Dark Harbor

by David K. Wilson

  Vanessa recoiled at the words but then mulled them around in her mind.

  “I just don’t know if I know him anymore,” she said. “It’s that whole boiling frog thing.”

  “The way to boil a frog is to slowly turn the heat up so he doesn’t even notice?” Carla asked.

  “Yeah,” Vanessa said.

  “You know that’s not true, right?” Carla asked. “The frog jumps out of the water when things start heating up.”

  “Well, you’re a buzzkill,” Vanessa said with a sly smile. “And that frog has no commitment.”

  “He is quick to leap to conclusions,” Carla said, giggling.

  Vanessa let out a laugh so hard, she snorted.

  “I find this conversation ribbeting,” she said between laughs.

  Both women were laughing harder than a few bad puns warranted. A week of pent up sorrow and worry had clearly taken its toll. Vanessa propped herself up on her elbows.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here right now,” she said, suddenly serious.

  Carla rolled on her side and looked up at her sister. Then she noticed something on her arm.

  “What’s that?” she said, leaning up.

  Vanessa quickly pulled her sleeve down.

  “What? Oh, nothing,” she said.

  Carla sat up.

  “Let me see your arm,” she said.

  “No, it’s nothing,” Vanessa protested.

  But Carla grabbed her sister’s arm and yanked up the sleeve to reveal the bandage that was now slightly blood-soaked.

  “What the hell?”

  24

  The Dive In looked very different by the light of day, but Sam had been expecting that. He had spent enough time in bars to know that they had a Jekyll and Hyde quality about them. Sunlight seemed to expose all the bar’s illusions. It pulled back the curtain and exposed the wizard. A bar could address this universal reality one of two ways: they could darken everything to maintain the illusion of night, or they could sweep all the decadence into the corners and put up a false appearance of respectability. That seemed to be the route The Dive In took. A smart move for a bar in a tourist town.

  Classic rock was playing quietly on the jukebox, and the sound of yelling and laughing had been replaced by the occasional clinks of plates and glasses. There were only a few patrons: a young couple sharing a plate of fries and two old men sitting separately at the bar. Sam was pretty sure they had been there last night. For all he knew, they never left.

  The place had a clean shine about it that gave it more of a wholesome family restaurant vibe instead of the rowdy late-night tavern he had visited the night before. Sam was impressed. Most places couldn’t pull off such a dramatic shift to their facade.

  He saddled up to the bar at a respectable distance from the other men and looked around for a bartender. He was surprised to spot Cici wiping down a table in the back.

  “I’ll be right with you,” she yelled toward Sam without looking up.

  Sam watched as she walked back toward the bar. Most bartenders at late-night taverns were like vampires - pouring drinks all night then sleeping all day. But Cici seemed put together and rested. The only thing that supported his vampire theory was her porcelain white skin.

  She smiled in recognition at Sam as she rounded the corner of the bar.

  “Tex! You came back for more!”

  Sam smiled and nodded. “Can’t keep a good man down,” he said.

  Without asking, Cici poured him a glass of the same beer he had been drinking the night before.

  “This one is on me,” she said. “Sounds like you’ve had quite the visit so far.”

  Sam laughed and nodded, toasting the glass to the bartender before taking a sip. “In light of the circumstances, I don’t dare complain,” he replied.

  “I can’t believe it’s even real,” Cici said. “Especially something so violent. It’s fucked up.”

  “Did you know her?” Sam asked.

  Cici shrugged and nodded.

  “We weren’t gal pals or anything,” she said. “But, yeah. She came in from time to time.”

  “What do you know about her boyfriend?” Sam asked, not wasting time for small talk.

  “John?” Cici asked with a shrug. “He’s okay. Not much of a talker. One of those guys that’s always pissed at the world for something or other.”

  “Is he violent?”

  Cici laughed. “He’s an angry drunk, I can tell you that much,” she said. “But a lot of people are. If you’re asking if I think he could have killed her, I don’t think so. I mean, I saw him and Jane arguing all the time. But that’s just the kind of relationship they had, you know? I will say, he was always the one with the olive branch in the end.”

  Sam nodded. But he knew that didn’t prove John’s innocence. He knew all too well that many times, it was the peacekeepers that eventually snapped. They would just bottle everything in until it burst out in a violent rage.

  “What about Norm?” Cici asked. “I heard the police were looking for him.”

  Sam was surprised how much Cici knew, and she must have noticed the look of surprise on his face.

  “Big bar. Small island,” she said with a smirk.

  Sam laughed and took another gulp of beer.

  “So what’s a rock star like you doing at a bar like this?” he asked.

  Cici smiled with a wink as if to congratulate him for figuring out her other identity.

  “I had to get out of that shit show,” she said. “So I moved back here. It’s where I grew up. Got a job at the bar and haven’t looked back since.”

  “You don’t miss it?” Sam asked.

  She grinned.

  “There’s nothing to miss,” she said. “I get to live the best parts of it every night.”

  Sam nodded and toasted his beer to her.

  “Well, I was a big fan then and a bigger fan now,” he said.

  “And you are my favorite detective from Texas,” she replied.

