Island Blues (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

“Do you think they will cancel the retreat?” asked a very tall young man.

“Where in the hell is Siderius, that's what I want to know. How are we supposed to know what's going on when he won't bother to tell us? For that matter, where's the old guy?” This from a man in a dark blue suit who looked like he would prefer
Fortune
over
National Geographic,
aged scotch over beer, and first class most definitely over coach. He wore a pair of wrap-around high-tech sunglasses and his face looked as if it were no stranger to masks and moisturizers.

Sabrina stood in the doorway of the meeting room, but the three Hummers inside were too involved in their conversation to notice her.

The tall young man had a tendency to duck, even sitting, as if he'd encountered one too many ceilings in his short life, and had an open, engaging face, despite the strain evident on it. Looking around the room, Sabrina saw that all three men showed signs of strain. Of course, Gilbert's death could account for some of it, but this tension had the look of longevity about it. It took weeks or even months of constant stress to tense muscles so tight that not even constant neck rolling and finger flexing would relieve them.

“I don't think we need any water.” A grayish man in the back of the room said this in a quiet voice, and it took a moment for Sabrina to realize that the apropos-nothing statement was directed at her.

“Oh! No, I don't have any water, though I think I have half a Diet Pepsi in my purse if you need it…” There was silence, and Sabrina realized they all thought she was a deranged hotel employee. She rushed on. “I'm Sabrina Dunsweeney, Comico Island's Ombudsman. I've come to see how you are doing and offer any assistance I can provide. May I say that all of us on Comico Island are so sorry that you have experienced this loss?” The speech went exactly as practiced and Sabrina beamed.

“We've all been interviewed by the police, but we haven't seen Michael or Joseph since this morning. We want to know when our sessions are going to resume,” said the man in the sunglasses.

“I, um, I'm not sure of that.” Sabrina was a bit nonplused by their determination to continue with their retreat in the face of Gilbert's death. “I'll find out when your sessions will be resuming as soon as I can. Is there anything else I can do for you? I know this must be a very trying time for you, and I would be happy to do anything I can to make this easy experience difficult. That is to say, to ease your way through this difficult experience.” It was another speech she had practiced on the way here, and this one didn't go quite as well. The men were looking skeptical, and Sabrina knew she needed to do something fast. The question was, what? Her “Annie Get Your Gun” tap dance routine from her fifth grade recital didn't seem appropriate in these circumstances, though it had worked in other tight spots.

“We don't need anything—” said the grayish man.

“Well, that's good. Please feel free to ask if you need anything. Doughnuts? A shoulder to cry on? An oil lube?” That just popped out because she knew Pastor Josh was running a special on them down at the car lot. She needed to stop talking. She always talked too much when she was nervous. “I need to take down all your names.”

Sabrina whipped out her brand-new pad of paper, but then had to search her purse for a pen. She always had a pen, for goodness' sake, but where had it gone? She pawed through uplifting sticky notes—“stand up straight and don't forget to smile!”—a comb and lipstick, a half a Diet Pepsi, a screwdriver, a flattened Twinkie—ambrosia for the downhearted soul—little petrified clumps of tissue, and finally upended her purse on a nearby table. A brochure on kayaking slithered to the floor and Sabrina stooped to pick it up.

“Oh, look. Kayaking. I've always wanted to try it. Are any of you kayakers?” Sabrina smiled brightly around the room. Sergeant Jimmy McCall, who had just stepped to the doorway, winced and ducked back out of sight.

“What in the hell are you jabbering on about?” the man in the sunglasses asked, his buffed body tense with annoyance. “I certainly don't kayak.”

“How about you two? Do you like to kayak?” Sabrina turned to the other two men.

There was no response, except for a horrified choke just outside the door.

“Oh, well. Let's see, now what was I doing?” She looked down at the purse detritus on the table.

“Ms. Dunsweeney,” said the tall young man sitting in the first row. “There's a pen inside that pad of paper you pulled out first thing. Was that what you were looking for?” He didn't seem sure that she might not have felt the sudden urge to clean her purse.

“Ah, yes. There it is.” Sabrina stuffed the junk back into her purse and looked at him expectantly, pen poised.

