Firefly Beach

by Meira Pentermann

* * * *

  Several hours later, the young, redheaded detective arrived at Rod Thompson’s house. This time Rod answered more promptly, but he held the door only six inches open, and he peered out suspiciously.

  “May I help you?”

  The detective showed his badge. “I’m Detective Douglas with the Hancock County Sheriff’s Office. May I come in?”

  Rod pursed his lips, trying to hide his disdain. He knew that being uncooperative with the police was not going to help him maintain his privacy in the long run. Reluctantly, he opened the door.

  The inside of the Thompson house was dreary. The perpetually closed curtains were thick and dark brown from the inside. Several small lamps with low wattage bulbs glowed throughout the living room – one on each side of the couch and one on the top of a large bookshelf covered with dust, magazines, and books in a chaotic arrangement.

  Rod led Detective Douglas through the living room and into the kitchen. Several days’ worth of dirty dishes, empty soup cans, and the remnants of microwavable dinners littered the counters. The detective sat down at the kitchen table, discreetly moving a stack of newspapers aside. He pulled out his notebook and pen, and he motioned for Rod to sit across from him. Rod remained standing.

  “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news,” he began. The detective was nervous. He had never before visited a home burdened with the information he carried that day.

  Rod stood above him, tapping his foot subtly.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Thompson.”

  “I’d rather not,” Rod growled. Nevertheless, he pulled out a chair and slowly sat down across from Detective Douglas.

  The detective took a deep breath and exhaled. “We have identified the body of your daughter, Katherine, as the victim of a fatal car crash. We believe the crash occurred thirty-five years ago.”

  “It’s not my daughter.”

  “Oh…ah…you do not have a daughter named Katherine?”

  Rod sighed in irritation. “I do have a daughter named Katherine, but she did not die in a car wreck.”

  Confused, the detective looked at his notes. “Do you know where your daughter is?”

  “No,” Rod responded, quiet and bitter.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “She doesn’t have a car.”

  “Sir. I beg your pardon, but when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  Silence.

  “Sir?”

  “October thirteenth, 1975.”

  Detective Douglas inhaled slowly. “Sir, we believe the crash happened in November of ‘seventy-seven. If you have not seen your daughter since—”

  “She did not have a car!”

  “We recovered a license plate at the scene registered to a Katherine M. Thompson.”

  “It wasn’t my Katherine.”

  “Sir,” Detective Douglas said as gently as possible. “A lot can change in two years.”

  Rod stood up abruptly pushing the table and knocking over his chair. “Are we through?”

  The detective ran his hand through his hair, bewildered. He did not know how to handle the situation and he wished his partner had joined him. He stood up, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Thompson, I will need to know where you were on November thirteenth of 1977.”

  Rod looked at the detective with an air of outraged defiance.

  The detective folded his arms.

  Rod left the room and moved toward the back of the house.

  The detective grabbed his cell phone. “We can go to the station if you would prefer,” he said, as he dialed the number to request backup.

  Rod returned carrying a tattered, leather notebook. He threw it on the table.

  Detective Douglas picked it up. 1976 through 1981 was scrawled on the inside cover. The detective leafed through the book. A series of neatly printed but crowded log entries filled its pages. He read the first few entries.

  December 3rd, 1976

  Purchased on 12/2/76 from John Witherspoon in Miami. Needs paint and minor repairs. Renaming to “The Bottomless Blue.”

  December 6th, 1976

  Laid out a course for the channel marker at Port Everglades. Ended up two miles off course. Forgot to take currents into account. Had to motor-sail last two miles.

  December 7th, 1976

  Two-foot waves today and winds from the northeast. Was able to sail downwind for three hours offshore between Fort Lauderdale and Miami.

  The detective flipped through the pages. There he found detailed accounts of sailing conditions, nautical miles traveled, and ports visited. He searched until he found the specific date in question.

