by DOUG KEELER
Finally. Here we were on Sapelo at last. Standing on the dock the morning sun felt strong as it beat down on us. On this side of the island, the wind was down and the air was still; it felt a good five degrees warmer here than on the mainland. Behind me, I heard a splash. A fish or some other sea creature had broken the surface. I watched as the concentric circles expanded.
“Thanks for the ride,” Caroline said to McCoy. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be out here. How do I get in touch with you when we’re ready to return to the mainland?”
“I’ll be at the DNR office all day. Drive up when you're finished and I’ll take you back over.” I was about to ask him where the office was located, but he said. “I don’t know if you have a map of the island, but I’ve got one you can have.” He reached into the boat’s glove box and fished out the map. He unfolded it and pointed out the location of his office. Despite what he said about rarely crossing paths with the Marine Institute’s staff, the DNR office didn’t look far away to me. McCoy continued, “There aren’t many roads out here, but the map will help you get around.”
Caroline smiled at him. “We’re much obliged.”
He nodded. “Good luck.”
Before we walked away, I said to him, “I heard Jack Hutchins takes his own boat back and forth from the mainland, but the only boat I see is the public ferry.”
“There’s a second dock further up the river,” he replied. “He keeps his boat up there.”
As we headed down the dock, McCoy called out, “Be careful. We’ve got rattlesnakes, feral hogs, and gators out here.”
“That’s Alright,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder and patting my hip. “I’ve got Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson’s .357 right here.” Joe McCoy did not look pleased. Good. Fuck him.
Caroline and I continued down the dock toward the island. In the middle of the pier was an open-air pavilion where passengers could wait in the shade before boarding the ferry. At the end of the dock was a small dirt parking lot where a group of weather-beaten vehicles sat baking in the sun.
“What are we driving?” I asked Caroline.
She nodded toward a battered and faded SUV. “It’s that Isuzu Trooper over there. The keys are supposed to be under the floor mat.”
As we approached the Trooper, I glanced at the map. The Ranger was correct; there weren't many roads to keep up with. The main road, which ran north to south through the center of the southern half of the island, was called The Autobahn. And it appeared The Marine Institute was close, near the southern edge of the island. I found the Reynolds Mansion on the map. It wasn’t far either.
I took me a minute to locate Chocolate Plantation. It was on the northwestern side of Sapelo, along what was known as West Perimeter Road.
Caroline said, “I’ll drive. You navigate.”
The Trooper turned out to be a sun-forged heap of rusted metal. The muffler was loose and hung low to the ground, and the windshield had a vascular network of spider vein cracks. But it had large knobby tires and looked like it could handle the island roads with little trouble.
I opened the passenger door; stale hot air hit me like a blast furnace. Caroline opened the driver’s side door. She bent down and reached under the floor mat and located the keys. “Shit. This is a standard shift...I can’t drive a stick.”
“It’ll be better this way,” I said, smiling. “I’m a terrible passenger. Toss me the keys and I’ll drive.”
“If you make one sexist remark Fontaine, I swear I’ll shoot you.” On second thought, maybe I should’ve let the ranger take Caroline’s gun.
We switched sides. I handed her the map and she gave me the keys. I slid behind the wheel, pushed in the clutch, and fired the engine. It sputtered, then rumbled to life with a cough of exhaust smoke. Caroline got in and slammed her door.
Before we pulled out, I asked her, “What did you think of Ranger Rick’s little speech back there on the mainland about not socializing with the other island workers?”
She puffed out her cheeks and let out a deep breath. “His name is Joe, and what the hell are you talking about?”
“Think about it,” I said. “What are there...twenty, maybe thirty people working out here. What do you think they do after work?”
“I don’t know Fontaine.” She turned in her seat and looked at me. “Why don’t you illuminate me? What do they do out here after work?”
