Death By Drowning

by Abigail Keam

  I showed Jake the guest room and bath. It had been completely redone with new paint, drapes and bedspread. Jake placed his luggage on the bed and opened the glass door stepping out onto the back patio. Sensing that he wanted to be alone, I closed his door, knowing that he must be exhausted from the trip. He had kept vigil while I slept most of the way home.

  While Jake took in his new surroundings, I hobbled to my bedroom. The room had been redone in soft blues and greens. My Hans Wegner twin beds had been pushed together to make a large bed while white faux fur rugs covered the floor. Cheerful Jesta Bell landscapes adorned the walls. Somehow they fit with the austere Danish modern furniture. In the corner sat a blond ’50’s vanity set complete with my brushes, perfume and toiletries. The dark gray slate floors had been buffed to a soft sheen. It was the right mixture of elegance and kitsch.

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I murmured to Baby. “Oh, Baby, look. You have your own bed.” A large dog bed lined with fake mink was placed next to mine. “We’re living at the Ritz now,” I kidded, patting his massive head. Baby swallowed a substantial amount of drool and looked at me with his eyebrows arched. He sniffed the dog bed as though knowing it was meant for him. “How much did this cost and who paid for it?” I whispered to myself.

  Large new colored glass tiles with a water wave pattern in the bathroom replaced the brown and orange ’80’s tiles, which had been popping out for the past two years. The chipped tan sink was replaced with a blue-green glass bowl and all new faucets had been installed as well as handicap bars and a land phone.

  A huge flat-screen TV sat opposite my bed. Underneath, a mini refrigerator was discreetly hidden along with my movie collection. My mind swirled.

  As I opened the patio door, a honeybee immediately flew past my face. Lots of honeybees flitted around the pool with the intention of getting a drink of water. Their water tank must be empty. I would check on them tomorrow. One landed on my arm. I brought her up to my face for inspection, looking for mites or misshapen wings. She stared back and then shook her pollen-covered body before flying off.

  Tears threatened to spill onto my face. I had endured the darkest winter of my life, worse than the death of my husband. But I had survived. Not better, not even whole, but somewhat intact. So had my bees.

  Under the warm sun, the bees hummed along the patio searching for bright flickering colors, which signified flowers moving in the breeze to their compound eyes. Occasionally, they used me as a platform where they could rest while brushing pollen from their furry bodies into the pollen baskets on their hind legs.

  Kicking off my bedroom slippers, I gazed at the turquoise sky while drawing strength from the earth, through my clothes, through my skin deep into my muscles, through my bare feet on the dirt. An occasional red-tailed hawk drifted overhead. As the wind lifted the hawk, it carried the sounds of the humming of insects, the calls of red-winged blackbirds, the chattering of gray squirrels, dogs howling on a faraway farm, Angus cattle mooing and the occasional cries of peacocks. An American goldfinch flittered past, his feathers turning from winter olive green to bright summer yellow. The droning of the bees almost lulled me to sleep. Reluctantly I went back in, waving goodbye to my sisters – the bees.

  I was home.

  6

  The next morning I commandeered Jake to drive me down the dirt road to the Kentucky River dock that I shared with Lady Elsmere, my next-door neighbor. There I kept a rusty old fishing boat which Brannon and I had used to motor up and down the river bird-watching. Tied next to my boat was a new luxury party pontoon boat, which had been recently purchased by Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky.

  I stood on the dock, looking at my dirty johnboat filled with last fall’s leaves and its hard flat seats. My head swiveled to glance at the luxurious cushioned captain seats on the pontoon boat. I stared at my leaky johnboat with a puddle of water on the floor. My head turned to study the carpeted floor on the new shiny pontoon boat with its sunroof. I looked again at the johnboat with its mildewed lifejackets hanging off the dented aluminum sides. The pontoon boat had sturdy side rails and convenient cup holders built into the seating. It also had a plank, which would be easy for me to board from the dock.

