Shakedown for Murder

I'm just another tourist.”

     Roberts sort of jumped out of the car, brushed his uniform. “Great. I've had all the action I want for one summer. Let the Hampton Point police dig up the fine details.” He held out a heavy hand. “Good knowing you, Lund.”

     I shook his hand. “Sure. Whenever you're in town, drop into the precinct house. Boys be jealous of your uniform.

     He smiled. “I might do that.”

     “I work out of the...”

     “I know where you work. Checked on you. You're a cell block attendant. Guess you'll be retiring soon.”

     I didn't know if he was sarcastic or not when he said cell block attendant. “In a year or two.”

     He sighed. “Wish I had a pension to look forward to. Guess I'll have to die in harness. I plan to take the next state trooper exam. Well, have to get back to the office. Hope you have decent weather for the rest of your stay.”

     We shook hands again and as I walked toward the cottage I wondered whether Roberts was a ham or sincere. In either case he still was a jerk. But with his looks and set-up, be odd if he didn't take himself seriously. It was getting hot and I was sweating by the time I reached the beach.

     Bessie was sitting under a striped umbrella with some other young women, all of them in brief bathing suits. She introduced me with a big build-up, great detective line, gave me a sandwich and a cold drink. The women made a small fuss over me, asked a lot of dumb questions. All the talk made me jittery again.

     Andy came out of the water, said he was ready to go fishing. He had the model of the cabin cruiser under the umbrella, wanted to try it in the water. Bessie said it wasn't meant for that, he should know better. She seemed to be picking on the boy, or maybe it was my nerves. They argued about the boat. I finally cut in and told him he could take the model along but to keep it in the rowboat.

     Bessie told him to dig clams for bait but he pulled a paper bag from out under the towels, said he still had clams from the other day and a hunk of squid somebody had given him. She asked him where he kept it all the time and he said in the freezer. She bawled him out, again, for keeping the stinking squid in the refrigerator. He whined that he wouldn't do it again. Then she started on me, warning me to be careful of the sun. I said okay and that I was going into the swamp grass to take off my pants. The women all laughed as Bessie said, “Oh, for, Matt drop your pants here. My God!”

     All this chatter didn't help my nerves or blue mood and I was happy when Andy and I finally got into the boat. He rowed and gave me the glasses to wear around my neck. The tide was starting to come in and when we reached the breakwater we drifted. I had a few small bites, then didn't bother baiting up. Andy caught a large hump-back sea-porgy that damn near snapped his rod. He was so excited he didn't nag me to fish. The sun felt good, took the last of yesterday's chill from my bones. I was content to glance around the harbor through the glasses: they almost put me aboard the big yachts. Andy kept up a line of chatter, looking into the pail with pride at “my” fish.

     For no reason, before we drifted out of view, I put the glasses on Jane Endin's house. Of course I didn't see a damn thing, except her car was still in the driveway. I examined a few more boats, the shore at Haven Island across the bay. We were drifting in front of Anderson's house and up on the widow's walk Pops was laying on the cot, Larry Anderson sitting beside him, reading the paper. I turned the field glasses on the Endin house for a last look. Jane was out in the back yard, wearing a loose-fitting loud purple robe, hair hanging down her back like a thick black brush stroke. She was putting small towels on the line. The towels were full of bright red splotches—undoubtedly the rags she used to wipe her paint brushes. But why only red paint?

     Andy yelled, “Grandpa!” He was standing, his rod forming a rigid U as the line jerked.

     “Reel it in!”

     “It's too heavy! Gee, I must have a whale!”

     I moved over to help him and out of the corner of my eye I saw two quick flashes of light from the walk atop Anderson's house. For a second I thought they were shots, waited for the shotgun sounds. No sound came.

     It was just a big ugly skate on the line and I held the rod while Andy cut the hook out of the wing, his face full of disgust. Was Anderson signaling somebody? As I gave Andy back the rod, I turned and put my binoculars on the widow's walk. Anderson was standing up, talking to Pops. Larry was holding something in his right hand that at first I thought was an automatic: then I realized what the light flashes were—he'd been watching us through binoculars and the flashes had been the sun striking the lens.

     Anderson seemed to shrug, as if having an argument, then got his left hand under Pops and lifted him up. He got his right hand, still holding the glasses, under the old man's ankles, carried him downstairs.

