Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (9 page)

“Can you believe that?” I asked.

Martha just shook her head.

We said nothing for several minutes.

“Martha, tell me what Jimmy did for these people? Who did he deal with?”

We moved over to a concrete ledge just off the entrance to sit. Martha bounced up and squealed softly as her fanny hit the cold surface, not yet wet from the night dew, but close. The lights of the gym and lobby illuminated the entrance, giving us the warm security of knowing several hundred people were just a few feet away. We could hear the dull movement of the crowd as people gathered to finish the briefing.

“Neddie,” Martha began, “I don't know everything Jimmy did for CRI. He just went to that one town meeting. I know he met with some guys down at the Bayfront. And he took them out on the boat. That's how they paid him, in boat trips.”

“What do you mean? Do you mean they had to have a cover for his salary? Why not just hire him as a consultant?”

“Who knows,” Martha said. “Maybe they really liked to fish.”

“Who went on these trips?”

“I don't know,” she said, “Jimmy just talked about Mike. I guess he was the boss. I looked for him tonight but I only met him once. In the truck when he brought Jimmy home once.”

“I'm meeting more of these guys all the time,” I said. “I'll ask about Mike.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Martha asked. She lifted herself off the wall and moved toward the light of the lobby. One of the churches had set up a coffee stand and sold styrofoam cups for fifty cents each. Martha's cup was steaming when she returned. I saw her with a cup in one hand and her purse in the other as she came to the door. She turned and swung her fanny into the cross handle, pushing the door open as soon as the latch gave away. Her jeans were more than snug and her starched blouse revealed the outline of ample breasts. I hadn't noticed before, I guess because she was my brother's wife.

I first remember Martha in high school, in my brother's class. Although they didn't date then, she hung around and worked part time at the Bayfront. Even then the Parkers girls had a kind of unofficial uniform, consisting of tight jeans, white sneakers, and a tight sweater. There were variations of all three elements in this ensemble, such as a sweater with a deep vee, or a cardigan sweater over a cotton blouse with two or three top buttons open, or jeans with the legs cut off to make short shorts in the summer.

Martha was attractive, even in the shadows. I remember my brother once saying to me as an unattractive girl walked under a street light:

“My, how the dark becomes her.” But that was not true of Martha.

“Hold this while I climb back up,” she said.

I took the coffee, and a quick sip, while she hopped up and got settled, like a bird on a telephone wire.

“Ned,” she said, “it's nice being here with you. I don't know that we've ever been alone like this.”

I didn't know what she meant, and said nothing.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

I thought about a clever remark, realized what a cliché it would be, and that she wanted to be serious. Her hair fluttered on her forehead as she whistled air across her coffee, then took a small drink.

“Ned,” she started, “you aren't the same as us.”

“Who's us?”

“The people here in Parkers. I know you grew up here, but you left. You went to a world we never knew. And now you're back because of Jimmy's will. But you've been gone too long. You're not a waterman.”

“I'm not trying to become somebody else,” I said defensively. “I want to try the life, to mix my law with the water. And I admit it, to comply with the will.”

“That's not what I mean,” she said. “I mean your dreams and fears are not the same as ours. If you fail at this, you just go back to Washington. If we fail, it's down the ladder to be a plumber's helper. So when we talk about this hot shot resort, we're talking about our life. Maybe it's a better job. Or just as likely, maybe it means higher taxes and we can't afford to live here anymore. Either way, whether you're for it or against it, it's going to change our lives.”

“I understand that.”

“No you don't. You don't understand that these people, on both sides of the issue, are deadly serious.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said. “I have you. But look at your dad's old friend, Burlington. He's an environmentalist. And he's afraid the loss of watershed will kill the Bay, and he's got himself so worked up over it that they're building signs in his garage to paste all over the county.

He's afraid of higher property taxes, and too many cars, and rich people like you coming over here and buying his house.”

“That doesn't make sense. He doesn't have to sell.”

