by Joslyn Chase
I couldn’t restrain my burst of conviction. “I knew they hadn’t seen the Primeval Forest.”
Len and Doris exchanged amused glances, which I ignored.
“Then Joe picked up Alexis, but she’d changed out of her flamboyant get-up and was wearing tourist drab, like Dana.”
“Except she forgot about her nails,” said Doris.
Len gave a little hand flourish and Doris took a bow, laughing, as he continued laying out his theory.
“They checked out of the lodge, making sure to leave an impression by shouting about the shaving kit and buying the teddy bear and umbrella.”
“I resent being used as a dupe,” Doris said.
I agreed, but with the uncomfortable realization that at that very moment, I’d been putting on my own show, setting up my own dupes, though not for so sinister a purpose.
Len went on. “They drove out of sight, then Alexis walked into the trees, changed her costume again, and hiked back to the lodge to finish Act One. She wiggled her hot pink fanny, asked for directions to Tumwater, and pointed the yellow corvette south.”
I had an inspiration. “She must have concealed that conspicuous car somewhere not too far down the road. Let’s search for a shed or garage.”
Len made a note while I picked up the thread. “Another costume change, and Alexis appeared again as Dana when she and Joe checked into the Whitman. They had no time to waste. They stashed their bags and played out the scene at the Concierge desk. The three golfers had to be coincidence, but what a lucky break for Joe. He sent ‘Dana’ off to her death and established his own alibi.”
It had been quite a performance, but both Alexis and Joe had fallen out of character at crucial moments, exposing flaws that would bring down the curtain on their production. Len and I headed back into town. We had a solid theory, but we needed hard evidence. Or a confession.
The smell of coffee diffused through the cooled air of the office as Len put on a pot and made some calls. He rallied a couple of patrolmen to search for the Corvette’s hiding place, and then we got busy piecing together a background. We discovered that Joe and Alexis had been lovers for years, appearing in several theatrical productions together, at college and at the local playhouse.
Ostensibly, they broke off their relationship about the time Joe started courting Dana, whom they presumably cast as the victim because of her basic resemblance to Alexis. She became an unwitting actor in a plot which played up the superficial differences between the two women and capitalized on stage dressing. The elaborate planning and costuming clearly indicated premeditation, and an investigation into Joe’s financial status unearthed numerous problems and a big pay-out life insurance policy on Dana, designating Joe as the primary beneficiary.
The patrolmen didn’t find the corvette, but they did discover the old barn where Alexis temporarily stashed it, and they obtained a positive ID from the owner who’d taken her rent money. With a little ingenuity, Len and I tracked down Alexis and picked her up as a ‘person of interest.’ We brought Joe in, as well, and made sure they saw each other in passing. Then we put them in separate rooms and let them stew.
In the end, it was hard to say which of them was more eager to rat out the other. Between them, we got what we needed for a satisfying finale.
~~~~
I took a few days off work and spent some time hiking. In quiet moments under the tall pines, I came to accept that my failings, though many, had no bearing on what happened that day. Those were the choices and actions of others. But I did carry a burden. My offenses included abusing my body, neglecting my wife, and disrespecting my own heritage. I would not abandon Chief Redfish but I’d cast off the caricature I made of him. I vowed to honor the name and use the gifts I’d inherited to serve and protect. Len and I “did it up all official” and now I’m a part-time deputy.
I returned to the Kiosk with a sense of new beginnings. A bit of foundational shifting engenders the need to build anew and I found myself looking forward to a lot of life I’d been missing. The day was cooler and clouds scudded across the sky, driven by a brisk wind. The canal water was choppy, slapping against the shore with a spray of foam. Paper cups and plastic bags cartwheeled across the parking lot to settle against the split-log benches where they fluttered restlessly. As I bent to pick them up, I thought about the gypsy curse and how it had been fulfilled that day to sustain a legend.
