Bunker 01 - Slipknot

by Linda Greenlaw

  The Lightning was now edging out the Laser, while the Bullseye had fallen back. I knew that before the evening was over, Alice would have rearranged the boats to a configura-tion she considered more aesthetically pleasing, in spite of her husband’s insistence that the Laser would be the fastest of the three. As opposed to my scantily furnished studio, the Vickersons’ home was busy—like a circus. This place was a virtual knickknack heaven. The array of colors and shapes filling every square inch of space was like the interior of a kaleidoscope.

  Eight o’clock wouldn’t come quickly enough, I thought, so great was my anticipation of the news Cal would soon

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  deliver. It was official. My life as a mere marine safety investigator and insurance surveyor had been short-lived. I was eager to get back onto the horse of criminal investigation from which I had been thrown. I had been foolish to think I could leave the past behind so easily. I knew my insurance gig would be a great cover, opening doors to much of Green Haven as well as supplying funds for life’s necessities, my personal list of which was fairly simple.

  I placed the lighthouse salt and pepper shakers on the middle of the life ring in the center of the tablecloth and wondered how thorough the pathology would be. Would Cal have a report that included possible murder weapons? Had telltale fragments of rust or wood splinters been found in Dow’s crushed skull? Had there been signs of a struggle?

  And (my all-time personal favorite detail) what had been found under the victim’s fingernails? Unless it was cocaine, rat poison, or someone else’s skin, the fingernail scrapings never added much in the way of evidence, but they always intrigued me. In the past, I had been absolutely spellbound by not only the amount but also the wide variety of matter dug out from under even the most immaculately manicured of nails. I once overheard a pathologist in Miami refer to me as

  “that female cop with the fingernail fetish.”

  I deeply inhaled the garlic Alice was pressing into a heavily buttered skillet in the kitchen. “Oh, Mrs. V.! That smells great. What is it?” I asked as I positioned myself to peer over her shoulder.

  “Garlic-and-lemon-sautéed mussels over pasta. I hope you’re hungry. Henry picked enough mussels for an army!”

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  I bit my tongue before I could say, “Mussels again?” “I’m starving. Will this recipe go into your cookbook?”

  “Perhaps. We’re still experimenting and inventing. I wasn’t crazy about last night’s dish. Fresh mint, as it turns out, really overpowered the mussels. Sorry you had to suffer through it with us!” As Alice chopped and stirred the next possible addition to the Vickersons’ All-Mussel Cookbook, I explained that all I had eaten today was the blueberry muffin from the café.

  “Oh, God! The café? And you’re still standing? They change the grease annually. Henry and I made that mistake just once.

  Good thing we have two bathrooms,” Alice said as she lit a burner under a pot of water. “There. Come sit and relax. Will you join me in a glass of wine?”

  As alcohol was not in my budget, I gladly accepted and sank into an overstuffed chair facing the bay window that overlooked the working waterfront asleep below. I sipped the merlot and nibbled the cheese, crackers, and pickled mussels (again for the cookbook) that Alice, the consummate hostess, set beside me before disappearing into her bedroom. I watched through the window as the sun began to show signs of setting. Yellow faded, and growing orange was refracted by windshields of boats lying still on moorings in the flat, calm harbor. The plant was a large, dark fracture in the otherwise pristine shoreline ringed with white-painted clapboard houses, picket fences, and gardens maintained to perfection. It stuck out as an eyesore, interrupting the scenery I imagined was otherwise enjoyed by every household on the hill.

  When Alice emerged from her bedroom cradling a bright

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  pink weekly pill organizer, inhaler, and nasal spray, I knew it was time for the nightly medication exhibition with full running commentary. Although I found it humorous, I was mildly disturbed that Alice did not consider her medicating a private matter. Shouldn’t this be taking place in the bathroom? I wondered. Alice set the full pharmacy—prescription and over-the-counter—in a neat display on the table between us. There was no sense in ignoring her, I had already learned, as she would insist on my rapt attention through every chemical swallowed, inhaled, or snorted, and would complement each with an explanation of its target ailment.

