by Millie Mack
Preliminary results indicate that the cause of death was due to drowning. It was reported that Mr. Faraday was seen earlier in the evening at the bar in the Admiral’s Saloon. Alcohol has not been ruled out as a factor in his death.
The manager from the Admiral’s Saloon, Mr. John Kensington, stated that one of his bartenders engaged in a discussion with Mr. Faraday about his swimming. Several of Mr. Faraday’s swimming records remain unbroken at TriCity College, and Mr. Kensington offered this possibility: “Perhaps he jumped in the water to see if he could still swim the distance and hit his head by accident.”
Heavy rains earlier in the day soaked the piers at the harbor, which also led to speculation that Mr. Faraday may have slipped on the pier.
James Faraday attended…
The article went on to give details of Jamie’s background and education. Carrie skipped through the next several paragraphs until she found the autopsy results.
Mr. Stephen Beeker, deputy medical examiner, stated, “Results of the autopsy indicate alcohol was present in his system, which may have been a factor. While the amount in his system was not over the legal limit, it is possible the alcohol contributed to Mr. Faraday losing his balance. If Mr. Faraday was unconscious when he hit the water, this would explain why an expert swimmer drowned.” Mr. Beeker ended his formal statement by indicating that the coroner’s office was classifying the death as “suspicious” at this time.
I guess I don’t have to ask Joel what happened to Stephen, thought Carrie. He’s right here in TriCity working in the coroner’s office. Carrie left her table and asked the librarian for a phone book. Once she found the number, she stepped outside the building and used her cell phone to dial the morgue. She asked to speak to Stephen Beeker, and to her surprise was put right through.
“Hello, Beeker here.” The voice sounded professional but friendly, exactly the same as she remembered from college.
“Hello, Stephen. It’s Carrie Kingsford.”
“Well, hello, Carrie, I wondered when I’d hear from you. Joel said you were coming back for Jamie’s funeral. I hoped I’d see you at the funeral, but then I had to miss it because of a case. Of course I already said my goodbyes to Jamie when he was here on the…” He was about to say “table,” but then quickly changed it to “in the office.”
“Stephen, the reason I’m calling is Jamie wrote me a letter before his death. He asked me to investigate, if his death was classified as anything other than by natural causes.”
“Good old Jamie, still controlling the story even from the great beyond. I guess you want me to tell you everything I know?”
“I’ve been reading the newspaper accounts, but anything you can add would be appreciated,” Carrie said. “I need more information in order to decide if there’s anything to investigate.”
“Officially, I can’t tell you much more than what you saw in the papers. I can tell you as a friend that there are different ways to weigh the facts. Here’s the problem as I see it. There are three elements to Jamie’s death: the drowning, the alcohol, and the bump on the head.”
“I agree the papers all mention this same information, but are you saying there are different interpretations?”
“You got it. The reporters and even the police like a nice, neat package.”
Carrie remembered Jamie’s wake. Simpson used the same phrase about nice, neat packages.
Stephen continued, “One package is Jamie drank too much, lost his balance, hit his head on the pier, fell in the water, and drowned.”
“And how would you wrap the package?” Carrie asked.
“You and I know Jamie could always handle liquor. He could out-drink anyone and then proceed to write a perfectly coherent story. Knowing this, I don’t believe the amount of alcohol in his system was sufficient to cause him to lose his balance. Did he hit his head on the pier diving in? I don’t think so. Have you seen Pier Seven, where he was found?”
“I’ll be checking out the pier next,” Carrie responded.
“When you see it, I think you’ll agree it’s not that easy to hit your head on the piling. It means the bump occurred first, and then he fell, or he was…”
“Pushed,” Carrie finished the sentence for him. “And that would make it murder or, at the very least, manslaughter.”
“What I’ve told you is purely subjective because I knew the victim. It may be what I think, but I can’t prove it based on medical findings.”
“Knowing the victim and their habits often solves the crime. Stephen, I appreciate everything you’ve shared with me, and I promise before I leave TriCity, you and I will get together.”
