Tickled to Death (6 page)

He leaned against the machine, his pelvis thrust forward and his fingers kneading his thighs. “Funny place to browse.”

“Well, I’m thinking about buying a house out here, and I wanted to find out what’s available.”

“I’m available most every evening after nine. My name’s Bubo Limpkin. Yours is…?”

“Not important,” I said with a chuckle that may have sounded a bit manic (or similar to that of a chuck-will’s-widow). “You don’t seem to have many customers, Bubo. I’m surprised you’re not busier on a Saturday morning.”

“The real fishermen are already out on the lake. The college kids start showing up later in the morning, some of ’em already drunk. God, I hate those rich, snotty brats.”

“What about the people who have lake houses? Do they use their boats on a regular basis?” I pointed toward the covered dock. “Is that where they keep their boats?”

“Some of them.” He went behind the counter, disappeared briefly, and emerged with a can of beer. “Hate to let the damn frat boys get too much of a head start,” he said as he popped the top and grinned at me. “Want one?”

“No, thank you. I believe we were discussing the homeowners. Is that far dock where they keep their boats?”

“Like I said, some of them. Right now I don’t got any more slips to rent, but if you ask me sweetly, I might be persuaded to reserve one for
you. What kind of boat are you thinking about? Party barge—or one with a snug cabin?”

I pretended to consider his question for a moment. “I might enjoy a cabin cruiser, but I’ve heard they can be dangerous because of the potential for fuel leaks. Wasn’t there an accident in this very area a few months ago that involved propane?”

“Yeah, but it was a fluke. Those boats are as safe as a bedroom. I sleep in the back room, myself. It’s fixed up real nice. Wanna see it?”

At this rate, Caron and Inez would have time to locate and identify all eight thousand species of birds, return to the lodge to pack, and be halfway to the highway before I gleaned one fragment of enlightenment. Furthermore, it seemed possible that sooner or later I would find myself in hand-to-hand combat with dear Bubo Limpkin if I allowed him to continue to manipulate the conversation. I opted for a Machiavellian tactic.

“I can tell you’re on to me, Bubo,” I said admiringly. “Okay, I’m not a potential buyer. I’m an undercover insurance investigator. We’re not satisfied with the accident report, and before we pay the claim, we want to reexamine the facts.”

“Suit yourself,” he mumbled as he took a fillet knife from the counter and pulled it out of  its leather casing. He slid the blade across his thumb. “This is one sharp mama, this one. You know, I don’t recollect ever hearing of an
undercover insurance agent. All the ones I’ve met can’t wait to shake my hand and tuck a business card in my pocket. Why would you be undercover?”

“Think of me as a private investigator,” I said as I forced my gaze away from the knife blade. “If you’ll just run through what happened on the day of the accident, you can get back to work and I can head for the office.”

“I ain’t gonna talk about it.”

“Maybe not to the press, but why not to me? I’m just doing my job, as were you the day of the accident. From what I’ve been told, Agatha Anne Gallinago reported a suspicious odor in the cabin that morning and asked you to check it. Late that afternoon, Becca Cissel arrived to take the boat, and you were out on the dock when the boat exploded. Is that right?”

“Close enough.” He crumpled the empty can and tossed it into an overflowing plastic garbage sack. “Look, lady, I don’t get paid to stand around and gab about what happened three months ago. I got things to do, so why don’t you finish your soda and get the hell out of here?”

“Did Captain Gannet order you not to discuss it?”

“I don’t take orders from him or anybody else. I got my own reasons for not talking about it, and plenty of them. You think I like this pissant job and a pissant salary that ain’t enough to keep a body in beer and chaw? A week from now I’ll
be in Las Vegas, drinking champagne while a sweet little thing gives me a massage right down to the tips of my toes. If you want, we can go in the back and see how it feels. If not, scram.”

“Is someone paying you not to talk about the accident?”

