The Nutting Girl

by Fred DeVecca

  “Do you know when that was taken?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure. It’s all time-coded. That stuff with her was last night from about five to nine p.m. She was walking around there for like four hours.”

  We watched it again. And again. And again.

  Chapter Forty

  Pale Like a White Rock

  The next afternoon, they pulled a body out of the river. Not far downstream from the dam by the Potholes. Not far from where Julie went in. Where she went in twice, apparently. But most importantly, where she went in just two nights ago, as had been captured in Lorenzo’s pictures.

  Details were difficult to ascertain. No one who knew anything was talking, or if they were, they didn’t know anything. I first heard about it from chatter on the streets. Town was abuzz, and a thousand different versions were rattling about.

  The version that sounded most likely was that a fisherman had found it—her. He saw the hair slicked back on what he thought was a rock, but upon closer inspection proved to be a human head—pale like a white rock. They were not reporting her identity, pending final confirmation and notification of next of kin. That meant fingerprints, DNA, but if in fact it was Julie, I knew nothing about her next of kin.

  Sarah said Julie had no next of kin. Her mother was dead. Her father was unknown. She had no siblings or spouse or children. I had no idea who the authorities would notify, if anybody. Maybe Mooney. But I wasn’t sure if anybody but Sarah and Edith and I knew where to find him. The internet still had no reports on his whereabouts.

  So we waited. I went down to the police station and talked to Loomis about the body they found, but he knew nothing. Or at least that’s what he told me. He said the feds were handling this and he was completely out of the loop. He did say that no further information would be released until they found a next of kin to notify.

  I believe Sarah and I were both feeling the same way—numb. There was a curious calm. There appeared to be not much doubt that she was, finally, gone—that the body they dragged out was our Nutting Girl. This realization dropped on us like a lump going down our throats, and it landed right in the solar plexus and sat there. Occasionally, Sarah would sniffle and suppress a tear. But all this had been building up and then settling back, over and over and over again. So it was as if we had lived it before. It was a horrible repeat, but its familiarity kept it from tearing us apart. As did the tiniest thread of hope that the body was not hers.

  Sarah started it. “I’d love to see those pictures again,” she said.

  “Which ones?”

  “The new ones. From two nights ago.”

  “Well, we know where to find Lorenzo. He’s either at the West End or in his room at Cello Lady’s.”

  He was at Cello Lady’s. I think she was playing Telemann. We asked him to call up the pictures again.

  He pointed to his computer, sitting on the small table. “Yeah. It’s still there. It’s up now. That’s all I’ve been watching.”

  So we watched it once more. Then twice more. Then three times more.

  On the third time around, as the very last frame played through, Sarah hollered, “Stop!”

  “Lorenzo said, “Okay, yeah. I’ve seen it too many times too.”

  “No,” she said, “freeze that last frame.”

  So he did.

  “Lorenzo, can you zoom up into the right-hand corner?”

  “Sure.”

  This was the picture right after the one where the girl was last seen. She was standing on the lip of one of the Potholes in the next to last shot. In this one, she was gone.

  Lorenzo played with some controls and zoomed up to the right-hand corner. It was near the top of the rocks, near where the water rolled down over the dam, where a person could get enough footholds to walk away from the falls and onto solid ground.

  There it was—blurry, out of focus, little more than a smudge, really. A figure, human, walking away from the scene. A tall figure, slumped over—whatever confidence it once had was gone. That figure had given up on pretty much everything, including life in general. It moved slowly, not out of indecision, but out of pure bone and soul weariness.

  When you are partially blind, like me, you learn to identify people by cues other than their coloring—their eyes, their face, their hair. The main way you identify them is by body carriage. It’s unscientific, I guess, but I’ve learned that each person’s body carriage is unique, like DNA, like fingerprints.

  There was no doubt who this figure was. It was Mooney. Mooney was there at the falls at the same time Julie dove in, or more likely was pushed.

  Julie went into the river once, a month ago, and was alive when Bert picked her up. Then she went in again two nights ago, with Mooney nearby.

  What the hell was going on, anyway?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Another One Gulps the H20

  I had gone home. It was quite late, but still I tossed some sticks for Marlowe in the yard in the dark. Dogs can see in the dark. I can’t even see in the light.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Chief Loomis. I let him in. Marlowe jumped on him. Marlowe was not used to getting visitors in his house. Neither was I, but at least I didn’t jump on the poor guy.

  After a few semi-formal greetings, Loomis sat at the kitchen table.

  “She’s not your gal, Frank,” he said. “That floater everybody in town’s been chattering about. It wasn’t Miss Norcross. It wasn’t that VelCro gal.”

  “You came out here to tell me that? My phone works. And you guys don’t seem to like to tell me anything anyway.”

  “Well, I’ve got more on my mind than that. More dead people. I thought it called for a personal visit.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer, do I?”

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “And what’s yours?”

  “I’ll tell you in a while. After we have a little talk.”

