The Body in the Boat

by Ami Diane

  Frowning, Ella abandoned the eggs and walked to the door. Outside, a cool breeze swept curls of hair away from her forehead.

  A few passersby stood on the sidewalk, watching the street. She bobbed her head until she could see past them.

  A few blocks south, parallel with the park, a caravan of people, horses, and carts walked down the center of Main Street. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think it was a parade.

  However, they lacked the usual fanfare of candy, clowns, and floats. Also, their attire said they were definitely not from this century or the previous one. Their clothes were loose-fitting and shapeless, draped over dark skin, and a variety of headwear was seen on nearly everyone. Some were strange hats that were neither one shape or another, while others reminded Ella of a rugby helmet sans any padding.

  The newcomers gawked at the buildings, at the cars, and especially at the people on the sidewalk.

  A large, shepherd-like dog that really needed to see a groomer split from the group, raced in circles, sniffing at every vehicle and pant leg it could find. Then ironically, it relieved itself on a fire hydrant.

  Ella caught a whiff of something unpleasant and quickly found the source. A caged cart rolled past, full of fat pigs, their snouts wiggling back and forth.

  The front of the caravan was directly across from the inn now. The sound of hooves clopping on the street from the north drowned out the bleats of goats and the creak of wagon wheels.

  Sheriff Chapman rode his Appaloosa horse straight at the caravan, pulling up short and forcing the group of fifty or so travelers to a halt. Kicking a leg over, he dropped to the road.

  Ella elbowed her way through the growing crowd of onlookers that now congested the sidewalk, trying to get close enough to hear.

  Chapman brushed his finger over his hat. “Afternoon. Where’re you folks from?”

  Not a single visitor spoke up. They shifted on their feet, looking at each other with perplexed expressions.

  Chapman’s thick, handlebar mustache turned down. “Do any of you understand me?”

  At this point, they’d grown bored with the funny-looking man, speaking the funny-sounding language. One approached Ella’s jeep parked outside the inn. His eyes were bigger than her headlights, and he poked the hood once before jumping back.

  The backdrop of comrades spoke rapidly. Ella leaned forward and strained to catch a few syllables and also to be ready to step in if he decided to do any more inspecting of her vehicle.

  Chapman turned a circle, surveying the bystanders. “Miss Barton here?”

  “I’m here, Sheriff,” she said, stepping onto the pavement.

  “Aren’t you a linguist or something.”

  She considered being smart and responded with “or something,” but thought better of it. “I am.”

  “Well?”

  She looked back and forth between him and the nearest visitor, the one who had been brave enough to take on a parked car. “Ever the elegant conversationalist. Anyone ever tell you, you have a way with words?”

  Chapman’s eyes narrowed, and she strode over to the man before he could respond. The man who’d approached her car had keen eyes and skin like leather. He wore a faded robe type thing with something like a rope tied around his waist. His hat was triangular-ish, made of a material that looked rather malleable. One good dip in the lake and she was sure the “hat” would be a ball of cheap cloth.

  When she was six feet from him, the sheriff’s large hand rested on her shoulder and gently brought her to a stop. “That’s close enough.”

  She dipped her chin in greeting at the older man, mentally appointing him as the leader. Her eyes flitted over their clothes, the animals, and carts, trying to guesstimate what period they hailed from.

  She began extending greetings in multiple languages, beginning with Spanish, Urdu, and Hindi. The old man stirred slightly at the latter, but for all she knew, it could’ve been because he was restless.

  She expanded, trying several Hindi dialects. Her repertoire was limited, even more so by the fact that every word she knew was contemporary.

  When she tried Marwari, the man’s eyes clicked with familiarity.

  He spat out several words. Ella cocked her head, and this signaled him to continue. Some of his vocabulary words was similar to Marwari—yet not. It was some sort of hybrid.

  “Fascinating,” she said.

  Chapman shuffled closer. “You understand him?”

  “What? Oh, no. Not at all.”

  When he looked like he was about to have a stroke, she added, “I’m just messing with you. I think they might be Romani. It’s actually really interesting. In the linguistic community, it’s been long suspected that the Romani originated from India because—

  “Not really pertinent to what’s happening here, is it?”

  She blinked at Chapman then at the old man. “No, I guess not. But the point I was getting to is that the Romani spread throughout several regions and countries. I need to hear him speak more to know if his language has been heavily influenced by any European languages yet. I mean, we’re talking about several different dialects and a divergence of language here.”

  Chapman’s jaw twitched, but he nodded for her to continue. To her surprise, the old man spoke first, this time in a language she recognized.

  “Salutari.” The word came out halting as if he wasn’t used to speaking it.

  Now she was getting somewhere. “Buna. De unde esti?”

  He tilted his head, eyebrows lowered.

  “No? So, not your first language or it’s changed so much you don’t recognize it,” she muttered to herself. She tried a few more phrases, producing the same quizzical look. She glanced sideways at Chapman. “I think they’re Romani, not sure from where from, but I suspect they recently migrated to Romania.”

  After a deep breath, she asked the old man what land they were from, first in Romanian, then in her best, halting Marwari.

  He seemed to get the gist of what she was asking and responded.

