The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  They had been cunning, Harry and Isabel. Meeting on the beach, or after choir practice. Putting notes in each other’s locker at school with times and places. You had to be a crazy teenager to carry on like that, making love in abandoned beach cottages, rowboats, the backseats of cars. Even now he could remember Isabel’s small white breasts, the sounds she made. The thought made his body quicken, and he shifted position.

  He had just about time to get himself a drink. He climbed down from the roof. The deck of the boat was a tangle of towels, discarded clothing, masks and fins. In the shade of the roof overhang, he wiped his face with the tail of his shirt and took a Coke from the cooler. The first deep swallow made the back of his nose prickle. He’d better get back up there before they surfaced. As much of an amateur as the husband was, he was likely to come up under the bow of the boat and get his brains, if he had any, knocked out.

  Why couldn’t Isabel stay gone? Harry didn’t need that complication.

  These days, Harry resented the time he spent taking out dive parties. You always imagined things would be fun. That’s why you did them in the first place. It would be fun to be married. It would be fun to have a boat and run dive trips for a living. It would be so much fun.

  Until you had a couple of daughters who wanted everything they saw on TV and then some, and a wife who didn’t appeal to you the way she used to, and on top of that you realized the business you really were in was kissing the asses of idiots and making sure they didn’t kill themselves.

  On his perch again, Harry studied the coastline. He could barely make out the lighthouse, all but lost in the shimmering brilliance. He squinted, but he couldn’t see the Anders house.

  When Isabel took off, it was in the middle of Harry’s senior year. Afterward he couldn’t study, and he almost didn’t graduate. His parents couldn’t figure out what was the matter with him.

  His daddy had taken him freshwater fishing up the river. The hooks were hardly wet before Harry’s daddy said, “Son, let me ask you something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harry’s daddy’s eyes were fixed on his cork floating out in the current. “Are you sick or something?”

  Harry swallowed. “Naw, sir.”

  “I mean any kind of sick at all. Any kind.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because you ain’t acting too—”

  The cork went under, and Harry’s daddy pulled in a good-sized shellcracker. Harry hoped by the time they got it strung that would be the end of the conversation, but Harry’s daddy came back to the point. “Your mother says you don’t eat. You always used to eat.”

  Harry couldn’t figure out what to say, so again he said, “I’m fine.”

  “If you were in trouble, Harry, I would want to know about it.”

  “I’m not in trouble, Daddy,” Harry said, and the slow water and drifting corks had seemed like messages sent to torment him with what his life used to be.

  He had been a fool, but there was no use dwelling on it. He had graduated, after all, and by the end of that summer he had met Kathy. Kathy was soft, where Isabel was bony; placid, where Isabel was restless; faithful, where Isabel was a betraying bitch.

  Out in the water, heads started to appear. Idiot number one. Idiot number two. The woman. Scooter. Harry climbed down from the roof.

  Helping the woman up the ladder at the stern he said, “Careful when you sit down,” but she paid no attention and whapped hell out of the ledge with her tanks. Without acknowledging Harry at all, she started talking to the two men about her barracuda, which she had found again.

  “Good dive?” Harry said to one of the men, the one that wasn’t the husband.

  “Super,” the man said. In a louder tone, so the woman would be sure to hear, he said, “Betsy met up with her twin sister down there.”

  The woman— Betsy, it must be— threw one of her diving booties at him, and a look passed between them that told Harry all he needed to know about what was going on in that trio. “Everything all right?” he said to Scooter, the deckhand. Scooter nodded, unzipping his wetsuit.

  Harry didn’t like this woman. She treated him like the waiter in some restaurant where she was eating. Wondering if he could shake her up, he said, “You talk about barracuda. Not long ago, a fisherman over at Westpoint caught a shark. Know what they found in its stomach? Part of a guy’s arm.”

  The woman wrinkled her nose. “Ugh,” she said, but Harry could tell she wasn’t especially impressed. She probably ate men for breakfast herself.

  “Do they know whose arm?” the husband asked.

  “They reckon it belonged to a Marine Patrolman who went missing.”

