by Joan Hess
Georgiana smiled wanly. “Please do.”
I was pushed firmly onto a settee beside Agatha Anne. “Where are the girls?” I asked her.
“Out on the barge, familiarizing themselves with some of the islands and coves. They have a map.” She perused the top page on the clipboard and sighed. “Becca was in charge of the arrangements with the hotel, the caterer, the florist, and the band. I can’t tell what deposits have been made, but I can find out on Monday.”
“What if she didn’t make any?” asked Georgiana. “Last year the caterer wanted five thousand dollars in advance. What will we do?”
Livia put aside the invitation. “We’ll write them a check, of course. There should be plenty of money in the account to cover trivial amounts like that. We raised over two hundred thousand dollars last year. Surely some of it went into a reserve fund?”
“Well, yes.” Agatha Anne pretended to write something, but I caught a glimpse of a series of squiggles along the margin before she flipped the page. “But I hate to dip into the reserve. The claims adjuster says we should receive a settlement for the boat within a week. It might be better to use that.”
Livia clucked disapprovingly. “I don’t see why. The Dunling Foundation cannot risk its reputation. Our funding depends on the generosity of the community, and if we are perceived to be careless or even the tiniest bit irregular in our financial dealings, donations will dry up. If the caterer does not have a deposit, he should be sent one as soon as possible. The hotel will not keep the ballroom open indefinitely, and the orchestra may well accept another engagement. Agatha Anne, will you please make the necessary calls Monday morning? If deposits are needed, Georgiana can put the checks in the mail immediately.”
Georgiana’s face seemed to shrink into her frizzy hair, and her voice drifted out in a thin whine. “I’m still trying to straighten out the books, Livia. Becca adopted a system that’s awfully complicated, and I’m having trouble with it. The Dunling Foundation doesn’t want to start bouncing checks with the local merchants.”
“I should say not!”
Agatha Anne leaned forward to pat the older woman’s knee. “Please don’t worry, Livia. Georgiana and I will work on the books all weekend. It’s really just a matter of reconciling the balances of the checking accounts, the money market account, and the various treasury bills and bonds with last year’s expenditures. We’ll start as soon as we’re finished here.”
I raised my hand. “Why was Becca doing the books?”
Georgiana’s eyes began to glitter. “She took over for me when Barry left. I was too distracted by lawyers and hearings to do a proper job, and just looking at all the invoices and statements and canceled checks was enough to…make me want to kill myself!” Sobbing, she ran down the steps and around the corner of the house. Seconds later we heard a car drive across the rocks.
Agatha Anne rose hastily. “Meeting adjourned. Livia, we’ll be at the office in an hour or so and get to work. Luanne, hang on to that list of likely donors for the silent auction, and sometime tomorrow we’ll discuss how best to approach them. Perhaps Claire will help you.” She fluttered her clipboard in farewell, then hurried after Georgiana.
“Ah, well,” Livia said as she stood up, her hand clutching the armrest of the chair to steady herself, “I suppose I’ll wander on now. Wharton will be wanting a martini before long, and I’m not at all sure I have any olives. Do you think he’d notice if I tucked a piece of pimento in a grape?”
Luanne diplomatically aimed her at the sliding glass door. “There are at least three jars of olives in the refrigerator. Please take one with you.”
They went inside. I assumed I was alone, and therefore was startled when Jillian said, “Livia’s like a mockingbird, isn’t she? She can change her tune to fit any occasion. Feeble old woman with a heart condition, or shrewd old autocrat—whatever’s expedient. Georgiana’s more of a one-note singer.”
I jerked my head around and saw her in the shadows at the far end of the deck. “I didn’t intend to break up the meeting,” I said, perhaps mendaciously, “but it does seem curious that Becca was acting as bookkeeper. Did she ever mention having experience in that field?”
“She managed a chic dress shop in Miami, and I think she said something about doing those books. People underestimated her mind because she was so beautiful, but she was very clever. I saw that the first time I met her.”
