Tickled to Death

by Joan Hess

  After a few mistakes, I arrived at a squatty weathered building. A long dock ran alongside it, with three more jutting out like the cross strokes of an E. The farthest one was covered. Under the metal roof were cabin cruisers, party barges, elegant motorboats, and sailboats with neatly furled sails. A gas pump stood at one corner of the marina office, which was decorated with signs stating the availability of bait and beer. As I cut off the engine, a gangly boy carrying a quantity of each walked down the pier to a prosaic fishing boat, and he was pulling away as I stepped onto the dock and gloomily asked myself what on earth I was doing.

  In the past, I had stumbled across a number of murders camouflaged as accidents. I’d searched for motives and opportunities, shrewdly interrogated suspects, and at least metaphorically crawled on the floor in search of clues—all to prove a murder had been committed. I had no idea how to prove one hadn’t. For all intents and purposes, I was to assume everyone was telling the truth. There were no suspects, no clues, no motives or opportunities. There were no red herrings in Turnstone Lake. So what was I supposed to do?

  To add to my exasperation, I was investigating a noncrime from three months earlier. It’s not remarkably uncommon in mystery fiction, and some of my favorite sleuths have taken on cases in which the murders occurred decades earlier. Somehow, a few clues always remained, and a few convenient suspects were still alive. That, regrettably, was fiction. In real life, few of us can effortlessly remember events from the previous week, much less from months earlier. Bubo’s reticence might lie in nothing more ominous than a substandard memory.

  I walked out on the middle dock and looked back at the parking lot. According to the story, Becca’d arrived in a cloud of dust, leaped from her car, and dashed to the foundation’s boat. As she pulled away from the slip, her perfect hair streaming, Agatha Anne had arrived and joined Bubo, who was yelling ineffectually at Becca to return. Less than a minute later, the boat had exploded.

  I went to the covered dock, where I assumed the slips were rented on a permanent basis. From where I stood, the door of the office was approximately forty feet away. The door itself was open, but a warped and rusty screen door obscured the interior. It was not inconceivable that Becca’s arrival had gone unnoticed until the moment when the boat’s engine roared. The noise would have drowned out any voices, and with her back to the marina, she would not have seen anyone waving.

  Wondering what disturbed Captain Gannet about the scenario, I went to the screen door and entered a large room with a few tables and chairs, a rack with postcards, a humming soda machine, open-topped coolers, and a counter laden with paraphernalia crucial to the gentle art of jerking fish out of the water by snagging their lips with metal barbs. Photographs of sportive souls who had experienced success in such humanitarian pursuits were thumb tacked to the walls amid curling yellow newspaper clippings and antiquated license plates. A crudely printed sign announced the winners of a bass tournament from two years in the past. Perchance this year’s would feature sopranos.

  A man came through a doorway covered with what appeared to be a threadbare bedspread. He was in his twenties, with untrimmed but well-lubricated black hair, a thin nose, and the squinty eyes of someone who has at least momentarily contemplated a career as a serial killer. The sleeves of his blue cotton shirt had been chopped off to expose an amateurish tattoo on his spindly arm, and his jeans hung precariously on his gaunt hips.

  He flashed tobacco-stained teeth at me. “Help you out?” he drawled in a tone that insinuated he was referring to my clothes. He emphasized the message by licking his lips and gazing at my admittedly svelte body.

  “No, I’m just browsing. Are you the owner?”

  “I suppose you can say I’m the manager, but it’s a stretch. You interested in those fillet knives? That stainless-steel number on the far left can slice open a fish’s belly in no time flat. You just poke the tip in and let ’er rip.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, swallowing as I tried not to envision the technique. I went to the soda machine and fumbled in my purse for quarters.

  “My treat,” Bubo said over my shoulder, enveloping me in a sour odor as he put coins in the slot. “What’s your preference?”

  I wanted to mention a particular brand of deodorant, but randomly punched a button and grabbed the can when it rattled into the tray. I sat down in the nearest chair, hoping he could not sense my apprehension. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was thin to the point of emaciation and had the pasty, porous skin and reddish eyes of a heavy drinker. Then again, I had no desire to find myself in a shoving match with someone less congenial than a junkyard dog.

