by Russell Fee
Low clouds scudded above them, and whitecaps began to form in the shallow water off the point. “We’d better go. The weather’s changing,” said Callahan, abruptly ending their conversation. He stood up and grabbed the beach chair. He fumbled with folding it, and Julie could tell he was miffed. She guessed it was with himself. He hated overlooking anything.
“I’m only saying,” she said.
Chapter 18
Jackson took the exit ramp off Route 131 and followed Mt Vernon Avenue to its intersection with Fulton Street where he turned left and crossed the Grand River into downtown Grand Rapids. He drove east on Fulton for three blocks until his GPS announced that his destination was on the right. Thankfully, so was a parking space.
The Grotto turned out to be an upscale coffee shop and art gallery that dispensed more coffee than art. Jackson got in line and waited while excessively cheerful baristas prepared impossibly personalized caffeinated concoctions for their metro-chic customers. By the time it was his turn to order, he felt annoyed as hell. He asked for a cappuccino—whole milk with three sugars—to be delivered by the manager.
“Is there a problem?” asked his barista without once diminishing the wattage of her smile.
“No problem. Just interested in the work of one of your artists. Want to know more about her paintings is all.”
“Oh, okay. If you’d like to find a table, I’ll go get the manager. He should be able to help you. He handles the artwork. Give me your name, and we’ll call you when your cappuccino’s ready.”
“It’s Miles,” said Jackson and sidestepped away from the register to make room for the next customer. At every table, someone sat typing on a laptop, craning over a tablet, or thumbing a text on a phone; and he had to wait until a woman, holding a phone to her ear, hurriedly left a table next to the wall. He had just sat down when the manager appeared.
“What can I do for you?” said a young man half Jackson’s age with long hair twisted into a man bun at the back of his head.
“Susan Gibbons. You’ve sold some of her paintings here, I think. I’m interested in her work.”
The manager sat down at the table and handed Jackson his coffee. “Are you an art dealer?”
Jackson took a sip and then answered. “No. Just a prospective buyer; a collector of sorts. A friend has one of her paintings and told me she exhibits and sells her work here. She apparently doesn’t have a website to sell online. At least, I couldn’t find one.”
“I don’t know about that, but she does send some paintings here occasionally. We sell them on consignment. She hasn’t sent any new ones to us in a while, but there’s one on the wall in our gallery now.” The manager gestured toward another room to his left.
“Great. I’d like to look at it, but I may want to take it off the wall to examine it closely. Do you mind?” said Jackson.
The manager chuckled. “Not if you put it back. Or buy it,” he added.
* * *
The painting was of wild flowers, and even to Jackson’s untrained eye, it appeared to be a sophisticated work of art, not the usual amateur rendering hanging on most coffeehouse walls. He removed it from its hanger and inspected the front and back of the frame and canvas. Nothing was affixed anywhere on the painting. He hung it back on the wall and went looking for the manager. He found him behind the counter and signaled for his attention. The manager whispered something to the barista next to him and then came over to Jackson.
“You want to buy that painting?” he asked.
“I’d like to see more of her work. Could you tell me who bought her paintings recently? Maybe I could contact them about seeing the paintings they purchased,” said Jackson.
“I can’t help you there. It’s odd, but she only had one purchaser, and he paid cash and never gave us his name. He bought several of her paintings though, usually the most expensive ones. She priced them high. He was always here when the new ones arrived, like he wanted to make sure no one else bought them. I haven’t seen him in here for a while.”
“What did he look like? Maybe I can catch him if he comes back,” said Jackson.
“He was older than me but younger than you, and he was white. Dark hair. Long. You’d recognize him. He was tall or would be, but he walked kind of stooped, you know, bent over a little, like he was looking for something he dropped on the floor. Maybe he had problems with his back.”
“Appreciate it,” said Jackson and grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the counter. He wrote his first name and telephone number on it and handed the napkin to the manager. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, but if you see him before I do, will you give him my number?”
The manager took the napkin and nodded.
Jackson started to leave but then stopped. “By the way, your coffee’s good here.”
“Thanks,” said the manager.
Chapter 19
Amanda tried not to let them bother her, but she couldn’t chase Remy’s words from her mind or quell the sick feeling in her gut when she thought of them—and she was thinking of them a lot. At first, she had berated herself for being overly sensitive, even prudish; but now felt that his offhanded callous remark about Susan Gibbons having had more pricks in her than a dive bar dart board was truly disgusting and diminishing to women. He needn’t have described the evidence of her sexual activity in such an embarrassing and degrading way. Amanda had been offended, and she wanted Remy to know it. Her brooding had hardened into a resolve to confront him about the crassness and sexism he displayed in the morgue, and she was plotting ways to do it when he called her.
“You got a minute?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” said Amanda.
“Good, because this might be important. Gibbons was found on the beach nude, and I had initially assumed that she had gone in the water that way. But she might have been wearing clothing, most likely a bathing suit that could have been torn off when she was lacerated by the prop blades of the boat that ran over her. So, I searched her wounds again for traces of fiber or cloth and found something else.” Remy paused.
