by Lynda Curnyn
“Morning,” another passing jogger belted out.
I nodded. Who liked to talk during a jog?
Jogging was when I did all my thinking.
What I was wondering now was why Tom was convinced his wife was better off dead when it was clear to me that he was better off. An oceanfront house free and clear and—judging from the number of women who cozied up to him at the party last night— a range of choices for Mrs. Tom Landon Number Three.
If he wasn’t a murderer, then I understood less about men than I realized. Which was why I decided pursue another trail. Maggie’s…
The first thing I noticed about the Fair Harbor Market once I was standing before it, sweaty and heaving, was that it was a helluva lot bigger than Kismet Market. Big enough to carry a full wall of produce, a freezer case full of fish, meat and poultry and quite possibly…coriander.
I ducked inside and headed straight for the produce aisle, feeling in the know now that I have already purchased the herb—it was right by the produce in Gourmet Garage. But as my eyes roamed over rows of tomatoes, lettuce, bananas and apples, all I realized was that I was starving. I hadn’t had breakfast yet, and I was way too hungry to be in a supermarket without a dollar to my name.
And covered in sweat, I realized, catching sight of myself in the security mirror at the end of the aisle.
“Can I help you?”
Startled, I looked up to find myself face-to-face with a tow-headed teenager who was eyeing me suspiciously. Probably because I had been staring way too long at the security mirror.
“Do you sell coriander?”
He frowned and I felt a momentary triumph. At least I’m not the only one who never heard of the herb until two weeks ago. But then I noticed the henna tattoo on the back of his hand and realized he was way too young to know anything yet. “Is that like…an herb or something?”
Or something. “Yeah. Exactly.” Look at me. Educating the young. Who says there’s no hope for me?
He nodded, then turned toward the condiment aisle, bypassing a line of mustard, ketchup and pickle relish, to a smallish section that I could see at a glance contained cayenne, garlic powder, salt…
Everything except coriander.
Now what? I thought once I stood outside the store again, blinking against the sunlight. So the store doesn’t sell coriander. Doesn’t prove that she didn’t come there looking for it, as Tom claimed to me and, I can only assume, to the police.
You think she would have called and checked first. But I have no way of verifying whether she did or not.
Okay, so she comes up to Fair Harbor Market and, distraught over not finding her key ingredient, she decides to walk home along the beach.
God, maybe it was a suicide.
Who kills themselves over an herb?
I headed for the beach, figuring at the very least I could finish my run on a more scenic route. At best, I might be able to figure out what was going through Maggie’s head.
As I climbed the wooden walkway to the beach, I wondered if she’d even come to the market that night. I’m not sure what time she died. Nick claimed she was still home when he left for The Inn at seven-thirty, which meant she must have headed to Fair Harbor some time after that.
Was the Fair Harbor market even open at 7:30 p.m.? I know Kismet market wasn’t open that late. Not until the full season began. And full season didn’t begin until July Fourth.
I turned around, jogged back to the market.
“What time does the market close?” I asked the cashier, a short, dark-haired girl who stood studying the split ends at the tips of her hair.
“Eight o’clock,” she answered, not looking up from her inspection.
“What about before July Fourth? Like on a Saturday night?”
She looked up. “Seven,” she answered, eyeing me as if I were a simpleton for not knowing that.
The big question was, had Maggie known it? Did she even go to the market that night? And if so, what the hell was she doing during the two and a half hours between when Nick saw her at the house and the time I found her on the beach?
She wasn’t just chopping vegetables, I thought, remembering that most of her meal was left unmade. Where did she go?
Not to the beach, I realized, once I climbed down the wooden steps to it. The sun didn’t set until at least eight-thirty in June. In fact, it was just starting to go down when I left the city that night, around eight. I can only assume she wasn’t inspired to strip down naked and dive in during daylight. It was hard to imagine Maggie skinny-dipping at all, much less doing it at a time when the whole world might catch a glimpse of her goods.
