Dead Sand

by Brendan DuBois

“Never said I was a journalist,” I said, “and I’m not playing with his corpse. I need to follow up on some information that somebody told me about Bronson.”

  She sighed. “Go on.”

  “Did Bronson … did he ever have … well, did he ever have an unhealthy interest in his employees?”

  Haleigh’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t dance around it. You’re asking me if he fooled around with the help.”

  “In so many words, yes.”

  “No.”

  “That was a pretty quick answer.”

  “Because it’s a pretty accurate answer,” she shot back. “I worked there weekends, nights and into the early morning. I never saw anything or heard anything about him fooling around. It never happened.”

  “So if somebody told me that the reason he only hired females is because he wanted to be around them, and have the occasional relationship, then that somebody would be wrong?”

  “No,” she said calmly. “That someone would be lying. You want to know why he only hired women?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Because he believed the deck was stacked against women, right from the beginning, that men had an advantage when it came to jobs and to learning, and he was going to do what he could to level the playing field. That’s all. He did something gracious and noble, and now you tell me somebody’s using that against him. Disgusting.”

  “So no chance of an upset father or boyfriend picking up a rifle to take his revenge on Bronson.”

  “Oh, Christ, no, Lewis. That sounds like a bad movie.”

  “All right, enough of that,” I said. “About the Stone Chapel. The musical groups that Bronson hired to bring in—any disputes from anyone? Did they feel they got treated unfairly? Paid too little? Not promoted enough?”

  She shook her head and stood up. “You really don’t know Bronson, and you really don’t know the Stone Chapel. Bronson always treated them fairly, like members of the family, and he gave a lot of musical groups their first break, and some of them became famous because of it—and there are groups and performers who practically fight for the chance to come to the Stone Chapel. So if you think some disgruntled musician killed Bronson over some contract dispute, you’re wrong.”

  “So who do you think killed him, then?”

  Haleigh had tears in her eyes when she said, “Enough, okay, enough.”

  Then she ran into her dorm.

  I sat for a few minutes longer and then, feeling older than when I began my questioning, I got up and left.

  * * *

  I drove the half hour or so from Durham to Tyler Beach, thinking I would go home, regroup, get something to eat, and then write something to satisfy my editor’s unceasing demands, but as I entered the outskirts of Tyler, just before passing over I-95—the interstate that divides the state’s seacoast into two unequal lumps—my cell phone rang again. It was Diane Woods, and her message was short and to the point, and I quickly sped up my drive, exceeding the speed limit by at least twenty miles an hour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I pulled up to the condo complex on High Street where Paula Quinn lived, about a five-minute drive from Tyler Beach. Three green and white Tyler police cruisers were parked haphazardly in the adjacent lot, lights flashing, and yellow crime scene tape was already unfurled. A cluster of neighbors watched as one Tyler cop entered the woods to the rear of the white two-story building, a barking German shepherd leading him on. There was also an unmarked dark blue Ford LTD with lights flashing in its radiator grille, and I slammed my Ford to a halt behind it and got out.

  I walked quickly over to the crime scene tape where a young Tyler officer, serious-looking in his dark green uniform, was keeping tabs on the spectators. I know most of the Tyler cops, but I didn’t know this one. He must have been a recent hire. His name tag read LAMONTAGNE, and I said, “Officer, I’m here to see Detective Sergeant Woods.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. She’s busy.”

  “She’ll see me,” I said. “She just called.”

  Officer Lamontagne stared at me with his light brown eyes and said, “Name?”

  “Lewis Cole.”

  With that, he toggled a radio microphone dangling from his shoulder and said, “Tyler Twenty-two to Tyler D-One.”

  From his radio I heard the slightly distorted voice of Diane. “Tyler D-One, go.”

  “Detective, I have a Mr. Cole here to see you.”

  A faint crackle of static. “He’s clear. Send him in.”

  Officer Lamontagne looked slightly impressed. “All right, sir,” he said, lifting the crime scene tape. “If you go in and—”

  “That’s fine,” I said, impatient, “I know the way.”

  I brushed past him and trotted across the parking lot, to the open door of the condo complex, and up a set of stairs. The door to Paula Quinn’s unit was open, and a young female officer was there, clipboard in hand, writing down everyone who entered and left Paula’s residence, and as I passed this second checkpoint, I got a sharp jolt as I saw Diane and other police officers in Paula’s living room. I had been here on several occasions—none lately, but not much had changed in the intervening time—but there was something so wrong about seeing law enforcement officers among her furniture, her books, the piles of Tyler Chronicle newspapers on the carpeted floor.

  “Tell me she’s okay,” I said.

  “We think so,” Diane said, a metal clipboard in her hands.

  “What do you mean?”

  She pointed to the kitchen area, off to my left, where a window over the sink was shattered. The window overlooked a rear lawn and the woods. Another Tyler cop was going into the trees, wearing body armor and carrying a shotgun.

  Diane said, “What we know is that someone took a shot at her, missed, and the bullet ended up over there.” She pointed her pen to the opposite wall of the living room, where a Tyler cop in a dark green jumpsuit was measuring a hole in the plaster. “That’s the first bit of good news, that we’ll have a bullet to recover and examine, to get this son of a bitch.”

