Bunker 01 - Slipknot (14 page)

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day was to be consumed aboard boats where I would be squeezing in and out and through cramped spaces never intended for human passage—spaces neglected since construction, except for insurance surveys—then I would be wise to run home and change into something better suited. And since changing my clothes might well be the only wise thing I had done since waking up that morning, I decided to do just that.

the vickersons’ gift shop was open, and both proprietors were putting the hard sell on a couple of tourists who were undecided about how a lobster-trap table would fit in at their home in the Hamptons. They listened to the logistics of strapping the table to the roof of their BMW, which was what Henry was recommending as I scurried through en route to my apartment. Alice stopped her sales pitch long enough to hand me a fax fresh off her machine. I thanked her and bolted up the stairs, relieved that she and Henry were too busy to talk with me.

The apartment was relatively dark, but rather than flipping on a switch and imagining the electric meter spinning like a whirling dervish, I opted for sunlight. I briefly admired the tugboat window-shade pull Alice had made in ceramics class, pulled it down and toward my waist, and slowly fed the recoiling roll above the large window. I stopped the chubby red tugboat at chest level, where it swung from a thin cord at the bottom of the shade like a pendulum, the cord bisecting my panoramic vista of Green Haven’s working waterfront.

I removed and carefully folded the best my wardrobe had to offer, wishing I had saved the khaki skirt for another occasion s l i p k n o t

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(like a date). I wondered what I would wear to the stargazing picnic tomorrow evening. Was my interest in Lincoln still romantic? I wondered. Or was it a necessary part of my extracurricular investigation? The truth was, I realized as I stepped into an old pair of jeans and pulled a sweatshirt over my head, the fact that Lincoln had been at Dow’s and known that I was there first only added to the anticipation and intrigue of a rendezvous.

Master of the quick change, I was sneakered, out the door, and back on Main Street before the Vickersons had swiped the credit card of the couple who I imagined were already experiencing buyers’ remorse. As I walked, I contemplated many possible options for how to handle my pending date with Lincoln. Did I want to be alone with someone who might be capable of murder? Well, murder might be a stretch. After all, if Lincoln had a violent streak, he’d had the perfect opportunity to let it flare at Dow’s and had chosen to leave instead. But he certainly had been involved with Dow at some level. My stride became stronger, and I threw my shoulders back and chest out as I passed a building in the midst of getting a new roof. I thought I heard a wolf whistle blown in my direction from the men banging shingles. Objectifying or simply appreciative, the buoy to my spirits was welcome indeed. Now all I needed was coffee.

The coffee shop was more quiet than usual. I surmised that most of the daily patrons were still scouring the shore for Dow’s bankroll and book of dirty secrets. There was a middle-aged couple sharing a newspaper and a bagel at a corner table, an elderly gentleman in Top-Siders and plaid

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shorts waiting for a take-out order, and Clydie Leeman perched on a stool at the counter. I pulled the door closed behind me, which resulted in the ringing of the trio of cowbells hanging from the knob. Stifling the swinging bells by grabbing the ribbons from which they hung, I apologized for the intrusive racket to the couple glaring at me over the tops of their sports and style sections.

Audrey pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen, carrying a paper bag with the grease of its contents noticeably wicking up its sides. “Good morning, Miss Bunker,” Audrey called cheerfully. “Sit wherever you’d like.

Be with you in a sec.” I wondered how I had gone from “girlfriend” to “Miss Bunker.” Audrey punched buttons on the cash register and collected money from the gentleman in plaid, who was indiscreetly checking out all of her tattoos and piercings. As soon as the man hit the sidewalk with his greasy bag, Audrey said, in true teenage fashion, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” There, I thought, was the old Audrey.

I was undecided about where to sit. I had mistakenly assumed the shop would be jammed full of townspeople gossiping and speculating about the now well-known scuttlebutt surrounding Nick Dow’s secret life, and I’d hoped to be privy to all their theories, since I wanted to learn all I could while evidence and talk were fresh. My options were Clyde and Audrey. Then again, I could also use a solid meal. So perhaps all had not been lost in my walk to the coffee shop. Sliding a chair from under a small table between the kitchen and the restroom, I was nearly seated when Clydie invited me to s l i p k n o t

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join him at the counter. “No need to sit all by your lonesome.

