Terror Flower (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 5) (2 page)

Katy nodded. “Had to be to get that line all wound up on the shaft.”

“The prop cut him up good and spit him out. Then it wound up part of the line on its shaft as the body floated out behind the boat,” said Smiley.

“Or,” said Katy, “The boat might have turned around on him. I’ve heard of that too. The boat, running wild through the water, locked its rudder, turned and came back on him.”

“Drowning the official cause?” asked Tench, thinking of Smote’s outspoken claim the old man had been murdered.

Smiley said, “When I got to the hospital, the doctor who does the autopsies for the Sheriff’s department came out. He took a first look at Captain Bob’s body.”

“He said, ‘Goddamn Sheriff, this is an accident all right. No sense me spending much time on it. Drowned. I can see the water still coming out his mouth. Smell the wine too. I see a few bruises but that could be from hitting the side of the boat. If I come up with anything besides being drunk and falling overboard, I’ll let you know. Otherwise I’ll write it up and release him to his family. Too hot to keep him in the lab.”

That evening Tench drove the garage pickup to Captain Bob’s house. His modified Mustang stayed in the shop, set up on the racks of the shop dyno undergoing carburetor adjustments. As he entered the house, a large sitting room was on his right filled with men and women talking softly. To his left a large picture of Captain Bob protruded on a metal easel. The old man had been photographed resplendent in his blue suit. This picture normally hung at his church on the entry wall where the other elders had their portraits. The room smelled of cut flowers and sweat. On a small table to the side, candles burned surrounded with vases of bright blooms. A shiny white wooden frame with the signed letter from Jerry Orbach stood proudly. This had been procured by Smote for Captain Bob’s surprise Christmas present last year. The old man loved “Law and Order,” the television show in which Jerry Orbach played the clever policeman. Captain Bob fancied himself an amateur officer. He loved to tell telling stories about how, over his life, he had helped investigate famous River Sunday criminals and whiskey runners. He said he had secretly helped the FBI chase Nazi agents from submarines sneaking into the harbor during the war. His friends loved him and didn’t care whether Captain Bob told the truth in his tales.

A wooden basket filled with fresh green unshucked corn ears sat on the floor in front of Captain Bob’s portrait. Tench assumed Smote's wife had set this in her South American tradition for the dead. She wore a green dress with large white blossoms sewn on it as she greeted visitors and family members. Her two small girls tugged at her dress, their eyes full and nervous watching all the strangers.

Abraham, Captain Bob’s Chesapeake, held guard near the basket, his paws in front, his eyes in mourning as if he understood that his master was gone forever.

Smote approached Tench. “Come,” he said. He quickly led Tench away from the others and into a back room. Smote was still in the work clothes he had worn earlier in the day, the jeans smelling of paint and roofing tar. He turned and faced Tench.

He spoke, his voice shaking. “I think they just do not do their job. Bastards,” he said. “I look at the boat. I see the throttle lever way forward from the notch where Captain Bob set the speed.”

Tench said, “That probably got hit when he fell overboard, Smote. The throttle lever was right there at the side near the steering. That’s why the boat went ahead. His body drifted into the propeller and the engine stalled out. ”

Smote said, “Captain Bob, he was old but very clever. He wasn’t careless. He wasn’t drinking out there, never. He goes to the Island and they killed him.”

Tench knew Smote’s answer but he asked anyway. “You are pretty sure he went up to the Island?”

Smote nodded and said, “The Sheriff, he’s scared. I think he don’t want trouble. Same thing with the rest of the people around here. Strake owns this town and that’s all she wrote. You know, my friend. You know that’s the way cops work.”

Smote raised his face to stare at Tench. Tench was taller by a foot. “You know he was always talking since Strake closed the fishing. He was talking like it wasn’t fair, that he wanted to do something about it.”

He stared at Tench. “Look, the town, they respect you. You come here to make money and that’s what you do. You don’t bother for nobody so they owe you a favor. I want you to help me,” Smote said. “I don’t care what they say about me. I want to find who killed Captain Bob.”

He guessed Smote was right. He wanted to make money and that was why he was here in River Sunday. If he helped Smote it was a rare thing for him to do. “Do you want me to talk to Jones?” asked Tench. “See if he knows anything to help us?”

