Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  “So do I…” Suzy replied. “It’s called a bender.”

  I started laughing.

  She took my hand again. “Some guys were in here looking for you before.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” Suzy reached behind the bar and handed me a business card. I recognized the sickening green color instantly, even in the dim light: Chamblis Enterprises, Burton Michael Dean, Counsel.

  “Great, that’s all I need.”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “You don’t know Chamblis?”

  “I’ve heard his name… didn’t he run for mayor or something?”

  “City Council,” I said. “And he lost... twice.”

  “So?”

  “He blames me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing… an interview for the paper. I just let him talk… and I quoted him verbatim.”

  “That made him lose?”

  “You didn’t read the interview.”

  “No… I didn’t vote for him either.”

  “Well, he’s kind of like my nemesis.”

  “You have a nemesis? How cool is that?”

  I laughed again. “Maybe I’m his, too. I guess it’s a matter of perspective.” I smiled. “Nemesis from afar nowadays though. I can’t remember the last time I actually ran into him in person. He never shows up to the meetings anymore, always sends his lackeys, or that damn lawyer, what’s-his-name…?”

  “Burton Dean,” Suzy said.

  “You know him?”

  “No, I read the card.” She put another draft on the bar.

  “Oh thanks, Suzy, but I’m outta here...”

  “You’re going to need it,” she said and glanced over at the front door. “Speak of the devil,” she whispered.

  I turned to look, and sure enough it was Burton Dean, if not the devil himself, then his attorney. He was a skinny balding guy, tie recently removed. “Mr Jardel, I’m glad I’ve caught up with you finally. My name is—”

  “Yeah, I know who you are…”

  “Can we talk?”

  “I guess…”

  “Seltzer with lime,” he said to Suzy.

  I tipped my glass and walked over to one of the booths.

  Burton Dean followed and sat across from me. He opened a large briefcase on the table and started shuffling through some papers.

  “Burton Michael Dean, sounds like a one man law firm,” I started the conversation.

  “Pardon?”

  “Just add a comma and an ampersand in there: Burton, Michael and Dean.”

  “There’s no reason to be insulting.”

  “Sorry, it’s late, I’m tired, and I have a bad sense of humor.”

  “I wanted to discuss your paper’s coverage of the news as of late… and I have a proposition.” Dean got right down to business.

  “You should be talking to Eleanor Woods then, our publisher.”

  “I’m sure we will,” he said rather ominously. “But since you’re the senior correspondent, I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “What about?”

  “Of course we can’t influence your reporting, as that remains largely objective, and that’s as it should be.” He smiled but it wasn’t very convincing. “Yet, we are hoping your opinion might be swayed.”

  “You mean, you hope my op ed column might be up for sale.”

  “Not at all… though, we do have a proposition that would allow you to monetize all your diligent efforts.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Monetize your prose. We can syndicate your column across four hundred and ninety three separate blogs.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve come to an arrangement with various content managers and made a package deal to get your column monetized. I think it works out to about two point five cents per click.”

  “On the web, you mean?”

  “You’re catching on.” Dean smiled again but it lack all sincerity. “You can use your nom de guerre of course.”

  “My what?”

  “Your anonymous byline, the one for the tourists, Gary Sevens.”

  I tried not to react. “What would this translate to per week? Money-wise.”

  “Depends what you write.”

  “Come again?”

  “We value your opinions, Mr Jardel. The more controversial, the better.”

  “Controversial, huh?”

  “It would likely increase your page views.”

  I could tell there was a hard calculus behind this offer and it had nothing to do with accounting or money. It was a little tough to figure. “Can I sleep on it?” I started to see where this was going. Chamblis had three big deals on the horizon and they’d all be hitting the paper in the next few weeks.

  “We only have until tomorrow, your deadline, correct? And we’ll be very interested to see what you’ll come up with for the Friday edition.”

  “I already finished my column for this week.”

