Scone Island

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Okay. For now we live in the moment; carpe diem. Tell me about your book while I mop up the last of my breakfast with the last of your toast.”

  “The book is called Scone Island Stories. Clever, huh? They’re all from the years between the two big wars, amazing fish caught, things that happened at the annual Fourth of July picnic, snipe hunts. Gracious, does everybody get snookered into a snipe hunt sometime before they’re ten? And there are some legends. The island was once thought to be named… I can’t quite read this. I think it’s Wôboz something. Native American, I think it means Deer Island.”

  “There’s another island with that name south of here, I think.”

  “I expect it’s a pretty common name up and down the east coast, the Great Lakes and points south, west, and north, but that’s not the point. The legend is that Indians would canoe out here once a year to hunt. There was a herd of deer on the island. God only knows how they, that is the deer, managed to cross over four miles of ocean to get here. Anyway, the island was like a deer ranch. They’d paddle out, shepherd the deer to the narrow end of the island, thin out the herd, smoke it, make jerky, whatever, and pack it back to the mainland. The remaining deer would then breed and make more venison for the next year.”

  “Fascinating. What other amazing stories have you for me?”

  “You are such a clunk.”

  “A what?”

  “Clunk. This form of hunting is very interesting from a historical point of view. Cattle tending of any sort would be unusual in this culture and at that time. Only a clunk would miss that.”

  “The clunk inquires, how is this example different from plains Indians chasing buffalo over a cliff?”

  “Don’t be difficult. It is different. The bison were running wild and were hunted across miles of prairie while the deer were limited to…never mind. It was different”

  “If you say so. A difference without a distinction…or is it the other way round?”

  Ruth turned some pages while Ike rinsed and stacked the dishes. “The other way round. Okay, here’s one you’ll love. It’s titled Indian Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s the legend of two star-crossed lovers kept apart by unfeeling parents who tragically die rather than submit to a callous disregard for true love?”

  “You’ve already heard it? Yep, they ran away one night while the hunt was on when the tide was out, and fled to Pine Tree Island. That’s the little island I pointed out to you when we arrived. You can see it on the map down near Southport. So, they went to the island at low tide only it had a different name then, naturally.”

  “Verona.”

  “Don’t get smart.

  “Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene…”

  “Very good. Can you recite more? Never mind. I don’t want to hear it. Aunt Margaret’s husband, Uncle Oscar, could recite all of Shakespeare’s sonnets by heart.”

  “All?”

  “That’s what he said. I never called him on it.”

  “My father said he knew a rabbi once who could recite all of David’s psalms that way.”

  “And could he?”

  “Well, since he did them in Hebrew, how could you tell? Abe never knew for sure how many if any. But he said he was impressive to listen to.”

  “No doubt. So, back to the story. The tide roared in. It can run up to fifteen feet sometimes. The parents couldn’t get to them to stop them from you know what.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Of course you can, and then some. So, when the tide went out again and the hunters ran out to the island, they found them dead in each other’s arms.”

  “Wow. Why didn’t the parents paddle out to the little island in their canoes and fetch the naughty children home?”

  “I don’t know. Why can’t you go along with the story?”

  “Right. Very touching. Anything else in that book I should know about?”

  “Well, someone, Aunt Margaret I guess, penciled in a list of names of the Coast Guard officers and men who served on the island and…let’s see, shore artillery personnel, ditto. They were written in by hand. You think Aunt Margaret might have had a suitor?”

  “I thought you told me the summer residents did not use the island during the war.”

  “Oh, right. Well, I thought so, but here are the names. Someone wrote them down for a reason, don’t you think? I wonder why.”

  “Ah-ha. The Hardy Boys and the Mystery of Scone Island. Did you check the closet for old love letters, treasure maps?”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  “Dumbing down. So, what’s on tap for the day?”

  “I think we have enough stuff here to make sandwiches. I found bottle of red wine with a good year in the pantry and we can stop at Mr. Potter’s store for some chips. This afternoon we’ll pack a picnic, sun screen, and blankets and go out to Pine Tree Island like the lovers.”

  “What if the tide comes roaring in? You did say it roared.”

  “I did. No problem, landlubber, I have a tide table. We will go out to the island on the ebb and return before the flood, we’ll have had our fun and walk back, simple.”

  “Whenever I hear someone describe a thing as simple, I worry. Okay, picnic it is, but add another purchase at the store. I think it might rain. I want a poncho at least.”

  “Rain? Poncho? Not a chance.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  While Ruth manufactured sandwiches and scurried around looking for another corkscrew and blankets, Ike adjusted the fittings on his generator, checking for gas leaks and randomly plugging and unplugging the several appliances he’d packed in one or other of the crates the LaFranc boys left on Ruth’s front porch. He didn’t expect a knock at the door, and the sound startled him momentarily. Ruth managed to beat him to the front of the house to answer it.

  “Good morning,” the guy said through the screen door. “I am Deputy Thomas Stone, and you must be Ruth Harris.”

  “Must I? Well, I suppose I must. How do you do, Deputy Stone? Is there something I can do for you?”

