Mary, Mary, Shut the Door

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  I picked up the pipe from my desk, stuck it in my mouth, and chewed on it. A glorified pacifier. Kept me from chewing up the inside of my mouth, though. Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to take this one on. What the hell, work is work.

  “Okay, Mr. Scolari, we’ll take the case. I want you to understand that we can’t and we won’t stop her wedding. There are guys who will do that, and I know who they are, but I wouldn’t give you their names. We’ll do a background check on this guy and see if we can find something that’ll change her mind or your mind. Maybe they really love each other. That happens, you know. This may be a crazy start, but I’m not sure that’s a handicap. What’s the best way to run a race when you don’t know where the finish is?” I sure didn’t have an answer and Scolari offered none.

  “Mr. Haggerty, I am not averse to taking a risk, but not a blind one. If there’s information out there that will help me calculate the odds, then I want it. That’s what I want you to get for me. I appreciate your open mind, Mr. Haggerty. Perhaps you will change my mind, but I doubt it.”

  “Okay, Mr. Scolari. I need a description of this guy, his name and anything else you know about him. First thing Monday morning, I’ll assign an investigator and we’ll get on this.”

  “That won’t do, Mr. Haggerty. You need to start on this immediately, this minute.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because they flew to St. Mary’s this morning to get married.”

  “Aren’t we a little late, then?”

  “No. You can’t apply for a marriage license on St. Mary’s until you’ve been on the island for two days.”

  “How long to get the application approved?”

  “I called the embassy. They say it takes three days to process the application. I’m looking into delaying that, if possible. Once it’s issued they say most people get married that day or the next.”

  “So we’ve got what, five or six days? Mr. Scolari, we can’t run a complete background check in that period of time. Hell, no one can. There just isn’t enough time.”

  “What if you put everyone you’ve got on this, round the clock?”

  “That gets you a maybe and just barely that. He’d have to have a pimple on his backside the size of Mount Rushmore for us to find it that fast. If this guy’s the sneaky, cunning opportunist that you think he is, then he’s hidden that, maybe not perfectly, but deep enough that six days won’t turn it up. Besides, I can’t put everyone on this, we’ve got lots of other cases that need attention.”

  “So hire more staff, give them the other cases, and put everyone else on this. Money is no object, Mr. Haggerty. I want you to use all your resources on this.”

  My jaw hurt from clamping on the dead pipe. Scolari was old enough to make a foolish mistake. I told him it was a long shot at best. What more could I tell him? When did I become clairvoyant, and know how things would turn out? Suppose we did find something, like three dead ex-wives? Right! Let’s not kid ourselves—all the staff for six days—round the clock—that’s serious money. What was it Rocky said? When you run a business, money’s always necessary but it’s never sufficient. Don’t confuse the two and what you do at the office won’t keep you up at night.

  I sorted everything into piles and then decided. “All right, Mr. Scolari, we’ll do it. I can’t even tell you what it’ll cost. We’ll bill you at our hourly rates plus all the expenses. I think a reasonable retainer would be thirty thousand dollars.”

  He didn’t even blink. It probably wasn’t a week’s interest on ten million dollars.

  “There’s no guarantee that we’ll find anything, Mr. Scolari, not under these circumstances. You’ll know that you did everything you could, but that’s all you’ll know for sure.”

  “That’s all you ever know for sure, Mr. Haggerty.”

  I pulled out a pad to make some notes. “Do you know where they went on St. Mary’s?”

  “Yes. A resort called the Banana Bay Beach Hotel. I have taken the liberty of registering you there.”

  “Excuse me.” I felt like something under his front wheel.

  “The resort is quite remote and perched on the side of a cliff. I have been assured that I would not be able to make my way around. I need you to be my legs, my eyes. If your agents learn anything back here, someone has to be able to get that information to my niece. Someone has to be there. I want that someone to be you, Mr. Haggerty. That’s what I’m paying for. Your brains, your eyes, your legs, to be there because I can’t.”

