He pointed at the crown. “The tree and debris form a natural dam. You have several times the normal volume of water forced through a fraction of the space it needs. The only way it can respond is to speed up. We’re asking people to pass through blind, with no control. You have submerged rocks, pilings. If you capsize, the current is too fast to stand up. You could drown.”
“Oh,” Lia said.
“If you fall in, don’t fight it. Hold your breath and wait for the creek to widen out. The current will slow and you can swim for shore. We’re sorry about this. If we’d known about the tree, we would have canceled the trip. Haven’t you paddled the creek before?”
Lia shook her head. “I’ve only been on lakes.”
“Different animal,” Dick said.
Terry and Steve joined Lia as she paddled to the line forming along the shore. She leaned over from her kayak and hissed, “You could have called 911. This isn’t even Peter’s district.”
“Trust a discovery so portentous to strangers? Certainly not,” Terry said.
“We had plans,” Lia said.
“Admit it,” Steve said to Terry. “You called Peter because you want to poke your nose in.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“I’m sure it didn’t,” Lia said.
“Of course, If Peter sees fit to ask for my help—”
Steve snorted.
“—It’s an evocative scene. The tree is exceptionally large. I would expect it to be a hundred years old or more.”
“That jumpsuit is pure disco,” Steve said. “That makes your bony friend a time traveler because you can’t bury a body under an established tree.”
“You could if—”
A cheer erupted. Dick’s canoe and the Mud Turtle sat alone in the center of the creek, a safe distance from the sluice. A man in the rear of the Mud Turtle fought the current while Commodore held the gunwale of Dick’s canoe. Dick pulled his paddle in and lowered himself to the bottom of the boat.
“We’ll all have wet pants when this is over,” Steve said.
The crowd fell silent. Commodore gave Dick’s canoe a shove. The current caught, whipping the canoe under the trunk. Lia counted off the seconds. One ... two ... Three ... Four....
Cowboy Dick shouted from the other side of the tree. “Clear!”
More whoops. Paul’s kayak approached the launching point.
“Slick as grease from a goose,” Steve said.
More cheers as the second boat passed under the tree.
Dick called from the other side. “Clear!”
Orderly as patrons at a bank, the line inched forward, the passage of each boat punctuated with celebratory whoops.
Lia scanned the shore, expecting to see Peter and Cynth doing something cop-like. The pair stood, watching the procession of canoes. Probably making sure everyone gets out safely.
“What are people saying about the bones? Anything interesting?”
“Whiners, all of them,” Terry said. “Claimed they had a right to see Elvis. I held them off at great peril.”
Lia looked hard at Terry. “You didn’t sneak a souvenir?”
Terry’s eyes widened in shocked affront. “Moi, interfere with a crime scene?”
“There are no stray bones in your pocket?”
“Certainly not!”
“I may ask you to turn them out when we reach dry land.”
“I kept an eye on him,” Steve said. “He’s clean.”
“Okay then.”
Terry huffed. “You accept Steve’s word and not mine? Outrageous!”
Lia and Steve shared an eye roll.
Lia asked, “Any theories that don’t involve Elvis, time travel, or little green men?”
Steve removed his Panama hat and wiped his skull with a handkerchief. “Commodore started the club back in the nineties. If anyone knows anything, it’s him.”
“Is he the guy who looks like a cross between Larry Byrd and Einstein?”
Steve guffawed. “That’s him.”
“What’s he saying?”
Terry’s face took on a mutinous expression. “He hasn’t said a word.”
Lia imagined Terry had spent the hour it took for her, Peter, and Cynth to arrive at the site pumping the Commodore for information. “Does Commodore have a real name?”
“He’s Bruce. Bruce Koehler.” Steve said.
“How long have you known him?”
Terry scratched the scruff on his chin. “First time I went out on the creek was … when was it? Five years ago, September. I met him at a cleanup in Sharonville.”
