by T. K. Madrid
“Okay.”
“Did you murder her?”
Her right arm quickly extended and she snapped her fingers.
“Wake up.”
Houle settled backward in the chair; his girth and height made the frame of the chair disappear. He brought his hands to his face, interlacing his fingers to form a temple, and stared at her.
Sam, imitating the man, clasped her hands and brought them to her chin.
“You knew she was here,” Sam said. “At twelve-hundred an hour, she wouldn’t stray too far.”
Houle smiled generously.
“That,” Houle said, rising from his chair, “is a very good point.”
“Leaving so soon?”
He lifted his briefcase. He looked at a gold wristwatch that looked like it weighed five pounds.
“I will be in touch. If you need me, I will be at The Ritz. I suggest not straying too far until we receive the coroner’s report.”
The Ritz was a hotel, a part of The Old Club compound. After he left, she located its rates online and envisioned more of her confiscated inheritance spent on Sferra sheets, Bushmills whiskey, and Cohiba cigars.
(9) The Coroner’s Report
The remainder of the day passed quietly. That night the rain knocked on the roof, lightning flickered the lights, and thunderclaps rattled windows.
Monday day and night, and then Tuesday day and night, rain, lightning, and thunder swept over Harsens.
Sam thought of days past, how it would have been logical for superstitious men to think the island was being punished for Hunter’s death.
On Wednesday, the storm clouds began to split and die, leaving a glum hangover of flooded basements, soupy humidity, and muddied fields.
On each of those gray, wet days, Dixie and Bill’s wife, Adele, called Sam to ensure she was “hanging in there”. Late Wednesday, the parents of one of the boys who painted the house dropped by and invited her to attend church services with them the following Sunday. She politely declined the offer.
**********
Now it was Thursday, the day before Independence Day. The Weather Channel was predicting clear skies and 75° for the next three days.
She drove to Pig’s and found it packed with islanders, tourists, and summer folk; the shelves, freezers, and refrigerators were being simultaneously emptied and replenished. Homey wood barrels that had once been brimming with firecrackers, sparklers, and patriotic knickknacks were now near empty.
There were three registers; a fourth opened as she waited. Brian was at the first register, the man closest to the door, as steadfast and familiar as the Statue of Liberty.
She got in line behind a tattooed man wearing a Tigers baseball cap, holding the hand of a freckled boy who sported a similar cap. The line moved a few steps. Brian waved her forward.
“How are you?” she said, removing items from her hand basket.
He focused on the register keys.
“The question is how you are.”
“As best as can be expected.”
He glanced at her.
“Did you hear the, uh, results?”
“The coroner’s report? No.”
“Are you headed home after this?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll give Billy a shout and ask him to drop by and give you an update. How about Rowland? You heard anything from him?”
“I haven’t seen him since Sunday morning.”
“Thirty-eight thirty-five.”
She gave him two twenties.
“Why’s that?”
He counted the change.
“There’s one and sixty-five cents…” He closed the register drawer. “Next in line!”
**********
She drove home, parked the Bronco at the front of the cottage, sat her purse on a porch chair, and went in with her purchase: black beans, microwave rice, mineral water, and celery stalks.
She’d purchased an American flag, which she hung on the front porch. As she was doing this, Bill Catanzaro pulled into the driveway. After he stepped out of the truck, he paused to check his image in the side-view mirror.
“You’re beautiful!” she said.
“I know,” he answered. As he approached he added, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a chick magnet.”
He was draped in a plaid, flannel shirt that appeared to be one hundred winters old. She met him and without thinking hugged him. He hugged her, too, embracing her as a man embraces his child. He gave off a pleasant scent of sweat and cologne.
“Easy does it, short stuff,” he said. “I bruise easy.”
“I hear you bring news from Caesar,” she said.
“I do,” Bill said, motioning to the porch. “We should sit. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all. I appreciate you stopping by. Would you like a mineral water?”
They entered the porch.
“Yeah, thanks. This humidity is killing me today.”
She moved her purse from the chair to the floor.
“Here,” she said. “Sit. You should be wearing something lighter. Something made of cotton.”
“No offense, Sammy, but I think I’ll forgo your fashion tips.”
The Trans-Oceanic radio, perched on a circular-shaped side table, was broadcasting Detroit talk radio. On her return, the radio was squawking loudly, and instead of trying to adjust the signal, she simply turned it off.
She opened and split the contents of a bottle of San Pellegrino between two ice-filled tumblers.
“Where were you Saturday night?” she asked.
“Ah, I’m a homebody,” he said. “Crowds make me uncomfortable.”
“You missed quite a party.”
“Everybody’s buzzing about it,” he said. “Especially your wango-tango with Four.”
“Four?”
“Clayton Ethan Hannibal the Fourth,” Bill said. “His slaves and ass-kissers call him Four behind his back. You wouldn’t know this, but if you’d decked him there would’ve been a parade for you the next day.”
He reached to his breast pocket and retrieved a worn box of Marlboro’s and a flap of matches.
