by David Daniel
The response puzzled me. I was thinking of Paula Jensen’s depiction of her ex-husband, and the ideas didn’t jibe. “Is there reason to expect he would make trouble?”
Delcastro sipped his coffee, maybe debating how much to tell. “He was okay in his time. Brain boy, science-fair type. He did have at least one brush with this department.”
I waited.
“Trespassing, I think.”
“Arrested?”
“I’m not even sure. It was ages ago. But my coffee’s going cold, and so is this conversation. Anything else you wanted?”
“I just wanted to check in.”
We eyed each other a moment, cop to cop, then we both stood. He waved me over to the big window. He nodded at the old slate headstones at one corner of the green. “Those are the original English settlers of Standish … they date from the sixteen hundreds. My own people were here a hundred years later—Portuguese whalers. Now we’ve got new blood, too. I like this place. It’s a community that works. Open-town-meeting government, good people.”
I waited for the pitch, but he’d evidently made it. “Well, you’ve checked in. Take a look around and then go tell the kid’s mother the offer remains open. I still like the logical explanation that the pair are together and will turn up in a day or so. But any official request, I’ll take it dead serious.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“But I don’t want funny going on in my town, you follow me?”
“No funny,” I said. He accompanied me to his door. “I would like to drive out to the beach house that Nickerson’s renting. I have the address.”
“Ferry,” he called.
The blond crew-cut coffee gofer hopped up.
“Let Mr. Rasmussen here follow you out to Cliff Beach.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said.
“Yeah, it is,” Delcastro said. “I don’t have all day to draw you a map, or come haul you out of the sand if your Probe gets stuck.”
“Ouch.”
4
“Did I come up clean?” I said to officer Ferry as we walked outside together.
“Sorry?”
“On your computer.” Delcastro had obviously given him my P.I. license number to run.
“Yes, sir. It’s a small town. The chief likes to keep track of things.”
I said I understood, and he seemed relieved. He was a good-looking youth, neatly attired in his uniform, which was maybe a tad busier with paraphernalia than it needed to be, but he wore it well, along with the faint scent of English Leather. I said if he was coming back this way, why didn’t I ride along with him, and he said fine.
The cruiser was one of the Crown Vics, loaded with electronic gear and still wearing the new-car smell that’s not supposed to be that healthy. The Lowell cruisers were just as carcinogenic, though with cigarette smoke and funk. Outside the town center the road wound past a couple of take-out seafood places, a package store, a small market, a florist and a movie house named the Strand. “I bet you kissed your share of young ladies in the balcony there,” I said.
Ferry blushed again.
“This is nice. It’s quiet here, I imagine. Crime wise.”
“It is, but it’s changing. Like everywhere.”
I envisioned a rash of magazine thefts from doctors’ waiting rooms. He said, “Just last week someone rifled all the machines over at the Wash Tub coin-op laundry. And we’ve had reports of Ecstasy being used out at the Beachcomber.”
“What about kidnapping?”
Ferry’s head swiveled around fast, his expression shocked. “No.”
“Just raising an ugly specter,” I said. I let the image fade away in silence, then said, “Chief Delcastro is a friendly fellow.”
“Yes, sir. He’s a pro.”
I guess they’d quit teaching irony in high school. Possibly you didn’t need it to get along in quaint towns, or maybe Delcastro was only that way with me.
“His family goes way back in town here. He’s the only one who wasn’t a fisherman. He’s been on the job awhile. Me, this is my second summer. I’m still in college.”
“Criminal justice?”
“Yes, sir, but I’ve got plenty to learn.”
I liked the fact that he recognized it; it was the beginning of wisdom. Too many wannabes, jazzed up on TV cop shows, thought they knew it all, and when the pressure came down, they squawked and ran. There was no cutting to a beer commercial in a real crisis. Though maybe young Ferry would never have to find out. I said, “Do you know Ben Nickerson?”
“No, sir. Who is he?”