Smote paused, “Yes, he wouldn’t talk to me because he don’t like us Latinos. He might know something. He might talk to you.”

He said, “You should not be blinded too, I mean because of Julie. She does not speak for her father.”

Tench said, “I’ll call Julie and talk to her about this.” Julie was Strake’s daughter and an old girlfriend. They still kept in touch by phone. She lived in Texas where she worked in the Strake family oil business. His heart thumped at the thought of talking to her again. “I’ll call her,” he repeated.

Smote said, “Stagmatter. He would kill anybody.” Smote referred to the manager of the farm. This man had been hired by Strake to run the farm and to take care of the antique automobiles. Stagmatter came from Argentina, a large man, short fused and not liked by anyone who met him. Sometimes old World War Two veterans would swear they heard him talking German. Tench had only met him a few times when he came to the garage for auto parts and had found him to be a good mechanic and knowledgeable about cars.

“That’s the way you figure it?” asked Tench.

“I do,” said Smote.

Tench said, “First we’d have to prove your grandfather was even up at the Island. We’d have to come up with something solid to convince the Sheriff.”

Smote chewed on his wad of gum. Tench smelled its sweet aroma. Smote said, “The Captain, he kept talking about Strake’s place. You remember we both told him to stay away from there, you know that.”

Smote added, “One thing for sure.”

“What’s that?” asked Tench.

“Captain Bob was right about one thing. He say, ‘Your pal from Baltimore. He will not let you down.’” The old man knew Tench owed Smote. Smote risked his life to rescue Tench from a Baltimore street fight, one where he got his scar.

Eighteen-wheeler air brakes shrieked not far away in downtown River Sunday. Tench spotted the bright gold lion head symbol on the side of the box. He heard the truck, an older model International, jerk forward into gear, its engine loud. Its headlights sent dim and then strong white glare on the walls of the town buildings as the engine built power. Black exhaust smoke rose over the street toward where he stood, and Tench smelled the sickening stink of those diesel fumes, as the vehicle strained and lurched with its heavy load. The truck, with the clunking sounds of its gears shifting, gained acceleration and moved away with its valuable cargo, disappearing into the night.

Chapter Two

9AM, Sunday, August 15

He arrived at his garage and tried again to call Julie. She didn’t answer. He tried both her apartment in Dallas and her cell. She had always answered with a happy voice when she saw him as the caller. That is, except last year when he contacted her about the sudden death of her sister and family on vacation. Her not answering made him feel the distance between even more. He would always have the desire to see her and to hold her, even after all the years they had been apart.

In the portrait behind his desk Briggs Cunningham stood beside his 1949 “Le Monstre,” with its five carburetor Cadillac engine and its boxy streamlined blue and white body. The pioneer American car racer became known for these blue and white Cunningham racing stripes. He took this experimental car and finished tenth against a field of over thirty-five specially designed foreign racers at the 1950 Le Mans Twenty Four Hours race in France. His respect for Cunningham for his going up against such odds meant as much to Tench as heroic baseball players had meant to other childhood street friends. He was the saint of a young boy who dreamed of cars as a way beyond the hopelessness of the Baltimore streets where he grew up. Tench purchased the picture when he was fourteen, working part time at a local gas station in Baltimore pumping gas for an elderly black mechanic. That man, in turn, helped him through the violence of those days. Since then, the Cunningham portrait had been his most prized possession.

The garage door opened to the sound of its lifting chains running through gears. Sunlight poured in followed by a familiar rumble of tuned automobile exhaust. Then Katy pulled into the workspace in her tuner, a modified Ford mini coupe. Smiley was beside her in the passenger seat, blue sport shirt open to his chest, his arm stretched out over the back of her seat.

Katy spotted Tench, waved and got out of the machine, leaving Smiley still sitting in her car. She put her head in his office doorway. She was dressed in blue overalls with her name embroidered in white on her right chest pocket.

“Figured we could use Sunday morning to change my spark plugs,” she said.

Tench nodded. “That new exhaust sounds good,” he said.

“It’s only catbacks. The little Ford won’t go real dual,” she said, with a shrug.

“Lots of time you get the same power,” said Tench.

She hesitated then blurted out, “I found an experienced driver for the drag runs of the Mustang dragster you are building,” she said. “He’s somebody who might get us in the lower teens.”

