I handed her the water and wondered for the four thousand and eighteenth time if she and my real daughter hadn't been accidentally switched in the hospital nursery after their births.
After much finagling with the knobs to control the squelch and tune in to frequencies by Milo, we finally heard Pinto's voice. It came over as a crackling sound, cutting out more often than not. "Is ____you____? Can you____me? I can't ____out what____ __ing."
"Yes, yes! It's Milo! Can you read me?" The relief in his voice and on all of our faces was evident. Not including Reggie's face, that is, which was busy having another round of sunscreen slathered on it. But the important thing was that Pinto was okay. Or alive, anyway.
"Crackle, crackle, crackle. What____ ____ doing ____here?"
"What are you doing? Why are you out here?" Milo spoke loudly into the hand-held microphone.
Crackle, crackle, ____ thought ____ low humming sound, so that ____ could____ , loud startling squelch sound, and now ____ crackle, crackle, screech, heading ____ ____ ____ ina ____ silence, high-pitched squawk, and then more silence, is what we heard emitting from the radio.
"Must have lost the freaking signal," Milo muttered, pounding on the radio as if that might help in some way. It was the same technique Rip used when he tried to repair the television, refrigerator, and pretty much every other electronic apparatus that had stopped functioning properly. It wasn't working for Milo any better than it'd ever worked for Rip.
While Rip stood at the helm steering the boat, Milo tried several more times to contact Pinto, to no avail. So we could make out his words, Milo shouted, "I have a signal now. Don't know why he can't hear me. But I think he might have been saying he was heading back to the Fulton Marina where he moors the boat. I'd still like to know what he's doing out here in the first place."
"Me too," Rip hollered back. Where Milo had sounded concerned, Rip sounded suspicious. I was apprehensive, as well, wondering if this might turn out to be one of those cases where a perpetrator returns to the scene of his crime for whatever reason.
"I'm going to try to cut him off if he heads this way."
"Okay. Good! I'll turn the helm back over to you."
It was several minutes later before our paths converged. When Pinto realized we were trying to stop him, he brought his boat to a halt. His motor was still running in neutral when we pulled up alongside the Hook 'em. Looking up at Pinto in the taller vessel, Milo yelled out, "Whatcha doing out here, Pinto?"
"Well. I, um, just wanted..." Pinto paused to gain control of his emotions. He appeared both embarrassed and distraught. There were dark circles under his eyes and he appeared ten years older than he had when we joined him on the oyster run just a couple of days earlier. Finally, he spoke again. "I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Cooper and it's been bothering me more than I'd anticipated. Haven't slept well since I heard about his death. I just can't believe someone would do such a thing to a guy like him. He has always—"
Choked up, Pinto couldn't continue. He shut off the motor of his boat and sat down wearily on the edge of the hull. Milo had trouble speaking, too, as he replied, "I know. I know, buddy. I can't believe it either. I'd introduce you to my in-laws, but I heard you've already met."
"Hello, Pinto," I said. Rip also greeted the oysterman before Milo continued speaking. "As you may know, I was one of the prime suspects in his murder because of our friendship and business association. Also, I'm sorry to say, we had a bit of a dust-up in Crabby's parking lot the night before his death."
Pinto shrugged, unconcerned, and as was his nature, didn't ask for any of the juicy details. "Boys will be boys."
"Yeah, I know," Milo replied. He hung his head and swiped at a tear making its way down his cheek. "But I went way, way too far that day, Pinto. I acted so foolishly, so over-the-top violently, and, well, I hurt my best friend. I hurt him bad. More than anything, I wish I could turn back the time and tell him I loved him that night in the bar, and just left the fact he'd lied to me go unmentioned. I knew he was having a tough go of it, fighting demons he couldn't beat. I should have offered to help him, not lashed out at him."
"You couldn't have predicted he'd be killed hours later, son." Even as Pinto mourned the loss of a close pal, he tried to console his other friend who was grieving just as deeply.
