Goofy Foot

by David Daniel

  “Never met him. I’m trying to locate him—or his daughter, actually. I’m a private investigator.”

  Her smooth brow got a nick of concern. “He done anything wrong?”

  “Not that I know of. His ex-wife just hasn’t heard from her daughter or him in a few days.”

  Jillian looked downcast. “I haven’t either. I was hoping I would.”

  “Did the two of you toke up together?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You think I smoke dope?”

  “And I think you’re being careless about it, leaving roaches in people’s ashtrays.”

  “That could be anyone’s.”

  “With purple lipstick on it?”

  She drew her lips in as if she wanted to nibble away incriminating evidence. “You hit low. I suppose you never smoked a joint.”

  “No, never. Nor have I ever had a hangover, lied about my age, or read Playboy for anything but the articles. Look, personally, Jillian, I don’t care. What people do at home is their business. Pot isn’t a killer drug, but I have a hunch the cops here will take you down just as hard. Was the weed his or yours?”

  She was silent a moment. “Mine. We smoked half a joint. Big deal. Next time I’ll be sure to eat the roach, like some sad old hippie.”

  I smiled. “You’ll never be that.”

  “Okay, you said his daughter, but why you interested in him?”

  “His daughter was supposedly staying with him, and as I said, her mom’s worried. Her name’s Michelle.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know a thing.”

  “Why the first note on my car?”

  “Guess.”

  “You want to see him again, so you came by the house.”

  “I knocked on the door, but no one seemed to be there.” Probably when I was over yakking with old Mrs. Rand about kidney stones. Jillian sighed and checked the mirror for her image. “This shade is called Paradise Plum, by the way. You like it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” She adjusted the mirror.

  “Did you see what kind of car Nickerson was driving?”

  “A blue Jeep, California plates. That’s why when I saw your car there, I wasn’t sure, so I just left that little smiley face. But that’s all I would’ve done. I’m not like that woman in that movie who stalks the guy with a knife. He has my phone number, so if he wants, he can call. When I overheard you asking about him at the sports store, I thought maybe you knew him.” She nibbled her lip again. “I guess I was hoping it wasn’t gonna be just a one-night stand.”

  I felt no pang of prejudice at seeing Jillian—or Caroline—as one of those young women for whom a broken nail was a whole other order of tragedy from twenty thousand souls lost in a China typhoon. I could picture her at a stoplight: brush of hair, dab of lip gloss, then zooming off to her own hyper soundtrack, eager to be someplace, but it was never here, never now. And yet there was a quality about her I liked. How many men had promised to call? She’d met someone she liked, and she was willing to risk a little vulnerability to let him know. And she’d thought enough to contact me. But why? Only to ask about Nickerson? Or was there something she wanted to tell me? Before I could frame words to find out, she pushed open the door and got out. I followed.

  In front of the cars was a low white guardrail fence that separated the parking area from the cliff. She walked along beside the rail to where it ended near thick bushes. On the other side there was a path worn in the short grass that traced the top of the cliff behind the lighthouse. Below, the water whispered against rocks. She set off along it. I caught up, not hard to do trailing a woman in heels. She stopped and turned abruptly, as if she hadn’t intended for me to be still there. “Damn it, what do you want from me? You want to know if we got it on? Whether I left lipstick on his body, too?”

  The outburst surprised both of us. She looked pained, embarrassed. “No, that stuff is your business,” I said, “not mine. I gather that you liked him.”

  “I didn’t get to know him too well, but he seemed like a nice guy. Decent … and smart. I saw that right away when we first talked. It’s why I was willing to go with him.”

  Her words had to compete with the swishing of waves on the rocks below, and the wind was blowing her hair awry. She asked if we could go back. In the Daytona, she reached for the CD player, thought better of it, and sat back. “When we were at the beach house, I was in the bathroom at one point, and the phone rang. He took it and went out on the deck. He shut the slider door, but the bathroom window was open. I overheard some of what he was saying. He was pretty upset. It was after that I said I should maybe leave. But he said no, he just needed to relax. I said did he want a back rub—you know, to relax him. We went to bed.”

