Eine Kleine Murder (5 page)

Chapter 7

Trio: A piece for three voices (Eng.)

Back in my cabin—I was already beginning to think of it as
my
cabin—I phoned my own personal oracle, Neek. After mentioning the funeral home and the lawyer visit for later today, I told her I wasn't sure if I should go to lunch with Mo Toombs or not. There was no good reason for my feeling, I told myself, but a tingle in my gut told me something was off about him.

“I think it'll be okay,” she said. “I found a penny this afternoon. It's got your birth year on it, so you should be fine.”

I groaned. “You-You,” my name for her when she annoyed me and I wanted to annoy her back, “you are crazy. You know that, right? Listen, I'll have my cell with me and I have you on fast dial. So if anything happens I'll call you. If I don't say anything, call the cops.” You-You was long for UU, which was short for her real name, Unity Unique. Her parents were hippies. She'd told me they were upset by her latest job, working at home taking calls for an internet catalog business. I thought that job was probably what made her slightly nuts.

“You think he's an ax murderer or something? Or just your usual poor choice in men?” she said.

“No, I just, I don't know, humor me.”

“Don't worry, it'll be fine. And I'll be around all day.”

“Thanks, girlfriend. Oh, one more thing. You should probably forward my bills out here. I know I haven't paid the cell phone or cable this month and I'm thinking, maybe, of staying on a bit.”

“Okey-dokey. What's the address?”

“Um. I guess I don't know.” I hadn't seen any mailboxes. “Gram had a post office box. I guess I'll have to get one if I stay. I'll let you know.”

After I flipped my phone closed, I searched the cabin for a land line. Gram had called me several times after she moved here, so there had to be a phone. I found it, but it seemed to be disconnected.

I'd been impatiently checking the clock for the last thirty-five minutes when Mo finally drove up in his rattle-trap car and honked, long and loud. He gave me what I'm sure he thought was a cute grin when I got in the car. I didn't say anything about him being late. He pushed the last bit of a cigarette into the ashtray on the door as I reached for the seatbelt.

Mo's old Ford would be good material for a demolition derby. It was large, well dented, and gave off a faint, peculiar smell—a mixture of oily rags, dirty socks, and, of course, stale cigarette smoke.

When I turned to reach for the seatbelt, I was surprised to see Daryl in the back seat. That hair of his glinted reddish in the sunshine. I mumbled a surprised hello.

“My car's in the shop,” he said. “I'm hitching rides with Mo today. I had some shots I wanted to take at the lake this morning.” He gestured to the camera still hanging around his neck.

“You look great,” Mo said to me. “That's a pretty cool necklace.” He ran a hand through his thick black hair, then reached over and fingered my locket.

What the hell?
I flinched and jerked away. I didn't like him handling it. Maybe it was because his hands looked faintly grimy. Or maybe because his wavy hair was oily and he'd just run his hands through it.

That locket was one of my most prized possessions, a delicate filigree antique that Gram had given me for my birthday the year I came to live with her. Mo knew something about jewelry.

It turned out he knew a
lot
about hamburgers.

They were thick and juicy, with an aroma that overpowered the usual bowling alley mix of sweaty feet and decades' worth of cigarette smoke. I piled on lettuce, tomato, pickles, and mustard and carried my plate to the booth where Mo had put two drinks. Daryl, sitting beside Mo, was evidently joining us for lunch.

I slid in across from them, relieved that this wasn't turning out to be a date between Mo and me. The guy bothered me a little. He gave me small cymbal shivers in my stomach.

“I work here,” Mo said, looking around with pride of ownership.

“Part-time,” added Daryl. He gave me a slight smile before his look turned frank. “How are you doing with your grandmother's death? You okay?”

“Well, I do wonder about her drowning like that. She was such a good swimmer, and she swam there almost every night.”

I took a bite. Surely these burgers would await me in heaven.

“No kidding,” said Mo, smoothing out the ketchup he'd slathered onto the top half of his bun. “Why do these old ladies swim at night, anyway?” Mo frowned and chomped down on his burger.

Daryl and I both grimaced at his lack of tact.

Mo said something else I that missed because of the
thunks
and
clunks
of the bowling pins. We all continued eating without speaking, but, since I had been reminded of Gram with Mo's coarse remark, the burger had lost its flavor.

“Are the police looking into it?” asked Daryl. If I looked closely, I could see a faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks. I couldn't tell if I was attracted to him. Neek was right. The last thing I needed was another boyfriend. The memory of Len was too fresh.

“I don't think so. As far as I know, it was an accident. It's just that… I'm going to the funeral home this afternoon. Maybe I'll learn something there.”

“Sure is strange.” He shook his head, then resumed his meal. No one spoke again for a couple of minutes.

