I saw beads of sweat form a line on his forehead beneath the blond hair. “Well, yes. I’m so sorry to interrupt your dinner. But I’d say we have a situation here.”
My hand bumped the wineglass, nearly toppling it. “A situation?”
“You see, I’m Davies’s caretaker.”
I swallowed. “Caretaker? Meaning he’s… sick?”
“Yes. He’s uh… unbalanced. I mean, mentally. He’s been a patient at our hospital. But we’re transferring him. We decided to give him a short holiday here. He insisted on bringing his coffin with him.”
Kyle shook his head. “Unfortunately, I left him alone. I had to go to the mainland yesterday. I left him alone for one night and—”
I felt my throat tighten. “He’s really nuts?”
He pressed clammy fingers on the back of my hand. “He isn’t dangerous. But he likes to play these crazy games with people. And sometimes…”
The waitress arrived with my sandwich on a large pink plate. I shook my head and waved her away. “Is my husband in danger? Would Davies harm him?” My hand shook as I pulled the two checks from my bag and waved them in front of him. “We made a bet. He gave me his bank check and—”
Kyle took the checks from my hand and tucked them into his shirt pocket without looking at them. “Let me hold on to these. I’m so sorry. We’d better find your husband. I’m sure he’s okay, but—”
“Find him? What do you mean find him?”
But Kyle was already on his way out of the coffee shop. I climbed to my feet and hurried after him. I heard the waitress call out, but I didn’t turn around.
“I don’t understand.” I had to run to catch up to him. “What do you mean find him?”
As we reached the lobby, I saw the front doors swing open, and Clay Davies strolled in. His white sweater was pulled down over his rumpled white pants. The sweater had a long dark streak on the front, some kind of stain. His face was red, hair damp, matted to his forehead.
Kyle moved to block his path. “Clay? Where’ve you been?”
The older man blinked, startled to see us. “Out,” he said. He made a vague gesture toward the doors.
I stormed up to him. “Is my husband okay?”
He studied me for a long moment, as if he’d never seen me before. The blue eyes, so jewel-bright before, suddenly appeared cloudy. “Is he okay?” He repeated my question, as if he didn’t understand it.
Kyle took Davies’s arm, not too gently. “Upstairs, Clay. Come on. Let’s discuss this upstairs.”
It seemed to take forever for the elevator to appear. I pressed the button three or four more times. “Is Denny okay? Just tell me that,” I pleaded.
The door finally slid open. A herd of chattering people stepped out. I followed Davies and Kyle into the car. We rode in silence to four. Kyle kept shaking his head unhappily, moving his lips as if talking to himself.
Down the long hall to their suite. Clay dropped the room key card. He fumbled for it on the carpet. Then it took three tries to click in and open the door.
The front room was dark. I didn’t wait for them to turn on a light. I went running to the bedroom at the back. “Denny? Are you all right? Denny? Can you hear me?”
I flung the door open and lurched into the brightly lit bedroom. “Denny? Denny?”
Then I tried to utter a scream, but my breath cut off. I stared hard at the far side of the bed.
The coffin was gone.
“Where is it?” I gasped. I spun around. Davies had stepped up behind me. I gripped the front of his sweater. “Where is it? Where?”
He twisted his face in an expression of disdain, as if the answer was obvious.
“I buried it,” he said.
I could feel myself go into a kind of shock. I knew from the beginning Davies had a trick up his sleeve. But the idea of Denny lying helpless, buried underground in that locked coffin, was too much to bear.
Luckily, Kyle took over. Maybe the caretaker had had to rescue victims of Davies’s insanity before. He quickly arranged for a resort bus, a driver, and two workers to accompany us with shovels. The bus rattled and shook as the driver followed the rutted one-lane road toward the tiny cemetery on the harbor end of the cay.
Kyle sat up front, leaning over the driver, urging him to make the old bus move faster. Davies sat calmly on the seat across from me, hands in his lap. He kept giving me puzzled glances. “What is the hurry? There’s no problem here. We made a bet, didn’t we?”
