Chapter 6: Frank's Locker

I woke up alone in a bed with every lamp still burning.

There was a note on the pillow, written in blocky capitals.

"Went to the docks. Noreen has the car. Eat something."

I ate a piece of toast over the kitchen sink while the catering girl pretended to polish a pot.

Then I made Noreen drive me to the pier.

Ferrand Pier was eleven acres of sagging boat sheds and creosote pilings, and my father had loved every board of it.

I had not been back since the funeral.

Three white trucks were parked at the head of the pier, with LATROBE HARBOR PARTNERS on the doors.

A crew in orange vests was driving surveyor's stakes into the planks of my father's loading dock, each one flagged with pink ribbon.

I got out of the car before Noreen had stopped it.

"Hey," I said.

A man with a clipboard looked up.

"Ma'am, this is a restricted work site."

"It's my pier."

"We have a signed access agreement from the owner's family."

"I'm the owner's family. I'm the owner."

I walked up to the nearest stake, wrapped both hands around it, and pulled it out of the dock.

It came up with a squeal.

The men stared at me.

I dropped it into the harbor.

"Get your trucks off my pier," I said. "All of it. In ten minutes."

"I'll need to call Mr. Latrobe."

"Call him. Tell him Billie Ferrand says the stairs are fine, and he can break his own neck on them."

The man with the clipboard went pale, and then he went to make his call.

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