“I want to tell you about Bicycle Bob,” Lima said, before he even knew what he was going to say, just to shut her up before she said any more irretrievable things. He stopped, and thought a moment, but the interest in Sabrina’s eyes convinced him this was the right thing to do.
“Bicycle?” She leaned forward. “Is he okay?”
Lima leaned back in his chair, satisfied with what he was seeing. She wasn’t completely frozen inside, no matter how hard she was trying to turn down the thermostat.
“Bob McCall was the kid we all knew was going to leave the island, almost before he could even talk. Some kids are like that. They aren’t cut out for this place, more and more of ’em, really. His brother Jimmy, now, he left for a spell and went to ride Harleys in Californ-ee-ah, but he came back and settled down like we all knew he would. Bob, though, he was different. He had that restless look about him, that look that said he wanted to DO something with his life, and those were some big ole’ capital letters. He meant it, and right after high school he joined the Peace Corps and went off to Africa or Australia, or one of them beleaguered countries, to help the starving children. Then he did the college thing and went to work at one of those places, the ones that put the ads on TV about how you can save a kid for the price of a cup of coffee a day. He was a lawyer, and his specialty was suing these big companies that tell everybody they’re helping the poor, hungry children, and then dump a few rotten apples on them and pocket the rest of the money.
“He got married, and he brought his wife to the island every Christmas, and she was a sight to behold. One of the sweetest, most fragile-looking things you ever did see. Bob adored her, you could see that plain as day. That last Christmas, she was expecting, and I’ve never seen two people so happy.”
Lima found that the clog was back in his throat, and he leaned forward and poured himself a belt of whisky to clear it. Then another, to ease the growing pressure in his chest. He’d pound his fingers with a hammer if he caught a tear in his eye. That would give him something to cry about.
“Then we heard the news. It was a car accident, and Bob’s wife was in a coma. They knew right off she wasn’t going to make it, but they kept her alive for a while to try to save the baby, but it didn’t work. They both died, and Josie McCall held a nice memorial service on the island, though they buried them up north. Bob didn’t come. We heard that he quit his job, and Josie didn’t hear from him for a long time. No one did. A couple of years later we started hearing rumors about someone living at the old McCall homestead in the woods. It had been abandoned for years after the McCalls decided to move to town. Then we saw Bob. He would come to town for his liquor, and it looked like he hadn’t drawn a sober breath for the past two years. We thought he’d snap out of it. We waited for a while, and then Josie started holding little interventions for him, got all of us together to confront him. He was still talking then, and after a while he told us to leave him alone, that he was trying to survive. Did we want to see him dead? That was what got us. He swore if we messed with him in any way, tried to put him in one of those dry-out places like some were talking about, that he would kill himself. We left him alone after that, and he’s been like this for twenty years. Tomorrow or the next day is the anniversary of his wife’s death, and he always gets worse around then. Then he goes back to being the same old Bicycle, painting his coconuts and riding his bike. He gave up, you see, just didn’t want to try no more.”
Lima felt very tired as he leaned back in his chair. He felt kind of sick, actually.
Sabrina was silent, her big blue eyes welling with dismay and sympathy. She started to say something, and then stopped.
Lima stood up. He was afraid if he didn’t leave now he was going to be sick. “You think on that tonight, and I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster with vomit hovering in the back of his throat.
“Lima, are you all right?”
“My nephew, Kealy, the one I told you got an envelope full of cash? He got another one, and he’s going to treat me to dinner at the Pub tonight, so I need to be moving along.” Lima felt as if he was on one of those rides at the carnival, the one where they stand you up against the wall and close the door, and the next thing you know you’re going around so fast that you’re stuck to the wall.
“Your nephew got another envelope full of cash? What in the world is going on?”
“I don’t know, but if there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s him. That side of the family has had bad luck ever since Gerry Lowry committed suicide back in the twenties. Kealy’s the only one left now, because the rest of them have either drunk themselves to death or died young some other way.”
“Did you say Gerry Lowry? I’ve been thinking about that note, the one the burglar dropped at the rental cottage. You know, the one that said, ‘Mit,’ ‘Har,’ ‘Gar,’ and ‘Fred.’ I think I know what it means. And now that you’ve said that your nephew is Gerry Lowry’s only surviving relative, I can’t help but wonder—Lima?”
Lima felt an explosion of pain in his chest, and he put out his hand to brace himself on the table, but the table wasn’t there and he felt himself toppling in slow motion toward the floor.
“Lima!”
His last memory before darkness closed in was the sound of Sabrina saying “I know I have an aspirin in here somewhere” and “Dammit, is it two breaths and fifteen chest compressions or the other way around?”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Lima Lowry looked old, and that was something Mary Garrison Tubbs did not like to see, because it meant she was old, too. Of course, nobody looked their best laid out on a hospital bed in a paper-thin gown with tubes stuck up their nose. But still…Lima didn’t look capable of swatting a fly right now, much less burping the national anthem, which he was known to do on the Fourth of July.
“I have Sara Lowry coming in at four this afternoon, Josie McCall at eight, and Nettie Wrightly has offered to do the midnight shift.”
