by Dana Mentink
“I know.” Ernie removed his latex gloves with an annoyed snap. “You can lead an idiot to water, but you can’t make him go to the hospital.”
“Hugh,” Ruth said, “you’ve got to go. I’m sure you’ve got broken ribs and maybe a concussion. It’s best if you go to the hospital.”
“No,” he croaked. “I’ll be fine. I just need a ride home.”
Jack sighed. “How about I take you home and we’ll talk more about who attacked you.”
“No way,” Hugh said, swiping at a trickle of blood under his eye. “Forget about the whole thing. There’s no way I’m identifying anybody or pressing charges. I just want to go home.” He stood and limped his way up the beach.
Jack took him home.
The officers ducked under the beaded curtain that served as a doorway to Rocky’s booth at the edge of the field. Nate swatted at a blue crystal bead that clung to his hair. Waist-high wooden cases housed baskets of polished agate stones, tie-dyed, shirts and porcelain fairies. Dozens of tree ornaments made of metal, glass, and ceramic hung overhead. They twirled in the early morning breeze. A few stalwart shoppers meandered along the row of craft booths, but none had made it into Rocky’s stall.
Rocky looked up from the box he was rummaging through. His long braid twisted over one shoulder. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Mr. Bippo,” Jack said. “You remember Officer Katz. We’d like to talk with you for a minute.”
Rocky regarded them through slitted eyes. “What about?”
“About an attack that happened last night.”
“An attack?”
“Yes,” Jack said, “a young man was beaten severely.”
“Beaten?” Rocky whistled. “Wow, beatings, explosions, murder. This is a dangerous town.”
“It seems to be getting that way,” Nate chimed in.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “What was that Alva was saying, Nate? Something about a gang on the beach?”
Nate bobbed his chin. “Yup. A bunch of folks in bandannas, carrying knives and such.”
“All right, officers,” Rocky snorted. “I can see the local busybodies have been sniffing around. I’m one of the bunch, as you put it. We like to hang out on the beach. What of it?”
“Who is in your, er, group?” Nate asked.
“Just me; my sister, Evelyn; and Dale Palmer, Rudy Anderson, and Dan Finch. They work the popcorn booth and run the jump house. Sometimes a few other festival roadies join in, but they’re not here this time.”
They stared at him in silence.
“We’re friends, not felons. I’m sure you’ve checked. No arrests on my record.”
“That’s true. Maybe you just have really bad timing. Maybe you just happen to be around when tree farms burn and logging trails are blocked.”
“And tree stumps are dumped,” Nate added. “Don’t forget the tree stumps.”
Rocky threw the box down and kicked it into the corner. “I’m an ecologist. I’m interested in anything that threatens the natural balance of the earth. That doesn’t make me a criminal.”
“How about assault and battery? Does your group go in for that?”
“None of that, either.”
“Were you on the beach last night?”
Rocky nodded. “Yeah. Some friends and I hiked up to the top of Finny’s Nose. Then we stopped at the beach before we went back to our trailers for the night.”
“What time, exactly?”
“We hit the beach about four o’clock, I’d say. But we didn’t see another soul the entire time. We didn’t see anybody, and we certainly didn’t beat anyone up.”
Jack tried to ignore his growling stomach. He wished he had made it through a few more of Bobby’s pancakes before he was summoned to the beach. “I understand you have some difficulties with Bing Mitchell. You two have been mixing it up since you blew into town.”
“My only difficulty with him is that he’s a pig. Other than that, I got no problem with him.” Rocky swiped at the crystal moon that hung from the tent. “Why? Was he the beaten-up guy?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Too bad.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell us anything else? Like what does Bing have that your sister had to sell her car to pay for?” Jack decided it was the right moment to use the interesting tidbit that Ruth uncovered after the food fight.
Rocky’s mouth opened and closed.
Jack remained silent, staring at him.
“Okay.” Rocky looked at the ground. “The creep taped one of our protests. He got us doing something that might be considered questionable.”
