Away with the Fishes

by Stephanie Siciarz

  Not taking the article quite so blissfully, apart from the police, was the accused. Madison, who learned of the development through one of his more literate jailers, wrangled with doubt and despair. He didn’t want to believe that Rena would leave him at all, let alone in such underhanded fashion, and yet it was the only explanation that made any sense so far. Did Rena’s disappearance mean she didn’t love him? Or did it mean she didn’t love him enough? Of the two scenarios, he tried to calculate which was less painful, but his fisherman’s mathematics came up short.

  By noontime, the call Raoul awaited had come through. The Chief of Police wished to see him at the station straightaway. Raoul groaned as he hung up the receiver. Why couldn’t they tell him over the phone that the trial was undone? Why drag him to another face-to-face with the useless Lucas Davenport? Cursing under his breath, he collected his things and set out, thinking only of the celebratory beer he planned to down at the Belly, once the Chief told him the case was dismissed.

  At the police station, Raoul sensed a somber mood as he was shown into Chief Davenport’s office. He attributed the sobriety to collective disappointment on the part of the police, who would not only have to cop to poor policing, but would have to renounce the bogus Bicycle Trial they had expected Raoul to arrange.

  The Chief sat at his desk, quietly studying some papers, seemingly unfazed by Raoul’s arrival. Raoul sat down, cleared his throat, and broke the silence.

  “Looks like Bruce’s article has added some salt, pepper, and vinegar to the plans,” he said. “Have the police corroborated the newspaper’s story?”

  Chief Davenport looked up from his papers, as if annoyed that he and Raoul were forced to have the conversation they were having, what with so many more important official things either one of them could have been doing.

  “Yes,” he replied. “A woman named Karen Arbe did leave the island.”

  “Then you’re dropping the charges against Madison Fuller?” Raoul preceded him, anxious to get the Police Chief to the point.

  “Why on earth would we do that?” Chief Davenport asked him in turn.

  Raoul was stunned into momentary speechlessness, his flies quiet with disbelief. When he had collected himself, he argued that the charges should be dropped because there was no dead body, so technically no murder, and in all likelihood Rena Baker and Karen Arbe were one and the same.

  “Let us suppose for a minute that Rena Baker did leave the island using a false name,” the Chief said. “Do the laws of this land not require that a passport be shown prior to leaving the island? Are we to suggest to our citizens that the authorities of Oh were sleeping on the job? That they let a woman go without proper documentation? Are we to imply that our own government workers don’t know how to read? That they mistook one name on a passport for another?”

  Raoul was flabbergasted. “But you might have an innocent man in jail!”

  “Which is precisely why we must proceed with the trial, don’t you see?”

  Raoul did not and said so.

  The Chief continued: “Even if a woman going by the name of Karen Arbe left the island, what does that prove? Any woman on Oh could wake up and decide to call herself Karen Arbe. Maybe she wasn’t an islander at all, but a foreigner who checked a wrong box or signed the wrong register. Bruce Kandele’s fancy theory is just that, a fancy, a whim. It’s completely inadmissible as evidence. He peddles invisible girls with mixed-up names just to sell a few papers. Meanwhile, there are hard, tangible truths to take into account. Truths like that mashed-up bicycle that was run over by a very real vehicle.”

  “The Prime Minister?” Raoul tried. “He supports the Police decision to pursue this matter?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s the reason I had to inconvenience you. He wanted me to express our position to you in person.”

  “But he can’t possibly think—”

  “Raoul,” the Chief interrupted, his hands opened and pleading, his tone condescending, his eyes again lifted ceilingward. “The authority of the powers that be.”

  Raoul stood and snorted disdainfully.

  Chief Davenport, in reply, waved him out of the office, like a gnat from a bowlful of mangoes.

  34

  Raoul was furious when he got back to his desk at headquarters. The smug Police Chief had gone too far. Encouraging false charges was bad enough, but dismissing Raoul? How dare he?! They wanted a trial? Fine! They would have their trial. Raoul was a government official and a professional and would coordinate it to the best of his abilities. If they thought they could stop his finding Rena Baker, however, they all had another think coming.

