Sand City Murders (40 page)

Despite our marching orders for taking the day, everyone seemed to linger nonetheless. Amy was first to finally leave, then Miriam floated off, once Eleanor had disappeared. I saw Jason hobble out to his car as well, and with a decidedly guilty expression on his otherwise glum face. Frank Gannon was at his cubicle still scratching.

“Frank, what’s up with the leg?”

“Oh, I got eaten alive the other night.”

“Bugs?”

“I guess.” He lifted his cuff to reveal a calf wrapped in an ace bandage.

“You try calamine?”

“I tried everything, still itches like crazy… well, see you later.”

Melissa stopped by my desk on her way out. “The
Chronicle
better stay open till Labor Day,” she said to me alone, and rather callously, I thought. What she meant was, if Eleanor had a chance in hell of selling the paper to Chamblis or anyone else, it would have to stay open. A newspaper that closed down and started up again wasn’t worth squat.

“Hey Mel, what did Eleanor mean about your husband getting back on his feet? Is he okay?”

“Oh, he’s fine, just pulled a hamstring on the golf course...”

I went for another cup of coffee and came back to my desk to find Pagor in the editorial office. He sat in Frank’s vacated cubicle, one foot in a cast and up on an adjacent chair. He was very quiet at first and his suit seemed especially rumpled.

“Sorry to hear about your mom,” I said.

“My mom?” he asked loudly.

“I heard she was ill.”

“No… never better,” he boomed. “Well, maybe a touch of hay fever this time of year. Terrible allergies…”

“What’s with the cast?”

Donald laughed a bit nervously. “A jet-ski accident. I sprained my ankle…”

Really? I had a hard time imagining Pagor on a jet-ski, and an even harder time conjuring up the series of events that could actually lead to such an injury. Donald hoisted himself from the chair. I noticed his walking stick.

“Wow, that’s a cool cane.”

“This? It was my grandfather’s,” he bellowed. A smile came to his spongy face. “He used to wallop my father across the head with it, when he was just a lad,” Pagor laughed just as loudly as he spoke. He held it out for me to examine. It looked like an antique with a heavy brass head, well, not a head, but a molded bear claw. I suddenly felt sorry for Pagor’s dad.

“Here’s the really neat part,” Donald said, though not quite in a yell. He twisted the top and partially unsheathed a blade that was hidden in the shaft. He gave me a gleeful smile.
Weird
.

I scanned the morning edition of the Fairhaven
Times
. Nothing on Lucinda’s murder. I guess that’s not too surprising considering how well Durbin and Leaning get along. They had run a piece on the kennel killings for their Sunday edition, but it ended up below the fold, and certainly lacked any empathy for the girls and the canines both. Strictly police blotter reporting. Instead they went in big for the Sand City School scandal.

Thanks to Joey’s reluctance, the unpaid leave story was not reported by us. Sordid as it was, two middle school teachers had been accused of impropriety in the locker room after hours. They were summarily dismissed without pay pending an investigation. It was all completely unsubstantiated garbage for now. The one witness was questionable, Mr Kurt Mars, a longtime custodian at the school, and the two teachers in question had exemplary records up to the present. The
Times
ran with the story anyway, Leaning’s angle amounted to innuendo bordering on hysteria. I thought it was downright irresponsible, a shoddy job. He quoted a bunch of indignant parents and silly kids, trying to string together the idea that the entire community had experienced some collective moral outrage that was… well, pretty much nonexistent.

It all took a backseat to the real tragedies of the past couple of days and it almost made the
Times
look unfeeling, insensitive to say the least. It only served to further ostracize them from Sand City. What did they really care? They’re from Fairhaven... I decided to update the website and scoop the
Times
on Lucinda’s murder, not that it mattered much to Eleanor. I wrote up the facts as I knew them and added the headline:
Murdered Girl Found In Long Neck Marsh.

