Skeleton Sea

by Dwiggins, Toni

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Then why are your hands behind your back like Captain Bligh?”

  She fought the urge to unlace her hands.

  “One, two, three,” Jake said. “Adds up to something.” He looked over at the Sea Spray. “Oh, and number four. We’ve got some geeky babe inspecting your boat. What’s going on, Sandy?”

  “You tell me, Jake.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Somebody goddamn took my boat out and brought it back with some weird scratches. That you, Jake?”

  Jake’s eyes widened. His fake-innocent look.

  She wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “And Doug Tolliver wants to know if that happened around the time Robbie went missing.”

  “Doug’s finally got himself a big case. He’s the man, now, full of questions.”

  “You’re dodging the question, Jake. What’s going on?”

  “You tell me, Sandy.”

  She turned her back on Jake and looked out at the ocean. What’s going on? She’d like to know. Anchovies and sardines and mackerel and sauries treading water like they were drunk, and lanternfish up from the deep and Humboldts following them, and crabs hauling ass out of the water. And a diver with a jelly sting and no boat.

  And her own boat scratched up.

  What’s going on?

  Her brother Lanny was suddenly a thief and a liar.

  She faced Jake.

  And her brother Jake was, as always, a liar—and looking, as always, for an angle to play.

  And fixing the problem was going to fall, big surprise, on big sister Sandy. Her two brothers were, let’s face it, screwups. She had a twenty-seven-year-old child-man and a thirty-two-year-old alcoholic with goddamn green hair and good luck keeping either one of them out of trouble. And herself—she wouldn’t let herself off the hook—a thirty-six-year-old screwup who drove a pathetic whale-watching bird-watching bucket.

  Fix the problem? She didn’t know what the problem was, any more than she knew what was going on in the ocean. All she knew was, it smelled like trouble.

  CHAPTER 7

  We watched the Sea Spray head out for the afternoon trip. Lanny stood at the back of the boat, waving. We waved back.

  “He’s a nice young man,” Walter said.

  “Yes,” Tolliver said, “everybody likes Lanny.”

  Walter, Tolliver, and I sat on one of the long fiberglass lockers outside the Sea Spray office. The three of us in a row, Tolliver in between. Waiting for the Morro Bay Police Department van to come collect the dive gear to take back to the department to store in the evidence lockup. Eating sandwiches from the café at the head of the dock. It felt good to be hungry.

  We saw Captain Keasling stick her head out of the wheelhouse, and shout. Lanny went to her.

  “As much as Sandy’s a pain in the keister,” Tolliver said, “she’s a good sister to him.”

  Walter and I exchanged a look, surprise. Knowledge gained. Now that I knew, I recast Captain Keasling’s churlishness. Overprotective big sister looking after vulnerable younger brother. Was that it? Or was there something more? She hadn’t liked giving us access to her boat—or, it seemed—access to her brother. Perhaps she worried that Lanny would tell us something he shouldn’t. I asked Tolliver, “You think Lanny knows something about what happened to the Sea Spray?”

  “Not that he admitted to. With Sandy hovering.”

  The police van appeared, driving up the dock, parking near the pile of dive gear. Tolliver was officially using the term 'suspicious circumstances'.

  I said, “Lanny didn’t seem to know what was happening out there today.”

  “That makes two of us,” Tolliver said.

  “So, you’ve never seen fish acting like that? And those crabs...” I shuddered.

  “The very deep did rot,” Walter said, in that voice he adopted when quoting poetry. He turned to Tolliver. “A line from a poem about a mariner who, quite stupidly, kills a good-luck albatross, cursing his ship to sail into a strange sea. It’s an allegory about humanity’s relationship with nature.”

  “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” Tolliver said.

  “Ah, you know it.”

  Tolliver nodded. “It crossed my mind, too.”

  I tossed the remains of my sandwich into the trash bin. “Allegories aside, maybe we should talk to somebody who knows something.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Tolliver said.

  The door of the police van opened.

