Harsens Island (6 page)

The remainder of the day passed quietly. That night the rain knocked on the roof, lightning flickered the lights, and thunderclaps rattled windows.

Monday day and night, and then Tuesday day and night, rain, lightning, and thunder swept over Harsens.

Sam thought of days past, how it would have been logical for superstitious men to think the island was being punished for Hunter’s death. 

On Wednesday, the storm clouds began to split and die, leaving a glum hangover of flooded basements, soupy humidity, and muddied fields.

On each of those gray, wet days, Dixie and Bill’s wife, Adele, called Sam to ensure she was “hanging in there”. Late Wednesday, the parents of one of the boys who painted the house dropped by and invited her to attend church services with them the following Sunday. She politely declined the offer.

**********

Now it was Thursday, the day before Independence Day. The Weather Channel was predicting clear skies and 75° for the next three days.

She drove to Pig’s and found it packed with islanders, tourists, and summer folk; the shelves, freezers, and refrigerators were being simultaneously emptied and replenished. Homey wood barrels that had once been brimming with firecrackers, sparklers, and patriotic knickknacks were now near empty.

There were three registers; a fourth opened as she waited. Brian was at the first register, the man closest to the door, as steadfast and familiar as the Statue of Liberty.

She got in line behind a tattooed man wearing a Tigers baseball cap, holding the hand of a freckled boy who sported a similar cap. The line moved a few steps. Brian waved her forward.

“How are you?” she said, removing items from her hand basket.

He focused on the register keys.

“The question is how
you
are.”

“As best as can be expected.”

He glanced at her.

“Did you hear the, uh, results?”

“The coroner’s report? No.”

“Are you headed home after this?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll give Billy a shout and ask him to drop by and give you an update. How about Rowland? You heard anything from him?”

“I haven’t seen him since Sunday morning.”

“Thirty-eight thirty-five.”

She gave him two twenties.

“Why’s that?”

He counted the change.

“There’s one and sixty-five cents…” He closed the register drawer. “Next in line!”

**********

She drove home, parked the Bronco at the front of the cottage, sat her purse on a porch chair, and went in with her purchase: black beans, microwave rice, mineral water, and celery stalks.

She’d purchased an American flag, which she hung on the front porch. As she was doing this, Bill Catanzaro pulled into the driveway. After he stepped out of the truck, he paused to check his image in the side-view mirror.

“You’re beautiful!” she said.

“I know,” he answered. As he approached he added, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a chick magnet.”

He was draped in a plaid, flannel shirt that appeared to be one hundred winters old. She met him and without thinking hugged him. He hugged her, too, embracing her as a man embraces his child. He gave off a pleasant scent of sweat and cologne.

“Easy does it, short stuff,” he said. “I bruise easy.”

“I hear you bring news from Caesar,” she said.

“I do,” Bill said, motioning to the porch. “We should sit. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all. I appreciate you stopping by. Would you like a mineral water?”

They entered the porch.

“Yeah, thanks. This humidity is killing me today.”

She moved her purse from the chair to the floor. 

“Here,” she said. “Sit. You should be wearing something lighter. Something made of cotton.”

“No offense, Sammy, but I think I’ll forgo your fashion tips.”

The Trans-Oceanic radio, perched on a circular-shaped side table, was broadcasting Detroit talk radio. On her return, the radio was squawking loudly, and instead of trying to adjust the signal, she simply turned it off.

She opened and split the contents of a bottle of San Pellegrino between two ice-filled tumblers.

“Where were you Saturday night?” she asked.

“Ah, I’m a homebody,” he said. “Crowds make me uncomfortable.”

“You missed quite a party.”

“Everybody’s buzzing about it,” he said. “Especially your wango-tango with Four.”

“Four?”

“Clayton Ethan Hannibal the Fourth,” Bill said. “His slaves and ass-kissers call him
Four
behind his back. You wouldn’t know this, but if you’d decked him there would’ve been a parade for you the next day.”

He reached to his breast pocket and retrieved a worn box of Marlboro’s and a flap of matches.

“May I?”

“Another bad habit?” she asked.

“One of many. You got an ashtray anywhere?”

“Right here,” she said, and removed a heavy, orange-colored glass ashtray from the table drawer.

He splashed water into it, lit a cigarette, and dropped the match into the water with a sizzle.

“Brian intimated there was something about Hunter’s cause of death.”

“Did you know her?”

“I did.”

He whistled.

“Brian thought so, but he wasn’t sure. This woman, she was a friend of yours?”

“She was my lawyer.”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but your lawyer didn’t exactly drown. There were, what they call, contributing factors. I understand they run toxicology tests even if there are bullet holes.”

“How did you hear that?”

He shrugged.