Sabrina Dunsweeney smiled without looking up from where she sat beside Lima’s bed, holding his hand.
Mary huffed in annoyance and said, “I happen to love cute little birds, especially in good gravy. How about you?”
Sabrina nodded with the same absent-minded enthusiasm. She’d been like this since Mary arrived this morning, smiling and nodding when spoken to, answering direct questions if necessary, but for the most part saying nothing as she held onto Lima’s hand with single-minded determination. At first Mary thought Sabrina had the sulkies, paying Mary back for firing her yesterday, but Sabrina barely seemed to notice that Mary was in the room.
The old man having a heart attack was no surprise. Mary had been after him for years to get himself checked out, but it was like arguing with a stop sign. Couldn’t get him to do anything you said. Thinking back on it, Mary should have told him to go kill himself, sure as anything that would have sent him straight to Doc Hailey for a check-up.
Long ago, Mary adopted a sensible diet and an exercise plan, and look at her, her heart was as strong and fit as any eighteen-year-old’s. Lima should have listened to her advice, but then, Mary didn’t understand why everybody didn’t do what she told them to do. She was always right, wasn’t she? People might squawk about the way she did things, but they always appreciated the results. She had no patience for people who were too squeamish to get the job done. Take Mayor Hill, for example. Mary didn’t understand why the islanders wouldn’t elect her mayor—it was just plain stupidity, that’s what—but she could have moped about and watched the island go to helius in a handbasket.
Instead, she’d done the island a favor. Hill was a council member for many years while he was florist, before he retired and got strange. With prodding—well, okay, and the judicious use of a little blackmail—Mary got him to run for mayor. It was mainly due to voter apathy that he triumphed. The other candidate was Hoopla McCall, who was running on a one-plank platform to keep the bars open another two hours every night. Hill did what Mary told h
im to do, and everybody was happy. A perfect case of the end justifying the means.
Hill had squawked a bit when Mary told him it was time to fire Sabrina. For a minute during the emergency council meeting, it looked as if he were going to vote with Nettie and Sondra against her and Bill Large, in favor of keeping Sabrina on. But in the end, Mary had prevailed, as she knew she would. She was only doing what was best for everybody, even if they were too stupid to see it just now.
Mary looked down at her list of things to do: putting together a group of girls to go clean Lima’s house, contacting his brother, and making sure Matt Fredericks worked out a way to put up the Hummer group a couple more nights to accommodate the ongoing police investigation. Who else would think to do these very necessary things?
Sabrina was now gazing out the window at the parking lot. Mary didn’t understand the woman, she really didn’t. Suggesting the ombudsman job for Sabrina was the right thing to do. It needed to be done, Sabrina needed a job, and it seemed like something she could handle. Mary didn’t care for the woman much, but Sabrina was part of this community now, and as such, she had to be looked after like everyone else.
The fact that Sabrina screwed up in such a spectacular manner confirmed Mary’s basic distrust of the woman’s character. But now…Mary didn’t know what to think, and she wasn’t afraid to admit it. It was hard not to have a little respect for the woman after she saved Lima Lowry’s life. Mary heard Sabrina performed CPR for the twenty minutes it took to get an ambulance on the scene—Mary would make sure Hill addressed that tardiness at the next council meeting—and then followed the ambulance to the hospital. She hadn’t left the man’s side since.
“Sabrina, go home and get some sleep. I’ve got things under control.” It wasn’t the first time Mary had issued the order, but she was surprised when Sabrina looked up and met her eyes for the first time that day. Almost against her will, Mary softened her voice. “You heard them say he’s going to be fine. You did good. Now it’s just a matter of time. Go on home.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Thank you, Mary.” With that, Sabrina leaned forward, touched Lima’s cheek, and then got up. She hesitated at the door, and looked back.
“Go on,” Mary said, already moving to the seat Sabrina had vacated. “You look like a stray dog someone forgot to feed.”
That sweet, preoccupied smile, and then she was gone.
***
Head librarian Iris Hillkins heard the front door open and glanced at her watch to see that it wasn’t quite closing time. Not that she would have turned the person away, as long as he or she had legitimate business in the library. Lucas passed away five years ago, and Iris didn’t have any pressing reason to be rushing home, even on a Saturday night.
It was Sabrina Dunsweeney, and she looked like she just stepped out of a wind tunnel. Sabrina often looked some variation on this theme, but the wrinkled clothes, flyaway hair and lines around her eyes were more pronounced tonight than usual. Iris liked Sabrina’s energy and spunk, and like any good librarian, she knew more about the woman than she would ever share. You can’t help but notice what sort of books a person checks out, and wonder about the questions your patrons ask.
Tonight, Sabrina looked tired, but at the same time jazzed, as if she just gulped a large shot of espresso. She had a long night, Iris knew. She must have come straight from the hospital on the mainland.
“Hi, Iris. Is there a computer free?”
“Nobody here this evening. Help yourself. How is Lima doing?”
Sabrina signed the clipboard. “They say he’s out of the woods.”
“It’s a wonderful thing you did for him.” Iris wished someone could have been there for Lucas, but he was fishing by himself when the stroke hit.