“A fellow who used to live here. I’m trying to locate him and his teenage daughter.” I gave him the abridged version of my quest. He listened, nodding. The Ford had the big Interceptor package, and I kept waiting for him to put the pedal down now that we’d reached an empty coast road, but he drove as cautiously as a library trustee. We passed a stretch of small weathered houses and then salt marsh. Delcastro hadn’t been kidding about finding the beach. To the left, beyond a sagging wind fence, lay a small rocky cove. Out by the point stood homes bigger than what we’d seen. On the sandy shoulder sat a handful of cars and vans. I could see several dark forms in the water, and for a moment I thought they were seals, then I realized they were people in wet suits sitting on surfboards.
“Soakers,” Ferry said.
“I haven’t shot a curl in a long time—not ever, for that matter. Translation?”
“There’s a break off the point out there where the locals hang. If the wind and tide are right, it’ll sometimes be three feet. Mostly though, it’s mush, but surfers are optimists—the only people I know who pray for rough weather.”
Just then, one of the prayerful broke from the throng and started to paddle ahead of a coming wave. Ferry slowed the car to a stop. The surfer dug hard for a moment, then, in one fluid motion, he was up. He wasn’t in a wet suit like the others: he was wearing a T-shirt and cutoff jeans, his hair flying like a damp rag as he gained speed—but he was the only one riding. The direct distance to the shore wasn’t long—maybe forty yards—and the wave wasn’t that big, but the surfer broke to the left on a sharp angle and worked the wave, cutting back and forth in a zigzag motion. He finished in a froth of white water a few yards from the rocky shore. Ferry gave a low whistle. “It figures,” he said. “Red Dog.”
“A friend of yours?”
“No, sir, but he’s the man. If a duck took off from a millpond, he could catch a curl off the ripples. Give him something decent, he shreds.” There was a note of grudging admiration in his voice as he put the Ford in gear.
We meandered for a bit, the sea cut off from view by grassy dunes, then the road looped, and there was a stretch of five homes along a secluded beach. They sat atop thick pilings that rose from the sand and held the houses aloft, presumably above the menace of storm surge. Ferry drew the cruiser into the parking area behind the second house down. I got out, broken clamshells crunching under my feet. A realtor’s rental sign stood among the patch of beach roses that flanked the walkway to the door. A thin crust of sand had drifted across the path and was combed in windrows. I went up three wooden steps to the door and knocked. When I got no answer, I put my hands to one of the sidelight panels and peered in, but curtains made it hard to see much. I walked around the side and gazed at the ocean. Above the strip of sandy beach, seagulls were giving full voice to their evident approval of life in Standish.
I went down the steps to the deck. As I was about to climb, I was startled to see a man standing on the beach twenty feet below, peering up at me. In the sunlight, his hair looked on fire. He started up the beach toward me.
“Hi, there,” he said, stepping into the deck shadow.
“Hi.” It wasn’t Ben Nickerson. Out of the sun, the man’s hair was a froth of white curls. He was on the short side, five-six or so, wiry, with a tanned, good-looking face and sunglasses. He wore deck shoes and summer slacks and a blue oxford shirt with a little embroidered emblem on the breas
t pocket that looked like a row of pine trees.
“I’m Ted Rand.” He motioned with his head. “The last house down is mine.”
I introduced myself, and we shook hands. “Welcome to God’s little acre, Alex.” His smile was warm, and amiable wrinkles fanned around his sunglasses. “I’m just out for a constitutional. I didn’t know today was the changing of the guard. Saturday’s usually the day new folks come.”
“Actually, I’m looking for the people who’ve rented the place this week.”
“Ben Nickerson?”
“You know Ben?”
“Well, from years ago, when he wasn’t much bigger than this.” He held a palm waist high. “He grew up here. He’s been living out on the other coast. Traitor.” He chuckled. “Ben’s done well, I gather.”
“He’s a marine biologist,” I said, wanting to establish that I was legit by being in the know. “Has he been around?”
