by Lee Doty
Raised voices brought her back to the present.
“She’s going to have to come with me, Ms. Sager. Maybe she’ll recognize someone from a photograph.”
“That’s preposterous.” Aunt Norma smacked the side table, jostling Gran’s favorite lamp, its base a glass jar with a miniature ship inside. “Are you suggesting the killer hung around to watch the tide roll his victim in and Laney might have spotted him?”
Aunt Norma’s outburst shocked everyone, especially Laney, who only then realized that Sandal Man, as she now thought of him, might have something to do with the drowned man’s death.
“Enough, everyone. This is all more than I can handle, let alone a thirteen-year-old. Lieutenant Coigne, Norma will give you a call to arrange something.”
“You understand, Ms. Sager, every second we delay could mean the difference between a quick arrest and a cold case, possibly other deaths.”
Other deaths! Laney felt scared and stupid. If only she were someone like Isabella Miller, who would know exactly what to do. And she’d be brave about it. Laney’s eyes blurred with tears and her throat began to ache.
A soft knock at the front door cut off further talk and Gran excused herself.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t get to your party, Wheezy. We’re rather tied up—”
“Oh no, forget it, Anne.” Mrs. Wickersham barged past Gran into the living room. “We’re just concerned, that’s all.”
Her pitched eyebrows made Mrs. Wickersham look concerned, but Laney knew this neighbor well. She probably wanted to meet Lieutenant Coigne, find out what was going on, and get in the middle of it. Laney wondered if all the neighbors knew about the dead body on the beach.
Gran only managed to back her neighbor out the door by accompanying her. Meanwhile, Aunt Norma picked up her argument with Lieutenant Coigne.
“Tomorrow morning. It’s more cost-effective that way. By then, you’ll know the victim’s identity and have a smaller universe of suspects for her to look at. You may even have your man, or woman, in custody.”
“Aunt Norma? I need to ask you about something.”
“Just a minute, Laney. Let’s be efficient, Coigne. We’ll get her there tomorrow if you still need her.”
Using Gran’s strategy for removing unwanted guests, Aunt Norma escorted Lieutenant Coigne outside. “Back in a sec, kid.”
Laney gathered her gear and hung her backpack in the closet. Gran called it a cloak room because it had hooks and cubby holes and was large enough to walk in. She stuck her damp towel next door in the laundry closet.
She knew why Gran was opposed to her being questioned at a police station. The last time they’d been to one, years ago, Laney had hit a woman in the face and made her cry.
The memory always brought back that same helpless terror. She’d sat on a wooden bench in a large, windowless room with torn carpet and pale green walls—at least the harsh lighting made the walls look green. Her back against the wall, she got to watch the parade of people trudge by, some yelling, some crying, some filthy, and some who walked as though they’d wet their pants because their legs were chained together.
A woman waited beside her. She’d visited their apartment sometimes. Laney remembered her black rubber shoes shaped like small bread loaves. Her mother used to get angry whenever the woman wrote things down in her notebook.
The police had taken her mom across the room behind a gray partition. The far wall was lined with many partitioned cubicles, but Laney was able to keep track of her mom by locating her candy cane socks showing in the gap between the floor and the bottom of the partition.
Whenever her mom was in trouble, the routine was for Gran to show up at the police station and the three of them to return to the apartment. Laney would be sent to bed with a peppermint treat from Gran. In the next room, Gran would make hissing sounds and her mom would cry, and Laney would finally drift off.
Laney was relieved when Gran finally arrived. She stood to go, but Gran asked her to wait while she spoke privately down the hall to the woman with the rubber shoes.
When they returned, Gran did not look at her. “Button up, sweetheart. It’s time to go.”
“What about Mommy?”
“She’s not coming right now, Laney.”
“I have to wait for her.”
“She’s already left.”
“No she did not. I see her socks.” Laney pointed.
Gran lifted her up anyway.
“Gran, we have to wait!”
Laney screamed and twisted and kicked in Gran’s arms. When the rubber-shoes woman tried to calm her, Laney hit her hard in the nose.
