A Minor Case of Murder Page 17

  The Next Mayor of DoahTownship

  "Welcome to the third and final debate among our candidates for mayor, Beverly Becht, Democrat, Cheyenne Harbrough, Independent, and the incumbent, Mayor Big Jim Donovan, Republican." Mr. Caputo, the boyish attorney and tireless self-promoter, was once again moderating the debates.

  "Tonight's format will be somewhat different. Each candidate will make a brief opening statement. Questions tonight will be posed by you, the audience and citizens of our fair town."

  There was a noticeable buzz in the room at the invitation to participate in the evening's political proceedings. Mr. Caputo waited for the buzz to subside.

  "In order to maintain a proper sense of decorum, the candidates have agreed that members of the audience who wish to pose a question will write down their question on one of these index cards"—Mr. Caputo waved a packet of cards in the air—"and then I will read the questions as submitted.

  "Earlier today the order of the candidates' opening remarks was selected at random. Councilwoman Becht, Democrat, will go first. Ms. Becht?"

  Beverly Becht stood at the podium, looking out at the fifty or so citizens sitting in the audience and the additional citizens of Doah watching at home on local access cable. She considered whether to read her prepared statement. Ms. Becht's campaign had derailed at the outset because of her strident, some would say xenophobic, vision of a white, Christian township. The Democratic Party publicly denounced their own candidate and denied her access to party resources. Nevertheless, Ms. Becht was on the ballot and on the podium.

  "My friends, there are some who would maintain that the citizens of Doah are interested in electing a local government that will fix potholes, collect garbage, manage development, that will support fire safety and emergency services, preserve open space, plow the roads and reduce the local tax burden. However, I believe that local government has a higher calling. I believe that there are many of you who agree with me. Our enemies twist our words and make fun of our beliefs. Therefore, let us not speak openly tonight of that higher calling. Let us simply take comfort in knowing that it is not too late to send a message to the heathens and the homosexuals, the liberals and the lesbians. On election day, let us reclaim DoahTownship. Thank you."

  As Councilwoman Becht spoke, angry citizens scribbled furiously on their index cards. Mr. Caputo looked up at the podium. "Thank you, councilwoman. Next to speak will be the incumbent, Mayor Big Jim Donovan."

  For all his difficulties, Cassie knew that Mayor Donovan was still a decent man. She wondered how Cheyenne could overcome the mayor's likeability factor. Big Jim rose to speak, looking tanned and fit, thinner than Cassie remembered.

  "My friends, unlike my worthy opponent, I happen to believe that it is exactly the business of local government to fix the potholes, collect the garbage and manage the development, to support fire safety and emergency services, to preserve open space, plow the roads and reduce the local tax burden. During my first term, we did these things well and I pledge to you here, now, that in a second term we will do them even better. There is no higher calling for local government than to serve its citizens. It saddens me to have to make the point that as mayor, I am committed to insuring that our government treats every member of this wonderful community with respect, even the heathens and the homosexuals, even the liberals and the lesbians. Even the developers." Mayor Donovan turned and looked at Cheyenne before returning to his seat. "Your turn, Ms. Harbrough."

  As Cheyenne rose to speak, Cassie made sure to get a good look at her stiletto-heel, pointy-toe, Italian mid-calf boot. The audience waited, anticipating Cheyenne's opening remarks.

  "Did you hear the one about the traveling salesman and the developer's daughter?" Even Mr. Caputo chuckled, before encouraging the room to quiet down. Cheyenne smiled broadly.

  "During Mayor Donovan's term in office, this town has been witness to extraordinary scandals. We have been witness to fistfights among local officials; we've seen the planning board and council threaten each other with lawsuits. Hell, we watched as the mayor attempted to sue himself. Big Jim is a good man, a likeable man, a decent man. If you are satisfied with the status quo, by all means reelect Mayor Donovan. But, if you are embarrassed by the shenanigans, if you want to restore civility to public discourse, if you want to watch council meetings in order to hear honest debate of important issues, then you know that it's time for a change. On election day, I ask you to go to the polls and elect Cheyenne Harbrough the next mayor of DoahTownship."