His nonchalance made me want to scream, to grab him by the throat and strangle him. “You buried my husband!” I uttered the words through clenched teeth. I cried out as the bus hit a hard bump and my head hit the ceiling.
“He can breathe,” Davies insisted. “I put air vents in the front and back.”
“But it’s underground!” I shrieked. “You buried him underground. How is he supposed to breathe underground?”
I glimpsed the two workers sitting in the back. They avoided my eyes, pretended to gaze into the blue-black darkness out the window. Kyle moved quickly to the aisle between Davies and me. “Let’s not panic.” He patted my shoulder. “I’m sure the coffin holds enough air to last your husband at least a few hours. We’ll be there in time.”
I grabbed his wrist. “But can you imagine what he’s thinking? His fright? He must be clawing at the lid. He must be screaming and clawing and pounding. He’ll use up all the air.” I turned to Davies. “You killed him! You killed him!”
Davies’s face kept its vague smile.
The bus jolted to a hard stop. Out the window, I saw a stretch of bare ground, then the outlines of small graves in crooked rows, black against the inky, starless sky.
The driver opened the door and leaped out. The two workers moved silently past me, shovels in front of them. Davies made no move to get up. “I don’t see what the fuss is about,” he murmured. “We made a wager.”
Kyle pulled Davies into the aisle and motioned him to the bus door. “Hurry, Clay. Show them where you buried that coffin. Stop arguing. Just hurry.”
Kyle turned to me. “Maybe you should stay on the bus until we have the coffin up and know everything is okay.”
“No way,” I said. I hoisted myself up and shoved past him to the door. I stumbled to the ground, my eyes on the men climbing the low, sandy hill to the gravestones. A pale sliver of a moon drifted out from behind a cloud and sent a cold, silvery light over the rows of tiny graves.
The chill air felt heavy and damp. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself as I jogged to catch up to Davies and the men. My shoes sank into the wet sand. I hugged myself tightly as if holding everything in, protecting myself from any horror ahead.
His white linen trousers fluttering in the steady wind, Davies motioned to the end of a row of graves. As he pointed again, his white hair flew up around his head. His eyes were wild in the silvery light.
Crazy. Of course, he’s crazy. Why did Denny want to do this?
I’ll never forget the sound of the shovels cutting into the wet sand. And then the soft thud of the sand clumps tossed to the side. Repeated as if in slow motion. Slow motion to me. Everyone appeared to be in slow motion.
“Denny? Can you hear me?”
The wind blew my words back into my face. I stepped between the men bent over their shovels, cupped my hands around my mouth, and screamed into the hole. “Can you hear me? Denny? Are you okay? Denny?”
No reply.
The only sounds were the grunts of the two men, digging deeper into the sand, and the rush of wind that swirled around us. Davies stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the deepening hole. Kyle had dropped to his knees beside the hole. Again, his lips moved as if he were talking to himself. Or was he praying?
I jumped at the sound of a shovel hitting something hard. One of the workers murmured something in Spanish. I lurched to the edge of the hole. Both shovels were sweeping sand off the top of the coffin.
“Denny? Denny? Can you hear me?”
; Silence.
“Denny? Are you okay? Please tell me—are you okay?”
A gust of wind swirled sand back into the hole. Silence from the coffin. Silence. I was holding on to myself now, holding on tightly, the only way I could remain standing.
I stumbled back as the two men hoisted the coffin up from the hole. Clumps of wet sand clung to the sides and the top.
“Denny? Answer me! Denny! Why don’t you answer?”
I glimpsed Davies on the other side of the hole. He was watching me, not the coffin, a blank expression on his face. No worry. No concern of any kind.
And then his caretaker stepped between the two workers. Kyle moved to the coffin, unlocked the latch, snapped it open, gripped the lid with both hands. He shut his eyes, as if he was praying. And then he shoved the lid open.
“Denny? Denny?”
And then I screamed.
The coffin was empty.
Half an hour later, a sleek Gulfstream G650 took off into the night sky from the small mainland airport. Sy Wells, the man Ashli had known as Davies, settled back in a white leather seat and sipped his martini.
