Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  “Why do you ask?” Metcalf’s reply was cool and noncommittal.

  “Because the really valuable old books and manuscripts weren’t out on display. They have to be kept somewhere. I assume they’re in a safe.”

  “Worried about your inheritance?”

  “No,” Martha said, keeping her voice even. “I’m worried Ralph walked in on a robbery.”

  “No, we haven’t found a safe.” He paused. “What do you know about Mr. Hargrove?”

  “What do I know about Ralph? Not much, I guess. Worked with him a little when I was taking care of Hewitt after his stroke. Mostly on finances for the bookstore. Ralph was perfect for running it: knowledgeable on all things literary, hardworking, probably even more frugal than Hewitt, a keen eye for what would sell and what wouldn’t. I can only remember one time when he made a bad decision.”

  “What was that?”

  “He bought a first edition, sight unseen, of H. G. Wells’ War of the Worlds from a collector in Chicago he’d been corresponding with. Turned out not be a first edition. When Ralph contacted the guy about getting his money back, the seller responded with a note that said simply, ‘Caveat emptor.’”

  Metcalf looked at her, finally arching one eyebrow. “And?”

  “It means buyer beware.”

  “So, he got screwed.”

  “Yeah, he got screwed.”

  “Could that have anything to do with his murder?”

  “I don’t see the connection. It was ten years ago or more. It wasn’t that much money, a few thousand dollars maybe. Ralph immediately tendered his resignation. Hewitt just laughed it off.”

  “He laughed off a few thousand dollars?”

  “Hewitt’s not motivated by money. He’s motivated by love, by an intellectual curiosity, by good food and fine wines, by smart, fun people. But not money. If he has enough, he’s emperor of his realm. If he doesn’t have enough, he’s a miser and a recluse.”

  “What did you know about Hargrove’s personal life?”

  “Not much. I didn’t know Ralph outside the bookstore. Hewitt told me they were lovers for a short time, but he found Ralph boring. Which he was, frankly, unless you were talking about books. He was harmless, the ultimate librarian nerd. And Hewitt was like most men, gay or straight—he liked his partners young and beautiful and dynamic. Ralph didn’t fit any of those descriptions, probably not even twenty years ago. Hewitt said that to help Ralph get over his broken heart, he offered him the job of managing the bookstore. Best decision he ever made.”

  “The victim was gay?”

  “As much as he was sexual at all, I suppose.”

  “Might explain the castration. What else do you know about him? About his finances, his boyfriends, his habits, anything.”

  “Come on, Metcalf, I didn’t know him. We exchanged Christmas cards every year. That was about it. His was always the same—a photo of a row of books and a line that read, ‘Books are like having Christmas every day.’ He always signed it Ralph Hargrove. As if I might have forgotten who he was. Never any note. I liked him, he liked me. We both liked books and we both liked Hewitt. Ralph was still in love with him, you could tell just by the way he looked at him, but he was too shy to pursue it again. If you call that a relationship, then we had one.”

  “Could he have been the old man’s dope supplier?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t know. I have no idea where Hewitt got his pot.”

  “You knew right where he stashed it, but you have no idea where he got it? Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” she barked. Creases showed around Metcalf tired eyes, but his face was intense, studying her. “Why? You think I had something to do with this?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  She heard the truth behind the lie. “Not necessarily? Why would I want to hurt Ralph Hargrove? You think I’m some kind of psychopath? This isn’t about me! Hewitt got mixed up in something he couldn’t control. Ralph is probably a casualty of that. Did Trammell tell you about the letter Hewitt brought him?”

  “Yeah, he told me some myths and legends from the days of the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Interesting theory. Just doesn’t happen to be any evidence. I prefer to look for motive and follow the evidence. So I can pursue some boogeymen who probably never existed, or I can follow a woman who has more toys than someone twice her age, who can’t afford to live in the house that she bought so she lives in the garage, whose brother is in jail for pedaling drugs, and whose father has been struggling to pay off medical bills from her sister’s prolonged hospice care after her suicide attempt. And this same woman happens to be the beneficiary of Mr. Wilcox’s estate, if he should prove to be dead. It’s beginning to look like that estate is probably worth a lot. That gives me ample motive, Ms. Whitaker. Now I’m just searching for the evidence.”