  November 13th, 1977

  Twelve miles east of Long Key at 16:03. Plan to anchor just outside of Layton before dark. Weather fair. Sunny with mild winds from the north.

  He looked up at Rod and closed the book. “May I take this back to headquarters to make copies?”

  “Sure,” Rod grumbled. “Will you leave me alone now?”

  “Yes, sir. I…ah…I’ll return this as soon as I can.” He almost said “Sorry for your loss,” but he realized that would elicit a whole new wave of outbursts and denials. He reached into his pocket and felt the item he had intended to give Mr. Thompson, but he decided it was best to leave it alone and move on. The man was not ready for any form of acceptance. “Thank you for your time.”

  Rod said nothing. He marched across the room, opened the door, and motioned for the detective to leave.

  On his way out of town, Detective Douglas stopped at Beth LaMonte’s home.

  * * * *

  Beth returned from the beach a little after 3:00 p.m. Her eyes were a tad red, so she washed her face thoroughly in cold water. She was just about to make a snack when the doorbell rang.

  “Yes? Oh, hello detective,” Beth said warmly.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  The detective reached into his pocket. “I have Katherine’s personal effects,” he said, trying to sound professional. “Rod Thompson doesn’t want to accept his daughter’s death. I couldn’t bring myself to leave this with him.” He handed Beth a small key hanging from a sterling silver necklace. “You were her friend. I thought you should have it.”

  “Oh…I was not really her friend, exactly. I didn’t know her. She died when I was a child, living in Minnesota.”

  “Ma’am, I would like to give this to someone,” he replied, continuing to hold out the key. “The old man is just not ready.”

  Beth nodded, and she allowed him to drop the necklace into her hand. “So you know for certain now that it is Katherine?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We have the license plate and a partial dental, enough to justify a death certificate. Mr. Thompson was in Florida sailing on the estimated date of the accident, so he cannot be implicated with anything. Not that we had any suspicions. Just routine, you know? I’m confident that by early next week we will have the investigation wrapped up and you folks will be able to have a funeral for the unfortunate miss.”

  Beth frowned softly. “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that.” Then she said, more to herself than to the detective, “I presume Abigail will take on the arrangements if Mr. Thompson is unwilling.”

  “That would be a good idea. I don’t think he’ll come around for a while.” He looked at his feet, a little embarrassed. “I was not expecting such a powerful wave of denial. But I guess I’m not normally in the business of telling folks their loved ones are dead.”

  “I certainly hope this is one of the few times you will have to do so, detective.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Good day. And…good luck.” He walked back to his car, a slight slump in his posture.

  Beth closed the door and stared at the key. “I believe I know what this is,” she announced.

  She spent several minutes looking for the old lockbox, having entirely forgotten where she stashed it. She found it stuffed under her bed. The small gold
lock held stubbornly to the steadfast loop on the otherwise battered metal box. Beth slipped the key into the lock and turned it. It popped open. This would have come in handy a couple of weeks ago.

  She returned the lockbox to its hiding place under the bed and gently laid the key with the letters and the diary in her bottom dresser drawer.

  Chapter 24

  Make It Right

  Katherine Thompson arrived in the outskirts of Virginia Point at 10:13 a.m. Sunday morning, November 13th, 1977. She pulled into the driveway of the cottage, her old home, and sat in her car for several minutes, apprehensively rehearsing her story. She had intended to warn her father of her sudden and long overdue visit, but she neglected to put a stamp on the letter. When it was returned to her on Saturday, she almost changed her plans. But she decided that she would never be able to forgive herself if she did not put an end to the two-year estrangement and finally introduce her father to his granddaughter, Susan.

  When she felt ready, she approached the door cautiously. The doorbell was still broken. It had been broken since she was eleven. So, she knocked and waited. He did not answer. She knocked again, this time a little more vigorously. “Dad usually stays home on Sundays,” she mumbled. But then she realized that she was no longer in touch with what was usual in her father’s life.

