[Shelby Alexander 04.0] Serenity Submerged

by Craig A. Hart

  Fritz’s veneer developed a hairline fracture. “No, of course not. Why, I mean, what other reason could I have?”

  Wilkes smiled and crossed his arms. “You tell me.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

  Wilkes’ smile morphed into a highly phony laugh. “Stop sweating, Fritz. I’m messing with you. From the look on your face, you’d think there was a body somewhere on this campground.” He turned to leave. “Oh, one last thing. Do you keep a register?”

  Fritz nodded but didn’t move.

  “And may I see it, please?”

  Shelby gave his head a shake, trying to signal Fritz to refuse, but his friend didn’t look at him, instead turning and walking toward the office. Shelby and Wilkes straggled along behind like some bizarre, somber parade. Truman and the deputy in the second car remained behind.

  Once inside, Fritz pulled a huge, ragged book from the desk and handed it over.

  Wilkes took it gingerly, as though it were radioactive. “Not much for keeping up with the times, are you? A halfway decent computer would make keeping records a lot easier.”

  “I stick with what works.” Fritz sniffed, as if to indicate his feelings were hurt. “Had a friend in the motel business who moved over to those machines. Hired a couple college kids to transfer all the old information over, then sent the books out to be shredded. A month later, the whole system got fried in a thunderstorm. Lost everything.”

  Wilkes leafed through the pages. “How the hell do you find anything? I can’t even read your handwriting.”

  Fritz muttered a long string of creative profanity. “You want some help, do you?”

  “If it won’t put you out,” Wilkes said, his sarcasm so thick it would have choked a lesser asshole.

  Fritz yanked the book back, dropped it heavily on the table, and began madly flipping the pages. “What the hell are you looking for?”

  “A renter of yours. Name of Graveno. You remember anyone by that name?”

  “Graveno…not a common name, but I can’t say I remember it.”

  “He would have stayed here about a year ago.”

  Fritz turned more pages, and then shook his head. “Nope, I don’t see anyone by that—”

  Wilkes grabbed the register back and ran his index finger down the page. Then he turned the page and repeated the process. Suddenly, the finger stabbed at the column of names. “There, see? That’s the guy.”

  Shelby leaned in to make out the scrawling handwriting, which he had to admit was truly appalling.

  Wilkes tapped his finger on the paper. “Scott Graveno. He stayed here, all right. I’m surprised you don’t remember him. Then again, I suppose people all start running together after a while, eh, Fritz?”

  “They do at that.”

  “I don’t suppose you knew poor Mr. Graveno has been missing for some time now?”

  “Are you serious?!” Fritz exclaimed in a tone obviously intended to convey shock and surprise. His eyes opened wide and he looked at Wilkes with an expression so innocent Shelby had to turn away to hide a smirk. Fritz’s acting left much to be desired. It reminded Shelby of the early silent films that employed stage players who had yet to learn that overly dramatic acting did not translate well to the new medium.

  “Serious as a murder charge,” Wilkes said. “You know, the news coverage was extensive back then. I’m surprised you didn’t come forward with information that might have helped the investigation.”

  “I don’t pay much attention to the news.”

  Wilkes nodded, his expression suggesting he didn’t believe a word of it. He went back to the book and stared at it for several seconds before turning away and slamming it closed. Shelby thought he saw a puff of dust as the covers collided.

  “Looks like he was staying in Cabin 5,” Wilkes said. “Do you have a spare key?

  Shelby again shook his head, and this time, Fritz glanced his way and caught the gesture.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Fritz said.

  “What about a master key?”

  “Er…yeah, I have a master, but it’s…in a safety deposit box at the bank.”

  “Why the hell—?”

  “It’s for, what you say, safety.”

  “Safety? From what?”

  “Why, burglars, of course. Suppose someone got ahold of the master key. They could clean out the entire camp in under thirty minutes!”

  “And suppose you need a way to get in? Right now, for example.”

  “Oh, well, I got keys for all the other cabins. Just not number 5.”