  I stared at Scolari’s withered legs and the motorized wheelchair he got around in. More than that he had money, lots of money. And money’s the ultimate prosthesis.

  “Let’s start at the top. What’s his name?”

  The island of St. Mary’s is one of lush green mountains that drop straight into the sea. What little flat land there is, is on the West Coast, and that’s where almost all the people live. The central highlands and peaks are still wild and pristine.

  My plane banked around the southern tip of the island and headed toward one of those flat spots, the international airport. I flipped through the file accumulated in those few hours between Enzo Scolari’s visit and my plane’s departure. While Kelly, my secretary, made travel arrangements I called everyone into the conference room and handed out jobs. Clancy Hopper was to rearrange caseloads and hire temporary staff to keep the other cases moving. Del Winslow was to start investigating our man Derek Marshall. We had a name, real or otherwise, an address, and a phone number. Del would do the house-to-house with the drawing we made from Scolari’s description. Larry Burdette would be smilin’ and dialin’. Calling every computerized database we could access to get more information. Every time Marshall’s name appeared he’d take the information and hand it to another investigator to verify every fact and then backtrack each one by phone or in person until we could recreate the life of Derek Marshall. Our best chance was with the St. Mary’s Department of Licenses. To apply for a marriage license Marshall had to file a copy of his passport, birth certificate, decrees of divorce if previously married, death certificate if widowed, and proof of legal name change, if any. If the records were open to the public, we’d get faxed copies or I’d go to the offices myself and look at them personally. I took one last look at the picture of Gina Dalesandro and then the sketch of Derek Marshall, closed the file, and slipped it into my bag as the runway appeared outside my window.

  I climbed out of the plane and into the heat. A dry wind moved the heat around me as I walked into the airport. I showed my passport and had nothing to declare. They were delighted to have me on their island. I stepped out of the airport and the cab master introduced me to my driver. I followed him to a battered Toyota, climbed into the front seat, and stowed my bag between my feet. He slammed the door and asked where to.

  “Banana Bay Beach Hotel,” I said as he turned the engine on and pulled out.

  “No problem.”

  “How much?” We bounced over a sleeping policeman.

  “Eighty ecee.”

  Thirty-five dollars American. “How far is it?”

  “Miles or time?”

  “Both.”

  “Fifteen miles. An hour and a half.”

  I should have gotten out then. If the road to hell is paved at all, then it doesn’t pass through St. Mary’s. The coast road was a lattice of potholes winding around the sides of the mountains. There were no lanes, no lights, no signs, and no guardrails. The sea was a thousand feet below and we were never more than a few inches from visiting it.

  Up and down the hills, there were blue bags on the trees.

  “What are those bags?” I asked.

  “Bananas. The bags keep the insects away while they ripen.”

  I scanned the slopes and tried to imagine going out there to put those bags on. Whoever did it, they couldn’t possibly be paying him enough. Ninety minutes of bobbing and weaving on those roads like a fighter on the ropes and I was exhausted from defying gravity. I half expected to hear a bell
to end the trip as we pulled up to the resort.

  I checked in, put my valuables in a safe-deposit box, took my key and information packet, and headed up the hill to my room. Dinner was served in about an hour. Enough time to get oriented, unpack, and shower.

  My room overlooked the upstairs bar and dining area and below that the beach, the bay, and the surrounding cliffs. I had a thatched-roof veranda with a hammock and clusters of flamboyant and chenille red-hot cattails close enough to pluck. The bathroom was clean and functional. The bedroom large and sparely furnished. Clearly, this was a place where the attractions were outdoors and rooms were for sleeping in. The mosquito netting over the bed and the coils on the dresser were not good signs. It was the rainy season and Caribbean mosquitoes can get pretty cheeky. In Antigua one caught me in the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain like he was Norman Bates.

