A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)

by Scott William Carter

  Quinn directed him to a plastic chair outside his office, brought him a cup of coffee in a paper cup and two packets of creamer a few minutes later, and told him to sit tight while Quinn made a few phone calls. The coffee was hot and bitter. The creamer helped with the first part but not the second. Gage flipped through a wrinkled National Geographic, reading about the fight against malaria in Africa, and kept glancing at the big metal door at the back of the room—the one that led to the small jail at the rear of the station. He wondered how Miranda was doing in there, how she was holding up.

  Twenty minutes later, Quinn walked out of his office and stood in front of Gage.

  "It's a no go," he said. "She's staying put for now."

  "What? Why?"

  "It's all the publicity. It's got Judge Cooley up in Newport nervous. Bail will be set at her arraignment on Wednesday."

  "Wednesday! Most arraignments are next business day, which should be Monday."

  "Stop pretending to be dumber than you are. You know as well as I that not all felony charges are arraigned that quickly. And with all the press, he thinks it might be better to take this one a bit slower. Get it right. "

  "She's not a flight risk! There's no reason for this."

  "You need to lower your voice."

  "Chief—"

  "Come with me."

  With a clenched jaw, Quinn led him into the office and shut the door behind them. The computer was on and humming, the big hulk of a monitor showing a picture of his wife, Ginger, standing on a beach at sunset. When he'd met her, Gage remembered her having red vibrant hair, much like Miranda's; now it was gray and flat. Stacks of paper, manila folders, and other files covered the metal desk. Taking his time, Quinn settled himself into the squeaky swivel chair, clasping his hands under his lips and staring up at Gage. The way his hands were pointed, with his big black eyebrows over them, his face seemed to form a question mark.

  "Not a flight risk" he said. "And you know this ... how? Based on a couple meals you spent with her? We don't even know who she is, Gage."

  "You have a body, but no murder weapon."

  "True," Quinn said. "We certainly have ample reason to believe a murder took place, though."

  "If she hadn't stepped off that boat, she wouldn't even be a suspect."

  "Also true. But she did step off that boat. Facts are facts."

  "You have no motive."

  "I imagine when we find out who she is, that will come out. Come on, Gage. The owner of the boat was shot, dead center in the chest, pretty much an impossible angle for a suicide. Somebody wrapped him in a sail and tossed him overboard, tying on something heavy for good measure. Who else could have done this?"

  Gage knew he was grasping, but he didn't care. "Maybe she wasn't the only one on the boat. Maybe someone else was on there and got out before Zoe and I came along."

  Quinn sighed. "Gage, come on."

  "It's possible."

  "Really? Did you see any other footprints in the area?"

  "They could have walked through the surf."

  "Sure, and maybe Michael Jackson and Elvis were on there, too. Let's throw in Jimmy Hoffa. Plenty of room."

  "You're making jokes," Gage said, "but you know the case here is flimsy."

  "Yep, and she'd help herself by telling us who she is." Before Gage could object, Quinn held up his hand. "I'm willing to go with the amnesia thing until proven otherwise. But come on, pal, you have to admit it doesn't look good. Have you seen what's all over the news this morning?"

  When Gage didn't answer, Quinn swiveled around in his chair and moved his mouse. The picture of his wife vanished, replaced by the Oregonian's homepage. The first picture Gage saw, taking up half the screen, was a split image: one half showed the sailboat washed up on the beach, the other half was a head and shoulders shot of Miranda. Based on the Oregon Coast sweatshirt she was wearing, the picture was obviously from the previous day. There was something menacing about her expression; she wasn't quite scowling, but there was a dark, contemplative look about her. No surprise that Buzz Burgin had chosen that particular picture—it made her look guilty.

  Below the split photo, with the article text wrapping around it, was the one Gage had feared. It pictured Gage pointing his Beretta at Omar. Buzz had managed to snap the photo at just the right instant, when Gage appeared menacing and Omar helpless.

  "Must be a fascinating story behind that photo of you," Quinn said.

