Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  Fynn turned to me and said, “In a few days more or less, you will have forgotten everything.”

  “What, the story you just told me?”

  “No, no, my story is quite memorable. I mean the three murders. Your memories of them will fade… you’ll be left with just the one at present.”

  “That kind of sounds like a dare.”

  “A dare?” He turned to look at me. Maybe he was having trouble gauging my reply. “Nothing of the sort. I’m just saying memory, even the best memory, is fleeting.”

  “I’m not likely going to forget you.”

  “No. We will continue on for the time being. Yet, by next week, you will only recall the one murder of an unknown victim, as we found her this morning.”

  “What, like revert to a Durbin?”

  “Exactly this.”

  “I’m thinking otherwise…”

  “We shall see.” He looked at me again. “You may surprise me.” Fynn reached into his jacket pocket and produced an old polaroid, colors fading. It was hard to tell for sure if it was Lorraine Luis, just a head and shoulder shot of a pretty girl at the beach, smiling.”

  “May I keep this?”

  Fynn thought about it for a second. He seemed hesitant. “For the moment you may, but I would like it back.”

  “Of course…”

  I ran our conversation— if that’s the right word— in my head over and over. I wasn’t sure what to think. Part of me wanted to believe Fynn, most of me did not. I started to convince myself that he was living in some sort of delusional state, a mental illness even. Somehow I had got caught up in it all. Still… there was the car— damn, that was hard to explain… and Roxy too… I decided it was best to put the whole thing out of my mind for now and would head back to the office.

  I dropped Fynn off at his hotel along the way and felt oddly relieved. I guess it all was rather harmless… time travel, alternate realities… But darker thoughts filled me: what if Fynn was fixated on this new victim… his wife, really? Well, I’d have to talk to Durbin, maybe just a friendly warning for now. I felt sad, I have to admit. Such a sweet old guy caught up in some weird delusion… harmless, I hoped. For some strange reason, Evan came to mind— Evan James, the stringer for the Chronicle. I glanced up at the Blue Dunes Hotel as I was pulling out. One, two, three floors. Wait, is that right?

  chapter 12

  morgue me down

  I pulled up in front of the Sand City Chronicle and it was later than I thought. They had turned the clocks back and I was still fooled. How could it be so late? It was still light out. The sun had not even set over Great Bay. Miriam was at her station, at reception, and it didn’t look like she was going to float off anytime soon. She barely looked up when I came in, intently staring at her screen, and typing slowly, deliberately, on her keyboard, make that the loudest keyboard on the planet. It didn’t tap silently, it didn’t click quietly, it clanked and rattled with every keystroke. I knew without asking it was Wednesday. The legal ads had just come in from Village Hall. They had the obligation to print public notices and since we were the only game in town, they came to us. A small but important source of revenue. Miriam’s job every Wednesday was to format these for the paper.

  I breezed by her, knowing better than to interrupt her concentration, and walked back to the break room. The coffee pot was empty as usual. Hmm, out of filters now. I searched the drawers and cabinets without success, but thought better of asking Miriam. Instead, I improvised, using paper towels torn in half and piled up in the basket. I poured in the water and the machine started its gurgling.

  The door to the back studio was closed but I still could hear Herb Pagor yelling at paste-up Amy. He wasn’t at all angry or anything. That’s just the way he talked. I tried to ignore the muffled shouts. I knew they were laying out the ads and stuck my head through the door.

  “Patrick…” Pagor called out and somehow made it seem like my name had more than two syllables, many more.

  “What’s the count, Herb?”

  “Sixty-eight percent,” he shouted back in his deafening voice.

  “Wow,” I replied and closed the door again.

  “Patrick…” Eleanor Woods said as soon as I entered the main office. “Where were you all day?” she asked, though not in an accusing sort of way. It was just healthy curiosity.

  “Working on the Treasure Hunt. Scouting locations.”

  “Really? That’s good news… it’s about time too.” Eleanor put down her marking pen. “So… where are we going to bury the treasure this year?”

  “Haven’t decided yet, but I was up at the breach… South Point.”

  “Not there, surely.”

  “No…”

  “Well?”

  “Looks pretty much the same. But it got me thinking about a feature on what we’d be like as an island.”

  “An island? Sand City Island... I like that. When do you think that will happen?”

  “The story or the geology?”

  She laughed with a raspy cackle. “I’ll take the story.”

  “Sooner than you think… on both counts. I still have some research to do.”

  “For this week?”

  “Okay…”

  “A feature or an op ed?” she asked.

  “Good question. Which do you think is better?”

  “We’re running pretty tight this week. I’d say an op ed.” Eleanor looked at me, waiting expectantly, I could tell.

  “Of course, we’ve got another murder for the front page,” I said.

  “Another murder?” she asked with an odd inflection.

  “Just the one, sorry.”

  “What has Richard Durbin been saying?”

  “Nothing so far. Maybe a jogger, a young girl in her twenties. She was found on a bench at Sunset Park this morning.”

  “Yes, he called here twice already.”

  “Durbin called?”

  “He was looking for the new chief.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you going to do a story on him?”