  “Oh… and the topic?” Dean asked.

  “Environmental collapse.”

  He returned an exasperated face. “Of course, if you don’t wish to cooperate, or maybe, participate is a better word, my client might have to consider legal action.”

  “What kind of legal action?”

  “We might have to file a civil suit. Defamation of character, harassment, libel…”

  “Really?”

  “Well, you have quite a history with Mr Chamblis. I think we could show a judge that there’s a pattern of behavior here, a definite intent towards obstruction.”

  “Obstruction? Is that a legal term?”

  “It’s no secret that you and Charles disagree on a number of issues.”

  “Charles?”

  “Mr Chamblis, my client… It’s no secret…”

  “You already said that.”

  “The point is, Mr Jardel, you and he have had your share of run-ins.”

  “Such as?”

  “There’s the phone booth incident for starters.”

  “The phone booth? The one at the Village Green?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought that was one of Chuck’s better ideas.”

  “Then why did you insist it should be painted blue? It’s supposed to be red, like the original, the very one Mr Chamblis shipped over from London, and at considerable personal expense.”

  “That was Kevin.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It had nothing to do with me. It was Kevin Marchand from the Historical Society. They set the rules for what color structures can be painted in the Village. I guess red wasn’t on the menu.”

  “I see. Well, it’s caused no end of embarrassment.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It looks like a port-a-john now.”

  I laughed. He was right. More than one tourist with a weak bladder had mistaken it for such. “Call of nature?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Right.”

  “And there’s the Blackwater Quarry,” Dean said.

  “That was like two years ago.”

  “Nonetheless, another case of obstruction.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Your interview with Bob Mumford, the traffic engineer.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “It was premature to say the least.”

  I thought back. Chamblis sought to reopen the quarry, return it to full operations— are you kidding? Rock crushers and all. Re-instate it to its existing use was the legal maneuver he employed. That was a neat trick, I have to admit. The city council got killed with legal fees. My part in this? I just called up my old buddy Bob Mumford from the County Department of Roads and Bridges. I interviewed him, and he made it plain in no uncertain terms that the local roads could not sustain all the gravel trucks going to and fro. No official assessment was even necessary. It stopped the project cold. As soon as the residents realized they’d be sharing Route 16 with giant dump trucks, there was an uproar and
the proposal was quietly withdrawn.

  “Dust suppression,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The quarry… dust suppression. It wasn’t included in the original proposal.”

  “Reopening the quarry and using the granite for a new jetty to stop the breach at South Point would certainly have benefited the community.”

  “Every erosion expert on the East Coast doubted that idea.”

  “Our experts said otherwise.”

  “I bet they did.”

  Dean gave me a hostile glance. “There’s also the matter of Aladdin’s Cafe.”

  “I loved that idea, and the place. Great music… pretty good food too, but sushi and coffee? Not the best combination to my mind. Still, I guess a liquor license was just around the bend, huh?”

  “Why did you try to stop it?”

  “I didn’t. Chamblis shot himself in the foot on that one.”

  “What do you mean?” Dean sipped his seltzer.

  “Chamblis opened the cafe in a residential district. He didn’t have the correct zoning permits.”

  “That wasn’t Mr Chamblis. It was one of his associates.”

  “Why are we even talking about it then?”

  “Mr Chamblis backed the project financially.”

  “Okay, then let’s talk about his associate, Larry, right?” I took a gulp of beer. “He opens the cafe, knowing it was only about a hundred feet from the old Methodist Church. It takes three months for the Village to issue a cease-and-desist. They close the place down. Larry turns around and sues the city for two-and-a-half million dollars, citing discrimination and religious persecution. He claimed he’s a Muslim.”

  Dean nodded slightly, I continued: “Well, all I did was check with Habib at the cultural center. I remember the conversation vividly: Did Larry ever come to your Mosque? No. Is he a member of your congregation? No. Is he a practicing Muslim? No, I think he’s a Lutheran.” I grinned. “I just quoted Habib for the story. Sorry the case was thrown out of court.”