“The same thing everyone else does,” I replied. “They knock back a couple beers, play cards, walk on the beach.” I looked at her for a long moment, then said, “You pop in the pickle and raid the nookie jar. These are all wildlife people Caroline. They have a lot in common. After work, they’re not going straight back to their apartments and stare at the walls. I say the ranger is full of shit.”
Caroline groaned. “Pop in the pickle. What is this cooking class for horny fifth-grade boys? Who cares what these people do after work. We’re not here to analyze the sex lives of the other Sapelo workers. We’re here to piece together what was going on in Claire’s life before she was murdered. That’s it.” Moments later she added, “Besides, I thought McCoy was kind of cute.” Cute? Give me a fucking break.
“Come on Caroline. McCoy’s a classic teeny-weenie overcompensater. It’s called Napoleon complex of the crotch. Why else do you think he was trying to take our guns? The guy drops his pants, he’s got a third pinky dangling between his legs. I’m betting he wears a size seven shoe and uses a peanut shell and a rubber band for a jock strap.”
Despite her obvious frustration with moi, Caroline laughed. “You need help Fontaine, but you’re way beyond the couch. Now knock it off, and let’s go.”
~ ~ ~
I thrive on friction. No friction, no heat. No heat, no fire. Without a few gritty particles of sand, the oyster can’t produce a pearl. It’s why I like to stir Caroline up. I use the snarky banter to keep me sharp and focused. Besides, it’s damn good fun to get under her skin. Nonetheless, I tabled the sexually laced culinary comments, threw it in first, and pulled out of the parking lot.
I looked over at Caroline. She had the Sapelo map unfolded on her lap. “This is Dock Road,” she informed me. “It looks like we take it until it dead ends, then take a right on the Autobahn.” She looked up and smiled. “The Autobahn? You gotta be kidding me.”
We were motoring along a sandy road beneath a heavily forested canopy of live oaks. Hazy shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the trees. There wasn’t another car in sight. Just us. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” Caroline said, looking out her window, “but this is unbelievable Fontaine. It’s absolutely stunning.”
I pulled over and kept the motor running, then turned to her and said, “Can you imagine being a heavy hitter like Howard Coffin or R.J. Reynolds? Living that life. Owning your own island...this island. God it must have been something.” Sapelo’s thick, semitropical foliage spread out in all directions. And for a few brief moments, I caught a glimpse of what it was like to own a paradise. “If we get a chance, I’ll drive us by the mansion. These guys lived like kings.”
Howard Coffin killed himself not long after he was forced to sell Sapelo to R.J. Reynolds. And now here we were, investigating the death of a woman that lived out here. The tragic irony wasn’t lost on me.
I engaged the clutch, popped it in first, and hit the gas. We came to the end of Dock Road, and I hung a right on the Autobahn. Whoever named these roads had a sense of humor. This didn’t resemble Germany’s Autobahn, the legendary highway without speed limits. Sapelo’s version of the Autobahn was nothing more than another sandy road.
Caroline glanced at the map. “It looks like the next road we come to is called Beach Road. We cross over it and keep going straight. That should put us right at the Marine Institute’s facilities.”
I threaded the Trooper between thick stands of live oaks draped with wisps of Spanish moss. In places the trees were so close the tangled branches scraped the sides of the Trooper. Some s
ections of road were washed out and heavily rutted. I skirted a fallen branch by going completely off-road into a thicket of saw palmetto. The Trooper bounced and shook, but handled the terrain well.
We crossed Beach Road and left the forest. The road here was recently graded, lined with crushed shells that crackled and popped like a bowl of Rice Krispies beneath the Trooper’s tires. We passed a wooden sign with a lighthouse painted on it. Below the lighthouse were the words Sapelo Marine Institute.
We drove for another quarter mile, palm trees flanking us on both sides of the road. I passed the infamous turkey fountain. It didn’t look quite as sinister in person, but I kept my distance just in case.
