Greely's Cove

by Gideon, John

  If she’s in trouble! thought Stu. Cops have to say the goddamnedest things, and oh, how he hated this job.

  “My mother will be here with Amber,” said Sandy, sniffling. “I’ll ask her to mind the phone.”

  Stu then addressed the hushed gathering in the living room, asking for able-bodied volunteers to help with the search, a drill that most of those present were well accustomed to, having gone through it eight times before. “We’re forming up in the parking lot of the Old Schooner, and we’ll be kicking it off in about ten minutes. Any help would be much appreciated.”

  The dozen or so men in the room, and a few of the younger women, headed for the door, following Ken and Sandy Zolten out through the covered porch, down the walk flanked by naked rosebushes, through the alley to the parking lot of the motel, where they melted into a crowd of forty or fifty private citizens who had already gathered to search for little Teri.

  Carl Trosper entered the covered drive of the Old Schooner Motel and passed by the front entrance. Lowing crowd noises had reached his ears while he was still a hundred yards down the block, and curiosity now drew him around the corner of the building to the parking lot in the rear.

  Scores of people were standing in the hazy rain, knotted in small groups around uniformed police officers. Parked on the periphery of the crowd were a pair of GCPD cruisers and a unit of the county sheriff’s department, their blue beacons spinning and pulsing, their radios crackling now and again with scratchy police voices. As Carl watched, a white Washington State Patrol car glided into the lot, with a dour, Smokey-hatted trooper behind the wheel. The trooper parked, got out, and joined the throng that milled around Carl’s old friend, Stu Bromton, who had just raised a bullhorn to his lips.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please?” His amplified voice seared the quiet of the morning and reverberated off the low walls of Frontage Street. “We’re going to divide the search party into four groups.” And he briefly outlined the strategy: two groups on either side of Bond Road, heading both north and south, combing the ditches on both sides before moving deeper into the woods to reverse directions for another sweep, then yet another, and so on. A member of the police department or the sheriff’s office would lead each group.

  “Just one word of caution,” added the chief. “We’ve cordoned off the area immediately around the car that we assume Teri Zolten was driving. Please do not intrude into that cordoned area. There may be evidence on the ground, and we don’t want it disturbed, thank you. Now let’s move out.”

  The crowd then headed for the street, a shambling army of somber faces under wet-weather gear, and started climbing into cars for the short trip north on Bond Road. Carl stood on the edge of the human stream and watched the faces flow doggedly by. Many were familiar, though no one seemed to recognize him. Sandy Zolten was there, of course, arm-in-arm with a man Carl assumed was her husband. There was old Dale Noggle, a town fixture who had been ancient and retired even when Carl was a lad. And Sig Knutson, Carl’s former Little League coach. Many more.

  Carl felt a chill creep down his back. Familiar as the faces were, they seemed different somehow, marked in a way that mere years could not accomplish. These were faces of a people in bondage, faces contorted and worn by fear. Their eyes had an unnaturally sharp look of great suffering. Carl shuddered as he remembered a photograph he’d once seen in a collection on World War II. An Allied soldier had snapped it outside the barbed wire at Dachau. Clustered inside the wire were half a dozen inmates, their faces hideously ravaged by starvation and disease, their twiglike fingers hooked between the barbs. Their desperate eyes smoldered with the look that Carl was seeing today.

  A hand on his shoulder made Carl flinch, and he swung around to come face-to-face with Stu, a human mountain in a damp police jacket. They stood still a moment, eyes locked, mouths frozen in sad smiles, before bear-hugging and clapping each other on the backs. “Hippo, God damn it, it’s good to see you!” said Carl when they broke. “How the hell have you been?”

  The police chief tried vainly to force a scowl into his smile, and he balled a fist, which he positioned under Carl’s chin. “Hippo! I oughtta bust your melon, you little maggot! I thought I’d finally lived that nickname down. How old were we when you tagged me with it, anyway?”

  “It wasn’t me. It was Dawkins, remember?”