“What?” asked Amanda.
“There were cloth fibers, so she was wearing clothing; but there were also minute flecks and shards of plastic embedded in the wounds on her arms and chest.”
“She was holding something?” asked Amanda.
“That was my conclusion too, and it must have been fairly large because the plastic is deep and distributed throughout her chest and arm wounds. But I have no idea what it might have been,” said Remy.
“Thanks. I’ll tell Sheriff Callahan.” Amanda was so anxious to get this news to Callahan that she was about to hang up without confronting Remy, when he stopped her.
“Wait. There’s another thing that’s been troubling me,” he said.
“What?” asked Amanda.
“It was something I said to you the other day at the morgue. I described Susan Gibbons in a way that was uncalled for. I wanted you to know that’s not really me. We medical examiners develop a dark sense of humor because of the horror we confront almost daily. I forget myself sometimes when I talk to lay people. And I sensed I may have offended you. If I did, I want to apologize.”
“You did, and your apology is accepted,” said Amanda absolutely surprised.
“Thanks,” said Remy, and the call ended.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” she said to herself and reached for her phone to call Callahan.
Chapter 20
Collin O’Donnell was exuberant as he addressed the audience fanned out over the lawn of the park beneath the lighthouse. As the county’s commissioner, he had a right to be pleased. The island’s annual music festival was drawing more tourists every year and becoming a boon to its economy. Last year, the nine days of the festival produced almost a fifth of the yearly income of the hotels, restaurants, and shops in the county. This year looked even better. The Nicolet Boat Company’s two ferries that normally ran to and from the mainland three times a day were pressed into a fourth run for the wee
kdays of the festival and a fifth for the festival’s two weekends. O’Donnell didn’t spare the audience a single detail. He wanted everyone to hear of his brainchild’s success. The audience, especially Amanda and Nick, wanted to hear the band Byways. It was Nick’s favorite band.
The audience politely clapped when O’Donnell finished his speech and then roared when he introduced Byways and the bandmembers jumped onto the park’s makeshift stage. Byways had survived thirty years of divorces, addictions, arrests, and bankruptcies intact to become Michigan’s most popular country and western band. Its members were grizzled, unbowed, and beloved. The band launched into its signature song, and the audience cheered wildly and began to sing along.
Amanda and Nick had spread a mini banquet for two, complete with wine, on a blanket in the grass. The evening was perfect for an outdoor concert: warm with a gentle breeze and the pink of a dipping sun reflected in the bay. They raised their wine glasses to each other in a mute toast. Nick leaned over to say something to Amanda when a commotion began near the front of the audience. They heard shouting and then saw a thickening ring of people scurrying away from the center of the disruption. The band’s instruments jangled into silence, and Amanda heard the lead singer barking, “Whoa, whoa, none of that, please,” into the microphone.
“I’d better check this out,” she said and began edging her way through the audience to the disturbance. When she broke into the area cleared by the crowd, she saw three men verbally and physically menacing two others. The two men were Bland and Abdullah. They appeared startled and alarmed and were backing away.
“I’m a deputy sheriff,” said Amanda. “What’s going on here?”
The three men stopped their harassment and eyed Amanda who was holding her badge in front of her. A short, wiry man led the group of three and kept bouncing on his toes in an imitation of a boxer’s dance. He whipped bobbing strands of oily hair away from his eyes as he turned to face Amanda, his jaw jutting in defiance, and jabbed an arm toward Abdullah and Bland. “This here foreigner and his homo buddy don’t belong here. We’re just making sure they know that and don’t forget it, is all. He needs to go back where he came from,” he said. He made a quick feint toward Abdullah who jumped back. The two other men, who looked enough like their leader to be related, laughed and high-fived each other.
There was a heavy smell of alcohol on the leader’s breath, and Amanda was sure the other two were also drunk. “It’s you who needs to leave,” she said.
“What? You’re making us go and letting this fucking Arab stay. What’s he doin’ here? Ask yourself that.”
“You have to go. Now,” said Amanda.
“Says you and whose army,” said the leader and lunged at Abdullah, shoving him hard in the chest and knocking him to the ground.
“That’s enough,” shouted Amanda grabbing the attacker’s right arm at the wrist and twisting it behind his back while she simultaneously stuck her leg in front of his below the knee. She thrust him forward over her leg, and he nosedived into the grass. Still holding his arm, she drove her knee into his spine and pinned him to the ground. His compatriots hightailed it through the crowd and disappeared.
“If you want to press charges come to the station. This one’s going to spend some time in a detention cell,” said Amanda looking up at Abdullah.
* * *
Amanda had finished photographing, fingerprinting, and swabbing a DNA sample and was processing the paperwork for the arrest of the punk when Abdullah entered the station.
Julie got up from her desk and walked over to the counter separating the station’s foyer from the work area and addressed Abdullah across it. “Can I help you?” she said.
“I am looking for Ms. Gillespie. . .” Abdullah paused and then corrected himself. “I’m sorry, I mean Deputy Gillespie.”