“What? Oh, my name is…well, Dennis Parker.” He said the name in a rush without looking at her. Sabrina wrote it down carefully, checking with him on the spelling of Dennis. People were doing all sorts of interesting things to traditional names nowadays, and one never knew. “And your address?”

Dennis, who seemed relieved to have gotten the whole my-name-is issue behind him, recited his Chicago address easily. He was a handsome boy, with dark curly hair, a touch of freckles, and a thin frame on which his clothes hung precariously. His hands looked proportionally too large, however, like one of those pictures taken with your hand in the foreground so your fingers look like gigantic sausages.

“Have you ever been to Comico Island before?” Sabrina asked Dennis.

“No. I've never been on an island. I grew up on a farm in Illinois, and we never traveled much. Of course, now I—well, I've never been to an island, that's all.” His ears turned red, and he reminded Sabrina of a twenty-something Richie Cunningham. Not the way he looked exactly—Dennis didn't look anything like Ron Howard—but just the boyish charm he exuded.

Dennis suddenly grimaced and clutched at his head. Sabrina patted his shoulder, and looked around to see if anyone else had observed his distress.

“Dennis? Are you feeling okay?”

He looked up, his eyes glazed with misery, and nodded.

“Do you need some Tylenol? I have aspirin as well, but at your age you need to be careful of Reye's Syndrome, you know, so you're better off sticking with acetaminophen.”

“It doesn't help,” Dennis said in a low voice. “Nothing does.”

Sabrina sensed that he preferred to be alone so she moved over to the table where the man who looked like he was a businessman with a capital “B” was sitting. He made no effort to ask Dennis if he was okay.

“Mrs. Dunsweeney,” began the important businessman in an important manner. The man oozed money. His sunglasses alone, which looked capable of x-ray vision, translating foreign languages, and cooking five-course meals, probably cost more than Sabrina's house in Cincinnati.

“It's Ms., actually. And what was your name?”

“I'm Walter Olgivie. And while I'm sure you are a very capable person, I'm afraid I must insist that we speak with your superior. Someone of…higher rank.”

Sabrina read his meaning clearly. Substitute “higher rank” with “possessing male genitalia.” Walter Olgivie was similar to many men of a certain generation who were accustomed to their women at home, waiting for them to return home from the office—or more probably the golf course—with congratulatory smiles and proffered drinks.

“I have been nominated by the mayor and the town council, so you can view me as their representative.” Sabrina managed a cool smile while inwardly picturing her suit of armor.

“Well, then, I would like to know what in the world is going on around here.” Walter's taut, expensive face looked irritated. Sabrina wondered if he had some type of surgery to remove the hair from his face. It was that smooth, and Walter did not look as if he were adverse to surgical enhancement. Most sixty-something men did not have body-builder physiques and faces as unlined as a five-year-old child's.

“That is something that I will endeavor to find out as soon as possible,” Sabrina said in a cheery voice. “And what is your name?” As she turned to him, the grayish man in the back of the room jerked as if she had shouted in his face.

“I'm Lance Mayhew.” Even his voice was grayish and indistinct. He was one of those unforgettable people who could walk naked down the street during rush hour and later no one would be able to describe him. He wore a gray sweat suit, and his thinning hair was an indistinct medium color that was shades of sandy blond, brown and, yes, gray. His nose was high and arched, but it wasn't enough to give his face any sort of character. In fact, his face was as dull and blank as an empty movie screen. Perhaps like a movie screen animated by the focus of the projector, emotion would brighten Lance Mayhew's face with expression and passion, but just now there was no sign of it.

Sabrina moved over to his side with her pen poised. “And your address?”

“I would prefer not to give that.” The words were said without offense or affect.

Sabrina smiled forgivingly and looked around the room. “Is this the whole group?”

“No, Patti and Sophie left to go to the ladies' room. They should be back soon,” Dennis offered, without removing his head from his hands.

Sabrina nodded. She had suspected that Patti Townsend and her beautiful friend were Hummers. “Tell me, for what reason are you here on the island?” She looked around the room, surprised at the warring emotions on their faces.

“It's because of the Hum,” Walter snapped. “Why else?”

