From the Murky Deep

by Kerry J Charles

  Nick took a deep breath. In spite of the Feds telling him to keep it quiet, he knew he had to tell her. “You could say that.” He pulled out a chair for her at the table. “There’s more to the Jennifer Hully death than what you currently know.” Dulcie’s eyes widened but she was silent. “You have to promise not to reveal anything that I’m about to tell you.”

  Dulcie almost laughed at how solemn he looked but then realized just how serious he was. “Of course,” she murmured.

  Nick sat down and leaned toward her. “When we found Jennifer Hully’s body washed up on the beach, we also found a watertight tube with her. Inside the tube was this painting.”

  Dulcie opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out except a small cracking noise. She closed her mouth again, then took a gulp of wine.

  “Yeah, I know. The FBI took over that part of the case immediately. They have the painting and are testing it to see if it’s genuine.”

  “If it’s in a watertight tube and it shows up with a dead woman, isn’t it safe to say that it’s probably genuine?”

  Nick smiled. “I get your point. But you of all people know that it has to be tested.”

  Dulcie shifted sideways in her chair and put her arm on the table. She toyed with the glass, slowly spinning it around, watching the wine coat the clear sides. “Absolutely. Yes, of course. That puts everything into a whole new category though, doesn’t it?”

  Nick nodded. “I wanted to tell you but the Feds tied my hands. I’m not supposed to be discussing it with anyone. But I’m at my wit’s end trying to figure this out.”

  “So let me get this straight. Jennifer Hully washes up on the beach. She’s drowned by accident.”

  Nick cut her off. “OK, that’s the other thing that I haven’t mentioned. It looks like it wasn’t an accident.”

  Dulcie stared at him. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. The coroner found ketamine in her saliva.”

  “And ketamine is...”

  “Basically it’s a kind of anesthesia but it’s also a hallucinogenic drug.”

  “Wow.” Dulcie took a long sip of her pinot noir and let it roll around in her mouth. At last she swallowed, held up the glass and said, “This is really good! Russian River Valley?”

  Nick was stunned. She was way out of his league if she knew that from tasting. He just nodded, his eyes wide.

  Dulcie burst out laughing. “I saw the bottle, silly. I’m not that good!” She turned back to the computer screen. “So, Jennifer had this painting with her when she washed up on the beach. That means that if someone killed her, they didn’t know what was in the tube. Or, they didn’t even know there was a tube. Her sister swears that she always followed safety precautions and dove with a buddy. Either her buddy drugged her and took off, but Jennifer located the tube in the meantime before the drug took effect, or someone drugged her beforehand, then she went diving alone to retrieve the tube, and died. Either way, the person who drugged her didn’t know about the canvas, right?” Dulcie had been speaking rapid-fire, trying to keep up with her thoughts.

  Nick hesitated. He pictured each scenario. She was right.

  “And Nick, this actually makes more sense now. Remember that I told you I felt Lydia flinch when we mentioned the phone number? If her sister was involved in some kind of art theft or fraud and Lydia knew about it, she would be nervous, especially if she thought that Jennifer would be talking to me or anyone else. I know I would be.”

  Nick nodded. “That does make sense. That could mean that Lydia knows more than she’s telling us. I need to talk to her again. I’ll head over there in the morning.”

  “Do you know anything more about the drug she was given? Was it ketamine, did you say?”

  “Yes. I don’t know much more. It isn’t common, and it really isn’t used much as a recreational drug. It’s mostly an anesthetic and seems to be used as much by vets as regular doctors.”

  “So that means it could actually be more easily available,” said Dulcie. “And it was found in her saliva. Did you test her equipment?”

  Nick chuckled. “Want to be on police staff? That’s the first thing I asked, too. The lab is doing that now.”

  Dulcie put down her now empty glass. “Well, it looks like we won’t have any answers until tomorrow at the earliest. I should get home. Thanks so much for the wine. And the chat.” She stood up.

  “I can run you home. It’s too late to walk by yourself.”

  “No, I don’t want to be any trouble. Besides, it’s a beautiful night. And I have complete faith in the Portland Police Department to keep the streets safe.”

