Cold Crossover

by T. R. Kelly

  I figured the police had poked around and probably cleared their entry with Dolan. But I also knew Harvey Johnston. The county sheriff’s top detective did things by the book and would not conduct a thorough investigation until someone had gone missing for a full twenty-four hours. Even a local celebrity. The way I figured it, Harvey’s official clock still stood short, so any cops who entered would have only tiptoed around.

  They also hadn’t coached this kid or knew what made him tick.

  My usually nimble hands fumbled then dropped the key to Dolan’s front door lock. I fanned out the fingers of my right hand, hoping to relieve the cramps. Instead, I discovered a peculiar painless shaking, not unlike what I experienced at Tony’s. The key tip dinged several spots around the lock before I successfully guided it into the deadbolt. Knowing this would not be a regular Realtor walk-through, I pulled a pair of painter’s gloves from my hip pocket.

  I flailed my arm in tiny arcs on the knotty-pine wall before I found and turned on the kitchen lights. A jumbo jug of Heinz 57 anchored most of the week’s issues of the Skagit Valley World on a round oak table. A fry pan floated in an inch of water in the sink, topped by a plastic plate with solidified drips of grease and mustard.

  The downstairs bedroom carried the familiar smell of a young athlete on the move—a combination of gum wrappers, unwashed gym clothes, and Axe body spray. Draped over the closet door rested Shell station work garments, while jeans and t-shirts covered the chair and ottoman. A golf shirt rested on the arm of the reading light. A green, unzipped sleeping bag lay atop the tartan bedspread. Loose change, crumpled fast-food receipts, and a couple of pens took up most of the bedside table.

  Behind the chair, a mound of purple practice jerseys and shorts rested against a wall. Dirty socks and jocks lined a section of the closet floor while several pairs of partially laced Adidas high-tops took up the remainder. I lifted one of the newer shoes, recognizing it as the same model he’d worn in the state final and heard the “ching” of loose change in the heel. Beneath a few dimes and nickels lay scrap of paper, a return slip from J.C. Penney in North Fork. Scribbled on the back was Holly, 9, Bremerton. Dusty cordovan oxfords were the only street shoes. Various jackets and windbreakers hung between two wool Pendleton shirts and three pairs of jeans. Typical young-man threads—and still on hangers. So, Linn had changed on the fly for days, maybe weeks, in a row. What kid didn’t?

  The green top to the Gillette Foamy rested underneath the bathroom sink, and the cap to the Crest toothpaste was missing. What a surprise. No curious prescriptions or questionable over-the-counter drugs. If Harvey Johnston and his guys were here with their A-game, this stuff would’ve been bagged and tagged.

  The three upstairs bedrooms were spotless and likely untouched since Labor Day weekend. Same with the bathrooms. As I grabbed the stair railing, I heard a creaking sound like a linebacker leaning back in a rickety wooden chair. I applied more pressure to the bannister but could not duplicate the noise.

  When I re-entered the kitchen, a cold breeze knifed in from the back porch. The mud-room door, closed when I entered the home, now swung slightly back and forth. As I approached the door, I noticed the floor was slightly bowed, the plywood and linoleum curved from seasons of freezing temperatures and little crawl-space insulation. My steps brought the same creaking sound I heard a moment before.

  A powerful car engine rumbled to a start as I darted out the back door.

  “Hey!” I yelled, sprinting toward the road. “Get your butt back here!”

  The car peeled rubber and whipped around a bend lined with tall firs three driveways down before I could even guess at a make or model. Its red taillights glowed high on the limbs of the evergreen canyon fashioned by North Shore Drive. Attempting pursuit in my ancient truck seemed ludicrous. The car would be halfway to North Fork by the time I got the big rig rolling.

  Careful to sidestep the random ruts in the sloping driveway, I went back inside and took one last look around. No telltale mud from other boots or shoes; no pried locks, or jimmied windows. It also appeared that Linn had restricted his living to the kitchen, the downstairs bedroom, and bath. I turned out the lights, locked the door, and removed a glove to return the key to the lockbox. As I did so, I thought of the number of times I had forgotten to repeat the routine at other properties, leaving fellow agents stranded with customers in tow.

