1st Impressions

by Kate Calloway

  As I opened a bottle of Napa Cabernet, Erica began to trim the artichokes. It was strange, I thought. I barely knew this woman, and yet we were working side by side in the kitchen like two old friends. There was a calmness about her that made me instantly at ease. At the same time, every time our eyes met, I felt a distinct fluttering in my chest. It had been so long since I felt like this that I wasn’t sure I should trust the feeling, so I did my best to avoid looking at her at all.

  “I’ve had two calls, actually,” she said. “The first one came about five o’clock. I answered the phone and someone started going ‘Glub, glub. Glub, glub, glub.’ Like the sound something makes when it’s going under water.”

  “Charming,” I said. “And the second call?”

  “It came right before you called. About seven. This time they talked in a falsetto. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was said ‘Say good night, Walter. Good night, Walter!’ and then there was this sick laughter and they hung up.”

  I handed Erica a glass of wine and took a long swallow myself. “Have you told the police yet? Maybe they can put a tap on your line, in case you get more calls.”

  “I was hoping you could call your friend Martha. I really can’t stand that Sergeant Grimes, even if he is in charge of the investigation. The Sheriff was okay, though. Maybe we should call him?”

  “Well, we should definitely tell someone. This person sounds pretty warped. Any idea how old they were?”

  “I have no idea. The first time they were singing, and even that was done in a kind of falsetto. Obviously, he or she was trying to disguise their voice.”

  “Let me get the coals started, and then I’ll give Martha a call. By the way, she said to give you her regards.”

  Erica blushed. Very interesting, I thought as I took the charcoal to the back deck. Martha might be able to tell a lesbian a mile away, but I was still having trouble figuring Erica out. She certainly didn’t dress like so many dykes I knew, in Levi’s and a flannel shirt. Tonight she was sporting a navy blue silk blouse hanging loosely over white chinos. Simple, but classy. She had the self-assurance and assertiveness that seemed the hallmark of so many lesbians, even during what was obviously a trying ordeal, and I had to admit, my instincts told me she was probably gay. On the other hand, she’d done nothing to indicate an interest in either men or women, and I had no reason to assume that she was anything but straight. Still, there was that unmistakable blush at the mention of Martha’s interest.

  It was just her luck, I thought, to instantly snag the best-looking woman to hit the Oregon Coast in three years. Not that I would have been interested, I told myself, but it was rather amusing. Having been celibate for almost three years, I wasn’t at all sure I’d know what to do even if I were interested. Which I definitely wasn’t, I told myself again, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach. I dialed Martha’s number and told her about the calls.

  “I can probably get a tap put on her line by tomorrow, in case she gets another one, and we should be able to trace the calls she got today. Listen, Cass, I think she’d be better off at the Cedar Hills Lodge. This guy sounds like a real head case. And it looks like what everyone thought was right on. The victim’s penis was sliced off, not just eaten away by the fish like the rest of him. It seems Grimes is half convinced that Erica’s the perp. He needs to know about these calls. The sooner you can get him off her back, the sooner he’ll start looking for someone else. But I know this guy, Cass. He’s a bulldog. Once he gets an idea in his fat head, he can’t let it go.”

  “I think I’ll call Sheriff Booker,” I said. “He might listen to me, and I think Grimes might listen to him. Unfortunately, I doubt your friend Grimes would listen to one thing I had to say to him. I’m afraid I’ve already ticked him off.”

  “That figures. The guy’s not just homophobic, he’s woman-phobic! Not to change the subject, but how’s Grimes’s number one suspect holding up?”

  “Pretty well, considering,” I said. “I think between being grilled by cops all day and getting those phone calls, she’s a little gun shy. As soon as we finish dinner, I’m going to ask her over to my place. I agree with you, staying here is not a good idea.”

  “Oh ho!” Martha said. “I see.”

