Tickled to Death

by Joan Hess

  The ensuing hours did not sail by. A deputy gave me a thermos of coffee, then stationed himself by the door. Men huddled on the dock, conversing in low voices and barking orders in loud ones. The sheriff himself arrived, and after I’d talked to him, I found myself longing for Gannet’s smirk and dandruff-coated shoulders. Flashlights competed with headlights. Car radios crackled. The back room was photographed and some of the more promising objects were examined for fingerprints. Despite my repeated avowals that I had not stepped foot in the room or touched anything except the telephone, I was deemed as promising as a bowling trophy. I cleaned my fingers on the bedspread.

  Two divers in shiny black wet suits worked off a barge, and at dawn they brought up the body. It was Bubo, to no one’s surprise. Gannet identified him, the coroner pronounced him dead, and the ambulance crew zipped him up in a plastic bag and took him away. The sheriff conferred with Gannet and left, as did the coroner, whose pajama cuffs were visible around his ankles.

  Only then did Gannet come into the office, kick out a chair, drop his bulk into it, and rub his red-lined eyes. His lower face was gray with emerging whiskers, and I suspected his breath had not improved after many hours of cigarettes and coffee.

  “Let’s go through it one more time, Mrs. Malloy,” he said wearily. “Yesterday morning you overheard Bubo threaten someone on the phone. You kept it to yourself, naturally, because you fancy yourself to be a hotshot amateur sleuth. You came back here at ten o’clock to find out the identity of the blackmail victim. Either Bubo was already dead or you were asleep at the critical moment.”

  “If there was a critical moment,” I said. “Isn’t it likely that Bubo was killed by some redneck looking for money?”

  “Even rednecks are wily enough to open the cash register. The money’s still there. Bubo was infamous for begging for credit at the bars by the middle of the month. The only things anybody’d expect to find in his bedroom are fleas and used condoms.”

  “Then Bubo got drunk and walked off the edge of the dock.”

  “We haven’t ruled out anything. There’s a contusion on the back of his head, so he could have knocked himself unconscious on one of the boats as he fell. The boys’ll start looking for smears of blood when it gets lighter. It’s a real shame you won’t be able to enjoy the sunshine from your cell.”

  “What’s the charge?” I countered. Even though my hair and clothes were dry, I began to shiver. I’d done time in the Farberville jail. Okay, I’d been out within half an hour—but the experience had not been agreeable and I’d refused to accept my mug shot as a souvenir. “Is it against the law in this county to swim after midnight?”

  “Save your smart remarks for your boyfriend on the Farberville police force. Around here, we prosecute folks for interfering in an investigation. You should have told me what you heard, and until you come up with an acceptable explanation why you didn’t, you can sit in a cell.”

  I gave him a facetiously surprised look. “I have an explanation, Captain Gannet. You’re a bully and a pig. I don’t like you.”

  He took his cigarettes from his shirt pocket and hunted through his other pockets for a lighter. Or for handcuffs, I thought uneasily as I watched him. He finally found a book of matches, and once he’d lit a cigarette, said, “So now you got all the answers. That’s just great, Mrs. Malloy. Here’s another question for you—where is Dick Cissel’s boat? I happen to know he rents a slip out there, but at the moment it’s as empty as a dead man’s eyes. When you surfaced from your little swim, did you hear a boat leaving the marina?”

  “No, I did not,” I said, refraining from mentioning the boat that had awakened me. It had left several minutes before what Gannet condescendingly had described as my “little swim.” “Why are you so quick to assume Dick had anything to do with this?”

  He regarded me through a swirl of smoke, his mouth puckered and his eyes thoughtful. “Well, it’s like this. If he arranged the so-called accident that killed his wife, then he’s the logical candidate for blackmail. He may have decided it was cheaper to bash Bubo on the back of his head and leave him floating beside the dock than to pay him off. We redneck cops are always sniffing around for motive and opportunity, and Dick Cissel has both. Where’s his boat?”