“I saw Ben just once, to say hi to. In town. I’ve hoped to get by for a chat and a beer, but it’s a busy season. I’m not out here much. You a friend?”
“I know his former wife,” I said and let it go at that; I didn’t see a point in broadcasting my business too widely yet. “Was he with anyone when you saw him?”
“I thought so, but I’m not sure.”
“Do you recall what day that was?”
Rand removed his sunglasses and let them dangle on a neck strap. His eyes were bright and blue, nested under thick eyebrows. “It must’ve been the day he arrived. Saturday, I think, yes. Are you staying in town?”
“No, I just stopped by to see if he was here.” I didn’t know if Rand had spotted the police cruiser out front.
“Well, if you see Ben, you give him my best … Alex, right? I may get by for that beer yet.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “And you enjoy your visit.” He put on his sunglasses and set off down the beach with a perky stride.
I went around to the street side where Officer Ferry was standing by his car, his face tipped toward the sun. People here seemed to use the sun like a battery, to recharge themselves. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Just trying to get the lay of things.”
I copied the real estate agency’s name into my notebook and then wrote, “Please call me” on the back of one of my cards and pushed it under the front door. When we were in the car, I said, “I ran into a fellow on the beach. Ted Rand?”
“Ah, right. He owns one of the houses along here. Mr. Rand’s a big wheel in Standish. Awfully nice fellow.”
Back in the center, Ferry dropped me at my car. “Good luck, sir,” he called. Perhaps it was my imagination, but as he rolled off, I thought he was memorizing me in his rearview mirror—maybe to run in his database.
I checked the local phone book on the chance that Nickerson had family in the area, but there were no listings. I tried directory assistance and learned the same thing. I walked over to the waterfront. By asking, I learned there were two local shops that ran fishing charters for day parties and a third place that rented boats. I checked all three, showing the more recent of the two photographs Paula Jensen had lent me. No one knew or had seen Ben and Michelle Nickerson. I picked up a copy of the local paper, a weekly with yesterday’s date, and paged through it while I sat on a bench overlooking the harbor. I learned that there was a franks ’n’ bean supper planned for the upcoming Saturday night, that the Masque Players were performing Spoon River Anthology at the Unitarian church parish hall and that Annabelle Potter was recovering nicely, thank you, after an emergency appendectomy. The big story was that the Point Pines eighteen-hole golf course and luxury homes development was on schedule. My last stop was the real estate office.
A suntanned man in a madras plaid sports coat and an elaborate comb-over was talking on the phone. He glanced up as I entered. “You’re kidding,” he said quietly, eyeing me without acknowledgment before going back into his dimension. “You are kidding.” It was his part in the conversation, every ten seconds or so. I looked around.
The walls displayed photos of local sale properties. The lowest home price I could see was close to half a million dollars, and not much house at that. On a table along one wall was a scale model of the development project that I’d just read about, Point Pines. It ran along an outlying neck of ocean-front land. For the houses directly on either the ocean or the golf greens, the price tags had plenty of zeroes. It didn’t seem hard for a realtor with hustle to make the Zillion Dollar Club in this town.
“You’re kidding,” the man in plaid said again. Finally he got to say, “That crumb. Well, let me know.” He unglued the phone from his ear and hung up. He shook his head a moment, then looked my way. “Help you?”
“I’m interested in a rental place out at Cliff Beach.”
“For next year?” He fingered his scalp gingerly, checking on his carefully lacquered do, and walked over.
“I want to talk about this year.”
He drew air through his teeth. “Whoo. You’re kind of late. Everything’s long booked. Occasionally there’s a cancellation, but I wouldn’t count on it. You could try the old Cape Way Motor Lodge just outside of town. They usually have vacancies, if you don’t mind Spartan.”
The phone rang, and he excused himself to get it. When he came back, I said, “Actually, I’m interested in one of the houses that’s already been rented. Ben Nickerson and his daughter are staying there.”
