1st Impressions

by Kate Calloway

  “Oh, Mollie,” Mary said.

  “When’s the last time he called you?” I asked.

  “A couple of nights ago,” Mary said. “My dad answered the phone and told him to quit bothering us or he’d call the cops. It was getting kind of bothersome, but it was harmless, really. I mean, the guy is on the football team. It’s not like he was hard up or anything. I think he just wasn’t used to girls saying no.”

  “Yeah,” Mollie piped up. “It crushed his frail, male ego.”

  I had to admit, I liked this kid, active imagination and all. “Well, it’s worth checking out, anyway,” I said, climbing aboard my boat. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.” Erica shoved us away from the dock, and we sped off, leaving Mary to argue with her peculiarly intelligent and insistent little sister.

  Chapter Seven

  The rain began to fall softly as we pulled up to the marina. Tommy, wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt, didn’t seem to notice the weather change. Grinning as I eased into a vacant slip, he continued hammering the bright white dock bumpers into place. The long-awaited bumpers had finally arrived.

  “Mornin’, ladies,” he said, his teeth clamped around a half-smoked cigarette. That’s funny, I thought, I’d never seen Tommy smoking before. Maybe it was just that I suddenly had smoking on the brain.

  “Good morning, Tommy. What’s new?”

  “New bumpers come in,” he said, stating the obvious. “Also, there was a big fire last night out at Pebble Cove. I didn’t see it, but they say it burned down the whole house. Oh, and Meg Simpson had her baby last night. A little girl.”

  “Tommy, you are a veritable wealth of information today,” I said. “Any idea when and where the football team practices?” Erica looked at me sideways, and I shrugged. I didn’t have anything better to go on. Why not?

  “In the summer?” Tommy asked. “They don’t usually hold no formal practice until mid-August. But some of the guys scrimmage over at the school on their own. Might be there now, seein’ as it’s Saturday. Then again, they’re just as likely to be sleepin’ in, or off fishin’ somewhere. The bass are running pretty hot right now. I caught me a real beaut last night.”

  “Oh really? Where was that?” I asked, thinking about Tommy’s boat. It was a royal blue speedboat that rode low in the water and as far as I knew, it didn’t even have running lights. It could maybe carry three passengers besides the driver, but it would be a tight fit.

  “Oh, now, Cass. I can’t tell you that. It’s the bass fisherman’s law. You never give away a good fishin’ hole.”

  “But isn’t it dangerous?” I tried to be nonchalant. “Driving at night with no lights?”

  “Nah, I do it all the time. Easier to sneak up on the fish that way.” Tommy’s eyes crinkled with mischief.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t see the fire, then.” I ignored Erica’s raised eyebrows.

  “Well, even if I had’ve seen it, there wasn’t nothin’ we coulda done about it. From what I hear tell, it got burnt down to the ground just like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  “Then you weren’t out all by yourself?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was interrogating him. After all, I considered Tommy Green a friend.

  “Well, actually, if you want to know the truth,” Tommy said, blushing slightly, “I was out with a lady friend. We didn’t really do all that much fishin’.”

  Call me a skeptic, but I get nervous when someone says they’re about to tell the truth. Still, the blush looked real. “Not that pretty little gal I saw you flirting with last week at McGregors?” I asked, doing a little fishing of my own. Tommy’s blue eyes narrowed, and he tossed his cigarette into the lake.

  “I don’t kiss and tell, Cassidy. That’s one of my rules.” He scrunched up his face in an attempt to look stern, though the result was more comical than menacing. Even so, I decided it was time to ease off.

  “Okay, Tommy. Your secret’s safe with me,” I said, hoping to mask any suspicion in my voice. I tossed Erica an extra rain jacket from the boat and led her up the ramp.

  “You suspect him, don’t you?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Right now, I’m not sure if anyone’s telling the whole truth.”

  “Including me?” She slipped the rain jacket over her shapely body. It was amazing, I thought, that anyone could look that good in a rain jacket.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I just laughed.