  “Even still. I’ll walk you home. You’ll have personalized service from the Portland Police force. You can’t say no to that.”

  Dulcie laughed and allowed him to steer her out the door.

  I dream of painting and then

  I paint my dream.

  ― Vincent van Gogh

  CHAPTER 8

  Lexi Kent always assumed that she wasn’t a jealous woman, until Clark Davenport-Jones married someone else. It wasn’t as though she really wanted to marry him. Or could for that matter. But the thought of him going home to a wife did not sit well.

  The fact that she was now in her thirties was unsettling. She still looked fabulous, she was very careful to make sure of that, but Clark’s wandering eye had not escaped her attention. She had even seen it wander at his own wedding reception to his new wife’s attractive and daredevil sister. Lexi had wondered if she should cause some mischief regarding that, but decided to keep it to herself. Better to use it as a trump card at some future date, if necessary. Besides, she couldn’t make waves. She had a past as well, and one secret in particular could be played either for or against her. She had to be careful so that she could use it to her advantage.

  For now she had to keep a relatively low profile. This annoyed her constantly. She had to stay busy or she would think about it too much. ‘I’ll go for a ride,’ she thought. That would kill a few hours and she always felt better afterward.

  Lexi had learned to ride in an English saddle when she was very young, as did most of the girls that were in her elite private school. She had owned her own horse since she was a teenager and stabled him with her uncle, Donald Winters. Lexi pulled on her snug jodhpurs, an even snugger polo shirt, and smiled at herself in the mirror. She brushed her golden hair back into a low ponytail. For now, she slipped on her Wellies—they were easier to drive in than her stiff riding boots. These she threw into a large canvas bag along with gloves, helmet, and a small bag of carrots. Hadrian loved carrots.

  The day was sunny and warm. She sped north toward Winterhaven Stables and arrived sooner than she anticipated. She gave a warm smile to the stable attendant, a handsome young man in his twenties, and made her way back to Hadrian’s stall.

  Lexi took a deep breath. The smell of the hay and, although she would never admit it, horse dung, always seemed to calm her. She reached into her bag, pulled out a carrot, and watched Hadrian happily munching. It was then that she realized someone was in the next stall.

  “That’s it girl. I know, you don’t like it. Don’t worry. You won’t feel bad for long. I’ll make it all better soon.” The voice was calm and soothing. Lexi couldn’t remember which horse was in the next stall, but something told her to be quiet. She peeked through a crack between the wide wooden slats of the stable wall. All she could see was the back of a man’s head as he bent down beside the horse. He had a syringe in his hand. He patted the horse, a beautiful chestnut mare, and softly whispered to her. Lexi couldn’t hear what he was saying. He put the syringe back in his bag, clicked it shut, and strode out of the stable.

  Lexi stepped out and looked at the stall next to Hadrian’s. Yes, that’s right. It was Attagirl. She remembered hearing about the thoroughbred’s racing career and gazed admiringly at her. ‘She must be sick right now,’ thought Lexi.

  Putting it out of her mind, she walked through the stable to retrieve her saddle. As
she rounded the corner she ran nearly headlong into the man she had just seen in Attagirl’s stall. He looked surprised to see anyone.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Lexi. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “No, not at all. My apologies.” He stepped beyond her but went into a different stall this time. Lexi had the feeling that he was trying to avoid her. She took her time getting the saddle until she saw him leave again. Something seemed strange about him. She was unsettled enough to call to the stable hand and have him help her ready Hadrian for her ride. Besides, she liked having him assist her into the saddle.

  Ross Davenport-Jones sat in his Land Rover until he saw Lexi trot from the stable grounds. Then he quietly got out again and hiked across the large grassy yard to the main house. He rang the bell. The housekeeper knew him well and led him in. “I’ll get Mr. Winters for you sir. He’ll be happy to see you.”

  Donald Winters looked nothing like an outdoors enthusiast, because he was not. He loved horses but hadn’t been on one for years. He was short, with a barrel-shaped torso, two more barrels for legs, barrel arms, and large sausages for hands. Although he was reasonably fit, he resembled a taller man that had been smushed in from all sides.

