Bitch Creek

by Tapply, William

  Dickman nodded. “You too, Stoney. Where’ll you be today?”

  “At the shop. I’m thinking I should drop by Lyle’s house on the way, tell his housemates what happened.”

  “Sad business.” The sheriff shifted into reverse, started to turn around, then stopped. “Appreciate everything, Stoney. Real sorry about Lyle. You know that.” He lifted his hand, and Calhoun watched him drive away.

  He and Ralph went inside. Kate had cleaned up the kitchen. She’d left a note on the table. “Call me first chance,” it read. She’d signed it with a big “K” and several Xs and Os.

  He sat at the table and dialed the shop. Kate picked up on the third ring. “Kate’s Bait and Buggers.”

  “It’s me, honey.”

  “I want to hear all about it,” she said. “But I’ve got people here now.”

  “I’m coming in.” He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after noontime. “Give me a couple hours. I’ve got to stop by Lyle’s house first.”

  “Okay. That’s fine.” She dropped her voice. “Just tell me—did you learn anything?”

  “Not really. Looks like Green shot him, all right. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

  Calhoun showered, shaved, and climbed into a clean pair of jeans. He filled Ralph’s water dish, gave him a rawhide bone, then got into his truck and drove to Portland.

  Lyle and his commune of housemates rented a sprawling old Victorian south of the airport in the Pleasantdale section of South Portland. The Fore River, which was really a long skinny tidal cove opening into Casco Bay, ran along the foot of the hill behind the house. Lyle had loved that place, because he could keep a fly rod set up on the back porch and stroll down the path to the river and catch stripers on the outgoing tide and sometimes bluefish on the incoming.

  Calhoun parked between a yellow Volkswagen Rabbit and a rusty Dodge pickup in the gravel turnaround out front. An aluminum canoe leaned against the side of the house, and several trash barrels stood by the corner. The paint was peeling and cracking and the shrubs needed trimming. Calhoun remembered Lyle complaining about their landlord, who seemed to expect the tenants to be responsible for the upkeep of the place. “I don’t mind cutting the grass,” Lyle had once told him. “But damned if we’re gonna paint the house or replace those rotten sills or patch all the leaks in the roof. This old heap can collapse, far as I’m concerned. We’ll just move somewhere else.”

  It hadn’t collapsed yet, but it looked like it was seriously considering it.

  Calhoun climbed onto the porch and rang the doorbell. A minute later the inside door opened and a small blond woman blinked out at him through the screen. She was wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe and her feet were bare. Her short hair was tousled. She knuckled her eyes, then smiled. “Hey, Stoney,” she said. “Lyle’s not here.”

  Calhoun had met all of Lyle’s housemates at one time or another, but he couldn’t keep them sorted out. “Julia?” he said.

  She nodded. He noticed that her toenails were painted pink to match her robe.

  “Actually,” he said, “I came over to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “You and your housemates.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You going to invite me in?”

  She shrugged and pushed open the screen door. “Sure. Come on in. I got coffee on.”

  Julia was about Lyle’s age—twenty-five or twenty-six—and Calhoun thought he remembered that she was taking courses over at the University and waitressing at night.

  He followed her into the kitchen, where a skinny young man in a sleeveless T-shirt and blue jeans was hunched over a cereal bowl at the table. A radio on the counter was playing rock music. A Rolling Stones tune.

  “Danny, you remember Mr. Calhoun?” said Julia.

  Danny looked up, nodded to Calhoun with his mouth full, then returned his attention to his cereal. He had pale eyes and long, thin, hairy arms.

  “Sit down, Stoney,” she said. “I’ll pour us some coffee. You want coffee, Danny?”

  Danny shook his head without looking up.

  Calhoun sat down across from Danny. Julia went to the counter, turned off the radio, and a moment later she was back with two mugs. She sat down beside Danny, who was spooning up the milk from the bottom of his bowl.

  “Okay, Stoney,” she said. “What’s up?”

  Danny stood up, took his bowl to the sink, mumbled something, and started to leave the room.

