5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5 (9 page)

Chapter 16

It had turned dark by the time Blake and Mary finally came down out of the mountains. They’d stayed longer than either had planned. The fall colors were gorgeous and the weather fine, but unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, a matter of point of view, the scenic pull-offs were also numerous and, in the middle of the week, private. Like a pair of fifties-generation teenagers, they took advantage of the time and place and would have still been there except they both realized to do so would take them somewhere they had earlier agreed not to go. The descent from the heights, both actual and metaphorical came as a relief and a disappointment.

Mary passed on his dinner invitation when he dropped her off. “We need to talk,” she said and straightened her blouse.

“We could talk over dinner.”

“If I invite you in, in the shape I’m in right now, there won’t be any dinner.”

“We could go to a restaurant.”

“I need a little space and, I’m guessing, you could use a cold shower.”

Blake grinned, “Football captains—we’re all the same.”

“Not all.” She turned to go and added, “Call me.”

He drove to the office. He lived next door to the church in the Rectory, and since he’d neglected his duties past the time he’d planned, he thought he had better check his desk for messages before shutting down for the evening. Mary was dead right; they needed to talk—seriously.

A pink while-you-were out slip lay front and center on Blake’s desk. Gloria, his secretary, had printed the message in large bold letters, underlined them, and added three exclamation points, just in case he might have missed their importance.

THE BISHOP WANTS YOU TO CALL HIM—URGENT—ASAP!!!

The bishop never called. The only conversation they’d ever had occurred when he’d first arrived in the diocese the previous year and he’d made the customary, expected, and wholly perfunctory, call at the diocesan house. Like most Episcopal bishops, this one seemed preoccupied with the ongoing turmoil in the church at large, and a few of his parishes in particular. At the time Blake had been cautiously noncommittal when queried about his stand on the several issues that seemed to obsess the church. He had to. At the time he stood on the brink of unemployment in the church and the only job offer he had was in Picketsville, a place he’d neither sought, nor desired, but loomed as his only, however unattractive, choice.

Blake called Gloria at home.

“What did the bishop want?”

“It was his secretary that called. I asked her the same question. All she could, or maybe, would say is that the bishop had a call from someone in the parish complaining about you and you needed to call him. Actually, she said you should make an appointment. I reminded her of how far you’d have to drive to see the bishop and then she said you should call him and see…”

“Someone from the parish called and complained?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Any idea who?’

“She didn’t say, and when I asked, she clammed up. Is she, you know, normal?”

“No idea. Bishop’s secretaries tend to take on themselves responsibilities not in their job description. Once I announced I was planning to do a full immersion baptism at a local swimming pool during our annual parish picnic and a few matriarchs called the bishop’s office to see if that were allowable. The bishop’s secretary said I need to ask permission. I pointed out to the ladies, when they announced their findings, that the
Book of Common Prayer
clearly states that immersion is the preferred method, sprinkling a second best, and I did not need anyone’s permission.”

“What happened?”

“They boycotted the picnic.” Blake scanned the note a second time. “I guess I’ll call the bishop tomorrow. His office will be closed by now.”

He hung up. The last time someone complained to a bishop about him was in Philadelphia. It was a bogus complaint but still, it nearly ended his career. He didn’t want to go through that again. He called Phillip Bournet, the Rector of the sponsoring parish of his little mission church.

“If he said it was urgent, Blake, you could call him at home.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Actually, yes I am. When the Episcopate says it’s urgent, they assume you will take him at his word and appear hat in hand and heart in throat. Ignore it.”

Blake could almost see the twinkle in his friend’s eye. “You want me fired, is that it?”

“He can’t fire you. That’s the point. As the vicar of Stonewall Jackson Memorial, the only parochial mission in the diocese, as you know, you work for me, remember?”

That much was true. The church’s arcane polity made him answerable first to Philip, the rector of the parish in Roanoke that sponsored, indeed subsidized, his little church. Blake hoped to end that dependency but the numbers weren’t there yet.

“He’ll have to ask me to fire you, and I won’t—unless you’ve committed a felony, abused a child or, worse, have become a disciple of Jack Spong.”

“Not guilty on all counts. I just got a message he wanted to talk to me. He indicated it was urgent—underlined.”

“As I said, you should ignore it. He knows, or should have known, that if he wanted to talk to my vicar, he should have called me first, told me what was wrong, and had me deal with it. So, don’t call. Let me call him in the morning, remind him of protocol—politely, of course, and then I’ll let you know what’s up.”

“He won’t be angry?”

“Who cares? He’s on thin ice as it is. He has bigger fish to fry than to worry about some obscure vicar in the boondocks.”

