Primary Storm (36 page)

And as before, I’d like to make note of some little in-jokes and references in PRIMARY STORM.  When Lewis goes to meet Barbara Hale at the local bookstore, there’s a note of a certain bestselling book with the face of the Mona Lisa on the cover.  That book, of course, is THE DA VINCI CODE, written by friend and fellow author Dan Brown.  And speaking of bookstores… the one I described here does, exist, though not in my fictional Tyler, but in the very real town of Exeter, N.H.

The scene where Lewis is visited by campaign workers in the middle of a raging snowstorm actually happened to me in 1992.  During a blinding snowstorm at my apartment, there was a knock one night.  I answered the door and found a snow-covered volunteer for the Paul Tsongas campaign, eagerly handing out a campaign pamphlet written by the former Massachusetts senator.   After he left, I looked out my apartment window, and saw him in the heavy and driving snow, going from one door to the next.

That brief encounter has always stayed with me, and I was glad to put in PRIMARY STORM.

# # #

What follows is a fun short story that eventually appeared in “Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.”  The particular idea for this story came from a real event that took place when I was a reporter for “The Hampton Union” newspaper, upon which the “Tyler Chronicle” is very loosely based.   Like the reporter in this story, I once spent an entire day out on the Atlantic Ocean with a fishing vessel and crew, gaining a lot of experience and respect for what fishermen do, day in and day out.

Since the story was going to take place on the New Hampshire Seacoast, I decided to have some fun and include the characters of Diane Woods, Tyler police detective, Paula Quinn, newspaper reporter, and Rollie Grandmaison, newspaper editor.  I was tempted to slide in at least a mention or reference to Lewis Cole or Felix Tinios, but decide that was a temptation too far.

I hope you like the story.  Like I said, everything in the story is based on fact… except for the unfortunate incident that takes place within the tale.

The Final Catch

The day started with me arriving at four a.m. at a dock in Tyler Harbor, New Hampshire, to do a newspaper feature story about a local fisherman.  The day ended with me being under arrest by the Tyler Police Department.  And in between, there was a lot of fishing, a lot of sitting around on a bobbing boat on the Atlantic Ocean, and a drowning.  Or maybe a murder, depending on one’s point of view at the time.  And in the end, a serious look at who I am and where I was going.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, and my story, which would no doubt upset my journalism professors, thinking they had taught me better.

So back to the beginning.

Well, part of the beginning.   That year I was a junior at the University of New Hampshire in Durham, studying journalism, and like most everyone in my class, I wanted a summer newspaper internship to a) gain experience, b) gain clips for the ol’ resume and c) get higher up that ladder of eventual fresh-faced college graduates so I could get hired before anyone else.  So I started at the top of the food chain for summer internship applications, in the middle of winter, to get a jump on the competition, thinking that being a lower-middle class white girl from a single parent household in a small town would give me a leg up.  Started off big, of course, with the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
, and then worked a bit down to the
Los Angeles Times
, the
Chicago Tribune
, and the
Boston Globe
, and then down to the ‘C’ list,
Miami Herald
and
Newsday
and
Dallas Evening News
.

And now I was here, at Tyler Beach.

At a small-town newspaper that headed the ‘G’ list.

Not much of a jump.  Should have started a year earlier.  Or maybe being a lower middle class white girl from a single parent household in a small town didn’t have as much pull any more.  Who knew.  I suppose I should have been grateful that it hasn’t come to the point that intern managers demand a cotton swab DNA test and a credit report, but I wasn’t much for being grateful.

So here I was, at the
Tyler Chronicle
, in the summer time, barely making enough money to rent a one room studio on the other side of town, and writing cheerful stories about the chowder festival, the Miss Tyler Beach contest, and sand castle competition at the beach, knowing that if I had taken a waitressing job with a skirt up to there and a cleavage down to there, it would have gained me a lot more money at the end of the summer.

