Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  “They think he was speeding too. And listen to this: the bottle didn’t actually hit him; it hit the passenger side of the windshield and blew a hole. If he’d been fully alert and in control, he should have been able to pull the car into the breakdown lane. But instead he freaked and started swerving all over the place. And that’s when he smashed into the Abelsens.”

  I see what Miles is doing: trying to paint Goslin as at least partially, if not mostly, responsible for the accident himself. It’s a touching gesture, meant to lessen my guilt. Little does he know, I’m not the one who most needs the moral strokes.

  “Oh, and something else I hate to tell you,” Miles says, “but it seems Goslin’s... junk was crushed in the accident. When the steering column got pushed in. That wasn’t in the papers. I don’t know how much repair work the surgeons were able to do, but…”

  I feel a wave of queasiness move from my stomach to my groin.

  Miles looks at his watch and says, “Shit, I’ve got to get going.” He stands, grabs his coffee, and says, “Text me, call me, keep me in the loop. I’ll be in touch later.” And with that, Miles blows out as fast as he blew in.

  . . . . .

  All-righty, then. Thanks, Miles. I’m surprised, considering what I heard in his recorded chat with Beth, that he is still continuing to help me at all. He thinks I’m delusional, so why is he still invested in this thing, or even pretending to be? Maybe Jim’s new info has swayed him?

  Whatever his motivation, I wish he could have stuck around this morning. Two heads are better than one. When I work with Miles, all this stuff feels real to me. I feel like we’re getting somewhere. When I work alone, I feel like a crazy person.

  And I’ve just been given a fresh load of crazy-making information to digest here.

  I open my coffee lid and turn on the laptop Miles has lent me. As I wait for it to boot up, I think about Edgar Goslin. Considering what he lost in the accident, and the kind of guy he seems to be, it’s hard to imagine he wouldn’t have a major axe to grind, even after all these years.

  One thing’s for sure, Goslin is the best “lead” we’ve turned up. I need to find out more about him, but I don’t know how much more I can learn from the Web, even if the Wi-Fi decides to cooperate.

  Talk to him directly. Yes. Good idea. Call Goslin under some phony pretext. Try to push his buttons in some way, see what he spills.

  To do that, though, I’ll need his contact information.

  Okay, so that’s a place to start. Maybe I’ll try one of those “people finder” websites and see what I can turn up. If I can get on the Internet. Major if.

  I give Safari a whirl on the laptop. Still no Wi-Fi. I try my phone’s 3G network. Nothing but a spinning circle.

  I lean my chair back, pecking at a donut and staring at the ceiling.

  Sitting in my room at Harbor House—alone—is making me feel like a lobster in a trap, just waiting to get pulled up onto someone’s boat. The feeling is more than metaphorical. I’m suddenly getting a strong sense of actually being watched.

  I stand and pace around the room, trying to shake it off. No luck. Most people think it’s bullshit, this idea that you can tell when you’re being spied on, but ask anyone in the surveillance trades: the sensation of eyes on you is real and palpable. Science is starting to back this up.

  I walk over to the window. I feel framed and exposed, but there’s not a soul to be seen in the storm-whipped village below, except an orange-ponchoed Dorna Caskie collecting recycling bags from the shops in her electric cart. So why this under-a-lens feeling?

  I return to my chair. That’s when I notice it: a brand new white plastic smoke detector on the ceiling.

  Chapter 21

  Was the smoke detector there when I checked in? I didn’t notice it, but why would I have? Across the ceiling is another detector made of yellowed plastic. Why would there be two detectors in one room? One for heat and one for smoke? Nah.

  Smoke detector: easiest place in the world to hide a web cam.

  I glance again at the new detector and then casually look away. If there’s a camera inside it, I don’t want to betray my suspiciousness.

  No question about it, I can feel eyes burning my skin, and I am absolutely sure there’s a live camera on me. I need to get the hell out of here. Not just for an hour or two. For good. I need to relocate. But I don’t want whoever’s watching me to know what I’m thinking.

