“We had sex, is what we had, dear.” Emma fell quiet.
“Emma’s always talking about that sailing trip. I guess I don’t blame her but it gets a little embarrassing every once in a while. Like, I’m supposed to know these things.”
I was about to launch into a birds and bees story, but I held my tongue. “Did Mr. Lambert ever say where he’d go if he got out of here. Maybe to one of his kids’ places?”
“He’d never go there. He didn’t like his family and they never really visited.” Directing her attention to Emma, Ashley said, “You knew Charlie, didn’t you, Emma? Did you like him?”
“He reminded me of Damon. He was a sailor, too. Did I tell you how when I was eighteen I sailed off with Damon? Oh, my.” Emma fell quiet again.
I was getting nowhere. “Well, Ashley,” I said, handing her my card, “if you think of anything that might help us find Mr. Lambert would you give me a call?”
“Of course we will, won’t we Emma?” Ashley said.
”Thanks,” I said and went back to security to interview Ramsden.
Ramsden was short, pudgy and arrogant. I didn’t like the guy the minute I laid eyes on him. You can tell a lot by the way a person looks. At the FBI, we had lots of training in how profiling saves time and money. Why waste resources. If it looks like a duck and acts like a duck, it’s a duck. Ramsden’s a duck. I couldn’t imagine Ashley wasting a flirt on this guy.
“Do you have any security videos of this place when Lambert disappeared?”
“Tapes? What do you think this is, Fort Knox or something? We don’t do tapes.”
“I understand that you were talking with Ashley when Lambert disappeared.”
“Did you meet this girl? She’s a looker. And yeah, we were talking.”
“What about?”
“Nothing, really. She was telling me about a pajama party that she was going to that night. So you can imagine what I was thinking.”
“I really don’t care!” I said.
“I’d have given my right arm to be at that party.”
I ignored his inane comment. I asked, “How long did you two talk?”
“Fifteen minutes maybe. Ashley kept checking her watch. I asked her about that and she said that she had an appointment with one of the patients, so it wasn’t that long. Hey!” Ramsden exclaimed, “While you’re at it talking to everybody around here, you ought to talk to Forteneau’s nephew. He had goo-goo eyes after Ashley and I think she likes him, too. They hung out a lot together. That kid’s what’s wrong with kids today.”
“Hung out?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t come in here much anymore. He’d hang out with Lambert; I think he used the old man to get to Ashley. When Lambert went missing, Cat stopped coming around much. Ashley probably wised up.”
“Cat?”
“That’s what people call him. Catlin’s his real name. His grandmother is a guest here.”
I was getting my first scent. “Where do I find this guy, Cat?”
“Why don’t you ask his uncle?”
I walked around the place just sniffing here and there. Christ, if I ever wind up in a place like this, I’ll cut my throat and consider myself lucky. It’s hard to blame Lambert. Deep down, I wish him luck. But, wish as I might, I have a job to do. It’s like finding an innocent escapee. I did that once when I worked for the FBI. This guy, actually more a kid, got nicked for a murder rap he didn’t do. The investigation team knew it too, but we had no say. A conviction was way beyond our purview. Find the guy and let the courts deal with it. When we caught him, he cried. I almost did, too. He’s in the slammer forever. That was the court’s decision, not the FBI’s. When I find Lambert, I’ll let the insurance company deal with it. He’ll live out his days right back where he was or not. My job is to find the guy and it ends with that.
I found Forteneau chatting with the receptionist. I interrupted and asked, “Who’s Cat?
“Catlin, you mean. He’s my nephew. Weird kid.”
“Why weird?”
“If you met him, you’d know. Embarrassment to the family is what he is.”
“Why?”
“Looks like something out of a freak show. If you see him, you’ll know what I mean.”
“So, when do I meet him?”
“He comes in here sometimes to visit my mom. Wait around and you can probably catch him.”
“Look, Forteneau, I’m not here to wait around. Give the kid a call and tell him to get over here.”
“Good luck. Nobody, and I mean nobody, can tell that kid anything. If you want Catlin, you’ll have to go find him. My guess is that he’s at his house messing around with his computer. He lives on the damn thing.”