I headed for the shore, walking at a brisk pace.
Okay, so let’s assume Maggie did go to the store and then realized belatedly it was closed. She then decided to walk home. Why not? She was in no hurry. Dinner was already ruined, I remembered, trying to shake off my own guilt for my part in that. Besides, walking along the beach was nice. Especially when the sun was going down.
Once I began to pass through Saltaire, I remembered that Tom was in Saltaire the night of the drowning—or so he said. At the chief of security’s house. Maybe he walked home along the beach, ran into Maggie. A fight ensued. I mean, they had been fighting earlier that night, at least according to Nick. I wondered if Tom had mentioned that little detail to the police. I also wondered if the chief of security at Saltaire had hedged about the time Tom had left the house. God, did people do that? It seemed insane to imagine a man charged with law enforcement for his hamlet would do such a thing, but people stuck together on Fire Island. I suppose anything was possible. There was no one else to corroborate the story. No witnesses. It wasn’t even the full season yet, so it was possible the beach was empty. It was never really full of people at night. There had been no one on it when I had taken my walk with Myles last summer. And there was no one on it when I took my ill-fated stroll withjanis.
But Maggie was naked. Did a woman fighting with her husband suddenly drop her drawers?
Unless the husband was playing apologetic. Maybe he’d even seduced her into the water.
Did married people seduce one another?
There was always the possibility that Maggie was with someone else. Like a lover. I thought of Donnie Havens and his hot-tub parties, then quickly shook off the thought, remembering his hairpiece. God, if Maggie was having an affair, I would hope she would choose better.
Then I remembered that she had been pretty cozy with Nick that first weekend. Not that I thought Nick could be responsible for taking another life. Hell, he could hardly keep his own together. Besides, he barely knew Maggie. Yeah, he was a fast operator when it came to women, but not only would he have had to have started an affair, it would also have had to spiral pretty far out of control for him to murder her.
Jesus, where was I going with this? Nick was my friend. I’d know if he was a murderer. Right?
Maybe I was trusting my gut too much, but my gut said Tom. Myles always said I relied a bit too hard on my instincts, which sometimes got me into trouble. It was one of the reasons I had a difficult time finding film work these days. I had become known as a bit of a maverick in the industry—that was the polite word for loose cannon—when I had exposed a manufacturing company for illegal dumping in the midst of making a corporate video for them. Yeah, I lost the gig—you didn’t turn the camera against the company who was bankrolling you and expect them to be grateful. But at least the company had been slapped with a big enough fine to keep them from doing that again. Of course, the job offers hadn’t exactly flowed in after that little incident.
I shook my head, trying to bring myself back to the present situation, wishing, as I did, that I had Myles to bounce ideas off of. He was always so level-headed, and I’ll admit I needed that kind of sounding board when I was concocting my conspiracy theories.
Or in this case, murder theories.
Now, gazing around at the beachgoers as I entered the hamlet of Kismet, I wished I would
run into Myles, despite my disheveled appearance. Just to talk this through. He’d always been such a good listener…
Then I remembered that Myles was likely discussing legal matters and God-knows-what-else with a certain blonde in a yellow bikini.
Jerk.
Still, I found myself combing the beach for him as I walked. I wasn’t sure what I needed more, to see Myles and be reminded that he wasn’t mine anymore, or to talk to him and remember that he should be. We were so good together…
My heart stopped when my gaze fell upon a golden-brown head, standing beside a small motorbike with four wheels—a quad, I think they’re called—a hundred yards away. The face, even hidden behind silver aviator glasses, was familiar, but I realized right away it wasn’t Myles. Though it could have been, had Myles followed in his cop father’s footsteps like he’d once planned. This guy was in uniform, a Suffolk County police uniform, and looking a bit like Mr. Callahan probably did back in the day.
