Death By Drowning

by Abigail Keam

  “Just try.”

  I pulled out the stained canvas bag and gave it to her. She tentatively opened it and rummaged through it. “Oh,” she said suddenly and pulled out a piece of green cloth with a partial logo of a local boys’ camp. “This looks like a T-shirt that Jamie owned. I remember telling him that the shirt looked nasty and he should put it in the rag bin.”

  “Can you positively I.D. it?”

  “No, but it sure looks like it. Same cloth. Same color.”

  “What about the bag?”

  “Can’t help you there.”

  Seeing that Irene was exhausted from our conversation, I wrote a receipt for the $2000. She left looking worried. It didn’t look good. We now had possible evidence that tied Jamie to the fire at the Golden Sun Vineyard. From Mr. Peterson’s own testimony, Jamie had the strength to kayak to the Golden Sun Vineyard and back home. The marked map, the newspaper article and the torn T-shirt I.D.’d by Irene plus the gas cans and gas residue on Jamie’s clothes were building a case that Jamie had set the fire at the Golden Sun Vineyard.

  Maybe Jamie hadn’t been such a good boy, after all.

  13

  I no longer cooked. I couldn’t stand the strain of standing needed to cook. So there were no more southern cooking of hot buttermilk biscuits smothered with honey, red-eye gravy over country ham, thick buckwheat pancakes, cheese grits, greasy green beans cooked with ham hock, skillet fried milk corn, baked macaroni with three different cheeses, lasagna with my homemade tomato sauce, crispy fried chicken, chilled tomatoes with just a hint of salt layered over fresh salad greens drizzled with honey dressing, blackberry cobbler, chocolate cake with cream cheese icing or my homemade peach ice cream served in frosted glass dishes. Besides, I wasn’t allowed to eat the above, so what was the point?

  My food now was mostly soft, low in calories (I still needed to lose thirty pounds, according to Jake) and boring. So when Jake had an appointment in Versailles, I waved goodbye as he pulled out of the driveway, and then made a beeline to call Franklin. Since I had explained to Franklin that time was on his side and not mine, he felt all so much the better about me. The anger had disappeared or at least submerged into Franklin’s rather dense subconscious. I begged him to have mercy and take me to lunch. I craved real food.

  An hour later Franklin arrived in his Smart Car to take me to lunch, but first I made him take me to the ferry. I wanted to talk to the captain. If anyone knew what was going on concerning the river, it would be Captain McDowell.

  After parking the car in the ferry parking lot, Franklin helped me walk down the ramp and onto the ferry.

  “Howdy, Miss Josiah. Heard you were back,” said Captain McDowell, coming out of his little cabin. “Someone meetin’ you across the river?”

  “I actually came to jaw a spell with you.”

  “What can I do you for?”

  “Nobody knows the river like you do. I need to know if anything unusual has happened in the last three months.”

  “Three months? I thought surely you would want to know about George Smitty’s car being stolen the night you had your accident.”

  “I’ve been told that. I’m looking for something newer. Something out of place.”

  McDowell rubbed his weathered cheek and thought for a moment. “Well, a boy drowned on the river not too far back.”

  “Something else. Now think. It could be as simple as otters changing their home base.”

  “It’s been pretty quiet lately. Rodney Tavis was complaining that someone was messing with his nets, but that was back before the boy died.”

  “Who is Rodney Tavis?”

  “He’s one of the few commercial fishermen left on the Kentucky River.”

  “I didn’t know that there were commercial fishermen on the river.”

  “Just a few. Not like it used to be.”

  “What was happening to his nets?”

  “Someone was pulling them up, taking the fish and then cutting the nets up. Those things are expensive. It made him plumb mad.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Heard a panther the other morning just around dawn. I know it wasn’t a bobcat because the pitch was higher.”

  “I’ve heard they might be moving back in the area,” I commented.

  “Wouldn’t that be somethin’, Miss Josiah, to look up and see one of them big cats on a ledge.”

  “Where can I find Rodney Tavis?”

  “On the river most days, but I couldn’t tell you where. Don’t know where he lives. A word of advice – he doesn’t always abide by the law. I’ve had to report him several times for illegal fishing.”