“Sounds good to me. And, Carrie…be careful. Make sure you have a backup for whatever you do, just in case Jamie’s death was a murder.”
Carrie returned to her table in the library and continued checking later editions of the papers, but there was no additional information. No witnesses came forward, no new pieces of evidence were discovered, and no reporter decided to do a follow-up. The story was front page for a couple of days, and then Jamie’s death not only disappeared from the front page, but entirely from the papers. Jamie’s killer was probably feeling confident that he had gotten away with murder.
Carrie pushed herself away from the table and removed her glasses. She felt dissatisfied. There was too little information, but too many possibilities—the possibility of a robbery, the possibility of a swimming accident, the possibility of too much alcohol, the possibility that Jamie hit his head, the possibility that Jamie was pushed, and the possibility that Jamie was writing a story.
All these possibilities did clarify one thing for Carrie. She needed to see Pier Seven. She would return to the house and inform Mrs. Cavanaugh that she would be eating with friends. Hopefully, by the time Carrie finished talking with John Kensington and the other workers from the Admiral’s Saloon she would have some new friends.
19
Carrie parked her car on the lot at Pier Eight. She figured this would put her midway between the Admiral’s Saloon and Pier Seven. She also parked at Pier Eight because she wanted her first impressions of Pier Seven to be in the dark, the way Jamie would have viewed it the night he went into the water.
It had rained earlier in the day, which would make the pier and the harbor area also resemble the night that Jamie was murdered. The rain left the night feeling cold and damp, and Carrie was glad she wore a black turtleneck and a matching black crew neck sweater with her black slacks. The night air also made her realize how hungry she was. She had not eaten since breakfast, so the Admiral’s Saloon would serve two purposes for her.
The saloon was located in an old warehouse, which at the turn of the century housed ships’ cargo. The outside of the building was highlighted by a neon sign featuring a ship’s admiral with a tri-corner hat and an eye patch that changed colors from blue to orange to green. Inside the front door was a large waiting area with high-back wooden benches for the crowds waiting for tables. That night the seats in the waiting area were empty, as patrons were being handled as they arrived. To the left of the waiting area, through wooden French doors, was a long U-shaped bar. On the one side of the bar was a movable glass wall that enlarged the bar space into the main eating area for the late-night drinking crowds.
In the center of the first floor was a huge circular salad bar, with a vast assortment of hot and cold selections. Surrounding the salad bar were tables of various sizes and hugging the outer walls were booths.
Carrie was seated at a table on the loft level overlooking the eating area and the massive salad bar below. The surrounding walls displayed paintings of sailing ships and harbor scenes. Carrie was looking at the picture nearest her table when a young lanky waiter in his early twenties, with long, dark hair, approached her table.
“Hi, my name is Ben, and I’ll be your waiter tonight.” His voice was friendly and upbeat as he presented her with a plank of wood listing the restaurant’s entrées.
Keeping with the spirit of the pl
ace, Carrie said, “Hello, Ben. My name is Carrie, and I’ll be your diner for tonight. Got anything to drink around here?” Carrie gave Ben her best smile.
Ben smiled back, knowing he had someone who would be fun to serve. “I doubt there’s a drink on this earth we can’t make. What’s your pleasure?”
“I don’t want anything too exotic. How about a glass of white zinfandel?”
“Let me get your drink while you review the menu.”
When Ben returned with her drink, he bumped into her table, almost spilling the wine.
“Ouch, that hurts,” he said. “I go home most nights with bruises. I’m constantly bumping into these tables, and they are very heavy.”
“They are incredibly solid. Why don’t you sit for a minute until the pain eases?” Carrie offered.
Ben looked around for signs of management and then accepted her offer. He sat down and began rubbing his leg as he gave Carrie some history about the restaurant.
“Before this place became a restaurant, it was a bar for sailors. There was a tendency for bar room brawls and the furniture would get broken. To solve the problem, the saloon owners made the tables extra heavy.”