  “Stupid girl!” Raoul swore. He was more sure than ever that Rena Baker was Karen Arbe. A fly in his head confirmed it beyond all reasonable doubt. She thought she could get away via Killig, did she? Well, Raoul had connections in Killig. He had been involved in more than a few cases over the years in which Killig had figured, and he hoped he might call in a few favors. He dispatched a flurry of unofficial letters on official pale green letterhead, explaining about Rena. If there was record of her passing through the airport at Killig, perhaps there was record of where she had passed on to. Next, he sent a telegram to Mr. Monday Jones, Killig’s top prosecutor, inviting him to Oh on behalf of the Prime Minister and the Chief of Police. Once that was taken care of, Raoul went to the Belly for a much-deserved drink.

  “What a horrible day off!” he complained aloud as he walked there. “Even worse than last week’s with all its painting and its BAKER problems.” His cozy corner at the library seemed as far away as the neighboring isle to which Rena had likely fled.

  While Raoul drowned his sorrows and thought about the bicycle crime’s alleged victim, Trevor and Randolph tried to sort out legal counsel for the accused. They had been conceded a visit with Madison in his cell and tried to focus on the problem at hand instead of on the squalid surroundings, which were dark and mostly cement, with a tiny window and a crooked cot. Everything appeared as clean as one could hope to find in a courthouse jail, though the smell that permeated the corridor of barred rooms belied the apparent lack of filth.

  Not wishing to stay there longer than necessary, and not wishing it for Madison either, Trevor got down to business right away.

  “Madison, we need to find you a lawyer,” he said. “A good one. Do you have any money?”

  “I have a little something in the Savings Bank,” Madison replied. “May has access to the account. I don’t know what kind of lawyer it will buy.”

  “Don’t worry,” Randolph assured him. “We’ll loan you the rest. Are you okay in here?”

  “I suppose,” Madison shrugged. “They let May bring me food from home.”

  Randolph was nearly shaking, despite his efforts to put on a brave front for his friend. How could Madison be so calm under such conditions? What Randolph didn’t realize was that Madison’s mind wasted little energy fretting about the upcoming trial, because it just didn’t seem possible to him that he might be convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed.

  What did worry Madison was Rena. She wouldn’t just up and leave him. Something terrible must have happened. He spent his days praying for her, picturing her safe and sound, and grappling with theories as to her whereabouts that he might offer to the police. Not to get himself freed, but to get his Rena found (which, at the end of the day, was the same exact thing).

  Randolph and Trevor kept Madison company for the thirty minutes allowed, then they left him, having promised to hire a lawyer on his behalf. Trevor had suggested they try to get Glynray Justice, who boasted not only a first-rate reputation on Oh, but a name that (the three of them agreed) meant he couldn’t fail.

  Trevor sent Randolph to help Patience in the bakery and went himself to the Law Office of Mr. Justice to discuss Madison Fuller’s case. Like all the islanders, Glynray had followed Madison’s story in the news, but only Glynray had seen right through the shoddy arguments and the immaterial evidence on which the police had based their arrest
. He felt confident he could exonerate Madison, and regardless of what he felt, he wouldn’t have passed up a chance to be part of the island’s first murder trial ever. He even offered his services pro bono, thus boosting the public images of attorney and client alike; for surely a lawyer of his repute would only defend a killer—and for free!—if wrongly accused.

  When Trevor had finished at the lawyer’s office, he went back to the bakery, his spirits lighter with Glynray’s services secured. He sent Patience home, after telling her and Randolph about his interview with Glynray Justice and allaying his wife’s fears at their continued involvement in Madison’s messy dilemma. Patience was indeed calmed by what her husband told her, but still she felt compelled to admonish him. He had done his part and should now leave well enough alone, did he hear? Trevor scratched his head through his very big hat and made her a meaningless pledge. He would have nothing more to do with murder. He promised.

  Women!

  Trevor was not alone that day in marveling at the oddities of womankind. Branson too wondered about the more delicate sex, as he lay on the beach relaxing after an afternoon swim. Now that May was in his life again (albeit to chide and badmouth him for sending her brother to jail), Branson couldn’t help but think of ways to win her back. He suspected that behind the passion with which May blamed him for Madison’s arrest, she might be harboring a passion of a different sort.

