“At me?”
“You want to see my credentials?” Richards stood and took a hold of the zipper on my hoodie. “May I?”
I nodded and he unzipped.
I felt my cheeks flush again and I looked around Aggie’s store at anything that would hold my gaze, a re-jigged aisle, a knot in the wooden floor, just anything to divert my attention from the fact that Doctor Richards had slipped his hands up the inside of my shirt to feel my ribs.
“Take a breath,” he said.
I sucked in a sharp shallow breath.
“Oh my,” Aggie said from the direction of the kitchen. I heard her turn around and scurry toward the office.
“Starting to swell there.”
“Swell,” I said murmured and resisted the urge to pass out or throw up.
✽✽✽
Findings concluded outdoors, Hagen trudged up the steps into Aggie’s, his head bent as he read from his notepad. “Beedle says the guy was wearing a hoodie with a big logo on it. That sound right to you? Might have been the one for Pike’s place,” he said and finally glanced up to see me being tended to by the doc. “Hey, I didn’t know he hurt you.”
“He didn’t. Doctor Richards just wanted to feel her up.” Ags cackled from somewhere in the back.
I cut her some slack and ignored the comment. Her place had just been robbed and if that doesn’t merit you a pass, I don’t know what does. “The hoodie, huh? Well, that narrows it down to most of the fishermen and half the strippers in town.” I smirked.
“You’ll be ok, no gymnastics for a while though, and let me know if it gives you any trouble,” Richards said and zipped up my jacket like I was that one kid in kindergarten who couldn’t quite manage.
“Thank you,” I said and eased down from the counter that normally hosted my coffee and fritter and not my behind.
Richards re-assembled the first aid kit and handed it to Aggie and, seeing the practicality of not contaminating the crime scene, crammed the used cotton pads and backing from the bandages into his hand. My eyes followed him as he quietly excused himself from the store, but not before exchanging cursory nods with Hagen.
“Well, that guy’s gonna be some kinda disappointed when he sees my measly savings,” Ags muttered, putting the first aid kit up on a shelf in the kitchenette.
“Was it just money in the safe?” Hagen asked, taking notes.
“That’s right,” she said toward Hagen who moved quickly to the back-door frame to examine the damage.
“How much?” I whispered.
“About five grand. Oh, and a—“ She motioned with her index finger and thumb in the shape of a gun.
“You had a gun?” I whispered.
She shook her head. “Carlos,” she whispered back.
Ahh, Carlos. The on again, off again professional soccer player who’d been deported last month.
“Who had a gun?” Hagen called out from the back door.
“Who what?” I asked, wondering when Hagen had acquired super hearing.
“I heard the two of you.”
“Oh.”
“There’s a gun missing?” Hagen asked.
I nodded and gave Ags a contrite expression for of all things being a loud whisperer.
“Your gun, Aggie?” Hagen asked.
“No. I was just hanging onto it for safe keeping. In the safe.”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“I dunno, a black one. It had some silver on the handle. Family heirloom, I think. Belongs to Carlos.”
Hagen cocked his head at her. “You know, by law you have to report that within five days.”
“Didn’t I just do that?” she smiled coyly. Even in her desperate hours, she manages more charm than a bevy of debutantes at a cotillion.
Hagen smirked. “Noted. Alex, can I see you for a minute?” he asked and, when I locked eyes with Ags, she looked at me like I was going to the electric chair.
I walked with Hagen to the sunglass carousel. I didn’t have the stomach to check out the view and just assumed I looked as awful as usual. “I’m sorry,” I volunteered before the chastising I was sure was coming.
“For what?” Hagen asked, and when my eyes flicked up at him, he looked quizzical.
“I don’t know. Didn’t you call me over here to bawl me out?”
“No,” he said and held my gaze. “I wanted to tell you that the owner of the Vine doesn’t want to press charges.”
I felt my nose wrinkle. “He doesn’t?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Don’t ask me why.”
