by Dana Cameron
I thought about Brian, who adored my tenacity in everything but the present situation. I thought about Sheriff Stannard, who liked the way I looked at things, but didn’t want me to look at them on my own. “The only thing you can do is keep bringing it up, get to the bottom of things. Negotiate, compromise, look for the answer.” I shrugged; I knew from my own experience that it wasn’t as easy as that.
“And if that doesn’t work? What if there are no answers?”
That one kept me occupied until we arrived in Bakersfield.
Chapter 23
THE VOICE ON THE TELEPHONE WAS RIGHT, THERE WAS no way that I could have missed the dive shop. It was a sprawling shingled house, the lower floor of which had been converted into a storefront. A giant plaster sperm whale with a sailor’s hat winked from the roof of the front porch. It was old and weathered, half of its tail missing. Seagulls had obviously found it a compelling target for years, and the once-bright blue body was faded with white smears all over it, adding a perverse sense of realism to the thing. A yellow electric sandwich board hummed in the late afternoon light, boasting the words “Bakersfield Dive Shop/How Long Can You Go Down?/Winter Classes Start Nov. 1.”
I pulled in and was out of the truck saying, “Just wait here, I won’t be a minute.”
“But—” Meg protested. I ignored her, not wanting to bring up Tony with her.
The inside of the place was as random as the outside, with the same sense of iconoclastic decor. The walls, like the exterior, looked like they had been decorated with the castoffs of a thousand defunct clam shanties, the ornaments running largely toward fishnets, buoys, and lobster traps. A few other oddments added to the sense of clutter, including a bizarre example of taxidermy in the shape of a stuffed and mounted basset hound. This occupied the place of honor behind the counter with the television that had blared talk-show inanities into the phone the day that I had first tried the number.
The stock, on the other hand, was in good order. I didn’t know anything about diving other than recognizing some stuff that Brian used for snorkeling. I could tell, however, that the wet and dry suits, hanging like scarecrows, were expensive, and the smaller accouterments were well organized in their individual bins. The whole place smelled of chlorine, rubber, old carpet, and the unpainted wood of the walls.
The television was on again, so I knew for sure that this was the right place: It was tuned to a professional wrestling match. The man behind the counter was seated precariously on a stool, and could have easily passed for one of the contestants in the bout being shown. He was of enormous girth, the top of the stool being lost under him, and had a head of hair that looked as though it had been combed last in 1970, and then with an imprecise gardening tool.
A group of pictures formed a shrine behind the stuffed dog, and with a little squinting, I could just make out a common figure in all of them, a much reduced version of the man in front of me. The pictures were mostly on boats and beaches, a few murky greenish ones underwater, but all clearly from the premier diving spots in the world: Hawaii, Australia, the Keys, the Caribbean, and other places that I didn’t recognize. Whoever the guy was, he was certainly a long way away from his previous life.
“Nice pictures, ain’t they?” I was caught staring too long for casual interest. The voice that rumbled out of his chest was no less impressive than it had been over the phone, gravelly thunder trapped in a cavern. “I been a lot of places, seen a lotta things. Now I just make sure that other folks get to see them too, and don’t get mangled doing it.”
“You don’t dive anymore.” I made it more of an invitation than a question.
“Nope, can’t do it. For one thing, there ain’t enough neoprene on the planet.” This was followed by a tumultuous guffaw. “For ’nother, doctors found a spot on my lungs, and between that and losing half my foot to a shark, I kinda lost interest. Kind of a long shot, that shark attack, and I figure, if you gotta defy the odds some way, I myself would have picked the lottery, but what are you gonna do?”
A little wistfulness tinged his voice, but his overall tone was one of making the best out of life. “Name’s Johnny. What can I do for ya, Red?” He reluctantly turned the wrestlers down.