  We shifted our attention to the pile of dive gear. We watched the tech open the back of the van. Big-shouldered guy, he picked up the dive tank like it weighed next to nothing. We watched him place it inside the van with a forensic tech's fastidiousness.

  Tolliver said, “I’ll be a happy man if my techs can lift any prints from the tank, and if they belong to someone other than the diver. I’ll happier still if the prints are in the database and belong to a perp with a grudge.”

  Walter said, “You’re hoping for foul play?”

  Tolliver gave a rueful smile. “Not hoping. Considering.”

  Walter said, “I was hoping for a grain or two of something interesting caught in the gear. Assuming the diver encountered some subsea geology.”

  “We'll know more if the diver's boat is found.”

  The Coast Guard had dispatched choppers to hunt for a boat adrift, for any more stranded divers. So far, without success.

  What we had, I thought, were two oddly mirrored mysteries. A diver without a boat. A boat without a fisherman.

  The tech came back for the wetsuit.

  I stared at the diminishing pile of dive gear. Something was bugging me. I wasn't a stranger to diving—Walter and I had both been in the water, learning to dive at a conference in Belize last summer. I knew a buoyancy compensator from a weight belt. I could certainly ID the gear in this pile. I watched the tech pick up the mask and fins. All that remained were the BC and the mesh dive bag. The dive bag was empty. I swore that there had been something in it, something red, when Lanny had held it with that stricken look. I considered what divers normally put in dive bags. Gear. Seashells. When Walter and I dived in Belize we hadn't used dive bags. It was a marine sanctuary—strictly forbidden to collect pretty seashells on the seafloor.

  The reddish thing I'd seen in the mesh bag was cylindrical, maybe a couple of feet long. Not a seashell. Or so I thought. It was just a glimpse.

  The tech loaded the rest of the gear in the van. Closed the door.

  “All right,” Tolliver said, “let's get back to the boats we do have. Can you give me anything on the stuff you took from the Sea Spray scratches? Compared to what you took from the Outcast. Different? Same?”

  I said, “I'll give you the quick-and-dirty answer. Under the hand lens it looked like hematite.”

  “So, the same?”

  “When we get it under the scopes, we'll confirm.”

  “All right. Soon as you can. I don't know how you two triage your evidence but I'd also like to get some feedback about the sand from Donie's duffel. Soon as you can.”

  Walter said, “There's fast, and there's thorough. They sometimes coincide.”

  “Soon as you can.” Tolliver rubbed his face. “Look, I'm sorry. I know the drill, I subscribe to thorough. But something damn strange is going on out there and it's throwing me. That's pretty much my ocean out there, as far as Morro Bay boats go out in it. Not only do I have Robbie missing and the Outcast marked up, now I've got the Sea Spray. And that's got me looking at Sandy as a possible suspect, which I goddamn hate because I goddamn inexplicably like her. And we go out on her boat and I commit her logbook to memory, and then we end up with that hubbub out at Birdshit Rock, and then we find that stranded diver. I want to know what's going on. That's my diving ocean, too, I've dived it since I was a kid. I don't know what happened to that diver or Robbie but if it happened out there in my patch of ocean then I mean to find out.” Tolliver held up his hands. “All right, I'm done. Sorry. Shouldn't have
dumped that on you.”

  Walter said, “No, I must apologize. At times I get didactic.”

  I said, “We all know what it's like to watch out for our home town.”

  “All right, then.” Tolliver raked his pompadour. “Appreciate it.”

  Walter said, “We have the sand evidence queued up. Once we characterize it, we'll get some ideas of possible sources around here.”

  “Doug,” I said, “what would a fisherman keep a duffel on board for? I mean, other than carrying his lunch or something. Some purpose that would place the duffel in a sandy environment. Any ideas?”

  “I have an idea right now. While you're here. Might be worthwhile to grab a sample.” Tolliver was looking at the neighboring dock. It was low tide and there was a thin strip of beach visible. “Fellow runs the kayak shop.”

  “The green-haired guy?” I said. “I noticed him this morning.”

  “Hard to miss.”

  “Why is he of interest?” Walter asked.