He hadn’t had time to change. The stained sweater and mud-soaked pants cuffs seemed inappropriate in the pristine white-and-chrome luxury of the private jet. But he was more than willing to overlook it.
Sonny Clarke, who had played the part of Kyle Jeffrey, slumped in the chair across from Sy, his feet raised, a can of beer in one hand. In the row behind them, Johnny Angelini—aka Denny Sparano—had his eyes shut, hands gripped on the white chair arms. He wasn’t a good flier.
Grinning, Sonny raised his beer can in a salute to Johnny. “She loved you, man. Did you see the look on her face? I thought she was going to drop into the empty coffin and just die.”
“She wasn’t bad,” Johnny murmured. He snickered.
Sonny took a long drag on the beer can. “Next time I want to be the husband. Why does Johnny get all the extra benefits?”
“Because he’s a stud,” Sy replied. He swept a hand through his white hair and turned back to look at Johnny. “You okay?”
“I’ll survive. Maybe.”
Sonny reached across the aisle and bumped Johnny’s shoulder. “Forget about airsickness. Think how much richer you are.”
“This one was perfect,” Sy said, twirling the martini glass. “She’ll be searching for you for days, Johnny. I’ll bet she’s on the phone with the island police right now.” He took a gentle sip. The plane jolted. He protected the glass with both hands. “She’s sick with worry. Did you see how frantic she was?”
Sonny let out a whoop and raised his beer in another toast. “Johnny did his magic! He put a love spell on her!”
“It’ll be days before she remembers she doesn’t have the checks,” Sy continued. “We’ll be back in New York in three hours. And we’ll have her check deposited and sent on its way to the account before she remembers Sonny took it.”
“This one was cake,” Johnny said. His sweaty hands left prints on the chair handles. A wave of nausea made his whole body tense up. Sonny is right. Just think about all that money.
Sy turned to Sonny. “Where are the checks? Let me see them.”
Sonny reached for his shirt pocket. “She just handed them to me. It was hilarious. I said let me hold on to them, and she didn’t say a word.”
Sy laughed. “Two million dollars and she just handed it over? Well… we knew she wasn’t too smart. I mean, she married Johnny—right?”
Sy laughed at his own joke. He took the checks from Sonny. And then his laughter stopped abruptly.
“Sonny, don’t mess around. Give me the real checks.”
Sonny blinked. He felt his shirt pocket. “Those are them, Sy. She handed them right to me. I saw they said Chase Bank at the top.”
Sy’s jaw clenched and his eyes bulged. He waved the checks in Sonny’s face. “These aren’t real. Look at them. Look at them!”
Sonny took the checks. He read the bank title in dignified black type across the top: CHASE Your Tail Bank.
“Hey! What the hell! Sy, they’re both signed Minnie Mouse.”
Johnny groaned. He fumbled in the compartment at his side. “Is there a barf bag? Here comes my lunch.”
Sy covered his face with both hands. “She was onto us. We’ve been conned.”
Johnny’s head was between his knees. He vomited like a volcano erupting.
“She got our two million,” Sonny said. “Our seed money.”
“Yeah,” Sy murmured, his face still covered. “And now we got one more problem. How do we pay for this jet?”
REMMY ROTHSTEIN TOES THE LINE (annotated)
BY KARIN SLAUGHTER
DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 11, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 99 degrees with 89% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Again, I’d like to thank you for this assignment and your continued faith in me after the domino debacle. Not many Adjudicators would be able to survive the fallout (too soon?) from such a scandal, and your advocacy on my behalf is much appreciated. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to earn my Senior Adjudicator badge back—no matter what it takes.
Now, as to my report:
I’m writing to you from the bottom right-hand quadrant of the state of Georgia, which offers a bucolic setting with the most delicate, birdlike mosquitoes. The swamp is a pleasant locale filled with many interesting characters, including the landlord of my B&B, Alexander Wooten (who looks remarkably like Delbert Jebediah Long1). Wooten is seemingly at my beck and call. Just last night, I woke to find him standing over my bed asking me if I needed a drink of water. You don’t find service like that in New York City! Robert, thank you again for sending me to such a warm and welcoming place.