“He will if he can't pay his taxes,” Martha said. “That's why he's afraid. He's losing his way of life, and he's better able to adapt than most. More importantly, he doesn't want to adapt.”

“What's the point, Martha?”

“I'm just saying that's why these people are so hot, and your CRI boys don't have a clue.”

“Whose side are you on again?” I asked.

“I'm for the resort, but I see a future for Mindy and better schools, and condominiums, and maybe a future for myself. So I'm with you Neddie. But not everyone will be.”

I stared into the dark, trying to absorb all the meanings in Martha's words, and scanned the cars. Something moved that gave only a flicker of recognition, like a bird in a tree.

“Martha,” I asked, “do you see something in the shadows by that blue car? Look near the bumper on the ground.”

The school parking lot was nearly half full and the moon traced a path across the roofs of a dozen cars. It was getting near the end of the meeting, and some people were leaving, causing headlights to snake their way back to the street. It was easy to see shadows that were nothing.

We both stared.

“What are you seeing?” she asked.

“Nothing important,” I said. “Just movement.”

“I see it,” she said with just a hint of discovery. “You know what that is? That's the pipe lady's dogs, the lab and the mutt.”

“Where's the pipe lady,” I asked. “I didn't see her come in.”

“I've never seen her without the dogs, or vice versa,” Martha said.

“She must be inside. I've never seen her up close. Let's go back in and see if we can spot her. This thing should be over soon.”

“Wait,” Martha said, “I just saw a flash of light in that pickup… the one in front of the dogs. She must have lit her pipe.”

“Why is she sitting out here and whose truck is that?”

“I don't know and don't care,” Martha said, concluding her investigation. “Let's go in.”

It was almost ten o'clock when we slid into seats on the end of the bleachers. While we were outside, the CRI had set up a small table in front of the crowd with a microphone. A young mother stood behind the table, stoop shouldered so the mike would pick up her voice, and with her hands on the shoulders of her two boys. The boys looked scared and they stood erect. The mother was pleading and it seemed to confuse the audience. She wanted the resort and the shopping center with a passion usually reserved for the opposition.

“We need a real grocery store,” she said. “One that's open longer hours so I can go after work. We need better food, meats and produce, so I don't have to drive to Annapolis for everything. Our little store here is ripping us off, with second rate food, unwashed produce and prices higher than anywhere. Why do we pay ten cents a gallon more for milk; six cents a loaf more for bread; twenty cents a pound more for grapes and plums? I'll tell you why. It's because there's no competition here. That's why dry cleaning costs ninety cents a shirt more here than in Annapolis. That's why our little pharmacy doesn't even carry shaving lotion. God knows what kinds of drugs they stock. But I'll tell you this, we pay for being poor. We pay for not having other stores. And for the life of me, I don't know why we're protecting local merchants who are ripping us off.” She finished, almost screaming the last sentence, and a few people applauded. But as she turned toward the audience, and guided her boys gently toward their seats, there were tears in her eyes. The crowd noticed and for an instant fell silent, then thirty hands shot up and several shouted, “Next.”

“Wait,” the CRI briefer said, “it's getting late. Let's cut everybody to thirty seconds. Just make your statement and sit down.”

“What?” one man screamed. “You said we could talk.”

“You said everybody!” another shouted.

“I'll talk as long as I like.”

“You're liars.” And the crowd broke into a cheer, repeating, “Liar. Liar. Liar.”

The briefers caved again. “Okay. Okay. We'll stay all night if we have to. Who's next?”

I put my head in my hands, stared at the floor, and wondered how this could get any worse. Someone had left a copy of the Old Bay Circular under the bleachers. I bent down, reached through the bleachers, and by placing my chin almost on the shoulder of the man in front of me, I could reach it. I like the Circ, as we call it, because it's so different from the Washington papers. No hard news to speak of, except for the center pages totally dedicated to schedules and events around the bay. I am always amazed by the number of nature walks, art gallery showings, and oyster festivals in any given week. Recreation and public events are not a problem in Maryland.