  “Tell me there’s more good news.”

  She gestured to the tile floor of the kitchen and the light tan of the living room rug. “No blood. Nothing at all. When she called dispatch to report the shooting, she didn’t say she was hurt. She just said she’d been shot at—and even though the dispatcher told her to wait for the first units to arrive, she didn’t.”

  “Her car gone?”

  Diane shook her head. “Car keys still here. Her cell phone, too. We’ve searched the complex, the neighboring buildings. Nothing.”

  “Her boyfriend, Mark Spencer, the town counsel. Could she be there?”

  “He lives on the other side of town, but we have another unit going over, just to check. He’s in Concord today, but he’s coming back. Lewis … what can you tell me?”

  I knew Diane and I knew the look on her face. No evasions on my part. “Ever since Bronson Toles got shot, she’s been scared. She’s been obsessed with thinking that the shooter was coming after her next.”

  “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it doesn’t, but there’s that damn bullet hole.”

  We both looked over at the broken window. “Can’t be a coincidence,” she said. “Bronson Toles being shot and killed, and then a woman standing next to him … almost killed a few days later. So where’s the connection? Was she working on anything about Bronson Toles?”

  “No,” I said. “Her stories were just about the antinuclear demonstrations. She didn’t want to have anything to do with Bronson or his murder. The whole thing … it really spooked her.”

  We stood quiet there for a moment, and then I spoke up. “Me. I’m the connection.”

  “Go on.”

  I motioned her into the kitchen and lowered my voice. “You know … you know what I’ve been up to.”

  Another look from her. “Yeah, I know your methods. You’re the one that’s been digging into Bronson Toles—not Paula—and I’ve been in touch with
Peter Renzi, trying to make a stand for your good character. So I know you’ve been doing your usual poking and prodding.”

  “True enough, and anyone out there, it wouldn’t take much work to know that Paula and I are friends. So the shot here is a warning to back off, or something more.”

  “What about you? Anything dark sent your way?”

  “No gunshots through my kitchen window, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It’s not. I mean anything, Lewis.”

  I spoke calmly, though I was choosing my words carefully. “Out on the marshes, during the demonstrations … a couple of times I was assaulted by a male. Nothing too serious. I’m still here.”

  “So you are. Do you know who did the assaulting?”

  I shook my head. “Once I was literally in the dark, and the second time, I was in the middle of a tear gas cloud when someone came after me with a large stick—someone wearing a bandanna over his face.”

  “I see,” she said. “Anything else?”

  “Two threatening phone calls.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Usual stuff about how I was next, I should stop doing whatever it is I’m doing, crap like that.”

  “Glad to see that didn’t drive you off.”

  I said, “You really mean that?”

  “Hell, no, you should have told me.”

  “Right,” I said, “and maybe a story comes out, that someone who was caught up in that nonsense during the primary and connected to the campaign of Senator Jackson Hale was also caught up in another shooting. Didn’t want that story being made public, Diane.”

  She said, “So that’s what it’s about? Protecting your Annie?”

  “Among other things.”

  Diane said, “So who gave you the burden to protect all the women in your life?”

  I thought about that and said, “Me. Just me.”

  She opened up her clipboard. “Then be careful. Someone’s gunning for you, and Paula—and I need to know one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You find something, something that’s a good solid lead—you tell me, okay? This isn’t white knight time. There’s a smart guy out there, a hunter who’s on the scent, on the trail, and I don’t want you messing with him.”

  I said, “All right. You get the call.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Now if you don’t mind, I got a hell of a lot of work to do—plus I get to return to Falconer tomorrow afternoon for the latest installment of idiots on parade.”

  I looked out, saw that the Tyler policeman in the jumpsuit had left. It was now just me and Diane. “How goes it with Kara?”

  Oh, it was a pleasure to see her grin. “Better. Definitely getting better. I’ll have a story to tell you, when I can—but not now.”

  “Fine,” I said, and then I left one of my best friends to her job.

  * * *

  Back in my Ford Explorer I started up the engine and waited, thinking about Paula. Thinking about her being in her home, her comfort zone, after a long day as assistant editor at the Chronicle. Maybe she’s thinking of dinner plans. Maybe she’s thinking about her beau, the town attorney looking to run for state senate. Or maybe she’s just thinking about what to catch on late afternoon television.

  Then it’s all shattered, in an instant, with the sound of a rifle shot echoing right after a bullet smashes through the kitchen window and buries itself in the living room wall. In that split second, all of your fears are realized. You’re no longer paranoid. There really is someone out to kill you.

  So you call the cops and get the hell out. Moving so fast you leave your car keys and your cell phone behind.

  So where do you go? I looked out at the woods behind the condo unit, where the cop with the German shepherd kept on hunting.

  Hunting.

  Like the shooter, trying to hunt down Paula, and most likely trying to hunt me down as well.

  Hunting.

  Damn, I thought, damn, damn, damn.

  I thought as well of what Diane had just told me, about being a white knight. I was nowhere near being a white knight. Just a guy trying to do his best for a woman he cared for, a woman he had shared some special moments and times with a while ago.