“All of you hear the Hum? How fascinating. What's it like?”

There was silence, and then Dennis burst out with, “It's absolutely horrible, that's what!”

“Why?”

No one would look at Sabrina. Lance finally said in his expressionless voice, “We would prefer not to talk about it, if you don't mind.”

A small scuffle at the door was the only warning before Joseph Siderius glided in, his yellow dashiki flowing behind him as he went over to a window and sat down without looking at anyone.

Behind Joseph was his son, Michael. The young, handsome president of Hummers International Incorporated stood at the door and surveyed the people inside.

“Where are Patti and Sophie?”

“Right here!” Patti Townsend rushed into the room, followed by her gorgeous, dazed-looking friend. They took seats at the front of the room.

“Gilbert Kane's death is a tragedy, there's no doubt,” Michael said with perfect showman's timing. “But I know he would want us to continue with our important work, to not let his death stand in the way of our vital mission.” He crossed so he stood with his hand on his father's shoulder, the image of virility next to the frail older man. He looked around at the group, making eye contact with each of the Hummers, while ignoring Sabrina.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Are you ready to communicate with the universe?”

Chapter Twelve

Michael turned to Sabrina, with a wide, white smile. He sported a fresh cut on his chin, and his hands looked scraped and raw.

“I would like to speak with you later, Michael.” Sabrina stashed her pen and pad in her purse and headed for the door. She knew when she was not wanted.

“Certainly.” Michael turned back to the group before Sabrina even left the room. “I think we should resume our sessions as soon as possible. I've spoken with management, and they are going to arrange a place for us to go tomorrow morning. Now, Master Joseph has something he wants to say—”

Sabrina turned back to see that Michael had put his hand on his father's shoulder once again. The old man stared straight ahead, his expression blank and benign.

“Master Joseph says that death is not forever…he wants you to never forget that…” Michael's voice had dropped into a sing-song rhythm as he closed his eyes and swayed. This was interrupted as Joseph suddenly snapped his head around to stare at Sabrina.

“Thank you, Sabrina, I'll speak with you later,” Michael said in a normal voice as he crossed the room with a long stride and closed the door in Sabrina's face.

Sabrina stood for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices inside the meeting room and trying to sort out what she saw right before the door shut. Shades of awe, desperation, skepticism, and hope were painted with a lavish hand across the faces of the five Hummers. Hope was the most vivid: anguished, fervent hope. They wanted badly to believe, no matter what their rational minds told them about the staged theatrics.

As for Joseph in his ridiculous yellow outfit, it would be easy to dismiss him as a charlatan, a willing accomplice to his son's medium act. But there had been something in the man's eyes as he stared at Sabrina…She couldn't begin to define what it was, but she was left with a lingering feeling of sadness and hopelessness.

Sabrina looked around and was thankful to see that Sergeant Jimmy was gone. Give him a while to cool down, and he would realize that she was just doing her job.

When Sabrina ran into Sergeant Jimmy McCall in the lobby, he was surprised to learn that she had been hired as Comico Island's Ombudsman, and that she planned to offer her help to the Hummers. She wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or cry, but her hands started patting anyway, just in case.

With a little sweet-talking, Jimmy had shared some details about the investigation. He told her the police discovered a kayak was pulled ashore on Goat Island around high tide the night before. Gilbert Kane arrived on the island close to high tide, and, according to the estimated time of death, died not too long after that. Someone else was on Goat Island at the same time as Gilbert, most likely the killer.

And the killer came by kayak.

***

Matt Fredericks saw Sabrina coming and groaned inwardly. He still felt sick whenever he thought about the fish swimming in and out of Gilbert Kane's mouth, and he knew Sabrina would insist on asking more questions about what he had seen. She was very thorough. He had so many other things on his mind, like how he was going to attract more people to his lodge, or get the money to patch the perpetually leaking roof. But he was too professional to show his weariness, or to let his money problems spoil his customer-friendly smile. Even if Sabrina wasn't a customer. Word of mouth happened, he liked to tell his staff, you never knew who, when, why, or how.

“Miss Sabrina! Sergeant Jimmy said he wanted to talk to you immediately. He was called away but you're to call him first thing. Here's his cell phone number.”