He came around the end of the counter, the knife in his hand, and started toward me. I decided it might be prudent to continue our chat at a later date, put down the can, and strode briskly across the room. No knife embedded itself in my back as I banged open the screen door, but I could feel a distinct tingle between my shoulder blades.

Once outside, I paused to wipe a sheen of perspiration off my forehead, then walked back to the dock where the residents’ boats gently rocked. There was a fishiness to the air, not unsurprisingly, and a noticeable smell of gasoline. As I continued to the end, I spotted several dead fish drifting nearby, their eyes rounded with disbelief at their demise. The surface of the water was oily and littered with oddments of plastic and sodden paper. Lakes, I decided, were best appreciated from a civilized distance. Like Farberville, for instance.

I retraced my steps and was starting for my car when I heard Bubo’s voice from inside the office. I eased to the edge of the screen door.

“She says she’s an insurance investigator,” he snarled, “but I don’t care if she’s from the FBI.
The ante has gone up and I want the money tonight.” After a lull, he added, “That’s what I said—tonight. If you don’t show up by ten, I’m gonna start giving out interviews to anybody with a checkbook!”

A telephone receiver was replaced with superfluous vigor. I hurried around the corner of the building and crashed into a motionless figure. He caught my arm to steady me, then released me and stepped back to regard me with a smirky smile. Between gasps, I reciprocated as best I could. He was at least sixty, with an egg-shaped head above broad, dandruff-spotted shoulders and a much broader paunch. His hair was wiry and peppered with gray, his skin mottled with freckles and warts. He wore a frayed suit, a white shirt, and a tie that would not have sold at a garage sale. And I had a really good theory as to his identity.

“I’ve heard all about you, Mrs. Malloy,” he said in a voice as smirky as his expression. “Now I have the honor of meeting you in person to find out if your reputation is deserved.”

“How do you know who I am?” I said coolly.

“Last night I just happened to drive by my friend Dick Cissel’s house and saw an unfamiliar car. I’m curious by nature, always have been, so I ran the plate this morning and made some calls. I learned all sorts of things about you, your daughter, your duplex, your bookstore—and your reputation. You are a busy little snoop, aren’t you?”

“You people who live out here need to find another topic of conversation, Captain Gannet. I’d suggest the national deficit or the environment, for starters, and then maybe the civil wars in Eastern Europe. I’m flattered that everyone seems so intrigued by me, but it’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

“Heard about your mouth, too,” he said as he took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, then blew a stream of smoke into my fuce.

My eyes stung, but I refused to blink. “I can’t begin to convey how much I’ve enjoyed this, but I must be on my way.”

He stepped in front of me. “Not just yet, Mrs. Malloy. I need to make something clear. You may have a free rein in Farberville on account of your boyfriend in the CID, but that doesn’t wash in this county. You just get in your car and go on home, and don’t come back until the eagles do. Most years that’d be December.”

I was so stunned that I was at a loss for a response. At last I found my voice, stepped back only far enough to escape his foul breath and smoky emanations, and said, “I will not be bullied, Captain Gannet. I came to visit friends, and I shall return whenever I desire. I have no interest in what washes in this county. Apparently some of the residents do not on a regular basis.”

“Your friend Dick Cissel might have trouble washing the bloodstains off his hands.” He moved out of my path and gestured for me to go past
him. “Drive home carefully, Mrs. Malloy, and watch for deer in the road. A couple of kids hit a buck last year, and their car flipped into a tree. One of them had a broken neck, the other two broken legs and a ruptured spleen.”

“Thank you for your concern.” I stalked around him, got in my car, and left him in a rain of gravel and a cloud of dust. I turned on the first road I came to, then pulled over and cut off the engine to allow myself to regain control of my temper. I’d heard blunter lectures from Peter concerning my involvement in criminal matters, but he was always polite about it. Gannet was lucky I had not given in to the impulse to kick him in the shin. I rather wished he’d accosted me on the end of the dock—and subsequently found himself treading water with dead fish.

