Beachbound

by Junie Coffey

  The sun was beginning to set. It would be dark by the time they reached the salt ponds.

  “I know this island is only six miles long,” said Nina. “but every once in a while, a vehicle that can go faster than fifteen miles per hour would come in handy.”

  “Too bad you decided to cheat on Ted with your neighbor the nudist. Ted could have driven us,” said Danish from the back seat.

  Nina turned around in her seat to face Danish.

  “I did not cheat on Ted with Les. Please, give me some credit. For the record, Ted and I have never successfully completed a single date, so cheating would be technically impossible. Anyway, he seems to be making out just fine. And how do you know anything about this, anyway?”

  “Whatever you say,” replied Danish. “All I know is, he was at The Redoubt with his head hanging low on Saturday night, and the next day he picked up what appeared to be a supermodel at the airport and installed her at Fortress Matthews. You do the math. Les filled me in. Ted called me over there to give his lady friend a private yoga session. She’s pretty hot.”

  “Danish, what gives you the idea that I would be in any way interested in your opinion of how hot someone is?” said Nina testily.

  “Just saying,” he mumbled.

  Pansy glanced over at Nina with a look of concern on her face, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Should we call Blue just to make sure he got the message?” Pansy asked a few seconds later.

  “Let’s see if our hunch is right. Then, if he hasn’t shown up, we can call him,” said Nina. “If we’re wrong and we get him out here for no reason, I might have to move back to New York. Michel can handle Blue’s disapproval better than I can.”

  A few miles later, Pansy turned off onto an unpaved road. They bounced along until the dry, scrubby brush gradually thinned out into salt-stained hardpan studded with clumps of stubby grass. Up ahead, Nina could see water shimmering on both sides of the narrow road. The sun was low in the sky, and the surface of the water was golden, reflecting the last rays of the sun. Pansy rolled to a stop, maneuvering the golf cart into the lee of a lone, crouching silver-top palm and pocketing the key.

  12

  “We should go on foot from here. The house is up there on a narrow ridge between the ponds and the beach. If we drive right up, she’ll see us coming,” said Pansy, pointing to a weathered clapboard house perched on a ridge on the far side of the ponds, about one thousand yards away. There was a faint light glowing from a downstairs window but no other sign of life. Single file, they started walking toward the house up a narrow gravel causeway that bisected a vast grid of water. The salt ponds. In the fading light, she could see the ponds stretching away into the distance on both sides of the narrow road, and a network of gravel ridges cutting across the watery expanse at right angles as far as she could see, dividing it into squares of pinkish-tinted water. The causeway itself sat just a couple of feet above the surface of the water. It was an eerie, treeless moonscape teeming with wildlife. As the sun set, a cacophonous din of hundreds of birds squawking and honking rose from the ponds. Peering into the growing gloom, Nina could see the dark silhouettes of flocks of large birds stalking through the shallow water in the middle of the pond to her right. Herons? Flamingos? Much closer by, just a few feet away, she could hear—but not see—a bird or animal of some kind splashing in the water close to where it lapped against the road.

  “Where are we?” she asked, shivering a little.

  “These are salt ponds. The old Pineapple Cay Salt Works,” said Pansy. “They’re no longer in use. This area’s now a protected bird sanctuary. The working ponds are farther south, near Sandy Point, although there’s still a storage facility here, over that way.” She gestured vaguely with her hand.

  “It’s kind of creepy,” said Nina.

  “Maybe it’s because we’re here, in the dark, all alone, looking for a murderer,” said Danish.

  “Thank you, Danish,” said Nina. “Let’s get up there and see what’s going on. I swear to God, after tonight, I am never going to leave my house. I’m going to keep my nose out of other people’s business and take up a safer hobby like golf or knitting.”

  “Yeah, you might want to rethink that. My buddy Murray is a caddie at the golf club, and some of the stuff he tells me goes on there, you wouldn’t believe,” said Danish. “Like this one day this old lady shows up with the ashes of her dead husband in a peanut-butter jar and asks Murray to take her out to the thirteenth hole. Well, they had the lid off the jar and were shaking things out around the tee, when the wind came up and it started to rain—”

  Nina broke into a jog. Danish and Pansy hurried to catch up.

