Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (29 page)

The Bayfront was clanging with silverware and water glasses when I joined Vinnie at a family table for breakfast. The family table designation means those with more than four chairs to a table. At least by eight o'clock in the morning most watermen have come and gone, after pushing tables together and dragging chairs across the linoleum. The dishes are stacked, often by the diners, at the end of the table awaiting delivery to washers. It looked like breakfast was over, but several of the guys were sipping coffee, their caps pushed back and their legs stretched forward under the table. They were waiting for me.

“Morning Ned,” Vinnie said, with a grin crawling across his face. “How's your night?” He knew what they all knew, that some development had occurred in the case of Jimmy Shannon, murdered at sea. And they were waiting for me.

“You know damn well, Vinnie,” I said. “Not much sleep and I still don't know what the hell is going on.”

Every table fell silent. Even Pete Wildman said nothing, but looked me square in the face, waiting for an explanation, the kind of response one old friend gives another. These boys were mates of Jimmy and friends of mine. Some had been to Philadelphia and their wives sent them to the Bayfront this morning for answers. The telephones were buzzing as one family after another checked on the Shannon family, and they agreed, Neddie will tell us at the Bayfront.

Nancy, the waitress who always looked at me with suspicion, which I assumed was a suspicion that I wasn't a real waterman in the way she was a real waitress. She had earned her stripes with 40 years of cleaning tables, and attending babies and deaths alike. She pushed several strands of artificially black hair from her forehead, and simultaneously wiped a few beads of sweat from her brow. Even at eight in the morning, the stains of life as a waitress had left their mark. She slid a heavy necked coffee cup in front of me, backed away from the table, crossed her arms over her apron and waited for an answer.

“Well,” she said, “what the hell is going on? Did somebody kill Jimmy, or what?”

I glanced around and every person in the room recognized that old Nancy had hit the nail square again, and they waited.

“Here's what I know,” I began. “The Sheriff down in Hatteras called me early this morning to say they picked up a guy named Chumbucket Roberts on the Intracoastal Waterway. He was in the boat that Jimmy was on. His nickname is Chumbucket; I guess they call him Chum. He was the Captain of the boat who reported Jimmy's death.”

I hesitated a moment to make sure I had the right sequence of events in my mind.

“What'd he say?” Nancy said. She was matter of fact, not asking a question, but leading the discussion. How did that happen? How does a sixty-year-old waitress become the arbiter of conversation and seven Captains of the sea are ready to give her full rein? I turned my chair slightly to address her more directly.

“He said there was a woman on the boat.”

“That little son of a bitch,” Nancy said of Jimmy. “I knew he was up to no good. A new baby at home and that idiot goes fishing with a broad.”

The boys groaned, shuffled their chairs, pushed their coffee around, and waited for the moral judgment to be pronounced. I never understood how they could sort through this kind of thing. Of the seven guys at the table, three were divorced and one had lived with about fifty women over the years, and two more could barely afford their trucks due to drinking and gambling. Yet their judgment about my brother was instant. Nancy didn't say it, but there was a tone of “the bastard deserved to die” that was hard to reconcile with her life experiences.

“I knew there was something fishy about that trip,” she said, unfolding her arms, and heading for the kitchen. She had heard enough. In a flash, all present had a clear picture of events. The details weren't so important. The moral judgment had been rendered, the outline of a crime was drawn, and there was nothing left to do but move on. One of the guys got up and left. Nancy was gone, so I turned to Vinnie.

“Sheriff says the boy claims he never saw what happened,” I said. “The woman was frantic. She just got off the boat and walked away.”

“How can that be?” Vinnie asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “Sheriff said he would call me back as soon as he knows more. Apparently this Chum has been living in Florida, and they've caught a friend who has been traveling with him, so maybe he'll tell us. I'm sorry boys, that's all I know.”

“I'm sorry Ned,” Pete said. “I hope they find who did it and they hang him high.”

“Bring him here,” Captain Neiman said. “We got a judge here that will draw and quarter whoever did it.” He paused a moment to let his audience surmise. “Judge Humbolt. Did you see what he did to Captain Jerry? Charged him with poaching. You'd think he was stealing cattle, not fishing.”

“What'd Jerry do?” Pete asked.

“You know Jerry's got those pound nets over near Clark's Point. Somebody turned him in. The State said he violated some regulation, lied about how many pounds of fish he caught last month. Judge says he wanted to make Jerry an example. Nobody can violate the State regulations. So he fines Jerry fifty thousand dollars and sentences him to two years in the slammer. Two years. Two years for catching a few extra fish. Christ. What are Mildred and those kids going to do for two years?”

“Sure,” Pete said, “but those are regulations. And everybody on the State payroll protects each other, including this judge. Do you think he gives a damn about the people, the family? The State doesn't give a damn about fishermen.”

“You're right,” Vinnie said. “The guy who killed Jimmy will probably get two months probation.”

“No he won't,” Nancy said. “Not this time. The Judge will nail this dude to the wall. Effie Humbolt is a friend of Neddie and the Calico Cat won't let this guy off. Not if the judge wants to ever show his face around here again.”

