Oil Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 4)

by T'Gracie Reese

  Where was it?

  Aha. There.

  She clambered down off the jetty and stood on the surface of the great rock, her canvass shoes soaked like washrags now, water pouring off her hooded visor, the spray from crashing waves drenching her down to up even as the rain drenched her up to down.

  She squatted down and opened the carton of chicken livers.

  BRRRRRROOOOOOMMM!

  HISSSSSSSSSWSSSSSSSSSS!

  TAKE THAT, YOU DRY LAND, YOU!

  WANT TO MESS WITH THE OCEAN, DO YOU?

  AND BRRRRROOOOM AGAIN!

  AND HISSSSSSSSSSS AGAIN!

  She let the fatty chicken liver drop into the natural pool beneath her, watching as it floated for an instant and then began sinking, an amorphous whitish blob of tissue that had once regulated matters of fowl waste excretion, but that now had nothing to do in the universe except sink.

  Which it did.

  Slowly, in water perhaps two feet deep, extraordinarily clear.

  Sink.

  Sink.

  Moving back and forth as the whole hole that was a pool shuddered, and the waves crashed against the massive boulders protecting it.

  There.

  It was on the bottom now.

  Being watched by unseen eyes, hidden behind crevices and jagged outpiercings underwater.

  She continued to watch.

  Nothing.

  But nothing was going on in her brain, either.

  She was only feeling: cold, wind blown, wet, soaked, feet drenched, eyes filmed over with spray, ears inundated by the cacophony of storm surge and downpour, palms scraping on jagged granite ridges…

  …there.

  There!

  A dark shadow moved out from the rocks below the water’s surface.

  It was a black hand inching its way forward, invisible fingers acting like feet to walk it as imperceptibly as moon tide toward the white patch that lured it.

  A foot and a half away.

  Six inches away.

  And then it lurched forward, grasping the meat in what could now be recognized as claws, and ripping off shards of tissue which it began stuffing into its mouth.

  There. She could see the whole crab.

  Now that it was opening itself up, the yellow and blue of its legs and inner shell glimmered up from the water.

  But here—on the other side of the pool’s bottom, appeared a second shadow.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  She reached into the package, grasped a cool slimy chicken liver, and tossed it down into the rapidly enclosing circle of shells and claws beneath her.

  Chomp.

  Rip.

  There was no caution at all in the eatery below her hand now. Just tearing and grasping and engorging and tearing more and ripping, and white shards of floating chicken flesh hanging in the pool water and buoying upward until grabbed by the pincers below, which were now waving in the dark sea like machetes.

  And so were more sights and sounds added to the mix.

  BRRRRROOOOOOOM!

  HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

  RRRRRRIIPPPPPPPP!

  CHOMPPPPPP!

  God, wasn’t nature wonderful?

  And so she simply sat for a time, until her package of bait was empty, and her new found friends, her small crusty pets, had given up finding anything more and had secreted themselves once again into the one bedroom, or two bedroom, or perhaps efficiency in-rock apartments they were short term leasing.

  She looked up, having been thankfully oblivious even to the storm for the last ten minutes or so.

  It was all changing now.

  The light was different.

  Rain still spattered down and pelleted the ocean, but the storm had passed and blue was beginning to replace purple.

  Roar and hiss were beginning to give way to brooding moan that was the natural state of sea sound.

  There. There was the sun.

  It shone in morning brilliance on the eddying swells, glistening on the scudding whitecaps that were beginning to resume their normal attack on the granite rocks beside her.

  And after five minutes it was all over.

  A normal, summer, luscious as cream, sea gull screeching morning in Bay St. Lucy.

  She made her way out of the small niche that had done her well for this orgy of feast watching, and up onto the jetty once again.

  It was more drenched than ever of course, and she had to be even more careful than ever as she made her way back to shore.

  Where she would do…what?

  Surely there were more things that might take the place of remembering or thinking.

  About corpses.

  Damn.

  There it was.

  Why could one not sit huddled in storms, protected by granite boulders, watching animals tear apart and devour each other, forever?

  Why did one have to return to unpleasant things?

  Why…

  “Nina!”

  She looked up.

  Had she been looking down?

  Apparently, for she had not seen the figure that was striding out toward her, and now she did.

  “Nina!”

  Jackson Bennett.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  “Jackson!”

  But here he was, or must have been, her greeting clearly having confirmed that fact.

  And now here he was standing right before her, all six feet four of him, his great body at least two sizes two big for the London Fog trench coat that he wore.

  “Nina, what are you doing out here?”

  “Crabbing,” she said.

  “In the storm?”

  “Best time.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Everybody,” she said, “seems to be asking me that these days.”

