Mermaid

by Tom Lowe

  No one raised a hand.

  “Excellent,” Myers said, turning to the crew members next to him, gesturing to a tall, powerfully built man in a black T-shirt, shorts, and black leather boat shoes. “This is Cliff Newton. Cliff is one of our second unit directors, working mostly with the stunt team. He’ll also be working with you folks today to talk about how some of the scenes will be set up and done. To my left is someone you met during casting, Sebastian Gunter. Next to him is our art director, Jonathan Lloyd. Next to Jonathan is Doctor Howard Ward. Doctor Ward isn’t a physician. He holds a master’s degree in marine sciences and a Ph.D. in oceanography and is recognized as one of the world’s foremost authorities on dolphin research.”

  Savannah listened intently, intrigued with the consultant’s background. Maybe he’ll offer me some career advice, she thought, excitement building.

  Mark Myers said, “As a consultant on the film, Doctor Ward will be ensuring continuity in all of the swimming scenes. Any questions … anyone?”

  None of the extras raised their hands. Savannah bit one corner of her lower lip, raised her hand, her heart beating faster.

  “Yes,” Myers said, pointing to her.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time on surfboards, like here in Florida and lots of places. I’ve had a chance to surf and swim with dolphins. And, when I’ve fallen off my board, especially in very deep water, I try to swim like a dolphin just to get to the surface.”

  Doctor Ward smiled, the lights from the pool reflecting off his glasses. “Excellent,” he said. “How do you do that?”

  “By not using my hands. Only my legs and feet, kicking.”

  Ward beamed. “Very good. You’re correct.” He looked at all of the extras and said, “Before we get started, I have a short video I want to share with everyone here. It’s a video my colleagues and I shot two years ago during our dolphin research project. The visuals will give you an excellent idea of what we want to achieve in the water and on camera.” He paused and looked at the notes he held in one hand. “Basically, here’s what I want you folks to remember … a dolphin gets its speed from its torso down through its tail. Fish swim with a side-to-side motion of their tails. Not so for dolphins. They use up and down motions. You must learn to move your tail using your stomach and leg muscles making up and down S movements through the water – especially underwater.” He nodded.

  Mark Myers said, “There you have it. So, here we don’t want you to swim like a fish. We want you to swim like a dolphin, and you’ll turn in the kind of on-camera performances that will give a sense of authenticity in your roles as mermen and mermaids. Okay, after the video, we’ll have you guys get into costume and start rehearsals because, when we get on the ocean, we want you to be safe and feel secure in your new tails. A lot can happen on the open sea. Afterall, the continent of Atlantis itself was lost out there in the Atlantic Ocean somewhere.” He grinned. “That was only a joke. Let’s move on everyone.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  If he didn’t have to, Detective Grant never made appointments in a criminal investigation. Often, it gave suspects, or even witnesses, too much time to find excuses not to be there, or to volunteer less information. It was human nature. Less involvement, less chances they’ d have to appear in court. That was the general rule, unless they were the victims or the victim’s family. For the latter, to have peace of mind or to gain some type of closure, there was a sense of urgency they felt in having the crime solved and the criminal prosecuted. He felt the urgency, too, and wanted to give them the answers they needed.

  Grant thought about that as he and Detective Lawson drove their unmarked police cruiser up to the production offices for the movie, Atlantis. The film company had leased a large, two-story country house with five acres and a swimming pool. The home and property were less than twenty miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean, west of Daytona Beach. As part of the short-term rental agreement, the producers were given permission to park trailers, campers and semitrucks on the property.

  Grant and Lawson were stopped by a uniformed security guard at the driveway entrance. The guard, wearing sunglasses, held a clipboard and approached the driver’s side of the car. Grant lowered the window, holding up his detective’s ID badge. “Good afternoon. Where can we park?”

  The guard stared at the badge for a second. “Who are you here to see, sir?”

  “We’ll start off with your casting director, Sebastian Gunter. And then we’ll go from there. Where can I find Mr. Gunter?”

  “I’m not sure. Your best bet is to check in at the production office. They can use the radios to find him for you. You can park under those oak trees where you see the other cars. The production office is in a trailer to the left of the house.”

  “Thanks.” Grant and Lawson parked and walked fifty yards toward the trailer. Dozens of people moved about the property. Some carried scripts. Many carried filmmaking equipment. Actors rehearsed lines under the shade of two large tents erected near the swimming pool.

  A catering company, working from two food trucks, served salads and plates of hot food, the smell of garlic and barbecue brisket in the air. There were a half-dozen expensive, seven-figure motorhomes parked in a semi-circle, air-conditioning humming. Anxious production assistants with iPads and walkie-talkies moved in and out of the motorhomes like worker bees bringing pollen to a hive. Most of the staff wore black T-shirts with the words ATLANTIS Film Crew on the front and back of the shirts.