“Fine, if he doesn’t wreck with him and my car spilling gasoline fire across that Delaware dragstrip up there.”

Tench heard the sound of work boots coming across the garage concrete floor. Smote appeared at the doorway next to Katy. He looked at Tench expectantly.

“I got to leave,” Tench said, looking up at Smote. He stood up and, turning to Katy, he said, “I’ll talk to you about it.”

Smiley got out of the Ford and walked over to stand beside Katy, his shoulder close to but not touching Smote. Tench watched the body language of the two men. They had never liked each other, Smote because he considered Smiley a red neck racist, and Smiley, with his snake tattoos, because he did not like Latinos.

Tench put the drawings of his race car back on top of a stack of automobile racing magazines.

“Ready?” Smote asked.

Tench reached up behind him and tapped the glass of the framed picture of Cunningham. He grinned at Katy. “When I get back, we’ll talk. I want to hear your ideas about the driver,” he said.

“OK,” Katie said, and he could sense her disappointment as she headed back into the garage.

“You going to be able to handle this, Smote?” he asked as he noticed his friend’s downcast face. They walked towards Captain Bob’s house and the Emmy anchorage. “I liked Captain Bob too. I can understand,” he added.

“I was OK until I got to the boat this morning. You know, just cleaning up,” said Smote. “They threw his stuff all over the deck when the Coast Guard towed her in. Captain Bob would have been ashamed. You know the way he cleaned the Emmy. Besides, I wanted to find the other boot. He needs to be buried in them boots.”

“I should have been with you. That’s a lot for you to have to face by yourself,” said Tench.

“No, I had to do it by myself. Brought me closer to him.”

“I miss him,” said Tench, his throat tightening for a moment, the picture of the old man moving through his mind.

“They took the wine bottle. Couldn’t find the boot either. Funny, it should have been in the boat after it come off.”

“Don’t know about the boot. I saw the wine bottle in the bilge,” said Tench.

“It had some wine left in it. Someone want a drink,” said Smote.

“Too bad it wasn’t checked for fingerprints,” said Tench.

“No matter. The boys who did this to the Captain would have rubbed it clean and even if they didn’t their fingerprints would be African.” Tench knew he was referring to the African guards who patrolled the Strake compound.

“Yeah,” said Tench, “They wouldn’t show up on anything in the USA.”

“You know, the anchor is lost too,” said Smote.

“That’s strange,” said Tench. He looked at Smote and said, “I never saw the Captain use it. He didn’t anchor her when he was fishing because he moved along, working the baits. He stowed it along the inside of the rail.”

“I know. That’s why we look for the anchor today,” said Smote.

“You think he did use it?”

“Somebody did,” said Smote, nodding.

Tench thought about the missing anchor and what it might mean. It could point to someone else being on the boat. His mind drifted to the future of the Emmy.

“You going to fish the Emmy, I mean after things settle down?” asked Tench.

Smote didn’t answer for a while as they walked along. Then he said, “Yeah, I might. Or, I might sell her, like my wife want. I already got some offers. She say it’s too dangerous and I’ll get hurt like the Captain. Besides, fishing’s getting pretty poor around here.”

“Yes, aren’t many good places to fish anymore,” said Tench. “When Strake closed the spot off his place, that didn’t help. I mean that was a prime fishing spot.”

“No, that’s a fact, Jimmy.” They had reached Captain Bob’s house. Smote had already begun to move into the house from his rental outside town. Inside the house, Tench could hear Smote’s wife talking on the phone to her mother using fast Spanish Tench could not understand. He had known some Spanish growing up in Baltimore.

The girls were playing at a swing from a limb in the back yard. They ran over, but Smote made them go back. He followed Smote down the familiar dirt path. Two rusty automobile engines rested covered with weeds and wines on rotten railroad ties beside the house. These machines, worn out V8 power, once powered the Emmy. Ahead of them Tench could see the boat, tight against her lines, pulling in the morning tide current. Captain Bob had lived on the good side of the harbor, better for mooring and wind protection than the shore across the harbor where Hiram Jones and other fishermen kept boats. The bottom here had hard packed sand and oyster shells. Tench and Smote waded out to the Emmy and climbed aboard. Abraham sat already in the bow, his eyes toward the harbor, waiting for them to get going.