  Wilkes’ neck turned red and his jaw clenched “Oh, is that so?”

  “Yep. It’s the darnedest thing. I broke the spare last week trying to open the door. The lock is a tough customer. I keep meaning to replace it, but you know how it is, running a campground.”

  “No, not really,” Wilkes said. “I have a good mind to break the door down.”

  Fritz coughed. “I thought you had a warrant on the way.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” In stark contrast to Fritz’s decidedly third-rate acting, Wilkes was giving an excellent performance of a man on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

  Fritz shrugged. “Sorry, I run on a tight budget. Can’t afford to be replacing doors all willy-nilly.”

  Wilkes paused and drew in a long, deep breath. Shelby imagined him counting to ten inside his head. When he spoke, it was in a low, overly calm voice. “Do you have any objection to us looking inside the cabin?”

  “Not if you can get inside without ruining shit,” Fritz said.

  “Fine. I’m leaving now to pick up the warrant. If you’re not back with the key by the time the warrant arrives, I will personally knock that cabin off its foundation.”

  As soon as Wilkes turned to leave, Fritz leaned over the desk and pulled a key from a rack. He shoved it under the guest register and gave Shelby a desperate look, mouthing the word “cabin” before following Wilkes into the bright sunlight.

  8

  As soon as Fritz and Wilkes were out of sight, Shelby reached under the book and palmed the key. He looked at it, turning it over in his hand. Someone, either Fritz or some previous owner, had etched the number five on the bow. Shelby grinned. Fritz, the old fox, was leading Wilkes on a wild goose chase. Shelby doubted if there even was a safety deposit box. Fritz wasn’t the kind of guy to have a lot of faith in banks. More likely, he would make a show of going into the local bank, hang around for a few minutes, and then leave, all the while having the master key in his pocket. Meanwhile, Shelby would have had time to check the cabin for any incriminating bits of evidence, although he doubted he’d find anything of importance and considered Fritz to be on the paranoid side.

  Shelby walked out of the office, the key clutched in his right fist. He stopped outside the door and groaned inwardly. One patrol car remained in the lot, and leaning against the driver’s side door was the big deputy.

  Truman waved and grinned. “Nice day, huh?”

  “Couldn’t ask for better. A perfect day for pulling duty like that.” Shelby indicated Truman’s relaxed stance.

  The deputy emitted a sound more like a bellow than a laugh. “It sure is. My ma thinks I chase criminals all day. If only she knew. Hell, maybe if I chased more, I could get rid of some of this.” He patted his ample stomach.

  “Getting three squares a day, are you?” Although the last thing he wanted to do was engage in small talk, Shelby saw no gain in irritating the man.

  “And few in between. Always was a big eater. Up until a few years ago, it made no difference. Metabolism burned it right up. Would you believe I was once skinny as a rail?”

  “Now you’re pulling my leg.”

  “Nope! Fit as a fiddle. Tried out for football in high school, but the coach was afraid I’d get busted in half. Had the height but not the weight. Tried basketball but never got the hang of it.”

  Shelby shook his head in the Midwestern, doleful way that said, “Well, isn’t that the way of
it.”

  “But it’s all good,” Truman said, playing his own Midwestern part, namely making bystanders feel better about pain not their own. “I like what I’m doing now.”

  “How is Wilkes as a boss?” Shelby asked, probing the depths of Truman’s loyalty.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Truman said, no hint of deceit in his voice. “We get along. I know some folks don’t like him, but I can’t figure it.”

  Shelby nodded. “How nice for you. Say, you don’t think I could take a quick peek in the cabin, do you?”

  “I thought there wasn’t a key for it?”

  “There isn’t. But suppose I could work the lock a little and get it open. You think I could step inside? Just for a minute. I stayed there a while back and I’d like to make sure I got everything out. It would be a little embarrassing to have it turn up now.” Shelby laughed as airily as he could manage.