“Do you live here in Alpha?” I asked Daryl, to break the uncomfortable lack of conversation.

“Darry and I are housemates,” answered Mo, his mouth stuffed with fries. “We rent a house a couple of blocks from here.”

“You rent a whole house? Aren't there any apartments?” I stared at the two-thirds of a burger on my plate, but watching Mo eat had completely turned my stomach and I couldn't poke another bite in.

“They're scarce here,” said Daryl, taking over for Mo, whose mouth was now completely full. “But we're not exactly housemates. We each rent half of a duplex. We don't live together. And no one has called me Darry for years, except
Moey
.” He directed a dark look with his light green eyes at Mo, who frowned, perplexed. “Moey” didn't have quite the same ring as “Darry.”

“Moey?” asked Mo.

“Darry,” snapped Daryl. Irritation shimmered between them.

When Daryl got up, I let out a puff of tension I didn't know I'd been holding in. He returned after a few minutes with a Coke and asked me if I wanted to bowl, but I declined. I needed to stay away from men.

“You sure?” asked Mo, reaching for more ketchup.

“Yes, I'm sure.”

How could Mo be so cavalier about my grandmother's death?

And Mo's attitude toward Daryl? His momentary pique at being called Moey had evaporated and he was chums with Daryl again.

I supposed I should be grateful for his friendly gesture in taking me to lunch, even though it was probably just an obligation to his mother. But I mildly dreaded the ride back to the lake alone with him. What would we talk about? He wasn't holding up his end of the conversation at lunch.

To my surprise, Mo chatted all the way back over the sound of his loud car, mostly about his plans to open a jewelry store someday in Moline or Rock Island. I revised my estimate of his intelligence upward a notch. Just one notch, though.

He pulled up in front of my place and asked if I'd like to take a dip. Could I even go into that water again? It took Gram's life, but she had loved it. Loved swimming. She'd won a competition swim meet in her sixties. I could feel my tough Gram watching me, waiting to see if I could do it. I didn't want to let her down.

It was still over an hour until I was due to leave with the Harmons, who were taking me to the funeral home. The weather was sticky and my clothes were damp after the ride in Mo's unairconditioned clunker. And going swimming wasn't a date, either, any more than the lunch had been.

I nodded my consent and met him on the beach in ten minutes. After drizzling cool lake water over my shoulders I lay face down on my towel in the fine white sand and let the sun melt the tension out of my shoulders. Maybe I would just sunbathe.

Mo splashed in and out, diving down and shooting up, spouting water out of his mouth like a whale, seeing how far he could get it. I shuddered, as usual, at the thought of being underwater.

When we were kids and my West Coast cousins, Trygve and David Dahlberg, would visit us at the lake, they thought it was hilarious to hold me underwater just to watch me splutter and cough. I couldn't hold my breath and would usually panic and inhale some water. It took at least a half an hour to cough it all out of my lungs. Since then, I always swam on top of the water.

The sun lay like a soothing film of deep softness on my shoulders, my back, my—

“Whatcha doin' lazybones?”

I startled awake. I hadn't realized I'd nodded off.

“Hi, Mo. I guess, I guess I fell asleep.” The trace of a tear running down my cheek surprised me. Vague memories of a dream floated, wraithlike, just out of my grasp. In it, Martha Toombs and I were on a hike together and, somehow, depended on each other, but I couldn't remember any more than that. And why the tear?

“Wanna go in, or are you just gonna lay there?”

I hesitated. I knew I didn't want to, but felt I should immerse myself in the water, the last place Gram ever was, to prove to myself I could.

Sweat dotted my face and arms, so I made up my mind, splashed into the water with him, and followed as he challenged me to race out to a large wooden diving deck about halfway across the lake. I stroked through the cool water, keeping my head well out of the water, fighting frissons of fear. I let him go on ahead.

I watched my hands disappearing, over and over, soon after they entered the murky water as I glided through the ripples. Realizing I was on the opposite shore from where Gram had died gave me some confidence; I was in the water where she'd last been, but not exactly
that
water. I realized I'd lost sight of Mo. The water was so nearly opaque, he could be anywhere if he were swimming underwater. I turned to head back the way I'd come.

Then I stopped moving. Something gripped my feet. I stroked hard. Kicked harder. It pulled me down. I struggled, grim with determination, my teeth tight, trying not to swallow the water. It was useless. Daylight dimmed above me. Down I went, toward the muddy bottom.

Chapter 8

Eine Kleine Wassermusik: A little water music

A face loomed next to mine through the dusky water. It was Mo! His hands gripped my ankles like steel bands.

A vision of Gram flashed through my mind. Had Mo killed her? Would he kill me, too? My head was swelling, ready to burst.

I was going to die. Soon. Needed air. I gulped the dank water into my lungs, panicking under the water, as I always did. I was surprised when my life didn't flash before my eyes.