“Go on,” Jack prodded.
“The stump thing. He videotaped us breaking into the city council offices with the stump.”
Nate huffed into his mustache. “Definitely qualifies as questionable.”
“I don’t know how he found out about it, but he said if we didn’t give him five thousand dollars, he would send the tape to the cops. I said go ahead, but my sister was upset. I couldn’t let her get into any trouble, so I sold the car and paid the guy off.”
“Did he give back the tape?”
He fixed them with a glare. “No, he did not. Now is there anything else you want? I’ve gotta get to work.”
“Just one more thing. If, during your stay in Finny, you happen to trespass on Vern Rosario’s property with or without spikes in your possession, you will be arrested.”
Rocky’s eyes widened, and his mouth gaped.
“We’ll talk to the other people in your group to see if they have anything to add,” Jack said.
“Go right ahead.” Rocky took a step toward them. His eyes glittered behind the thick lenses. “Just see that you don’t harass my sister.”
Jack locked eyes with him. “We’re not in the busi- ness of harassing people, Mr. Bippo.” He zipped his denim jacket against the chill outside the booth. “You ought to be careful, though. That almost sounded like a threat.”
Chapter Nineteen
September the 13th, 1923
The weather is miserable, cold. Just ripe enough for a nasty drizzle. We returned to the awful spot to pray. There we stood, under the great fir tree. It was so terribly lonely. Just this one blackened tree and no others to stand near. What we need is a good downpour to wash away the horrible stain of evil.
Janey has been completely incoherent since the fire. She just rocks back and forth in a daze. I wonder if she will survive the week. Dan came to see her, but she didn’t seem to know who he was. He looked like a dead man, just enough life in him to pump his lungs, not enough to reach his broken heart. He wouldn’t take a bite or even a drop of coffee to warm himself.
There is a terrible anger burning deep down in his eyes. I think he has in mind an act of vengeance. As much as I would like to see Slats punished for the terrible thing he did to that poor girl, I tremble to think of Dan going after that heartless monster on his own. I fear he will not live to enjoy his revenge.
Ruth finished reading the journal passage a minute before the doorbell rang. She turned the knob with a sweaty palm. She expected it to be Maude with a terse reminder that she was supposed to photograph the winner at the sand sculpture competition and closing ceremonies. Or maybe Flo coming by to pick up the brownies she’d made to include in a care package for Hugh.
Instead, Jack stood hand in hand with his son, Paul. He held out a bag of apples in greeting. “Hello. Maybe you’ll know what to do with some of these apples. So far Boo Boo is the only one eating them, and I don’t think dogs are supposed to have that much fiber.”
“How nice,” she said. “They sort of scream apple pie with big globs of ice cream to me.” She knew perfectly well the fruit provided an excuse for the detective to check up on her, and she appreciated it.
“As long as I get a piece, I think that’s an excellent idea.”
“Come in. Hi, Paul. How are you doing today, little man?”
Paul nodded, looking around. “Cootchie?”
> Ruth felt a pain stab through her like an electric shock. “I’m sorry, Paul. Cootchie has gone away for a while. We’ll have to find things to do without her.”
He toddled off toward the backyard, leaving Ruth and Jack alone.
She swallowed hard. “Jack, I know you wouldn’t ever want to hurt my feelings. But really, I—I would understand if you—didn’t want me to watch Paul next week.”
He looked at her for a moment, his dark eyes warm. “I am perfectly comfortable that you will take excellent care of Paul as you always have. What happened up nose happened because of some sicko who, for whatever reason, wanted to scare all of us. It did not happen because you were negligent.”
“Thank you.” She tried to blink back tears as they followed Paul into the yard. When she could trust her voice again, she went on. “How is the investigation going? Both Cootchie’s and Ed Honeysill’s, I mean.”
They watched as Paul stalked Grover, who danced out of the boy’s path.