  A light rain had begun to fall, chilly enough to bring a few snowflakes to the top of Bailey Mountain. With the flashlight beaming the way, I briefly flashed the home’s siding and roof before moving to the wooden shed on the road side of the lot. The structure, more of a fall-down than a tear-down, was too small to shelter an automobile. A small rusty spike in the circular latch held the two barn-like doors closed. I pulled the spike. The place smelled like the half-dozen musty canvas lifejackets hanging from the rafters. Fresh footprints led to four large cartons on top of the workbench I’d never seen. On the shelves above, glass jars in a variety of sizes held nuts, bolts, screws, corks, and fuses. Wrinkled clothes filled three boxes. The fourth proved the biggest and heaviest. A gold-plated figurine shooting a basketball protruded through the flaps. I unraveled the four overlapping sections and immediately recognized the trophy mounted on a nicely finished wooden base.

  Linnbert “Cheese” Oliver

  1977 Washington State

  3A Player of the Year

  Smaller plaques, plates, medals, ribbons, and framed pictures surrounded the trophy. A leather binder with plastic-coated newspaper clippings, photos, and programs, starting with Linn’s third-fourth grade team at St. Brendan Elementary School in North Fork, sat deeper in the box.

  One picture showed him among the skinny arms and legs of his teammates at the annual Husky Hoop Camp on Whidbey Island, the same week he received his peculiar nickname. I was a camp counselor assigned to coach one of the eight-man teams of elementary school kids and handle all transportation for the campers. The camp’s supervisor nearly fell over in laughter when he read the youngster’s name at the meet-and-greet lunch that kicked off the first day of the session.

  “Linnbert Oliver? What kind of name is that? You gotta a brudda named Chedda? What was yo momma thinkin’ . . ? OK, here’s the deal. I’ve heard your buddies call you Linn or Linnie. From now on, you are just ‘Cheese.’ Got that? Cheese Oliver.”

  Linn’s elementary and middle-school basketball games were legendary. I attended as many as I could. He innately found a way to score nearly at will and provide backdoor passes to teammates while handling the ball at the foul line. Unlike most other kids, he dribbled confidently with either hand and consistently surprised opponents by favoring his left side. A gifted leaper, his incomparable skill clearly lay in how quickly he could rise from the floor and release another machine-like shot. He took his camp coach’s advice and made it a central part of his game:

  “It’s not how high you jump, son. It’s how fast you can get off the floor.”

  I rolled up my sleeves and ran a gloved hand down the side of the box to the bottom. I gripped the last set of publications, pulled them through the other memorabilia, and set them on the bench. My legs wobbled slightly. I reached out to the bench and steadied myself. I clutched my chin, momentarily forgetting how different the glove’s surface would feel against my face. The brittle, blond rubber band that bound a dozen copies snapped when I removed the top one.

  Washington State Interscholastic Activities Association

  1977 State Basketball Tournament

  University of Puget Sound Fieldhouse

  Tacoma, Washington

  I took a deep breath, but the hurt returned anyway. The best kid I ever had got us to the ultimate game, and I blew it. Too stubborn to change defenses. Too reliant on a star with a sore knee. Why didn’t I call time-out in the final seconds? It wasn’t Linn’s fault his final shot didn’t fall. I should have adjusted sooner and never have put him in that position.

  For years, I secretly harbored the concern he’d never
put that moment behind him. And now, after the bar talk and the tournament memorabilia Linn chose to drag with him all these years, I wondered how tightly he’d turned that screw.

  I put everything back and replaced the spike in the door.

  A police car coming the other way blew past me as I drove to Gustaffson’s to bunk down before tomorrow’s dock repair.

  I rocked all night in what usually had been a comfortable bed.

  Who in the hell is Holly?

  Chapter Four

  11 a.m., Thursday, February 3, 1982

  The truck’s radio reception as I drove back down to the Mountain Market was remarkably clear, but there was no mention of a missing basketball player on any of the morning news broadcasts. I parked and headed for the payphone, eager to get Harvey Johnston’s opinion. But I had to settle for his dispatch center.