  Truman did not return the laugh, and instead became more serious than Shelby had yet seen him. His eyes took on a suspicious glint.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. This might turn into an active investigation. Sheriff Wilkes wouldn’t like anyone messing around with it. Especially not you.”

  “Now you’re trying to hurt my feelings,” Shelby said, trying to recapture the light camaraderie of a minute earlier.

  “No, I’m serious. Wilkes doesn’t much care for you. And from what he says, you’re not to be trusted.”

  “Far be it from me to dispute your boss, but you seem the type to have good instincts. Do I seem like a bad guy to you?”

  Truman shrugged. “I got terrible instincts. Hell, if Jack the Ripper came to my house at midnight, handed me his business card, and asked to see my mother’s bedroom, I’d probably let him in and serve tea.”

  “Have you ever thought you’re in the wrong profession?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Truman’s face darkened and he squinted. He hunched forward and crossed his arms over his belly.

  “I’m a good cop. A damn good one. I won’t have anyone run down this badge.” Truman jerked a thumb at the badge on his barrel chest.

  Shelby held up one hand. “Okay, okay. No offense intended. Forget the cabin. In fact, I’ll leave you here to enjoy the day. I need to get home anyway.” He moved away toward the Jeep, feeling Truman’s eyes on him.

  When he reached his vehicle, he glanced back. Truman was watching and still holding the same position: hunched shoulders and crossed arms. There was something off about the big cop. To begin with, the man was too cheerful. Shelby didn’t trust anyone who had that sunny of a disposition; he always suspected them of hiding something. And then there was the sudden mood shift. Shelby wouldn’t have been surprised to discover a history of psychological disorders in Truman’s past.

  Shelby climbed into the Jeep and started the engine. He drove out of the campground with one eye on the rearview mirror and noticed Truman watching him until he turned onto the main road.

  Shelby slowed about a hundred yards away and eased the Jeep onto the shoulder. He still had the key and wanted more than ever to access the cabin. He stopped the Jeep and got out, taking one quick look back along the road—no sign of the deputy. He moved into the woods, cutting at an angle calculated to bring him out behind Cabin 5. With any luck, he could approach from the rear without being spotted.

  The woods were full of the early summer scent Shelby remembered so well from his childhood. The musty richness filled his nostrils and he had a sudden yearning to be on the old pier, fishing rod in hand.

  The buzzing of his cellphone interrupted the momentary reverie.

  “Where are you, Fritz?”

  “At the damn bank, that’s where. Wilkes followed me here and now has his other deputy staking the place to keep an eye on me. I’m not sure how much time I can waste in here.”

  “Why’d you weave this web of lies anyway? And why the hell did you let him look at the register?”

  “I might’ve panicked a little.”

  “A little?”

  “Oh, hell. It was clear he knew exactly what he was asking.”

  “No reason to confirm it. You were as obvious as a tap dancing elephant.”

  “Well, excuse the shit out of me.”

  Shelby took a breath and calmed himself. “It’s done now.”

  “You have the key?”

  “I have it. Although I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it.”

  “Get into the cabin.”

  “I got that part. What exactly am I looking for?”

  “There’s a hidden compartment under the floorboards. Inside are certain things that might prove uncomfortable if Wilkes were to find them.”

  “Certain things?”

  “From my past.”

  “How the hell does Wilkes know about all this? It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Maybe the anonymous tip came from Graveno’s camp.”

  “That doesn’t figure. There’s something else at play here.”

  “Just get the stuff, Shel. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Wilkes’ deputy, Truman. He’s still at the campground and shows no sign of leaving.”

  “You’ll find a way,” Fritz said. “Gotta go. That deputy is coming into the bank.”

  9

  Shelby was simultaneously flattered and annoyed by Fritz’s trust in him. In addition, he had to admit Fritz’s story had thrown him completely off balance. Shelby prided himself on having a nose for duplicity and secrets, but never once had he suspected Fritz of hiding anything, except perhaps a stack of old smut magazines under his bed.

  “You learn something new every day,” he muttered.

