River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  River Kill

  By

  Ted Begnoche

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  The sign on the door says 'Stuart McCann, Investigative Services'. If you ask me, it's a pretty fancy name to describe what I do. The bulk of my business is insurance fraud, which is mind-numbingly boring ninety percent of the time. Now and then there's some cheating spouse tracking thrown in. Once in a while, I'll hunt down a teenager who's under the impression that the nasty streets of Boston, Massachusetts are preferable to clean sheets and hot food.

  It's nothing like television would have you believe, that's for sure.

  My office is in Fairshore Square, right across the street from Rawley Hardware. I'm on the second floor, sandwiched between a middle-aged, widowed electrologist and a young psychiatrist.

  Just in case you need my help.

  You never know. Sometimes life throws you a curve. I'm living proof.

  The electric lady, Margie Dalrymple, is a real sweetheart. Her hobbies include eating, going to the movies, and worrying about me. She leaves me homemade cookies and milk, although I've told her repeatedly that I prefer potato chips and cold beer.

  She means well.

  I'm pretty sure the psychiatrist worries about both of us.

  The weatherman inside my battered clock radio had just announced that we were in the middle of an official heat wave when Margie pushed open my office door and flashed one of her smiles. I could tell by the look on her face that she was about to unload some sort of confection on me. She squeezed inside and closed the door behind her, one hand held secretively behind her back.

  "What have you got there, Margie?"

  “Oh, nothing," she said. The chemically induced curls plastered to her scalp oscillated vigorously.

  “Come on," I said, "let's have a look."

  Slowly she withdrew her hand and revealed a loaf-shaped fat pill destined for my waistline. A sly smile spread over her pretty face.

  "It's a pound cake," she declared as if describing a living, breathing object. "I made it myself." She took a step and placed it on the edge of my desk. I swear I heard the tired old oak groan.

  "Thank you, Margie," I said. "But if I put any more pounds on this poor old frame of mine, I'm afraid something is gonna pop."

  "Nonsense, Stuart. I think a man looks good with a little extra weight on him." She placed a hand on the doorknob. "I thought you were going fishing."

  "Later," I said. "Right now, I'll have to settle for this." I held up a tattered copy of 'On The Water'. "I'm waiting for a potential client."

  "I have a nooner, too. Mrs. Cavabella. Maybe you know her?"

  "I don't think I've had the pleasure."

  "She talks a lot, but she's covered with unwanted hair, so I guess you gotta take the bad with the good. See ya later, Stuart."

  Margie twisted the knob and squeezed herself through the door. I waved and went back to reading about striped bass fishing on Nantucket, jealous of the few people in the world who have more free time than I do.

  Two minutes later a purple and gold blur in a jogging suit went rolling by, huffing and wheezing. Margie's nooner. I didn't want to stare, but the five o'clock shadow made it hard not to.

  My cellphone chirped. It took me a while to find it in the mounds

  of paper on my desk.

  "Stuart McCann."

  "Mr. McCann. Did you know your elevator's not working?"

  "What a surprise. Hey, wait a minute. Is this some kind of joke?"

  "Not to me, sir. This is John Barcom."

  "Oh, right, Mr. Barcom. Just come on up. The stairs are to the right of the elevator."

  "I'm afraid I can't, Mr. McCann. I'm allergic to stairs."

  "Huh?"

  "Well, actually just going down is what scares me. Could you please meet me in the lobby?"

  "No problem. Give me a minute." I hung up the phone and tossed the magazine toward a pile with all the others, wondering what the hell kind of person would be scared of going down a flight of stairs. In this business, you meet all kinds.

  On my way by the elevator I stabbed at the button for the hell of it. No light, no sound. John Barcom was right. I took the stairs two at a time, passing by a gentleman who was deep in conversation with himself. Apparently, the psychiatrist had a nooner, too.

  The lobby was pretty much deserted. A woman was talking into a cell phone by the front entrance, giving hell to whoever was on the other end. Through the front door, I could see a van parked out by the curb. The driver had both back doors propped open and was filling a bucket with various hand tools.

  A man with shoulders as wide as a refrigerator was perched in a motorized wheelchair, rolling smoothly back and forth on the threadbare rug, doing a weird sort of pacing on wheels. He worked the joystick with one fist, clutched a phone in the other.

  Being an investigator and all, I put two and two together.

  "Mr. Barcom?"

  "Yes, I'm John Barcom."

  "Stuart McCann. Thanks for being on time."

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. McCann. And call me John." He stuck his right hand out and mine disappeared into it. He was animal strong. His hands were cracked and dry, rimmed with calluses as big as dimes. A ring of hair encircled his balding scalp. Lines and creases shot back and forth across his friendly face, intensifying around his warm, wet eyes. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth but never quite made an appearance. It was hard to pin an age on him; the best I could do was somewhere between fifty and seventy.

  "I'm sorry about the elevator," I said. "I, uh, I had no idea." I gestured weakly toward the wheelchair.

  He dismissed it with the wave of one meaty hand. "Never mind, Mr. McCann. Happens all the time. Can we talk here?"

