Island Blues (5 page)

Chapter Nine

Sabrina pressed down harder on the gas pedal of her old station wagon and watched the speedometer needle tremble at the edge of fifty. Sabrina was trembling as well, a fine tremor emanating from deep inside her that rippled along her skin and shivered her fingers and the edges of her mouth.

“It was your idea to send those poor people out to Goat Island, wasn't it?” Mary had said with accusatory glee. “That's what I heard, and if it wasn't for you, that poor man would never have been on that island, and never got killed. I had second thoughts as soon as I suggested you for this job. You're about as responsible as my dog Curly, and I haven't managed to house train him all these years!”

Long Road never seemed longer as Sabrina sped past the endless grass-covered dunes. This part of the island was designated a national park, and except for the occasional homesteaded house and road, there was no sign that man had ever dreamt of beach houses and fruity drinks in sleek restaurants beside the sea. The park was full of birds and small animals, and bigger ones in the shape of the shaggy island ponies. Sabrina usually enjoyed the solitude of the road, which ran down to the other end of the island to an old, defunct military base, but right now she couldn't enjoy the stark beauty.

After what seemed like forever, she saw the discreet sign that signaled the turnoff to Shell Island. She took the turn so fast the station wagon slid in the loose gravel of the private road and ended up with its nose touching a pine tree.

Her trembling had bloomed into full-blown shaking as she sat staring at the tree.

“I've got to get myself together,” she said out loud, wishing Calvin was with her. Not only was he a comfort, he also made her feel less like a shoo-in candidate for the loony bin when she talked to herself. “I'm fine. I can get through this.”

The shaking refused to abate. She thought about turning around and going back to town, finding Mary Tubbs and telling her she was quitting. “I. Am. Not. Going. To. Quit!” she said between clenched teeth. “If I can't hack this job, then it's time for me to go back to Cincinnati.” She took a deep breath. “I am sitting on a beach and I can feel the warm sand between my toes and hear the surf washing back and forth. I can taste the salt of the air and hear a seagull call…” The shaking slowly subsided as she continued to visualize her happy place. That her mental sanctuary, the one she created long before ever coming to Comico, closely resembled the island did not occur to her.

“Now, like a knight before battle, I will don my armor.” Sabrina pictured herself pulling on the sturdy armor that was featured in countless King Arthur movies. She had no clue how one would get the armor on in reality, so in her vision it slid on like a suit of clothes, even complete with a nice modern zipper. Once her vulnerable naked skin was covered, Sabrina added the last touch, the helmet. She surveyed herself in an imaginary mirror. Despite the heavy armor, she was pounds lighter than normal. Unlike TV, delusional fantasies subtracted pounds instead of adding them.

Satisfied that her loins were sufficiently girded, Sabrina opened her eyes. As her therapist had promised, she felt better. At least she didn't feel as if she was walking around with her skin freshly peeled. She used to go through this ritual every morning, so she supposed she should be happy she only had to garb herself in armor on occasion now. Unfortunately, those occasions had been coming with more frequency over the last couple of months.

“Let's try this again.”

With that, Sabrina put the car in gear and continued on to Shell Lodge.

***

“It was horrible,” Matt Fredericks said, and shuddered. For a moment it looked as if he might cry, and Sabrina patted his arm.

“There, there,” she soothed.

“He was floating there, face down, and he looked so
white.
Sam, our dock master, said we needed to go call the police, but I had to check, make sure, even though I could see the crabs scrabbling about in his hair.” Matt flinched. “
God.
But what if he was still alive, and I left him there? I turned him over, and that's when I saw his ear. It was mangled, like pulp. His eyes were open and bulging and it looked like he was staring at me, and his mouth was agape, and I thought I saw bubbles and then I realized it was tiny fish in his mouth swimming around.” Matt closed his eyes. “I've never seen anything like that before. Sam was matter-of-fact, but then he always is, but I—I yelled, kind of, and dropped him back in the water with a big splash.”

He stopped and Sabrina continued her patting. She wondered if he felt like a dog. The thought made her withdraw her hand, but he unconsciously leaned toward her so she resumed the patting.

“He was dead, there was no doubt about it. As near as I can figure, someone hit or stabbed him in the ear. We got out of there, and called Sergeant Jimmy, who called in a bunch of other police.”

Sabrina had ample knowledge of how a murder investigation was run on Comico Island, as a pirate ghost—well, a man, really, though everybody thought he was the ghost of Walk-the-Plank Wrightly—was murdered in the rose garden of her rental cottage when she first arrived on the island.