  One of the men sitting at the other end of the bar called out for a refill and Cici excused herself, leaving Sam’s thoughts to return to the case.

  Why did he feel like Norm was innocent? Was it out of allegiance to Carla and Vanessa? Or was it that he was always suspicious of things that seemed obvious?

  Cici returned, and Sam was ready with a question.

  “So what’s your take on Norm?” he asked.

  Cici thought about it and shrugged. “I just figure there has to be a reason he’s the main suspect. Not like they just pulled his name out of a hat.”

  Sam nodded. That made sense.

  “Also—” she said before stopping herself.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just gossip.”

  Sam pressed her to tell him, promising to take it with a grain of gossip salt.

  “I think Norm was having an affair with Jane,” she almost whispered. “But that’s just a hunch of my own. I have absolutely no proof and I feel guilty for even saying it out loud.”

  “I tend to trust a bartender’s hunch,” Sam said. “What makes you think it?”

  Cici pulled up two shot glasses and poured them each a shot of whiskey.

  “Norm would come here a lot,” she said. “Especially in winter, when fishing was slow. And Jane would come in, too. They would talk and laugh. Sometimes they’d dance. I mean, not slow dancing. Nothing intimate. No PDA or anything. But they were definitely very friendly with each other.”

  “And you think it was more than just two friends?” Sam pushed.

  Cici shrugged.

  “I’ve been bartending a long time,” she said. “I know the looks people give each other when they don’t think anyone else is watching.”

  Sam nodded. If anyone could recognize a person’s secrets, it would be a bartender. Talk about a student of the human condition. Maybe that’s why Sam was always drawn to bars. It was free counseling from an experienced therapist.

  “How long had this been
going on?” Sam asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you when it started. I picked up on it a few months ago,” Cici said. “But I was still picking up on it right until Norm went missing.”

  Sam thought about Cici’s theory. It did open up several possibilities, but most of them didn’t point toward Norm. He knocked back the rest of his beer.

  “You know where I can find Mr. Rowe?” he asked.

  25

  The sharp, high-pitched RIZZZZZ of an air wrench echoed in the dank and oily mechanic’s shop. Sam knocked on the door, but no one answered, so he let himself into the large garage.

  The hood was up on an old brown Buick and a red pickup was elevated on a lift, but the mechanical screeches were coming from a black Lexus convertible.

  “Excuse me,” Sam yelled over the machine.

  Sam saw two legs sticking out from underneath the front of the car. The mechanic had stopped working, but was making no attempt at pulling himself out from underneath the convertible.

  “You John Rowe?” Sam asked.

  “That depends” a gravelly voice answered from beneath the car.

  “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?” Sam asked.

  “Sorry, man,” John answered. “I’m booked solid through the week.”

  The loud shriek of the air wrench let Sam know that John had gone back to work.

  “It’s about Jane Caplan,” Sam yelled.

  The air wrench grew silent again. This time, the mechanic wheeled himself out from underneath the car. By the way he looked at Sam, it was clear John wasn’t expecting to see a stranger. He stood, grabbing a red rag and wiping the sweat off his forehead.

  “You with the police or the press?” John asked. “I don’t have anything to say, either way.”

  “I’m with neither,” Sam answered. “Well, sort of. I’m helping the police look into Jane’s murder.”

  “So you’re a private detective?” John asked.

  Sam nodded, deciding it was easier going along with that explanation. Besides, he kind of liked the sound of it.

  “You found that bastard yet?” John asked.

  “Which bastard are you talking about?” Sam asked back.

  “Norm Mayhew,” John said, spitting the words out. “That son of a bitch better pray I don’t find him first.”

  It had only been a day since Jane’s body had been found and Sam was surprised to see John back at work instead of home grieving. He was also more angry than sad. But Sam reminded himself that everybody grieved differently. And the first thing a lot of people did was redirect their grief into rage.

  “We’ve got some good leads,” Sam lied, hoping it would help disarm John. “Can I ask you about the last time you saw Jane? Did she say anything strange? Act weird? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  John shook his head without even trying to recall anything.

  “We went to dinner two nights ago, but it was just a normal dinner,” John said.

  “Did you take her home after?” Sam asked, fishing for anything.

  “Yeah. But I just dropped her off,” he said. “I had to come back here. My mechanic up and quit on me last week, so I’m balls deep in cars. Which is why I need to get back to work now.”

  “Did you and Jane have a fight? At dinner?”

  The question caught John by surprise.

  “What? No,” he replied indignantly.

  Sam told him that an eyewitness reported seeing the two of them arguing as they left the restaurant. He decided it was best not to tell John he was the eyewitness.

  John didn’t answer right away. He just stared at Sam. Finally, he smiled.

  “We had a little disagreement,” he said. “I wouldn’t call it a fight. Forgot about it before it even ended.”

  “Can I ask what it was about?” Sam pressed.

  “I honestly can’t even remember,” John answered. “I probably said something stupid, and she took it wrong. You know how those things steamroll.”

  “She seemed really upset,” Sam said.