  Returning to the cabin, I geared up for the original reason for the trip and spent the next few hours sinking a new pair of two-inch steel pilings to support the original fir posts at the end of the Gustaffson dock. I also spent time admiring the scenery while concocting a few more positive possibilities about Linn Oliver’s disappearing act.

  A beaver’s wake was the only disruption on the glass-top lake, and I followed the gentle wave until the last of the V dissipated near the middle of the emerald bay. I was the morning’s only interloper and felt like apologizing to the deer, chipmunks, eagles, and fish each time the sound of my sledgehammer reverberated through the valley. By the time I trudged back to the cabin to clean up, my thermal underwear was soaked with sweat beneath my chest waders.

  I glanced at my watch. Of course I was behind schedule. A quick stop at home to change before the office meeting was out of the question. The clothes I had with me at the lake would have to do. I knew I’d get hammered by my no-nonsense boss for holding up the show and picked apart by our two elderly agents for my choice of clothing combinations, which usually included crumbs and stains from a recent meal. Today, a blotted, greasy lasagna spot. Even if I appeared in a new Nordstrom pinstripe suit, either Edith or Martina “wouldn’t care” for the color.

  On more than one occasion, they’d looked me square in the eye and said, “Coach, you could use a wife.” What does that mean? I had one, a good one, and when she passed away, I knew I’d never find anyone like her. What I wouldn’t mind was a little feminine company at dinner, followed by a two-way intellectual critique of a new film. Who knows what could happen after that? Most of the time, I shielded myself by being clueless about dating. Did mature adults actually date anymore? It seems they simply converged on bars and restaurants in packs, like college kids.

  I pulled into the paved lot off Main Street and jogged to the back door at Tony’s Place in work boots, an unbuttoned, untucked plaid shirt flying behind me and a manila folder under my arm.

  The downtown eatery and watering hole dominated the corner site of a century-old block once occupied by the MacTavish & Oliver Mercantile, the first retail outlet built on the banks of the Skagit River in 1877. It was the only North Fork riverfront restaurant and bar that did not rely solely on the transient business from the Greyhound station two blocks away. Tourists and other wayward customers gravitated toward the national chains on the edge of town. Summer boaters and fishermen tied up to a floating dock, schlepped their empty five-gallon gas cans up the gangplank to the Shell station for refilling, and then strolled to Tony’s outside window for a Bud, a burger, and the always tantalizing but later troublesome garlic fries.

  I operated under the impression that the only person who believes a regularly scheduled meeting will begin on time is the one who schedules it. Come to think of it, the only detail that I truly had cared about most of my life since Cathy passed away was whether the lights in our steamy gym, Washington’s High’s legendary Crab Pot, beamed brightly enough above the baskets. Since I retired, I rarely made a decision that couldn’t easily be put off until sometime next month.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if the world were to end tomorrow, Ernie Creekmore would have another week,” said Elinor “Cookie” Cutter, the broker at Big River Realty. “I give you our guest speaker for this month, the tall, angular—and tardy—Coach Creekmore.”

  The eleven full-time agents—plus a few office staffers, local builders, property managers, and drainfield designers—reluctantly wrapped up their conversations at the silver coffee dispenser, snared one last sugar cookie, and moseyed to their seats.

  I tried to tuck in the tails of my blue-black check shirt as I ambled toward the front of the room. Martina caught my eye, slowly shook her head, and glared down at her nun-like shoes. Cookie, Napoleonic at five-foot-two, stopped me near the back row and grabbed my arm. I was fourteen inches taller and who knows how many pounds heavier but somehow I never felt I was looking down at this miniature dynamo.

  “This better be good,” she whispered as heads turned our way. “Or I’ll fry your fanny for lunch.” She smiled for all to see.

  “Thanks for the resounding support.”

  I tossed my presentation and handouts on the speaker’s table and began erasing the blackboard in the room that felt like the den of a second home. The restaurant’s proprietor, George Berrettoni, also owned Big River Realty and once taught math at Washington High. As I began to speak, George removed his white apron and slid into a chair in the back of the room. He mouthed: Where’s Linn?

