Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  “I suppose.” I saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “So long as you don’t charge me an arm and a leg for it.”

  Behind me, the coffeepot began to gurgle. I found some clean flatware for Evelyn and was just setting it down when I heard a colossal bang from the basement.

  “What the hell—”

  “Sounds like a pressure cooker exploding.” Evelyn had worked in the restaurant industry for nearly fifty years and had apparently endured every possible form of catastrophe. “That happened once at a place I worked in New Orleans. Blew a hole right through the roof.”

  “I better check it out.” I headed into the kitchen. To my surprise, Lionel followed me and cut me off right as I reached the concrete steps leading into the musty underground.

  “I can go down there for you.” His eyes darted from side to side, showing incipient panic. “Probably some junk way in the back just fell over.”

  It wasn’t impossible that a cache of abandoned rubbish had collapsed somewhere in the basement. The space was cavernous and poorly lit. Dug in the mid-eighteen hundreds, it had once been a part of a much larger network that catacombed the entire downtown. Supposedly, gold miners and bootleggers had left a variety of mementos behind in the numerous tunnels beneath the city—though moldering rat traps and empty oilcans made up the bulk of what I’d encountered.

  “Why don’t you want me down here?” I took the steps down two at a time, ducking as I entered the low space. Something wasn’t right about the air. A new tang seeped into the normally musty smell.

  “It’s nothing really bad—”

  “Why does it smell like putrid garlic?”

  I peered down into the darkness. A single bare bulb illuminated a few feet—enough for me to make out the five shelves of dry storage we used for Eelgrass. But beyond that, the light faded away. I knew from experience that after another ten feet, the poured concrete of the floor gave way to fine, silty dirt.

  “You know how I was talking about how I wanted to reconnect with my Korean roots?” Lionel came hot on my heels, practically running into my back.

  “Yes.” I vaguely recollected that Lionel’s grandmother had refused to teach him to cook because “his wife would take care of that for him,” while his busy single mother possessed neither the time nor the inclination. While Lionel worked up the courage to tell me the rest of his story, I took a quick inventory of the dry goods on the shelves. Aside from a can of garbanzo beans standing among the canned tomatoes, all appeared in order.

  “I decided to teach myself how to make traditional pickles,” Lionel confessed. “And Dorian said the basement would be the perfect place to ferment them, so long as I didn’t mess with any of the stuff he stashed down there.”

  The kind of “stuff” our sleazy, drug-dealing bartender Dorian might be hiding in my business alarmed me far more than any pickle Lionel could concoct or even the threat of a tunnel-collapse in the basement.

  Just outside the circle of light, close to the edge of the concrete, a small red light blinked. And it seemed to me that the darkness around the blinking light was denser and more solid than the deep gloom surrounding it.

  “And you think that noise was pickles?” I asked.

  What was that blinking light anyway? I took a step closer. The pungent smell of garlic, fish, and fermentation gone foul did seem to be coming from the far wall.

  “I think my kimchee blew up. I’ll clean it up, I swear.”

  That would explain the bang and the stink. Fermentation in the wrong hands could produce all the wrong gasses and literally weaponize cabbage. That still didn’t explain the blinking light, nor the dark shape behind it.

  Sam kept a flashlight down here, but the batteries had run down around New Year. I pulled out my phone and approached by the harsh blue-white light of the flashlight app.

  Lionel continued, “I used the space at the back of the cellar to mature my first batch. But I don’t know… Maybe it got too warm?”

  “Possibly.” I knelt down. The blinking light turned out to be the message alert on an old slider-style cell phone. It lay in the dirt next to a hand. The hand emerged from the sleeve of a white-and-red hoodie that clothed the body of a man.

  “What are you looking—” Lionel stopped speaking and froze.

  I’m not sure what makes it so obvious at only a glance that a person is dead. There’s the flat, unblinking eye, sure. But also the blood streaking from multiple stab wounds helps fix the idea that the man one is eyeballing has shuffled off this mortal coil.

