Murder in Pastel

by Josh Lanyon

  Adam glanced around. “You want me to go get take-out?”

  “I want to go out to dinner,” Brett said. “I’m sick of this dump!”

  “Don’t turn into Betty Davis,” Adam said mildly. “We’ll go out. Kyle?”

  “How about you and me for a change, Adam?” Brett gave me a stare as green as broken glass. “I’m sure Kyle understands.”

  “Sure,” I said hastily. I stood up.

  “See ya,” said Brett.

  The next morning I woke to sunlight on the floorboards and the smell of newly-mown grass on the breeze, but the chill on my heart felt as though it were the dead of winter. The star-crossed lovers thing was getting old fast. My “friendship” with Brett wasn’t helping Brett and Adam, and it was bad for me.

  Watching the shadows on the ceiling, I reasoned that it would be best for everyone if I finished the summer someplace else. New scenery. New faces. I remembered the air show poster my father had brought me so many years ago. I’d never been to France. The City of Lights? Gay Paree? Hell, I’d never been anywhere. I tried to work up some enthusiasm. The more I dreaded the idea of leaving, the more I knew I had to go.

  After lunch I drove into the village to pick up supplies. When I walked into the grocers I could tell by the way the old biddies clammed-up that rumors about “goings on” at the colony were rampant.

  “Storm’s coming,” Mrs. Hammett informed me as I paid for my salmon steaks and low fat milk.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but Mrs. Hammett’s rheumatism is as reliable as a ship’s barometer. “We could use the rain,” I said.

  “Your grandfather was in here, Kyle.”

  “Yeah? How is he?”

  I’ve known Mrs. Hammett since I was tall enough to push my three pennies across the counter for her homemade taffy. She replied tartly, “Lonely. I’d say he could use some company.”

  Probably some company he liked would be a better idea, but I only said, “Maybe I’ll stop by there on the way home.”

  Mrs. Hammett gave a mollified sniff and handed over my change.

  * * * * *

  Aaron Lipez lived in one of those white two-story Victorian jobs with a red roof, gingerbread trim and lots of geometrically shaped windows. I have vague memories of playing under the spreading shade trees when I was very small. As I recall, I buried a whole platoon of WWI tin soldiers under that leafy roof. I also recall my grandfather telling me he would bury me with them if I didn’t exhume each and every one. An idle threat since here I was, walking onto his front porch and knocking.

  And knocking.

  There was no answer.

  I wandered around back. My grandfather’s pickup was gone. Relieved, I climbed back in the jeep and headed for the colony.

  Once home, I unloaded my groceries and gave the nearest travel agency a call to price out tickets to France. That done, I felt better. I changed into swim trunks and trucked down to the beach.

  On the way down to the cove I spotted the weed killer apparatus Irene had loaned me sitting in a rose bed. I picked it up, examined it. It was empty. Had I left it outdoors so long that the liquid evaporated? I didn’t think so. I carried the weed killer back to the porch and continued down to the beach.

  I was hoping to have the cove to myself, but I noticed Brett lurking under the dock a few yards away. Seeing me, he ducked back behind the piles. That suited me. I didn’t want to talk to Brett. I started for the water. But Brett stepped out and beckoned me over imperiously.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked accusingly when I was within earshot.

  “Swimming.”

  “You never swim this time of day.”

  “Sometimes I do. What’s it to you?”

  “Are you spying on me?”

  “Are you nuts?”

  Seeing that I was pissed, he said quickly, “I’m kidding, Kyle.” He looked at his watch. As I turned away, he said, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to swim.”

  “Can’t you swim some other time?”

  “Who are you waiting for?”

  “No one.”

  I snorted and turned away.

  “Wait.”

  I waited none too patiently.

  “You may as well keep me company.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “What did I do?” He sounded genuinely hurt. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the wind ruffle it up.

  “Nothing. I came to swim.”