  “Durbin?” I smiled.

  “No, the new chief. Inspector Fynn, is it?”

  “Absolutely… but for next week, I think.”

  “You’ve met him already?”

  “We had lunch.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Nice… very charming, a little eccentric maybe.”

  “You were a busy boy today.”

  She was right. I sat down at my cubicle and started searching frantically through my stack of old issues. I made a few noises of frustration under my breath.

  “What are you looking for now, Patrick?” tiny Eleanor asked from her giant desk. A cigarette dangled from her mouth.

  “The story I did on Arantez, a couple of months back.”

  “Last week of November,” she told me. “Right after Thanksgiving and before we went all Holiday Guide.”

  “Thanks, El. What a memory...”

  She beamed back at me. That’s one thing she was still very proud of: her memory— mind like a steel trap.

  There was little doubt that I had learned Inspector Fynn’s name during that first interview with Arantez. Not a name you’d likely forget. And not that I didn’t trust myself, but I was bothered by the fact that I seemed to know him this morning. I convinced myself it was in the story I did on the ICEP. I checked. It wasn’t… I re-read the story …in exchange for an undisclosed candidate, a DCI from either Holland or Belgium…

  “How much do you have on this murder? A whole page?” Eleanor interrupted my sustained confusion.

  “Not that much. Enough for the site update though. I’ll print it out for you. I’ve got pictures too, but nothing I’d want to put on the front page. Nothing tasteful.”

  “And you’re sure it’s not a suicide?”

  “I’ll check with Durbin again.”

  “I’ll call him,” Eleanor volunteered. I saw her reach for the phone.

  I typed up the murder story in a flash. It wa
s all pretty cut and dry. The printer whirled and Eleanor snatched it from the tray as it spewed out. She set at it with her blue marking pen. I never took her edits personally. I trusted her completely. She handed the revise back to me a few minutes later.

  “Why did you cut this part about being barefoot?”

  “Well, she either had shoes or she didn’t, right?”

  “Yeah, but we saw the marks from her socks.”

  “Just thought the less we say the better, and so does Richard.”

  “Okay… The earrings too, huh?”

  “Durbin doesn’t want that printed either.” Eleanor lit another cigarette. “Aren’t you even going to mention our new guest chief in this story?” she asked.

  “No. Not for the website. Cut the guy a break. It’s only his first day.”

  “Fine,” Eleanor said, as she often did, though it usually meant the opposite.

  “Alright, I’ll add a mention and do it up for the main story tomorrow.”

  I had to update the website with the murder. That couldn’t wait for anything, not even Jason. I opened up the web-editing system and started making changes. Usually Eleanor never interfered with this, but today was different. She was all over me when I tried to come up with a good headline: Murder at the Park

  “Murder? Are you sure? Not suicide? Durbin still has his doubts.”

  “It’s not a suicide. I guarantee it. I was there. I saw the body.” I typed: Sunset Murder.

  “No. That’s misleading,” she pointed out.

  Murder in Sunset Park

  “We don’t actually know the murder took place there.”

  Sunset Park Murder

  “Probably should be Wright’s Park,” she corrected.

  “Should be Dubois Park, if you ask me.” Wow, Eleanor was bing a real pain and I wondered why. I gently reminded her that this was just for the web update and she took a deep breath to calm down.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I guess it’s been a long day.” Eleanor snubbed out her cigarette. “Let me see your pictures for this week.”

  “The fallen cell tower? Those came out great.”

  “We can start there.”

  I shipped the photos over to Eleanor’s computer. Last weekend’s vicious storm did damage all around Sand City, but the pictures of the collapsed cell tower on the salt marsh were by far the most dramatic. My colleague Joey Jegal had commented that it looked like Godzilla had stomped through town, or maybe, Iron Giant stopped for a snack. I wasn’t sure what he meant. The tower lay in ruins like a mangled heap of erector-set pieces.

  “So what’s our lead this week?” I asked.

  “We’ll decide tomorrow, but most likely go with the murder,” Eleanor said flatly. She lit another cigarette. “It is an exclusive, right?”

  I nodded. “I doubt Durbin has talked to Jack.”

  “Leaning? You mean the Times?”

  “Yeah. Let’s just say they’re not best friends.”

  “Good. That’ll be a nice feather in our cap.”

  “What about the cell tower, the storm damage?”

  “Below the fold… it’s all fixed now... But these pictures are dynamite.”

  “Fixed already? I thought you said Thursday. Is your power back on?”

  “Everything is working now. The whole town…. like it never happened.”

  “How about the variance story?”

  “What variance story?”

  “The Blue Dunes Hotel, third floor, and all that.”

  “What are you talking about, Patrick?”

  “Oh sorry… never mind. Doesn’t Evan have a story this week?”

  “Planning board, Thursday.” Eleanor turned and called out in her raspy voice, “Mel? “What did Chamblis tell you today?”

  “Oh, we had lunch at the Governor’s Inn,” Melissa Miller replied and sauntered out of the advertising office. She looked perfect as usual, wearing a tailored skirt and a low-cut silky blouse.

