Island Blues (21 page)

Chapter Forty-one

Booker had lived with guilt his whole life. It was a drink he took every night before bed, an acidic elixir that ensured insomnia and nightmares. No matter how much time passed, and as Booker lived into ripe old age, it was quite a long time indeed, he could not rid himself of that festering, putrid regret.

He told himself that he couldn't blame himself, that he was young when it happened, that they had hoodwinked him. This was a lie, though, a soul bulwark that crumbled nightly with the onset of the dreams. Yes, he'd been young, but he had not been stupid. In some deep recess of his mind, he knew even then what was going on, but was so eager to please that he didn't stand up for himself. He didn't do the right thing.

And certainly later he knew the truth, or at least enough of it to know he had committed a mortal sin. He could have assuaged his guilt, cleansed his conscience, but by that time he was in too deep himself. If he brought them down, he would bring himself down as well.

He turned to drink, and when that wouldn't drown the nightmares, he turned to the Bible. The Bible only confirmed what he already knew, that he was going to hell. And as the cancer ate away at his pancreas, the nightmares ate away at his soul.

So Booker turned to his sixteen-year-old great-granddaughter, Marilee, for redemption.

***

It all started one summer day in 1925, when seventeen-year-old Booker decided to go fishing. Even at five o'clock in the afternoon, it was so hot the whole island was hiding away in the shade. It was a good time to get out on the water, and his mother, busy with a colicky baby, was glad to see him go. He stopped by one of the area fish houses to tell the caretaker, Gerry Lowry, he'd be coming by in the morning, hopefully with a mess of fish.

Gerry Lowry was a big man who didn't believe in baths and liked to cry when he got drunk. That afternoon he was crying, big swollen tears running down his flabby cheeks.

“I don't much care what you do,” he said to Booker. “I plan to be gone on the run boat tomorrow morning.” He took another swig of his drink, and then gestured for Booker to help himself to the bottle sitting next to his elbow. Since Gerry wasn't given to displays of generosity, Booker was quick to obey before the fat man changed his mind. The only glass was the one Gerry was using, so Booker tipped back the bottle. He was expecting Orgadent, which was a moonshine popular on the island, but was surprised by the smooth, expensive taste of the liquor. He took two more quick gulps while Gerry was looking out the window, liking the way the whisky slid down his throat like liquid flame.

“Where you going?” Booker asked, putting the bottle back down as Gerry looked around.

“I don't know. Somewhere. Anywhere.” Now Gerry was crying in earnest, his face red. “I haven't been this scared since I fought at Argonne Forest in 1918. Boy, have I told you about Argonne Forest? I was a hero, a pure hero, is what I was.” Gerry toyed with his ring. It was gold set with a gaudy blue stone, with a German inscription on the underside. Booker knew Gerry took it from a German soldier with whom he fought hand to hand for three hours. He also knew if he didn't get out of here fast, he'd have to hear the whole story again.

So he left, and didn't think much about Gerry all that night. Gerry said stuff all the time when he was drunk; sometimes it was necessary for him to dig deep for a reason to blubber. Booker caught a bunch of fish, wishing the whole time he had a bottle of that liquor Gerry was drinking, or at least some Orgadent. Fishing and drinking went together like fig jelly and hot biscuits. You could have one without the other, but why would you want to?

Around nine o'clock the next morning, he decided to call it quits and headed back over to Gerry's fish house to sell the fish and go home for a couple hours of sleep. He tied his boat to the dock and went to the back door. Inside he could hear Gerry's snores, wet, slippery exhalations, and Booker thought if the fat man intended to leave on the run boat, he'd better hurry because it was almost here. Not that Booker ever thought Gerry would, anyhow. Booker called out, but didn't put a dent in that massive racket. He tried the door, but it was tied with a rope from the inside. He went around to the front of the house, staring in curiosity at a tin wind-up speedboat sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. He wondered what kid had left the toy there, and if anyone would notice if he took it. Georgie, his little brother, would love it.

The front door was open, and Booker pushed his way inside, saying, “Gerry, you old so-and-so, I got those fish like I told you,” and then he stopped, because there was something wrong about the way Gerry was breathing. Up close, it sounded wet and ragged and labored. Booker stepped closer, noticing the empty bottle on the table and the two glasses, but more interested in why old Gerry was making those strange sounds as he lay on his cot. Then he saw that Gerry's brain was running out both sides of his head.