  “Hang on a minute,” Calhoun said to him.

  Danny turned. “Me?”

  “Yes, please. I wanted to talk to both of you.”

  Danny shrugged and sat down. “What’s up, man? I gotta get to work.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

  Danny frowned. “Huh?”

  Julia was staring at Calhoun. Her mouth opened, then closed, and then she shook her head. “Lyle? Don’t tell me . . .”

  Calhoun nodded.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  “LYLE’S DEAD,” SAID CALHOUN, WATCHING FIRST Julia’s face, then Danny’s.

  Julia shook her head. “What? You mean, like . . .?” She was clutching the folds of her robe together at her throat, frowning at him.

  Calhoun shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say it any different.”

  “He—Lyle died?”

  Calhoun nodded.

  She stared at him for a moment, then smiled quickly. “See, I thought you meant . . .”

  Danny was sitting there frowning. “The man said he was dead, Jules. Jesus.”

  Calhoun nodded. “I dragged his body out of the woods yesterday.”

  She got up from the table and went over to the sink. She gazed out the window with her back to him, hugging herself. “What happened?” she said in a small voice.

  “He got shot.”

  “Shot, huh?” She made a little snorting laugh. “Sure. That figures.”

  “Christ,” said Danny. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  She snapped her head around. “It means what it means. Like you don’t know?”

  Calhoun remained seated at the kitchen table, watching the two of them, wondering if they were trying to put on some kind of act for him. If they were, he didn’t know what he was supposed to get out of it. “What do you mean?” he said.

  She turned around and leaned back against the edge of the sink with her arms folded across her chest. “By what?”

  “You said ‘it figures.’ ”

  “Some girl plugged him.”

  “Oh, come off it,” said Danny. “That’s plain stupid.”

  Calhoun smiled. “A girl?”

  “Like that Penny Moulton. That new one. She’s been calling here for Lyle ever since he started seeing her. Always asking where he was, telling us to make sure he called her, then calling back an hour later accusing us of not giving him the message. Hell, Stoney. She’s not the only one. There’s a zillion girls pissed at Lyle.”

  “That’s the truth, Mr. Calhoun,” Danny said. “Doubt if any of them’d plug him, though.”

  “He was guiding a man that day,” said Calhoun. “We figure he’s the one who did it.”

  “What man?” said Julia.

  Calhoun sighed. “Out-of-stater. Older guy. Came into the shop, wanted to go fishing. It was—I should’ve taken him. It was my turn. But I didn’t like the man, so I gave him to Lyle.”

  Julia came back to the table and sat down. “You’re saying that some stranger showed up, asked for a guide, and then went out in the woods with him and shot him? Why would anybody do that?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

  “If you ask me,” she said, “it was some girl. Lyle broke more damn hearts . . .”

  “Oh, right,” said Danny. “Some broken-hearted chick, loved him so bad she shot him. Jesus!”

  Then Calhoun saw Julia’s eyes brim and overflow, and she sat there across from him with a little half-smile
, looking at him with her blurry wet eyes, crying silently.

  “You?” he said.

  “Her and everybody else,” said Danny. “Lyle’s got that magic. Chicks see Lyle, they just lay down and spread their legs.”

  “Will you shut up?” Julia turned to Calhoun and nodded. “Sure. Me. Danny’s right. Lyle feels like he’s got to screw every girl he sees. I guess he about does, too. He’s a wicked sexy guy. I can’t exactly explain it. He’s so—arrogant, you know? I mean, quiet, very polite, doesn’t say much. Like he knows he doesn’t have to. He never hits on a girl, and that makes you wonder what’s wrong with yourself, so you feel like you’ve got to try to seduce him. It’s like he knows you want him, and he’s just waiting. But afterwards, he loses interest. Like he did what he set out to do. Oh, he’ll keep you going for a while. He wants you to be interested in him even when he doesn’t care anymore.” She glanced at Danny. “I don’t guess any girl would shoot him, though. You just keep loving Lyle McMahan, is what you do. He makes you feel like one day he’ll see the light and be back. That’s how Lyle is.”

