by Tom Shepherd
I clawed Tanella’s shoulder, not ready to die. The doors slid open; we peeked out. Hotel guests floated by on their way to the restaurant or the gift shops. We poked our heads out the elevator to look for gunmen and found two old ladies waiting to board the lift.
Eric was leaning against a pillar on the veranda overlooking the lawn, frowning like a traffic cop. The porch and grounds were crowded with conference attendees, all wearing badges saying “HELLO—MY NAME IS…” Places like Pocatello, Idaho and Fort Smith, Arkansas were hand-lettered below their names. Guests applauded and waved as a platoon of Union blues and an equal number of Confederate grays marched off the lawn in opposite directions. Heavy smoke with the acrid smell of gunpowder drifted across the green, stirred by a light wind off the ocean.
“Fake battle,” Eric said. I thought he would cry. “Rats! I wanted terrorists with Uzi’s.”
Tanella patted his shoulder. “Let’s get your lounge bug.”
* * * *
The bartender, a thin black man with silver-flecked hair, looked up from paperwork spread across the surface of the bar.
“Excuse me,” Tanella said. “Okay for us to be in here?”
“Sure,” he said, his voice deep as the sea. When he stood up straight I noticed his plastic nametag—Moses. “Bar’s closed. People bring food in here whenever the restaurant overflows. Guess there ain’t no harm if you set awhiles.”
Moses the barkeeper had a voice deep enough to rattle water tumblers on a shelf. His eyes drifted across the dance floor to the little stage where a man and woman were wrestling with cables leading to big speakers on both sides.
“Caught their act yet?” Moses shuffled papers. “Funniest routine I ever heard. Never thought a white boy could do a good Stevie Wonder impersonation, but Tony does.”
“Oh, wow—I love comedians!” I said.
“My father doesn’t take me to places like this.” Tanella sat on a bar stool, swiveling left and right. I joined her and we laughed as we wheeled around.
The bartender smiled, a bit stiffly. “Look, uh, maybe you’d better not stay too long.”
“Oh, it’s okay. He trusts me,” she said. “Besides, we’re supposed to meet a friend here. Prince Ahmad—do you know him?”
Now, that surprised me. Tanella told a fairly good lie.
“Kid from Arabie? Came in last night by hisself. Sat right there and tried to order a drink, not a soda. I says, ‘Look, my royal man, I can’t serve you without a valid Georgia driver’s license that proves you’re old enough to drink. That’s the law.’ He goes, ‘But I am not from this country.’ And I says, ‘Well, if you want to drink in this bar, you gotta have Georgia on yo’ mind and twenty-one on yo’ driver’s license.’”
I stopped swinging the stool. “What did he say?”
The barkeep shrugged. “He’s a prince. Stood up, very politely nodded, and started to leave. Then he spied a gentleman in white, who’d been here drinking like a drainpipe since the flag went down.”
“Carsten O’Malley?” I said.
“I dunno. He went over and sat with this other guy, which made me kinda nervous. I ain’t supposed to allow minors in here when alcohol is being served unless accompanied by parents or guardians. I didn’t know if the guy in white was related to the Prince. It got pretty busy here, and before I could decide what to do they left together.” He swept us with a puzzled glance. “O’Malley? Ain’t that the guy who drowned?”
“One more question,” Tanella said.
“Shoot.”
“Where can we find Mrs. Olivia Bennett?”
“Penthouse, top floor of the steeple.”
“The witch’s hat?” I said.
He smiled. “Yeah, good word. If Mrs. Bennett ain’t there, try the Tropical Snow. Big white cabin cruiser, fresh from the showroom. Looks like Moby Dick. She’s moored at the wharf.”
Tanella thanked the barkeep, and we left the swivel chairs to join Eric. He found a table for two at the edge of the small stage to watch the performers warm up. When Tanella sat in the other chair, my choice was to stand or go fetch a third seat. I stood, listening to the pair of entertainers talk music as they leafed through sheets in a ring binder.
“Any requests?” the woman asked, looking our way.
“We’re not singing right now,” she said. “So request anything you want.”