“Well, I gotta tell you. This is stretching our resources a bit. We haven’t had one bit of info about the owner of the missing toe, and as for the kidnapper, all we’ve got is Cootchie’s description of a man with glasses and a hat driving a pickup, or maybe a snowplow, depending on what she’s been reading before we ask her.”
Ruth laughed.
“As for the Honeysill case, plenty of people with the means to fire a flare gun and dump it in the grass at the edge of the parking area. No prints. No witnesses as everyone seemed to be looking up at the time. There were plenty of men wearing glasses of one type or another in the crowd. Plenty of strangers in town, even a loan shark from New York that we’ve got our eyes on. We don’t figure he came into town for the fog.”
“You know, Al at the bakery was telling me about a city type who came in. He said the man didn’t exactly blend in with the surroundings.”
“It’s possible Honeysill got himself in some financial trouble and somebody was settling a score. Or maybe he wasn’t the target. The killer might have assumed Bing was in the balloon. It seems a few people have it in for him, too.”
“Do you think. . .” Her voiced trailed off.
“On the surface it doesn’t seem like the murder and Cootchie’s kidnapping were related,” he said softly, “but we’re going to check out every possibility.”
She swallowed. “And now Hugh Lemmon is attacked. What is going on in this town?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself.”
He walked over to the concrete bins. “I still think it’s amazing that you can farm worms. Does that make you a wormologist?”
“A vermiculturist, actually.” They both laughed. “I should tell you that I talked to Cootchie on the phone and she said the ‘muffin man’ took her.”
He frowned. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I don’t know. The only Muffin Man I know is that character in the Mother Goose rhyme.”
“Hmm. I’ll run that by Nate. He’s a master of all things Mother Goose. I’ve got to get going now. Louella is waiting for Paul, and in the middle of all this chaos, Bobby seems to think I need to go for a nature walk.” His smile was eager, and she noticed a faint whisper of cologne.
She smiled back at the detective. “Okay. Thanks for coming by, and give my love to Bobby.”
Jack collected Paul and left.
When they were gone, she plopped onto the sofa and breathed in the quiet.
Wait a minute. She sat up abruptly.
What had Jack said about the Honeysill investigation?
“Plenty of men wearing glasses of one type or another in the crowd.”
And Cootchie’s kidnapper wore glasses, too.
She felt suddenly sick to her stomach. It was possible that the person who murdered Ed Honeysill and the kidnapper were one and the same in spite of Jack’s reassurance.
She shivered and went to lock the door.
The sand sculpture competition was set to commence at 11:00 a.m. after the tide went out and with plenty of time to wrap everything up before it returned. Ironically, the weather was once again magnificent with not a wisp of fog anywhere to be seen.
Most of the coastline that snuggled against the nostril portion of Finny’s Nose was gravel strewn and rugged. Treacherous riptides had been known to snatch unsuspecting beachcombers from the sharp rocks where they delved for treasure. There was really only one stretch of beach suitable for a sand sculpture contest.
The gentle inlet had been known as Honey Beach since the early thirties when it was used to land boats carrying crates of sweet clover honey. On this day, Finny natives were working hard to take full advantage of the waning hours of the festival, and the tiny beach was crammed with people.
Ruth waved to Bubby, who stood next to a trailer that housed his boat, The Stinky Limpet. The Sassie sisters were haggling with him about the price of a charter fishing excursion. They gripped a set of fishing poles menacingly, both iron-gray heads wagged in unison. Judging by the disgruntled look on their faces, they had not fully recovered from losing the previous weekend’s cooking contest to the salmon smokers. She hoped for Bubby’s sake the day would not end in a mutinous uprising aboard his vessel.
Bobby stood with Monk behind a plywood table. Their sign boasted cold drinks, coffee, and homemade cookies. “Hey, Ruth,” she called. “How come you aren’t working behind the counter today?”
“I’ve got to attend to my photography duties. I did contribute a couple dozen cookies, however. Chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin.”
“You did?” She lifted a layer of tinfoil from the top of a paper plate. “I only see oatmeal raisin.”
