Dead Low Tide

by Eddie Jones

  “Never hurts to dream.” She waved in the direction of the three-story home, adding, “And beach dreams are the best kind.”

  I waited in the shade of the front porch while she slipped a key into the lock. She bumped open the door and a blast of cool air assaulted us. I followed her into a large open room that was at least twice the size of the whole downstairs in our old home in Lawrence.

  “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “My dad. I was wondering, is he a serious candidate for the sales job?”

  “Absolutely. Why?”

  “Mom thinks it’s all a scam, that you only brought us down here to trick us into buying property on Palmetto Island.”

  Ms. Bryant put her purse on the kitchen counter and faced me. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but your parents couldn’t afford the rental deposit on the unit you stayed in.” She must’ve seen my cheeks redden because she quickly added, “Oh, don’t think I was being nosy. But I had to run a full background check on your father before I contacted him about the position. We can’t afford to invest this kind of time and effort in a candidate without vetting them first. Here, let me show you the kitchen. Your mother would die to have a kitchen this size.”

  The backsplash tiles were light beige with a scalloped sea-shells design. Recessed lighting under the cabinets reflected off black granite countertops. Hardwood floors, polished smooth, reflected the light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling front windows. Ms. Bryant opened a double-door stand-up freezer that looked as if it belonged in a restaurant.

  “Let me take you upstairs to the man cave. If you and your dad like watching sports, you’ll never need to go to another live event again.”

  I followed her up the staircase. “Why Dad? I mean, he’s spent his whole life revamping assembly lines.”

  “That’s precisely what makes him the ideal candidate. He understands the importance of the process and execution. If you give your father our sales manual, what’s he going to do with it?”

  “Read it, highlight it, study it.”

  “Exactly. I bet in a month he would be able to recite the whole manual word for word. Men like your father are not rare, but they are special. I hate to use the phrase ‘old school,’ but that’s what he is. He learns things from the ground up. With your father, there are no shortcuts, am I right?”

  “Oh, he’s by the book, that’s for sure. Especially when it comes to school. Once I had this Language Arts teacher, Mrs. Harris. She was a nice woman who had absolutely no business being in a classroom. When she wasn’t looking we’d throw paper airplanes across the room. Everyone in the class made As but that’s because we were cheating on her tests. Come January, after our Christmas break, we found out Mrs. Harris had suffered a nervous breakdown. They gave us a sub but everyone still ended up making pretty good grades. After the school year was over, Dad found out I’d cheated and he went and told my guidance counselor. She said since the grades had already posted she couldn’t change them, but I did start the next year with detention. So yeah, Dad’s a stickler for the rules. Except when he’s driving. Then the rules don’t apply to him.”

  At the top of the stairs we turned down a hallway. She showed me bedrooms, bathrooms, and a master suite nearly the size of the condo we’d stayed in.

  “You met my assistant,” said Ms. Bryant. “What was your impression of him?”

  “Thought he was rude and stuck up.”

  “Most clients think so, too. He’s been with me almost three months and still doesn’t know the first thing about customer interfacing. If I put your father in that job, he’d be the most upbeat, engaging salesperson you’d want to meet, am I right?”

  “So long as he’s not in rush-hour traffic, yes.”

  “A go-getter like your father is just the sort of person I need working for me.”

  “So the job offer is for real?”

  “It’s listed with professional recruiters and on all the major job search websites. That’s how legit it is.” We’d stopped outside a door at the end of the hallway. “Ready?” She pushed open a bright red door.

  The man cave looked like a miniature sports bar. Monitors covered the front and side walls. Trophy cases filled with sports memorabilia stood on either side of the door. Banners from the SEC universities hung from the ceiling and hand towels of NFL teams lay draped across armrests. An angry-looking rooster was stitched into crimson carpet, indicating that the homeowner was a University of South Carolina Gamecocks fan.

