Mermaid

by Margaret Millar

“Roger meant me to have it. It’s not as though I took something that didn’t belong to me, do you think?”

  “I think you should stop second-guessing until I get there.”

  He came within twenty minutes.

  It was a cool morning, with the sun just starting to break through the low overcast of clouds. Along the drive­way up to the school there were patches of moisture under the big trees where the night fog had condensed and dripped from the leaves, the grey lace of the acacias, the leathery loquats, the prickly oaks and feathery pepper trees. It would be another three months before the rains started, and these night fogs were what kept the trees alive.

  Rachel Holbrook was standing on the front steps talking to two girl students. When she saw Aragon she dismissed the girls with a smile and a gesture. They walked away, giggling, whispering behind their hands, glancing back at the new arrival.

  “Good morning, Mr. Aragon,” she said formally and loud enough for the girls to overhear. “You’ve come about the accounting, of course.”

  “Yes. It’s a good morning for accounting.”

  “Come in.” She added, after she closed the door, “The whole school knows something is up. I don’t want to add any fuel to the fire.”

  The drapes in her office were closed. Light came from the fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling and the draftsman’s lamp on her desk, angled to shine directly on the letter from Roger Lennard. The setting looked a little too theat­rical. Aragon was not sure what role he was expected to play in the production.

  She handed him the letter and told him to open it.

  “Why me?” he said.

  “It will prove that I haven’t already done so, for one thing.”

  “And for another?”

  She didn’t answer directly. “I’ve had a chance to appraise the situation and I realize now that I might have done something quite criminal.”

  “There’s no such thing as quite criminal, Mrs. Hol­brook. It is or it isn’t.”

  “Very well. I removed evidence from the scene of a pos­sible crime. But you will be my witness to the fact that I didn’t know what was in here and my motive in taking it was solely to spare Roger in case he survived.”

  “That sounds very noble. But I don’t think Lieutenant Peterson is much of a believer in nobility.”

  “Are you?”

  “Sometimes.” This wasn’t one of the times. He had driven to L.A. the previous night on business for Smedler and hadn’t arrived home until three o’clock in the morn­ing. He felt tired and hungry and irritable.

  “I don’t claim that my motives were noble, Mr. Aragon. They were human, that’s all.”

  “It’s your letter, Mrs. Holbrook. You open it.”

  She slit the envelope with her thumbnail and shook the contents out on her desk. There were almost a dozen sheets of paper. Some appeared to be completed letters, some were half-finished and some sheets bore only a few words. One of the completed letters began Dear Mrs. Holbrook. She read it aloud in a low, cautious voice.

  Dear Mrs. Holbrook:

  You have been more like a mother to me than my own mother. You have respected my work, which is all I’m good for, maybe not even that anymore. You have encouraged me and given me your friendship.

  I am writing this to say goodbye and to thank you for your kindness and generosity. I know you will not judge this as an act of cowardice on my part. It is, quite simply, inevitable, something I have been considering for a long time.

  Last year when I was excommunicated from the church you took me in and gave me back some of my self-confidence.

  Since I have been a practicing homosexual I will not be able to join my family in the afterworld. I can only hope that there is another place, perhaps a better place, where I can be with truly good people like you. I go to my death believing there must be such a place.

  I have been writing off and on all morning and now I don’t know what to do with the stuff. I just don’t think people will want to read what I have to say. I am putting it all into this envelope and you can do with it whatever you think best. I’ve always trusted your judgment.

  Please remember me as someone who has felt blessed by your friendship.

  Roger

  Mrs. Holbrook got up and walked to the window as though she were about to look out through the closed drapes. She made no sound, but Aragon knew she was weeping.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll read the rest if you like.” She nodded and he sat down at her desk and picked up one of the other sheets of paper.

  To Whom It May Concern If Anybody:

  I tried, I really tried. I prayed to God but he turned out to be a cruel old man in the sky who knows more about hate than about love. I tried, everyone laughed but I tried. And failed. Failed failed failed. Let that be my epitaph, Roger Lennard, he tried, he failed.

  What message do I want to leave to the world? A curse on all pious bigots everywhere.

  Another letter was to his parents.

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  It was good to hear your voices on the phone the other night. You sounded so happy, Mom, when I told you the news about my getting married. And I was happy too. I really thought it would work out. Cleo admires me and respects me.

  I can almost hear you saying, the girl must be crazy. Well, she is, sort of. But she wants to have a family and so do I. I’ve always loved kids. My head was filled with hope. But all the time I had this terrible turmoil inside me, despair, hate, rage. It is impossible for me to make a family, impossible. Oh, how I can picture Dad scowling over that because he thinks that men are first and fore­most created to make families. But what if they can’t? Can’t can’t can’t what if they can’t?

  Another unfinished letter was addressed to Cleo.

