Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

"Nah, Monday was her sister's birthday, so we drove up Sunday night and stayed over. Big mistake."

  "I was hoping you might have seen Mr. Brodbeck Sunday night."

  The old man grinned broadly. "You mean, I'm a nosy old codger, and I might have spotted something going on."

  "Yeah, something like that."

  "Well, it's true, I am. You'd be surprised what goes on in these cottages during the summer. Fights, wild parties. Keeps me young just thinking about it. See that yellow house up there? Damnedest thing! Once saw a guy standing on the porch, banging on the door. Didn't have nothing on but panties and a bra. Red lace they were. Whoever was inside wouldn't let him back in. Damn, that was fun." His glow of nostalgia faded. "In the winter, though, all the nuts go back home. It gets pretty slow."

  "So you didn't see Brodbeck?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Did you see him leave?"

  "Wouldn't, would I? Like I said before, he keeps his car round back."

  "So what did you see?"

  "Him. Just as we were pulling out, he came out on the porch."

  "What did he do?"

  "Nothing much. He had a blanket, gray I think. He shook it out by the stairs, folded it up, then went back in."

  "You don't miss much. What time was that?"

  "Right on seven o'clock. I remember because it's probably the only time we ever actually left when we said we would."

  "You didn't see anyone with him?"

  "No. Could have been someone in the house, I guess."

  "Last time you told us he used to bring different women here. Anyone you recognize?"

  "Nah. They were kind of interchangeable, know what I mean? None of them were special."

  "Anyone visit him since we talked on Saturday?"

  "Not that I saw. So what's happened?"

  "Mr. Brodbeck is gone."

  Harry noted that he didn't seem surprised, just nodded a little sadly. "Damn, that's too bad. I figured some husband would get to him someday, but damn...."

  "I don't mean he's dead. Just gone. You were friends?"

  "Nah, I didn't even like him much. Too full of himself. But without him there won't be anything going on. Well, after you leave, anyway."

  Harry had been making notes in a little spiral book. He closed it and stuck it back into his shirt pocket. "Cheer up," he said, "it'll be summer again in no time."

  * * *

  Harry drove around the block, then pulled into the mini mart for gas. He still had half a tank, but wanted a reason to go in. He had never developed a taste for cola drinks or week-old pastry. He filled the VW with mid-grade, then went in through the heavy glass door marked PULL.

  As he paid for the gas, he asked, "Do you happen to know the guy that lives across the lot there? Has a little red car, parks it by the hedge."

  The man behind the counter was small, dark, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He finished making out the credit slip, pushed it toward Harry, along with his credit card and a pen. Harry thought he might be from India or Pakistan, but when he spoke, the guess was changed to somewhere in the Middle East.

  "Yes, I know him. A fine man. Very friendly. I don't know his name."

  "A good customer?"

  "Oh, he doesn't buy so much. The Sunday newspaper, sometimes a six-pack. But he likes to talk and pass the time. Most pleasant."

  "You don't mind his parking in your lot?"

  "Why should I mind? It hurts nothing, and makes it look as if there are more customers." He adjusted his glasses and peered out across the lot. "Maybe he went away for a while."

  "Did he say he was going?"

  "Oh, no, but his car hasn't been there since...." He stopped, trying to recall. "I saw him leave on the evening of Sunday. Yes, I'm sure it was Sunday."

  "About what time?"

  He shrugged. "Who knows? It was almost dark."

  "Was he alone?"

  "Oh yes, quite alone. He had a blanket under one arm—I think it was a blanket. And he carried a paper sack."

  "Like you'd get in a market?"

  "Very like. Brown. Are you of the police?"

  "Yes. We're trying to find Mr. Brodbeck."

  "Ah, I see. That's too bad."

  Harry agreed. It was never good when the police were looking for someone.

  "A very pleasant man. Very friendly."