  Cassie hardly listened to the question-and-answer portion of the evening. It had been her experience that people rarely asked a question at one of these events because they wanted to hear the answer, they asked because they wanted to hear their question. It seemed to Cassie that all three candidates had used their opening remarks to articulate their position and that no voter was likely to change their mind based on the Q and A.

  Even Mr. Caputo seemed bored by the question-and-answer format. After the first few questions, he read mechanically, without regard for the content. One question, in particular, did grab Cassie's attention, precisely because it must have escaped Mr. Caputo's attention.

  "In this time of unprecedented homeland security considerations," read Mr. Caputo in a question directed to the mayor, "what is the significance of baba booey, baba booey, baba booey?"

  Mayor Donovan stared at the moderator, while the audience roared. Mr. Caputo stared at the index card, trying to comprehend the question, before directing his anger at the audience.

  "Do I need to remind you that the strength of our democracy depends on the will of serious-minded citizens? Wasting time and energy on such foolishness is as much a threat to our way of life as are the terrorists."

  Mr. Caputo's reprimand failed to quiet the room. "Let's take a short recess. And I would ask you not to return if you do not intend to participate in a responsible fashion." Mr. Caputo jammed the index cards into his jacket pocket and marched out of the room.

  Cheyenne located Cassie during the break. "Where is he?"

  Cassie had been asking herself the same question all night. During the Q and A, she had even scribbled that very question on an index card. At least she hadn't turned the card in to Mr. Caputo. "I don't know, Chey. I guess he ran into a problem at the ballpark."

  "Do you think he's still coming tonight?"

  Cassie knew that Andy wouldn't let her down. "He's probably sitting outside the condo even as we speak, waiting for me to get home. I know the debate's not over yet, Chey, but would you mind terribly if I left now?"

  "Go. Go find your missing man. Shit, I'd go with you if I could."

  "Thanks, Chey. By the way, the boots look great."

  Cheyenne grinned. "Tell you what, Cassie. How about we meet for breakfast? That is, if you and Mr. Two, Sometimes Three Times a Night are able to get out of bed."

  Collecting Stars, Like Fireflies

  When it began to rain, Donna realized how much she had changed since she first set foot in Spit's home in the marsh. Without thinking, she retrieved the buckets and placed them strategically to catch rainwater leaking in through the roof. Then she returned to her seat at the card table and the latest jigsaw challenge.

  "I think I'm finally getting the hang of this place."

  Sitting alongside Donna, Spit didn't bother to look up from the puzzle. "Yeah, I think so too."

  Donna pulled her chair back from the table. "I'm gonna make myself a cup of tea. How about it, Spit? Should I make you a cup?"

  Again, Spit answered without looking up. "Yeah. Red Zinger. Thanks."

  Donna went into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two cups of Darjeeling. "Sorry. It's all I could find. You know, I've been thinking …"

  This time Spit looked up. "Yeah?"

  Donna struggled to find the right words. "I'm starting to think that I may have overreacted."

  Spit weighed her words, sensing that Donna was seeking his opinion. He was hesitant to offer one without an idea what
it was she might have overreacted to. "Yeah."

  Donna began to laugh. "You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you, Spit?"

  Spit ducked his head, sheepish in his confusion. "Not really."

  "That's okay, Spit. It's my fault, not yours."

  Spit still had no clue. "Okay."

  Donna hoped Spit would understand. "I think it's time for me to go home. Not that you haven't been a wonderful host. I just think maybe it's time for me to end the melodrama. Blue Moon Odom or no Blue Moon Odom, there's no one out there trying to do me harm."

  Spit thought for a moment. Until Donna reminded him of the reading, he had completely forgotten about Madame Alexina. "I'd feel better about letting you leave if I knew you would be safe."

  Donna sipped her Darjeeling. "It's okay, Spit. No one is trying to hurt me."

  "But…"

  "It's okay, Spit. Really." Donna watched the raindrops bounce in the bucket near her feet.