  Calhoun noticed Julia’s use of the present tense and figured it hadn’t sunk in for her yet. “That doesn’t sound like the Lyle McMahan I knew,” he said.

  She said, “You’re not a girl.”

  “Listen, both of you,” he said, shifting his eyes from Julia to Danny. “Did Lyle ever mention anybody named Green?”

  Danny looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shrugged. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

  “Julia?” said Calhoun.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “His client that day might’ve been named Green,” said Calhoun.

  “Might’ve?” said Danny.

  “I’m not sure he gave me his right name. Said he was from Florida. Any of Lyle’s girls from Florida that you know?”

  Danny nodded. “I get it. You think Lyle screwed this man’s wife or girlfriend or daughter or something. He would’ve, too. Wouldn’t’ve bothered Lyle if someone was married or something.” He stopped. “But wait. Didn’t you say you were supposed to take the man out? Did he ask for Lyle?”

  Calhoun shut his eyes, scrolling back, re-creating the scene in the shop that morning. “Someone who really knows the back roads and woods,” Fred Green had said. “A native. A real Mainer.” Those had been his words. They described Lyle better than they described Calhoun. Maybe he had come specifically for Lyle. Calhoun had made it easy by turning him over to Lyle. Perhaps if he hadn’t, the man would have gone out with Calhoun. Then maybe it would’ve been Calhoun who got shot.

  Or maybe not. Maybe the man had come to the shop because he intended to murder Lyle.

  “No,” said Calhoun. “He didn’t ask for Lyle. Not by name, anyway. He just asked for a guide.”

  “I don’t know any Green girl, offhand,” said Julia. “Nobody from Florida, either, for that matter.”

  “Me, neither,” said Danny.

  Julia shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

  Calhoun glanced at Danny. He was staring at Julia without expression.

  Julia turned to Calhoun. “Guess you’re feeling kinda guilty, huh?” Calhoun looked at her. “Why?”

  “You’re thinking you should’ve taken that man out, not Lyle. Then Lyle wouldn’t’ve gotten shot.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Tell you the truth, I’m feeling real bad. I dragged Lyle out of bed so he’d come take Mr. Green off my hands. If I hadn’t . . .” He shrugged.

  “I’m awful sorry,” she said softly. “I know you were real good friends. He thought the world of you, you know. Talked about you all the time. You were like a brother to Lyle.”

  Calhoun found himself nodding, reluctant to speak. His throat felt tight and his eyes burned.

  Danny shoved back his chair and stood up. “I’ve got to get going, Mr. Calhoun. What can I do?”

  “Tell the rest of your housemates what happened to Lyle. Tell them he was murdered. If any of them thinks of anything, have them call me over at the shop where I work. Here. I’ll leave a number.” Calhoun fumbled one of Kate’s business cards from his wallet.

  Danny took the card and stuck it on the refrigerator door with a sunflower magnet. “Okay,” he said. He held his hand out to Calhoun. The young man’s grip was firm. “I guess I haven’t quite digested what you’ve said. Lyle is—was—a buddy. This don’t seem real.”

  After Danny left the room, Calhoun stood up. “I’ve got get over to the shop,” he said to Julia. “I just wanted you folks to know what happened. Be sure to tell the rest of your housemates.”

  She nodded.

  “And you might mention the name Green, see if it rings any bells with anybody.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll do that. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  He started for the front door.

  She followed him, and when he put his hand on the knob, she touched his arm. “Hey, Stoney,” she said softly.

  He turned, and she came against him, hugging him around the waist with her face pushed against his chest. He held her for a moment, then kissed the top of her head. “I’m real sorry, Julia,” he said.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  During the ten-minute drive from Lyle’s house to the shop, he thought about what Julia and Danny had said. Lyle had left behind a lot of broken hearts. Jealousy or disappointment didn’t strike Calhoun as much of a motive for murder. But he couldn’t come up with anything better.

  Several unfamiliar cars were parked in the lot in front of the shop. Sure. Friday afternoon. Everybody was gearing up for a weekend of striper fishing.

