Fish Nets: The Second Guppy Anthology

by Ramona DeFelice Long

  “They do have the touch,” I agreed, and took a sip of my own.

  Pam was a literary agent who handled the subjects I acquired. We met for lunch every few months to discuss projects of hers I had bought and was working on and new projects she thought might interest me.

  “So, tell me,” Pam said, “is it true a dead body was found in the Beakman-Bryce parking lot?” She settled her cup back in its saucer.

  I put my own cup down and nodded. “I was the one who found it.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, Harley—”

  “I’m fine, really. I mean, I was shook up when it happened, but that was a month ago. I’m fine now. Although, I don’t park in the same space anymore.” I smiled.

  Pam picked up her teaspoon and slowly stirred the milk foam and cinnamon decorating the top of her drink. “I heard there might be another body connected to Beakman-Bryce.”

  Again I nodded, but this time I didn’t smile. All around us, people were talking, laughing, and enjoying their food. One table over, three women broke out in giggles. I rubbed my arms. Leaning forward, I whispered, “There might be two more bodies. One was found at the beach about three months ago, and one at a local playground about two months ago. They both seem to be connected to books we published.”

  “Are you serious? How?” Pam also leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Do the police have any theories? Any suspects?”

  “I have no idea what the police think. However, most of the people at work are worried. Some are scared. The first book was a mystery: Murder on the Beach. The second was one of Natalia’s romances: Por un Beso. The way the bodies were left, well, they looked like those covers.”

  “I know those books,” Pam said. “Murder on the Beach, Murder in the Desert—those are mine. The author’s been a client since the first book in that series. My partner handled the other book. They’re sure the covers were copied?”

  “I saw a photo of the beach crime scene held next to the Murder on the Beach cover. They looked identical. And the police say the other crime scene almost perfectly matched Natalia’s cover.”

  “How did Natalia react?”

  “I have no idea. Natalia was furious when Beakman-Bryce killed her imprint and laid her off, and she hasn’t stayed in touch.”

  We sipped our cappuccinos in silence. Deep in thought, neither one of us heard the waitress approach. When she plopped our check on the table, we both jumped.

  Recovering first, Pam asked, “And the crime scene in your parking lot also looked like a book cover?”

  “Yes. At least, I think so. It’s weird, but it resembled a third cover, one that was never used. It’s another mystery, and according to Quentin, there was a problem with the plot and the victim pictured on the cover had to be cut. The proofs had to be corrected and a new cover made.”

  “I heard about that,” Pam said. “The production editor is a freelancer now and does work for me. Talk about not being happy with Beakman-Bryce, Mitchell’s another one!”

  “You mean Mitchell Turner? I thought he left for another job.”

  “No, ma’am,” Pam said, shaking her head. “He was fired. For that book with the plot problem and new cover. Luckily, he landed on his feet. He’s nonstop busy. But he always manages to squeeze me in within a couple of days. He’s a doll.”

  After we finished our cappuccinos and paid the check, I slipped my pocketbook strap over my shoulder and scooped up the four proposals Pam had convinced me were right up my alley. Lunch had been productive.

  * * * *

  The escalator creaked as it carried a lone woman down from the raised Long Island Rail Road platform. I watched as she stepped off and looked around. No one was waiting to pick anyone up, and the woman settled into a bench by the closed ticket office and pulled out her cell phone.

  Above, beeping warned that the train doors were closing. When it stopped, the escalator, the ground, and the pillar I was leaning against all began to vibrate. A rumble and a whoosh, and the train was gone. Silence dropped again.

  Loud footsteps echoed behind me. I swung around and saw a man in jeans and a T-shirt approaching the ticket vending machine. Clanking made me jump and turn again. Another man, this one in shorts and a tank top, pushed his bicycle into the bike rack and started fumbling with a chain.

  The station clock showed eleven twenty. The morning rush was over and the afternoon rush still hours away. I fanned myself; the calendar claimed early July, but the thermometer argued mid-August. A crick stabbed my shoulder and I adjusted my briefcase, checking to make sure the manuscript box was still safely tucked inside.