  Spit had grown accustomed to Donna's company. It was hard for him to admit that he enjoyed having a friend around the house. "When were you thinking about leaving?"

  Donna didn't answer right away. "It depends on the weather." Donna sipped her tea. "I was thinking about something you told me when I first got here. You told me I should spend a night alone on the pontoon boat."

  Spit liked that Donna remembered. "And then you did. It helped you adjust to the place."

  But Donna remembered more clearly. "I didn't really, Spit. I mean, I slept on the boat and you were right, it helped a lot. But I never took the boat out. It was tied to the dock the whole time."

  Spit dismissed Donna's correction. "It doesn't matter. It worked."

  Donna remembered how the sky overflowed with stars. "Before I leave, I want to spend another night alone on the boat. This time in the middle of the channel. If you trust me with the boat."

  Spit was impressed with Donna's resolve. "Sure."

  Donna sipped her tea. "If it stops raining, I thought I'd like to take the boat out tonight. Tomorrow I'll call a cab to take me home."

  "You don't have to call a…" Spit paused, feeling foolish. "I get it."

  Now that Donna had made the decision, she watched the rain, looking for evidence of clearing. She rotated the buckets as they filled with rainwater. As the afternoon sky lightened and the rain moved south, Donna sat on the dock trying, without success, to calculate the length of her stay in this isolated outpost. Heather's untimely death and Madame Alexina's bizarre reading had convinced her that her own life was in danger. Suddenly, it all seemed so foolish.

  Spit joined Donna on the dock. "I love the sky after a good rain."

  "I bet you'll be glad to get rid of me."

  Spit thought about the night when Madame Alexina had dumped Donna in his cab. At first he had resented the intrusion. "Would you like me to show you how to operate the pontoon boat?"

  "Is it hard?"

  Spit showed Donna how to work the controls and explained how to read the channel markers. Donna cooked them a light supper of shrimp fried rice. They ate in silence. After supper, Spit watched the sky gradually darken. "It's going to be a beautiful night on the water tonight. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

  Donna stepped off the dock and onto the pontoon boat. "I'll be fine." She turned the ignition and listened for the motor to catch.

  Spit tossed her an old woolen blanket. "It's gonna be cold out there."

  Easing back on the throttle, Donna unhitched the line and slowly pulled away from the dock. "Don't worry about me, Spit. I'll see you in the morning." Donna guided the pontoon boat toward the first channel marker. Spit stood on the dock, scanning for maritime hazards. When Donna saw him keeping watch, she waved him back inside the house. Alone on the water, Donna wiped a tear from her eye and smiled.

  In the darkening sky, stars began to pop up, just one or two at first, gradually increasing in number and forming their immutable patterns and then suddenly the night sky teemed. Donna thought that God must be a small child collecting stars, like fireflies in a jar stolen from His mother's cupboard, a jar that we like to call the universe.

  Donna thought about the men in her life. She had few memories of her father, who left home when she was barely five years old. She remembered how he hated to fish, but loved to take his little girl fishing. She would sit at the edge of the man-made pond, dangling her pole in the water, a dough ball for bait. She never caught a fish, but Donna remembered how they would always stop at the market on the way home. She would walk in the house proudly carrying her fillet of flounder or bluefish. She would show her mother the prize fish, her father explaining excitedly how Donna had caught the big one, how she had nearly been dragged out to sea by the fish, how she had stood there bravely reeling in the monster. And then her mother would take the prize fish and cook them a family feast. Donna wished there were a fishing pole on the pontoon boat.

  She thought about her boyfriend Billy and his heavy-metal, spiked-hair, take-no-prisoners, moshpit philosophy of life. Was Billy worried about her? Did he miss her? More to the point, Donna wondered, did she miss Billy? She should have let Billy take Heather to the concert. They had more in common anyway. She wondered: if she had stepped aside, would Heather still be alive?

  She thought about Spit. The confused taxicab driver, this disabled veteran of Desert Storm, this radical activist and conspiracy theorist, this fragile intellect living alone in a condemned shack in the marsh, was perhaps the most responsible man in her life.