  The woman wasn’t even listening anymore. “Gross,” said the guy. Stupid comment.

  Harry stripped off his shirt and went into the small forward cabin to retrieve his wetsuit. To Scooter, who had followed him to the door, he said, “I’m going down for a few minutes, cool off.”

  “I told you everything was all right, Harry.” Scooter looked at Harry with edgy defiance.

  “I believe you. I’m going down to cool off. Let them have a drink and comb their hair.” Harry zipped his wetsuit and moved past Scooter to get his tanks.

  When he was ready, he somersaulted backward off the side of the boat and felt the water close over him. His world was a cool, shadowy, infinite blue. His breath was loud and harsh in his ears.

  Isabel had come here to see about Miss Merriam. She wouldn’t stay long. She might be packing up now. She might be gone by this afternoon. The thought sent a tremor through Harry Mercer’s gut.

  5

  Isabel slept late the next morning. She was getting used to the sound of the palms, the scraping of the undergrowth against the back wall, the animal scrabblings that filled the night. She was still at the breakfast table when the telephone rang. It was Eve Davenant.

  “I owe you an apology,” Eve said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” Eve rushed on: “You see, it hadn’t occurred to me that you’ve been out of touch with St. Elmo, and you probably hadn’t heard about Clem, and—”

  She broke off. Isabel waited.

  “I’m lying, damn it,” Eve said. “I used you as a guinea pig. I wanted to see if we could get through a normal evening with somebody who didn’t know. It was close, but the answer was still negative.”

  Isabel sat down on the sofa, wishing she had brought her coffee with her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m calling to explain.” She hesitated. “A year ago, there was a— the only word for it is tragedy. Clem and his son, Edward, were scuba diving in the bay. There was a freak accident, and Edward drowned. Twelve years old. Clem went to pieces. We all did.”

  This explained a lot about Clem Davenant. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was in no way Clem’s fault, but he blamed himself,” Eve went on. “So did Andrea, his wife. She left him three months later, filed for divorce. So you see” —her voice wavered— “you see why Clem acts strange sometimes.”

  Isabel was dismayed. “Oh God. And there I was, talking about The Children from the Sea.”

  “Look. In the first place you didn’t know, and it was my fault for not telling you. In the second place, Clem has to get used to it. He can’t be protected all his life from people talking about drowning or accidents at sea.”

  “I guess not, but still—”

  “I really think it would’ve been all right, except lately there’s been a lot of talk about things like that.”

  Isabel’s breakfast toast seemed to have congealed beneath her breastbone. “What happened?”

  “A young Marine Patrolman from Westpoint named Darryl Kelly took a boat out early one morning and didn’t come back. A few days later, a fisherman caught a shark, and part of Kelly’s arm was found inside it. Everybody has been buzzing. I know it bothered Clem.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Two weeks ago, maybe? I guess t
hey’re continuing to investigate, but the excitement has died down.”

  It occurred to Isabel that Merriam’s accident had happened two weeks ago. It had been an unfortunate time for both her and Darryl Kelly.

  “So anyway, please forgive me. I hope you’ll come see us again.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Good. I’ll call you.”

  The coffee was cold. Although Isabel liked Eve, the phone call had left her feeling dyspeptic. Clem Davenant’s melancholy face hovered in her mind. Listlessly, motivated by a need to give the morning a purpose, she took out her portfolio and spread the sketches for The Children from the Sea on the dining table.

  She had done these sketches at least a year ago. She had labored hard and, as well as she remembered, enthusiastically. Now, she decided, she didn’t like them much. She studied each drawing. They were pretty enough, but remote, unrelated to the emotional impact of the story. After a while, she hunched over the table and buried her hands in her hair.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  A sharp-faced, grubby-looking little girl was standing on the step. The child had lank yellow hair and wore red shorts and a yellow T-shirt. Her legs were dust-streaked from her knobby knees to her sandaled feet. She was, it took Isabel a couple of seconds to realize, the early-morning baton twirler she had seen on the beach singing “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.”

