I stopped as it hit me. “She’s like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melanie grouched.
“She plays to people’s misconceptions about her. It offends her, but she likes being underestimated at the same time. She let people think she was having an affair with Bennett because they were going to believe it anyway. But she doesn’t actually have a motive for killing him. Tamsin didn’t do it.”
“Forget it, Arthur.”
“We need to tell the police.”
“I said forget it!”
I stared at Melanie, disbelieving. She elaborated, “If she didn’t do it, she’ll have an alibi. Let the police handle it. I don’t care about the money. I don’t want to deal with this case anymore.”
“What is wrong with you? I don’t understand how your brain works!”
“Better than yours,” Melanie growled. “We’re going back to the office.”
The rest of the day was spent in awkward silence as I struggled to understand what was going on. Once I thought I had wrapped my head around it, Melanie changed the entire game. It was mistake to take this job, and I was beginning to think it was a mistake to come to Los Angeles at all. I’d been a successful theater actor in New York, but I just couldn’t resist the allure of being in pictures. I was in way over my head, in a world I didn’t belong in. The most shameful part was that I wanted to be a part of it desperately. What was wrong with me?
Just as it was getting late in the day and I was itching to go home, the phone rang. Melanie and I answered our separate lines. The clear voice of Tamsin Saxa sounded through the receiver.
“Mr. Kendrick, it looks like I have to hire you for yet another service.”
“Mr. Bennett is dead, Ms. Saxa,” I told her bluntly.
“I know. I’ve been arrested for his murder. I’d like you to come to the police station.”
That was quick. “Shouldn’t you be calling a lawyer?”
“I already have. My lawyer can easily prove I’m innocent, but I’d like for you to actually find out who did it.”
“Why should we help you again?” Melanie asked coolly.
Tamsin was smug as she played her trump card: “It was blackmail, wasn’t it?”
Melanie hung up the phone abruptly and rushed into my office, doing the same with mine. “We need to go.”
“Where?”
“Bennett Saxa and Associates Accounting Firm. Come on, before it gets too dark out,” she ushered me outside the door. The drive was a quick seven minutes before we pulled in front of an unfamiliar office building. Right outside the entrance was the enigmatic Tamsin Saxa. I noticed her jacket and skirt were the same shade of pink as the bloody sand.
“You’re late,” she greeted me.
“Did you call from here? Weren’t you in jail?”
“Oh, that. My lawyer already got the charges dropped and is filing a lawsuit against the department. And, well, I didn’t actually expect you to pick me up at the police station. Not when you’re covering for someone and making me the patsy.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I scoffed.
“I might be smart, but even I make mistakes. After I left, I realized that when you went to James’ house you would probably find all the files he idiotically keeps—kept lying around. And if you looked closely enough, you would notice the same discrepancies I did.”
“You’re saying you didn’t notice your colleague was managing money for the mob?” Melanie raised an eyebrow.
Tamsin burst out laughing. “Of course I knew about that. I’m the one who oversees that aspect of our little business. No, I’m talking about how he’s been blackmailing certain parties of interest. You know: the business men, politicians, and policemen that line their pockets with bribes. Not with my approval, I will tell you. Can you imagine how bad for business that would be if the news got out? I’d end up like James, except no one would find my body.”
My jaw slackened in momentary surprise. I wasn’t covering for anyone, but Melanie was. She had figured all this out at Bennett’s house. I pushed past Tamsin and Melanie and rushed inside the accounting office.
The rooms were dark except for the file room. A light flickered overhead, almost in tandem with the waste bin fire in the middle of the room. Detective Katsaros fed papers to the hungry flame. I could feel the two women enter behind me.
Katsaros looked up and only had eyes for one of us, “Melanie.”
Melanie, looking uncharacteristically childish, turned her back to him. She covered her face with her hands. Her voice came out muffled, “there must be some mistake.”
“Melanie,” he began again, “it was never supposed to turn out like this.”
“Like what?” I snorted angrily. “Taking bribes from criminals or killing an innocent man?”
“Bennett was not innocent! He was shaking me down for practically every cent I got from those guys. I didn’t mean to kill him, but he wasn’t a good guy!”
“I could say the same about you,” Tamsin looked unfairly unruffled. “Regular transactions at the beginning of the month, every month. Four hundred dollars is a little much just to keep your mouth shut and look the other way. You must have been doing my client’s dirty work.”
“Melanie, Melanie,” his voice became a desperate litany. “It’s more complicated than that. It used to be the only way you could survive as a cop was if you were dirty. Now they’re going to destroy me for playing the game. You need to understand. That’s why you do it, right, hide behind some guy? We all play the game.”
“I could’ve joined the police,” Melanie turned around to face him. “It was corrupt creeps like you that convinced me I could do better on my own. So, no, I don’t understand.”
Melanie lunged toward him, on a seemingly unstoppable trajectory, only to halt at the sight of her uncle’s gun drawn on her. She looked both sad and challenging, “Are you going to shoot me?”
