Goofy Foot: An Alex Rasmussen Mystery (Alex Rasmussen Mysteries)

by David Daniel

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Her grin grew wide as a country sky. “C’mon in. I’m Clarissa.”

  “Hi, Clarissa.” She was a few years younger that Paula Jensen, with coppery hair that fanned away from becomingly freckled cheeks.

  “Ted’s told me about y’all. You’re looking for someone from town.”

  “And his daughter.” I showed her the Polaroid.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Of course, I’m not a native—I’m a wash-ashore, Ted calls me. I’m from Texas.”

  “No fooling?” Her drawl should’ve been served with pinto beans.

  She seemed to be performing the role of hostess. I followed her through the house, not hard to do: she moved with a shapely grace. Was she Iva Rand’s replacement? A set of French doors stood open to a large enclosed courtyard. “Ted went to Italy one time,” Clarissa told me, “and he wanted to re-create a Tuscan courtyard.” Decorative trees were strung with strands of tiny white lights, giving the space a festive air. The walls were made of stone, flanked with gardens; there were little niches and mossy benches and garden statuary. A crushed-stone walk went around the swimming pool, which was the courtyard’s centerpiece. The pool was lit from below and the beautiful people surrounding it glowed. In the water several bikini-clad women were splashing about.

  Clarissa made sure I got a drink and then introduced me around. Among the guests were a number of prominent locals, including bankers and selectmen, making me think of the sign out at Shawmut. Mitzi Dineen, the realtor, was there and happily took over duties of showing me around as if I were a new listing. She presented me to her colleague, Andy Royce, who pumped my hand, maybe thinking the third time was the charm. Among the “wash-ashores” that Ted Rand’s luxury project was bringing to town were a young comer from the state senate, whose face was familiar to any Globe reader, and a prominent elderly cosmetic surgeon—at least I was told he was prominent; he was definitely elderly, though his wife appeared to be still decades away from needing his skills. There was also an old white-mustached fellow in the Jacuzzi talking to several bathing beauties; he looked familiar though I couldn’t place him.

  I chatted with guests, probing for the occasional scrap of information that might relate to the case I was working on. I wasn’t sure what I was likely to learn; I had the sense that I was examining an interesting tide pool, looking at scattered forms, trying to discover some element that linked them. Fortunately most of the people were too full of themselves to wonder why I wanted to know.

  Ted Rand spotted me and came over. He was in an elegant blue sport coat and tan slacks over a white polo shirt. In the glow from the tiny white lights he had the burnish of prosperity and good health. “I see you’re mixing and mingling just fine,” he greeted. “Did you bring your bathing suit?”

  “I’m not much of a swimmer. The pool looks good, though.”

  “I never use it. I prefer the Atlantic. But,” he added, smiling toward the pretty pool users, “the guests are friendly, so make yourself at home.”

  “Who’s the gentleman in the spa?” I asked.

  Rand told me his name, and I recognized him as a former superior court judge. He’d heard cases in Lowell for years. Generally the bench was a seat for life, and most judges dug in like Mississippi wood ticks, so either he’d voluntarily given it up for something else or had been made to. Ted Rand went off to spread charm, and I wandered about the courtyard, sampling canapés and capping the occasional yawn. Drinks and the festive mood soon had people dancing to seventies club music. I wandered over to the deejay set up in a cabana beyond the pool. “You don’t look like that’s the music you grew up with,” I said. He was far from old enough to use the bar.

  He grinned vacantly. “No, it’s all programmed. I just spin the play list the boss gives me. Any requests?”

  “Got Satan Bugg’s latest?”

  He laughed and gave me a bit more attention. “That’d rock this scene.”

  “What’s their appeal?” I asked.

  “These people?”

  “Satan Bugg. They’re popular, no?”

  Now he was into me. “Their last album went double platinum. Their appeal? They’re angry, man.”

  “Angry.”

  “You know. British working-class angst. Pissed off.”

  “At what?”

  “At all of this … this …” At a loss for words, he waved a hand. “Opulence. Excess. It’s random. You see the cars parked out there?”

  Yeah. That made sense. The band members undoubtedly drove old wrecks, like John Carvalho, and lived in packing crates. “Does the band have any strange trips?” I asked. “Any hidden meanings to their lyrics?”

