Behind the Boater's Cover-Up

by Etta Faire

  “Not those two. I used to send birthday cards for all the Donovans. Myles and Freddie were going to go to Yale together. They went on vacations together every year. The Bahamas. Mexico. They’d kill for each other.”

  “I bet.” I thought, but didn’t say out loud. I was starting to think the loud splash I heard that night was “evidence” of the drowning, just enough for the corrupt newspaper to report that remains had been found and the Linders declared dead, on page ten behind some recipes.

  “But I do know Mr. Donovan was very instrumental in telling people about Mr. Linder’s investment. When I first started working there, people would come in and tell me Bill sent them. They wanted that foolproof plan. Foolproof? More like foolhardy. A lot of people lost their retirement because of that investment and a lot more. And poor Sam was blamed.”

  “Did Mr. Donovan lose credibility because of Mr. Linder?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t care too much about that. Just as sure as I know, if Mr. Donovan invested in Mr. Linder’s scam, he was one of the lucky ones who got out with money.”

  “I bet.” This time I said it out loud. “Can you tell me anything about a man named Richard? He was a homeless man who died in the woods in 1954, but there were a lot of rumors tied to him and the investment.”

  She looked at the ceiling. “Nineteen-fifty-four was a couple years before I got to the firm. I do remember the rumors, though, but mostly because Sam liked to talk about them. Apparently, Mr. Linder’s career really took off when that man was murdered.”

  I tried to take mental notes as she talked because it was probably rude to break out a paper and pen at this point. I should have brought my recorder.

  “People believed the man was murdered by a greedy relative after he came into money. Or a drug deal gone wrong. Either way, people believed the man had come into some money, from the investment. But Sam always told a different story about that one.”

  I sat forward in my seat, kicking myself even harder for not bringing the recorder along.

  She continued. “He said Richard came into the office, demanding they make good on his promissory note. He was out of control and angry, yelling like a crazy man. I guess he’d put all his savings into it. Mr. Linder took the man into his office and ultimately convinced Richard to reinvest his money. Not long after that, Richard was dead.”

  “So… he didn’t come into any money?”

  She shook her head. “Only on paper, and we all know how good that was. He was one of the first to ask for it, though. Or at least, that’s what Sam told me. Of course, at the time, Mr. Linder told everyone that Richard must’ve needed to liquidate his investment to pay off his drug dealer. And when the drug dealer didn’t get paid off, the bum got his head chopped off…”

  I remembered the fact that decapitation was a detail the police were keeping to themselves about the homeless man in the woods. Apparently, a few people knew it.

  She was still talking. “I think, after everything came out about Mr. Linder, Sam wondered about the drug-dealer story.”

  “Your husband thought Mr. Linder killed the man?”

  She shook her head. “He always wondered, and we’ll never know for sure. A lot of things died with Mr. Linder, I’m afraid,” she said, adding a frozen half-smile.

  “Whatever happened to Dwight’s wife and his oldest son?”

  “Who knows? After the accident, they didn’t stick around for long. Who could blame them? Whole town hated that family, except the Donovans.”

  “Before I go,” I began, smoothing out my cardigan, trying to figure out how to ask her this. “I also wanted to talk to you about something completely unrelated. I read an article about you and a hero dog. Can you tell me about him?”

  She stared at the ceiling. “Normandy. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about him.” It was in that instant where I saw the Bertha from 1954, the way her face lit up when she talked about the dog, the twinkle in her eye. It was funny how it’s impossible to picture somebody’s old-person face when they’re young, but you can totally see their young face when they’re older. Even through plastic surgery.

  “I got to keep that dog after the bird incident.”

  My eyes bugged. I wasn’t expecting that. “How long did he live for?” I said, then realized that was probably the weirdest question I could possibly have asked just then. Plus, I was afraid of the answer. I wasn’t prepared to find out my dog wasn’t that dog. I was really getting used to the thought that Rex might last forever, that maybe I was his fourth human or something.

  “I only had Normandy for about two years. I never really had him, though. He’d get out and patrol the neighborhood. He was a watch dog, such a good protector, watching for those sick birds that kept attacking people. Then, one day, he didn’t come home. It was about the time the birds stopped coming around too. I guess someone else needed a hero dog.”

  “Like me,” I thought in my head, but fortunately refrained from saying out loud.

  “Some people think the birds are back,” I said.

  “Oh my.” She wrung her hands together again, the sound of her rings clacking against each other were the only noises in our tiny room.

  After a minute of silence, I finally told her I had to get going. Her face fell, or it seemed to try to.

  “Yes, I think Charlie’s coming soon, anyway,” she said, looking around.

  That’s when something inside me must’ve gone a little crazy because I found myself saying, “I’d like to come visit you, if you don’t mind. Maybe once a week on one of the days Charlie’s not here.”

  “He won’t mind,” she said, her face brightening.

  “Maybe I could take you up to Gate House…”

  “Gate House?” she said. “So you’re a Bowman?”

  “No. The old man I married was.”

  She nodded. “I’ve heard rumors about that place. Always wanted to see it.”

  “I think you’ll like my dog. He’s a lot like Normandy.”