Booker got right back on his boat and went looking for Sheriff Fitz Mitchell. It was unusual for the sheriff of Teach County to live on Comico Island, but folks said he had to live somewhere in the sprawling, sparsely populated county, so why not Comico Island? Others, more quietly, said he wanted to be closer to the rum-running, but most of the time they said this in voices too quiet to be heard. Both rum and the sheriff were hugely popular on Comico Island.

Sheriff Mitchell did not seem surprised by his story, just wiped the sweat off his face and said, “Go fetch the doctor, will you, Booker?”

Booker went to fetch the doctor from the mainland, and when he got back he found the sheriff and the run boat captain sitting on Gerry's front porch, sharing a pint of something or another. They didn't offer any to Booker as the doctor went inside to look at Gerry. After a while the doctor came back outside. He shrugged as he sat down and accepted the bottle from the sheriff.

Then they waited for Gerry to die. Every now and then the doctor would go back in and check on the man, and around four o'clock that afternoon he finally died. Booker knew it was wrong, but by that time he was wishing the fish master would just stop breathing so he could go home and sleep.

The sheriff had asked Booker a bunch of questions, and Booker answered them the best he could. When the sheriff asked him if he noticed the gun on the floor beside Gerry's cot, at first he said no, that Gerry was so afraid of guns that he cried the last time someone shot one close to his fish shack. The sheriff kept asking, though, and after a while Booker said maybe he had, because by that time he was so tired he couldn't think straight. He knew he didn't notice the gun before, but now he could see it plain as day through Gerry's open front door, lying under the cot, so it must have been there all along.

The sheriff got six people together, including Booker and the run boat captain, and held an inquest. That Booker was only seventeen and couldn't legally serve at an inquest didn't seem to bother anyone. After some discussion, the six men agreed on a verdict of suicide. Much was made of the fact that the back door was tied from the inside (no one mentioned that the front door was unlocked), and that the gun was found exactly where it would have been dropped by Gerry if he shot himself. Everyone agreed that Gerry had been an unstable soul since returning from the war, prone to hysterics and crying, and most likely killed himself in a drunken impulse. No one mentioned how much Gerry disliked guns.

The verdict was made, and Booker went home to sleep. The next day Sheriff Mitchell came by his house and offered him a job as a deputy, and his mother and father were so thrilled they offered to move his little brother back in their room so he could have his old room all to himself again.

He was paid twenty dollars a week, but before long the extra envelopes of twenties started coming in, and he couldn't find it in himself to say no. After all, the islanders' predominant sentiment toward prohibition was resounding disgust. Oftentimes, on principle alone, regular citizens would help smugglers evade capture.

He bought a nice car and built a room on his parents' house and hung out at the Shell Lodge with Sheriff Mitchell and the high rollers from the mainland. All for the price of being absent on a certain day, or looking the other way when told to do so. Another islander, Foster Garrison, was whooping it up in the gaming room, riding high on his profits as a smuggler captain. Booker was on first-name basis with Kenneth Fredericks, the owner of the Shell Lodge, and his buddy David Harrington. People looked at him with respect and he liked it.

All the while, he knew it was wrong. He could never quite shake that feeling, no matter how much he enjoyed the attention and the money. He took to drinking a lot, and gambling. His parents heard the rumors of what he was doing, and encouraged him to quit. His father gave him a Bible one liquor-soaked morning and told him he needed to reacquaint himself with Matthew, specifically the part where the devil tried to bribe Jesus with all the kingdoms of the world.

One night, he and Sheriff Fitz Mitchell stayed up all night playing poker and drinking expensive French champagne. When the sun came up over the Shell Lodge, Booker turned to Fitz and asked the question that had been haunting him: “Did Gerry Lowry really kill himself?”

Fitz kicked his chair back and propped his feet up on the rail. Down on the dock, vacationing fishermen were crowding around the local guides, eager to start their day of fishing. Many of them had been up until all hours of the night at the Shell Lodge's gaming tables, but wouldn't let something like lack of sleep and a hangover interfere with their sport.

“You don't want to be thinking on that, Booker. Trust me on this.” Fitz Mitchell was a big man, not given to much introspection or thought. This was all he had to say on the subject as far as he was concerned.

“But I have to know,” Booker pressed on, the champagne singing in his head, spurring him into a recklessness he normally avoided. “I
need
to know.”

“There are very few things you need to know in this world, and most of them are destined to disappoint. Haven't you learned that yet, boy?” Fitz looked over at Booker's earnest, young face and sighed. “Let me ask you a question. The day you found Gerry Lowry with his brains coming out his head, did you notice he wasn't wearing that ring of his, the one he was always bragging he took off a German soldier? It was his proudest possession, you'll recall, one he wouldn't part with unless it was pried off his cold, dead finger.”