  "Must be," Gage said.

  "Care to tell me about it?"

  "We were practicing for the local community theater."

  "Uh huh. Maybe I'll ask Omar. Interesting he didn't mention it."

  "It's his first play," Gage said. "He's a bit self-conscious about his acting."

  "Yeah, well, maybe I'll let sleeping dogs lie on this one. The point is, Miranda's case is already high profile in Oregon. I'd be willing to bet good money that by the end of the day, it'll have a high profile across the nation, maybe even worldwide. The woman washing up on the beach with amnesia was fascinating enough. But a murder on top of it? Hard to see how this doesn't get some national attention. The last thing Judge Cooley wants is for some east-coast journalist with a stick up his butt to start writing about the backwards judicial system out here in the wild west."

  "We'd hate for them to get the wrong idea," Gage said. Thinking about it now, he realized that a jail cell wasn't exactly the worst place for Miranda, at least temporarily. If the story did go viral, then whatever man she'd fled—if that was indeed what had happened—would soon see her picture and know exactly where she was. There was also Omar. When he'd said that Miranda would have to pay for what she'd done, there was a fair chance he wasn't talking about prison, but exacting a more personal form of revenge. "All right, whatever. Can I at least see her?"

  "That I can do," Quinn said. "Judge Cooley does want to keep her here, not at the county lockup."

  He took Gage to the back of the station. They stepped through the metal door, into a tiny waiting area before two other doors—one that led outside, so the cops had easy access for dropping off prisoners, and another that led to the handful of jail cells. It was cool and musty. A burly cop came out of a room and had them sign the logbook. Gage surrendered his Beretta. The cop unlocked the second door and let them into the cells, closing the door behind them with a loud clank.

  The ceiling lights, behind metal webs, cast a net of shadows on the concrete floor. They passed four cells, two on each side, none of them occupied. The clap of their footsteps were the only sounds. Miranda was in the last cell on the right, clutching the bars and pressing her body as close to them as she could, as if she was trying to get as much of herself outside the cell. She still wore the white blouse and tan capris she'd worn at dinner, the ones he'd bought her, though they were noticeably wrinkled. Her hair was a tangled mop, her mascara was a dark smear, and her cheeks were splotchy and red.

  "I was hoping you'd come to see me," she said.

  "Of course I'd come," Gage said. "We're going to get you out of here in no time."

  "Today?"

  "I'm afraid not. Soon, though."

  She started to tear up, then gave her head a hard shake, as if trying to ward off the feeling. "It's okay. I'll be okay."

  "I know."

  "I've just ... I've never been in jail. At least I don't think I have. I don't know. Um, Garrison?"

  "Yes?"

  She started to speak, then looked at Quinn. "Can I speak to him a second? I mean, a little privacy?"

  Quinn's face soured. Usually he looked a bit like Mr. Rogers, exuding a kind of sober but still somewhat kindly demeanor, but every now and then his patient facade fell away and he revealed the grizzled, embattled small-town police chief he really was, one who'd suffered and seen far too much. "I can't take you out," he said. Then, after barely getting the words out, he sighed. "Sorry. I know it's no picnic being in here. I can wait on the other side for five minutes. Is that all right?"

  When Miranda nodded, he ti
pped his head and retreated back the way they came, taking position by the metal door. Gage stepped up to the bars, close enough that he caught a whiff of the perfume she'd worn yesterday, weaker and mixed with sweat. It smelled like the ocean, and he knew where he'd smelled it before. Eve must have given her some.

  "Miranda," he said, "you should know that anything you say to me in here could potentially be used against you. I'm not a lawyer, so there's no attorney-client confidentiality that covers us."

  "No, no, it's okay," she said. "I'm not going to ... Oh, Garrison, you don't believe it, do you? I mean, you don't believe that I'm ... that I would have ..."

  "Of course not," he said.

  "Because I wouldn't. I would never."

  "I know."