  “Jillian mentioned that he’d gone fishing, which I gather is one of the more conventional activities at a lake. There’s no evidence that he arranged anything. Agatha Anne reported the propane leak that morning, and no one could have predicted that Becca would take out the boat before the leak was repaired. Dick wasn’t even at his lake house that day.”

  “How insightful, Mrs. Malloy.” Gannet rocked back and folded his arms across his broad belly. “However, he was seen at this marina the night before, long after he claimed to have gone back to Farberville. His Range Rover was parked up the hill where your car is right now.”

  “Seen by whom?”

  “Seen by a witness with no reason to lie. Cissel, on the other hand, has plenty of reasons to lie. I checked his long-distance bill for the day of the accident. He made a short call from his home in Farberville to his lake house. The so-called accident happened half an hour later, which I estimate is long enough for his wife to call the Gallinago house and leave a message on the answering machine, drive here, and take off for the island to save an injured eagle. Problem is, the Swedish vet and one of my deputies went out there and found nothing. The report was a fake. It was made to get Becca Cissel on that boat.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “How could the caller know that Becca wouldn’t get hold of anyone else? If Agatha Anne or Georgiana had been home, one of them could have been on the boat with Becca.”

  “Maybe he didn’t care, Mrs. Malloy. I need to go home and shave before I get down to business. I’ll allow you to go to Cissel’s house if you promise to stay there until I say otherwise.”

  I assured him that I would and exited before he changed his petty, dictatorial mind. My car was as I’d left it, although the windshield had been graced with a white blemish. The culprit had flown, but its parting gift seemed an appropriate summation of the night.

  I found my way back to the house with only a few false turns. In that it was not yet seven o’clock, I tapped softly on the front door. When no one appeared, I determined that it was locked and went around to the deck. The sliding glass doors were also locked. I lay down on the wicker settee and put my arm across my eyes, wishing I’d brought the ink-stained bedspread with me. Despite the frenetic twittering of birds and the distant sounds of truly dedicated fishermen, I fell asleep.

  “Claire? What on earth are you doing out there?”

  I opened one eye and squinted at Luanne, who stood in the doorway with a cup of coffee. Her hair and makeup were immaculate. She wore a silky peignoir and matching slippers, as if she anticipated being swept into a musical comedy. I opened the other eye and determined that the sun was significantly higher. “Sleeping,” I said crossly. “Is there cream in that coffee?”

  “What happened to your hair?”

  I sat up and tried to salvage my comely red curls. The movement sent barbs of pain to my neck, which had been forced into an unnatural angle due to the limitations of the settee. When you, Dick, and Jillian failed to return last night, I went for a swim at the marina.”

  “You did what?”

  She was in the mood for questions, but I’d already had my quota for the day. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a mug of coffee, and returned to the deck. Before she could resume her interrogation, I related the events of the night, omitting particulars of the final conversation with Gannet. “He’s liable to show up anytime,” I added, “and he’ll want to know where everyone was from sunset until midnight.”

  Luanne tried to laugh, but the result had a strangled edge. “We certainly weren’t at the Blackburn Creek Marina. I walked down to Anders’s trailer. We talked about eagles until it grew dark, then he drove me back. I assumed you’d gone to Farberville. Jillian called to say she’d decided to s
tay in town.”

  “What about Dick? Did he fish all night?”

  “He was in a remote cove when the boat’s motor conked out. He paddled to a marina, but it was closed and everyone gone. He had to walk for hours down back roads until he found a house where the occupants were awake and willing to let him make a phone call. He called me about eleven-thirty and I picked him up half an hour later.”

  “Gannet’s going to love the lack of alibis,” I said as I finished the coffee and put down the mug.

  “Why do we need alibis? Did Gannet say something you didn’t tell me? Did he accuse Dick of this—this thing?”

  Honesty is critical to friendship, but not necessarily indispensable. “No, not really,” I murmured, “but he has questions.” I went to the rail and looked across the cove at Dunling Lodge. Its mistress was sharing the picnic table with various birds and squirrels—and her binoculars were aimed squarely at me. I waved, then dropped my hand as I remembered the rippling white fingers under the dock. “I wonder how the girls are doing. I don’t see them on the patio.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Luanne said coldly. “I wish you’d be honest with me, Claire. If Gannet’s determined to link Dick with Bubo’s accident, he must have said something.”