Then I remembered I had seen this cop before. He was the officer who had responded to the 9-1-1 call the night of the murder. I’m sorry, did I say murder? Drowning. Myles would say “innocent until proven guilty,” which was probably why he was up for a job in the D.A.‘s office, while I was lucky if I would eat next week.
Before I could think twice, I was hurrying over to the aforementioned officer, who was just about to get on his quad and drive off now that he’d finishing chastising a dog owner for allowing his golden retriever to frolic on the beach without a leash.
It’s a wonder these guys weren’t investigating Maggie’s death a little more thoroughly. I mean, really—ticketing dog owners? Surely murder was more interesting.
“Excuse me?” I yelled, seeing as my only link to the non-case was just about to ride off down the beach without satisfying my now rampant curiosity. “Officer…“ I tried to remember his name, then realized I didn’t have to remember when I jumped in front of the quad he sat on, catching a glimpse of his nameplate as I did. ”Officer Barnes?“
He stopped, turning his sunglassed gaze on me and making me very aware of my sweat-stained T-shirt and running shorts.
He lifted his aviators for a better look, and I thought I saw a flicker of interest in those baby blues he revealed.
No way. I certainly wasn’t going to win any beauty pageants in this sweaty getup.
“Hi,” I said, uncertainly. “You probably don’t remember me…”
He dropped his glasses back on his nose. “I remember you,” he replied coolly. Or maybe it just seemed cool. Everyone sounded cooler when speaking from behind aviator glasses. Beneath those aviators was a strong jaw, stubborn mouth, straight nose. Regulation cop. Where did they find this guy—central casting?
“You were at the house the night of the 10-32,” he said.
“10-32?”
“Oh, sorry.” His lips quirked ruefully. “The drowning incident.”
Definitely central casting. He had the part down pat. Still, I answered politely. “Yes, I was. Good memory.”
“I never forget a pretty face.”
Holy cow. This guy was checking me out. The breeze blew, pressing my damp shirt against my breasts. Seduction by sweat. Hey, maybe some guys were into that sort of thing.
I had never used sex appeal to my advantage. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I knew how. Still I was willing to take a crack at it. In the name of justice, of course.
Giving him what I hoped was my most winning smile, I said, “Zoe Keller, in case you’re not as good at names.” I held out a hand, which he looked at for a moment, then shook. Mmm, nice grip. “I guess that doesn’t happen every day either?”
His expression was puzzled as he looked down at our linked hands.
“A 10-32,” I prompted, dropping my hand.
“Oh, that. Actually, it happens more often than you think,” he said, leaning back on his quad. “Do you know that last summer there were thirty-seven water-related accidents in Suffolk County alone?”
I felt my eyes bulge. Maybe I was making too much out of this. “Really?”
His chest seemed to visually puff up. “Well, not all of them resulted in a DB.”
“A DB?”
He smiled. “Sorry. Dead body. But nine out of ten times, it’s usually an alcohol-related incident. Victim has a few drinks and gets into the water. Kinda like your friend there.”
I frowned. Why did this story seem so simple to everyone else? “How many people would you say skinny-dip by themselves?”
His eyebrows raised and I saw that smile tinge his lips once again. “You know, we don’t have statistics on that. How about you?”
“Me? I don’t have any statist—”
“No, skinny-dip. Ever do it?”
“Uh, no,” I replied, feeling like a prude. Worse, a sweaty prude. I didn’t care what this guy thought, I reminded myself.
Was he looking at my breasts?
Okay, maybe I did. “How about you?” I asked, even though this conversation was slowly becoming beside the point. “Ever skinny-dip?”
“Sure,” he replied. Something about the way his mouth clenched made me think he was just boasting. I suddenly wished I could see his eyes.
As if he read my mind, he lifted his glasses. “Perhaps someone should show you what you’ve been missing,” he said, his gaze intent on mine.
Uh, nope. He wasn’t boasting.