  * * *

  It was dark when Harry found a parking space near Mickie's apartment. He sat for a moment, watching. A light was on, but he saw no movement. The light by her front door was on this time, too. There were a few small bushes along the front of the building, but not much cover for anyone hiding. It had occurred to him that whoever shot her might not be after her specifically. Maybe anyone connected with the investigation would do.

  He got out and walked toward the door, trying to be conscious of any movements he might catch in the shadows. When he rang the bell, it took a while for the door to open. He imagined a suspicious eye checking him out through the peephole.

  When it did swing open, he saw Paul, not Mickie. He stepped in, looked around, but saw no one else.

  Paul said, "She's asleep. I told her I'd wake her when you got here."

  Harry shook his head. "Not necessary. I'll see her in the morning."

  "Good. I wasn't going to wake her, anyway."

  Harry gave him a speculative look. "How long you going to be here?"

  "All night. I'll crash on the couch."

  "Mickie know that?"

  Paul gave him an Are-you-kidding? look. “Be real! Look, someone tried to kill her. I'm staying here."

  "Who's arguing?"

  "I'm just worried about tomorrow. I know her—she won't stay here. She'll be out chasing whoever did this."

  "That's her job."

  "I know. I never thought about it much, but when I saw the blood all over her side ... it changed things."

  Harry didn't answer. He stood looking at the other man, up and down, as if he were guessing his weight. Finally, Paul said, "What?"

  "You're right. Things change. People change. Think about it." He turned to leave. At the door, he said, "As for tomorrow, she won't be alone—even when she thinks she is."

  CHAPTER 18

  ANOTHER ONE

  Morning people are out of bed, fully alert, as soon as it can decently be said to be light. They begin immediately planning their day, eager to be at it. It’s genetic. They tend to be, God forgive them, cheery. It was a curse Paul had escaped.

  He was first aware, dimly, that someone had said something to him. Even with his eyes closed, he was also aware, again dimly, that it wasn't yet light enough to be up. And he was uncomfortable. For some reason he couldn't stretch out fully, and the pillow was too fat—it propped his head at too much of an angle.

  "Hey, you!"

  There it was again. The voice. Opening his eyes to slits showed him he had been right about it being too early. It also showed him Mickie. She stood at the foot of the couch, arms crossed, looking as stern as she could in an extra large Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt.

  "What are you doing out here?"

  "Trying to get some sleep." He swung his feet to the floor, asking, "What time is it?"

  "Six-thirty."

  "In the morning?"

  "You didn't answer my question? Why are you here?"

  He got up, began pulling on his pants. "I was here. It just seemed like a good idea."

  "So why out here? You could have come in. You've been there before."

  He glanced at the area of her left side, shrugged. "That didn't seem like such a good idea."

  "Well, then...." Her eyes narrowed and the stern look came back. "I see. You think I need looking after. Well, I don't, thank you very much."

  She strode to the bedroom with a little less dignity than she might have had when dressed, almost slamming the door after her. Paul ran his hands through his hair, still trying to get all the mental gears going in the same direction. "Right," he said to no one. "Good morning to you, too."

 
; The door opened again and she stuck her head out. "Did Harry come by last night?"

  "Yeah."

  "And you didn't wake me."

  "Right."

  This time the door had a definite bang.

  She hadn't brightened noticeably when she came into the kitchen. She smelled coffee brewing, saw two halves of an English muffin disappear into the depths of the toaster as Paul depressed the lever.

  He asked, "This is still all you eat for breakfast?"

  "Yes."

  "You need more."

  She snapped, "Don't tell me what I need."

  "Somebody has to—you don't seem to know."

  She stared at the coffee maker, wondering how it could take so long to make a lousy mug of coffee. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "That means —" The toaster sent the muffin halves up. Paul picked them out. "Butter?"

  "No. Here, I'll fix them."

  "That means that there are one or two people who, God knows why, seem to think you're worth having around. They even care about you. That means that there's also someone who obviously knows you better than we do, someone who's trying to shoot holes in you. Granting that he's probably justified, we'd still rather it didn't happen. All right?"