"I know, buddy. I just wish that stupid fight in the parking lot had never happened. I was upset and over-reacted to being lied to by my best bud. Knowing that it's the last memory I'll have of our friendship is killing me. It's something I'll have to live with the rest of my life, I guess, but I deserve to suffer. In fact, considering what I did to my best friend, I deserve to suffer a lot."
Rip had winced at Milo's use of the term "dust-up" again to describe the donnybrook that had taken place outside the bar and grill on Saturday. But I saw his expression change to one of empathy when Milo admitted he'd been wrong to injure his friend and partner, and hitting Cooper with a beer bottle was totally uncalled for. The memory of their last time together was eating Milo up, like a cancer he couldn't rid himself of. It hit me then that neither of us had taken in to account the devastation and remorse Milo had to be struggling with since the death of his closest friend. We both should have shown more compassion; offered more solace and support this last week instead of hounding him for answers.
The same realization must have occurred to Rip. He put his arm over Milo's shoulder and pulled him toward him for a warm and lengthy embrace. "You're going to have to let that go, son. Cooper would want you to. You had no way of knowing that'd be your last interaction with your friend. Don't you imagine he felt he had that angry reaction from you coming, for deceiving you? In his shoes, wouldn't you have understood your partner's anger? I guarantee you he felt guilty and remorseful when you ran into him at Crabby's. He loved you as you loved him and wouldn't want you to carry that guilt around on your shoulders. What you're doing now to help find justice for his death is what's important. I believe he is watching over you now and knows you've got his back."
Rip's comforting words helped. I was relieved to see our daughter get up and hold her grieving husband in her arms, consoling him. Not even trying to stem the flow of tears streaming down his cheek, Milo looked up and said, "Thanks, Pop. I needed that."
Little did we realize then, but "Pop" would be Milo's term of endearment for Rip from that moment on.
* * *
Pinto volunteered to help us search for Cooper's spear-gun. He anchored his oyster boat out in the deeper water and climbed aboard Milo's fishing boat. We beached the fishing boat on the sandy shore of the island Milo had thought was our best hope of finding the spear-gun. Rip and I scoured the sand and scant foliage on the east side of the island. Milo had described the west side as primarily a marshy wetland and we could hear the unique trumpeting sound of sand hill cranes resonating from the area.
Meanwhile, Regina polished her fingernails as she waited in the boat and Milo and Pinto searched the surf and out farther in the water, clothed only in denim jeans and cotton shirts. Intensely focused on their mission, they both seemed unaware they were shivering from the chilling affect of the cool water. Disappointment was evident on their faces, as I'm sure it was on mine too.
Later, after checking numerous other spots, Milo and Pinto trembled as they discussed whether or not to continue their search or admit defeat and head in. Overhearing their debate, the niggling thought that had been plaguing my mind for the last couple of days made a return, demanding to be heard. So I complied. "I know you two are half frozen, but could I ask you boys for one more little favor?"
"Sure," Milo replied.
Pinto concurred. "Of course you can."
"Can we return to that very first place we searched, just for another hour or so? I feel driven to take another look around the island with the oyster reef."
The men were happy to oblige. I think they both believed they hadn't given the area a thorough enough search. They seemed almost as anxious as I was to return for anoth
er scouring. Twenty minutes later we had returned to the site. This time Rip and I followed the men into the water. Only Regina remained in the boat, not anxious to risk chipping the polish on one of her newly manicured nails. Not pleased with her self-absorption and shallowness, I would have dragged her butt out of the boat myself if not for the fact I knew she'd only be in the way.
We spread out, each covering a different section. I headed straight to the oyster reef. The shells were sharp, but I had thick-soled tennis shoes on to protect the bottoms of my feet.
Convinced frostbite was responsible for my numb toes, I was about to call it quits and return to the boat to wrap my feet in a dry towel, when I spotted a glint of light about twenty feet away, on the base of the thigh-high water. I got increasingly excited the closer I got to the object reflecting light from the sun, which would be setting in the west in another hour or so.