Booker tipped his bottle up, guzzling at the sweet champagne while he thought. He put the bottle down and stared at Fitz. “No, I don't reckon I saw it on his hand.”

“Well, I'll tell you something. I've seen it since. He keeps it in one of his rum holes, and he takes it out sometimes when he gets drunk. That, and some other souvenirs he keeps in there. He plays with it, and there's a look in his eye, like a shark gets right before he comes up after that fish splashing around on your line. I'm telling you, boy, I have no intention of crossing him, and you shouldn't either. That's what Gerry Lowry did. Gerry crossed him on just a couple bottles of liquor and now Gerry's dead. When I looked at that man at the poker table tonight, I got chills thinking about what he's done. You like your life, don't you, Booker? You don't want to lose everything, the money, the prestige, do you? And don't forget your parents and brothers. He wouldn't stop at anything if he felt threatened, trust me, I know.”

With that, Fitz propped his hat over his eyes and promptly fell asleep, leaving Booker alone with his thoughts. He had never seen Fitz scared before, but there was fear in his voice tonight. Booker wasn't stupid enough to disregard what he heard.

He never mentioned Gerry Lowry's name again. After a couple of months, he quit the police force and went back to fishing. It took a while before he stopped looking over his shoulder when he was out on the water late at night by himself.

The problem was, he never knew exactly who he was looking for. Fitz didn't mention a name, and Booker was left to wonder which of their poker partners was a cold-blooded killer.

Besides Fitz and Booker, there were three men at the table that night: Kenneth Fredericks, David Harrington, and Foster Garrison.

Chapter Forty-two

“Granddad Booker said he was going to hell for what he did, but he wanted to die knowing that he tried to set things right. That's what he wanted me to do, set things right for him.” Marilee's smile was heartbreaking. “It was the least I could do after all he'd done for me. I knew that all of them were dead, that they could no longer be punished, but Granddad said the truth needed to come out. He said Gerry's kin should know the truth.

“But I didn't have any idea how to go about it. Granddad didn't know who killed Gerry Lowry, but he knew it was one of three men. I thought if I found the ring, I would have found the killer. From what the sheriff said, the killer had hidden it away in one of his rum-running hiding holes. I thought it was possible it was still there, but I didn't know where to start.

“I did know that Kealy Lowry was Gerry's great-grandson, so I took the big jar of change Granddad left me and went over to the mainland and cashed it in. I sent that money to Kealy, hoping it would make a start on the debt my family owed his. Then I went to the library to do some research.”

“I suspect you looked through some of the same things I did,” Sabrina said. “I noticed the boxes of microfiche had fresh fingerprints in the dust. While I understand how you picked the houses to break into, I'm still curious how you knew where to look.”

Marilee's eyes sparkled with enjoyment. She had enjoyed her task. “Granddad told me about the hiding places he knew about. I did those first. Even though I knew Sheriff Fitz Mitchell wasn't the killer, I thought maybe he kept a diary or journal, so I went to Hill's house first. Granddad told me the sheriff's hiding hole was in the floor in the master bedroom.” She glanced at Hill Mitchell, but he would not meet her eyes, so she continued her story. “Granddad also told me where David Harrington's secret hiding place was in the Harrington rental cottage, so I went there next. I didn't want to go in when there were people at the house, but when I found out the house was booked through December, I took a chance. It was the middle of the night, and I didn't figure anyone would see me if I snuck in the closet and checked the hiding place real quick. It was empty, too.”

“I thought you were bigger,” Maggie Fromlin said. “I see I would make a horrible eye witness. But why were you barefoot?”

“Bare feet are quieter.” Marilee shrugged. “Besides, I only wear shoes when I have to.”

It was a typical island child foible, Sabrina thought.

“Then I went into Missy's house,” Marilee continued. “I didn't have any idea where the hiding place was in her house, so I needed her out of the way for a while. I got a friend to call and act like he was a tourist on the mainland who needed a ride. I couldn't find the rum hole in her house, though. I was still looking when she came back. I'm sorry, Missy, I didn't mean to mess with your collection. It's pretty cool, by the way.”

Missy beamed. “Isn't it? You'll have to come by for a more formal tour one of these days.”

“That'd be great! Oh, and before Missy's house, I came in here. That was a total joke, though. First I ran into the guy sneaking around carrying a duffel bag, and then that old geezer jumped out at me screaming. I didn't get a chance to—”

“Aha!” yelled the old geezer, popping out of the closet. “Freeze, sucker, I've caught you!”