  For a second, I could not move or even breathe. Everything stopped, including my ability to feel—like someone flipped a giant toggle switch shutting down all nonessential functions.

  Was this shock?

  It occurred to me then that the hoodie wasn’t red and white at all—just white and stained with red—and that it belonged to my least favorite employee: Dorian Gamble.

  And the knife still jutting from his back belonged to me.

  Chapter Two

  Orca’s Slough boasted a sheriff and two deputies, all named Mackenzie. The deputy who arrived at the Eelgrass was a fit young bison known as Big Mac. Evelyn said he’d been given the nickname because he held the record for the biggest baby ever born on the island. Even among the Mackenzie clan (widely rumored to be half Bigfoot) Big Mac’s brutal muscularity stood out. He had thighs like tree trunks (which he displayed year-round in shorts) and biceps big as grapefruits.

  I worked out when I had the free time, but compared to Big Mac I felt scrawny and sallow. My blond hair probably looked stringy and unkempt; it was hard to care about manscaping while witnessing my business fall apart.

  I was pleased to note that I was just slightly taller than him.

  And, I suspected, a whole lot smarter. Big Mac spoke in a slow, quiet way that gave the impression he might have repeated third grade a couple of times.

  He ate dinner at the Eelgrass every Wednesday, always ordering the special, no matter what. He had dark hair, heavy brows, and the kind of perma-stubble that indicated his capacity to grow a prize-winning beard if only the sheriff’s department had allowed it.

  During the tourist season, he often manned the police kiosk at the ferry terminal and, as far as I could tell, spent most of his on-duty hours giving driving directions to the island’s three hot-springs resorts.

  After he had a look at Dorian, he returned to the dining room and joined me at the bar. Lionel sat at a table in the corner, slumped over and mumbling into his phone, most likely to his mother, who worked as a nurse at the local medical center.

  Evelyn had been exiled to the sidewalk but continued to lurk, monitoring the interactions inside with a fierce, stricken expression.

  Big Mac seemed to make a point of learning the name of every single person living in Orca’s Slough, so it didn’t surprise me when he remembered mine.

  “So, Mr. Allison, quite the smell down there.”

  “That’s the kimchee, I think.” At least I hoped so.

  “And that was what made you look in the basement?” He glanced at his notebook, probably checking to make sure I’d kept my story straight.

  “No, we heard a bang, which we think was the crock exploding,” I said.

  “Mr. Allison, can you tell me when was the last time you saw Mr. Gamble alive?”

  “Just Drew is fine,” I said.

  “Okay, Drew, when did you last see Mr. Gamble?”

  “I worked with him the day before yesterday—Wednesday. You would have seen him.”

  Big Mac nodded and looked slowly up from his cop notebook. What color were his eyes anyway? Blue? Green? It was hard to tell.

  “You know, that steamer-clam special was so good. Where did you get the idea for it?”

  “It’s a classic dish. Moules marinière,” I spluttered.

  “But you made it original.” Big Mac spoke as if savoring the clams once more in his memory. “Don’t suppose you can tell me how, though. Secret recipe.”

&
nbsp; “Actually, legally I’m required to disclose all the ingredients in anything I serve. And I have to have all the processes vetted by the health department, so it’s only the proportions of a recipe that could ever be secret.”

  “That I did not know,” Big Mac said.

  “I think the whole secret-recipe thing is an advertising ploy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Evelyn out there has kept the recipes for her preserves secret since she won her first ribbon at the fair. And she’s been the Island County Pickle Queen for as long as anybody can remember.”

  Despite the grim circumstances, the words pickle queen brought a smirk to my face. So sue me. I’m juvenile.

  Big Mac smiled back—an action that dramatically improved the quality of his face. “So what’s the secret to your clams, then?”

  “Lemongrass-infused vodka,” I said.

  “See, I didn’t even know that existed.”

  “It’s house-made here by Dorian. He’s very oriented toward signature cocktails. Or he was…”

  “Did you speak with Mr. Gamble or see him between Wednesday and now?” Big Mac asked.

