Death By Drowning

by Abigail Keam

  Her response was silence.

  “Well, it’s over now. There’s no use in talking about it. I’m fine. Just shaken up a little bit,” I said, softening.

  “I feel so bad about it.”

  “How’s Amsterdam?” I interrupted. “Case almost finished?”

  “Yes, but then I have to go to London for several weeks. After that I should be home.”

  “How’s the weather in Amsterdam?”

  “Uh, cold and wet.”

  “Not hot and dry like a sandy desert in Afghanistan!”

  Pause. “I’m in Amsterdam.”

  “You’re lying. You told me that you wouldn’t take a military contract. You promised.”

  I swear her breathing stopped for several seconds.

  “Things changed after your accident. Hard decisions had to be made and I made them.”

  “What good is my recovery if you’re dead? What is point of my living then if you’re gone? No, this will not do.”

  “We will discuss it when I get home.”

  “No,” I said. “We will discuss it now. I’ll sell the Butterfly before I let you risk your life to pay my medical bills.”

  There was a click and the phone went dead.

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me!” I yelled. “Hello. Hello. Are you there?” The line was silent. “Jumping Jehosaphat!” I shouted as I crashed the phone down.

  11

  The next day I sent Cody packing with a letter of recommendation and a personal note from me about how I had enjoyed his company and my decision to let him go was not personal but monetary. He didn’t seem too choked up about leaving, giving me the suspicion that he was meant for bigger things than guarding a middle-aged asthmatic lady.

  I told Jake to pack up too, but he refused, even after I threatened to call the police.

  “Call the police. You’ll just look silly,” he said defiantly. “I have a signed contract, so I’m staying until your daughter relieves me. I’m more scared of her than of you.”

  “Fine,” I said, “but I’m calling the shots now.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jake chuckled, as he meandered onto the patio to swim his daily laps. Like me, he loved water.

  I took Jake’s car keys from his bureau, as he had hidden the keys to my car, and sneaked out with my purse. I got in easily and started the car, but flooded it in my excitement to escape.

  I turned the key again and pressed on the pedal until a wet tanned arm reached in and pulled out the key. “Where’re you going?” asked Jake pleasantly but I could tell that he was angry. Water dripped down the door panel.

  “I have more people to see regarding Jamie Dunne.”

  “You know you’re not allowed to drive.”

  “My license is current.”

  “The doctors say you are not to drive any type of vehicle regardless if it is a car, tractor, bicycle, go-cart or snow sled. You are not even allowed to ride a pony yet, so don’t even think you can ride one of those old nags of yours into town.”

  “I’m not Miss Daisy,” I bristled, “and I don’t want to be driven around.”

  “No, you’re not. She was nice.”

  “She was a cranky old harridan.”

  “So are you. Now, I am going to finish my laps. Then after I shave and shower, I will drive you anywhere you want to go.”

  “I feel like I’m in a prison. I deserve to be treated with respect,” I complained, tears threatening to spill over.

  “Boss Lady, I respect you.”

  “Really? But why do you argue with me all the time?”

  “Because it’s fun. It’s like crossing swords with a master.”

  “And you’re bored?”

  “And I’m bored,” agreed Jake. “This is not the most exciting assignment. You’re the only thing that makes it interesting.”

  “So you are an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Guess so.”

  “I know from first hand that too much adrenaline can kill you.”

  “Was that how the dude in your beeyard died? Too much excitement?”

  “Something like that. So you know about Richard Pidgeon?”

  “Franklin just couldn’t wait to tell me the story and the juicy details of how you pissed off that cop, O’nan. Come on now. Look, I’m getting chilled standing half-naked here.” He opened the car door and motioned for me to get out.

  Reluctantly I followed Jake into the house. I waited patiently for him until he finally emerged from his room smelling like a spring day. He placed my hand on his arm and smiled. “You’ll be good now? Honest Injun?” he asked.

  “Honest Injun,” I said, returning his smile. He gently escorted me outside.