  She walked around the house, peeking in windows. The place looked almost vacated. The kitchen was spotless. Neither coats nor shoes cluttered the front entranceway. When she reached the north side of the house, she was surprised to see an empty boat trailer.

  A boat? Whose is this? Did Dad buy a boat?

  Katherine was curious, but she did not want to be seen by the nosey locals, so she sneaked down to the marina as discreetly as possible, hoping to remain invisible. Two boats were moored at the docks. One, called Mandy Bee, was a fifteen-foot motorboat with yellow and black accents. The other, in the visitor’s slip, was a small sailboat named Starfish Bay. Katherine quietly entered the store across from the marina.

  A boy she did not recognize stood behind the counter watching a small television. He had medium length brown, uncombed hair and a few pimples. He wore faded jeans and a dark-blue Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt.

  “Excuse me,” she said, approaching the counter.

  “Yes?” The teenager quickly turned down the television. He straightened his posture, as if to appear taller and more professional.

  “Do you know Rod Thompson?”

  “Ah, the owner of The Bottomless Blue. Yes, I know him.”

  “The Bottomless Blue?”

  “The sloop. You’ve never seen her? Where have you been?”

  “I’m from out of town,” Katherine said dryly.

  The boy laughed. “Well, we just moved here this summer, so what can I say? I’m just joshing you.”

  Katherine smiled faintly. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Oh, he’s been gone several weeks now. He was headed for the Keys, I believe. He likes to spend the holidays there. That’s what I hear.”

  “Oh.” Katherine didn’t know what to think.

  “Do you want to leave him a message? He’ll probably be back after the first of the year.”

  “No, I, uh…no. I just heard he was good at fixing carburetors. A friend of mine told me to look him up. I’ll have it checked out somewhere else.”

  “Oh. There isn’t a garage for at least twenty miles. Will you be okay?”

  “Twenty miles? What about the garage on Sears Road?”

  “I don’t know of a garage on Sears Road…oh, there is a gas station on Sears and Main.”

  “Just a gas station?”

  “I believe so. My friend, Jimmy, had to take his truck to Rockport a couple of months ago to get the brakes repaired.”

  Katherine frowned. “I thought Mr. Thompson was a mechanic.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I understand now. You’re mistaken. See, he fixes boats. He’s a boat mechanic. Boy your friend sure was way off. But I suppose, maybe, he could fix a carburetor. I never really thought about it. He doesn’t say much. Sort of keeps to himself. But anyway, if you can make it to Rockport, you’ll be fine.”

  Katherine forced a smile. “Thanks for your time.”

  She slipped out behind the store and up the hill in order to avoid running into anyone who might recognize her. She was not in the mood for any “Oh, Katherine, where have you been?” conversations. After walking home she continued on to her secret beach. Sitting on the ground, she noticed it was cold and her pants were getting damp, but she did not move.

  Why doesn’t Dad run the garage anymore? Holidays in the Keys? That is not at all like him. I can’t believe he bought a boat. Does he sail by himself?

  A million thoughts raced through Katherine’s mind. She did not even realize she was crying until a cold tear hit her hand. She wiped her face on her coat sleeve and pulled her knees up to her chest.

  Once she accepted the reality that she would not see her father this trip, she resolved to send him a letter in January. She would include a picture and a stamp.

  She climbed up the side of the rock and pulled out her diary. She unwrapped the garbage bags, unlocked the cashbox with the key around her neck, and removed it from the Tupperware. It was in surprisingly decent condition. She leafed through the pages and smiled. Then she sighed sadly. “Dad, I’m sorry I had all of these angry thoughts. But everything will be better next year. I’ll put things right as soon as you come home.”

  She did not have a backpack, so she rewrapped the diary carefully and returned it to its hiding place. Next time I’ll bring Susie. We’ll make a game and find it together. Hmm. I had definitely better bring her before she learns how to read. Katherine laughed. “And I’ll bring a toy,” she said out loud. Something waterproof. I can hide it in the gap before she comes down. How will I get her down here? Oh, never mind. Dad will help me figure it out.

