Fisherman's Bend

by Linda Greenlaw

  I’d had numerous conversations with fellow Green Haveners about this practice of leaving keys in cars, and was consistently on the losing end of what nearly always turned into a debate about safety and risk of theft. They scowled when I admonished them for their negligence. They laughed at the prospect of anyone stealing my Duster. Apparently, no one would ever be quite that desperate. They were amused with my observation that three quarters of Green Haveners drove vehicles listed in the Top Ten Most Stolen. They ignored my tips, including keeping packages out of sight, leaving windows up, putting house keys on a separate key ring, and parking in well-lit, busy areas. They barely tolerated the Post-its I stuck to their steering wheels with notes questioning their obliviousness to matters of security. Now it appeared that I had joined the ranks of the negligent. I had never been described as laid back. I was curious how far my metamorphosis from uptight cop to anarchic Mainer would go.

  Absent the summer congestion, Main Street was downright roomy, I thought, as I prepared to swing wide into the parking area in front of the café. Clyde Leeman, who had grown dear to me in spite of being a major nuisance in a village idiot sort of way, stood on the sidewalk and motioned me into a spot directly opposite the coffee shop’s entrance. “Cut ’er to the right. Hard right. Keep comin’,” Clydie yelled so that I could hear him through the tight windows. His right hand swiveled at the wrist and rotated rapidly toward his face. “Little more. Little more. That’s it. Easy.” I was on the verge of laughter. There were no cars in the spots on either side of where I was parking. When he signaled me to stop by drawing an index finger across his throat, I jumped on the brake pedal so hard the Duster rocked back and forth on worn-out shocks before finally coming to rest with the front bumper against Clydie’s knees. His belt buckle, a snarling bulldog bearing teeth that spelled MAC, might make a nice hood ornament, I thought.

  “Hey, thanks, Clyde,” I said as I shut and locked the Duster’s door behind me. “Are you on your way in or out?” Clyde stood forged to open the entrance to the café.

  “I’m out. She gave me the boot before I even finished my second cup.” Clyde seemed to take pride in being ejected from the café by Audrey, the young woman who managed and ruled the small business with an iron fist. “I ought to complain to the owners. But I wouldn’t want her to get fired. She’s in one particular foul mood this morning, Miss Bunker. Be careful.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I nodded goodbye to Clyde as he closed the door between us a little harder than was required. The cowbells that dangled at mid-door clanged loudly, compelling the attention of the café’s only two customers. The Old Maids, Marilyn and Marlena, were bellied up to their usual places at the breakfast counter.

  “Who is it?” yelled Audrey angrily from the kitchen.

  “It’s Jane,” answered the ladies in unison.

  “Oh, good!” came the reaction from behind the louvered doors that hid the kitchen from view. Audrey sounded genuinely pleased that I had arrived. I like Audrey, too. A feisty, hardworking girl of about nineteen, Audrey had formed an unlikely friendship with me. The fact that she looked like a punk rocker no longer fazed me. The fact that she didn’t care what I thought about anything did. Sure, she has tattoos, pierced body parts, and spiked hair, but I still saw a bit of my youth in Audrey. She’s stubborn. Just like me. She is the reason I’ve made the café part of my morning routine—that and the fact that I am not a cook but also understand that breakfast is the one meal not to be missed.

  I joined Marilyn and Marlena at the counter and exchanged the usual pleasantries, then bemoaned the gloomy weather. Audrey came crashing through the swinging doors with a smile that stole the scene from what appeared to be her newly dyed, jet-black hair. “Hey, Jane,” she said as she grabbed the glass coffeepot from its warming pad, flipped the mug right-side up on the paper placemat at my section of the counter, and filled it to the brim. “What can I get you, the special?”

  Oh, I had become so predictable, I thought. Cal’s comments about pinching pennies had struck a nerve. Everyone must think of me as the biggest cheapskate in town. “No, I would like eggs Benedict, please. Poached sort of medium.”

  “But you always have the special.” Her voice went up at the end, as if she were asking a question, like Audrey was wondering if I was all right.

  Delighted with her concern, I smiled and said, “I know. I just feel like eggs Benedict this morning.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Eggs Benedict? They’re eight fifty. With the tip, that’ll cost you a ten spot.”

