Sand City Murders (34 page)

The crowd actually applauded, almost cheered, something rare for Partners— usually no one even noticed if your song was over or not. I was done for the night. There was no way I could do another tune. I was a hard act to follow.

***

It was early Friday morning when I stumbled into the Sand City
Chronicle
office. No one was there yet, no cars in the lot. The door however was open. It was dark. No Miriam at reception either. I did notice the glow of a computer screen coming from the main office. I walked in and found Joey, sitting alone.

“Morning,” I mumbled.

“Morning, Patrick. Hey, you were pretty good last night… I really liked that tune.”

“Thanks…” I shuffled off to the break room to make coffee. Everything was there: coffee, filters, half-and-half, and sugar. Yes… I started to fill the pot with fresh water. Nothing came out of the tap. I called out to Joey: “Hey, what happened to the water?”

“It’s shut off till ten o’clock,” Joey called back.

“What the f—?”

“They’re doing some tests…”

“Tests?”

“The EPA, I think.”

“Are they testing the wells or the city water system?”

“Hmm, don’t know, people have wells?”

“That might make a good story…”

“Right… I’m on it.”

I started searching for water bottles, clattering around in the cabinets.

“Oh hey, there’s a note on your desk,” Joey called out again.

“Really? Who’s it from?”

“Looks like Amy’s handwriting.”

“What’s it say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Read it to me.”

“Goudy bold italic, all caps.” He gave me a puzzled look when I came in. “What does that mean?”

“Not a clue, Joey... not a clue.” I sat down in the adjacent cubicle and looked over his shoulder. “What the heck are you doing now?”

“Oh… just browsing the internet.”

“I can see that, but what are you looking at? I don’t see any pirates on your screen.”

“Don’t laugh… I’m trying to see if I can tell the difference between a Hoplite and a Centurion.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, by their uniforms…”

“Can you?”

“I’m no expert… but so far it’s not that easy. They look pretty much the same.”

“Okay Joey, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

“It is a little strange, I guess.”

“Did Fynn put you up to this?”

“Fynn?”

“Inspector Fynn.”

“Well, yeah, in a way. I mean, he mentioned it to me and funny thing is, I can’t get it out of my head now.”

“I’d love to know how he started that conversation.”

“Me too,” Joey said and grinned. “I’m not really sure.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, Eleanor sent me to do a month-on-the-job update.”

“Wow. It’s been a month already?”

I hadn’t seen Fynn for what seemed like weeks, but it was probably only a few days. I think part of me was still avoiding him. Our conversations were increasingly unsettling to say the least.

“Joey, a question for you…”

“What?”

“Who invented the telephone.”

“What’s this, a trick question or a joke?”

“No, seriously.”

“Elisha Gray.” He squinted at me, almost cringing, expecting a verbal counter-strike.

“Not Bell?”

“Bell? Never heard of him… oh wait… that does sound familiar. Joey clicked to Wiki. “I thought I remembered something. He read aloud,
That same morning, February 14, 1876, Alexander Graham Bell’s lawyer filed an application with the patent office. There is considerable debate about who arrived first and Bell later challenged the primacy of Gray’s patent...

chapter 22

sister switch

A week later, Friday morning, I was in the office early reading Molly Gossip:

Yacht Club Antics—

A certain Mrs Smith clamored up to the podium at the Yacht Club the other night... I swear, I’m not a member, just a guest. Public speaking skills aside, it was her escort who caused the real ruckus, that hat, that cane, those shoes. That man could certainly dance up a storm.

Melissa stopped by my desk and tossed down a flyer.

“Amy did this for the Policeman’s Ball.”

“It’s good, don’t you think?”

“Good? It’s fantastic. Wow.” I looked it over. Amy was incredibly talented. Her poster had a film noir quality to it, just black and white, and red. A shadowy figure was half in the foreground, a trench-coated silhouette, a cigarette burning, and a red spot light. Down at the bottom was an old fashioned constable’s cap and a pair of handcuffs. I read it through: Cash Bar, Dancing Till Dawn, Raffle, Auction and Other Prizes. All proceeds to benefit the SCPD Benevolent League. Music by Randy and the Rumblers. Special Guest: Gary Sevens.