Commodore gave Lia a reassuring smile as he grabbed the side of her kayak. The boat bobbed, pulled by the current. Commodore was much stronger than he looked.
“Is your paddle tethered to your kayak?”
Lia nodded.
“Hold it lengthwise along the top of your kayak, bend over and relax. Dick will catch you when you clear the tree. Just pretend this is Congo Falls at King’s Island.”
Lia draped herself over the top of the kayak with her arms extended forward, the double-headed paddle pinned under one arm. She turned her head to the side, one cheek pressed into the top of the boat, giving her a view of Commodore’s life vest.
Commodore asked, “Ready?”
Lia took a deep breath, pretended she was doing yoga, and relaxed further into the pose. “Ready.”
The kayak jumped forward. Lia’s stomach lurched, her heart racing as the bank flew past. One ... two ... Three.... She counted eight seconds. The kayak slowed, then jolted as someone grabbed the side.
“Clear!”
The crowd whooped as Lia pushed herself upright.
Cowboy Dick grinned at her, the sun catching his silver medallion. “You okay?”
Lia ignored the blood rushing in her head. “Yeah, I think so.”
He nodded at the boats congregating downstream. “Hang out until we get everyone through. Then we’ll head to the dam.”
The rest of the trip was uneventful, ending in a lake-sized basin beneath slopes ten stories high. Water moseyed through the retracted barrier dam, exhausted from the frantic pace at the sluice.
A rocky path dove into the water, leading to a submerged landing. Veteran paddlers hauled people and boats onto the bank while younger backs ported boats to the top.
Lia was grateful for the assist. Sweaty, hungry, and drained from exertion and nerves, she barely made it up the hill. She considered skipping Boswell’s, but Terry was driving and it was easier to go along for the ride. And if she ate, she might head off a crash.
They arrived at Boswell’s Alley to find the Yacht Club invasion in full swing. Creek-worn paddlers milled the pub, shouting above ESPN on the large-screen TV mounted over the bar, sound bouncing off exposed brick walls like ping pong balls.
Someone grabbed Terry and Steve. Lia followed the current of migrating bodies to a back patio, where the first to arrive dragged glass-topped tables together. A small, forty-something woman flipped through her pad, scribbling orders on separate checks.
“What’ll you have to drink?” the waitress asked, starting a new page.
Lia looked over the woman’s head, searching for Bruce Koehler, A.K.A. Commodore Einstein. “Sweet tea. And I’d like a Boursin burger and onion rings.”
“Smart, getting your order in early. I’ll have your tea right out.”
Lia located Bruce and took the empty seat beside him. “I wasn’t expecting to put on a performance when we landed.”
The promised initiation had consisted of two rows of old timers clacking paddles overhead, forming a gauntlet. Inductees passed through in whatever manner they desired, the loudest cheers awarded to newbies with the most athletic and imaginative moves. Lia had executed a series of pirouettes while making a mental note to get even with Terry for putting her on the list. At least she got a free T-shirt out of the deal.
Bruce grinned. “You did a wonderful job.”
The waitress returned with a load
ed tray, setting a pitcher of beer and a half-dozen mugs on the table. Bruce poured, saving the first mug for himself and handing the rest to anyone within reach. He offered the last mug to Lia.
“Thanks, but I have tea coming.”
“You’re an adaptable woman. I know this wasn’t how you planned to spend your Saturday.”
“This was more interesting. I pass over the creek all the time but I never think about it.”
“Most people don’t, and they have no clue how vital the creek is to Cincinnati.”
“I talked to Dick Brewer after we landed. He said he met you when you were taking water samples.”
Bruce scratched his chin. “That was right after he retired from the army. The club was in full swing by then.”
“Why do you take samples?”
“We monitor the creek for the organizations that make up the Mill Creek Alliance. A hundred years ago, the city economized by tying sewer overflow into the storm sewers. In those days, pig carcasses from the slaughterhouses were so deep in our branch of the Erie canal—where Central Parkway is today—people said you could cross the water by walking on them.”
