River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

"Okay Stuart," she said. "I'll let you off easy. If you change your mind, give me a jingle. I gave you my home number, right?"

  "Yes, dear, ten times," I said, turning back to my beer bottles. "I promise I'll give you a call if something changes."

  I finished bottling the beer, then put the date on a couple of pieces of masking tape and stuck it to the sides of the cases. I stacked them in one corner, next to two other cases of pilsner that were just coming of age.

  I sat down at my desk and mashed the power button on my laptop, waiting while the outdated beast whirred to life.

  The machine beeped and chirped, grabbing my attention, and displayed the time and date. Wow, I thought, it can't be July 16th. Where in the hell is the summer going?

  I used the mouse to open a file, then used my trigger finger to enter notes, consulting my pocket notebook from time to time. I painfully put in everything I could think of about John Barcom's case so far, including names and numbers of all the appropriate people.

  Mercifully, my phone rang.

  "McCann," I said, wedging it between my shoulder and ear.

  "Hi, McCann," said Heather. "I'm glad I caught you. I called earlier, but I guess you weren't around. Out working a big case, huh?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Thanks for calling back."

  "I have some information. You probably already know most of this stuff. A lot of it was in the papers."

  "Why don't you run down the list anyway?" I said. I grabbed a pen and pulled my notebook closer, propping one foot up on my desk.

  "Well, the case is closed, and as you suspected, it's officially classified an accident. I have a copy of the autopsy in front of me. The coroner didn't find anything out of the ordinary. Saltwater in both lungs. Trace alcohol. No illegal drugs. An egg-sized lump on the back of his head. No other significant bumps or bruises."

  I grunted and scratched some notes on the paper in front of me. Heather blew a sigh into the phone, and I imagined that it landed directly in my ear.

  "I have the name of Addson's wife," I said, "but I don't have an address to go with it. Do you see one there in front of you?" I listened to thirty seconds of silence while Heather searched, drumming my fingers on the desktop.

  "Are you still there, Stuart?"

  "I'm here," I said. "Listen, Heather, I really appreciate this."

  "Forget it." Heather recited an address in the Penn's Hill section of Fairshore, a street I didn't recognize. "Do you have any other questions while I have this file out?"

  "Exactly when did they pick him up. Does it give a time there?"

  “Let's see." I could hear papers being shuffled in the background. "Hold on a minute. It says here they got him around six o'clock on Saturday evening. That puts him in the water for almost twenty-four hours, which is consistent with the coroner's findings."

  "So the cause of death is listed as drowning?"

  "You got it, Stu. Hey, you might have a future in this detective business after all."

  "Okay, wise guy. I just thought I'd cover all the bases since you were nice enough to look this stuff up."

  “No problem," she said, chuckling into her phone. "Look, is there something else, because if not, I have to run."

  "Does it say there what condition the boat was in? I mean, inside the cabin. Does it describe what they found?"

  "Wait a minute. Yes, it says here that the cabin was a disaster. Dishes everywhere. Spilled food. A wine bottle rolling around. They figure it happened when the Coast Guard towed the boat for three miles."

  "Okay," I said and sighed into the phone.

  "You sound kind of depressed, Stuart. Did you think you'd find something startling in here?"

  “No, it's not that. You're right. Most of that stuff was in the Ledger. The State Police usually don't miss anything."

  "What, then?"

  "It's my anniversary next week. It kind of crept up on me this year."

  "Anniversary?"

  "The accident."

  "Oh, damn. I guess I forgot, too."

  "Three years. I'm sure it's a tough day for a bunch of people, not just me. I screwed up a lot of lives."

  “Come on, Stuart. Knock it off, will you? It was an accident. A Board of Inquiry cleared you."

  "I know that. I just never cleared myself." Suddenly I wanted a drink, more than anything else I've ever wanted. I squeezed my eyes shut until they ached, but I couldn't manage to delete certain images. I shuddered and waited until Heather's voice echoed in my ear.

  "You still there?"