But it was hard-hitting clips I was after, and so far, none of the clips I had really stood out.  One story could make a huge difference in one’s career, and that was the story I was looking for, something with power.  If I had been able to cover the police department at Tyler Beach, I would have had a slew of juicy stuff, about fights and drug busts and DWI arrests of Massachusetts politicians, but the police beat – known for some strange reason as ‘the cop shop’ – belonged to a cheerful yet rough and tough blonde reporter named Paula Quinn, who smiled sweetly at me the first day of my internship and took me aside and made a little list.  Tyler and Tyler Beach headed the list, and underneath, Paula had written Police, Fire, and Town Government.

Then Paula had smiled sweetly at me and said, “That’s my beat, Jenny.  It belongs to me.  You can write anything else about Tyler and Tyler Beach.  But if you come play in my yard, I’ll break your arms.  Understood?”

I said, sure, and bit off a statement about how I was so happy that she was supporting the Sisterhood, for it seemed to me that Paula wasn’t one for abstract theories about feminism and support groups and moving one’s cheese.  So I did the best I could, and one day, I saw a letter to the editor of the
Tyler Chronicle
, complaining about new Federal fishing regulations, and the letter writer said something to the effect that if more people knew what a fisherman had to put up with, well, maybe they and the politicians they elected would be a bit smarter.

So.  A good idea.  What the heck did I – or most people in the
Chronicle’
s readership – know about the day-to-day life of a fisherman?  Off to the editor I went – a glum man named Rollie Grandmaison, who I think is color-blind, for all he wears is black slacks, white shirts, and black neckties – and told him what I wanted to do.

“I see a three-part series,” I had said.  “Nice spread in the middle of the papers, lots of pix, each story tells a different tale.  Part one, the past history of commercial fishing out of Tyler, part two, the present state of fishing, and part three –“

Rollie had interrupted me.  “I can guess what part three is about.  The future of fishing, right?”

I had eagerly nodded.  At last, an editor who understood me.  Rollie shook his head.  “Shrink it into one story, you take the pix, and get it on my desk by next Monday.  Got it?”

I had nodded again, not so eagerly.  “Got it.”

The letter’s writer name had been Jack Houlihan.  There was one Jack Houlihan in the phone book – shared with a Helen Houlihan – and I had called and left a message.

No answer after two days.

On the third day, I tried again, and after the phone had rung twelve times, it had been picked up and a male voice had answered, using a string of obscenities that were – to my surprise, new to me – and hung up the phone.

But still wanting those nice clips, I had called a day after that, later in the day, and got the same male voice.

But not the same stream of naughty words.  Instead, there had been a pause and he had said, “Hey, was that you calling yesterday?”

Hesitating but deciding the truth would probably work in my favor, I had said, yes, it had been.  Then he had laughed and said, “Sorry about chewing you out.  I’d been out two days, got back and was having my first real good sleep when you called.  Teach me next time to do a better job of disconnecting the phone.  So, you really want to do a story about me and fishing.   Right?”

I had said so, and started giving an explanation of why I thought this story would work, when he had interrupted me and said, “Cripes, I guess that’s what happens you get a letter published.  You get attention.  Sure, if you want to.  Meet me at the west end of the town pier, mooring five.  Dress warm, and oh, if you’re prone to seasickness, take one of those anti-motion sickness pills.”

“Great,” I had said.  “What time?”

“Four a.m.”

I think I had choked a bit.  “Four a.m.?”

“Sure,” he had said, laughing.  “Always need to get a good jump on things.  I’ll see you there.  Name of the boat is the Helen H.”

So.

Four a.m., at Tyler Harbor.   The calendar said it was late June but the dark sky and temperature said it was late October.   Jack Houlihan hadn’t given me specifics about what dress warm meant, but I figured it out some.  So sneakers and slacks and no skirt.  Shirt and sweater.  Jacket.  Baseball cap.  Reporter’s notebook stuck in a back pocket, digital camera hanging from my shoulder, my purse shoved under a seat in my locked Kia, small knapsack with a couple of sandwiches and a fruit drink, for later.

