Deadly Catch (4 page)

“Sorry about all the mess,” I said. “Be glad to help.”

Kate looked up and smiled. It was the first time I’d noticed the tiny gap separating her front teeth. And for someone who’d lived her entire thirty-something years on the Gulf Coast, there was hardly a wrinkle to show for it. “Just about finished,” she said. “Besides, you’ve had a dang rough day of it, I’d guess.”

I swigged down what was left of the foamy beer. “I’ve had better.”

Kate stood and tossed the wad of damp towels into a trash can. “You made the five-thirty news, Mac.”

“Christ, that’s all I need. What did they say?”

She dried her hands on a clean towel and tossed it into the trash. “Not much; just a quick report that an unidentified tourist discovered a body while fishing somewhere on the bay side of the island.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Any word on the body?”

Kate walked over and sat in a deck chair near me. The fluorescent lights made a few freckles stand out across her nose and cheeks. She shook her head. “No, nothing, not even if it was male or female.”

I could sense the question in her eyes. “Then you know as much as me. All I saw was the legs and butt. It was in pretty bad shape.”

“Was Bo Pickron there?”

Kate’s question caught me a little off guard. “Oh, yeah, he was there all right. We didn’t exactly hit it off like bosom buddies.”

She gave a little laugh. “Now why on earth doesn’t that surprise me?”

I recognized sarcasm when I heard it. I locked eyes with hers, noting they were nearly the same shade as her shirt. “You know the sheriff?”

“In this town, everybody knows everybody.”

I couldn’t help thinking she was being evasive, but I didn’t want to push. I held up the Bud bottle. “I could use another beer. Can I buy you one?”

Her eyebrows arched a little, and she nodded. “Sure, thanks. But let’s take it outside. I need to lock up.”

I got up and grabbed two Buds from the cooler. I handed one to Kate, then pulled six bucks out of my wallet and laid it next to the cash register as we walked by.

“You want a word of advice, Mac?” Kate said as she locked the double doors behind us.

“Shoot.”

“Steer clear of Bo Pickron. He can be trouble.”

I decided to take a day off from fishing, so the next morning I slept in, if six a.m. qualifies for sleeping in. Thanks to the military, I’m an early riser. I got up, put on a pot of coffee, then walked to the campground store and bought a copy of the
Parkersville Independent
from the rack out front.

Back at the camper I poured myself a mug of strong black coffee, took a seat at the table, and opened the paper. There was nothing on the front page about the incident, so I flipped to the local/state section.

There it was:
Body discovered near Five-Mile Island
. It was barely a half-column long and provided little more dope than Kate’s rundown of last evening’s newscast. One bit of new information the article mentioned was that the unidentified victim was a female of undetermined age due to the body’s deteriorated condition. The county medical examiner had been called in, and an autopsy was scheduled for some time today. Pending further investigation, the sheriff’s office refused to comment on whether the apparent drowning was accidental or the result of foul play.

My name wasn’t mentioned. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. I wouldn’t have to dodge questions from everybody and their cousin for a while until word got around, which I knew it soon would, but at the same time I wondered why Bo Pickron hadn’t let the media know who discovered the body. After all, I had nothing to hide. Did the sheriff think that if my name went public I’d haul ass before the autopsy results were in? That didn’t make much sense to me, but then again, neither did his theory that I might’ve dumped the body in the grass flats and then called the law to report I’d found it, conveniently leaving my inscribed pocketknife near the corpse as incriminating evidence. Pickron’s attitude toward me didn’t add up. Maybe he was just a natural prick.

I set the paper aside and fixed myself some scrambled eggs and toast. Later, I planned to drive to Gillman’s and see if Kate might be able to wrangle any information from Fish and Wildlife or the sheriff’s office. I’d only known her a little more than a week, but in that brief time I could tell she was one sharp lady and a real go-getter. If anyone could find out what was going on behind the scenes, it was Kate Bell.

Our talk over the beers last evening was the first time we’d exchanged more than just a few casual words, other than yesterday’s phone conversations after I’d made my grisly discovery. Kate let me know that she appreciated the way I respected her opinion. When I first rented the boat and was looking at tackle to gear up for speckled trout fishing, Kate had waited on me. I’d accepted her recommendations with few questions, and that pleased her. She’d been around the fishing and tackle business most of her life. Her father had owned a tackle shop in Destin, some seventy-five miles west of St. George. Kate had worked in the family business since she was a kid, until one night a hurricane came calling and destroyed Bell’s Tackle. Nearing retirement age at the time, her dad had chosen not to rebuild. A few years later Kate moved to St. George, answered a help-wanted ad and was hired on the spot by Gary and Linda Gillman.