  I didn’t need the details. It made the world go round, sure; but we had to walk upright in that world, too. “Did he say what had upset him?”

  “No, and I didn’t hear the other side of the talk, obviously, but it sounded like it was maybe a business deal. He kept saying, ‘That wasn’t the arrangement.’ Something like that.”

  “‘Arrangement’ could mean other things, too, no?” I found myself thinking about a domestic arrangement. “Could you tell if the speaker was a man or a woman?”

  “No. All I know is he seemed angry and a little … spooked.”

  “Scared?”

  “Just a feeling I got. Anyway, he made plans to meet.”

  “Meet the person he was talking to?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “No. He mentioned the beach.”

  “To meet?”

  “Seemed like it. He said ‘surf’?”

  “Was anyone else mentioned?”

  She hesitated. “I … don’t know.”

  I had the idea that she might. “Any names at all?”

  “No, not that I heard. Anyway, after that’s when he said he was uptight. I brought out my stash.”

  “And you both lit up?”

  “Yeah. Wait. I didn’t have any matches—well, I did, I mean, but I collect matchbooks, kind of a hobby, but they have to be like virgin, no matches gone. So I looked in a drawer, and I see a gun in there. That shook me.”

  “A handgun?”

  “Yeah. In the kitchen counter, by the stove.”

  “Did he take the gun out?”

  “He didn’t have to. A person you’ve only just met and he’s got a gun there … that’s a little random.”

  “Did he seem scary to you?”

  “No, that’s just it—he was nice. Personal. Personable.”

  “And you didn’t stay all night?”

  “Uh-uh. He said he had to go out later.”

  “For his meeting?”

  “Sounded that way. I left just before midnight.”

  “Did he mention his daughter at all? Or his ex-wife?”

  “You keep asking me that. No. Now—I’m going to cultivate the art of silence.”

  I thanked her and opened the door and stepped out. She leaned toward me. “Look, this won’t get … back to Ben, will it? Or anyone else?”

  “Like who?”

  “I just mean … can you keep my name out of it?”

  “I promise. Speaking of which, is it Jillian or Caroline?”

  “It’s both.”

  Farther down the row of parked cars, a motor started. A van, I saw. She noticed it, too, and watched the van a moment, but it was soon gone. She checked herself in the mirror, patting her hair, then tossed me a jaunty little wave. The music came like offshore blasting. Seconds later she was slinging gravel as she swerved out onto the paved coast road. Even after her taillights had gone from sight, I still rocked in her wake.

  10

  I found a quick mart and bought a few provisions for the morning. Back at the house I put the groceries away, except for a bottle of tonic water, a lime, and a pint of Beefeater. I needed to do some thinking. I got a good-sized glass from a cupboard and fisted in some ice cubes. As I was cutting
the lime, there was a rap on the screen door. Out past where moths were swarming the deck light, Ted Rand raised a hand in greeting. “I saw your light. I hope I’m not interrupting you?”

  “Only if you’re from the temperance union. I was just about to fix a drink. Join me?”

  He waved at the moths, slid open the screen and stepped in. I’d lost track of the time. The kitchen wall clock showed it was almost ten. Rand was wearing a Dartmouth sweatshirt and a pair of orange swim trunks, a white towel slung around his neck. With his deep tan and white hair, he looked like an old lifeguard.

  “I was just over checking on my mother.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s got a bunch of things wrong, none serious enough to kill her. She’ll outlive me for spite. I heard you were looking for me earlier.” Rand must’ve read my surprise, because he laughed. “No, my mother didn’t remember, but it’s a small town.”

  “Actually, that’s the reason I was looking for you, hoping you might be able to shed some light on Ben Nickerson’s visit to Standish. I didn’t mention it yesterday, but I’m a private investigator.”