  I decided to “borrow” Lady Elsmere’s new boat. I knew she would keep the key in a canvas bag stashed in a hole on a sycamore tree near the water’s edge. It was where we kept all our river valuables.

  Delighted that he had access to a boat again, Jake happily installed me in a seat, put a life jacket on me, checked the gas and started the motor. Carefully he pulled away from the dock while I chatted about the unique ecosystem of the Palisades and the Bluegrass Region, which was on the World Monuments Fund’s list of 100 most endangered sites because of the ticky-tacky development that central Kentuckians had allowed to occur.

  Jake learned of Daniel Boone’s land grant claim of 1000 acres in his daughters’ names between East Hickman Road and the village of Spears – the location of his cabin was not too far from the river. Ol’ Daniel must have spent much time on the river near the Devil’s Pulpit, a sixty-foot rock formation we were passing which he noted in 1770. It is a freestanding stone column from which the Devil taunts passersby.

  I prattled on about local history until we eventually pulled into a dock on the Madison County side of the river. Jake steadied the boat as I climbed out and then he had to fish out my cane, which I had inadvertently dropped into the river. Now with wet cane firmly in hand and Jake on the other side, I limped the short distance to the Silver Creek Vineyard tasting room.

  As efficiently as ever, Jake whipped out the abuterol spray, which I needed for my wheezing. Apparently my body’s protesting its lack of oxygen was disturbing to the other customers, who looked darkly in my direction. I inhaled my drug and smiled sweetly at the staring visitors. “Sorry, just a touch of viral TB,” I said. They quickly averted their eyes. I sat at a table away from them.

  A server with a tray of wine glasses containing different wines wound his way to our table. Jake asked for Mrs. Dunne. “Tell her that Josiah Reynolds is here, please.”

  Several minutes later, a petite woman with short blond hair hurried to my table while wiping her hands on a chef’s apron. Jake pulled out a chair for her and then excused himself to take a walk in the vineyards.

  Sarah gave me the once over. “It seems, Josiah, that you have had a bad time of it,” she said, noticing my cane and hearing aid.

  “It would seem that we both have had a bad time lately.”

  “Well, thank you for coming, though I don’t know what you can do. Irene’s got some crazy notion that my boy’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “What do ’ou think?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think. I do have questions – like what was he doing on the river so late at night and why did he have gasoline on his clothes. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “What do ’ou think I can do for you?”

  “Josiah, you know lots of people who will talk to you. I thought about hiring a private detective, but you know river people around here won’t talk to a stranger.” She shook her head as though trying to awaken from a nightmare. “I just want some answers.” Looking at me with grief-stricken brown eyes, she pleaded. “I want closure, I guess.”

  I understood how the death of a loved one plagued the living, especially if there was discord or unanswered questions. It was our nature as humans to put things in their rightful places, to tidy up our relationships before we could part with them. Otherwise we spent our time thinking, “could have, should have, if only I had done this or that.” It could drive a person nuts dreaming of alternate endings.

  “How old was ’our boy?”

  “Fifteen, almost sixteen, but he looked much older. He was big for his age.”

  “Did he often go out onto the river at night?”

  “Not that I am aware of, but he did spent a great deal of time on the river – kayaking
, tubing, fishing. He loved the outdoors and water. He swam quite a bit by the dock.”

  I shuddered. I loved the river too, but thinking of swimming with water snakes gave me the heebie-jeebies. I loved the river just fine from inside a boat.

  “How can ’ou explain the gas on his shirt?”

  Sarah’s eyes lowered. “I don’t know,” she replied. For the first time, I sensed that she was lying.

  “Wasn’t there a fire that night at Golden Sun Vineyard?”

  “Yes, but gosh, that is almost a half hour by boat from here. On a kayak, it would take much longer as coming back Jamie would have to paddle against the current.”

  “But you said ’our boy was very strong and big for his age.”

  “Yes,” she said after hesitating.

  “I understand that they are making a solid claim of being the first commercial vineyard in the United States and that Henry Clay and Thomas Jefferson had stock in the company.”

  Sarah nodded her head. “They’ve found some documents that support that claim.”

