A Minor Case of Murder Page 11

  Donna was beginning to think that Spit might be the one who would understand. "To tell you the truth, Spit …"

  "The moon signifies darkness."

  Donna jumped at the sound of Madame Alexina's throaty whisper announcing her return from the astral plane. "Huh?"

  Madame Alexina was ready to complete the reading. "We have to look at the moon in relation to each of the four other cards … Gary Sheffield, Billy Ripken, Mickey Mantle, Ozzie Smith. Individual cards may be subject to interpretation, but each set of five cards is unique, revealing a unique message. Deciphering that message is the province of a willing seeker and an accomplished guide."

  Madame Alexina's next words cut deeply. "Are you a willing seeker of the truth?"

  Donna nodded. "I am."

  "We began this morning looking to answer the question, 'Is it safe for you to go home?' I tried to explain to you that the value of a reading depends on our willingness to ask the right question. I suggest that we have not yet asked that right question. The cards should not tell us what we want to know, but what we need to know. In this case, the cards reveal their answer in the form of the unasked question. Who is trying to kill you, Donna?"

  An Extended Stay at Casa Spit

  "What do you think?" Donna realized she was beginning to see Spit as a credible advisor.

  "You're welcome to stay here as long as you like."

  The Tarot had put Donna's central nervous system on full alert. She could smell the danger wafting over from the mainland. Still she was not ready for an extended stay at Casa Spit. "That's really sweet of you, but I don't think I can do that."

  Spit was not satisfied by her response. "It could be dangerous for you out there."

  "Spit's right. I think you should accept his offer … At least for another few days." Stopping mid-sentence to catch her breath, Madame Alexina nudged her way back into the conversation.

  Madame Alexina had nearly forgotten how much energy astral travel burned. In truth, she rarely traveled at all anymore, preferring instead to hover. There had been a time in her youth when Madame Alexina had traversed continents in astral form, but as she grew older, she discovered the danger of losing her bearings, making a wrong turn as it were and risking a permanent divorce from her corporeal form. And so, as she aged, she chose to pull in on her boundaries, keeping one astral eye on her point of origin and the other on her intended target. Whenever possible, she simply hovered at a great height directly above her own inert form, scanning the horizon for psychic clues.

  On this occasion, she had traveled many miles and had done so after a full day of reading, without a proper deck, seeking meaning in Spit's collection of baseball cards. Quite simply, the effort had knocked her on her proverbial astral.

  "I'm going home to get some proper rest," announced Madame Alexina. "Donna, you are an adult and responsible for your own behavior. I cannot force you to stay behind, but the cards have spoken. If the reading doesn't convince you, there's nothing more that I can do."

  Donna looked at Spit and shrugged before announcing her decision. "I'll be okay here."

  Madame Alexina was pleased with Donna's decision. "I didn't want this to influence your decision, but the police are beginning to ask questions about Billy. Tomorrow I will look in on him from a safe distance and see what I can learn."

  With that, Madame Alexina walked out, closing the door behind her.

  "I'm scared, Spit."

  Spit suddenly felt sorry for the frightened young girl hiding out in his isolated cottage. "I wish I could make the danger go away, Donna, I really do, but I guess all we can do right now is wait it out."

  "Madame Alexina said that the police are looking at Billy. Do you think that Billy … ?" Donna didn't even want to finish the question.

  "I told you, Donna; I try not to think. It makes life easier."

  "Is that why you live out here, Spit? To make life easier?"

  "I like it out here. The cottage used to belong to my grandma. I spent summers with her, eeling."

  "Eeling?"

  "You know, catching eels."

  Donna tried to picture the pre-Iraq Spit. She would not have liked the earnest Young Republican, but she wished, for Spit's sake, that he had survived Desert Storm.

  "I haven't thought about this in a very long time, but when I was a little girl, my father used to take me fishing."

  Spit remembered the Billy Ripken card. "Your father?"

  Donna took a deep breath. "My father moved out when I was five."

  Spit didn't know what to say. "That must have been hard."