  “This is obstruction.”

  “No, this is reporting.”

  Burton Dean was growing frustrated. There was no judge or jury to hear his pleas. “Well then, can I say we all agree about Saint Alban’s at least?”

  “I guess. It depends on your plans. I agree the place should be torn down or converted to a community center, even a hotel, but not a country club. And there’s no room for a golf course there anyhow.”

  “That remains to be seen. Are you going to obstruct this as well?”

  “No, I’m just going to report what happens. There’s a federal case pending with the Pequot Tribe. If they get a favorable ruling, a casino is still a long way off. Years, I’d say. It’s no secret that Chamblis has been backing them with scads of money. It’s also no secret that a county judge has to rule on this first.”

  “It’s a very complex legal case,” Dean said.

  “I agree completely… And I’d love to interview you about it.”

  “Me?”

  “Oh right, probably a conflict of interest thing, huh?”

  “What about the new food court?” He changed the subject.

  “You mean the shopping plaza redevelopment? That’s up before the planning commission in a couple of weeks.”

  “And clearly, you are opposed to it. The Brand Wars?”

  “I’m entitled to my opinion.” I grinned.

  “You’re not going to smile your way out of this, Jardel.”

  “That’s not a threat, is it?”

  “No. And none of this is on the record either.”

  “Says who?”

  Burton Dean turned bright red, almost. He gathered his papers, closed his briefcase and left without another word. I sat quietly for a time and alone with my thoughts. Oddly, Dean had made absolutely no mention of Baxter Estates and the plans for the Woodlands expansion.

  Suzy got a smooch and a big hug on my way out. I headed back home. It was bitterly cold. I don’t know what possessed me to wear a spring jacket today. It was freezing now. I started to worry about Zachary too. Hmm, covered in fur, should be okay. I walked up the dark street back to the Depot building. A man passed on the other side of the road, a stranger, I thought. I couldn’t see his face. He was tall and wearing an odd looking hat, like a hipster might wear. He called out a friendly “good evening.”

  “Yeah, and good night too,” I mumbled back, but he had already disappeared from view. I jogged up my spiral stairs and made for the sliders. It wasn’t locked. When I opened the door, Zachary scooted out onto the deck. He turned to look at me, accusingly, I thought, and gave me a low meow. “Hey, don’t you want your supper?” I called out. Zachary turned and jumped, then leapt across the roof. He was definitely gone for the night. I tried to remember if I had let him out this morning, or if he was locked inside all day.

  Back in my apartment, I took out my skinny notepad and turned to a fresh page. Time to write stuff down. I divided the sheet in half with Timeline One and Timeline Two. Under that, I wrote Victims: Clara, Debra, Lorraine. By each name I wrote down a notation: Roxy, Pontiac, Earrings. I then wrote Clues: All blond, all pretty, no cell phones, no pocket books, Italian shoes, a cane. Next I wrote, Suspects: Unknown. This wasn’t helping much. Then, Contradictions. I underlined that and made a list: Pontiac, and a set of keys… oh yeah, the rabbit’s foot too. Roxy? I added up Timeline one: Clara, Debra, Roxy, cane, car keys, shoe prints. Then I added up Timeline two: Lorraine, earrings, car keys, Roxy, shoe prints. The only real difference, aside from Clara and Debra being alive or dead, was Lorraine Luis and a cane, a cane that was missing in the present.

  Next was all the crazy stuff Fynn had tried to explain. I started a new page and wrote Time Travel in big letters. Under that I started to list everything I could remember: The past changes the future. Everything resets. The future is always new, the past is like a memory. Concurrent lives... The present? Ah… how do you return to the present? There’s the paradox. You don’t, do you? You can’t… It’s impossible. Gotcha! I had something to ask Inspector Fynn next time I saw him.