I don’t know if Dana’s death should be counted as coincidence or the inexorable hand of fate, but I suddenly found myself wanting a son or a daughter to continue the bloodline, passing on the stories, preserving a remnant of our culture. A hundred years from now, perhaps my grandson’s grandson will be telling the story of the gypsy’s curse, and not as a gimmick for the tip jar.
Is it possible the potency of the curse is waning? The casualties have decreased with each anniversary, and I like to think it’s petered out. Or perhaps my posterity, through vigilance and care, might prevent the violence and break the curse? I choose to believe it will be so.
I dumped the garbage I’d collected into a waste bin and turned to see Doris weaving her way across the pavement, fighting against the gust. She clutched two cups of coffee and a paper bag which flapped in the wind like a creature intent on escape. Reaching the shelter of the Kiosk, she handed me one of the cups. “Congratulations on wrapping up your big case, Chief.” she quipped with a grin. “Have a donut. Isn’t that what you law enforcement types like for breakfast?”
“You’re the one that broke the case, Doris.” I replied, smiling. “I bow to your superior skill and offer you my thanks.”
“Actually,” said Doris, looking me in the eye, “I think we make a darn good team.” She passed me the bag of donuts and as I took a big bite of sweet maple, I noticed that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick and knew she couldn’t care less.
And then, thinking of Doris’s working theory of the adult male and wondering if I was proving it or refuting it, I noticed something else. Doris has beautiful eyes.
NOTES
This story was born when two books I was reading came together. One was a non-fiction about the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest and the other was an Agatha Christie. The story within a story, Alejandro’s tragedy, was inspired by descriptions of ploys the natives used against the invaders, such as placing headdresses on poles and dancing around the fire to make it appear they were greater in number. Another trick I remember reading about is boring holes in canoes and refilling them with sawdust mixed with tree sap so that it would dissolve once the enemy had rowed far enough away from shore, sinking the boat.
The idea I got from Ms. Christie is that of tricking the eye, distracting attention like a magician performing an illusion, focusing notice on one thing so that something else goes unnoticed.
These two ideas collided and A Touch of Native Color was the result.
Song of The Gondolier
___________
What happens when a desperate man finds himself
with an appalling choice to make?
How does he square it with himself?
And if the man is already dead,
how does he tell his story?
Hold on tight for this backwards-told-tale
of a nice man in a nasty position
and how his life hangs—literally—in the balance.
May 11, 4:35 a.m.
It’s here.
I am engulfed by a flutter of panic like a first time rider when the roller coaster chugs out of the station. Gripped with that gut-clenching lurch as it pulls up that first long rise, knowing there is no turning back, no escape, only the inevitable and terrifying conclusion. For weeks, I have pushed this moment from my thoughts and now, it’s here.
Fear flickers through me, an electric crackle, and is gone. I am wiped clean of mortal concerns as the plunge begins, a plummeting kaleidoscope of swiftly changing darkened colors, while a shriek born of wind speed howls outside the windows. Inside the car we float w
eightless, pain and life suspended like a silent fermata before the final crashing chord.
Simon cowers in the corner, terror stamped into his features. This is no roller coaster. For us, there are no safety bars, no protections, no supporting rail. I look at Simon, frozen and bereft, but feel no sorrow, no regret. Insulated as a babe in amniotic sac, I hurtle towards death. The birth into the unknown.
~~~~
May 11, 4:27 am
“We’re seven minutes behind schedule, people. Let’s hustle.”
Charles nudged Simon down the path while I ran ahead to unlock the control box. Despite the seven minute lapse, our operation was running according to plan. Except for Simon. Charles had brought him in at the final stage, and I didn’t know what to do about that.
I unlocked the control box, and positioned the levers to open the door for the first car on the gondola lift. Turning, I saw Charles pat his pockets, his mouth puckered in a sour frown while Simon shuffled his feet on the flagstones. The kid’s head tilted and moonlight frosted the lenses of his glasses, turning them opaque. He was the image of an earthworm, pale and squirming before the sting of the hook.