  I stretch and yawn, then stand up and look offhandedly at my phone’s clock. I react to the time in fake surprise. Pretending I’m late for something, I stuff Miles’ laptop into my backpack. Luckily, most of my clothes and other belongings are already in there, so I don’t have to look like I’m packing for an overnight. I deliberately leave some of my clothes strewn on the bed and chairs, as if I intend to return here, then throw on my raincoat, feeling in the pocket for my homemade blackjack. Taking pains not to look up at the smoke detector, I exit the room.

  Rain is blasting the upstairs hall window in micro-pellets. As of last evening’s weather report, that hurricane-like system is still parked out in the Atlantic, and the forecast is for more intermittent wind and rain and continued high seas. A craptastic Saturday-before-Labor-Day, in other words. Oh well, I’m not hosting a Kiwanis club cookout.

  I’m tempted to go ask JJ if he recently installed new smoke detectors, but I decide to just get the hell out of Dodge. I exit by the fire escape on the third floor, to avoid the lobby, and slip down an alley behind the island’s mini-laundromat (two washers, one dryer, don’t ask). The storm is whistling through clapboards; it’s worse than it looked from the upstairs window.

  I’d already planned on dropping in on a few old friends. That mission has now taken on urgency. I need a place to stay. Not someone’s house—I can’t ask anyone to take that kind of risk—but maybe a toolshed or a guest cabin that’s not being used this washed-out weekend.

  Dennis and Billy’s place is pretty close by, so I head there first. I still haven’t returned Billy’s rain suit, but now I need to ask him for a bigger favor—the use of his storage locker as a hideout. I make my way to his door, on the bay side of the building. I have to time my way past the waves, some of which are crashing into the base of the sandwich counter. No crab rolls today.

  Dennis answers the door. He’s holding a mop and looking frazzled. Water must be getting into the building. “Billy’s in the shower right now,” he declaims, unsmiling. The cold shoulder he showed me earlier has metastasized into a serious case of frostbite.

  I see no light on in the bathroom, so I say, “Looks like he may be finished.”

  “He hasn’t started yet.”

  “Okay, well, can you tell him I came by and I’ll probably drop by again later?”

  “He’ll probably be in the shower later too.”

  Dennis doesn’t quite slam the door, but he shuts it with feeling.

  Hoo-ah—my friendship mission is off to a rollicking start. So whom else can I hit up for shelter on this fine late-summer morn? Most of my other island friends live either in the Greyhook neighborhood or out on Studio Row—at least they did last I saw them.

  I haven’t been to Greyhook yet, so maybe I’ll head over there first. As I start off in that direction, the wind is whipping so hard I feel it’s going to lift me off my feet. Salt from storm-blown spindrift is mixing with the rain, stinging my eyes.

  Greyhook occupies the eastern side of the bay all the way out to Seal Point. As I may have mentioned, Greyhook is where the working folk live—fishermen, dockhands, bartenders, shop clerks, and a number of “village artists.”

  FYI, there are three basic types of professional artist on the island. First you have the “rock star”
artists, who own the large ocean-facing properties at the far end of Studio Row and whose work is represented by top galleries in New York, London, and Paris. Then you have the almost-famous Studio Rowers, who own the studio/galleries on—wait for it—Studio Row. Finally, you have the “village” artists. Like I was. These are painters who sell their work for three figures, occasionally four, in the village shops and coastal tourist galleries. Village artists are tradespeople, nothing more, nothing less. Like lobstermen and boat builders. Most of them do other jobs too, like tending bar and working the boats.

  Many of my friends on the island are—or were—village artists. When I lived here, we had a loose club of sorts. We often hung out together, doing plein air sessions around the island, then hoisting a few at The Rusty Anchor or Pete’s Lagoon at the end of the day. We kept each other sane and motivated.