  "I'm here. Look, I know you're busy. I appreciate you taking the time. Can I see you again? It was really fun last night."

  Well, there it was. My heart, thumping like it would burst, leaping out of my throat and hurtling over the airwaves.

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

  "I know. And I'm usually loaded with good ideas."

  "It's just that... I don't know. Maybe we don't fit together as well as we once thought we did. I mean, believe it or not, I thought last night was okay too. But that's only one night. How long do you think we could keep that up?"

  "I don't know. I just thought... Never mind. Hey, listen, thanks again. I appreciate it."

  "No problem, Stuart. And call me if you want to talk about something. Anything. I'd be glad to help if I could." She recited her home number in case I had misplaced it, then broke the connection. I listened to the silence for a minute, then tossed my phone on the desk.

  I made a few more notes, then used the mouse to close the file on John Barcom, wondering at the same time if I should close the file on Heather as well. If only it were that easy. I stabbed the power button on the front of the computer and listened while the machine whirred to a stop. The only sound left in the office was the wheezing of the air conditioner as it struggled against the stifling humidity outside.

  Thoughts were swooping and diving in my head like tiny bats whose radar was just a little out of tune. Heather's beautiful face danced around. Billy Cardell, who had his own problems and at the moment was refusing my help. John Barcom, a silent hero who had lived every day with restless ghosts from his past.

  No wonder I felt a bond with him. We probably spent a lot of similar restless nights, wondering why fate and circumstance had molded our lives this way and that.

  I swept everything aside and reached for the phone, trying

  to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Chapter 8

  The phone rang four times at the Addson's before a machine picked up and a sexy voice purred in my ear, requesting a brief message. I hung up after the tone, trying to imagine what Mrs. Addson looked like.

  The hell with it, I thought. I needed time to think, and nothing stimulated my thought processes like fishing. It'd been a long time since I'd had two days off in a row, and I decided to take advantage of it. I closed up the office and got an early start on the weekend.

  On Saturday morning, I watched the sun make a spectacular entrance over Wollaston Beach. It came shyly at first, bleeding pink and red and orange until finally it sat big and fat on the water and burned its way into the day. On Sunday, Whitey and I were lucky enough to witness an honest-to-God bluefish blitz at Hull Gut.

  Naturally, the bulk of the activity was centered fifty yards further than we could cast. We each picked up a few stragglers at the edge of the enormous school, with Whitey landing a brute that was close to fifteen pounds.

  On Sunday afternoon I drove by Mrs. Addson's house. I parked about a block away and watched through my rear view mirror for thirty minutes. No one came and no one left, but at least I knew where the house was.

  I spent most of Monday morning toiling away in my office. I struggled mightily with the computer, painfully pecking in more notes about John Barcom's case. After that, I typed up an official-looking letter that was designed to elicit payment from a client whose account was woefully in arrears. This sort of thing used to happen all the time, but it's gotten better lately since I've been working more with Capital
Insurance. I hand-printed the address on a legal-sized envelope and pushed at the various piles on my desk, foraging for stamps. Someone tapped lightly on the door.

  "It's open," I called, without looking up.

  "Mail call," said Margie, squeezing her way in. "How are you doing today, Stuart?"

  "Oh, I'm fine. Just tying up a few loose ends."

  "That's nice." She handed me a neat stack of mail that included three bills, one check, and a catalog of fishing equipment. I dropped everything else on my desk and began flipping through the fishing flyer.

  "Well, did you fish all weekend?"

  "I did, and I even caught some this time. Do you like bluefish, Margie?"

  "Yuk." She made a face and extended an index finger, pushing it

  halfway down her throat. "Too fishy for me."

  "I won't even offer you any."

  "Why don't you catch some lobsters? You know, something edible." Margie began moving toward the door.

  "I'll try," I said. "Busy day today?"

  "I'm booked solid. I don't know why, but Mondays are always the worst."

  "I can see it now, Margie. The whole South Shore will be walking around hairless, and you still won't be happy."

  "It'll be a long time before that happens, Stuart. I'll see you later."