  Stu put a massive hand on Carl’s shoulder and shook him good-naturedly. “Yeah, I guess I do at that. Renzy gave everybody nicknames, but he never had one himself. Yours was the Bushman, as I recall—I can’t really remember the significance of it.”

  “You don’t want to know, believe me.”

  “Anyway, you’re probably the only one in the world who can call me Hippo now and live to see the sun come up. Welcome back to Greely’s Cove.”

  “It’s good to be back,” said Carl. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  Stu Bromton’s smile fell away, and his eyes darkened with that Dachau look. “Carl, I’m sorry I didn’t call you personally about Lorna. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the one to lay that on you. I hope you don’t—”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it. I understand. The coroner was very nice about it.”

  Another car from the Greely’s Cove Police Department arrived, this one driven by the young cop whom Carl had seen in The Coffee Shoppe, the one who had told the waitress about Teri Zolten. Officer Dean Hauck got out, bearing two Styrofoam cups full of coffee. He walked over, handed one to Stu, and sipped the other.

  After prying the plastic lid off the cup and whiffing the steam, Stu asked, “Is this from the station?”

  “Negative, Chief,” answered Hauck. “I got it at The Coffee Shoppe. Figured you deserved some of the good stuff, with all the pressure you’re under and all.”

  “Did you find out about the dogs, like I asked?” asked Stu, ignoring Hauck’s brownnosing.

  “Affirmative,” said Hauck, adjusting his mirrored glasses. “I called the Seattle PD, and they said they can have a couple of bloodhounds out here within the hour.”

  “Good. Anything else I should know about?”

  “The county says they’ll send a forensic investigation unit to go over the car, but not until noon. Their main guy was up in Vancouver for the weekend, and he has to drive all the way down.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” lamented Stu, “and in this town we’re definitely beggars. As you can plainly see, the state’s arrived.” He nodded toward the dour Smokey, who stood with a pair of sheriff’s deputies near the middle of the lot. “Why don’t you go over and brief those guys, Dean? I’m going to spend a few minutes with my old buddy here, then I’m going out to the scene. When the press shows up, have them wait at the station, and don’t say anything to them. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Will do, Chief.” Hauck hurried off to join the trooper and the deputies, who stood shmoozing with their thumbs hooked into their woven leather gun belts.

  “So,” said Stu, regarding Carl again, “what brings you out on this damp Sunday morning?”

  “I was having coffee with Lorna’s sister over at The Coffee Shoppe when I heard your man Hauck tell the waitress about Teri. I hotfooted it over here right away, thinking maybe I could help somehow.”

  “That’s decent of you, old stud, but you’ve already got all the trouble one guy needs.”

  “You’re probably right.” Carl smiled feebly, then glanced around the now nearly deserted parking lot. “What the hell do you think happened to her, Stu?”

  The big man removed his visored cap with its plastic rain protector and ran a hand over his bristly scalp, but rain was still falling, so he put it on again.

  “A call came into the station a little after one o’clock this morning,” he said. “Kid who works nights at the ferry terminal up in Kingston, on his way home to the Cove, found a white Toyota abandoned on Bond Road, lights on, motor running. Our dispatch called the county, and they sent a unit up to check it
out. Hell, what are we standing here in the rain for? Let’s go into the lobby and get dry.”

  In the lobby of the Old Schooner they found a pair of vinyl-covered armchairs and a coffee urn. A friend of the Zoltens was minding the counter as the motel’s few guests checked out in dribs and drabs.

  “Anyway,” continued Stu in a low voice, with a cup of fresh coffee warming his hands, “the license number belonged to Mrs. Anita Solheim, a divorcee who lives with her son and daughter here in the Cove. The dispatcher called me, and I called Mrs. Solheim. It seems that her daughter had taken the car up to Kingston last night, where she and a couple of girlfriends were supposed to see a movie and eat a little pizza afterwards. Naturally, Anita was frantic—didn’t even know Leah hadn’t come home yet. Is it any wonder kids get in trouble, when their parents don’t keep any closer tabs than that?” He sipped his coffee. “The other two girls were Gina Walsh and Teri Zolten.”

  “How about Gina and Leah?” asked Carl. “Are they safe?”

