Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series)

by DuBois, Brendan

  Not much to admire. The blue tarp looked primed to tear again, and this was from the normal gusts of wind coming off the Atlantic. I imagined a hurricane coming up here, and even if it stayed at a Category One and missed Tyler Beach and only grazed it, there could be winds of up to seventy or eighty miles an hour. That said, this tarpaulin would fly off in an instant and end up in Newfoundland, and the interior of the house would be soaked. The high winds would probably also shift some of the timbers, causing more destruction; and if I was having a particularly bad day, a bigger-than-usual high tide would sweep up here and scour the place down to bedrock.

  I turned and snapped and tossed the Craftsman hammer at a nearby rock, where it bounced up and disappeared.

  What was the point?

  Damn it, what was the point?

  My breathing quickened and I closed my eyes, thought back through some of the happy memories of this special place, the meals, the small get-togethers, the women who had spent some sweet times here. And above all, the day-after-day healing solitude of being in a piece of warm and safe history, while all the storms out there passed me by.

  I let my breath out, opened my eyes. I went over to the rocks and after a few minutes found and retrieved my hammer. It had a few new scratches on it, and I juggled it in the air a few times.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Not your fault.”

  I put the hammer back in the house, pulled a few times to close the door, locked it, and then walked back up to the parking lot.

  Dinner was quick and got the job done, meaning I sat in the small dining room of the Tyler McDonald’s, on Route 1 heading up to North Tyler. There have been times when I’ve been very hungry and traveling, and any fast-food menu was something to be savored. But now I wasn’t very hungry, and I wasn’t going anyplace far, and so the Le Beef Royale and Coke were serving as fuel and not much else.

  With some time to kill, I went through a few newspapers and carefully read all the stories concerning Hurricane Toni. With each newspaper, there was a different prediction as to its course, but all agreed that this was probably going to be the last hurricane of the season and would drench this part of New England with heavy rains and winds on or around Thanksgiving. Happy Turkey Day.

  After I was through with my disappointing dinner—though, to be truthful, to any European peasant alive from 1000 A.D. to 1500 A.D. that meal would have been considered a feast fit for any ruler alive—I made a short drive across the street to the Tyler Blue Ribbon cleaners. I gathered up all of my clothes and my sleeping bag, and trundled into the place. It was hot, steamy, with the smell of detergent, wet clothes, and disappointments from the men and women mechanically doing their laundry without looking at each other.

  It took a while to get everything sorted, to make change and get fistfuls of quarters, but I got things rolling and then went to the Pilot, drove another few yards to a service station, and used up more of my quarters to buy time on a vacuum machine.

  With that job done, I drove back in time to see that my loads were finished, and into the dryer they went. Outside, I opened up every door to the Pilot and the hatchback as well, retrieved my Rick Atkinson book, and went inside to wait out the dryers, sitting on a scuffed orange plastic chair.

  At least four times during the drying cycle, somebody came up to me and asked me if that was my Honda out there, and was I aware everything was open. I said yes, thanks for the heads-up, explaining that I was just airing the place out.

  When the dryers slowly rolled to a stop, more time was spent sorting and folding, and rolling up my sleeping bag. Out into the snap-cold November air I went, and bustled everything back into the Pilot, closed the doors and hatchback, and drove away, now seeking some entertainment.

  Such was the life of the nomad, the homeless.

  I didn’t like it.

  Some time ago, the four-screen movie theater for downtown Tyler had closed and was replaced by—surprise, surprise—yet another drug store for this crowded stretch of Route 1. With no available entertainment, I did the next best thing and drove to the Tyler Town Hall. There was plenty of parking and I checked my watch, saw it was seven P.M., and went into the selectmen’s meeting room.

  There was no selectmen’s meeting tonight, but there was a session of the town’s zoning board of adjustment, and I had noted the time and agenda when I had been at the town library earlier today. Inside the narrow room were rows of folding wooden chairs set on a light green carpet, and at the far end of the room was a long table, covered with an equally long tablecloth. On the walls were plaques and photos honoring past town officials and the history of Tyler.

  At the table sat five residents of the town—three women and two men—who were serving as zoning board members. This was a volunteer position—like most of the government work in Tyler and other New Hampshire towns—and gave new meaning to the phrase “thankless job.”

  Basically, any new construction or renovation project in town or at the beach needed an affirmative vote from the town’s planning board, to make sure zoning laws were followed and fat-rendering plants weren’t built next to a kindergarten, that sort of thing. But if the planning board turned down a project, the builder or owner’s last best hope before taking the town to court was to argue their case before five fellow citizens. They could plead special circumstances, or point out quirky loopholes in the regulations, or throw themselves on the mercy of the board. Sometimes the board said yes, sometimes it said no, and more often than not it ended up with lots of bruised feelings, which could make later school functions or church meetings with neighbors interesting.

