Mangrove Bayou

by Stephen Morrill

  Troy added that to the file but didn’t know exactly what he could make of it. One thing he did notice was that the dates were all at the same time each month, always the third Thursday night. Troy smelled a monthly out-of-town trip for John Barrymore. Katie Barrymore had mentioned the monthly board meetings. It looked as if every time John Barrymore went to Atlanta his young wife went to Marco Island.

  The intercom buzzed. “State attorney’s office,” June said.

  Troy picked up his phone. “Troy Adam. What can I do for you?”

  “Jack DeGrasse, I’m the twentieth judicial district state attorney,” a deep and manly voice said. “Calling about the Barrymore accident.”

  “Lee and Collier counties.”

  “Well, yes. That would be my territory.”

  “Glad to meet you. And what can I do for you?”

  “I hear that you are still investigating John Barrymore’s death as if it were a homicide.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, the medical examiner ruled it an accidental death.”

  “I know that.”

  “So why are you harassing people over this?”

  “I had heard that you were a hard-ass yourself,” Troy said. “That you liked to push for the maximum sentences.”

  “Sure I do. If there’s a case. There’s no crime here.”

  “Well, that’s the M.E.’s opinion. I disagree. I’m still looking into it.”

  “Yeah. Right. ‘Looking into it.’ On the one side a well-respected county medical examiner with years of experience. Then there’s you, a newbie parking-ticket-writer in a town named for a swamp.”

  “Ah, you must have seen my business cards.”

  “Don’t get cute with me,” DeGrasse said. “It looks very much as if you’re just trying to make some headlines for yourself here. Typical small-town yahoo cop who has hold of something he can’t handle.”

  “Been thinking of getting myself some yellow sunglasses and one of those eight-point police hats like Rod Steiger wore in the movie.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You remember. In the Heat of the Night with Sidney Poitier. ‘They call me Mr. Tibbs.’”

  “You may be the dumbest police chief I’ve ever talked to.”

  “Maybe I should go with the Smokey Bear campaign hat? Those are cool.”

  “Never mind the damn hats. Just stop this pointless investigation and stop annoying important people. Including me.”

  “Funny, I would not have thought a laundromat worker from Goodland would be considered an important person. But, then, she does have four million dollars now. When did Katie Barrymore call you?”

  “She didn’t. She didn’t have to. She knows Judge Hans Stider. He works in Naples but lives in Mangrove Bayou. He called me. I checked it out and read the M.E. report. The guy, Barrymore, climbed down into salt water and dropped a live electric drill and electrocuted himself. Died of stupidity. Case closed. Move on. Write some more parking tickets or something.”

  “So how did he hold the drill?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “John Barrymore’s fingerprints weren’t on the drill or on the plug.”

  There was a long pause. “Gloves?” DeGrasse asked.

  “No gloves. Wasn’t even his drill. And nobody uses 120-volt shore power tools on boats. They all have battery-powered ones.”

  Another pause. “Shit!” DeGrasse said.

  “Think I’ll just mosey along, you know, looking into things. Between parking tickets, that is.”

  “I think that sounds like a good idea. I did come on a little strong back there. Hope I didn’t upset you too much.”

  “I peed my pants. But they’re washable. It’s all right.”

  “I bet. Last guy down there was Bob Redmond. He was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. You seem a little…different.”

  “I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting him. From what I hear I’ve not missed anything. Tell me more about this Judge Stider. What’s his interest in Katie Barrymore?”

  “Sex most likely. We call him ‘Stider the Slider’ because he’s a defense attorney’s dream. There’s no defense motion to delay that is too whifty for Stider to grant, not because he thinks the defense needs more time but because Stider’s too lazy to actually do his job.”

  “Katie Barrymore seems to be able to screw people faster than I can persuade them to get out of my way,” Troy said. “You sure you and she didn’t…?”

  “No. We didn’t. Can’t say about Stider, but he has some invisible wife and certainly plays around up here in Naples and Fort Myers.”

