Death and Love at the Old Summer Camp

by Dolores Maggiore

  Katie and I cuddled and fell asleep immediately.

  We were up early and finished breakfast just as quickly. Joe joined us outside the dining hall. Doc emerged and told us Catherine wouldn’t be coming.

  We were on our way and driving slowly through the Village of Raymond with its eighteenth century grange and some Shaker looking buildings painted white with green shutters. The buildings seemed embraced by bog land, which soon led to small lakes and outlets of Sebago Lake on our left as we headed west.

  There were still small dairy farms and what we called truck farms in New York, farms producing mainly salad stuff, tomatoes, beets, carrots, cabbage, and herbs. Occasionally a deer would run down from a hillside to disappear in a grove of tall pines or birches.

  We passed the sign for L.L.Bean with its neat painting of a fisherman in an Old Town canoe and soon after arrived in Naples, a small town swarming with tourists and campers alike. The big deal was Long Lake, a deep, velvety blue home to graceful white yachts, seaplanes, and fishing boats for hire.

  Doc and Joe held our hands as we stepped off the dock onto the pontoons of the seaplane. Katie let out a nervous giggle as the plane jostled us back and forth to our seats. Doc finally took Joe’s hand to help him on and smiled back at us.

  We were airborne, doing dips over shaded coves, and lily pad ponds framed by the White Mountains along the New Hampshire border. We laughed as our stomachs did flips when the plane dropped close to the surface of the water. After a half-hour, we braced ourselves for the bouncy landing on the white-capped lake. The noise of the engine had been deafening, but we could hear the sweet sound of calmer waters lapping against the dock.

  We got our land legs back and crossed over the main street to the boardwalk side. Gift shops selling balsam sachet bags, shells, and bottle openers shaped like lobster claws lined the boardwalk. A few restaurants resembled riverboats and sternwheelers. I liked the white one that was a retired mail boat, low-slung and homey. That’s where we were going to eat.

  There were only about ten tables, pine and coated with Spar Varnish. Portholes still worked, and waiters looked like old time sailors, wearing middies and white twill bell-bottoms.

  Katie pulled her dad aside. My antennae were up. Katie’s asides were not too subtle, more like two-by-fours. The doc’s whispers sounded like a PA system. Just the same, I knew that Katie was on board with me. I wasn’t afraid any more that she’d ditch me.

  I overheard her say, “Dad, maybe I can ask for hamburgers?”

  “You want to trigger the same thing that happened at the Spa? Might work, Sweetie. Leave it to me,” said Doc.

  “Hey, you McGuilvrys,” said Joe. “C’mon. We’re starving. Listen, order for me and I’ll run to call Papa Gallo. It’s been a while.”

  ****

  The sailor waiter seated us immediately at a window table. Through the porthole, grasses swirling in the soft eddies caught my eye. I started to get lost in the circles when I heard Doc order.

  “Two Tom Collins, a Salisbury steak – and are your burgers chopped sirloin or chopped chuck? I think I prefer the chuck.”

  “What exactly is chuck?” said Katie.

  “A cut of meat. There are a few different cuts used for hamburgers: top round, sirloin, and chuck. They chop it or grind it,” Doc explained.

  That was when I felt my eyes dart back and forth.

  The waiter asked me what I would like – and then, I heard myself say, “Chuck! Dropped chuck, no chopped chuck. Butch, no chuck chopped. Chuck chopped Butch. Chop chop. I’m going to upchuck. Chuckle chuckle! That’s what I want. Chuck. ‘What you want is meat, carne,’ right? Right? Chuck Carney.”

  “I got it,” I said. I spoke through a cotton-like gauze in my mouth. “I know what’s happening. I’m going to be okay.”

  Okay, but still not up to eating meat, or really anything after the plane ride. Yeah, but this place was famous for its blueberry pies and ice cream.

  I sat licking my butter crunch ice cream, holding one of Katie’s hands under the table. I had answers now; they didn’t have me. Plus, I had Katie. I also had big enough ears to hear Doc and Joe, who just returned.

  “Did she really say Chuck Carney?” Joe asked. “My father said the same thing. He’s our man.”

  “She certainly did.”