She patted and thought. “Stabbed in the ear? With what?”

Matt shook his head and closed his eyes. “I have no idea. The only thing I saw lying there was an empty wine bottle. And
that
couldn't have done that kind of damage to his ear.”

“But you think that's what killed him? This injury to his ear?”

“That's the only thing I saw wrong with him.” Matt scrubbed his head with his hands and then looked around the lobby to make sure there were no guests in sight. But the large room was empty; the entire lodge was languid in the honeyed afternoon sunlight, and it was easy to believe they were the only two in the building.

“His ear. Well, that's interesting, isn't it? So, a-hem.” Sabrina coughed, and stopped. “What…what was Gilbert doing out on Goat Island?”

She fully expected Matt to jump up and shout, “Why it's your fault completely, Sabrina, you know that!” but the young hotel owner just looked down at his hands and shook his head.

“He wanted to check out the island, so I got Sam to take him over there yesterday afternoon. I saw Mr. Kane go into the lounge, and then he came through the lobby fussing over a camera, which he put in his duffel bag, and then he went out the front door and started down the path toward the marina. That was the last time I saw him. He didn't look very good, upset or something, and he ignored me when I said goodbye. Not that that was unusual.” A brief flash of guilt crossed his face. “I'm sure he was under a lot of pressure,” he added quickly.

“I'm sure.” Sabrina's hand was getting tired from all the patting. She switched hands. “He went with…Sam, did you say? By boat, I take it?”

“Sam is our dock master and fishing guide. He takes care of all our boats. He took Mr. Kane over in our Mako and was supposed to drop him off for an hour or two, then come back and pick him up before sundown. But—”

“Sam couldn't wait for him on the island while Gilbert—Mr. Kane—looked around?”

Matt shrugged. “Mr. Kane said he needed to be alone so he could feel the vibes of the island.” He said this with a straight face.

Sabrina kept hers straight too. “I suppose ah, vibes are hard to feel with other people around. Though it's probably a good thing they aren't louder, or we would all be bee-bopping around to our own personal vibes.”

Matt nodded as if she'd said something intelligent. He was a good boy. “Sam left him on the island and came back to our dock. A while later Mr. Kane called Sam and told him he didn't have to come pick him up. Sam locked down the marina and went home.”

“Gilbert never came back to the lodge last night? Didn't anyone notice?”

Matt looked defensive. “Sam didn't tell me any of this until this morning, and of course I assumed Mr. Kane came back to the lodge last night. None of the other Hummers said anything else about it, but then, they were on their own for dinner, so maybe they didn't notice either. Anyway, they all acted pretty surprised when he didn't show up at the dock this morning. Mr. Kane had arranged for Sam to take them all over to the island at eight o'clock this morning, but he never showed. When Mr. Kane didn't answer the phone in his room, Sam and I went over to the island in the boat, and that's when we found him.”

“Why would Gilbert tell Sam that Sam didn't need to come back for him? Surely he wasn't planning on spending the night on the island. Though, you did say he had a duffel bag…” Sabrina looked up. “You didn't mention seeing the duffel bag on the beach. Where was it?”

Matt thought hard, his whole face screwed up like a six-year-old concentrating on not peeing his pants, and then shook his head. “I didn't see it. It wasn't there.”

“So, the bag was gone. Unless you just didn't see it.” Sabrina made a mental note to ask Sam if he saw the bag. She had a feeling ten circus elephants could have been performing a line dance on the beach beside Gilbert's body and Matt might not have noticed. “If it was gone, that implies someone came and took it. Which fits in with Gilbert calling and telling Sam not to pick him up. Someone came to the island, unexpectedly, or why would Gilbert have initially arranged for Sam to pick him up? And it probably was someone Gilbert knew or why else would he decide to catch a ride back with him? And whoever it was killed Gilbert and then took the duffel bag.”

Sabrina nodded with satisfaction. It all fit. All they needed to do was find the person who went to the island and they would have the murderer. Case closed.

Who knew this detective stuff would be so easy? She felt better already.

“Mr. Fredericks?” Two uniformed policemen came through the front door and Matt smiled automatically, though not before flinching as if someone had just delivered a quick jab to his abdomen.

“Can I answer any more questions for you?” Matt was courteous, though he couldn't seem to stop running his hands through his short sandy hair. Sabrina wondered if this nervous habit contributed to the noticeable recession of his hairline. It couldn't help.