  "Why don't we go for a walk?" I said. "I mean, you know. I smiled sheepishly.

  "Forget it. I know what you mean. Lead the way."

  I held the door for him while he rolled out. We headed away from the noontime traffic and noise of the Square, up towards the library and town hall. The mid-July sunshine had nudged the temperature to nearly ninety degrees.

  We walked -- and rolled -- in silence until we reached a wooden bench near Saint Matthew’s church. John pulled up next to it and parked. I sat down beside him, just out of the shade of a giant elm, and fumbled in vain for the sunglasses that I left back at my office.

  "So," I said. "You need the services of a private investigator? Why is that, exactly?"

  "Well, Mr. McCann..."

  "Stuart."

  "Okay, Stuart. I don't really know how to begin. Let's see." He scratched at the top of his bald head with fingers that looked like all-beef franks, as if he could arrange the thoughts externally. "Do you remember hearing about a guy who drowned off the coast of Hull? I guess it's about two months ago now."

  "His boat was found adrift by a lobsterman? Is that the one?"

  "That's right. He alerted the Coast Guard, and they found the body a
bout a mile away."

  "Okay, we're on the same page. What about it?"

  "His name was Melvin Addson. I worked for him for almost five years. He was also a very good friend." Barcom looked away and scratched at some stubble on his jaw line. When he turned back to me some moisture had collected in his pale blue eyes.

  "The story in the Patriot Ledger said that it looked like an unfortunate accident," he said. "At first I accepted that."

  "You have a reason for doubt?"

  "Well, the more I think about, the more it bothers me. And lately, I've been thinking about it an awful lot."

  "What bothers you?" I said.

  "That's the problem I'm having. I don't know exactly what's bothering me. Mel was an excellent boater. I was out with him dozens of times. We used to fish the coast from Boston down to Plymouth, chasing stripers and blues almost every weekend in the summer. He never took chances, always kept an eye on the weather. You know, that sort of thing."

  “Anyone can have an accident,” I said.

  "I know, I know. But if you knew him like I did, you might have some questions in your mind, too. I mean, it just doesn't seem right. He had calm seas. The weather was clear. He was an experienced captain. As I said, I'd been out with him dozens of times under the same conditions, and I'm telling you he was like a machine."

  A city bus rumbled by. John Barcom leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on the wheels of his chair. People scurried past us on their way to and from lunch appointments. John's gaze was riveted on me, broadcasting an equal mixture of hope and despair.

  "You said you worked for Mr. Addson," I said. "What type of business would that be?"

  "StanMel Circuits," said John. "It's right here in Fairshore. Tipton Road?"

  "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it. What does StanMel Circuits do?"

  "We make printed circuit boards. Big ones that go into computers. Tiny ones that go into cell phones. We also assemble them, if that's what the customer wants. That's part of my job."

  I tried to imagine John's giant hands manipulating tiny electronic components.

  “Isn’t all that stuff done offshore these days?”

  “The owners have found a niche, and it’s been very good to them. They’re kind of an anomaly. They pay people pretty well, but still manage to remain competitive.

  “Would you say that Mr. Addson was well-liked at work?"

  "He was worshipped, Stuart. The place was a real mess when we found out about it. We closed down for three days. Stanley just shut the doors. Paid everybody, too."

  "Who's Stanley?"

  "Stanley Stepkowski. He's, excuse me, was, Melvin's business partner."

  "Do you remember Mr. Addson ever having any quarrels with anyone at work?"

  Barcom swiveled his head from side-to-side, looking over each massive shoulder. "Not really. He didn't have that type of personality. Melvin was always on an even keel."

  "How about outside of work? Can you think of anyone?"

  "No," said John. He tilted his head toward the sky and closed his eyes.

  “I'm assuming Mr. Addson was married."

  "Yes," said John. "Poor Helen. They never had any kids, you know, and now this. She's all alone. She was devastated. I check in with her from time to time. I talked to her just last week, and we were saying how we still can't believe it. Like he'll come walking through the door one day, and it's all been a dream."

  I stared out at the cars that clogged Washington street, wondering what I could do, if anything, to help John Barcom. I had my doubts.

  "Well, Stuart, what do you think?" John was pawing through a saddlebag that was strapped to the side of his chair. Finally, he pulled out a black baseball cap and wedged it on top of his head. The letters POW-MIA, with some sort of symbol or picture, were stenciled on the front in white letters. It looked like a homemade, one-of-a-kind job.

  I flicked a thumb at a drop of sweat that had worked its way between my eyebrows. "I'll be honest with you, John. From what I've read about the incident, and after what you told me today, it sounds like your friend Mr. Addson had an accident." Barcom began shaking his head slowly back and forth. Moisture was collecting in his eyes again.

  "He could've slipped," I said. "Hit his head and fell in. Maybe the water would revive him, maybe not. Who knows? But it wouldn't take long in that cold water..."

  "I just wanted some peace of mind, Stuart. This thing is really bothering me. I was supposed to be with him that night, but I cancelled out at the last minute. Now I can't get Melvin out of my head. I thought at first I was just feeling guilty, and maybe that's all there is to it. You know, I probably couldn't do much for him strapped into this Goddamned chair, but maybe I could've at least called for help. I don't know."