  “What?” I asked. “You see what?” The silence that followed answered my question perfectly. At that moment, Erica walked back into the room and I was unable to defend myself at all. Well, I’d set Martha straight later. In the meantime, her chuckling was making my face turn hot. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I said. “I want to talk to Sheriff Booker before it gets too late. Let me know what you find out about the phone tap, okay?”

  “Sure thing, lover,” she said, laughing. “And take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up, trying not to be irked by Martha’s devious, one-track mind.

  I reached Sheriff Booker on my first try and explained about the two crank calls. I then told him I might be taking Ms. Trinidad to my place for the night and left my number. Unlike Martha, he didn’t see anything untoward in this, in fact complimenting me on the prudence of this decision.

  “And keep an eye on her, Cass. I don’t rightly know what to think of this murder yet. My gut tells me that that little lady didn’t have a thing to do with any of it. But my gut hasn’t always been right, either. For now, she’s about the only suspect anyone’s got, so for God’s sake, don’t let her slip away on you. If she is innocent, and she’s been getting these calls like she says, then she may be in some kind of danger herself. Your idea of getting her out of that house is a good one. By the way,” he said, “you come across anything of interest today?”

  “Only what I already suspected,” I said, “which was that if hating a man is motive for murder, then just about everyone in Cedar Hills had a motive.”

  “Me included,” he said, chuckling. “I never could stand that arrogant S.O.B.”

  By the time I got through making calls, Erica had set the table, prepared a salad, put the steaks on the grill and poured us each another glass of wine. The daylight had finally faded into night and I knew that soon the tiny bats that inhabit the woodlands would be unfolding their ungainly wings to swoop down upon the lake for their evening feast of mosquitoes and moths. It was usually at this time of night I made a point of heading indoors.

  We brought the steaks in and bustled about getting everything we needed for our own feast. By now, Erica admitted, she was ravenous, having not eaten a thing since the zucchini bread that morning. I lied and said I hadn’t eaten anything since then either. We dug into the meal with equal vigor, and our conversation moved easily, without the awkwardness that usually accompanies first meals. It was funny, I mused, how a crisis could bind complete strangers together so quickly. When the meal was nearly over, the phone rang, and I jumped to get it, my heart pounding at the prospect of hearing the crank caller myself. But it was Erica’s cousin, finally returning her call, and I cleaned up the kitchen while she finished making arrangements for her uncle’s service.

  When at last we managed to get things in order, it was well after ten. I had convinced her to bundle up her few belongings for an overnight stay at my house, and we boarded my boat, bringing the last of the wine with us. No point in having a good cabernet go to waste.

  The night was clear and calm. Stars studded the inky sky, and a sliver of moon sat way over to the east, shedding a faint light across the water. I turned on my running lights and putt-putted toward Blue Heron Bay. There was no reason to hurry, and I preferred to take it slow at night, not just because it was safer, but because I loved the sounds and smells of the lake at night. And I had to admit, I enjoyed having Erica in the boat beside me.

  “Is it always this beautiful?” she asked, looking up at the sky.

  “Actually, I don’t come out that much after dark. Too many things to look out for, like logs in the water.” As soon as I said this, I wished I hadn’t. The awkward silence told me Erica too was thinking of the last “log”
someone ran into.

  “Hey, what’s that over there?” she asked, pointing toward the shore of Pebble Cove. I’d seen it the same time she had, the unearthly orange glow of something on fire.

  “Better hang on,” I said, and thrust the throttle forward, heading for shore. As we neared, the orange flames leapt into sight and I could make out the outline of a two-story house engulfed by flames. The air was already thick with smoke and I could hear voices shouting in front of the house. Heading away from the shore was the barely distinguishable outline of another boat, without running lights. Someone was probably going for help and hadn’t turned on the lights yet. It’s funny the details you notice when a crisis is at hand and time slows down beyond reason. I remember thinking how odd the boat looked, with little orange dots like fireflies suspended above it, as it moved farther and farther away from the shore.