  “You mean like back masking? Satanic messages?”

  “Whatever.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, right. It’s music. It helps if you’re sixteen—something to outgrow. Unfortunately, no one told this crowd to outgrow Cher and the Captain and Tennille. No offense, hey.”

  I grinned. “One more question.” I took out the snapshot of Michelle Nickerson. “Ever see her around?”

  He gave it his attention but shook his head. “I’d like to. She’s cute.”

  “Thanks for the music lesson.”

  I wandered into the house. In the living room a handful of guests were standing around the young Beacon Hill pol, who was holding forth as if it were the senate floor. I went and stood on the fringe.

  “And when they started the excavations they found some old bones,” he was saying. “Some federal agency came in and tested them, and they were five thousand years old. Well, that was that. They threw the red tape like frat boys throw toilet paper. Ted had to hold up the project a month while archaeologists checked it out. Evidently the bones were from Indians. Excuse me—‘native peoples. ’ That put a few folks on the warpath. Could’ve held up things indefinitely, but Ted got everyone’s feathers unruffled—no pun intended.”

  “Like hell, Steve,” someone quipped. Chuckle, chuckle.

  “Ted had a powwow with some tribal leaders and soon everyone was all smiles and the project was back in business. He’s a master at compromise. I keep telling him he’s got a future in the state house if he ever gets tired of development.”

  “He’s got a future here,” Andy Royce said. “And we need him.”

  “We certainly do,” piped a lean young woman, her blonde hair still wet from the pool “He gives great party. And in the winter he’s got a theater downstairs and has these movie nights? He shows all those old classics, like Sleepless in Seattle and Basic Instinct.” She beamed.

  “I heard he promised the Indians backup if they try for a casino license.”

  “And maybe a location for said casino right here on Shawmut Point,” said Royce.

  One member of the circle seemed to be paying little attention to the talk and instead was watching me with baggy-eyed appraisal. It was the former judge, wrapped in a thick white terry pool robe now, as if he’d wandered in from the set of Playboy After Hours. I met his gaze and nodded, but he twitched his mustache and turned away. Mr. Beacon Hill was settling in for a filibuster, so I broke free of his charisma and wandered into the next room.

  If the courtyard was Tuscan, this appeared to be a Bavarian hunting lodge, the dark-paneled walls hung with trophy heads of deer, a cuckoo clock, plaques of appreciation for civic and charitable work. Something—was it a potpourri?—gave the room the piney scent of the Schwarzwald. I went for the framed photographs. Ted Rand sitting in a golf cart with the governor. Standing with Frank Sinatra. Posing with members of his softball team, each player holding a “Number One!” finger in the air. Several photos were of Ted and his son when the kid was young. In one, TJ, in a football uniform and smiling almost shyly, held a trophy the size of a beer keg. In another he wore the dress uniform of a marine lieutenant. There was no appearance of his loyal sidekick, Red Dog, or his prom queen. The photograph that caught me, however, was of a young Iva Rand. She glowed with beauty. She was smiling and tightl
y holding her toddler son, as if he might slip from her grasp and disappear.

  I grew aware that someone had come into the room and was standing beside me. It was the former judge. He was dressed now, in sport clothes in the sober hues and costly cuts that befit a man of his position.

  “They’re quite a family,” I said conversationally. “I’m Alex Rasmussen, by the way.”

  Either he was hard of hearing or short on social grace. He ignored my hand and went on looking at the Marine Corps photograph.

  “Rough what happened to Teddy,” I said. “Do you know the story?”

  He looked at me as if I were being distasteful. I hesitated, and groped for a fresh start. “Do the Rands have other children?” I tried.

  “Only the one.”

  I turned to see Ted Rand, who’d spoken. The former judge looked at him, too, sent a cursory scan at the photos, then moved off without a word.

  Rand wore a tight smile. His cheeks looked sunburned. “I invited you to give you a respite,” he said. “Bracing me is one thing, but I hope you’re not going to subject my guests to an interrogation. Clarissa told me you showed her the Nickerson girl’s photograph.”

  I raised a hand, palm out. “Sorry. I’ve got this bad habit of forgetting to punch out when I leave the job. In fact, one thing I meant to ask you—if I may?”