“Wait,” I pleaded. “We don't even know what happened yet. You've got somebody guilty of murder and hanging from the Jenkins Creek Bridge. Let's wait and see.” It was getting harder for me to represent the law and the arguments for equality of justice when I was the aggrieved party.

“I need to go home and wait for the Sheriff, Vinnie,” I said. “Can you take the boat out? I don't really know what is happening. But I assume this Chum guy will have more to say, and his friend in Florida probably knows something. Prisoners always end up telling their cellmates about their crimes. I bet this kid does too.”

“That's fine Neddie,” Vinnie said. “I think Velma is going over to see Martha right now, just to be with her if she's needed.”

“I called Martha right after I talked to the Sheriff this morning. Hell, she's probably talked to fifteen friends by now.”

“At least that means she's got her voice back,” Vinnie said.

“It's amazing how fast some of her senses are returning,” I said. “Her speech was first to return, I guess when the swelling went down. But balance, vision and cognitive functions are the main problems now.”

Martha was on the computer in the corner of her living room. When Velma knocked on the screen door it rattled and shook against the wood frame of the house, perfect for Velma's purpose of rousing Martha at eight in the morning. Not so good for keeping mosquitoes at bay. Martha came to the door with her walker, and wedged one of its legs to hold the screen open, always glad to have company.

“Come in Velma,” she said. “You're off today?”

“No,” Velma said, “just stopped by for a minute to see if you're OK. The shop doesn't open for another hour anyway. And believe me, there isn't a hairdo in all of Parkers that can't wait for a little while. I just wanted to see you honey.”

“Come sit here by the flowers,” Martha said. “Let me turn this computer off. I swear I never thought I'd get addicted to this machine, but the doctor says its good for my mind, and I can't get enough of it. Now I know how old people feel. I check my emails four times a day. Do you know that every ounce of knowledge ever known is somewhere on this machine. I just have to be smart enough to ask for it. It's magic.”

Velma looked around the room as Martha talked, looking for the telltale signs of neglect. But there weren't many. The morning paper was open on the couch, the metro section on top showing weather for the week in southern Maryland, but it was the only paper in sight. Martha's home was small and warm. She and Jimmy bought it when they were first married, and considered enlarging it, but decided instead to wait another year and build a new home. Jimmy may have had another motive, to buy a new boat with their cash, then mortgage a new house. In either case, Martha had been keeping the pressure on by constant reminders that a new house was coming. Now that was all on the back burner. First Jimmy's death, then the brain tumor. It was hard to keep looking forward.

Velma noticed the pictures, most of them new, of Jimmy with the baby.

“I haven't seen that one before,” Velma said.

“It was taken in her fourth month,” Martha said. “But I just got it back from the camera shop last week. I found the film when I was cleaning out Jimmy's drawers.”

Martha was still wearing bandages around her head, not as large as when she first came home from the hospital. But they still covered the horseshoe scar, and prevented much styling of her hair.

“Martha,” Velma said, “why don't you come by the shop this week and let me cut all your hair off. That half a Mohawk doesn't make sense.”

“The doctor said most women wanted to keep as much hair as possible, so he quit shaving the whole head.”

“I think he's wrong,” Velma said. “At least if you cut it all, it wouldn't look like you just stepped out of a car wreck.”

“Is that what I look like?” Martha asked, screwing up her face.

“I didn't mean that,” Velma said hurriedly. “It's just that a total cut would look better. You could wear a hat, or a scarf, and then the whole thing would grow out evenly. I'll do it for free. Think about it.”

“You're so kind,” Martha said. “You know I sit here all day thinking about what happened, and I come to blank spots. Places where my thinking just stops, like potholes or dead end streets. Ideas form in my mind, or some part of my mind, and before I can express them, they just stop. It's not just names or places. I've never been too good with those. It's ideas. They just end and I can't get them back. I picture my head like a watermelon with a quarter section gone, with seeds hanging out the side like ideas severed by a cleaver.”

“Oh, Martha honey,” Velma said, “don't think that way. Besides, it's the wrong picture. None of your brain is missing. The doctor's didn't slice a piece out. They took out the tumor and left a big hole that has to fill up again. Think of your brain as being able to breathe again, to stretch out its nerves, to fill the gap and revive itself.”

“I'll take it one day at a time. Did you hear what happened yesterday at rehabilitation?”

“Oh, how's that going? I knew the girls were driving you to the Center. What happened?”

“Well, it's mainly a place to learn to walk, to get my balance back, to think and to adjust my eyes. I just have to learn to do all these things again.”

“Can you write?” Thelma asked.

“Not really,” Martha said. “When I try to write, my hand just makes scratches.”

“Does the doctor say that will come back?” Thelma asked.

“He says it will all come back. But he says it may take a month, or six months, or a year. I have to be patient.”

“How's that working out?”

“Not so well. Yesterday Neddie came to pick me up after the session, and my nurse met him at the door. She was helping me with my walker. She thought Ned was my husband, I guess just because he is always with me. He's been so wonderful. So she tells him about the man I knocked down.”