  “He had a run-in with Robbie about a month ago. Longstanding feud. Just like his sister Sandy.” Tolliver, catching our surprise, added, “Yes, another Keasling brother.” He expelled a long breath. “Thank the lord, there aren’t any more of them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Jake Keasling lounged in a frayed mesh beach chair, the kind of short-legged chair that sits you low to the sand so you can dig in your feet and wiggle your toes. His chair, however, sat on the end of his dock, putting his hand in easy reach of the green long-necked bottle on the wood decking.

  He sat angled so that he could keep watch on the comings and goings in the harbor channel, and at the same time see customers coming down the stairs from the parking lot to rent a kayak.

  He saw us coming.

  He pinched up a slice of lime from a paper plate next to the bottle. He squeezed the lime onto his free arm, sucked it, then snagged the bottle and drank deeply.

  I noted his progress. Started the day with Bud Light and now he’d moved on to Dos Equis.

  We went down the stairs to the dock, where racks were hung with kayaks in bright colors. We stopped just short of taking a dive into the water, grouping ourselves like an audience around the beach chair.

  Tolliver spread his hands. “Cassie Oldfield, Walter Shaws, meet Jake Keasling.”

  He lifted his beer to us. “Saw you this morning. Hear you had quite a trip.”

  “That we did,” Walter said.

  “So what happened out there?”

  “Your sister could explain better than I.” Walter smiled. “I’m not a mariner.”

  “Ah, so you know who’s who.” Jake winked. “Then you know what a puppy dog my brother is. I’ll ask him about that diver. He tells me all.”

  I glanced at the neighboring dock. The Sea Spray had not yet returned from the afternoon trip. It struck me that whatever was going on out there, all three Keaslings were in good position to know about it, or hear about it. Certainly, a fisher, or a diver, setting off from the waterfront would be observable. It was actually a charming waterfront but for those who had to share this little world there was nowhere to hide.

  Tolliver said, “We’re not here about the diver, Jake. We’re here about Robbie Donie and these folks have some expertise to assist in the case.”

  Jake took that in. His face was all angles, brown as a nut. It betrayed no expression. “If you’re here about Robbie, you all need a beer.” He gestured to an ice chest in the shade of the kayak racks. He nudged the paper plate of limes our way with his big toe, which hung over the end of his flip-flop.

  Tolliver snapped, “I’m on duty.”

  Jake squeezed another slice of lime onto his arm and bent his head to lick.

  I said, “I get the lime and beer part but what’s the deal with the arm?”

  “Sea salt in the air. By the end of the day, on the skin. Why waste it?” Jake took a swig of beer. “My expertise is in the delightful ways to complement the flavor of beer. And yours is?”

  “Geology.”

  Tolliver said, “They’re going to see if that sand down there,” he indicated the slice of beach below the dock, “matches some sand in Robbie’s duffel pack.”

  Jake looked. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why should it?”

  “Only reason I can figure is if Robbie came to see you via your little beach, dropped his pack, then came up that ramp to your dock.” Tolliver eyed Jake. “He pay you a visit that way?”

  “Not that I know of.” Jake slumped farther into the chair, butt on the edge and long legs stretched to the water, as if preparing to slink on in.

  “Jake,” Tolliver said, “I’d appreciate it mightily if you’d sit up straight so I don’t get a crick in my neck trying to talk to you. In fact, why don’t you just stand right up so I can look you directly in the eye.”

  Jake set down his beer, pushed himself out of the beach chair, straightened and looked full on at Tolliver. “Better?”

  “Much. Jake, the reason I thought of you, in connection to Robbie going missing, is that you two had a set-to in Pedro’s about a month ago. Barman had to break it up.”

  “That? Wasn’t the first time.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Old stuff. Robbie insulted me and I insulted him. Playground-level asshattery.”

  “Did it escalate?” Tolliver asked.

  “You mean, did I kill him and then steal the Outcast and set it adrift? No, sir, I did not. Although the thought is tempting.”