  “Let’s see,” she began. “Today is Thursday, right?” She popped open the compartment labeled th, which housed half a dozen pills and capsules. “My fibromyalgia has been just awful today!” Alice placed a pill in her mouth, gulped a slug of wine, put her head back, and swallowed. “Ahhh, that should do the trick.” I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the pill or the wine. After downing drugs for arthritis, blood pressure, water retention, and allergies, while reciting possible side effects and complaining of exorbitant monthly costs for each, she shoved the nozzle of an inhaler into her pursed lips and pumped in a couple of healthy doses. The grand finale was the nasal spray. I’d almost thrown up the first time she snorted her sinus medicine in front of me, but now I was hardened to it.

  Alice clearly loved putting on the demonstration, and I wondered who her audience had been before I moved in. Because I knew her routine, I was anticipating the discussion of her bowels. She would tell me precisely what time she had s l i p k n o t

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  pooped or not today, and what she had eaten to precipitate whatever malady of her gastrointestinal tract she was currently experiencing. “I am able to keep my bowels on track with diet and exercise,” she announced proudly. I silently hoped I would not be invited to dinner the day she decided an enema was in order.

  The bowel movement’s daily log was interrupted when Henry came through the door with the shop vac. “This little beauty would suck a golf ball through a garden hose,” he exclaimed. Oh, good, no need to waste money on an enema.

  Henry stored the vacuum unit in a closet while Alice disappeared back to the bedroom, armed with all the accoutrements that had so enhanced the cocktail hour. “All cleaned up! The phone works, but I’ll have to put it back on the wall tomorrow.

  Anyone ever call you Calamity Jane?” Henry laughed. “Do we have time for a little drinky-poo before dinner, dear?”

  “There’s always time for a quick one,” Alice said cheerfully as she made her way to the liquor cabinet. “We believe in the quality of life, not the quantity. I won’t burden you with my health issues, but I could die tomorrow. We have our cemetery plots all paid for, and our will is updated every six months.” Alice acted as though she had not shared this personal information several times already in our short acquaintance. I found myself growing impatient and wanting to sneak a peek at my watch without seeming rude.

  “Yes, it’s important,” agreed Henry. “All of our ‘I’s are dotted and ‘T’s are crossed. The business and property are in partnership—joint custody with right of survivorship, including the entire inventory. Winner take all!”

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  As they rambled on about death and proper preparation, I wondered about this joint custody with right of survivorship. Hadn’t I just seen this term in a document and wondered what it meant? Now I knew. Sort of.

  “Scotch, Jane?”

  In the past two nights, the Vickersons had been quick to exploit my weakness for Scotch whiskey. Considering the pending shakedown of Dow’s home, I thought better of getting too relaxed, and I refused anything more than a second glass of wine, which I nursed while the landlords knocked back a couple of single malts as if they were Kool-Aid. Alice’s face, fresh from a chemical peel, glowed a bit more with the warmth of imbibing. As she poured a generous second round for them, she applauded my strength of character and promised a nightca
p when I returned from Dow’s with information to share only with them. It tickled me that the old folks thought I could be bribed. I suspected they watched a lot of TV. “Do you think it might be dangerous to break and enter?” asked Henry. “What do you hope to find? Drugs? I think he was selling drugs. Maybe you’ll uncover a drug ring right here in Green Haven! That bum was high as a kite all the time. If he hadn’t drowned, he would have eventually over-dosed or drunk himself to death. I hope Cal’s cousin checked his liver—must have been the size of Texas!”

  I made no mention of the pot calling the kettle black and happily obliged the couple this bit of drama. If they were part of Green Haven’s rumor mill, it was best they believed Dow’s death was accidental. I felt anxiety mounting as I tried s l i p k n o t

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  not to visibly fidget. Eight o’clock couldn’t come soon enough for me.

