A Side of Murder

by Amy Pershing

  My legs went to rubber, and I had to hang on to the truck’s open door to keep from sinking to the ground.

  “Why would I do that?” I asked faintly.

  “Well, it’s going to be a choice between swimming out to sea or being shot. And my bet is you’re going to keep swimming.”

  “And if I refuse? It’s not going to look good if my body”—Did I really say my body? Is this really happening?—“is found with a bullet in it.”

  “Don’t worry. If your body has a bullet in it, I’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t get found.”

  I thought about the miles of deserted dunes posted with Keep Off signs along the National Seashore, all the uninhabited islands on the bay. It wouldn’t be difficult to bury a body out there.

  “And Krista?” I asked. “You think nobody’s going to think it’s a little coincidental when Krista goes for a little swim, too?” I really didn’t want to hear about his plans for Krista, but I had to play for time.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You know that piece she did a couple of weeks ago on the opioid crisis? Well, it really pissed off some bad guys who owe me a favor. Plus, she made the mistake of telling me that the police think that loser Gorman killed the old lady, so they’re not going to tie that to the mob offing some journalist.”

  Okay, I can’t go on with this nightmare conversation. Let’s get him to talk logistics. That will buy some more time.

  “And how are you going to get back to your car from the beach?” I asked.

  Curtis moved out from behind me and pointed to the bed of the truck, in which he’d placed a nice shiny ten-speed bike. Ah, the noise that hadn’t actually penetrated my sleep. The guy really had it all planned out.

  The only thing that was keeping me upright at this point was the rustling sound getting nearer. I searched desperately for something to say, something to keep Curtis occupied, maybe put him a little off balance.

  “You know,” I said wildly, “pasting your hair to your head doesn’t really hide the fact that you’re going bald.”

  For a second we stood staring at each other. Guys who are going bald really don’t like being told they’re going bald. Any more than really tall girls like being told they’re really tall. It’s a cold cruel world out there. Curtis looked at me in disbelief, which rapidly changed to hatred. Good move, Sam. Now instead of killing you in cold blood, he’ll kill you in a murderous rage.

  And then I heard the sweetest three words in the English language. I heard Helene say, “Sic ’em Diogi.”

  And Diogi sicced him.

  * * *

  * * *

  The rest seemed to happen in slow motion, though it took only seconds. A huge, furry, barking cannonball launched itself at Curtis. As Curtis fired wildly at the beast attacking him, I, in some instinctive movement that I wasn’t even aware of, kicked the hand holding the gun. My foot and his hand wouldn’t have connected if I weren’t so tall, so there is some justice in the world. The shot went wide, and the next thing I knew, Curtis was on the ground with Diogi standing on his chest, his nose inches away from the New Bad Man’s face, snarling in a way that made it clear that if Curtis wanted to keep that face he would do well to not move a muscle. Curtis did not move a muscle.

  Helene at this point stepped out of the shadows and calmly picked up the gun from where it lay on the grass. She pointed it at the man on the ground and said, “I’m going to call off the dog. But what you need to understand is, I know how to use a gun. And I would be delighted to do so in this case.”

  “Whatever,” Curtis snarled. “Just get the dog off me.”

  “Diogi,” Helene said, “come.” And Diogi came. What else—aside from sic ’em—had this amazing woman been teaching my dog?

  I walked shakily over to Diogi, still standing at attention next to Helene, sank down on the ground next to him, and clung to him while he licked me enthusiastically all over my face. “Who’s my good dog?” I whispered to him. “Who’s my very, very good dog?”

  Finally, when I had stopped shaking all over, I stood up and said to Helene, “So what happens next?”

  At that moment, a white Ford Explorer with familiar blue lettering careened into the driveway.

  “Jason happens next,” Helene said.

  * * *

  * * *

  It seems like I’m always getting to the party after all the excitement’s over,” Jason said.

  “Well, you had some excitement of your own,” I said. It seemed that Jason’s “work” that night had been raiding a boat suspected of being used as a stash house for heroin.

  We were sitting on Helene’s couch, where she’d parked us after Jason’s partner, a strapping young woman who looked more than capable of handling the likes of Curtis Henson, took Henson off to what I hoped was jail for the rest of his life. I was once again wrapped in a blanket and drinking brandy (for which I was beginning to develop a taste). But, best of all, Jason’s arm was warm around my shoulders. Helene had rewarded Diogi—whom Jason had dubbed Diogi the Wonder Dog—with a steak bone the size of Texas.

  I was pleased that he didn’t seem to mind that once again he had not been the white knight coming in to save the helpless girl. He seemed, in fact, to be proud of me. And of Helene. And of Diogi. Diogi had been amazing.

  “When exactly did you teach my dog sic ’em?” I asked Helene.

  “We were working on it all morning,” Helene said modestly. “I just couldn’t feel like you were safe until whoever killed Estelle was under lock and key. You should see that dummy I made when we got done.”