  12

  The Golden Sun Vineyard was not open for business, but I knocked on the door anyway. Maybe someone was in the office. Minutes later, an elderly man with white hair and striking golden eyes opened the door slightly and peered out. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Jake and myself. “Can I help you?” he asked. His voice was rich and velvety.

  “Mr. Peterson. My name is Josiah Reynolds. I’m a friend of the Dunne family. May I talk with you for just a minute?” Jake bumped me from behind. “And this is my associate, Jake Dosh.”

  Mr. Peterson stepped out and closed the door.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” I asked, wiggling my cane.

  “There’s a nice pretty bench over there right in the sun.”

  “That would be good.” I followed him over.

  “I think I’ll walk to the river,” said Jake.

  Mr. Peterson started to object, but Jake was already heading down a path. He turned his attention to me. “Your name seems familiar. Do I know you?”

  “I’m the lady a cop tried to pin a murder on and then threw off the cliff when it didn’t stick.”

  Peterson’s golden eyes quickly took in my cane, hearing aid and fading scars on my face. “I hope it hasn’t been too awful for you,” he said with compassion.

  “It has its days, Mr. Peterson,” I replied. “The reason that I’m here is that Jamie Dunne’s aunt is a good friend of mine. She and the boy’s mother are uneasy about Jamie’s death and just want some questions answered so they can put this behind them.”

  “’Tis shameful that poor boy drowning so young.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I hope Sarah Dunne’s not blaming me for that.”

  “Oh, no sir. Did you know the Dunnes very well?”

  “Sarah, I knew to talk to. The boy only by sight. Once in a while I’d see him kayaking past our place. He’d always wave.”

  “I hear you are putting out a special wine this year.”

  Peterson beamed. “My wife and I have been working on this for ten years, but we finally tracked down the variety of grapes that were planted in the first commercial winery in the United States, 1799. A hand-blown commemorative glass bottle will be sold to the public for a mere $200 per bottle.”

  “And this winery was on your property?”

  “I traced old deeds, letters, maps, ledgers; anything I could get my hands on. There’s no doubt about it that this was the site of the original US commercial winery.”

  “How exciting that must be for you.”

  “I know Sarah thought her winery was the first. She’s got some evidence to support that, but my information is just more substantial than hers. Still, I feel bad. That’s why we included Silver Creek Vineyard on our riverboat tour this summer. We want to be good neighbors.”

  “I live east of you on the river.”

  “Is that so.”

  “I like the river quiet, undisturbed. It seems like you are going to be opening a new segment of tourism.”

  “I love the river too. People ought to know what a wonderful resource we have right in our own back yard. We need to keep the river clean and healthy.”

  Laughing I said, “I don’t want them to know about it because they’ll destroy it.”

  Peterson politely returned my smile.

  “Did you or anyon
e on your place ever have bad words with the Dunnes?”

  “Sarah was always friendly and jumped at the chance to be on the river tour. As for the boy, I never spoke to him. Like I said, just waved.”

  “The autopsy report stated that there was gasoline residue on his clothing. I understand that there was a fire here that night as well.”

  “Someone torched the lower vineyard.”

  “Were the vines destroyed?”

  “Some, but not many. Just scorched them slightly. Whoever lit them on fire was an amateur. Didn’t know how to set a fire properly. The gasoline just burned off and the fire quit. The vines were still wet from a rain we had had that morning.”

  “Do you think that Jamie started those fires?”

  Mr. Peterson’s brow furrowed. “Don’t rightly know, but it looks that way.”

  “Was there ever any evidence tying Jamie to the fires?”

  “The county sheriff took a report and left the cans here.”

  “What cans?”

  “The gasoline cans found near the vines. I still have them. There wasn’t much destruction so nothing much was done about it. Just petty vandalism. We didn’t hear about Jamie Dunne’s death until several days later. The city police investigated that. I never got a call from either division tying the two together, but I happen to think they’re connected.”