  “Jonsey, you old fool!” he boomed and stuck out a meaty hand for Ross to shake. Ross tried not to wince as his hand was squeezed hard. “Didn’t know you were here!” Donald Winters continued, still squeezing.

  “I was passing by and thought I’d check up on your mares. Looks like your young girl may foal, but Attagirl just didn’t take. Again.” He watched Winters closely.

  The stout man rubbed the top of his head with his big hand. “Well, there goes that stud fee,” he said. “I don’t know, Jonsey. She may be more trouble than it’s worth. C’mon in and have a drink with me. Let’s talk it over.”

  Ross followed him into his office, which was probably the original library of the large house. It was lined with shelves, but they held few books. Instead, Donald Winters had propped up framed photos of numerous horses along with trophies and awards stuffed among them. Each horse had at least a single shelf to itself, while some had an entire bookcase. The shelf edges were trimmed haphazardly with ribbons and badges. It gave the entire room a somewhat juvenile, feminine look, as though a little girl had decorated with pictures of her favorite ponies.

  Ross sat down in the green leather chair opposite Winter’s large oak desk. Donald Winters nestled into his burgundy leather office chair, rocking back and forth, his feet swinging slightly above the floor. He gestured toward a bottle of single malt, which Ross was all too happy to pour. He slid a glass across the desk to Winters and took one for himself.

  Sitting back in the chair Ross could barely see Winters’ face over the top of the desk. But the man was thinking hard and did not seem to notice. Ross gently changed his position so that he was sitting up a bit higher. He needed to read the man well right now.

  Donald Winters downed the expensive whiskey in one gulp and set down the glass hard on his desk. “Well, Jonsey,” he shouted. “She’s been good to me, but it’s probably time I guess.” He gazed up at the shelves with Attagirl’s awards and trophies. “Yep, I think it’s time. Guess I should put her on the block. Whattaya think she’s worth?”

  Ross took a long sip of his drink. “Well, if she can’t produce a foal at this point she isn’t worth much. Some rich father with a guilt complex might buy her for his kid.” He was careful only to imply that she currently couldn’t breed. He didn’t want to say outright that she was barren.

  Winters nodded. “Odd, though. She did breed before. But she is gettin’ older so who can tell?” Then he laughed loudly. “Other than you, Jonsey!”

  Ross smiled. “I couldn’t even say for sure. You never know. But I don’t think she’s much of a sure thing any longer.”

  “Nope. Loved her like a daughter, I did. But a man’s gotta make a living. All right, I’ll get the paperwork together. Can you get her medical records ready?” he boomed.

  Ross finished his drink and put the glass back on the silver plate next to the whiskey bottle. He stood up. “I’ll get right on it,” he said quietly.

  “Good. Might have a buyer already you know. A lady inquired about her recently. I laughed and said Attagirl wasn’t for sale. Guess she knew something I didn’t!”

  Ross said nothing. He simply shook Donald Winter’s outstretched hand again and quickly saw himself out.

  #

  “Hmmm, …van Gogh, …van Gogh, vanGogh vanGoghvanGogh,” Dulcie muttered as she punched at the keys on her computer. She was looking for more information on the theft. An investment banker had bought it for his wife. They had it hanging in their apartment in Boston, which was on the eighth floor of a highly secure building.

  One day the wife came home and the painting was missing. Simply an empty space left on the wall. No one could figure it out. The building management had been thoroughly questioned, as had the cleaning company that came in weekly. There were no leads.

  “So why would it end up at the bottom of the ocean?” said Dulcie. “Or at least, in a tube that had been in the ocean?” She wondered about that. On the one hand, it was the perfect hiding place. Chances were extremely slim that anyone would come across it if it were somehow anchored on the sea floor. On the other hand, it was ridiculously risky for so many reasons.

  Dulcie realized that she didn’t know exactly where Jennifer’s body had washed up. Nick had just said that it was in Cape Elizabeth. She pulled up a map and a depth chart on her computer. Not really any clues there. She’d have to ask Nick.