  Oh, I hadn’t realized breakfast could cost so much. Maybe I would reconsider. No, I wouldn’t let Audrey sway me. “I know it’s a little splurge. I like eggs Benedict and I haven’t had them in a while. Please?” Why I was defending my breakfast order, I had no idea.

  Audrey placed her hands on her hips and glared at me, unwilling to give up. “You order the special every day, without even asking what it is. Now suddenly you are in the mood for the most expensive thing on the menu? What’s wrong? Marlena and Marilyn both had the special for two ninety-nine apiece.” Audrey turned her attention to the Old Maids with some expectation of backup.

  “We did. Both of us,” confirmed Marilyn.

  “It was good, too,” added Marlena.

  “This is weird,” I said and then chuckled. “Okay. You win. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like the special, please.” I raised my coffee mug in a salute to the three women and chuckled again as Audrey disappeared into the kitchen. “What was that about?” I asked.

  Marilyn leaned close and spoke softly. “The cook called in sick.”

  “Again,” added Marlena.

  “Audrey’s filling in at the stove until he recovers,” Marilyn confided in a whisper and jerked a thumb toward the kitchen.

  “With any luck, that’ll be before the lunch crowd comes in.” Both women clasped their hands together and glanced at the ceiling as if God lived in the attic. I didn’t know whether their prayers went to the attention of the cook, Audrey, or the customers looking for lunch.

  “Oh. Why didn’t she just say so?” I asked. When I got no answer other than a stare and a shrug that I took as a reasonable explanation from adults for any actions of a nineteen-year-old girl, I asked, “So, what’s the special?”

  Now it was the ladies’ turn to laugh. They shared a look between them before Marlena said, “Toast.”

  “Toast! Three-dollar toast?”

  “White, whole wheat, or rye?” The question came from behind the doors.

  Assuming that Audrey couldn’t see me, I raised my hands in surrender. “Rye?” I asked permission.

  “That figures.” Disgust oozed through the slats of the door.

  The next five minutes were filled with banging and slamming of untold things, resulting in a range of sounds including obscenities. The three of us anxiously awaited Audrey’s return from what she must certainly have considered hell. Marlena made what amounted to a false start toward the door as Marilyn yanked the hem of her jacket, pulling her back onto the red vinyl upholstered stool between us. Majorly relieved that I would not be left without witnesses to Audrey’s wrath, I stood, reached for the pot, and poured three fresh cups of coffee.

  “It’s probably just her age,” Marilyn said as she dumped sugar into her cup and stirred. “Of course, we’ve been saying that since she learned to talk.” Our laughter melted the frost from our side of the swinging doors and we were quickly engaged in warm, meaningless conversation.

  When Audrey burst through the doors carrying a tray over one shoulder, the hush was immediate. Smiles vanished without a trace. “Okay.” Audrey glanced at the contents of the tray. “Let’s see … who ordered the toast?” She looked at me and continued, “Oh yes. You wanted the special, didn’t you?” I didn’t dare open my mouth. I nodded. Setting a plate with four slices of rye toast down in front of me, she said, “You do realize that you’re seated in the tweed-only section.” The Old Maids were, as always, wearing tweed blazers. Again,
I didn’t dare open my mouth.

  “Was that a comment about our clothes?” Marlena sounded a bit insulted.

  “No, that was a comment about Jane’s. She’s the one not up to code.” Audrey reached back onto the tray and set down a plate of cheeses and luncheon meats, then a plate with butter and individual jellies. Next came a bowl of mixed fruit and finally a bowl of cottage cheese. And even some fried eggs.

  “Wow, thanks for recommending the special. This looks great,” I said before Marlena or Marilyn could react to Audrey’s comment about their clothes. “All this for two ninety-nine? Nice.” I meant it, too. Audrey had pulled out all the stops.

  “That’s a lot more special than our specials were,” complained Marlena.