  Living on a lake in Oregon, I hadn’t taken long to equip my car, boat and house with plenty of rain gear. Umbrellas were used only in extreme weather, and opening one in a mild mist like this would be a sure sign to all who passed that walked a former Southern Californian. I explained this to Erica as we began our jaunt in the rain.

  “There seems to be a lot of anti-California sentiment around here,” she noted. I wasn’t sure, but she may have been pouting over my not really answering her question.

  “Probably not much more here than elsewhere,” I said, glad she didn’t choose to pursue the other topic. “It seems to be a common feeling east and north of California, kind of like the way some people from other countries dislike Americans. I don’t know if it’s envy because of all the sunshine, or distrust because of the liberal lifestyles. Some of it’s legitimate anger. Californians have more money to spend. They sell their houses in California for three to five times what a place up here costs. Compared to the locals, they’re rich. They drive nicer cars, wear more fashionable clothes and buy bigger boats. On top of that, they complain incessantly about the rain. And worst of all, they try to change things. They expect the service in restaurants and stores to be faster, the choices bigger and the quality better. Everyone who’s not a Californian is treated like some kind of country bumpkin. It’s not surprising that people resent the invasion.”

  “It’s funny,” Erica said as we made our way through the streets of Cedar Hills, “you keep saying ‘they’ and ‘them,’ but you’re from California yourself, right?”

  “That’s true. I guess ideologically I’m somewhere in between. I like the slow pace here, and the people. I like the trees and fresh air. I don’t miss the violence or the smog. I like myself better too. I’m not in so much of a hurry anymore. I’m more relaxed. But there’re times I still feel like an outsider. People here treat me warmly, but I’m not sure how receptive some of them would be if they knew my sexual orientation.”

  “Then what do you do for a social life?” Erica asked. “I assume there aren’t a lot of opportunities for gays and lesbians in Cedar Hills.”

  I paused, thinking. “Not in Cedar Hills, true. But there’s a pretty big lesbian community in Ashland and Portland, from what I hear. Even Kings Harbor has some outlets. Martha is always trying to get me to participate in all sorts of activities. Golf tournaments, dances, softball leagues. And I know they’ve got at least one gay bar. I guess I just haven’t been real interested so far. But it’s nice knowing it’s there if I change my mind.”

  “Hmm. Maybe when this whole thing is over, we’ll have to go check it out. Maybe your friend Martha could take us.” She smiled, and I felt what was becoming an all-too-familiar sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  *

  By now we’d walked to the far end of Main Street, and as we rounded the corner, Cedar Hills School rose up in front of us, an orange and green monstrosity that sprawled across the better part of five acres. I’d passed it many times but had never felt compelled to set foot on the grounds. Having taught junior high school for six years, I’d had my fill of screaming adolescents. Don’t get me wrong. I liked teaching. But having left the profession, I had no desire to return to it.

  The school itself was far too big for the town of Cedar Hills, even though it housed grades kindergarten through twelve. Built in the days when Cedar Hills thrived as a bustling logging town, it had much more room than it needed for the few hundred students who attended.

  “You really think this kid, Alan Pinkerton, mig
ht have had something to do with the fire?” Erica asked. “I thought you were just humoring the little girl.”

  “Well, initially, I was. But what the heck, it’s worth a quick rule-out. Besides, it’s such a nice day for a walk.”

  Erica laughed, because by that time, we were both fairly soaked, despite our rain jackets. We ducked under the covered hallways, avoiding the puddles forming beneath downspouts. Here and there the walls were adorned with colorful renditions of the school mascot, the Cedar Hills Duck, a rather sinister cousin of Daffy. Ahead of us, a custodial cart was parked in an open doorway and as we neared, a man with a gray stubbled beard and a Mariners cap was dumping the contents of a dust pan into the metal trash bin on his cart.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you point us in the direction of the football field?”