  “You bastard,” Martha snapped. “You lousy bastard.” She raised her hand involuntarily. Only years of discipline held her back. She took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been doing your homework. Well, dig away. We Whitakers like to hang all the family skeletons out on display. Did you also find out that I have another sister who’s an alcoholic and spends too much time gambling at the casino, and that our mother abandoned us when I was five years old?” She paused. “Anything else, Detective?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  She stared hard at him but said nothing.

  “Don’t leave town, Ms. Whitaker.”

  Martha started to stalk away, then twirled with one last question. “When was Ralph killed?”

  Metcalf looked at her for a long time before answering. “Forensics thinks between five and six o’clock last night. But it’ll be up to the ME to give us something official.”

  “I was with you at that time for our first little tête-à-tête. How do you like being the alibi for your prime suspect?”

  “A suspect,” he corrected. “And I said about. By seven o’clock last night, you and your attorney had left the station. Where did you go? You claim to have broken into a barricaded crime scene to look for a cat. An accomplished attorney like you must realize how flimsy that sounds. Besides, just because you didn’t handle the scissors that snipped off Hargrove’s manhood doesn’t mean you weren’t involved. Maybe Hargrove walked in when he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe you have a homophobic partner who got a little carried away. Didn’t like the pictures we found stuffed in his shorts. Forensics thinks he probably bled to death here while they ransacked the office. Yeah, someone cut him, stuffed his dick in his mouth to keep him quiet and let him lie on the floor to bleed to death while they went through his underwear.”

  Martha fell into stunned silence. When words came, they were a harsh whisper. “You fucking think I arranged this? And the break-in at the Ballard Gazette last night, the tail this morning? I suppose I arranged those as well?”

  “We’ll see if they check out.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Martha strode back to face the man. His expression never changed. A smile that might have been a sneer. All cop and all attitude. He continued to jingle his keys.

  “You know what I’m curious about, Ms. Whitaker? I’m curious about the gun. I wonder if it’s the same gun used last night by this so-called professional who stole nothing, who supposedly shot at you but happened to miss you by a mile. One person got a lump on his head because he wanted a beer from the back room. It’s the old magician’s trick—create a lot of commotion with one hand to distract attention from the other. But nothing got stolen. Seems odd, doesn’t it—tear up a bunch of stuff that won’t get you a dime at a yard sale but leave an old book worth about ten grand untouched? Makes me wonder if someone is orchestrating a show for the cops. Now this morning, you call me with some cockamamie story about how you manhandled a kid with a loaded gun, but then this same kid with pimples on his chin deked you into letting him walk away. I’m sorry, Ms. Whitaker, if I’m a bit skeptical. Who is your partner in crime? A lover? One of your upstanding brothers? Someone you picked up on Craig
slist? Don’t worry, I’ll find out.”

  Martha’s voice went deadly quiet. “If you think I made this up, I could give you a demonstration right now.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Metcalf replied with a crooked smile.

  “And give you a reason to add assault to your laundry list of crimes? I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. Show me. I won’t file charges. I’ll just pick you up off the floor. When I file charges, it will be for something much more serious than assault.”

  “Metcalf, you’re beneath contempt.” She turned aside. The power not to act was as important as the power to act.

  “Thought so. Just like every attorney I know, you’re all bluff and bluster and then you run and hide behind your JD and legalese. I’ve seen your act before and I’m not—”

  She sprang in and had his hand out of his pocket before he could react. She bent his wrist back toward the elbow and could have easily snapped it. His first instinct was to escape the pain, a motion that spun him away from her and, in the end, brought his wrist and elbow closer together. She let him do the work of further entrapping himself. He told her where his gun was when his right hand grasped the back of his suit jacket. She palmed it away and tightened her grip. He arched to his toes to escape the pain and she easily unsnapped the holster and removed his gun. With one last twist of his wrist, she released him and handed his gun back.