  “Nina, I heard about this morning.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Moon called me. He asked me maybe to come out and check on you.”

  “Thank you, Jackson. Thank you a lot.”

  “Don’t think anything about it. It’s just…well, it must have been tough on you, finding that thing.”

  “It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t go running.”

  He shook his head.

  “No, I guess you shouldn’t. But Nina…”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something that you probably need to know.”

  “All right. What is it, Jackson?”

  “Nina, they’ve identified the body that you discovered.”

  “Who is it?”

  A voice within her said, ‘It’s no one now.’

  But she ignored it.

  Jackson said:

  “It’s Edgar Ramirez, Nina.”

  “What?”

  “Edgar Ramirez.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yes. We’re all pretty shocked.”

  “Sonia’s brother.”

  “That’s him. The engineering student.”

  “Jackson, what happened to him? Did he slip, or did a car…”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Jackson…Sonia was on the basketball team. I coached her. And her younger brother has been out to my bungalow. He’s done some work for me.”

  “I know, Nina.”

  “But, but…where was Edgar working?”

  “Apprenticing out on one of the deep sea rigs, apparently. I think it’s called The Aquatica. It’s more than ten miles out.”

  “What was he doing in town?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Mrs. Ramirez…”

  “Moon and several other people have been over there, and are there with her now.”

  ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll…I’ll bring her something.”

  “She would appreciate that, I’m sure.”

  “Why do things like this happen, Jackson?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know. Look, Nina, if you want to come with me, I was able to drive almost to the foot of the jetty. I can take you back t
o your place.”

  She shook her head.

  “I think I want to stay out here for a while.”

  “All right. I just…you’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

  “All right, then. Call me in a few hours. I’d like to go over and see Mrs. Ramirez too. Maybe we can go together.”

  “Sure.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  She crept back down into the niche she had found, and peered into the pool.

  No crabs visible now; just clear water.

  She let her eyes wander toward the beach; it was filling up with tourists, with children running headlong into the surf, screaming with wild joy.

  Out farther in the water sail boats had begun to appear.

  The town was celebrating summer.

  She took the book of poetry out of the pocket of her slicker.

  She opened it to the section labeled W. H. Auden, and found “Musée des Beaux Arts.”

  She read:

  About suffering they were never wrong,

  The Old Masters: how well they understood

  It’s human position; how it takes place

  While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

  And she continued to read:

  In Brueghel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away

  Quite leisurely from the disaster; the plowman may

  Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

  But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

  As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

  Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

  Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

  Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

  She put down the book and looked around.

  There was the expensive delicate ship, perhaps two hundred yards out from her.

  There was the sun, shining as it had to.

  She thought of Mrs. Ramirez, who had learned, perhaps an hour ago, that her oldest son was dead.

  The plowman may have heard the splash, the forsaken cry…

  “Who heard the splash, Edgar?” she whispered. “Who heard your forsaken cry?”

  A boy falling out of the sky.

  She had somewhere to get to and she walked on.

  But not calmly.

  CHAPTER THREE: TEACHER, TEACHER…

  By early afternoon the sky had become sticky-bright, and the town lay puddled in the aftermath of rain. Dogs, snakes, and drunks sunned themselves on benches and sidewalks, while children careened along the beach, oblivious both to the two hundred-percent humidity factor and the supplications of their parents regarding the need for everyone to take a long, quiet nap.

  The small parking area fronting Olivia Ramirez’ bungalow was overflowing.

  Nina could barely find a crevice to wedge her Vespa in, and, as she took off her helmet and untied the big glass bowl of chicken salad from the passenger seat behind her, she was aware that even that small space had been blocked in by a pickup truck that had arrived carrying yet another family of mourners.

  She began walking toward the house, picking her way carefully between still dripping fenders, windshields, door handles and bumpers.

  People crossed her path, looked up at her—for otherwise everyone seemed to be looking down at the gravel in the driveway, or up at the fleecy clouds that were making their way across the sun.

  “Nina”

  “Chester.”

  “Ms. Bannister.”

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  “Oh, Nina…”

  “I know, Betty.”

  “This is just…”

  “I know. I know.”

  She did not, of course, but for some reason age seemed to allow her to pretend that she did.

  The door to the house stood open, and Hernando Alvarez stood in it, patting the backs of all those leaving, and shaking the hands of all those arriving.

  There are men in every neighborhood who assume such duties. No one has to ask them; no one has to write out their instructions. It is a duty assigned to them by dint of their white and perfectly combed back hair, their face browned not with a tourist tan but with hours weeks days months years’ exposure to a much more hostile sun, and with a quiet dignity of movement that promised a calmness if not a cure.

  People like Mr. Alvarez—who, as far as Nina knew, was still a cook at Sergio’s By the Sea—made it possible for those who had to do so to sit in one place and cry, especially during those times in life when that was the only thing that could be done.