  "Yeah. I loved my dad. When he left …"

  Spit's head was beginning to hurt. "So your dad was a fisherman?"

  Donna remembered how her dad would put dough balls on her fishing line and stand on the bank feigning interest while she dangled her pole in the town pond. "No. Not really. But I do think he liked the peace and quiet."

  "What about your mother?"

  "Like I said, my dad liked the peace and quiet."

  Spit's head was throbbing. "Your parents used to fight?"

  "Yeah." When Donna remembered the yelling, she was forever the five-year-old with pigtails, hiding in the closet, trying to muffle the soundtrack of her parents' failed marriage. "My mother was always yelling at him … and then, after he left, she yelled at me instead."

  "I'm sorry." Spit's head was about to detonate. "Can we finish this conversation in the morning?"

  "Of course. Do you mind if I ask you one question, Spit?"

  Spit pressed the heels of each hand into his temples, hoping to relieve the pressure. "As long as I don't have to think too hard."

  "Do you really like living out here?"

  Spit was relieved. "Yeah, I really like it out here."

  "Will you teach me?"

  "Huh?"

  "I want you to teach me how to like it out here."

  "There's no secret to living out here. Just think about the alternative."

  "I don't understand."

  "What's society like?" Spit asked, and answered. "Too many people, living too close, moving too fast, spending too much. And what has it brought us beside stress and debt? Cancer, cholesterol, cardiac arrest, George Bush, George W. Bush, heaven help us, Jeb Bush. No, thank you. I like it here." Spit thought for a moment and decided his answer needed emphasis. "I like it just fine."

  Donna tried to see life through Spit's eyes. "Okay, but instead of all that, out here there's just … nothing. What do you do all day?"

  "When I'm hungry, I eat. When I'm tired, I sleep."

  Donna struggled to make sense of Spit's approach to life. "It just seems like there's a lot of waiting around for something to happen."

  Spit smiled. "Sort of. I like to think of it as waiting around for nothing to happen."

  Donna couldn't shake the feeling that there was a secret to this life, lurking just beyond her grasp. "Don't you get bored?"

  Spit generally avoided such introspection. Still, he was enjoying the exercise. "There's a rhythm out here—the moon, the tides, the seasons—you have to reset your biological clock, get in sync with … I don't know, let's call it the infinite."

  Donna furrowed her brow, as though it might help her understand. "I'm trying, Spit, but …"

  "Spend the night on the pontoon boat."

  Donna pictured the secret to life, moving further out of reach, taunting her from afar. "What are you talking about, Spit?"

  Spit was trying to be patient. "Listen, I'm tired. If you want to understand, spend the night alone on the water. You can take the pontoon boat out just beyond the channel markers. Spend the night looking at the stars."

  Spit retreated to his bedroom, leaving Donna alone and confused and unable to sleep. It was nearly midnight. Donna lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, imagining a starry canopy. She checked her watch. 12:09. She rolled over, determined to sleep. She lay first on one side and then the other. She checked her watch. 12:23. She pulled the blanket up around her neck. She
kicked the blanket down to the floor. She checked her watch. 12:42. She sat up in bed, trying hard not to think. She walked around the room. She climbed back into bed. She checked her watch. 1:04.

  Donna climbed from bed and walked over to Spit's bedroom door. She stood there, debating her next move. She checked her watch. 1:07. Knocking on Spit's door, she walked in without waiting for an invitation. Spit was snoring lightly.

  "Spit?" Donna spoke softly at first and then again, louder. "Spit?"

  Donna hoped she was not out of line, as she shook Spit awake.

  "Hunnnh?"

  "Does it count if I leave the pontoon boat tied up at the dock?"

  And so it came to pass at 1:11 in the morning that Donna Carter ventured out Spit's front door onto the old wooden deck, climbing with care down the ladder to the waterline some eight feet below and to Spit's pontoon boat, tied to one of the wooden stilts that elevated Spit's home above the saltwater.

