Chapter 8. I’d been dreaming something about Judy Garland and “The Trolley Song,” when it dawned on me the bells were not in a song

I’d been dreaming something about Judy Garland and “The Trolley Song, ” when it dawned on me the bells were not in a song, but my telephone. And dawned was the operative word. Unbelievably, my clock said 7: 08 a.m.

At some point in the night I’d obviously clicked off the TV, because I rolled over onto the remote control. In an effort not to lie on the remote, I dislodged the now-thawed icebag from my wrist and got it wedged under my elbow. As I picked up the phone, I leaned on the baggie, and because it was Sunday and I was hung over, God made it break. Cold water seemed immediately to fill the entire bed. I yelled, “Shit! ” and from far away a tinny voice agreed, “You got that right.” I was holding the phone wrong-way, too.

I finally got the phone straight and that left me too exhausted to do anything about the water; I just lay in it. I croaked, “Who’s this? ”

“It’s Mitch. Where’s Sonny? ”

“How the hell do I know? Do you know what time it is? ” I counted thirty trolleys clanging in my head. My tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth, and nausea was nearby just over the rainbow.

“What’s his number? ”

Unthinking, I rattled off Sonny’s home number.

“Not that one. The hotel.”

“What hotel? ” Then I remembered. “He said not to give it to you.”

“Alex, you’ve got to.” Persistent little bastard.

“No. I don’t. It is seven-oh-nine in the morning. Get a life, Mitch. You got a problem, call the Chief.”

“I got a problem, all right. We got a murder here. The chief is gone.”

“Chief Franks was murdered! ” I shrieked and felt my skull split. “My God, how? ”

“Clubbed. The boy, I mean. The chief went out on Med-Evac. Well, actually, Cassie flew them out.”

“Them? Cassie? Cassie flew who? Whom? ”

“Yeah, his wife collapsed.”

“When she heard the news, you mean? ”

“What news? ”

“Mitch, ” I said slowly, “I am in no mood to practice our Abbott and Costello act. Start over and make sense.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I said start over, not come over.” But I was speaking to a dead line.

Fargo whimpered to go out. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t want to be here either. We started toward the kitchen. I moved like the Tin Man before Dorothy got the oilcan—bent, limping, groaning, hanging on to chairs and tables and doorknobs as I passed them. I let him out into the cool foggy air and wished I could just go out and lie in the grass myself. Instead I put on the coffee and headed back for two Tylenol and a shower. The shower didn’t really help except to make me aware of everything that hurt. As yet the Tylenol weren’t doing much either. I sat down and gently applied antibiotic ointment to my smarting shin. As I replaced the cap on the little tube, I noticed the label said Panalog. Panalog was Fargo’s ointment, given him by the vet last summer for a cut on his ear. What—if anything—I should do about this medical mixup was beyond me. If my leg started growing fur, I’d call the doctor. Or the vet.

I wrapped my wrist in the Ace bandage. There didn’t seem to be much swelling, though it ached. I took two more Tylenol, just to be safe. I managed to get dressed okay, although I did opt for slip-on mocs. There were several reasons I avoided shoelaces.

By the time I poured two mugs of coffee, Mitch was walking up the path. I motioned him in and sat down; standing up was not good. He tromped loudly in, took off his damp rain hat and coat and hung them on the back-hall pegs. He looked tired and worried and very young. Detective Sergeant Andrew Mitchell was twenty-six or -seven and looked about eighteen, but his boyish charm held no appeal for me this day.

“All right, Mitch, slow and easy does it.”

He took a swallow of coffee. “We really have to get Sonny back here right now, Alex. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

It sounded so much like a line from a made-for-TV movie that I laughed. But Mitch looked like he might cry, and I thought I’d better be nice. “I couldn’t call Sonny right now if I wanted to, ” I said gently. “They are traveling all day en route to... to their planned destination. I’ll try to reach him tonight and tell him what happened—if you ever tell me—and let him decide how he wants to handle it. Okay? Now what is going on? ”

“Well, we all pulled extra duty last night on account of it being Halloween. Nothing really happened—a few fights, a couple of DWI’s. Some fool woman fell off the railing of a deck and broke her ankle.”

“Probably thought she was Peter Pan, ” I said innocently.

Mitch looked at me strangely, but went on. “I went home about one and was just asleep when Santos called and said I better get back to the station. He told me Chief Franks’ wife had got sick again with her heart—tachycardia, chest pain, I don’t know what all. They had her at the clinic and got her stabilized some, but wanted to Med-Evac her to Boston, to Mass General where she sees a specialist. Time counted, they said.” I debated whether a cigarette would help or finish me off. Mitch continued before I could decide.

