“This is dragging on much too long,” I said. “We have to talk before we leave the Cape. Who knows when we'll see each other again?”
“You’re right,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate. Oh, well.
We concluded our drive to the Cove in silence, soaking in the scenery. The culmination was a spectacular view from the parking lot, of all places, fifty-odd pleasure-boats bobbing below us in the gray water.
We walked down to the dock, and traversed the wooden walkways until we reached Haydock's boat: “Road Warrior.” The boat, which I hadn't gotten to see last night at the party, was medium-sized. Built-in benches along the sides, and half a dozen scattered chairs, looked as if they could handle fifteen comfortably. Twice as many if deep breaths weren't necessary. A short staircase toward the back--OK, aft--led down to what I surmised was captain's quarters.
Overall, the boat looked as scruffy and weather-beaten as its owner. But such an appearance is excusable in a boat.
Haydock was the only person in sight. He was leaning back in a wooden, rough-hewn--self-built?--rocking chair. His feet were up on the side of the boat. A beer can lay on its side, on the armrest, his right hand covering it. What a shock. As I approached I saw that his eyes were closed, and that eight empty beer cans (tabs back) were lined up at his feet. At three-thirty in the afternoon, no less.
“Mr. Haydock?” I called, but evidently too quietly to overcome his “sedative.” He didn't budge.
“Mr. Haydock!” Paula shouted. I covered my ears in mock pain, and was pleased to see that Haydock didn't respond to her greeting any more than he had to mine. Like not being the only one who's too weak to open a jar of jam.
Paula, however, doesn't give up so easily. She walked up to the boat, pounded on the side, and shouted “Mr. Haydock” again.
He woke up with a start, swinging his feet onto the deck with a thud. The beer can he'd been cradling hit the deck next. It sounded empty--whew. He swiveled in our direction. “Hey! Hands off the boat.”
“Can we talk to you?” I asked.
“No. I'm off duty.”
“It'll just take a couple of minutes. And it's important.”
“Sorry, the answer is still no. But you can make an appointment through my secretary.” He laughed at his joke. I guessed that drinking beer and saying “no” were two of his favorite pastimes.
“What if we wanted to rent your boat?”
That got him to at least look at me seriously. “Do I know you?” He pointed at Paula. “I saw you on Singer's boat last night.” He pointed at me. “You I don't remember.” No surprise.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “What do you want?”
“May we board your boat?” Paula asked. “So we can talk more comfortably, and in private? It won't take long.”
Haydock made a noise, halfway between throat-clearing and a grumble, opened the boat's swinging half-door, and allowed us to board. He sat back in his chair and rocked slowly. We pulled up seats and sat, facing him.
“So you want to charter my boat?” he asked.
“You were with the Green Panthers last night,” I said. “Are you one of them?”
“Anyone with cash is my favorite customer.”
“You seemed to know Dr. Singer.”
“Everyone knows who he is. I've lived here my whole life. He's lived here for...a while.”
Decades was my guess. But for a Cape native, I assumed, one can never fully overcome the drawback of an off-Cape birthplace. “You don't seem to like him,” I said.
“Lots of people I don't like. Now-”
“Are you for or against the wind turbines?” Paula asked. Good diversion, Paula. Maybe Haydock would forget that we’d asked about chartering his boat.
“I'm not political, little lady,” he said.
“Come on, big man. You live here. You must have an opinion.” Haydock smiled at Paula's snappy retort. Had I said the same thing I felt certain that his fists would have answered for him.
“I don't care one way or another,” he said. “You know what life is like. Either way, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. All I know is I don't want Singer making the decision.”
I sensed something I didn't like. “Why is that?”
“You know what his tribe is like. Always whining about his so-called Holocaust. All he cares about is what's best for him and his precious sight-lines. Not what's best for the Cape's original inhabitants.”
My anger lifted me out of my seat. “Oh, you mean the Native Americans?” I noticed his empty beer cans once again. “That can't be legal, drinking and piloting a boat.”
