Island Blues

by Wendy Howell Mills

  “Some of these doors still have char marks from the fire that almost burnt the lodge down in the twenties. The Feds were making one of their obligatory raids, and in the rush to hide the liquor, someone dropped a cigar in the hallway.” Matt stopped at a door at the end of the hall and traced his fingers along several dark marks on the highly polished wood. “Back then, there was a brand-new La France fire truck on the island, financed by my great-grandfather, but they didn’t realize until they got it to the island that it was designed for the city, and could only go about eight blocks. After that, the freeze plugs would blow out. That meant when a fire call came in, everyone would jump aboard the fire truck and race toward the fire. After eight blocks the freeze plugs would blow and then someone would have to climb down, pour in water, and hammer in the plugs before they could drive another eight blocks. Needless to say, it took a while for the fire truck to make it out here, though finally it arrived and was able to put the fire out.”

  Talking about the lodge’s history seemed to settle Matt, and with steady hands he inserted the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  The large, comfortable room was empty. Through the clear glass of the closed balcony doors, Sabrina could see white patio furniture and bright flowers set in large pots and beyond that, a glimpse of radiant water. She saw something else, too.

  The room had been ransacked.

  Chapter Ten

  Michael Siderius stood barefoot on the railing of his second story terrace and flexed his toes around the warm concrete. He stepped along the rail with fluid, precise movements, reveling in the feel of his muscles rippling under his suit pants. One of his gymnastics coaches made him practice on a balance beam to strengthen his floor exercise routine, and while men did not compete on the balance beam, Michael liked the thrill it gave him.

  He lay on his stomach on the rail and let his legs dangle on either side. Then he brought his legs upward, careful not to extend them above horizontal or to arch his back. He performed this in three repetitions of twenty-five. He was not thinking about Gilbert’s death, or his father, or Hummers International Incorporated. He was thinking about a pivotal moment at an Olympic trial fifteen years ago when he had fallen on a back flip. Not even a full-out, just a single lousy back flip.

  Winning Olympic gold was the one thing Michael thought could steal his father’s attention away from the Hum. They were living in England when Joseph started hearing the Hum, but he soon quit his job as an engineer and moved his young family back to the United States. Joseph returned to school and earned a doctorate in physics so he could better understand his own symptoms. Nothing could tear his attention away from the Hum. No amount of fighting, bad grades, or recreational puppy kicking elicited more than a distracted scolding. Michael’s mother gave him anything he wanted, but it was never enough. She even tried to bribe an official into changing his decision after the Olympic trial, to no avail, and Michael despised her for failing him.

  Michael stood with quick grace and then stretched forward to do a handstand. Below his face was dizzying space, and the shell garden twenty feet below, and he smiled as he balanced himself on his hands.

  Now everything was different. He no longer wanted or needed his father’s approval, and now that Gilbert was gone, he could stop worrying about what that clever, fat man thought of him as well.

  Michael had long dreamed of Gilbert’s death. Brake failure on a long trip, the unfortunate use of a hairdryer in the bathtub, an injudicious step into a busy street. Any day could be dear Gilbert’s last, and Michael planned for the time when he would be solely in control of Hummers International. No more jelly-belly standing behind him as Michael tried to talk to an investor, and no more pudgy, sweating face creased with that condescending smile as Michael talked about his ideas. It had been that way ever since Michael started working for Gilbert right out of college, and nothing had changed, even now that Gilbert was supposedly working for Michael.

  Michael lowered his feet to the rail and stood up.

  Gilbert was gone, and Michael was feeling determinedly happy. But the doubts were creeping in. He knew Gilbert would tell him he should be down comforting the nut cases, wiping away their tears while he promised a personal conversation with the universe. But…

  Gilbert was dead.

  Michael laughed and stretched his arms high over his head. Gilbert was dead, Gilbert was dead, Gilbert was dead. He felt free, and exhilarated, and…

  He wouldn’t admit he was scared. He could handle it on his own. He knew the way things worked. If it wasn’t for him and his father, the whole thing would have fallen apart years ago. He was the main act in this circus, and Gilbert had just been a roadie. Michael knew it all along, and now he would prove it.