  Nick. That was an interesting situation. She knew that she liked him, that she was attracted to him. They got along very well. He had an easy, familiar manner that made her feel safe and comfortable. He seemed interested in her, but he was very reserved too. Odd.

  She also found it odd that he lived in such a small apartment. Barely more than a room. It had the kitchen that was separate, and a bathroom of course. As a detective he surely must be making a decent salary but clearly he wasn’t spending it on living arrangements. Then again, he was a guy, and having grown up with a brother, she knew that they often didn’t really care about where or how they lived. She smiled. Men were strange like that.

  Dulcie picked up her cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. She found Nick’s name and pressed the call button. “Hey, Dulcie.” He’d answered so quickly she didn’t know exactly what she was going to say. “Dulcie? That is you, isn’t it?”

  Dulcie laughed. “Sorry, I was thinking. Quick question. Where exactly did Jennifer wash up on the beach? I mean, which beach?”

  “It’s the one over at Kettle Cove. Do you know it?”

  “Yup, I know exactly which one. Now that’s really strange.”

  “What’s strange about it?”

  “Kettle Cove is an incredibly popular dive spot. Every time I’ve gone there I’ve seen at least one other pair of divers, usually a lot more than that. They even have classes out there sometimes.”

  “OK, but why is that strange?”

  “Well, if she was diving in that area, why would she have the tube with the painting? She’d run the risk of easily being seen.”

  “Yes, but no one would have known what was inside so maybe she didn’t think it was a risk? And she was a risk-taker.”

  “True. Good point.”

  “Plus it wasn’t really that big. About eighteen inches long and two or three inches in diameter. The painting was pretty small,” Nick said.

  “So she could have grabbed it and just kept it close. Or even stuffed it inside her buoyancy vest.”

  “Yes. Visibility down there isn’t that great even on a good day, so if other divers were around, there’s still a good chance that the tube wouldn’t have been seen.”

  “It’s possible,” said Dulcie. “But why was she alone? Whoever killed her must have had access to her equipment just before she dove. So they either dove with her and just left her, or they were on the beach
—or boat—that she dove from. Which reminds me, did your guys find the drug on her equipment?”

  “Yes, as we expected. There were traces of it on her mouthpiece. Along with a water-soluble kind of wax which would have held it in place for long enough so that it reached her mouth rather than washing off. They even found some on her snorkel. Whoever did it was thorough.”

  “My bet is that they dove with her. Maybe it was even a night dive. I don’t like doing those but I have a couple of times. If people don’t have lights on, you can lose them pretty easily. It’s even difficult to see land again sometimes if the mist comes in. We had people on the beach with a bright light both of the times that I went. Some people love it, but I feel too nervous and disoriented.”

  “That’s a really good point, Dulcie. They could have put the drug on her mouthpiece, gone in with her, then ditched her part way through. She may have even started to feel disoriented from the ketamine, but as you said that isn’t entirely unusual on a night dive.”

  “And they may not have known that she was going to pick up a tube with a painting in it. She may have just told some kind of story about getting something that she’d left behind earlier. Or she even could have taken it while they weren’t looking. That would be easy enough.”

  “So why did she have it, and why was she killed?” Nick said. It was probably the hundredth time he’d had that thought.

  “And we’re right back at the beginning again,” Dulcie replied. “OK, that was fun,” she said with a bit of sarcasm. She heard Nick sigh on the other end of the line. “I’ll stop pestering you,” she said, “and let you get back to solving the case.”

  Nick tried to sound lighthearted. “Yeah, thanks. I’m making great progress,” he said facetiously. “Talk to you later.”

  Nick had been sitting in his car while he talked with Dulcie. He had just left the home of Lydia Davenport-Jones, and was getting annoyed with the lack of information. She knew almost nothing about her sister’s personal life. She said that they spoke once or twice per month on average, and usually about trivial topics or family issues. Nick had managed to slide questions about art into the conversation in reference to Dulcie’s cell phone number on Jennifer’s hand, but Lydia simply shook her head and said that she had no idea.