“Thanks a lot, I think.”

“How’s that beautiful organist I sent you getting along?”

“Wonderfully.”

“Anything I can report to my wife, the matchmaker?”

“Give me a week or two and then ask again.”

“Really? She’ll be delighted.”

“No, no, nothing yet, Philip. Don’t jump the gun…but…”

“I’ll keep Christmas Eve open for a wedding.”

“No, wait…Philip…” But Bournet had already rung off.

He decided to take his advice and ignore the bishop’s call. If it were truly important, he’d call again, but it seemed equally likely that the urgency stemmed from an inflated sense of importance on the part of his secretary. There was, after all, protocol. Ordinarily, Blake had no use for the ins and outs of ecclesiastical maneuvering, but his instincts told him this would be a good time to buy in. He locked up and went across the parking lot to the rectory and let himself in. He was hungry and some sort of supper was in order. The phone was ringing.

“You were supposed to call me.”

“I was in the office. While I was admiring God’s splendid fall colors—among other things—the bishop called and said I should report in ASAP.”

“Did you?”

“No, I called Philip, and he said I should wait until he had a chance to speak to the Right Reverend.”

“Are you in trouble?” He could hear the worry in her voice.

“I don’t know. I could be unemployed by week’s end.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re too good to toss out. Did he say anything else?”

“Who, the bishop or Philip?”

“Philip.”

Blake considered how best to answer.

“What are you doing on Christmas Eve?”

***

Ike stopped at the Avenue Restaurant for dinner. He’d made the circuit around Eastern Bay, and, as he’d expected, it had taken him all day. The light had been fading when he found the duck blind. The camera Charlie provided had, however, enough light-gathering capacity in its lens to produce a sharp picture in spite of it. As he sat drinking his second cup of coffee and contemplating whether he had earned a slice of apple pie, he clicked through the digital images on the camera’s back. They were small, but he knew if he blew them up he’d be able to make out whatever details he needed. The duck blind seemed odd to him. Not just its location out from the shore and facing deep water—there was something else. Tomorrow, he decided, he’d charter a boat, have a look at the area from the water, and check out that shooting platform.

Chapter 17

The next morning, Ike pulled into what must have been a filling station at one time. The pumps were covered with cardboard boxes like those used to ship refrigerators. Scrawled across the face of each, in black marker pen, he read:

NO MORE GAS!

He stepped from the car and walked into the garage bay. He could have found it blindfolded. In fact, in his days with the Company, he’d done just that. The mixture of cleaning solution, used oil, gasoline, and grease smelled the same whether in Bulgaria or on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. A large man in amazingly dirty coveralls bent over the front fender of an elderly Ford 150 pickup that had a mismatched cab and bed. His head and shoulders disappeared in the depths of its motor compartment.

“Good morning,” Ike said.

The man extracted his upper body from the truck’s inner workings and faced Ike. “We ain’t got no gas.”

“So I see.” Ike nodded at the defunct pumps. “Problems?”

“Big oil companies. Bunch of greedy bastards.”

“So I hear.”

“Trying to put us indies out of business. Not just trying—doing it, by God. Big oil, big food, big books—all the same, put you out of business. Bunch of greedy bastards.”

Ike opened his mouth to respond but the man waved his hand and went on.

“Yep, just plain want us out of business is it. Won’t sell me gas except at near retail. Retail! I’d have to charge thirty, forty cents a gallon more than their company store up the road. Who’s going to pay that?”

Ike tried again. “Look, I don’t—”

“I run a good business here. Honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Never gouged nobody for the gas. Hell, people thought I was getting rich off the stuff, but they didn’t know what I had to pay for it. No profit in the gas, not unless you come in here and bought maybe thirty or forty gallons. Then, maybe I’d make a buck or two. No sir, I earned my groceries right in here, in the shop, getting dirt under my nails and burning my hands on hot exhaust pipes, radiator caps; you name it, mister, and I done it.”

He must have run out of air, because he paused in his rant. Ike took the opportunity and jumped in.

“Look, I don’t need gas right now. I’m lost. I need to get to a house right about here…” He held up the road map and pointed to the approximate spot where he’d seen the work boat. “There’s a boat tied up there, the
J. Millard Tawes
, I think is its name, and for the life of me I can’t find the right road. I’ve been driving up and down all morning.”

The man wiped his hands on a rag so dark with grease it seemed likely his hands would end up dirtier. He bent his head forward and studied the map. He lifted his gaze to Ike. His mouth formed a tight line.

“You’re government, ain’t you.” A statement not a question.

“Not exactly.”