  Enzo was a diehard member of the gang. I decide to head for his place first. I keep my head down so as to cut through the wind and keep the salt out of my eyes.

  Enzo is a crusty old socialist and conspiracy theorist who lives in a rundown Greyhook cottage near the point. He taught political science at a New Hampshire college for decades, then retired here to let his freak-flag fly. Enzo is a throwback to the days when liberals were the ones worried about government conspiracies. His paintings are sad, muddy-hued things layered with political symbolism. They don’t sell, but Enzo doesn’t seem to care. Enzo was one of the earliest adopters of personal computer technology back in the eighties. When he’s not painting, you can usually find him at his high-end computer, blogging about secret government agencies and warning people they’re being spied on.

  Not today, though. When I knock on his peeling, lockless door, only his dog Herbert (Marcuse) comes to check me out.

  I poke my head inside, just in case Enzo’s on the crapper, and shout, “Come on, Enzo, I’m dying out here.” His place boggles the mind. If you looked only at his computer system, which occupies a whole wall, you’d swear you were in the office of a top IT guy for Prudential or the CIA. The rest of the house looks as if it’s inhabited by a caveman.

  If anyone on the island has Internet access during a storm, though, it’s Enzo. But I can’t use his equipment if he’s not home. Can’t ask him about a place to stay either.

  Maybe later.

  The tiny house next door is the polar opposite of Enzo’s. Meticulously painted in three tones and rimmed with lush window boxes, it is home to another village artist, Miranda. She’s only fortyish, but she dresses like an old hippie and listens to Incredible String Band music from the sixties. She’s a good soul, though.

  “Finny!” she shrieks, standing in her doorway and opening her arms for a hug. She invites me in for tea, which I gratefully accept. Miranda tells me that in the years since I left, the island has taken on bad juju. There is infighting, ill will, negative energy, she says. Something about the way she’s saying it, though, with her hand clamped on my wrist, feels more like a warning than an idle observation. “All I can do is paint about it and hope my paintings heal,” she says. Ah Miranda, God bless her. I decide not to gum up her chakras with my housing woes.

  Maybe the Bourbon triplets can help me: Matt, Zack, and Mike. They own a party fishing boat they take turns captaining and one of the island’s few apartment buildings, a four-unit affair. They’re all painters too. They learned to paint because art is a sellable commodity on Musqasset. If they’d been born in Brooklyn they’d have learned to make pickles. But oddly (or maybe not), they’re among the best artists on the island.

  I knock on Matt’s door, and he answers. His expression is more puzzlement than hostility. He looks around to see if anyone is watching. “Hey, Finn, kind of surprised to see you here.”

  “Kind of surprised to be here,” I half-shout over the wind.

  He lobs me a couple of polite catch-up questions from behind his screen door, but there’s no “Come on in and dry off” or “Let me show you my latest work.” Pulling teeth to keep the conversation going, I learn that his brother Zack got married last year and moved to the mainland, and that Mike had a gallery showing in Boston. Matt’s not expending one syllable more than required. Okay, fine. I was planning to ask him if any of his apartments were unoccupied, but clearly that would be unwise.

  I next make my way through the eye-stinging rain to Pop’s, the world’s most inconvenient convenience store (opens at 8:30, closes at 5:30). Pop’s sells dairy products with adventurous expiration dates and a random assortment of overpriced canned and dried goods. But I have no need for cocktail wieners or Indian pudding this fine morning; it’s the house behind Pop’s I’m interested in—a small saltbox where the Harpers, Gerry and Ginny, live. They’re a lobstering couple who also paint in oils and make sea-crafts from found objects. When Jeannie and I lived together, Gerry and Ginny were our best “couple” friends. Gerry is one of the funniest humans on the planet, and Ginny is the sweetest genius you’ll ever meet. And man, can they cook. I probably should have tried them first—they’ll know a place I can stay, for sure.

  As I’m tromping toward their house, the phone rings inside. Through the wavy old window glass, I hear the muted sound of Ginny answering, and I know, without question, the call is about me.

