Fish Nets: The Second Guppy Anthology

by Ramona DeFelice Long

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened before the accident?”

  “We worked on the fishing boat.”

  “What time was that?”

  “We got on the water at five o’clock. The fish weren’t biting so we came in around noon.”

  “Besides the accident, did anything happen outside the norm today?”

  “No. We went on the boat, fished a little, then came in. Simple as that.”

  Dexter’s eyebrows knitted together. That’s twice he’d heard the words “simple as that.” One thing he’d learned during his thirty years on the force is death is never as simple as that.

  “Did you or Mac drink any alcohol today?” Katie asked.

  Dexter glared at Katie.

  “We had a couple of beers on the boat.”

  “Only a couple, Mr. Harrison?” Katie pressed for another answer.

  Bobby hesitated before responding. “I’m not sure what all these questions are about. The bottom fell out of the sky and Mac lost control of the truck. We hit the wall and flew into the water.”

  “What happened while you were in the water?” Katie asked.

  “I couldn’t see anything but I reached over for Mac. He didn’t budge. I unhooked his seatbelt but he never moved.” Bobby’s voice was shaky.

  “And…” Katie urged.

  “I rolled down the window and swam out.”

  “Did you go back down to try and pull Mac out?”

  Bobby’s face caved in. “No, the current was too strong so I swam to shore.”

  “Simple as that,” Dexter said.

  Bobby hunched into the blanket. “Look, my best friend is missing and I almost drowned. I don’t want to answer anymore questions.” His voice was firm as he staggered down the pier with the long blanket dragging behind him.

  “He’s lying,” Katie said.

  “And you came to that conclusion because…?”

  “Women’s intuition.”

  “We work investigations based on solid leads and forensic evidence, not on women’s intuition.”

  “Well, my intuition tells me he drank a lot more than he let on.”

  “How so?”

  “My theory is this. Bobby and Mac gulped down several beers because the fish weren’t biting. By the time they reached the bridge, they were drunk. Bobby’s eyes and the staggering support that.”

  Dexter shook his head. “If that’s the case, why doesn’t Bobby just tell the truth? Especially since he wasn’t driving.”

  “I don’t know, but my intuition tells me there’s more to this than a rainstorm. Let’s go check out the daughter.” Dexter frowned as she led the way toward Abbey.

  “Ms. Seagraves, I’m Detective Whitaker and this is Detective McKane. We’re sorry to hear about your father’s accident.”

  “Did the divers find Daddy?” the girl cried.

  “No ma’am, but we’re working on it,” Katie said.

  Abbey nuzzled her face near Tyler’s shoulder. She muttered the words, “I feel so bad about last night now.”

  “What about last night?” Dexter said.

  Abbey lifted her head. The wind blew her long blonde hair into her eyes and Tyler smoothed it back, exposing her pink cheeks to the brisk air. Dexter noticed Tyler’s left cheek had two long scratches on it.

  “My dad and I got into an argument.” Abbey’s eyes filled with tears.

  Katie reached into her pocket, pulled out some tissues and handed them to Abbey. “What was the argument about?”

  “Just a silly argument, that’s all.” Abbey dabbed at her eyes.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” Katie asked in a concerned, motherly tone.

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see your father this morning?” Dexter asked.

  “No. I wasn’t awake when he and Bobby left for work.”

  “Does Bobby live with you all?”

  “He rents a small apartment behind our cottage.”

  “Are your dad and Bobby close?”

  “Bobby keeps to himself most of the time.” She began to cry again and Tyler put his arm around her.

  “We’ll do our best to find your father,” Katie said.

  * * * *

  The temperature jumped to a high fifty-five degrees on Monday. Dexter and Katie drove back to the fishing pier where Mac’s crackly old boat was docked. Abbey’s name appeared on the back of the boat in large black letters. Dexter and Katie made their rounds on the pier but got resistance from the local fishermen. No one wanted to talk about Mac Seagraves until Dexter made reference to several out-of-date fishing permits. Word had it a territorial-waterway war was going on between Mac and fishing newcomer, Juan Hernandez.

