compartment concealed from the public. The ferry’s ultimate destination is the small town of Betterton, a two hour trip down the Potapsco River and across the Chesapeake Bay.

After the coffin reaches the bottom deck of the ferry, Liz sighs and lowers her salute. She quickly surveys the area and locates the taxi stand about 100 feet away from the helipad. She walks hurriedly past tug boats and fishing trawlers tied up to piers.

A fisherman stands in front of his trawler, points to a display of fresh fish evenly spaced on a bed of ice, all resting on a wheel barrel, and hollers over to her, Hey little lady, how ‘bout some fresh fish for lunch today?

Liz waves him off with a smile, then hears the captain standing in front of his tug boat holler, How ‘bout a cruise this afternoon or evening to Paradise?

Shaking her head from side to side and wagging her index finger out like a teacher scolding a student, Liz continues to walk briskly towards the taxi stand just as a bright yellow one screeches to the curb and out jumps a family with some kids.

The father confronts Liz, and asks her where to find the charter boats. She listens, but the sudden blare of automobile horns forces her to spin his body a quarter turn, point out the direction, and gently nudge him along to charters moored at the piers. She runs a few steps and jumps in the back seat of the waiting taxi. She bounces about a foot into the air.

She laughs and utters, What’s your name, driver?

You can call me Harry, he tells her while looking in his rear view mirror.

Well Harry, get me to Penn Station as fast as you can, and I’ll make it worth your while.

Harry quickly drives away from the curb and moves his taxi onto Pratt Street going south, and tells her without any prompting, The old central fish market used to be on our left side, where watermen brought everything they caught in the Chesspeak Bay and all the rivers in Murlin. One whole city block of wholesalers who shipped seafood everywhere until Mayor Schaefer and contractors teamed up to develop the Inner Harbor. Two blocks later, he makes a sharp left turn onto Charles Street, and says, That’s a Pittsburgh turn, you know, not from the end lane where I should’ve been, but too busy watching you through my rear view mirror. You’ve got to be the prettiest lady I’ve ever had in my cab!

Compliments are always welcome, Harry. I’ll have to increase your tip!

Luckily, there’s not much traffic this early in the day, but I’ll make it a horse race to Penn Station like Storm Cat in the Preakness at Pimlico. I’ve got 250 hosspowair under the hood now, and this baby is running like a Timex this morning…you know, takes a licking but keeps on ticking.

He pauses to gaze again in his overhead mirror to see if Liz reacts to his last remarks, then shrugs his shoulders and continues, In the old days they called me Harry One Hoss Power, just my hoss and carriage, hauling seafood all over Bawlmer, me and Betsy. You should’ve seen me rolling those big barrels of raw urshters into Mueller’s Restaurant on Bond Street in Fells Point.

Liz says, I remember Haussner’s on Eastern Avenue that served those fabulous dinners, but I never heard anything about Mueller’s on Bond Street.

Harry continues, That’s ‘cause they closed in the 60’s, long before you were even born. It’s true. Eastern Avenue had Haussner’s, known for fine food and beautiful art, but Bawlmer, in the good ol’ days, had Mueller’s of Bond Street, the best crab cakes, steamed crabs and fried urshter patties, handmade by Mom Mueller and her friend Alice Gerstung, These were two Irish women who married German immigrants in Bawlmer.

Was Alice the wife of Harry Gerstung of Gerstung’s Bakery on Fayette Street?

That’s right. Harry Gerstung was a master baker, trained in Germany and baked the best bread, buns, and muffins in the city. When the wind was blowing in your direction, you could smell all that baking from a mile away.

Tell me more about those urshter paddies. I heard that urshters are loaded with iron, good for … She pauses and blushes a little.

I know the word you’re thinking here. But the secret was the vegetable oil that turned almost brownish-black when those urshter paddies in strainers were dropped into the boiling oil. That was BC.

Liz is curious and asks, What precisely is BC?

Harry continues, Before Cholesterol! He begins to laugh and continues, "Yes, those were the days before anyone knew about cholesterol! Even Governor Gerald McKeldin and Mayor Tommy D’Aliceandro, father of Nancy Pelosi, ate those urshter paddies along with Chesapeake Bay blue crabs, steamed with black pepper. Mueller’s was the place for the best seafood in the city and the pride of Bawlmer. Furthermore, they had something that Haussner’s never had."

And what was that?

"Shorty, one of the best piano players who could play and sing almost anything ever written or published in Tin Pan Alley. He was a wonderful black man, in his 40’s, who reminded me of Eddie playing the piano at Rick’s Place in ‘Casablanca’. Shorty worked during the days at Sigh-a-neye Hospital, and played on Friday and Saturday nights for tips. He always had a smile on his face, and was one of the best liked men God ever put on this earth, believe me."

I believe you, Harry. She leans back in her seat and says, Harry, I think you’re a one-man Wikipedia on the history of Bawlmer. I’m enjoying every syllable that you utter. You love the city and your work, which makes the trip much more enjoyable this morning. Helps me to relax too She unexpectedly sneezes.

God Bless You.

Thank you, Harry. She pauses and asks, Do you remember their prices?

Well, you won’t believe it, but at Muller’s Restaurant, the crabs were fifty cents each, and six of those large urshter paddies plus a small cup of Cole slaw and crackers cost thirty-eight cents! And I bet you won’t believe it, but customers still complained that the price was high.

You’re right, Harry. I don’t believe you.

If you look straight ahead, you’ll see we’re coming up to Mount Vernon Place with George Washington standing on top of the tower. It’s not really George Washington in person, just a statue of him, standing 178 feet above the ground.

How’s it possible that you remember that number, Harry?

I play it every day in the Maryland lottery. He laughs and continues, And on the right side is the United Methodist Church with its incredible Gothic design and spires.

I know this area well, Harry. I used to study piano at the Peabody Institute on the right side, across from the church, and loved to visit the Walters Art Gallery that we just passed on our left.

A minute later the taxi pulls up in front of Penn Station where Liz thrusts a handful of cash into Harry’s hands. He says, Let me get the door for you, and rushes around to open the rear door, where he gives her a tip of his cap, a big smile, and says, Hope to see you again.

As Liz steps away from the taxi and heads across the short concrete plaza, he blabbers to himself, Did that little vision of beauty just come out of my cab? What a figure. He plumps down in the driver’s seat, adjusts his rear view mirror so that he can see his face, and says, Oh, if only I were thirty years younger and a million dollars richer, what I could do with her on a Caribbean Cruise.

Liz walks within 25 feet of the front brassy doors of Penn Station just as a young handsome Navy SEAL officer, in his well tailored white uniform, emerges. He takes a few steps away from the doorway area and drops his duffel bag, then pauses momentarily to take a deep breath and survey the area. He removes his officer’s cap and combs his wavy dark hair with his fingers and rotates his head to get the kinks out of his stiff neck.

His body and duffel bag block the doorway area just as Liz approaches the front door. Instead of walking around him, she marches up to him, notices his rank, and asserts, Would you mind stepping aside, Lieutenant!

He asks, Are you talking to me?

Liz looks up slowly and savors all six feet, four inches of his muscular frame, stares into his bright brown eyes that look like Aunt Jemima’s syrup and just as sweet. His movie star caliber face reminds her of Burt Lancaster, and almost takes her breath away as she begins to laugh and says, "Well, you’re