Luanne came back outside and collapsed into a chair. “I’m not sure how I ended up with the list of donors. I loathe wheedling, and I’m not chummy with all these bank presidents and CEOs. Last year Becca talked them out of several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of goodies.” She ran her fingers through her hair, sighed, and looked at me out of the corner of her eye, “Maybe a tag-team approach would be best. One of us could present the information about the Dunling Foundation’s good deeds, then—”
“Forget it,” I said. “Where’s Dick?”
Luanne opened her mouth, but Jillian cut her off, saying, “He took the boat to go fish by the dam. He said it was his only hope of avoiding Captain Gannet for a few hours. I’m going to run into town to get a newspaper, wine, and some steaks for dinner. Father has yet to catch a fish. If he ever does, he will have invested several thousand dollars in it. It should be tasty.”
After she left, I told Luanne what I’d learned from the Gordons. She listened and nodded right up until I suggested that Dick might have had a motive to do away with his wife.
“You’re wrong,” she said as she went down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house.
“Maybe,” I said to no one but myself, having finally managed to clear the deck, in a manner of speaking. I took a book from my purse, propped my feet on the table, and settled back to spend a pleasant afternoon. The only interruption was a blast from a shotgun, indicating that Wharton’s earlier chortle of triumph had been overly optimistic.
No one had returned by nine. I stood in the kitchen and ate a square of cold lasagna, then carefully rinsed off my plate and put it in the dishwasher. I considered leaving a note, but if Dick was planning to deliver a payoff to the marina at ten o’clock, I had no desire to advertise my presence.
The front right tire of my car was flat. I was not too much of a feminist to accept a manly hand with the lug nuts, but there was no hand in the vicinity. I popped the hatch and started to work.
It was dark by the time I parked on the road above the marina and walked down the eroded road. A lone utility pole cast a weak light on the parking lot and the back of the building. The only vehicle in the lot was a pickup truck, the words “Blackburn Creek Marina” painted on the door. Across the back window was a gun rack, and on the bumper an oblong sticker extolling the virtues of fishing over our cherished Puritan work ethic.
Since this was my first time to attend such an affair, I had no idea of the protocol. Would the victim creep through the woods—or would he (only in the generic sense; I am a firm supporter of equal rights) drive up, toss a bag out the car window, and demand a receipt? In either case, my presence would not be appreciated. I edged around the lot and eased into the heavy shadows next to the office. Light spilled out of the doorway, but I could see no sign of Bubo in the front room. I needed a safer place from which to observe the transaction, I decided as I contemplated the limited possibilities.
Earlier I’d had a clear view of the door from the dock. I tiptoed around the oblong of light and headed for the row of expensive toys. Feeling like a trespasser, I stepped onto a party barge and found a reasonably comfortable spot to sit between two mounted chairs. If someone were to come searching with a flashlight, I would be found within seconds, but I doubted Bubo and his guest would care to prolong their encounter.
My adrenaline began to ebb as I sat and waited, wishing Bubo had been thoughtful enough to provide me with a more precise time. The barge rocked gently, and its creaking was almost soporific. A light breeze had blown away most of the gasoline fumes, and the fishiness seemed le
ss pronounced. In the woods, birds chirped and screeched, and I heard a peculiar call that surely came from a chuck-will’s-widow. Low male laughter drifted across the water. I finally saw a boat several hundred yards away; its occupants appeared to be fishing rather than engaging in an illicit rendezvous.
The office remained empty. No light shone through the bedspread that covered the entrance to the back room, but Bubo’s truck was in the lot. My only hope was that he was waiting in the dark, busily planning how to spend his windfall.
It’s possible that I lapsed into a fantasy about an owl prowl. I was no more familiar with its protocol than I was with that of blackmail, although I had some rather steamy theories. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to insert an image of Peter’s face into the scenario, but it refused to come into focus. Sighing, I leaned against one of the chairs and rested my head on its plastic cushion.