  “They’re both home with their families, which may be a minor miracle in itself, considering who they spent most of the night with.” Stu went on to explain that the girls had paired up with two of the town’s most notorious teenaged subhumans, Jason Hagstad and Kirk Tanner, whom police had pulled over on Bond Road for drunken driving later that morning, shortly before dawn. Teri Zolten had not been with them.

  “They’d put down almost a case of beer among them,” said Stu, “and we knew from the paraphernalia we found in Tanner’s car that they’d been doing grass and crack, too. And judging from the wet stains on the seats, they’d been having an orgy that would’ve made Xaviera Hollander envious. They were all so loaded that it’s a wonder they didn’t end up splattered all over the road. We finally got Leah Solheim sober enough to admit that she’d given her mother’s car to Teri after the movie, because Teri wasn’t in the mood to party, or something like that. Teri was supposed to park the car up the block from the Zoltens’ and leave the key in it.”

  “And that’s it? Teri left the Toyota in the middle of Bond Road, engine running and lights on?”

  “That’s it,” confirmed Stu. “Almost.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stu gazed a moment into his coffee cup, inhaling steam, frowning with deep furrows that Carl could not remember him having. Stu Bromton was beginning to look old.

  “I checked out the Toyota myself,” he said finally. “If you can make anything out of this, be sure and let me know: When I opened the door—it was the passenger’s—I was hit with this... this incredible stink. I don’t know how to describe it. It was like something—no, it was worse than a sewer, worse than an open grave. I tell you, it made me want to blow my breakfast. Good thing I hadn’t eaten any.”

  Carl studied the large, freckled face of his friend, then looked away, because it had taken on that haunted look again. “A stink like a sewer or a grave, you say. What could’ve caused it?”

  “You got me by the ass. But there was one other thing: the passenger’s seat. It was all filthy and grimy, almost moldy. Anita Solheim said the car was cleaner than Mother Hubbard’s cupboard when her daughter took it to Kingston, and hell, it’s brand new. Except for the passenger’s seat, there isn’t a spot on it anywhere.”

  “So you’re telling me that whoever got to Teri Zolten, whoever flagged her down and dragged her away—”

  “If that’s in fact what happened. There were no signs of a struggle.”

  “Whoever this was, he was one rotten son of a bitch—and I mean that literally: dirty, smelly, so rank that he leaves a stink in the car that last for hours.”

  “I guess that’s what I’m saying.” Stu clapped his hands on his knees and hoisted himself up, ready to get on with his duties. “Let’s get together real soon, partner. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Carl stood up and shook his outstretched hand. “You said it. In the meantime, could you use another warm body in the search party?”

  “Look, Carl, you’ve got a funeral to take care of, not to mention a son. If you want to know the truth, the search party’s already too big. With all those people stomping around, we’ll probably mess up any evidence that’s out there.”

  “I guess the whole town figures it’s got a stake in this thing, huh?”

  Stu blew a long, grim breath between pursed lips. “Then you’ve heard about what’s been happening over the last eight months—the Mystery of Greely’s Cove. Sounds like a kids’ adventure movie, doesn’t it?”

  “Parental discretion advised on this one, I’d say. I ran into Sandy Zolten last night here in the lobby, and she told me all about it. I—” Carl bit his lower lip and swallowed. “I even met Teri. Maybe that’s why I feel like I have a stake in it, too.”

  “In that case you’re more than welcome to come along. I’ve got an extra pair of overshoes in my cruiser. Let’s go.”

  Just then a flaming-red Jaguar coupe rolled into the drive outside the lobby. The driver’s door flew open, and from behind the wheel bounced a thin, shriveled woman whose perky movements belied her apparent senescence.

  Carl did a double take: The sleek Jaguar XJ-S was grossly out of place in the somber, rain-drenched setting of the Old Schooner, but more so was the outlandish woman with her orange slicker, flashy silk scarves wrapped loosely about her neck, and blond Dolly Parton wig. She made straight for the door of the lobby, wasting not a second, and burst through to confront Stu Bromton head-on.