  I knock on the door, but no one answers. I knock again, harder. Nope. They’ve been warned off. Tears rush to my eyes, ambushing me. I flick them away and watch them mingle with the salty rain. Onward I march.

  As I head down rain-swept Camden Avenue, past the half-dozen weathered homes and rooming houses that line the street, I feel as if I’m being watched from windows. At one point I actually see a curtain close at my approach. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  I decide to swing by The Rusty Anchor to dry off and see if anyone I know is hanging out there. Bad idea. The way Big Al eyes me from behind the bar makes me feel like a guy on a Wanted poster stepping into a saloon in an old Western. He ambles toward me, cranks out an effortful smile, and says, “Finn Carroll, in the flesh.”

  I ask him how he’s been, and he replies, “Can’t complain...”

  “...since they closed the complaints department.” It’s an island moldy oldie.

  I order a coffee—it’s a bit early for a beer—and Big Al says, more out of compassion than animosity, “I’ll get you the one, Finn, but then maybe it’s best if you get rolling.” Wow, am I actually being kicked out of The Rusty Anchor? Customarily you have to rip a urinal from the men’s room wall to accomplish that feat. I reach for my wallet. Big Al waves off payment.

  I look around. The place is pretty empty. Back in the day, there’d be a fair crowd of morning drinkers at the Anchor on a Saturday, but it seems the weather is forcing folks to do their sorrow-drowning at home. The only patrons in the joint are a threesome of silent drinkers in raincoats, two of whom are facing away and the third of whom I don’t recognize, and, over in the corner, Enzo, the raving socialist painter, huddled over a breakfast tumbler of house red.

  “Grizzled” doesn’t begin to describe old Enzo; he looks as if the last tool he shaved with was made by Husqvarna. He gives me a surprised nod, which I take as an invitation to join him. One great thing about Enzo: he gives not crap one what anyone thinks of him. If he feels like talking to you, he’ll do so, even if the rest of humanity is treating you like an Ebola carrier.

  Still, I notice he does keep his voice down. “So I take it you’ve been getting a heaping helping of island hospitality?” he says, as I sit at his table, pulling back my dripping rain hood.

  “You might say that,” I reply, matching his turned-down volume. After we ply our pleasantries for a minute, I pursue the topic further, since he brought it up. “I don’t get it, Enzo. I mean, I know some people are pissed at me, but why am I being singled out for an Amish shunning?”

  “Homo
sapiens is a pack-hunting beast motivated by fear and self-interest and unmoved by reason...”

  “And how do you really feel about it?”

  “...But to be fair to the beasts in question,” he continues, “you brought a lot of it on yourself, wouldn’t you say?’

  “Why? Because I spoke up for that development plan—in its early days, when it still had merit? So did a bunch of other people.”

  “You did more a tad more than ‘speak up’ for it, amico mio.”

  “What? What did I do that was so terrible?”

  He peers at me over the rim of his glass tumbler. “Are you asking that rhetorically or...?”

  “It’s a real question, Enz.”

  “Come on, Finnian. Don’t be coy. We’re both too smart for that.”

  “What?” I really don’t know what he means. “I introduced Miles Sutcliffe to a few people. Big whoop. I talked some of the fishermen and selectmen into listening to his plan, but that’s all I did—grease the wheels of conversation.”

  “You vouched for him, among other things.”

  “Because he was my friend. And because I thought his plan was exactly what the island needed—a way to rehab Fish Pier and also bring in some new tax and retail money. I didn’t tell anyone how to think or vote, I just brought people together across tables; that was all.”

  “On this island, vouching for someone means something.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “And when the vouchee lies and deceives, there are consequences for the voucher.”

  “I get that, Enzo. But here’s what I don’t get. Miles struts around the island like he owns the place. No one seems to be shutting doors in his face. But he was the one—him and his partners—who actually screwed Fish Pier, not me.”