Even though it was a day off, my inbox was completely full. I ran down next week’s issue on my notebook. First, I looked over Joey’s coverage of the Brand Wars. That was Chamblis Enterprises’ plan to redevelop the shopping plaza into a food court. Their hope was to attract every major brand in the country from fast food to gourmet coffee. The economics behind this idea was a tough sell however. Corporate types just looked at the numbers, and while they were great for the summer season, they were non-existent for the winter months— that is, crazy busy or crazy slow. To the suits though, overhead, staffing and stock were not seasonal questions at all. They were constants. One great quarter and three terrible quarters was bad math. Chamblis tried to make the case that anchor brands would entice people to drive here from Oldham, Garysville and Eastport all year round. Nobody was buying this idea.

The was quite a ruckus at the meeting and it took a totally unexpected turn. Surprisingly, the locals, down to a person were all for redevelopment. That caught Michael Burton Dean by surprise. But they petitioned for lease inclusions, and would sue as a group against lease exclusions. It ended up as a corporate showdown. Like Yang Lei, who found his fluency in English, versus the Colonel, or Spiro’s Gyros versus cute little Wendy, and a pizza guy who didn’t seem to be Italian at all. I was totally down with a Jamaican restaurant as well.

It was Kevin Marchand from the Historical Society that drove the final nail in the coffin: self-illuminated signs, read neon and alike, were strictly forbidden according to code. That’s something lawyer Dean did not know in advance and he should have. Every brand would need a variance if they wanted to sport their usual glowing logo. Ah, the dreaded variance. I was sorry to have taken myself out of the fray. It sounded like an interesting night.

Evan’s report on the Baxter Estates expansion was also on my desk. I had to read it twice. It was just too hard to believe the first time. As far as I could tell, Chamblis was doing this right, more than right: The Woodlands Luxury Estates…  too good to be true: two-acre zoning, solar paneled south facing roofs, biological waste water treatment, eco-friendly, recycled runoff… full sensor egress traffic lights, and only a point five percent reduction of actual trees. Hmm… I was completely surprised by this and decided to confirm with Evan at some later date, when I could track him down.

The Saint Alban’s court ruling was postponed yet again. I double-checked the e-courts site just to be sure and crossed it off my list. Only a few items were left in my basket: A new chef at Governor’s Inn... Wait, didn’t we run that already? I had to check the back issues. With a name like Pierre Escobar, it was pretty much guaranteed that you’d become a chef... Lobster Pot re-opens with new menu... Not sure that’s worth a headline.

When I came back with a third cup of coffee, I spotted Joey in his cubicle. It looked to me like he was moping a little.

“Joey, great work on the Brand Wars thing. I just finished looking it over.”

“Thanks,” he replied and glanced over at me.

“Um, why are you reading the Fairhaven
Times’
Police Blotter?”

“I don’t know really… but I just ran across this… third one down.”

I read:
Police report break in, 66 Sunnyside Lane, Eastport
. “So?”

“Just a weird coincidence… that’s where Marvin the milkman lives.”

“Marvin who?”

“The milkman… didn’t you read my story?”

“Oh yeah, I really liked that piece.”

“Thanks.”

“Still, what’s the coincidence here?”

“Look at the date… it was Friday night, same as the kennel.”

“Hmm… that is a little weird. What was this guy like?”

“He was a hard nut to crack. Just sat there in his living room with his arms folded. He thought the whole idea of a story was silly,” Joey said. “We sat there awhile and eventually he started talking. I just listened.”

“Nice… you got a copy of that?”

I scanned the story again:
I’m up at the crack of dawn literally. Few people get to see the sun come up over the ocean. I can tell you, it’s a beautiful sight. I never get tired of it.
I read further,
Well, I probably shouldn’t name names, but... Doc Samuels and Albert, his dog, they’re up there every morning. You can set your watch by it. Lots of folks walking their dogs. Joggers too. You’d be surprised who’s up at that hour. Hector Diaz, now there’s an early riser— and Shirley Girl of course…

“What does he mean when he says up there?” I asked Joey.

“Um… Oakview Terrace, up near the bike path.”

“Really?” I paused to think. “Can you follow up with this guy? See what was stolen from his house?”

Joey grinned. “Sure I can.”