  “Gotcha. Don’t mess with his nets and don’t mention your name. Thanks,” I said, after handing him a jar of honey.

  Captain McDowell held the jar up to the sunlight, inspecting it. After determining that the honey met his exacting standards, McDowell put the jar by his coffee mug and nodded his thanks. A driver blew his horn, letting us know he was impatient to be off across the river. I thanked the captain and left.

  Franklin was waiting for me at the water’s edge, and soon we were heading back into town to eat. I was determined to order fried chicken with the works. My body was craving deep fried meat. We arrived at my favorite greasy dive and were seated quickly. I was about to give my order to the waitress when Franklin’s eyes grew wide and he said, “Let’s go. I want to go to another restaurant.”

  Dismissing the waitress, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t like it here. Wanna go somewhere else.”

  “Franklin?” I yelped, as he began tugging at my arm.

  “Let’s go!”

  “Wait. Let me get my stick,” I said sharply, standing up and turning to get my cane off the back of the chair.

  That’s when I saw her – Brannon’s mistress. The woman whom Brannon loved more than me. The woman who had given birth to his second child. The woman who had taken all his wealth. The woman who was the reason I was cash poor. She was with a younger man, presumably her brother, and an older one, her father, who upon seeing me stare, leaned forward and whispered to her. She turned her head, as did a toddler following her gaze. Her expression was one of surprise, then anger and then fear. She trailed her eyes towards the toddler. The little boy, thinking I was a friend of his mother’s, waved a chicken finger at me, smiling. It was Brannon’s smile. And Brannon’s eyes.

  “Yes, let’s go. I think I’m suddenly in the mood for Chinese,” I murmured, turning my back on them. Franklin helped me out the door and we took Chinese takeout home.

  With Matt and Jake, joining us out on the patio by the pool, I managed to have a good time as we argued over moo goo gai pan who the actors were in The Magnificent Seven. “It was not Lee Van Cleef,” Franklin argued. “It was Eli Wallach who was the villain.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Matt, “because the greatest western was My Darling Clementine.”

  Jake interrupted, “That’s because Victor Mature’s in it. Personally I hate all westerns. Let’s move on to another subject.”

  “That’s because your people always lost,” I said.

  “They didn’t in They Died With Their Boots On,” countered Jake with a sneer.

  “Oooh, that’s a good one,” said Franklin, grabbing a carton of fried rice. “With the dashing Errol Flynn and the always noble, but hopelessly boring Olivia de Havilland. Of course, the movie was just fantasy about Custer. The only fact in it was that he died by the hands of the Sioux.”

  “No, no, you’re all wrong. Shane is the best western ever made,” I said. “Alan Ladd versus Jack Palance. Mythic, simply mythic.” I imitated Brandon De Wilde crying, “Shane. Shane. Come back, Shane.”

  All three guys gagged as though they were going to upchuck which made me laugh. Apparently they didn’t care for Alan Ladd whom they thought looked like a girl.

  “Best line ever uttered by Jack Palance,” stated Franklin, “was in that Billy Crystal movie. ‘I shi . . .’ ”

&nbs
p; “Shut up,” commanded Matt. “Not when we’re eating.”

  “Yes, please,” echoed Jake. “Although, it was a pretty good line.”

  “Best water movie?” I asked, hoping to move the conversation along.

  “Jaws. Hands down,” said Matt.

  “I thought Dead Calm with Nicole Kidman was pretty good,” interjected Franklin, reaching for one of my spring rolls. I slapped his hand away. No one touches my spring rolls.

  Jake looked thoughtful. “What was the name of that movie where the two tourists go scuba diving and get left behind for the sharks to eat?”

  “I couldn’t bear to watch that movie,” I laughed. “It was too horrible. Those poor tourists.”

  “The best water movie ever made was Moby Dick with Gregory Peck,” said Franklin.

  “No, it’s Jaws,” replied Matt in a voice that challenged Franklin to contradict him.

  “It’s Beach Blanket Bingo,” I said. “You’re all wrong.”

  The guys threw rice at me.

  “Hey, watch the hair. Not in the hair. It’s sacred.”

  “The sweatiest movie ever made,” challenged Matt.