  He leaned against the machine, his pelvis thrust forward and his fingers kneading his thighs. “Funny place to browse.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about buying a house out here, and I wanted to find out what’s available.”

  “I’m available most every evening after nine. My name’s Bubo Limpkin. Yours is…?”

  “Not important,” I said with a chuckle that may have sounded a bit manic (or similar to that of a chuck-will’s-widow). “You don’t seem to have many customers, Bubo. I’m surprised you’re not busier on a Saturday morning.”

  “The real fishermen are already out on the lake. The college kids start showing up later in the morning, some of ’em already drunk. God, I hate those rich, snotty brats.”

  “What about the people who have lake houses? Do they use their boats on a regular basis?” I pointed toward the covered dock. “Is that where they keep their boats?”

  “Some of them.” He went behind the counter, disappeared briefly, and emerged with a can of beer. “Hate to let the damn frat boys get too much of a head start,” he said as he popped the top and grinned at me. “Want one?”

  “No, thank you. I believe we were discussing the homeowners. Is that far dock where they keep their boats?”

  “Like I said, some of them. Right now I don’t got any more slips to rent, but if you ask me sweetly, I might be persuaded to reserve one for you. What kind of boat are you thinking about? Party barge—or one with a snug cabin?”

  I pretended to consider his question for a moment. “I might enjoy a cabin cruiser, but I’ve heard they can be dangerous because of the potential for fuel leaks. Wasn’t there an accident in this very area a few months ago that involved propane?”

  “Yeah, but it was a fluke. Those boats are as safe as a bedroom. I sleep in the back room, myself. It’s fixed up real nice. Wanna see it?”

  At this rate, Caron and Inez would have time to locate and identify all eight thousand species of birds, return to the lodge to pack, and be halfway to the highway before I gleaned one fragment of enlightenment. Furthermore, it seemed possible that sooner or later I would find myself in hand-to-hand combat with dear Bubo Limpkin if I allowed him to continue to manipulate the conversation. I opted for a Machiavellian tactic.

  “I can tell you’re on to me, Bubo,” I said admiringly. “Okay, I’m not a potential buyer. I’m an undercover insurance investigator. We’re not satisfied with the accident report, and before we pay the claim, we want to reexamine the facts.”

  “Suit yourself,” he mumbled as he took a fillet knife from the counter and pulled it out of its leather casing. He slid the blade across his thumb. “This is one sharp mama, this one. You know, I don’t recollect ever hearing of an undercover insurance agent. All the ones I’ve met can’t wait to shake my hand and tuck a business card in my pocket. Why would you be undercover?”

  “Think of me as a private investigator,” I said as I forced my gaze away from the knife blade. “If you’ll just run through what happened on the day of the accident, you can get back to work and I can head for the office.”

  “I ain’t gonna talk about it.”

  “Maybe not to the press, but why not to me? I’m just doing my job, as were you the day of the accident. From what I’ve been told, Agatha Anne Gallinago reported a suspicious odor in the cabin that morning and asked you to check it. Late th
at afternoon, Becca Cissel arrived to take the boat, and you were out on the dock when the boat exploded. Is that right?”

  “Close enough.” He crumpled the empty can and tossed it into an overflowing plastic garbage sack. “Look, lady, I don’t get paid to stand around and gab about what happened three months ago. I got things to do, so why don’t you finish your soda and get the hell out of here?”

  “Did Captain Gannet order you not to discuss it?”

  “I don’t take orders from him or anybody else. I got my own reasons for not talking about it, and plenty of them. You think I like this pissant job and a pissant salary that ain’t enough to keep a body in beer and chaw? A week from now I’ll be in Las Vegas, drinking champagne while a sweet little thing gives me a massage right down to the tips of my toes. If you want, we can go in the back and see how it feels. If not, scram.”

  “Is someone paying you not to talk about the accident?”

  He came around the end of the counter, the knife in his hand, and started toward me. I decided it might be prudent to continue our chat at a later date, put down the can, and strode briskly across the room. No knife embedded itself in my back as I banged open the screen door, but I could feel a distinct tingle between my shoulder blades.