He stood up and approached me, jutting his head forward until it was only inches away from mine. I inhaled the sickly smell of alcohol on his breath when he spoke. “Are you threatening me?” he asked.
I stood my ground, but began to strongly consider a retreat. Paula joined me and took my arm.
“Me and the police,” he said, “we have an understanding. Now get off my boat.”
He turned away, as if it were a foregone conclusion that we'd obey him. Something I'd noticed subliminally suddenly registered. His tan didn't look natural. It could be termed bronze. “Do you have diabetes?”
“What? What of it?”
“Have you, or has anyone in your family, had liver problems?”
He turned, and approached me again, eyes narrowed. “Have you been digging into me and my relatives?”
“No, no. It's not like that. I'm a doctor. I think you may have a condition called Hemochromatosis. Sometimes called bronze diabetes.” He relaxed, but continued to stare at me. “It's a genetic condition in which iron builds up in the body, damaging vital organs such as pancreas and liver. Untreated it's lethal. But caught early, treatment can prevent the damage.”
Haydock’s mouth drifted open. I hurried to complete my medical spiel.
“We think it's more common than we used to believe. You should ask your doctor for a ferritin blood test, which is a measure of body iron stores. If it's high, have your family members checked, too. Remember, though. All this is just guesswork. I could be wrong.”
His attentive look changed back to his customary scowl. “Who the hell do you think you are? For the last time. Get off my boat.”
This time we obeyed him. When Paula and I were on the dock, out of his reach, I spoke to his back. “You're welcome. And you can thank me by getting an education.” I'm not sure if he heard me, as my voice quavered from delayed-reaction fear.
Paula took my arm as we walked to the car. “Well, now I know that there's no limit to your need to help people.”
“I don't know if Haydock did anything to Singer, but I sure hope he's the guilty one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Paula and I returned to the hotel to freshen up--and salivate--before dinner. Liam Maguire's is on the Cape's southern coast (outer Cape, inner Cape, whatever). The town of Falmouth is great, but the route it’s on tends toward crowded and commercial, I’m sorry to say. An Irish pub experience, however, is worth many a sacrifice.
Paula and I converged in the hotel lobby at 5:30 PM. I smiled at the green blouse she’d changed into. She smiled back--and then her cell phone rang.
“Damn,” she said, and made a face. She forced another smile while greeting her caller, and concluded with “OK, see you in a minute.”
“Sorry,” she told me. “Tracey again. She's in the parking lot and about to join us. I couldn't say no to her. We'll explain that we have dinner plans.”
Might as well talk to her now, I thought with resignation. She’d probably join us for dinner otherwise.
“So good to see you,” Tracey said as she walked into the lobby. “Let's sit down and talk. I'm sure you have other things to do, so I won't keep you long.”
I’d believe that when I saw that…but no matter now. We sat on a couch, with her at one end facing the two of us.
“I've done as you asked,” she began. “I've sounded out as many people as I could remember
seeing on the boat. I have to say, though, that I have nothing to show for it. Besides the fact that they were there, and saw other people, no one was able to give me an exact accounting of anyone's time or location.”
“Sorry,” Paula said.
“No problem. How about you two? Were you more successful?”
“Well, we did learn,” Paula answered, “that Thomas Haydock, the pilot of the boat the Green Panthers used, is an anti-Semite.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“But, like you, we didn't learn anything helpful.”
I was glad that Paula hadn't shared any useful information with Tracey. Of course, we didn't have anything worthwhile to share yet.
“We have to rely on the police for fingerprints and forensics,” I said. “As far as we know there's nothing concrete yet. So all we can do for now is talk. People will usually say something useful eventually.” Cleverly nebulous, I thought.
“So my assignment is to keep talking?” Tracey asked.
“Yes, for now,” I replied. And the more she talked with others, the less she’d be bugging us.
“Fine with me,” Tracey said. “And now I have an assignment for you, Paula. If you're willing.” I tensed.