  The beach house was in darkness except for a single bulb burning over the back door, and light from a window on the main floor. The three of them crept up onto the wooden wraparound porch, Danish leading the way. Nina could hear the waves crashing against the rocks on the other side of the house. They were very near the ocean. They inched closer to the lit window. It was open. The sun had set now, and they had to feel their way in the growing gloom. There was a sudden, rapid movement to Nina’s left, from a dark recess directly beside her. She could make out the shape of an empty chair. She jumped, clutching her hand to her chest.

  “Aahhh!” she whispered. Pansy and Danish spun around.

  “What’s wrong?” Pansy whispered frantically.

  “There’s someone on the porch!” hissed Nina.

  “Yeah, a man-eating gecko,” drawled Danish, pointing to the flip-flop-length lizard that had sought shelter under the railing and was staring at them with its little eyes glittering in the porch light.

  “It sounded a lot bigger,” said Nina.

  They stood still for a moment, listening for sounds from inside the house. A woman’s voice wafted out the window. Suzanne, presumably. Danish dropped to his knees and crawled under the glass, then sprang silently to his feet on the other side. They stood on either side of the opening and peered into the room.

  The interior of the beach house was large and open—the kitchen, dining area, and sitting area were all one big room. A wall of glass doors faced the ocean, a black void now that night had fallen. Suzanne was standing in the kitchen with a gun in her hands. It was pointed at Philip, who was on his hands and knees in front of her. She had a white gauze bandage wrapped around one hand.

  “She did break into Sylvia’s! She cut her hand on the glass along the top of the wall,” whispered Nina.

  Philip had a scrub brush in his hand, which he plunged into a bucket beside him, then slopped onto the floor, pushing it around in frantic circular motions. He was still dressed in the seersucker suit he’d worn at the conference the day before, dark circles of perspiration under his arms and on his back. The night air was humid, heavy with sea salt.

  “She’s got a gun!” said Pansy. “Where are the police?” She looked back over her shoulder. There was no sign of a police car.

  “We’d better call Blue again right now,” said Pansy. They looked at one another. Nobody wanted to be the one to call Blue.

  “I vote for you,” said Nina, looking at Danish. “He hates you already.”

  “Why me?” hissed Danish. “He explicitly told me after the thing at Sylvia’s that he didn’t want to see my face for the next six months. I assume that included phone calls.”

  “It’s just so painful,” said Nina. “Hello, Blue, remember how you told me not to get involved in police matters? Well, guess where we are?” She cringed.

  “I’ll do it,” said Pansy. “Once you’ve given birth in a room full of strangers, including first-year medical students who can’t quite keep the shock and horror off their faces, nothing really fazes you ever again.” She crept soundlessly off the porch and out of earshot. Nina and Danish turned their attention back to what was going on inside the beach house.

  “That’s it,” said Suzanne. “Oh, wait. You missed a spot over here.” She reached behind her with one hand to grab a bottle off
the counter. She upended it, emptying the contents—ketchup—on the floor.

  “What a mess! Clean it up!” she said sharply, wiggling the gun at Philip. He whimpered and shuffled over to the mess on his hands and knees, scrubbing at it ineffectually, swirling the ketchup and soap into a bubble soup on the floor.

  “Yes, it’s not as easy as it looks, is it, Philip?” Suzanne said nastily. “If you don’t mind a bit of advice, I think you are going to need a mop for that. But where, oh where, do we keep the mop?” she said, putting her hand to her cheek in mock wonder. “You wouldn’t know, would you, Philip? Don’t stop! I’ll shoot you right here and now!”

  She took several long strides over to the living room, never turning her back on him. He watched her progress anxiously, clearly wondering what else she had in store for him. His suit was now smeared with ketchup, which looked disturbingly like blood.

  Pansy was back, her head next to Nina’s at the edge of the window.

  “What did Blue say?” whispered Nina.