  “What’d he say?” the sheriff asked.

  She bit her lip. “He’s either asking how this strange place came to appear so suddenly in this region or where the nearest donut shop is. My guess is the first one.”

  “Tell him we’ve always been here and don’t say more. When you find out where and when they’re from, tell them they need to leave.”

  Ella did her best to interpret this information. The old man’s eyes squinted at one point, and she feared she’d accidentally called his mother a goat.

  Back and forth the went in painstakingly slow conversation. Many of the bystanders had dispersed to find something more entertaining to watch—probably to watch paint dry or something.

  Near the end, Ella was able to ascertain that the group had, in fact, moved into the region, which best she could figure out was modern-day Romania for her.

  “So, what year is it?” Chapman asked. He’d been surprisingly patient.

  Ella watched his features in the shadow of his hat. “About 1243 AD.”

  He rounded and stared at the distant, brown hills, muttering something under his breath she couldn’t catch. It seemed a long while before he faced her again. “Okay. Very well. Now we know where we are. Please, tell them to leave as soon as possible.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek before turning to the leader and relaying the sheriff’s wishes—or attempting to, anyway. There were more charades involved than actual words, but she was confident she got her point across.

  When she’d first arrived to the village, she’d taken the requests for her to leave as rude and a general lack of hospitality. But that was before she knew Keystone’s dirty, little secret.

  Now, she was the one telling someone else to leave. She had to remind herself it was in their best interest. Also, Keystone didn’t have the resources for fifty or so more residents. Still, it turned her stomach and left a bad taste in her mouth like the words were made of one of Rose’s gelatin molds.

&nbs
p; The man’s bushy brows knitted, and he adjusted his gaze to Chapman, seeming to sense where the hostility originated. The man spoke rapidly, and Ella had to gesture for him to slow down a couple times.

  With each phrase she was able to understand, her unease grew.

  “What’s he saying?” Chapman asked.

  “They’re trying to flee the region from bad men. I can’t get more than that. They’ve been traveling for many days and are weary. They’re asking to set up camp for the night.”

  Her eyes wandered to the rest of the travelers, settling on a young boy. His large brown eyes peeked out from behind his mother’s tattered dress.

  Beside her, Chapman’s hands worked over his mustache. An emotion flickered behind his steely eyes.

  “One day.” He held up a finger for emphasis.

  The old man bobbed his head, and a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

  Chapman climbed back on his Appaloosa. “Tell ‘em we’ll escort them to where they can set up camp.”

  She bit back a sigh. “Sure, sure. No problem. Want me to translate the U.S. Constitution for them, too?”

  When her sarcasm failed to get a reaction, she did her best to relay the information with a mix of Marwari, Rajasthani, Romanian, and Sanskrit for good measure. Nothing stuck. The designated leader’s face pinched in confusion, and he glanced at the sheriff.

  Chapman pantomimed for the old man and his caravan to follow him. The man nodded enthusiastically and fired out words to the rest of his group. As one unit, they managed to turn around, with much ado on part of the wagons, and followed the sheriff back south, in the direction of the park.

  “Well sure, I could’ve acted that out too, but where’s the fun in that?” Ella said to anyone nearby who was listening. No one was.

  With the spectacle gone, the remaining bystanders began to disperse. Across the street, two figures lingered on the sidewalk. Will stood in front of Jenny’s salon, hands in the pockets of his slacks, talking to Jenny. After a laugh that carried across the street, Jenny flipped a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder, glancing in Ella’s direction.

  Ella rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the seed of jealousy that was beginning to germinate any time Will was near his “friend.”

  As she took a step towards Grandma’s Kitchen, the stream of passersby parted like a curtain. Six stood dead-center in front of the door, tall and lean, barring her entrance.

  “Hey there, darlin’.” The outlaw grabbed a wad of tobacco from a leather pouch then produced a small paper and began rolling his own cigarette. “Been awhile.”

  She swallowed. “Heh, yeah. Long time, no see. That’s a saying we have where I’m from. So… how was prison? Well, I guess here it’s not prison per se—even though you should’ve—never mind. How was jail? Still smell like the pits of hell?”

  Six didn’t respond. He stuck the cigarette between his chapped lips and lit it. A shadow of scruff covered his cheeks and joined at his chin, pronouncing the shadows under his eyes. She couldn’t remember if his current state of hygiene was standard Six or a holdover from his time behind bars.

  She puffed out her cheeks and rocked back on her heels. “Anyway, good talking to you.”

  Ella attempted to sidestep him. He mirrored her movement.

  “Look, Jesse—”

  “Six.”

  “Whatever. I have to get back to work.”

  “We need to talk,” his voice growled.

  “No. No, I think I’m good.” She tried to squeeze past him again. His hand shot out and gripped her elbow like a vice.

  “Well, I want to talk.”

  Ella’s chest tightened, and she strained to pull away. “Look, Howdy Doody, unless you want your chicken nuggets—” she glanced down at his pants in case it wasn’t clear “—up near your stomach, I suggest you let me go.”

  She held his glare and matched it with her own, hoping he hadn’t caught the tremble in her voice.