  Dear little Cleo, you should never have come to me with your troubles. I often told you at school that you could, but when you did, when you suddenly appeared out of the blue, I got carried away. I forgot I was sup­posed to be objective. I thought, why not? Why can’t Cleo and I have children like normal people? All of a sudden I had real hope for the future. I would change, you would change, we would change each other. We would have a family, I could be a good Mormon again.

  I liked the feel of you in my arms. Your skin was so soft you seemed made of silk and flowers. Then you began to talk about Ted. Ted did this, Ted did that. You never meant to tease me, you had no idea how much I was suffering. Then you said, Oh Roger, are you one of those funny people? And I said yes. Yes, I’m one of the funnies, funny ha ha, funny peculiar, funny split your sides. I’m one of the funnies, so please laugh, Cleo, don’t lie there like a stone flower.

  I have written a poem about us, Cleo.

  Funny sky

  Funny sea,

  Funny I,

  Funny me.

  Funny me

  Funny us,

  Funnily

  Oblivious.

  Oblivious. I like that word. It sounds like a nice place to go.

  Forgive me, Cleo, if I have harmed you in any way, if I have given you ideas beyond your grasp. You were so anxious to become what you called a real person. And I was so anxious to help you become one. We had high hopes and high failures. This is how the world ends.

  Some of the other sheets of paper contained only a few words.

  Cruel. All around me is cruel. I am afraid. Night­mare, daymare, morningmare, afternoonmare. What is it all about? It is too late. It is too late for anyone to tell me.

  Tim, Tim my beloved, please forgive me. I had to choose between you and the church. What else could I do, what other decision could I make with the family on my back like that? Please, Tim. Please don’t judge me harshly.

  To the Probate Court:

  I, Roger Lennard, mens sana in corpore sano, would like my worldly possessions distributed as follows:

  My bo
oks to Holbrook Hall

  My classical records to the Public Library.

  All other possessions to my dear friend, Timothy North.

  Roger Lennard

  Mom, Mom I can’t stand never seeing you again

  Slowly and carefully Aragon put the papers back in the envelope. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant Peterson will have to be informed of this right away. What are you going to tell him?”

  “That it came in the mail.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “He won’t be satisfied,” Aragon said. “He’ll want to know, for instance, if this is the same envelope you were seen posting yesterday.”

  “On the other hand,” she said, “he might be so happy at having Roger’s death proved a suicide that he’ll let the matter drop.”

  “I don’t think the lieutenant will ever be that happy.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  She unlocked the drawer where she kept her personal belongings during office hours and placed the envelope in her purse. “I suppose I should deliver it to him myself.”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be kind of you to come along for moral sup­port.”

  “Better if I don’t,” Aragon said. “Lawyers aren’t very high on the lieutenant’s popularity poll.”

  The red light on the intercom had started to blink and Mrs. Holbrook switched on the speaker. “Yes, Richie?”

  “The captain is here to see you, Mrs. Holbrook.”

  “But I didn’t— I wasn’t exp— Wait a minute.” She turned to Aragon. “Captain? Isn’t that a higher rank than lieutenant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please wait. I’m not sure how to handle this. The entire school will be aroused if he arrived here in a police car.”

  But he hadn’t come in a police car. The captain’s hat he wore could have been purchased in any maritime shop along the coast, and his well-tailored navy-blue blazer and white slacks weren’t the kind of clothing found in a police­man’s locker.

  The man was about fifty, with a round red face and bushy sun-bleached eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own, like blond caterpillars. He gave off an odor of cologne and bourbon and cigar smoke.

  “Well, well, what’s going on here?” he said jovially. “A séance?”

  “You might call it that,” Mrs. Holbrook replied.

  “Include me in. I’ve never been to a séance. But first let’s get a little light in here.” He went over to the win­dows and began pulling open the drapes. “If I’m going to see ghosts I want the genuine article that’ll stand up to daylight.”

  “Mr. Whitfield, this is Mr. Aragon.”

  Whitfield’s handshake was firm and hearty. “I was in a town in Spain once called Aragon. Not much of a place but it had some pretty girls. You couldn’t get near them, though. There were a dozen old crones surrounding each one.”

  Aragon couldn’t think of a suitable comment, so he kept quiet.

  “I have nothing against Spain,” Whitfield added. “The fact is, I’m not at home on land. Any land, anywhere. The sea’s where I live. I’m heading for Ensenada tomorrow. One of my crewmen wants to check on his wife and I figure, why not? Some of the muchachas in these Mexican ports can be pretty lively.”

  Failing for the second time to get a response from Aragon, he turned his attention to Mrs. Holbrook. “I came as soon as I got your message.”

  Mrs. Holbrook looked surprised. She had been trying to contact him for two days but she had left no message and no name. “I don’t quite understand, Mr. Whitfield.”

  “The girl in your office caught me as I was leaving my condo. In fact, the phone rang as I was going out the door. She told me to come to the school to discuss Donny’s curriculum. She didn’t sound too sure of the word curricu­lum. Maybe you’d better tell her what it means.”