  I unpacked quickly and read my information packet. It had a map of the resort, a list of services, operating hours, and tips on how to avoid common problems in the Caribbean such as sunburn, being swept out to sea, and a variety of bites, stings, and inedible fruits. I familiarized myself with the layout and took out the pictures of Gina and Derek. Job one was to find them and then tag along unobtrusively until the home office gave me something to work with.

  I showered, changed, and lay down on the bed to wait for dinner. The best time to make an appearance was midway through the meal. Catch the early birds leaving and the stragglers on their way in.

  Around eight-thirty, I sprayed myself with insect repellent, slipped my keys into my pocket, and headed down to dinner. The schedule said that it would be a barbecue on the beach.

  At the reception area I stopped and looked over the low wall to the beach below. Scolari was right, he wouldn’t be able to get around here. The rooms jutted out from the bluff and were connected by a steep roadway. However, from this point on, the hillside was a precipice. A staircase wound its way down to the beach. One hundred and twenty-six steps, the maid said.

  I started down, stopping periodically to check the railing. There were no lights on the trail. Late at night, a little drunk on champagne, a new bride could have a terrible accident. I peered over the side at the concrete roadway below. She wouldn’t bounce and she wouldn’t survive.

  I finished the zigzagging descent and noted that the return trip would be worse.

  Kerosene lamps led the way to the beach restaurant and bar. I sat on a stool, ordered a yellowbird, and turned to look at the dining area. Almost everyone was in couples, the rest were families. All white, mostly Americans, Canadians, British, and German. At least that’s what the brochure said.

  I sipped my drink and scanned the room. No sign of them. No problem, the night was young even if I wasn’t. I had downed a second drink when they came in out of the darkness. Our drawing of Marshall was pretty good. He was slight, pale, with brown hair parted down the middle, round-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, and a deep dimpled smile he aimed at the woman he gripped by the elbow. He steered her between the tables as if she had a tiller.

  They took a table and I looked about to position myself. I wanted to be able to watch Marshall’s face and be close enough to overhear them without looking like it. One row over and two up a table was coming free. I took my drink from the bar and ambled over. The busboy cleared the table and I took a long sip from my drink and set it down.

  Gina Dalesandro wore a long flower-print dress. Strapless, she had tan lines where her bathing suit had been. She ran a finger over her ear and flipped back her hair. In profile she was thin-lipped, hook-nosed, and high-browed. Her hand held Marshall’s, and then, eyes on his, she pulled one to her and kissed it. She moved from one knuckle to the next, and when she was done she took a finger and slowly slid it into her mouth.

  “Gina, please, people will look,” he whispered.

  “Let them,” she said, smiling around his finger.

  Marshall pulled back and flicked his eyes around. My waitress had arrived and I was ordering when he passed over me. I had the fish chowder, the grilled dolphin with stuffed christophine, and another drink.

  Gina picked up Marshall’s hand and held it to her cheek and said something soothing because he smiled and blew her a kiss. They ordered and talked in hushed tones punctuated with laughter and smiles. I sat nearby, watching, waiting, her uncle’s gargoyle in residence.

  When dessert arrived, Gina excused herself and went toward the ladies’ room. Marshall watched her go. I read nothing in his face or eyes. When she disappeared into the bathroom, his eyes wandered around the room, but settled on no one. He locked in on her when she reappeared and led her back to the table with his eyes. All in all it proved nothing.

  We all enjoyed the banana cake and coffee and after a discreet pause I followed them back toward the rooms. We trudged silently up the stairs, past the bar and the reception desk, and back into darkness. I kept them in view as I went toward my room and saw that they were in room 7, two levels up and one over from me. When their door clicked closed, I turned around and went back to the activities board outside the bar. I scanned the list of trips for tomorrow to see if they had signed up for any of them. They were down for the morning trip to the local volcano. I signed aboard and went to arrange a wake-up call for the morning.

  After a quick shower, I lit the mosquito coils, dialed the lights way down, and crawled under the netting. I pulled the phone and my book inside, propped up the pillows, and called the office. For his money, Scolari should get an answer. He did.