“With Jonathan unavailable,” Tracey continued, “we're scrambling to save the conference. Between your impressing Jonathan in his seminar last year and your actions here, you've been noticed.”
So far so good, I thought. “Would you be willing to give one of Jonathan's talks on Wednesday?” Tracey resumed. “We'll give you his notes and slides. And we'll all understand if your delivery isn't polished. So what do you say?”
While I was kvelling, Paula seemed unfazed by the surprise assignment. “It's an honor to be considered,” she said to Tracey. “I'd be happy to pitch in.”
“Great. We'll give you the stuff you need at the conference tomorrow morning.” She stood up. “And now I'll let you go. If I'm hungry you kids must be starved.”
#
The only thing Liam Maguire's lacks is a view of the sound to the south. A little too far away. Everything else is perfect, from the painted wood front, to the stage where Irish music is played nightly, to the polished mahogany bar where imported Irish brews are served.
Paula and I walked in at 6 PM. My parents waved to us from their table. Griselda, Rachel’s long-time aide, waved with her free right hand, her left arm intertwined with Rachel’s right arm as they walked around the pub. With Rachel's lack of patience for sitting it's best to keep her moving until the zero hour.
But tonight Rachel was in a good mood. Courtesy of Maguire’s lively music and gab. So when Griselda brought her back to the table I dared to invade her space by kissing her.
“Is soup all you're having?” I asked my mother when that was all she ordered.
“Yes. But it's an improvement, mon cheri. I don't have pain. And I think I'll hold it down.”
I wasn't satisfied, but decided not to make a fuss in public. She did have more color in her cheeks.
Paula and I ordered Guinness shepherd’s pies. My father ordered lamb, and Griselda ordered fish stew. We ordered only French fries for Rachel, planning to round out her supper with spoonsful of our own food. This system gave us the flexibility to adapt to the extreme variability of Rachel’s appetite.
“How's Jonathan Singer doing?” my mother asked.
“Bad,” I said. “Still in a coma.”
“So did you work on the wind turbine issue?” my father asked. His patience was too short to restrain that question very long.
“No, Dad. What did you expect me to do, with Singer so sick?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Our food arrived and we began to eat. An uncharacteristic hush in the room allowed me to appreciate an Irish ballad playing on tape in the background. Rachel squirmed, apparently noticing the absence of crowd noise. But Griselda, always alert, quelled Rachel's nascent revolt by popping a French fry into her mouth.
“So are you coming with us to the Board of Selectmen meeting tomorrow night?” my father asked. He had somehow finished his entire dish, while mine was only halfway done. I swallowed what was in my mouth.
“You never give up, do you?” I asked.
“Who ever won anything by giving up?”
“Good point. We use the same expression in chess.” Although every chess-player also knows that persistence in a hopeless cause only prolongs the agony. “And what kind of name is Selectmen? Haven't they entered the Twentieth Century yet?”
“Stop changing the subject,” he said.
“You should go, David,” Paula said. Et tu? I thought. “I'm going to have to stay in tomorrow night,” she said. “To prepare for the talk I've been asked to give.”
I explained Paula's honor to my parents and Griselda. They cooed their congratulations.
“If I go, do I have to sit with your Green Panther friends?” As soon as I said it, I regretted asking such a provocative question.
“And what's wrong with them?” My father's voice rose along with his temperature.
In truth, however, his whole attitude had annoyed me from the beginning of our conversation. The way he challenged me, daring me to oppose him. My mother and Paula looked at each other. I had to try to act like an adult, even if my father didn't. “Speaking of Green Panthers,” I said. “Would any of them want to hurt, even murder, Jonathan Singer?”
“Of course not! Who would suggest such a thing?” He looked at my mother.
“It's not like we really know these people, Moshe,” she said.
“Actually, the idea came from the police,” I said. “Lieutenant Hansen.” Maybe that fact would mollify him.
“Ridiculous.”