I reached down and grasped the object to lift it out of the water. With great enthusiasm, I hollered out, "I found it! I found it! I've got the spear-gun!"
Everyone quickly gathered together in a cluster close to shore. Regina had even exited the boat to join us in the surf along the bank. Milo took the gun from me and turned it over and over in his hands. There were a few feet of the cord that had been severed still attached to the gun. "Yep! This is Coop's short-barreled gun. And here's where the killer cut the cord so the murder weapon wouldn't be found trailing from his victim's body." He was pointing to the frazzled end of the cord that had connected the spear to the spear-gun.
"No so fast," I said breathlessly.
Everyone turned to look at me with concerned expressions, as if worried my mind was being affected by too many hours in the sun.
"I recall Rip's hand being sliced open by an oyster shell," I explained. Then, glancing at Milo, I continued. "And also you losing what you thought was probably a stingray when the fish swam into a small oyster bed the day we went fishing. Instead of being cut by the killer, couldn't the cord have been severed by an oyster shell? Look where I found it? Directly on top of the reef you told us about."
Milo and Pinto both nodded simultaneously. Pinto asked, "Yeah, that's possible, I guess. What are you getting at?"
"I really don't know, precisely. But check out the gun and see if anything looks amiss about it." I don't know why I felt so strongly that we'd overlooked a possible cause of death, but I did. I imagine it was due to the fact that every single suspect we, as well as the investigating team, had come up with had been cleared by the detectives, and nothing in the way of motive or evidence implicated any other individual.
"You know, now that you mention it, Rapella," Milo said, clearly astonished by something on the spear-gun he'd just noticed. "There is a lot of gunk around the trigger mechanism, which happens when you don't clean the gun after every use. Cooper was never very good about maintaining his equipment."
"That's an understatement if I ever heard one," Pinto said, with a touch of amusement in his tone. He reached out to take the gun from Milo's outstretched hand and said, "This model is bad about jamming to begin with, and that gunk can cause the trigger to malfunction, too."
"That's what my gut was telling me. I recalled you explaining the issues with Cooper's less-expensive model, and have also noted that everyone I've talked to who knew Cooper personally, described him as reckless and impulsive. So, tell me fellows. Is it possible the gun could have jammed and then accidentally discharged when he was trying to get it working properly again?" I asked. My mind was whirring as my hunch appeared to be heading toward a satisfying fruition.
I could tell Milo and Pinto's minds were racing with possibilities, as well. Rip asked, "But, wouldn't it fire the spear away from him if that happened?"
"Well, sure. Unless—" Milo paused, deep in thought.
"Oh, yeah. I hadn't thought of that," Pinto said.
"And you know how he was," Milo added.
"You're right," Pinto agreed, as if the two were tapping into the same wavelength and no words were required for them to reach the same conclusion. "I bet that's exactly what happened."
"What? What happened?" Rip asked impatiently.
Pinto looked at Milo, and in unspoken agreement, directed our attention toward the spear-gun in his hands and began to explain. "Rapella hit the nail head-on. Cooper was not only negligent when it came to taking care of his equipment, he was also lackadaisical about safety practices. Like I was just saying, this trigger mechanism is not only prone to jamming, the accumulating gunk you see here is a result of bypassing the recommended cleanings. Along with the gun's inclination to jam in the best of circumstances, this build-up of gunk could have greatly exacerbated the issue."
When Pinto paused, Milo took over, "In the event of a malfunction, you should always work on it with the barrel facing away from you, purely for the sake of safety. And I mean absolutely always! I caught Cooper turning this gun inward one time after it jammed, because at only nineteen-inches long, it can be tempting to work on it that way. He actually had the spear resting up against his chest while messing with the trigger mechanism. I warned him about how dangerous it was, even wearing a loading pad to protect his chest from bruising by the powerful recoil of the gun when fired. As per usual, Cooper just blew me off."