“Unbelievable! Sorry, gentlemen, I’ve got to go back,” Charles announced. He bunched his fists and let out a growl. “You two jump on the lift. I’ll catch the next one and meet you in the parking lot.”
“Simon, you better go with him,” I said. The boy hesitated. “Go on, I don’t know what he forgot, but he might need help.”
Simon turned without a word and set off down the path, but Charles turned with a scowl. “Beat it, kid. I’ll be back before you know it.” Simon stood at the midpoint between us, head swiveling.
“Let him go with you, Charles,” I pleaded. “I’ll get to the parking lot and warm up the van.”
Charles put his hand in his pocket, his face bland. I had not foreseen this and it bit into me hard.
“All right, then, Simon,” I said, given no choice. “Hop aboard.”
We climbed into the gondola. I grabbed hold of the handle to slide the door shut, and paused to look back at Charles. He had not moved. His hand was still in his pocket, and I knew what he had there. His face wore no expression, its barren planes rimed by moonlight. After a long moment, I slammed the door.
The car pulled away with a jerk, and the landing receded into the patchy morning fog as we crept out over the void like an ant on the slenderest blade of grass. I tried to steady my breath, to keep looking back at the mountain, to focus on the beauty, to think only of that. But, under the pull of an irresistible fascination, I walked to the front of the car and looked out the forward facing window.
At first I noticed nothing to warrant my suspicions. Then, as I squinted, peering into the dim light, I saw the knot. A giant clot of rusty chain, wrapped and rolled so that the links formed a tangled embrace around the cable. My heart leapt, and I clung to the idea that failsafe measures would kick in, ensuring our protection, even as I understood that Charles would have it handled. I watched the knot heading, inexorably, for the next pulley where it would clog and shudder, peeling the housing away from the cable, and we would fall away, free.
That moment, caught in the fabric of time, stretched and rolled down the mountain, down freeways and rivers, beyond the oceans and the stars, past eternity, and then was gone in the drop of an eyelid. I looked at Simon, drooping in the corner seat, and ran to the control panel, popping open the cover and slamming my hand down on the emergency brake. The car stopped with a jerk and sway.
Now what?
Through the misted window, I watched a dark and distant shape move on the landing toward the control box, melting into its shadow. The override switch. With a shudder, the car resumed its movement, the hum reverberating through me like a tolling bell. The knot moved toward the pulley system, hitting it with an angry screech of metal on metal. The cable whined and shook us in the car like a kid going after that last stubborn Milk Dud, and then we dipped sharply downward and, with a final wrenching groan, achieved freefall.
~~~~
May 11, 3:12 am
Simon, it turned out, is a highly skilled safecracker. All those days I’d greeted him in passing as he shoveled snow or trimmed hedges, a shank of dirty yellow hair curtaining his cherubic face, I’d never considered that the wheels turning in his head produced anything more remarkable than dust. My mistake.
We were both employed by Il Paradiso lodge and ski resort, a Rocky Mountain replica of some winter palace in Italy. I am the Chief Gondolier, which is a fancy way of saying that I run the aerial tramway. And because I’m a sport, most days I’ll charm the passengers with renditions of Venetian boat songs, interspersed with a little Bob Dylan or Santana, delivered in my moderately good tenor voice. Hey, it’s a living.
These are wealthy patrons. Most of them could paper the walls of their mansions with hundred dollar bills and still have enough left over to stuff the pillows of their guest houses. I stir their happy memories of Venice or the Dolomites, so I make bank on tips and the salary’s not bad either.
Apparently there are folks who can work under this kind of exposure and remain immune to the pull, uneaten by ambition or desire. The realization that I’m not one of them came as an unwelcome smack upside my ego. I can’t square it with the good guy image I have of myself. I’d begun to feel like a tightrope walker, balanced on a thin line above temptation, and when life threw me a couple of curve balls to juggle, I began to wobble. That’s when Charles approached me with his offer, and I accepted.