I laughed. Eric didn’t get it. Tanella just smiled.
“Stevie Wonder!” I said.
The man reached into a box and pulled out a mop head dyed black and a pair of shades. He draped the stringy wig over his head, slipped on the sunglasses, threw back his head and began playing a phantom keyboard, singing the first lines of I Just Called to Say I Love You.
We applauded. “Somebody else!” I called.
He shook his head, then dropped his voice to the bottom of a well. “I’m not supposed to let you hear my act,” he said in a deep and echoing voice exactly like the bartender,. “Until you to come back here with Georgia on yo’ mind an’ money in yo’ pocket.”
“Very funny, Tony,” Moses called.
“Tony McClure, future superstar,” he said. “This is my assistant—”
“Assistant!” the woman said. “I’m April Eddington. Have you heard us with your folks?”
“Not yet,” Tanella said.
April was tall and pretty with long, honey-in-the-sunlight hair, but I couldn’t tell if the blonde highlights came from hours on the beach or minutes in the beauty shop. Tony McClure looked like young Paul McCartney, hamster cheeks and brown hair.
“Yo, Tanella. I got it,” Eric said, patting his pocket.
“Selling drugs?” April raised a dark eyebrow.
“No way!” Eric said, missing the humor.
“I’m joking. I’m allowed to say dumb things. I’m a blonde.”
“I’m a blonde,” I said.
“See what I mean? No, I’m joking.”
Eric laughed, I jabbed his side. “Shut up!”
“Did our friend come in here last night?” Eric said.
“You have a friend?” I said.
April nodded. “You’re very abusive. Might have a future in comedy.”
“Prince Ahmad,” Tanella said. “Was he here last night?”
Tony McClure hopped off the platform and unwrapped cables to stretch to the speaker on the far side of the stage. April came to our table.
“You mean Lawrence of Suburbia?” she said. “Kid with a white robe and a Gold Card? Yeah, he was in here. Left with Carsten O’Malley.”
“You knew Mr. O’Malley?” Tanella said.
“This is a bar, honey. You get to know the regulars.”
“Was Ahmad drunk?” I said.
“We don’t know,” McClure called across the dance floor.
“He didn’t seem drunk,” April said.
“Did O’Malley give Ahmad alcohol?” Tanella said.
“We don’t know,” Tony McClure said, wrapping wire around elbow and hand as he approached. “And you really shouldn’t be in here without your parents.”
I tried to explain. “The bartender said it was okay.”
Tony lowered his voice. “Moses is a decent guy for an old fart, but he’s new to Georgia. Came down last week from some place cold. Albany or Buffalo. The way he’s going, he won’t last. Now he lets you minors in here. The hotel can’t afford to lose its liquor license.”
“It’s the law, honey,” April said.
“We’re not drinking,” I said. “And it’s really important.”
April pointed to an open door leading to the lobby. “There goes somebody who might know. He and Carsten have been driving around the island together every afternoon. Peter Antonucci. He owns the Caretta, a small resort about three miles up the island. We played there a month ago.”
“Thanks!” I said. “Maybe my uncle will bring us to see you perform.”
“You’ll be sorry,” April said sternly. Then she smiled, “Just joking.”
Peter Antonucc
i looked like potbellied tourist from Toledo in tan shorts with black support socks. But April Eddington said he lived on Barrier Island year around. When Antonucci stopped at the gift shop, the three of us flopped in armchairs in the lobby and began reading abandoned newspapers.
“What now?” I said. “You want to walk up to Antonucci and ask why was bumping around the island with the late Carsten O’Malley?”
“Look—‘Hagar headed for the US mainland. Hurricane watches have been issued from St. Augustine to Cape Hatteras.’ They cancelled a launch at Cape Canaveral.”
I growled at her. “Tanella, focus!”
“We don’t know Mr. Antonucci. Why would he answer us? We'll follow him, see where he’s been going.”
“We could rent bikes,” my ugly cousin said.
“Eric,” Tanella said softly, “why don’t you find a quiet place to monitor your bug in Ahmad’s room?”
