Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3)

by Thomas Hollyday

  “He went on, ‘Regarding the boat, we have performed all necessary standards tests in the handbook and have determined the boat correct in every detail for the Super Sport class. However, in view of the interest in this boat, we have decided to have Walker drive it one lap, by himself, for us tomorrow.’”

  “Homer frowned. He didn’t like that but he kept his mouth shut.”

  As Walker stretched his arms and pushed his long legs against the bed sheets, Harry heard a sound outside the hospital door, a noise of several people running in the hallway, or fists hitting against the hospital walls and doors.

  The sheriff stood up, his face suddenly very serious. He drew his revolver and moved around the bed quickly to stand by the door. He called out to his deputy who was outside the closed door, “What’s going on?”

  Harry could hear men yelling, the sounds muffled through the wall. He stood and went moved next to the sheriff.

  ”I’m going out there,” said Harry.

  “You stay put, newspaperman,” said Good, and opened the door a crack to investigate. Harry could see two State police, one of them the toothless policeman Harry had seen on the boat in the swamp. They were trying to hold back several white men who were slapping at the officers with the wooden handles of cardboard signs.

  “What’s going on?” yelled the big man, moving into the hall. Harry came behind him.

  One of the intruders, his face and shirt wet with his sweat in the heat, yelled back, “We want Walker.”

  “Ain’t no Yankee lawyers going to get him off neither,” said another of the men, dressed in tee shirt and jeans, a large blue tattoo of a crucifix on his left arm.

  “One side,” said a strong voice behind Harry. He was pushed to the wall as five State policemen, coming from the other end of the corridor, rushed by him and the sheriff.

  “Too many,” the first intruder turned his head and hollered to his associates.

  “Stinks in here,” said the one in the tee shirt.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” yelled another.

  “More help is coming,” shouted a red faced man who had been using the broken wood pole of a cardboard sign to fend off the officers. He fell back, pushed by the police and became silent. The men stopped using their fists, and moved back with curses. The officers continued until the men had retreated, and Harry could hear one of the attackers still cursing Walker while being shoved back down the stairway.

  He said, “Damn you back to Hell, Walker, and we’ll be back to get it done.” The rest of his words were cut off as the corridor exit door was closed behind him by the State Police.

  Chapter 21

  Friday August 6, 2 pm

  The attempted break in by the men caused the sheriff to be more nervous. He was redder in the face and seemed to move more quickly as he went back to the room and prodded the old man to hurry up. Charleston, an inveterate lawyer, was calm and looked over at Harry with the start of a smile. Harry recognized the expression, one he had seen often when the two of them were playing poker.

  “No reason to hurry, Cheeks,” Charleston said. He was bluffing now, pushing for more time, trying to keep the sheriff off balance. “Let Walker say it like he wants. We all got time.”

  “Maybe you,” said the sheriff. “Me, I want to get this man in jail soon’s I can for killing them women.”

  Walker, sitting back on his bed, saw Harry’s worried face and said, “I heard them. I’ve seen it before, living around here. Back during that summer of 1968, some of the local people had carried signs, standing in front of the courthouse, their mottoes in red paint complaining about students who had come from up north to meddle in River Sunday affairs.

  His voice slowed, “Some of those same kind of people you saw out in that hallway, they came up the main street of River Sunday with their dogs. Couple of the students were hurt pretty bad.

  “To working people like me,” the old man went on, “Civil rights wasn’t a big issue. I was upset about my friend being hurt at the General Store fire, but I figured it was an accident. I didn’t really think that the fire had been set like people said. I guess I didn’t want to think that had happened. In those days anyway, the main thing in my life was to get my boat out on the water and win my race.

  “I also didn’t count on local folks stepping up and sponsoring me like they did Homer. My sponsor was myself, Walker John’s Boat Shop, my own place. The bank was talking about sponsoring me, but I guess I wasn’t around long enough to hear much from them. Homer got me that jacket that he had paid for it himself.

  “Anyway, Black Duck had to be certified in a special lap so I could get her racing papers. The crowd had been growing to see me and the other racers taking practice runs all day. When I came along, I’m sure some in the audience were wishing that I would fail. At the same time all my friends were there and cheering wildly for me. I could hear them when I idled the boat.

  “At the front of the course in what could be called a committee boat were the members of the race committee who would judge the seaworthiness of the racer. As I already said, they had gone over the safety features and the other measurements of the boat. With their gauges and know-how they had gone down the rulebook step by step measuring and asking questions until they were satisfied the Black Duck certified honest.

  “Some of the crowd was getting ugly though. The sheriff had been around two times already looking for troublemakers and trying to get them out of the crowd. Even if he’d wanted to patrol everywhere, the big problem with the crowd was that they were sitting all and up down the harbor along the shoreline. People on top of some of the buildings could yell and taunt and another group a few blocks away could do the same. The sheriff couldn’t cover all the bases, so to speak.

  “On top of that, the tourists came into River Sunday to see the races. Some of them, sensing the situation I was in, were trying to help me but all they did was aggravate a group of the locals and their cheers caused an ongoing challenge of catcalls. Then again, some of the onlookers may have been outsiders who came because they didn’t like what I was all about.