  Tonight the room was about a quarter full, and up at the front left row was Jason, the young studded lad from the Tyler Chronicle, frantically tapping away on his laptop as the meeting droned on. It was nice to see a member of the Fourth Estate keeping view on the action, but I was also pleased to see an older man, sitting just a few feet away from the zoning board members, legal pad and pen in his hands. He had on a light gray suit, the ends of the sleeves shiny with use, and a white shirt and black necktie. His face was splotched with red, like some of his blood vessels had given up the ghost years ago, and his pale eyes blinked slowly behind brown-rimmed glasses.

  Carl Lessard, no doubt, of the firm of Adams & Lessard, representing the good people of Tyler this evening.

  The meeting went on, went on, went on. There were eight items on the agenda, and it took nearly forty minutes to dispose of the first item, concerning a developer who wanted to build four condo units on a narrow road bordering the marshlands at the beach. The planned buildings were too close to an exclusion line prohibiting construction next to the vulnerable marshlands, and the developer and his lawyer were trying to arrange a deal where they could build a berm and swap out other land to the town so there wouldn’t be a net loss of marshland.

  There was a lot of give and take, a few residents in the audience expressing either support or opposition, and then the board took the vote, which went three to two against the developer.

  His lawyer rolled up some blueprints of the proposed buildings and development, whispered something in the developer’s ear, but whatever he said didn’t take, because the man’s face got very red. He stood up from the front row, pointed his finger at them, and loudly said: “You had your chance! I’ll see you all in court next month . . . you jerks!”

  He stomped out, face flushed, muttering curses and threats, his reading glasses bouncing off his round chest, his fists clenched.

  The chairwoman of the board took it all in stride, looked down at her paperwork, and asked, “Mister Mullen, are you ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mullen said, stepping forward in front of the five board members.

  Carl Lessard made notes. Jason tap-tapped on the keyboard, and I folded my arms and waited and tried to stay awake.

  When the meeting adjourned at 12:34 A.M., I was the only person sitting in the audience. In ones and twos, the others had drifted out, and even the young reporter gave up at 11
P.M. When the chairwoman rapped her little brown gavel and said “And we’re adjourned” and another board member whispered “Thank God,” I walked up to Carl Lessard.

  “Mister Lessard? Could I have a moment?”

  He didn’t look up, just concentrated on putting his paperwork back into folders, and then carefully putting all the folders into a soft brown leather briefcase that had one of its two handles repaired with black electrician’s tape.

  “Mister Lessard?”

  He looked up this time, blinked, and said, “I suppose so. A moment or two.”

  I dragged a chair over as the five members of the zoning board packed up their own belongings, grabbed their coats and jackets, and bustled their way out the meeting-room door. They looked like prisoners finally getting a long-promised parole. The chairwoman, a plump woman with short blond hair, called out, “Carl? Will you lock up and shut off the lights?”

  Lessard waved and said to me, “Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”

  “This won’t take long, I promise,” I said. “It’s about Mark Spencer.”

  “Oh.” He seemed to peer at me closer and said, “You’re the guy who was in our office this morning, right? The one who camped out in our reception area?”

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “But I thought you talked to Hannah.”

  “I did. But I want to talk to you.”

  He had a deep, rattling cough, took out a handkerchief, and wiped at his lips. “Then talk away.”

  “Mark,” I said. “He’s been missing now for about five days. Aren’t you concerned?”

  “Concerned? About his safety? His well-being? His future with the firm?”

  I leaned forward. “How about a straight answer for once? You and your partner . . . you seem happy to dance around and duel with words, and all I’m looking for are some answers. Your fellow attorney is missing. Yet nobody seems concerned about that.”

  “Are you a friend?”

  “No,” I said. “An acquaintance, doing a favor for a friend.”

  He carefully put his handkerchief away in his pants pocket. “Ah, that would be a female friend, correct? Paula Quinn?”

  A bit of a surprise. “Yes, Paula Quinn. How did you know?”

  “Please . . . I keep my eyes and ears open. Paula is a sweet girl. All right, then, I guess the reason I’m not concerned, or Hannah, is that Mark is fine.”

  A bigger bit of a surprise. “How do you know that?”

  Some sort of emotion played across his face that I couldn’t decipher. “Why, because he informed me so today, that’s why.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The uptown fire station for Tyler is right next door to the town hall, and I was positive that if every piece of their equipment were to leave right then, sirens and horns blaring, I would not move an inch.

  I stared into the pale eyes of Carl Lessard. “Say again? You talked to Mark Spencer today?”

  “He informed me he was safe. Like the day before, and the day before that.”

  I tried to process what I was hearing, as he zippered his leather bag shut and started to get up. I stood up with him and held out my hand.

  “Please, just one more moment,” I said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you know he’s safe.”

  “I do.”

  “But . . . why did he leave? And why hasn’t he contacted Paula, or the town manager? Why just you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

  He started walking out and I stepped in front of him.

  “Please . . . this is important to me. Why can’t you say any more?”

  His watery eyes blinked. “You want me to say more?”

  “Please.”

  He shifted his leather bag from one hand to the other. “Mister Cole, I’m exactly one year, one month, and three days away from retiring, with a healthy retirement plan that will keep me going quite well for at least three decades. During the next one year, one month, and three days, I intend to be the perfect, quiet, and hard-working attorney, even though I work for a woman whose ancestry, I believe, could be traced to the Borgias of Renaissance Italy.”