  Brett wasn’t listening. He looked at his watch again. His expression changed; I couldn’t tell if it was irritation or disappointment. He seemed to relax though. He questioned suddenly, as if the thought had only occurred, “Did Cosmo keep a journal?”

  “No.”

  “What about letters?”

  “He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t hang on to things.”

  Brett looked like he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. Cosmo had kept nothing that didn’t relate to current business transactions. He had an excellent memory. Perhaps he relied on that.

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Cosmo never left Steeple Hill?”

  “Huh?” I said intelligently.

  “If he left, why wouldn’t he come back? He always came back, right?”

  “Maybe he will some day,” I said, not believing it. “If he’s still alive. Maybe he planned to, but…” I shrugged.

  “You told me you thought he was dead.”

  I said reluctantly, “I do.”

  “You think he died after he split. Suppose he died before he could leave?”

  “What? But that’s…” I gestured confusedly. The thought had honestly never occurred, and I didn’t like it now. “His body,” I expostulated. “What about his body? It would have been found if he’d drowned or fell or…”

  “I’m not talking about an accident.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shit, use your brain, Kyle. What kind of mystery writer are you? Why would he leave right then? Didn’t you ever ask yourself?”

  I put into words for Brett what no one had put into words for me, but what I knew everyone believed. “I think my getting sick was the last straw,” I said. “He wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. I think he cared for me but it was too much responsibility. And then my getting sick—it was obvious right away there was a problem with my heart. It was just too much for him, I think.”

  “You think he’d walk out without a word? Without a note? Without a change of clothes?”

  “Who says he didn’t have a change of clothes?”

  “Did he?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t in noticing shape. He never took much when he split. He was used to roughing it. Living off the land. Living off his friends.”

  Brett leaned back against one of the thick posts supporting the dock and lit a cigarette. “It doesn’t make sense. If—”

  The post gave way behind him. As Brett staggered back, the dock seemed to collapse in slow motion, crashing down upon him. I jumped to the side, tumbling out of the way, and came up staring in disbelief.

  The center portion of the dock lay on the sand; Brett pinned beneath. He was alive, because he was yelling his head off, but he was as shocked and scared as I was—and in a lot more pain. The old planks were heavy, and besides the splinters and jagged pieces of wood, there were thick nails suitable for crucifixion jutting out everywhere.

  I dragged off one plank as thick as a railway tie, and Brett screamed, “God, watch what you’re doing! You’ll cut me in half!”

  I dropped to my knees and cleared the debris away from around his head.

  “What happened?” Brett was crying. “What the fuck happened?” He made an effort to raise himself and fell back. “Kyle, the tide!”

  “The tide’s not coming in, Brett,” I reassured. “Not for hours.” Which wasn’t exactly true. We probably had under an hour before the waves rushed the beach.

  “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

>   I was trying; I scooped sand out from under him, thinking I could extricate him that way. But shoveling sand with my hands was slow going and inefficient; the sand burned as I scraped my hands in and out of its deceptive softness.

  “Can you get your arm free?”

  “It’s broken, I think. I can’t move it.”

  “Shit.” I jumped up, ran around to the other side and tried once more to lift off one of the posts. It was no use. “Brett,” I said, kneeling beside his head. “I’m going for help.”

  “No!” he cried. “No, don’t leave me.”

  “I can’t free you on my own.”

  “Yes, you can. Don’t leave me, Kyle.”

  “Brett.” I touched his face. Tears and blood mingled with the sand. I wiped them away. “Listen, I can’t do it on my own. Let me get help.”

  He stared up at me, his green eyes drowned. He nodded jerkily. “Hurry. Please.”

  I hopped to my feet and raced for the cliff.

  Seventy-five stairs. Midway up I felt something slip in my chest and my heart began to batter itself against my rib cage. I couldn’t get my breath, the blood sang in my ears, my vision darkened. I tried to push past it.

  Big mistake.

  I dropped onto one knee, sucking air into my lungs.