  “Has that hurt your business?”

  “Well,” she shrugged, “I don’t know for sure. My sales are down, but that could just be the economy. I do know that they are the shiny new toy in the wine industry. But Ian Peterson, who owns Golden Sun, wants to do a riverboat tour this summer from his winery and include Silver Creek in it as well. I thought it was a great idea. If anything, my food sales would go up with the increased traffic.”

  I thought for a moment. “Sarah, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll ask around.” I pointed to my cane, “and I sure can’t do this in a hurry. It may be some months before I can get any information.”

  “That’s okay. My boy is not going anywhere,” she said wistfully.

  I squeezed her hand. “That’s for sure. Before I go, can ’ou give me a list of his friends and their phone numbers?”

  “Sure, no problem. Also the house is open. If you wish, go see his room before you leave.”

  “That would be good.” I watched Sarah leave. She had two other children, but they were grown and gone. Jamie was her baby.

  As Sarah scurried to gather a list for me, I carefully negotiated the stone pathway to her house and entered through the back door. The house was unusually tidy for a woman who worked sixty hours a week at her own business. Sarah had to keep house, run the winery, cook for the lunch crowd and special dinners, and tend the vines while managing rest of the farm, which also grew vegetables for local restaurants. I knew she had help, but still there was a lot on her plate.

  Fortunately, the house was a ranch and I meandered through the hallway looking for Jamie’s room where I suddenly bumped into a young girl with a bucket of cleaning products in her hands backing out of a room. We both jumped and screamed. Spying my cane, she decided I must be a lost tourist.

  “GAWD, you scared me!” she exclaimed.

  “Sorry. I should have called out. Mrs. Dunne told me the house was open, but she didn’t mention ’ou. I’m looking for Jamie’s room.”

  She jerked a stained thumb over her shoulder. “I don’t clean his room. Mrs. Dunne don’t like nobody in’t.”

  “Well, I am glad to see that she has help. Have ’ou worked here long?”

  “Yes, ma’am. For two years. I was in Jamie’s class. That’s how I got the job. He suggested me to her.”

  “Were ’ou two close?”

  She blushed. “No, nothing like that. He just knew I needed a job bad and mentioned me to his mom. Jamie was thoughtful like that.”

  “My name is Mrs. Reynolds. ’Ou are?”

  “Bloomie. Bloomie Lamb. I live up the road from here. She pulled a wisp of dirty blond hair away from her sweaty broad-cheeked face. Although young, Bloomie had known a life of hard work. Her hands were callused and rough looking, while her nails were cut short for working. Her accent was of the mountains. She stood looking expectantly at me.

  “Did Jamie go out on the river much late at night?”

  “If he was night fishing, he would. He would have to borrow a boat for that. His kayak wouldn’t be right for that.”

  “Doesn’t his mother have a boat?”

  “Yeah, she’s got a nice fishing boat, but locks it up at dark. She’d never have let him use it ’cause it’s dangerous on the river at night.” She pointed west. “Up for miles ain’t no houses, no lights. It’d be hard to see unless there was a full moon plus all sorts of critters roam the Palisades at night. Some even say painters are making a comeback. They’ve heard their screams.”

  I smiled at her use of painter – a mountain word for big cat. “Yes, I’ve heard that panthers might be back in the region.” I wanted to change the subject. “What about a life jacket? No one has mentioned if he was wearing one.”

  “He rarely used them. Jamie could swim like a fish.”

  “Whose boat would he borrow?”

  “Sometimes a friend from up river; sometimes, Mr. Meckler, his uncle.”

  “It sounds like you’re saying he would go out at night without his mother knowing about it?”

  “Jamie didn’t need much sleep. His was a restless nature.”

  I didn’t add that she was being evasive. “Did Jamie have any special female friends?”

  “Like a girlfriend?” She blushed.

  I nodded.

  “No ma’am. Jamie did three things in his life . . . school, work and the river.”

  “Did he have any special buddies?”