One more tremendous kick.

And I was free. Paddling with frantic strokes, I burst through to the top and slapped the surface, treading water, sputtering, choking, and gulping huge quantities of sweet, sweet air. Mo surfaced beside me.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing his fabulous smile and supporting me by my arms. “Guess I shouldn't have held you under so long, huh?”

“What,” I shouted, choking and gasping for breath, “were you… trying… to do?”

“Just foolin' around. I thought you'd think it was funny. I said I was sorry.” He sounded like a little kid caught at the cookie jar. He dropped his hold on me and I stabilized myself, still coughing and spitting out foul-tasting water. How could this stuff support life?

“Forgive me?” he grinned. “I won't do it again. Promise.”

“Damn right you won't!” I ignored his surprised expression and swam back to shore. I gathered my things, looked at my watch, and realized with a jolt that I needed to hurry to get ready for my trip into Alpha. I didn't know if Mo was just an idiot, or if he had a cruel streak like my cousins.

I gave Mo a look I hoped was fierce and hurried up the hill past the dark, empty space with the shriveled trees. The place reminded me of the sad, sweet ballad, “Scarborough Fair,” set in the ancient Dorian mode, with its allusions to the medieval Black Death. I climbed past a cabin with blue shutters that had a tent camper parked in front. I moved past another smaller one until I reached my yard and heard a loud, grating voice behind me.

Toombs had just burst out of the blue-shuttered house. He turned back and shouted in his high, whiny tones, “You better remember what I said! There's such a thing as decimation of character!” He slammed the door furiously, rattled those shutters, then turned and saw me.

“Hello, there,” he snapped and strode stiffly away for a couple of steps. Then he stopped abruptly, turned back, and stomped over to face me. I took a step back.

“That's what comes of higher education.” He pointed at the cottage. “Higher education is overrated, let me tell ya. Me, for instance, I'm self-educated. I never got no degree, and I got a lot of responsibility here. Like I always say, it's a big job, keepin' all these folks happy.”

I shifted over a few inches in an attempt to get upwind of Toombs's hair oil. And his beer breath.

“That girl has high school and a bunch of college. Her mom always told her she ‘had to have an education.' Ha! What do you need an education for to lay around gettin' dirty ideas from soap operas all day long? She has the guts to accuse me of …” He sputtered to a stop.

“I love those girls,” he droned on at a lower volume. “I would never really hurt ‘em. Sorry to take on like this in front of you, Miss Carraway. Hayley's got me so upset, I can't spit straight.”

He disproved this immediately by arcing a glob directly into the grass, then crunched angrily down the slope. I wasn't sad to see him go.
How violent could Toombs get?
I wondered.

Two small girls made their way from the back of the cottage, one stealthy step at a time, peered around and watched until Toombs disappeared, then scampered in my direction, stopping at the cabin next to mine. Were these the girls Toombs would “never really hurt”?

I walked toward them, trying to be careful and not scare them away. They looked skittish.

“Hi,” I said. “My name's Cressa. What are yours?”

The smaller one looked at the ground as if something very absorbing were there. She had thin straight hair and a pinched, homely face. A half-dressed Barbie doll was clutched in one hand. The older one put her arm around the little one and answered me.

“I'm Rebecca. And this is Rachel.”

Rebecca was a bit cuter, but also had the same wispy, thin blond hair.

“That's a pretty doll,” I said gently to Rachel, trying to get around her shyness.

She whipped the doll around behind her.

Rebecca's thin cheek was disfigured by the purple smudge of a large bruise.

“It looks like you've hurt yourself,” I said, unconsciously reaching toward her little face.

Rebecca pulled back. From what I'd just heard, it sounded like Mo's father didn't treat them well. I had to find out if these children needed help.

“How did that happen?” I persisted, gesturing toward her bruise, but being careful not to touch her.

Shy Rachel mumbled, “Uncle Mo.”

I was seething inside. “Is Uncle Mo mean to you?”

Rachel remained silent while her big sister took over. “Not very much. He was more mean to the other lady.”

“Who was that, honey?”

“The other one, the one that lived there.” She pointed to my cabin. “The one that died.” She spoke so softly, I could barely hear her.

“That was my grandmother.” I questioned her with a look.

“Down there,” she pointed toward the lake. “Uncle Mo was there.”

The hair raised on my scalp. I needed to learn a lot more about Uncle Mo—from a distance. “At the lake?” I asked.

She nodded.

“When?”

“When she died.” Rebecca looked down and kicked at the gravel. “I saw her die.” Then the little girls ran to the nearest cabin and pounded on the door.

That wasn't where Toombs had come from. Maybe they weren't the girls he was whining about. The screen door opened and they disappeared inside.