  “Well, look on the bright side,” Troy said. “Katie Barrymore won’t be making any campaign contributions, but you might get the glory of sending her away. High-profile case.”

  “Take what I can get. Try not to screw this up or you’ll be the next person I come after. Keep me informed. Closely. That’s an order.”

  “Yes sir. You betcha.”

  DeGrasse rang off. Troy hung up. “Cold day in hell,” he said aloud. “I bet good old Katie will know about the fingerprint thing within the hour.” He walked up to the lobby to donate several dollars to the jar. He was standing there chatting with June when the connecting door to the town hall part of the building opened and Cilla Dowling walked in. She was dressed now in a tight gray shirt with straining buttons, and some good gray slacks that showed off her butt to advantage.

  “Glad to see you, Chief,” Dowling said. “And you, too, June.”

  “Always a pleasure to see you and the twins,” Troy said. “Here on business or just couldn’t stay away from me?”

  “What makes you assume I don’t just have the hots for June, here?”

  “Didn’t think of that.” He looked at June. “Think she has the hots for you?”

  June snorted. “She doesn’t have the hots for anyone. She just uses her body to get information out of immature men who can’t think with anything but their dicks.”

  “That’s a dollar, June.” He turned to Dowling. “I told you about the Bad Words Jar.”

  “That’s a body part, not a swear word,” June said. “Hell, it’s even a name.”

  “Two dollars now.” He turned back to Dowling. “Come back to my office. You can use your body there.”

  Troy sat, Dowling sat. He turned to look out his west windows. Nothing happening at the boat ramp. He looked back at Dowling. “So, what’s on your mind?”

  “What happened to the Mex fruit pickers?”

  “Kept them here most of the day and then cut them loose. They had an old truck. Working in Immokalee. They had only come here to visit the beach and get drunk. That’s sort of the business Mangrove Bayou is in, after all.”

  “I guess it is, usually with a higher class of clientele. Now, I hear the M.E. declared Barrymore a suicide.”

  “You know perfectly well she ruled it accidental. You’re just trying to lead me on.”

  “Usually works on immature men who can’t think with anything but their dicks. Want me to undo a top button?”

  “No. Could be an explosion. I’m still looking into Barrymore’s death. You will be the first to know when I make up my mind.”

  “And that will be when?”

  “When I make up my mind. Can we go deep background for a moment here? I want to pick your brain but don’t want newsprint yet.”

  “We don’t have newsprint any more. I can keep a secret. Deal.”

  “Good. What do you know about a Judge Hans Stider, lives here in town?”

  “Ah, interesting guy. They call him Stider…”

  “…the Slider,” Troy finished. “Got that already. What else?”

  “Got a wife who is a quivering rabbit the few times I’ve seen her. And never see her alone, only with him. He keeps her at home like a pet hamster. Son is in law school and dad has had to buy him out of trouble a few times.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Assault. Suspected rape. R
apes, plural. Boy’s a slow learner. Why the interest in Judge Stider?”

  “He’s sniffing around the Barrymore case. Asked Jack DeGrasse to call me and order me to stop investigating.”

  “Did you promise DeGrasse that you would stop? He can be pretty intimidating.”

  “No. But I did admit that he had made me pee my pants.”

  “Sorry I missed that one. So you’re now in DeGrasse’s crosshairs? That’s not a good place to be. He never forgets a grudge.”

  “Apparently I’m now on probation with him too. If I prove Barrymore was murdered and deliver a good suspect, DeGrasse is happy. If I fail, he comes after me.”

  “Pressure is on.”

  “Not really,” Troy said. “I’m good with that arrangement. But the Stider thing sort of threw me.”

  “What the hell does Stider care about what you do about John Barrymore?” Dowling asked.

  “That’s a dollar. I think Stider is just getting the lay of the land.”

  Dowling sat back and thought. Her face brightened. “You mean Katie Barrymore, don’t you?”

  “The same. She can hop beds faster than I can brush my teeth.” Troy didn’t mention Max Reed; he wasn’t sure just how far he could trust Cilla Dowling.

