by Ted Begnoche
"One more thing Shawn, and I'll let you get back to work. Do you remember ever seeing Mrs. Addson going out on the boat with her husband?"
"She used to go out a couple of times, you know, in the middle of the summer. I don't think she was really into it the way her husband was. But she was down here an awful lot anyway."
"Why would she come down here, if she wasn't going out on the boat?"
Shawn shook his head and laughed. "She'd bring her friends down here, and not just girlfriends if you know what I mean. They'd sit on the boat and sun themselves, drink fancy wine and champagne. I guess life was just one big party for her."
"Did you ever recognize any of these people?"
"No, not really. I guess we're not in the same social clubs. But some of the guys were a little sad when they pulled that boat out of here. She's really something to look at."
"Is that so?" I said.
"Yeah, man. I mean she's older, you know, but she really takes care of herself. I almost..." Shawn hesitated, eyed me furtively, and then turned away.
"You almost what, Shawn?"
"Well, I don't want to spread it around, but one day Mrs. Addson asked me on to the boat, said there was a leaking faucet. I told her I didn't know nothing about plumbing, but she insisted and man, she's hard to say no to. Anyway, she disappeared below, and when I went down there, she didn't have no top on, and she was starting to lose the bottom of her swimsuit, too." Shawn stared down at the deck, licking the sweat off his lips and shaking his head.
"Don't get me wrong," he said. "Nothing happened. I got too much respect for Mr. Addson. Plus, I got a steady girlfriend, too. But imagine, having a wife like that. You're all day working, busting your ass to make things nice, and here she is, throwing herself at almost anyone who has a pulse and a dick. I don't know." Shawn shook his head again, let out a nervous laugh. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."
"It won't go any further than me, Shawn. Listen, I appreciate your time." I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it over.
Shawn inspected it briefly and then slipped it into a pocket of his shorts. "If you can think of anything else, please give me a call."
"Well, thanks to you, now all I can think about is Mrs. Addson," he said. "Don't get me wrong, it's not like it's unpleasant. It's just that I think she's poison, man. Pure poison."
I walked back to my truck and sat in the cab for five minutes, making notes in my little pad, with Shawn's sawing punctuating the humid air. I closed the book and sat for another minute, watching the Fore River slide by like a giant, serpentine jewel.
Chapter 9
Whitey's was really hopping at noontime. I couldn't find a space out front, so I circled the building and managed to wedge my truck between a Dumpster and the back of the diner. The door to the kitchen was open and I could see Whitey through the greasy film on the screen, flailing away at the grill, trying to keep up with the lunch time assault. The smells that wafted out made my neglected stomach twitch and gurgle. I waited until Doris and her huge silver tray were overloaded with food, then made my move.
I ate standing up, a cheeseburger and some sweet onion rings that were battered secretly from a large vat Whitey wouldn't even let me look at. I thought about a cold beer, then chased the thought away and settled for a lukewarm Coke that was laying around.
I stood by for a few minutes after I was done, watching Whitey and Doris handle the crowd. The tiny kitchen was stifling, but in contrast, Whitey seemed cool and composed as he arranged plates and flipped burgers. He even managed to joke with me and dodge a slap or two from his wife. I wedged a ten-dollar bill in his paper hat and slipped away while they were arguing over an order that didn't pan out.
Penn’s Hill in Fairshore is an affluent section of town, with giant homes sprinkled along quiet streets that don't see much traffic. I found the Addson house, a massive colonial with clapboard siding that was stained to give it a rustic look. The trim and wooden shutters were painted dark red. An open porch sprawled across the front, with rocking chairs and little wicker tables spread strategically about.
I parked across the street in the shade of a huge oak and listened to my engine ticking for a moment. There wasn't much activity at this time of the day. I could see a mailman working the neighborhood, making progress in my direction.