  “Franklin Investigations.”

  “Evening, Del. What do we have on Derek Marshall?”

  “Precious little, boss, that’s what.”

  “Well, give it to me.”

  “Okay, I canvassed his neighborhood. He’s the invisible man. Rented apartment. Manager says he’s always on time with the rent. Nothing else. I missed the mailman, but I’ll catch him tomorrow. See if he can tell me anything. Neighbors know him by sight. That’s about it. No wild parties. Haven’t seen him with lots of girls. One thought he was seeing this one particular woman but hasn’t seen her around in quite a while.”

  “How long has he been in the apartment?”

  “Three years.”

  “Manager let you look at the rent application?”

  “Leo, you know that’s confidential. I couldn’t even ask for that information.”

  “We prosper on the carelessness of others, Del. Did you ask?”

  “Yes, and he was offended and indignant.”

  “Tough shit.”

  “Monday morning we’ll go through court records and permits and licenses for the last three years, see if anything shakes out.”

  “Neighbors tell you anything else?”

  “No, like I said, they knew him by sight, period.”

  “You find his car?”

  “Yeah. Now that was a gold mine. Thing had stickers all over it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Bush-Quayle. We’ll check him out with Young Republican organizations. Also, Georgetown Law School.”

  “You run him through our directories?”

  “Yeah, nothing. He’s either a drone or modest.”

  “Call Walter O’Neil, tonight. Give him the name, see if he can get a law firm for the guy, maybe even someone who’ll talk about him.”

  “Okay. I’m also going over to the school tomorrow, use the library, look up yearbooks, et cetera. See if we can locate a classmate. Alumni affairs will have to wait until Monday.”

  “How about NCIC?”

  “Clean. No warrants or arrests. He’s good or he’s tidy.”

  “Anything else on the car?”

  “Yeah, a sticker for something called Ultimate Frisbee. Nobody here knows anything about it. We’re trying to track down an association for it, find out where it’s played, then we’ll interview people.”

  “Okay. We’ve still got three, maybe four days. How’s the office doing? Are the other cases being covered?”

  “Yea
h, we spread them around. Clancy hired a couple of freelancers to start next week. Right now, me, Clancy, and Larry are pulling double shifts on this. Monday when the offices are open and the databases are up, we’ll probably put the two new guys on it.”

  “Good. Any word from the St. Mary’s registrar’s office?”

  “No. Same problem there. Closed for the weekend. Won’t know anything until Monday.”

  “All right. Good work, Del.” I gave him my number. “Call here day or night with anything. If you can’t get me directly, have me paged. I’ll be out tomorrow morning on a field trip with Marshall and Gina, but I should be around the rest of the day.”

  “All right. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  I slipped the phone under the netting. Plumped the pillows and opened my book. Living alone had made me a voracious reader, as if all my other appetites had mutated into a hunger for the words that would make me someone else, put me somewhere else, or at least help me to sleep. The more I read, the harder it was to keep my interest. Boredom crept over me like the slow death it was. I was an old jaded john needing ever kinkier tricks just to get it up, or over with. Pretty soon nothing would move me at all. Until then, I was grateful for Michael Malone and the jolts and length of Time’s Witness.

  I woke up to the telephone’s insistent ring, crawled out of bed, and thanked the front desk for the call. A chameleon darted out from under the bed and headed out the door. “Nice seeing you,” I called out, and hoped he’d had a bountiful evening keeping my room an insect-free zone. I dressed and hurried down to breakfast.

  After a glass of soursop, I ordered salt fish and onions with bakes and lots of coffee. Derek and Gina were not in the dining room. Maybe they’d ordered room service, maybe they were sleeping in and wouldn’t make it. I ate quickly and kept checking my watch while I had my second cup of coffee. Our driver had arrived and was looking at the activities board. Another couple came up to him and introduced themselves. I wiped my mouth and left to join the group. Derek and Gina came down the hill as I checked in.