  "All right. Look, I appreciate what you're doing, but that shot was probably just a one-time thing. Whoever it was, missed. That's probably all there is to it."

  "Probably?"

  She stepped closer to him, a muffin half in each hand. "Paul, don't start acting like Harry. I'm a big girl now, and you are not my mother."

  They were very close now, neither wanting to say what was in their minds. Mickie said, "You want half this muffin?"

  "What's on it?"

  "Lemon marmalade."

  "Okay. I'll put another one in."

  The wall phone rang. Paul, who was closer, answered. He listened, said, "She's right here." He handed it to Mickie. "It's your mother."

  Mickie raised her eyes with a look that said, Oh God, that’s all I need this morning.

  Paul said, "Don't let her push you around. Tell her she's not your mother."

  * * *

  Marvin had worked for D&J Electronics, a small outfit making specialized computer boards, for the past six years. He had been one of the first hired, had made himself as indispensable as possible, had always received high ratings on his yearly appraisals.

  The last one, actually, hadn't been all that good. He had missed a deadline, but they could hardly lay all the blame on him. He had been sick a few times. And then Jenks, the J of D&J, had started holding staff meetings first thing in the morning and, God knows, nobody's at his best at that hour. It sometimes took him until noon to get the jitters calmed down, to get into gear. But he knew the technical end of the business better than anyone. Just last week, he had said so to his wife, Myra. “Hell,” he had said, “give me a chance, and I could do Jenk’s job. Who needs him?”

  For the past few weeks, rumors had been flying that D&J was being sold to a larger company headquartered in Atlanta. When it appeared these rumors were well founded, many of his co-workers had gotten extremely edgy, wondering if they would have a job after the changeover. Yesterday it had been confirmed, and minor panic had set in, even though Dawson, the D of D&J, had assured them there would be few changes. Marvin had welcomed the news, knowing he had nothing to worry about on that count. He was too valuable. Besides, as he had said to Myra that night, "How far can you go with a dinky outfit like this? In a bigger company, there's that much more room to climb."

  He had just come back to his cubicle with his first cup of morning coffee, when Dawson stuck his bushy head in.

  "Marv, could I see you a minute?"

  Oh God, not now! He had a wowser of a hangover. There was the old familiar hammering just above his ears, and his stomach was filled with lead weights. He put on his smiley face and said, "Sure thing."

  "In my office."

  Marvin followed him down the hall and into the office, carrying his coffee with him, trying to keep the smile in place. Dawson closed the door behind him. He wondered what it was about. It was too early for a performance appraisal. Probably had something to do with the sale of the company. Marvin would be asked to help with the changeover. He took the indicated chair, leaned back confidently, giving Dawson his full attention.

  A few minutes later, Marvin sat stunned as Dawson made conciliatory sounds, trying to sound sympathetic. The new owners had their own key people, but he was sure a man of Marvin's talents and experience would have no trouble finding another position. Who knows, it might even be a blessing in disguise, a way for him to step up.

  Marvin heard none of it. His brain had slammed to a halt. Even the hangover hammers were quieter. All he could realize, and that just barely, was that he had been downsized, axed, had the can tied to his tail. He left Dawson's office in a daze, leaving his half-filled coffee cup on the edge of his former boss's desk.

  He left the building without a word to anyone, heading for the parking lot. His termination wouldn't be official until the end of the week, but he couldn't stay there now. And why the hell should he, after all he'd done for them? He would come back to clear out his stuff tomorrow.

  As he approached the Connor Beach Bridge, the traffic stopped as the middle section raised to let a boat pass through. It was a sleek ketch, white with red trim, heading north after a winter in warmer waters. Marvin didn't notice. He was focused on other things. Chiefly, what would he tell Myra? She was planning their vacation, something rather grand this year. Bermuda had been mentioned. Well, that was down the tubes, too.

