Sand City Murders (24 page)

“...Wow,” I finally said, having trouble taking it all in. “So… this is just magic in the end.”

“Magic?”

“It’s not science. It all comes down to magic.”

“I am neither a magician, nor a scientist, mind you… I merely dabble. So, if you prefer to call it magic, I have no better word for it. Though there are a few simple laws that are always obeyed. They seem to be inviolate.”

“Like?”

“As I’ve said,
libra lapsus
itself is quite specifically constrained by direction and duration. Time does indeed flow forward, there is causality. Changes in the past always affect the present and the future, but unpredictably so… and imperceptibly sometimes.” He paused and looked at me for a while. “These things are more akin to science than magic, I think.” Fynn switched off the remaining light in the classroom. “But enough for now.” He laughed. “I’ve given you a lot to think about. Too much, I fear.”

I followed him to the door. “Where is everyone by the way?”

“How do you mean?”

“The school… it’s empty and dark.”

“Ah. Spring break begins, I heard someone mention.”

Fynn and I walked out together. I thought silently. This is incredible. Too incredible. The poor man was insane, plain and simple. He hardly seemed like a policeman anymore. Detective Chief Inspector Tractus Fynn? More like some weird mystic guru guy.

***

I’m pretty sure it rained that whole weekend. There was a gray day Easter Parade, and for once I’m glad that cub reporter Joey would cover it. Easter bonnets, kids with baskets and giant rabbits walking around at the annual egg hunt… It was the perfect photo op and a good way to fill the paper up in a hurry. I spent my time holed up in my apartment, trying to think about the impossible stuff Fynn had described. In some strange way, it did make sense, but it shouldn’t have. It made my brain hurt mostly, and sent me to Wiki more than once or twice. Scrambled eggs and scrambled brains; true or not, I was overwhelmed by it all.

My table was filled with scraps of paper. I can’t believe I’m doing this… I’m actually writing down all the things Fynn told me about traveling, trying to make sense of it. I guess it came down to three choices: he was crazy, we were both crazy, or I was... alone. It didn’t occur to me that both of us could be perfectly sane. It was the timeline thing that really bothered me though. And it seemed especially relevant. I might not be able to travel in time, but if I had the awareness that things had changed… well, what does that mean? In the end, the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around was the future…Why was it a phantom place?

“All futures are imagined,” Fynn had said.

Why is it always reset? I wondered, and felt trapped by my own thoughts, and the weather as well. The rain was relentless. I considered my best outdoor destination; I needed to find some green again, but where? My private pine grove? The rhododendron forest? Or anyplace where ivy grew… that was third for good reason. There was something cold and sterile about an ivy patch, even in the middle of summer. It was nice to look at and all, but never seemed to be a great place to hang out.

It would still be some time before the ferns came alive and spread up the gully of the woodlands among the white beech trees. Soon though, all the trees would be fully leaved, well almost. At least now they were all frosted with a tender green, and some of the ornamental trees were ablaze with color. The only flora that seemed to be missing in Sand City were palms. Even Valmont Dubois had failed in this regard. No escaping frost.

The rest of the time, I sat at the kitchen table and watched the rain drip down my sliding doors. Zachary my cat also stared outside, having temporarily lost the desire to bound into the wilds. Soon enough though, the weather would get nice, all the trees would come alive again to soften the bleakness, hide the stark buildings and houses with their leaves. I’d might lose my view of the bay but it would be worth it.

Well, at least the birds were back, I had heard them over the last couple of weeks. I don’t know if they just came out of hibernation, or if they winged it back from the south, but I loved all the noise. They were either like little flying bears, or damn yankees who flew back and forth, I could never remember which. They didn’t seem to especially like the rain either, and had fell silent for most of the weekend.