  Later that afternoon Dexter and Katie drove to the police compound to check out Mac’s truck more closely.

  Dexter squatted at the side of the pickup and pointed toward the left rear truck bed, heavily damaged with white paint.

  “The white paint didn’t come from the bridge,” Katie said.

  Dexter’s knees cracked as he stood up and faced Katie. “What does your intuition tell you this time?”

  “That another vehicle hit them on the bridge.”

  “Have forensics take scrapings of the paint for matching and I’ll touch base with the crash team,” Dexter said.

  * * * *

  On Tuesday morning, Dexter and Katie visited the Seagraves cottage. Tyler answered the door, running his hand through his wavy blonde hair in a nervous gesture. “Did you find Mr. Seagraves?”

  “No. We’re here to see Abbey,” Katie said.

  “She’s not feeling well. She’s in the back room sleeping.” Tyler held the screen-door halfway open.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” Dexter tried to peer around him.

  “I’m here to comfort Abbey,” Tyler said boldly.

  “Ask her to give me a call when she’s feeling better.” Dexter handed his card to Tyler.

  “Something’s not right with that kid,” Katie said as they walked toward the car.

  “Is this that women’s intuition thing again?” Dexter asked.

  “Yeah something, like that. Let’s grab an early lunch and talk about it. I’m starving.”

  “Okay, but I’m trying to drop a few pounds. I’ll get something light.” Dexter patted his belly.

  After eating a grilled chicken salad at Big Sam’s Inlet Café, Dexter and Katie paid another visit to the fishing pier. This time, they discovered Juan Hernandez straightening fishing nets on his boat.

  “Mr. Hernandez, I’m Detective McKane.”

  “And I’m Detective Whitaker.”

  “My permits are all in order,” Juan said. His almond skin glistened in the March sun.

  “Do you know Mac Seagraves and Bobby Harrison?” Dexter asked.

  Juan hesitated. “I do.”

  “I take it you heard about the accident they were in.”

  “I heard. Did they find Mac?”

  “No.” Dexter paused. “Where were you around two o’clock this past Saturday?”

  “I was fishing.”

  Dexter looked around the parking lot. “Do you still own a white Chevy van?”

  Juan frowned. “Yes. My cousin has it right now.”

  “Was your cousin driving your van on Saturday afternoon?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Were you and Mac Seagraves having a dispute over the waterways you fish in?” Katie asked.

  “Let’s just say that I operate on a first-come, first-serve basis,” Juan said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, whoever gets on the waterway first, gets the fish.”

  “Tell me about your relationship with Bobby Harrison,” she said.

  “What relationship? He was lucky to have a job with Mac.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he’s a lousy drunk.”

  Dexter shot a quick glance at Katie. “You plan to keep working in Virginia Beach, Mr. Hernandez?
”

  “Fishing’s good. Money’s good.” Juan placed the nets over the side of the boat and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll probably stay a while. Anything else? I have a lot of work to do.”

  * * * *

  The next morning Katie plunked down two manila files on Dexter’s desk. “Got em’ from forensics last night. They were taken by the cameras installed along the bridge and captured the images well, despite the rain.”

  Dexter looked up at Katie then opened the first file. He pulled out four 8x10 photos. One by one he viewed pictures of a silver truck being hit by a white two-ton truck on the bridge. “Did you run the white truck’s plates?”

  “Yeah. They belong to a Buick. The owner is a seventy-eight-year old woman who reported her plates missing a few days ago.”

  Dexter opened the second file. His eyebrows shot upward. “According to this report, Bobby Harrison had a high blood alcohol level when the accident occurred.”

  “Yep. I told you he was drunk. Probably too drunk to realize that someone hit him and Mac,” Katie said.

  “He must’ve sobered up quickly when he hit the cold water.”

  “His adrenalin probably kicked in when he swam to shore. Of course the alcohol was still in his blood stream when the paramedics checked him out,” Katie added.

  “Do you have the forensic results?”