  The swift return to the subject of murder startled me. How easily this cop had lulled me into complacency with his soft, complimentary voice.

  “Dorian and I haven’t really been on speaking terms for a while.”

  “Why is that?” Big Mac asked.

  “I didn’t think he was a good influence on Sam.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Some lingering vestige of loyalty prevented me from mentioning that Dorian’s alternative revenue stream was generated through sales of cocaine, largely to other members of the restaurant industry, so I just said, “He encouraged her to make poor financial decisions.”

  “Such as?”

  Big Mac held my gaze for a long moment, and I fought not to look away before he did.

  “Ordering too much of expensive ingredients he wanted for his infusions. A lot ended up going bad before he got around to making anything. And half of what he did make was pretentious and terrible. Nobody is going to pay eighteen dollars to drink salmon-infused vodka. Nobody.”

  Big Mac nodded.

  “So to recap your previous statement, only Mr. Fogle was in the building when you arrived, and he was unconscious.”

  It took me a minute to register who he was talking about. “You mean Lionel? Yes.”

  “And can you think of any reason why Lionel—or anyone—would feel like they needed to kill Mr. Gamble?”

  “I haven’t heard of anyone specifically out to get him. Especially not Lionel. He was always asking Dorian for advice about women.”

  “I’ve heard that Mr. Gamble was quite the ladies’ man and that he could be insistent.”

  I almost asked where he’d heard that, but Evelyn had frequently made her opinion of Dorian’s womanizing known.

  “I’ve never known him to be the kind of person you’d have to use lethal force to escape, if that’s what you mean,” I said, offended on Dorian’s behalf. Then again, now that the kernel of doubt had been sown, I began to wonder.

  It wasn’t like Dorian led a blameless life in any respect. Had he tried to force himself on some girl at the party, and she or her boyfriend had decided to take him out?

  It didn’t seem his style, though. He dealt coke, and he was smarmy, but a lot of women seemed to find him attractive and charming. On a couple of occasions I’d even overheard him complain about so many female clients pulling him into their beds that he was “shooting dust.” Clearly, he wasn’t hurting for action.

  “Do you know what Mr. Gamble was doing here last night?”

  “I don’t know, but obviously, there was a party.”

  “You didn’t attend?”

  “No, I wasn’t invited.” Saying that somehow stung even after discovering a body. “I was at my apartment all night.”

  “Were you with anyone?” Big Mac had an expression on his face that told me he already had his own theory on my relationship status, probably based on my argumentative personality.

  “No one. I live alone.”

  Big Mac made a special note of this. I watched him underline the word alone.

  “And besides you and your business partner, who has a key to the building?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, shrugging.

  “What about Lionel?”

  We both turned our attention to the dishwasher. Lionel looked up in wide-eyed alarm. I hoped that Big Mac hadn’t immediately decided that Lionel was guilty because he’d been passed out in the same building. Or because he was Black.

  “No. Lionel doesn’t have a key, and he didn’t do this.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Listen.” I lowered my voice. “Lionel’s the kind of kid who can’t bring himself to lie about setting up a secret pickle crock. And even if he did somehow get caught up in something like this, he would have called me and his mom right away to ask what to do with the body.”

  Only after I’d spoken did I realize I shouldn’t have even made the joke. Big Mac’s lips moved, but I cut him off. “Plus Lionel didn’t have any blood on him, which…he would have.”

  “And he didn’t have a key.” Big Mac paused to write something in his notebook. Belatedly I recalled that this had started with who had keys to the restaurant.

  Sam and I.

  “Who did or didn’t have a key wouldn’t matter,” I said, “because the back door was unlocked when I arrived this morning.”

  Big Mac’s smile faded, and he paused, seeming reluctant to continue before saying, “What can you tell me about the knife found in Mr. Gamble’s body?”

  “It’s mine.” There was no point in denying it. That would just make me look guilty. “But I don’t know how it got downstairs. I keep it in my knife case, and I keep that locked in the office when I’m not here.”