  “Mr. Peterson, may I have the cans? You have my word of honor, whatever I find, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Mr. Peterson thought quietly for a moment. “All right. Since you had trouble with the law, you know what it’s like to have suspicion thrown on you. I don’t think you’d do me wrong. But you tell me first, and I will give permission if I want that information given out. Deal?”

  I held out my hand. “Deal.” We shook hands.

  Peterson left and returned in a few moments with two gasoline cans and a bag. Unfortunately, he had picked up the cans with his hands. Oh dear. I opened the trunk to the car and had him lay the articles down. By that time, Jake was walking back up the path. He waved to me. I got in the front seat of the car and rolled down the window.

  Mr. Peterson leaned in. “Sarah doesn’t think I had anything to do with that boy’s death, does she?”

  “Of course not.”

  Mr. Peterson looked relieved.

  I didn’t offer that Irene Meckler thought he had something to do with it.

  He stood in the driveway, waving goodbye with a puzzled look on his face as Jake pulled out.

  We waited until we had left the property to exchange notes. “What do you think?” asked Jake.

  “If Mr. Peterson had anything to do with Jamie’s death, I’d be surprised. He seems like the salt-of-the-earth type. He gave me what was supposed to have been the gasoline cans used for the fire . . . and a waterproof boat bag. What did you find?”

  “I walked all the way down to the river. The spring rains have washed everything away. I didn’t find anything but this.” He held out a cheap greenish ring and part of a silver chain.

  “Looks like a girl’s ring,” I said. “I’ll show it to Sarah and Irene and see if they recognize it.”

  Jake dropped the jewelry into a baggie I held for him. I put the bag in my purse and reclined the back of my seat, closing my eyes. The next thing I knew Jake was rapping on the car window. I must have fallen asleep. I slowly got out of the car while he checked the house. I waited outside until he gave me to okay to enter. Tired, I went straight to bed. I was sleeping my life away, it seemed.

  *

  Awakening to savory aromas filtering through my bedroom, I followed the smells until I came to the Nakashima table, where Irene and Jake were having a dinner of country fried steak smothered in thick brown gravy, garlic mashed potatoes and creamed corn washed down with some Old Spears Vineyard’s Fayette Rose wine.

  Baby was sitting with his muzzle on the table, hoping to irritate Jake into putting a steak in his bowl. Occasionally he licked his muzzle and then the table with his long, drooling tongue. Both Irene and Jake ignored him as Jake told Irene of his trip to the Trail of Tears memorial in Hopkinsville.

  “Hello sleepyhead,” said Irene. “Jake’s been telling me about his trip.”

  I scooted my chair to the table as Jake went to fix me a plate. Sneaking a quick sip of Irene’s wine, I looked guiltily around to see if Jake had seen. Irene pinched me.

  “Stop it,” I hissed playfully.

  Jake returned and placed a plate before me. It consisted of a cold salad with a lump of pureed tuna fish in the middle. “When am I going to eat country steak?” I whined.

  “When you’re down to your college weight and can eat a good piece of meat without throwing up,” rasped Jake, crisply snapping a napkin on his lap.

  “Can I at least have some corn?”

  “Corn gives you hives.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “That’s good, honey. That shows that you’re gaining your health back. When you were in Key West, we had to beg you to eat,” said Irene. Hoping to distract me, Irene continued. “Jake was telling me some fascinating stories about Choctaw history. Did you know that Choctaws raised $710 to send to Ireland for victims of the potato famine in 1847? That was a lot of money back then and that was after Andrew Jackson had taken their farms. Can you imagine what a sacrifice it was to donate $710?”

  Jake took up the story. “In 1992 to commerate the gift, an Irish contingent came here and rewalked the Choctaw Trail of Tears backwards from Broken Bow, Oklahoma 500 miles to Nanih Waiya, Mississippi. I walked part of it myself and made friends with some of them. So if they are in the states, we meet if we can. We rendezvoused this time in Hopkinsville.”