  So if back to Diane one goes … what then?

  Conference call. Planning session. Finding a judge for a possible warrant. Based on what, Your Honor? Oh, based on what a writer from Shoreline just brought to us, a writer who wants to keep his name out of the process to protect his woman trying to elect the senior senator from Georgia as our next president.

  I backed the Explorer out onto High Street and got right to work.

  * * *

  I pulled into the empty expanse that was the parking lot for the Stone Chapel, and I backed up my Ford so I was close to the main entrance. I also kept the keys in the ignition. If things went badly in a very quick way, I didn’t want to waste precious seconds looking for my SUV’s keys. I got out and walked up to the main entrance of the Stone Chapel. Found it locked. A handwritten sign dangling from a red firebox next to the door read: TO OUR FANS AND FAMILY, THE STONE CHAPEL IS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  I pulled at the door once and then peered through a window. Just seats and the tall windows and the stage. I went around to the side door, the one that had been used by us media types during the memorial service for Bronson Toles. Locked as well.

  I kept on walking to the rear of the chapel, which had an attached two-story wooden cottage. There were two sets of bay windows and another door, which had a doorbell, which I pressed, and then pressed again.

  I waited. I didn’t like where I was. My Ford was too far away for comfort. Maybe I should move it.

  Maybe.

  It was too late.

  The door opened up, and there was Victor Toles. He had on sneakers, jeans, and a shapeless blue sweater.

  “Vic Toles?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’m Lewis Cole, from Shoreline magazine,” I said. “We met during your stepdad’s memorial service. Remember?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah … I remember you. What’s going on?”

  “I was wondering if I could talk for a few minutes with you and your mom.”

  He glanced behind himself, then turned back to me. “I don’t know … we’re kinda busy.”

  “Only a couple of minutes,” I said. “Promise—and it’s very important. Urgent.”

  Vic’s hand was still on the doorknob, and I thought about what I would do if he were to close the door suddenly, but he shrugged and opened the door wider.

  “Come on in,” he said, and I did just that.

  * * *

  I followed Vic into a large entryway. To the right was a set of concrete stairs leading to a basement, and at the top of the stairs was a pile of athletic equipment—softballs, baseball bats, and gloves—and to the left was a wood-paneled hallway. Vic led the way, and I kept up with him. On each wall there were framed photos of Bronson with political types, local community leaders, and musical groups. There was an opening to the left that led to a large living room and attached kitchen, and to the right, an open door.

  “Mom?” Vic asked, standing in the doorway. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to us.”

  Inside the room was a windowless office, with Laura Glynn Toles sitting behind a cluttered desk. The desk held papers, file folders, receipts, and an adding machine with a long loop of white paper running to the carpeted floor. There were four three-drawer gray metal filing cabinets and the consistent trophy photos of her dead husband. There was also a green and white ecology flag and a host of NO NUKES bumper stickers. Laura looked tired, her usual black ponytail undone. She was wearing a gray cardigan.

  “Yes?” she asked. “Who is it?”

  I stepped in. “My name is Lewis Cole, Mrs. Toles. I’m a writer for Shoreline magazine. I know you’re busy, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  She yawned and said, “Oh, God, excuse me, will you? The past coupl
e of weeks … With the protests, with Bronson, with us putting the Stone Chapel up for sale … do sit down, will you? Vic, how about a cup of tea for all of us? Would you like a cup of tea with honey, Mr. Cole?”

  Not particularly, but I was going to be as gracious as I could, considering the circumstances, and I took a folding wooden chair in front of the gunmetal gray desk. Vic went out, and she looked back at the papers and said, “The amount of paperwork … it’s unbelievable. Are we putting the Stone Chapel up for sale, or the place and the name that goes with it? Is the sound equipment part of the deal? How about doing an inventory of the food and drink? My word, it’s amazing that anything gets done when property is sold.”

  “So the sale is going forward?”

  She nodded. “It’s too much. It’s just too much. I was hoping that some group of concerned folks might get together and buy the place, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. The value of property in Tyler is way too high—which is another reason we have to sell. The property tax bills … twice a year, my hair almost turns gray when we get the town’s property tax bill.”

  Vic came back in with a tray bearing three teacups and a steaming pot, and Laura smiled. “My second cup of the day. Do join us, won’t you?”

  So I did. There was a brief ceremony of tea pouring and honey dispensing and the clink-clink of spoons, and then Laura took a slow sip and said, “What are you looking for?”

  “Some information, that’s all—but it’s vital.”

  She smiled at her son. “Vital? My, that sounds urgent. What’s it about?”

  I opened my new notebook, though I knew I wasn’t going to need a pen and paper to remember whatever answers I was about to receive. I kept my notebook in one hand and the offered teacup in the other. “Do you know Ron Shelton?”

  Vic smirked, and his mother said, “Of course. The spokesman—or spokesweasel—for that damn power plant. I swear, I don’t know how that man can sleep at night, or look at himself in the mirror every day, knowing he’s working for such an evil entity that will turn this seacoast into one giant deadly cove.”

  “Are you familiar with his sister?”