  “There are thirteen monitors,” boasted Ms. Bryant, “with another three on the upper deck for night games under the stars. The room seats fifty. Last February, the owner had more than two hundred people over to watch the Super Bowl.” Turning toward me, she motioned toward the monitors and chairs. “So what do you think? Does this give you any ideas? Make you want to dream?”

  “Thing is, I’m not really into sports. Except for the X Games. Those I like. I’m more into skateboarding. But I could see where having all these monitors tied to close-circuit video feeds of certain high-crime areas would be helpful. I could sit in one of those chairs and actually watch detectives investigate crime scenes.”

  Ms. Bryant’s smile dipped momentarily. Regaining her bubbly enthusiasm, she directed me back into the hall. “Let me show you the Cinderella room! You have a sister, right? Couple of years younger?”

  “Actually, that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. By any chance, did you mention anything to anyone about my dad coming down here? Like, maybe your assistant?”

  “Heavens, no. If Matt had any idea we were interviewing candidates for his position, he would become totally impossible to work with.”

  “If he’s so bad, why haven’t you fired him already?”

  “I believe in giving people second and third chances. Matt is on his fourth. Once we get the new hire in place, I’ll move Matt into some other role where he doesn’t have to interact with clients.”

  We’d stopped at the top of the staircase. I looked at the open room below the banister and imagined what it might be like to live in a palace at the beach.

  “The job is straight commission, but your father didn’t seem bothered by this. In fact, I think he took it as a challenge. Whoever we put in that role will need to hit the ground running and work hard and fast.” She paused and looked me up and down. “I must say, I’ve never had a family member of a prospective employee interview me before. It’s a little off-putting.”

  “I care about Dad’s job, sure, but the real reason I wanted to chat is because of my sister. She went missing last night while my parents were having dinner with you. I’m trying to figure out who might have known the two of us would be home alone.”

  “Oh my gosh, I had no idea that was …”

  “Thing is, I’m pretty sure someone knew Dad was coming down for the job interview.”

  Instantly her bubbly personality switched into one of concern. “Come out to my car. There’s something you need to see.”

  I followed her around the house while she turned faucets on and off, flushed toilets, and replaced burned-out light bulbs. In the downstairs guest bath she added toilet paper and filled a hand soap dispenser. Back in the driveway, she unlocked the passenger door and thumbed open the glove box.

  “This arrived in the mail last week.” She handed me an envelope. “It is addressed to the director of sales and marketing. At first I thought it was a job application, so I tossed it in the basket with the others. But when I finally got around to looking at it, I realized it was a letter of recommendation for your father. You said you thought someone knew your family was coming to Palmetto Island. This might help you figure out who that someone was.”

  To whom it may concern,

  Mr. Caden has asked me to write a letter in support of his application for employment with your firm. To be honest, I am dumbfounded. Not only am I astonished that he has the nerve to ask me to write such a letter, but also that he would seriously consider going i
nto sales.

  I met Mr. Caden some months back. He distinguished himself by rarely appearing attentive or interested in the people around him. As a consultant at our manufacturing plant, he was obnoxious and unreliable and completely overwhelmed by the intricacies of our assembly line. On those rare occasions when I permitted him to actually work alone, his performance was marred by mistakes, excuses, and blame cast upon others.

  I can think of no one less qualified for real estate sales work than Frank Caden. I suggest you toss his application in the trash.

  Sincerely,

  K.G.B. Savior

  “Wow, someone really hates my dad’s guts.”

  “Quite the opposite. Whoever wrote this wanted me to interview your father.”

  “They did?”

  “Oh, absolutely. After receiving a letter like that, I had to meet your father — if for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity. In all my years of screening applicants, I have never seen a letter that set the expectations so low. At dinner last night, the only thing your father had to do was say hello and not talk with food in his mouth and I would have been impressed. Look at where the letter came from.”

  I studied the envelope. “Hey, that’s our zip code.” I peeked inside the envelope to see if there was a business card or any other clue, but it appeared empty. “Would it be okay if I hung on to this?”