  He peered at us over horn-rimmed glasses and pointed east, the direction we were already headed.

  “Looks like you had a little accident,” I said, noticing the broken glass he was dumping into the bin.

  “Damn vandals,” he said. “Messed up the whole science room.”

  “Really? When was this?”

  “Beats me.” He shrugged. “Coulda been last night, or any time after Tuesday. That was the last time I did this hallway. It was all right then. Look at it now.”

  He stepped aside. Erica and I peeked into the room. Chairs and tables were toppled over, and broken glass was everywhere. A punched-in window on the opposite wall showed the obvious point of entrance, and on the green chalk board was a giant, block-style swastika.

  “Any idea who’d do something like this?” I asked.

  The man looked at me more closely. “Do I know you?” he asked. “I don’t recall seeing you around here before. I’m Earl Bean, Head Custodian.”

  Erica and I introduced ourselves, and because it was becoming a habit, I handed him one of my calling cards.

  “A private investigator, eh? Well, good. Maybe you can catch the ones that done this. I’d like to get my hands on ’em myself.”

  “Has this happened before?” I asked, moving into the classroom and walking around carefully. A lot of broken glass had come from containers holding chemicals, and the odors in the room were unpleasant. I hoped there wasn’t a deadly mixture amid the seeping fluids congealing on the floor.

  “Never like this,” he replied. “We sometimes get a little graffiti on the walls. These damn swastikas been showing up real regular. Now and then we get a busted window. But this here was deliberate and nasty. Look what they done to the frogs.” He stepped into a small alcove off the main room and I followed. On the table were at least a dozen dead frogs reeking of formaldehyde. The frogs were positioned in various stages of fornication, some showing remarkable originality.

  “Cute,” I said.

  “Disgusting if you ask me. Look at this one. Someone musta wanted frog legs for dinner.” Sure enough, someone had rendered the poor frog a paraplegic.

  Erica came up behind us. “At least this room wasn’t trashed.”

  “I wonder what they did with the formaldehyde?”

  “What do you mean?” Erica asked.

  “Well, formaldehyde has a very distinctive odor. There are a lot of chemicals spilled out there, but I’d bet my last dollar not one of them is formaldehyde. And I don’t see any in here either. Which means, whoever did this took the frogs out of their container and then took the container of formaldehyde with them.”

  The three of us began searching the science lab for any container that might have held the frogs in formaldehyde, and it soon became clear that my suspicions were right. Unless the frogs had jumped up there by themselves, engaged in an amphibious orgy and then died from the exertion, someone had made off with a container of formaldehyde.

  “They’re lucky they didn’t blow the place to smithereens,” the custodian said.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because with all those chemicals, and them smoking right here in the room, they coulda blown their heads off.” Little bells began ringing in my head. “What makes you think they were smoking?” I asked.

  “The butts,” he said. “I found two of ’em right over there by the window.”

  “Can I see them?” My heart started to do little pirouettes.

  “I already swept ’em up, but you’re welcome to look in the bin.”

  Risking lacerating my wrists on broken shards, I gingerly picked my way through the debris until I found the two cigarette butts amid the rubble. One was only half smoked. It was a Marlboro. I carefully wrapped them in a tissue, which I replaced in my jacket pocket.

  “This is getting weird,” Erica murmured.

  “It’s probably just a coincidence,” I said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence,” she teased.

  “I don’t.”

  We went back in to help pick up the tables and chairs, but Mr. Bean waved us off. “You gals go on now. I can finish up here. But promise me if you catch the little shits that done this, you’ll turn ‘em in. I’ll be more ’n happy to press charges.”

  For some reason I couldn’t explain, I wasn’t anxious to leave. I walked around the perimeter of the room, searching—for what, I didn’t know. And then I saw it.

  “Look!” I said, pointing to the broken window. Like a tiny flag waving in the breeze, a small triangle of green nylon clung precariously to the sharp edge of the protruding glass. I quickly pulled one of the student desks over to the window, and balancing myself somewhat awkwardly, I managed to free the shred of nylon.

