I glanced around and every person in the room recognized that old Nancy had hit the nail square again, and they waited.
“Here’s what I know,” I began. “The Sheriff down in Hatteras called me early this morning to say they picked up a guy named Chumbucket Roberts on the Intracoastal Waterway. He was in the boat that Jimmy was on. His nickname is Chumbucket; I guess they call him Chum. He was the Captain of the boat who reported Jimmy’s death.”
I hesitated a moment to make sure I had the right sequence of events in my mind.
“What’d he say?” Nancy said. She was matter of fact, not asking a question, but leading the discussion. How did that happen? How does a sixty-year-old waitress become the arbiter of conversation and seven Captains of the sea are ready to give her full rein? I turned my chair slightly to address her more directly.
“He said there was a woman on the boat.”
“That little son of a bitch,” Nancy said of Jimmy. “I knew he was up to no good. A new baby at home and that idiot goes fishing with a broad.”
The boys groaned, shuffled their chairs, pushed their coffee around, and waited for the moral judgment to be pronounced. I never understood how they could sort through this kind of thing. Of the seven guys at the table, three were divorced and one had lived with about fifty women over the years, and two more could barely afford their trucks due to drinking and gambling. Yet their judgment about my brother was instant. Nancy didn’t say it, but there was a tone of “the bastard deserved to die” that was hard to reconcile with her life experiences.
“I knew there was something fishy about that trip,” she said, unfolding her arms, and heading for the kitchen. She had heard enough. In a flash, all present had a clear picture of events. The details weren’t so important. The moral judgment had been rendered, the outline of a crime was drawn, and there was nothing left to do but move on. One of the guys got up and left. Nancy was gone, so I turned to Vinnie.
“Sheriff says the boy claims he never saw what happened,” I said. “The woman was frantic. She just got off the boat and walked away.”
“How can that be?” Vinnie asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Sheriff said he would call me back as soon as he knows more. Apparently this Chum has been living in Florida, and they’ve caught a friend who has been traveling with him, so maybe he’ll tell us. I’m sorry boys, that’s all I know.”
“I’m sorry Ned,” Pete said. “I hope they find who did it and they hang him high.”
“Bring him here,” Captain Neiman said. “We got a judge here that will draw and quarter whoever did it.” He paused a moment to let his audience surmise. “Judge Humbolt. Did you see what he did to Captain Jerry? Charged him with poaching. You’d think he was stealing cattle, not fishing.”
“What’d Jerry do?” Pete asked.
“You know Jerry’s got those pound nets over near Clark’s Point. Somebody turned him in. The State said he violated some regulation, lied about how many pounds of fish he caught last month. Judge says he wanted to make Jerry an example. Nobody can violate the State regulations. So he fines Jerry fifty thousand dollars and sentences him to two years in the slammer. Two years. Two years for catching a few extra fish. Christ. What are Mildred and those kids going to do for two years?”
“Sure,” Pete said, “but those are regulations. And everybody on the State payroll protects each other, including this judge. Do you think he gives a damn about the people, the family? The State doesn’t give a damn about fishermen.”
“You’re right,” Vinnie said. “The guy who killed Jimmy will probably get two months probation.”
“No he won’t,” Nancy said. “Not this time. The Judge will nail this dude to the wall. Effie Humbolt is a friend of Neddie and the Calico Cat won’t let this guy off. Not if the judge wants to ever show his face around here again.”
“Wait,” I pleaded. “We don’t even know what happened yet. You’ve got somebody guilty of murder and hanging from the Jenkins Creek Bridge. Let’s wait and see.” It was getting harder for me to represent the law and the arguments for equality of justice when I was the aggrieved party.
“I need to go home and wait for the Sheriff, Vinnie,” I said. “Can you take the boat out? I don’t really know what is happening. But I assume this Chum guy will have more to say, and his friend in Florida probably knows something. Prisoners always end up telling their cellmates about their crimes. I bet this kid does too.”
“That’s fine Neddie,” Vinnie said. “I think Velma is going over to see Martha right now, just to be with her if she’s needed.”
“I called Martha right after I talked to the Sheriff this morning. Hell, she’s probably talked to fifteen friends by now.”