  Once outside, I paused to wipe a sheen of perspiration off my forehead, then walked back to the dock where the residents’ boats gently rocked. There was a fishiness to the air, not unsurprisingly, and a noticeable smell of gasoline. As I continued to the end, I spotted several dead fish drifting nearby, their eyes rounded with disbelief at their demise. The surface of the water was oily and littered with oddments of plastic and sodden paper. Lakes, I decided, were best appreciated from a civilized distance. Like Farberville, for instance.

  I retraced my steps and was starting for my car when I heard Bubo’s voice from inside the office. I eased to the edge of the screen door.

  “She says she’s an insurance investigator,” he snarled, “but I don’t care if she’s from the FBI. The ante has gone up and I want the money tonight.” After a lull, he added, “That’s what I said—tonight. If you don’t show up by ten, I’m gonna start giving out interviews to anybody with a checkbook!”

  A telephone receiver was replaced with superfluous vigor. I hurried around the corner of the building and crashed into a motionless figure. He caught my arm to steady me, then released me and stepped back to regard me with a smirky smile. Between gasps, I reciprocated as best I could. He was at least sixty, with an egg-shaped head above broad, dandruff-spotted shoulders and a much broader paunch. His hair was wiry and peppered with gray, his skin mottled with freckles and warts. He wore a frayed suit, a white shirt, and a tie that would not have sold at a garage sale. And I had a really good theory as to his identity.

  “I’ve heard all about you, Mrs. Malloy,” he said in a voice as smirky as his expression. “Now I have the honor of meeting you in person to find out if your reputation is deserved.”

  “How do you know who I am?” I said coolly.

  “Last night I just happened to drive by my friend Dick Cissel’s house and saw an unfamiliar car. I’m curious by nature, always have been, so I ran the plate this morning and made some calls. I learned all sorts of things about you, your daughter, your duplex, your bookstore—and your reputation. You are a busy little snoop, aren’t you?”

  “You people who live out here need to find another topic of conversation, Captain Gannet. I’d suggest the national deficit or the environment, for starters, and then maybe the civil wars in Eastern Europe. I’m flattered that everyone seems so intrigued by me, but it’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

  “Heard about your mouth, too,” he said as he took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, then blew a stream of smoke into my fuce.

  My eyes stung, but I refused to blink. “I can’t begin to convey how much I’ve enjoyed this, but I must be on my way.”

  He stepped in front of me. “Not just yet, Mrs. Malloy. I need to make something clear. You may have a free rein in Farberville on account of your boyfriend in the CID, but that doesn’t wash in this county. You just get in your car and go on home, and don’t come back until the eagles do. Most years that’d be December.”

  I was so stunned that I was at a loss for a response. At last I found my voice, stepped back only far enough to escape his foul breath and smoky emanations, and said, “I will not be bullied, Captain Gannet. I came to visit friends, and I shall return whenever I desire. I have no interest in what washes in this county. Apparently some of the residents do not on a regular basis.”

  “Your friend Dick Cissel might have trouble washing the bloodstains off his hands.” He moved out of my path and gestured for me to go past him. “Drive home carefully, Mrs. Malloy, and watch for deer in the road. A couple of kids hit a buck last year, and their car flipped into a tree. One of them had a broken neck, the other two broken legs and a ruptured spleen.”

  “Thank you for your concern.” I stalked around him, got in my car, and left him in a rain of gravel and a cloud of dust. I turned on the first road I came to, then pulled over and cut off the engine to allow myself to regain control of my temper. I’d heard blunter lectures from Peter concerning my involvement in criminal matters, but he was always polite about it. Gannet was lucky I had not given in to the impulse to kick him in the shin. I rather wished he’d accosted me on the end of the dock—and subsequently found himself treading water with dead fish.

  I still had several hours to kill before I went back to Dunling Lodge. I’d worn out my welcome at the marina, alas, and I’d not noticed a mall in the vicinity where I could idle away the time. I did have a book in my overnight bag (the motto of a dedicated mystery reader: be prepared), so I decided to find a picnic area and amuse myself in an uneventful fashion.