  Checking to make sure that the boat was tied securely to the stilt, Donna boarded the boat, stretched out on the platform and stared at a sky filled with stars. The night sky was magnificent, Donna told herself, but neither Orion nor Cassiopeia, not the Big Dipper nor the Little, brought her knowledge or sleep. She checked her watch. 1:28. Donna threw her timepiece overboard and watched by moonlight for the ever-expanding concentric circle of time.

  Donna rolled over and stretched. Reflexively she checked her watch before she remembered that she no longer trapped time on her wrist. Judging by the position of the sun, it was mid-morning. Herons waited patiently among the sedge grass. Donna watched the sunlight sparkle on the water. She climbed the ladder and walked back up to the house. Spit was squeezing orange juice in the kitchen. He handed Donna a glass.

  "Good morning, Donna."

  "And a very good morning to you too, Spit."

  "You look different."

  Donna held out her naked wrist for inspection. "I feel different."

  "I'm gonna scramble up some eggs. Are you hungry?"

  "No."

  Spit tried to remember how long Donna had been his houseguest. Three days? Four? Spit needed to spend the day behind the wheel of his cab, earning a living. He was satisfied that he could safely leave Donna behind. He explained as much, between bites, and Donna quickly agreed.

  "I'll be fine."

  Donna grabbed a note pad and began scribbling furiously. "Could you stop at my apartment? I need a few things. You know, clean clothes, toothbrush. It's all on the list, okay?" She handed Spit the note and the key to her apartment.

  As Spit got up to leave, Donna remembered one more item for the list. "Could you stop at the drugstore for me? I need tampons."

  Spit's face turned red. "Yeah, okay."

  Donna jumped up and kissed Spit's scarlet cheek. "You're a doll."

  Cleanup in Aisle Three

  Detective Sububie's colleagues on the White Sands police force generally avoided surveillance assignments, unless, of course, in season, on the beach. The endless hours of bitter coffee and stale leads rarely led to anything more than a reprimand for abuse of the department's overtime policy. Detective Sububie, however, embraced the long period of inaction as an opportunity to refine her theory of the crime. After three days in her car, keeping watch on Donna Carter's apartment, the detective had constructed an elaborate theory of the missing persons case.

  Heather Dean died on the pitcher's mound of natural causes while she was masquerading as the team mascot. Natural causes, yes, but questionable circumstances to be sure. Meanwhile, the real mascot had gone missing. As the newest member of the squad, Detective Sububie knew that the missing persons case was a low priority, but before she was finished, the detective was confident she would be solving a sensational double murder. This was the sort of case on which a young black detective could build her career.

  Mavis Sububie sat in her Chevy, in a far corner of the parking lot, sipping coffee: the solitary life of a detective waiting for her big break.

  Spit drove past the drugstore four times before he could bring himself to stop. He sat in the parking lot and visualized the challenge that lay ahead. Surveying the layout, he told himself that he could handle the transaction, but down deep he knew the truth. This would be worse than that time at the age of fifteen when he first tried to buy condoms. Spit forced himself to take ten deep, even breaths before getting out of the cab.

  Spit approached the counter, mumbling. "Where can I find the feminine hygiene products?"

  The cashier looked up. "I'm sorry, sir. What was that?"

  Spit stared at his shoes. "Where can I find the feminine hygiene products?"

  The teenage girl behind the counter giggled and directed Spit to aisle three. When he got there, he did his best to ignore the other shoppers. He planned to grab a box, throw his money on the counter and get out fast. Then he took a closer look. Regulars. Supers. Super plus. Ultra. Spit figured Donna for a regular. Then he noticed the slender regulars. Cardboard applicators. Plastic applicators. Soft plastic applicators. Grabbing a pretty pink multi-pack, Spit tried not to think. Turning quickly, he bumped the shelf, sending a rainbow of pastel protection—regular and slender regular alike, super, super plus and ultra—tumbling to the floor.

  Over the loudspeaker, Spit listened for the announcement. "Cleanup in aisle three."

  By the time he was safely back in the cab, he realized he was hyperventilating. To settle his nerves, Spit lit a cigarette—a Virginia Slim left on the back seat by his last fare.