I crossed the street and jogged up the front steps. The lawn needed to be cut. Nothing serious, but the rest of the place was so perfect that its shaggy presence gave it a foreign look. The front door was closed, and it's not often I get to use a door knocker, but I gave it a try anyway. After a minute with no response, I tried my knuckles, with the same result. I let the screen door wheeze shut and cut across the front yard to the driveway, leaving footprints in the long grass.
Along the side of the house, I found a gate in the stockade fence. I put one eye to a crack and squinted, like sighting a rifle. The backyard was immense, and right in the middle was an in-ground swimming pool. There were deck chairs and patio tables sprinkled here and there on the concrete apron. Spread on one lounger, glistening with oil and sexuality, was a beautiful woman whom I was hoping was Mrs. Addson. Without any more knocking, I swung open the gate and let it slam shut behind me.
The woman on the chair raised her head, using one slender hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "Can I help you," she purred.
"Mrs. Addson?"
"Yes?" she said, twisting to a sitting position.
"My name is Stuart McCann. I'm a private investigator, and I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time."
"Have you heard of knocking?" She reclined again, tilting her face up to the sun.
"You should hear my knocking," I said. "I tried that out front, but no one answered."
"Do you have some identification, Mr. McCann? Not that I don't trust you."
I fished my license out of my wallet and held it up for her inspection.
"Thank you. A person can't be too careful."
"I agree." I gestured at a chair that was near the lounger. "May I?"
"Help yourself. I trust this won't take long. I'm expecting a guest."
"I'll try to be as brief as possible. I was hired to look into the circumstances surrounding your husband's death. My client had some doubt as to whether or not it was accidental."
"And who would your client be?"
"John Barcom."
Mrs. Addson swung her long legs off the lounger and strode to a round glass table under the shade of a festive beach umbrella. She grabbed a see-through robe draped over the back of a chair and slipped into it.
"John Barcom is an old fool," she said, pouring a glass of lemonade from a sweating pitcher. She offered it in my direction. "And from what I understand, now he's a dead old fool."
"No, thanks," I said. "What makes you say that?"
"Oh, I've spent time in his company. Don't get me wrong. He was the nicest guy you're ever going to meet. But after talking with him long enough, you soon realize that he left a lot more than his legs in Vietnam." She took a long drink, and I watched a drop of lemonade trickle from her chin, making progress toward her breasts until it disappeared from view. Her gaze met mine, and she smiled sweetly.
My face reddened. "I spoke with John on a number of occasions, and I never got that impression from him. Would you mind answering a few questions?"
"I've answered a million questions since this happened, and I've asked a million more. Nothing you or I or John Barcom could do will bring Mel back." She sank into a redwood chair and applied sunglasses to her beautiful face.
"Mrs. Addson, I realize..."
"I'm sorry if I'm sounding cold," she said. "It's just that every time I think I've come to terms with what's happened, someone or something reminds me that it's only been a few weeks since this whole mess started. I'd like to be able, at some point, to look forward rather than keep looking back. It's just very painful right now." She sniffed and reached for a tissue in the pocket of her robe.
"I can only imagin
e how difficult this must be," I said. "If you prefer, I can come back some other time."
“And of course, I don't have to answer your questions at all.” She removed her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with one corner of the tissue.
I tapped my fingers on the arms of the chair while she crossed her slim legs and bounced one foot up and down. After a moment of indecision, she rose and crossed the cement apron to where a drink cart was sitting in the shade of another umbrella. She pried the cover from an ice bucket and dropped a few cubes into her drink, then twisted the cap off a bottle of vodka and splashed in a generous amount. She weaved her way back to the table, stirring her drink with one slender finger. I got the feeling this wasn't her first one of the day.
"Very well, Mr. McCann," she said. "Ask your questions, for all the good it will do."
"Okay, Mrs. Addson. From what I've been able to learn so far, your husband wasn't the kind of person who made enemies, at least not intentionally. Can you remember him ever talking about some problems he may have been involved in, even if it seemed trivial at the time? Something or someone that was causing him grief?"