I felt my body tighten, and as soon as it did, a wave of embarrassment followed. What was I doing panting after some cop on a motorbike? I wasn’t… I wasn’t that kind of girl. Besides, I was never too good around authority figures, witness the scar over my left eye, earned when a cop tried to stop me from plowing through a police barricade with my camera during an antiwar demonstration.
I dropped my gaze to his chest, noticed it was looking rather firm under his sexy little uniform.
Maybe I was that kind of girl.
Since I was too embarrassed to find out, I got back to the matter at hand. “Let me ask you something,” I said, studying the Marine Bureau insignia on his chest, “is there any way to tell when a person drowns, how it happened? I mean, if the person was pulled under by a wave. Or, say…a person.”
He dropped his glasses back down now that I had turned to less flirtatious subjects.
“Well, generally speaking, the first thing you look for is evidence of a struggle. Torn clothes. Marks on the body.”
“And were any marks found on the body?”
“Well, I was the first officer on the scene, and I didn’t see any,” he said defensively. Then his lips firmed, as if he remembered something. “I really shouldn’t even be talking about this case.”
“Really? Why?”
“It wouldn’t be ethical.”
I bit my lip. Leave it to me to find a noble cop. But it didn’t make sense. Last I checked, all civilians were entitled to information contained in police records due to the Freedom of Information Act. I knew that much. Hadn’t I dug into files myself, while filming my doc on homelessness, when I needed information on one of my subjects who went missing three weeks before I was done? Yes, I could go the official route, but I knew it would take time. And if Maggie was murdered, I didn’t have time.
I was going to have to appeal to Barnes’s ego. And if the way his chest was all puffed up was any indication, this might have been his first big case. He couldn’t have been any older than my own thirty. He probably hadn’t handled many DBs, as he called them. “Well, maybe you can just speak generally about…about 10-32s. I just find this stuff fascinating, Officer Barnes.”
“Jeff,” he replied. Then he smiled. “You can call me that. Since we’re speaking unofficially.”
“Jeff,” I repeated, smiling right back at him. “So if there is no evidence of a struggle, that would rule out someone pushing the victim under? What if the victim knew the person?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter if it was the victim’s best friend pushing her under. If a person is being forced under water sh
e—or he—is going to fight it. Kicking, scratching. Something always turns up—a DNA sample under the nails, for example.”
He said this with such confidence, I was starting to believe that maybe I had been unduly suspicious. Then I thought of something. “How do you know the victim wasn’t dead when she went into the water?”
“Well, that’s easy enough. When a person drowns, they inhale water into the lungs. The medical examiner would be able to tell that due to the condition of the lungs, the presence of microorganisms from the water in the person’s system.”
Micro-organisms? Yuck. Even if Maggie wasn’t murdered, drowning didn’t sound like the most pleasant of deaths.
“What if she—that is, the victim—was unconscious? Would she inhale water then?”
He stiffened. “Look, Zoe, I don’t know what your interest is in this case, but I don’t feel comfortable talking in too much detail…”
That was interesting. What had made him so uncomfortable? I switched tracks. “Oh, well. I guess I can go to the department to get my information. But it’s too bad. That’ll take time, and I was hoping to get my research down before I started filming.”
“Filming?” he replied, his interest piqued.
Gotcha, I thought, trying not to smile. Worked like a charm every time. I knew from long experience that it was easy to get somebody to talk about a subject if they knew their words might one day be immortalized on film.“I’m a documentary filmmaker. I directed Invisible People, a piece on New York City’s homeless. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
He frowned. “No, I haven’t.”
So much for my ego.
Still, he seemed interested. “What are you working on now?”
“Oh, just something on water-related accidents. For PBS.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Well, I can answer a few questions, I suppose.”
Bingo.“So let me ask you, how can you tell if a person was conscious—in any sort of drowning, that is—before he or she hit the water? What if she was hit over the head? Or he,” I added, quickly.
“Well, as I already mentioned, we would look for evidence of a struggle. If she had suffered a blow to the head rendering her unconscious, the autopsy would reveal that.”