  “Oh, Stuart, I’m so glad I’ve found you,” she said in a stately British accent. “I’ve been to your station, and your dispatcher informed me that I might find you here. It’s imperative that we talk.”

  Stu shut his eyes a moment and cringed perceptibly. “Hannie, I really would like to talk, but I’m awfully busy right now.”

  “I’m afraid this won’t wait,” she declared, thrusting out her chin. “It concerns the death of my friend, Lorna Trosper.” Carl started at the mention of his dead ex-wife, and the old woman noticed. She turned her turquoise contact lenses upon him and surveyed him, inch by inch, top to bottom. Carl marveled wordlessly at the intricacy of the lines in her face, obscured but not hidden by a thick layer of makeup. Without the elaborate blond wig or the fiery lipstick and cosmetics she would easily have looked a hundred years old, but as it was, she looked eighty. Her voice, while that of an elderly woman, was strong and even.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman,” she said, indicating Carl.

  Stu sighed, “Miss Hannabeth Hazelford, I’d like you to meet Carl Trosper. Carl, this is Hannabeth Hazelford.”

  “Trosper,” said the old woman. “You must be Lorna’s husband.”

  “Ex-husband,” Carl corrected. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Hazelford.”

  She offered him a bony, spotted hand adorned with a huge ring, which he shook ever so gently, for fear of breaking something so old. “Please call me Hannie,” she said. “All my friends do. Your wife and I were quite close, you know. I was privileged to acquire several of her paintings.”

  “Hannie owns the ladies’ store up the block,” said Stu. “She came to town—what? A little over six years ago?”

  “It’s a boutique, actually,” said Hannie, “directly opposite Lorna’s gallery.”

  “Well, I wish we could stand here and chitchat all day,” said Stu, “but I’ve got important business to attend to. What can I do for you, Hannie?”

  “As a friend of Lorna and as a member of the taxpaying public, I’ve taken it upon myself to inquire as to the procedures employed in dealing with her tragic death,” said Hannie in her very British way. “I’m given to believe that you plan no autopsy. Tell me, Stuart, can this really be true?”

  “That’s right. The coroner, the prosecutor, and the medical examiner’s office agree that the cause of death is apparent. No autopsy is necessary.”

  “Dear, dear, I find this troubling indeed. You see, I’ve taken the liberty to research the law in th
is regard. According to Washington State’s criminal code, a suicide by a presumably healthy young adult falls into the realm of ‘suspicious’ death, and the law requires that a medico-legal autopsy be performed in any such instance. But of course you know this, your being the constable and all,”

  “Hannie, I’m a police chief, not a constable,” said Stu, planting his fists on his hips, “and I’m afraid I don’t have time to stand here and argue the fine points of the Washington criminal code with you. What do you want from me?”

  “Merely this, Stuart: As a taxpayer and a friend of Lorna, I insist that you arrange an autopsy on the unfortunate girl, and that you do so posthaste.”

  “You what? I don’t believe this. Hannie, why in the name of God should you care whether there’s an autopsy? Usually the friends and relatives of dead people do everything they can to prevent autopsies! They don’t like to think about their loved ones being sliced up and dissected.”

  “My concern is the letter of the law,” answered Hannie unconvincingly, avoiding the police chief’s wide eyes.

  “If you’ve read the law,” said Stu, “you also know that the authorities have considerable discretion in these matters, particularly in suicides. In this case there’s absolutely no reason to suspect foul play and no reason to inflict the expense of an autopsy on the taxpayers. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

  “I’m afraid I can’t excuse you just yet, Stuart,” said Hannie with a shade of desperation. “I demand that you carry out your duty under the law! Lorna’s tragic passing is indeed a suspicious death and, as such, warrants an autopsy!”

  “Look, Hannie,” said Stu, becoming angry, “I don’t tell you how to run your dress shop, or your boutique, or whatever it is. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t try to tell me how to do my job. You’re a very nice lady, and I know you were Lorna’s friend, but the way we deal with her death is no concern of yours!”

  Carl watched as the desperation in Hannie’s eyes turned to blue fire.