  Ike perked up. What had brought one of Harvey Breckinridge’s deputies out to the island? Had Frank called? Was there trouble that he couldn’t handle? That didn’t seem likely after the lecture he’d given Essie and Frank before he left. It would have to be something really big. He rounded the porch and headed for the front door.

  “Deputy,” he said. “Did Harvey send you?”

  “Excuse me, but are you Sheriff Schwartz?”

  “Yes, and you have news for me?”

  “News?”

  “You’re here. I assume your boss sent you for a reason.”

  “Well, yes he did.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “This conversation is enormously entertaining,” Ruth said. “But informative it is not. Let’s go inside, drink decent coffee, and Deputy Stone can tell us why he is here.” She ushered the two men into the parlor and set the coffee pot to strong. “Can I ask a personal question, Deputy?”

  “What? Oh, certainly.”

  “How long have you been a Deputy Sheriff?”

  “Well, not very long, actually.”

  “I only ask because I spent most of last October and November in a hospital where all the physical therapists and doctors looked like they were maybe twelve years old. It is a function of advancing age, I guess. Any way, you fall into the barely over a decade plus category.”

  “Me? I assure you, I am not twelve, Ma’am.”

  “No, of course you’re not. I am sorry. That was rude of me. It comes from spending too much time with the old sheriff here.”

  “Don’t pay her any attention. She’s off her medication. When she gets like this we have to send her to her room for an hour or two.”

  Tom Stone looked from one to the other like someone who had courtside seats at Wimbledon. Finally he said, “You two have been together for a while, am I right?”

 
“Mercy, how can you tell?”

  Stone started to answer and then thought better of it. “I think you asked me a question a while back…before you began your SNL skit here. Sorry, but I forgot what it was.”

  “Right. I asked if you were sent out here for a reason and do I need to hear why?”

  “For a reason? Well, yes. The sheriff wants me to get to know the people on the island, especially the year-round residents. Actually they’re not really year-round. Most of them come to the mainland in the fall, especially if they have kids in school, but some of the old-timers stick it out, they tell me. See, I’m new to the area and I need to get familiar with the island and the people on it.”

  “And you need to get to know them because…?”

  “Oh, for the time being, the island will be my responsibility, my beat you could say. And so I need to ‘mix and mingle.’ That’s how the sheriff put it.”

  “So you’re here to talk to the locals. We are not local. You are here. Is there a reason for that?”

  “Um…I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Deputy, I left instructions with my people back in Virginia that they could reach me through your boss if there was a huge emergency. You are here. Is there an emergency?”

  “No, sir, none that I know of. Wait, you thought…Oh, I see. Sorry. No, the sheriff, he Googled you and told me if I was to get a chance, I should look you up. So here I am.”

  “I was Googled?”

  “Sounds positively salacious,” Ruth said.

  “It does, doesn’t it? Well, Deputy. I’ve been Googled and you have found me. What can I do for you?”

  “The sheriff said he mentioned the death we had out here to you and asked if you would kind of, like, keep your ears open.”

  “A Mr. Staley did a swan dive off the cliff after a having a close relationship with a bottle of whiskey, yes he did.”

  “Did he mention the ME’s report to you?”

  “Not really, the final hadn’t come in. Is there something in it I should know?”

  “Oh, crap, here we go.” Ruth put her coffee mug down on the table with a bang. Some of the liquid splashed out and on to Scone Island Stories. “Ike, don’t you dare go off and play cop. We are on vacation and you promised.”

  “I have no intention of doing anything but lie around the house being useless. I am merely chatting with my young colleague here. He has a job to do and I am only showing a courteous and professional but dispassionate interest in it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “If an academic type arrived at our door, some history wonk itching to discuss the phenomenon of aboriginal deer herding, you would jump right in, march all over the island looking for campsites, pottery shards, or whatever, vacation or no.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “It is. So, relax. You spilled your coffee all over your book, by the way. Deputy, go on.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Don’t mind me,” Ruth huffed. “I am the hostess here. I will get a rag and more coffee. Pray continue. But, I warn you, Ike, if I hear even a hint of police procedure, you will…there’s a second bedroom you know, and it may not have a duvet.”

  Ruth left the room.

  “Go on, deputy. What was in the ME’s report?”

  “Nothing solid. A question about a wound to the back of the head that had to be explained if the man had fallen free to the bottom of the cliff. See, he was face down so—”

  “Unless he hit something on the way down that flipped him, he might have been helped over the edge.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much, really. His name was Harmon Staley. He arrived about a year ago and bought the place at the end of the island. He said he was going to fix it up and turn it into a tourist thing.”

  “Relatives, family, heirs?”

  “None that we can find. Born in Kansas someplace on a farm or something, parents dead, no siblings, not married and no connections anywhere. That could create a problem or two right there. I mean what happens to the property? And then there was a guy out here trying to buy up places and he’s sort of stuck. Captain Gott told me he was real anxious to get the dead man’s house and all.”

  “Buying? Who?”

  “A man named Frank Barstow. According to Mr. Potter, he pestered Staley a lot. I guess he wanted his place especially or something.”

