The captain adopted the boy right then and there, on the beach, and christened him Dagmore. “In a land I once visited,” he said, “this name means ‘long life.’ For this day on Oh, this day on which you saved my life, Dagmore will be your name forevermore.”
Thus, with a word—a name—one life ended and a new one began. Quick thought it was the best name he had ever heard. Dagmore. He was even beginning to like the sound of Oh, with its corn and its pineapples. Oh. Yes, it was a beautiful name when you thought about it. Almost as beautiful as his own.
But Oh was not Dagmore’s immediate destiny. Other, bigger, islands awaited, and so he left her, a sailor if not a pirate. His brilliant future, which was only just beginning, would see him schooled not only in weather and navigation, but in science, philosophy, and music. It would take him far and wide and back again, like one of the capricious piano sonatas that Dagmore would learn to master—renouncing its motif and taking it up again, a gentle refrain between sforzandos and appassionatos.
13
The Fuller house lay shadowed in the newly fallen dusk, its small front yard a mosaic of heavy greys and tired purples, bordered in shaded buttercup. Overhead the sky hung confused, belonging neither to night or day, hints of both sun and moon at its edges. The air was thick with the scent of cooking callaloo and sweet potato, with the perfume of rosebush, and the smell of cooling earth. Across the verandah, two kitchen windows curtained in worn, flimsy cotton took turns revealing May’s rapt and delicate figure as she tidied and hummed, willing her cheerfulness into the air that the evening breeze spread throughout the house. In her brother’s nearby bedroom, Madison’s soft, regular breaths soothed away his stress and strain, then joined her muffled song.
May knew that when Madison awoke, so too would his worries, and she hoped, early though it was, that he was in bed for the night. In the light of the morning, after a hearty breakfast of bacon and porridge and homemade bread with mango jam, things would look brighter indeed. May even suspected that by morning Rena would be back, begging everyone’s forgiveness for having walked off so far and so foolishly.
May was dead wrong, of course, but hardly the first islander to be fooled by the prospect of the island’s morning sun.
Officers Arnold Tullsey and Joshua Smart made their way across the yard and onto the verandah, where they called out to May in the kitchen.
“Good evening!”
“Good evening.” May opened the screen door and leaned outside, scrutinizing the officers in their uniforms. “Can I help?”
“We’d like to speak to Madison Fuller, please,” Joshua said.
“He’s asleep.” May sensed trouble. Had something happened to Rena?
“Could you wake him for us? Please,” Arnold added, following Joshua’s lead.
“This isn’t about Rena, is it? What’s happened to her?” May asked Arnold.
“Can we come in?” Arnold asked May.
May showed the officers into the sitting room. She was as frightened to hear what they had to say as she was anxious to know the reason for their visit. Had they found Rena? Was she harmed? Had they come to deliver bad news? It broke her heart to think how Madison would suffer.
“Please, you must tell me what’s going on,” she begged. “Is Rena all right? Where is she?”
“That’s exactly what we’re here to find out,” Joshua told her.
“What do you mean?” May wrung her hands. “Madison looked and looked, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. You haven’t found her either?”
Arnold and Joshua exchanged a look that made May shiver. She had sensed trouble, for sure, but of the wrong kind. The officers weren’t here to tell her brother about Rena, they were here to accuse him!
“I think you better wake your brother up now, miss.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with Rena’s disappearance?” she protested. “He’s out of his head with worry. He drove all over the island today.”
The officers weren’t interested in what May had to say. They had set the sights of their investigation on Madison and were loath to veer or detour, lest they lose track of the truth.
With difficulty, May finally woke her brother from his deep and desperate sleep, and he confronted the policemen in his home.
“What’s going on?” Madison rubbed his still-tired eyes.
“You tell us, young man. We’re trying to find Rena Baker,” Officer Tullsey said.
At the mention of Rena, Madison suddenly awoke. “So am I! Have you got any leads?”
“As a matter of fact we do.” Officer Joshua Smart proceeded to lay out the case for fisherman Madison Fuller: “We are inclined to believe that the missing female victim of the hit-and-run that took place on the Thyme shortcut, and your girlfriend, Miss Rena Baker, are one and the same.”
“What? That’s crazy. Rena never rode a bicycle in her life,” Madison objected.
Officer Smart continued. “We are also inclined to believe that you were the last person to see Miss Baker alive.”
“Alive?” Madison and May exclaimed in chorus.
“Are you suggesting that Rena is…dead?” Madison struggled to say the word aloud.
“Would you care to tell us your whereabouts on the night in question?” Officer Tullsey chimed in.
“What night would that be?” Madison asked.
“Night before last. The night of the hit-and-run.”
“I…I…I don’t know,” Madison stammered. “Here, I guess. Sleeping.” He scratched his head.
“Can you attest to this, miss?” Officer Smart looked at May.
“Yes. I was here too.”
“Were you also asleep?” Officer Smart asked her.
“Yes.”
“If you were asleep yourself, then you didn’t actually see your brother asleep in his room,” Officer Tullsey countered.
“No. But I know he was here.”