I ignored his use of the repellent nickname. “Well, it’s sort of a surprise. A friend of mine dives, and he shops here, and I wanted to get something for his birthday. Of course, I don’t know anything about diving, but I figured you might be able to help me out there.” I was disconcerted by the cajoling feminine helplessness my voice had taken on. Not my usual style at all, but it seemed to be working.
“That might take a little doing,” Johnny said doubtfully. “What’s his name, darlin’? Does he dive around here? If he’s smart, he’ll be heading about two thousand miles south a-ways, otherwise his balls might not come down again till next Easter!” He bellowed at his own sally, making me wonder if there were a volume button or an amplifier I could turn off.
“His name is Tony—it might be under Anthony—Markham. I know he’s come in at least once.”
But Johnny’s eyes lit up. “I know him all right—you the one called the other day, right?”
I nodded.
“Sure, he’s been in here a bunch of times, and always picks out the good stuff too,” he said. “Might be kinda difficult finding something he doesn’t have, he’s a guy who believes in treating himself well. You a close friend of his?” The inquiry suggested that his mind was more than half made up on the subject of my precise relation to Tony.
“Oh, you know,” I said coyly offhand. “An old friend of the family’s, known him forever.”
“Then you got some idea of where he’s likely to be doing most of his diving? Same places?”
I was at a loss, having no idea where the same places were, and began to feel, well, like a fish out of water. “Well, I know he’s been doing a bit around here lately, but I don’t know what his plans for the winter are, and I thought—”
“We thought that we could find him something that he could use anywhere, in case he decides to go back to Kauai this winter too,” a voice piped up, saving me from…floundering.
I whirled around and nearly crashed into Meg, who apparently had come into the shop almost directly on my heels and had discreetly moved behind one of the displays. She had heard everything, and for some reason was playing along with me. I glared at her, but there was nothing I could do to chase her away without blowing things with Johnny.
“Has he already picked up a watch?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure, first thing,” he replied. “And a timer. He already has all the basics: mask, fins, BCD, tank. But he’s been by for a couple of bags, an Oakley dry suit, and a fine selection of knives.” Johnny snickered. “You know, I’m about half convinced that the biggest thing that gets people into diving is that they can walk around with the knife strapped to their leg. A lot of them get off on the big, bad explorer image,” he explained.
“Well, that’s Uncle Tony to a T,” Meg chimed in, giggling. “Computer? How about a pony tank?”
“Natch.”
“What about a good map? Has he bought any of those waterproof ones from you?” I asked all of a sudden, noticing a basket on the counter. I was starting to feel left out; I couldn’t, er, fathom what a pony tank did, I couldn’t tell from BCDs, but maps I understood.
“Hmmm. I think he’s all set for them too. Let me check.” Johnny rifled through a cluttered ledger, looking back several months. “Nope, he’s covered there too. Got the ones of the river up to Noggintok, and the coast outside the river mouth.”
“So he’s got one of Penitence Point, has he?” I asked, thinking quickly.
“Yep—”
Bingo, I thought. It all comes back to the river.
“—he asked for that one the last time he was in, back in July.”
“C’mon, Emma, he spoils himself too much, I told you already. He’s got all the good stuff that we could have afforded. I still say we should go for the book we saw
.” Meg smiled wickedly, passing the hot potato to me.
For once I didn’t miss a beat.
“You mean the one of Victorian nude photographs?” I asked sweetly. I turned to Johnny. “He’s a photography buff too.”
Meg snorted with laughter, then started coughing. Got her.
“You’re right, Meg. We’ll have better luck with that. But Johnny.” I turned back to him a moment, putting my hand on his forearm in a conspiratorial gesture.
For a moment I was afraid we were going to see how fast Johnny could move when he sensed danger, but I shouldn’t have worried: He was riveted.
“If you could keep our little shopping trip here a secret, just in case we do figure something out? Or better yet,” I said, pulling out a scrap of paper, “if you could just give me a call if he comes back. His birthday’s in a month, so anytime before then…?” I thought about batting my eyes, but didn’t think I could pull it off convincingly.