  Metcalf’s eyes darted around the room, but the only one paying attention was Callison. The detective smiled at Martha, gave her a nod, and withdrew his hand from inside his Carhartt.

  “That doesn’t prove a thing.” Metcalf rolled his shoulder and, without bothering to holster his gun, casually dropped it into his coat pocket.

  “You’re right, it doesn’t,” she replied. Her anger had dissipated like steam from a release valve. Okay, so she failed the self-control test, but she still took great satisfaction in watching Metcalf shake out his numb fingers. Was this the joy of the bully? Her voice dropped several notches. “But it does demonstrate two things, Detective—one, I could easily have disarmed the guy this morning. It’s a useful trick when trying to subdue a three-hundred-pound meth addict on a rampage. And two, that I’m a person of my word. When I tell you I can do something, I mean it. I’m not being arrogant. I’m not playing cowboy. Just honest.”

  “Here’s my word, Ms. Whitaker,” Metcalf said. “Money. Follow the money. That leads straight to you. With ample motive and plenty of opportunity. And I will find the means. Trust me.”

  TEN

  Martha charged out of the bookstore. Lined up against the police barricade, the gawkers and bystanders fell silent and quickly parted as she ducked under the tape. No one tried to question her. Except one.

  “Martha—Martha, wait.”

  She turned to see Trammell’s now familiar deep-set eyes and dark goatee under the yellow rain jacket. She kept walking, afraid she would lose control again if she were to stop. How could anyone have done this to Ralph? And Metcalf? How dare he accuse her! How fucking dare he! Something horrible was happening, and the prick couldn’t see past the obvious. Dogma. He was blinded by cop-school dogma. He wasn’t going to find Hewitt if he played this by the book and only investigated her. Fine. So she would find Hewitt for him. If he was still alive. For the second time, doubt began to edge into her thoughts. Martha shuddered at what they might have done to him.

  Trammell pushed through the crowd to follow her.

  “Martha, come on.”

  Her long strides forced Trammell to start jogging.

  “Just leave me alone,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Don’t you have a story to write or something?”

  “Mac’s already done it. Molly found a photo of you on your company’s website. It’s not great for print, but it’ll work.”

  Martha stopped short. “Don’t you dare.”

  “You were shot at last night, the paper was broken into, and its lead investigative reporter was clubbed over the head. That’s big news in Ballard, and I’m a newspaper man.” He paused. “You let the Seattle Times run your picture about the McGwire case. But you get shot at outside my office, and you’re too important to have your picture in the Ballard Gazette? It doesn’t work that way.”

  “You, too?” she snapped. “What is this, my life’s an open book for everyone to go poking around in?”

  “Martha, five minutes on Google gave us more information than we could use. We’re not running anything that isn’t available to anyone with a computer and a mild curiosity.”

  “Well, knock yourself out. Go talk to Metcalf. He’s got the rest of my life history. You might find something really juicy for your story. I’m sure you’ll be interested in his theory that last night was a setup—mine. That I planned it all.”

  “What? That’s crazy. Christ, you’re getting soaked.”

  She ignored the rain. Her hands in her pockets, she felt the fluted edges of the safe key and realized she hadn’t turned it over to Metcalf. Damn him all to hell. She wasn’t giving it to him now.

  Trammell touched her shoulder. “Come on, talk to me.”

  Martha shook herself free. “Not today. I need to find out what’s going on. I need to know what happened to Hewitt. And now, apparently, I also have to clear my own name. I’ll be sure to give you first dibs on the story. That is what you’re interested in, isn’t it, the story?”

  Beside her again, Trammell said, “Come on. Give me a fucking break. I care about Hewitt, but it’s also a story that’s worth investigating. I’m a reporter. It’s what I do.”