  Just his luck, he thought, that a murder was what had reignited their love! He could hardly fan the flames with flowers and chocolates while May’s brother languished in jail. He considered once again confessing to the ad that had incriminated Madison, but knew in his heart he was incapable of such dishonesty, even for a worthy cause. The possibility of jail time, which Trevor had so astutely pointed out, was an effective deterrent as well.

  Branson looked up and admired his house on its hill. In the sunlight, its windows appeared to be made of pure gold. What a life he could give to May now! He closed his eyes and pictured her puttering in his kitchen, heard her humming as she sewed in the sitting room. He imagined every one of the villa’s empty bedrooms filled with their toddlers and babies. How far he had come from the days when all he could offer May was a fishing boat and a seaside picnic!

  Branson propped himself on his elbow and, shielding his eyes from the sun, he stared at the very boat in which he and May had spent such happy hours. He knew it had once been his father’s pride and joy (another reason Branson always treasured it so), and he wondered if Dagmore had ever been as happy as he in the sturdy craft. Branson didn’t often let himself think of his father, Captain Dagmore; the memory was too painful. Dagmore had died when Branson was ten years old and his mother, who couldn’t bear to stay in the house her dead husband had built, took Branson and made a home in the heart of town. Not until she died herself nearly ten years later, and Branson went through her things, did he discover that the house was his—“To my beloved son Branson Bowles I bequeath the acreage in my possession and the constructions thereupon,” the Captain’s tucked-away will resolutely attested.

  By then, the house was an eyesore, completely rundown, and Branson’s heart ached too badly to stay on the island, especially in a ramshackle dwelling. Only when he returned from his studies in England did he decide to fix the place up and move himself in, making of the house (like his father had before him) a tribute to the man who gave him his name.

  Though Branson and Dagmore had each lovingly and in his turn transformed the house into a lovely jewel, neither had—so far—managed to fill it up. Fancy furniture and fancy guests, or shelf after shelf of glossy textbooks, these were not the stuff that made a house a home. Those things—the love, the warmth, the security—were as elusive to father and son as were the mysteries of the vast, enchanting sea.

  35

  “Raoul, you better have a look at this,” Ms. Lila announced when Raoul finally got home. The sun was just setting and enough daylight resisted for her to show him what she had to show him. She took him outside, pulling him by the hand to the wall of the house, the once one-coated pink one, where FIND R. BAKER had shown up in ghostly grey-white letters. The second sighting of Rena’s name had so stunned and overwhelmed Raoul that he had forgotten to cover it up. Ms. Lila, who now adopted the habit of checking the walls when she got home from work, had discovered that below the “D” in FIND, the letters A-G-M-O-R-E were etched vertically in the same wispy and phantom hand. A cryptic crossword seemed to be suggesting that Dagmore and finding Rena were inextricably connected.

  Raoul was spellbound. He got close to the wall, touching the new letters, smelling them to establish what chemical might have created them. Paint thinner? Turpentine? When the daylight faded, he got his headlamp and strapped it to his head. He continued his examination of the wall, studying the ethereal outlines through his magnifying glass. He crawled across the yard and through the bush but (again) could find no footprint or clue. His head was foggy with beer from the Belly and with way too many flies: the patronizing Police Chief, Karen Arbe, Monday Jones, and now Dagmore (again) to top it off? Raoul was too tired to fathom how it all tied together, or if it really did. The mysterious message seemed to suggest so, but what did it want Raoul to do?

  To start, he dragged out his paint tins and painted over the strange messages (the criss-crossed FIND R. BAKER and DAGMORE; and the DAGMORE in pink on yellow, which he had so far left untouched). Plain-as-noses-on-faces clues were one thing, but he didn’t need his business splashed plain-as-day on his house. While he worked in the near darkness, Ms. Lila, who had gone in for a minute to see about supper, joined him and kept him company.

  “You know what this means,” she said, watching him and hating the words she was about to say.

  “What?” Raoul asked.