“May I?”
“Another bad habit?” she asked.
“One of many. You got an ashtray anywhere?”
“Right here,” she said, and removed a heavy, orange-colored glass ashtray from the table drawer.
He splashed water into it, lit a cigarette, and dropped the match into the water with a sizzle.
“Brian intimated there was something about Hunter’s cause of death.”
“Did you know her?”
“I did.”
He whistled.
“Brian thought so, but he wasn’t sure. This woman, she was a friend of yours?”
“She was my lawyer.”
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but your lawyer didn’t exactly drown. There were, what they call, contributing factors. I understand they run toxicology tests even if there are bullet holes.”
“How did you hear that?”
He shrugged.
“The county coroner is a cousin. He’s announcing it was a drowning, pending further tests. Final toxicology and some other science stuff.”
“What did they find in her?”
“He didn’t say exactly what. He just said they found shit that shouldn’t have been there.”
Sam asked the hard, necessary question.
“Was she raped?”
Bill exhaled, an exaggerated blowing sound.
“God, I don’t know. He wouldn’t share anything like that anyway.”
“But she was drugged?”
“It’s what I heard.”
“So she was placed in the water to make it look like she drowned?”
“I guess, but, you know, you start to think through it and you come to a fork. Was it self-inflicted? Or was it something else?”
“What does Rowland think?”
“Hard to say. But it’s one of the reasons I stopped by was to give you a he
ads up. He wants to question you, but your lawyer and Hannibal are in the middle of things. Plus there’s Steve, and he’s a loose cannon.”
“Steve who?”
“Steve Haberski. He’s a detective based out of Algonac, and he thinks he’s Dick Tracy. You’ll meet him.”
“What’s Hannibal got to do with this?”
“Propriety. It’s one thing if a body washes up while the servants are on duty and another thing when the yacht set arrives. Listen, I need to get moving.”
He snubbed the Marlboro with another agreeable sizzle. They stood at the same time.
“And what about Houle?”
“He’s hinted to Rowland you’re not exactly who you say you are.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant...”
“That’s easy to fix,” Sam said calmly.
Bill nodded.
“Let me put it this way. People come to Rowland with all types of half-baked stories and theories, and while he may be obligated to listen to them, he has to think for himself, right? He wouldn’t be much good to anyone if he was a reactionary.”
He paused. His lips pulled back, almost in a frown.
“Listen, I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you need to know Rowland doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. See, the thing is…the thing is, six years ago, his wife and five-year-old son died in a car accident when he fell asleep at the wheel. He doesn’t drink or have any of my hobbies – he just fell asleep.”
Sam crossed her arms; her face expressed sadness and grim curiosity.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“He was in a dark place for a long time after that. His two eldest all but stopped talking to him, which was hard enough, but then some of his alleged friends stopped talking to him as well. It’s old news in a way, but I wanted you to know because – to say it right – he’s been different since you arrived. From the very first day he met you he’s been – he’s been better. I don’t know how else to express it. He’s been lit up. He’s happier.”
“So why are you telling me this? Any of it?”
He smiled with his lips and his eyes.
“I like you. Everyone likes you. I haven’t met anyone who hasn’t said good things about you.”
Sam blushed.
“Thanks.”
He looked at her with a half-smile.
“You’re not going to hug me again, are you?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Good. I can only take so much hugging. I think I’ve hit my limit for the day.”
He took one step away, then turned back to her, snapping his fingers.
“Don’t mention the cig to Adele. She thinks I quit.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“Get out of here,” she said lightly. “Go home!”
He left with the sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers pulsating from the cab.
“…Don’t you worry about a thing…every little thing…is going to be alright…”
(10) The Skipper Dan Mule
She drove to the ferry docks. She parked next to Mule’s Ferry main building: two stories of weathered, white aluminum siding and black-tinted, weatherproof windows. A tilting chain-link fence surrounded a side and backyard of boat motors, metal drums, lumber, winches, hoists and a forlorn pleasure boat.
At the boarding dock, one of the shuttles was pulling away as a second maneuvered in to off-load. There were four cars in line and a half-dozen or more pedestrians waiting to board. A small concrete block and wood building stood a short distance from the dock. Sam went to it.
Outside the entry door, prominently displayed, was a piece of driftwood, painted dirt brown, and engraved with sunflower-yellow letters.
Come on in!
It can’t get any worse.
The lobby was shoebox shaped. The gray linoleum floor was dirty, scuffed, and worn. An air conditioner fought a losing battle against cigarette smoke, burnt coffee, and lemon-scented air deodorizer. A finger-stained wood laminate door stood to the left of the receptionist counter. An office composed the remainder of the building. A rectangular opening and counter that had once held a window exposed the office. On the business side was a desk, the usual office furniture, and a balding, pumpkin-shaped woman in a black office chair.
Sam approached the woman who avoided eye contact with Sam as she daubed her fingernails with a red polish. Oddly, she displayed a tag with her full name: Sandra Coiner.