In fact, Wooten is not the exception to these friendly swamp people, but the rule. I’m not sure if I told you that I lost my bracelet on the drive down from Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.2 You can imagine my relief when a nice local boy found it under the driver’s seat of my truck. I could hardly complain about the gas tank being empty after that! And I’m sure the scratches in the paint will be covered by my Amex card. Who wouldn’t want a Confederate flag carved into their driver’s-side door? Not this Punjabi! It’s practically a sin not to show your pride down here. And the food is exquisite—I’ve never tasted blackened crawdads before. Yum! Thank you, again, for this wonderful opportunity. The World Record Adjudicator’s first love has always been adventure.
Yours,
Mindy
PS: Just a note: I saw Kaitlyn on the Today Show this morning with Matt Lauer certifying the fewest pogo-stick jumps in under a minute. (Sorry, Biff!3) She looked fantastic—I wish I had her looming height. Lauer was like a dwarf next to her (though certainly no Gul Mohammed4). Please tell Kaitlyn I said she looked fantastic in that plaid suit. She hardly looked overweight at all.
DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 12, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 101 degrees with 99% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
As per the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct on the Road (rev), Rule #14, I spent more of the day getting a lay of the land and talking to people who might know Mr. Rothstein, our possible World Record Holder for Longest Tongue (man).
The Okefenokee Swamp, as you know, is the largest in North America; it is over 6,500 years old and formed on the edge of an ancient Atlantic coastal terrace. The name itself comes from the Cherokee word for “Land of the Trembling Earth,” an obvious reference to the unstable peat “islands” that pass for land in the black waters. The swamp is approximately 438,000 acres
and is home to many wading birds, amphibians, carnivorous plants, and American alligators (full list of native species and wildlife attached). The Honey Prairie Wildfire, which started in April of last year, has still only reached 65% containment and has left a swath of barren land in its wake. Amazingly, the wildlife seems to have thrived under these conditions, especially the mosquitoes. It’s the burden of the Adjudicator to be extra wary of these flying beasts,5 though of course the locals find it hilarious when I swat at these creatures, which are capable of pinning down small animals. I wish I was exaggerating, but no one was laughing when that cat was taken away. Poor Squeamy.
Not many people appear to know Mr. Rothstein, though he seems to have lived in the area all of his life. On the Application for World Record Form 29(E), he listed his occupation as “certified VCR repairman” (a surprisingly popular occupation among our Record Holders [male]). Where locals seem reticent to discuss Mr. Rothstein, the subject of his mother is easily bandied about. By all accounts, she is a strong woman who raised two sons on her own during a time when these things were not done. For many years, the family seems to have held itself apart from the community, and more than one old-timer has described Mrs. Rothstein as the “Whore of the Oke.” Thankfully, this is not a commonly uttered phrase (even down here, time seems to have inched forward, though one need only refer to the county census data to find that one in every three girls has experienced a pregnancy by the time she turns sixteen). Still, one can assume that the Rothstein family is no stranger to scandal (again, another attribute many of our Applicants [male] and Record Holders [male] share).
Prior to flying down here, my research led me to believe that all residents of the swamp (“Swampers”) had been removed shortly after the cypress mining period initiated by the Hebard family (who could forget Oberlin Elton6?). You can imagine my surprise as I drove around the sandy Swamp Perimeter Road to find many Swampers still living in dilapidated shacks. No running water. No electricity but for the occasional diesel generator. Certainly not a lot of teeth!
It is inside this swamp that Applicant Remmy Rothstein lives with his mother and older brother. By most accounts, Rothstein’s family tree took root around the time of the Suwannee Canal7 boondoggle. Others say the line goes back much farther. Embellishments seem to be a way of life down here, so should we indeed have a Record Breaker, a more firmly oriented timeline will of course have to be established.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Page 33