The night turned into morning and, in its early hours, we all went back to the safety of our homes. I offered Ags my couch, but she opted to stay in her apartment above the store. Russ volunteered to be her sleepover security guard. While Hagen wrapped up police business, Bugsy walked me to my boat where another restless night awaited me.
CHAPTER 17
The more I tried to sleep, the more awake I felt. I threw the covers off me in a huff, walked across the corridor to my office, and sat behind my computer wondering what search words would give me the answers to all the questions I had. Where was Mr. Google with the snappy results when you needed them? Who was breaking into the places in town? Where had Russ been tonight? What’s the real story behind Lisa and Roddy? Why didn’t the owner of the Vine want to press charges? He didn’t owe me or know me. And while I got the impression he kind of liked me, I have an inherent distrust of people that magnanimously forgiving.
I typed “Zane Wilcox Marysville” into the search bar, although I had my doubts that was the real name of the man from the Vine. Nothing important popped up. I drummed my fingers on the desktop, they paradiddled in step with my thoughts. The only thing I knew, or assumed about the man, was that he may own the Vine Street Inn. With that fragment of knowledge in hand, I ventured onto the California Property Records website where I proceeded to type in the address for the dump. The owner came back as D.E. Enterprises, and through searching “D.E. Enterprises”, I learned that the sole director of D.E. Enterprises is David Earle. David Earle turned out to be nobody, at least nobody I could find who looked remotely like the guy from the Vine. After that little dead end, I managed to get a bit of sleep, no thanks to the pain in my side and thoughts of Doctor Richards’ warm hands.
With the light of day that morning, so too came the rain. In fact, rain was forecast for the whole day. It kind of summed up how we were all feeling. I think someone years ago coined the term pathetic fallacy for this kind of thing when the weather sympathizes with the prevailing mood. The mood of the Marysville PD had to be agitation–still stumped by the break ins at least as far as the public was concerned; Jack was in the dumps because Lisa hadn’t been to the marina in days; and Aggie was going to have to explain to Carlos that his dead father’s gun had been stolen from her place. Yes, it was the kind of rainy day that made me want to pull the covers over my head and shut my phone off, but then I wouldn’t have seen the message from Jack Junior later that day.
Are you home?
I read the message over and over again, reading volumes into the three words he’d tapped. Wondering if he just wanted to make sure I was around so he could scold me for breaking into Lisa’s room, wondering if our friendship was irreparably damaged. Finally, I responded with a curt reply. Yes.
Can you come over please? he texted me back almost immediately.
Sure, I typed out. I know I could have picked up the phone. Texting seems so cowardly, but I’m nobody’s role model.
I changed out of my sweats and into jeans, a sweater, and a yellow rain slicker, runners, and pulled the hood up before I pushed myself out the stern door of my boat into the pouring rain and headed to the Fortune Cookie. When I got to Jack’s boat, letting myself in, he turned to look at me. He didn’t look mad at me as much as he looked apoplectic with whatever situation he was wrestling.
“Hi.” I was sheepish mixed with curious.
Jack paced to the side
board. He was fidgety and skipped the greetings. “Here, kid, have some coffee. Want a cookie to go with it? Lisa made them. They’re pretty good.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a coffee and oatmeal type cookie and wondering when he was going to start yelling at me.
“They’re questioning Lisa and Roddy. Can ya-can ya-can ya believe it? Can’t you tell your boy Hagen to back off?”
“Oh?” I asked innocently, now keenly aware that Jack was still in the dark about my scavenger hunt at the Vine.
“About the robberies, ya know.” Jack shook his head.
I nodded.
“Kid, I’m just sick about it. What if they…” His voice trailed off and wavered.
I felt something in the pit of my stomach slowly rising, past my aching ribs, past my heart that was breaking for him, and up my throat until it came out. “Jack, how much do you really know about Lisa?”
He looked up at me from the sofa and, suddenly, he looked older, frail, sensitive. “What do you mean? Look, kid, I know you don’t like her—“
“I didn’t say that.”
“But-but-but I can tell,” he said, his stammering back.
“Jack, how much do you really know about her?” I asked, shrugging off the implication that I didn’t like her for no good reason.