  “That’s easy,” replied Jake. “Cool Hand Luke.”

  “Never seen it,” said Franklin.

  The rest of us gasped.

  Franklin shrugged. “What? What?”

  “My turn,” I said. “Alien.”

  “Ooooh, that’s a good one,” answered Matt. He thought for a moment. “The Bridge On The River Kwai.”

  “Not sweaty enough,” I said. “How about Zulu?”

  “That’s a great movie,” confirmed Jake. “But Twelve Angry Men beat it. There’s not a dry armpit in the entire movie.”

  Franklin intervened. “Body Heat with Kathleen Turner.”

  “Oh, that’s another good one,” said Matt.

  “If I were a woman, I would like to look like Turner in that movie,” said Franklin.

  “I would like to look like Rita Hayworth in Gilda,” I announced.

  “Is that the movie where she flips her hair up in a close-up?” asked Jake.

  “Yeah, that scene was in Shawshank Redemption with Morgan Freeman,” said Matt. “I would know. I have had to endure watching it many times with Miss aka Hayworth over here.”

  “Orson Welles said that horses sweat, men perspired, but Miss Hayworth glistened,” I said.

  “Is that before he dumped her for some countess?” asked Matt.

  I turned towards Franklin. “You’ve never seen Cool Hand Luke really?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen a Paul Newman picture.”

  “I thought you said you have seen every picture ever made?”

  “Not when it comes to Paul Newman.”

  “But he’s an American institution . . . an icon,” said Matt. “How could you not?”

  Jake chimed in. “Never seen Hud?”

  “Nope”

  “Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?”

  “Nada.”

  “Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid?”

  “Nyet.”

  “The Sting?”

  “No way.”

  Jake slumped back in his chair. “How is that possible living in American culture and not seeing a Paul Newman movie? That’s like never eating ice cream. Even we Choctaws have caught a Paul Newman movie, now and then.”

  “You’re lying, Franklin,” I said. “I can tell.”

  Franklin gave us a cheeky grin.

  We dumped our drinks over his head and pushed him in the pool. Franklin reached up and pulled Matt in. Jake jumped in while I sat at the patio table watching the boys play. Their antics made me forget seeing that woman at the restaurant. I even managed to push back thoughts of that little boy with Brannon stamped all over him. I would deal with that later. At this very moment, I wanted to enjoy my friends, my companions, my band of brothers. They had not abandoned me. They had stuck to me like Ruth to Naomi. Nothing else mattered.

  14

  Late next morning, Jake and I “borrowed” Lady Elsmere’s boat again. It was the first day of the Butterfly tour, so I figured she would be too busy to notice its absence. Besides, I wanted out of the house. I didn’t want to watch people snoop at my things or gape at me. I left the house in the capable hands of Charles, Lady Elsmere’s butler, and his middle-aged daughters, Bess and Amelia.

  Jake had procured a guide map of the river, so Jamie’s movements on that fateful night could be retraced from the police report. Charles, loving the fact that we were pinching his boss’s boat, donated a picnic basket, full of tasty delights with an ice chest full of cold drinks including little baby bottles of champagne.

  Franklin, having eavesdropped on our plans the night before, showed up dressed in canvas deck shoes, white cotton pants with a navy stripe down the side, matching navy sailor’s shirt and a dandy little red hat. Of course, he brought Baby with him. It took both Franklin and Jake to carry Baby onto the boat.

  Irritated for some reason that Franklin had crashed our outing, Jake told Franklin that he would have to mind Baby. As if to impress Franklin with the importance of our mission, Jake jerked his Glock out from his shoulder holster, dropping the clip and then reinserting it with a manly thrust.

  In response, Franklin whipped out his binoculars and scanned the riverbanks.

  Ignoring them both, Baby went to sleep as I sat on the backbench going through the basket to see what there was to eat.

  Starting down the river, Jake put Merle Haggard’s Greatest Hits, which he had pulled from CDs scattered around the captain’s chair, in the CD player. Franklin groaned, “Got any Gwen Stefani?”

  Stuffing my mouth full of crustless cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, I opened the report on Jamie’s death and read the details out loud while Jake scoured the river map trying to find the landmarks mentioned in the report.