The Marine Institute resembled a small Tuscan Village. Numerous buildings, each constructed of pale, terra cotta colored stucco, and roofed with red clay tiles, were scattered about the well-tended grounds. The largest building stood three stories tall, with a steep roof pitch and twin side gables. Between the gables, there was observation tower topped with a black, wrought iron weathervane shaped like a sailing ship.
This was once R.J. Reynolds’ dairy complex? Shit. Reynolds’ cows lived better than most people. Instead of mooing, they probably said Arrivederci.
Caroline looked out her window and gave a low whistle. “Do you remember any of this from when you were here?”
I shrugged. “We must have passed by here. But you have to understand, I was here years ago and was only on the island for about three hours. When we got off the ferry, a van met us at the dock and took us to the Reynolds Mansion for the wedding. When the ceremonies were over, we went right back to the dock, boarded the ferry and departed.”
I parked next to a white Ford F-150 and we got out. I turned and looked back toward the road we’d just driven, and the view was stunning. I thought about Cavanaugh. Maybe we really were fools to risk spoiling paradise in order to scoop another seven feet of mud from the Savannah River.
It was easy to be seduced by the ethereal beauty of the island, and I reminded myself why we were here. I looked at Caroline. Her face was set with a look of quiet determination.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Teachers open the door, but you must walk through it yourself
Chinese Proverb
We approached the main building, then went up a set of granite steps to a massive arched wooden door with wrought-iron strap hinges. I twisted the knob and gave it a good shove. The door creaked open, and we stepped inside a two-story atrium. After the hot, bumpy ride in the Trooper, the inside air felt cool on my skin. To our left, a glass-paneled door led to the laboratories. Just past the labs there was a suite of offices.
We made our way down the hallway, Caroline's shoes clacking on the floor tiles. Inside one of the labs, I spotted a young woman hunched over a desk, peering into a microscope. She wore tan colored shorts, a green T-shirt, and running shoes. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked like a graduate student. I knocked lightly. She looked up and blinked, then came to the door.
“We’re looking for Tim Jenkins,” Caroline said to her.
“He’s two doors down on the right,” she replied, smiling pleasantly.
We thanked her and continued down the hall. Jenkins’ door was open and he was seated at his desk, reading from a sheet of paper. He was a middle-aged guy, matchstick thin, with receding hair the color of tin. Thick coke-bottle glasses gave him a slightly owlish appearance, and I recalled Natalie’s comment about him looking like a scientist.
Jenkins noticed us before we had a chance to knock. He stood and motioned us inside. “You must be Detective Ross,” he said, an expression of deep sadness trailing across his face.
Caroline nodded. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Jenkins. This is Ray Fontaine. He’s helping out with the investigation.”
We shook hands all around, and Jenkins gestured toward a couple of cracked leather chairs that looked like Salvation Army relics. He lowered himself into his swivel chair, and Caroline and I sat facing him.
I took a couple seconds to look around, and Jenkins’ office was a small dank cave. Floating in rays of filtered light were clouds of dust so thick I could recognize shapes in them, including one that looked like Bill Clinton. Books, file folders, dog-eared periodicals, and moldering stacks of newspapers rose like stalagmites from every conceivable surface. Papers spilled from a small side table, puddling on the floor. A credenza held a saltwater aquarium and a small coffee maker. In the middle of his desk was a half-eaten bowl of soggy Fruit Loops. The milk had taken on a slightly psychedelic hue.
Jenkins looked at us and asked, “Where would you like to begin?” How about with a hazmat suit and a respirator for yours truly. There were enough toxic mold spores wafting about to wipe out half the Indian subcontinent.
“Why don’t you take us through last Friday,” Caroline said.
“As best as I can recall,” he said, stroking his chin, “everything seemed normal. Most of the time, Claire and I didn’t work together. But I remember seeing her around mid-morning, and she was her usual cheerful self.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary happened?” Caroline asked.
He shook his head. “Not that I recall.”