  “Why would the Choctaws travel all that way up north when they needed to go west?” asked Irene.

  “No, I was at the Cherokee Trail of Tears memorial. The Choctaws went by the route I just told you, but the result was the same. Lots of innocents died.”

  “Have you visited the Kentucky Choctaw Academy site between Georgetown and Frankfort?” I asked.

  “That’s near me,” piped Irene. “What is it?”

  “It was a school for Choctaw boys. Richard Johnson, ninth vice-president of the United States, ran it. Actually, a lot of Indian boys got a good education there.”

  “Yeah, run by the man who killed Tecumseh. I’m sure he did it out of the goodness of his Christian heart. More like the goodness of his pocketbook,” complained Jake bitterly.

  “Now, now. Let’s not get out the war drums. If I remember my history correctly, the Indians did their fair share of bloodletting,” I replied.

  Jake started to heatedly respond but thought better of it. “It was our land, not yours,” he said quietly.

  He turned to Miss Irene. “Did you know that there was a Shawnee village right here in central Kentucky? Eskippakithiki. When Columbus landed, there were thousands of people living in Kentucky but by Daniel Boone’s time, there were no natives living here.”

  “What happened?” asked Irene.

  “Disease brought on by the Europeans. It is estimated that perhaps four out of every five Native Americans died between 1492 and 1750 due to European diseases.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured a startled Irene.

  “That happens when populations shift,” I interjected. “If you remember your history, Europe almost got wiped out by the plague several times – when the Black Death came to Europe aboard infected ships.”

  Jake started to say something but I interrupted, “And the Native American gave the European syphilis.”

  “That’s just a theory,” replied Jake heatedly.

  “My point is that bacteria and viruses act without personal feelings. They just do their thing and people pay the price. Everyone pays the price.”

  “I have a little Native American blood,” interjected Irene.

  “You do not,” I protested. “You’re German, through and through.”

  “I’ll have you know that my grandmother on my daddy’s side was part
Cherokee.”

  “Everybody in Kentucky has a grandmother who is part Cherokee.” I said, picking at the tuna. “It’s the state joke.”

  “Well, I actually do. You don’t know everything, missy,” sputtered Irene.

  “I bet you don’t know that Simon Kenton deliberately misidentified Tecumseh’s body so the whites wouldn’t mutilate it.”

  “That name is familiar but I can’t place ’im.”

  “For goodness sakes, Irene, pick up a history book once in a while.”

  Irene harrumphed.

  Jake cut in. “We would have had ice cream for dessert, Irene, but someone ate an entire gallon of it,” he said, looking accusingly in my direction, causing me to turn and stare accusingly at Baby.

  “Bad boy, Baby,” I said.

  Baby cocked his head, looking at me curiously.

  Irene laughed. “Shame on you, blaming that poor animal.”

  During the rest of dinner, Jake regaled us with tall tales of growing up in Oklahoma and had Irene and me in stitches. Afterwards, Jake made sure I swallowed my evening pills. Irene counted each one as I swallowed.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Irene. “Jake is making sure that he weans me off the cocaine before I go back to the Farmers’ Market.”

  When finished, I took Irene into my office. She nervously worried the hem of her dress. I gave her a quick rundown of whom I had talked with so far. I showed her the raunchy magazines, the dope and the condom wrapper. She turned pale, but she couldn’t throw any light on who Jamie was seeing.

  “Please don’t tell Sarah about this,” requested Irene.

  I held up the cheap ring. “Do you recognize this?”

  Irene took the baggie and examined its contents. “No, never seen it before.”

  “I might want to take it to Sarah and see if she recognizes it.”

  “Okay, but don’t tell her about the rest.”

  “What about the gasoline cans?”

  Irene pulled a checkbook out of her purse and wrote a check for $2000. “See if there’re any fingerprints and what other tests you deem fit.”

  “You’d be throwing your money away. Any fingerprints now would be degraded.”