  "I understand." I blew a heavy sigh toward the cracked sidewalk. "Let's do this. I'm in the process of finishing some paperwork for an insurance fraud case I'm trying to wrap up. That'll use up the rest of today, maybe some of tomorrow. After that, I don't have much happening. I wanted to take a few days off, maybe chase some stripers down on Cape Cod."

  "I don't want to interfere with your vacation plans, Stuart," he said. "Especially when they involve fishing. I just thought that maybe I could get a little peace of mind."

  Damn. Peace of mind. That makes two of us, my friend. I knew how elusive that could be.

  "We can do that, John. The stripers'll be around until November. But peace of mind doesn't come cheap."

  "Name it," he said.

  "I usually get two-fifty a day. Plus, expenses, which in your case probably won't amount to much. I have to warn you, though. You'd probably be better off tossing your money into Boston Harbor. I just want to be honest with you."

  "I understand," he said. "But if I don't toss the money in your direction, someone else will get it." Barcom reached into his saddlebag again, and when he withdrew his hand, he was clutching something crisp and green. He counted out five one hundred dollar bills, jammed the rest back into its hiding place, and handed the money to me. His steady gaze never left my eyes.

  "Peace of mind means a lot to me, Stuart. Please see what you can find out. If you can't turn up anything after a reasonable amount of time, I guess I'll just let it rest."

  "I'll do my best. I have a standard contract. I'll just...”

  "So do I." He stuck his hand out and we shook again. He released my crumpled fingers just short of crunching bones, and I stood up.

  "At least let me give you a receipt."

  "You just did," said John, rolling smoothly back toward my office building. I had to run to catch up with him.

  Chapter 2

  John Barcom and I parted company outside my building at about 12:30. I invited him to lunch at Whitey's, which he graciously declined, citing a heavy workload back at StanMel Circuits. I gave him a business card and told him he could call me whenever he felt the need. I assured him I'd be in touch soon, and after another bone-crushing handshake, I watched while he loaded himself into a specially outfitted van and drove away.

  Whitey Millis, my good friend and fishing companion, operates Whitey's Diner, serving up breakfast and lunch six days a week for all those with enormous appetites and limited resources. Most days I fall into both categories, and take at least one, and sometimes two meals there. Whitey makes a mean red flannel hash with real beets.

  It's an old-fashioned diner, with a well-worn counter and a dozen red vinyl stools. Six booths line the front wall, looking out over the Square. Patrons can watch Whitey work though the open window that connects the main room with the kitchen.

  I weaved up to the counter and took the last vacant stool on the far end, closest to the kitchen. Doris, Whitey's wife and also business partner, was loading up four cheeseburger plates on a big silver tray. She turned and winked, then headed for a booth of construction workers near the door. On her way back she slapped at me with a towel.

  “Need a menu, Stuart?"

  "Not today, kiddo. I'll take the fish special."
<
br />   "A damn good choice," she said. She set a cup and saucer in front of me and poured coffee. "Where were you at breakfast?" she called over her shoulder, not pausing long enough to hear my response. She used her rump to push her way through the kitchen's swinging doors, barking orders at Whitey.

  She emerged a moment later carrying two generous hunks of her homemade apple pie. When she whizzed by me again, I caught the scent of cinnamon melding with sugary apples. My stomach did a back flip.

  Whitey poked his head through the doors and glanced around like a scared kitten. He spied his wife at the far end of the diner and took a few hesitant steps toward where I was sitting. His apron showed the battle scars of a busy morning. He swiped both hands down the front and leaned an elbow on the countertop.

  "Hi Stu," he said. "Want to taste some fish chowder?"

  "Bring it on, Whitey. The smell is driving me crazy."

  Whitey spun around and retreated toward the kitchen. When he came back he was cradling a giant bowl of creamy white goodness. A thin plume of steam curled from its middle. I could see big slabs of potatoes fighting for room with huge chunks of fish. When Whitey plunked it down in front of me, I already had a spoon in my fist.

  "Try this," he said. "I used a different kind of fish. See if you can guess what it is."

  I probed the depths of the bowl and slurped a spoonful. Whitey's chowder was always a treat. "Fabulous, Whitey. You've outdone yourself this time. What kind of fish is it?"

  “I'll tell you tonight, or maybe even show you, since that's about all I can catch lately. We're still on, aren't we?"

  "There's been a slight change of plans," I said, plunging my spoon back into the chowder. "I just came from a meeting with a client, and he convinced me to try and help him out. Let's wait on the Cape. We could stay local. I've been reading some encouraging reports."

  "You know me, Stu. I'm as flexible as my wife'll allow me

  to be."

  "What's the tide look like?" I said.

  "Low's around six-thirty."

  "Say six o'clock then, down at Hull Gut? I'll put a few

  beers in a cooler. India pale, okay?"

  "Deal," said Whitey. He gave a little salute and did an about-face directly into the arms of Doris. His shoulders slumped. "Whitey!" she bellowed. "Why are there cheeseburgers burning on the grill?"