“We would like to see Mr. Kane's room. Can you let us in?”

“Yes, of course.”

Matt plucked a large key ring labeled “Master” off a hook on the wall, next to several other keys labeled “Jeep 2,” “Jeep 3” and “Jeep 5.” He led the policemen out of the lobby and down a hallway, and Sabrina tagged along without anyone objecting.

“Some of these doors still have char marks from the fire that almost burnt the lodge down in the twenties. The Feds were making one of their obligatory raids, and in the rush to hide the liquor, someone dropped a cigar in the hallway.” Matt stopped at a door at the end of the hall and traced his fingers along several dark marks on the highly polished wood. “Back then, there was a brand-new La France fire truck on the island, financed by my great-grandfather, but they didn't realize until they got it to the island that it was designed for the city, and could only go about eight blocks. After that, the freeze plugs would blow out. That meant when a fire call came in, everyone would jump aboard the fire truck and race toward the fire. After eight blocks the freeze plugs would blow and then someone would have to climb down, pour in water, and hammer in the plugs before they could drive another eight blocks. Needless to say, it took a while for the fire truck to make it out here, though finally it arrived and was able to put the fire out.”

Talking about the lodge's history seemed to settle Matt, and with steady hands he inserted the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

The large, comfortable room was empty. Through the clear glass of the closed balcony doors, Sabrina could see white patio furniture and bright flowers set in large pots and beyond that, a glimpse of radiant water. She saw something else, too.

The room had been ransacked.

Chapter Ten

Michael Siderius stood barefoot on the railing of his second story terrace and flexed his toes around the warm concrete. He stepped along the rail with fluid, precise movements, reveling in the feel of his muscles rippling under his suit pants. One of his gymnastics coaches made him practice on a balance beam to strengthen his floor exercise routine, and while men did not compete on the balance beam, Michael liked the thrill it gave him.

He lay on his stomach on the rail and let his legs dangle on either side. Then he brought his legs upward, careful not to extend them above horizontal or to arch his back. He performed this in three repetitions of twenty-five. He was not thinking about Gilbert's death, or his father, or Hummers International Incorporated. He was thinking about a pivotal moment at an Olympic trial fifteen years ago when he had fallen on a back flip. Not even a full-out, just a single lousy back flip.

Winning Olympic gold was the one thing Michael thought could steal his father's attention away from the Hum. They were living in England when Joseph started hearing the Hum, but he soon quit his job as an engineer and moved his young family back to the United States. Joseph returned to school and earned a doctorate in physics so he could better understand his own symptoms. Nothing could tear his attention away from the Hum. No amount of fighting, bad grades, or recreational puppy kicking elicited more than a distracted scolding. Michael's mother gave him anything he wanted, but it was never enough. She even tried to bribe an official into changing his decision after the Olympic trial, to no avail, and Michael despised her for failing him.

Michael stood with quick grace and then stretched forward to do a handstand. Below his face was dizzying space, and the shell garden twenty feet below, and he smiled as he balanced himself on his hands.

Now everything was different. He no longer wanted or needed his father's approval, and now that Gilbert was gone, he could stop worrying about what that clever, fat man thought of him as well.

Michael had long dreamed of Gilbert's death. Brake failure on a long trip, the unfortunate use of a hairdryer in the bathtub, an injudicious step into a busy street. Any day could be dear Gilbert's last, and Michael planned for the time when he would be solely in control of Hummers International. No more jelly-belly standing behind him as Michael tried to talk to an investor, and no more pudgy, sweating face creased with that condescending smile as Michael talked about his ideas. It had been that way ever since Michael started working for Gilbert right out of college, and nothing had changed, even now that Gilbert was supposedly working for Michael.

Michael lowered his feet to the rail and stood up.

Gilbert was gone, and Michael was feeling determinedly happy. But the doubts were creeping in. He knew Gilbert would tell him he should be down comforting the nut cases, wiping away their tears while he promised a personal conversation with the universe. But…

Gilbert was dead.

Michael laughed and stretched his arms high over his head. Gilbert was dead, Gilbert was dead,
Gilbert was dead.
He felt free, and exhilarated, and…

He wouldn't admit he was scared. He could handle it on his own. He knew the way things worked. If it wasn't for him and his father, the whole thing would have fallen apart years ago.
He
was the main act in this circus, and Gilbert had just been a roadie. Michael knew it all along, and now he would prove it.

Feeling better, he tensed his muscles in preparation for a back flip.