“Tell me, does Catlin have a thing for Ashley?”
“A thing! Who doesn’t? Yeah, he has a thing for her. He used to hang around here like a buck in the spring.”
“Used to?”
“Since Lambert left, Catlin has been kind of scarce.”
“Jesus, Forteneau, give me the story will ya?”
“Okay, here’s what I know. Lambert and the kid used to hang out all the time with the exception when Ashley was here. He’d leave Lambert and sneak off with his dream girl.”
“Back to Lambert, if you don’t mind. When did Lambert and this kid start hanging out, as you say?”
“A week or two maybe before Lambert took off.”
“And you don’t find that curious?”
“No, not really. What am I a spy or something? They’d go to Lambert’s room and close the door and whatever they did, they did.”
“Before I go looking for the kid, was there anybody else that visited Lambert?”
Forteneau turned to the receptionist. “Mary, honey, check the sign-in for anybody that visited Lambert before he took out of here?”
“I already did that for the police and there were no sign-ins for Charlie. Why don’t you guys let the old man alone? Have you ever thought that he might be dead? I pray for him every day.”
Forteneau looked back at me. “Nope. Nobody.”
“Yeah, I heard her. I’m standing right here! Okay, where do I find the kid? Directions would help.”
Catlin was different. Dressed in black. Spiked hair, chains, and studs. The whole rebellious package. I was direct.
“Where’s Charlie Lambert?”
“Like, if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
There it is. The kid knows. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Before he left.”
“How much before?”
Catlin scratched his forehead. “Like a day before, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Charlie was here, then he was gone. Life’s like that, isn’t it? Here today, gone tomorrow.”
“Gone where?”
“Somewhere, I guess.”
“So Charlie’s somewhere. Where do you think?”
“Out into the world. On the deep blue sea. On a mountain top. Like at the Salvation Army. How am I supposed to know?”
Emma mentioned sailing. “Why the deep blue sea?”
“Why not? Charlie could do it if he wanted to. He was in good shape. He shouldn’t have been in the home anyway.”
“Did you help Charlie escape?”
Catlin looked away, then said, “No, I didn’t!”
“Did Ashley?”
“Like, ask her.”
“I will.”
I left Catlin absolutely certain that he and Ashley were involved in Lambert’s disappearance. But I didn’t have a subpoena. Finagling is different from extracting testimony. Catlin was not going to submit to interrogation. I went back to the motel and called Charles Jr., Lambert’s oldest son. I asked about Charlie’s old haunts. Old friends. What he enjoyed doing. Anything that might help. Charles Jr. was helpful once he got past lecturing me on how to do a proper investigation. This is a guy who thinks he knows everything. Comes with being a college professor, I guess. He told me that his father was a workaholic. That he had few friends, he was
anti-social, that he liked to do crossword puzzles, enjoyed listening to Bach, and went sailing alone. Bingo. Emma, Catlin, now son Charles Jr. Common thread, sailing. It was a weak link. But it was a link nonetheless. Charles Jr. told me that his father sold his boat about a decade ago and hasn’t been to sea since. That his sailing buddy was some guy named Bob. Lived in Maine. The two of them used to go off together for weeks at a time. Big question: How many Bobs live in Maine?
I went back to Catlin’s place. He was sitting on his back porch diddling with an electronic gizmo. A Black Lab sat next to him.
“Is that the dog that ate the locater?” I asked Catlin.
Without looking up, his fingers working like a typist on steroids, he said, “Like goat, man. Kingdom eats anything.”
“Who’s Bob?”
I watched Catlin’s fingers slow to a crawl then pick up again. “A kid I used to like tease in the eighth grade.”
Too slick. “Look Catlin, you know something. In fact, I think that you know a lot. Let’s just say that Charlie is out there. He might be sick, in trouble. Don’t you think it best to find him? Get him the help he needs? It’s not like he’s going to prison.”
Catlin stopped messing with his phone. “It’s just like prison. And Charlie can take care of himself. Now leave me alone. I’m not going to say one more word to you.”