“Why do you want to see Bunky Crispins?”

“I want to ask him a few questions”

“You’re government, and he won’t talk.”

“Look, I understand the watermen are ticked at the restrictions on the harvesting of crabs. I guess it’s pretty bad.”

“Ticked ain’t the word I’d use.”

“Whatever. I’m just a cop on vacation. I’m doing a favor for a friend. That’s all.”

“What kinda cop?”

“A Virginia cop, for crying out loud. Not even local.”

“That’s worse. Look, Old Bunky, he maybe went south of Tangier Sound a time or two but you can’t hardly blame him. He’s got a wife and kids and watermen, like, they don’t have no fringe packages and stuff. Doctors cost a bundle—bunch of greedy bastards.”

“South of Tangier…I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I just want to talk to him about a missing airplane and its pilot.”

“You’re not from the Virginia Bay Police or whatever they call themselves?”

“I’m the sheriff of Picketsville…over in the Shenandoah Valley. I wouldn’t know a crab from a trilobite if it bit me.” It was an exaggeration, but Ike sensed the direction the conversation had taken.

“Don’t matter. He won’t talk to you.”

“How about I try? Can you tell me how to find him?”

“You’re sure it’s Bunky you want?”

“If he’s the owner of the
J. Millard Tawes
, he’s the one I want.”

“Okay, it’s your funeral…what in Hell’s a trilobite?”

“Prehistoric ancestor of the crab.”

***

The directions were barely adequate, but a half-hour and a few wrong turns later, he found himself in a graveled cul-de-sac staring at the front side of the house he’d photographed from the back the day before. A Ferguson tractor—it had to be sixty years old—graced a front yard badly in need of mowing. If there were antique tractor collectors out there, if the right buyer happened along, Bunky Crispins had a modest gold mine rusting away in his front yard. Ike pulled in the driveway and opened the driver’s side door. He had one foot on the ground and in the process of heaving himself out when someone or something smacked the passenger side door. His instincts made him duck. A man he took to be Bunky Crispins stood a pace back from the door and held a shotgun loosely in his arms.

“You just hop back in that government-issue car and get off my land.”

Instead of following his orders, Ike stood and held his hands, palms out, toward the man and the gun.

“It’s a personal vehicle and I’m not from the government.”

“Harley says different.”

“Harley?”

“Up to the garage. He said you were there asking questions and that you’re a Virginia police.”

“He got that part right. I am, and I was, asking questions, that is. But I’m not here about police business, fishing, crabbing, or any other kind of business. I’m looking for help finding a missing pilot. That’s it—the whole bushel.”

“Just you step away from the car and put your ID on the hood so I can see it.”

Ike did as he was told. The man waved him back and turned his attention to the wallet. The moment his eyes dropped, Ike stepped forward and in one smooth motion took the man’s gun and with a leg sweep, dropped him on the ground.

“Ouch.” The man rolled over and struggled to place his hands under him. Ike kicked them out so that he landed face down. He broke open the gun’s chamber and dumped the shells on the ground, then tossed the piece across the driveway into a clump of grass.

“Your lawn needs mowing. Okay, if I let you get up, do you promise to behave?”

“Cripes, who are you?”

Cripes? What kind of a word was that?

“You going to behave?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“We need to talk about the Fourth of July, and then you need to tell me if I can charter your boat for a spell.”

Bunky Crispins eased forward and lurched to his feet. Ike watched as he dusted himself off and then measured the distance between them.

“Don’t even think about it, Bunky. I’m here to get some information, and you might not be able to tell me what I want to know if you have a fat lip—or worse.”

Ike rarely played tough guy. He didn’t have to. Most folks in Picketsville knew him and what he could do. But he was on someone else’s turf, and establishing his position seemed required. Also, people who pointed guns at him made him nervous.

Evidently, Bunky got the message. He leaned against the car’s hood and picked at the knees of his trousers.

“Cripes. You made me rip my pants.”

There was that word again. Coaches at parochial schools used to curse that way. They didn’t dare let the nuns hear them take the Lord’s name in vain. “Cripes,” they’d say, or they’d yell “Cheese and Rice,” at some poor kid who dropped an easy pass. Ike never attended a Catholic school but had a roommate in college who had and who spent his freshman year learning how to swear properly.

“Okay, I guess I gotta trust you. Anybody that’ll take a loaded twelve-gauge from a guy, I guess don’t leave no room for anything else.” He paused and took Ike’s measure. “But you’d maybe better not try it again.”

“Don’t plan to, unless that shotgun finds its way back into the conversation. Now, I want you to tell me everything I need to know about this past Fourth of July.”