  The detectives approached the production trailer. A wooden deck was built near the entrance where a few people sat under outdoor umbrellas at tables and chairs. Grant and Lawson entered the trailer, the air-conditioning cold. There was no receptionist, but the interior was a hub of human motion. People were darting about with the frenetic motion of impending deadlines, iPads clutched in hands, radio earpieces in one ear, the other ear open for face-to-face communication. Grant counted a dozen makeshift desks and cubicles, people sitting in front of laptop computers, using cell phones, making changes to the production logistics and the latest draft of the screenplay.

  Grant walked toward a woman in her early twenties, brown hair pulled back on the sides. She sat at a portable table, a piece of cold cheese pizza on a paper plate set to one side. Dozens of name tags and security badges in blue lanyards covered half of the table. She put her phone down. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Sebastian Gunter.” Grant moved his sports coat over, revealing the gold shield on his belt. “It’s official police business. Where can we find Mr. Gunter?”

  The woman made a dry swallow. “I’ll see if I can locate him.” She started to use her hand-held radio, but stopped, picking up her phone and making a call. After a few seconds, she said, “Mr. Gunter, this is Jillian in the production trailer. I have two men in the office that are here to see you.”

  Sebastian Gunter was walking toward the pool where a half-dozen actors in swimsuits were training in the water. Many members of the stunt team were there with an assistant second unit director. Gunter held his phone to his ear. “I don’t have any appointments.” He glanced at his watch. “Take a message for me.”

  “Sir, they’re from the sheriff’s office. They’re detectives.”

  Gunter stopped. He looked at the rehearsals going on in the pool, the disjointed, rapid-fire talk on hand-held radios mixing with the chortling of mockingbirds in the pines. “Where are they now?”

  “Standing in front of my desk.”

  “Did they tell you what this is about … why are they here?”

  “No, do you want me to ask?”

  “No. Just tell them I’ll meet them right outside the trailer on the deck in one minute.” He disconnected and started for the trailer.

  Detectives Grant and Lawson were standing on the wooden deck to the left of the entrance to the trailer when Gunter approached them. He had a pinched look on his face. “I’m Sebastian Gunter. What can I do for you?”

  Grant showed him his badge. “I’m Detective Grant and
this is Detective Lawson. We’re with the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office, and we are investigating the death of Michelle Martin.”

  Gunter nodded. “She didn’t actually work here. She was in voluntary training to see how well she could work in costume. We had planned to cast her after the formality of a final call back … but we didn’t get that chance. I really don’t have anything more I can tell you. I’m sorry. It was a sad loss of a young life.”

  Detective Lawson asked, “What role was Michelle to get?”

  “She would have been cast as an extra in the role of a mermaid. We have a lot of girls auditioning for those roles, and we’re about to wrap up the casting. A few will have speaking parts, which it hadn’t been determined if Michelle would have been one of them.”

  Grant jotted in his notepad. “When Michelle’s body was found on the beach, she was wearing the tail of a mermaid. And that costume came from this movie set. Who provided it to her?”

  “The company did. For girls in call-backs or those landing parts, we’re giving them the option to take the tail section of a mermaid costume home if they have access to a swimming pool. Michelle said her family has a pool in their backyard, and she really wanted to practice. In any profession or sport, acting is no different—the more hours logged in practice the better they become. She had a lot of drive and ambition. It’s a tragic loss.”

  Grant leaned slightly forward. Gunter folded his arms. Grant said, “Michelle told her parents that you said she swims like a dolphin, and that you asked her if she’d ever touched a dolphin.”

  Gunter smiled a sardonic smile. “Is there a question in there somewhere detective?”

  “Yes. Did you ask her that?”

  “Perhaps. I can’t say for certain. I talk with all the aspiring actors and actresses. It’s my job. As I recall, Michelle did swim very well. That’s one of the reasons she would land a role in the film.”

  “Why would you have asked her if she’d ever touched a dolphin?”

  “I was interested due to the nature of the storyline for Atlantis.”

  “Are actors going to be around live dolphins for scenes?”

  “That’s currently in the script but, of course, scripts can and do often change.”

  “Why did you tell Michelle that dolphins are passionate? You called them the Romeo and Juliet of the seas.”

  “I never referred to them as Romeo and Juliet … someone else may have. But dolphins can be amorous and frisky, at least that’s what the marine life consultants tell us.”

  Detective Lawson said, “Maybe so, but is that something you should be suggesting to teenage girls?”

  Gunter licked his lips, the sound of a semi-truck pulling onto the property. “I really don’t like the subtext of your question, Detective. I haven’t violated any laws, compromised anyone’s personal space, or said anything that would be construed to violate a sexual etiquette protocol. If information about the nature of dolphins is shared with our cast or crew, it would be because we want them aware and don’t want anyone startled by any natural activity. So, if you have no further questions, I have a job to do.”

  “So, do we,” Grant said. “Before we leave, we want to talk with the director. You can either go get him or we’ll see you both down at the station for further questions. I know all of this isn’t in your script, but the truth of real life is that law enforcement directs the scenes in a murder investigation. Now, go find your director.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was near 11:00 p.m. in Dragonfly’s salon when Wynona and I finished a late meal of grilled redfish, Cajun rice, and a salad. After dinner we washed and dried the dishes together before coming topside to have a drink in the cockpit and watch the stars over the marina. I scanned the area and told her about my conversation with Rex Nelson.