  I swept my gaze along the length of the parking area on the south side of the station. As I turned to scan the north-side parking area, I found Mitchell Turner’s nose just inches from my own. I squealed and jumped back.

  “Hey, Harley. Thanks for meeting me here. I’m just not ready yet to go back to that building.”

  “No problem. I totally understand.” My heart thumped, and I patted my chest to calm it down. “It’s so good to see you!” I leaned forward and hugged Mitchell. “I had lunch with Pam Reynolds yesterday, and I was floored when she told me what had happened to you. However, she also told me you were doing well, freelancing and all. So, when I got back to my office and found this rush project dumped in my lap, I thought of you.”

  “You have it with you?” he asked. When I nodded yes, he said, “Well, let’s have a look, then.”

  I unzipped my briefcase and pulled out the manuscript box. Holding the box in front of me, I explained, “As I said on the phone, it’s a creative nonfiction crime book. The writer finished it as far as possible; now we have to wait for the cops to make an arrest. They say they’re close, though. And we’re hoping that when they do, we just have to slap on a chapter or two about the arrest and add some photos. The author’s done a great job writing this while the investigation’s been going on, but I need someone experienced with crime to edit it. Make sure it flows. I just don’t have the time to do it myself.”

  Mitchell shifted his weight and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Isn’t this a little unusual? Nonfiction crime books usually aren’t published until the trial’s over. What’s the rush here?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s about a series of murders targeted at Beakman-Bryce. And you know our Publicity Department. Gotta wring out every last promotional drop.”

  Mitchell looked down at the manuscript box, but instead of reaching for it, he slowly moved his gaze back up to my face. “Bull,” he said, so low I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Bull.” A little louder. “You know,” he growled, stepping forward, his abdomen pushing the box into mine. Before I could respond, I felt something hard poke into my ribcage. I looked down and gasped. A gun. “How?”

  Closing my eyes, I sucked in a calming breath and slowly released it.

  “It was simple,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We all see all the covers as they’re passed around in batches for corrections. You, however, were the only one who never knew that one of the covers you’d seen ended up being replaced. You were fired before that happened. The azalea bush cover.

  “I then saw Pam Reynolds, who mentioned you were freelancing. She said you were always able to work on her projects immediately. I pictured you sitting at your desk, twiddling your thumbs, thrilled to get her phone call. In other words, not doing so well.

  “You were screwed, Mitchell. As a production editor, it wasn’t your job to content edit. That also wasn’t the job of the freelance copyeditor. It was Quentin’s job, and he screwed up and he used you as a scapegoat. You had production edited a ton of Quentin’s mysteries—”

  I suddenly hopped back and batted the gun away with the manuscript box, surprising both Mitchell and myself. The gun fired into the air as it flew out of Mitchell’s hand. Pigeons napping in the nooks under the tracks above flapped and took flight.

  “Drop it, Turner.” The man from the tic
ket machine aimed a gun at Mitchell, while the man from the bicycle rack pulled me to safety. “Get down on your knees. You’re under arrest.” As the woman with the cell phone rushed past me with her own gun drawn, the manuscript box slipped out of my hands, and I watched as the manuscript pages wafted away on the breeze. This time I didn’t care, though. The pages were blank.

  * * * *

  Later that day, when the police were finally done with me and Rina was satisfied I was okay, I settled in at my desk. I reread the memo from Quentin and punched the number it included into my telephone.

  “Hi. It’s Harley Rose from Beakman-Bryce. I’ve got a book that needs a writer. A creative nonfiction. Working title: The Book Cover Killings. Interested? The cover’s already done.”

  THE RUNAWAY, by E. B. Davis

  I awoke in darkness. The blanket I’d found in a storage compartment had gravitated to my feet. Pulling the blanket to my chest, I wrapped it around me. The cold must have awoken me, but then I heard voices coming from outside the cabin. Alarmed, I jolted in the berth.