The names didn’t shake loose any memories. I told him where the house was, and he nodded. I showed him the photographs of Michelle Nickerson. He said he was sorry but he hadn’t dealt with that rental. The telephone interrupted us again. Why is it they never answer the phone till you go there in person, and then they don’t stop answering? He returned with his undivided attention. “Rentals, you were saying. Mitzi Dineen is the one to talk to. She’s our rental superstar.”
“Is she in?”
He squinted toward a magnetic board beyond the desks, where little metal squares bore people’s names—Megan, Mitzi, Rosemary and Andy—and an hour-by-hour time line on one side. Using my detecting skills I judged this fellow to be Andy. Bingo. “Andy Royce,” he revealed. “Commercial solutions are my bailiwick. Mitzi’s out with a client now, due back at three-thirty. Can I have her call you?”
“I’ll try again.” I took a card and thanked him. I gestured toward the scale-model homes on the golf course. “That’s quite an operation.”
“Right out on Shawmut Point. Phase-one homes are due for completion in a few weeks,” he said politely. Having sized me up already, he didn’t waste his time trying to pitch a sale. “Have a splendid day.”
5
It was going on 6 P.M. when I got back to Apple Valley and shook the traffic tension from my limbs. I found Paula Jensen on her patio again, grilling a medley of summer vegetables this time. Her light brown hair was combed out now, hanging full to her shoulders. Her surface was backyard casual, but her movements were tense, and I sensed she was holding on, damming back her anxieties about her daughter. She was glad to see me. I filled her in on what I’d learned.
“It’s true,” she admitted. “Chief Delcastro did say I could fill out a missing persons report, but he certainly didn’t encourage it. He said not much time has gone by and that since there’s no reason to think Michelle was abducted, it made sense to wait. I think he’s convinced I’m overreacting. Maybe I am. She’s under no requirement to check in with me every day. Still …”
“Delcastro said your ex had a scrape down there when he was growing up.”
She frowned. “Ben did?”
“That’s what he said. Trespassing.”
“I never heard anything about that.”
What had Delcastro called Nickerson? Brain Boy? “Has your ex-husband been in any trouble lately? Or ever?”
“Trouble? No.” She sounded slightly defensive, as if she took it as an attack on her taste in men—or maybe it made her that much more edgy about her daughter’s absence. “What kind of trouble?”
&nbs
p; “Any kind. I’m just fishing.”
“No. He’s a respectable businessman.”
“I thought he was a biologist?”
“That’s the business. He supplies marine specimens to research labs. I helped him get it started, back when we were married. He’s built it up over the years. He’s got clients across the country.”
“When is your daughter due back officially?”
“So you’re taking the police chief’s view?”
“I’m casting my bread upon the waters. It’s supposed to be why you hired me.”
She sighed. “Sorry. Shel is due back Saturday. I hoped she’d have called today. I did try her several times while you were gone. Though, to tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit relieved. At least there isn’t some obvious problem, or you’d have heard. Wouldn’t you?”
“It is a pretty small town.”
“I’m still hoping this is just a dumb mix-up. I pray it is.”
We went into the kitchen, where she poured us some lemonade into tall glasses. A salmon steak was marinating in a dish on the center island. I wondered if her husband was still at the Sox game. I’d caught a couple of innings on my way back, until the roof dropped on the starter and they were burning through their bullpen almost as fast as the government was using up Social Security. I sat on a stool. “How did you and your ex meet?” I asked.
“I was a college sophomore at the time, undecided about a major, though I was considering nursing. In my family, you became a teacher, a nurse, or a nun. Nun was out.” She grinned and promptly blushed. “I was taking a bio course to fulfill a requirement. One day the instructor crammed the class into cars for a field trip. Groan. My idea of wildlife was ‘Where’s the party?’ I rode in this old van with the lab assistant, but when we got there, a marsh someplace north of Boston, and he had waded into it, his excitement was so … out there. He was like a kid sharing his birthday toys. I actually got enthusiastic about bio. At semester’s end I’d earned a decent grade and got a request from the lab assistant for a date.”