Catlin went back to his electronic wonder and remained mum. I wanted to choke the little bastard but at the same time I envied Charlie for having such a devoted friend. Lambert must be something special. But, a fugitive, nonetheless.
I caught Ashley as she was just leaving. I was direct. “You know something that you’re not telling me. Catlin said I should talk to you. Why is that?”
“Catlin’s just a friend.”
“I really don’t care what he is. What I care about is you telling me the truth. Did you help Charlie Lambert escape?”
Ashley turned her baby blues on me like they were two Colt 45’s. “I said before, I liked Mr. Lambert. He was a beam of light in this place. If I did help him escape, I wouldn’t tell you or anybody else. But, the fact is, I didn’t. He didn’t need me to get out of this place. So let me alone. I have stuff to do.” Ashley turned on her heels and marched away.
The sailing thing bugged me. It didn’t make sense. An eighty-four year old doesn’t just leap on a boat and go sailing. Maybe on a cruise ship. And where the hell would the money come from?
I went back into the nursing home, signed in, and went to visit Emma. She was sitting quietly in the Sun Room with Ashley. I approached quietly.
“Hello, Emma. Remember me? I’m one of Charlie Lambert’s friends.”
Without a hitch, Emma started her tale of her and Damon’s sail to the Azores. She ended by saying, “We left from Annapolis, like Mr. Lambert.” My eyes popped.
“From Annapolis,” I repeated back. But Emma’s eyes were closed. Story over.
MONDAY, JULY 2 AND TUESDAY, JULY 3
It took only two days to get the boat ready to go: buying charts and a few doodads, a neat folding knife that looked like it could cut steel, an Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon (EPIRB), which I would use only in a dire emergency, a self-inflatable vest, foul weather gear, boots, a few strobe lights, a stack of books, and a whole lot of other things. I also made my way to a clothing store where I bought a complete wardrobe of clothes befitting a seasoned yachtsman including some warmer clothes for when I reached Fundy. I took time to become entirely familiar with the boat’s electronics, mechanicals, and deck layout. Saving me the hassle of outfitting the boat, Roslyn agreed that I could use the linens, dishes, utensils, and cookware as long as they could be replaced with money from the escrow. While I busied myself, a fellow from the yard prepared That Good Night for cruising, including filling the fuel and water tanks, changing the filters, installing a new impeller in the water pump, checking the rigging and just making sure that everything was in order. In addition, at Baxter’s suggestion, he installed a well-hidden safe behind one of the starboard lockers.
I spent my last night at the marina joining folks from the marina at a bring-a-plate cookout. I brought a six-pack of cherry Jell-O.
It was a marvelous way to kick off my voyage. I would leave the next day.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 4
I left Annapolis at 0530 hrs on a cloudless day with light winds out of the southwest. I’m celebrating our nation’s independence with my own. I could use some fireworks. I woke up that morning like an excited kid ready to go fishing with his grandpa. I brewed coffee, toasted some raisin bread, had a glass of orange juice, made two peanut and jelly sandwiches for later, and cleaned the galley to a sparkle.
“Senile, my ass,” I said aloud with the final swipe of cloth over the gleaming stainless steel stove top, all burners off. Old Charlie Lambert was fit and ready to take off. I was no longer in my eighties. I was in my thirties, full of piss and vinegar, determination and hope.
Dutifully, I went down my checklist: stow everything, check engine oil, inspect the water separator, eyeball the bilge for any water, turn off propane, turn off shore power and disconnect power cord stowing same in aft locker, switch on navigation system, auto pilot, radar, instruments, activate VHF and get weather report, start engine and check engine instruments. Who wouldn’t be excited?
While I was untying the fore and aft spring lines, Baxter showed up. “It’s pretty early for you, isn’t it?” I greeted my new friend.
“Yes, it is,” he responded. “But I couldn’t let you leave without a fair sailing farewell and this,” he said, handing me a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne. “And don’t drink it alone.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, thanking him. “I’ll save this for just the right moment.”
“I’m sure you will,” he said. “Any problems out there, let me know.”