  I looked at my cuddly puppy and decided not to think about the dummy.

  “So, let me make sure I fully understand this,” Helene said. “Henson was the one who drowned Estelle and Logan was the one who took her cell phone?”

  “That’s about it in a nutshell,” I said.

  I turned to Jason. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Curtis Henson,” I said. “First, I thought he had an ironclad alibi. And then all the evidence pointed to Trey Gorman.”

  “You thought the evidence pointed to Gorman because I wanted the evidence to point to Gorman,” Jason admitted. “I was completely unprofessional.”

  “Actually,” Helene said with her usual briskness, “you can both stop blaming yourselves. Yes, you were both worried about someone you care about and that colored your perceptions, but you were following the evidence as you knew it. And it’s not like Trey Gorman doesn’t have some serious offenses to pay for.” She ticked them off on her beringed fingers with great pleasure. “Intimidation with physical violence, attempted theft of property, planning an armed robbery, deliberate killing of an endangered species . . .” She looked at Jason. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Kicking a defenseless dog,” I put in, holding Diogi close. “And planning to . . .” I couldn’t say it.

  “That, too,” Jason said, tightening his arm around my shoulder. “Plus we’re finding out a lot more. In exchange for immunity, Daddy Dearest is throwing his son completely under the bus for some other questionable practices in developments he’s been managing. Easily enough to put the guy away for years. We’re talking bribery of public officials, falsifying environmental impact reports, all sorts of good stuff.”

  He smiled at me with a distinctly unprofessional satisfaction. Plus Trey put the make on me, I thought, but didn’t say. I just smiled back at him.

  Helene brought us back to reality. “The bigger issue is that you no longer have that photo you need to prove Henson’s motive for murder.”

  I looked at her in amazement. “Of course I have that photo. After I forwarded it to myself, I downloaded it to my phone’s picture gallery. So I told Krista it held a special place in my gallery and that’s what she told Henson. That’s what I showed him and that’s what he saw me delete. He didn’t think any further than that. He’s not the kind of
guy who deals much with technology, I think. He has people for that. But the original’s still in my texts, of course.”

  Now it was Helene’s turn to look embarrassed. “You kids and your technology,” she muttered. And then she stood up and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Jason.

  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

  Jason’s arm tightened around me. It was late. We were alone. For a moment, I lost my nerve, but then the moment was past. Just like that, I didn’t care.

  Because Jason Captiva was kissing me.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I was lying in bed, a quiet thrum of happiness running through me, remembering that kiss, luxuriating in that half world when you are moving from sleep into wakefulness and the day lies ahead of you with all its possibilities, when my phone shocked me out of my reverie. I picked it up and looked at the caller ID. The ’rents. Oh well, I had to get it over with at some point.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”

  To which my mother responded as she always did. “Hi, Sam, it’s your parents.”

  “Right,” I said and waited for them to figure out the speakerphone on my mother’s cell. Usually this resulted in them hanging up on me once or twice, but this time they got lucky on the first try.

  “Hi, Sam,” my father shouted.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said. “No need to shout, I can hear you fine.”

  “Good, good,” he shouted. “Now tell us about what’s been going on up there. Some neighbor of yours called us this morning, got our number from Krista she said. Told us Mr. Logan tried to run you down with a motorboat? And then that the DA held you at gunpoint?”

  “And why didn’t you call us?” my mother added. “We had to hear this from a stranger?”

  “Helene’s not exactly a stranger,” I protested. “But you’re right, I should have called. It’s just that after the thing with Mr. Logan I was really busy, what with making my statement to the police—”

  “Not that moron McCauley?” Not one to mince words, my mom.

  “Yeah, to McCauley. And then Roland Singleton took me out to the Windward and we ended up having a couple of drinks. . . .”

  “Roland Singleton took you drinking at the Windward?!” my father shouted. “Good lord, what’s gotten into the man?”

  “And then I thought it was too late to call you. And then I put it off yesterday because I didn’t want to worry you and then after last night with the Henson thing, I was really busy again dealing with the authorities. . . .” That’s what you call it, Sam?

  My father took pity on me. “No need to apologize, pumpkin. You’ve been through a lot. Just tell us what happened.”

  And so I told them, as briefly as I possibly could. I admit, I left out a lot.

  When I was finished, my father said something that absolutely floored me. “So this harbormaster you keep talking about. Is that Jason Captiva?”

  “Well, um, yes,” I said, and waited for the explosion.

  “I heard he’d been promoted, come back to Fair Harbor,” my father said. “Must have been just after we left.”

  “I guess,” I said, still waiting.

  “Well, I’m glad he was looking out for you,” my father said. “Jason Captiva is a good man. Always thought so.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When Helene had banished Jason the night before so that she could run me another nice hot bath and send me to my nice soft bed, the two of us had agreed to meet at Nellie’s Kitchen for breakfast. Sure, that was where I’d made my first big mistake with Trey, but far be it from me to hold poor Nellie responsible. And was I going to give up those buttermilk pancakes just because of a few unpleasant memories? Not likely.