“When Santos called for the Med-Evac chopper up at Hyannis, they told him, they could get out of Hyannis if they had to, but could never land in the rain and fog here at Provincetown. She would have to be driven to Hyannis. And the clinic doc said that was a real bad idea. I told Santos to start looking up our emergency numbers for people at Offshore Air here in Ptown, and I started getting dressed.”

“Do any Offshore Air pilots live here? ” I asked.

“Two, plus another was on RON status to start ferrying people out this morning—that is, if this damn fog ever lifts. It’s supposed to start clearing around nine or—”

“Good, ” I interrupted and finally lit the cigarette. “What happened with Offshore? ”

“No joy there! One pilot said no way could he fly, he’d been drinking till one. Another said they’d have to take seats out to fit a stretcher in and he had no authority to have that done, even if he could find a mechanic to do it. I called the remain-overnight guy. He asked me if I’d looked out the window lately and hung up. The passenger agent didn’t answer at all. I was frantic. The Chief was calling every two minutes. They had his wife all ready to transport and might have to try for Hyannis if I couldn’t come up with something. Finally, I thought of Cassie.”

“Cassie! ” Of course! It made sense, but my good buddy—flying in pea soup, with no sleep. Oh, God.

“Right. She said come and get her. So we picked her up and met the ambulance at the airport. Cassie and Santos and I got three seats ripped out pronto and Mrs. Franks and the Chief and an EMT shoveled in. Alex, you wouldn’t believe the rain and fog! You could only see about two lights down the runway. That’s only— what? —a hundred yards? ”

“About. How did Cassie do? I take it she got off.”

Mitch reached for my cigarettes and lighter, a custom learned from Sonny, no doubt. “Oh, yeah. She lined the plane up, revved and just... disappeared. I held my breath waiting for the crash, but she got the mother off. I tell you, Alex, that girl’s got two big ones! ”

He said it with such pure admiration I didn’t even refer to his calling her a girl. “Do you know if they got to Logan all right? ” I was almost afraid of the answer.

“Yes, Cassie called. And the hospital chopper was there to meet them. Cassie was going to find a couch and nap till the weather broke. She told me to call Lainey.” He laughed. “I told her she’d better make the call herself. If Lainey heard my voice on the phone, we’d have another heart attack victim.”

I sent up a little silent thank you. Cassie did indeed have two big ones, and a heart to match. “So much for that little drama. You seem to have solved the problem well without my esteemed brother. Now what’s this about a murder? ”

“Would you believe it? I just got home and dozed off again, when here’s Santos back on the line. He says Harmon just came in, yelling and shaking and pointing and swearing he just almost got himself killed and there’s a body out at the amphitheater.”

“Harmon finally got the DT’s? ”

“That thought crossed my mind. It also crossed my mind to kill him and Santos. I tried telling Santos to call Captain Anders, and he said he already did, but Anders told him I was the detective that Sonny trusted so much, so he should call me. Anyway, back I went.”

“Poor Mitch.” I got up stiffly to let the dog in. He looked hopefully at his dish, but I figured he would survive until I heard the rest of this. He curled up in his bed with a peevish flop, obviously weak from hunger.

“You got it. When I arrived, Harmon was still half-drunk, having coffee and raving on. He said he had stayed up till around three when the tide was almost in, and gone out to Race Point to see what had come in on the storm earlier in the night. You know, he collects stuff. Lobster pots, buoys, driftwood, all kinds of debris that washes ashore.”

“I know, my Aunt Mae sometimes buys driftwood from him to make fancy planters for herbs to sell in her shop. But why go out in the middle of the night? ”

“Wanted to be the first one there, he told me. He’s right, actually, a lot of people scrounge around on the beaches after a big rain. Anyway, he says he starts down the hill in his truck, coming home, and a big light-colored SUV with no headlights comes flying out of the side road and almost runs him into the ditch. Of course he couldn’t get a plate number, or even see what state it was registered in.”

“Some kind of hit-and-run thing? ” None of this was making much sense.

“No. It being Harmon, he decided the SUV driver was a drug runner. He figured someone had brought drugs ashore and for some reason set up the rendezvous with the local dealer over at the amphitheater. He thought the guy in the SUV was hurrying to get out of town before daylight, but thought the supplier might still be up there and he could capture him. He had decided they had come ashore from a cigarette boat. How they got to the amphitheater I don’t know. He had enough booze in him to be feeling brave—for the moment.”

“What was Harmon going to do, point a piece of driftwood at them? ”

“That’s what I asked. He reminded me that he carries an old shotgun in a rack in his truck. Prob’ly blow up in his face.” Mitch got up and refilled his mug and mine. I waved toward the refrigerator, and he helped himself to milk. “Anyway, he goes over to the amphitheater, and there on stage lies a body. I asked him if he was sure it was a body, and he said he hadn’t gone near it, just saw someone lying on stage, but they looked dead to him. Well, I thought it could be anything. People do strange things out here. Maybe someone was communing with nature or the rain god or maybe somebody was passed out from booze. Even a mannequin could have been put out there for a bad Halloween joke, you know.” I did know. Anything was possible in Ptown, Halloween or no. “But it really was a body? ” I asked.