PART THREE

chapter 26

jumping jetties

I hadn’t see Inspector Fynn for several days, three days actually. It was pretty much the crack of dawn on Tuesday when I got a call on my land line. He was in Fairhaven and needed a ride. I picked him up about an hour later at the bus station of all places, and I have to say, he looked slightly worse for wear. Fynn was dressed in the same clothes from Friday night when I had last seen him, or not, in Partners. Not quite so impeccable; his clothes were caked in mud, and his shirt was stained by something red.

“Are you okay?” was my first question.

He lowered himself into the Saab wearily. “It was a somewhat difficult journey,” he muttered almost under his breath. He looked at me. “What’s wrong, Patrick? You seem rather somber this morning.”

“Nobody does that, not in the real world.”

“What?”

“Disappears into thin air. I saw you.”

“Nonsense, it was a trick of the light, an illusion…” He smiled at me.

“Please don’t say that. I saw you blink out of existence.”

“Alright... I did. Maybe now you can start to believe me?”

“You’re not delusional? Crazy, I mean.”

“No.”

“Am I?”

“No.”

“Okay, I believe you, I think. Now what?”

“Now we solve this crime.”

“Which crime?

“What do you mean?” Fynn asked somewhat confused.

“The night you left… Two girls, killed in the animal shelter… And the day after that, another girl found dead, barefoot.”

“What?”

“Alyson and Emma were killed at the kennel. God, it’s the most brutal thing you could imagine...” The picture of the crime scene came flooding back to mind; I had trouble continuing. “...Some psycho broke into the shelter and started killing the dogs… The two girls tried to save them… and they were murdered.”

Fynn was speechless for a moment, deep in thought. “You must tell me everything, if you can.”

I sighed and tried to keep a firm grip on the wheel. “It was horrible.”

“You were there? What did you see?”

“Blood, blood everywhere… dead dogs…” I paused. “And I saw the same shoe prints, and the red mark of a cane. It meant nothing to Durbin though.”

“No sign of Roxy?”

“No.” I looked over at Fynn. “This is Mortimer?”

“His cruelty is unmatched. I am forced to think yes. What of this other girl?”

“Dumped in the middle of a salt marsh… Sunday.”

“Like the others?”

“Pretty much.”

“What was different?”

“A pair of red shoes, women’s high heels were found at the scene.”

“Were they her shoes?”

“No, that’s the weird thing… wrong size, Durbin said.”

“What else?”

“Well, I knew this girl.”

“Who is she?”

“Lucinda… she works at the
Chronicle...
or maybe she did.”

“You’re not making much sense, Patrick.”

“It’s a timeline thing… I mean, I know her, she’s really familiar... but she shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not””

“It’s hard to explain. It’s like she replaced someone else.”

“Yes, I remember you saying this at the bar. It’s most curious…”  Fynn paused. “And how do other people view this murder?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is she another mysterious corpse dropped from the sky, or do your colleagues mourn her loss?”

“Oh… the latter.”

“When did she first appear?”

“End of March sometime?”

“What did this girl look like? Blond, pretty?”

“No… a brunette, not pretty at all.”

“Hmm…This murder is somehow different, not like the others. This is not Mortimer out for revenge. Perhaps it is a personal matter for him.”

“A personal matter?”

“Yes, he may have had to kill her for another reason, a reason we do not understand.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I agree.”

“You didn’t do this, right?”

“What are you saying? That I murdered this poor girl?”

“I mean you were gone for three days… you show up again and she’s dead.”

“Patrick!”

“I’m not saying you did. I’m just telling the truth; it crossed my mind and that’s the end of it.”

“How can you think I had anything to do with this?”

“I’m just saying…” All my doubts returned. My suspicions, my fears that he was mentally ill. I reminded myself that I had seen him disappear before my very eyes.

“Fair enough, at least you are being honest with me,” Fynn said with calming effect. “I must speak with Detective Durbin as soon as I can.”

“Do you want to call him?” I offered Fynn my cell. “He’ll want to know where you were all this time.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve been gone awhile. I think he’s pissed.”