  “Pestered?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Well, I don’t know about the Maine law on abandoned property, but I’m sure they will sort out the business at probate. There must be a statute on the books that covers it. When they do, Barstow… you did say his name was Frank Barstow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He could acquire it then. It might take some time, but if he really needs or wants it, he will be able to get it. Anything else?” Ike frowned. Barstow, he’d heard that name before but could not remember where or when, but definitely in the last year. Frank Barstow—something like that but different. Not an ordinary name

  “Nothing…well, it’s pretty off the charts, but Mr. Potter thinks he saw a radio antenna on the place when he went out there to see the body and then it was not there later.”

  “A radio antenna?”

  “That’s what he said. He thinks Mr. Staley was a spy or conspirator of some sort.”

  “Does he really?” Ike sat and stared at the coffee stained booklet on the table. It was all too neat—the biography, the fall, and Barstow. An antenna? How likely was that? “Maybe you and I should take a walk out there and have a look around.”

  “Ike, you do and you sleep on the porch.” If looks could kill, Ike thought.

  “It’s only curiosity, Ruth. No police anything. If you don’t believe me, come with us. You need to exercise that leg. Then you will see for yourself that I really am on vacation.”

  “You think you can bluff me off with that old move? I know you, Schwartz. You bet I’m coming, and I have my eye on you, too, Deputy Stone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Las Vegas Police Department responded to a 9-1-1 call from a frantic tourist at four-thirty AM, He reported the body of a middle-aged woman lay in an alley near Circus Circus. He thought she might be dead. He did not leave his name nor remain on the scene for the police when they arrived. The LVPD did not consider that unusual. Tourists in Las Vegas have little enough time to get into trouble without wasting any of it in a police station giving statements. What did seem unusual, if anything in Sin City can be so described, was that the body had been reported so promptly. The usual drill would be for folks to step around an inert figure. It wasn’t that they were callous. They either didn’t want to be involved or assumed it was another drunk or a homeless person. Probably both. Their vacations were short enough, and reporting a body and spending time with the police could cut into what little time they had left.

  The location of the body also struck the homicide cops as odd because it was in a well lit and often frequented throughway paralleling a parking garage close to the casino side entrance. Surely there had to have been witnesses. But no one came forward to admit having seen or heard anything. The woman’s purse and any ID she may have been carrying was missing, of course. Her clothes were all new and the labels in them were the sort found in any low budget clothing store in the country. Even her shoes could have come from anywhere. Gone were the days when a drycleaner would mark his work or when a piece of clothing, a scarf, or glove could be traced by its label to the store where it had been purchased and thence to its wearer. Mass marketing, Internet buying, and nationally franchised stores had effectively blurred the lines of consumer society. For all the impressive new techniques used to identify suspects and victims that advanced forensic science had introduced into the art of detection, it seemed capitalism had removed nearly an equal number. All anyone could venture to surmise was she’d apparently been mugged and robbed, a distressingly common occurr
ence in modern urban America. An autopsy might provide more information, but the detective who’d pulled the case doubted it.

  The local CSI team arrived, documented the scene, and had it cleared for pedestrian use in record time. It is not good business to have bodies, robberies, and murders this close to the Strip. If tourists start to hear about or experience that sort of thing, they could stop coming to Vegas, and that would mean they would spend their vacation savings somewhere else. This latest victim was packed into an ambulance and borne away. She would lie on a cold slab in the city morgue waiting for the ME to do an autopsy. In the meantime someone would be sent to flash her picture around in the nearby casinos and ask some perfunctory questions, and her finger prints would eventually be run through AFIS. Her DNA might or might not be sent through the system as well, but in any case it would take three weeks to get any analysis if they wanted it, and would cost money from an already thin operating budget. Sending the DNA sample out would be a last resort. The sensible course of action, and the one that had always yielded results in the past: the Department would wait for the inevitable missing persons bulletin to arrive in a few days or weeks.

  It never failed. Some desperate relatives in some Midwestern city—Minneapolis, Chicago, Urbana-Champaign, wherever—would have failed to hear from a missing wife, aunt, mother, or daughter, and they’d would have gone to their local cops who in turn would forward the MPB to Las Vegas, the destination to which the missing person had indicated she was headed. When it arrived in a day, week, or month, they’d connect the dots and a grieving child, spouse, nephew, or parent would arrive, identify the body and make arrangements to have her shipped home in a box, large or small, or as likely, leave her behind in a local columbarium. As the slogan goes, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  Nothing changes.

  ***

  Cora Dinwiddie had watched the television drama CSI since its first episode aired on October 6, 2000. Thus, the fact that the Las Vegas police consigned her body to a refrigerated shelf at the Las Vegas city morgue could only be described as ironic. Cora was born in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, forty years previously. After high school she married a classmate who joined the Marines, and after his basic training they had moved about the country as service families do. When he was posted to Okinawa, she stayed behind. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, it is alleged, and in Cora’s case it made her grow fonder of Earl, an over-the-road trucker. Her Marine forgotten, she traveled across the country with Earl to Los Angeles, where she discovered her new love already had a wife and two children, none of whom he was prepared to abandon. Cora contemplated her options and settled on a career as a bartender, rather than the steadier but more perilous work available on the streets.