  “Do you mind telling me why my father thinks you’re a good man?” I asked as I began perusing the Nellie’s menu, which never changed. Nor did my order. But I love perusing menus.

  “I didn’t know he did,” Jason said easily. “But that’s nice. I think he’s a good man, too.”

  “I don’t get it,” I whined. “I thought he hated you, ran you out of town.”

  “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “It was in one of his notebooks. He said you met with him, agreed not to see me again.”

  “Well, not for forever,” Jason said. “Just until you were older. Remember, you were just a kid. Still under age. I was already ashamed of myself for taking advantage of you, of kissing you that night. It wouldn’t have gone any farther, even without the Estelle thing. But your father was right to talk to me about it.”

  “Good lord,” I said. “How positively medieval. Did he ask you what your intentions were?”

  “More or less,” Jason admitted.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him my intentions were just to be your friend.”

  My face must have registered my disappointment, because he reached over and took my hand, smiling gently.

  “Just to be your friend,” he repeated, “until you were older and really knew, from your own experience, what you wanted out of life.” Oh dear, and here I was still trying to figure that out.

  “And until I had more to offer you,” he added.

  I stared at him. “Offer me? Like what?”

  “Like a man who was worthy of your respect. And your father’s respect.”

  “Well, apparently you’ve got his. He seems to think you’re very impressive.”

  “That’s good to hear. How about you? Do you think I’m impressive?”

  “Well,” I said, mock doubtfully, “I’m sort of impressed with your job, what with you being harbormaster and all.”

  “Aw shucks, ma’am.”

  “And you have a truly impressive head of hair,” I said as Jason tried and failed to look modest.

  “But the clincher,” I concluded, “was last night. Your kiss. That was very impressive. ‘Sam,’ I said to myself, ‘that’s a man with a lot to offer a girl.’”

  * * *

  * * *

  As I downed my last bite of bacon, I considered the face of the man sitting opposite me. It was a noble face. Not handsome. Not golden. It was the face of a man who had weathered tragedy. It was the face of a man who knew how terrible the world could be—and how beautiful. It was the face of a good man.

  And one who desperately needed a haircut.

  “Jason?”

  “Sam?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me at the time about that talk with my father?”

  “I didn’t want to influence you,” he said. “You had a life to live, and I didn’t want you to make any decisions based on what you thought our future might be. I wanted you to build your own future. The future you’d dreamed about, told me about.”

  I remembered doing that. I remembered my surprise at the time when Jason, having poured out his heart to me, had then asked me about my hopes and dreams. Never before had a boy asked me that. (And never since had a man asked me that.) I talked, and he listened. I’d told him about my passion for cooking, my conviction that the wider world held as yet undreamed of experiences and knowledge. I’d told him I wanted to become a chef, wanted to live in a big city, wanted to own my own restaurant. That I didn’t have the courage yet to tell my parents that I didn’t want to go to college, that I was afraid of their disappointment. And apparently, he’d never forgotten any of it.

  “You weren’t angry at me for what I did that night when Estelle found us under the deck?” I asked him. Why are you trying to ruin things, Sam?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were upset,” I said. “And I didn’t ask you why.”

  “And I didn’t want you to,” Jason said. “I just wanted all the bad stuff to go away. I just wanted to kiss you.”

  Oh that sweet, sweet boy.

  “And I didn’t stand up for you,” I added.
Still can’t leave well enough alone, Sam?

  “Seriously?” Jason asked, incredulous. “A truly awful woman essentially calls you a spoiled, rich slut and you think you have to defend me? Quite frankly, I was amazed by your self-control, your dignity.”

  Self-control? Dignity? Well, okay, I would take it.

  “Another question, then,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Why didn’t you keep in touch?”

  “I told you. I wanted you to make your own future. And it was pretty clear that you were making it in New York City. What was I going to do, call you up and say, ‘Hi, it’s Jason. You remember you had a crush on me when you were a kid? I was wondering if you wanted to give up your life and your career in the big city and come back to this hick town and be my girl?’”

  Part of me wanted to say, I wish you had. There was so much of the past ten years that I wished I hadn’t had to go through. Then I remembered what Helene had said. “You did not waste the last ten years of your life. You honed your craft and built a career. You learned about life and you learned about love. You are a better, wiser, more compassionate person for the challenges you’ve faced.” So, Jason was right about letting me live my dreams. But not about everything.

  “Fair Harbor is not a hick town,” I corrected him.

  “Well, it’s not New York,” he pointed out.

  No, it’s not New York.

  I thought about my call to Plum and Pear. I really needed to tell Jason about that.

  “I had a job offer,” I said abruptly. “A really good job offer. Back in the city.”

  Jason sat very, very still. He said nothing.

  “I turned it down,” I said. “I’m staying here.”