  The soundness of my decision to stowaway on the sport fisher Runaway this afternoon was now a moot point. The name had attracted me since I’d run away from home. After walking all of a half mile, I had detoured into the same marina where my AWOL father kept his fishing boat, also missing since he and his buddies had taken Shannon Kathleen, named after me, to Mexico for a fishing tournament. I knew the gate access code. Mom had made me so mad that I slipped through the gate without a thought.

  It was too late to rehash my convoluted thinking. Being caught aboard someone else’s vessel would prove embarrassing. I imagined my mother chiding me for my indiscretion, as if she weren’t acting like a juvenile delinquent herself.

  The Runaway wasn’t the cozy place I had imagined when choosing it for lodging. Many of the marina’s boats were luxury cruisers or sport fishers, having amenities that assured a comfortable stay over the long President’s Day weekend. The marina’s security gate and the Coast Guard Headquarters, located down the road, assured my safety, or so I had thought.

  Easing off the bed, I felt the cold penetrate my soles. I slipped on my socks and sneakers, picked up my backpack and swung it over my shoulders, pulling the straps tightly so it wouldn’t swing, then tiptoed to the cabin door. Lowering myself into a crouch, I cracked it open.

  The pole lights on the dock illuminated the aft deck of the boat. A middle-age man and woman stood facing one another, frozen like a paused DVD. Anger and confrontation emanated from their expressions and stances. He wore preppy wire-rimmed glasses. The woman, a trim brunette, wore jeans and an unzipped down jacket with a turtleneck top. The video resumed when he spoke.

  “I don’t have to put up with this crap, Linda,” the man said. He spoke with force, but in a subdued voice as if trying to avoid anyone overhearing.

  “Why not, I put up with your crap,” Linda replied.

  “But I don’t have to.”

  “You will unless you want your wife to find out about us. Fork over the cash, Jim.”

  “Money. That’s what this is about? I thought you loved me.”

  “Like you love me?” The woman’s laugh chipped the icy night like a pick.

  “You were the one who mentioned love, not me, Linda. I’ve been straight with you.”

  “Yes, I’ve appreciated your honesty,” she said, her words bitter with sarcasm. “I wish you’d appreciate mine. Fifty-thousand, Jim, and your wife won’t know. The lawyer alone will cost you that much, and a division of assets will be how much?”

  “Fifty-thousand. You’re out of you mind if you think I’ll give you money. Haven’t you heard about the economy?” The man advanced, backing the woman against the gunwale.

  “I think about the economy all the time, Jim. Perhaps I should ask for sixty-thousand.”

  “Really funny, Linda.”

  “You like funny, I’ll give you funny.” The woman changed her stance, moving her right foot forward. “In the morning, it will only take one phone call. Or, maybe I should wait for her at the office. Wasn’t it her money, Jim? Oh yes, I forgot, it was her daddy’s money.”

  “You bitch.”

  “Now you’re getting the picture.”

  The man grabbed the woman by the shoulders. I closed my eyes, afraid to witness their fight, but I heard feet scuffling and felt the boat rocking.

  “Stop right there, Jim. You don’t think I’m stupid enough to come here without a gun.”

  Gun? I opened my eyes. The woman was pointing a handgun at the man. In a boxer’s snap, he punched the woman in the face. I winced, hearing the crunch of her nose cartilage. The gun clattered onto the deck as her hands flew toward her face.

  The impact of his punch sent her into a backward fall onto the deck. Her scream burst through the quiet night like a fire siren, and she continued screeching. Sprawled on her back, she held her nose with one hand and tried to raise herself with the other. He hovered over her, looking around as if wondering who might hear her screaming, then he grabbed a bait knife out of the livewell and stabbed her in the chest. The woman’s body went slack.

  Her silenced scream echoed in my mind like the aftermath of gunfire. Shocked by the man’s violence, I watched catatonically as he opened the stern’s built-in fish box, picked up Linda’s body and stuffed it inside. He replaced the fish box cover, then took the knife, opened a water cooler, swished the knife clean and pocketed it inside of his jacket like a ballpoint pen. He emptied the cooler over the side and wiped it dry.