  By 10:30 I had enough of the office. I grabbed a Red Sox cap from the coat rack and locked the office door. My old Toyota eventually responded to my urgings, and I pointed it toward the Fore River Yacht Club in Weymouth. The low gray morning clouds, leftover from last night's thunderstorms, had given way to a sparkling canopy of blue. A few wisps of white were suspended here and there, providing contrast and texture. Definitely too nice to stay inside.

  I pulled into the Yacht Club parking lot, raising a cloud of dust and crunching gravel, and parked near the main building. The nice lady in the office told me I could find the manager down on the docks, handling the latest crisis. I followed the rough planks down to where a group of three people was gathered. The tide was close to cresting, and the river shimmered seductively as it slowly rolled by.

  The manager was a stocky man, around my height but at least forty pounds heavier, with a neck as big as one of my thighs. He wore a crew cut that sparkled with sweat, dark blue work pants with a tee-shirt to match and white tennis shoes. His helpers were similarly dressed. He made his point to them while his back was turned to me, punctuating the air with two stubby fingers of his right hand. When he was done giving instructions, the two workers ambled to the area of docks he had been pointing to, seeming none too eager to attack the task at hand.

  "Hi, I'm Stuart McCann," I said, extending my right hand.

  The manager fixed his heated gaze on me for a moment, probably trying to decide if he had enough time for any more problems this morning. "Mrs. O'Toole told me I'd find you down here."

  "Sam Duncan," he said, grabbing my hand and pumping. "Are you here to help me, or are you someone else I have to help?" He turned to glance at the progress his workers had made, shaking his head dolefully.

  "I was hoping to steal a few moments of your time, Mr. Duncan."

  "Yeah, you and everyone else. A few moments is all I got today, on account of some fool who thinks he's captain of the Titanic, he rammed one of our docks last night. Not much damage to his boat, but my wood sure took a beating. Drunken fool." He spat the words as if they were poison, running a forearm over his crewcut and sending little rivers of perspiration down his face.

  "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Duncan, but I promise it'll be quick. I wanted to ask you a few questions about a man who docks his boat here. Melvin Addson?"

  Sam Duncan jerked as if I'd hit him, and turned to give me his full attention. "Melvin's dead. He drowned back early in the season."

  "I know. I'm a private investigator, and I'm looking into his death."

  "I see," said Duncan. "Well, I'll help you if I can. Melvin was a hell of a guy. Great boatman, no doubt, and an even better person. We were friends for a lot of years."

  "How often did Mr. Addson use his boat?"

  "Almost every weekend, and not just during the traditional season, either. Most people'll go Memorial day to Labor day, but not Melvin. Early April until late October. His was always the last boat we'd haul out of here for the winter."

  Duncan swung around and narrowed his eyes to slits, peering at his workers. He opened his mouth as if to say something, working his square jaw several times, then thought better of it and turned back to me.

  "Were you here the last night Mr. Addson took his boat out?"

  "No. I generally don't work nights unless there's some sort of problem. It looks like tonight'll be one of them."

  "Can you direct me to someone who might have been here that night?"

  "I think Shawn was here, but I'm not certain," said Duncan, gesturing toward where his two workers were strapping on tool belts. "Big blonde kid down there. You can ask him if you want, but please don't take much of his time, Mr. McCann. I got a feeling this is going to run into overtime, and I need that slip repaired today."

  "I understand. I promise I'll be as brief as possible. I appreciate your time." He nodded his head and swung around toward the office. "Oh, and one more thing."

  "I'm listening."

  "Would it be possible for me to look around on that boat?"

  "It might be. But you'll have to ask Mrs. Addson. She had it hauled out of here last week. Is that all, Mr. McCann?"

  "Yes, and thanks again." I watched Duncan swagger his way to the main building, pausing while he retrieved a cell phone that was clipped to his belt. Down at the damaged slip, his two workers were just getting started, arranging beams and planks and setting up sawhorses. I followed the wooden walkway out to the end, passing by dozens of gleaming boats that were patiently awaiting next weekend, when the civilian Navy would once again churn the waters off the coast, wreaking havoc for another forty-eight hours.