  Feeling better, he tensed his muscles in preparation for a back flip.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you think they will cancel the retreat?” asked a very tall young man.

  “Where in the hell is Siderius, that’s what I want to know. How are we supposed to know what’s going on when he won’t bother to tell us? For that matter, where’s the old guy?” This from a man in a dark blue suit who looked like he would prefer Fortune over National Geographic, aged scotch over beer, and first class most definitely over coach. He wore a pair of wrap-around high-tech sunglasses and his face looked as if it were no stranger to masks and moisturizers.

  Sabrina stood in the doorway of the meeting room, but the three Hummers inside were too involved in their conversation to notice her.

  The tall young man had a tendency to duck, even sitting, as if he’d encountered one too many ceilings in his short life, and had an open, engaging face, despite the strain evident on it. Looking around the room, Sabrina saw that all three men showed signs of strain. Of course, Gilbert’s death could account for some of it, but this tension had the look of longevity about it. It took weeks or even months of constant stress to tense muscles so tight that not even constant neck rolling and finger flexing would relieve them.

  “I don’t think we need any water.” A grayish man in the back of the room said this in a quiet voice, and it took a moment for Sabrina to realize that the apropos-nothing statement was directed at her.

  “Oh! No, I don’t have any water, though I think I have half a Diet Pepsi in my purse if you need it…” There was silence, and Sabrina realized they all thought she was a deranged hotel employee. She rushed on. “I’m Sabrina Dunsweeney, Comico Island’s Ombudsman. I’ve come to see how you are doing and offer any assistance I can provide. May I say that all of us on Comico Island are so sorry that you have experienced this loss?” The speech went exactly as practiced and Sabrina beamed.

  “We’ve all been interviewed by the police, but we haven’t seen Michael or Joseph since this morning. We want to know when our sessions are going to resume,” said the man in the sunglasses.

  “I, um, I’m not sure of that.” Sabrina was a bit nonplused by their determination to continue with their retreat in the face of Gilbert’s death. “I’ll find out when your sessions will be resuming as soon as I can. Is there anything else I can do for you? I know this must be a very trying time for you, and I would be happy to do anything I can to make this easy experience difficult. That is to say, to ease your way through this difficult experience.” It was another speech she had practiced on the way here, and this one didn’t go quite as well. The men were looking skeptical, and Sabrina knew she needed to do something fast. The question was, what? Her “Annie Get Your Gun” tap dance routine from her fifth grade recital didn’t seem appropriate in these circumstances, though it had worked in other tight spots.

  “We don’t need anything—” said the grayish man.

  “Well, that’s good. Please feel free to ask if you need anything. Doughnuts? A shoulder to cry on? An oil lube?” That just popped out because she knew Pastor Josh was running a special on them down at the car lot. She needed to stop talking. She always talked too much when she was nervous. “I need to take down all your
names.”

  Sabrina whipped out her brand-new pad of paper, but then had to search her purse for a pen. She always had a pen, for goodness’ sake, but where had it gone? She pawed through uplifting sticky notes—“stand up straight and don’t forget to smile!”—a comb and lipstick, a half a Diet Pepsi, a screwdriver, a flattened Twinkie—ambrosia for the downhearted soul—little petrified clumps of tissue, and finally upended her purse on a nearby table. A brochure on kayaking slithered to the floor and Sabrina stooped to pick it up.

  “Oh, look. Kayaking. I’ve always wanted to try it. Are any of you kayakers?” Sabrina smiled brightly around the room. Sergeant Jimmy McCall, who had just stepped to the doorway, winced and ducked back out of sight.

  “What in the hell are you jabbering on about?” the man in the sunglasses asked, his buffed body tense with annoyance. “I certainly don’t kayak.”

  “How about you two? Do you like to kayak?” Sabrina turned to the other two men.