  PART TWO

  chapter 14

  off the map

  Winter held on for another week at least. Cold nights, my kerosene heater, big bulky coats and raw rainy days. Sand City remained bleak, gray and brown at best. The trees still appeared lifeless and most of the grass looked dead. I was desperate for a bit of green now, and I’m not talking about Saint Patrick. There was a pitiful parade in town last Sunday and depressingly, it rained that day. I did my best to become invisible. It’s not always easy sharing a first name with a bona fide saint.

  There are some days just too damn cold to enjoy, that’s below freezing for me. These days had to be coming to an end according to the calendar. Forty degrees or above would be fine, so long as there was some green around. I sought out these places now especially as winter began to lose its bite. It was my only solace. The waxy rhododendron forest by Sunset Park would do in a pinch, I guess, though it was hard to find a place to sit and be comfortable. My favorite spot? The woods along the bluffs; a barren place, dunes mostly, but forested with stunted pines all crowded together in the dry sandy soil. This was my private sanctuary, a tiny pine grove that always reeked with the wonderful fragrance of needles, fresh or otherwise; a soft mat of copper that had accumulated over the years, decades maybe. I have no idea if they were spruce trees or cedars, but that aroma always brought me comfort. I don’t know why.

  On a cold rainy day I could still sit on the bed of needles and soft sand, all bundled up, propped up against a tree trunk. I’d be the last to get wet, easily finding shelter under the thick branches. If the sun came out, I could lay back in between the trees, and then framed by their green boughs, I’d just stare up at the white clouds drifting through the intense blue. I’d lay there for hours sometimes, just listening to the wind, watching the branches dance and gazing at the sky. I’d let my thoughts meander. Today was one of those days.

  To see t
he big picture, I had to make sense of all the little details first. That’s just the way my brain works, I guess. I found my conversation with Burton Dean more than a little disconcerting. The big picture seemed pretty clear: More Chamblis machinations. Money, power, greed— all that good stuff. The details were fuzzy but it all came down to his lackey, Burton Dean. He was running some kind of scam. There was something here I wasn’t factoring in. Syndication is any reporter’s dream, but it didn’t seem right. Funny, Inspector Fynn’s words came to mind: “All text is subject to easy and instant change by almost anyone. How can I trust the written word nowadays?” Chamblis is a carrot and stick kind of guy. Usually the stick is way bigger than the carrot. Still, I pretty much gave him no for an answer so that should be the end of it.

  As for Fynn, I hadn’t seen him in almost a week. I did run the whole time travel thing in my mind, but not too carefully. It was no use trying to sort out how it could work... It didn’t, it couldn’t, too full of paradoxes. It defied common sense. I flatly refused to accept his version of reality. I definitely wasn’t ready to sign up for alternate dimensions. As hard as I tried though, I couldn’t put his crazy notions out of my mind. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, or my only path back to sanity… And damn it all, I liked the guy… There was just something about him. More often than not he was in a great mood. He loved to walk, and to laugh. Fynn was not quite like anyone I had met before. Despite my misgivings, we became friends. And he was harmless as far as I could tell; that is, he didn’t seem to have much of an agenda. For now, I was content to play the role of good will ambassador, but most of the time I felt like a tour guide.

  Delusional? Absolutely. Alternate timelines? What a crock. Improbable as it was though, I did have to consider everything Fynn had told me could be true. I guess I kept a foot in both camps. And sure enough, according to sullen Jason, Inspector Fynn had never stayed at the Fairhaven Holiday Inn. No record of it. That bit of news could go either way, I guess. Joey had also stopped by my cubicle that morning.

  “What?” I asked and looked up at him.

  He grinned. “Tracked down your garage. The owner on record of said ‘self-storage’ unit: one Tractus Fynn, title holder, purchased nineteen seventy-six, twenty thousand dollars paid in full, paid in cash.”