“At least that means she’s got her voice back,” Vinnie said.
“It’s amazing how fast some of her senses are returning,” I said. “Her speech was first to return, I guess when the swelling went down. But balance, vision and cognitive functions are the main problems now.”
Martha was on the computer in the corner of her living room. When Velma knocked on the screen door it rattled and shook against the wood frame of the house, perfect for Velma’s purpose of rousing Martha at eight in the morning. Not so good for keeping mosquitoes at bay. Martha came to the door with her walker, and wedged one of its legs to hold the screen open, always glad to have company.
“Come in Velma,” she said. “You’re off today?”
“No,” Velma said, “just stopped by for a minute to see if you’re OK. The shop doesn’t open for another hour anyway. And believe me, there isn’t a hairdo in all of Parkers that can’t wait for a little while. I just wanted to see you honey.”
“Come sit here by the flowers,” Martha said. “Let me turn this computer off. I swear I never thought I’d get addicted to this machine, but the doctor says its good for my mind, and I can’t get enough of it. Now I know how old people feel. I check my emails four times a day. Do you know that every ounce of knowledge ever known is somewhere on this machine. I just have to be smart enough to ask for it. It’s magic.”
Velma looked around the room as Martha talked, looking for the telltale signs of neglect. But there weren’t many. The morning paper was open on the couch, the metro section on top showing weather for the week in southern Maryland, but it was the only paper in sight. Martha’s home was small and warm. She and Jimmy bought it when they were first married, and considered enlarging it, but decided instead to wait another year and build a new home. Jimmy may have had another motive, to buy a new boat with their cash, then mortgage a new house. In either case, Martha had been keeping the pressure on by constant reminders that a new house was coming. Now that was all on the back burner. First Jimmy’s death, then the brain tumor. It was hard to keep looking forward.
Velma noticed the pictures, most of them new, of Jimmy with the baby.
“I haven’t seen that one before,” Velma said.
“It was taken in her fourth month,” Martha said. “But I just got it back from the camera shop last week. I found the film when I was cleaning out Jimmy’s drawers.”
Martha was still wearing bandages around her head, not as large as when she first came home from the hospital. But they still covered the horseshoe scar, and prevented much styling of her hair.
“Martha,” Velma said, “why don’t you come by the shop this week and let me cut all your hair off. That half a Mohawk doesn’t make sense.”
“The doctor said most women wanted to keep as much hair as possible, so he quit shaving the whole head.”
“I think he’s wrong,” Velma said. “At least if you cut it all, it wouldn’t look like you just stepped out of a car wreck.”
“Is that what I look like?” Martha asked, screwing up her face.
“I didn’t mean that,” Velma said hurriedly. “It’s just that a total cut would look better. You could wear a hat, or a scarf, and then the whole thing would grow out evenly. I’ll do it for free. Think about it.”
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“You’re so kind,” Martha said. “You know I sit here all day thinking about what happened, and I come to blank spots. Places where my thinking just stops, like potholes or dead end streets. Ideas form in my mind, or some part of my mind, and before I can express them, they just stop. It’s not just names or places. I’ve never been too good with those. It’s ideas. They just end and I can’t get them back. I picture my head like a watermelon with a quarter section gone, with seeds hanging out the side like ideas severed by a cleaver.”
“Oh, Martha honey,” Velma said, “don’t think that way. Besides, it’s the wrong picture. None of your brain is missing. The doctor’s didn’t slice a piece out. They took out the tumor and left a big hole that has to fill up again. Think of your brain as being able to breathe again, to stretch out its nerves, to fill the gap and revive itself.”
“I’ll take it one day at a time. Did you hear what happened yesterday at rehabilitation?”
“Oh, how’s that going? I knew the girls were driving you to the Center. What happened?”
“Well, it’s mainly a place to learn to walk, to get my balance back, to think and to adjust my eyes. I just have to learn to do all these things again.”
“Can you write?” Thelma asked.
“Not really,” Martha said. “When I try to write, my hand just makes scratches.”
“Does the doctor say that will come back?” Thelma asked.