For the next two hours, Iris read quietly while Sabrina Dunsweeney worked her way from the computer to the microfiche machine to the original document section, where she asked permission to look through several old diaries. Iris helped when she was needed and stayed out of Sabrina’s way the rest of the time. She wasn’t sure what Sabrina was up to, but she recognized that it was important to the woman, so important that Sabrina didn’t even realize that closing time had come and gone. Iris wasn’t about to mention it. In her eyes, Sabrina was a hero.
Iris did think it was interesting that prohibition on the island had become such a hot topic lately. She couldn’t remember any time in the past fifty years that some of these books and microfiches had been requested, and here they were being perused twice in the same month. Of course, Iris prided herself on not letting herself think too much on the items her patrons requested. More, she would never betray the inherent confidences they placed in her discretion.
Iris was thinking about calling to see if the Pub would deliver her some dinner when Sabrina leaned back from the table and smiled with deep satisfaction.
“Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
All day Sunday, Comico Island was abuzz with rumors and speculation. The frenetic energy gripping the island was not unlike the dreadful, excited animation that preceded a hurricane’s approach. Every piece of news, no matter how insignificant, was vital, every rumor was amplified, and every person was eager to talk.
There was so much going on! It wasn’t every week that a murder occurred on the island, and not just any murder either. The news teams made it clear that if the death of Gilbert Kane wasn’t important enough to rate national news, basketball player Dennis Parker’s involvement certainly did. Throwing in a strange cult and a comely model made the story all the more fascinating. It was true, it would have been more interesting if Dennis Parker was guilty of the murder (perhaps in cahoots with his model girlfriend?), but now that someone had been arrested, the media were circling like vultures over road kill.
The news teams were asking locals and vacationers alike their reaction to the news that Nicholas Samuel Myers had been arrested for the murder of Gilbert Kane. The fact that the people they interviewed did not know the victim, or the suspect, did not stop the journalists. It was not easy to find the dumbest person on the island to interview for national news, but, as usual, the news crews took up the challenge with relish.
Most of the islanders affected indifference to the media, though many of them had taken to dressing in their finest clothes and finding various reasons to walk by the plastic-faced men and women brandishing microphones.
Lima’s heart attack and the new island ombudsman’s abrupt termination were also good for a minute or two of gossip currency. Another tidbit kept cropping up as well, though no one knew where it came from, or why everyone else was so interested in it. The Shell Lodge was infested with termites, it seemed, and major demolition was going to start tomorrow.
This piece of news was tacked on to the bigger stories of the day, so as one person stopped another in the street, the conversation might go something like this:
“Sure glad the rain stopped. How things going for you?”
“I’ve been interviewed by three different news crews this morning. You?”
“Just the one, but that was CNN, so I guess that counts for something. Did you hear the news about Sabrina Dunsweeney?”
“No, what happened?”
“The town council fired her. Saved Lima Lowry’s life last night, you know. They should be giving her a medal, not firing her.”
“I don’t know her well, but she always has a smile for me when she goes by. I think it’s a darn shame they fired her. How about the Shell Lodge? Did you hear about the termites? Going to tear it down tomorrow, I hear.”
“No! Really?”
And so on and so on and so on. Around six o’clock, the news about the termites at the Shell Lodge hit the ears of someone who actually cared.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Even in the middle of the night, discreet spotlights played across the thousands of whelk shells embedded in the walls of the lodge, imbuing them with a wavering mobility they never possessed
in life.
The back doors to the lodge were locked. No surprise there. The front door was open, but that avenue led past a sleepy desk clerk watching an infomercial on kitchen knives that were sharp enough to slice concrete and move onto steel beams for dessert.
There were several guards to avoid, but this proved easy. Despite the lights, there were plenty of rustling shadows in which to duck in a hurry, and really, just standing still as the flat-footed guard leisured past with his flashlight trained on the ground was good enough.
The problem of how to get in the lodge was a little more difficult. All the doors were locked, but that wasn’t any surprise. With all that had been going on at the Shell Lodge, it would have been surprising if the doors weren’t locked.
However, it was a nice night, and there were several windows open to admit the brisk night breeze. Most of these windows led into sleeping rooms, which would not work, but one window in the dining room had been left open, barred only by a thick screen. Perfect.
Wait for the guard to pass, and then slide up the screen as quietly as possible. There. Now it was a simple matter to shimmy in through the window and close the screen so as not to attract any unwanted attention.
Creeping through the halls on bare feet, keeping a sharp eye out for the old man. Last time he jumped out from behind a door, screaming bloody murder. The decision to wait for a while on the second attempt was an easy one after that. There was no hurry.
But hearing the news about the termite damage, and more importantly, the demolition work that was supposed to begin tomorrow, put an urgent spin on things. It had to be tonight, or never. And never wasn’t an option.
Reading about something in a book in the comfortable, well-lit library, however, was a far cry from trying to find it in the dark, sleeping hotel. Where to start? The lounge seemed like a good bet. Unlike the cottages and the west wing, the lounge was part of the original hotel, and used to be Kenneth Fredericks’ office in the twenties. That seemed an obvious place for Fredericks to hide something, so that would be first.
Island Blues Page 21
