Sandy Gingras - Lola Polenta 01 - Swamped (28 page)

“It’s a residential institution for the mentally ill. He was visiting his wife.”

“Ernie was blackmailing him about that?”

“Gene Swan assaulted his wife 35 years ago. She bumped her head on their fireplace when he knocked her down, and she didn’t get up the same person. They called it an accident back then. But it’s in the police report. He confessed to pushing her. Domestic abuse just wasn’t the crime then that it is now. He didn’t do any jail time,” he tells me. “He visits her once a week. I talked to him about it. He says she doesn’t recognize him at all. He brings her Trix cereal and coloring books; he told me those are her favorite things.”

“Trix?” I say.

“Ernie was blackmailing him,” the detective continues, “for forty dollars a week. He seems to have a deep sense of shame about it all. He never re-married. He’s got pictures of her up all over his trailer. Sad, really.”

“So you don’t think he killed Ernie.”

“He’s actually the only one with an alibi. He was at his bowling league at the time of Ernie’s murder. He’s got seven witnesses, and he bowled a 133 and a 125. He keeps all of his scorecards in a file.”

“How about William then? Do you think he’s gay?”

“He was there. Odds are…”

“Does he say that Ernie was blackmailing him?”

“He takes the fifth. He says prayers…”

“How come you’re not a teacher anymore?” I ask. It’s been bugging me.

“That was a long time ago,” he says. “Curious George,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“When my wife died, I decided to go into police work.”

“Why?” I ask. I never noticed how big his hands are. He’s holding them stiffly at his sides, but I can still see the breadth of them. They’re like baseball mitts. Suddenly I think how soft it would feel to lean into those hands.

“She had a brain aneurysm,” he says. “It was very sudden. One moment, she was here, then, no. I was left with Juju. It was crazy. Juju was so innocent. It’s funny how you think you can protect that.” He trails off.

“You find any more evidence, call me,” he says turning for the door. “And no more snooping around in bushes.” He almost smiles.

“Oh, that,” I say.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt or your buddy that you keep dragging around with you.”

“Dragging?” I say.

“Or killed,” he warns me as he walks out the door.

Just then Squirt buzzes me on the intercom.

“Mr. Drainage is here,” Squirt says. She loves to rub it in. “Are you ready for Mr. Drainage?”

“I believe I am,” I tell her. I go out to the waiting room and shake his hand. It’s clammy. We go back to my office. His alligator boots clip clop on the linoleum.

“So?” he says when he sits down.

“I did surveillance on the home and I spoke with Mr. Bull directly.”

“You didn’t tell him…”

“Of course not,” I say. “We were just talking generally about marriage and relationships. He told me that he still sleeps with his wife. That their relationship is distant but stable. When I observed them in their home, that’s what I saw too.”

Mr. Drainage’s head slumps into his hands.

I let him sit there like that. Pretty soon, he shakes his head and raises his face. “I guess I’m relieved,” he says.

“What?” I say.

“Yeah. Now I won’t have to do anything. Everything can just go on the way it was.”

I pause.

“Well, thank you,” he says.

I get up and shake his hand. “You can pay at the desk,” I tell him. He leaves.

“Sheesh,” I tell Squirt. She’s over by the waiting room with a dust broom and pan. “What are you doing?” I ask her.

“He was picking his boots while he waited. There’s dried alligator skin all over the floor,” she says.

Something clicks in my head.

I call Miss Tilney. “What did you find out about the cow thing?”

“Nothin’,” Miss Tilney reports.

“Do you know anyone who has a jacket or something made out of cow hide?” I ask.

“I have a giraffe jacket!” she says.

“Really?”

“Well, it’s fake giraffe skin. It’s a shortie, like a jeans jacket, but it has the pattern of a giraffe. It’s made of pleather. You should see when I wear it to the zoo. The giraffes follow me around.”

“I bet that’s something to see,” I tell her. It’s hard to picture her in a little giraffe outfit. “Do you know anyone who wears anything made out of cowhide, you know, with the hair?” I ask her.

“That’s kind of a Western look. Maybe Gladys or Susie have a vest or something. They go line dancing at the club house. I’ll ask around. I’ll say I need to borrow something cow-hidey for the next Rodeo Night.”