For a long time Laney believed it was because she’d hit the woman that her mom was sent to jail. Now, all she knew was that she didn’t want to go to a police station ever again. She resolved to say nothing to Aunt Norma, the police, or anyone else about Sandal Man. She would remember nothing.
The front door closed and Gran and Aunt Norma returned to the living room. Gran was shaking her head, but also smiling a little. “I’m not sure calling her Wheeze-Bag was helpful, Norma.”
Soon Aunt Norma left to get some work done and look after Bark, who was afraid of fireworks. Laney and Gran ordered pizza and walked a mile to a neighboring beach because their own was still blocked off by the police.
The events of the day were forgotten amidst eardrum-shattering sky bursts of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, but any relief from the day’s tension was short-lived. A bandaged tail light in the driveway announced an unexpected visitor.
6
Since she rarely locked her doors on the Cape, Anne assumed her daughter let herself in, fixed a drink, and was now rifling through Anne’s desk or handbag.
“Mom’s here! Do you think the police called her? She must have been worried about me.”
Anne closed her eyes. For Laney to believe that Gin’s arrival had anything to do with concern for her was almost comical and sad.
Anne reached over and tugged her ponytail. “Let’s find out what’s up.” Her hand brushed Laney’s earlobe, reminding her of her granddaughter’s campaign to get her ears pierced. When she was a teen, Gin hadn’t even asked. She’d had every piece of loose flesh, including her tongue, pierced at least once. For a fraction of a second Anne had been tempted not to take her to the doctor when her tongue became infected, but she’d relented. Gordon hadn’t been dead a month and some acting out was to be expected. That’s what Gin’s therapist had said, month after month.
The house was quiet as they entered. Anne looked for the usual trail of Gin’s belongings, dropped like little breadcrumbs in the forest. Instead, the living room was as they’d left it, with the exception of a well-dressed couple seated on the couch, holding hands, eager faces turned to greet them.
The man unfolded to a height of over six feet.
“Mom!” Laney rushed forward.
“That’s my baby.” Gin stood and offered Laney a cheek.
The interlude gave Anne a chance to take a good look at her. Clean hair and nails? Matching handbag and sandals? Silver necklace with a shark charm—how fitting. But I must be dreaming. Gin looks like a model for Lilly Pulitzer. Anne turned toward the man. “Who’s our company, Gin?”
Gin extricated herself from Laney’s hug and grabbed the man’s hand. “I can’t believe you don’t recognize your own chamber of commerce president. Isn’t Red River about the smallest town on earth?”
“Ken Crawford, Ms. Sager.” The man shook Anne’s hand.
He looked familiar. In Anne’s experience, everyone on the Cape resembled everyone else, especially in the summer, but Mr. Crawford looked more cosmopolitan than most Cape Cod year-rounders. He was trim and tan, and had intelligent, dark brown eyes. His face was smooth, braced by some barely detectable, musky aftershave. But he wasn’t perfect. When he smiled, Anne noticed his clear dental retainer.
“Mom! Did you hear about the drowning?” Laney looked like she’d burst if she couldn’t tell the story.
“Is that what you were telling me about, Kenny? The man they found on Samoset Beach?”
Laney launched into an embellished rendition of her discovery on the beach until Anne steered them toward lighter topics, such as Gin’s long drive from Philadelphia and the worsening summer traffic on the Cape. Crawford volunteered that he was one of the owners of Red River Resort, and they discussed the magnificent views from its veranda.
Anne figured she’d let Gin choose the moment to explain her reason for breaking the rule, never to show up uninvited. The explanation was imminent. Gin’s fingers twirled a lock of hair. The “tell” always preceded a disastrous announcement: “I’ve been expelled, I’m pregnant, I’ve been arrested.”
Anne glanced at Laney, whose eyes were glued to her mother. She could only be described as enraptured.
“I may as well spit it out. Mother, Kenny and I are getting married. We’re here to get Laney.”