"If you mean did someone have a reason to kill my husband, the answer is no. Melvin was practically a saint. I can't even remember the last time he raised his voice to anyone."
"What about at work? Was there any stress or strain that you recall?"
"No, Mr. McCann. I mean, not really."
"Could you explain the 'not really' part," I said.
"Well, the only friction I can remember him speaking of was between him and his partner."
"Mr. Stepkowski?"
"Yes. Stanley is a stubborn man, and I guess at times my husband could be too. Oftentimes they had a difference of opinion about which direction the business should go in, or what kind of work they should chase. You should know that most of this knowledge was gained from overhearing phone conversations and listening to Melvin bitch. I was not involved in the day-to-day operations of StanMel Circuits, nor did I want to be. I think I've been to the plant twice since they started it up."
"I see. That sounds like pretty normal stuff. How about a disgruntled employee? Someone he may have reprimanded or fired lately?"
"I don't think so, and it's funny you should mention that. Melvin hated that part of his job and left it up to Stanley most of the time. Stanley doesn't mind making waves, and he couldn't care less if people like him or not. He does whatever it takes to improve the company's bottom line."
"They sound like an unlikely pair. How did they ever get together?"
She worked at her drink, using her the back of one wrist to swipe stray lemonade from her chin. "They worked together at a big high tech company out on 128. Melvin was an engineer; so was Stanley, but he had a business sense that Melvin never cared to develop. Melvin was more worried about the technical end of things, while Stanley took care of the day-to-day operations of the company. I guess they seem mismatched, but really they were perfect for each other. Melvin's strengths were Stanley's weaknesses and vice versa.
"They started out with just a handful of people, but in a year they tripled in size, and then it really started to take off. I remember Melvin being scared by how fast everything was happening, and Stanley always finding a way to calm him down."
Helen drained her drink and rose to build another.
"Is it possible that your husband was involved in something illegal? Did he gamble at all? I'm sorry if this is coming off as indelicate."
“I'd be very surprised by that. Melvin just wasn't that type of person, although I suppose anything's possible. We went our separate ways, especially in the last few years. He had his work and his damned fishing to keep him busy, and between the two he didn't spend much time at home. I find things to occupy myself with." She allowed herself a sly smile, poking at ice cubes with a red-tipped fingernail.
I said, "I see," and shifted in my chair.
"Of course, we were always there for one another." She stuck her stirring finger in her mouth and slowly withdrew it, staring at me the whole time.
I swiped at some sweat beads that were clinging to my forehead, then cleared my throat.
"Speaking of fishing," I said, "I stopped by the marina where your husband kept his boat. They said it was hauled out last week. Is it in storage?"
"I sold it," she said. "I've no earthly idea what a monstrosity like that is worth, but the buyer assured me we both got a fair deal."
"Who was the buyer, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all. Stanley bought it."
"Stanley Stepkowski?"
"One and the same. He called me last week, to see how I was doing and ask about the boat. I never gave it much thought, but it was a perfect opportunity to get rid of it." She grabbed a snow-white towel from the table and pressed it to her face.
"I need a dip in the pool," she said, removing her robe. "How about you, Mr. McCann?"
“I didn't bring a suit."
"Suits are optional around here," she said, touching my forearm. Her delicate perfume, mixed with vodka and lemonade, filled my nostrils.
"Maybe some other time," I said. "I appreciate you seeing me, Mrs. Addson. I'll find my own way out."
"Goodbye, Mr. McCann," she said, slipping into the crystal water.
I made notes while sweating in the steamy cab of the Toyota, carefully transferring my thoughts to my notepad. At the four-way stop sign about a hundred yards from the Addson's house, I watched in my rearview mirror as a big black pickup truck pulled into the driveway. Curiosity got the best of me, and I made a quick U-turn and cruised slowly by the house.
