DreadfulWater Shows Up

by Thomas King

  Thank you, Thumps whispered to himself. Thank you.

  Beth and Ora Mae had organized the top two floors of the building into sleeping and living areas. There were three bedrooms and a bath on the third floor, spacious and well appointed. The kitchen and living areas were on the fourth floor, bright, open rooms with high ceilings, large warehouse windows, old wood floors, and exposed brick walls.

  As Thumps climbed the stairs, he thought about his own place. Or, to be more precise, he tried not to think about it. Comparisons were only going to make him unhappy. Fortunately, by the time he had dragged himself up to the third floor, he had forgotten about comparing anything and was concentrating hard on breathing.

  Ora Mae was waiting for him on the fourth-floor landing. “You’d think carrying that big camera of yours around would keep you in better shape.”

  “I am in good shape,” said Thumps, but he had to catch his breath between the “in” and the “good.”

  “We could hear you puffing all the way up here.”

  “That was just controlled breathing.”

  “Your breathing gets any more controlled, and you’re going to wind up in Beth’s kitchen.”

  Thumps stood on the landing and looked into the stairwell. It was the high ceilings. The building was only four stories, but with fourteen-foot ceilings on each floor, the climb from the ground up was longer than normal. He considered pointing this out.

  “And don’t be telling me about high ceilings,” said Ora Mae.

  Now that Thumps had caught his breath and was able to focus on matters outside his body, he noticed that Ora Mae was dressed in a pair of paint-stained white bib overalls, a long-sleeved shirt, and a white painter’s cap.

  “You’re not painting the place again?”

  Ora Mae had a passion for painting. In the time that Thumps had known the two women, Ora Mae had painted the flat that she and Beth shared at least eight times. Beth was not as keen on paint as Ora Mae was. In fact, Thumps recalled, paint tended to make Beth surly.

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” said Ora Mae, pointing a paintbrush at his head.

  Beth was sitting on the sofa in the sun, reading a book and drinking a cup of coffee. There were tarps over much of the floor and green tape around all the window casements. On one wall was a series of painted stripes in various shades of yellow.

  “So, which one do you like?” Ora Mae gestured at the wall.

  Thumps didn’t like this kind of guessing game. He knew that if he guessed wrong, he was going to hurt someone’s feelings.

  “I don’t have an eye for colour.”

  “Must be a real advantage in something like photography.”

  “I’m a black-and-white photographer.”

  “World’s not black and white,” said Ora Mae. “This a business call or you just looking for a free meal?”

  “Business,” said Thumps.

  “Last time you came around doing business,” said Ora Mae, “Floyd Small Elk wound up dead.”

  “I heard.”

  “I’ll just bet you did.”

  Thumps ignored the implication and tried to look unconcerned.

  Beth turned a page in her book. “Sheriff thinks that Takashi and Floyd might be related.”

  Thumps shrugged and looked at the wall with the stripes. He rather fancied the deep yellow one that had just a hint of brown to it. A solid colour that would give the room weight.

  “But I haven’t done Floyd yet,” said Beth, without looking up from her book.

  Thumps closed his eyes and concentrated on reassuring his stomach. “I’m not here about Floyd.”

  “Then what do you need?” Ora Mae put down the brush and picked up a roller on a long pole.

  “I need to look at Takashi’s stuff,” said Thumps.

  “Sorry,” said Beth. “Beth is done working for today.”

  “Just a quick look.”

  “Beth is reading and is not to be disturbed.”

  Ora Mae rolled a long line of light yellow paint on the wall. “You could help me paint.”

  “I just need to check something.” Thumps tried to make his voice sound casual, but Ora Mae heard it and stopped rolling.

  Beth looked up from her book. “Don’t tell me you know who killed Takashi.”

  “Not exactly,” said Thumps.

  “See this?” said Beth, and she held her book up. “It’s a murder mystery. I’m on page one hundred and fifty-four, and I already know who did it.”

  “Come on.” Ora Mae put down the roller and jiggled Beth out of her comfortable position. “I’ve always wanted to see someone solve a crime.”

  The second floor of the building was set aside for Beth’s medical practice. When she wasn’t rummaging through dead bodies, she ran a small clinic whose patients consisted mainly of single women and their children. The first floor was the coroner’s office proper, complete with a large desk, a computer, and a long row of grey filing cabinets. It wasn’t as depressing as the basement, but it had some of the same musty smells as the morgue below.

  “All right,” said Beth as she turned on the light. “What’s so important?”

  “You still have Takashi’s clothes?”

  “His clothes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This better be good.” Beth went to a tall metal cabinet, unlocked the door, took out a large plastic bag, and laid it on the desk. “Wear these,” she said, handing rubber gloves to Thumps and Ora Mae.

  Thumps opened the bag, slid the clothes out, and arranged each item on the desk.

  “You looking for something special?” said Beth.

  He stepped back. “What do you see?”

  “I hope this isn’t one of those Indian vision things,” said Ora Mae.

  Beth sat down in the chair behind the desk and leaned forward on her elbows. “Clothes,” she said. “Now, could we get this ride started?”

  Thumps ran a hand across the T-shirt. “How many entry wounds?”