“It's certainly true that Singer and your group are enemies,” I said. “And although you don't live here, I assume that the other Panthers do. They may be very emotional about this issue.”
“Are you saying that your mother and I don't care about the wind turbines?”
“No, Dad. It's not an accusation. Please listen to me. Paula and I seriously think that someone tried to murder Singer.”
“No,” my mother said. “What an awful thought.”
“So please,” I said. “Would any of the Green Panthers hate Singer enough to kill him?”
“No.” My father's tone and posture sagged. “”But like your mother said, we don't really know them.”
“How about your boat captain, Thomas Haydock?”
“I didn't really talk to him. Did you, Charlotte?” She shook her head. “But he's not one of us. Why would he want to harm Singer?”
“I don't know. But I do know that he's a drunk and an anti-Semite.” I described the encounter Paula and I had had with Haydock.
“Wonderful,” my father said. “How did we come to hire such a low-life?” he asked my mother.
“One of the local Green Panthers hired him.” She closed her mouth and covered it with her hand, visibly suppressing a retch. She ran to the bathroom. I think she tried to excuse herself, but was afraid to open her mouth. Instead, it was Paula who said “excuse me,” and followed my mother. My mother's soup bowl was only half-empty.
We didn't speak while we waited. I checked my watch every thirty seconds, wondering if I should follow them. The two women returned after five minutes, Paula holding my mother's elbow. My mother's color had disappeared but she was calm.
She sat down and folded her hands across her lap. “I'm fine now. I hope I didn't ruin anyone's dinner.”
“Should I take you to the hospital?” I asked.
“No, no. Really. I know it's hard to believe, but yesterday was worse. If I don't feel better tomorrow I'll definitely see a doctor.”
I sensed someone standing over us, and was startled to see Lieutenant Hansen when I looked up. He was holding his hat at his side.
“Did you want to speak to me, Lieutenant?” I asked.
Hansen was looking at my father, who was looking at my mother.
“It sure was hard find
ing all of you,” Hansen said. “We had to run your plates.” His voice tone changed to legal-ese: “Mahsh Calder?”
My father swiveled to face him. “It's pronounced ‘moe-sheh’.”
“Mr. Calder, please come with me.”
My father didn't move. My hands, resting on the table, tensed.
“I'm taking you in for questioning. You’re a suspect in the attempted murder of Jonathan Singer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The scene in Maguire's was unreal. Lieutenant Hansen had just appeared out of nowhere to all but accuse my father, my father, of attempted murder.
“What?” I exclaimed.
“How could you even think such a thing?” my mother asked.
My father, to my surprise, reacted to our consternation with serenity. “It's all right,” he said to us. Then to Hansen: “This is ridiculous. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Oddly enough, I knew that to be the literal truth.
“That may be,” Hansen replied. “But there are questions which need answering.”
My father stood up and extended both wrists in Hansen’s direction.
“Handcuffs aren't necessary if you come peacefully, Mr. Calder. You aren’t under arrest.”
My father returned his arms to his sides. After allowing him to pay the bill, Hansen gave us directions to the police station, and led my father to his police car. The restaurant patrons who’d been staring at us looked down at their food when I met their gazes.
Paula drove my mother to the police station. I drove Griselda--thank goodness she was available to watch Rachel!--back to their cottage, along with Rachel, then rejoined the others.
As with the hospital, the police station was newer and larger than I expected. A two-story red brick structure, it appeared big enough to accommodate offices, questioning and holding areas, and jail cells. I decided that medieval torture chambers were unlikely--unless it had been built during a Republican administration.
Paula and my mother were seated in the front row of the waiting room. They were staring through a counter-to-ceiling plexi-glass window at the police officer sitting behind a wooden counter. The beige linoleum floor and the bolted, greenish-bluish plastic molded seats looked uncomfortable and unattractive, but easy to clean and hard to damage or steal. I doubted that the wallpaper with sea motifs would persuade any perpetrators to think pacifically.
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