“Wait a second, who put Gary Sevens on here?”

“Randy did. He said you were going to do a couple of numbers.”

“That’s news to me.”

“You can’t back out now, your name’s on there.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Everybody knows who Gary Sevens is, Patrick.” Melissa gave me a wink.

Joey came into the office a few minutes later and stood at my cubicle. His grin seemed wider than usual.

“What?” I asked.

He said nothing, but his smile grew larger.

“What?” I repeated.

He reached into this pocket and held up a folded slip of paper between two fingers, but still didn’t say a word.

“Joey… what did you find?”

“A picture of Lorraine Luis, from her yearbook, nineteen seventy-four.

“Wow, that’s great work. I couldn’t find any old yearbooks when I looked.”

His grin was wider still, if that was possible. “That’s not all.”

“What then?”

He let the paper fall to my desk. I hurried to unfold it.

“Meet Elaine Luis, Lorraine’s older sister.”

“What?” I was in utter shock. I stared at the photo; there she was, Elaine Luis, class of 1973. “Wow, they look exactly the same.”

“Pretty much.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“You’re not the only one with contacts, Patrick. I’ve got a buddy in Oldham and he owed me one.”

“Really?”

“No… I found it online.”

“Joey, you’re a genius.”

***

I high-tailed it to Fairhaven. I had a date with Wilma Peterson in the records room.

“Back again, eh?” She was no less surly than usual.

“I had the wrong sister…”

“Where’s your note from Durbin?” Wilma asked.

“I didn’t know the last one had an expiration date.”

“Okay, I’ll let you in anyway. You seem to understand my rules.”

“Not everybody gets through that door, do they?”

“Not without a court order… or a signed FOIA form.”

“Has anyone else tried?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is anyone else looking for Luis?”

“Your buddy from the
Times
for instance?”

“He was here?”

“Standing where you are right now, not a week ago.”

“And?”

“I sent him packing.”

I smiled at Wilma. “I bet you used to work at the DMV, right?”

“How did you know that?”

“Just a guess...”

Wilma screwed her face up into a smile. “Well, nobody keeps better records.”

“Huh?”

“Nobody has better records than the DMV.”

The security buzzer sounded and I made my way back to the microfiche machine. Ten minutes later I found exactly what I was looking for: Missing Persons case number 31-17809, Elaine Luis, vanished without a trace on July 7, 1977. Despite what Eleanor had said, it seemed that she had not reappeared a month later, at least as far as the county records were concerned.

***

I was back in the office sometime later. The telephone rang and that sparked a dim memory. There was something I needed to do that I had now forgotten. I hate when that happens… Must be getting old, maybe it’s time for a To-Do list. Usually, I never forget. I did this time. Then I saw Miriam float by my desk with an armload of books. I offered to help and she handed me half the stack.

“What are these?” I asked idly.

“New phonebooks.”

“Phonebooks? How old fashioned.”

She gave me a hostile look. “Yeah well, better in here than my office. I don’t have any room for ’em.”

I helped her dole them out; stacked a set on Eleanor’s shelf and brought another set into the advertising annex. That same memory was sparked. There was definitely some errand I had forgotten, and now it seemed to do with phonebooks. Then it came flooding back. I put my palm to my forehead and a bit too hard. It made a smacking sound. Miriam looked at me again. She always thought I was a bit strange anyway.

I grabbed two of the books, the local listings for Sand City, Oldham, and Garysville; and the county book that reached well inland, and which was much, much thicker. I decided to search the second. I went right to L, then right to Luis… there were at least thirty pages in the county book. This might take some doing. Out of laziness perhaps, I picked up the local book instead. A better move maybe, there were only seven pages of listings. My finger led my eyes down the page… L. Luis, L.L. Luis, Larry, Lamar, Lefty, Lorraine Luis. Holy shit, there she is… or is it?