  “Be my guest.” She held open the passenger door. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’m heading back to the office.”

  “I’m supposed to meet someone at the main beach access. Is that far from here?”

  “Too far to walk. Hop in.”

  We pulled onto the road and headed toward a water tower painted to look like a giant golf ball on a tee. For the life of me, I could not think of anyone back home smart enough or creative enough to compose a letter like that, but it confirmed my hunch that the author of the email had orchestrated our family trip to Palmetto Island. And if so, then maybe my sister’s abduction wasn’t a random act or a publicity stunt, but a carefully planned act — one designed to terrorize my family.

  While waiting for a pair of golf carts to cross the street, Ms. Bryant said, “Earlier you mentioned something about Officer McDonald thinking your sister is with friends. But the way you said it, I got the impression you don’t believe him.”

  “I know for a fact that’s not what happened. I just can’t seem to convince him of that.”

  “You know, that’s not surprising. Officer McDonald can be pretty headstrong. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised he is still working here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Palmetto Island can be an expensive place to live. Especially for someone in the service sector. Most of the island’s labor force lives off-island and commutes, but not Officer McDonald. His home isn’t lavish: a two-bedroom cottage in a cluster community. But it’s not cheap, either. That may be part of why he’s behind on mortgage payments.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “He made an offer on a townhouse a few months ago. Told me he wanted to get into passive real estate investments — you know, rental property. We ran a credit check. I suggested he get current with his mortgage company, clean up his record, and try again in six months. And I hinted he might want to sell his condo and move off-island. He nearly bit my head off at that suggestion. He must’ve found another Realtor willing to work with him because somehow he got approved for the loan. But unless his finances have changed, I cannot imagine he’s able to make two mortgage payments.”

  “Maybe someone cosigned the loan. Mom says that happens all the time.”

  “Possibly. His cousin is a hotshot radio host over at WSAV. He might have come into the deal. Even so, I still would not have been comfortable selling Officer McDonald that townhome. An officer under financial stress can be tempted to do some pretty shady things.”

  We turned into a beach access parking area and she nosed the Jag into an empty slot.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I stepped from the Jaguar and started to close the door, but stopped. “Mind if I ask why you kept that letter of recommendation?”

  “No reason, really. Just a hunch.” I noticed her fingering the cross on her necklace. “Sometimes I get a sense that I’m supposed to do, or not do, something. A lot of times if I pay attention to that gentle nudging, I find out later there was a divine purpose behind it.” She smiled warmly at me. “Good luck finding your sister.”

  As the Jag rolled away, a red Jeep Wrangler loaded down with surfboards pulled into the vacant space next to me.

  Dirk reached into the back seat, held up a pair of faded yellow swim trunks, and tossed them my direction. “You ready to catch some waves?”

  “Now?”

  “I only get an hour for lunch and I’m not going to spend it in a parking lot. You want to talk, we do it in the water. See you on the beach.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SURF’S UP

  I stood at the tide line with cold water swirling over my bare feet. In addition to the swim trunks, Dirk had loaned me a full wet suit, but that did nothing to take the chill from my frozen toes. Dirk had on a surf vest and surf trunks. He did not seem bothered at all by the chilly water.

  “We paddle out, clear those breakers, and wait for the set,” he instructed.

  “I only wanted to ask a few questions.”

  “So ask when you reach the lineup.”

  He splashed into the water and with a few quick strokes left me standing at the water’s edge. Taking a few tentative steps forward, I lay down on the long board and began paddling. Every few seconds white water rolled over me, shoving me back. It took all my energy to keep the board moving forward.

  When I finally reached the last line of breakers, he asked, “You the one who stole my canoe?”

  “Yeah,” I huffed. “Where you going now?”

  “Outside. Set’s coming.”

  I lifted my head and looked at the horizon. Nothing. Not even ripples from fish jumping. The sky had lightened to a pale blue. High clouds scudded overhead. I slapped the water and followed Dirk toward the imaginary “set.”