  The girl regarded Isabel with suspicion. “Where’s Miss Merriam?”

  “She’s— sick. She’s in the hospital.”

  The girl nodded impatiently. “I knew that.” She pointed at the Ford parked beside the trailer. “That’s her car. I saw it go by yesterday. I thought she came back.”

  “That was me. I was driving her car.”

  “Did she say you could?”

  Who in the hell was this child? “Yes, she did,” Isabel lied firmly.

  The girl peered past Isabel into the trailer. “Miss Merriam gives me a banana. With peanut butter.”

  “I don’t have any peanut butter.”

  “Just a banana, then.” Showing no doubt of her welcome, she walked in.

  Isabel closed the door behind her. She didn’t know many children. She wondered if they were always this pushy. She detached a banana from a bunch on the counter and handed it to the girl, who had noticed Isabel’s sketches scattered on the table. “What’s your name?” Isabel asked.

  “Kimmie Dee Burke.” Still studying the sketches, Kimmie Dee Burke peeled the banana and took a bite. “Who drew these?” she asked through the mushy mouthful.

  “I did.”

  “Really?” Kimmie Dee bent closer.

  Unable to stand it, Isabel asked, “Do you like them?”

  Kimmie Dee shrugged, took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “I can draw,” she announced.

  Kimmie Dee Burke could easily get on a person’s nerves. “Can you?” Isabel said.

  “Yes. I’ll show you.”

  Kimmie Dee went to an end table in the living room, pulled out a drawer, and there, sure enough, was a collection of crayon drawings on newsprint. A house and an apple tree. A horse, or possibly a dog. Isabel saw no evidence of outstanding talent, but to be nice she said, “Very good.”

  Kimmie Dee nodded. “I did those for Miss Merriam.”

  Isabel noted with some bewilderment that Kimmie Dee Burke seemed to adore Merriam. Perhaps Merriam never made Kimmie Dee sweep the back porch before she could have dinner or lectured her for half an hour about there being no excuse for carelessness.

  Kimmie Dee wandered around as if checking the trailer to make sure Isabel hadn’t done any damage. “When is Miss Merriam coming back?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” The answer sounded too stark. Isabel added, “She isn’t feeling very well.”

  Kimmie Dee’s shoulders drooped. She studied the framed portrait of John James, touched the blue-and-white porcelain bottle with a careful fingertip. “Well, guess I better go,” she said.

  Without protesting, Isabel ushered her out.

  Kimmie Dee was outside on the dirt path, Isabel in the doorway seeing her off, when the girl said, “You never told your name.”

  “My name? Isabel.”

  The child’s face contorted with shock.

  Isabel stepped outside. “What’s wrong?”

  Kimmie Dee didn’t speak.

  Isabel said, “I’m Merriam’s niece. I lived with her years ago. Did she ever talk about me?” Maybe Merriam had said that her niece, Isabel, was some sort of monster.

  At last, Kimmie Dee said, “She called me that.”

  Insects were buzzing. The palms rattled in a gust of warm wind. “Merriam called you Isabel?”

  “Yes.” The girl took a backward step. “I got to go.”

  “Kimmie Dee—”

  But Kimmie Dee Burke was running up the drive, leaving motes of dust whirling in the sunlight behind her.

  6

  After Kimmie Dee Burke’s visit, Isabel’s concentration was shot. She wanted to know why Merriam had called Kimmie Dee Isabel. She wanted to know how Kimmie Dee could have been so fond of Merriam.

  Merriam had been in her fifties, a solitary local eccentric, when nine-year-old Isabel came to live with her at Cape St. Elmo. Merriam and her brother, Johnny, Isabel’s father, had been estranged for years. When Isabel became Merriam’s responsibility, Merriam’s primary concern had been making sure Isabel did not become an irresponsible ne’er-do-well— in other words, making sure Isabel didn’t take after her father. Isabel’s mother, Johnny’s third wife, had been generally beneath mention as far as Merriam was concerned.