  I poured a glass of chardonnay for Wynona, made myself a Hendricks gin and tonic, picked up Max, and headed to the helm where we took our seats. I set Max down on the cushions. She managed a 360-degree turn before finding the perfect spot and settling between Wynona and me. Max made what could only be described as a contented sigh before closing her eyes.

  An easy breeze came over the marina from the ocean, bringing the scent of the sea and a slight trace of smoldering charcoal from a barbecue grill on Nick’s boat. St. Michael was dark except for the flickering bluish lights of a TV screen coming from one porthole. The wind caused the halyard on Dragonfly to ping against the mast. The little drum roll lasted less than ten seconds before the gust subsided. And then the marina was quiet.

  Wynona watched the moon coming up over the Atlantic. She turned to me and said, “I will reach out to Savannah, take her to lunch and talk. Maybe there’s something I can say that will help her. If nothing else, I’ll be a good listener.”

  “I know you will. That might go a long way in helping her come to grips with this.”

  “Speaking of listening, I want to listen more to you, Sean. I feel there’s something on your mind. I’ve noticed that you’re a little distracted, as if you’re watching for things that go bump in the night. What are those things … those distractions? If it’s truly private thoughts, I’ll respect that. Just let me know.”

  I wanted to tell Wynona about what Detective Ron Hamilton had told me, referring to Timothy Spencer making jailhouse inquiries into hiring a hitman, but I wanted to allow law enforcement the time to handle and contain it. If they could get a wire on the informant, set a trap and get Spencer on tape, the threat would greatly diminish. For Wynona, at this moment in time, I didn’t want to go there. Not until I had to. I said, “I’m concerned for any of the girls hired as mermaids on Atlantis, especially Savannah.”

  “Let’s hope the physical and forensic evidence is growing and that the investigators … your friend Detective Grant, and the others, can make an arrest sooner than later.”

  “That’s my hope.” I reached out and held her hand.

  Wynona watched the reflection of moonlight across the surface of the dark water. “It’s almost a full moon. The moon has always played a big role in the Seminole culture.”

  I sipped my drink. “What kind of role?”

  “A full moon is a time of cleansing. Shedding the skin of the past, if you will, and making a renewal for the days ahead. The Green Corn Dance ceremonies, the annual summer highlight of the tribe, comes the night of the first full moon during the month of June.”

  “What do you remember from your childhood?”

  “When I was a little girl, the events would continue for three days. Not anymore, though. In those days, teenage boys in the tribe, around age thirteen, would follow the medicine man and other elder men into the sweat lodge. They’d drink from a gourd filled with a very dark liquid known as the black drink. I think one of the ingredients was from holly leaves. It was a purification process. There was lots of chanting and singing from the elders. I remember seeing some of the boys come out of the lodge drenched in sweat, heading for the bushes to vomit out the black drink. Part of the ceremony was a coming of age event, understanding Seminole history and keeping the warrior spirit alive in their hearts. A dance called the stomp dance would go on for most of the night. My mother and I would sit together and watch the dance—it was one of the times when she let me stay up late. I loved being with her at those times. She was fun, and she really relished the old ceremonial events and sharing tales with me about her childhood.”

  Wynona sipped her wine, the soft lights of the marina trapped in her pondering eyes. I watched the moon rising and said, “Of all the Native American tribes, maybe the warrior spirit remains the most in the Seminole considering that they never signed a peace treaty.”

  Wynona smiled and then her face turned pensive. She looked at me. “I’m not so sure much of that warrior spirit is in my Seminole blood anymore.” She shook her head. “Maybe it’s because of my mixed blood … my father being from Ireland, my mother a Seminole.”

  “That’s a pretty strong combination—Irish and Seminole. I’d think
that blend of DNA would give you and even greater edge. Maybe not as a warrior, but rather as a strategical thinker, someone who can see beyond the obvious to find the obscure. It’s what made you good with the FBI and later as a detective. It’s what makes you good as a person, too.”

  She gently squeezed my hand. “Not only are you a kind caregiver, nursing me back to health, but you somehow manage to make me feel good about myself when I’ve found it exceeding difficult to do so in the last couple of months.”

  “And that’s one of the reasons we’re taking Dragonfly out and heading for the islands. Once we clear land, there’s no looking back. It’s all behind us. The only thing we’re looking toward is the horizon, and all we’re looking for is the new adventure, turning a new page. Life unscripted. That’s what’s in front of us. And the voyage is discovering what’s on the other side of the other side.” I smiled, leaned in and kissed her, Wynona’s mouth warm, a trace of wine on her lips.

  “You want me to heal inside and out, which I’m doing, thanks to you. But, please remember, through all of this … I don’t need rescuing. I don’t need a white knight. I need understanding. I need time. What do you want to discover on our sailing trip, Sean? It can’t be only about me.”