  But time slammed itself back into full speed as I pulled up to the dock. Erica had already leaped out of the boat and was securing the stern line to a metal cleat on the dock. I jumped out and we both raced toward the house. It was lucky, I thought, that the house was in a clearing instead of surrounded by trees. There was no access road to most of the houses on the lake, meaning that no fire truck would be coming to save the day. Any fire fighting would be done by us. With any luck, it would burn itself out before spreading elsewhere.

  Standing on the front walkway, clutching each other, were two women in pajamas, obviously mother and daughter. The daughter, about fifteen or sixteen, was sobbing and both were looking up to an upstairs window, in which I could see the outline of a small figure. Just then, a tall, slightly overweight man came bursting out through the front door, gasping and choking.

  I ran over and shouted above the roar of the fire, “What can we do to help?”

  “My daughter’s trapped! I can’t get to her! The stairwell’s on fire!”

  “Do you have a ladder?” I shouted.

  “Yes, but it’s inside!”

  “How about a blanket? Or a tarp?”

  He looked at me, clearly panic-stricken.

  “Erica!” I yelled. “In the bow of my boat, left-hand side, beneath the seat. I’ve got a canvas boat cover!” She was already halfway down the path, running at full speed. I rushed to where the mother and daughter were standing. The mother had picked up a garden hose and was aiming a futile spray of water toward the towering flames. “How old is the girl?”

  “Nine,” the older daughter answered. “Is she going to die?” she wailed. “Please don’t let her die!”

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Mollie,” they both answered. I waved my arms at the window and shouted at the top of my lungs.

  “Mollie! Open the window!”

  The reply came back surprisingly strong. “I already did! It’s open!”

  “Okay, good girl, Mollie. Now, I want you to push out the screen. Can you do that?” I yelled.

  We could see her fist pummeling the screen, but it held firm.

  “Kick it!” her sister screamed.

  “No!” I shouted. “Mollie, listen to me. Do you have something you could throw at the screen? Something heavy?”

  Her small frame disappeared and in a minute the leg of a chair came crashing through the screen.

  “Good! Now hit it again. Push the screen all the way out!”

  After several more tries, both the screen and the chair came tumbling to the ground with a clang. Mollie stood gazing down, a triumphant look on her face. Or perhaps it was hysteria.

  Erica had come up behind me and was breathing heavily, the canvas boat cover in her arms. The father had also come over, although he was still choking from the smoke.

  “Now, listen,” I said. “We’ve got to all take hold of this canvas and hold it tight like a trampoline. Come on. Let’s get right under the window.”

  “But how do you know it’ll hold her?” the mother asked, her voice trembling.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t see any alternative. Come on!” We positioned ourselves beneath the window and held the canvas tight between us, waist high. “Mollie! When I count to three, I want you to jump onto this safety net. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” came the reply. I sensed her bravery fading fast.

  “You can do this, Mollie.” Flames surged through the roof, not more than ten feet from where she stood. If she didn’t jump soon, it would be too late. “Okay! On the count of three. One. Two. THREE!”

  The little girl stood where she was, staring down at us.

  “Jump, Mollie!” I shouted.

  “Come on honey, you can do it!” her father called.

  “We’re right here!” her mother cried.

  “Don’t be chicken, Mollie! It’s not that far!” her sister yelled.

  The word chicken must have gotten to her, because with no warning she came hurtling out of the window, like a kid doing a cannonball off the high dive. The force with which she hit the canvas knocked us all flat on our rear ends, and for a brief minute we all lay there, stunned. Mollie got up first and scampered over to her mother.

  “I did it! I did it!” she cried. The rest of us scrambled to our feet and took turns hugging one another and Mollie. The thunderous crash of the roof collapsing above Mollie’s room, however, sent us all scurrying for the safety of the dock.