  “I mean the argument—did it escalate and bring Robbie here?” Tolliver jerked a thumb at the beach. “If he was here, my geologists are going to tell me. Be better if you told me first.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. He had coppery brown eyes, like old pennies. He turned and crossed the dock, over to the edge closest to the beach below. A crumpled tarpaulin covered part of the planking. Jake whisked it aside.

  We moved in to look.

  There was a fan-shaped stain, tarry-looking, like shined asphalt. I’d seen its like on Donie’s boat, although there it was sprayed into drops, like blood.

  Tolliver stared. “What the hell, Jake?”

  “What a mess, huh? Didn’t find it until the next morning and it was into the wood by then. I’ll have to sandblast it.”

  “I mean what the hell is up with Robbie and you and squid ink?”

  “Well, putting two and two together, looks like he came like a sneak, set down his pack, took out a sac of ink...” Jake turned to us. “Don’t know if you know, but squid carry their ink in a pouch called a sac. You can gut the squid and take out the sac intact. So if you were Robbie, you’d slit the sac and toss it up on my dock. Playground asshattery, like I said.”

  I was taken aback. Could that be what Donie carried in his duffel? Then again, a person could use a duffel to carry different things, different times.

  “Is that Humboldt ink?” Tolliver said.

  Jake shrugged.

  “It’s common knowledge around the docks that Robbie was chartering for Humboldts.”

  “Then that’d be my considered opinion.”

  Tolliver said, “And what’s your opinion about why Robbie threw squid ink on your dock?”

  “Because he had access to squid. If he’d had a dog, he’d have thrown dog shit on my dock.”

  “A continuation of the argument you had in Pedro’s?”

  “A continuation of the argument we had since we were kids. Competition. You know what Robbie was like, Doug. An insecure shit who thought he deserved more’n he had. What we Keaslings had.”

  Walter spoke. “What did you Keaslings have?”

  “Anchovies,” Jake said. “Whoop-de-do. My parents were anchovy fishers—sold the chovies for bait. Steady work, steady income. Robbie’s dad bagged groceries. Robbie had higher aspirations so he asked my dad for a job. He didn’t get it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Dad only hired Keaslings. Well, not me—fishing is work. But he had Sandy and Lanny hauling his net. Which left Robbie ou
t in the cold, him not being a Keasling. Plus, Robbie was pissed that the job went to a half-wit. The half-wit being Lanny.”

  I said, “He’s hardly that.”

  “Robbie’s words, not mine.” Jake eyed me. “You already grow a soft spot for Lucky Lanny?”

  I shrugged. I guessed I had. I’d also grown a couple of questions, like why Sandy wanted to keep me away from him, and what Lanny had been doing with that mesh bag. I said, “So Robbie held a grudge against you all?”

  “He ended up getting what he wanted. Grew up to become an anchovy fisher. Take that, Keaslings.” Jake chuckled. “Course by then my parents were dead and we offspring didn’t carry on the family biz. My sister controls the estate and she very generously funded my humble livelihood here. So fine by me if Robbie’s making his living hauling in little fishies that other fishers use to catch bigger fishies.”

  Tolliver said, “Then what competition were you were arguing about at Pedro’s?”

  “Ah, that. That would be squid chartering. Pays big bucks. Turns out Robbie’s not making much of a living on chovies these days. Little buggers are overfished. And good luck going after the big game fish—they're going going ninety-percent gone.”

  I said, in some surprise, “You know the percentage?”

  Jake shot me an amused look. “I might look like a hot surfer dude but I know a little bit about this and that. Especially when it comes to figuring how to pull a few dollars out of the sea.” His eyes went flat. “Turns out renting kayaks—glamorous as that is—doesn’t pay all the bills.”

  “You can’t hunt Humboldts from a kayak,” Tolliver said.

  “I know somebody who’d loan me a boat.”

  “Who?”

  Jake picked up his beer and a slice of lime. Squeezed the lime, licked his arm, took a long drink. The whole performance. Then he lifted his chin at the next dock over.

  Tolliver looked. “Sandy’s boat?”