The muscle-bound guy that got out of the truck didn't make the same mistake I did. He went straight to the gate and pushed it open. I recited his license plate number until the next stop sign, then pulled over and wrote it down on my pad. Maybe Heather could run it for me later.
I made another U-turn and threaded my way through the quiet streets, letting my thoughts and my nose determine my direction.
Chapter 10
Late in the afternoon, I slumped down in the chair behind my desk and checked for messages on my cell phone. I was surprised to hear the voice of Billy Cardell’s wife, Jill.
She sounded upset.
“Hi Stuart," she said. "Call as soon as you get this message. I think we may need your help, although Billy's being as stubborn as ever. It's 1 PM on Monday. Talk to you soon?"
I punched up Billy's home number. Jill answered before the second ring.
"Thanks for calling, Stu," she said.
"No problem. What's this about needing my help?"
"Billy didn't want me to call, but he's not here right now, so I guess that makes it alright." She gave a nervous little laugh.
"Tell me what's up," I said.
"Billy's boat sank last night."
"What? Is he okay?"
"Oh yeah, since he was probably at home when it happened. It must have been in the middle of the night sometime. It sank right at its mooring."
"Where's Billy now?"
"Down at the dock. He's talking to some people who are going to pull it up for him. Can you speak to him? I've never seen him so upset."
"I can be there in less than an hour," I said. I hung up the phone and shook my head.
What the hell was up with Billy?
I punched up Heather’s number and left her a message, reciting the license plate I got off the back of the truck in Addson's driveway. I grabbed a Red Sox hat and my keys, locked up the office and took the stairs two at a time.
I drove down to Hull with thoughts of Billy, John Barcom, and Mrs. Addson bouncing around in my head like wind-driven balloons.
I could see Billy standing on the wooden pier when I pulled into the lot at Pemberton Marina, talking to a man in dirty overalls and brand new work boots. I parked the truck in a choking cloud of dust and crunched my way over the pea stone. The sun was a burning orange orb suspended over Boston, still producing plenty of heat as dusk started to settle.
I waited for Billy to finish his business, watching people coming and going. I could see the antennas of Billy's boat poking out of the water. The pilothouse was just barely visible beneath the choppy surface.
Billy finished his conversation and headed in my direction, his face looking like a mask that had been carved from a mahogany tree. I stuck my hand out, but he ignored it.
"Did you think you could catch more lobsters with a submarine?" I asked.
"What the hell are you doing here?" said Billy.
"Easy, big fella. Jill called and told me what happened. She asked me to come down."
"I asked her not to do that." Billy walked up a gangplank that led to the parking lot and leaned against his rusted truck, staring out over high tide. I leaned next to him and waited. Finally, he said, "I don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"Thinking out loud is all. Follow me back to the house. Jill probably put some beer in the fridge." Billy got in and cranked the engine, then swung out onto the road. I followed him a short distance through Hull until we got to his house, parking out front by the rusted chain link fence.
Jill was on the porch, holding Derek's hand under a bare yellow light bulb. She pecked at Billy's cheek on the way by, but he didn't even slow down. She gave me the same treatment, then shrugged her thin shoulders and tucked a few wayward strands of her chestnut hair in the back of one ear. The tanned skin on her pretty face seemed tight and hot as if maybe she'd been wiping away some tears.
"How's my favorite godchild?" I said, shaking Derek's hand.
"Okay, uncle Stu. When can we go fishing?"
"Soon, I hope. Have you been keeping your mom busy this summer?"
"You bet," he said.
Jill used a slender hand to comb his hair, then gave me a tentative smile.
"Is he talking yet?"
"Not much," I said. "Try not to worry. We'll straighten this out." I placed my hands on her shoulders and squeezed. Jill tilted her face up to the porch light and tried a little smile. It didn't fit her very well at the moment. Tears began to form at the corners of her green eyes, and she turned her head away.