“Grandpa, we've already caught her. Haven't I told you about hiding in closets?” Matt got up to help his diminutive grandfather roll his cart out of the closet. “What are you doing up?”

Guy wheezed for a minute as he looked around at them with bright eyes, his tiny bald head flushed with excitement. “I bet you'd like to know where the hidey hole is, wouldn't you?”

“Yes!” Sabrina cried. “Can you show us?” They had searched unsuccessfully for it before Marilee arrived. It only made sense that the hiding place would be in the lounge, which, Sabrina had discovered in her research last night, was the room Kenneth Fredericks used as his office in the twenties.

“No, I cannot. It's gone.” Guy grinned evilly at their obvious disappointment. “You all should have stayed in bed and done something illegal in thirty-two states, instead of traipsing out here to bother good, sleeping citizens.”

Matt was patient. “What do you mean, it's gone, Grandpa? Where did it go?”

“It used to be in the baseboard where the bar is now. It's not there anymore, though, so don't you bother looking.” He sat there, all false teeth and big ears, his little hands crossed over the top of his oxygen tank, and he looked like nothing more than a malevolent little Yoda.

“Was there anything in the hole, Guy? Like a ring, maybe?” Sabrina had to give it a try.

“No, the ring wasn't in the hole. Dad gave it to me right before he died, along with some other important mementos. I have it in my room. Do you want to see it?” He struggled to his feet and rolled his cart out without another word.

“That means Kenneth Fredericks is the killer,” Marilee said. “He killed Gerry Lowry!”

Matt Fredericks groaned. “This is the last time I listen to you, Sabrina. I agreed to this because I thought it would be better than having someone break in any time they felt like it. Now you're telling me my great-grandfather was a murderer? Wonderful, just wonderful.”

“Just think, Matt, of all the publicity this will bring the Shell Lodge. They say any publicity is good publicity, you know.” Sabrina nodded as if she knew what she was talking about. “You could advertise the Shell Lodge as a prohibition-era showplace. You already know a lot of stories, and with Guy's help, you could come up with smuggling tours and flapper parties, and who knows what else. It would be a lot of fun, and you could charge a lot of money for it.”

“Flapper parties?” Matt looked thoughtful.

“Here it is!” Guy trundled back into the room, holding up a ring. “You can look, but you can't touch.”

By unspoken consent, they all let Marilee approach the old man first. He held it close to his chest, in a half-clenched fist, but after a moment Marilee nodded. “It's got the inscription on it. It belonged to Gerry Lowry.”

“I'll be happy to buy that ring off you,” Walter Olgivie offered in a hearty voice. “Sight unseen, I'll give you twenty dollars.”

Guy gave him a disdainful look. “You play a lousy game of Battleship.”

“Guy, did your father tell you where he got the ring?”

“He took it off that man he killed. I was there, you know. I was sitting outside the fish house playing with my new wind-up speedboat, like the ones the smugglers used, when I heard the shot. Daddy came out kind of quick, and he said we needed to go talk to the sheriff. Later he told me not to tell anyone we were there, so of course I didn't, and before he died he gave me this ring. Isn't it pretty?”

“It's very nice, Guy,” Sabrina managed, because no one else seemed to know what to say.

“Well, what do we do now, Sabrina?” Matt looked at Sabrina wearily. “We can't very well have Sergeant Jimmy take the killer into custody. He's been dead forty years.”

“Marilee, what do you want to do?”

Marilee looked startled by Sabrina's question. “I hadn't really thought it through,” she said, “but I guess I need to tell Kealy Lowry the truth about his great-granddad Gerry, that Gerry didn't kill himself.”

“Maybe that'll take the burden of bad luck off him,” Hill offered, and immediately looked around as if to see who had spoken.

“That sounds fine,” Sabrina said.

“But what about her?” Matt indicated Marilee. “Should we call Jimmy to come get her?”

“I have SATs next Saturday,” Marilee said in a stricken voice. “I don't have time to be arrested!”

“I'm sure we can work that out tomorrow.” Sabrina remained seated, however, and the two or three people who had half-risen from their seats sat back down again.

“Now what?” Matt groaned.

“It was something Marilee said right before Guy came in. What night did you try to break into the Shell Lodge the first time?”

“Monday night.” Marilee seemed much more light-hearted now, more like the kid she was, than the adult she wasn't.

“That was the night Gilbert was killed. Didn't you say you saw someone sneaking around with a duffel bag?”

Marilee looked around and then pointed to the back of the room at Lance Mayhew. “I'm pretty sure it was him. Why? Does it matter?”