“That was thoughtful of them,” she said, smiling. “I can’t imagine trying to pick one of these wooden tables up to throw at someone.” Carrie realized she had left her glasses back at the Faraday home and would never be able to see the fine print on the menu. “Speaking of wood, what would you recommend from this menu?”
Ben looked her over. “Do you eat meat?”
“Absolutely! Why do you ask?”
“These days, with all the diets and cholesterol concerns, some people want to avoid meat and just eat from the salad bar. But if you like meat, I’d recommend the petite filet and a trip to the salad bar. The meat is so tender it rivals the best steakhouses in TriCity. And if you can’t find side dishes you like on our salad bar then you probably shouldn’t be eating out at a restaurant,” He said with the authority of someone who had made this comment many times.
“Then that’s what I’ll have.”
Ben smiled and seemed pleased that she accepted his recommendation.
“Before you get my order, I’ve another question. Were you working the night that Jamie Faraday died?”
He looked at her suspiciously and asked, “Hey, you a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop? Actually, I’m an old friend of the victim. He asked me to investigate his death if it was in any way suspicious.”
“You’re saying, like, he knew he was going to die?” asked Ben. “Wow, that’s creepy.”
“It would seem that way, but so far all the evidence seems to point to accidental drowning. That’s why I thought I’d check out the scene myself. Did the police interview you? I saw in the newspaper that several people from the saloon were interviewed.”
“No, I wasn’t interviewed.” He sounded annoyed. “I’m not a manager who likes to get his name in the paper, if you know what I mean.” Ben saw the disappointment in Carrie’s face and quickly added, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know things. I served Mr. Faraday dinner the night that he drowned.”
Ben looked around and suddenly jumped up. The manager was approaching the table.
“Is there a problem, Ben?”
Carrie piped in. “Not at all. Ben bumped his knee on the table, and I suggested he sit for a moment to ease the pain. He has been telling me about the history of the restaurant, plus making some wonderful menu suggestions.”
“Thanks for letting me sit, ma’am. I’ll get your order started,” Ben responded with a wink as he moved away.
“What a nice young man,” Carrie said. “Friendly service, that’s what makes a good restaurant, not just good food.”
“Yes, Ben is one of our best. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m Mr. Kensington, the manager. Enjoy your meal.”
Carrie saw what Ben meant by Kensington wanting to be the center of attention. He wandered around the loft, letting every table know he was the manager.
She made two trips to the salad bar, and when her steak arrived, she ate her meal alone without the opportunity to talk further with Ben. At the end of the meal, when Carrie was enjoying her coffee, Mr. Kensington finally went downstairs to open the glass wall to enlarge the bar. The minute Kensington was downstairs, Ben slipped back to her table.
“So where were we?” Ben asked brightly, as if no time had elapsed in their conversation.
“You were telling me you served Jamie Faraday the night he died.”
“Yes. In fact, he ate the same thing you did.” Carrie imagined quite a few of Ben’s customers enjoyed his recommended selection.
“Did you talk with him?” prodded Carrie.
“Just polite chit-chat, but he seemed to be a real nice guy, and he was a good tipper. That’s why I remember him.”
“That sounds very uneventful. Is there anything else you remember that was out of the ordinary?”
Ben looked over his shoulder for the second time that night to see if anyone was listening. “I think he was planning on meeting someone. I can tell when people are deliberately lingering, and toward the end of the meal, he was definitely delaying his departure. Finally, when we were closing off the loft, he went down to the bar. That’s when he had the conversation with the bartender about swimming. You know, the one quoted in the paper.”
Carrie nodded her head. “Aside from the bartender, was he talking to anyone else at the bar?”
“Not that I saw, but I noticed one more thing. After I finished serving dinners on the loft, I went down to help with the bar crowd. A couple of times when I picked drinks up from the bar, I noticed Mr. Faraday looking at his watch. Then around eleven-thirty, he suddenly paid his bar bill and left. I thought that was unusual because he had just ordered a fresh drink.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“A man was on the pay phone by the door. Just as Mr. Faraday was leaving, that man left, too, but that could have been a coincidence.”