  I helped her back to her room but paused before opening the door. “It’s kind of a coincidence that Mr. Linder had an accident right before he was going to be investigated for securities fraud. Don’t you think?” I rolled my eyes. “That man is in the Bahamas and I’m going to prove it.”

  “I thought that too,” she said. “Until just before Halloween that year. I’m afraid Sam and I were called in to identify Mr. Linder’s remains. His family was nowhere to be found, and I guess the Donovans had refused to do it. They were just too upset.”

  She leaned against the door frame, wringing her hands together, clanking her jewelry again. “Sam told me I didn’t have to go with him. He could identify Mr. Linder alone, but I insisted on going too. You know what? I honestly wish I hadn’t.” She lowered her voice, her face growing paler like she was still seeing it. “I’ll never forget the cold, sterile smell of that morgue, and the moment they opened that drawer. I thought there’d be more of him. When they pulled back the sheet, it was just his big bloated head.”

  I held in my scream. “You were sure it was him?”

  She nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. They said his head likely got wedged between some of the larger rocks at the bottom of the lake as the body was surfacing, causing it to detach…”

  I realized I was curling my lip and holding my breath. I exhaled. “What about Freddie,” I asked, louder than I’d meant.

  She shrugged. “You know, I don’t know. The medical examiner said sometimes bodies don’t surface.”

  The whole way home I tried not to think about it. Linder’s bloated head, and the gruesome way Bertie told me it likely got separated from its body.

  But decapitation was too big of a coincidence for me to dismiss that easily, seeing how that was exactly how Richard had died. And Linder had likely done it to him.

  I couldn’t help but feel back at square one. And the seance was tomorrow. I turned to my empty passenger’s seat, once again cursing the stinky sachets in my pockets.

&nbs
p; Chapter 30

  Compromises

  Hours before the seance, dressed in my fanciest outfit, I sat crouched in front of my laptop at the dining room table, still trying to figure things out.

  I paused the powerpoint presentation and zoomed in on one of the photos on the screen. Mason Bowman was talking to a man in a hat, and I thought I saw something in the sheriff’s glasses. I squinted and turned my head. What looked like infant legs curled into an anchor stared back.

  I practically fell off my chair. “See that? The Knobby Creek logo,” I yelled, pointing to the screen. “That means it couldn’t have been the police boat that was damaged in the accident. Knobby Creek doesn’t service government boats. There would only have been one reason they were called to the lake that night.”

  No one responded.

  “Jackson, did you hear me?” I said as I looked around the dining room for the ghost I knew was here but wasn’t materializing. I hadn’t seen him since the night someone attacked me on Gate Hill, and not only did I have a ton of information to tell him about the case, I also kind of missed him.

  I would never admit that last part, though.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in one of the silver bowls along the shelf in the dining room, I grimaced.

  I should’ve felt powerful in the black designer dress I was wearing. I bought this sucker on clearance last summer with an extra 30-percent-off coupon, and it was, by far, the nicest dress I’d ever owned.

  It practically smiled too, when I pulled it out from between my bulky sweaters and wrinkled cardigans in the closet, as if it were saying, “Finally, these tags are coming off.”

  But I knew I was only wearing it to impress Myles Donovan and the rest of his good ole boys gang. And that rich bastard probably expected everyone to try to impress him with their best clearance-rack stuff, like we were all begging to make the society pages.

  I hobbled toward the stairs in the ridiculous heels I had coupled with the dress, my mind wandering to the consequences of simple life choices. The choice of wearing a professionally cute dress or being yourself in jeans and a t-shirt. The choice to allow yourself to drink a to-kill-ya worm and go to Mexico on a whim or stay off the yacht and live.

  Gloria appeared. “You look cute,” she said.

  I smiled my thanks. “I’m changing. Do you ever regret letting Nettie talk you into so many crazy things?”

  “I used to,” she said, her voice weak, her coloring strong. “I mean, she did ultimately talk me into the night that caused my death, but she also talked me into living a lot more than I would have too.”

  I refrained from saying that maybe everybody needed a bad influence just as my ex-husband appeared in front of the stairs that I was wobbling toward. And I held in a smile. My bad influence.

  “I see your big plan tonight is to bore Myles Donovan into confessing,” he said, motioning to my laptop. “Nothing dazzles potential customers and intimidates thugs more than full-page, powerpoint slides.”

  “I will be presenting evidence, yes,” I said. “But I’ll also have you and Gloria to jazz things up with flying objects and levitating tables for the seance part.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Excellent plan, if I were going.”

  “You can’t seriously still be mad about the privacy recipe,” I said as I walked past him, catching the side of his elbow as I did. A chill sliced through my shoulder, shocking me a little, and I struggled to regain my balance. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change in the privacy of my own room,” I said, almost twisting my ankle as I hit the first stair. I slipped my shoes off so I could actually make my point without falling on my face.

  But when I came back down in my black skinny jeans and sweater, Jackson was nowhere to be found. Gloria hovered by the door.

  “Guess it’s just us tonight,” she said. “You ready?”

  I shook my head. “Jackson, I know you’re not serious. Stop playing around! Let’s go.”