The sound of a boat’s engine roused me from a convoluted dream dominated by hawkish glowers (Peter’s) and spiraling cries (Caron’s). I raised myself to my knees and saw that the fishermen had decided to move on to what they must have felt was a more fertile spot. Dreams are unreliable indicators of the passage of time, and I had no idea how long I’d dozed.
I usually kept a small flashlight in my purse, but I’d locked it in the car and brought only my key. Having breached marine etiquette by trespassing, I decided snooping hardly counted. In a blessedly unlocked compartment I found a flashlight and briefly shone it on my watch. It was well after eleven, which meant I’d slept for at least half an hour. Nothing had changed inside the office; the front room was empty and the back room unlit, so it was likely that I had not missed anything of significance.
I stood up and stretched, replaced the flashlight, and stepped off the barge. As I glanced at the lake, I saw a bobbly light on the far shore. I continued to the end of the dock. Perhaps Anders had persuaded someone else to prowl for owls, I thought wryly, and they were seeking the ideal spot to spread a blanket.
I was speculating on the identity of the distaff owl prowler when something slammed into my back and I went flying off the dock. Spread-eagle, I might add.
8
I hit the surface with a splash—and a gasped expletive—loud enough to be heard across the lake, or even in the next county. My arms flailing, I plunged downward. The coldness of the water did little to encourage a careful analysis of the situation, but it did shock me into action. I floundered to the surface, swallowing several gallons of Turnstone Lake in the process, and managed to suck in a breath before I shoved dribbling hair out of my eyes and glared up at the dock. Whoever shoved me had not lingered to learn if swimming was among my multitudinous talents. Guarding the flank was not, obviously.
“Thanks a lot,” I grumbled as I treaded water. This current dilemma was more than annoying—it was downright infuriating. There was no ladder conveniently situated nearby, and it did not seem likely that my assailant had rushed away to find a life preserver or a pole. It occurred to me that said assailant might have gone to fetch a gun to finish me off. A few cautious movements brought me under the dock, where ribbons of light shone through the planks and glittered on the oily water. I listened for footsteps above my head, but I heard only the creaking of the boats and the blithe chirping of the damn birds. My arms and legs were growing less responsive. If I kicked off my shoes, I would be obliged to walk barefoot across the parking lot and up the road to my car—presuming I did not succumb to hypothermia. Or to a bullet in the forehead.
I couldn’t continue to tread water much longer, but there was nothing to cling to under the dock. As I eyed the slimy pilings, something stroked the back of my neck. I clamped my hand on my mouth to hold back a screech, and tried very hard not to think about snakes or eels or carnivorous catfish or anything else more diabolic than a branch floating in the water. This was not as easy as it would have been were I sitting on my sofa in the middle of a sunny afternoon.
Whatever it was touched my neck again, this time with increased pressure. I turned slowly and saw a hand. It seemed reasonable to keep my own on my mouth for the moment, although small noises were escaping. The hand was white, and its only motion—the rippling of splayed fingers—came from the waves I was generating. It was attached to an arm, which in turn was attached to an oddly bloated torso. The head hung below the water. As I stared, bubbles streamed from beneath it and it began to sink into the blackness.
It was time to Get Out Of The Water (in Caron’s vernacular). If my assailant was waiting to shoot me, he or she was welcome to try. I swam out from under the dock and headed toward the boat ramp, unable to stop myself from imagining the hand reaching for my leg, clamping itself around my ankle, dragging me back to a cold, watery grave. I realized I was whimpering in a most undignified fashion, but I couldn’t stop myself. My arm hit a submerged stick; my subsequent gurgle was distinctly undignified. I spat out a mouthful of water and paddled more frantically. As soon as I felt rocks beneath me, I found my footing and charged up the ramp with the fury of a Rough Rider. The parking lot looked the same. Bubo’s truck was still parked beneath the utility light. I had a reasonable idea of his whereabouts, but it was not the moment to confirm my hypothesis.