  Inside, he found Kate at the counter in deep conversation with two men wearing business suits. She glanced up when the bell over the door dinged, lifted her chin at Calhoun, then resumed her conversation. “Okay,” she was saying, drawing on a piece of paper. “Tide’s about half out around six, so you should find ’em at the estuary, here, along this channel, waiting for the bait to wash out of the creek. They come in along this dropoff, and you can wade out onto this sandbar . . .”

  Calhoun wandered over to three guys—they looked like a father and two late-teen sons—who were studying the rack of rods. “Need any help?” he said.

  One of the younger ones turned to him. “You work here?”

  “Ayuh.”

  “What do you think about stripping baskets?”

  “Wade fishin’ for stripers, you sure need one,” said Calhoun, shifting into full Downeast twang. “Keep your line from gettin’ tangled in the weeds or sloshin’ around in the surf, all twisted around your legs.”

  The boy turned to the other two. “See?”

  “You can make one for yourself,” said Calhoun. “Just get yourself a plastic dish tub and a bungee cord. Punch holes in two of the corners, hook your bungee cord into ’em, snug her around your waist, and you’re in business.”

  “Don’t you sell them here?” asked the older man, the father.

  “Oh, sure,” said Calhoun. “Store-bought ones work, too.”

  For the next several hours, a steady stream of customers wandered into and out of the shop, and Calhoun barely had the chance to nod and smile at Kate as the two of them gave away advice and recommendations. Most of the customers had the courtesy to buy a few flies or spools of tippet material, and Calhoun did sell an Orvis eight-weight outfit—he even nail-knotted a leader and backing to the ends of the line and then spooled it onto the reel for the guy—but considering the volume of customers, Calhoun figured they hadn’t made much money.

  It was after six o’clock when he realized that he and Kate were alone. He went out back and fished two Cokes from the cooler. He took them to the front counter, where Kate was bent over the ledger in which they kept track of everything they sold. He put the can of Coke beside her elbow.

  She glanced up. “Oh, thanks, Stoney.”

  “Figured you could use it.”

  “It’s been a damn zoo,” she said, still peering at her entries in the ledger.
“Last two days, I’ve been running around like a trout foul-hooked in the tail. Without you and Lyle around to help out . . .”

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  She glanced up at him. “Don’t call me that here.”

  “Somethin’ bothering you, Kate?”

  She shook her head.

  “What is it?” he persisted.

  “Nothing, Stoney. Just leave me be.”

  “Somethin’s eating at you. You ought to let me in on it.”

  She said nothing.

  “Kate,” he said. He touched her shoulder. “What’s going on? If it’s about Lyle, I—”

  “I just wish it was more businesslike around here.”

  “Meaning what?”

  She put down her pencil and looked up at him. “Look,” she said, “I’m trying not to go broke here. You don’t have to worry about it. But I do. I’ve got to worry about it. If I don’t, nobody does. We’ve got folks asking for guide trips, and I don’t feel like I’ve got any guides except myself. And what’m I going to do, close up the shop so I can take people fishing?”

  “You’ve got me.”

  “I got you when you feel like it,” she said. “When you don’t feel like running around with the sheriff playing detective. Dammit, Stoney. The last two days’ve been . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “Forget it,” she said. “Not your problem.”

  “Lyle was killed,” he said. “Murdered.”

  “Well, hell,” she said. “I know that. And I feel bad about it. You know I do. And I know how you feel about it, how much Lyle meant to you.”

  “He was shot, Kate. Someone shot him while he was out in his float tube. I can’t just—”

  “You can’t just let Sheriff Dickman handle it? That what you mean?”

  He looked up at the ceiling for a minute. Then he said, “Kate, listen. It was you who said for me to go, help out the sheriff, do whatever I needed to do.”

  “Since when have you been indispensable to the sheriff?”

  “Since I found Lyle lying there in the mud with a bullet in his belly, I reckon.” He shook his head. “No. Since I decided I didn’t want to take Fred Green fishing and gave him to Lyle. I can’t just let it go, honey.”