“Just a minute!” Madison jumped up from the sitting room sofa. “What is this? Some sort of trial? What are you driving at?” He moved close up to the officers, who were seated next to each other in matching armchairs, and stared down into their faces.
Officer Smart stood up. “I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. Did you happen to see an ad in the Morning Crier a few days ago? An ad for a lady? An ad for a lady with a bike?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“An ad placed by a fisherman?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Everybody did. What does any of this have to do with Rena?”
“Tell me, Mr. Fuller, what is your occupation?” He sat down again, and Madison followed suit.
“I fish for a living, but if you think I placed that ad, you’re out of your head. I still don’t see what this has to do with Rena.”
“It’s perfectly clear to me what this has to do with Rena. You needed a new girl and you placed an ad to find one.”
Like one of his prize catches, Madison’s body twitched in disbelief, his mouth gaping and speechless.
Officer Smart continued, unrelenting: “Rena Baker. Did she or did she not prepare lunch for you every day?”
“So?”
“Would you care to tell us what she prepared for you?”
“I don’t know. Fish.”
“What kind of fish?”
Madison was losing his patience. “Swordfish, flying fish. I don’t know.”
“What else did she make to go with the fish?”
“Plantains. Cabbage. Rice and peas. Macaroni pie. Does it matter?”
Office Smart nudged Officer Tullsey. “Are you getting all this down?”
Officer Tullsey pulled a pencil and pad from his pocket and made a note. “Got it. Peas. Macaroni pie.”
“Well, I never!” May puffed, aggravated, astonished, and at a general loss for words.
“This so-called fish that she prepared,” Smart continued. “Where did it come from? Did Miss Baker buy it at the fish market or did she get it from you?”
“Sometimes she cooked what I
caught and sometimes she bought it. Honestly I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“Don’t you?” Officer Smart interrupted. “Tell me, when Rena Baker buys you fish from the fish market, who pays?”
“What?!”
“The fish money. Who puts up the fish money?”
“Well, she does, I guess.”
“You reimburse her?”
“No, but I buy her all kind of—”
“You expect me to believe that a man, a fisherman, who makes his girlfriend buy him fish and cook him cabbage on the side isn’t capable of murder? What happened after you got rid of her? You got hungry, didn’t you? You got a hankering for those nice plantains of hers and that’s when you slipped your ad under the door at the Morning Crier.” He stood up again and looked down into Madison’s face. “Didn’t you?”
“Murder. Morning Crier,” Officer Tullsey noted. “Got it.”
“But I love her!” Madison jumped up.
“This is ridiculous!” It was May’s turn on her feet. She was furious. “How dare you come into our home and accuse my brother of such madness without a shred of evidence? Murder, indeed! I want you out of here now.” She stuck her arm straight out and pointed to the door.
“Well, if you’re refusing to cooperate, miss—”
“Now!” she shouted.
“You’re just complicating the investigation. We’ll be back with a warrant, you know. To search the place for evidence.”
“Fine. Get all the warrants you want. But for now, get out of my house.”
The officers looked at each other and quietly obeyed. Partly they feared May, a force to be reckoned with just then and of hurricane strength. Partly they were tired, having been up and down the whole of Oh’s southern half that day. And, partly, they weren’t sure what the law said they should do next (or if they should have done what they already did). Yes, perhaps it was best to leave quietly and consult the Chief of Police. The next step could well be an arrest, and neither officer had the nerve to assume responsibility for that.
With the officers out of her house and her hair, May set about setting the table. Her answer to just about anything was something to eat, and Madison’s callaloo soup still awaited. They would sort everything out over dinner. Of that, May was determined.
Madison, on the other hand, was in shock. His beloved Rena missing and now this? Accused of doing her in? He had no appetite, but May insisted, so mechanically he raised the spoon to his lips until he had emptied the bowl. While she ranted, he didn’t say a word.
“Do you believe the stupidity of it? What on earth can those two be thinking? If they expect me to stand for it one minute, they’re in for a surprise. What should we do first?”
May waited, but still Madison sat unspeaking, too sad and too scared to think straight. May would have to find a solution herself, she realized. With her dainty hands in her apron pockets, she circled the kitchen table, thinking.
They could hire a lawyer, but how much would it cost? Surely more than they could afford. And why should they waste hard-earned money if Madison had nothing to explain or hide? Even so, May debated with herself, those officers seemed pretty convinced. Once an idea took root on Oh, it was damn near impossible to pull it up and chuck it out.
“I’ve got it!” May snapped her fingers and beamed at Madison, who tore his gaze from the empty soup bowl in front of him and looked up at his sister.
“Call your friend Randolph,” she said. “His father will know exactly what to do.”
May Fuller was not the only islander that night whose digestion would be disrupted by the alleged disappearance of Rena Baker. Before Officers Tullsey and Smart took their discoveries to the Chief of Police, they would first question Raoul Orlean about his role at the bakery the night of the accident. When they knocked at his still-yellow door, he was midway through a portion of pigeon with pineapple. Because Raoul had quite a reputation among Oh’s official ranks, for his position and years of service (not to mention his eccentric investigative techniques), and because Arnold and Joshua, who had already quite possibly bent the rules a bit too far that day, could see the steam rising from his piping hot plate, they kept their questions to Raoul short and sweet. In truth, they hardly questioned him at all, but instead relayed to him the facts as they understood them to be, and waited for him to confirm they had got it right.