  Bloomie looked at me sideways. “No ma’am. He’d lots of friends, but nobody the way you mean. Jamie was a good boy, smart. We had biology and English together. He was a good student, not top of the class, but still smart.”

  “Any sports?”

  Bloomie started to move past me. I could tell she was getting uneasy with all the questions. “No ma’am. Like I said, he had to work all the time. If you don’t mind, I best be gittin’ back to my chores. His room’s the last on the left.”

  “Thank ’ou, Bloomie. I’m much obliged that ’ou took the time to talk with me.”

  She shot me a quick forced smile before hurrying down the hallway. The back door slammed shut on her way out.

  I slowly pushed the door open on Jamie’s room. It was a typical bedroom for a boy of 15, almost 16. There were posters of Slash and Beckham. Also put in a place of honor over his bed was a vintage poster of Farrah Fawcett in a red bathing suit along with one of the Dixie Chicks.

  So Jamie liked thin blondes. That left out Bloomie with her thick waist, snub nose and broad peasant face.

  I eased down on the bed and studied Jamie’s belongings. Pulling his backpack on the bed, I went through his notebooks and schoolbooks. Nothing. No weird drawings or doodling. No self-destructive ramblings. Just finished homework assignments. I quickly went through all his drawers. Nothing appeared unusual. I stood in the middle of the room flummoxed.

  “Boss Lady, you done?” asked Jake, poking his head in the room.

  “Jumping Jehosaphat, ’ou scared the stuffing out of me!”

  “You!” Jake corrected. “You scared the stuffing out of me. I see we still need to work on your y’s.”

  Ignoring his comment, I asked, “When you were a boy, where did you hide things from your mother?”

  “Much better. Umm, I’d hide things under the mattress.”

  “Can ’ou . . . you check for me?”

  “Sure thing.” Jake got on his knees and deftly felt under the mattress. Seeing something he crawled underneath the bed frame emerging with two raunchy magazines. Jake’s lips puckered as he perused them. “He sure liked his hanky-panky hard core. This stuff even embarrasses me. Lots of S & M images here. I don’t think a normal fifteen year old boy would gravitate to this stuff unless he was twisted.”

  “Give me those things. His mother doesn’t need to know about this.” I put the magazines in a pillow cover that had been thrown in a corner.

  Jake reached under the bed again and pulled out an empty condom wrapper. “It seems li
ke our boy liked his pleasures.”

  I held the pillowcase open for the wrapper. “Can you check his closet while I search his desk?”

  Jake did a quick and dirty job of searching the closet while I took my time going through the papers in his desk and feeling under the drawers. He found a dusty bag of grass. Jake smelled it. “Old. Stale. Not a serious smoker.” Taking note of my feeling under the desk, Jake checked the mirror and pulled drawers from his bureau. “What are we looking for?” asked Jake.

  “I don’t know. Something that doesn’t fit. Something unusual.”

  “What about the bathroom?”

  “He had to share with the rest of the house. Only his mother has a private bath.”

  “Where’s his computer?”

  “Computer’s over at the wine tasting room, used only for business.”

  “Cell phone?”

  “I will double-check, but I think not. I don’t think the Dunnes have the money for such toys . . . didn’t see the need for them. I think Mrs. Dunne is old-fashioned about the use of new technology.”

  I sat in a chair with my head resting on my cane, scanning the room. “What doesn’t fit?” I asked myself softly. My eyes slid to the walls. “Jake, can you press on Lady Farrah? I bet our boy hid secret stuff behind her smile.”

  “Would love to. Excuse me, Miss Fawcett, but I have to feel you up. Hope you don’t mind,” he said, as he pressed his hands against the poster.

  I frowned.

  “Hey, be pleased I didn’t say grope. Wait a minute. What do we have here?” asked Jake as he slid out a newspaper article and a map from behind the poster.

  “What does it say?”

  Jake read it quickly and looked at the map. He handed them to me. “It’s an article about the Golden Sun Vineyard and their claim of being the site of the first commercial winery in the country. He’s got red circles around paragraphs.”