The vault at Il Paradiso is in the basement, behind three locked steel doors and a mesh metal gate. Between us, Simon and I could produce the three keys needed for the doors and, under siege by a hefty pair of bolt cutters, the gate made like the walls of Jericho, and we were in. As a trusted employee, I knew all the right numbers to punch into the security system to put the alarms to sleep and with the night manager snoozing off a light sedative, it was a walk in il parco.
The fact is, Charles was no more than a glorified spectator in the execution of our plan. Silly me for thinking he was actually going to get his hands dirty, and crack the vault. So, yeah, he was the main brain but the nitty gritty was all me and Simon. Charles didn’t even wear gloves, as he didn’t plan to lift a finger to help with the rough stuff. I suspect flirting with the risk of exposure gave him a thrill, like flouting a condom on a one night stand.
All three of us learned our burglar technique from the school of television crime drama, which dictates dark rooms and flashlights. Problem is, I don’t have enough hands to hold the flashlight and do my business, so I asked Charles to hold the light, pointed at my tool bag, while I put on my gloves and rifled through, pulling out all the required pieces. The guy actually complained, like I should have remembered to bring my third arm.
Simon was doing his bit and with a minimum of fuss, the tumblers fell into place and the vault was ours. This is where all the rich guests stow their jewels and excess currency, where the cash drawers from the gift shops and dress shops and salons reside overnight, and the accumulated wealth of the privileged class lounges about, rubbing elbows with its own kind. We stuffed the loot into an oversized duffel and prepared to scram.
We retreated into the custodial locker room, which was behind door number one, and dumped the bags in the middle of the floor while we peeled off our night gear and prepared to return the tools to the locked cabinets, as if we’d never borrowed them. I was stuffing the tool bag onto its designated shelf when I whirled with a muffled gasp.
“Hear that? Someone’s coming.”
Frantically, I motioned for them to check the corridor ahead while I tidied up. By the time they’d returned, giving the all-clear, I’d finished my arrangements. Simon and I shouldered the backpacks containing our clothes and personal items.
Charles grabbed the goody bag, announcing, “I’ll be in charge of this one, gentlemen.”
Simon stepped up and put a hand on the bag. “I think we should split it now.”
/> “That would be unwise,” said Charles. “We need to clear this area.”
“What’s to keep you from—“
I gripped Simon’s shoulder. “He’s right, man, we gotta move. I’m sure Charles is good for it.”
Charles gave me a cold grin. He pulled back his sleeve and peered at his watch. “We’re seven minutes behind schedule, people. Let’s hustle.”
~~~~
May 10, 10:01 pm
My shift ended at ten o’clock. I hit the locker room where I took off my black and white striped polo, red kerchief, and sash, shoving them into my backpack, throwing my black pants and flat-crowned hat on top. My heart raced like a rat on a wheel while I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went to the staff snack bar, where I ordered a club sandwich and a coke. I took a bite and chewed, but couldn’t swallow. I spit into a napkin and stared at the plate, watching a smear of mayonnaise turn translucent as the minutes ticked by.
At five minutes to eleven, I took the stairs to the ninth floor, moving slowly so that I wouldn’t be out of breath when I got to the room. The hallway was silent and deserted, the sound of my footfalls swallowed by the thick carpeting. I knocked at Suite 941, and Charles let me in.
I’d never been in a suite at Il Paradiso. It seemed to unfold and expand as I looked around. Platforms and staircases, balconies and archways, melded with paintings, sculptures, and a grand piano to form a multi-dimensional, multi-textured living environment of almost unbearable luxury. The outer wall was a sheet of glass and I imagined the view, in daylight, would be breathtaking.
“We’re in here,” Charles said, leading me past a Chinese folding screen made of fine crimson silk. I rounded it and was surprised to see the yellow-haired kid from the grounds crew sulking against the window. “Do you know Simon?” Charles asked. I raised my hand in a hello and Simon shot back a “hey”.