  “Like old times,” commented Franklin, putting his arm around me and giving a hug. “The three of us on a boat.”

  “Hardly like Key West,” I said. “But I wouldn’t want to miss this. Spring in Kentucky is beautiful.”

  All the wild dogwoods were in full bloom and, like an impressionist painter’s palette, the limestone cliffs were dotted with green and white.

  “We’re here,” Jake said, pointing to the map. Tracing his finger along the map, “There is Silver Creek Vineyard, Firstvineyard, and then according to the report, we follow the river to Lock 8 where Jamie’s body was found washed up on the north side of the river. Golden Sun Vineyard is located west of where the body was found.”

  He read the Kentucky River Guide brochure. “According to this,” Jake quoted, “A Jean Dufour selected land belonging to a John Hazlerigg and started the first commercial vineyard and winery in the United States, 1799. The company was named Firstvineyard. In 1804 he shipped two kegs to President Jefferson. A spring frost killed all the grape vines in 1809 and Dufour closed the winery and moved to Indiana.” He read some more. “Peterson may be right. It says here that in early 1900’s, a George McQuerry was quoted in the Jessamine Journal as saying, ‘the First vineyard was on a hill slope on the Kentucky River just below the mouth of Sugar Creek which was about 1 ½ mile below Lock 8.’”

  “The Silver Creek Vineyard is too far east on the river to match that description and in another county,” I replied. “Let’s look at the facts. Jamie had gasoline on his clothes. He was a devoted son, by all accounts. Perhaps he thought that the resurrection of Firstvineyard would seriously hurt his mother’s business.”

  “And being only fifteen and teenage-stupid, thought that burning the grapevines would stop Peterson’s rivalry with his mother,” continued Franklin.

  “He’s a big strong boy, paddles undetected to the vineyard, starts the fires and leaves. That would explain why the fires didn’t do much damage. He was inexperienced in setting such fires. The ground and the vines were wet,” Jake mused.

  “He gets back to his kayak and, in his hurry to get away, has his accident. Panics, because it
’s night and the alarm at the vineyard has been raised. Hits his head and drowns,” I said.

  “Sounds plausible,” commented Franklin.

  “Then why does Irene have such strong feelings about this?” I asked.

  Jake shrugged. “Can’t accept the fact Jamie’s dead. She’s looking for a scapegoat.”

  “I’ve always found her to be a sensible and fair person,” I said. “I have faith in her common sense. She says she can’t sleep at night. That she feels Jamie pulling on her.”

  “Creepy,” said Franklin, his deep blue eyes blinking.

  “I agree, Franklin,” I said. “Very creepy. It’s not like Irene to be imagining things.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Jake, slowing the boat. “It’s just part of the grieving process.”

  “Then why are you helping me if you think there has been no foul play?” I asked.

  “Because where you go, I go.”

  I cocked my head at him, but said nothing. His words stirred something inside me.

  “It’s my job. You’re my job,” repeated Jake.

  “Oh,” I murmured, disappointed.

  Franklin handed Jake a plate of sandwiches and other treats with a cold soda before he loaded his own plate. He sat beside me happily munching away while making tick marks in his bird book. He rested his feet on Baby. “Look, Josiah, a green heron,” he cried as he made his mark. “My goal is to see at least twenty different bird species today. Oh my goodness. Look! Look! Two ospreys!”

  Both Jake and I turned to see the graceful fish-eating bird soar into the distance while another one peered out from a large extended twig nest located in a dead tree.

  “Look for bald eagles. They might be migrating through here,” I said, closing my eyes to rest for a moment.

  “This is just too cool,” giggled Franklin. “Oh, oh, oh, a kingfisher!”

  “Boss Lady, we are at Silver Creek Vineyard,” announced Jake.

  “Pull in, please. I want to talk with Sarah,” I said.

  Jake pulled up to the dock and tied the boat up. I got out with his help, and we walked up the path while Franklin and Baby waited in the boat. Sarah had been sitting on her house deck talking with Bloomie when we pulled up. She waved us onto the deck. I plopped into a chair catching my breath. Bloomie brought some iced tea.