  “When a call is made from this office concerning a stu­dent I handle it personally or through my secretary. His name is Richard. I have no female employees authorized to perform such duties, and if I had she would certainly be familiar with words like curriculum.”

  “What’s going on around here? I tell you, I had this phone call from some girl at the school and she said I was to come right over and discuss Donny’s curriculum. Hell, it was that word that brought me over here so fast. I thought maybe the kid was finally straightening out. Any other time I’ve heard from the school it’s been about one of Donny’s famous emergencies, like when he stole the laundry truck and rammed it into a tree.”

  Aragon spoke for the first time since Whitfield’s arrival. “What else did the girl say, Mr. Whitfield?”

  “Nothing much. She emphasized that I was to come here immediately. I failed to understand the reason for the big hurry but I went along with the request. So here I am—at considerable loss of time, if I may add—and no one’s even expecting me.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember her exact words?”

  “Well, she just said, ‘This is Mrs. Holbrook’s office at Holbrook Hall.’ No, wait a minute. She sort of slurred the name of the school. It almost sounded like Holy Hall.”

  “The students often call it that,” Mrs. Holbrook said.

  “So it was one of those damn little half-wits playing a joke on me. That’s the thanks I get for practically support­ing this so-called school.”

  “It is more than so-called, Mr. Whitfield. It’s a real school which takes students the other schools don’t want, can’t manage, can’t teach.”

  “Hell, I don’t want Donny to learn Latin and a lot of crap like that. I just want him to learn to behave himself, keep his nose clean.”

  “We don’t guarantee results. And we don’t teach Latin. We try to teach acceptable social behavior such as the avoidance of profanity.”

  “Well, goddamn it, I’m sorry. But the trouble I’ve had with that kid—”

  “You’re going to have more, Mr. Whitfield.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’d better sit down and discuss it.” To Aragon she said, “I was about to deliver this envelope. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to do it for me. It’s a rush job and I may be occupied here for some time.”

  Aragon had no choice. He took the envelope and departed. There was no exchange of goodbyes.

  As he was walking toward the parking lot he looked back and saw Whitfield through the window, slumped in one of the leather chairs. His right leg was slung over the arm of the chair and his chin was resting on his fist. Upside down on the desk was his captain’s hat, a symbol of his store-bought authority.

  Aragon left the envelope at Police Headquarters and drove down to the harbor. The harbormaster’s office was on the second floor of a small building beside the yacht club. From it the entire coastline could be seen for miles in either direction, as well as everything that was happen­ing on the breakwater and the wharf and at the marina. The entrance to the harbor lay between the end of the wharf and the breakwater. Almost every day its depth varied according to the movement of sand by the tides and currents. In spite of almost continual dredging, the chan­nel was sometimes blocked entirely for the larger craft. On many occasions the commercial fishing fleet had to wait at anchor outside the harbor while the other half was trapped inside like grounded whales.

  Today the entrance was navigable. A ketch, still under power, was heading for the open sea, raising its mainsail. A boat that serviced the oil platforms was picking up speed as it left the five-mile-an-hour limit of the harbor.

  The harbormaster, Sprague, an ex-Seabee, had had an indoor job for half a dozen years but it was too late to pre­vent the sun damage that mottled his face in the form of skin cancers. Now in his sixties, he had difficulty r
emem­bering names and faces but he never forgot a boat and he considered all the craft tied up in the harbor as his per­sonal fleet. Only God and the weather outranked him.

  He was on the phone when Aragon entered.

  “Hold it, Wavewalker. I’ve had two more complaints against you for littering.”

  “Hell, a few beer cans ain’t littering. They sink to the bottom.”

  “Sure, and pretty soon you’ll be trying to float on a pile of rust. So clean up your act. Where are you heading?”

  “The Ruby. She’s laying in her usual supply of caviar and Chivas Regal.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “As soon as possible. You think we like rolling around on this tub?”

  “Get a horse.”

  Sprague motioned Aragon to sit down. “What’s on your mind?”

  Aragon offered one of his business cards. Sprague stud­ied it for a moment, then dropped it on his desk.

  “I’m interested in Peter Whitfield’s yacht,” Aragon said.

  “Interested in what way?”

  “I hear it’s heading for Ensenada tomorrow.”

  Sprague raised his binoculars. They were very powerful and heavy and his hands shook as he adjusted the focus. When they steadied he said, “It looks as if they’re getting ready for something. They’ve taken off the sail covers.”

  “May I see?”

  “Go ahead. It’s the blue ketch Spindrift, Marina J, port side.”

  Aragon took the binoculars. He had more trouble steadying them than Sprague had had, but eventually he could make out the large boat that bore the name Spin­drift. Two men were on deck, dressed like twins in dark blue pants and blue-and-white diagonally striped T-shirts. One was folding the dark-blue covers that protected the sails from the weather; the other was sitting astride the boom.

  He said, “What’s the little flag at the top of the mast?”

  “That’s the burgee indicating the captain’s on board.”

  “Who is the captain?”