“He says it will all come back. But he says it may take a month, or six months, or a year. I have to be patient.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Not so well. Yesterday Neddie came to pick me up after the session, and my nurse met him at the door. She was helping me with my walker. She thought Ned was my husband, I guess just because he is always with me. He’s been so wonderful. So she tells him about the man I knocked down.”
“You what?”
“She said, ‘Sir, you’re wife is a very aggressive woman.’”
Ned said he agreed with that.
“What did you do, anyway?” Velma asked.
“Well, we were playing duck-duck-goose. About eight of us in a circle. And there was a man standing next to me who had been in an auto crash. His head was all bandaged. But he didn’t look any worse than the rest of us. So when the nurse said go, I took off around the circle with my walker and knocked the poor man down. And he hit his head on the floor. I think the nurse thought I had killed him. But he was all right.”
“You are aggressive Martha, and you have to realize the situation.”
“I know,” Martha said. “The Center took us down to Flossie’s to get us used to buying food, and paying for it. I pulled out my credit card. But the nurse said no, pay cash. Turns out she wanted to see if I could add up the money. And it turned out I couldn’t. I stood there trying to add a nickel, two dimes and a quarter and I couldn’t. My mind wouldn’t add. I knew what I was supposed to do, but nothing came. So I cried. My God, Velma, what if all this doesn’t come back? I sit at the computer, and peck out the letters one at a time, and wonder if this is all I can ever do. I wonder if Ned will take care of me.”
“Martha, I have to ask this. Are you falling in love with Neddie? I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.”
Martha said nothing. She stared at Velma as if that question had never occurred to her. She clutched her hands on the velvet arm chair to lift herself in the seat, and Velma noticed her strength was adequate for the task. But Martha looked out the window and quietly said no.
“I have wondered about that,” Martha said. “But it can’t ever happen. We’re too different. And I would always look at Neddie and see Jimmy. I don’t even know what happened to Jimmy. It’s funny though, affection toward Neddie has never occurred to me. Every day is a crisis here. Something new about the death, or about my head, or about Mindy, or just living. My God, Velma, I can’t even fix dinner so don’t ask me those kinds of questions.”
“I’m sorry,” Velma said. “But your strength will come back, a little bit at a time. And we’ll take care of you. Ned will take care of you. And we’ll take care of Mindy too. Parkers is your family now. You just have to be patient.”
“I’ll try Velma. Thank you.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Velma asked, thinking about the morning phone call from the Sheriff, and her real reason for stopping by.
“I don’t think so,” Martha said. “Of course, I can’t remember everything so maybe I’m just forgetting. But I’ll think about that haircut, Velma.”
Martha’s phone started to ring and Velma got up from the couch. “I’ll get out of your way,” she said. She almost said “out of your hair.” Velma opened the screen door, and turned to wave goodbye as Martha picked up the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Burl and Marilyn Mansfield were bringing Martha to the Moose Lodge for the fundraising dance. I wanted to be fashionably late, whatever that means, so I went a half hour after the invitation time. I backed the Saab away from my little bungalow and edged into the street. It was easy to miss seeing street traffic because I never expected it. People just didn’t come down my street without a reason, and I knew everybody on the block. Also, it was almost dark and no cars lights around, so I whipped it into reverse and backed into the street. My mind wandered. I thought about building the new house, the French chateau on stilts, but things were just too unsettled, especially now that we might have a break in my brother’s murder. It was Saturday night in Parkers and by the time I pulled onto Main Street, traffic was heavy, probably people going to Annapolis. The parking lot at the Moose hall was about half full, a good sign.
I parked and walked through the gravel lot, tightening my tie and tugging the tail of my blue blazer, an all-purpose outfit that fit the words of most party invitations: business smart. I loved this jacket because it fulfilled the promise of being wrinkle proof, a promise never before fulfilled by any apparel. This one was tested. I had stuffed the jacket in overhead bins, trunks, car seats, and under folding chairs in the worst of bars. It never wrinkled. I even wore it to the Willard Hotel and felt proud as a peach when Diane Sexton said I looked splendid, especially with the white handkerchief peeking out the breast pocket. I exchanged that for a red silk pocket scarf on this occasion, adding a little dazzle to my charm.