I still had several hours to kill before I went back to Dunling Lodge. I’d worn out my welcome at the marina, alas, and I’d not noticed a mall in the vicinity where I could idle away the time. I did have a book in my overnight bag (the motto of a dedicated mystery reader: be prepared), so I decided to find a picnic area and amuse myself in an uneventful fashion.

The road proved to be a dead end. Sighing, I turned around and tried again, being careful to avoid the road to the marina. I mentally replayed the conversation with Bubo. He’d implied he was blackmailing someone, and his remarks on the telephone seemed to confirm it. Had he noticed
someone tampering with the boat? Rather than responding to Agatha Anne’s directive to check for a fuel leak, had he approached the guilty party and agreed on a price? If so, he would be an accessory to premeditated murder and hardly inclined to give interviews. Had Captain Gannet been the least bit gracious, I would have told him about the call I’d overheard seconds before we collided. As it was, I wouldn’t have told him about a meteor plummeting toward his head.

I narrowly avoided a pickup truck filled with screaming children and grim parents, and seconds later, another dragging a boat on a trailer. Picnic areas seemed noticeably lacking, or cleverly hidden. I realized I was approaching Dunling Lodge and kept my eyes on the road as I passed the top of the driveway. I was definitely going in circles, which was not catastrophic, but at some point I would run out of gas. The Rover was not parked in front of Dick’s house.

Grumbling to myself, I tried another road, this one deeply rutted and cluttered with loose rocks and beer cans. At the bottom of the hill was a trailer. It was sadly neglected and unkempt, bleached with age, surrounded by waist-high weeds and the skeletal shells of unidentifiable appliances. Behind the trailer were obscure structures of splintery boards, tin, and chicken wire.

As I eased over a particularly treacherous rut, a man came from behind the trailer and yelled, “Hello! Can you be doing me a favor?”

I braked and looked at him. He was very blond, very tan, very tall. His legs were long and muscular, as were his arms, and he moved with the grace of a gymnast. He wore a tight T-shirt that emphasized his chest and shoulder muscles, and little bitty shorts that emphasized other muscles best left unspecified. As he came to the edge of the road, I got a better look at his deep blue eyes and lopsided smile. He had a charmingly boyish face, but at this distance I put his age at forty.

“I did not mean to alarm you,” he continued in a lilting Nordic accent. “It is only that my truck will not start and I am needing a ride to Dunling Lodge. I am Anders Hammerqvist.”

“Claire Malloy,” I said weakly.

“Luanne’s friend, yes? She has told me all about you. You lead a most exciting life, from what I have heard.”

My personal incarnate of Boswell could save time if she wrote my biography and distributed a copy to everyone who came to Turnstone Lake. “Don’t you operate a facility for wounded birds?” I said.

“Yes, that is exactly what I do. Would you like to investigate it, too?”

“Too?”

“Luanne says that you are here to help Dick clear his name. He is a kind man who would never hurt anyone. You can park here and I will show you what birds are now in my care. Last week I had three hawks and a barn owl, but yes
terday two of the hawks were able to be released. I also have a litter of rabbits and a rattlesnake that was run over in the road. In the winter I often have eagles as my guests. They are my favorites.”

I parked the car and got out. “Did you rescue an eagle the day of Becca’s accident?”

“No,” he said, his affable smile replaced with an odd look. “Agatha Anne told me that Becca had been told of an injured eagle on Little Pine Island. A deputy and I took my boat and went there, but I was not seeing an eagle. This was strange, was it not?”

As we went around the corner of the trailer, we were greeted by a piercing scream. I grabbed Anders’s arm. “What was that?” I managed to whisper despite the sudden dryness of my mouth.

“One of my guests,” he said, covering my hand with his and squeezing it. “He is easily startled. The owl will also hiss or scream at you if you get too near. I do not need a watchdog with these two around.”

I warily admired the red-tailed hawk, while he regarded me through the wiring with immeasurable malevolence. Anders proudly showed me fresh scars on his wrists from attempts to coax the bird onto a heavy leather glove. The idea struck me as masochistic. The hawk was almost two feet high from head to tip, and its beak curled downward at an ideal angle to rip flesh. It appeared eager to do so at any time, including the present. As we stood there, the holes in the chicken
wire seemed to grow larger, the wire itself thinner, and the plywood less firmly secured.