“Aw, Tanella! I want to tail this guy, too.”
“Give me the extra bug.”
“It doesn’t have much range. Just a mile or so.”
“That will be fine.”
“Rats! Can’t I stay and help track the killer?”
“Your job is more important. Ahmad is still our number one suspect. Besides, nobody can listen at a keyhole like you. You’re a natural born spy. Keep monitoring that bug.”
He brightened. “I’ll open a computer log, make notes about everything they say!”
When Peter Antonucci emerged from the gift shop, Tanella and I strolled out the veranda doors after him. He headed for the unpaved parking lot by the dumpster behind the main building, but when he got to his vehicle—pale green Mitsubishi pickup, the model with 4-wheel drive—Antonucci reached into a pocket and came up empty. I knew immediately he’d left his keys somewhere. The window was cracked only enough for ventilation. Shaking his head, Antonucci headed back toward us, so we ducked behind an oak tree until he passed. A moment later, Tanella slipped Eric’s bug through the open slit of the pickup window. Like a black gumdrop with little hooked feet, it caught on the cloth behind the driver’s seat.
“Look at this.” I peeked into the bed of the truck, which someone had filled with white sand to the tops of the wheel wells. “He’s been digging on the beach.”
“How odd.” Tanella picked up half an eggshell.
“Maybe he keeps chickens.”
“Doesn’t look like a hen’s egg.”
“Whatcha mean? It’s white,” I said.
“Wrong texture for hen’s eggs.”
“Excuse me?”
“Eggs should be brittle. This one’s…leathery? Feel it.”
“Country eggs can be heavy.” I hefted the half-shell. My eye caught movement in the distance, a pair of shorts and dark support hose plodding toward us. “Here comes Antonucci!”
I tossed the broken egg on its sandy grave, and we watched from the shade of the live oak tree as the little man drove around the far end of the main hotel building.
“Let’s find Eric,” Tanella said.
He was sitting on the ledge of a semi-circular window in the stairwell below our suite.
“Nothing yet,” he said holding up a blank sheet of paper. “Some jabbering in Arabic, but no real clues.”
“We need hard evidence.”
“Like what?” Eric said, hopping off the window sill.
“We need support for the hypothesis.”
“The what?”
“Hypothesis. My theory is that drug smugglers, not Prince Ahmad, killed Carsten O’Malley.”
“Where do we get this evidence?” I dreaded her answer.
Tanella smiled. “The beach. Tonight. After dark.”
“All right!” Eric clapped his hands.
“Girl, do you remember what O’Malley said about bullets and bombs before they killed him?”
“Peter Antonucci is doing something strange with that pickup truck.”
“Let’s nail him,” Eric said. “He’s digging up bundles of drugs.”
“Maybe.”
“How we gonna do it, Tanella?” Eric pursued her down the hall.
“Your idea…rent bikes. We’ll sweep the seaward shore of the island by road.”
“What if they catch us?” I had visions of my bullet-riddled corpse washing up on the mainland.
She was beyond reasoning. I mean, smart as she is, the girl had gone completely whacko. But here’s the real bummer: as much as I dreaded what lay ahead, I hated the thought of missing it even more. Am I psychotic, or what?
“We’ll sneak along the tree line, wearing dark clothing. If we see any suspicious activity—planes dropping bundles, people lurking on the dunes, anything—we snap pictures with our smartphones and run.”
“Flash photography is not a good idea,” I said.
“Tonight will be almost a full moon,” Tanella said. “White sand, bright moonlight. You could almost read a newspaper on the beach.”
“I don’t like this.”
“It'll be safe, Sally Ann.”
“Carsten O’Malley was an ex-CIA agent, and they killed him,” I said. “We’re just kids.”
“That’s our advantage. If we're seen—which I doubt—anybody who sees us will think, ‘What are those kids doing here?’ We’ll get away by playing dumb.”
I grunted. “Eric is a natural.”