Lia wanted that image out of her head before her burger arrived.
While Lia’s stomach rebelled, Bruce continued, “They’re slowly separating the lines. Three decades ago, we had raw sewage in the creek every time we got a hard rain. Factories still dumped toxic waste. You saw a chemical sheen on the water every afternoon.”
Lia swallowed hard and pushed on. “You wouldn’t know it now. Except for the concrete channel, it looks like a nature preserve.”
“The concrete was an error in judgment by the Army Corps of Engineers. We’ve learned that trees and other vegetation do a better job of preserving the banks and are better for the overall health of the creek. Dick caught a trout in the Cumminsville stretch last year. We’re exceptionally proud of that.”
“You’re proud of a trout?”
“This particular species has a delicate constitution. Finding one three miles upstream is evidence of our success. In 1997, Mill Creek was named the most endangered urban waterway in America. Our combined efforts have turned it into one of the cleanest. Sewer water still runs into the creek, but it’s treated except in the hardest storms. It’s important to have the sewers tied into Mill Creek.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s the only way to ensure we have water running through the creek year-round. You’ve got to have running water to support the habitat, or it will dry up and die. The added water keeps the creek alive.”
“You’ve been involved with the creek for a long time.”
“Since the early nineties. Back then everyone talked about Mill Creek, but nobody had laid eyes on it. I said we needed to go down and see for ourselves. That’s when I started the club. We’re the unofficial eyes for the Mill Creek Alliance.”
Dick Brewer tossed his straw hat on the table and snagged Lia’s rejected mug. He took a long swallow, winking at her. “Hey, Bruce, how long have you been waiting for that cottonwood to come down?”
“Longer than I’ve known you,” Bruce said. “I sat under that tree. Didn’t know it harbored an escaped Elvis impersonator.”
Lia asked, “You saw the bones?”
“We had to assess the bank.”
Terry and Steve dragged chairs over and shoehorned in. “They wouldn’t take my word for it.”
The waitress arrived with Lia’s burger and another pitcher. Bruce poured a mug, handing it to Steve. “Thirty people to think about. Had to make sure. They’ll have a job of it, getting those bones out.”
Lia took a guilty bite of burger. Peter and Cynth would be stuck on the creek, slogging through mud for hours with only a handful of granola bars.
Terry’s hand snuck over her onion rings. She smacked it, earning a wounded look. “Get your own,” she said. “How do you suppose the bones wound up there?”
Bruce rubbed his chin. “A more interesting question is whether Elvis was buried there or not.”
“What do you mean?” Lia asked.
“Creek banks aren’t stable. There’s a thing called slippage. Trees at the top of a bank migrate down to the water and eventually fall. That’s why we lobby for a sixty-five foot easement along the creek, to allow for new growth to maintain bank stability. That cottonwood might have started out by the railroad tracks.”
“Someone buried that poor man by the tracks and planted a tree to hide him?” Lia asked.
“Could be,” Dick said. “But if he did, he’s stupid.”
“Why do you say that?”
Bruce refilled his beer. “Cottonwoods have shallow roots. Every time we run across a downed tree, it’s a cottonwood. Should have planted a sycamore. Deep roots, hardly ever fall. I’m glad I don’t have to collect those bones.”
Terry turned to Dick. “You’re the construction guy, how would you get them out?”
“Not my bailiwick,” Dick said. “I couldn’t hazard to say.”
“You need to give Lia your card. She bought a Victorian. Nobody’s done anything to it in decades.”
“Are you forgetting the painting party?” Steve said. “And the floors?”
Terry waved a hand. “Cosmetics. I bet the wires are shot. The porch could use attention. Then there’s the attic—”
“The attic is fine,” Lia said.
“Stuffed full of Ruth Peltier’s junk?” Terry said.
“Some of it has historical significance.”
“If you call Beanie Babies and Hughes High School memorabilia significant.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“Ruth owned the house until she died,” Lia explained. “We’re working our way through the last of her property.”