“Good idea,” I say. “Just be careful.”

Chapter 50

Joe and I are on our way to church with George. George’s car blurts its way down the streets of Ft. Palms.

“Did you know William has a tattoo?” I ask him.

“No. I never saw it. He’s always fully dressed when I’m around. Where is it?”

“Left bicep.”

“Of what?”

“I couldn’t tell. Maybe you could ask your mother?”

“I’ll try,” he says doubtfully. “He’s been keeping her real close ever since the police questioned him. Did you happen to climb on my car when you were spying on William?” he asks.

“Yeah, I had to.”

“I thought I saw sneaker prints,” he tells me.

“I hope Squirt doesn’t show up at the church,” I tell them. “Ever since she shot the Tarot guy she’s been itching to get out from behind the desk.”

“She shot someone?” George asks.

“It was a Nerf gun,” I tell him.

“Interesting,” he says. “Who?”

“Ivan the Tarot Master. Another phony. I told her she couldn’t come today. I was afraid of what she’d do to William.”

“You think she would shoot him for me with a real gun?” George asks.

I look out at the sidewalk. People are staring at us. There’s a flame painted on the back of the car, and the top is down.

I ignore him.

“We have to solve this case soon,” I tell them. “Richie and Susie are going to Disney tomorrow.”

“I love Disney,” George says.

I look at him.

“It’s a small small world,” he sings.

“Anyway…,” I say. “I looked up your mom,” I tell George kind of apologizing. “I didn’t know that she worked as a bank teller.”

“She worked herself up to assistant manager before my dad died,” he tells me. “Everyone in town knew her and trusted her. That’s why it was so surprising when… her behavior… well, changed.”

“That’s when she started drinking, right?” I ask.

He nods.

“I read about her arrest record,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says, “my mother the bank manager arrested for shoplifting $2000 worth of underwear and stuff from Neiman Marcus…”

“That’s a lot of underwear,” Joe says.

“You’d be surprised at how little…,” George says, “from that place.”

We pull up to the church. Over the neon sign that says, “Life Fitness,” someone taped a poster that has “Church of the Holy Innocents” magic-markered a little crookedly on it.

We walk in and follow arrows through a room of treadmills until we reach a windowless room filled with folding chairs. A lanky man in a too large suit hands us a sheet of paper and says, “Welcome.” Then he tells us that the men have to sit on the left, the women on the right. So we go to our sides and sit down. Almost all of the women ARE fat or at least chunky. They are all wearing dull colored long dresses with pleats and round collars. A little white lace beanie is pinned to their hair. They look a lot like pilgrims. The men are a motley assortment of all shapes and sizes. They are mostly middle aged, and I can’t pinpoint it, but some of them have a straggly way about them as if they are homeless people all cleaned up. Some have this hollow eyed intensity that makes them look crazy. They are all wearing white button down shirts buttoned to the neck.

I don’t like it here. The floor is a huge rubberized mat so it smells like a wrestling match. This must be the aerobics room because there are wall to wall, floor to ceiling mirrors on three of the walls. Posters are taped to some of the mirrors that say “Kick Box!” or “Zumba!” I should sign up for the Zumba class while I’m here.

The church is surprisingly full and the air conditioning is not doing its job. Everyone is sweating. A tape player with its bass turned up full is playing some organ music so the room seems to vibrate with every chord.

William is standing behind a folding table at the front of the room. His head is bowed and his hands are clasped. He’s wearing a brown monk-like robe with a hood. He looks good in the robe, ramrod tall and straight, but a little too dapper maybe—almost like Dean Martin in a lounge robe. I can see him mixing a cocktail, waiting for Doris Day to come over. There’s something not-quite-holy about it.

Some men in white robes enter the room and dim the lights. They light a row of pillar candles on the front table and also on a table behind William. The effect, with all the mirrors, is eerie. The whole room glows with reflection and the air seems to shimmer.

In all the reflection, I suddenly see Squirt sitting three rows behind me but in the men’s section. Uh oh, I think. She has a very square business suit on. She looks a little like an armored car. Some man is tapping her on the shoulder and pointing toward the woman’s side of the room. She turns her whole body toward him and gives him a withering look. He tries again, but to no avail. I don’t know why she’s so stubborn. I turn and glare at her and mouth, “What are you DOING here?” but she ignores me. As I say—stubborn.