“One moment, I’ll get her,” said Julie and started for the detention cells when Amanda came out of the room carrying papers in her hand. “This gentleman’s here to see you,” said Julie. “I can finish that for you, if you like,” she added and reached out for the papers.
Amanda handed them to her. “Thanks. That would be great,” she said and approached the counter.
“I’m not here to press charges and add to your burden. I’m here to express my gratitude,” said Abdullah.
Amanda lifted the counter hatch and stepped through into the foyer. “No need for that. I was just doing my job,” she said.
“Certainly, but the outstanding performance of your duties was a great benefit to me; and I cannot let it go unacknowledged. I fly back to Dubai in a few days. Bland is having a party on his yacht this weekend. Please come. I understand you have a friend. He must come too. I insist. To have you both there would mean a great deal to me.” Abdullah made a slow bow to Amanda.
“I’m not sure,” said Amanda.
“You must,” said Abdullah, straightening up to his full height.
Chapter 21
“So, what was she clutching so tightly that she didn’t even let go when a boat ran her over?” asked Callahan. “What could have been so important to her?”
He, Amanda, and Julie sat around Julie’s desk in the work area of the station. Callahan wanted to use the rare occasion they were all together to dig deeper into the Gibbons case.
“It wasn’t a flotation device. It was made of plastic,” said Amanda.
“If she was holding it to her chest as the distribution of the shards would suggest and it wasn’t a personal flotation device, then she wasn’t swimming but treading water,” said Julie.
“She may even have been trying to keep it out of the water,” said Amanda.
“Or maybe dived into the water to retrieve it,” said Julie.
“Or jumped overboard holding it?” speculated Callahan.
“It must have been important to her,” said Amanda.
Julie nodded. “If she saw or heard the boat coming, she didn’t let go of it and try to swim out of the way. She held on to it.”
“So, what was it then?” said Amanda, bringing the brainstorming back to its beginning.
“Whatever it was,” said Callahan, “Susan Gibbons died trying to protect it.”
The station radio crackled, and then the harbormaster’s voice burst through the static. “That barge is off the coast of the island and boats are starting to leave the harbor to intercept it. Thought you should know.”
Julie pushed her chair back and stood. “You two better get a move on,” she said. “I’ll let the harbormaster know you’re on the way.”
* * *
Callahan had gotten word of the planned blockade through Max, of all people. Max had overheard an excited discussion at the Adult Day Care Center between two of the caregivers about preventing the barge from mooring on the island and had asked Julie about it. Julie had gone to Callahan, and he had called Superior Tow and Salvage to find out when the barge would be coming to the island next and to alert it to the possibility of a citizens’ blockade. Amanda had then notified the harbormaster and asked him to tell them of any boats leaving the harbor around the time the barge would be approaching the island.
The barge had cleared the strait between Deer Island and Sandy Island when Callahan and Amanda spotted it. It was three miles from Pebble Bay, but already small craft zigzagged in front of it within yards of its prow wave. Giant peaks of spume leapfrogged from the stern of the tug pushing the barge as its engines churned the water to halt the barge’s headway. Frantic bellows from the tug’s horn thundered over the water, and smaller blasts from the surrounding boats peppered the gaps between. Callahan saw a disaster waiting to happen.
Amanda activated the Vigilant’s light bar and siren and shoved the throttle forward until the engines began to scream. Within seconds, the Vigilant was hydroplaning over the water at nearly forty-five knots, heading for the swarm of boats surrounding the barge. The mere sight of a wailing projectile on a collision trajectory was enough for most of the craft to break away and head off over the wat
er. Only three stayed harassing the tug when Amanda slowed the Vigilant and maneuvered it between the bow of the barge and the remaining boats.
Callahan turned on the loud speaker and switched it to full volume. “We are taking pictures of your boats and registration numbers. If you do not leave now, your boats will be impounded and you will be arrested.”
That was all it took. The three vessels all scattered in different directions. Amanda and Callahan escorted the barge to its mooring in the bay before they headed back to the harbor.
* * *
As the Vigilant purred over the shallow waters along the coast, Callahan stood in the pilot house staring back at the boat’s ribbon of wake.
“You okay?” asked Amanda worried that he might be facing down another bout of mal de mer.
“Yeah. I’m good,” said Callahan. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” said Amanda.
Callahan chose not to answer her question. Rather he said, “I want you to find out when that barge started coming to the island. Get the record of its route plus the dates and times of its departures and arrivals both from and to the mainland.”
Chapter 22
“Have you seen these flyers? They’re being handed out all over town.” O’Donnell scattered a handful of pamphlets across his desk toward Callahan. “And they’re a drop in the bucket compared to what’s happing on social media.”
Callahan had seen them. They were everywhere, announcing the venues for a series of public meetings regarding threats to the island and its archipelago posed by various methods of oil drilling and the varying toxicity of the waste produced by each. A dedicated group of environmentally conscious islanders had organized the meetings at which scientists from the University of Michigan’s biological and environmental station on the island would give lectures and answer questions. According to the buzz that reached Callahan, the organizers expected high attendance.