In the silence that followed Anne almost did the unthinkable, laughed. Marriage? Her infantile daughter? Then again, she should have foreseen the day when Gin would find another funding source, one that didn’t require work in the conventional sense, of course. But Gin’s announcement about taking Laney was no laughing matter.
In the near distance someone set off firecrackers. It sounded like the last few kernels of corn popping in a microwave. Anne kept her voice even. “Laney’s had a long day. We’ll talk about your news in the morning.”
“I want to stay up, Gran.”
“Your grandmother’s right, Laney.” Crawford rose and put his arm around Gin’s waist. “We’re not used to a girl’s schedule yet. We’ll come back in the morning.” He nodded at Gin, then Anne, as though he’d deftly resolved a brewing conflict at the chamber.
Anne was worried. She had no legal right to keep Laney, having only persuaded Gin to leave her on the Cape by baldly offering an “allowance.” Gin would always be a selfish, neglectful parent, and for that reason alone custody of Laney was out of the question. But what also struck Anne at that moment was that she couldn’t imagine her own life without Laney. The child offered her something she needed. A second chance to get it right? She wondered.
“Better yet, we’ll take you both to breakfast at Red River Resort. We can dialogue, make a plan that meets everyone’s goals.”
“Good idea, Kenny. I’m staying at the resort, Mother, but we’ll pick you up in Kenny’s car. Wait until you see it. It’s time my Laney saw a little of the good life.” Gin shifted her Kate Spade handbag on her shoulder. She was about to head out when Crawford cupped her elbow and gently guided her toward Laney. Gin air-kissed her daughter and squeezed her shoulder.
“See you in the morning, hon. Wear something special.”
Anne shut the door behind them and leaned back against it. This was not the first time she’d had to fight for Laney and it looked like she’d have to do it again.
Laney was far too old to be put to bed, but that night Anne sat with her. When Laney had first arrived, she’d slept in her own bed, but in a corner of Anne’s large bedroom. When she turned nine, Anne and Norma built walls and a closet in Laney’s bed area, leaving plenty of room for her large stuffed animal collection. This year Laney stored the animals under her bed and asked Anne to hang a full-length mirror on the closet door.
She felt feverish to Anne’s touch and was talking the way she used to when she’d had too much chocolate. Anne calmed her with plans for the next day, helping Aunt Norma give Bark a bath and buying back-to-school supplies. She hoped Laney’s impassioned sales pitch for a new cell-phone cover demonstrated a lack of interest in her mother’s proposal to reclaim her.
The study smelled slightly of mold, reminding Anne that central air was a must as soon as she could afford it. She’d come into the room to keep her mind off the new development by finishing her bill paying. She compared the height of the unpaid to the paid stack of bills and felt defeated. Anyway, what she needed right now was someone to splash ice water in her face, give her some perspective. She needed to talk to Norma.
“…Norma Bergen here. Please be advised that I rarely listen to voicemail.” Beep.
“Damn.” When, an hour later, Anne was again put into Norma’s voicemail, she considered dashing across the way to make sure her friend was all right. But what if Laney woke up while she was gone? She decided not to go. When had Norma ever needed help anyway?
7
Norma returned to her cottage to find Barclay “Bark” Bergen staring at the kitchen cabinet where his food was stored.
“Okay I’m late, but do you think after all these years you could get your own dinner?”
She shook the bag of dry dog food. Almost empty. “Don’t give me the silent treatment. Passive aggressive goes both ways.” She scratched his head and shook out the last sandy bits from the bottom of the bag.
With Bark settled, she gathered an armload of documents from her basement file cabinet and sat down at her desk in the converted dining room. The sun was beginning to set. She amused herself by giving the blazing scene a title, as though it were a painting hanging in a museum: Radioactive Yolk, Punctured and Oozing.
From her pile she extracted a thick manila folder and spread its contents across her desk. She ran her hand along the desk’s uneven surface, reclaimed wood from an old ship, not from a town on the Cape but from Honfleur, a French seaport on the English Channel. She’d bought it from a Frenchman, Paul LaGarde. “Pole,” as he pronounced his name, became her lover. She’d returned home six weeks later. As she later told Anne, she’d kept the wood, not the pole.