Monk became suddenly busy counting out stacks of napkins and fiddling with the thermos of coffee.
“Uncle Monk?” Bobby said accusingly.
“Hmmm? Oh. Well, I thought they were for me.” He reddened. “I love those chocolate chip pecan ones. It isn’t fair to tempt me. It’s like putting a rabbit in front of a greyhound.”
The three of them laughed.
“I just saw Candace in front of the hotel,” Bobby said. “She said they’ve given her the go-ahead to fly home for Ed’s funeral.”
“Oh.” Ruth’s thoughts flashed momentarily back to Phillip’s funeral. Though she couldn’t remember most of it, she hoped Candace would salvage some peace of mind by laying her own husband to rest. Thinking about Candace’s betrayal of her spouse, Ruth wondered if guilt would be a part of the woman’s life for the rest of her days.
“It’s a good thing the Fog Festival is about over,” Monk said. “I don’t think this town can handle much more drama.”
“That reminds me. How is Hugh doing?” Bobby asked.
“Flo stopped by to see him, and she says he’s doing well. Sore and bruised but nothing permanently damaged. He’ll be back in action by the time we harvest the next set of mushrooms for Dimple.” Saying her name gave Ruth a pang of sadness.
“And no arrests?” Bobby asked, pouring sugar packets into a bowl.
“Not that I’ve heard of.”
Maude marched by with a roll of fluorescent pink string and a handful of wooden stakes.
“You looking for a vampire or something?” Monk called out.
“Funny,” she said, glaring from under her fringe of bangs. “For your information, we have a last-minute entry to the contest. That makes twelve spots we’ve sold at ten dollars apiece.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Ruth. “What’s the winn- ing prize?”
“A twenty-pound wheel of cheese.”
“Cheese?”
“It’s very good cheese,” she said, her thimble of a nose pointed aloft. “Aged and extra sharp.” She stalked off toward Bubby.
“Describes Maude to a tee.” Monk chortled.
Ruth wished Monk and Bobby luck and went in search of the perfect Kodak moment.
True to her word, Maude had staked out twelve five-foot-square sections of beach for each contestant. Each square was filled with a collection of b
uckets, shovels, water bottles, and spatulas. A teenage boy was hard at work in one square sculpting a fighter plane. His face was fixed in concentration as he smoothed the wings with a Popsicle stick. Ruth took his picture, thinking he must be a real cheese lover to go to such lengths on a sunny Sunday morning.
The next contestant wore a fuzzy knit hat over his equally fuzzy hair. He was on hands and knees working a trowel over the perfect rectangle he had created.
“Hi, Alva. I didn’t know you entered the sand sculpture contest.”
The old man smiled broadly. “I want to win that cheese. Extra sharp and aged.”
“So I’ve heard.” She watched him for a few minutes as he fussed and fidgeted over the rectangle. As far as she could see, he was not making any attempt to transform the angular sand pile into anything recognizable. “What exactly—I mean, what type of sculpture are you working on?”
“Cancha tell?”
She peered at the rectangle again. “I give up. What is it?”
“It’s a sandwich,” he said with glee.
“Ahhh,” she said. “Now I can see it. Good luck, Alva.”
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.”
She took his picture as she moved on.
There were a few other notable sculptures. Ruth was impressed with the mermaid rising from square number six. Her hair spread around her, and a giant tail curled above the sand. Many spectators shared words of encouragement with the sculptor.
Ellen towered over the men with arms crossed across her own much less impressive cleavage. “Ridiculous,” she said as Ruth took a picture. “All this work for a wheel of cheese. They could have at least thrown in a magazine subscription or something.”
Ruth left the librarian to her glowering and walked to the edge of ocean and sand. A woman stood several yards away, framed by the turbulent ocean.
Evelyn appeared to be watching the foaming scallops wash over her toes. She wore tomato-colored pants and a stained jacket. Her long hair whipped around in the breeze. A tiny dog was tucked under her arm.
“Hi, Evelyn. Did you come to see the sand sculptures?”