  “Would you like Henry to go with you tonight? He’s tougher than a boiled owl. And who knows what kind of riffraff might be shacking up in the abandoned crack house?”

  Alice offered as Henry tried to look mean.

  “Oh, no, thank you. We’ll likely just drive by. I have no intention of breaking in,” I lied. “I’m just curious.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” said Henry.

  “Satisfaction brought him back,” quipped Alice.

  As we took our seats at the table, Alice served up nice por-tions of steaming pasta, topped with her sautéed mussel con-coction, and passed around a crisp green salad. “Alice is right. It could be dangerous. If you’re just being nosy, why not wait until daylight, when you might actually see something?” asked Henry. “Maybe you should think about this.

  Look before you leap.” I took that as fatherly advice and was touched by his concern for my safety.

  “Look before you leap?” Alice sounded disgusted. “He who hesitates is lost!”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  “A stitch in time saves nine?”

  “I’m not sure that one works, dear,” Henry said.

  I had come to know these frequent exchanges as Ping-Pong proverbs, and I was sometimes amazed by how long Alice and Henry could volley. I inhaled the meal, hoping that Cal might pull into the drive early. I listened to the Vickersons’ opinions, many of which pertained to Nick Dow,

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  while restraining the urge to stare out the window for Cal’s arrival.

  “I’ll bet that house hasn’t been shoveled out since his mother died, and she wasn’t known for her housekeeping skills,” commented Alice. “She died, what, ten years ago?”

  “Yes, dear, about ten years ago. His mother was weird, too. She practiced some type of witchcraft,” said Henry.

  “She was not a witch! She was a midwife.” Alice loved correcting her husband. “She delivered every baby in Green Haven for over fifty years!”

  “Witchcraft, midwife . . . same thing.” Back and forth the two went; it wasn’t bickering but more of a friendly discussion of differing views by two people who clearly respected each other’s opinions. Henry and Alice simply agreed to disagree, which made a comfortable setting for me to be included.

  Fortunately, Alice had not invented a dessert using mussels. I really enjoyed my slice of blueberry pie, though I had hoped not to have time for it. I could hardly pry my eyes off the clock. At precisely two minutes before eight, Cal’s truck pulled into the parking area. I thanked Alice and Henry for dinner and again apologized for the mess I had made of the apartment as I placed my dishes in the sink. I bolted out the door while vowing to check back with them upon my return, secretly hoping they would have retired to bed by then.

  Cal looked like a white crow perched behind the wheel of his truck. The hunch in his upper back was more pronounced now, and I wondered if this was an optical illusion or the reality of a hard day’s work at his age. He held his cigarette outside the open window as he reached across the s l i p k n o t

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  bench seat with his other hand and popped open the passenger door for me. I slid in, closed my door, and said, “Okay, Cal, what do you have for me?” I was nearly rubbing my hands together. Cal glanced up. My eyes followed his to the bay window above, where two red faces were pressed against the glass. Cal backed out of the parking spot using the mirrors and pulled out onto the street.

  As he drove slowly up the hill and out of the town, I nearly went crazy with his silence. “Do you think they read lips?” I joked to break the ice. I got no reaction and regretted dragging Cal into this expedition. It was clear that he was a gentleman who would not think of letting a woman down; it hadn’t been fair of me to insist that he take me to Dow’s. “Cal, I appreciate your willingness to go with me, but that can wait.

  What did your cousin report to you?”

  Cal took a deep breath before turning to me and dropping his bombshell. “There was not a drop of alcohol in the man’s blood, nor any evidence that he had ever taken a single drink in his entire life.”

  7

  “what?” i asked in disbelief. Cal repeated the shocking findings of the toxicology report his cousin had slipped to him, this time editorializing slightly. “So the town drunk wasn’t a drunk,” I said. I wondered how Dow had managed to fool virtually everyone in Green Haven and, more importantly, why.