The paper featured a fishing column every week by somebody named Captain Gil, which I assumed to be fictional. But he told us everything about fishing except the coordinates for the best spots. The unwritten law of the sea forbids any fisherman from giving away his spots. My favorite feature in the Circ is the “News of the Weird,” a collection of stories from across America about episodes like the bandit who tried to hold up a McDonald's takeout window, or the bottle that washed up on a Florida beach with somebody's wedding ring inside. The story that caught my eye tonight involved a woman in the Carolinas who found a blue polka dot sneaker on the beach and inside the heel was a magic marker note, “Left Plaid.” The woman sent it to Mrs. Barbara Bush, wife of the 41st President of the United States, because Mrs. Bush used to buy several pairs of sneakers, then mix the colors. Mrs. Bush sent a very funny note back, something about when fishes walk; and the lady framed the letter for her grandchildren.

The Circ's cover story that week was about Hank Burroughs, a retired White House photographer who had moved to the Bay some years before, and became a much loved figure of dashing elegance and historic wisdom. He had traveled with Presidents from Truman to Ford and now hung out at the local library. I had never met him, but the article was interesting and I was sure to run into him at some point.

“Put down the paper and let's go,” Martha said, squeezing my arm. “My babysitter can't stay any longer.”

People were starting to leave in pairs, so it was easy to slip off the bleachers and head to the door. I brought a light jacket, and was starting to put it on, when I saw a familiar figure in the glass. Looking through the lobby, past the trophy cases, and directly at me were the Pipe Lady, the lab and the mutt. Martha had dropped behind me, so I turned to pull her closer and point out the Pipe Lady. But when I turned back they were gone. As we walked to my car, I looked all around, even stopping for a second beside the spirea bushes, but there was nothing to see. They had slipped back into oblivion.

Chapter Six

Vinnie Tupelo emerged from the bedroom of his two bedroom bungalow near the water wearing his long underwear and ready for coffee. Vincent Norton Tupelo had spent most of his life wearing long johns, except on the hottest days. In elementary school he wore them because his father did, and often the whites would show above his socks, prompting ridicule from classmates. The other boys, mostly sons of watermen, also wore long underwear but not with such religious fervor. Vinnie wore them everyday because they made him feel secure, confident in his preparedness for the day, like wearing clean underwear in case he was struck down by a truck and then carted off to the hospital. He was ready.

“Velma,” he said to his wife, “I don't know what to do with myself since Ned moved our start time back to eight o'clock. The day is half over by then. I just lay there and roll around.”

Velma knew all of this, of course, but she rather liked not having to make breakfast so early. She used to get up at four, make Vinnie some eggs and toast, and go back to bed for a couple of hours. Her beauty shop didn't open till nine. And after thirty years of giving permanents at more than a half dozen local shops during that period, she knew down to the second how long it took to set up for the first customer: three minutes.

“How's the boy getting along?” she asked.

Vinnie pushed his omelet around the plate, examining the mysteries of its content, leftovers from the week. Velma usually made scrambled eggs, but at least once a week she cleaned out the refrigerator with a three-egg omelet, including onions, cherry tomatoes, chunks of beef from a previous stew, and sliced sausage. Vinnie liked this package because it had girth, substantial chunks of meat and plenty of flavors. It also tended to mitigate the blackened surface of the eggs where Velma had waited too long for the flip. He also liked her home fries for the same reason: they were piled high and crispy from overcooking. He sipped the hot coffee, and thought of the full thermos he would carry for a morning on the water, and pondered Velma's question.

“I like Neddie,” Vinnie said, “but this isn't real for him. It's just a game. He'll get tired of it some day, sell the boat and that will be it.”

“Then why?” she asked.

“Why does he do it?” Vinnie repeated. “Cause he's trying to have it all.”