  The road proved to be a dead end. Sighing, I turned around and tried again, being careful to avoid the road to the marina. I mentally replayed the conversation with Bubo. He’d implied he was blackmailing someone, and his remarks on the telephone seemed to confirm it. Had he noticed someone tampering with the boat? Rather than responding to Agatha Anne’s directive to check for a fuel leak, had he approached the guilty party and agreed on a price? If so, he would be an accessory to premeditated murder and hardly inclined to give interviews. Had Captain Gannet been the least bit gracious, I would have told him about the call I’d overheard seconds before we collided. As it was, I wouldn’t have told him about a meteor plummeting toward his head.

  I narrowly avoided a pickup truck filled with screaming children and grim parents, and seconds later, another dragging a boat on a trailer. Picnic areas seemed noticeably lacking, or cleverly hidden. I realized I was approaching Dunling Lodge and kept my eyes on the road as I passed the top of the driveway. I was definitely going in circles, which was not catastrophic, but at some point I would run out of gas. The Rover was not parked in front of Dick’s house.

  Grumbling to myself, I tried another road, this one deeply rutted and cluttered with loose rocks and beer cans. At the bottom of the hill was a trailer. It was sadly neglected and unkempt, bleached with age, surrounded by waist-high weeds and the skeletal shells of unidentifiable appliances. Behind the trailer were obscure structures of splintery boards, tin, and chicken wire.

  As I eased over a particularly treacherous rut, a man came from behind the trailer and yelled, “Hello! Can you be doing me a favor?”

  I braked and looked at him. He was very blond, very tan, very tall. His legs were long and muscular, as were his arms, and he moved with the grace of a gymnast. He wore a tight T-shirt that emphasized his chest and shoulder muscles, and little bitty shorts that emphasized other muscles best left unspecified. As he came to the edge of the road, I got a better look at his deep blue eyes and lopsided smile. He had a charmingly boyish face, but at this distance I put his age at forty.

  “I did not mean to alarm you,” he continued in a lilting Nordic accent. “It is only that my truck will not start and I am needing a ride
to Dunling Lodge. I am Anders Hammerqvist.”

  “Claire Malloy,” I said weakly.

  “Luanne’s friend, yes? She has told me all about you. You lead a most exciting life, from what I have heard.”

  My personal incarnate of Boswell could save time if she wrote my biography and distributed a copy to everyone who came to Turnstone Lake. “Don’t you operate a facility for wounded birds?” I said.

  “Yes, that is exactly what I do. Would you like to investigate it, too?”

  “Too?”

  “Luanne says that you are here to help Dick clear his name. He is a kind man who would never hurt anyone. You can park here and I will show you what birds are now in my care. Last week I had three hawks and a barn owl, but yesterday two of the hawks were able to be released. I also have a litter of rabbits and a rattlesnake that was run over in the road. In the winter I often have eagles as my guests. They are my favorites.”

  I parked the car and got out. “Did you rescue an eagle the day of Becca’s accident?”

  “No,” he said, his affable smile replaced with an odd look. “Agatha Anne told me that Becca had been told of an injured eagle on Little Pine Island. A deputy and I took my boat and went there, but I was not seeing an eagle. This was strange, was it not?”

  6

  As we went around the corner of the trailer, we were greeted by a piercing scream. I grabbed Anders’s arm. “What was that?” I managed to whisper despite the sudden dryness of my mouth.

  “One of my guests,” he said, covering my hand with his and squeezing it. “He is easily startled. The owl will also hiss or scream at you if you get too near. I do not need a watchdog with these two around.”

  I warily admired the red-tailed hawk, while he regarded me through the wiring with immeasurable malevolence. Anders proudly showed me fresh scars on his wrists from attempts to coax the bird onto a heavy leather glove. The idea struck me as masochistic. The hawk was almost two feet high from head to tip, and its beak curled downward at an ideal angle to rip flesh. It appeared eager to do so at any time, including the present. As we stood there, the holes in the chicken wire seemed to grow larger, the wire itself thinner, and the plywood less firmly secured.