  “Well, it’s not what I do. And it’s not how I treat friends.”

  She was the one who had remained faithful to an eccentric old man when he felt abandoned and betrayed by others. She was the one who had nursed him back to health, fed Dante when he was out of town, showed up with wine and dinner when he was between lovers and feeling lonely. What did it get her? Accusations from people who knew no more about her than what they found on the fucking Internet. The only other person who had remained faithful? Ralph Hargrove. Who now lay dead with his . . .

  She shook off the image of the mutilated man. She slid into the Mini Cooper and slammed the door shut. The blanket, still damp from earlier that morning, again served as a towel.

  Trammell stopped beside the car, head bent to the window, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans. Martha lowered the window. “It was Ralph, by the way,” she said. “Ralph Hargrove. The body in the store. Not Hewitt. I’m sure that’s why you drove over here.”

  “I’m sorry. It must have been horrible.”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  “I didn’t know him.”

  “He was a sweet man who didn’t deserve to die and sure didn’t deserve to be castrated and left there to bleed to death.”

  “Oh my God.” Trammell shook his head. “That’s awful.”

  “Well, maybe you can work it into your story.”

  She hit the button for the window to roll back up.

  “Martha, I am sorry, truly,” Trammell blurted out, before the window closed. He added, “Did you know Hewitt may have been a Mormon?”

  Her laugh carried the bitterness of rebuttal. “Yeah? He was no more a Mormon than the Pope. He called them the Morons.”

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe not a practicing Mormon, but eighty-seven years ago one Hewitt Wilcox Chappell was born into a Mormon family in St. George, Utah. He was later excommunicated.”

  The window slid back down. “How do you know that?”

  “The Church of Latter-day Saints. Best genealogical records in the world and available to the public. The paper subscribes to the service.”

  “Fits right in with your Wild West theory. You go for it, might be a Pulitzer in it for you. I’ll just keep trying to find out what happened to Hewitt.”

  “You can’t let go of anything, can you?” he said. “I’m trying to find out what happened to him, too. I’ve just got different resources and different methods. It doesn’t mean I
’m wrong or right. Just different. Seems that’s an unpardonable sin in your book.”

  He whirled and strode off, water splashing with every step. Martha watched the slick back of his yellow rain jacket. Couldn’t let go? He was right about that. The last time someone had said that had been deep in the woods in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula when snow lay thick on the roof of a cabin and some forgotten thaw had left thick icicles hanging from the eaves. She could still see the river, a ribbon of ice covered by its own blanket of snow. On snowshoes, she had followed it in. It would be her highway out.

  She was no longer in the Mini Cooper but back on that frozen river, step by step closing in on the cabin, step by step through the grove of firs that surrounded it and kept the bone-numbing gusts off Lake Superior at bay. She could still feel the eerie stillness of the scene, still hear the distant wind, could feel the crust of ice breaking over the powder below as she stuck her snowshoes in a drift by the porch. Could still remember the crack of the door busting open. And there he was. The man seven Whitaker kids grew up calling Uncle Walt.

  His beard was longer, more white now than brown. His shaggy salt-and-pepper hair seemed to have a life of its own. Under red suspenders, his plaid shirt billowed out over a growing belly, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the bottom edge of a tattoo that she knew read “Semper Fidelis.” Her father had met Walt in boot camp. Wading through the blood and fear and jungles of Vietnam, they had forged a bond that was to last the next forty years. Walt had saved his life. How, she did not know. It was a story her father refused to tell. But when Martha’s mother left, it had been Uncle Walt and Gran who stepped up to help look after the kids.

  Now he cradled a hunting rifle in his arms.

  She slowly removed her heavy mittens and lowered the muffler from her face.

  “You?” was all he said. “You ain’t welcome here.”

  For emphasis, he jacked a round into the rifle.

  “Rachel died last night.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing for your Pa, I’m sure.”