“Sure enough. A young, smallish guy, dark, but Caucasian. Had the back of his head and shoulders badly beaten. And it looked like he’d been kind of laid out on the concrete stage. Legs straight, on his back with his arms down along his sides.”

“It sounds like he may have been killed elsewhere.”

“I thought so, too. Still do. There wasn’t much blood, although the rain may have taken care of that. Well, I got Anders out of bed and out there. By the time he got there, we had ascertained the wallet was missing. Empty pockets, no watch or rings. No murder weapon at the immediate scene. Anders took one look and pronounced it simple robbery. Says the dead guy was a transient, robbed by another transient that we’ll never find. Just put out a bulletin to the State Police and forget it.”

“Good old Captain Anders.” I sighed. “How I look forward to attending his retirement party. I can understand a robbery victim being found in an alley, or a vacant lot, even thrown from a car, but I can’t understand taking him all the way out there, beating him to death and arranging him to lie in state.”

“Not only that, Alex, if it’s simple robbery, your victim is usually stabbed or shot or maybe bopped on the head; but this guy was really beaten. Looks like a baseball bat or something like that— two-by-four maybe. Anyway, I got to get back. Right now the victim is still in the EMT van, I’ve got to send him on down to Hyannis to the medical examiner.”

“Why are you holding him here at all? ”

Mitch looked like a kid caught in the cookie jar. “Well, er, Sonny always has old Doc Marsten take a look at things, says he knows things the new-fangled docs don’t. So—ah, I figured it wouldn’t hurt if he just gave this guy the once-over. He should be there anytime now.”

Marsten could sew up a cut neater and with less scarring than anyone I had ever seen. I had living proof of that just above my eyebrow. Marsten would not have ordered a CAT scan, an MRI, an X-ray and four blood tests for my skinned leg, as many doctors would. But there came a point, I felt, when modern techniques were preferable. However, Marsten did sometimes offer some helpful information long ahead of the coroner’s report and if he made Sonny and Mitch feel better, who was I to argue?

“Well, I repeat, Mitch, there’s no way I can reach Sonny till evening. I’ll call him around six and tell him what’s going on. But I agree with him, you’re perfectly capable of handling this yourself.”

He looked at me so gratefully I wanted to pat him on the head and give him a biscuit. “Thanks, Alex, that helps. I guess I’m doing everything. I have a couple of people searching the area for his wallet and for the weapon. So far no light-colored SUVs reported stolen in this end of Massachusetts. We’re going to run his fingerprints to see if we get a hit. We took some photos. His face isn’t badly disfigured. We’ll show them around if we don’t get an ID soon. He may not have been transient. I tend to think not. If he worked here, somebody will miss him at some point.” He donned his rain gear. “Thanks for the coffee, and I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I can’t be too nasty about it after the night you put in. Call me if anything turns up, so I can tell Sonny.” I stood up to walk him to the door, but a throbbing in my leg deterred me. Panalog poisoning?

Another coffee and cigarette made me feel that life might be sustained. It was Sunday, which meant the New York Times crossword puzzle. I’m not a masochist in any other way, but weekly I subject myself to reading almost all four pounds of the Times and then doing the puzzle. The worse it is, the more I love to wrestle with it.

So Fargo and I moved slowly down the bayside beach toward a convenience store that carries both out-of-town papers and yummy homemade pastries. When we got down by the Old Boat Dock Motel, there was a flurry of sand and a cacophony of wild yips. Toby the terrible mini dachshund was upon us. He was madly in love with Fargo and showed his affection by running in circles, leaping at Fargo’s shoulder and barking incessantly. Fargo actually liked the little brat and encouraged his performance with occasional head-butts, growls and feints. Finally, Toby tired, or got as far from home as he dared, and turned back. He trotted home, round little belly barely clearing the sand, ears cocked, tail up and saucy little bottom a-bounce with every step. I rather liked Toby—he had pizzazz.

I liked the scones I took home, too. I felt infinitely better after ingesting what Fargo didn’t weasel away from me, even though there was now food in his dish. I finished the puzzle and felt so renewed I did some laundry, mainly so I could return Peter’s socks before I left tomorrow. I thought about packing, but knew the sight of the suitcase would send Fargo into clinical depression, so I put that off for a while.

Eventually, the dryer spat out a bunch of clothes, including the borrowed socks. As a child, it had been drummed into me to return borrowed items promptly, so I folded them neatly into a plastic supermarket bag, saddled up Fargo and set off.