  John studied Sam’s face, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

  “I may have made a crack about one of her paintings,” he said. “Just teasing her about it. You know those abstract paintings. I was teasing her that it looked like a guys’… you know. She overreacted.”

  Sam nodded, not believing a word of it. John sighed and looked at the ground.

  “I apologized in the car and it was water under the bridge by the time I dropped her off,” he said.

  “And you just dropped her off? Didn’t go in or anything? Went right home?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. Like I already told the real cops,” John said, clearly growing annoyed. “And when I got home, my next-door neighbors were still up and sitting outside. We even talked for a minute. Check it out yourself.”

  Sam shifted gears back to Norm.

  “So I take it you knew Norm Mayhew?” he asked.

  “Everyone pretty much knows everyone,” John answered. “At least those of us that are here year-round.”

  “I get it,” Sam said. “I live in a small town myself. Everybody knows everybody. And everybody’s business.”

  “I keep to myself,” John replied coldly.

  “Dating pool is also pretty shallow,” Sam continued. “You and Norm ever had to compete for a woman? Maybe for Jane?”

  John could tell where Sam was going, but he was too smart to take the bait.

  “I knew Norm liked Jane,” he offered. “She said he was always calling and showing up unexpected. But she didn’t like him. Not that way. I trusted her.”

  “You ever say anything to him about it?” Sam asked.

  “Jane can take care of herself,” he snapped back, immediately realizing what he’d said.

  “Damnit!” he yelled, slamming a fist into the hood of the convertible.

  Sam winced and pointed at the new dent. “Gonna need to add that to your list of repairs.”

  “I should have walked her inside,” John said. “I should have stayed there. Then we’d be burying that asshole instead of…”

  He turned away from Sam, unable to finish the sentence.

  Sam walked back to the truck, not quite sure what to make of John’s performance. Was it real? It seemed a little overdramatic for the strong, silent type. But who was he to judge? Regardless, Sam still had a lot of questions. He looked through the contacts on his phone until he found the name Bobby Lyons. He called the number and was relieved when someone picked up.

  “Bobby, hey. It’s Sam Lawson. I need you to look up a criminal history for a John Rowe in Chilmark, Massachusetts.”

  26

  The large scratch on Vanessa’s arm had shocked Carla at first. Her sister had brushed it off, explaining it was from an accident at the lavender farm but nothing to worry about. Carla had inspected the gash and decided it wasn’t as bad as it originally looked - not bad enough for stitches, anyway. She cleaned and dressed the cut properly and applied fresh bandages.

  Once they had lost their afternoon buzz, they decided they were hungry, so Carla volunteered to run to the general store in Chilmark to pick up some more first aid supplies and sandwiches. The store was well-known for its deli. In fact, more customers came to the store for the food than for store items.

  Carla paid for the sandwiches and decided to wait for her food outside, on the large covered porch. She maneuvered her way down the narrow aisle and, as she walked out the door, she bumped into the nurse who claimed to be Jane’s best friend. The nurse sheepishly glanced at Carla and apologized quietly before sharing a spark of recognition.

  “Didn’t I see you at the hospital yesterday?” the nurse asked.

  Carla introduced herself and asked if the two could talk. The women walked outside and sat on one of the patio’s wooden benches.

  “I’m Gina Moffett,” the nurse said, shaking Carla’s hand.

  Her hand was trembling and Carla could tell she had been crying.

  “Sorry,” Gina said, pulling he
r hand back. “I’m still pretty shaken up about everything. You must think I’m a complete basket case after the scene I made at the hospital.”

  “Well, that asshole did nothing to help the situation,” Carla offered.

  Gina shrugged. “He was right, though. I should have been paying better attention.”

  “I heard Detective Turner say Jane was your friend,” Carla said. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be on you.”

  Gina nodded and visibly fought being overwhelmed with emotion.

  “Did I hear you say you were a medical examiner?” she asked.

  The quick change of topic shocked Carla. She told Gina that she was a medical examiner in Texas and was on the island visiting her sister.

  “I know Vanessa,” Gina said. “She’s going through her own hell right now. I should probably call her. Is she okay?”

  Carla hid her surprise. According to her sister, she and Gina barely knew each other. But the way Gina was talking, they were more friendly than Vanessa had let on.

  Carla told Gina how Vanessa was beside herself with grief that Norm was still missing. But the entire time she was talking, she could tell Gina was not so much listening as waiting for a chance to say something else.

  “I don’t trust Dr. Vincent,” she said, shifting the topic again. “He’s not going to do a thorough autopsy. And he’s just going to tell Detective Turner whatever he wants to hear.”

  “I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have some modicum of professionalism,” Carla said.

  Gina laughed. “You clearly don’t know Dr. Vincent.”

  She paused before speaking again.

  “It wouldn’t be possible for you to—”

  Her voice trailed off, so Carla finished for her.

  “You want me to take a look?” Carla asked.

  “Just to provide a second opinion,” Jane said. “Or at the very least, confirm Dr. Vincent’s report.”

  “I wish I could,” Carla said. “But I’ve got no jurisdiction up here. I mean, I could operate as an independent auditor, but only from a court order.”