  Joe loosened his shirt collar as he explained the details of the phone call with his father.

  “Fifi went to jail to see the Mafioso who Roger Brown sold out and whose son he abused. He accidentally—”

  “Accidentally?” said Ron with a smirk.

  “Yes. Accidentally tipped off Propiziano to the name Carne, Roger Brown’s alias. I all but drew a picture for my father of the obvious hangman’s noose he had knotted for Roger and himself.

  “He mimicked Pina saying, ‘Ima Upchuck Carney.’ So, I put that together with the witch’s message ‘Cio che cerca e carne,’ and again, it spelled out, ‘What you want is Carney, Chuck Carney.’”

  “Goodness,” said Doc, “We have to verify that and go to the Judge.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  BACK TO THE BOOKS

  Doc and Joe took us with them to the Portland Library on Forrest Avenue. For us, it was a great outing to the older part of Portland. For Doc and Joe, it meant more research. We checked in with them every once in a while, got the research report, and went back outside to explore the neighborhood. I knew they would find answers. I could quit this intrigue business.

  We were in the library on one of our check-in missions. Katie was reading historical plaques on the wall, while I ran my fingers along long rows of old books. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe pull Doc aside. Even though I was officially off the case, I moved closer to eavesdrop.

  Joe held a book in his hands. “This Portland branch is not a bad library. Listen to this: ‘Chuck Carney, 30, recent resident of West Memphis, Arkansas, arrested in Kansas City in a series of child molestation cases. Little information was available at time of press.’”

  “When was that?” asked Doc.

  “1949. Hold on. Here’s 1950: ‘Carney sentenced for child abduction and aggravated assault.’”

  Katie and I stepped closer, right up to the heavy pine desk where Doc and Joe sat. We wanted the scoop too.

  “Where is he incarcerated? How long?” Doc said.

  “Hold on,” said Joe. “Uh…fifteen years. Can’t find where.”

  “There aren’t any more articles on him,” said Doc. “Do you think the FBI buried him again?”

  “No clue. C’mon, we’ve got to call the Judge and pick up Fifi at the airport,” said Joe, and we all started to make our way out of the library.

  “Mentioning my father to Judge Lawyer might work wonders,” Joe continued as we walked, “if the Judge thinks Carney’s death might cause a scandal. If my father is suspected of planting the ‘accidental’ slip—”

  “If Carney is still Carney, hasn’t changed his name to something else by now, and if he’s rotting in jail someplace,” said Doc.

  “Well, it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know that if we discovered this info, the mob won’t be far behind.”

  Doc mused, “So. Pick up your father, establish a gag order—so to speak—and contact Judge Lawyer with the full exposé.”

  Katie and I waited in the car with Doc at Portland’s tiny airport, while Joe ran to get Fifi. Fifi appeared tan and rested. Settling himself in the car, he gave us all Italian kisses on both cheeks, followed by a soft pinch.

  He immediately started telling Joe in Italian what happened with Propiziano, or the ‘boss of bosses.’ Joe made him speak English so we could all understand.

  Fifi had spread the word among his old friends to be on the lookout for anyone from Propiziano’s family who might be looking for Fifi to eliminate him before he could get to Carney. Joe said he would call Judge Lawyer to explain in a non-incriminating way what had happened.

  We arrived at the phone company in time for Joe to place a call to the Jud
ge. While he talked, the rest of us roamed around this cool old building. We all kept one eye on Joe, and we could see his body tense up as he informed the Judge that Butch’s bones had surfaced in Owl Lake.

  From the sound of things, the Judge grew more curious about Chuck Carney. Joe was telling him about the newspaper clippings describing Carney’s last crime and sentencing.

  Joe explained that it was Propiziano’s child Brown had assaulted, and Brown who had sold out Propiziano to the Feds.

  Joe hung up the phone and rushed over to fill us in. Apparently, the Judge believed Fifi innocent of Butch’s murder. The Judge also said that perhaps he needed Fifi’s services again to obtain a confession from Chuck Carney/Roger Brown regarding Butch’s murder. The Judge promised to find out where Carney was locked up and have the man put in solitary, in order to protect Carney from a potential attack by Propiziano’s men.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  IN RETIREMENT

  I was enjoying my vacation. My detective services were, for the moment, unneeded. I relished my semi-retirement, since it gave me more time to spend with Katie. Katie no longer believed she was a weed. Thank god. We would need to find her a new ring, or a cigar band, to replace the old, weedy wildflower one.