“I know she makes me smile,” Jack Junior said and just like that he looked lost in dreamy memories. He snapped out of his near stupor and pulled up the cookie he’d been dunking only to find half of it had been claimed by the coffee in his cup. “How do ya like that?” He looked into the cup, sneered, and looked back at me, his eyes narrow and inquisitive.
I plodded on. There was no turning back. “You don’t think that she’s…?”
“She’s what?”
“That she’s a little phony?”
“You think she’s phony? You have some woman’s institution thing going on or something?”
“Something,” I said, smiling at Jack’s choice of words. I put my cup on the sideboard. I’d never been a fan of decaf anyway. “Jack, she’s not what she seems.” There, I said it.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I think she’s broke, she’s living at the Vine, she’s a cleaner, and I don’t think her name is even Lisa Claire.”
“Oh, I know that. Well, I knew most of that.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.” He nodded and took a sip of his decaf and oatmeal cookie concoction then made a dissatisfied face.
“Doesn’t it bother you that she lied?”
“Years ago, it might have,” Jack said and got up to pour himself a coffee he didn’t have to chew.
“Jack, I just want the best for you. And I think–“
Jack ran his hand through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked at me. “You know, kiddo, one day you’re going to look around and your ass is going to be sagging and you’re going to have wrinkles and you’re going to wish there was someone around to brighten your day. Even if they’re not rich, even if they work as a cleaner. Someday just having a warm body there is going to be enough. But I’m not like Sefton and Muncie, after those Gee Spot ladies. They’ve always been like that. A girl in every port, but not me. When I met my Jeanie, it was ‘til death do us part, and that’s how it went. And now Lisa—“
I rolled my eyes. I’m about as far from elitist as one could get, but I don’t cotton to liars, whoever they may be.
“Don’t do that! Don’t roll your eyes. You’re not me. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up in the morning and my bones are creaking and my head hurts and I’ve stubbed my toe because I had to get up and go to the bathroom for the seventh time that night and all I want is someone to shine a little light in my direction. You don’t know. You’re young. You’re healthy. You’re not going to your friends’ funerals every other week.”
“Jack, I—“
“No, no just think for a minute what it must be like. Do you want to be like me in thirty or forty years? Dragging your ass out of bed just so people won’t think you’re depressed? Putting on a clean shirt even though nobody is there to give a damn? No, kid, it’s not all roses when you get older.” Jack shook his head and took a sip.
I swallowed hard and stared at the carpeting, feeling ashamed that I hadn’t considered Jack’s feelings more. To me, he’d always been “smilin’ Jack Junior”—quick with a joke, loaded with charisma, and blessed with a twinkle in his eye. It had never occurred to me that the light could go out.
“When I see her, I feel good. She’s like… like a beacon. Like one of those buoys out there,” he said, pointing to the bay. “I found her when I needed her.”
His buoy. My dream. Was my recurring nightmare really about Lisa? Was it really about love? I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s-it’s-it’s alright. But if it’s all the same to you, kid, my lumbago is acting up and I’ve got to lie down,” he said, eyes averted.
“I’ll just, uh, see myself out. I’m sorry.” I left the Fortune Cookie feeling like a heel. Out in the teeming rain, I pulled my hood up and listened to the patter of the drops on my jacket and headed toward the lights that were on in Aggie’s. My own personal beacon whether she likes it or not.
“Why so glum chum?” Ags asked as I crossed the threshold, my spirits as soggy as the rest of me.
“Oh, I just came from Jack’s.”
“What did he do? Tell you again about his dog that died?”
“No, he gave me a lecture on love,” I said, making my way to the counter.
“Oh, well, I’d guess he’s an expert. Want a fritter?”
“How old is it?” I said, plunking myself down with a whoosh.
“Just this morning. Split it with ya.”
“Sure, why not.”
“So, what happened on your ride to Hamilton with Russ?” Ags finally asked the question that must have been plaguing her.
“What do you mean?”