  “The Governor’s Inn? Ooh, swanky. I always thought you were a Land Ho kind of gal.”

  “Depends who’s buying…” Melissa said and smiled at me. She planted herself on my desk.

  The whole Chronicle staff often went up to the Land Ho Bar and Grill. It was our favorite haunt, our only haunt. Lunch or dinner, or just drinks to unwind after a long week. Eleanor usually picked up the tab.

  “Who’s minding the little one?” I asked.

  “Madison, you mean? She’s in the evening session now. Hubby is picking her up. Thanks for reminding me though. Better call him to make sure.” Melissa started dialing her cell.

  “What did Chamblis say?”

  “Thirty-four more units,” Melissa continued, but was paying more attention to her phone.

  “What?”

  “They’re proposing thirty-four more houses for Baxter Estates. It’s going up before the planning board tomorrow.” She grinned ear to ear. “And, a new community center with a pool.” Her expression changed. “Honey, it’s me. Don’t forget to pick up Madison at seven… Thanks, bye love.” She turned to us both. “He’s always forgetting stuff like that.”

  “So, you were saying something about another yacht club?” I asked facetiously.

  “No...”

  “Yeah, one’s enough I guess,” I countered with a bit of hostility. A couple of years ago, Chamblis had bought up some slips and a bit of beach north of the Marina near the Commodore Hotel to start his own yacht club. Members only, and Baxter Estates residents only. It was painted an awful shade of green. The year before that Chamblis tried to convince the Village to build a golf course… one that would be world renowned, he said… The planning commission thought otherwise, at least for now... And before that, he tried to re-open the abandoned Blackwater quarry— are you kidding?

  “Don’t they still have, like, half a dozen unsold units?” I asked Melissa.

  “At the Estates? No, I don’t think so…”

  Sand City’s only housing development was named after an old farmer, Nathaniel Baxter, long dead, as well as his ancestors. They had owned the land for generations. Nathaniel himself was probably one of the Village’s founding fathers. Melissa and her husband had bought a house there about three years ago when the market went bad. Picked it up for a song, if I remember right. I’m not sure why the place bothered me so much. I guess it was the startling lack of trees. Or the fact that it was too normal, the people and the houses. It was like having suburbia in our midst. It didn’t seem fair. The rest of Sand City was not normal, nor were its people, so why should we have to deal with these Baxterites?

  “Where are they going to build? There’s no room left except in the woods,” I asked Melissa.

  “The Woodlands, that’s what they’re calling the new development.”

  “You’re joking. What, they’re going to chop down the forest now?”

  “Of course not. They’re going to leave almost every tree intact. That’s the whole idea. It will probably be gorgeous. All shady and cozy…” Melissa leaned closer to me. “And it means a lot of ads.”

  “Legal ads too,” Eleanor said. “Village Hall just sent over a big batch.”

  “What?”

  “The legal announcements. Miriam is formatting them now.”

  “That I noticed.” I glanced over at Eleanor’s desk. Something was different there and it took me a few moments before I realized the picture of her daughter was missing. In its place was another, a photo of a woman in her late thirties, surrounded by a couple of smiling kids. There was still a piano in the background.

  “Should I send Joey to planning instead? Or do you want to take it?” Eleanor asked.

  “No, no, Evan will do fine. He’s going, right?”

  “It’s on his schedule.”

  “That’s for next week anyhow. Murder this week, environmental collapse next week.”

  “Patrick, how can you say that?” Melissa complained.

  “The runoff… the waste water from Baxter Estates is killing the s
wamp, the salt marsh, the whole ecosystem… drains right into it.”

  “That’s a total lie.”

  “C’mon, Mel, you know it’s true. It’s not like it’s your fault or anything.”

  “Of course it’s not my fault.”

  “When was the last time you took a walk along the salt marsh?”

  “I don’t know... last fall, I guess.”

  “And?”

  “It looks the same as it always does… kind of dead.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “But it always looks that way… even in the spring and the summer.”

  I said nothing, but made an expressive gesture with my arms and smiled at her.

  “You’re such an idiot, Patrick,” Melissa said with a certain affection.

  “Where’s Jo tonight?”

  “Jo?”

  “Jo-Anne...”

  “Oh. Picking up a new ad from the hardware store… a half page co-op, I think.” Melissa smiled and walked back to her office.

  I called out to Miriam at reception. “Hey Em darling, how many inches so far?”

  “Quiet,” she yelled back. I could hear her typing, the keyboard clanking, and then silence. “More than eighty so far. I’m almost done.”

  “El, what do you think? Should we go up to thirty-two pages? Pagor says we’re at sixty-eight percent this week... And you just heard Miriam.”

  “Can we even fill the rest up? Another eight pages? That’s all I need…”

  “Twenty-four is a pretty slim paper.”

  “Not for the middle of March,” Eleanor responded a bit defensively.

  I heard the front door close and Frank Gannon, the sportswriter, sauntered into the thick of things. “Frank, just the guy I wanted to see. Could you fill two extra pages this week?”

  “Two, only two? I could give you six.” Frank fiddled with the brim of his Seattle Mariner’s cap.