  “You took the pictures,” said Beth.

  “Three entry wounds, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How many exit wounds?”

  “Two. One bullet stayed in the body.”

  “So how come there are no bullet holes in the jacket?”

  Ora Mae smiled. “He wasn’t wearing the jacket.”

  “He was when the body was found,” said Thumps.

  Beth nodded. “And that proves . . . ?”

  “And no Indian Motorcycle jacket,” said Thumps, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Was there a pair of sunglasses? Or a 49er cap?”

  Beth pursed her lips and looked at Ora Mae. “You let him take me away from my nap for this?”

  “You were reading a book.” Ora Mae turned the lapel of the sports coat over and whistled. “My, my,” she said.

  “What?”

  “This is a Brioni.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Very expensive,” said Ora Mae.

  Thumps felt the material to see whether he could tell. “Like . . . Armani?”

  “Honey,” said Ora Mae, “nobody wears Armani anymore.”

  “This is certainly fun,” said Beth. “Are we done?”

  “How expensive is this . . . Bri . . . Brio . . .”

  “Brioni.”

  “Right.”

  “Couple thousand,” said Ora Mae. “At least.” She picked up the socks and rolled the material between her thumb and forefinger. “And in this corner, we’ve got standard mall-issue jeans, T-shirt, and bikini underpants.”

  “What about it, Officer DreadfulWater?” said Beth. “You wear bikini underpants?”

  “Thumps is the boxer type,” said Ora Mae.

  “Those big balloony things?” said Beth.

  “White!” said both women at once and began grinning.

  Thumps held up a hand in an effort to get the situation under control. “So, we’ve
got a guy who runs down to the mall, picks up jeans, T-shirts, and underpants, along with a two-thousand-dollar sports coat.”

  “You won’t find Brioni at a mall.”

  Beth yawned and started folding Takashi’s clothes. “You had dinner?”

  Thumps’ stomach rumbled discreetly. “What are you having?”

  “Liver and onions,” said Ora Mae.

  Thumps swallowed hard and smiled. “I should get back. I’ve got some printing to do.”

  Beth turned out the lights and locked the door. “For what it’s worth, looks like Floyd was shot with the same calibre gun that killed Takashi.”

  “They were killed with the same gun?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said the calibre was the same.” Beth started up the stairs and stopped. “So, which colour did you like?”

  Thumps didn’t hear the question. He was watching Ora Mae’s shoes as she started up the stairs. “What?”

  “Yellow,” said Beth, “Which shade of yellow did you like?”

  Ora Mae’s shoes were covered with tiny paint spots. Like mould blooms. Thumps could see them clearly. And what he saw did not make him happy.

  “The dark yellow,” he said, turning and heading down the stairs. “I think I like the dark yellow best.”

  Archimedes Kousoulas’ house was a two-storey white frame with green trim. The second floor was the Aegean Book Shop. Archie was folding plastic covers for dust jackets.

  “So,” he said, “you decided to stop by.”

  “I stop by all the time.”

  “Here,” said Archie, “look at these.” He opened a drawer and took out several old postcards.

  Thumps’ secret vice was collecting postcards with Native themes. Preferably, historical themes.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve got a Sherman Institute one already.”

  “Same as this?”

  The postcard was a side view of Sherman Institute with its Spanish architecture and its broad boulevards. At the far end of the main boulevard was a regiment of white-and-black figures that Thumps could not make out. Probably Indian children on their way to some affair or other. Off to one side, to help the children on their way, was a marching band.

  “No.”

  Archie shrugged. “So, now you have another.”

  The second card was a photograph of an Indian lacrosse team from Weleetka, Oklahoma. The postmark was 1907. The one-cent stamp on the card was green, with a portrait of Benjamin Franklin.

  “This is nice.”

  The third card was a slightly romantic rendering of the United States Indian hospital at Claremore, Oklahoma, complete with an American flag hanging from a flagpole and a border of yellow and red flowers laid in at the edge of the property.

  “How’s the investigation coming?”

  Thumps looked up from the cards. “You should ask the sheriff.”

  “You and Beth going out?”

  Thumps frowned. Archie had a devious way of sneaking up on questions. “No. Why?”

  “You took her out to dinner.”

  “I owe her.”

  “You owe me, too.”

  “I know.”

  “But you don’t take me out to dinner.” Archie shook his head. “Even after I go to all the trouble of finding you nice cards for your collection.”

  “I’m looking into things for Claire.”

  “I think Sterling did it.”

  Thumps smiled. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like him.” Archie nodded, agreeing with himself. “And the man doesn’t read. How can you trust a man who doesn’t read?”

  “Sterling didn’t do it.”

  “Too bad,” said Archie. “So, what do you want?”

  “I just came by to see you.”

  “You know the story of the Trojan Horse?”

  “More or less,” said Thumps.

  “That stuff only works once.”

  Thumps chuckled. “I need to know anything you can find out about Daniel Takashi.”

  “The dead guy?”

  “You know everybody in town.”

  “I already asked.”

  Thumps’ face gave him away.

  “Don’t look surprised,” said Archie. “You’re not the only one who gets curious.”