There was hesitation in Katsaros’ eyes. I took the opportunity and grabbed his arm, shoving it away from Melanie. The gun went off when he clenched his hand in surprise. The bullet missed hitting Tamsin by a few inches, imbedding itself in the wall. She let out a yelp and ran from the room.
The gun clattered to the other side of the room. Katsaros head-butted me in the face, sending me reeling back as stars burst in front of me. Uncle and niece raced for the gun at the same time. The scrambled in the dark of the room. Melanie gained the advantage when she elbowed him in the solar plexus. She turned the gun on the gasping detective.
“Arthur, call the police,” she ordered me, not taking her unforgiving eyes off of Katsaros.
The tell-tale sign of a gun being cocked made me think she was going to shoot Katsaros. But then Melanie whipped around, a shocked look on her face, and I realized the noise had come from behind me. I glanced back to see Tamsin holding a revolver to my head.
“I’d rather keep the police out of this,” she frowned. The fire was still the only light in the room. Shadows danced across her face. Suddenly she was more frightening than beautiful.
“Why? He killed your colleague!” I exclaimed.
“James was an idiot. Someone would have gotten to him eventually. I just wanted to know if it was someone who was working alone, or if my client had found out about his shakedown. He hasn’t, so I’m going to keep this from his attention.”
“Are you really that loyal to a bunch of criminals?” Melanie asked.
“Not at all. But once the police follow the money trail from my firm, they’ll realize there are dozens of other identical trails. I have to protect my own interests,” Tamsin lowered the gun. “I’m going to let you all go now. Return home and never speak of this again.”
“That’s it?” Katsaros seemed a little disbelieving.
“No. Now I own all of you,” Tamsin smirked.
“Excuse me?” Melanie was outraged, I was just shocked.
“I’ll come asking for a favor one day. Neither of you will refuse, if you
want to keep the dear detective out of prison. I’ll enjoy being your puppeteer. Now, Mr. Katsaros, if we may discuss a few things...”
As she ushered Katsaros to a more private corner, Melanie and I huddled together.
“I know I made a mistake,” Melanie admitted quietly.
“You figured this whole thing out hours ago, didn’t you? But you didn’t want to believe it—that your uncle might be dirty. So you tried to ignore it and let me pin the blame on Saxa. I don’t think I really knew what I was getting into when I accepted this job. I certainly didn’t think I would be covering up crimes and being beholden to some megalomaniac accountant.”
“I won’t begrudge you if you run. Saxa doesn’t have anything to hold over you. This is my problem.”
“I don’t know,” I sighed.
“I don’t think you’ll leave, Arthur,” Tamsin said, coming up behind him. “People get into this business for two reasons: the money and the thrills. You’ve gotten a taste, and it’s addictive, isn’t it?”
Part of me wanted to prove her wrong, but my silence told more than any answer would. Melanie let out a sigh of relief.
“Even so, I think you’ve had enough thrills for the night,” Tamsin pulled out a wad of cash from her purse and turned to Melanie, “It’s been a pleasure working with you...”
“Melanie Katsaros, since you didn’t ask.”
“Ah, yes,” Tamsin had a delighted expression as she slid the money into Melanie’s hand. Her fingers lingered for a moment. “I’ll be calling. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few fires to put out.”
She brushed past Melanie, deliberately sliding their shoulders against one another, and not breaking eye contact until the last possible moment.
“She’s trouble,” Melanie was flustered and flushed.
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “But it looks like she’s your trouble now.”
Back to TOC
The Sand Fairies
Sharon Fiffer
“How did you build that castle?” I asked the little girl who had trudged up from the water’s edge to stand at the foot of my blanket.
“The sand fairies helped me,” she said.
“Ah...do they help everyone or just you?” I asked.
“They help everyone they like,” she said, brushing some of the sand from her bathing suit.
“I see. How do I get them to like me?”
“If I like you, they will like you,” she said.
The girl scanned the beach, turning slowly away in a half circle. Turning back, she trained her gray eyes on me.
“Can I have one of your sandwiches?” she asked.
“If it’s all right with your mother,” I answered, removing my carefully wrapped sandwiches from the basket.
“It’s all right. My mother says I am in charge of what I eat and don’t eat,” she said, plopping down on the blanket as if there wasn’t a rigid bone in her body.
“Peanut butter or roast beef?” I asked, admiring her effortless perfect posture.
“Is it rare?” she asked.
If she were an average child I would have made a joke. No, just ordinary peanut butter.
“Yes, it’s rare. With mustard,” I answered.
“I’ll have that, please.”
She sat down on my blanket and ate the sandwich. I always brought a full picnic with me to the beach, even though I came alone. I packed a basket as if children and a husband would be joining me, ravenous after a morning of jumping in the waves.
“This sandwich is a little dry,” she said.
I told her I had ginger ale and fizzy water.
“In bottles?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Straws?”
“Yes,” I said.
I had sturdy plastic reusable straws. Red, white and blue striped, they came with the plastic picnic set that fit neatly inside the basket.
For the first time she smiled.
“The sand fairies like straws.”
“Do they drink soda?” I asked.
Her smile vanished.
As I said, she wasn’t an ordinary child.