“You… you’re being far too understanding and nice to him.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Girl, you are too, and it’s not like you one bit.”
I shrugged. “Ags, do you think it’s better to have someone to love, even if it’s not perfect? And they aren’t exactly to your taste?”
“You’re asking me? How should I know? I haven’t found my main course. I’m still working on the sample platter concept,” she said, smiled at me, and then we devoured the fritter.
✽✽✽
Class that evening was sort of a greatest hits version. Mr. Hives, clearly in his element, enthusiastically discussed highlights from all our previous classes with fresh examples. Students could ask questions on any topic relating to what had been covered thus far. A few had questions for the bookish young lady taking the course on personality disorders. This progressed into a tangent about the veracity of the news industry, which struck a nerve with another classmate, the editor from the Marysville Herald. And this got my wheels turning, and I made a note to stop by the college library on my way out to see if David Earle would pop up in any of the newspaper databases on site.
And so, while Julia North, the student librarian, scrambled around the college library, impatiently tidying, waiting for me, I logged in and typed the name David Earle into the search bar of the local newspaper archive program. This is a handy little system where you can type in a name and a list of results will pop up with the name and the date of the article and most times the title of the article. However, since the program had required some element of manual entry by prison inmates, the degree of accuracy and completeness of the results could be called into question. But it was a source. And so, with a keen awareness that I was the only thing standing between Julia and her date with Frank the Tank Hubbard—the quarterback—I scanned the results. No direct hits for David Earle, but there were a few for Earle Davidson. I hit Print All and, within moments, the printer beside me was whirring and spitting out pages. By the time the printer beeped to let me know it had fini
shed its job, Julia was standing beside me with a ring of keys in her hand and a Marysville College canvas bag on her arm. She picked up the pages off the printer, handed them to me, and I stuffed them into my own all-purpose canvas bag.
“Thanks, Julia. Have fun tonight,” I said as I headed out the door of the library to find Frank the Tank lingering on the bench in the hallway. I suppose dating Julia was as close to being scholarly as he was comfortable.
By the time I’d reached the end of the hall, I could hear Julia locking the library door and giggling to her beau. “Do you need a ride, Alex? It’s raining,” she hollered at me.
“Oh, no thanks, I brought the truck. Thanks again, Julia,” I called down the hall and, before long, I was dashing through puddles to the vintage truck I’d been using. I squinted through the dimness of the lights in the parking lot to read the papers that’d been printed off.
The first Earle Davidson article was an obituary. That particular Earle Davidson died in his eighty-fifth year back in 1973. Wrong dude. I placed it at the back of the pile and continued reading. The next article was a birth announcement. “To Earle and Melanie Davidson born today a son, Michael.” That article was about thirty years old. Hmm. I flipped down the top left corner of that page as something that may be relevant and placed it at the back of the sheaf of papers. I wasn’t expecting what I saw next. Page after page, one article after the other, beginning with the one entitled “Earle Davidson Convicted of Aggravated Burglary.” Seven articles covered the arrest, trial, conviction, and sentencing. There were even a few pictures and, though they were grainy black and white, I could tell this was in fact the same man I met at the Vine Street Inn, the man I knew as Zane Wilcox. Same nose and deep-set eyes. I immediately locked my truck door and got moving. The wipers eerily squeaked across the windshield and, as I passed the turn for Vine Street, I wondered how many people knew the checkered past of the local innkeeper.
CHAPTER 18
I pulled into the marina, found the parking spot I’d claimed as mine for the time being, and cut the motor. The rain pelted down through the dark of the night and, for a moment, I squinted out through the truck windows nervously as if implausibly, Earle Davidson was watching me. With no end to the rain in sight, I grabbed my canvas bag from the passenger side, hopped out of the truck, locked it, and dashed toward my dock. On the way to the Alex M., I spotted lights aboard the Splendored Thing and made a detour to pop in and see Cary Tranmer. Maybe he’d have some recollection of Earle and his newsworthy past. By the time I got to the stern door of the boat, Tranmer had it propped open and was waiting for me.
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