“Were you on the four thirty ferry last Friday?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Most of the staff departs on Friday for the weekend. After five days out here, we’re ready to get back to our families.”
“Anything unusual about that ferry ride?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice. I sat and read a book. It helps me relax after a long week.”
“What were you reading?”
“A trashy detective novel, I’m embarrassed to admit.”
Caroline said, “To help us better understand, why don’t you give us some background on what you and the other scientists do out here.”
Jenkins nodded. “This is one of the oldest marine labs in the nation. When R.J. Reynolds donated his dairy barns to The Marine Institute back in 1953, the study of marsh ecology was a revolutionary idea. At the time, most people viewed wetlands as something to be drained and done away with. In fact, you could argue that the nation’s ecological movement began on Sapelo.” I could argue his armpit of an office hadn’t been cleaned since 1953.
I asked, “What type of things did Claire work on?”
“Claire’s area of expertise was water quality. Specifically, the impact bacteria have on the health of the estuaries. She studied the marsh to determine the types and the amount of microbes in the water that surrounds Sapelo.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Because so little has changed in and around Sapelo in the last couple hundred years, the ecosystem is relatively stable. We don’t have dead zones or algae blooms like most other coastal regions. Therefore, we’re able to get a fairly accurate baseline for comparative purposes. Healthy bacteria, you see, control the entire ecosystem. They help break down the organic matter like the marsh grasses, they clean the water and provide oxygen for the fish and the shrimp to breathe. If anything like fertilizer runoff or silt disrupts the balance of bacteria in the water, the estuaries could be at risk. ”
This was a real snoozer, but my ears perked up at the mention of silt in the water. Claire’s beef with Frank Chambers stemmed from the release of silt at Liberty Island.
Caroline nodded and asked, “And what is it that you work on Mister Jenkins?”
“I study the marsh vegetation...” Jenkins had a flat monotone voice, and my eyes were growing heavy. I stifled a yawn and found myself watching a sucker fish in the fish tank. It had attached its thick fish lips to the aquarium glass. “...we take core samples of the mud and measure the spartina grass root system. This is done in order to determine the health of the marsh. We then compare it to other more populated areas...”
I couldn’t take much more of this. My head was swimming like Wavy Gravy at the Woodstock Festival, and I was in serious danger of passing out into the bowl of Fruit
Loops. I cut him off mid-sentence. “Mr. Jenkins, did Claire ever mention the Savannah harbor expansion?”
He looked at me, big owl eyes blinking behind the glasses. “We talked about it a few times in passing,” he replied. “Like most of us, Claire was concerned with the potential impact on the marine environment.”
“Who do you think killed her?” I asked, prying him out of the comfort zone of the marsh muck.
Jenkins hesitated. “I...I have no idea. Claire was a dedicated scientist, and one of the most likable people you’ve ever met. Everyone here thought the world of her.”
And yet, someone had put a bullet in her. I asked him, “Were you aware that Claire had recently ended her engagement?”
“Yes I was,” he replied, nodding.
I wanted to ask about the domestic violence incident, but with Caroline sitting right next to me, I needed to kind of nibble around the topic. “Do you know if Claire and her ex split amicably?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”
“Did you ever see the two of them together?”
“No, I didn’t. I live on St. Simons Island,” he said, chair swiveling, “which is thirty miles south of here. Claire, as I’m sure you know, lived up in Savannah.”
“Did she seem any different to you after she broke it off?”
“Different in what way?”
“You know...happy, sad, apprehensive, relieved.” Like a lot of propeller heads, Jenkins seemed a little clueless about the human condition.
“We’re all so busy with work out here,” he replied. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
This guy had been trained to notice changes in the marsh, not changes in his co-workers. Like pets that resemble their owners, Jenkins was starting to remind me of a fiddler crab. Maybe I need a vacation.
Wanting to confirm what Natalie told me about Claire and Jack Hutchins, I asked, “Do you know if Claire started seeing anyone after she ended her engagement?”