  “Bubo’s accident?” Dick said as he came out the doorway with a plate of pastries and a pot of coffee. “What happened?”

  Between bites, I again related the story, then stopped to think over what I’d said. “Bubo must have been dead when I arrived. He could have fallen off the dock, or he could have been hit on the head and encouraged to fall. In either case, the splash would have awakened me. But someone was there more than an hour later.”

  “Impressive reasoning,” Gannet said from the bottom of the steps. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help myself when I heard the dulcet tones of Mrs. Malloy here. I’m beginning to think her reputation is deserved.” He came onto the deck, dressed in a fresh shirt and a jacket already dotted with ashes and flakes. I noted with a flicker of pleasure that his eyes were still red and he’d nicked his chin while shaving. “I had a word with the medical examiner at the hospital in Farberville,” he continued. “Normally the body sinks right after death, but Bubo was wearing a nylon jacket that trapped enough air to keep him afloat right up until Mrs. Malloy disturbed the water. But it couldn’t have kept him up very long.”

  “Then why didn’t I hear a splash?” I said.

  Gannet shrugged. “Guess there wasn’t one. We found an empty whiskey bottle over by the boat ramp. There wasn’t any blood on it, but there weren’t any fingerprints, either. We’re wondering if someone used the bottle to bash Bubo, eased him into the water, and then washed it and put it down real quietly so as not to bother Mrs. Malloy while she was taking herself a nice little nap.” He bared his teeth at Luanne and Dick, who were as motionless as salt and pepper shakers. “Now, if you two would be so kind as to tell me where you were last night…?”

  I went inside to take a scalding shower and change into clean shorts and a T-shirt. I then polished off another square of cold lasagna, and was conscientiously rinsing the plate when Luanne came into the kitchen.

  “That dreadful man!” she said as she snatched the plate from me and jammed it into the dishwasher. Glasses and silverware clinked nervously.

  “Shall I assume you’re referring to Gannet?”

  “Of course I am! He made Dick go with him to the other marina to verify that there’s something wrong with the boat. He said there was plenty of time for Dick to have gone to the Blackburn Creek Marina to murder Bubo and then return to the other marina and hike up the road to call me.”

  I stepped out of her way as she began to pace, grumbling and reeling about like a windup toy. The kitchen was large enough to accommodate such activity; if she’d tried it in my kitchen, she would have imperiled her toes. “Gannet does seem bent on proving Dick is guilty of something,” I said as I retreated behind the breakfast bar.

  “Or me! He pointed out that I was alone last night. Dick almost punched him in the nose, but he just said that I could have done it. He’s not all that convinced that you didn’t do it.”

  “Me? Oh, that makes a lot of sense. I killed Bubo and shoved his body into the water, then threw myself off the dock so that I could discover the body and report it to the authorities.”

  Luanne paused in midstep. “That’s a fairly accurate synopsis of what he said.”

  “Why stop there? Why not accuse us all of conspiracy? What about Agatha Anne and Georgiana? The Dunlings? Why leave out the Gordons and the lecherous vet?” I threw up my hands and forced Luanne to retreat as I commanded the track. “And the entire membership of the Audubon Society! Maybe Bubo was shooting partridges in pear trees. Livia Dunling called the national headquarters and they sent out a murder of crows! In that case, the coroner will be dealing with ‘caws’ of death!”

  “What is wrong with you?” Caron said from the doorway. “Are you doing this menopause thing again?”

  Luanne hustled her into the living room before I could leap across the breakfast bar. “Your mother has been accused of murder, Caron, and she’s not handling it well,” I heard her say in a voice that was not entirely sympathetic.

  “Who’s she accused of murdering?” Caron asked in a voice that was not entirely incredulous, for that matter. “Anybody I know?”

  I followed them into the room. “Probably, since you and Inez took out the barge yesterday. My purported victim is the man who ran the marina.”