  “Yep. Paint matched the same make and model of the utility truck on the bridge. How about the accident report?”

  “Results confirm two vehicles were involved when Mac’s truck went over the side.” Dexter’s phone rang. “This is McKane.”

  “Detective McKane, it’s Abbey Seagraves.”

  “Yes, Ms. Seagraves.” Dexter pressed the speakerphone button.

  Katie stepped closer to hear the conversation.

  “Have you found out anything about my father?”

  “No, but I would like to talk to you about the investigation. Will you be home in the next half hour?”

  “Yes.”

  Dexter grabbed the photos. “Let’s go, Whitaker.”

  * * * *

  Abbey greeted Dexter and Katie at the door. She looked worn and tired. “Have a seat.” She extended her arm toward two white couches with overstuffed pillows and blue throws strewn across the back of each sofa.

  “I can’t bear to put it away.” Abbey glanced at the fishing equipment near the door as Dexter and Katie made their way past the gear.

  “Are you okay, Abbey?” Katie asked.

  “No. I haven’t been feeling well the past few days.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Well, unless you can give me something for morning sickness…”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “Yes. That’s one of the reasons I called Detective McKane. That and to talk about the argument my father and I had. I didn’t want to talk about this in front of Tyler.”

  “Go ahead.” Dexter leaned forward in his seat.

  “Well, when Tyler and I told my father I was pregnant he went ballistic and threatened Tyler. They had a huge fist fight and Daddy told me I was never to see Tyler again.”

  “Is that why Tyler’s face is scratched?” Dexter said.

  “Yes.”

  “I can understand a parent being upset over news like this, but why did he threaten Tyler?” Dexter asked.

  “They didn’t like each other to begin with and this made Daddy like Tyler even less. Tyler cheated on me and I always had to pay for mine and his way to the movies and dinner. Daddy felt Tyler was a deadbeat.”

  “I thought Tyler was an all-star wrestler with a good future ahead of him,” Katie said.

  “That’s true. But he also has a rotten side. When I turned eighteen last week, I told Tyler I would get a big insurance payoff from my mother’s estate. Tyler began making plans for the money and Daddy found out. And when I told Daddy about the pregnancy it was like the final straw. That’s when we had the argument.” She began sobbing. “I miss him.”

  “Abbey, the search and recovery effort has been called off for your father.” Katie’s tone was soft.

  “We also have some photos from your father’s accident to show to you. They may be disturbing for you to see.” Dexter pulled the pictures from the folder and handed them to her.

  “Do you recognize the driver and the vehicle?” Katie asked.

  Abbey gasped. “Yes, it’s Tyler driving his father’s truck. I recognize the custom blue pinstripes down the side.”

  Katie scooted next to her on the couch. “I’m sorry, Abbey.”

  “He said he was going to get even with my father, but I didn’t believe him.”

  The front door swung open. Tyler stepped into the living room, his eyes full of rage as he looked at Abbey. He spotted the photos in her hand and the rage turned to panic.

  Detective McKane leaped to his feet. Tyler dodged him, trying to escape. McKane thrust his body against Tyler’s, plunging both men to the floor. Tyler wriggled away and grabbed a fishing net by the door. He slipped the net over McKane, flipped him over onto his back and pressed his chest against the detective. He grabbed McKane’s neck and pinned him to the floor. The detective extended his arm sharply, faltering Tyler’s grip and wrestled Tyler off of him. McKane shoved both hands through the net then under Tyler’s armpits from behind. He linked his hands behind Tyler’s neck, forcing his head forward.

  Katie stood over both men with gun in hand. She pulled the tangled net off Dexter. “Impressive wrestling skills, McKane.”

  Sweating profusely, Dexter grinned. “Virginia Beach High, Class of 79’ All-Star Wrestling Team.”

  Fifteen minutes later, two uniformed police officers led the handcuffed Tyler Logan into their patrol car. Katie turned toward Dexter. “My intuition paid off on this one.”

  “Actually, it was good ole fashioned detective work.” He hesitated. “But your intuition did help.”