“Pissed?” Fynn didn’t take my meaning.

“Angry. He’s going to ask about this.”

“I was meeting a colleague of mine from Amsterdam... I may have to return...”

“Really?”

“It sounds fairly reasonable.”

“What if he checks?”

“I doubt I’m a suspect.” Fynn smiled easily.

“Where did you really go?”

“I went forward for a time. Quite unexpected. It was something of a trial though…”

“A bad jump?”

“To the contrary. This was one of my more successful jumps. I merely went ahead for two days and waited for you to catch up. Rather easy.”

“Why the bus ride then?”

“It was a good jump in time, not so much in distance. I ended up in the state of Pennsylvania. I landed in some deep woods… It was difficult to return, geographically speaking.”

“But by bus?”

“Ah, your nation seems to lack proper trains.”

“Never really thought about it.”

“Did you know there are bears in Pennsylvania?” the inspector asked.

“I heard that, yeah, Jersey and New York too.”

“This was a surprise to me at least.”

“Why not just slip back to my present?”

“To when, to where? To before we met? Before I leapt off the barstool?” Fynn smiled. “That would have done no good at all.”

“Right.” I said, actually understanding what he meant. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Jump off to the future the other night.”

“I thought it would be indisputable proof.”

“It was, it is…”

“Well, I must make choices like everyone else, decisions that I think will bring Lorraine and my daughter Anika back to me. This is one of them. Without your help, I am nowhere. And I would not have such, unless I could prove that I am exactly who I say. So I took the risk.”

“That’s one helluva risk.”

“Yes well, I prefer to travel outdoors, not from inside a bar room.”

I dialed Durbin and handed Fynn my phone. My attention wavered and I slipped into a daze, eyes on the road, speeding down the pavement. I’m not sure how much time passed but Fynn was handing my phone back before I realized it.

“What did he say?”

“Detective Durbin? Well, he failed to mention Sunday’s killing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No way. He didn’t say anything?”

“Very little… nor is there much to say. Aside from the red high heels, the crime scene seems to be utterly devoid of clues.” Fynn paused. “I presume you took photographs?”

“I did… they’re in my bag if you want a look.” I reached into the backseat and handed Fynn my satchel.

***

The inspector seemed most eager to visit the crime scene at Doctor Samuels’ animal kingdom. Pissed or not, we got permission from Durbin. For now the whole place was closed up for the season. It was hard to go back, for me at least. It dragged up all those fresh memories. When we got out of the car, Fynn made a bee-line towards the animal hospital. I stopped him in his tracks.

“Inspector, the kennels, the shelter, it’s over there…”

“Yes, Patrick but I’m not at all interested in this.”

“How can you say that?” I could feel my anger rising.

“I’m sorry, I realize it was a painful experience for you, but honestly, I am confident in Durbin’s assessment of what occurred. And you found the bloody cane mark and the shoe print. This is most important.” He paused to look at me. “Of course, the two girls showed extraordinary courage. That is beyond question, and tragic, yes, but for the moment, irrelevant.”

“You’ve got to fix this, Fynn.”

“I do, I agree, but my information is still incomplete.”

Fynn went directly to Doctor Samuels’ office. The room was a mess and behind crime scene tape. Anything that could be overturned was. There were papers scattered on the floor. The kitschy little animals were scattered throughout, but most of them dumped on the carpet. “Still looking for Roxy’s collar?” I asked.

“What’s important here are the two things that have not changed,” Fynn said, staring around at the virtual destruction of Samuels’ office.

“Changed, as in timelines?”

“No, as in evidence.”

“You mean since the first time that we were here?”

“Yes.”

I looked around again and thought about the data storage museum. The armoire door was open and everything had fallen on the floor. I looked down the basement stairs. It was dark. The light was off. “I’m looking for what’s the same but all I can see are the differences.”

“Ah, how often we fail to look up,” Fynn said.

“Look up?”

“For clues… we always forget.” His eyes went to the ceiling.