  “I don’t know who you ladies are, or where you came from, but I sure want to thank. you,” the father said in a voice full of emotion. Erica and I introduced ourselves, and in turn learned that the family beside us were the Hendersons from Los Angeles, here on summer vacation. “I built this house myself,” Mr. Henderson said, shaking his head in dismay. “Took me four summers of hard labor. Now it’s gone.”

  We stood and watched as the house slowly burned to the ground. By now, other boats were pulling up to the dock, coming to offer help too late. Still, people filled buckets of lake water and walked around dousing hot spots and stomping on embers.

  “Any idea how this started?” I asked the Hendersons.

  “Haven’t a clue,” Mr. Henderson answered. “We were already asleep downstairs. My daughter’s screaming woke me, and by that time the whole living room was in flames. I tried to get upstairs to the girls’ room, but it was too late.”

  The older girl, Mary, was very pretty, with long, straw-colored hair and pale skin, now smudged with smoke. Her blue eyes widened. “I woke up because I heard noises. I thought we had a burglar outside, and I came downstairs to turn on the outside lights. That’s when I screamed, because the whole living room was on fire. Like Dad said, the stairwell just went up like that, and I couldn’t get back up to Mollie. I just started screaming and ran outside.”

  “Did you see any sign of anyone in the area?” I asked, thinking about the boat I’d seen leaving when we arrived.

  “No. I was so scared by the fire, I didn’t even think of it again until just now,” Mary said, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

  “What exactly was it that you heard, honey?” her dad asked.

  “Like rustling in the hedges. And maybe voices. It woke me up, and I was all groggy. I looked out the window to see who was here, but it was real dark, so I went down to turn on the outside lights and that’s when I saw the fire.”

  I didn’t like the idea that someone had been there just before the fire, and had left quietly in the dark, without running lights. “Can you think of anyone who might want to do this to you?”

  “You think somebody did this to us. intentionally?” Mrs. Henderson asked, her voice rising. “But why? We don’t have any enemies. We hardly know anyone at all up here.”

  I had no answers, but plenty of questions began to float around in my head. Now, however, was not the time to play detective. “Listen. I live just over on Blue Heron Bay, and I have enough room for you all, if you’d like to spend the night.”

  Both girls looked relieved at this offer, but Mrs. Henderson shook her head. “That’s sweet of you dear,” she said, putting her arm a
round Mollie, “But to tell you the truth I’d feel better over at the Lodge for the night. There’s so much to think about, and frankly, I don’t think any of us feels particularly safe on the lake right now.”

  The shrill wail of the sheriff’s siren sounded in the distance, and soon the orange and white boat could be seen rounding Cedar Point, its red and white lights blinking furiously in the dark. A rather large crowd had gathered to watch the dying embers of what just a short time ago had been a lovely wood home. People stood by with buckets of water, ready to douse any flare-ups, but the fire was putting itself out as quickly as it had arisen.

  “Would somebody move one of those boats, so I can dock here?” Sheriff Booker sounded grumpy, and I expected he’d been in bed when the news of the fire reached him. It had been a long day for a lot of people, the sheriff included.

  “We were just leaving,” I offered. “Listen, if you guys need anything, give me a call. I’ve got some extra jeans and sweatshirts that might get you through a day or so. Here’s my number.” I dug one of my new business cards out of the cockpit and handed it to Mrs. Henderson.

  “A private investigator?” she said, squinting at the card. “In Cedar Hills? Well I guess you never know when or where trouble will strike.” An astute observation, considering.

  Erica and I climbed into the boat, and as I was getting ready to shove off, Mollie came and put her small, smudged hand on top of mine. She was a miniature version of her sister, with long blonde pigtails and an engaging grin.

  “I knew you’d catch me,” she said, her eyes bright and intelligent. “I was hardly scared at all. As soon as I saw you running up the path, I knew it would be okay. Thanks.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome, champ. You did real good. A lot of kids would’ve been scared to jump. You were very brave.”

  She fairly beamed.

  “Are you leaving or not?” Sheriff Booker barked.