  Through a break in the trees, a row of cabins appeared. Past the corner of Cabin 5, Shelby caught a glimpse of Truman, still leaning on the patrol car. The deputy poked at his cellphone with a meaty index finger, squinting to see the screen in the bright sunlight. Even though the big man seemed engrossed, Shelby knew he had no chance of entering the front of the cabin without being seen. The cabins had no back door, but they did have windows. It looked to be a tight fit, but Shelby hoped it would be big enough to squeeze his broad shoulders and not-as-trim-as-it-used-to-be waistline through.

  He moved up behind the cabin and found the window already open. This was not unusual, as the cabins weren’t air conditioned and quickly became unbearably hot and stuffy in the summer. The only respite was a cross breeze, accomplished by opening the rear window and propping open the front door. He peered through the window and took inventory of the interior. A bunk, an old wooden desk and matching chair, and some rickety shelving composed the room’s contents. The cabins were truly spartan. If Fritz wanted more customers, Shelby thought, he might start by making the place more comfortable than the average prisoner of war camp.

  Shelby gripped the windowsill and hoisted himself upward. He let out an involuntary groan at the effort, an unsettling reminder he wasn’t as young as he used to be. As expected, it was a tight fit, but through creative maneuvering and willful sucking in of his gut, he squeezed through the window. He lowered himself gently to the floor and crept to the front of the cabin. A risky glance out the front window confirmed Truman hadn’t moved from the car and was still messing with his phone.

  Scanning the floor, Shelby saw a board that was a little off. It wasn’t anything most people would notice, but knowing exactly what to look for, it was easy enough to spot. Two of the nail heads were clearly newer and practically sparkled next to their rusted neighbors. Shelby mentally chided Fritz for his carelessness. Admittedly, almost everyone would assume the less aged nails were a part of routine maintenance, if they noticed them at all. But what of the one person suffering from a serious case of nosy-itis? What if they had tested the board, found it loose, and pulled it up?

  Part of that concern was laid to rest the moment Shelby attempted to pull up the board. It most decidedly was not loose. The nails were
doing their job—the floor was solid. Shelby pulled out his pocketknife and used the point to cut some of the wood from around the head of the new nails. Then he used the flat of the blade to pry the nails up, millimeter by millimeter. Twice he put too much pressure on the nails and they screeched in protest. Both times he froze, crouched on the floor of the cabin, waiting for the sound of heavy footsteps, and both times silence reigned.

  At last the nails were up and he wedged his fingers beneath the edge of the board. He tried to bend it upward without disturbing the other nails, but it was still too firm. Shelby stood up, bent over, and grasped the loose end of the board with both hands. If the screeching of the new nails had been cause for concern, the rusted variety blew the competition away. With one swift jerk, Shelby pulled half the nails out, leaving the floorboard sticking upward and a dark aperture in its place. The rusty nails shrieked in protest, sounding more like Macbeth’s witches than bits of hardware.

  “If the dumb ape didn’t hear that,” Shelby muttered, “he’s deaf as a pisspot.”

  A look out the window showed the deputy looking around, a quizzical expression on his face. He shaded his eyes and slowly scanned the area before him, like a general surveying the battlefield. Then he shrugged and went back to poking at his phone.

  “Okay, then,” Shelby said. “He’s not deaf. He just doesn’t give a shit.”

  He went back to the loose floorboard and reached down into the dark compartment, half expected to feel the teeth of some rabid animal sink into his hand. Instead, his fingers found the cool smoothness of metal. He felt around and grasped a box. It came up easily and Shelby set it on the bed before turning back to attempt a repair on the floor. He couldn’t get the nails all the way back in without hammering them down, and even he wasn’t willing to risk that kind of disturbance. Truman might be lazy, but hearing someone hammering away inside what might be considered part of an active crime scene would likely stir even his glacial sense of duty. Shelby brushed at the wood shavings left from carving around the nail heads and risked a couple of stomps on the board to force it farther into its bed. Then he went to the rear window, dropped the metal box onto the ground, and followed it out.