  “Claire called you, too.”

  “We’re friends. Like you and me.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Takashi stayed to himself. Went out to Buffalo Mountain every day. Went back to Shadow Ranch every evening. Ate most of his meals in his room. Didn’t hang out at the bars. Didn’t go to movies. Every weekend he went sightseeing.”

  “Great.”

  “Bet he was a reader.”

  “Why?”

  “People who live by themselves generally read.”

  “How much for the postcards?”

  “Next time you come by,” said Archie, slipping the cards into a plastic envelope, “bring me a nice photograph of a mountain.”

  It was evening by the time Thumps got home. Freeway was waiting for him at the door, and she was not amused.

  “You hungry?”

  Actually, Thumps was a little hungry himself. He took the cat food out of the refrigerator and spooned it into the bowl. The bread was on the counter, but the ham had vanished. He tried to remember whether he had eaten it or had forgotten to buy any.

  “You eat my ham?”

  Freeway had her face buried in her food and wasn’t in the mood for small talk. There was half a tomato in a plastic bag and most of a stick of old cheddar cheese in the refrigerator door. Thumps settled for those. Along with the opened bottle of Pepsi that had gone flat.

  Okay, he thought, as he settled on the sofa, turned on the television, and looked around the room, it’s not Ora Mae and Beth’s place, and it’s not one of the condos at Buffalo Mountain, but it’s home.

  Behind him, he could hear Freeway choking on her food.

  “Slow down.”

  As Thumps ate the sandwich, he began putting together all the pieces that seemed to fit. Daniel Takashi was a programmer for Genesis Data Systems. He came to Chinook to program the computer at Buffalo Mountain Resort. Five days a week, he would leave Shadow Ranch in a limousine driven by Floyd Small Elk, get a cup of coffee and a doughnut at Dumbo’s, and then drive out to Buffalo Mountain. On weekends, he would rent a camper van and go sightseeing. The Saturday he was killed, he had rented the camper van. But he hadn’t gone sightseeing. He had stopped at Dumbo’s, but this time he had bought two cups of coffee.

  First question. Who was the second cup of coffee for?

  Takashi got to Buffalo Mountain around ten, was killed at eleven, and left a little after twelve.

  Second question. How was that possible?

  Takashi was killed in the computer complex, where someone had spray-painted one of the walls with the words “Red Hawks.” But his body was moved to the condos, and the wall was painted over.

  Third question. Why?

  Floyd Small Elk was killed just after he had sounded Thumps out about selling the identity of Takashi’s killer to Claire.

  Fourth question. What did he know?

  Thumps was finishing off the last of the sandwich and going over what Ora Mae had told him about Takashi’s clothing when he remembered that he had definitely bought ham. He went back to the refrigerator and began moving things around. The bottle of Pepsi. Mustard. Ketchup. A bowl of macaroni. Photographic paper and film. Cat food. Half a can of baked beans.

  No ham.

  Thumps checked the trash can he kept by the side of the sink. The plastic container that the ham had come in was sitting on top of the pile, along with the wrapper for one of Thumps’ precious dark-chocolate Häagen-Dazs bars. He touched the wrapper. It was still cold and wet.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  Okay, that did it. As if spending four days running around chasing smoke and getting shot at wasn’t
enough. Now this. Enough was enough.

  The basement should have been pitch black, but when Thumps got to the bottom of the stairs, he could see the faint amber glow of the safelight spilling out of the doorway to the darkroom. He leaned against the wall. The door should have been closed. The safelight should have been off.

  And as he stood there in the dark, listening for any sounds, he was sorry he hadn’t grabbed his gun from the lock box. If he had guessed wrong, Thumps suddenly realized, the mistake he was making could be fatal.

  SEVENTEEN

  Stanley Merchant was relaxing up on a sleeping bag by the side of the long stainless-steel sink, a pair of headphones strapped to his ears. His eyes were closed and his head was bobbing in time to the music while he sucked on a short, flat stick. All that was left of Thumps’ Häagen-Dazs bar.

  Thumps stood in the doorway and went through his options. He could do this hard or he could do it easy. With everything that he had had to endure in the last little while, in large part because Stick wanted to play loose cannon, Thumps was inclined to do things the hard way.

  “Hey!”

  The effect was marvellous. Stick’s head snapped up, the earphones went flying, and his body lifted off the concrete floor.

  “Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”

  “You’re in my darkroom.”

  “You could have knocked or something.”

  “You’re eating my food.” God, thought Thumps, he was sounding like one of the three bears.

  Stick found his headphones and turned the CD player off. “Where have you been?”

  “Where have I been?” Thumps could feel his blood pressure climbing. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Well, I’ve been here waiting for you.”

  “And eating my food.”

  “I was hungry.”

  “That was a Häagen-Dazs bar.”

  Stick shrugged. “You’ve got another one.”

  Thumps turned on the lights, pulled the chair out from under the enlarger table, and sat down facing Stick. “This better be good,” he said. “This better be real good.”

  “Hey, I’m being framed.”

  Thumps held up a hand. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’m going to call Hockney.”

  “Hockney hates me.”

  “I’m not overly fond of you myself”