“The county coroner is a cousin. He’s announcing it was a drowning, pending further tests. Final toxicology and some other science stuff.”

“What did they find in her?”

“He didn’t say exactly what. He just said they found shit that shouldn’t have been there.”

Sam asked the hard, necessary question.

“Was she raped?”

Bill exhaled, an exaggerated blowing sound.

“God, I don’t know. He wouldn’t share anything like that anyway.”

“But she
was
drugged?”

“It’s what I heard.”

“So she was placed in the water to make it look like she drowned?”

“I guess, but, you know, you start to think through it and you come to a fork. Was it self-inflicted? Or was it something else?”

“What does Rowland think?”

“Hard to say. But it’s one of the reasons I stopped by was to give you a heads up. He wants to question you, but your lawyer and Hannibal are in the middle of things. Plus there’s Steve, and he’s a loose cannon.”

“Steve who?”

“Steve Haberski. He’s a detective based out of Algonac, and he thinks he’s Dick Tracy. You’ll meet him.”

“What’s Hannibal got to do with this?”

“Propriety. It’s one thing if a body washes up while the servants are on duty and another thing when the yacht set arrives. Listen, I need to get moving.”

He snubbed the Marlboro with another agreeable sizzle. They stood at the same time.

“And what about Houle?”

“He’s hinted to Rowland you’re not exactly who you say you are.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant...”

“That’s easy to fix,” Sam said calmly. 

Bill nodded.

“Let me put it this way. People come to Rowland with all types of half-baked stories and theories, and while he may be obligated to listen to them, he has to think for himself, right? He wouldn’t be much good to anyone if he was a reactionary.”

He paused. His lips pulled back, almost in a frown.

“Listen, I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you need to know Rowland doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. See, the thing is…the thing is, six years ago, his wife and five-year-old son died in a car accident when he fell asleep at the wheel. He doesn’t drink or have any of my hobbies – he just fell asleep.”

Sam crossed her arms; her face expressed sadness and grim curiosity. 

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“He was in a dark place for a long time after that. His two eldest all but stopped talking to him, which was hard enough, but then some of his alleged friends stopped talking to him as well. It’s old news in a way, but I wanted you to know because – to say it right – he’s been
different
since you arrived. From the very first day he met you he’s been – he’s been
better
. I don’t know how else to express it. He’s been lit up. He’s
happier
.”

“So why are you telling me this? Any of it?”

He smiled with his lips and his eyes.

“I
like
you. Everyone likes you. I haven’t met anyone who hasn’t said good things about you.”

Sam blushed.

“Thanks.”

He looked at her with a half-smile.

“You’re not going to hug me again, are you?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Good. I can only take so much hugging. I think I’ve hit my limit for the day.”

He took one step away, then turned back to her, snapping his fingers.

“Don’t mention the cig to Adele. She thinks I quit.”

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

“Get out of here,” she said lightly. “Go home!”

He left with the sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers pulsating from the cab.

“…Don’t you worry about a thing…every little thing…is going to be alright…”

She drove to the ferry docks. She parked next to Mule’s Ferry main building: two stories of weathered, white aluminum siding and black-tinted, weatherproof windows. A tilting chain-link fence surrounded a side and backyard of boat motors, metal drums, lumber, winches, hoists and a forlorn pleasure boat.

At the boarding dock, one of the shuttles was pulling away as a second maneuvered in to off-load. There were four cars in line and a half-dozen or more pedestrians waiting to board. A small concrete block and wood building stood a short distance from the dock. Sam went to it.

Outside the entry door, prominently displayed, was a piece of driftwood, painted dirt brown, and engraved with sunflower-yellow letters.

Come on in!

It can’t get any worse.

The lobby was shoebox shaped. The gray linoleum floor was dirty, scuffed, and worn. An air conditioner fought a losing battle against cigarette smoke, burnt coffee, and lemon-scented air deodorizer. A finger-stained wood laminate door stood to the left of the receptionist counter. An office composed the remainder of the building. A rectangular opening and counter that had once held a window exposed the office. On the business side was a desk, the usual office furniture, and a balding, pumpkin-shaped woman in a black office chair.

Sam approached the woman who avoided eye contact with Sam as she daubed her fingernails with a red polish. Oddly, she displayed a tag with her full name: 
Sandra Coiner
. 

A white-framed photograph of a black child sat on a cockeyed position on the pumpkin’s desk: the child, a boy, smiling and cute, was no older than five. Next to the photograph was an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-kissed Marlboro Lights.

Sam, bemused by the deliberate silence, watched Coiner daintily brush a thumbnail. The woman examined the nail, smiled, and then with slow, excessive movement, assembled the brushes and tiny, colored bottles, and placed the lot in an open drawer.

Sam finally broke the silence.

“Good afternoon, Sandra.”