  “You’ll have to go back and see Mrs. Jaymes.”

  “Really?” he said, sounding more delighted than he meant to.

  “She’s the only one who knows anything about Dagmore. But don’t bother with that story of hers. Just ask her outright if she knows anything about Rena.” Then with a sad resignation in her voice, Ms. Lila added, “And please pick up more paint tomorrow. At this rate, we’re bound to run out.”

  Raoul was giddy when he woke up the next morning. He had turned his back on Dagmore more reluctantly than he’d admitted. The fact that he had an excuse to see Mrs. Jaymes again was putting a skip in his step. As usual, he put in an appearance at work before he rushed off to Ladywood Road, stopping en route at Higgins Hardware, Home, and Garden to order two tins of Playful Rose. Mrs. Jaymes was pleased to see him arrive, and she put on a pot of tea. He assured her, however, that he had come not to hear Dagmore’s story, not exactly, but to ask her some very important questions about a very important matter.

  “Sounds serious,” she said.

  “It is, Mrs. Jaymes. Have you ever heard of a girl named Rena Baker?”

  “The missing girl from the newspaper? What do you want to ask me about her?”

  “I know it may sound odd, but we have reason to believe that there is a connection between Dagmore Bowles and this young girl’s disappearance.”

  “What in the world do you mean? Dagmore is dead. Since before the girl was even born, I’d venture. How can he be responsible for her disappearance? Didn’t she go missing just last week?”

  “Yes,” Raoul conceded. “Yes.” He felt like a fool for suggesting that a ghost had had a hand in a murder, let alone a murder he knew in his heart had never taken place.

  “Did Dagmore have any connection to the Baker family while he was alive?” Raoul persisted.

  “He didn’t mingle much with the locals. I don’t know any Bakers, and I can say for certain that the Captain didn’t either. Do you think the girl is dead?”

  “Honestly, Mrs. Jaymes, I do not.” Raoul should have kept his theory to himself, but he had to unburden his head and he felt a kind of closeness to Mrs. Jaymes. “I think she may have run away.”

  “Yes, I read about that lady with the st
range name who ran off. You think that was her?”

  Raoul nodded.

  “Anything is possible on Oh,” Mrs. Jaymes continued. “She wouldn’t be the first one to fight with the island and lose.”

  A fruitfly flitted inside Raoul’s head. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean maybe she was one of those islanders—like the Captain—who belonged here but didn’t really belong here. So, like the Captain, she left.”

  “You mean she killed herself?”

  “I didn’t say that. There’s lots of ways of leaving.”

  Now a handful of fruitflies assembled in Raoul’s brain. Could that be the connection to the Captain and Rena? His body had never been found. Was he really dead? Had he run off like Rena? Like Raoul’s first wife Emma Patrice so many years before? Was the answer still somewhere in the Captain’s tale?

  “Mrs. Jaymes,” Raoul said, “do you think you could tell me a little bit more about Dagmore’s life?”

  Mrs. Jaymes was only too happy to oblige. Where had she left off? Oh, yes, that’s right, with the visit of Juan, Daphne, Peters, Stewart, and Ruck. It ended as badly as it had begun, she told him. The guests were stuck inside for most of their stay, playing cards while they waited for their skin to blister and pop. Finally, the five of them left the villa, but word of the disastrous visit got back to Spain and Ireland and England (which might not have been so terrible, except that the next batch of Dagmore’s visitors to Oh coincidentally capsized en route).

  Words like ‘curse’ and ‘magic’ had begun to be uttered and Dagmore noticed that more and more time passed between one visit and the next.

  “That’s where Hammer came in,” Mrs. Jaymes said, and she waved to him in the garden. She explained that, with Hammer’s help, the Captain devised and implemented a series of measures to protect his visitors from the birds and the bees (the bees being unquestionably the worse of the two). They attached tiny spikes to the window sills, so that the birds had nowhere to perch, and Hammer uprooted Dagmore’s larkspur and lavender, in favor of bleeding heart and pineapple sage, whose flowers would draw hummingbirds instead of stingers. Dagmore even kitted out the shoreline with umbrellas and life-vests, just in case.