  One morning, one of the waitresses came to get me from Katie’s porch for a phone call at the main house. The phone call from my mother interrupted my musings on Katie’s ring. My mother was actually giggling when I answered the phone.

  She had me on pins and needles as she told me a long and winding story about my father’s violin, which a Mafioso errand boy had picked up for repair.

  Several times, I shouted “Mom!” to get her to speed up her story.

  Finally, I got the full details. Fifi had promised to have my father’s violin repaired and to get Maestri to retrain my father. Was my mom gutsy! She hinted that she darn near threatened divorce if my father didn’t grab this second chance at success in music and in life.

  Holy moly! Everything was jiving: the folks were cool; I was off duty and going steady with Katie. I still kept my ear to the ground and cut a sharp eye for any movement of the key players in the case.

  Joe seemed to be on a mission early one morning, tracking down Doc on the cabin porch. I put my ear to the thin wall and my eye to the knothole.

  “Judge Lawyer called,” said Joe. “He’s found out that Chuck Carney is in jail up at Sing Sing. The Judge told the warden the whole story. They need something that leads to a confession. The plan is to use my father’s reputation to scare Carney.” Joe grinned and shook his head at the mention of his father’s reputation. “My father said if this works, he’ll take us all to Italy someday. You, me, Catherine, Katie, Pina, and of course Pina’s folks.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Doc. “He’s got that much extra cash?”

  “Apparently. Never spent a dime of what Judge Lawyer had given him back in the day. He also referred vaguely to a promise he made Pina’s mom. Something about making a new Italian man out of Barney,” said Joe.

  “Well, I’ll be, but he means he’ll make a new, good Italian man out of himself,” said Doc.

  ****

  I liked learning all the details of the case and not having to do the legwork. Actually, Katie and I had already done the legwork: our legs were just fine, thank you.

  Fifi did visit Carney at Sing Sing, wearing a wire taped to his chest. We listened to the recording afterwards. Fifi introduced himself, and alluded to a big friend in jail in Italy, an important man who was very interested in finding Carney.

  Carney said he didn’t give a damn. “Sonnabitch! Whaddya want? Who the blazes are you? Gallo…I don’t know you, stupid wop. Oh…Christ,” Carney said.

  “Yes. You know my name. You know my daughter, and my son. You see, I get curious too, especially when they find someone in that lake in Maine.”

  Fifi explained that when the others had found Butch’s bones in the lake, they thought Fifi had killed Butch. It was a reasonable assumption since Fifi had every reason to dislike Butch after he assaulted Regina. So, Fifi wanted Carney, otherwise Fifi might go to jail for Butch’s murder.

  Fifi said, “Mi dispiace. Sorry you so stupido, Mr. Carney. This Propiziano, he got friends here, in jails too. He’s still furious that he go to jail ‘cause you gave him up. You, the same person who do bad things to his son. Word’s out in many jails that Mr. Propiziano looks for this rat. You see, if you die, Mr. Carney, you cannot confess about the bones. The police still think I kill this Butch.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” said Carney.

  Fifi explained that he knew Carney liked to paint, and that Fifi had friends in high places who could arrange for a person to have a cell in a higher security jail. A cell with windows and yards looking out on trees and water. Jails where Carney’s old name Brown would never surface.

  Carney finally expressed some interest, especially when Fifi said he was about to leave empty-handed and leave Carney to rot in that jail…or he could call the warden for—

  “A little confession…and then, where to find the bones, the parts that go with the hands,” Fifi suggested.

  “Go to the bog to find the body. Have a good time. Who do I talk to?” Carne said.

  “Just speak more loud in the microphone,” said Fifi.

  The tape did the trick. Chuck Carney confessed after Fifi’s fine portrayal of a thug. Judge Lawyer managed to clear the names of all of our loved ones.