I thought about combing my unruly black hair just before going through the door, but decided it was unnecessary. It seemed unlikely I would meet the love of my life here tonight, but Martha had a lot of girlfriends, and I hadn’t met them all. So why not be optimistic? Also, I had written a few brief remarks, hoping to impress somebody with my quick wit. I thought the duck-duck-goose story was pretty funny and reflected well on Martha’s condition. With a little flourish, I could paint a vibrant picture of Martha knocking down every patient in the rehab program.
It was dark inside, but the music was in full steam by the local band. The lead singer was my new friend, Chris, the bobcat driver, and on drums was our pile driver Turkey Dressing, who built most of the boat docks in Parkers. I’m not kidding about the name. No one could explain its origins, or what his original name was, or why he relished the name. Everyone called him Turkey, which I shied from until I heard about six other folks call him Turkey and he never seemed to mind. He had large solid shoulders and could really pound that drum. Not so much on finesse, but he could maintain a rock and roll beat that shook the rafters.
I looked toward the bar across the room, and spied Martha along the wall, surrounded by friends. Her walker was nearby. She was wearing a tan pantsuit, stylishly accented by two or three bracelets, and a gold necklace with a madras blue scarf that drifted over one shoulder. But most striking was the red scarf wrapped around her head and fastened in the back with a gold clasp. Her Mohawk hair was gone. And she looked beautiful. I could see the sharp features that must have attracted my brother, and a trim figure enhanced by weight loss that only hospital food can impose. She wore open toed shoes with bright red nail po
lish that said hello. It was her favorite saying about her dress and she lived up to the billing.
The girls around her felt my presence and edged aside.
“Hi Martha,” I said. “You look gorgeous tonight. I love your hair.”
She started to touch her head, then drew back.
“Oh Neddie,” she said. “Aren’t these people nice? I can’t believe it. How kind everyone has been.”
“Don’t go tearjerker on me, Martha,” I said. “We have a long night. You better save me a dance.”
Burlington Mansfield appeared at my elbow and I backed away from Martha. Like a hole in the water, the space quickly filled.
“Ned,” Burl said, “I understand there has been a new development in the case.”
“I’m not sure, Burl,” I said. “They found the Captain of the boat. Of course, we knew all along who that was, and the cops interviewed him several times. But he did go missing for a while there, which seems suspicious. And now they say he was hiding, or vacationing, or something in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. And today the Sheriff called to say they have another guy who was traveling with this Captain, and he doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything. So I don’t know what we have.”
“Well, this all sounds good my boy. When the pigs start to squeal, the slop is on the way. I bet we know more soon.”
“Ned,” Marilyn said quietly, “thanks for all you’ve done for Martha. She looks great.”
“You’re welcome, Marilyn,” I said. “It’s wonderful to see you again. You take care of Burl. I haven’t finished his will yet, but I’ll have it soon.”
“Oh Ned, don’t you worry. Burl won’t leave me anything but three old cameras and a buzz saw anyway.” She was moving away as she spoke and soon disappeared into the crowd.
The knotty pine paneling at the Moose hall had absorbed about seventy years of loud music by every kind of band imaginable, and for at least fifty of those years the music floated on a cloud of smoke, so dense that the odor clung tenaciously to the bleach and ammonia that had been scrubbed into the floor and woodwork. Now it was all part of the concoction of fuels, including beer and wine, that drove the party forward. I had never liked these events, and the memories of the smells and the bodies reminded me of high school, the dances where I never had a date, standing in the corner, trying to stay invisible while I lusted for the homecoming queen who wouldn’t give me a second thought. Her name was Sabrina, no doubt in honor of all the conceptions that occurred after seeing the movie by the same name, and she was incredibly beautiful as only freckles can be to a boy of sixteen. In later years, I thought there might be some justice in the fact that I became a lawyer while she married a waterman and still lived in a Bayfront cottage, except for the fact that I had returned to be a waterman and also lived in a Bay-front cottage. There’s a morality lesson in that conundrum, but I chose not to sort it out on the dance floor. I wondered if Sabrina was coming tonight, but I doubted it since I had never seen her with Martha, indeed I hadn’t thought of her in years. I made a mental note to check later in the week and see if she was still alive.
Death in the Polka Dot Shoes Page 22