  Rand shrugged. I said, “When you saw Nickerson the other day, did he talk with you about money? Or about business opportunities?”

  “We’ve been there already, haven’t we? Is that the route you’re following? That Ben Nickerson has some business connection to Standish? Because, if so, I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful—I simply don’t know anything.” He smiled. “It was your notion that I’m the burgomaster, not mine.”

  “Don’t be modest. Look at your guests tonight. And golf with the governor? You’ve got to admit you’re a high-profile citizen. But what I’m thinking is that Nickerson’s business may not be as sound as he’s let on, that possibly he came back to Standish looking for an opportunity, or a loan. He has the local newspaper mailed to him in California. It’s likely he’s kept aware of your Point Pines project.”

  Rand gave a little snort of laughter. “Ben? I can more likely imagine him trying to convince me not to build anywhere near the coast, for fear I’d be endangering some species of jellyfish.” His smile faded. “Are you thinking that he might want to extort money somehow?”

  I hadn’t thought it, but I couldn’t rule out any reasonable possibility. “Well?”

  “The fact is, I’ve been even more stringent than the EPA requires. After all, what would be the point in spoiling the natural beauty of the area? People paying what Point Pines costs damn sure don’t want a wasteland. Anyway, curiosity is a habit I tend to share—but in the right time and place. Let’s suspend it for tonight. What do you say? I want to enjoy myself.”

  I’d been hoping to find a way to bring up his son’s accident without revealing where I’d heard it, but I couldn’t now. “Can I ask you one more question?”

  “All right, a quick one, but I’ve got my lawyer right over there.” His tone was jocular, but he nodded, and I looked and saw the former judge. In an instant I had an answer to my question of earlier—of why a judge would leave his bench—and the answer was simple: better pay.

  “Very quick,” I said, changing tack and gesturing to the photograph of Rand with Old Blue Eyes. “Did he sing ‘My Way’?”

  He gave me a complex smile. “Sometimes it’s smarter to let the other person think he’s had his way.”

  One of the catering staff came in and told Rand he had a telephone call. He excused himself and went out. I saw my opportunity to leave. I wanted to get back to Lowell tonight to check out some things in the morning. I found hostess Clarissa and told her I was going. “Aw, aren’t y’all stayin’ for the fun? I’m just puttin’ up some coffee.”

  “I always end up with a lamp shade on my head and hunting for my clothes.”

  “Oh, you.” She made a gracious little pout. “How’m I gonna hold my own with all these Yankees?”

  “You’ll do fine, girl,” I assured her, “just remember that around here, ‘yawl’ is a sailboat.”

  The valets were huddled in the bushes as I went out. There was no disguising their teal shirts or the pot smoke. When my kid brought the Ford around, I showed him Michelle’s photograph. His partner joined us. They gave it glassy-eyed regard, and then my kid nodded. “Yeah, dude, I’ve seen her.”

  “Where?”

  “I know exactly where.” He glanced at his partner. “How about on a mattress in the back of my van.” He slapped his partner’s upraised palm.

  He snickered and turned away. I caught him from behind and yanked the hem of the shirt up around his shoulders and ears. As he struggled against the tight fabric, I spun him in three quick circles and pushed him into a clump of forsythia. His partner just cowered and gaped at the whole show. Driving out, I spotted the old judge. He was looking past an earnest young woman who was trying to tell him something, staring at me as though he were weighing evidence. I flashed him Red Dog’s thumb and pinky finger surfer sign.

  21

  Before I hit the highway, I stopped and bought a coffee—the old-fashioned kind, with just coffee in it—and actually got halfway back to Lowell before opening my eyes between blinks came less and less often. I drew off at a rest area and climbed out. Inland there was not a whisper of a cool breeze. I stood in the hot, buggy dark, sharing the night with a steel hauler tightening his load. I pinwheeled my arms and then leaned against the car and stretched the way, at my age, I should before and after a run but never do. When I felt as awake as I was going to get without amphetamines, I got back on 128 and put the Probe at seventy-five.