Come over here next to me. I don’t bite!”

“Oh, sure. I’d love to join you,” I lied as I watched Audrey roll her eyes. “I’ll have the special. Scrambled with rye toast, please,” I said to her as I took the stool from which Clydie had whisked his Stetson, making it clear where he intended me to sit.

“Coffee, Miss Bunker?” Audrey asked.

“Please.”

“Clydie?” she asked.

“No, thank you, dear. I’ll just stay and keep Miss Bunker company while she eats,” Clyde said.

“I’m sure she’s thrilled,” Audrey said quietly as she poured coffee into my mug while digging into the front of her apron for a handful of tiny plastic creamers. After tossing half a dozen Mini-Moos onto my place mat, Audrey disappeared through the swinging doors, presumably to place my order with whatever hash slingers were employed in the smoky inner sanctum. Before the doors had come to a complete rest, she pushed back through them and hustled to a position across the counter from Clyde and me, resting both elbows on the orange Formica countertop and cradling her chin in her palms. Audrey’s eyes flashed with youthful energy as she asked, “So, what’s up, girlfriend?” Before I could answer, she specified what exactly she had in mind to discuss. “Have you seen all the idiots combing the waterfront for cash? Don’t you think whoever killed Nick Dow robbed him first? And I mean, like, how many times has the tide come and gone since he washed up at the plant? Like there’s

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thousands of dollars sitting under a clump of seaweed just waiting for someone to find it! I’ve got a better chance of finding a buck on the counter when Clydie leaves.”

“I ain’t leaving you no buck!”

“See?” As Clyde and Audrey discussed tipping etiquette, I realized that Audrey was right. There was little or no chance that any money would be recovered. So, I surmised, most of Green Haven was searching for Dow’s black book.

“I’m not a gambling man,” Clyde confessed. “But I’m ashamed to admit that I got sucked in by Dow. I put ten bucks on the
Sea Hunter
in the fish pool.” He stared at his feet.

“Lots of folks are in for a lot more. If I was them, I’d be down there poking around the mudflats, too.”

A muffled voice penetrated from the kitchen, and Audrey vanished and returned with my breakfast. “You know, now Alex sleeps in Dow’s bunk aboard his dad’s boat. Isn’t that sick?” Audrey continued as she slid salt and pepper shakers my way. “Sleeping in a dead man’s bunk!” As Audrey and Clyde compared notes on Dow—both claimed to have known for years that he was not a drunk—I thought about Dow’s bunk aboard the
Sea Hunter
. Hadn’t I heard that Dow had worked for Lincoln sporadically for years? I had to get aboard that boat before Lincoln and his crew “cleaned her up.” Having crawled around many a boat, I knew the hiding places were almost endless. I needed to do the survey on the
Sea
Hunter
today, I decided. I ate my breakfast faster than usual.

As Audrey cleared my plate and silverware, I took the faxed schedule from my messenger bag. Let’s see, I thought, what on my agenda could be put off until tomorrow so that I s l i p k n o t

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might get aboard the
Sea Hunter
today? The most urgent item on the schedule from my boss, Mr. Dubois at the agency, was to survey and report the damage by vandals to the electronics aboard the
Fearless
. Mr. Dubois had noted this as priority, since the cod boat could not safely go to sea without the equipment that had been sabotaged. I supposed this was true. Having gained an understanding of the importance of sea time for the boats in Green Haven’s dwindling cod-fishing fleet, I knew it was critical for
Fearless
to get offshore as soon as possible to ensure their piece of next season’s quota. I vowed to put the full-court press on whatever was needed aboard the
Fearless
. Once this was resolved, perhaps I would have time to sneak aboard the
Sea Hunter
before my eavesdropping expedition this evening.

Although it was painful, I left a dollar bill on the counter, along with three others that covered my breakfast tab. Fifty cents would have been adequate, I thought. But I didn’t have any change and was unwilling to wait for Audrey to make some, as she was nearing a breathless swoon in yet another lamentation of the object of her admiration’s total ignorance of her existence. Clyde listened patiently, nodding in condo-lence and patting Audrey’s fingers, which were fully be-decked in silver rings.