  Donna allowed the boat to drift farther down the channel, just far enough from land to be utterly alone in the universe. She listened to the pontoons as they slid through the swells. She watched the water for glints of silver, party fish out for a night on the town. With neither mattress nor pillow, wrapped in a stained and scratchy blanket, Donna fell asleep and dreamt of dolphins and mermaids, of seahorse and starfish. She dreamt of Spit.

  Sometime during the night, Donna dreamt of an extraordinary sea serpent, gliding along the surface. Its head rose up high, fire belching from its nostrils, heat waves emanating across the surface of the sea.

  Donna dreamt and all the while the pontoon boat drifted. When the sea serpent roared, she shook off the dream and found herself adrift in the Atlantic in the middle of the night. Under other circumstances, she might have struggled to find her bearings, but not on this night. Donna lifted her gaze toward the shoreline, scanning for the tiny piece of earth jutting out into the ocean. There it was, her landmark, ablaze in the night sky.

  "Omigod! Spit!"

  Smelling of Wood Smoke and Saltwater

  When the unidentified caller reported the blaze, the fire department responded with dispatch. Volunteer firefighters throughout the coastal region jumped out of bed. Leaving their homes and sleeping families, they sped through the dark night to the firehouse and their civic duty. Within minutes, fire trucks were rolling, sirens blaring, the pumpers roaring down the county road. Their response would have been quicker had the trucks not missed the unmarked turn that would lead them to the site of the reported blaze.

  Still, acting with a response time that would have been the envy of paid professionals, the volunteer firefighters soon were setting up their equipment at land's end. Looking out over the marsh, they could see flames leaping from the ramshackle cottages. They could see the far end of the elevated boardwalk collapsing in flames. The fire called out to them, mocking them, but they could not respond. There was no way for the firefighters to bring their equipment in close enough.

  They set up at land's end, the water cannons unleashing a torrent out over the marsh, soaking the near end of the boardwalk, but falling far short of the blazing cottage. The firefighters debated tactics, argued and experimented, determined to do more than merely watch as the fire spread quickly, devouring everything in its path. Gradually they came to accept, man by man, the futile nature of their efforts. The firefighters were consoled by the knowledge that these shacks had long since been abandoned.

 
Even in the middle of night, even in the middle of nowhere, a fire demands attention. A local news crew pulled up in their van, thrilled by the chance to shoot exclusive footage of the blaze. A small crowd formed at land's end, bystanders, insomniacs, the fire paparazzi. There was a brief commotion when a middle-aged woman came out of the crowd, with hair like fire itself and a trace of moustache like burning embers, insisting that one of the shacks was inhabited.

  Adrift in the Atlantic, Donna turned the boat toward shore, pushing the throttle forward, begging the little motor for speed. Slowly, the pontoons cut through the water, inching the boat toward land.

  Watching the flames rip through the night sky, Donna desperately tried to quell the panic in the pit of her stomach. She pulled to within several hundred yards of the shoreline and eased up on the throttle, bringing the boat to a halt. Fire raged out of control, the cottage engulfed in flames, the dock collapsed, large sections of boardwalk missing, charred and burning pilings jutting up out of the marsh. Donna watched in silent horror. She thought she might be sick.

  The pontoon boat bounced lazily in the offshore swells, gently swaying, peaceful, serene. Suddenly the boat pitched. Donna lost her footing, nearly falling, stumbling head first as an exhausted Spit, sooty and waterlogged, slightly singed, smelling of wood smoke and saltwater, pulled himself into the boat.

  He was shaking, unable to talk. "You're freezing." Donna wrapped him in the blanket, holding him close. She hugged him, sharing her warmth, unwilling to let him go. They huddled together in the pontoon boat. Donna was talking, could not stop talking, seeking in her words refuge from the turmoil, the fear and the guilt.

  Heather had died. Spit, very nearly, had died. Donna hugged him tighter, overwhelmed by the grim joy of survival. She wanted to protect him, to take care of him, to let him know it would be okay. She took his hand. She struggled to make sense of her feelings. Spit struggled to stop himself from shaking.