"I caught him doing that twice," Pinto added. "Naturally I warned him about it, too. Because, you know I loved Cooper, and my man, Milo here, as if they were my own sons. In fact, I practically got down on my hands and knees and begged Cooper to not take such a risk. Offered to work on his gun myself, in fact. He just laughed it off. Looking back, I should have insisted he turn the gun around, facing away from him as it should've been. If I'd been insistent enough, Coop would have complied, if for no other reason than to humor me."
Rip shook his head in sorrow. "Captain Bean, as I told Milo, you can't hold yourself responsible for someone else's foolish decisions. You both tried to dissuade him, but I promise you, nothing either of you could have done or said would have prevented Cooper from holding the gun facing toward himself when he was out here alone that day. People are creatures of habit by nature. As you just alluded to, Pinto, had he turned that gun the correct way when you asked him to on those earlier occasions, it would have only been to appease you and get you off his back."
Pinto nodded. "You're probably right, Rip. Like most men, I suppose, Cooper was hard-headed. I have no doubt now that's exactly what happened. I hate knowing that such a tragic and preventable mishap caused my friend to lose his life, but also relieved that someone else didn't take it from him."
"Me too," Milo chimed in. "I don't know why that possibility never occurred to me, knowing his habit of taking crazy risks. Particularly after I'd learned the coroner said he'd been shot at extremely close range. That alone should have been a clue."
"Yeah, I should have thought of that too," Pinto said.
"You two lost a close friend. You were too emotionally invested in the situation to dwell over every potential occurrence. Fortunately, Rapella was thinking more clearly than the rest of us, looking at the situation from every perceivable angle," Rip said, smiling at me. He reached out and pulled me toward him in a warm embrace and kissed me on the forehead. "Good job, sweetheart. Your intuition or niggling notion as you referred to it, paid off!"
I felt my chest expand in pride, so thankful my hunch had been proven to have merit. I could have been left looking like a fool had it turned out I was totally off base. We'd been trying to track down a killer who never existed. Cooper Claypool's death had not been a murder, after all, but rather an unfortunate blunder. He'd fallen victim to a careless mistake. Cooper's demise had been an accidental death of his own making, a determination I hoped would make it easier for Milo and Philip Bean to forgive themselves for their friend's untimely, and self-induced, passing.
Just as Pinto had maintained, despite the overwhelming sorrow and heartache we were all experiencing, I had mixed emotions; sad my son-in-law's friend and business partner had suffered an avoidable de
ath, but happy we'd discovered the truth behind his passing.
And to be perfectly honest, I'd have felt rather silly if today's efforts had amounted to nothing more than an unsuccessful hunt for that "needle somebody had lost in a haystack somewhere."
Epilogue
Life settled down after the county coroner and investigating team had agreed the cause of Cooper Claypool's death was accidental, not homicidal. His body was released to the family for burial, and we all attended the somber and emotional memorial service at the Duncan Cemetery in Flour Bluff, Texas, where his parents were also entombed.
Regina and I had been busy decorating for the holidays. In my daughter's home, that task entailed hanging lights across the front and back decks, as well as every tree or shrub on their property, and finding places to display box after box of figurines and knick-knacks, including a dozen pine-scented candles, none of which were we allowed to light.
There were way too many decorations for the eight-foot tree in the family room; ornaments of every shape and size, tinsel, pine cones and satin bows to tie to the branches, and numerous odds and ends with a seasonal vibe to them. The weight and over-abundance of unnecessary crap hanging on their Christmas tree made it look as though it might topple over at any given moment. If that were to happen, the ensuing crash would also take down the "damned flamingo" statue in the corner of the room. And what a crying shame that would be, I thought mockingly.
Decorating the Chartreuse Caboose, on the other hand, consisted of hanging a holiday-themed dish towel from our oven handle, and taking our ceramic Christmas tree out of the storage compartment under our bed to place on the kitchen counter. That small decoration alone effectively reduced the available working space for meal preparation to about the width of my hand. We didn't have space to spare for a second holiday decoration.
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