  “I heard that, too. And the answer is, certainly. If I can help, I’m glad to. What’s up?”

  “Gin and tonic okay?”

  “I’ll pass. I’ve got something else in mind.” His blue eyes twinkled. Was he a closet doper? “It’s Mr. Rasmussen—have I got that right?”

  “Alex is fine.”

  He crooked a finger. “Come with me, Alex.”

  I followed him out and down the steps to the sand, away from the house. Over the ocean, the moon was a half-shut eye. Picking up its glow, tiny waves lapped the beach. “Isn’t that pretty?” he said. “It’s like a golden road to somewhere.”

  “It is pretty,” I agreed.

  “Let’s swim.”

  “Now?”

  “There’s nothing more refreshing. The tide’s about to turn, and there’ll be fog later.”

  “I’m not much of a swimmer.”

  “The sea will take care of you. It’s the mother of us all.”

  “Then my excuse is I haven’t got a swimsuit.”

  Rand’s shoulders bobbed with a silent laugh. He stretched out a hand. “‘The Sea of Faith was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.’” He looked at me. “Know it?”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Listen. ‘But now I only hear its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, retreating, to the breath of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world.’” He paused, giving me another chance. “Matthew Arnold. ‘Dover Beach.’”

  “Off by only a few centuries,” I said.

  “You’re an educated man, Mr. Rasmussen. Alex. I had a feeling an investigator would have to be. Most folks wouldn’t have a clue. Do you remember how the poem ends?”

  “Let’s go back to the part about me being an educated man and leave it there.”

  He laughed. “What did you want my help with?”

  “I’ve got some information that Ben Nickerson may have been working on a business deal in town. You seem to be the local burgomaster. Any idea what he might have been up to? Or with whom?”

  “Well, I’m flattered you consider me a credible source. Burgomaster, huh? And here I’ve been thinking I was just a bumpkin.” His smile lingered a moment, then his expression grew serious. “A business deal. Hmm. Here in town?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Rand tipped his head in a gesture that said he wished he could be more helpful. “I saw him only once, and he didn’t say much. Though that doesn’t mean you’re not right. There’s opportunity in Standish. Have you spoken with Vin Delcastro?”

  “Briefly, yes.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly keep my ears open.”

  “Nickerson evidently had a surfboard made here for his daughter.”

  “And you’re coming to me to get information?” Rand chuckled. “You seem to know more about our little town’s goings-on than I do. Sorry I don’t have much to offer. I keep myself pretty buried in my project.” He gestured toward the dark sweep of Shawmut Point off to the left. “That’s all mine,” he said, with a note of half-surprise. “Not literally. Some of it is. But I possess it in my imagination. I’ve envisioned what it can become and have taken steps to make it happen.”

  “I heard something about it. Point Pines, right?” He glanced my way. I lifted a shoulder. “As you say, it’s a small town.”

  “Understand that not everyone is happy with the idea. I’d like them to be, of course. I try to spread things about and make it good for all. I can’t worry too much about folks who choose not to see it that way. There’ll be some attempts to block me. Obscure zoning laws or EPA rules no one ever noticed before will come up, but I’m prepared for that. You see, I’ve got a vision for Standish.” He gave a low laugh. “I didn’t come by to bend your ear.”

  “Then we’re even,” I said.

  “Well, it’s getting a bit late for a swim. The fog is on the move.” Sure enough, the bank that had shimmered on the horizon earlier had drifted closer to land. “And you don’t want to be out there in the fog,” he said. “It invites monsters.” He laughed.

  “The bar’s still open.”

  He said he had to get back home; he lived on the other end of town and was an early-to-bed-early-to-rise type. “Next time,” he promised. “We’ll swim and then have a drink. My treat.” He started away, then stopped and came back. “In fact, I’m having a little soiree at my house tomorrow night. Kind of a meet-and-greet for some of the wash-ashores who’ve bought homes in the phase one of Point Pines, plus a few town folk. Why don’t you come? It’ll give you a chance to meet some people.”