  “Good test for our new police chief,” Dowling said. “I’ll be interested in seeing how this all turns out. Sizzling sex and gruesome murder, all here in our little town. As a journalist I have to love it.”

  “Well, I don’t know if the sex is sizzling. Don’t exaggerate.”

  “She comes on to you, you could have the chance to sizzle a bit too,” Dowling said. “I’ll be watching.”

  “I never function that well with an audience. We got any other business right now? Or can I do important chief things?”

  “Out of here. See you tonight at the Hail and Farewell at the yacht club.”

  “Oh yes. Can’t wait. On your way out, you owe the jar a dollar.”

  After Cilla Dowling left, Troy called June in.

  “I need to talk to a woman who flies people up to Atlanta, out of our airport here, as some kind of service,” he said. “But there’s no airport office. You know who that might be?”

  June shook her head. “Why don’t you go over there and ask someone standing around.”

  “That might be what trained and experienced criminologists call police work. I’d almost forgotten how to do that. Thanks for reminding me.”

  The airport was devoid of anyone standing around and the hangar was locked. He wondered about the redhead with the Corvette. Troy cruised by the Barrymore manse and got out and walked around the construction site to look at the yard. The foreman and his helpers had gone home and the garage door was down and locked. Troy found no bicycle and no tracks from one.

  He went back to his car and got out a blue sport jacket and a tie. He kept those on a hanger behind the driver’s seat. He took off his holster and gun, laid those on the driver’s seat, stuffed the shirttail of his fishing shirt into his pants, put the holster back inside the waistband at his right hip, tied the tie and put on the sport coat. He thought the tie looked stupid on a fishing shirt but the jacket covered most of it. He put the car in gear and drove the half-mile to the Osprey Yacht Club.

  Chapter 25

  Friday, July 26

  The yacht club was bustling at ten minutes to six when Troy drove into the parking lot. Out on the docks he could see people hurrying to tie down boats in advance of the storm. Troy was still hoping the storm would go someplace else, but the town had a good evacuation plan that he had read and that they could put into effect on one day’s notice. He parked his Subaru between a Mercedes and a Beamer and walked to the heavy wood double front door. The doors each had large frosted-glass panels with acid-etched osprey depicted, one on a nest, one flying with a fish in one claw. Troy stopped to admire the glass. It looked like good work.

  Inside Troy found a teenage girl, blonde, tanned, brown eyes matching the tan, wearing white slacks and a starched white short-sleeved shirt with some sort of gold-trimmed epaulettes and a yacht club crest on the pocket. She sat behind a small desk at the rear of the lobby. The lobby was really just a small room with a front door to the outside and a rear heavy wood double door, this one solid and to the girl’s right as she faced the front door. There were assorted paintings of sailboats and power yachts scattered around the walls. They looked about as bad as those things usually looked.

  Apparently, the girl had been sitting there staring at the front door, her hands folded on the desk in front of her. The desk was bare but for a white telephone to one side. Her automatic smile that had turned on when the front door opened faded as she looked up at Troy. “May I help you?” she asked. She clearly thought it unlikely.

  “Here for the monthly Hail and Farewell,” Troy said.

  She frowned, two vertical lines appeared at the bridge of her nose. “Sir, the club is private and events are for members only.” She pushed a small button mounted beside the telephone.

  “That’s all right,” Troy said. “I am not particular.”

  Two young men, both blond, tanned and wearing similar uniforms to hers, came through the rear door. They probably helped dock boats and run errands and they looked like they could whip Troy soundly on a squash court.

  “What’s up?” one asked the girl.

  “This gentleman is leaving,” the girl said, refolding her hands on the desk.

  Troy pulled out his badge. “Chief Adam, director of public safety.” All three stared at the badge. “And honorary member of the Osprey Yacht Club. You have a Hail and Farewell event in a few minutes. I’m invited. I suggest you call someone who has actual paperwork on his or her desk.”