Bruce grinned. “Eye of the beholder. I’m sure she treasured her Beanie Babies.”
“They were gifts from students,” Lia said.
Terry filched an onion ring. “She put up with hordes of delinquents for thirty years. Why remember them after they’re gone? Your brickwork needs tuck pointing.”
Lia searched for something, anything to change the subject. Her eyes settled on Dick’s medallion, an elegant silver relief of a walking bull mounted in a bronze setting. “That’s a lovely piece,” she said, tapping her chest just below her collarbone.
Terry waved the stolen onion ring in the air, dripping ketchup. “It’s a public service announcement. He wears it because he’s full of bull.”
Terry was on a roll.
“What you said about slippage,” Lia said to Bruce, “Is it possible he was buried lower on the bank and a mature tree migrated over the grave? That would explain how someone dressed for disco wound up under an older tree.”
“I’m sure that tree isn’t as old as you think,” Bruce said. “Cottonwoods grow fast.”
Dick nodded. “Faster if it has a body to feed on.”
Viola met Peter when he arrived home, a black smudge ghosting down the steps in the darkened hall, a soft woof in welcome, waving her silky mop of tail. He knelt to ruffle her neck fur.
“How are you, girl?”
She ducked out of his arms and headed up the stairs. Peter followed, peeling off the T-shirt that was now only fit for changing oil. He gave it a sniff and tossed it on the bathroom floor, so as not to contaminate the clothes in his hamper. His jeans and sneakers followed. Viola stood far from the pile, grinning.
“Smart girl,” he said. “I know I stink.”
Peter stood in the shower as pounding water eased sore muscles and washed the accumulated stress and muck of the day away. Some people meditated. This was better. You couldn’t find showers like this in newer houses. He silently blessed Ruth Peltier for never updating the plumbing.
When the water turned tepid, he stepped out to find Viola lapping up a puddle on the floor. She lifted her muzzle and began licking stray drops off his shin. Peter pulled his leg out of reach and grabbed a towel. “Not that I don’t appreciate the assist, but that’s not proper behavior fo
r a daughter of the house.”
He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded barefoot into the kitchen. “Let’s find you a biscuit.”
Three biscuits later, Peter traded his towel for a robe and turned to the stairs. Viola barked, ran back to the kitchen, turned in the doorway and barked again in a classic Lassie move. There were biscuits trapped in a box, screaming for rescue in a frequency only a dog could hear.
“Not now. I have to see my other best girl.”
Viola’s tail dropped. Peter thought he heard a canine snort, but she fell in behind him as he went downstairs.
Urban light pollution bled through the windows, illuminating the way. Peter appreciated the ability to navigate the dark without fumbling for light switches, but he missed seeing the stars. He needed to find time to take Lia camping, someplace where you couldn’t see your hand at night and the Milky Way dazzled the sky.
Chewy lifted his muzzle as Peter opened the door to Lia’s room. Viola settled onto her downstairs dog bed, dropped her head onto her paws and looked away. Used to her moods, Chewy curled back into his favored sleeping position, executing a kind of canine shrug.
Across the room, Lia’s moon-pale face rested easy in sleep, hair spilling across the pillow, the swoop of her neck disappearing under her quilt. He sat beside her and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek.
She stirred, blinked, and smiled. “Hey, Kentucky Boy.”
“Hey, Tonto.”
“Today I’m Tonto?”
“Thanks for having my back today.”
“I didn’t do much.” She sat up and scooted over to give Peter room.
Peter sat against the headboard, drew Lia to him so her back snugged against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.
“It wasn’t the day we wanted, but you made it easy for me to do what needed to be done. You always do.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Hear anything interesting while you were hanging out?”
“Einstein—”
“Bruce?”
“That’s him. He thinks the body was buried up by the railroad tracks. He says trees migrate down creek banks and then fall over. He called it slippage.”
Swamp Monster Page 3
