Sandy Gingras - Lola Polenta 01 - Swamped (8 page)

We check his history. There’s a couple recipe sites that Marie’s been on. There are a couple of porn sites too: bigtits.com. That kind of thing.

“We have to look at these,” Joe tells me earnestly, “in the interest of being thorough.”

He’s right, but it’s hard to stand there while he clicks on topless women on bicycles and topless women on the beach. The women are frozen in still photography but their boobs are digitally mastered to bounce up and down. “Enough already,” I say. The top of Joe’s head is turning pink.

“Well, now we know what Ernie liked,” he says. “He wasn’t gay, that’s for sure.”

But the next site is a gay site. “How do you know?” I ask him.

“It’s blue. That’s a gay code thing. It was probably Ted and Fritzie’s,” he says. “Look at this.” He points. “That’s strange. It’s not a pornography site.”

It’s called bluevisitorsguidetoftpalms.com. It’s a hokey kind of retro site, one powder blue page—A picture of a blue sunset and a highway, and a picture of blue-ish 50’s guys in swimwear standing next to a surfboard, one of blue-ish men making muscles for the camera. The text appears to be a kind of travel guide to Ft. Palms—what to visit, what to do. Joe jots down a copy of it on a little pad.

“I think it just leads gay people to like-minded souls,” Joe says reading it. “See here, ‘The Blue Parrot.’ That’s a bar down on Wycomb St. It’s a gay bar.”

“I guess Ted and Fritzie visited it,” I say.

“But look,” Joe says, clicking away. “It was visited just a week ago. And here’s the history. It was visited several times in recent weeks. And they’ve been dead for three months.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Let’s keep looking.”

But there’s nothing else.

“There’s something to this,” Joe says waving his pad at me.

“Maybe,” I say.

“We should find out what,” he says.

He almost shaking, he’s so excited. But he suddenly looks frail to me. I wonder how old he is really, late 70’s? A vein is throbbing in his temple. I wonder how his daughter would feel knowing her father is involved in a murder investigation. “Remember how Ernie ended up with a golf club in his head?” I ask Joe.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells me.

“I’m not kidding,” I say

I look around. Joe’s trailer is tidy. Shelves are filled with books and pictures and plants. “Is this your wife?” I ask picking up a picture on the desk.

He smiles up at me, “She was the love of my life.”

I look at him. It’s amazing to me how people go on after sadness.

I walk with Joe back to Marie’s trailer. She makes us take our shoes off at the door. Her place is very puffy and floral. There’s not even a dust speck floating in the stream of light filtering through her curtains. Joe puts down the laptop on the kitchen table.

“Can we take a look in Ernie’s room?” he asks Marie.

“The police put tape up,” she says. Joe and I look at each other. He peeks down the hallway. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Marie says.

“It’s okay,” Joe says. We duck down the hallway and under the tape.

Ernie’s room looks like a guest room. The twin bed’s got a blue and yellow floral coverlet, the wallpaper is striped blue and white; there’s a flounce on the bottom of the white curtains. Marie peers in at us from behind the tape, “I did this kind of French provincial,” she tells us. There’s a picture of the Eiffel Tower on one wall.

“He didn’t bring much,” Marie says. There’s a neat row of clothes in the closet, a dresser with balls of socks and folded underwear.

“Folded,” I say. “That’s impressive.”

There’s an old squat box of a TV. Dustless. A digital clock. There’s a white wooden desk with gold drawer pulls. Joe looks at Marie, then slides open the top drawer. There’s a checkbook. I look over Joe’s shoulder. The handwriting is neat and fits tightly between the lines. There are deposits for social security checks and paychecks. There’s $3800 in his account. There are no checks written out to his sister or an electric company or cash. There are no checks written out period. It’s weird. “Did he help you with expenses?” I ask her.

“Half the property fees,” she says. “He gave me cash every month. Also for the electric bill.”

“Cash?” Joe says.

Marie nods.

“Didn’t Ernie have a camera?” Joe asks.

Marie says, “I don’t know where it is.”

“Did he have a cell phone?”

“He didn’t believe in them. I think he just didn’t like to talk.” Marie says.

“He didn’t have a car?” I ask.

“He travelled here on the bus. His wife kept the car. He shared mine when he needed to go anywhere.”

I look under the bed. There are weights under there, a barbell. There’s a suitcase. I pull out the suitcase. It’s empty.