Fire-engine red crept up through Johnny’s face, and he agreed with alacrity. “Yeah, sure, I can always use the business. There’s always a gift certificate or coupons for tank fills, if nothing else comes up. Nice, uh, meeting you ladies.” He pulled away reluctantly and turned up his wrestling match.
Meg had been picking through the baskets on the counter, and she placed on the counter a key chain shaped like the whale on the roof. She glanced up at the stuffed dog. “Hang on a sec, Em. Hey, Johnny, I gotta ask—” Meg began as she pulled out her wallet.
“His name’s Jake and he was the best damned dog anyone ever had. Stung by a jellyfish. See ya later.” He slammed the cash register drawer shut, overcome either with emotion or with the engrossing nature of the bout, and we found ourselves dismissed.
Outside, I found myself faced with another problem. “Thanks for helping out in there.”
“You gonna tell me what you were up to?” Meg asked, not able to conceal her curiosity.
I stalled. “Where’d you learn to dive? I wouldn’t have thought there was much opportunity in Denver.”
“I learned a lot of things moving around with Dad, and once we ended up in Hawaii for a year. I make the most of my opportunities. So,” she said, not deterred by the sidetrack, “what’s up with ‘Uncle Tony’?”
I thought about it; she’d already heard an awful lot. “Get in. Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve got an idea that Tony Markham’s somehow tied in with everything that went on this summer. Wait,” I implored, cutting off Meg’s exclamation as I pulled out. “I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but he’s got an interest in Penitence Point that is beyond absorption in my own sterling work. I’m just trying to find out what that interest is.”
“Do you think he killed Pauline?” she asked, stunned.
“I think it’s possible that he knows something about it. You cannot, I repeat, cannot, tell any of this to anyone, under any circumstances. Do you understand?” I pinned her down with a glance; there could be no mistaking my intent. “I could get into a whole lot of trouble if this got out. I don’t know anything. I’m only chasing down what appears to be a bunch of red herrings because I can’t think of anything more useful to do in looking for Pauline’s killer.” And when it came right down to it, I liked the guy. I had a hard time admitting that.
She just sat there, staring out the windshield, deep in thought.
“Meg, promise me you will not say anything. I’m dead serious about this, my professional life depends on you,” I said. “I’m already pretty messed up about this, I don’t need to lose my job too.”
“I promise,” she said finally. “And I keep my promises. But shouldn’t the sheriff’s department be looking into this?”
“They are, and they’re not crazy about my interest in it either, so there’s another reason for you to keep close counsel. One more detour to see them, and then we can head out. You still game?”
“Sure!”
“Okay, you might as well come in this time, now that you know what I’m about. Just keep it buttoned.”
“I already said I would, didn’t I?” Meg said irritably.
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. This is still a bit of a strain. I’m sorry, Meg.” I felt a couple of centuries old and couldn’t seem to straighten up my back.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“Never mind.”
A few minutes later I pulled up to the red sandstone monstrosity that was the sheriff’s office. The shadows were getting longer, and there was definitely a touch of fall in the air, and I imagined that schoolkids would be moving past this place on Halloween with a quicker step. “Time to start wearing long johns soon,” I said, pulling up the collar of my coat.
Meg burst out laughing unexpectedly. I looked at her quizzically.
“I was just trying to imagine our friend in the shop back there in his woolies,” she announced.
I shuddered. “Jesus. With that damned stuffed dog, he’d look like a demonic tooth fairy.”
We saw Sheriff Stannard almost immediately. He obviously was not in the mood for company, and the way that he was snapping out orders to scurrying deputies and administrators struck me as uncharacteristically brusque. The way some of his brown hair stood up would have been comical, save for the fact that the frustration that had caused him to make it so was still present on his face. The sheriff walked blindly past me, having dispatched the last of his trailing entourage, and stared dismally at the coffeemaker. I could smell burned coffee from where I stood, and watched as he poured himself what was probably his tenth cup of the day. And as much as I longed for a cup now, there was no way I’d drink that garbage.