  There was no response, except for a horrified choke just outside the door.

  “Oh, well. Let’s see, now what was I doing?” She looked down at the purse detritus on the table.

  “Ms. Dunsweeney,” said the tall young man sitting in the first row. “There’s a pen inside that pad of paper you pulled out first thing. Was that what you were looking for?” He didn’t seem sure that she might not have felt the sudden urge to clean her purse.

  “Ah, yes. There it is.” Sabrina stuffed the junk back into her purse and looked at him expectantly, pen poised.

  “What? Oh, my name is…well, Dennis Parker.” He said the name in a rush without looking at her. Sabrina wrote it down carefully, checking with him on the spelling of Dennis. People were doing all sorts of interesting things to traditional names nowadays, and one never knew. “And your address?”

  Dennis, who seemed relieved to have gotten the whole my-name-is issue behind him, recited his Chicago address easily. He was a handsome boy, with dark curly hair, a touch of freckles, and a thin frame on which his clothes hung precariously. His hands looked proportionally too large, however, like one of those pictures taken with your hand in the foreground so your fingers look like gigantic sausages.

  “Have you ever been to Comico Island before?” Sabrina asked Dennis.

  “No. I’ve never been on an island. I grew up on a farm in Illinois, and we never traveled much. Of course, now I—well, I’ve never been to an island, that’s all.” His ears turned red, and he reminded Sabrina of a twenty-something Richie Cunningham. Not the way he looked exactly—Dennis didn’t look anything like Ron Howard—but just the boyish charm he exuded.

  Dennis suddenly grimaced and clutched at his head. Sabrina patted his shoulder, and looked around to see if anyone else had observed his distress.

  “Dennis? Are you feeling okay?”

  He looked up, his eyes glazed with misery, and nodded.

  “Do you need some Tylenol? I have aspirin as well, but at your age you need to be careful of Reye’s Syndrome, you know, so you’re better off sticking with acetaminophen.”

  “It doesn’t help,” Dennis said in a low voice. “Nothing does.”

  Sabrina sensed that he preferred to be alone so she moved over to the table where the man who looked like he was a businessman with a capital “B” was sitting. He made no effort to ask Dennis if he was okay.

  “Mrs. Dunsweeney,” began the important businessman in an important manner. The man oozed money. His sunglasses alone, which looked capable of x-ray vision, translating foreign languages, and cooking five-course meals, probably cost more than Sabrina’s house in Cincinnati.

  “It’s Ms., actually. And what was your name?”

  “I’m Walter Olgivie. And while I’m sure you are a very capable person, I’m afraid I must insist that we speak with your superior. Someone of…higher rank.”

  Sabrina read his meaning clearly. Substitute “higher rank” with “possessing male genitalia.” Walter Olgivie was similar to many men of a certain generation who were accustomed to their women at home, waiting for them to return home from the office—or more probably the golf course—with congratulatory smiles and proffered drinks.

  “I have been nominated by the mayor and the town council, so you can view me as their representative.” Sabrina managed a cool smile while inwardly picturing her suit of armor.

  “Well, then, I would like to know what in the world is going on around here.” Walter’s taut, expensive face looked irritated. Sabrina wondered if he had some type of surgery to remove the hair from his face. It was that smooth, and Walter did not look as if he were adverse to surgical enhancement. Most sixty-something men did not have body-builder physiques and faces as unlined as a five-year-old child’s.

  “That is something that I will endeavor to find out as soon as possible,” Sabrina said in a cheery voice. “And what is your name?” As she turned to him, the grayish man in the back of the room jerked as if she had shouted in his face.

  “I’m Lance Mayhew.” Even his voice was grayish and indistinct. He was one of those unforgettable people who could walk naked down the street during rush hour and later no one would be able to describe him. He wore a gray sweat suit, and his thinning hair was an indistinct medium color that was shades of sandy blond, brown and, yes, gray. His nose was high and arched, but it wasn’t enough to give his face any sort of character. In fact, his face was as dull and blank as an empty movie screen. Perhaps like a movie screen animated by the focus of the projector, emotion would brighten Lance Mayhew’s face with expression and passion, but just now there was no sign of it.