  After locating the gun on the deck, he dropped it into his jacket’s outer pocket. Then he leapt onto the dock and uncoiled a hose provided by the marina management, jumped back onto the deck, and sprayed the entire aft deck, including the outside of the fish box. The bloody water drained out the back through the scuppers.

  He looked down at his jacket. Blood had spattered the front. Unzipping it, he took off the jacket, turned it inside out, folded it around the knife and gun and held it like a football. His carnage had been quick, and now the evidence was disappearing like a mirage—except for me. He turned in a circle as if wondering what incriminating evidence he’d missed.

  If he entered the cabin, he’d probably kill me, too. When he turned his back to spray the deck again, I took advantage of the spray’s noise by closing the cabin door and scooting to the head, which contained the only door within the cabin. I pulled the door shut behind me and latched it. The stall was small. When the boat rocked, I figured that he was returning the hose to the dock. My backpack impeded any movement, so I leaned forward against the opposite wall on my palms, closed my eyes and prayed.

  The pounding in my ears dissipated as minutes passed without hearing a sound. My legs trembled and twitched as I tried to keep still. I mentally commanded the adrenalin to stop pumping, quieting the physical riot my fear instigated.

  Maybe ten minutes later, I decided to chance it by opening the head’s door. I crept to the cabin door and inched it open, hearing only a quiet splash in the distance. A fish jumping, maybe? No one appeared to be on the aft deck.

  I dropped to my knees, crawled out the door and peered around the cabin. The forward deck was empty. No one was on the port side. I reversed and checked the starboard side. No one appeared to be on the boat. But as I rose to my feet and took a few steps, I remembered too late that the tuna tower could hide someone. Looking up, I saw no one there and continued to walk toward the dock.

  Before leaping off the boat, I stopped. The woman might still be alive. I opened the box. Perhaps my mental panic caused visual distortion. It appeared as if I were looking through a tunnel from a great height. The dead woman lay at the bottom of the box surrounded by fishnets. Her turtleneck was ripped and bloodied. Her eyes were open. I couldn’t save her. She was dead. Some fancy artist like those I learned about in art class would paint the scene in an impressionist style and give it a title like, “Dead Woman on Fishnets.” But what I saw wasn’t a surreal painting. Her body was evidence of t
he murder I witnessed.

  I catapulted onto the dock. The Runaway’s stocked galley should have made me suspicious. The killer must have planned a tryst with his lover. His plan for the weekend had gone awry. Mine too.

  Anger replaced my fear. I got mad—at Mom. In retaliation for Dad’s fishing tournament, leaving her alone, Mom dropped some Ecstasy and called her rave friends. I hadn’t stuck around for long. If I heard Nirvana or Moby one more time, I’d explode. What hurt the most was that in a few short hours I’d turn eighteen. Happy f’ing birthday.

  I ran blindly down the boards, picking up speed, and turned onto the central walkway. When I rammed into something, I bounced backward but kept my balance. Focusing on the obstruction in my path, I saw a man. He emitted a whoosh, like a deflating raft. I started to scream, but he cut me off.

  “Hey, what the hell’s wrong with you?” the man asked, looking me in the eye. He wasn’t the killer, but a large, burly older man blocking the walkway. “What’s going on? Haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Maybe, my father moors his boat here. Frank Greely. I’m Shannon Greely.”

  “Yeah, I know your dad. What’s got you so riled up? You’re out too late, there are curfew laws.”

  “I can’t talk about it. I have to get away from here.”

  “Not so fast. Frank’s boat is in Mexico. Did you break into anyone’s boat? You and your friends partying?”

  “Do you see any friends? Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk.”

  “I’m a cop, and I also do security work for the marina management. Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you.”

  I debated telling the cop about the murder, but he seemed to assume that I had done something wrong. He probably thought I was a criminal. I wondered if he would accuse me of the murder if I told him. I also didn’t know where the killer was. If he heard me telling the cop, the killer would know that I’d witnessed the murder. Would he come after me? I looked around trying to determine if the killer was nearby listening. The cop must have thought I was ignoring him.