“Can you describe the man on the phone?”
“He was a small man dressed in jeans and a dark jacket, but I only saw his back. That’s why I didn’t say anything to the police. What I saw may not have been related to Mr. Faraday, and, besides, I couldn’t identify this guy. Do you think it was important?”
“I don’t know, but the fact you’re telling me means you thought it was worth remembering.”
“Maybe Mr. Faraday just decided he had enough to drink and it was time to go. Or maybe based on the conversation with the bartender, he got the urge to go for a swim.”
“Or maybe he spotted the person he came to meet,” suggested Carrie. “Ben, you’ve been a great help. I appreciate the meal, the good service, and the information.”
“Where are you going now?” Ben stopped, a little embarrassed by his abrupt question. “I mean, you ought to stick around. We have a nice crowd—not the kids, but an older group that comes in at this hour for drinks, with lots of singles.”
Carrie wasn’t sure if being associated with an older group was a compliment, but she wondered something else. “How do you know I’m single?”
“The obvious answer is you’re not wearing a ring, but there are other things. You dress very classy, and you’re too relaxed to be worrying about kids or a husband.”
“You are very observant. Thanks for the offer to stay, but I think I’m going to take a look at Pier Seven.”
“You want to go out the main door and head straight for about five hundred yards. Then make a left. His shoes were found at the end of the pier.”
Carrie left a very generous tip for Ben and left the Admiral’s Saloon.
***
Ben watched Carrie leave and then went to the employee pay phone inside the kitchen. He dialed a number from a slip of paper he kept in his wallet.
“Yeah, it’s Ben from the Admiral’s Saloon. You know how you asked me to call if anyone asked about Faraday? This lady came in tonight, said her name was Carrie. Says
Faraday asked her to investigate his death if it was suspicious… Yeah, sounded kind of spooky. Sure, I can describe her. She’s around five-eight, brown, curly hair, attractive, late forties… No, she’s gone now. Said she’s going out to look at Pier Seven. You’re welcome. Glad I could help. Can I expect a payment like you promised? Great, I’ll pick it up at the bar tomorrow! Thanks a lot.”
Ben felt no guilt about his phone call. After all, he was a struggling college student and needed the money. He didn’t mind if he earned it from his customers as a tip, or from selling a little information on the side. After all, Carrie got the information she wanted, and so did the caller. Simply sell the truth to anyone who would pay. That was his motto.
20
Carrie stopped by her car and got her digital camera from the trunk, put her credit card wallet in her pocket, and locked her purse in the car before continuing to Pier Seven. Pier Seven was part of the TriCity harbor reconstruction that was started about fifteen years before. The construction contract was awarded to two different firms who began building simultaneously at opposite ends of the old wharf. Piers One through Five were adjacent to many of the harbor hotels and contained two pavilions of boutiques, specialty stores, restaurants, and souvenir shops. Piers Six through Ten were located in the Federal Point residential area and combined restaurants, stores, and parking with office buildings. Behind these businesses was a neighborhood of turn-of-the-century, renovated townhouses that added a quaint atmosphere to the area. The renewal brought lots of new visitors and residents to the harbor, and business was booming.
The shipyard for merchant vessels that used to be on the Federal Point side of the harbor was moved to the other side of the water. Occasionally sailors would venture over to the tourist side, but the barroom brawls and rowdy behavior of the past were no longer a problem for the city.
Pier Seven extended a good three hundred yards out from the walkway, and Carrie started her walk to the end. Pier extensions at that end of the harbor provided parking for cars or docks for visiting boats, but this night no boats were moored. The dark water was calm, causing only a gentle slapping sound as it lapped against the wooden pier. Toward the end of the pier were two pilings, with the remains of a sagging yellow police tape.