The beach wasn’t crowded. Most of the people were townies like me. We closed our stores and offices on Mondays and Tuesdays so we could take back our beach from the summer people who claimed it on the weekends. Only a few families played down by the water. Two teenagers tossed a plastic disc. Apart from the crowd, under the shade of the big rocks that formed a horseshoe around them, an amorous couple fondled each other as if they were invisible. Or as if the rest of us were. The lifeguard, perched on his chair, looked like he might be asleep under the brim of his hat.
“To whom do you belong?” I asked the girl.
“My mother says I belong to myself. As does she.”
“As does she?” I repeated it because I loved the way she said the phrase, like a haughty English princess. She heard my echo as a question.
“Yes. She says if she has a friend, it’s her business. She doesn’t belong to Daddy. She belongs to herself,” said the little girl, sipping the last of her ginger ale.
Steer away, steer away. Sounds like summer indiscretion and we witness these dramas every season. Dish is not my dish. I am not a gossip and I’ve found avoiding the juicy bits altogether is the best way not to become one.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Eleven in September,” she answered.
“And your name?” I asked.
“You can call me Lake,” she said, her eyes never leaving my face.
“Ah, but is it your name?” I asked
“It’s my middle name and I like it better than my first. What shall I call you?”
“Ann is my middle name, so why don’t you call me Ann? We’ll be a middle name club,” I offered.
“I don’t like clubs.”
“Then we’ll just be friends,” I said.
Lake held out her hand and allowed me to shake it. Even though she began the gesture, she had no interest in a firm grip. Instead, she let her hand lie limp inside mine for a moment, then pushed herself up off of my blanket.
“Thank you for the sandwich.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“May I keep the straw?” she asked.
I nodded.
Lake ran back down to the water where her castle stood. The waves had filled in the moats and even from several yards away, I could see that the meticulously crafted towers and turrets remained. I studied the families who by this time were eating their own lunches. I wanted to see what adult welcomed her back or scolded her for going off alone.
The girl was ignored by everyone until she spoke to a boy, four or five inches taller than she, who nodded enthusiastically at something she said. He grabbed a smaller version of himself, a mopey younger brother I guessed, and both boys came with shovels and buckets in hand and began kicking at her castle. I started to rise, to defend her, but saw she was kicking with them. She had invited the demolition crew.
I pulled my hat lower down over my face so I could continue to study my new friend, Lake, but I dozed off. Even though I stay under my umbrella, the sun works its sleepy magic and I always end up napping after lunch.
When I woke, Lake was almost finished burying someone in the sand. She was as careful shoveling and digging and patting and watering as she had been with her castle. The man, I could see it was a man, had stretched out his arms and Lake patted piles of sand over each one. She worked quickly and the man was soon outlined in mounded sand. Legs, arms belly, all molded and shaped as he was underneath. I was watching the work, so didn’t see the woman who approached them as an entire person. I only saw a long pair of female legs enter the frame of the semi-moving picture I was enjoying. Semi-moving, since the man remained inert. Only Lake danced around, packing the heavy wet sand around him.
The woman, now fully in frame, her long hair in waves around her shoulders, gestured toward the parking lot. She was barefoot in the sand, but I could picture her wearing high heels, tap, tap, tap
ping them on a wooden floor.
The buried man shook his head from side to side. He had some trouble disengaging his legs and arms. The woman laughed and refused to help. Lake stood to one side, studying him as he struggled. When he stood up, he wobbled unsteadily and the woman reached into the compact cooler she was carrying and handed him a bottle of beer that she twisted open for him. He downed it quickly, dropped the bottle on the sand and started toward the parking lot, the woman following.
It was the man and woman who had been cavorting on the blanket earlier.
Lake stood still, watching them for several seconds. Then the woman turned and called out.
Lake shrugged, picked up pail and shovel and blanket and followed them. She didn’t turn to wave goodbye to me. I didn’t expect her to.
Tuesday was nearly identical to Monday. A few minutes before noon, Lake appeared on my blanket and accepted a sandwich. Ham with pickle and mustard on rye bread.
“The sand fairies helped me build that tunnel,” she said.
“I see,” I said, unpacking two bunches of grapes, green and red.
“It’s big. People can fit in the hole that I dug,” she said.
“Yes. Chips?” I offered.
“Not good for you. My mother says they are highly caloric and with no nutritional value.”
I could see Lake’s mother. At this moment she was once again rolling around with her friend on a blanket in the semi-private horseshoe annex of the beach
Lake watched me eat a chip, then nodded. “You don’t care about such things because you’re so much older than my mother.”
True enough.
“I needn’t offer you a cookie, then?” I asked holding out a raisin oatmeal bar.
Lake took the cookie and bit into it with her small pointed teeth.
“Mother says we all deserve something sweet now and then,” she said.
I could see over the rocks to the horseshoe, and observed that mother and friend had untangled themselves from each other and he was drinking a beer. Judging from the two empty bottles next to mother’s friend, he appeared to be a liquid lunch man.
Lake finished her cookie and once again asked if she could keep her straw.
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon 2014 Anthology Page 17