“Will you release it soon?” I asked.

“No, I am sorry to say. He has a damaged wing that will be keeping him from flying ever again. When he is healthy, officers from the park service will take him to schools to teach the children. It is sad that he must remain in captivity, is it not?”

I could almost feel talons digging into my skin, but I nodded sympathetically and allowed myself to be shown a gold-and-brown owl that obligingly rotated its heart-shaped face to stare at me. We moved on to a straw-lined box filled with hairless creatures that Anders assured me were baby rabbits. After I’d declined to examine the recuperating rattlesnake, I agreed to a glass of vodka before returning to Dunling Lodge, telling myself I was doing so only in order to ask him about Becca’s accident. His wonderfully exotic accent played no factor in my decision, nor did his shorts.

The living room of the trailer was clean and minimally furnished with a sofa, a rickety maple chair, and several well-stocked bookcases. On the walls hung photographs of birds and a large surveyor’s map of Turnstone Lake. The windows lacked curtains, but it was hardly the neighborhood to worry about voyeurs. Through a doorway I caught a glimpse of an unmade bed. A voice in the darkest corner of my mind men
tioned that it was king-sized and the sheets appeared to be satin. Sternly reminding myself of my virtuous motive, I refused to listen further.

I sat on the edge of the sofa and accepted a small glass filled with a clear liquid. “
Skoal
,” I said as I took a cautious sip. Midmorning was a bit early for undiluted alcohol, but I was a sleuth, not a sissy.

“
Skoal
,” Anders said, downing his in a gulp. “So, why are you driving down here this morning, Claire?”

The truth seemed silly, so I opted for evasion. “Agatha Anne told me about your facility. You were living here before the Dunlings bought the lodge?”

“For twenty-one years. I like people well enough, but I am more happy with the company of birds and animals. They are more trustworthy.” He refilled his glass and sat down at the far end of the sofa, crossing his very long legs and giving me a beguiling smile that sent fine lines radiating from the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I am from Malmö, a big city with too much pollution, too many people, too much traffic, too expensive. Turnstone Lake is quiet, with not so many people. Here I can do as I wish, which is to doctor animals during the day and drink vodka and party with my friends in the evening.”

“Did you come to the United States on a student visa?”

“A long time ago, yes. Now you should be
telling me about your investigation, Claire. What have you discovered?”

I noticed his smile was forced despite the determined twinkle in his eyes, which was likely to be reflexive from all those years of squinting into the midnight sun. “Mostly that Captain Gannet is a jerk,” I said lightly. “I gather that everyone else out here is friendly. Did you know Becca well?”

“She was breathtakingly beautiful, vivacious, as eager as a schoolgirl to learn. Many days she came here to help me feed the animals and clean the cages. At first she was afraid to go near the big birds, but she became less nervous after a time and more admiring of them. One afternoon I found her crying because one of the eagles had died. She had a tender heart.”

We were back to the increasingly stale theme of her perfection, I thought somewhat testily, waiting for him to describe her halo and wings. “Had she been here the day of the accident?” I asked.

“She may have come by that morning; about that I am not sure. At noon I drove into town to pick up supplies, and when I returned, Agatha Anne and Georgiana were here. When they realized it was getting late, they left together. An hour later, Agatha Anne returned to tell me the terrible news about the explosion.” He paused to stare at the floor, his blond hair flopping into his eyes as he shook his head. “I felt very bad, of course. Becca was an angel.”

I winced only slightly. “So I’ve been told. Were you at the party when she threw the quiche?”