Super.

And on the dock, shivering, I thought, damn.  Gloves.  Should have brought gloves.  The wind was coming off hard from the harbor, and I pushed my bare hands into my jacket’s pockets.  Before me were the waters of the harbor and plenty of moored boats.  The dock was empty.  There was nothing moored by the large painted numeral 5.  I wondered where in hell my fisherman had gone off to.  Next to my little Kia vehicle was a big pickup truck, with a bumper sticker that said FISHERMEN EAT BETTER, and a vanity plate that said HULIHAN.   Even with my minimal experience as a reporter, I determined that this truck probably belonged to my source.   The truck and my Kia were parked under a streetlight, and I peered inside.  Saw some Dunkin Donuts bags crumpled up, an open ashtray with some butts, and I sniffed.  Fresh tobacco smoke.  So he’d been here a while ago.  A couple of other vehicles were parked further down the lot, including a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, so at least some people were out there in the harbor.

But where was he now?

I stamped my feet.  Waited some more.  Out on the harbor there were some lights from the moored boats, some of them lobster boats, others that were larger, but no sailboats.  Tyler Harbor was a working harbor; there didn’t seem to be any room here for aspiring yachtsman.  Out beyond the harbor were the flat salt marshes and the low lights of the town of Falconer, and off in the distance as well, the bright orange lights from the Falconer nuclear power plant, merrily splitting atoms and making electricity for all concerned.

I checked my watch.  Just after four a.m.

Looks like I had been stood up, and then I remembered.  Earlier I had called Jack and had woken him up.  Maybe him getting me out here in the harbor was his way of getting even.

A growling noise.  I looked back out to the harbor.  One of the fishing boats was making its way out of the harbor, heading to the channel on the left that eventually led out to the Atlantic Ocean.  It had a small cabin or wheelhouse up forward, and a derrick-like contraption on the rear that looked like it held a giant ball of twine.  I kept on staring and then the boat swung around, started heading in my direction, to the dock. Red and green running lights were illuminated on the boat, and then a spotlight burst out a beam of light that nailed me and the surrounding ten feet or so.  I blinked from the harsh light and the diesel engines growled and then were throttled back, as the boat – which seemed to be heading out at a good clip of speed – came gently up to the dock.  I stepped forward and there was a man’s voice, coming from the main cabin.

“Jenny Wilson?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Then come on board,” the voice said.  “It’s time to go fishing.”

So I made that tiny leap from the dock to the boat, the tiny leap that was going to change so many things.

The first thing I noticed was the smell, of salt and dead fish and other nasty things.  The second thing I noticed was that the damn floor wouldn’t keep still… and of course, since I was on a deck.  I made my way to the cabin and went through a sliding door.  Inside the small cabin were two men, one on the right, sitting on a chair, looking forward through the window, a console of sorts before him, including a ship’s wheel.  Another guy was sprawled out on a padded bench on the other side of the cabin, a Dunkin Donuts take-out coffee cup in his hand.

The guy on the seat turned, offered a hand, which I promptly shook.  “Jack Houlihan.  That lazy slug over there is Bert Comstock, my supposed first mate.  Welcome aboard the Helen H.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my balance as the boat rocked some.   Jack seemed tall and lanky, with a thin moustache and thin blond hair, and wearing glasses.   Bert was about a foot shorter, with a thick black beard and slicked back hair.  They both wore blue jeans, gray sweatshirts, and knee-high rubber boots.  The floor seemed to be slick cement or something similar.  Before Jack was a windshield and a console with lots of dials and read-outs.  At his elbow was a throttle, which he eased out.  We were now heading out of the channel, now going under the Tyler Harbor Bridge, and now, before us, was the dark waters of the Atlantic.   Jack pushed the throttle out some more, and soon after we left the confines of the channel, we were out in the ocean itself, and the boat started bucking, going up and down, up and down.  I grabbed onto the rear of Jack’s captain’s chair to keep myself up, and he said, “How are you doing?”