  “No poetry quiz?”

  His shoulders bounced with silent laughter again. “I can’t promise that, but it will be fun.”

  I said I’d be glad to come, and he gave me directions. “Anytime after nine. Bring swim trunks.”

  Inside, I completed my bartending chores and then sat in the semidarkness, sipping the drink and allowing my mind a slow access to the events of the day. So far, I knew that Ben Nickerson had ordered a surfboard prior to coming east, probably as a gift for his daughter, but he hadn’t picked it up yet. What he had picked up was Jillian, or Caroline, depending on who was talking; and she had left by midnight. I also knew that Michelle Nickerson hadn’t been in evidence at the beach house that night. Ben had argued on the phone with someone. Who? Remembering something, I checked the top drawer in the counter by the stove and then the other drawers. No gun. So that’s what I had: details that, thus far, netted out to zero.

  In sports, people talk about impact players, athletes who can enter a game when the chips are down and make things happen. That’s what I was supposed to be. Impact Investigator. I added that to a mental list of possible ad copy to run by Fred Meecham if I ever decided to take his counsel and shill my wares. I checked my answering service, hoping that Sergeant Ed St. Onge had called. He hadn’t.

  I looked at my watch. Ten-twenty. I rinsed my glass, got my keys and headed for the car. By Ted Rand’s measure it might be late, but I had to figure that young folks on summer vacation used a different clock.

  11

  The Beachcomber was a mile south of the town center. When the kids playing Haki Sack on the common had told me that it was a twenty-one-and-under place, with soft drinks and sandwiches and live bands, I was having a hard time imagining it, but I thought it was worth a look. The parking lot was full of cars, including a Standish prowl car. Sitting at the wheel was the same shaggy-haired officer I’d seen in town with Chief Delcastro that afternoon, with the mirror sunglasses. He still wore them at 10:45 P.M. It’s possible he was snoozing behind them, but in case he wasn’t, I parked where he wouldn’t notice me and got out. Muted music and the crickets mingled in the salt-fragrant air.

  I moseyed up to the door. I might have been a parent looking for a tardy teen. In fact, I’d mo
re or less decided on some sort of cover—friend of the family, who were away for a few days and asked me to check in with their daughter—but I’d wing it. Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I went inside. I needn’t have worried. The doorman stamped my hand without a second look.

  But any idea of wandering around bracing people about whether or not they had seen Michelle Nickerson was out. The place was so crowded and humid with bodies and smoke, I could barely see or move. On a low stage three guitar players had their amps cranked up full. The audience seemed happy enough, though. In front, lots of kids were thrashing around in jerky movements, which were to dancing what the noise coming from the stage was to music. I made my way to the bar, where several college-age youth were fetching sodas and working an exotic espresso machine. After several attempts, I made one of the youths understand that I wanted information, not caffeine. He looked at the photograph of Michelle Nickerson and then at me, and I think he had the idea I was looking to pick her up. He shook his head. I tried several other people, but got the same response. Finally, with no new information to go with my ringing ears, I went outside.

  In the parking lot, a broad fellow with longish hair and wearing a Hawaiian shirt and jeans was leaning against an old pickup truck moored alongside my car. He was older than any of the people inside, though not yet my age. He listened to my canned intro and took the photograph. Clamping a cigarette in his lips, he held the photograph at a distance, squinting against the smoke, as if attempting to draw a bead. “I think I saw her once.”

  “When?”

  “I’m trying to recall.”

  He seemed a little spaced. “Recently?”

  “Yeah. Not here, though. This isn’t my scene.” He made a brief effort to remember, then shook his head and handed the photograph back. “Who is she, anyway?”

  “Her name is Michelle Nickerson.”

  He straightened up and waved his fingers in a “gimme” gesture. He gave the photo another look. “Is this Ben Nickerson’s girl?”