  "I mean, how would you believe me, right? I know. I don't remember, so how would I know? But I wouldn't do that. I can't even imagine ... It makes me shake, just thinking about it. Please believe me. I need at least one person to believe me."

  "I do," Gage said.

  She sniffled, then wiped away the tears that had begun to form. "Thank you. Even if you're lying, it still means something. You're not lying, are you?"

  There must have been something in his eyes, or in his expression, or perhaps just in the hesitancy of his reply, because he saw something crumple inside her, some of her hope wilting under the glare of his own doubt. He could not deny the doubt. The truth was, he wanted to believe her, wanted it very much, and that was enough for him. It would keep him going. For her? So scared and alone? He knew she wanted more, but he was only so good an actor. All he could give her was his best effort in doing his job and hope that was enough.

  "Miranda," he said, "I'm going to prove you didn't do this."

  Chapter 9

  Gage may have wanted to prove that Miranda was innocent, but he was still at a loss about how to do it. How could he prove she was innocent when he didn't even know who she was?

  He stopped at The Diner and pondered the question over breakfast. The pancakes tasted doughy, the eggs were on the runny side, and the coffee could have doubled as motor oil for his van, but he still loved the cramped but cozy restaurant, as a lot of the locals did. Its real name was McAllister's Family Diner, but that had been just one of its many names in its storied history of varied owners and even more varied cooking, and most everybody around Barnacle Bluffs just knew it as The Diner. The black-and-white checkered floor may have been scuffed and peeling, the red vinyl booths sagging and patched with duct tape, and the jukebox may have only been able to play a half-dozen songs without skipping, but there was still a heart and soul to the place that most of the touristy restaurants on the coast lacked.

  As a rule, Gage didn't eat out much—he didn't get out much period—but when he did, it was usually at The Diner.

  It wasn't until he was halfway through his breakfast that it dawned on him that he might have made a mistake. As he was forcing down another sip of the sludge-like coffee, he realized that most of the conversation in the room had ceased. A young couple in a corner booth chatted away, oblivious, but most of the other dozen people were looking at him, some with thin Bugle newspapers open on their tables, others alternating between peering at their smartphones and staring at Gage. One of them, an old man wearing rainbow suspenders over a blue plaid shirt, a regular Gage recognized but didn't know by name, leaned over on his stool and whispered to Gage.

  "Hey," he said, "you that fella on the beach, ain't ya? The one protecting that woman."

  Gage, seated at one of the little tables between the booths and the counter, debated how to respond. Ignoring the comment was probably not an option. "Word travels fast," he said.

  "Saw your picture in the paper. You're that private investigator."

  The guy might have been whispering, but there was no need. Even if the majority of the people didn't look at him, most of their heads turned, ears perked to pick up the conversation. Gage dabbed at his lips with a napkin and took his time before answering.

  "Right now I'm just a guy trying to eat his breakfast," he said.

  "She really a killer?"

  "No."

  "Huh. Really seems that way."

  "Doesn't matter how it seems. Matters how it is."

  "What, you her boyfriend or something?"

  "Just somebody trying to help."

  Gage took a bite of his pancakes, not because he was hungry but because he was trying to signal that the conversation was over. But the old man wasn't finished.

  "I read about you before," the old man said. "You're always stirring up trouble around here, ain't ya?"

  Gage had left his cane leaning against the other chair, and he looked at it, wondering if he should use it to get the old man to shut up. He'd lived here for over six years and he still felt like an outsider. When would that ever change? Probably never. It wasn't like he needed any of these people. He was still contemplating his response when Judy, a bosomy waitress who'd been working at The Diner for over a year, bustled over to his table with a pot of coffee and refilled his cup.

  "You leave poor Garrison alone, Ed," she said. The steam curled around her hand. "You seem to forget all the good he's done around here."

  "Aw, whatever," Ed said, dismissing them all with a wave of his hand and turning back to the counter. "

  Judy, a stout woman who'd barely exchanged more than pleasantries with Gage, leaned over and winked at him. "Some of us do more than just read the paper," she said. "Some of us even manage to think for ourselves."