I got a text from Joey:
found real pirate ships!
He even added a grinning emoticon
.
I took a look at the pictures he sent and recognized them immediately. They were the sunken Liberty Ships out near the sea wall. Anachronistic maybe, but perfect for our Treasure Hunt. A long time ago, maybe in the early fifties, someone purposely scuttled three World War Two freighters right along the shore of Bayview Beach.. No one is sure why, not even historical guy Kevin could say. I could still remember them from when I was a kid… and to me, they were from pirate days to be sure… Their old softened timbers would rise from the waves at low tide, jutting out, breaking the surface. You could walk along what used to be a deck, now just buried bits of old wood with rusty iron fittings. Probably not the safest place for a little kid, but over-the-top cool.

chapter 17

step lightly

The inspector was quite adamant about finishing our
Map Quest
. I was reluctant. This week was the Blackwater Quarry. “I must insist, it’s on the map,” Fynn said when I picked him up at his hotel as usual. It wasn’t much of a drive from the Blue Dunes.

A quarry? Really? Whose idea was it to dig a great big hole in the middle of a tiny peninsula surrounded by water on three sides? Most of the whole damn place is already below sea level. As much as I tried, I never did find out who thought this up. Even the Historical Society was baffled, though Sand City had been a leading supplier of gravel in years gone by. The decrepit machinery, previously covered in vines, the huge stone crushers, giant sifters and rusty loading chutes had been dismantled and removed some years ago at considerable expense. We approached from the shallow end where the bike path ran alongside. It was a popular pit stop. Lots of folks liked to have a snack and sit down under the shade trees, but the leaves and the shade had yet to arrive.

“How deep is it?” Fynn asked.

“Bottomless.”

“Surely not?”

“Just one of the local myths. No one really knows. Couldn’t be that deep. Some people say there is still a giant steam shovel at the bottom. It was abandoned in the nineteen thirties when they reached the water table and the whole thing flooded. Couldn’t pump it out anymore.”

“It’s actually quite beautiful in a stark sort of way,” Fynn commented.

“It’s a blemish on our fair city.”

“You really think so?”

“No, I guess not…”

Fynn was right, it was quite beautiful for a hole in the ground. The old quarry looked just like a meteor had fallen from the sky and hit the side of the bluff. Or maybe a volcano had exploded in the distant past. Neither was the case, it was entirely man made, a huge crater about the size of four football fields and ringed by three sharp sides, granite cliffs really. They arched up the bluff on either side from the shallow end, presumably the place where the trucks once rolled in and out. Now it was a beach of sorts. There were a couple of picnic tables, an historic sign and some big trees. Not that anyone really went swimming here. The water was brackish. On a good day it was black and green in color, some kind of algae grew profusely. On a bad day, say after a storm had churned things up, the water was a rusty red. You could dive in from the bluffs though, from any number of stone ledges that had been dug out long ago. Kids still climb the cliffs and dive in, a summer ritual. A plunge from the top, the highest point took some nerve— it was probably an eighty foot drop.

“In the summer this place is buzzing with dragonflies… it’s quite the sight, very cool...”

“Dragonflies? Do you mean
vuurvliegje
?”

“Do I mean what?” I had never heard such a thing and laughed.

“What’s the word…? Fire bugs?”

“Oh, fireflies… hmm, can’t remember ever being up here at night.”

Fynn and I were walking back to my car when my cell started ringing. I checked the number and it was Durbin so I handed it straight to the inspector.

“Yes?” he answered and listened intently.

I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation.

“I see… no, no… please just wait a few more minutes. I will be there directly.” Fynn handed back the phone and gave me a small look of concern.

“Well?”

“Another death.”

“Another girl?”

“No, an old man, an animal doctor— how do you say? A veterinarian.”

“Samuels?”

“Yes. How do you know this name?”

“He’s the only vet in Sand City.”

“It seems he’s taken a bad fall down a flight of stairs.”

“An accident?”

“We shall see… please, we should hurry.”

“What did Durbin say?”

“He believes an accident. Routine is the word he uses, but he does the courtesy of calling me... just to be sure, I think.”

“It’s called butt-covering.”

“Hmm?”

“Well, you are the chief,” I pointed out. “He probably just wants to do it by the book.”