  Sabrina moved over to his side with her pen poised. “And your address?”

  “I would prefer not to give that.” The words were said without offense or affect.

  Sabrina smiled forgivingly and looked around the room. “Is this the whole group?”

  “No, Patti and Sophie left to go to the ladies’ room. They should be back soon,” Dennis offered, without removing his head from his hands.

  Sabrina nodded. She had suspected that Patti Townsend and her beautiful friend were Hummers. “Tell me, for what reason are you here on the island?” She looked around the room, surprised at the warring emotions on their faces.

  “It’s because of the Hum,” Walter snapped. “Why else?”

  “All of you hear the Hum? How fascinating. What’s it like?”

  There was silence, and then Dennis burst out with, “It’s absolutely horrible, that’s what!”

  “Why?”

  No one would look at Sabrina. Lance finally said in his expressionless voice, “We would prefer not to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  A small scuffle at the door was the only warning before Joseph Siderius glided in, his yellow dashiki flowing behind him as he went over to a window and sat down without looking at anyone.

  Behind Joseph was his son, Michael. The young, handsome president of Hummers International Incorporated stood at the door and surveyed the people inside.

  “Where are Patti and Sophie?”

  “Right here!” Patti Townsend rushed into the room, followed by her gorgeous, dazed-looking friend. They took seats at the front of the room.

  “Gilbert Kane’s death is a tragedy, there’s no doubt,” Michael said with perfect showman’s timing. “But I know he would want us to continue with our important work, to not let his death stand in the way of our vital mission.” He crossed so he stood with his hand on his father’s shoulder, the image of virility next to the frail older man. He looked around at the group, making eye contact with each of the Hummers, while ignoring Sabrina.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “Are you ready to communicate with the universe?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Michael turned to Sabrina, with a wide, white smile. He sported a fresh cut on his chin, and his hands looked scraped and raw.

  “I would like to speak with you later, Michael.” Sabrina stashed her pen and pad in her purse and headed for the door. She knew when s
he was not wanted.

  “Certainly.” Michael turned back to the group before Sabrina even left the room. “I think we should resume our sessions as soon as possible. I’ve spoken with management, and they are going to arrange a place for us to go tomorrow morning. Now, Master Joseph has something he wants to say—”

  Sabrina turned back to see that Michael had put his hand on his father’s shoulder once again. The old man stared straight ahead, his expression blank and benign.

  “Master Joseph says that death is not forever…he wants you to never forget that…” Michael’s voice had dropped into a sing-song rhythm as he closed his eyes and swayed. This was interrupted as Joseph suddenly snapped his head around to stare at Sabrina.

  “Thank you, Sabrina, I’ll speak with you later,” Michael said in a normal voice as he crossed the room with a long stride and closed the door in Sabrina’s face.

  Sabrina stood for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices inside the meeting room and trying to sort out what she saw right before the door shut. Shades of awe, desperation, skepticism, and hope were painted with a lavish hand across the faces of the five Hummers. Hope was the most vivid: anguished, fervent hope. They wanted badly to believe, no matter what their rational minds told them about the staged theatrics.

  As for Joseph in his ridiculous yellow outfit, it would be easy to dismiss him as a charlatan, a willing accomplice to his son’s medium act. But there had been something in the man’s eyes as he stared at Sabrina…She couldn’t begin to define what it was, but she was left with a lingering feeling of sadness and hopelessness.

  Sabrina looked around and was thankful to see that Sergeant Jimmy was gone. Give him a while to cool down, and he would realize that she was just doing her job.

  When Sabrina ran into Sergeant Jimmy McCall in the lobby, he was surprised to learn that she had been hired as Comico Island’s Ombudsman, and that she planned to offer her help to the Hummers. She wasn’t sure if he was going to laugh or cry, but her hands started patting anyway, just in case.