  No answer.

  “We are going to be late.”

  I only heard his voice. “Oh, now you want me to travel on you. When it’s convenient for you. All other times and you’ve got the fruitcake’s ghost repellent in your pocket.”

  I checked my watch as I grabbed my laptop and gently put it in the backpack I reserved for seance stuff. I didn’t have time for the 50-year-old’s drama tonight.

  “Look, Jackson. I’m sorry. I just wanted more privacy. And truth is, while I do need privacy, I also need you more than I care to admit.”

  He appeared, arms crossed so I could see every crease in his pretentious jacket. “I’m listening. Go on,” he said, like he expected a full-on groveling session.

  I bit my lip and somehow got myself to continue. “There have been several times lately where I’ve regretted not having you around. So, how about we compromise? I only really need the privacy strands along the door frames, and the sachets on important nights with Justin. Other than that, I won’t put them in my pocket anymore.”

  “Because…”

  “Certainly not because I missed you if that’s what you’re getting at,” I said.

  He smiled. “I missed you too,” he replied and disappeared. “Now, let’s go. I feel like being a bad influence tonight.”

  I told Jackson everything on the ride to the bed and breakfast while trying to keep the wheels of my rental from slipping in the ice. My heat had begun making a fun, new “screaming” noise when I turned it on, but that didn’t stop me from turning it on all the time.

  I turned the heat up a notch then waited to talk until it was done screaming.

  “So now, I’m back to square one,” I said. “Linder really did die, apparently. But at least now I know why people have been trying so hard to keep this under wraps. Dwight Linder is the murder no one wants to be tied to.”

  “The others are optional?” Jackson replied.

  That’s when it hit me. “The shed,” I shouted. “It burned down the day before the accident. I bet whoever murdered Linder did it in the shed, then burned everything down to cover their tracks.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Jackson said.

  “Nope. But I don’t need to. Not when I’m just looking to trap a mouse.”

  Chapter 31

  Always Know Your Audience

  Paula Henkel rushed around the lobby of her bed and breakfast at breakneck speed, lighting a candle here, directing workers there. The woman was in her element. Her short, spiked, bleach-blonde hair swayed with every movement, making her look a couple inches taller than she was. But Rosalie still towered over her in flats as she sported her “good luck seance dress,” which was basically a humungous gray pillow case with moons glued to it.

  “Only pass around the hors d’oeuvres if I direct you to, and only to those people I direct you to,” Paula said to a waiter when I approached her and Rosalie.

  I looked at my watch. It was almost 7:00, the time on the tickets when the buffet started. Lynette was already filming everything, a large camera on one shoulder, press pass dangling from her neck, like that meant something. She’d been the one to print that out for herself.

  The dining hall was full of fancy tables with mystic dark scarves draped across the ceiling over them, like a Halloween circus tent.

  Dinner guests would be arriving soon, if they were arriving. The smell of garlic shrimp and the little baby quiches I loved took over my senses, and my stomach rumbled.

  “I’m starting to think no one important’s showing,” Paula said just as the door opened and Lila and Myles walked in, dressed like they were heading to a million-dollar fundraiser instead of a seance.

  “I stand corrected.”

  Lila took her coat off to reveal a long, black, Oscar-worthy dress and her grandfather had on a tux. They ignored the entourage of about five people walking alongside them.

  The mayors and their wives walked in next and I got my nervous facial tic again. “You can do this,” I reminded myself. “This was what you wanted.” />
  The place was filling up fast, with people I hadn’t really expected to show. It felt a little like they were daring me to say anything bad about them “to their faces.” Another form of intimidation.

  I tried not to think about it and grabbed one of the dinner plates at the buffet while Paula rushed over to every “important” guest, her hand already extended, ready for a handshake like they were royalty. “Welcome. Welcome,” she said, her smile strained and phony. “Plenty of food. Chez Louie, you know. Nothing but the finest for my finest guests.”

  I tried to look away, but Paula pulled my arm to introduce me to Myles and Lila.

  “And speaking of the finest. Carly is the finest medium in all of Landover County, probably the whole state of Wisconsin,” she said. I could barely shake the man’s hand. All I could think about was how we’d already met, face to fist, just a couple weeks ago. I could still taste the blood on my lips after he and his father beat us up.

  “Nice to meet you,” Myles said. He was in great shape for a man of around 80. He didn’t have that arthritic, hunched-over look most men his age sported. But then, the hardest “work” he probably ever had to do was punch a woman 60 years ago.

  “I heard you got into a bit of an accident,” Myles said. “I do hope you’re okay.”

  He leaned into me and whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my cheek. “I just want to let you know my lawyers are here in case things get libelous for anyone. Anyone. I don’t care if every ghost here tells you what they think happened that night. You’d better have real proof to back it up. I just want you to keep that in mind. Court can be so expensive.” He pointed to two bald men in dark suits sitting at the best table in the house. Obviously his lawyers. “Have you tried the garlic shrimp? You must,” he said, moving onto the buffet.

  Dan and Grace rushed over from across the room and asked Myles and Lila to pose for a quick photo.