  “Oh, him. He leered at us just like the chemistry teacher started doing before they took him away in an unmarked van.” Having dismissed my heinous crime, she turned to more important matters. “Is there anything to eat around here? We had fish and canned peas for dinner last night and bran for breakfast. I’m so dizzy I barely made it here.” She emphasized her condition by collapsing on the sofa and sighing plaintively. “My stomach stopped growling ages ago. I think it’s devouring itself out of starvation.”

  Luanne offered to make a sandwich and went into the kitchen. Considering the contents of the refrigerator, it was likely to be made with pâté rather than peanut butter. I sat down and steeled myself for another outburst if Caron was confronted with liver.

  “Where’s Inez?” I asked.

  “Addressing envelopes. If she keeps at it, she should be done in six or eight hours.”

  “Why aren’t you doing the same thing?”

  She raised her head to give me an injured look. “Agatha Anne said my handwriting was too sloppy for her expensive envelopes. I was supposed to file a bunch of stuff, but I decided to take a break and root for truffles. There weren’t any alongside the road.”

  “You have attractive handwriting,” I said sternly.

  “Not in this weakened state,” she said as her head fell back and she closed her eyes. “I could barely dot the i’s, much less cross the t’s. Inez may appear wimpy, but she has a much stronger constitution. She was scribbling her heart out when I stumbled out of the office.”

  She was more likely to have slithered out a window when Inez wasn’t looking, but for some inexplicable reason, I was reluctant to launch into a lecture about betraying one’s best friend. “Were you and Inez in the office last night?” I asked.

  “Yeah, for a couple of hours. Agatha Anne and Georgiana had all these checkbooks and ledgers spread out all over everything. They kept spouting off numbers until I thought I’d go mad. As long as they have enough money to pay me next weekend, they can pretend to be vice-presidents of the Chase Manhattan Bank all they want—and as long as I don’t have to be there. Inez and I sat on the floor in a corner and sorted millions of stupid brochures. All of a sudden Georgiana started crying. Agatha Anne told us to beat it.”

  “In those exact words?”

  “No, Mother. She told us we were excused for the rest of the evening and we needed to work on our owls. The only thing I’d like to do to an owl is stuff it. Don’t you think a great horned owl w
ould look nifty on the mantel? Better yet, I could hold it up in Rhonda Maguire’s bedroom window and hoot. Supposedly they go hoo, hoo-hoo, HOO HOO. Rhonda would wet her pants!”

  Luanne looked a little bewildered as she returned. “What was that supposed to be—an ocean liner?” she said as she set a plate on the coffee table.

  Caron suspiciously lifted the top slice of bread. “What’s this?”

  I grabbed my purse and hurried out the front door, although not in time to avoid hearing a horrified voice say, “Goose liver?”

  I drove up to the road and stopped, since I had no destination in mind. Captain Gannet had ordered me to stay at the house until he gave me permission to leave, but he was at the far end of the lake. It was tempting to go to Farberville. I would be brought back in handcuffs and leg irons, however, and not even Peter could save me. Not that he would necessarily try, I thought with a twinge of remorse for my arch refusal to consider the cruise. He’d probably been sitting home in front of the television, watching a dreary baseball game and eating cold pizza at the precise time I’d been fantasizing about Anders Hammerqvist.

  I drove to the convenience store and went inside to call Farberville’s Finest and apologize. Obliquely, of course, but with great sincerity. After digging out all my change, I called Peter’s house. He answered on what would have been the last ring had he not picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” I began, intending to ease into the apology when it seemed suitable.

  “Oh, Claire,” he said, breathlessly rather than delightedly. “What’s up?”

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  There was a pause. “Well, I guess you are. I invited some of the guys from the department to play touch football and cook hamburgers. I called you Friday evening, all day yesterday, and a couple of times this morning. Where are you?”

  In the background I heard outbursts of laughter and bantering. Not all of “the guys” had gruff, masculine voices; some of them were sopranos. I explained that I’d come to the lake on Friday, intending to return home the following morning. I was about to elaborate on the cause of the delay when one of the sopranos called, “Come on, Rosen! It’s first and ten, and you’re the quarterback!”