  “The press, in those days, mostly from Baltimore and Philadelphia, had taken up special locations. One camera was even set out with a team of men on the monument. None of them were out to watch me however. They were practicing, sighting in their cameras for the coverage on the race days. I had interest from an unexpected source. A black newspaperman from Baltimore came to River Sunday and was taking photographs of my boat. The sheriff had talked to him, and he also interviewed Pastor Allingham. The reporter seemed to be more interested in whether I voted than whether I was racing.

  “‘I just want to race,’ I told him. ‘I don’t care about the racial issues.’

  “‘I just don’t understand why you don’t care,’ the reporter said. ‘Don’t you understand that you are a racial issue.’ He was pretty upset but I must say, I didn’t feel like I was a racial issue. I was a race driver.

  “Other reporters interviewed me. One was the editor of a hot rod boat magazine I loved. I felt honored about being included. He asked me about the measurements of my engine and its propeller and took pictures inside the boat of the installation.

  “Finally I started my run. Black Duck was running the regular course that the other boats had been running all week in tryouts. During the practice runs the harbor had been closed to any activity. Generally everyone knew to stay off the harbor course in the afternoon during race week. Even the supply boats and the tourist cruise boats would not arrive or depart anywhere near the marked out racetrack oval.

  “Little did I know at the time, from the far shore, part of a small tree trunk was drifting on the course. I didn’t know it was there. I was working hard, driving the boat. I found out later that the crowd began pointing at the object. If it stayed on its projected trajectory, it would float directly into the Black Duck just as she was coming to the end of a straight run traveling at speeds well over one hundred miles per hour.

  “The commi
ttee tried to flag me. I was concentrating on my driving. Just as the log got off my bow, maybe twenty feet ahead, I saw the flag, looked around quick and spotted the tree trunk. I cut to port and narrowly missed the log. When I pulled the boat into the dock, I was shaking and it wasn’t from the vibration of that big Ford engine on the back of my racer.

  “‘That was close,’ I said to Homer, who was waiting for me at the pier.

  “The committee boat had ordered the tree stump brought in too. When it arrived it was set on the dock. The common thought was that this piece of wood had come up from the bottom where it had sunk since the last big storm had knocked down a great number of trees.

  “‘That would have taken out Black Duck all right,’ said Homer.

  “‘It would have taken me out too,’ I said, still shaking.

  “The tree trunk was about twelve inches in diameter and the roots stuck out to more than four feet on all sides.

  “‘That is an ugly piece of wood,’ said the reporter from the black press.

  “‘Look at this,’ he continued. The top of the stump was ragged where the rest of the tree had broken off but a section was smooth. He pointed to that area and said, ‘See how sharp those edges of tree wood are?’

  “‘Yeah,’ Homer agreed.

  “‘That means it was not in the water that long,’ said the reporter. ‘This tree just came down today,’ he said, looking at me.

  “‘We haven’t had any storms, no wind,’ I said.

  “‘That’s right,’ said Homer.

  “The sheriff came up to us, pushing his way through the crowd that had gathered on the pier. ‘This what caused all the trouble?’ he asked, looking at the tree stump.

  “‘Take a look,’ Homer said, pointing out the marks of the ax.

  “The sheriff knew right away what had happened. ‘More mischief,’ he said.

  “‘You ought to arrest someone for attempted murder,’ said the reporter.

  “The sheriff walked off, saying he’d get a man to go over to the far shoreline and look around for evidence.

  “Well,” continued Walker, “I guess the fire that night kind of changed the goals for the town police force. Nobody was interested in looking for who cut that tree. I figure whoever did that also chopped enough stumps all around other places in the harbor too. Enough to make sure the law had no way to trace any evidence.

  “More important to me, the committee gave me a license to run her in the Saturday heats. That was all I cared about.”

  Annie opened the door to the room. She signaled Harry. Out in the corridor she pulled his arm to lead him down the hall out of earshot of the guards.

  “You wouldn’t believe where I have just been, Harry,” she said, her eyes bright.

  “Where?”

  “I found the missing boat,” she said.

  He pulled her over to some metal seats along the wall and sat down with her. He looked back at the police to make sure they did not hear. She was staring at the window in the distance where the noises from outside rose and fell in pitch. He looked back at Annie.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  Annie said, “I had just left you and returned to the newspaper office. I had my hand on the door knob of the screen door and was just about to enter, when I heard a voice behind me. I immediately thought one of the drivers had followed me to say more on his interview, you know, get more promotion for his boat and team like they all do. I turned around and had to look down because it was WeeJay, the little black boy who’s always around the pier.”

  She went on, “Harry, he stood there looking up at me and holding the handlebars of his bike. I smiled at him but I tell you I wasn’t sure whether he was going to say anything or just run away. It was that way for a moment or two just the two of us and quiet, with the cars going by.”

  “Finally, he said, ‘Miss Annie.’”

  “‘What can I do for you, WeeJay?’ I said.”

  “‘I got something to show you,’ he said. You know how gruff his voice is. A person thinks she is talking to a little man.”

  “‘Can it wait, honey?’ I replied. ‘I got so much to do right now.’”