  The guy Duncan called Shawn was trying to connect a circular saw to an extension cord when I got out to the slip. I felt an urge to turn and run before fingers started flying, but instead said "Hey Shawn," to the back of his head.

  He whirled so fast that the hammer he had strapped to his hip thumped him in the balls. He grunted and swore, eyeing me angrily. So much for winning friends.

  "Don’t sneak up on me," he said. "I thought you were Duncan."

  "My name is Stuart McCann," I said, extending my hand. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about Melvin Addson."

  Shawn ignored my hand and rubbed at his tender genitals. I was just as glad.

  "I ain't got time for no questions, mister. Duncan's already on my ass today."

  "I spoke to Mr. Duncan, and he said it'd be okay. You can work while we talk."

  "I guess it's okay if Duncan says it is. You look like a cop.”

  "I'm a private investigator. I'm looking into Mr. Addson's death."

  "No kidding? A PI?"

  "No kidding. How well did you know Mr. Addson?"

  "I been workin' here, let's see, two years," said Shawn. "Mr. Addson, he was a nice guy. I mean, he had money. All the folks here, with all these fancy boats, I guess they all do. But Mr. Addson was different."

  "How so, Shawn."

  "Down to earth, man. He treated you right. Most of these people, they look down their noses at you, like you ain't good enough to scrub their hulls. Mr. Addson wasn't like that. Do you have a gun?"

  “Not on me, Shawn. It's, uh, it's not really like television. I hardly ever get to shoot anybody. Duncan tells me you may have been working on the night Mr. Addson took his boat out for the last time. It was a Friday. May 17, if that helps."

  "I was here. I already talked to the cops about this. Big state trooper guy, I can't remember his name."

  "Did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Addson that night?"

  "Yeah, but only for a minute," said Shawn, bending over to

  hoist a plank onto his sawhorses. I snatched one end and together we managed
to suspend it. I also managed to drive a splinter the size of a 2x4 into my palm.

  "And do you remember what he had to say?" I asked, nibbling at my hand.

  "Yeah. It wasn't anything special. Just hi, how's it going, that sort of stuff." Shawn pulled a tape measure from the front of his tool belt and bent over to get a reading on one of the damaged planks. His partner had disappeared, so I held the dumb end of the tape while Shawn recited a string of numbers.

  "Did you notice anything about the way he looked, Shawn?"

  "He looked like he always looked, I guess."

  "He didn't appear nervous? Maybe angry?"

  "No, but I really didn't get that close to him, either," he said. He produced a pencil from somewhere in his long, curly blonde hair and made a mark on the new plank, then used a framing square to extend a line all the way across.

  "Was he carrying anything, Shawn?"

  "I don't remember," he said. He reached for the circular saw and squeezed the trigger, nodding satisfactorily when it buzzed to life. He drew a bead on his line and worked the saw into the plank. I stood well back, letting the unused end fall to the deck unimpeded by my feet. When the saw blade had stop spinning, and after I did a quick check of all Shawn's fingers, I moved closer again.

  "Do you remember if anyone was with Mr. Addson that night?" I asked.

  "No, I'm pretty sure he was alone. A lot of times he had that guy, I don't know if you know him. He's in a wheelchair?”

  "John Barcom."

  "Yeah, John. I never knew his last name. We had to build a special ramp to get him down to the water. And then, on my day off, Mr. Addson had me build another one, so the big guy could motor right onto his boat. Paid me cash, right on the spot."

  Shawn extracted a faded blue handkerchief from a back pocket and mopped at his forehead. I used a forefinger to chase some stray sweat beads away from my eyebrows, peering out across the river. On the opposite bank, a couple of teenage boys were rigging up fishing rods, fastening bait to hooks and tying on lead sinkers that glinted in the brilliant sunshine.

  I turned back to Shawn, who was searching through a rusted red toolbox for some elusive item. Finally, he pulled a pry bar from the tangle of tools and set it down on the deck next to him.