  Audrey’s hands went onto her hips again, a sure sign that she was preparing to fire another shot. I focused on buttering the rye toast and hoped that Audrey would back down. I held my breath until Audrey said nonchalantly, “So, get over it.” Thankfully they did get over it. That was the end of the snapping for the time being as the ladies discussed safer things, such as the slowing of Main Street business since Labor Day. That was something the people who worked either side of Green Haven’s main thoroughfare could agree upon. I couldn’t help but think that Audrey wasn’t herself this morning. She had always been a caustic, sharp-tongued smart-ass. And, of course, she could cook, but would have been mad about having to man the café solo. But it wasn’t like her to be mean to the harmless Old Maids. I knew better than to challenge her or ask why she might be out of sorts. I blamed my own sour attitude on the weather, but doubted that the tough, resilient Audrey was sensitive to a little cold and rain. Although she was busy chopping and prepping everything that needed to be done before lunch, she still held up her end of the conversation in the way I was accustomed to and enjoyed. It wasn’t until the conversation slowed to the usual drivel about our individual daily agendas that Audrey confessed the reason for her mood. “I was supposed to go to a funeral today. Now I’m stuck doing the cook’s job so I can’t make it.”

  “Who died?” Marilyn asked.

  “A friend.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Was it an accident?” asked Marilyn.

  “Yes, I think so. I heard he overdosed on heroin.”

  “Jason Alley,” I said without any inflection of inquiry. Audrey confirmed and wanted to know how I knew his name. “News last night,” I said. “How close were you to him? I mean, how well did you know him?” I tried to sound truly concerned and I was; I didn’t want Audrey to think that I was simply gathering information for an investigation. This wasn’t my case; I really hoped Audrey could tell I was genuinely sympathetic.

  Audrey explained that she hadn’t seen Jason in over a year and that they had been members of the same youth group back when they were younger. As he lived all the way over in Cobble Harbor, they didn’t ever run into each other, she said.

  “Heroin in Cobble Harbor!” Marilyn exclaimed. “Unbelievable.”

  “You’d better believe it,” Audrey remarked. “It’s everywhere. It’s here.”

  “In Green Haven? Really? Heroin?” Marilyn looked stunned.

  “Heroin. Heaven dust. Aunt Hazel.” Audrey recited some of the nicer common slang.

  “Hell dust, poison, slime.” I was able to remember more fitting terms for heroin.

  Audrey countered with “Hard candy, hero, sugar.”

  Not to be outdone, I recalled, “Smack, shit, dirt, dope, junk.”

  “Sweet Jesus, Joy flakes, dyno, white china,” Audrey challenged.

  “Judas” was all I could come up with.

  “Judas? I’ve never heard that one.”

  “Oh sure, Judas. Heroin … the friend that betrays you. Was Jason chasing the tiger, or was he a channel swimmer?” I asked in reference to how he took it—smoking or injecting.

  “Whoa.” Audrey put her hands in the air, palms facing me. “I know when I’m in over my head. I’m there. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I read a lot. I don’t use drugs. I didn’t know Jason did. We were friends a long time ago. I’m not going to his funeral. Okay?” For a minute, I had slipped back into the hard, cold Jane mode. I took a deep breath and remembered the victim, coaxing myself back to my newly found sensitive side. The Old Maids were still stuck in the horrible thought that there were illegal drugs in their hometown. When they questioned this again, Audrey explained that not only was heroin available, but that it was very affordable. “It’s as cheap as beer. Or so I’ve heard.” This did nothing but add to the ladies’ dismay.

  Audrey was holding her own, but I thought I could contribute something more to the conversation from my experience in Miami. “A big part of the problem is politics and the war on drugs. Law enforcement’s concentration on cocaine and marijuana has allowed heroin to slip through the cracks,” I explained. “Heroin was once known as the poor black man’s drug. There wasn’t a lot of pressure to stop it. Let ’em die. That was the attitude. Now middle-class kids are using it in increasing numbers.”

  “Politics, law enforcement…” When her hands slid to her waist I knew Audrey was ramping up for confrontation, I could just tell. “They ought to just legalize all drugs and be done with it.”

  Oh, she had trod on sacred ground. “Legalize heroin? Are you out of your mind? It is so addictive! The body builds a tolerance, calling for more and more to achieve the high. That’s how people die,” I said.

  “Physical dependence is a problem,” Audrey agreed. “But the same can be said of alcohol, tobacco, sleep aids. People die using those to excess, too. Poppy seeds have been around since time began. There’s never been a culture that’s denied people the right to get lit up.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But heroin is illegal. No one has the right to use it. Someone needs to go to jail,” I said, sounding more like my old self.

  “Of course, that’s law enforcement’s answer to everything. Put ’em in jail,” Audrey said. “One cell costs fifty thousand dollars to build and more than twenty thousand a year to fill and maintain. Our prisons are overcrowded now with drug offenders. And my friend is still dead.”