  “‘No, Ma’am, it can’t wait. It’s about my Uncle Walker and those people are going to kill him,’ he said.”

  “I said, ‘Well, nobody’s going to kill anyone. You better come on in out of the sun and we’ll talk about what you got to say.’”

  “He hung back a minute, Harry, and he said, ‘I just want you to come with me.’”

  “Something in his face made me think that I better go with him,” she said. “You know how you get a feeling about a story?”

  Harry nodded.

  “‘Do you want to go in my car,’ I asked him.

  “‘No, Ma’am, it’s not that far. We can walk,’ said WeeJay.”

  “So off we went in all that boat and tourist traffic. I swear the town is so packed you can barely walk anywhere. We pushed along, him wheeling his bicycle beside me. We headed toward the harbor but not the marina section. He led me into Mulberry and towards the fuel oil dock where the tanker brings in the River Sunday fuel supply. As we got into that part of town, the crowd thinned out and we could walk faster. The trees provided us a little more shade and the air wasn’t as hot. Still, I was sweating a lot keeping up with him.”

  “‘Can’t you tell me what this is all about?’ I managed to ask him as I puffed along.”

  “‘You’ll see just a few more minutes,’ he called back over his shoulder.”

  “I followed WeeJay across the gravel top of the wharf. The crane barge, finished with hauling out the race boats for today, was moored back in its place. The boat harness was collapsed on the deck and two men were working on the straps.

  “They both noticed me and waved.

  “‘What you doing down here?’ the younger one said. His partner was the skipper and older man who runs that barge all the time.”

  “I know him,” said Harry.

  “‘I came to look at this little boy’s boat,’ I said. ‘We’ll be doing a story on the kids at the race.’

  “The skipper said, looking at WeeJay, ‘You tell them kids to keep their little boats out the way of the barge. We got work to do.’

  “‘I’ll do that,’ I said. I could feel their eyes watching me and WeeJay as we walked away. WeeJay looked back and walked faster. He led me out of sight of the barge, then turned behind a small house and came out in front of the abandoned warehouse.”

  “The deserted Terment cannery,” said Harry.

  She nodded. “I said to WeeJay, ‘This place is all boarded up.’”

  “He said, ‘I’ll show you.’”

  “We went along the front, past the locked doors with the old fashioned signs for separate white and colored employee entries, and went around the corner into a mass of brush and high grass. He led me along a tiny pathway and parked his bike against the faded wooden side of the building. The harbor water was coming alongside the path in a little creek and the water spread out into a pond that went under the side of the warehouse. I noticed piling from some kind of wharf that had probably been there a long time ago to load the packed products from the food machinery inside. The poles were in terrible shape, most of them rotten and worn by the tide. Very little light got back there and the water was dim and smelling among the high grass and water reeds.”

  “WeeJay stepped down off the bank and on to a stretch of muddy beach near the pilings. He looked back at me, and said, ‘This way.’”

  “I stepped down. The mud was hard enough and my shoes left very little impression. I could see a space about twenty feet across extending underneath the cannery wall, like a cavern. In this space the tide water was still flowing.”

  “‘Take off your shoes cause you’ll have to wade a little bit,’ said WeeJay.”

  “I held on to the side of the building and pulled off my shoes. Then I followed WeeJay into the water which was warm. The tide came up to my knees but the bottom was st
ill solid.”

  “‘This way,’ said WeeJay as he moved further into the darkness under the side of the building. I leaned down to pass under the edge of the building’s wall and followed him. Above me was the bottom of the cannery floor, old wooden boards dripping with dust, sprays of sunlight, and spider webs. I could see the nails coming down through the wood. The boards themselves were supported by great joists of wood, some of which were sagging toward the water surface and seemed ready to topple and pin me into the water if I so much as sneezed.”

  “Ahead of WeeJay was a tiny light. We waded further and finally the floor opened up to a braced open section, a framed opening about ten by ten feet square which must have been a former loading door to boats below. Above I could see the source of the light, a beam of a small flashlight.”

  “I followed WeeJay up a wooden ladder which was nailed to the side of the opening and extended down below the surface of the tide water. Above, I saw WeeJay standing beside two other boys, all WeeJay’s height, but both of them white. One of them was fat and the other very slender.”

  Harry said, “Steve and Chuckie, WeeJay’s pals.”

  She nodded. “Most important though, the flashlight revealed something else on the ancient floor boards beside the boys. Somehow they had stolen the Black Duck race boat of Walker and had hidden it here because it was there, with large inner tubes, the big ones like are used in farm tractors, roped to its sides.”

  “‘This is what you wanted to show me, WeeJay?’ I asked.

  “‘We stole it,’ he answered me, a look of pride on all their faces.

  “How did they do it?” asked Harry. His eyebrows were raised with surprise.

  She said, “I looked at the boat which I knew must be heavy and then at these three little boys and I almost couldn’t ask, but I did. ‘Tell me all about it, what you guys did.’ I asked.”

  “‘We made a plan,’ said WeeJay.”

  “Steve, he’s the skinniest, so he crawled under the door in the mud,’ said the freckle faced fatter boy.