  “Is this a good break?”

  Dirk glanced over his shoulder. “Not really. Hardly ever gets good except for hurricane swells. But if you’re a surfer, whaddya gonna do?”

  I couldn’t imagine what kind of shape you had to be in to surf. In just the few minutes I’d been paddling, I could already feel my calves starting to cramp and my arms … my arms felt like limp noodles. “You could surf somewhere else.”

  “Going to Costa Rica in a month. It’ll be my second trip this year. But I grew up here. I can’t imagine living anyplace else. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  I felt anxious to get to the bottom of what had happened to my sister. I would have preferred to question Dirk in the parking lot because splashing around on a surfboard was a huge waste of time: time Wendy did not have. For a few seconds I thought about going back in and catching the shuttle. I needed to check out Turtle Dove Estates, the place where Wendy’s bike had been spotted that morning. Maybe there was a clue there that might point me to where she was being held.

  But having gone to all the trouble to suit up and paddle out, I decided to press Dirk on his whereabouts during Wendy’s abduction.

  “Last night, right before the police arrived, where were you?”

  “Why? You think I had something to do with what happened to your sister?”

  “I saw you standing near the cart path. You must’ve been close to the boathouse to get there that quickly.”

  “I was.”

  Without elaboration, he paddled straight for the smooth green wall towering over us. He pivoted the board quickly and reversed course, took three forceful strokes, and jumped to his feet. With his lanky frame arched backward, he looked like the pictures you see in surf magazines of soul surfers. I managed to clamber over the wave just as it broke under me. There wasn’t enough time to clear the second wave; I was too far inside,
so I frantically kicked and clawed and spun the board around at the exact moment the wave began to rise beneath me. As the board slid forward, I grabbed the sides and pushed myself first onto one knee, then my feet.

  The surfboard shot down the wave.

  I bent my knees and felt the fins respond to the shift in weight and turn the surfboard. I cranked a bottom turn and brought the nose around, drifted up the face, and made a slight correction that, for a few moments, kept me tucked in the pocket. Then suddenly, the wave’s smooth, green wall slammed into me and knocked me off, burying me beneath cold salt water.

  A half hour later I sat on cool, dark sand with the sun warming my face. My feet felt numb, but I didn’t mind. Surfing, even in small waves, was way better than snowboarding at a crowded ski resort.

  “I was at a coffee shop near the marina.” Dirk sat beside me with his wet suit tank top peeled to his waist. “That’s where I was last night, hosting a Bible study at the coffee shop.”

  “How many in your group?”

  “Last night? None. I’m a member of the International Christian Surfers Association. Our numbers fluctuate.”

  “You know, you’re the second person I’ve met today who mentioned something about a Bible study.”

  “This is the Bible belt, bro. Get used to it.”

  I hesitated for a moment before saying, “So … nobody can say for sure you were really there?”

  He cocked his head and smirked. “I guess not. I help run the coffee shop sometimes, but like I said, on Wednesdays we use it for the Bible study. The staff leaves at eight since I’m there. Why? You really think I’d dress up like a zombie and take your sister?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to think. Obviously, you’re in great shape. I mean, you could probably hold your breath for, what, a couple of minutes if you have to?”

  “Longer. Three minutes easy if I’m not exerting myself.” He jumped to his feet and peeled off his wet suit. “Lunch break is almost over, so I’d better get going.”

  Three minutes. Just long enough to swim from shore, surface, and grab the canoe. What if Dirk saw me talking with Officer McDonald after the disappearance, became concerned, and warned the receptionist to keep an eye out for me? Maybe that’s why Officer McDonald spent so much time answering my questions earlier today. It could be that Dirk told McDonald to learn all he could about what I knew, then debrief him in the conference room. The two men had looked as if they shared a secret. Had Officer McDonald hurried me along so the pair could discuss what to do with the nosy Nick Caden?