Mine followed. All I saw was the old fashioned alabaster chandelier. It was just a decorative stone bowl suspended by three brass chains. I looked over at Fynn. He was standing by the wall near the light switch. He flipped it on and looked up again. I could now see the shadow of something in the bowl, maybe something like a snake. I jumped up on Samuels’ desk, then reached in. Luckily it didn’t bite back. Sure enough, it was Roxy’s collar. I looked over at Fynn. He was smiling.

“If I had to guess, I would say, the good doctor hid it there, perhaps at the last possible moment.”

“Last possible moment?” I asked and slipped the collar into my back pocket unthinkingly.

“Before he was killed.” He gave me a grave look. “Though this is secondary. There is something else the same.” Fynn went to the basement door and closed it. In the corner was a round wicker basket full of walking sticks. Of all the things in the room, it remained undisturbed. It was still upright.

“That’s the same?”

“Only one cane is missing.”

“Mortimer’s?”

“I cannot say for certain… I have seen him only once before with such a thing. A curious thing, the head of an animal, a jackal perhaps.” Fynn paused. “I’ve come to believe that Mortimer is trapped here in this time and place. Or at least he was for a while.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His actions seem rather reckless to me.”

“Such as?”

“All these killings in the present,” Fynn said and considered further. “Why kill in the present when he could easily travel to the past and change everything?”

“What, you think this cane makes him travel?”

Fynn turned and eyed me. “That is not something I’ve considered at all, yet… you may be onto something.”

“So if the cane is gone, he’s not stranded anymore?”

“You may well be correct in this, unfortunately.”

***

I dropped Fynn back to his hotel. Room 309. That was right at least, well sort of. I made my way to Middle Cove. It was hot, unseasonably so, close to ninety degrees. A good time to hit the beach. Despite the traumas of the last few days, the
Chronicle
had to continue, we had all agreed, and that meant finishing the Summer Preview Issue. I had three stops to make, integral to the Night Life Guide, and started in the north at the Beachcomber. Each club has a slightly different character and presumably drew in a different crowd. It seemed that from year to year or season to season, one club would be in vogue and the other two would suffer. Still, on the weekends they were all packed to capacity. All three nightclubs worked very hard to out-gimmick each other. All three also had something else in common: tiki torches and citronella.

The Beachcomber, Shorties and Sneaky Pete’s… I wondered what it would be like to slip back in time to the disco era… a frightening thought really… Still, it might make a good piece to look at these clubs from an almost historical perspective. They all had different names in the past, funny, weird names:
Zardoz
,
Sandy’s
,
Disco-a-Go-Go
…
Dead in the Water
…
Margaritaville
… the
Blue Lagoon
…
Tupelo Honey
…
Tiki Tina’s
…
Yabadaba-Do
. I’d have to follow up with Kevin on this.

The Beachcomber boasted three walls of mirrors, probably the classiest place of the bunch. This only added to the legend of how crowded the club could actually get. It always looked twice as big as it was, and had twice as many people dancing, though half of them were mere reflections. Still, it had a huge indoor dance floor, replete with disco balls and an outdoor bar. The manager was nowhere to be found but I got some help from the staff. They were all friendly and very sorry to hear about the Policeman’s Ball being cancelled. Someone handed me a schedule of the upcoming shows. It included some B-List bands, a couple of formerly famous solo acts, stand-up comics and even a magic show. I read down the list. “Wow is this right?” I asked somebody on staff.

“What?”

“White Keys and Black Stripes? Isn’t that backwards?”

“Don’t think so.”

Next was Shorties, about a ten minute walk down the beach. There was a crew of electricians working on the dance floor, installing extra strobe lights I was told. Indeed the whole sound system was new this season. It promised to generally kick ass. Shorties was the most shack-like of the clubs, pretty much open on three sides. The dance floor was a low patio right on the beach. Nothing was covered, no roof at all— if it rained, the place was empty. Otherwise you were dancing with the stars, well under them. Only the assistant manager was around and she seemed a bit preoccupied with all the renovations.

“Karaoke three nights a week?” I asked her.