The pumpkin lit a cigarette and inhaled.

“How did you know my name?” she croaked, smoke rolling over her tongue.

Sam gave her one small politeness.

“It’s on your badge.”

“Yeah? How’s ‘bout that? How can I help you?”

“I wanted to talk to the owner about a ferry passenger…”

“I know you. You’re that woman.”

“Pardon?”

“That woman that drowned that poor girl.”

Sam absorbed Sandra Coiner’s round, fat face:  dark eyes squinted through puffed rolls of fat, rubbery lips glistened red, and her pale skin carried the faint craters of teenage acne.

“Ricky K. was there,” she continued, “and he saw you drowned that woman and he says you drowned her in the river in front of God and the whole world.”

Sam backed away from her. She examined the lobby walls, which were adorned with plaques, certificates, and the usual operator licenses, permits, and warnings.

“Have you gone deafed or is it that’s you can’t speak English?” the receptionist said.

“Deaf,” Sam said, not looking at her.

“What?” Coiner said.

She found a photograph of “Skipper Dan Mule” between photographs of the Algonac cheer squad and varsity wrestling team.

Thanks to “Skipper Dan”

For his Suport and Friendship

It seemed appropriate a high school plaque would misspell
support
.

From outside came the sound of a ship’s horn, two rapid blares; through an almost impenetrably dirty window she saw the first ferry pulling in.

Sam turned and exited, not looking back.

The pumpkin Sandra Coiner got the last word.

“Have a nice day!”

**********

An orange-colored, steel tongue unfolded and secured itself to the boat. The land gate lifted with a loud wheeze and the ferryboat’s gate opened. Sandal clad visitors who had parked in Algonac slapped forward, carrying beach chairs and coolers and umbrellas, others were on bikes, but most were in cars loaded with the stuff of beach picnicking and travel.

A young woman, wearing a yellow vest and a straw gardening hat, collected the crossing fares from the cars before allowing pedestrians to board. The girl smiled pleasantly as she greeted everyone. Her skin was mocha-colored; her eyes, discernible through lightly tinted Ray Ban’s, were a dark blue. Her hair was sandy brown ringlets dyed with yellow streaks.

“Beautiful day,” Sam said.

“Prettiest day this year,” the girl said.

Engine exhaust, fore and aft, puffed from black cylindrical tubes; a siren signaled their departure. She went to the center of the boat and examined the pilothouse. She noted day and night-running lights, a loudspeaker system, and a searchlight. The entire structure was painted white, posted with the obligatory, legal disclaimers, and warnings. Two cameras were pointed to the deck, a third camera, sprung from an elbow joint, angled to the pilothouse. The man at the wheel wasn’t Skipper Dan.

When they were underway, she approached the girl with the dark blue eyes.

“Excuse me, but are you an island native?”

“I live on the mainland,” the girl said.

“I live on South Channel,” Sam said. “I moved here from Grand Rapids.”

“Oh, really? You like it?” the girl said, smiling.

“So far it’s been great.”

“Wait ‘til winter,” the girl said. “The wind comes off the river and makes the flu catch a cold.”

“It gets bad, does it?”

“Girl, you’ll see...”

“I’ll adapt.” She paused. “Is Skipper Dan working today?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s piloting that one,” and she gestured to the other craft that was exiting the Algonac dock. “But you can’t talk to the pilots when they’re working. It’s a rule. Can I help you?”

“My neighbors said I should introduce myself – you know – as a courtesy.”

“Oh, bless your heart! He always appreciates that.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” Sam said. Then she lowered her voice. “And I don’t want to be rude, but this is a pretty safe ride isn’t it?”

The girl was mildly offended.

“How’s that?”

“I hate to bring it up, but I heard a woman drowned Saturday night, and I wondered if she fell off the ferry.”

“Oh, god!” the girl said. “Nobody can believe it. Wasn’t that terrible! And gosh no! No one has ever fallen or jumped off. You know, there’s been talk of closing us and planting a bridge. Somebody dying like that would be the cherry on top, you know?”

The girl abruptly stepped away.

“Hold on, we’re there. Have a good one.”

The engines throttled back and the boat slowed and softly bumped to rest.

**********

Sam spent slightly more than an hour exploring downtown Algonac. She bought a knee-length black dress, a Donna Morgan, and a matching set of black heels from a consignment shop called Yesteryear. When her exploration was complete – it was close to 7:30 – she approached the ferry depot, timing her boarding to synchronize with Mule’s arrival and departure.

This time when she boarded, a man of Asian descent collected her fare. He stank of cigarette smoke. He had short, blade-one black hair. He harshly told her to not wander between the cars once the boat was in motion; he told her to stay in place with the other pedestrians.

“Why’s that?” she asked.