  "I appreciate it," Gage said.

  "It's not just that. One of my girlfriends told me a few years back how you helped find her daughter years ago, after she was kidnapped by those bank robbers. She said you didn't even accept any money. I never forgot that. She said you weren't even in the paper for that one, like you didn't want no publicity."

  "Oh."

  "You just keep doing what you're doing. If you think that woman is innocent, well, then she probably is. And ignore all the gossipy busybodies in this town."

  She said the last part loud enough for most of the people around them to hear, before patting him on the shoulder and heading to a booth at the back. Some of the other diners shot him a wary glance before returning to their food. Nobody said a word to him afterwards.

  Maybe he had a few friends in this town after all.

  But only a few.

  * * *

  With no other idea what to do at the moment, Gage swung by the Turret House, picked up the drawing of the ocean Miranda had created, and took it up to Books and Oddities to get Alex's opinion. They batted ideas around for over an hour, interrupted occasionally by a customer, but even working together didn't glean any special clues from the drawing. A moon, a pier, and whole lot of ocean—it really could have been anywhere. After a while, Gage resorted to sitting glumly behind the counter, perched on a stool like a grumpy parrot, while Alex disappeared to help a young woman find some books for her hard-to-please kindergartner.

  When Zoe showed up a little before noon with a sack lunch for Alex, Gage's mood darkened. Part of this was due to the hour of the day, which meant he'd burned up the entire morning and made no progress. The other part was Zoe herself, decked out in a tea-green cardigan over a white open-collared shirt, her sharply dressed presence a reminder of the feud that still simmered between them about what she was doing with her life.

  Afraid of what he might say to her in his present state of mind, Gage offered a sullen goodbye and fled for his house. There were two reporters waiting for him, a young man from the local Bugle and a chain-smoking middle-aged woman from Eugene's Register Guard. They fired questions at him as soon as he stepped out of the van. He patiently told them that if they didn't get off his property in ten seconds, he would assume they were trespassers and take appropriate action.

  The picture of him brandishing his Beretta must have been fresh in their minds, because they beat a hasty retreat without the need for a second warning.

  He spent the rest of the af
ternoon doing chores and running errands—laundry, grocery shopping, forgetting, as usual, that it was a weekend and weekends meant tourists everywhere—in the hopes that if he focused on trivial matters, his subconscious might chew on the Miranda problem and offer up some kind of lead. No such luck. His frustration continued to mount. The bank of storm clouds moving in from the west, gray and menacing, matched his mood. Even inside his house, as he worked on the leaky sink in his bathroom and kept the little window cracked open, he felt the air thickening, growing heavy with moisture. Long before dusk, he watched the fuzzy sun disappear into the clouds, breaking apart like a cherry gum drop and taking most of the light along with it.

  It was about that time his cell phone rang for the first time that night.

  Startled, he dropped the wrench and banged his knuckles against the pipe. He cursed and went looking for the phone, found it in his leather jacket. It was Zoe, telling him that a friend of hers was home for the weekend and wanted to know if Zoe could hang out for the night. Home from college? That's what Gage asked, putting more emphasis on the word college than was necessary, which led to some terse silence followed by an even more terse "fine" and "see you later." He wondered why she even called. It wasn't like she needed his permission.

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again, and for a second time Gage banged his fist against the pipe. He marched back to the kitchen, where he'd left the phone on the counter. From where he stood in the kitchen, he could see out the big west window, over the rooftops of the houses below and the ocean beyond. The black plastic vibrated across the white tiles like an angry cockroach, the display on the front glowing like a pulsating eyeball, and Gage lifted his fist to smash it. At the last second, he managed to stop himself, snapping it open and shouting into it instead.

  "What is it?"

  He heard a faint buzzing, and the sound of his own breathing, before a woman answered in a quiet voice.

  "Hi," she said. "Did I call at a bad time?"

  It was Tatyana. He might not have known her, the way the phone changes a person's voice, except for the tinge of Russian accent.