  I couldn’t hear Brett anymore. I couldn’t hear anything over the thunder in my ears. I reached for the railing, hauled myself up another step. Then another.

  “Kyle.” Strong arms closed around me. Adam’s voice was in my ear. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  I could feel myself slipping through his hands like water, pouring onto the rock at his feet. I huddled there. Colored stars shot through the blackness of my vision. “It’s Brett,” I gasped. “The dock—he’s pinned—I couldn’t—”

  “Brett!” Adam’s hands bit into my shoulders. “Jesus. Can you hold on, Kyle?”

  I nodded, hands to my chest, still fighting to get my breath. My vision cleared a little.

  Adam crouched down, trying to see my face. “I don’t want to leave you like this.”

  “Go.”

  Still he hesitated, his eyes dark with concern and doubt.

  “Go,” I wheezed. “Be fine—go!”

  “Sit tight,” Adam ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute. Stay still.”

  I assented and Adam was gone.

  Leaning back against the steps, I closed my eyes, willed my heart to stop the insanity. I was as afraid for myself as Brett by this point. Was I having a full-blown coronary? Was I dying?

  I massaged my chest, took another shallow breath; bit my lip at the pain. Probably not indigestion. Angina maybe? No way. Maybe I’d pulled a muscle lifting the plank off Brett. It didn’t have to be anything really serious. I’d been fine for ages. It could be some kind of panic attack, right? I tried to fill my lungs and winced.

  Fuck.

  I blinked back the sting in my eyes. How stupid was this?

  After what felt like eons my pulse eased, slowed. I could breathe again; the tightness in my chest relaxed. I debated continuing up the stairs to get Adam help. I was so tired. I only needed a minute, I promised myself.

  A shadow fell across my face. I heard the heavy whoosh of wings as a gull swooped down. The sound alarmed me in some indefinable way. I opened my eyes, and Adam stood over me, his back to the sun, his face unreadable.

  His silence, his stillness, scared me. I whimpered; made some small sound of pain and fear. Adam knelt so that our eyes were level. There was still something I didn’t understand in his expression, but I recognized concern for me in his gaze.

  “Put your arm around my neck, Kyle,” he instructed, putting his own arm around me.

  I obeyed, weak and fumbling. “Where’s Brett?” I whispered. “Did you get him free? Is he okay?”

  Adam’s other arm slipped beneath my knees. Giving a grunt, he lifted me up as though I were still a kid. I clutched his neck, feeling muscles move beneath his damp T-shirt, feeling his warm, sun-browned skin under my hands. I breathed in his scent: almond soap, clean sweat, and faintly, turpentine. A fragrance straight out of my childhood; instantly reassuring.

  “Hang on, Kyle,” Adam muttered. “I’ll get you out of this.”

  I let my head drop on his shoulder. “Sorry. Feel so…stupid.”

  “Quiet.”

  His exhalations fanned lightly against my face. It was a relief to let go, to leave it to Adam. My heart had slowed but it was still irregular, kicking twice, pausing too long, thudding against my side in a dizzy tattoo.

  “Here we go, baby,” Adam reassured breathlessly as he climbed. “Almost there.”

  Only another twenty steps to go. I wanted to apologize again for being such a wuss. Instead I closed my eyes.

  The next thing clear was Adam lowering me onto the sofa in his cottage. He spread the black crocheted afghan over me. I could hear him moving around, then the sound of a drawer opening and closing. I heard him dialing the Sheriff’s Department.

  “Steeple Hill. The colony. That’s right. There’s been an accident.” Adam requested paramedics, an ambulance. He spoke in a low, calm voice as though he was used to making 911 calls. Childishly comforted, I drifted.

  “Kyle, don’t you have some pills or something?”

  I opened my eyes. Adam was frowning down on me. “At the house.”

  “Jesus, Kyle!”

  “Adam, what about Brett? How badly is he hurt? You shouldn’t leave him so long.”

  Adam didn’t say anything. His eyes avoided mine. Something in his silence…

  I shifted against the cushions, tried to sit up. “What is it?”