  Coming onto the island, he started to pull into the right lane to head south and home. Instead, he turned left. He'd tell Myra later. First he wanted to get things straight in his own head. He drove north without consciously seeing anything around him, not doing much that would pass for thought. It was still not quite real to him.

  After a couple of miles the road stopped. There was a turnaround and places to park, but no other cars. Having nowhere else he wanted to go, he pulled into a parking place and cut the engine.

  Ahead of him were several acres of sand dunes marking the end of the island. These are the largest on the island, some of them eight to ten feet high, held temporarily in place by scattered patches of wild grasses and vines, topped here and there with gracefully waving sea oats.

  He got out and looked around, breathing in the sea air, trying to clear his head. To his right, towards the ocean, he could see the ugly cement foundations of what was once meant to be an eight-story hotel. Sentiments had divided sharply between the local merchants who saw the business it would bring, and those who considered it a threat to the natural beauty and wildlife of the dune area. Marvin's wife had been firmly in the latter camp, attending rallies and writing strongly worded letters to members of the town council who were caught in the middle. In the end, the parent company, having financial problems elsewhere, had decided to abort the project. Now the walls of the foundations were slowly filling with sand. Like me, he thought. Abandoned by the corporate bottom line bastards.

  He stepped over the wooden barrier rimming the parking area, and walked into the dunes. His low cut shoes weren't right for going in the sand. It came in over the tops, making walking uncomfortable. Absorbed in self-pity and a pounding head, he didn't notice until he was nearly to the end of the island. Just ahead, he could see the narrow inlet between Connor Beach and the next island to the north. A stream of water was rushing past in great ripples as the tide went out.

  He sat down at the base of a dune to dump the sand from his shoes, wipe his socks clean, and put the shoes back on again. It was when he was retying them that he saw something odd. It was about ten feet from him at the base of the next dune. He didn't think much of it, believing it was probably just sand clumped together in an odd way. Curious, he went over, squatted down, and studied it. Up close, he could see that it wasn't sand at all. It was three toes of somebody's foot. He saw the ridges on the nail of
the big toe, a few small black hairs. He reached out, touched it, pushed a little when it didn't move. When he took his finger away, it moved slowly back. He looked around quickly, a tight feeling between his shoulder blades, but no one was in sight. Carefully, he stood up, backed away and started running.

  * * *

  The report had been anonymous. The officer sent to check it out had cleared away just enough sand to uncover most of the foot, then called in from the patrol car.

  Now the area was cordoned off with shiny yellow-and-black plastic tape. Patrol cars with blue lights turning crowded most of the turnaround. The SBI mobile lab was wedged in among them. Assorted other vehicles, including Harry's dark green VW Bug and Mickie's Honda, were parked on the main road.

  There were few houses at this end of the island. They had checked the ones that had even a partial view of the area, hoping someone would remember a car, a noise, something. In fact, they had found none that weren't still closed for the winter.

  Out among the dunes, Mickie stood just outside the taped-off area. Heavy breathing still hurt, and when she moved she did it carefully, trying to not let it show. Walking through the sand had been harder than she would admit. Still, the washed out feeling of yesterday was gone. Well, nearly.

  Beside her, Harry sat on his heels, watching, waiting for the technicians to finish their rituals. She had wanted to go out to the scene, impatient to get started, but knew how Harry felt about cops stepping all over everything before the crime scene investigators had finished.

  The sunshine of yesterday had given way to more clouds, not the kind that bring rain, but the gray, streaky clouds that come with a cold wind. Curious gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking occasionally at the intruders. Mickie huddled into her jacket. The perfect day, she thought, for an exhumation.

  They watched as the area was photographed and searched, each foreign object bagged and tagged. It was slow, painstaking work, trying even the patience of Harry. Whatever was attached to the foot was still buried. Someone had laid it at the base of a high dune, then had pulled sand down to cover it. When finally a man wearing plastic gloves began to slowly scoop the sand away, they ducked under the yellow tape and moved up to watch.