I grabbed a notepad to copy down her telephone and address: 45 Cove Road, Garysville. I dialed the number but hit a message machine: “Hi, this is Lorraine, leave a message…” I was out the door and driving down Route 16 in less time than I can remember passing. I exited at Garysville and found Cove Road. Hmm, there seemed to be more than one... oh wait, that’s Cove Lane, and that’s Cove Avenue. That’s when I realized I’d left my notepad back in the office. I pulled over to the side of the road. My old Saab didn’t have GPS so I dove into the backseat for a Hagstrom map. For some reason Cove Road was on the other side of town, near the ocean.

Along the way, it seemed to me Garysville was a lot more colorful than Sand City and maybe greener. Azaleas of every color were in full bloom, red, purple and blue, and I could even smell jasmine or honeysuckle, way better than fish sticks. A few minutes later I pulled into a sandy driveway surrounded by one room beach shacks. I guess they were cottages, but I wouldn’t want to spend a winter in any of them. At the back was forty-five. It seemed a little bigger than the rest and had an attached garage, or maybe a studio of some sort. I pulled up to the door which was open and peered inside. It was dark but I could see sparks flying. Was someone using a torch? I approached carefully and saw a slender figure in coveralls, their face obscured by a huge welding mask.

“Hello?” I called loudly, stepping out of the car. It was a bright, brilliant day with a blue sky dotted with puffy clouds and a strong cold breeze coming off the ocean.

The sparks stopped, the mask went up and a woman stepped into the light wearing a khaki coverall. She was about sixty or so and still quite attractive, though her face had been hardened by the salt air. She put down her torch and walked closer. “Can I help you, mister? We’re not open till Memorial Day…” she said. “And we’re pretty much booked up for the season already.”

“Lorraine Luis?” I asked.

Her expression changed drastically. I thought maybe fear and anxiety crossed her face.

“Yes…” she said hesitantly. “You’re not the police, are you?”

“No, no, of course not. I’m Jardel, Patrick, from the
Chronicle
.”

“The
Chronicle?
Sand City?”

“Yup.”

“Well how can I help you, Mr Patrick?”

“It’s the other way around, sorry.”

“What?”

“My name... it’s not Jardel. I mean, that’s not my first name.”

“Good.” She laughed easily. “That would be a funny first name… unless you’re superman’s dad or something.”

I immediately liked this woman. She had a wicked sense of humor, not that I really got her joke. “No. It’s really just Patrick.”

“Well that’s a fine name. What can I do ya for, Patrick?” She took off a heavy glove and shook my hand.

“I’m writing a story about public sculpture in the Village… and um, your name came up. Somebody told me the Egg at Spooky Park was yours.”

“The Egg?”

“That’s what people call it.”

She laughed. “Wow, that was like forty years ago….” she said almost wistfully. “The Egg,” she repeated. “Kind of a ridiculous name but I guess it fits. So… what’s this all about?”

“I was hoping you could give me a little background on it, the sculpture. What it means? When you made it? That kind of thing.”

“What it means?”

“Sure.”

“I think you’re the first person who’s ever asked that… officially, anyway.”

“And?”

“Hmm… Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I could use a little break.” She led me into her tiny cottage and sat me down at the kitchen table. She poured two cups from an ancient percolator. “What does it mean, what does it all mean?” she asked aloud and laughed to herself, while walking around the cramped kitchen in search of sugar and milk. She laid some out on the plastic tablecloth covered in red squares. I helped myself. “Well, it’s the juxtaposition of opposing geological forces... immutable stone and malleable metal…”

“Really?”

“No. I just made that up.” She laughed again and sat at the small table just opposite to me.

“How long did it take to… um, make?”

“A long freaking time… two years maybe.” She smiled.

“And that was in nineteen seventy-five?”

“Yeah. I was just out of high school. Incredible really…. I got a grant. Paid for the whole thing.”

“Where did you get the stone?”

“Pardon?”

“That great big hunk of granite.”

“Can’t remember really.”

“Well, it still stands to this day.”

“It would, wouldn’t it? I mean, it
is
a rock.”

“Right. Have you seen it recently?”

“Recently? No. Why? Has it all gone rusty?”

“Patina, I think they call it. The brass is all green now... looks nice.”

“I should check it out… Don’t think I’ve been over to Sand City in years. I better hurry I guess, before it turns into an island.” She smiled at me. “I saw that piece a couple of weeks ago. Yours, right?”