  “So talk.”

  “Why don’t you sit?” he said, so I joined him at the table after first getting us both glasses of water. “Well,” he went on, “first thing is your old buddy Harvey dropped dead last night. Apparent heart attack in the middle of the night. He was like ninety-four, and he was dying of cancer anyway. Led a good life. Thought you’d like to know.”

  I nodded, picturing the man, recalling his advice about marriage and chicken. “Michael’s wife’s grandfather,” I said. “I liked that old dude. Damn shame. But I know that’s not enough to bring you out here.”

  He thrummed his fingers on the table. “Yeah. There’s lots more.”

  He had my attention. I couldn’t imagine where this was going. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get to all that in a minute. But the floater … the DNA came back on her. She was Edith Marie Pasternak. Like the Russian writer.”

  My Edith. My first missing girl. It took me a while to digest this.

  “This is the girl they found a couple days ago, right?”

  “Yeah.” Loomis continued, “Yeah, Pasternak. At least she wasn’t Chekov. That still reminds me of the old Star Trek. Or Dostoyevsky. Or Nabokov. Pasternak almost fits in around here. Sounds like one of those Polish farmers in South Deerfield.”

  I played dumb. “Who was she?” I asked.

  “A nobody. Age twenty-one. From Los Angeles. She moved here to work on the movie. She stuck around even after things turned to crap.”

  “What was she doing on it?” I watched him, had begun to think he knew more than he was letting on.

  “She was an actress, Frank. Not a big star but she had some lines.”

  “What happened to her? How did she end up in the river?”

  “Those are very good questions. There was no sign of foul play. Maybe she jumped. What do you think?”

  I shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “I didn’t ask what you know; I asked what you think.”

  “I think I don’t know anything.”
/>   He huffed. “That’s what I thought you thought.”

  “Then why did you come by? Nobody ever comes by here. The dog jumps on people, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s a pain in the ass. You should train him better. But I thought it might be enlightening to talk to you.”

  “Feel enlightened?” I said.

  “No. Not in the slightest. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Okay. So now we know who that dead body is. Damn shame.”

  “Yeah. It’s a shame.”

  We looked at each other awkwardly. I thought maybe he was going to get up and leave. But by now I suspected where he was heading.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, “one more thing.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “We found another floater too.”

  Where was he going with this? I’d thought he was going to confront me about Edith. Why was he teasing me?

  “Another one bites the dust,” was my clever rejoinder, but it sounded stupid even to my ears.

  “Another one gulps the H20. That’s how we put it down at the station.”

  I was wondering who the hell the second floater was. Wondering like hell. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking.

  What I did ask was, “So, why the visit, Neil?”

  “Frank, since you started helping these movie folks out, people have been diving into that damn river like it’s a freakin’ Olympic event. I’ve been chief here for sixteen years and we’ve never had a jumper before. Now we’ve had two in one day. Plus that VelCro girl. What the hell is going on?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Neil.”

  “That’s not a good enough answer, Frank.”

  “That’s all I got for you, Neil.”

  “Frank, I’m not here for me. I’m here for you. I’ve known you a long time and I don’t think you’re out there pushing people into the drink. But seriously, man, there are some folks involved here who kind of do think that. People with power. More power than me. They think you do know more than you’re letting on, and Frank, they are this close to coming by here and arresting you. And to tell you the truth, I think you know more than you’re letting on too.”

  “I don’t know shit, Neil.” But I had my suspicions.

  “Oh, come on, Frank. I’ve known you too long. I know you too well. I remember when you were a cop yourself.”

  “For one day, Neil, one goddamn day.”

  “Only you could manage to get shot on your first day on the job. And die too, no less. You were dead, man, dead. No wonder you quit.”

  “It was more than that, Neil. Wasn’t so much the getting shot and dying part that soured me on the job. It was the coming back to life part. You know what I mean?”

  “No. I have no freakin’ idea what you mean.”

  “You don’t have to. Just take my word.”

  “Okay. I can take your word on that. These jumpers—that’s another story. Frank, they’ve got enough to hold you for suspicion of murder.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way. You were stalking Pasternak.”

  “What?” I was amazed.

  “You carry her picture around, Frank. You ask everybody about her. You harassed her out on Bridge Street and you hung out with her one day at Mocha Maya’s. What are you, obsessed? That’s a bad sign, buddy.”

  He was asking me bad questions. I was obsessed, I guess, but it wasn’t over Edith Marie Pasternak. But that was cutting it pretty close. Too close for comfort.

  “Her sister hired me to find her.”

  “She has no sister.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “This does not look good, Frank.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Nothing. Not yet. I just came by to warn you. Watch out, man. You are standing on very shaky ground here and there’s not much I can do to help you.”

  “And I guess I shouldn’t leave town. Weren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”

  “Don’t leave town, Frank.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t. Where would I go? I never leave town. I don’t travel well.“

  He nodded, thrummed the table some more. “I know.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  That was probably a lie. I would go wherever the hell I wanted to go, possibly New Orleans. But it sounded good.