  “Ms. Bannister. Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course, Hernando.”

  “They are all in back, in the living room and in the yard.”

  “Yes. I brought…”

  “It looks very good. I think the dishes are all being lined up on the counter, in the kitchen.”

  “Good. Thank you. Is Olivia…”

  “She is very brave.”

  “I know. I know she is.”

  The surge of people behind her had begun to build, and she let herself be carried by humanities’ grief-momentum in through the entrance vestibule and on farther into the living room.

  The house was redolent of smoke, incense, and candle wax. There were small alcoves in the walls where statues of Christ and Mary stood supplicating, their arms extended either to each other or to the world beyond their wall.

  She nodded and murmured as she made her way through the crowd, marveling at the gallery milling about her, and about the ability of bad news to sift down into a village, through chimneys and ventilator shafts and half open windows and half charged cell phones.

  There, in the bedroom just to the right, stood Alanna Delafosse. Behind her, just entering, was John Giusti. In the kitchen before her stood Tom Broussard and Penelope Royale. She could see on beyond, out in the small back yard, that Paul and Macy Cox were bent forward in earnest conversation with Father Gonzalez.

  There, here, over there farther, dotted about the small rooms, were the basketball players she had coached only a few months ago. Alyssha, Hayley, Amanda…

  How had everyone heard so quickly?

  What time was it, exactly?

  One thirty.

  A bit over six hours since she had…

  …it still was not easy to think about it, to remember it.

  The way the bright red jacket had looked in the oily, sluggishly circulating sewage.

  And yet she had to remember it.

  Strange. She had the absurd idea that the whole thing was her fault. For if she had not gotten up to run, had not driven to Gerard Park, had not made her way back through the serpentine driveways bordering the coulee and bisecting the honeycomb of apartment cages—if she had not done these things, perhaps no corpse would have been found.

  And Edgar Ramirez would still be alive.

  She was in the kitchen now. An acquaintance, Pamela Donaldson:

  “Nina…”

  “Pam.”

  “We heard that you were the one who…”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh God, it must have been awful. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I just called the police. They took care of everything after that.”

  “Still, I’m so sorry you had to see it.”

  “It’s all right.”

  And move along, say a final something or other to Pam and go over to the counter.

  Is there room?

  Maybe not.

  Here are deviled eggs on a platter; tuna salad; what seemed to be Caesar Salad; more deviled eggs; rolls; a platter of cold meat slices; several coffeemakers; condiments of various kinds;

  The Restaurant of the Dead.

  But there, there was a spot.

  And in it, carefully, she placed her dish of chicken salad.

  “Coach…”

 
Sonia Ramirez grabbed her, gently, from behind, and turned her half-around.

  “Sonia…”

  The two women embraced for a time, tears on Sonia’s face wetting Nina’s cheeks.

  “Sonia, I’m so sorry.”

  There was no answer to this, just a tighter embrace, the girl’s body shaking softly with sobs that seemed to come in rhythm with her heartbeat, and her voice spilling out birdlike and trembling.

  “He was…so good. He was such a good brother.”

  “I know.”

  “He was…the best of us, you know? He was our hope!”

  “I know, Sonia.”

  “Why does this happen?”

  “It happens for a reason, Sonia,” she said, knowing all the time that she was not at all sure that it happened for a reason. “We just don’t understand it.”

  Well. That part at least was true.

  “We don’t understand it, honey.”

  “They don’t even know what happened to him!”

  “They will. They’ll find out.”

  “They say he was drunk, maybe.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It isn’t true! Our Edgar did not drink! Not ever! He was so good…”

  “I know, Sonia. I know.”

  “It’s so terrible. It’s terrible for me and for Mama…”

  Sonia gestured at a spot farther back in the living room. Her mother could not be seen, covered as she was by a knot of people, all bending over her and sobbing.

  “…but it’s worse for Hector.”

  Another gesture, another spot.

  This spot not filled with people, though. This spot merely a place on the pale green wall, where a young Hispanic boy with olive skin and sad cave deep eyes was sitting in a straight chair, staring out at what seemed to be nothing at all.

  “Hector is only a freshman in high school now.”

  “I know.”

  “He needs his big brother! There are all these drugs and bad people everywhere, and…”

  She could not go on.

  “Hector’s a good boy, Sonia. I know that. I heard the teachers talk about Hector all last year. They had nothing but good things to say about him.”

  “I know, but…Edgar came into shore whenever he could, from the rig. And he spent time with Hector. ‘Don’t take drugs,’ he would tell him. ‘You can do anything you want! The world is out there, and it is waiting for you! You have a fine mind!’ And now…”