Alternately cursing and shuddering, I started for the road where I’d left my car, then stopped in the middle of the lot and forced myself to reconsider. There was a telephone in the office. In the time it would take to drive to Dick’s house and call the sheriff’s office, the corpse might drift out into the lake. The water was cold enough to retard decomposition for weeks, if not longer, and the body would not rise to the surface until sufficient gases formed within the tissue. I’d never seen what the police call a “floater,” but I suspected it was not a pretty sight. The ensuing investigation would be hampered by the nibbling of fish.
I crept down the dock and peeked through the screen door. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, and if my assailant was inside, he or she was either crouched behind the counter or waiting in the unlit back room. I licked my numb lips, then eased open the door, not at all confident that I’d made an astute decision.
“Hello,” I called. “Is anybody here?”
If I’d received an affirmative answer (or even a negative one), I would have been one very unhappy bookseller. All I heard was a distant whippoorwill. Exhaling in relief, I went behind the counter and dialed 911. This resulted in a mechanical voice informing me that my call could not be completed unless I first dialed a one. I dialed a zero instead, and told the operator to connect me with the sheriff’s office. The shrillness with which I did so was effective. A disconcerted deputy promised to send a car as soon as possible, and I reluctantly agreed to wait in the office.
After I’d hung up, I realized my teeth were chattering. Icy trickles from my hair ran down my face and back. My clothes clung to me as if they’d been dipped in glue rather than water; my shoes sloshed with every step. I eyed the bedspread that hung in the doorway of the back room. Peter Rosen had been heard to make acerbic comments about civilians who’d tampered with the scene of a crime, but the only crime I could be sure of had taken place at the end of the dock. The medical examiner would be the one to determine if the corpse under the dock had died of unnatural causes.
I yanked down the bedspread. There was no yelp of surprise or muffled gasp from within the dark room. Once I’d removed my shoes and draped myself in a makeshift sari, I felt for a light switch and turned on what proved to be a bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling. It was obvious that Bubo’s bedroom had been searched. Even the sloppiest housekeepers prefer their mattresses on the bed, their drawers in the bureau, their bowling trophies in some semblance of order. A pillow had been slit, and everything in the room was dusted with tiny white feathers. A framed photograph of Bubo and a dead fish lay on the floor, the glass shattered. Pockets had been ripped off an army surplus jacket. A tackle box lay upturned, and hooks and lures were scattered on the stained linoleum floor.
“What are you dressed up for—an or
gy?”
I spun around and blinked at the figure silhouetted behind the screen door. The stooped shoulders and smirky voice were both familiar. “That was quick, Captain Gannet,” I said levelly.
He came inside and sat down next to one of the round tables as if he were going to have a late supper. If he’d pulled out his handkerchief and tucked it under his chin, I would have burst out laughing—despite the fact I was wet, cold, and had been swimming with a corpse. As it was, only a slightly hysterical giggle escaped, I bit my lip and waited.
“What was quick, Mrs. Malloy?” he said as he took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and placed it in the middle of the table in lieu of a more elegant centerpiece. “Surely you’re not referring to my wit?”
“Not at all. I called the sheriff’s office no more than three minutes ago. The adolescent who took my call said it might take as much as ten or fifteen minutes to get an officer here.”
“You and Bubo in the mood for three-way sex? You’re not too bad for a middle-aged broad, even with your hair plastered down like that, but as for Bubo—well, he’s just not my type.”
All of the potential responses that flashed through my mind were apt to land me in a jail cell. I settled for a humorless chuckle, then said, “I called the sheriff’s office because of the dead body under the dock. If you’ve finished making ribald remarks, you might want to see if it’s still there. I didn’t see a face, but Bubo’s truck is here and he’s not. Furthermore, his room is in noticeable disarray. I’m just a middle-aged broad having a bad hair night, but I would suggest that someone searched it.”
He did not take this well. His face turned the color of raw beef and his eyes bulged. Spittle formed in the corner of his mouth, and I could tell he was on the verge of a major exhibition of outrage. I was a little disappointed when headlights flashed on the dock and car doors slammed.
“Goodness, we have company,” I said as I sailed out the door to greet the troops.