Kate’s biggest pet peeve was that when it came to fishing, most males—young, old, and in-between—refused to take her at her word. She’d lost track of the times she offered a customer sound advice, only to watch the guy seek out one of the male employees once her back was turned. Nine times out of ten the customer would receive the same suggestions Kate had offered. She was no closet feminist, but that sort of chauvinist behavior really goaded her. If I had an “in” with Kate, I figured it was because I’d recognized she knew her way around the fishing business.

Kate also let me know that she’d dated Bo Pickron not long after moving to St. George three years ago. Bo pulled her over one night in Parkersville, supposedly because of a burned-out tag light. Kate agreed to meet for a drink the next evening after work, and things had progressed from there. After a few months she’d broken it off, though she didn’t offer any explanation and I didn’t press the matter. I had no idea why she even volunteered that information. Maybe it had something to do with her advice to steer clear of Pickron, or maybe, for whatever reason, she’d taken a liking to me. I’d never given Kate any indication that I was trying to hit on her, at least not consciously.

The truth is, I’d been burned out on women since I returned from my last overseas deployment and my loving wife greeted me with the happy news that she wanted a divorce. Sucker-punched, and just like that, twenty years shot to shit. At least Jill had had the decency to wait until the twins were ready to leave the nest. Mike was on a baseball scholarship at UNC Wilmington, where he was the Seahawks’ starting catcher. Megan was attending NC State with plans to enter their College of Veterinary Medicine once she acquired the necessary credits.

The kids had handled our split as well as could be expected and seemed to have adjusted to the situation. Jill and I pledged to remain on good terms for their sake, though deep down I sometimes felt like wringing her pretty little neck.
Semper Fidelis
is a trait that rates near the top in my book of mores.

As for my part, Kate got the abbreviated version: divorced, recently retired from the Marines, a couple of kids in college, and taking a few weeks of vacation while I figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Short, if not so sweet.

I pulled into the marina lot and parked in a spot well away from the palm tree a pair of maniacal mockingbirds had chosen to build their nest in and raise their young. On my first visit to Gillman’s, the feathered dive bombers had nearly knocked the cap off my head. Respect earned, lesson learned.

I stepped into the store to the sound of tinkling bells. A couple of women were browsing the clothing racks, the only customers I noticed. Sara, the Gillmans’ pretty teenage daughter, was manning the front counter. She’d been working the day I rented the boat and had handled the transaction like a pro. I returned her smile and wave, and walked over.

“Skipping school, huh?” I said, trying to sound intimidating.

“Noooo, Mr. Mac,” she said in a cute Southern drawl devoid of any trace of her parents’ Minnesotan lineage. “School’s out already. Wednesday was our last day. Can I help you?”

I reached for my wallet, pleased Sara remembered me; a good sign for the upcoming generation that too often takes a bad rap. “I’d like to rent the boat for another week.”

“Yes, sir.” She disappeared a moment as she ducked behind the counter, then popped up like a blonde jack-in-the-box. She flipped through some pages of a ledger, then traced down with an index finger. “Slip 14, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, happy to return the courtesy. Outside the Corps, I’d found it an all too rare commodity these days.

Her cheeks flushed a bit. “Cash or credit?”

I signed the rental extension Sara handed me, then the receipt after she’d run the card. “Is Kate around?”

“No, sir, she’s off today.” She brushed a strand of hair from her pale-blue eyes. “I could take a message if it’s important.”

“No, that’s okay.”

As I climbed back in my Chevy Silverado and started the engine, I wondered if Sara knew about yesterday’s incident. If she did, she hadn’t let it slip, but she might’ve just been being polite. Word always spreads fast in a small town.

I didn’t have Kate’s personal phone number, nor did I know where she lived. She hadn’t offered, I hadn’t asked, and I didn’t want to put Sara in an uncomfortable position by asking her. I slipped the truck into drive and turned onto the highway, deciding it was time to pay a visit to the St. George Police Department.

Police headquarters was located three blocks off the highway in a small brick extension built onto the back of City Hall. A guy could pay his water bill or turn himself in to the law by walking just a few steps in one direction or the other. I stepped through the doorway into a small room painted drab beige. A few empty chairs lined one wall, several “wanted” or “missing persons” posters were tacked to a corkboard mounted on the opposite wall. The floor was covered in worn linoleum tile.

Behind the low counter sat a young lady who couldn’t be a day older than my Megan, if that. She was busy typing into a computer, gum popping as her fingers worked over the keyboard. A radio, scanner, and mike sat near the computer, the radio hissing an occasional word or bit of chatter too indistinct for me to make out. She glanced up as I approached.
Beth
was monogrammed in cursive above the left-breast pocket of her white blouse.

“Can I help you?” Beth was all business, not offering even a hint of a smile. At first glance she’d seemed a bit on the plain side, but up close I saw potential.

“I’d like to see Chief Merritt, if he’s in.” I’d noticed the chief’s name mentioned several times during my morning coffee/newspaper ritual.

For a few seconds Beth stared as though she hadn’t heard me. “Name?”

“McClellan. Mac McClellan.”