Sabrina accepted the piece of paper from him as if he was proffering raw squid with a dash of liver. “And…how did he seem?” she asked.

“Pretty steamed. The sergeant was muttering under his breath the whole time he wrote the note. Something about ‘doesn't listen any better than a crab pot'.”

“Hmmm.” Sabrina put the piece of paper in her purse and looked at Matt with her big, blue eyes. “I understand the Hummers are going to resume their sessions tomorrow. Where are they going to go?”

Matt ran his fingers through his hair. “The only other island that will work is Dead Man's Island. I told Mr. Siderius that perhaps it might not be appropriate and offered the picnic area again, but he insisted on the island. He said members of the group are threatening to go home if they aren't assured of their privacy.”

And if he lost this group, he was in serious trouble. People looked at the Shell Lodge and saw a thriving, successful business. Matt looked at it and saw hurricane damage, exorbitant taxes, and rising insurance. It was a money pit, but it was his money pit, and he would do anything to save it.

Sabrina was still watching him with an expectant expression and he quickly finished his thought. “Tomorrow morning Sam is taking them out to Rainbow Island.”

“Rainbow Island?”

“Mr. Siderius requested that we refer to the island by some name other than Dead Man's Island. Sam came up with Rainbow Island.” The dock master had also come up with a few other less appropriate names as well, like Fruitcake Island and Feel the Vibe Island. Matt decided to go with Rainbow Island.

“It seems strange that they want to get back to their sessions so soon after Gilbert's death,” Sabrina mused.

“Well, they only have until Saturday to finish whatever they hoped to accomplish.”

“Yes,” Sabrina said thoughtfully, “but what exactly did they hope to accomplish?”

Matt waved as Sabrina went off, and then looked back down at his scrawled figures. No matter how he juggled the numbers, they still came up short.

It was time for desperate measures.

***

Sabrina made her way down one of the shell-encrusted walkways, stopping to marvel at the intricacy of the inlaid shells. So many thousands of shells, placed precisely into the concrete. It must have taken years to finish. What did Matt say? A labor of love. Sabrina could imagine Matt's great-grandmother, young and pretty in a flapper dress, on her hands and knees with a trowel, placing the shells in the precise pattern she wanted.

She thought about Sergeant Jimmy's evasive answer when she asked him about the weapon used to kill Gilbert Kane. It was missing, he said. Yes, but what was it? she persisted. Did the police know what type of murder weapon they were looking for? Jimmy looked uncomfortable as he admitted that they weren't sure yet what could cause that kind of trauma to the human ear.

Not a knife, Sabrina concluded. Surely the police would have known by now if it were a knife. So what kind of weapon could have inflicted the kind of brutal damage that Matt described?

The beach came into sight through the thick trees. A cozy cove cuddled a narrow strip of white sand and a small marina holding several boats. Sabrina could see two miniature sailboats—they couldn't be much bigger than bathtubs—struggling to tack in the still afternoon air. The sun was growing larger and redder as it sank toward the horizon, and long shadows brushed coldly across Sabrina's face as she hurried down the path.

“You must be Comico Island's illustrious ombudsman!” A man's voice said as she neared the dock.

“Please?” She looked around but saw no man to go with the voice.

“Sabrina Dunsweeney, if I'm not mistaken,” the disembodied voice continued. “Blond and disheveled and wearing something pink, or purple, or possibly yellow. The sergeant couldn't remember what you were wearing, just that it was blinding and neon.”

“Please!” Sabrina huffed in indignation, unsure of which slight to address first. It was disconcerting to speak to empty air. Even as she moved along the dock she did not encounter the impertinent speaker, though a pelican was watching her appraisingly. Surely not…“I'm not disheveled, and my clothes are—”

The pelican lifted its long beak and fluffed its pouch, making a gargling sound that sounded disturbingly like a laugh. Sabrina glared at the bird.

“Don't you dare laugh at me, you—”

“I wasn't laughing.” A man stepped out from under the dock and looked up at Sabrina. “Who's laughing?”