  Adam pushed me flat again. “Simmer down, scout.”

  The cold sickness pooling in my gut had nothing to do with my own physical frailty. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Adam said slowly, “Brett is dead.”

  “Dead?” Adam said nothing. “He can’t be dead!” I started to shake. I couldn’t believe it. “He can’t be dead,” I repeated.

  “Take it easy, Kyle.”

  “He can’t be dead. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Adam said grimly.

  I wiped at the wet spilling over my cheeks. “He can’t be,” I repeated.

  Adam said, “Where are these pills of yours kept?”

  “Kitchen cupboard.” At his expression, I added defensively, “I haven’t needed them in ages, Adam.”

  “Okay, okay. I know. Try and rest. I’ll run next door.”

  I nodded, dragged the back of my arm across my leaking eyes.

  By the time Adam got back I had myself under control, although he was so kind, so concerned, I nearly lost it again.

  “Come on, baby. Let’s get these down.” He helped me sit up, his fingertips brushing my mouth as he slipped the pills between my lips. He held the glass for me and I took a couple of sips of water. “Thatta, boy. Lie back. I’m going to put these cushions under your legs.”

  I could have managed on my own, but I gave myself up to the unmanly pleasure of being cosseted.

  * * * * *

  The paramedics and the cops arrived at the same time. Adam took the cops down to the beach and the paramedics got to work on me, despite my protests that I was fine after all.

  By the time Adam returned with Sheriff Rankin and his deputy in tow, I was sitting up feeling almost back to normal. Almost.

  The paramedics informed Adam I had refused to go to the hospital and Adam insisted that they take me anyway. While they debated the legalities, the sheriff sat down across from me.

  Rankin was a big man with a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots like a lawman out of a Zane Grey western. I remembered him from when I had my first bike stolen. My father had decreed filing a police report would be a good experience. Perhaps he had anticipated a lifetime of police involvement.

  “Howdy, Kyle.”

  I nodded hello. The deputy took her notebook and pencil out.

  Spotting our tableau, Adam tried to intercept. �
�You can’t question him. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I informed the paramedics I wouldn’t be taking an ambulance ride, that my health insurance wouldn’t cover it. These were the magic words and they began to pack up.

  The sheriff inquired, “Some reason you don’t want Kyle to talk to us, Mr. MacKinnon?”

  Adam’s face changed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just wondering.” Sheriff Rankin turned to me. “You feel up to talking to us, Kyle?”

  “Sure.” I gave Adam a look which meant “power down,” but which he didn’t seem to recognize. He continued to hover.

  “Sure,” Sheriff Rankin agreed. “Kyle and I are old friends, right?”

  “Right.” If he said so.

  “Right. Let’s start at the beginning. You and the deceased, Mr. Hansen that was, were down in the cove. You were swimming? Or what?”

  “We were talking.”

  “Talking? On a beautiful hot day like today? What were you talking about?”

  I shrugged. “Just…talk.”

  His eyes were brown and unexpectedly shrewd—like a savvy old hound dog’s. “Uh huh. So you were standing where in relation to the dock?”

  “We were standing in the shade. Brett was right beneath. I was a little to the side.”

  “What happened then?”

  “It…collapsed.”

  “Like that? No warning?”

  I tried to remember. “There was a kind of cracking sound and then one of the pillars gave way, and it came down. Fast.”

  “But not so fast you didn’t have time to get out of the way?”

  I stared at him dumbly.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Brett was pinned underneath. There was a section of logs—planks across his chest and thighs. He was yelling and crying. There were nails, jagged pieces of wood. I tried to lift off the planks but I couldn’t, so I tried to dig the sand out from under him. I thought I could drag him free that way.” I turned to Adam. “He—Brett—was begging me not to leave him, to help him. I didn’t think straight.”

  “Was there anyone else in the cove besides yourself and Hansen?” the sheriff questioned.