  Joe showed us the note Fifi got from the Judge. Carney claimed Butch’s death was an accident at first. That he got cut, grabbed the knife, and cut Butch. They struggled, Butch got stabbed, almost fatally, and Roger, heavily drugged, panicked, killed Butch, and made Billy cut off the corpse’s hands and weigh them down in a tire.

  Chapter Fifty

  SICILIAN DREAMS

  Katie and I just wanted to celebrate. We made Doc buy us some bubbly cider to toast everyone, including, and especially Fifi. Since we would be leaving soon, we asked if we could celebrate in the rec hall, a kind of good-bye. We reconvened back on Katie’s porch after dinner.

  We were packed to go. Doc and Joe carried the cider and lanterns that they would light once we got inside the hall. Katie and I had flashlights that we played up and down as we walked. Somewhere along the way, we shut off the flashlights to view the stars against the crisp, black night

  Once inside, lit by railroad lanterns, we named the shadows that seemed to prance across the walls. Joe and Doc, back here in the rec hall for the first time together since 1939, read their names from the wall and joked that the shadows were figments of their former selves.

  “Here’s to Roger’s confession.” I raised my glass to Katie, Doc, and Joe.

  Our glasses caught the reflection of the dancing flames. We clinked them together in a festive circle and shouted enough “Yeas” to scare away any real spirits.

  “Dad, I know you’re a good man,” said Katie. “But I was afraid.”

  We toasted Doc’s innocence.

  “Maybe now I can stop dreaming,” I said.

  “No,” they all shouted.

  Katie’s look said it all. I felt accepted just as I was.

  Doc and Joe danced a victory dance with us. We all hugged and closed the front doors gently as we exited the hall, probably for the last time.

  As we walked back to Katie’s cabin holding hands, Katie whispered, “You can definitely continue dreaming about weddings.”

  We kissed Joe goodnight before he went off to his room at the main house, and hugged Doc a long time before we crept into Katie’s bed.

  “Kiss me goodnight,” Katie said, and I felt her soft lips on mine.

  I was tired but ecstatic. We had solved the case; Katie and I were going to go to the Academy together; Joe was delightful; Doc was innocent. Yeah, there were things that had to be worked out, but…Katie loved me, and neither one of us was rushing into things we weren’t ready for…yet.

  I shut my eyes and allowed myself to float, an
chored only by the feel of Katie’s arm grazing against mine. I drifted into a dream. The aroma of San Marzano tomatoes wafted in, and I was out to the world.

  ****

  “A tavola, fa presto,” said my father. “C’mon, Giuseppina, sit down at the table quickly!”

  “Daddy, stop yelling. You know I hate it when you call me that. It’s Mommy’s name. It’s so Italian! I’m Pina.”

  I knew I was dreaming, a dream that made sense in a way. This scene had actually happened several times in real life at home.

  In the dream, I was back in eighth grade introduction to Latin, and someone was saying, “When in Rome…”

  Roman monuments flashed by, but my father was saying we were on a bus in Sicily. I saw a gigantic smokestack-like peak that seemed to be half in water, half on a city street. Someone shouted out in an authentic Italian accent, “Monte Pelegrino.”

  I was rocking back and forth, bumping over a bad road. My father, wearing a camel hair sports jacket over his shoulders, hummed “Volare,” and said we’d get off in Giuliana, our village.

  “But, I’m supposed to be at the Academy. Did you kidnap me to stop me from going?”

  “Honey, just enjoy La Dolce Vita. Two weeks visiting your forebears in Giuliana.”

  “Dad, stop joking. I haven’t been anywhere for two weeks. Stop! Stop! Aiuto! Help! Fermi! Stop the bus! Aiuto! Help!”

  “Wake up! What’s going on?” Katie was poking me.

  I sat up in bed.

  “You were shouting Fermi, fermi,” Katie explained. “What’s that mean?”

  “Stop the bus,” I said. “I think the dream was telling me something.”

  “Yeah, that you shouldn’t eat pizza before bed. I’m tired. I’m going back to bed.”

  I heard Katie’s breathing slow back down. I was left tossing and turning. The dream had frightened me. I hadn’t made a choice to turn my back on my parents. I was not turning my back on my parents!