A white-framed photograph of a black child sat on a cockeyed position on the pumpkin’s desk: the child, a boy, smiling and cute, was no older than five. Next to the photograph was an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-kissed Marlboro Lights.
Sam, bemused by the deliberate silence, watched Coiner daintily brush a thumbnail. The woman examined the nail, smiled, and then with slow, excessive movement, assembled the brushes and tiny, colored bottles, and placed the lot in an open drawer.
Sam finally broke the silence.
“Good afternoon, Sandra.”
The pumpkin lit a cigarette and inhaled.
“How did you know my name?” she croaked, smoke rolling over her tongue.
Sam gave her one small politeness.
“It’s on your badge.”
“Yeah? How’s ‘bout that? How can I help you?”
“I wanted to talk to the owner about a ferry passenger…”
“I know you. You’re that woman.”
“Pardon?”
“That woman that drowned that poor girl.”
Sam absorbed Sandra Coiner’s round, fat face: dark eyes squinted through puffed rolls of fat, rubbery lips glistened red, and her pale skin carried the faint craters of teenage acne.
“Ricky K. was there,” she continued, “and he saw you drowned that woman and he says you drowned her in the river in front of God and the whole world.”
Sam backed away from her. She examined the lobby walls, which were adorned with plaques, certificates, and the usual operator licenses, permits, and warnings.
“Have you gone deafed or is it that’s you can’t speak English?” the receptionist said.
“Deaf,” Sam said, not looking at her.
“What?” Coiner said.
She found a photograph of “Skipper Dan Mule” between photographs of the Algonac cheer squad and varsity wrestling team.
Thanks to “Skipper Dan”
For his Suport and Friendship
It seemed appropriate a high school plaque would misspell support.
From outside came the sound of a ship’s horn, two rapid blares; through an almost impenetrably dirty window she saw the first ferry pulling in.
Sam turned and exited, not looking back.
The pumpkin Sandra Coiner got the last word.
“Have a nice day!”
**********
An orange-colored, steel tongue unfolded and secured itself to the boat. The land gate lifted with a loud wheeze and the ferryboat’s gate opened. Sandal clad visitors who had parked in Algonac slapped forward, carrying beach chairs and coolers and umbrellas, others were on bikes, but most were in cars loaded with the stuff of beach picnicking and travel.
A young woman, wearing a yellow vest and a straw gardening hat, collected the crossing fares from the cars before allowing pedestrians to board. The girl smiled pleasantly as she greeted everyone. Her skin was mocha-colored; her eyes, discernible through lightly tinted Ray Ban’s, were a dark blue. Her hair was sandy brown ringlets dyed with yellow streaks.
“Beautiful day,” Sam said.
“Prettiest day this year,” the girl said.
Engine exhaust, fore and aft, puffed from black cylindrical tubes; a siren signaled their departure. She went to the center of the boat and examined the pilothouse. She noted day and night-running lights, a loudspeaker system, and a searchlight. The entire structure was painted white, posted with the obligatory, legal disclaimers, and warnings. Two cameras were pointed to
the deck, a third camera, sprung from an elbow joint, angled to the pilothouse. The man at the wheel wasn’t Skipper Dan.
When they were underway, she approached the girl with the dark blue eyes.
“Excuse me, but are you an island native?”
“I live on the mainland,” the girl said.
“I live on South Channel,” Sam said. “I moved here from Grand Rapids.”
“Oh, really? You like it?” the girl said, smiling.
“So far it’s been great.”
“Wait ‘til winter,” the girl said. “The wind comes off the river and makes the flu catch a cold.”
“It gets bad, does it?”
“Girl, you’ll see...”
“I’ll adapt.” She paused. “Is Skipper Dan working today?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s piloting that one,” and she gestured to the other craft that was exiting the Algonac dock. “But you can’t talk to the pilots when they’re working. It’s a rule. Can I help you?”
“My neighbors said I should introduce myself – you know – as a courtesy.”
“Oh, bless your heart! He always appreciates that.”
“I look forward to meeting him,” Sam said. Then she lowered her voice. “And I don’t want to be rude, but this is a pretty safe ride isn’t it?”
The girl was mildly offended.
“How’s that?”
“I hate to bring it up, but I heard a woman drowned Saturday night, and I wondered if she fell off the ferry.”
“Oh, god!” the girl said. “Nobody can believe it. Wasn’t that terrible! And gosh no! No one has ever fallen or jumped off. You know, there’s been talk of closing us and planting a bridge. Somebody dying like that would be the cherry on top, you know?”
The girl abruptly stepped away.
“Hold on, we’re there. Have a good one.”
The engines throttled back and the boat slowed and softly bumped to rest.
**********
Sam spent slightly more than an hour exploring downtown Algonac. She bought a knee-length black dress, a Donna Morgan, and a matching set of black heels from a consignment shop called Yesteryear. When her exploration was complete – it was close to 7:30 – she approached the ferry depot, timing her boarding to synchronize with Mule’s arrival and departure.