From the quarry to the animal hospital was less than a five minute drive, not even enough time to answer all the inspector’s questions. Doctor Samuels was a Sand City institution, a hero really. He’d been taking care of pets for the last fifty years at least. He’d also saved any number of marine creatures that had stranded themselves on the beach, from seals to dolphins, and even a pilot whale or two. Over the years his small cottage industry had become an animal empire. He built a hospital and a shelter out back, a private kennel too. There was a pet store as well, carrying everything any cat or dog could ever need, from giant bags of kibble to squeaky toys. Samuels had paid customers and free tenants. He also contracted with the Village as the city’s animal control service. That meant every season Doctor Samuels would have to hire a new, weird animal control guy. Not the kind of occupation you’d last long at: Tracking down feral dogs and scooping up roadkill… Certainly not a job for anyone. And just like any other business in Sand City, it was quiet in the off season. Come Labor Day though, there were no vacancies.

“What sort of man was he?” Fynn asked.

“Old, very old and frail, kindly by most accounts.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“Oh, sure I have. I did a big story on him a couple of years ago. He’s legend.”

“And what is your opinion of him?”

“Seems nice enough… took care of Zachary once… He’s definitely very old, probably should have retired years ago.”

“Might someone bear him a grudge?”

“Seems doubtful. He’s a local hero.”

There was an ambulance at the scene. I saw two paramedics lounging by their truck. Its siren was silent, but its lights flashed expectantly and cut into the afternoon gloom. There was no crime scene tape, just Officer Adams at the door. He nodded to the inspector and let him pass, then his hand came up to my chest. “Not you, Jardel.” He stopped me on the first step. I turned to Fynn with a helpless expression.

“A moment, officer,” Fynn intervened. “Patrick is with me. His help is invaluable. You must let him through.”

“Captain Durbin says no one goes inside.”

“Captain Durbin?” I asked, pretty much under my breath.

“Like it or not, I outrank the good detective and I say this man can pass.”

Adams relented. We were first in, presumably just after the paramedics. No forensic techs, no coroner, just Durbin.

“Inspector,” he greeted him heartily. “Glad you made it here so fast. Just want to make sure it’s not a crime scene before I call the paramedics back in.” He glanced at me, slightly surprised. “Jardel… and what are you doing here?”

“This was my decision. I asked Patrick to come and lend his experience. He seems to have a good eye for this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing? It’s just routine… poor guy fell down the stairs. An accident.”

“Very tragic,” the inspector said. “And nothing was touched?”

“Touched? The paramedics pronounced him, but they didn’t touch anything as far as I know. Broken neck, looks like,” Durbin said matter-of-factly.

“May I have a quick look?”

Durbin gestured us across the lobby. It smelled like a cross between a zoo and a public lavatory, heavy on the disinfectant. We walked past the examination rooms and I spotted Alyson sitting on one of the tables. She looked terrible. I nodded to her and tried to smile when she looked up but we breezed by too quickly. Durbin led us to Samuels’ cluttered office. Fynn glanced around, soaking in every detail. A door opened to the staircase in question. There was a light on, and at the bottom of the staircase was a body: Doctor Henry “Hank” Samuels, splayed out like a broken toy. He was face up, his head rested on the last step, and he was staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Not exactly the way I remembered him from our last encounter.

Inspector Fynn held us back on the landing. “Gentlemen, please, a moment,” he said and donned his satin gloves. “Let’s touch absolutely nothing.” Fynn first examined the banister: a heavy wooden rail on the left side of the very steep stairway. It certainly seemed secure, firmly bolted to the wall. The inspector paid some attention to it, examining it’s entire length from top to bottom. I half-expected him to take out a magnifying glass. He did put on a pair of glasses for a better look. He returned very slowly, examining each step along the way, and then looked at the light switch just on the landing. He flipped it off and on several times. The basement light responded accordingly. I could tell Durbin was getting annoyed.

“There is no way to tell if this is an accidental fall, or if he were pushed,” Fynn declared.

“Pushed?” Durbin asked.

“It is a possibility.”

“No way. Who’d want to hurt old Doc Samuels?”

“How do you suppose he fell?” Fynn asked directly.

“I dunno. Maybe he just tripped over a cat.”