  His fingers slid from her elbow, and some of the feeling tingled back to life. He puffed out a lung-full of smoke right into her face.

  “Something wrong?” a warm, familiar voice asked as Will stepped up beside Ella.

  “Ain’t nothing to concern yourself with, fart catcher.” Six narrowed his eyes. “This is between me and the lady.”

  “Fart catcher?” Ella glanced sideways at Will. “I think he just insulted you.”

  “I believe he did. And I’m offended.”

  “You look offended.”

  Six’s hand dropped to his holster.

  Ella held her hands up in appeasement. “Alright, alright. But I don’t know what there is to talk about. You’re the one who tried to kill me. Whatever problems you blame me for are by your hand, not mine.”

  The outlaw’s spurs jangled as he took a step closer. Both she and Will tensed. The scent of barn and tobacco rolled off Six, filling the narrow gap between them. “I had a great thing goin’ before you showed up. You made things much worse.”

  His expression morphed into something more complacent, and he took a step back. “I just wanted to chat. No harm in that. Not like I’d hurt you.”

  With a parting wink, he brushed past her, causing chills to crawl over her skin.

  “You alright?” Will asked, his gaze following Six.

  “Fine. How is it you always show up at the right time?”

  “I just sense when you’re in danger, I guess.” The corners of his mouth lifted.

  “Like the Bat-Signal.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “Bats send out a signal that warns of danger?”

  “One does. Well, he’s not really a bat, and the signal isn’t to warn of danger so much as to call him to danger.” She cleared her throat. “But that’s neither here nor there.”

  He followed her inside, and she poured them each a cup of coffee that came out almost as thick as mud. She added extra cream to hers as they chatted about the newcomers. She filled in the blanks of conversation he hadn’t been able to overhear.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Will said. “Before our guests arrived, Chapman and I were talking about my diving equipment. He asked me to dive into the lake where my boat was anchored and look around. See if there’s anything to glean that’d tell us how a man drowned while sitting in a boat.”

  “I get to come along, right? Since our first dive went belly up.” She winced. “You know what I mean.”

  “If you bring breakfast.” His hand slid out on the counter suddenly. “To clarify, I mean Wink’s banana bread because your baking…”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “It leaves something to be desired.”

  “Got it.”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised Wink lets you near her kitchen.”

  “No, no. I got it.” Ella’s eyes flicked to the counter. “And I’m not allowed to be in there unsupervised.” She took a long slurp of sludge. “You’ll bring the coffee?”

  He set his cup aside and responded a little too enthusiastically for her liking. “Yes, definitely.”

  CHAPTER 9

  LIKE a repeat of Monday, Ella awoke early on Thursday to meet Will at the docks. She hoped the day would differ in that they wouldn’t find a dead body.

  With one of Wink’s loaves of moist banana bread wrapped in a dish towel, she made her way to the lake, gnawing on a thick slice as she went. Fortunately, it only took a few minutes to hike to the docks, otherwise, she’d worry about showing up empty-handed, save for a crumb-covered dish towel.

  The air nipped at her skin, causing her to burrow tighter into her down jacket. The rainforest would have been preferable weather for diving to this.

  Will stood in front of his rowboat, either waiting for her or guarding it against being stolen, she couldn’t be certain. He wore his fedora hat again over a trench coat, looking very Humphrey Bogart.

  They grunted morning greetings as he handed a thermos lid already filled with steaming coffee. She swapped this treasure for the loaf. He eyed the short
ened loaf with its broken-off end but didn’t say anything.

  She took a cautious sip from the lid before accepting the generous chunk of bread he held out to her. They ate and drank in silence, watching the water.

  After their hunger had been satiated and the caffeine kicked in, they climbed into his boat. Ella handed over the precious thermos and snatched the oars this time. He opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it, instead, pouring out more coffee into the thermos lid-turned-cup.

  The oars splashed through the water in her unskilled hands, but the exercise felt good on her cold muscles.

  “You know,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence, “they make boats with motors.”

  “Too noisy. Just because something can be made, doesn’t mean it should.”

  “Says the inventor obsessed with my cell phone.”

  His ears reddened under his fedora. “Sometimes when you move too fast, you miss things.”

  She repositioned her feet around the mass of diving gear between their benches. “Speaking of missing things…” She formulated her next sentence carefully. “Do you miss your home?”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “Chicago?”

  “Yeah. I mean, did you leave anyone special behind? Family?” She didn’t voice the question that truly concerned her.

  He didn’t respond for a long time, instead, focusing on the cluster of cottages on Lake Drive. “Yes.” She waited for him to continue, but he’d grown interested in the tops of his shoes.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was it—”

  “Forgive me, but can we change the subject?”

  Ella was taken aback by the question. He was usually so open. But it was no business of hers, so she didn’t press. She knew how painful it was to talk about what or who got left behind. She wondered if, like some wounds, it festered over time or simply became a dull ache.

  She paused mid-stroke, the oars dribbling water. After surveying their position, he nodded in approval, and she eased back on the oars.

  “This looks about right.” He took off his hat, laid it beside him on the small, worn wooden seat, and proceeded to take off his jacket.