  A few minutes later Troy was meeting the members and getting himself a glass of ice tea at the bar. George Trapper, the club manager, had brought him in.

  “So sorry, once more, for the scene out front,” Trapper said. “Especially considering how helpful you’ve been with…” he looked around and lowered his voice, “…the John Barrymore problem.”

  “Efficient.” Troy said. “Been thrown out of a lot of places. Never so quick, though. Or by children.”

  “Um. Well, sorry again. Why don’t you wear your badge, just so people know who you are?”

  “Never thought of that. What an excellent idea.” Troy looked around the room. “Odd, though. I don’t see anyone else wearing a badge so I can tell who they are.”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. There’s not a black professional in the country who hasn’t been mistaken for a car-park valet or a waiter in a snooty club. I’ll wear the badge. Otherwise, people will be asking me to bring them drinks and step and fetch the hors d’oeuvre. If I take off the police tape and release Wayward from my custody, can someone here look after it? I don’t think Kathleen Barrymore knows from boats and hurricanes.”

  “Of course. We have the dock personnel take care of any members’ boats if the members are out of town. Con Lohen will handle that.”

  Trapper wandered off to tend to club business. Troy pinned his badge to his jacket pocket and then leaned back with his elbows on the bar behind him, looking at the room, occasionally sipping his ice tea. He was not exactly swarmed by welcoming club members. In fact a half-circle of silence extended from his elbows on the bar out for several yards. Once he faintly heard someone say, “Goddamn Indian!” He smiled. Maybe he should tell people he was Tonto. But, no, that wouldn’t help here; Tonto was probably a Democrat.

  There were about a hundred people inside the large meeting room, which had some tables pushed out of the way so people could mingle. Troy thought it looked like a gathering of the Republican National Committee. The mayor was there. He saw Councilman Principal Dr. Howard Parkland Duell, sporty as always in his black suit and funereal expression. He spotted Cilla Dowling working the room, wielding butt and décolletage like precise tools.

  He wondered if Wanda Frister was working tonigh
t. She would be out in the dining room, not here. Maybe she was at home staring, terrified, at her ringing phone. Milo Binder had reported back on his visit to Wanda’s trailer but he had not had much to add. Troy hadn’t expected much. Troy had called the state attorney’s office in Naples to see if he could arrange a restraining order on William “Billy” Poteet, but with no better evidence, there wasn’t a hope of it.

  It was obvious why Katie Barrymore hadn’t come out to confront him when he had been walking around her house. She had been here. She was drinking, more bourbon, Troy guessed from the glass and color, and wearing a black evening dress that started at her breasts and ended at the south end of her buttocks. She was wearing fine black pantyhose. She was talking to three older men who were looking at her the way honeybees look at a magnolia. Troy saw her laugh once and she kept a hand on one man or another’s forearm. He had known a Venezuelan woman once who did that, unconsciously touching, rubbing, invading his personal space. It had been very seductive behavior. Troy took a sip of iced tea and watched, and smiled at old memories.

  The commodore of the Osprey Yacht Club got up on a podium and talked into a handheld microphone. He wasn’t any good with it—in Troy’s experience hardly anyone was—so his speech alternated between an electronic screech, to a word or two Troy could understand, to the commodore talking but the mike too far from his lips to pick up the sound. The new members were introduced by their sponsors. Each then took the mike to say a few words about where they were from and what sort of boats they owned if they, in fact, owned boats. Polite handclapping followed each member’s introduction. Honorary members came last, it seemed, but soon it was Troy’s turn and Lester Groud made the introduction as Troy’s sponsor.

  “Troy Adam. Adam with no s,” Troy said. Some of the faces looking at him bore startled expressions at his skin tone. “I’m your new director of public safety. I have the easiest phone number to remember of anyone here. Nine-one-one.” There was a small laugh from the crowd. “Call that if you need protection or service. I’m a sailor too, big boats and small. I once owned a stinkpot but then I got culture.” There was a groan from some of the crowd, cheers from others, and one shouted comment about rag-men.