Town in a Blueberry Jam

Once they got off on the wrong foot, it had never been set right. Jock took to getting up extra early so he could get to the diner before anyone else to claim his spot, and Doc let him have it, ambling in at his usual time, around eight. Jock usually sat at the counter, so Doc opted for the corner booth. Jock had his friends, so Doc found others. After that first meeting there had been few words between the two, and there had never been any overt confrontation, but it was clear they rubbed each other the wrong way.

So why was Doc so upset now?

With a start, Candy realized there was more to the story, something he hadn’t told her yet. She could see it in his eyes now; somehow she had missed it earlier, or misinterpreted it. Her mind lurched off in a different direction as she thought back over what Doc had said...

He took a nosedive off a cliff and fell to the rocks below... or at least that’s the official version...

She shuddered as she was struck by a horrendous thought.

“Dad... was it an accident or... did he jump?”

Doc’s gaze shifted toward her. “Suicide?”

Candy had the impression he was ready for the question but still held something back. She pressed on. “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Unless he was just trying to dive in. You know — doing something crazy. Maybe he had a few drinks in him and took it as a challenge.”

Doc shook his head. “Jock pushed the limits, but he wasn’t crazy.”

“Well, then he either fell by accident... or he jumped.”

But Doc wasn’t buying it. “That doesn’t make any sense. Jock was treated like a god around here. He never had a care in the world — got everything he wanted. No, pumpkin, I don’t think he jumped. I think the real question is, did he fall... or was he pushed?”

Three

“Pushed? You mean he was... murdered?”

Even as the words left her mouth, Candy realized she wasn’t completely surprised. For years Jock had gotten away with murder — of an entirely different kind, of course. He had been a fifty-five-year-old “bad boy,” tooling around town in an old Cadillac convertible in the summer, chasing women with little discretion, and behaving more like a teenager than a mature adult. That made Candy smile inwardly, for maturity was not a word one would have used to describe Jock Larson. Everyone in town knew he pushed his luck too far — and now luck had pushed back.

Doc reacted to her question with an arched eyebrow and a scowl, a look he had perfected over the years with his students. “When you put it like that, it sounds absurd, doesn’t it?” He dug into his back pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his face, then blew his nose. “Blast, it’s getting humid again. Too damn warm for Maine, that’s for sure.”

He crossed to the cupboard with a slight limp — a remnant of a biking accident long ago that still hitched up once in a while and bothered him — took out a glass, and walked to the fridge, a thoughtful expression on his face. “As crazy as it might sound, though,” he said as he opened the freezer and scooped up a handful of ice, which clinked noisily into the glass, “it makes the most sense.”

“More sense than an accident... or suicide?”

Doc closed the freezer door with his elbow and opened the lower door, then stood staring into the fridge for a moment. “What happened to the lemonade?” he asked finally.

“You drank it last night.”

“You didn’t make up a new batch?”

Candy raised her arms to the room. “Look around, Dad. I’ve been kinda busy today.” She paused, letting out a huff. “Besides, we’re out. I’ve got it on the grocery list.”

Doc sighed audibly, closed the fridge door, and walked to the sink, filling the glass with water. The cubes cracked and popped loudly.

People who didn’t know much about Doc assumed that, because of his nickname, he was a medical doctor, and he rarely corrected that misconception. “Let them think what they want,” he often said with a shrug. Truth was, he had taught ancient history for more than thirty years at the University of Maine at Orono, up near Bangor, after receiving his doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania. He was a careful, thoughtful, studious man who loved nothing more than to close himself up in his office and delve into the mysteries of history to try to understand the motivations of those who had shaped the world centuries ago, for better or worse. And though he often said he would have been better off had he been born into one of those ancient eras he loved so much, he was no less fascinated by the motivations of those who went about their lives in the modern age. “Technology changes,” he often said, “but people don’t.”

He took a long drink of water, then tilted his head thoughtfully, as if he had just heard Candy’s question. “Suicide doesn’t make any sense,” he said after a moment. “Not when you think about it. It just doesn’t seem like something Jock would do, does it? He wasn’t the suicide type.” Doc shook his head as he swirled the glass lazily, mixing the tap water and ice cubes. “No, it just doesn’t seem like something Jock would do.”

“Why? Because he was too arrogant to kill himself?”

“Bingo.” Doc’s finger shot out to emphasize the point. “No one believed the hype about Jock more than Jock himself. He was a cult figure around here — though I’ll admit he turned into a caricature of himself long ago. But no one seemed to notice — or mind much if they did — so Jock went about his life and milked his never-ending fame for all it was worth. He was good at it too. This was Jock’s town, and he was having his way with it. No, Jock had too much going on and too big an ego to throw himself off that cliff. So suicide’s out of the question — I’m sure of that.”

Candy muttered a quizzical “Hmm” and tapped at her pursed lips with her fingers — subtle actions she knew would egg her father on. This was getting interesting. “An accident then?”

Doc took another drink of water as he considered this. “Could be,” he admitted as he worked an ice cube around his mouth, “though unlikely. For that to happen we’d have to assume that, for whatever reason, Jock — who despite his age was an accomplished athlete who still exercised regularly — was out taking a midnight stroll along an island cliff forty-five minutes from his home, got careless, stepped too close to the edge, and took a tumble.” Doc shrugged, bit into the cube, and chewed it noisily. “It just seems to go against his training and abilities.”

“But it’s possible that’s exactly what happened,” Candy pointed out.

Doc gave a nod. “Sure, it’s possible. Jock was a loose cannon who’d been known to do stupid things. Let’s assume he went hiking alone up on that cliff in the middle of the night — no one would put that past him. But what would cause him to wander too close to the edge in the first place, let alone lose his footing and fall over the side? The sky was clear last night and the moon was half-full, so there was some light up there. And he must have had a flashlight with him — he wasn’t foolish enough to take a hike in the dark. So we can probably assume he didn’t just walk off the edge of the cliff.”

“Alcohol?” Candy suggested.

“Jock drank but he wasn’t a drunk — and he wasn’t stupid.”

“Maybe he had a stroke, or maybe he was startled by a badger or porcupine that caused him to lose his footing.”

“Maybe... but that’s stretching the boundaries of logic, isn’t it?”

“Murder, though?” Candy shook her head skeptically. “Is that any more logical?”

Doc’s response was adamant. “Damn straight it is! Jock had plenty of admirers around here — mostly of the female persuasion — but he also had plenty of enemies — mostly the husbands of those female admirers. It’s easy to imagine someone following him up to that cliff or luring him there under certain pretenses. Perhaps an argument ensued, a fight broke out, punches were thrown, someone got careless, and Jock went over the edge.”

“Or perhaps, like you said, it wasn’t an accident,” Candy said softly.

Doc gave her a satisfied look. “Now you’re thinking my way.”