There’s nothing else. It’s more like a hotel room than an actual room. We go back to Marie’s kitchen.

“They’re going to release his body today,” Marie tells us.

“That was fast,” I say.

“They just called. I can bury him now. His instructions on his will say, cremation and no service, but I don’t like that idea, do you?”

I say, “Um.”

“I think death is really for the living, don’t you?”

I understand what she’s getting at. Still…

“I figure a compromise is always best. He can have the cremation, but I’m going to have a service—no church, just a small non-denominational ceremony in the clubhouse.”

“In the clubhouse?” I ask. I can’t help it.

“I think he would have wanted that,” she says. “Sal has a friend who’s a pastor, and said he’d do it for us day after tomorrow. Then we’ll have one of those long subway sandwiches. Ten feet, you think will be enough? Twelve feet? Ernie loved Subway. You have to order by the foot.”

I shrug.

“And I’ll make my punch. You float sherbet scoops on the top, that’s the secret.”

“Did you hear anything last night when someone was taking the whirligigs?” Joe asks

“See, I thought I heard something. But I had the air on last night. I took two of those Sleep-Eze because I haven’t been sleeping, and so it was like I was underwater. I heard something I think, but I couldn’t move.”

“Was there something inside of those whirligigs?” he asks.

“I don’t know. The houses had little doors that worked, so maybe. I never looked before. The yard was Ernie’s realm. He was always fiddling with them.”

“Did Ernie hide things away in them?” Joe asks.

“He was very private. He didn’t like it when I touched his things. I like to clean,” she kind of apologizes.

“He had to have somewhere that he kept his cash,” Joe says. “What was Ernie’s last day like?” he asks. He pulls out his pad and a pen from his back pocket.

“He woke up… at 6:00. He had cornflakes at 6:15. He showered.”

Joe writes it all down neatly on a pad.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Checking for gaps,” he says. “It’s what detectives do.”

“I’m supposed to be the detective,” I say to him. “How do you remember this?” I ask Marie.

“He always did the same thing every day. He went to work at 7:00. Sal liked him to work early at the pool so he got things done before people started coming around. He cleaned the pool and did the chemicals, swept up around the pool area, straightened the chairs and wiped them down. Then he came home for lunch. Lunch is from 12:00 to 1:00.”

“Did he say he saw anyone or talked to anyone?” Joe asks.

“Just Sal. It was an ordinary day.”

Marie’s face is flat and a little moon-ish. Her eyes look tired. “Ernie told me he had an appointment in Palm Villages at some accountants at 2:00, so he changed and then he took the car to go to the accountant. That was about 1:30. It takes a half hour to get there.”

“Why did he go to see an accountant?” Joe asks.

“He said something about some complication.”

“Did he HAVE an accountant?”

“No. Last year, we did our taxes at the clubhouse. They brought in volunteers to help us fill out the forms.”

“That’s weird, why would he go to see an accountant in June?” I say.

Marie shakes her head.

Joe writes down, “Accountant? Complication?”

“I gotta get one of those pads,” I tell Joe.

Marie says, “He got home at 3:30, changed and went out to mow.”

“Did anything seem any different?” I ask her.

“Well, when he left the house he was mad. Is that what you mean?”

“Do you know why?” I ask.

“He didn’t say. I could just tell. He was just muttering like he does. Did.”

“And you, were you home all day?” I ask. Joe is busy writing something else.

“Hmmm,” she says. “I had my eyebrows and lip line waxed down at Tra-La-La in the morning, that’s a new salon over on Crumball Road. They do a good job, otherwise I get a little mustache,” she admits. “Then I stopped at the grocery store. In the afternoon, I went to play Bridge with the girls in the clubhouse.”

She pauses. “It seemed like it was such a normal day.”

Chapter 15

“What are you going to sit down on?” Squirt asks me when I get into work. We’re assessing my new office. My desk has arrived. The file cabinet is next to it and my in-box is on top. Dreamer’s sitting next to it all.

I brought Dreamer to work with me this morning. While my father’s gone, I figure I’ll bring her to work. Squirt didn’t say anything when she saw Dreamer. Her shoulders just got a little stiffer.

“Oh,” I say.

“And you need a lamp and a picture,” she tells me. “Get something peaceful.”

Miss Bossy Britches.

“You might want to paint that wall an accent color,” she gestures toward the desk.