  Big Mac made another note in his book, then asked, “Would you mind if I had a look at your hands?”

  I did mind, but I silently held them out anyway, palms down. Big Mac reached out and caught hold of my fingers in a professional manner, firm yet gentle, like a doctor might. He took some time scrutinizing them, as if memorizing every scar, before turning them palm up.

  “What’s this here?” he pointed to a mark on my wrist.

  “A grease burn.” I squirmed a little, embarrassed to still be getting amateur injuries at my age.

  Big Mac held my hands for about thirty seconds longer, then released me.

  “I think that’s all for now. Here’s my card. Text me anytime.” He stood and turned toward Lionel.

  The thought of Lionel being interrogated scared me. I could easily picture him getting frustrated and saying something like, “Fine, okay, I did it. Will you just shut up now?” as if he were arguing about dirty laundry with his mom. But Big Mac only said that they would wait till Lionel’s mother arrived to have their conversation.

  I relaxed enough to take a paper cup of coffee out to Evelyn in lieu of breakfast.

  As I stepped outside the front door, the ambulance (Orca’s Slough only had one) was just pulling up.

  Evelyn stopped eyeballing the interior proceedings long enough to ask, “Dorian…is he really dead?”

  In a town so small, all locals knew each other. And I vaguely recalled a waitress remarking that Dorian and Evelyn were related.

  “Yeah,” I replied, at a loss.

  We stood together watching the medics. Evelyn sniffed and then took a swig of her coffee. The town’s second Deputy Mackenzie arrived: a sleepy, doughier version of Big Mac.

  Clerks and patrons from the surrounding businesses gathered outside, staring at the scene. Two trim middle-aged women from the yoga studio across the street edged toward the restaurant. Then they caught sight of Troy Lindgren as he scowled from the doorway of his high-end sportswear shop.

  Fit and fortyish, Troy was Sam’s only non-deceased cousin and the owner of the beautifully restored historic building that abutted Eelgrass Bi
stro. Local fishermen called him a rich snob, but he exemplified the conservative taste that many yacht-owning tourists appreciated. I had never seen him without cuff links and a tie.

  I missed most of what passed between the three of them, except the mention of Sam’s name. Troy shook his head.

  “Probably just another grease fire,” he told them, then offered me a tight, forced smile before retreating into his shop.

  “Prick,” Evelyn muttered. She glanced to me. “Where is Samantha, anyway? She wasn’t down there too?”

  “No!” Just the suggestion rattled me. Frustrated as I was, I would never have wanted to see her like that. “She’s probably just passed out somewhere. I’m going to try and find her.”

  Pacing the sidewalk, I tried Sam’s number and got no reply.

  The slanting autumn sun shone down on the fallen maple leaves that carpeted the sidewalk. I kicked at them, stirring them up as I went. The numb fog of shock began to wear thin enough that I started to feel. Not horror over seeing Dorian dead—that remained a void in my consciousness, still too terrible to be experienced—but worry about Sam’s safety.

  Her various social-media feeds showed no activity after she’d put up a bleary selfie captioned: “happy after a night with good friends” at four a.m. In the photo, she wore a silver spaghetti-strap tank top and a lot of red lipstick. She’d dyed her hair again and now sported a black bob with a bright-red streak. In the background I could see Lionel and Sam’s plump, pink-haired friend Danielle trying to push their way into the frame.

  So now I knew at least one other person who had been present, but a text to Danielle yielded no response either.

  I sat down on the sky-blue powder-coat sidewalk bench across the street from the Eelgrass and stared hard at my phone. It had 213 contacts in it. I started going down the list, texting everyone I knew to see if anybody could tell me Sam’s location.

  Sixteen people replied with more or less the same story—they had been at the party but left before it was over.

  Time passed. The sheriff arrived, spoke with the doughy deputy through the window of his police car, and then drove away. More onlookers gathered to gawk at the spectacle.