  Pansy was silent for half a moment. “Um. He said he’s on his way,” she said. “He also said not to do anything stupid.”

  There was a heaping laundry basket on the sofa. Still with her eyes on Philip, Suzanne reached into the basket and pulled out a sock, which she threw into the middle of the room. It landed on the coffee table. She reached in and grabbed another sock, then another and another, scattering them around the room—on the floor, on top of a lampshade, and in a trail across the dining room table.

  “La-de-da-de-da!” she sang. “All right, Philip,” she said sternly. “Get over here and clean up this mess. This place is a disaster! What do you do all day? All you have to do is keep this house clean. I do everything else. Come on now!”

  She marched over to the crouching, whimpering Philip and prodded him in the backside with her foot. He stood and scurried over to the living room, where he collected the socks and stuffed them back in the laundry basket.

  “You’re insane!” he shouted contemptuously. “You’re not going to get away with this! My absence will be noted!”

  “Oh, maybe,” replied Suzanne casually. “But by then I will be long gone. And so will you!”

  Bing bing bing! The timer on the stove started beeping insistently.

  “Oh, Philip. Dinner’s done. Quick! Get it out of the oven before it burns!” snapped Suzanne.

  She marched him over to the stove, the barrel of the gun nestled between his shoulder blades. With fumbling hands, he pulled on flowered oven mitts, bent down, and heaved a large pan of lasagna up onto the top of the stove. His forehead was slick with sweat.

  “What?” said Suzanne. “Lasagna again! Anyway, never mind. I already ate in town on my way home.” She grabbed an edge of the pan with one hand and flipped the lasagna onto the floor. It made a huge, messy splat of tomato, cheese, and noodles. Philip stared down at it.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Philip. Were you hungry? Oh dear, I am sorry. Sometimes I forget you are a human being.” She laughed. “Never mind. Well, that isn’t going to clean itself up, is it? Let’s go. You have about ten thousand hours of unpaid domestic labor to work off before I make a final decision as to what to do with you.”

  She shoved a dustpan and a roll of paper towels at him, then climbed onto a stool next to the kitchen island. From her perch, she watched him slop the paper towels around in the lasagna for a little while, her mouth twisted into a satisfied half smile. Then she hopped off the stool and took a few steps over into the living area of the large room, all while keeping her eyes and the gun trained on Philip. She paced the floor.

  “OK now, Philip. In case you haven’t fully grasped the situation here, we are playing a game. It’s called Retribution. The object is to see if you’ve learned anything useful since our interlude together. To determine if you meet the basic minimum standard to be allowed to live, and perhaps, God forbid, even reproduce again. If you successfully complete the tasks you are given, you will earn redemption points. If you don’t, well, then . . . Not good news for you, I’m afraid.” She grimaced mockingly. “As you told me many times, it’s survival of the fittest out here in the real world, and some people—I think you were referring to me—just can’t take it.”

  Suzanne paced in front of Philip, wiggling the gun at him periodically.

  “Now, Philip, I am sorry to report that you failed—disastrously—the first test you were given: fidelity. You have received an F in fidelity. Your new wife wasn’t very pleased with the photo I sent to her of you and the lovely Samantha snuggled up in the corner of the hotel bar, your hand on Samantha’s knee. Yes, I knew Samantha would be a good test. A test you failed. On the upside, your wife did like the photo I sent to her a few hours later of you stuffing your mouth with mini crab quiches. I knew you couldn’t resist them, either. Self-control is not your forte, is it, Philip?”

  “Suzanne, the police can trace everything you’ve done, you know. You’re screwed,” said Philip from his kneeling position on the kitchen floor.

  “Can you say burner phone, Philip?” Suzanne said sarcastically. “Don’t you even watch television? Oh, that’s right. As you love to tell people, the only things you ever watch on TV are the news and educational documentaries—oh, and every reality show ever made, you big phony!”

  Suzanne stopped pacing and stood in front of a flip chart in the middle of the room. From the little aluminum tray that ran along the bottom of it, she picked up a pointer. She whacked the flip chart smartly.