“There is one favor I need to ask before heading out,” I said
“Go right ahead and ask.”
“There’s a guy on my trail about the nursing home stuff. An Insurance investigator,” I added. “I’m not sure, but he might show up here.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Baxter assured me. “Don’t worry about it, Charlie, just go sailing.”
“Just is case you need to contact me, I’ll give you my phone number.”
Baxter wrote it down on the back of one of his business cards. We shook hands.
Baxter offered to handle the docking lines while I stowed the bottle and prepared to leave. While I positioned myself at the helm, Baxter cast off the lines, carefully tossing them on board. A nudge of the bow thruster with a touch of forward prop had me clear of the dock and heading for the channel that would take me into the Chesapeake Bay and north, to my first overnight at Chesapeake City, a distance of about 50 nautical miles. With light air, I let the engine do its job pushing us along at six knots.
When I first got the idea of getting out of Sunset, I dreamed of going back north to familiar sailing grounds. I gave no thought beyond that. Get to Maine and maybe to Nova Scotia, then go from there. While the yard was working on preparing the boat, I studied charts. It was simple enough. Sail to Maine via the Upper Chesapeake Bay, the Delaware Canal and River, sail north off the New Jersey Coast, visit New York Harbor, East River to Long Island Sound, transit the Buzzards Bay Canal, stopover in Boston, Portsmouth, Portland, and finally visit Bob. I figured that the voyage would take two or three weeks depending how fit I was to put in long hours and maybe even an overnight. Plus, of course, factor in weather. The navigation was pretty straightforward, with no real hazards to be concerned about, except for inept boaters or being smashed by a freighter as I could be crossing numerous sea lanes. I vowed to just go and enjoy myself.
There was a chart plotter on this boat, a high-tech gizmo that rivals Cat’s fancy cell phone. This amazing device is supposed to tell me where I am, where I came from, where I’m going, how to get there and what time I might expect to arrive. With the push of a few buttons, it’ll even tell me
where the marinas are and what I may expect in terms of locating grocery stores or restaurants. It’s a great gadget for a man who goes to get something, and then once he gets there, stands empty-minded. On this first leg to Chesapeake City, I discovered myself looking at the thing like a kid glued to a television set. My choice was either turn it off or discipline myself. I chose the latter. I kept a paper chart close at hand and, as I used to do years ago, plotted a fix every hour.
Sailing a great boat is like the music of Bach; a certain busyness that makes pure sense. Really simple when you get down to it, but very complex, too—still water runs deep so they say. That’s how it often was machining precision parts. With specs in the thousandth of an inch, it takes great machinery, expert operators and a respect for materials. Here we have the shape of the boat, the cut of the sails, a few ropes that adjust this and that with wind, and water as friends when you work with them and enemies if you don’t.
Having motored all the way, I anchored mid-afternoon in a cut off the canal across from Chesapeake City. A push of a button and the anchor chain rattled out of its locker and in a few minutes I was hooked. No need to scramble up in the foredeck to drop an anchor like I used to. Used to. Those two words echoed around Sunset like a mantra. Used to swim, dance, cook, clean, plant gardens, take out the garbage, make love. All those simple and not so simple things we used to do and took for granted, or complained about or wished we didn’t have to do some of them. But garbage does accumulate, weeds grow, kids scrape their knees, and lust, well, let’s just say that used to does apply. But then again, I felt a real ache looking back at that gal in Annapolis. I hadn’t felt that way for years.
You know, every young adult should have to spend time in a nursing home—sleepovers for the sake of learning that the simple day-to-day stuff is what underscores being alive. What I noticed was that visitors came and went as fast as they could. And I bet a dime to a dollar that when they left, they said to each other that they would never in a million years want to wind up in a place like that. So it’s okay for a loved one, but not for them. Now what does that say about love? I admit that people like Emma need a place to be. For her, Sunset is forever being on a cruise ship. But the moans one hears bouncing around the place are real. These soft and pathetic drones are the new underscore of people wound down to their lowest common denominator. They deserve our pity.
That Good Night Page 9