     There was something phony about the scene, exactly what I didn't know. Andy said he wanted to row out into the bay. I took the oars: exercise might quiet my restlessness. I told him to troll. As I rowed I faced the top of Anderson's house. Why was he watching us through the glasses? But that wasn't what struck me wrong.

     I told myself to stop it, I was no longer playing movie dick. What the devil, with a view like that, he'd certainly spend a lot of time looking through binoculars. Why assume he was watching us—could have been looking at the yachts going past the lighthouse way out in the bay? I put muscle to the oars, we were going against the tide... and suddenly I knew what was wrong—the way Anderson had lifted the old man—he'd done it with one hand! His right hand, holding the glasses, had been used merely for balance.

     Strong as Anderson seemed, he'd hardly lift a man with one arm. It sure was a careless way to carry a sick man, even if he could do it. And Pops—the floppy straw hat over his face, arms under the blanket... maybe that wasn't a man up there but a straw dummy!

     I told myself that was plain silly, but couldn't get the idea out of my mind. What would be the point of carrying a dummy up to the widow's walk, the reading act? After all, suppose Pops only weighed ninety to a hundred pounds, a guy built like Anderson could carry a hundred-pound sack of potatoes in one arm—maybe. Still, to lift a man recovering from a heart attack you'd think he would have put the glasses down, used both hands to carry Pops?

     Nuts, I thought, stop acting like a jerk. You're not on the case. You're not on anything but supposedly enjoying fishing. Keep it at that or you'll make a fool of yourself— again.

     I rowed out near some red and black buoys and we tossed out the anchor. We were in real deep water and I baited up but we didn't catch a damn thing. I picked up the boat model, it was even a better job than I thought—the kid had fashioned tiny furniture out of cardboard and matches. When I told him he was right smart Andy said, “Heck, I didn't do that part. Jenny Johnson did it. Bob— that's her brother—and I put the hull and deck together, but she fixed up the inside, even painted the name on the back. You'll see her on the beach today. She's pretty and smart.”

     “Your girlfriend?”

     “What? I should say not. Jenny is going on fifteen— she's old.”

     “That's not...” I began, and stopped. How old was Nelson? How old was Doc Barnes? Judging from Priscilla who looked about fifty- eight, the Doc must have been sixty-five, or so. Hell, of course he could have married an older woman.... But suppose he was sixty-five, anybody he called an “old goat” would have to be at least seventy, seventy-five or even eighty. That could be Nelson, if he was that old... and it could also be Pops! “Andy, how old was Pops?”

     “Not was, Grandpa, but is. My teacher told me to always be sure about the proper tense of a....”

     “Too hot for lessons. How old would you say Pops is?”

     “Gee, I don't know. He looks awful old.”

     “As old as I am?”

     “No, way older. Heck, I betcha Pops is at least... forty.”

     I stared at the kid, then grinned—at myself. He'd started me on the idea, what more could I expect? “Andy, how old do you think I am?”

     “I don't know,” he said, his voice uncomfortable. “Thirty-seven?”

     “Come on, now. Your daddy is going on thirty-five, I think, so I have to be at least twenty years older than he is.”

     “Why?”

     “I just have to,” I said, not wanting to explain the birds and lie bees to the kid. Pops was the man I had to talk to, and right away I tried to think of a way of going in now, without the kid asking a million questions.

     “You could only be fifteen years older than Dad.”

     “Okay, let's forget it This is sure a swell model. Next time we go shopping, I'll buy you another kit. In fast, if we row in....”

     “Great, Grans! Make it a helicopter kit this....”

     A siren went off back in the Harbor. “What's that—a fire?”

     Andy shook his head. “No. That was only one.... Do you say ring or blast or blow?”

     “Blast, I guess.”

     “One blast means it's noontime.”

     “I've had enough sun and I'm starved. Think we can make for the beach?”

     To my surprise the boy said, “Any time you wish.” He poked at the pail with his toe. “I wanted to go in before, show Mom my big porgy. Can I row?”

     I gave him the oars, slipped on a shirt and got my pipe working. When we came within sight of Anderson's house I put the glasses on the widow's walk. Pops was on the cot again, blanket and all. The hat was covering most of his face and he was still wearing the tan shirt. But he seemed to be holding a newspaper up on his stomach. Then I saw him turn a page, adjust his hat.

     Matt Lund and his great deductions? The old straw dummy was me. The hell with playing detective—I'd had it.

     Back on the beach