  “So that’s where that flip chart got to,” whispered Nina. “Josie and I couldn’t figure it out. We were one short for the session on public sanitation at waterfront music festivals.”

  “Now get over here, Philip. Sit down,” snapped Suzanne. Philip hustled over at her command and sat on the sofa in front of her. He crossed his arms defiantly.

  “Our next event is called What’s the Difference? Pay attention! Big points are riding on your answer.” She flipped back the top sheet of the chart to reveal two large photographs. They were head shots of the same woman.

  “Man, if I had to take a wild guess, I’d say this crime was premeditated. She’s got visual aids and everything,” said Danish.

  “So, Philip,” Suzanne was saying, “what’s the difference between these two photographs? Answer carefully, now.”

  “I’ve never seen that woman in my life!” said Philip.

  “That wasn’t the question, Philip! Keep up! What. Is. The. Difference. Between. These. Two. Photographs?”

  Nina and Danish both leaned forward a bit and squinted to get a better look at the photos. From where Nina stood, they looked identical.

  “I don’t know, you maniac,” said Philip. “They’re exactly the same!”

  Suzanne blew a raspberry. “Come on now, Philip. This is Sesame Street stuff. A preschooler could do this! Hairdo. HAIR. DO. In the second photo, she’s had her hair done!”

  Suzanne traced swooping lines through the woman’s hair with the pointer.

  “Highlights. Blonde here. Auburn here and here. Two hours in a salon and at least a hundred dollars. All the time and money I wasted on trying to look nice for you. You never even noticed! Doofus.”

  She dropped the pointer and started pacing the room again.

  “Zero points for that round. Let’s move on. Now, here’s an oldie but goodie. I’ll give you a hypothetical scenario, and you give me the correct response. Question one. A husband and wife are in the kitchen of their rented house in Middle of Nowhere, USA, where the husband has moved them after being run out of his department for what he told her—and she believed, fool—were fabricated charges of sexual harassment. They only have the one car, so the wife, who gave up her job to stand by her man, is now stuck in the suburbs all day, alone. As she loads the last dirty dish into the dishwasher, she says to him, ‘Would you like to go see a movie tonight?’ Now, what is the correct response?”

  “She is crazy!” whispered Danish. “How could he possibly answer that right without knowi
ng what’s playing?”

  “That was always the problem with you, Suzanne!” Philip shouted from the sofa. “That’s the problem with women, period. All the mind games. You all become so bitter, so fast! If you want to go to the movies, why don’t you just say, ‘Let’s go to the movies,’ instead of giving me a pop quiz on the murky contents of your pretty little head?”

  “Oh boy,” said Nina.

  “Wrong answer!” snapped Suzanne, striding toward him with the gun pointed straight at his forehead.

  When it was two inches from him, she leaned down until her face was close to his. He sat absolutely still, his eyes crossed as he stared at the barrel of the gun. Then she said in almost a whisper, “Here’s an easy one, sport. Are women really that complicated, or are some men just deliberately obtuse?”

  She stepped back abruptly and started pacing again.

  “Never mind. No longer interested,” she said in a brisk, businesslike tone.

  She stopped and looked at him and then shook her head slowly, with exaggerated fake concern.

  “I’ve got to say, Philip, that you are not doing as well as I might have hoped.”

  Suzanne circled around the room again and stopped in front of a side table where she plucked up a cloth napkin to reveal an open bottle of red wine. She poured a generous glassful and took a drink, keeping her eyes and the gun trained on Philip. He watched her warily from the couch.

  “Mmm. So nice of you to bring a bottle for dinner, Philip. It’s divine. The 2006 Screaming Eagle cabernet sauvignon. The same vintage you ordered that night you took me out to dinner in Boston, remember? Back in the good old days, before you ruined my whole life!” she said.

  “What?” squeaked Philip. “Is that mine? Where did you get that? It cost a fortune!”

  “Oh, come on, Philip. It wasn’t a fortune. It was less than the diamond ring you bought that tart you left me for.” She took another sip and started pacing again.