  “But—”

  Lessard stepped closer, and I caught the smell of mothballs and pencil shavings. He said, “I represent a town made up mostly of quiet citizens, going about their lives day in and day out, but I have to endure and work with a number of liars, fools, and grifters seeking their own gain against the interest of Tyler. So be it.”

  I said nothing, letting him go on, and go on he did. “I’ve done one favor for Mark Spencer, and seeing you suffer through tonight’s zoning board meeting in order to speak to me, that encouraged me to do another favor. But the favor bank is now empty. I’m leaving now, and based on who you are and what I know about you, I know you’re not going to do anything physical to prevent my departure. Excuse me, then.”

  He walked by me and, knowing when I was defeated, I followed him. At the exit to the building, he shut off the lights to the hall and gestured me out, and I stepped outside into the early-morning darkness of the next day. A streetlight in the nearly empty parking lot gave everything a cold, harsh illumination.

  Behind me he locked the door, and we stood together on the granite steps. He said: “I’m sorry if I’m brusque, Mister Cole. It’s just that in one year and three months, I intend to be on a secluded beach somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, relaxing and never doing anything in the legal profession, ever again. And perhaps it’s the late hour or my exhaustion, I intend to get drunk and get laid every day, to make up for lost time.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “The way things have turned out, and it was no grand plan, I’ve come to this point in my life with no real friends, no family. And I intend to unplug my legal mind and enjoy what’s left to come.”

  He walked over to his car, a salt-stained red Chrysler LeBaron, and I called out, “Can you pass a message along to Mark Spencer, then?”

  Lessard paused, turned. Seemed to consider that for a moment.

  “No,” he said, and he got into his car, started the engine, and drove off.

  About sixty seconds later, I did the same.

  Sleep didn’t come well to me, and I tossed and turned, even though my sleeping bag was recently washed and the inside of the Pilot smelled fairly reasonable. At some point I was awake and there was no going back to sleep, and I stretched and looked out the window.

  Everything was wrong.

  There was no Lafayette House parking lot, no stone wall, no breaking waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Instead, there were some pine trees, a crowded parking lot, and the white buildings of Twelve Rockland Ridge.

  Mark Spencer’s home.

  I climbed out of my Pilot, stretched, and then washed up in a nearby grove of woods with some bottled water. I checked myself out in a sideview mirror, guessed I was reasonably presentable, and went to work, remembering what Diane Woods had said yesterday.

  Hate to say it, but go back again.

  Which is what I was doing this early morning. In my previous canvass of Mark’s residence, I had managed to talk to every one of his neighbors save one. I stood by the front end of the Pilot, waiting. Mark Spencer’s condo was number 4, and the parking spot there was empty. The spot for number 3 was empty as well, and had been empty when I drove in here last night.

  I waited. Watched as men and women, young and not so young, trundled out of their condo units, to head off to work, or to school, or some combination thereof. A handful of kids trooped out as well, to walk down to the small intersection of Rockland Ridge and High Street, and in a few minutes a bright yellow school bus came to a halt, picked up the students, and headed out for the day, leaving me alone in the parking lot.

  Something hollow ached in my chest. All these couples, all these families, all having a place and a purpose to their lives and their loved ones, and here I was, standing alone, my own home shattered and—u
nless something drastic and unexpected happened within the next day or two—was about to get hammered by a hurricane named Toni.

  I waited.

  About ten minutes after the school bus had left, a light yellow Toyota Corolla with a bad muffler rumbled up the road and pulled into the empty spot next to Mark Spencer’s equally empty spot. A tired-looking man got out, folded newspaper in hand, wearing black slacks, black shoes, and dark blue windbreaker. He unlocked the door to his unit, walked in, and closed the door behind him.

  I waited, and then I went to join him.

  I knocked on the door, and in a few seconds the man—Dave Chaplain—opened it up. With his coat off, I saw that he was wearing a blue uniform shirt with his name stitched on one side, and the name of a service station/mini-mart chain on the other. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, reddish-blond hair tied back in a small ponytail, and light green eyes. The scent of sugar and old coffee came through the open door.

  And he looked exhausted. “Yeah?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Mister Chaplain,” I said. “My name is Lewis Cole, I’m a freelance writer, used to be a columnist for Shoreline magazine.” I passed over my business card and pressed ahead. “I’m working on an article about the disappearance of your neighbor, Mark Spencer.”

  He examined both sides of the card and said “A writer?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned. “I’m a writer too. Come on in.”

  His unit was identical to Mark’s, except he had more books in the living room overlooking the parking lot. Lots and lots of books. Enough books to set up a small-town library somewhere in a rural town in this state. He sat down at a small kitchen table, stretched out his legs, sighed. “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but I don’t have the strength to make it, and even if I did, I need to go to sleep.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He put his hands behind his head, stretched again. “All those hours, on your goddamn feet, and you really can’t take a serious break, ’cause the whole store is under video surveillance, and if you’re caught slacking off . . . that’s all she wrote.”