  She stood up, brushed the sand off her jeans, and climbed back up the side of the cliff.

  On the way out of town, Katherine visited her mother’s grave. The graveyard was on the site of an old church, about one mile northwest of her father’s home. She knelt down, touched her mother’s grave, and whispered, “I’ll make it right.”

  Chapter 25

  The Scoop

  By the following Wednesday the streets of Virginia Point buzzed with reporters from the Portland Press Herald, the Bangor Daily News, and WCSH-6 TV. Having grown bored with the Fourth of July parades that had come and gone, the journalists and newscasters salivated for information on the tantalizing tale of the disappearance of a small town girl and the recovery of her body.

  Beth was concerned someone might dig up information on Susan, but after a couple of days it appeared they were all more interested in the macabre details of rust and bones than in the life of the young girl in flesh and blood. This suited Beth perfectly well, but she tried to tone it down in order to avoid being labeled the psychic of mid-coast Maine.

  “You see,” she said to one reporter, “we knew she traveled on that road the day she disappeared. The search party didn’t locate her at the time. I decided to take a look, and I just got lucky.”

  There had been no search for Katherine in November of 1977, but the reporters never bothered to check the facts. Someone talked briefly with Detective Douglas and another member of the Hancock County Sheriff’s Office as well as a Bucksport police officer. No one seemed to want to admit that they didn’t really know the details. Detective Douglas told the press he was not allowed to release the particulars, so Beth got away with her diversion. Elaborate fibs were becoming her specialty. She tried not to focus her conscience on that development, choosing to justify herself instead. After all, she was protecting Susan, wherever she may be. It was Beth’s self-appointed mission.

  Abigail made arrangements for a funeral on Saturday. Katherine would be buried in the plot next to her mother. Abigail did not bother to get Rod’s permission.

  “It’s Katherine’s resting place, and I’m not
going to go head-to-head with that stubborn fool over the issue. He’ll think twice about digging her up in the middle of the night, I can tell you that. Once she’s laid there, he’ll let her be, whether he accepts the whole thing or not.”

  Kenny’s name showed up on the police report, so word got out that he was involved. This, of course, turned the gossip on Main Street up a notch, but there was nothing Beth could do other than play along and try to swish away any controversial comments with a shrug and a roll of the eyes.

  Mary seemed to eat it up like a box of chocolates, but Beth threw her a warning glare when she approached the subject.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready to spill the details, dear,” Mary had said, winking.

  “Nothing happened, Mary. For God’s sake we were staring at human remains. How romantic could that possibly be?”

  * * * *

  The subject of human remains appeared to be of great intrigue to the reporter, a young blond woman, who chatted with Beth and Kenny on the morning Rod ventured down to the dock. Kenny didn’t notice the old man until he was only a few feet away.

  “What is this?” Rod screamed, storming up the street toward them. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked the reporter. The young woman’s eyes grew wide. She backed up, placing Kenny and Beth between herself and Rod Thompson.

  Kenny stared at Rod coldly, refusing to answer.

  “What are you talking about? Who is this woman?” he asked Kenny.

  Kenny looked Rod straight in the eye. “She is from the Bangor Daily News. We are discussing…” He sighed, letting his breath out slowly. “We are discussing Katherine.”

  “You leave Katherine alone,” Rod shouted. Addressing Beth, he asked, “What in God’s name do you think you know about Katherine, you meddlesome woman?”

  “Rod…she found Katherine’s body.”

  Rod’s face turned white as a sheet. “My daughter is not dead. It was not Katherine.”

  “Rod, please—”

  Rod waved his finger at Beth. “So this is what you’re up to. Spreading lies and rumors. You want to be a celebrity? You bitch! You conniving bitch. I want you out of my house by the end of the day.”