  It was the hushed time long past midnight when the highway was a quiet canyon and the mostly empty parking lots of the high-tech companies gleamed with sodium-vapor light. The janitors had gone home, and the night watchmen were sacked out surveilling the inside of their eyelids, and only the workaholics intent on making associate VP were still at it. That was the brief hour of inward gazing when you realized how America got so strong and wondered if it really was our destiny or just a sorry wrong turn we’d made. I didn’t invest my time pondering it. I got back to my apartment exhausted but wide-awake and thinking about Michelle Nickerson. I wanted to speak with her mother and ask some of the questions that had begun to take root in my mind, but it would have to wait for a more civil hour. Paula Jensen didn’t stay as pretty as she was by receiving phone calls at 2 A.M.

  I poured a nightcap and tipped back in my lounger, but still my brain whined along at a highway hum. Had the evening netted me anything other than more questions? Add that one. Maybe an old movie would help me focus, something of earlier vintage than Pretty Woman, but all I got were people in K-Mart suits talking about how to get rich and stay rich, and ads for the Harmonicats’ biggest hits, on CD or cassette, which I probably already had around there on vinyl somewhere—for all I knew I had them wedged into the cassette player in my car. TV programmers ran the purest crap at this hour because no one was watching it, and if anyone was, they deserved it. I killed the dreck, poured a nightcap and went out on my tiny porch. It was a far cry from Ted Rand’s Tuscan courtyard, and the air was humid as a viewing booth at an adult bookstore, but it was home.

  If I were Nero Wolfe, this would be the time when I’d start laying things out for Archie Goodwin, making clear all the connections I’d put together in my head. Alas, I had only me. I got in bed. One thing I could do was quit wondering about Satan Bugg. Beyond Michelle’s interest in their music, I realized they had no link to this. But I didn’t seem to be so clear about much else. It was as if Standish, for all of my status as an outsider, was determined to draw me into its warp and woof, and given what I had seen tonight, I sensed that the town had threads running right up to Beacon Hill. Though trying to find a link there to the Nickersons’ being missing was a stretch I couldn’t make. No, I w
as still thinking about the idea that Ben had come to town looking for something, probably money, to keep his business afloat. He’d been there five days. He’d have made his play by now. And yet, no one had heard a word. I had a bad feeling. I didn’t want to have it, but I had it nevertheless. It churned around on the surface of my brain for a while, then it sank, and I did, too.

  22

  At 9 A.M. I phoned the Major Crimes Bureau and asked for Ed St. Onge. His greeting sounded testy. “Hot,” I said, to soften him up.

  “It’s not the heat; it’s the stupidity. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Me? Tokyo, Nairobi, London. I came back when I got homesick.”

  “Get down to your office if you’re not there already.”

  Before I could wish him a pleasant morning, a hang-up clattered in my ear. I got downtown in twenty minutes. As I stepped into the lobby, I was almost knocked over by St. Onge, or by what he shoved at me. It was a manila folder. “From department files,” he said.

  “Personal delivery?”

  “I don’t like to advertise.” He nodded toward the elevator door. “That out of service again?”

  “No, it just doesn’t work. Do we need to talk?”

  “In private. Upstairs.”

  I gathered the mail from a box marked “third floor” and we climbed the zigzagging flights together, our combined eighty-plus years weighing on us like destiny and making us breathe hard. He was a native, like I was; he’d grown up in Little Canada. He got through school a few years ahead of me, and through the service, too, but neither of us had hit escape velocity. As cops we’d worked in the Major Crimes unit together, had been friends, danced with each other’s wives at the policeman’s ball. I was his daughter’s godfather. Ed was still a cop, and he and Leona were still together, with their daughter doing a medical residency out west. He was the best police detective in the city, if you didn’t count his suits. He bought clothes the way most people bought milk, grabbing the first unit on the shelf; they didn’t come with an expiration date, though. His current drape was a polyester-sport-coat-and-wool-slacks combo in shades of mustard and maroon. He was the one person in Lowell who didn’t mention the city golf tournament, because, like me, he didn’t care crap about it. I wasn’t sure what we were to each other anymore—“friends” didn’t seem to cover it—but I didn’t waste time trying to figure it out, and I doubted he did, either. He held his tongue until I unlocked the waiting room door and we stepped into the nerve center. “I’m sweating already. No AC either?”