“Now how did I end up here again, I wonder?” he asked Mr. Coffee, sucking down a slug of the syrup. Then he saw I was there and slumped down where he stood, clearly not any less busy than he had been when I had called earlier in the week. “What can I do for you, Dr. Fielding?”
“I’ll just take two minutes. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
It was not in his nature to deny a request when he could honor it. “Okay, but I got to tell you, it’s a zoo here. When the coffee’s gone, so am I. What’s up?” He sat down on one of the blue plastic-cushioned waiting room chairs, looking like he was glad to have a reason to sit.
I took a deep breath. “I wanted to know if you had found out anything more about Pauline Westlake’s killer.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any more leads on that.” He exhaled deeply. “It’s a long way from being closed, though.”
“You seem to be busy with the drug bust I’ve been reading about.”
Stannard sighed with resignation. “It’s been breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past two weeks—lots to mop up yet. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering how the stuff got here. Do people fly it in, or what?”
“Naw, too risky,” he explained. “Usually they get a mule to drive it up from New York, or Providence sometimes, or even all the way from Florida. If they don’t get bagged for speeding, there’s no way we can tell if they’re smuggling anything at all.”
Alarm bells were going off in my head and I knew I was on the right track. “What about boats? There’s an awful lot of inlets, coves on the river—”
Dave Stannard broke in. “Too expensive, too risky. The Coast Guard is all over the place out there and that’s their main business these days. What is your interest in this?” He looked at me sharply.
“I was just wondering about a possible connection.” Quickly as I could, I recounted my findings. The sheriff appeared intrigued by the map I’d found in the storage closet and its subsequent reshuffling, then a little worried when I told him about my odd verbal joust with Tony. And he took out his notebook when I described what I learned from Frannie Maggers. He only looked amused when I told him about Johnny at the dive shop. I carefully edited out the part about the midnight raid on Tony’s office and my little white lies to the area merchants. Meg’s jaw dropped as I mentioned the map of the site tha
t appeared at Tichnor’s house.
“You know, maybe Tony Markham found the map and got the idea for the smuggling,” I said. “And what about that guy I found dead on the beach back in July? He might have seen what was going on and they killed him!” I said excitedly. “Or maybe, maybe he was in on it too!”
He closed his notebook. “What guy? You don’t mean Augie Brooks?” Stanndard asked, working hard to mask his frustration with me. “He’s been drinking and getting into trouble for dogs’ years. It was only a matter of time before he got himself into a real fix—”
“But you have to admit that it makes sense, right?” I demanded. “All the pieces fit together!”
Stannard shook his head. “That is all completely circumstantial. Why would Professor Markham be connected with anything that happened last summer, anyway? Now, that stuff that Frannie Maggers said, that might be a big help in learning more about Grahame Tichnor’s actions. That could be a real clue. And maybe I could see Augie following him there, that could work. But there’s nothing in the world I can do with the rest of that information, ’cept to warn you about jumping to conclusions. And, besides, all our leads in this operation suggest that the traditional routes are being taken, straight up I-95. You got too many unrelated things going on here.”
“I know, I know.” I was impatient for him to get the point of all of my logic and solve things. “But it just seems to make sense, and I thought that with his recent sudden interest in the river area, and diving, and all, that there might be a connection with your recent troubles. There are an awful lot of good, I don’t know, unobservable hiding places out there, by the Point. And the diving…And all his years of archaeological work might have got him drug connections in Mexico or Central America, don’t forget,” I added as an extra bonus, proof of my rightness.
Stannard looked surprised for a moment, like someone whacked him in the head. Distractedly he put up his hand to halt me and hurriedly wrote something else in his notebook. That same hand rose to rub his hair, then, just as quickly, he read what he’d written and shook his head.