The organ music shifts and William starts singing. I have to give him this much, he has a good voice. Everyone rises and joins in. It’s kind of a rousing-up song. I hope this is not a church where you have to clap along. I hate those kinds of churches. But everyone sits down, and there’s some repetitious droning and muttering. Then, they dim the lights even more to almost complete darkness. Only William is lit up by all the candles. He moves, ghostlike, pouring wine into a chalice and kneeling and bowing over a loaf of bread. It’s hypnotic watching him go through his steps.

Then people start lining up. I mean everyone except me and Joe. George left early in the ceremony to go to the restroom and has never come back. I look at Joe and shrug. He nods back. We just sit there. But guess who we see in line? There’s Squirt navigating toward the front of the church like a Hummer. I cringe. She has the determined look about her that got us into all that trouble the last time. When she gets to William, I see him give her a you-are-not-one-of-my-pilgrims pause. But Squirt’s mouth is open and waiting like a baby bird. He blesses her and dips the bread in the wine and puts it on her tongue. She cruises back to her seat, and I sigh with relief. She sits and then takes a hankie out of her purse and holds it to her lips. She gives a little cough. Then William begins his sermon.

He talks about obedience and rules and loyalty to the religion mostly. Evidently, God has a rule book beyond the Bible, and only the “chosen,” the leaders of the religion, know what’s in it. It is constantly being written by the leaders who channel the rule book directly from God. If you ask me, I think they make it up, but they call it “channeling.” The handout that they gave us when we first came in are of William’s weekly channelings.

I look at it. There are about fifteen items on the page, all attributed to Father William. In a nutshell, it talks about purity of obedience, cleansing of sins, worshipping male sacredness, and the subjugation of women. For example, item number nine, is “Woman shall exult in the glory of man. Thou shalt obey and honor him. Thou shalt bathe his feet and yield in the face of his will.”

It’s yucky, but I have to give the guy credit. He has them all seduced, the men for being turned into Gods, the women because… well, he’s Dean Martin. He sings, he exudes sex and he’s powerful. The women are eating it up. They are in a world where all they have to do is obey. At first glance, making no decisions might seem like a seductive thing. It’s just long term that you’d want to smack someone.

Father William is reading all the fifteen new commandments that he’s made up. The congregation, as a chorus, responds after each one: “Father William, we thank you and bless you.” It’s kind of nauseating.

I get up and go look for George. He’s running on the treadmill. He’s going 6.3 mph in his dress clothes.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“If I don’t run, I’m going to kill that guy,” he tells me.

“Those are slippery shoes,” I warn him.

“This is one of those Kool-Aid cults, isn’t it, where everyone turns into a lemming and jumps off the bridge together?”

“That’s a mixed metaphor,” Joe says walking over to us.

“Is it over?” I ask him.

“They collected the money and now they’re all just milling around Father William, touching his sleeve and bowing and stuff.”

“Ugh,” George says. He’s still running.

“C’mon,” I say, “get off of that thing.”

He hits stop, and the machine slides to a halt. He hops off.

Squirt walks up to us briskly. “Let’s get out of here,” she hisses. She puts her dark glasses on. We go out into the humid Florida evening. There’s a breeze but it’s a hot breeze. The palm trees are tossing in a pink sky.

Nobody else leaves the church behind us.

I introduce Joe and George to Squirt. “Let’s go over here,” she says. She walks us to her car around the corner, her heels clippity clipping.

Squirt places her bag on the hood of her car. “Let me show you this,” she announces. She pops open her bag. She rummages about, then brings out something in both hands. She opens her hands like a flower. We all peer into her hands. Her handkerchief is opened up and there’s the semi-eaten chunk of wine soaked bread.

We all look up at her.

“I’m taking this in for analysis,” she whispers.

Chapter 51

Richie and Susie are leaving for Disney tomorrow, and I don’t have a good feeling about it. I try to distract myself.

So I take the P.I test again. When I get ten wrong, a little flag goes up on the computer screen that says, “Sorry!” It takes me about five minutes. The woman at the desk is beginning to recognize me. I should really study. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe I do sabotage myself.