  I then noticed that Audrey was crying. She wasn’t mad at me. I don’t think she even believed what she was saying. She’s just one of those people—like me—who argue when they’re sad. “Someone will go to jail. You have my word on that.” Maybe I hadn’t changed.

  5

  ALTHOUGH I WOULD NEVER AGREE that the solution to illegal drugs was to legalize them, Audrey and I had found a small piece of common ground regarding drugs and law enforcement. Sure, the small-time dealer who would push heroin cut with flea powder to experimenting, tormented teens in order to support his own habit needed to be put out of business. But that, in my opinion, was treating the symptom, not the problem. Heroin junkies are like weeds. Once they take hold in an area, eradication is nearly impossible. Arresting his supplier would not bring justice to Jason Alley. It might delay, but would not stop, the next overdose. We needed to get his supplier’s supplier.

  My tendency (detractors would call it a handicap) to focus solely on the larger picture was something I had long ago convinced myself was an asset. I would not get bogged down in the small details of Cobble Harbor’s drug scene. Law enforcement officers always vow to get to the bottom of the problem. My intention was always to get to the top of a problem. As I slid behind the wheel of the Duster, I wondered to what degree Audrey had played me. We had certainly volleyed plenty of issues over the net in the last three months; the focus from either end was always an attempt to gain information about the other’s past without relinquishing much of our own. Audrey had always done homework, knowing more of my life in Miami than I did of hers in Green Haven. Of course, a nineteen-year-old doesn’t have as much past as a forty-one-year-old professional who has spent more than twenty years in the public eye. But from what I had gathered, Audrey had crammed a lot of experience into her nearly two decades of life. She was remarkably mature and easy t
o talk to and confide in—rather rare in my limited female friendships. She knew the career I had left in Miami. She knew some of the whys. She knew how to push everyone’s buttons to line them up and march to her drummer. Although I was well aware of Audrey’s wily ways, I couldn’t seem to resist falling prey to them this time. Sure, I could ignore the weeds in my backyard. But finding and turning off the breeze they had blown in on was my forte. I guessed Audrey knew this—and knew just how to talk me into taking action.

  The first order of business, I thought, was to check in with the Sheriff’s Department and see who had been assigned to investigate Jason Alley’s death. With any luck, I would be asked to assist. If that ploy should prove unsuccessful, I could get to Cobble Harbor under the guise of the missing person case. Perhaps I could work with Marine Patrol in the search for Parker Alley. Surely my supervisor at the Knox County Sheriff’s Department would be inclined to assign the “new gal” this mundane chore, which would seem to consist primarily in generating a mound of paperwork. And, if all else failed, I could drive to Cobble Harbor in the role of “insurance lady.” Wouldn’t it be responsible and professional to follow up on the vandalism aboard Quest? And couldn’t I then broaden the scope of my investigation as I saw fit? I entered my apartment and headed straight for the phone, excited about the prospect of getting back to what I considered the “real work” that I had sworn off in my haste to get out of Dodge. So much for leaving the past behind.

  The phone’s answering machine flashed a red number “2” on its display, indicating, to my surprise, that I had received two calls in the last ninety minutes. I hadn’t received two calls in the past ninety days, I thought. Of course, the main reason for the shortage of incoming calls was the lack of outgoing calls. I was way overdue with a call to my baby brother, Wally. That call would have to wait, I thought, until I had more time. The first message was from the very impatient Mr. Dubois, who always started recordings with a big, disgusted sigh and a comment about my never being home. Tempted to skip ahead to the next message, I hesitated long enough to be ordered to Cobble Harbor on behalf of the missing Parker Alley’s marine insurance company. “Recent activity in the form of policy changes in Mr. Alley’s life insurance is causing some anxiety with the underwriters … suspicion, really. Of course, we’ve been hired to find some evidence that Alley killed himself as there is a suicide exclusion in term policies. Maybe he left a note or said something to someone. His kid OD’d last Wednesday. So, there’s motive. When the body is recovered there may be something to rule out accidental death. Make it a priority.” A click followed by the beep and a computerized voice stating the date and time gave me just seconds to appreciate the fact that I wouldn’t need to make up an excuse to visit Cobble Harbor again.