  Spit still had to make a stop at Donna's apartment. He drove slowly, smoking the cigarette. Checking his odometer, Spit knew he had come a long way, baby.

  Spit turned left into the garden apartment complex, following the signs to building six. The parking lot was crowded, but a spot opened up just in front of the building. Spit located Donna's ground-level apartment and let himself in.

  Sitting at the far end of the lot, Detective Sububie put down her coffee.

  Inside the apartment, Spit tried not to think as he went down Donna's list. He found her blue jeans and t-shirts without difficulty. He found her sweatshirt and socks. When he opened her panty drawer, not thinking became an unmentionable challenge. He tried not to think about Donna in her yellow bikini panties. He tried not to think about her in black lace. He especially tried not to think about Donna in her red thong. Shutting his eyes, Spit reached into the drawer. Grabbing random panties he tossed them into a suitcase along with her toiletries and the rest of her clothes.

  Leaving her apartment, Spit compulsively checked that he had turned off the lights. He jiggled the doorknob to be certain the door had locked behind him.

  Sitting at the far end of the lot, Detective Sububie watched as Spit tossed the suitcase in the back of the cab. It had been the detective's experience that a dead girl rarely had need of luggage. Mavis Sububie started up the Chevy.

  When Spit pulled out of the parking lot, he was grateful to be heading home. His day on the mainland had been difficult. He hoped that his encounter with Donna's panties would not continue to intrude on his thoughts.

  Detective Sububie followed from a respectful distance. Traffic was sparse and the detective had no problem keeping the cab in view without making her intentions obvious. Focusing her attention on the taxicab up ahead, Detective Sububie didn't notice the car that had pulled out of the adjacent parking lot several hundred feet to her rear.

  Twenty minutes later, less than a mile from the ocean, Spit turned off the main road. Detective Sububie hesitated to follow the cab down the unmarked one-lane roadway. Leaving her car parked on the shoulder, the detective proceeded on foot. She could see Spit's cab, not more than a half-mile ahead where the road dead-ended at the water. She used the scrub along the narrow road to provide cover as she moved cautiously toward the taxi. She crouched in the sedge grass and watched as Spit got out of the cab and struck off on foot. She continued to make her way carefully toward the car, uncertain what she might find in this isolated corner of the world.<
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  When Detective Sububie reached the water's edge, she spotted the narrow wooden planking, an elevated boardwalk extending for several hundred yards over the marsh. At the far end of the boardwalk, she could see Spit carrying the suitcase that he'd removed from Donna's apartment. The detective was startled to realize that there were a couple of ramshackle cottages hidden in the marshland. She watched until Spit disappeared into the marsh.

  Detective Sububie considered her next move. There was no cover to be had once she stepped out onto the boardwalk. If she chose to follow Spit, she would be exposed to anyone who might be watching. She could call for backup and wait, but it seemed to the detective that Spit was likely to have a boat available to make a water escape. Detective Sububie considered her options and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

  Another time, under other circumstances, she might have stopped to marvel at the desolate beauty of this spot, but this was no nature walk. Her stride was purposeful, her senses on alert. Suddenly she heard voices coming from up ahead. With no place to run and no time to think, Detective Sububie climbed down under the boardwalk, clinging awkwardly to a support beam on the underside of the planking, suspended in midair some eight feet above the marsh. She waited, hanging from the wooden beam like a piñata. Peering through a crack in the planking, Detective Sububie watched as Donna Carter walked down from the cottage. The support beams shook as Donna passed overhead and, for a moment, Detective Sububie worried that she might lose her grip on the wooden beam.

  Detective Sububie realized that Donna was heading for the car. Having tracked Donna to this isolated cottage, the detective was not prepared to let her get away. Watching from under the boardwalk, she waited until Donna neared land and then she climbed up onto the boardwalk. Moving with surprising speed, she caught the startled young woman just as she was reaching for the car door, reaching out with her own hand from behind to grasp Donna's forearm. Donna screamed, but made no attempt to escape.

  "Excuse me, Ms. Carter, isn't it?" She held out her detective's badge for Donna's inspection.