He went to the kitchenette and refilled his glass. His back to me, he said, “Yes, we were all at Dunling Lodge when she and Dick had a small argument. It meant nothing. Everyone had been drinking steadily, as happens when the weather is cold and we are inside too much.” He returned and sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine, his expression intensely earnest. Anticipating a bombshell, I was disappointed when he tossed out an insignificant firecracker. “They were in a corner, whispering to each other. Dick’s face was red, and Becca looked as if she might be soon crying. Abruptly he walked away. She lost her composure and…”

“Nailed him,” I said. “Then you don’t know the cause of the argument, Anders? She never gave you any hint that there were marital problems?”

“Dick worshiped her, as all of us did.” He rose unsteadily and picked up my empty glass. “Can we now be going to Dunling Lodge? I have no telephone, and I need to call the veterinary supplier about a drug shipment that has not yet arrived. It is not so long a walk, but I would prefer to ride with a beautiful woman such as yourself.”

I managed not to simper, although I may have come dangerously close to it. Some men emit an undercurrent of sensuality, but Anders was an electrical storm. Ozone filled the cramped
confines of the trailer. I doubted I was the only woman who’d felt the urge to fling herself into his arms and allow sweet Swedish nothings to be whispered in her ear. Out of what was surely misguided loyalty to a certain cop, I restrained myself and tried to think how to approach a possible variation on that scenario with delicacy, if not diplomacy.

“So Becca came here often?” I said as we went to my car. “In the mornings or afternoons?”

“Whenever she could.” Anders held my elbow as we stepped over the ditch at the edge of the road, then released me and folded himself into the car. “She was very interested in the birds.”

And perhaps the bees, I added to myself. I turned around (one of my principal activities at the lake) and we headed for Dunling Lodge. “Do you have any ideas why Captain Gannet continues to investigate the accident?” I asked casually, watching him as best I could as we bounced from rock to rut.

“Well, as I was telling you, we found no eagle on the island. Captain Gannet questioned me many times about that, but all I could tell him was that it was not there when his deputy and I searched for it. It may have recovered, or it may have been attacked by a larger predator. The raptors have no aversion to cannibalism. Also, everyone who was known to have been on the lake that afternoon was questioned by Captain Gannet himself, but no one admitted to calling the
office. It is rare that we receive anonymous calls of this nature. Most people are aware of the law and are indignant when it is broken. The bald eagle is your national symbol, is it not? Even hunters can be patriots when they think they may receive a reward.”

“But Agatha Anne had a message from Becca on her answering machine. That’s why she went to the dock, isn’t it?”

“This is what Agatha Anne has told Captain Gannet many times.” He then inadvertently risked our lives by putting his hand on my leg and murmuring, “Will you be staying at Dick’s house tonight? I could not visit last night, but if you are there, we will drink vodka and watch the stars appear. You can see many more stars here than in town.”

I gripped the steering wheel and ignored certain shrill biological imperatives. “No, I’m going back to Farberville at noon. My daughter and her friend are training to be facilitators, and I promised them I’d wait until they returned from a bird walk. They’re…not sure they want to continue.”

I parked beside the Jaguar, which was pristine despite the dusty roads. It did not look as if it ever tolerated a single mote of dust, much less mud splatters or avian offerings from above. My car looked as if it needed to be sand-blasted. Anders and I went around the side of the house, passing by the garden behind formidable fortifications,
and onto the patio. Neither Dunling was there, although the bird feeders were doing a brisk business and the lake was buzzing with boats.

Anders put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “Are you sure you cannot stay tonight, Claire? I can take you on an owl prowl. We will take only a small flashlight and a blanket, and walk far into the woods, where it is very private and the moon shines through the trees with a silvery light. If we do not at first see an owl—well, we will find ways to amuse ourselves while we wait.”

“I have to go back,” I said resolutely. “Now I’d better find out if the girls have returned from their hike. Don’t you need to make a telephone call?”

The back door opened and Caron strolled onto the patio, a pair of binoculars dangling from a strap around her neck. Her nose was sunburned and her bare legs covered with scratches, but she looked surprisingly cheerful.