“I like everybody in one spot where I can see ‘em and keep a count on ‘em. We ain’t lost anyone on my watch and that’s why.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

“Even if it wasn’t,” he said, “it’s what it is.”

From her vantage below the pilothouse, Sam noted Mule didn’t fill its window frames; she guessed he possessed a slight build. His head swiveled from the cabin, to the deck, and to the water, catching sight of her once, not giving her any particular regard.

When they were thirty yards from shore his voice reverberated from the speakers pointed fore and aft.

“Good afternoon and good evening, folks. This is Skipper Dan Mule, and on behalf of Mule’s Ferry and the beautiful souls of Harsens Island, I want to welcome you home and welcome you back. If, by the best of your good fortune, this is your first visit, I want to extend the warmest of welcomes and give you my personal guarantee that you’ll never
really
leave, as we will
always
be with you! Come to our island paradise as a stranger, and leave as a friend. Again, I’m Skipper Dan Mule. Have a
spectacular
evening!”

The boat rocked to a stop and as the cars and pedestrians exited, Sam purposely held back, wanting to coordinate her exit with Mule.

The Asian man wanted none of it.

“Listen, lady,” he said. “I’ve been a happily married man nearly three months now. If you wanted a piece of me, you should’ve made a play long before then. We ain’t running no taxi, either! You need to get it in gear and get going
now
!”

Mule came up directly behind him, grinning, obviously amused.

“Ricky K.?”

“Yes, sir, Skipper.”

“This lady giving you a hard time?”

“I’m trying to get her off the boat, Skip. We got payin’ customers wantin’ our services and I don’t think we want any lollygagging, do we, sir?”

“Can’t have that, no, Ricky K., not at all. But I suspect she was getting ready to disembark, don’t you?”

Now she was in stride with Mule, who placed a friendly hand on her lower back, guiding her off the boat.

“Sir, can you let Sandra know I didn’t talk to her?”

“I will abide, Ricky K. Keep up the good work!”

“Aye-aye, Skipper!”

Mule stood about five-seven, had spindly arms and legs, and carried a ponderous belly that sagged over a too-tight belt and pants two sizes too small. He had bright green eyes, coffee stained teeth, and Coppertone skin.

A few steps further, Sam spoke, eyeing the shack with the
Come On In
sign.

“Sandra?”

“She’s in the monkey cage,” Mule said. “She’s got a mean streak wide as her ass which is why I keep her locked up. She likes the power it gives her, keeping the drunks in line and so on. Those two, you know, you never see a couple like them on TV do you? It’s always the exact opposite. The hubby’s big as house, got a belly with its own name, and the wifey is skinny and cute.”

“Seems so,” Sam said.

“Anybody back there in Hollywood ever wants to do it true, they’ll fix it so the wife’s built like a pin cushion and the husband like a pin. Hell, those two back there are the
real
modern family, know what I’m saying? A fat, ugly white woman married to an angry Japanese fella, and she’s got a black baby boy name of Raul from a one-night stand, all of ‘em poor as muskrats in winter, and there’s not a funny thing about it. Angry, dumb people will inherit the Earth. You did a little bargain hunting, I see. Get any deals?”

“I think I did, yeah.”

“You visiting us? Staying at The Rich Man’s Club with the other hoity-toity?”

“Actually, I bought a cottage on South Channel.”

Mule came to a full stop.

“For heaven’s sake! You’re the new girl? You’re the one that got herself mashed up with the drowned girl?”

“Yeah, my name is Sam.”

The man didn’t hesitate. He embraced her, hugged her so completely she released her package to the ground. A trace of cigar smoke scented his collar.

“My dear woman,” he said. “I am truly sorry for your loss. That was a real tragedy,” he said, releasing her but maintaining a grip on her hands.

“She was a good friend,” Sam said.

“Did she know how to swim?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Skipper.”

“A crying shame,” he said, releasing her hands. “First thought, I wondered, did she know how to swim or at least dog paddle?”

“Boy, I tell you, Skipper, I’m really not sure. But I was wondering if she came across with you?”

“Me? Personally? No, she came across late, once we were on the night cycle. And she didn’t fall overboard when she was with us. We got it on the DVR. In the dark, after nine, as I recall. Came over in one of those ugly Detroit cars. You’d think that as we practically invented cars that we could make prettier ones. Can’t tell a Buick from a Lexus, a Chevy from a goddamn Hyundai. Or maybe it’s old age. How old do you think I am?”

They were by the main building now. He stopped shy of the entry door, an obvious gesture their conversation was ending.

“Thirty-nine,” she said, smiling.

He winked.

“Sam, I don’t know you, but you’re A-Okay with me. It has been a pleasure under difficult circumstances, but I need to get Albert in the saddle and keep the wheels of commerce rolling.”