  “Yep, it’s as simple as that,” Katie said.

  IN SEINE, by Katharine Russell

  “He stinks,” Tracy said.

  Her mom swiveled in the passenger seat of the station wagon. “That is a rude thing to say, and a rude way to say it.”

  “She’s got a point, Margaret,” Franklin Tilghman said as he guided the Pontiac down the dirt road. “Captain Billie wears the same pair of long johns all winter.”

  Margaret sighed. “I know how hard it is for people without indoor plumbing, especially older folks, but you, young lady, must learn to be generous of spirit with those who are less fortunate.”

  “I don’t think he’s less fortunate, he just doesn’t want to take a bath.” Franklin winked at his daughter.

  “Frank, you are not helping.” Margaret poked her husband in the arm. “Tracy, you can go out in the backyard after you greet Captain Billie. Plenty of fresh air out there on the river.”

  “Are you kidding? With the fish heads and the muskrat guts?” The girl plopped her chin down on the back of the bench seat.

  Franklin guided the station wagon off the state road down the lane to Captain Billie Huckabee’s ramshackle property. He eased between a listing fence supported by honeysuckle vines and an ancient wagon propped up on cinderblocks.

  The March wind worried the lapels of her jacket as Tracy followed her mother up the path to the sagging porch steps. Ahead of them, carrying the two crab nets he had brought, her father threaded between the stacked firewood and heaps of empty crab traps to the door. He tapped and entered.

  “When was the last time this place was painted?’ Tracy whispered.

  “Before you were born. Now hush.” Her mother held her hem as she crossed the threshold to keep her new tweed coat from brushing the splintered frame.

  A wave of too warm air redolent of kerosene, wet wool and wetter dog assaulted Tracy’s nostrils. She dragged her sleeve to her nose as she bent to pat Brick, the ancient Chesapeake Bay retriever who limped to her and snuffled her crotch.

  “Whitecaps all the way up to Wicomico
Corners this morning, Captain.” Franklin shook the old man’s hand.

  Captain Billie sat in his rocker, a creaking leather affair, black with age. He was so close to his stove, the right side of his face glowed from the heat, and his wispy hair danced in the up currents. The yellowed edge of his long johns peeked out at the collar of his faded flannel shirt.

  “I brought you some of my sugar cookies,” Margaret said. She frowned at the surface of the dining table, trying to find a place she could set her parcel among the dirty cups, piles of unopened circulars and rolls of twine.

  Franklin held his nets for the Captain to see. “These need redoing. Thought I’d bring them over early. No use waiting until the season is upon us.”

  The old man fingered the webbing and cocked an eye at Franklin. “They could go another season.”

  “I know. You make ’em strong, but I don’t want to take the chance,” Franklin said. “Margaret’s brother’s boys are coming down, and kids are rough on things.”

  The captain nodded in silence.

  “May I take Brick out back, sir?” Tracy already stood by the kitchen door.

  “Sure, go on along.”

  Tracy closed the door behind her and surveyed the back porch and yard. This porch was more orderly than the front one, because this was where Captain Billie made his gill nets. Dowels affixed to the face of the house held a half-woven specimen, and a bucket brimmed with cork floats waiting to be fastened to the lead edge of the net in the last stages of production.

  From the rafters hung the finished nets ready for sale. Tracy thought the porch resembled the stage at the high school she would attend next year, with its rows of curtains and scenery.

  The dog sniffed the surface of a sawed-off tree trunk the captain used for gutting fish. The captain’s ancient scaling tool rested on the top. Finding no fish heads, Brick snorted and padded off down the path to the dock.

  Tracy followed, her fists stuffed in her jacket pockets. Dad said there wasn’t much left of Captain Billie’s net business, because most people now bought synthetic gear. Fortunately, there were a few traditionalists left who preferred natural fibers and hand-knotted mesh for their gill, fish and crab tackle. The captain also had a partnership with Widow Morgan. He made string carry-alls and she dyed them pretty colors, offering them for sale at Barbour’s General Store.