  “If I were you, I’d go looking for Mooney,” I told him, “He’s got more to tell you than me.”

  “And where might we find him, do you think?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied too quickly.

  “Yes, you do. He’s right up your road. Right up that damn Hill of Tears. The old Snyder house. Or at least he was.”

  “Was?”

  “Yeah. We pulled him out of the river this morning too. He was the second floater.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Busy Morning

  Loomis was right. It was getting ridiculous. Too many folks were jumping, or falling, or being pushed, into the damn river. Now it was Mooney’s turn.

  “Shit,” I said to Loomis, rising to my feet. “I’m going to miss the bastard.” I meant it, despite my mixed feelings.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “No. Seriously. I will. He was a possibly insane psychopathic alcoholic, but I’m going to miss the guy. There was something about him, you know what I mean?”

  “Well, yeah, I think I know what you mean. But you’re not going to miss him mainly because the poor bastard isn’t dead. He’s still going to be around, so you won’t be able to miss him. Much as you might like to. Much as we all might like to.”

  I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse. “Fill me in, Neil,” I said. “You want something else—tea, coffee?”

  He shook his head and lifted his glass. “Water’s good. Well, this was a busy morning for us. First, a fisherman spots Pasternak floating. So, we’re down there fishing her out, when what do we find but your Mr. Mooney right next door. And he’s floating too. But he’s got a pulse. I really wish it was the other way around, but, no, he’s the one with the damn pulse and the girl’s dead. So, he’s at the hospital in Greenfield. He’s going to survive. And that’s a miracle because he looks like he was almost dead before he fell into the damn river. Or however the hell he ended up in there.”

  He took a long sip of water before going on, “He had blood alcohol content of like a zillion percent, which, by the way, Doc Fitzgerald says basically saved his life. Turned him into a rag doll. All kind of flexible and compliant. Nothing to resist when he bumped into rocks. But really, he missed most of the rocks anyway. So did Pasternak. Found them right near the lip of the dam. The girl drowned. Was the water that killed her, not the rocks. Mooney, though, he’s a tall son of a bitch. His height kept his head above the worst of the water. He floated like a damn cork.”

  I sat again, gave Marlowe a few strokes. “You talk to him?”

  “Me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not me, personally. I’m lucky they tell me anything that’s going on. But, yeah, they still deem me worthy of getting some reports. They talked to him three ways to Sunday, and he doesn’t know anything. Or he’s not saying anything, anyway.”

  “Is he under arrest?”

  “For what? Being a drunken asshole? That’s not against the law.”

  “Good thing,” I said. “Or the jails would be mighty crowded.”

  Loomis got up from the table. “Yeah, at least we got that going for us.”

  Then he stood up from the table and looked me in the eye. “Frank, do you mind if I take a hair sample?”

  I was taken aback. “A hair sample? For DNA? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately I am. They were gonna come down and do it, but I said let me do it. I know the guy. And it’s completely voluntary. At least at this point it is.”

  “What the hell. I don’t care. Snip away, Neil.” That’s just what he was doing as I added, “You know someone’s DNA can stay on you up to six weeks afte
r you touch them.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just doing my job.”

  “Okay. Just don’t take too much.”

  “You got a good head of hair, Frank. You can spare a little.”

  “Yeah, that’s one thing I have in common with my dad. Well, actually there’re two ways I take after that bastard—he had great hair and he drank like a fish. I’ve got both of those tendencies.”

  He laughed. Then he was done.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m going to go now. I don’t think you know a damn thing. I think you’re as much out of the loop as me.”

  “I think you’re right, Neil.”

  He left.

  Christ. Edith was dead and Mooney wasn’t, and the cops were this close to arresting me. For something.

  I got in my car and went over to Sarah’s. We drove into Greenfield to the hospital for yet another interview with Mooney.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Most Beautiful Woman on Earth

  “Get me the hell out of here. And get me a damn drink.”

  Those were the first words out of Mooney’s mouth when he saw us.

  “You don’t need us for that,” I replied. “This is the good ol’ U S of A. We’re free here. Free to do as we please, within federal, state, and local regulations, of course. You can go if you want. You’re not under arrest.”

  He shifted a bit in his bed. “Well, I could go if I could fucking move, which I can’t. Every bone in my body hurts like hell. Or it would if they didn’t have me shot up with morphine or whatever the hell it is. Which feels pretty damn good, by the way. They tell me nothing’s broken and it’s just a matter of time before I can leave. But hell, time is something I don’t have much of.”

  I had to laugh. “Mooney, you’ve got nothing but time.”

  “No,” he said. “My time’s running out. I can feel it. You’re not going to have Mooney to kick around much longer.”

  “How Nixonian of you,” Sarah said. How did she recognize the Nixon quote? Did they teach that stuff in school now? “But you seem to have enough time to sit around and drink all day.”