Sabrina looked from the chortling pelican to the man and forgot her ire. “Are you okay? Where are you hurt? Please, sit down—” Sabrina ran along the dock and down the short flight of stairs to the beach. The man was staring at her dumbfounded as she flew up to him and began patting his arms and chest.

“Where are you hit? Smile, raise your arms and speak a simple sentence. Oh no, that's for a stroke. Drat. Well, are you feeling lightheaded, are you having trouble breathing, are you—”

“What—”

“Sit down, please sit down.” Sabrina forced the man down onto a nearby cooler as she continued her inspection. No weapons that she could see or feel, that was reassuring.

“What are you going on about?” The words were said with some vigor, enough to make Sabrina pause and look down at the man's face. He was compact and sinewy, with thinning hair bleached colorless by many years of sun. Thick creases encased his bloodshot pale blue eyes, and golden stubble covered his sun-darkened face. He wore cut-off khaki shorts and dock shoes, as well as a white tee-shirt. This was the de rigueur island wear, except for the fact that—

“You've got blood all over you.” Sabrina kept her voice calm. People in shock oftentimes did not realize the extent of their injuries. Perhaps the man didn't even know he was badly injured.

“It's not mine.”

“Please?”

“I said, it's not mine. But thank you for your concern.” The man removed Sabrina's restraining hands and rose to his feet. He offered his hand, but retracted it with a grimace when he noticed the blood on it.

“I'm Sam Myers. I run the Shell Lodge marina, such as it is.” He gestured to the dock, encompassing with a short wave the fuel pump, the ramshackle shed, a compact sailboat, and several other boats painted with the Shell Lodge logo. “That sailboat at the end is my current abode, so you could say this dock is my whole universe.”

Sabrina surveyed him, but he seemed lucid and unhurt. Perhaps he was not injured after all, though she would be vigilant in case he stumbled or fainted.

“You said the blood wasn't yours?” Sabrina ended the statement with a delicate question.

“Nope.”

“Where did it come from, then?” She was beginning to feel some trepidation.

“Did you know that crows are the most creative birds in the world?” Sam pulled a knife from a scabbard at his side and began testing its edge for sharpness. Sabrina took an instinctive step back. “Some say they may be even more intelligent than chimpanzees when it comes to tool making. They probe logs for grubs with twigs and they've been spotted placing nuts they want cracked beneath the tires of cars stopped at red lights. It's very unusual for animals to make tools, and crows seem to be among the most skilled.”

Sabrina looked around, but there were no crows in sight. “That's very interesting, I'm sure. Perhaps you didn't hear me when I asked where the blood came from.” She was backing away now, her hand slipping inside her purse, though there was nothing more lethal in there than a Twinkie. Perhaps she could throw it at him as she ran away. Nobody could resist a Twinkie.

“My point was, they are intelligent creatures, wouldn't you agree?”

“It certainly sounds like it, though I'd never noticed it. In Cincinnati they were quite annoying, always cawing and strewing trash on my lawn.”

Sam looked up from his knife and grinned, his small, pointed teeth very white in his tanned face. “Ah, Sabrina, but don't you think
I,
as unprepossessing as I may seem, am as intelligent as a loud, obnoxious crow?”

“Well…”

“And don't you think,” Sam was quick to interrupt, “I would be smart enough to not be caught covered with blood if I just killed someone? I'm assuming you think I am a homicidal maniac who finished off the fat tourist last night and moved on to another one for lunch.”

“That's a terrible thing to say!”

Sam shrugged. “I didn't know the man. What little I knew I didn't like. He talked to me like I was an idiot, and he kicked my cat. So, no, I'm not sorry he's dead.”

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So, so,
rude.
”

“Ah, but some people, my dear Sabrina, find me charming.”

“Well, I don't!”

Sam grinned, not at all concerned. “Would you like to see my abattoir?”

“I don't think—” But curiosity won out, and as Sam disappeared behind a rickety shed, Sabrina followed to find a rough table and sink behind it, right at the edge of the water. “I still would like to know—” she began, but stopped in shock at the blood-soaked sight that confronted her.

Blood, lots of it. Unidentifiable body parts. An overflowing bucket of bloody gore. A full meat grinder.

It looked as if a massacre had taken place.