“We got back an hour ago,” she announced, critically eyeing Anders and then me to make sure we were not on the verge of engaging in unseemly behavior (as defined by Mr. Lawrence). “We saw like fifty different birds, or at least Agatha Anne did. She kept pointing and whispering about four o’clock in the oak and three in the pine. Inez and I squealed a lot and pretended we were looking at something more fascinating than foliage.”

Inez eased out behind her. “There weren’t any
snakes, Mrs. Malloy. Caron screamed once, but it was just a lizard in some dry leaves.”

“And you didn’t leap onto my back?” Caron retorted without mercy. “I felt like Quasimodo’s twin sister.”

I introduced them to Anders. They responded politely, but I could see they were more interested in scanning the lake for barges than in making polite conversation with a venerable Viking. Anders excused himself and went inside to use the telephone.

“You seem in good spirits,” I began with due circumspection.

Caron was much too engrossed in a methodical sweep of the lake to lower the binoculars. “We’re done with the dumb stuff. After lunch, we get to learn to drive the barge. Next weekend we have to wear dorky official shirts and caps, but today we can wear our bathing suits. Tomorrow we’re supposed to familiarize ourselves with the office procedures and do really, really challenging things like answer the telephone and put out brochures, and if our handwriting is deemed acceptable, address invitations to some fund-raiser—” She broke off with a gasp and began to fiddle with the focusing knob.

Inez made a futile try for the binoculars, shrugged, and sat down on the bench. “So we agreed to stay,” she said.

“Then I’m off,” I said to her and to Caron’s back, refusing to allow myself to speculate about
an owl prowl. Peter and I had an understanding, even if neither of us understood it very well—and it was more a source of migraines than moonlight. Until it was resolved, I could not with a clear conscience embark into the woods or anyplace else with a flashlight and a blanket. Anders had invited me to nothing more emotionally significant than a dalliance. Well, an exceedingly romantic dalliance. Twenty years ago I would have been packing a picnic basket with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, but I was now an adult with mature and carefully cultivated expectations from relationships. I just wasn’t sure what they were.

“Why are you still standing there?” Caron asked, albeit with minimal interest. “I thought you said you were off. I’d like to think you weren’t referring to your rocker, but from the way you were panting after that hairy old guy…”

“I’ll see you two tomorrow,” I said. I went into Dunling Lodge and down the hall to the office to tell Agatha Anne that I was leaving. If Anders was still there, I would smile warmly in order to ease the disappointment that I was certain would engulf him with the intensity of Bubo’s miasma. I was so caught up in my compassion that I ignored a flurry of giggles and opened the door. And stopped in the doorway.

Agatha Anne’s face was rosy as she wiggled out of Anders’s arms. “Claire, what a surprise. I thought you’d already gone back to town.”

“I’m leaving now,” I said, admittedly disgruntled to discover how fickle his affections were. “The girls seem eager to finish their training, and I have a bookstore to run. Luanne will bring them home tomorrow when you’re done with them.”

“They’re fast learners,” she said, still flustered, still rosy, still looking at me as if she wished she had an automatic weapon in her designer pocket. “About what you saw, Claire…Anders and I were talking about poor Becca, and I was overcome with sadness. He was comforting me.”

Anders nodded obediently. “It is hard on Agatha Anne when she remembers the tragedy.”

Laughing ruefully, she moved behind the desk and began to rearrange pieces of paper and manila folders. “Thank you so much for bringing the girls, Claire. Do you need directions back to the highway?”

I shook my head and left the office. Obviously Anders took care of more than birds and bunnies, I thought as I went across the living room to the front door. I reached for the knob, then stopped as a gunshot resounded like a clap of thunder. After the echoes faded, I opened the door guardedly. Birds were flapping away in all directions, their squawks more annoyed than alarmed.

Wharton Dunling stood at the corner of the house, his face shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat. Smoke curled from a cigar clenched between his teeth as he studied the edge of the woods adjoining the garden. “I got you this
time, you miserable hairball!” he chortled, the cigar bobbling with each word. Negligently swinging the shotgun in one hand, he went to the first line of defense and beamed at the rows of leafy green.