  So Merriam had cracked the whip, and Isabel labored; Merriam lay down the law, and Isabel obeyed; Merriam lectured, and Isabel learned. Until Isabel, inevitably, rebelled and did everything Merriam had tried to prevent her from doing and then some.

  Isabel leaned against the sink, gazing across the weeds at the house. It was a hell of a scene, like something out of a horror movie. What a strange man John James Anders must have been to build that ambitious structure, with its deep porches and elaborate gingerbread trim, in such an inhospitable spot. Now that Isabel thought of it, the gesture smacked of recklessness, even arrogance. According to Merriam’s history lessons, John James had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to do it: “He came here with nothing but the shirt on his back, and first thing you know he had a sawmill and a turpentine business and decided to build himself a house. There weren’t even any roads around here to speak of. Every stick of this place had to come in by steamer. Every stick.”

  It was a pity that Merriam had let the place fall to pieces after working so hard to keep it up. Merriam had cut dead fronds from the palms, chopped palmettos out by the roots, painted the front porch—.

  The gasoline can was gone.

  A red gasoline can had been sitting on the front steps. It was gone.

  Isabel put on her sneakers and stepped out into the blazing forenoon. The house seemed to hover, almost to lean toward her. She walked along the dirt track to the palm-shaded drive. She should have worn a hat. Merriam’s sun hat was hanging on a peg by the door and she should have taken it. The sun was dazzling.

  Isabel stood at the front steps. A circle of rust showed where the gasoline can had been. She looked around. The can was not on the porch. It was not in the palmetto thickets encroaching on the steps. Somebody had moved it. Somebody had been here without Isabel’s knowledge. She would ask Clem Davenant if anyone else had a reason to come to the house.

  The air was motionless, the only sound the hum of dirt daubers at their mud-colored nests under the porch roof. Isabel gazed at the boarded-up front door. She could go in, see what was left. She pictured the wide hall and the staircase, the front parlor with its marble mantelpiece. The door was nailed shut. She imagined her younger self inside, trapped.

  She wasn’t going in. She had no reason to go in. She turned away.

  That afternoon, Merriam was awake. She sat on the side of her hospi
tal bed, a flowered hospital gown voluminous around her shrunken body. Her eyes were fixed on a point beyond Isabel’s shoulder, and from time to time her mouth worked soundlessly. “She’s better today,” said Dr. McIntosh. “If she keeps up this way, we can move her to Bernice Chatham’s.”

  “I guess so.” Isabel’s heart was laboring. The reunion was worse than she had anticipated. The pink carnations she had brought lay on the bedside table in their cellophane wrapping.

  When Dr. McIntosh stepped out of the room, Isabel took Merriam’s hand. The skin was mottled and rough. Isabel said, “Merriam? Merriam, it’s Isabel.”

  Merriam’s body stiffened. Her hand closed on Isabel’s like a vise. “Don’t do it,” she said. She rounded on Isabel. “Don’t do it! Don’t do it!”

  Isabel tried to pull away, but Merriam was flailing, clutching at Isabel’s sleeve, at Isabel’s hair. Isabel struggled silently, unable to escape the thought that Merriam was trying to destroy her. Merriam’s screams rose into an agonized, wordless howl.

  In seconds, Dr. McIntosh was back, and a nurse had rushed in with a hypodermic. Isabel extricated herself and Merriam was subdued, her cries becoming more languid, modulating to dreary moans.

  Isabel left the room, weak with relief at her escape. She talked with Dr. McIntosh on the hospital porch, where empty cane-backed rocking chairs sat in an even row. “You can see it’s a difficult situation,” the doctor said. “The slightest thing agitates her. She has medication all right, but it takes time to adjust the dosages.”

  Merriam’s fingernails had raked Isabel’s neck and left a stinging scratch. She touched it gingerly.

  “The skin is barely broken,” Dr. McIntosh said. “Clean it with hydrogen peroxide and put antibiotic ointment on it. It’ll be all right.”

  The drive back to the Cape was sweltering. Isabel’s thoughts kept returning to the scene with Merriam. She must have done something wrong. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken Merriam’s hand.