Wasn’t it true that Mr. Orlean was present when Randolph and Jarvis showed up at the bakery with a mangled bike?
Raoul nodded. Yes, it was.
Wasn’t it also true that Randolph and Jarvis had no idea to whom the bike belonged or what fate had befallen its rider that night?
That certainly appeared to be the case, Raoul agreed.
Hadn’t the boys searched the site of the accident for clues?
So they said, Raoul answered, adding that the boys had no reason to lie.
The officers went on to report to Raoul that they had found no clues at the scene of the crime and were wondering if perhaps that was because Randolph and Jarvis had already removed them.
Raoul shook his head. Doubtful, he argued, that the boys had done any such thing.
Just one last question, then: Had Mr. Orlean witnessed any tampering of the evidence at the hands of Trevor or Bruce or anyone else present that night?
Certainly not!
Good to know, the officers assured him, wanting very much to ask why Raoul, seeing as how he was a government official, hadn’t insisted that Trevor call the Island Police first thing. Thankfully, though, Raoul’s reputation made Arnold and Joshua reluctant to insist.
As they renewed their apologies for the disruption and, hats in hand, backed toward the door to take their leave, Raoul asked the officers how their investigation was proceeding, for he seemed to gather that they knew nothing new.
Why, yes, they did, as a matter of fact! Not only had they identified the mashed-up bike’s missing rider, who they presumed must be dead, but they had even come up with a prime suspect.
“Already?!” Raoul asked them, astonished by the rather uncharacteristic example of official island efficiency.
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison, barely hiding how pleased they were that their exemplary performance should be revealed to such an illustrious superior.
“You don’t say! A murderer on Oh?” Raoul humored them, not believing for a minute that this was the case.
“Yes, sir,” Arnold replied. “He goes by the name of Madison Fuller.”
“I see,” Raoul said. (He didn’t. The name was vaguely familiar, but that was all.) “Well,” he continued, “I trust that if this Madison Fuller really is guilty, you will find irrefutable proof to that effect.” (He trusted precisely the opposite, that they would find no such thing, and was eager to get back to his pigeon.) “Carry on,” he said, ushering them off the verandah and into the road.
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir,” Joshua bid him as they headed toward their vehicle. “We’re off to submit our report just now.”
Without responding, Raoul waved a fatherly hand and turned back toward the house, not giving them much further thought. If this Madison Fuller was connected to Bruce’s fisherman and to his own pink mystery writer, it would certainly not be the police who would figure out how. Raoul made a mental note to look into this young man, Fuller, the following day. It wasn’t until a mosquito wheezed past his inner ear that Raoul thought to ask the officers one question more.
“Wait!” he cried out after them, as the truck started to pull away.
“Yes, sir?” Joshua asked through the window.
“You didn’t tell me who it is that you’ve determined to be missing. I’m curious, is all.”
“Certainly, sir. A lady is missing, sir. Madison Fuller’s lady, to be precise. Her name is Rena Baker.”
“I see,” he said, turning back to the house. “Good work, men.” He didn’t see at all, not immediately. Not until he had a mouthful of now not-so-hot pineapple perched at his lips did he see, very
clearly, what was going on.
“Good god!” he exclaimed to Ms. Lila, stopping his fork in mid-air.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Did it get too cold?”
“The missing girl,” he told her. “Her name is Rena Baker.”
Ms. Lila just looked at him, not sure of what point he was making, and so he re-phrased it.
“According to the police,” he said, “there is at present an R. BAKER who is nowhere to be found.”
14
By the time the moon had overtaken the nighttime sky, Madison Fuller, the so-called prime suspect in the murder of Rena Baker, was on his way to Trevor’s Bakery. He had come out of his initial shock, much to May’s relief, and he sincerely hoped that Trevor Rouge would have some answers. As Madison walked, he struggled to grasp the situation in which he found himself. He was lonely and miserable, missing Rena something terrible, and he was stunned and terrified that the police might think him responsible for her disappearance. He wished, wherever she was, that she would come home. He longed to touch her and to look into her face. That she might be dead was too painful a notion to entertain, even more painful than the policemen’s accusations.
Though Madison headed toward the home of his good friend, where help (he hoped) awaited, he felt utterly alone, as if the world had abandoned him when Rena did. The island had most certainly abandoned him. The road he walked was deserted, and the stars hid behind clouds. The crickets were quiet, the frogs asleep. Only the moon kept him company, her beams derisive, exposing the desolation he felt. Even his sandals mocked him, slapping his heels to mimic each step he took.
At the bakery, meanwhile, Randolph tried to bring Trevor up to speed (no mean feat, considering Randolph wasn’t quite caught up himself).
“He said they think he killed her,” Randolph told his father.
“Killed who?” Trevor wanted to know.
“Rena. No, not Rena. The girl with the bike. Well, both of them, I guess.”
“The police think he killed two girls?”
“They think Rena was the girl…is the girl…with the bike. I think.”
Away with the Fishes Page 7