  I shook my head, offered a palms-up, no-idea gesture, and plowed into my presentation.

  “There is so much waterfront here that our local buyers have become spoiled,” I said. “They have been around water all their lives and take it for granted. Friends from out of town often remind the locals how special our waterfront property really is.”

  Many of my associates, especially the younger ones, looked as if they had dates elsewhere. Or wished they did. They picked at their clothing and glanced at their watches.

  “Think about it.” I pointed to a colorful map of the lower forty-eight states that Cookie had brought. “Where else in the country can you find affordable salt waterfront and fresh waterfront, mountains, streams, in a decent climate? New England? Too cold and expensive. Miami? Often muggy, no fresh water. San Diego? Crowded and expensive. San Francisco? Cost-prohibitive ...”

  Cookie chimed in, confirming that Puget Sound residents who were seeking a residence on the water or second home already had waited too long. “Coach’s right,” Cookie said. Two agents looked at her as if she just dropped in from another planet. “The Good Lord will not be making any more waterfront. With the number of new people discovering the area, only people with real means will soon be able to afford these lakefront homes.”

  I mentioned that many of my customers had not come close to entering the “rich,” “wealthy,” “well-heeled,” or “doing extremely well” bracket often associated with waterfront buyers. The landscape had changed. If I did happen to land a big-bucks, out-of-state, high-maintenance buyer, it would be the lucky result of a cold call I took—not dialed—while working a shift as the floor agent in the office.

  “Keep it moving, Coach,” Cookie mumbled, whipping a finger like an egg beater. I sensed she wanted some motivational material straight from the old locker room. “Perhaps you could spend some time talking about networking or people skills.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Well, I’m a word-of-mouth guy. Customers need to believe that your handshake is genuine and that you will battle for their interests. I also feel it’s a two-way street. While I’m always mindful of my sales commissions, I refuse to accept a property listing if the seller is asking far more than a realistic price for the parcel. I once told a pompous seller who wanted to list his property for three times its appraised value to get another agent to bear the burden of his greed.”

  “OOOkaay,” Cookie said. “Maybe that’s enough for today. Any questions for Coach before we adjourn to go out to list and sell tons of real estate?”

  The newest member of the staff, a retired Army officer named Ted
, held up a reluctant hand close to his shoulder. He had to be six-six, maybe a tad taller. We hadn’t formally met, but I heard he’d played two years of college buckets at Butler before zeroing in on ROTC.

  “Forgive me, Coach,” Ted said. “This is a bit off topic, but I’ve heard so much about some of your old teams. I was wondering what you’ve heard about Linn Oliver? Have you spoken with anyone who’s seen him lately?”

  I swallowed hard. “I’ve got a feeling there’s a simple answer to this ferry thing you probably heard about from Cookie. Or the newspaper. Or George.” George stood, incredulous. He winced and shook his head, big hands waving a not-me signal. I sighed and continued. “It’s some sort of mistake. He’s probably off playing hoops someplace. But I should know more soon.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear he’s still playing,” Ted said. “Heard a bum knee might have done him in. I’d like to meet him someday. A friend of mine said he’s the best shooter he’d ever seen.”

  Chapter Five

  1 p.m., Thursday, February 3, 1982

  A balding rep from the county’s building department wrapped up the Big River Realty sales meeting with a synopsis on the state’s “exciting” new law. The excitement? Requiring that all private septic tanks be pumped upon the sale of residential property in order to obtain an approved onsite sewer treatment certificate. Martina led a threesome of white-haired agents to an early exit, snipping to Cookie on her way, “We’ll just skip the latest on potties, thank you.”

  I motioned to Cookie to meet me in the bar. I knew if I didn’t bring her up to speed on Linn Oliver and she heard another story from someone else, there would be more than hell to pay. As I made my way out of the private dining room toward the bar, Mitchell Moore bounced out of the men’s room, still struggling with the button-up fly on his Levi’s.