I slipped out of the coffee shop unnoticed and walked along Main Street in bright sunshine. As I neared the plant, I could see that the
Sea Hunter
and
Fearless
had moved from the unloading dock back to their usual berths around the corner of the main building. Two other stern trawlers were secured in the slots they had vacated, and the plant and

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surroundings were again in high gear, unloading, processing, packaging, and shipping. Cal’s silhouette stood distinctly in the company of the other workers: The hump between his shoulder blades was prominent where others had a shallow recess. A slight bow and a tap of his forehead with two fingers, signifying a tipping of his hat if he had worn one, was Cal’s way of letting me know that nothing went unnoticed on his turf. I found this comforting.

I walked the weathered planks of the wharf adjacent to the plant; the tide was as high as I had seen it since moving to Green Haven. The boats were bellied up proudly to the pier, the flares of their bows extending over the pilings to which they were tied. The
Sea Hunter
lay directly astern of
Fearless
. I understood why these two boats had not been named in the traditional female fashion. The
Sea Hunter
and
Fearless
were all about work. They were fairly brutish in their lines, with nothing pretty about either vessel. Far from pristine, the paint jobs were adequate to cover the rust. The boats looked—outwardly, at least—generally well maintained. I called hello to the captain and one-man crew working on
Fearless
’s stern deck as I moved carefully around a telescope on a tripod in the middle of the narrow pier.

“Hi. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Alan Quinby. Everyone calls me Quin. This is my boy, Eddie. That’s his foolish piece of junk in your way up there,” the captain said, pointing to the telescope. Eddie looked humiliated as he nodded a silent greeting.

“It’s not in my way,” I said. “Hi, Eddie. I think we’ve met.

Well, sort of. Weren’t you one of the ambulance attendants s l i p k n o t

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on duty when Nick Dow was found?” Eddie had been the kid with the absent look on his face, staring at the sky. I recalled thinking that he had looked stoned. I was certain that he had been and was now.

“Yes,” Eddie said, seemingly pleased that I had remembered him. “That’s part of the civic duty required of seniors at Green Haven High.”

I stepped aboard and extended a hand to the young man.

“It’s nice to see you again. I’m Jane Bunker.”

“Hi, Jane.” Eddie barely made eye contact.

“What’s this Jane crap?” interrupted Quin. “That’s Miss Bunker to you! Where are your manners?” In reply, Eddie squinted and flinched as if expecting to get backhanded.

After a cool “Nice to meet you” to his father, I immediately engaged in conversation with Eddie Quinby. My attention to the telescope, which he confirmed was one of three he owned, sparked real life into the otherwise inanimate Eddie.

“It’s a great instrument for beginners. It’s a Newtonian re-flector. I keep it on the dock so that when I’m down here working, I won’t miss anything. I saw Mercury at dawn and showed all the guys. Even my father looked!”

“I still don’t know what the big deal is,” grumbled Quin.

“Looked like a plain old star to me. Sometimes I think you make this stuff up. Point that goddamned thing in the air, and start telling stories about Venus or some garbage about a serious star that’s part of a ship—”

“You’ve got it all confused, Dad. Sirius is the Dog Star.

It’s the brightest star and part of Canis Major. It’s eight point five light-years away! Canopus is the star that’s part of the

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constellation Carina. Carina is the keel of Argo Navis. That’s the ship Jason and the Argonauts sailed in search of the Golden Fleece.”

“Show me the astronauts!” Quin taunted his son.

“Argonauts. You can’t see Canopus from here,” Eddie continued, undaunted. “You need to be south of thirty-seven degrees north.” I listened with interest as Eddie defended his passion to his father, who clearly regarded astronomy as a waste of time and energy.

In an attempt to have me join his side of the argument, Quin said, “Galileo, here, blew an entire paycheck on a tripod. Six hundred bucks! It ain’t worth a damn.” Pointing toward the tripod assembly on the dock and shaking his head in disgust, he scowled, then looked puzzled. “Hey! That’s not your new tripod! Where’s the six-hundred-dollar tripod?”