“You taking an adult course in decorating, too?” I ask.

“That was last semester,” she says. “I re-did my dining room in a pumpkin color. Pumpkin is very ‘in.’”

“I don’t think I would like pumpkin color for my office,” I say with as much politeness as I can muster.

“Oh no,” she says. “You don’t want a red tone. It stimulates the senses. You want a blue one. So calming.” She puts her hand over her heart. “What about lilac?” she suggests.

“I was just going to leave it the way it is.” It’s white, all white. And the floor is speckled beige laminate squares.

“Oh,” she says, one eyebrow up. “Well, if you want people to think that you have no warmth.”

“I have warmth,” I tell her.

“How about an area rug?” she offers.

“I have warmth,” I tell her.

I go to Staples again. I get a black roller chair for me, a black client chair, a white lamp and even a small area rug—beige. When I leave Dreamer with Squirt, she makes a exaggerated picking-the-dog-hairs-off her pants gesture. I ignore her.

After I arrange my new accessories, Squirt comes in and Dreamer follows her. “Not bad,” she says about my office. She puts a folder on my desk. “Your client has arrived,” she announces grandly. Dreamer follows her out of the room, tail wagging like a happy little shadow.

The lady who comes into my office is eighty if she’s a day. She’s plump and red haired with tiny freckles all over her nose. She’s got a bob hairdo, a green shirt-dress with a neat black belt and a black shiny purse and white running shoes. She’s also wearing a pair of wraparound mirror shades that don’t look like hers. She doesn’t take them off., She looks kind of like an old girl scout, kind of like a spy.

“How do you do?” she says, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m Mrs. Black.”

“Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Black,” I say.

“I took a taxi,” she tells me. Maybe I should re-do my business cards now that I’m in Florida and offer to do house calls.

“How can I help you?” I ask.

She adjusts her spy-glasses. “I believe my husband is fooling about on me,” she says primly.

I sit there in my new chair, semi-swiveling and thinking quietly.

“What?” she snaps. “You think because he’s old, he can’t get it up?”

“Um. Nope,” I say.

“He can’t take Viagra because of his blood pressure, but he has one of those pumper things,” she says in her no-nonsense way.

“Oh,” I say.

“It’s like a balloon,” she explains.

“Hmmm,” I say agreeing, but I can’t really picture it.

“You think I shouldn’t care because I’m old?” she snips.

“What makes you think your husband is cheating on you?”

“I don’t think, young lady. I KNOW. He leaves every other day and he’s gone from one o’clock to four o’clock. Then he takes a nap when he gets home. He says he’s driving to the clubhouse to play cards. But he goes somewhere else. I can’t follow him myself because I don’t drive anymore. But last week, I crouched behind the gatehouse and watched him drive off. He turned right, if that’s any help to you.”

“Okay,” I say. “Have you asked him where he goes?”

“Of course I’ve asked him. I’ve asked him till I’m blue in the face. ‘Poker,’ he tells me.”

“Maybe he found another game,” I suggest.

She slaps my desk, “That’s what I want to know.”

“Okay,” I tell her.

“Agnes and I tried to follow him once in her car, but she drives far too slowly. I have glaucoma or I would’ve taken the wheel,” she says sternly. Poor Agnes, I’m sure she heard about it all the way home.

“I can help you,” I assure her. “You say, one o’clock every other day. So I’ll follow him tomorrow,” I tell her. I ask her for a picture, I get the color and make of the car, I get her address. “I’ll see what I can find out. Then I’ll call you and we’ll meet to discuss my findings.” “Findings” I think is a word with a nice optimistic ring.

She puts her hand out like a policeman stopping traffic. I realize she wants me to high five her. So I do.

I get a little jump in my heart.

Chapter 16

My cell phone rings. It’s startling. It hasn’t rung in a while. It’s my mother.

“I went by the house, dear, and no one’s there,” she launches in.

“Hi Mom,” I say.

“Hello, dear,” she says, “I got worried.”

“Why,” I ask her.

“I mean no one’s living there. The grass is growing. The newspapers are piled up on the driveway. Mrs. Salli came out to talk to me and ask me what was going on. She has been taking in all your mail,” she says. “I didn’t know what to tell her.” My mother lives in the next town over. She used to come over to our house for dinner every Sunday night. She knows some of my neighbors better than I ever did.