The label on the file read “Inn at Cockle Cove.” She reached for her bag and pulled out the Summons and Complaint she’d received earlier and reread the Complaint, this time, carefully. The $10 million figure made her laugh. Even if the Temple brothers prevailed on all counts, they’d never collect that kind of money. But that was beside the point. She’d be broke before they even got through the discovery phase of litigation. The time she’d spend producing correspondence and memoranda wouldn’t be so bad, but the electronic production would take serious time, first to gather the information and then to review it. There’d be the inevitable court battles over what was relevant, privileged, overbroad, and all the other bases for withholding information from the other side. She’d have no time for her own practice and no income. Being a sole practitioner had significant disadvantages at times like this.
She flipped to the document attached to the Complaint. It was a lengthy agreement between Mrs. Temple and her sons, signed by all the necessary parties and notarized. With growing anxiety she turned the pages until she reached paragraph twenty-one, a provision containing the right of first refusal language. “Where the hell’d that come from?” She reread the paragraph four times, each time hoping it would read differently. Throughout the process she repeated to herself, “Don’t panic. You mustn’t panic. Read it again.”
The cover letter enclosed with the Complaint was signed by the Temple brothers’ attorney. “Wouldn’t you know, Derek Dohnan, a fuster cluck of the first order.” She folded the letter into an airplane and sailed it across the room. “Isn’t there some court rule prohibiting disgusting lawyers from practicing law?”
She retrieved the airplane and on her way back changed course and headed to the kitchen for a beer. The house was stuffy and hot and the blast of cold air from the open refrigerator provided relief. She opened the freezer door and stuck her face in, closing her eyes and thinking back to her first and only in-person encounter with Derek Dohnan.
At that time he was representing one of her clients in an employment discrimination case. They’d seen each other before at bar functions but had never spoken. He asked to meet her at The Lucky Duck for a quick lunch to discuss some aspects of his case.
As usual, the place was packed and they’d opted to sit at the bar rather than wait for a table. Seating at the bar was arranged so that customers could eat and drink and watch the crowds pass by on a quaint New Engla
nd main street. Above the bar hung an old oil painting of drunken sailors and maidens in bacchanalian excess. Norma sat thigh by thigh with the loquacious Dohnan. He told her story after story, and every time he told what she knew was a lie, he pulled on an imaginary goatee, as if trying to redirect his receding chin.
She wanted desperately for him to stop talking and was on the verge of demanding it when a pudgy hand landed in her lap. At first she thought the windbag lawyer had mistakenly overshot his own leg, but then she remembered her cardinal rule—never give a lawyer the benefit of the doubt. She smiled at him, lifted his hairy mitt and shoved it into his own lap, causing his drink to splash all over his face and shirt. Contact thereafter was by email.
At the time she’d wondered why she’d been so upset about the incident and had come to realize it wasn’t the vulgarity, but the inhumanity of his gesture. It was as though, over forty and single, she must welcome any male attention she could get and if she didn’t, well, her wishes were irrelevant. The thought that he was now coming after her in a lawsuit got her adrenaline pumping. She said out loud, “Who was it who famously said, ‘A little prick keeps a girl sharp’? Oh yes, I did.”
Back at her desk, she tried to focus on the facts stated in the Complaint, picking out errors and making notes where follow-up was needed, but her mind kept straying to Laney’s discovery of the dead man on the beach. She’d give anything if someone other than Lieutenant Coigne were investigating. Laney meant a lot to her. She didn’t want the girl to feel vulnerable because of shady, shoddy police work, which is what she expected from a cop rumored to be dirty. The scene in Anne’s living room came back to her and she realized with a jolt that Laney had been trying to ask her something, but she’d been too preoccupied getting rid of Coigne to listen. Maybe Laney had talked with Anne about whatever it was, but Norma knew there were some things Laney preferred to tell her rather than her grandmother. She’d have to find time tomorrow to talk to her in private.