  “Drunk like a fox,” Cal summarized, slowly and carefully turning his truck around in the middle of the road. “His grave should be decorated with an Oscar.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked as Cal completed his three-point turn and headed back into town.

  “Taking you home. I thought you changed your mind about the field trip.”

  “Are you out of your mind? I need to get into his house right now! As soon as the news of his sobriety gets out, the place will be crawling with detectives. Come on, Cal. Give me fifteen minutes inside,” I pleaded. Cal did not resist, nor did he have much to say other than some mumbling about never having seen a detective in Green Haven. He methodically reversed direction again, lit a fresh cigarette, and drove s l i p k n o t

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  along with the look of a man forced into doing something against his better judgment at the hands of a woman.

  After less than a mile, Cal turned off the pavement into a narrow opening in some overgrown rhododendrons. The one-lane dirt road that I supposed was Dow’s driveway was not well traveled. Deep wheel ruts of dried mud—divided by tall grass and weeds that tickled the underside of the truck—

  made slow, ambling turns left and then right. If we should meet an oncoming vehicle, one of the two drivers would need to back up some distance to find a spot to pull off and allow the other to pass, since trees and rocks lined the ruts closely on either side. As if reading my mind, Cal said, “Dow didn’t drive and didn’t receive many guests.” That you know of, I thought.

  “This road is creepy,” I said excitedly. “It’s like driving into an Alfred Hitchcock scene.”

  “Wait till you see the house. It would give Stephen King nightmares.”

  “Cal! You holdout! You’ve been here before?”

  “Nope. My nephew drives the fuel oil truck for Dead River and has delivered here monthly for years. I’ve heard enough about it from him to be scared witless. Which is what I am for agreeing to this foolishness.”

  Expecting to see a dwelling around every corner, and sensing that we were moving slower and slower, I suspected that Cal’s dread was growing at pace with my enthusiasm for a glimpse into Dow’s life. I reminded my chauffeur that it would soon be dark and that darkness would surely enhance the creep factor. This threat resulted in a slight increase in

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  the depression of the gas pedal and a corresponding bump in speed. It was finally faster than I could walk.

  The evening had matured to dusk in full bloom when the narrow drive opened to untold acres of unmowed hay. An old farmhouse in midfield looked nothing more t
han abandoned in the distance. The road ended in a loop under a lone tree ripe with a flock of fat crows that complained loudly as they gave up their roost when we neared. The sun, just below the horizon, had drained the colors from the day, leaving the scene washed out in tones of gray and white. There was a certain stark and simplistic beauty about the place, I thought, and said, “Andrew Wyeth.”

  “All that’s missing is the crippled woman,” Cal responded just over a whisper. His awareness of Christina’s World surprised and delighted me. My first friend in Maine, other than Audrey and the landlords, was slowly revealing himself as a fascinating enigma. Cal pushed pure white bangs that had fallen over one eye back onto the top of his head. “Going in?”

  “The house is bigger than I imagined. I guess I was expecting something like a shack. I’ll need more time.”

  “I have to pick Betty up from bingo in thirty minutes.”

  “I thought she was at church.”

  “They play bingo and cribbage in the basement on Tues-day nights.”

  “Gaming in the church. Must be a New England thing.

  The United Church of Reprobates . . . I like it. What time would you be back to get me if you were to take Betty home first?” I asked.

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  Cal looked at his wristwatch, did a quick mental calculation, and said, “Nine o’clock.”

  “See you then,” I said, and hopped out of the truck. The vehicle was moving away as I slammed the door. So much for the age of chivalry, I thought as the tailgate was swallowed by the first bend in the drive. As I moved toward Dow’s house, I was immediately engulfed in a cloud of mosquitoes. I walked faster and waved my hands over my head in an attempt to swat away the buzzing mass. I didn’t know if the tickling around my exposed ankles was caused by the neglected grass or the bugs. But it nearly drove me insane in the short walk to the front steps.