  “Looks like one of them school jackets,” Mr. Bean said, peering at the small piece of cloth. “I got one of them myself, and it looks just about like that. ’Course, practically everyone in town’s got one of them jackets, so it probably ain’t gonna be much help.”

  “Maybe so, Mr. Bean,” I said, refusing to let his pessimism ruin my good mood. “But not everyone in town has got a jacket with a little hole torn out of it, now do they?”

  “You got a point there, missy,” he said, chewing his lower lip. He resumed pushing the broken glass into small piles, and Erica and I left him to his endeavors, making our way to the football field, which was deserted. The rain had begun to come down in earnest, and even the hardiest of local boys had sense enough to take cover from the onslaught. Disappointed, Erica and I huddled beneath an overhang, waiting for it to let up before we ventured back toward the marina.

  “Okay,” I said, “let me run this by you, and you tell me if I’m missing anything. First, your uncle is lured away from home, murdered, his penis cut off and his body dumped in the lake. His boat’s returned to his dock and someone, presumably the killer, leaves a cigarette ash on the edge of the boat. Someone also may or may not have entered his room while you were sleeping. Everyone in town hates him so it’s not hard to imagine someone getting mad enough to kill him. So far, so good?”

  “I’m with you,” she said.

  “Okay. Next, someone sets the Hendersons’ house on fire. We think there may be more than one person involved because there were at least three, maybe four cigarettes lit up in a boat leaving the scene. Unlike your uncle, the Hendersons are generally well-liked. No enemies, except maybe a lovesick teenager, who a nine-year-old tells us is weird, and who makes crank calls to the older sister. Not exactly a likely suspect for arson and murder.”

  “Except I also got two crank calls,” Erica interjected. “So at least we have another possible connection between the two crimes.”

  “Exactly. So, for lack of a better idea, we head over to the school in hopes of getting a look at this crank caller who might be playing football in the rain, and instead we find a vandalized science room. Aside from the fact that crime of any kind is rare in this town, and this happens to be the third incident in as many days, there’s nothing at all to suggest that the vandalism has anything to do with the fire or the murder. Except that once again we find evidence of cigarettes at the scene. This time we get lucky and actually have
the brand, which could narrow it down some. But the connection is still extremely thin. What we do know is that there was more than one vandal, and that at least two of them smoke, and that one of them is walking around with a little hole torn out of his green shirt or jacket.”

  “And they’re some kind of neo-nazi group,” Erica said. “Unless the swastika was someone else’s work.”

  “Right. What we don’t know is if they have anything at all to do with the other crimes. What else?”

  “Well, just out of curiosity, did you happen to notice what brand of cigarette Tommy was smoking at the marina?”

  I nodded, unhappy with the answer. “Marlboro,” I said. “But here’s what’s really bothering me. Think about this. Why did someone break into the science lab in the first place? To make dead frogs hump? No. To get some formaldehyde. And what do you do with formaldehyde? You preserve dead things with it. So the question is, who would suddenly have a need to preserve a dead thing?” I waited patiently, hating the image I was painting for her. Suddenly she got it and her face turned slightly green.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Whoever cut off my uncle’s penis wanted to preserve it. Like a trophy? For God’s sake. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “You and me both.” We stood watching the rain pound the ground around us. Several moments passed without either of us speaking. Finally, I said, “This really could connect the crimes. The arson may be totally unrelated, but it’s possible the murderer is also the one who broke in to get the formaldehyde. Which means we might really have some concrete evidence. I think we better talk to Sheriff Booker before we do another thing.”

  The rain had begun to let up and we hurried back to the marina. Our fronts were kept relatively dry by the rain jackets, but my hood kept slipping off, allowing water to pour down my neck, soaking my back and plastering my hair to my head. We were halfway back when a beat-up green pickup rambled up beside us.