“This is going to be the greatest night of my life!” he hooted. “Tons of drugs, heaped under palm trees. Call the vice cops, watch them mow the druggies down!” Eric pantomimed firing a machine gun, then a death scene worthy of Bugs Bunny. He fell to the floor. Oh, if it were only so.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
“My best guess—we find nothing but empty beaches and rolling surf,” Tanella said. “Bring your sleeping bags.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m gonna regret this.”
Seven
When we returned to the hotel, Tanella’s dad and a serious-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair were waiting for us in the lobby.
“Tanella, Sally Ann,” Dr. Blake said, “this is Inspector Norman Borkowski of the Glynn County Sheriff’s Department.”
“So, you’re the young lady with the big imagination,” he said. “Dr. Blake says you believe we’ve had a murder on Barrier Island.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t have enough facts to support any conclusion.”
“I’ll brief you on my investigation.” He opened the button on his light brown sports coat. “Can we do it now?”
“Sure.” She shot a glance at her dad. “If you have time in your schedule, Inspector.”
“No, I really don’t. But Mr. Bennett asked me to brief your father and you.” He turned to Dr. Blake. “Don’t know why you want a fourteen-year-old to see this.” He sat in an armchair chair by the bay window and began spreading photos across the coffee table. Dr. Blake took a seat at the other end.
“Can Sally Ann join us?” Tanella said.
“Bob Thornburg already gave his permission,” Tanella’s dad said. “This might be shocking, Tee, but you don’t learn by hiding from life.”
We moved onto the couch facing the low table.
“Okay, here we have crime lab shots of the scene,” Borkowski said. “That’s the wharf from above. See the pier? O’Malley fell off the south end and drowned.”
“How do you know which end? His body drifted.” Tanella said.
“Splinters in his face came from the tall pilings at the south end. All the other posts are younger wood, replaced ten years ago after a hurricane wiped out the original wharf. The two posts at the south end withstood the gale. O’Malley crashed into one of them and took a header into the channel.” Borkowski shuffled photos of the wharf. “He was drunk— 0.23 blood alcohol.”
“My God,” Dr. Blake said.
“Yeah. A few more belts and he could’ve died from alcohol poisoning.” He flipped the wharf pictures away and leafed through a series of shots of a corpse in a soggy white suit. “We’ve got so many duplicates�
��here we go. Another drunk goes deep six.”
“Look at his hand,” Tanella said.
“What about it?” Borkowski said.
“Isn’t that a ring shadow?”
The inspector produced a small leather case and shook out an oblong magnifying glass on a string. “Yeah. Looks like he wore a ring on his center finger. Wonder why it's missing?”
“Maybe the killer stole it,” I said.
They all glared at me.
“Well, it’s possible!” I said.
Borkowski studied the hands closely. “Two rings plus a ring shadow. The guy loved jewelry. What’s this one? Looks like hieroglyphics.”
“May I see?” Dr. Blake said. “It’s a cartouche, a name written in glyphs inside an oblong box.”
“Whose name, O’Malley’s?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Blake said. “They sell these in the street in Egypt. You give them your name and they transliterate the letters into hieroglyphics. It’s highly inaccurate.”
“And you can’t read it?”
“I could hardly know all the languages of antiquity.”
Tanella cleared her throat. “It says, Ol-vi-ya.”
Borkowski scowled. “How do you know?”
“I read a book on hieroglyphics. It had an extensive glossary.”
“You memorized the glossary?”
“She doesn’t have to,” Dr. Blake said. “When Tanella reads something, she remembers it.”
“What—you got a photographic memory or something?”
“No, sir. Photographic memories are a myth.”
“So, how do you know—”
““My daughter’s memory is eidetic,” Dr. Blake said. “She recalls images and sounds perfectly, to include whatever she reads.”
“If I pay attention,” Tanella admitted. “I can miss things, forget.”
“Ol-vi-ya,” Borkowski said slowly. “Why would Carsten O’Malley have a ring with Mrs. Bennett’s name on it?”
“They are old friends. She was talking with Mr. O’Malley just yesterday afternoon,” Tanella said. “Sally Ann and I overheard them.”
I pumped my head, vigorously.
“What were they talking about?” the Inspector said.