Just a Corpse at Twilight (19 page)

Grijpstra said, "But you never saw this doll."

"I'm not sorry," Lorraine said. "Men are just awful. Like your Rinus. He's worse."

"My Rinus," Grijpstra said.

"Came on heavy," Lorraine said. "I hate that."

Grijpstra looked at the blond head bending down.

"How's my hair?" Lorraine asked. "I shouldn't have let Bad George touch me with those big shears. Aki fixed it up a bit afterwards. Does it look bad?"

"Short hair," Grijpstra said, "becomes you."

"I guess I was hiding," Lorraine said. "I didn't want anyone to see me like this. You really think I look okay?"

De Gier arrived in the dinghy.

"Hi," Lorraine said.

"I'm sorry," de Gier said.

"He's really sorry," Aki said. "He's been saying he's sorry all the way from Squid Island to here. He's making it hard for you, Lorraine. He says he should have helped you out that evening. That he was egotistic again. That his advanced training should have shown him that You equals He."

"I'll never drink again," de Gier said.

"You're not an alcoholic," Lorraine said. "You're just an asshole."

"I think you two should kiss. And dance," Aki said.

Lorraine asked, "You think you would have been concerned, that fateful evening, if you had been sober?"

"I would have been concerned."

"And put me up?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "Alcohol made me do this to you. I am sorry."

Grijpstra had found his thermos. There was only one mug. Aki drank coffee first, then Lorraine, then de Gier. They cleaned up the beach together.

Aki and Lorraine, taking the garbage, paddled their kayaks to the Point, where Aki had left her car. Grijpstra took de Gier for a walk along Jeremy Island's shore. They sat down on a fallen trunk. De Gier patted his shirt pocket.

"You don't smoke anymore," Grijpstra said.

They watched the sea, rippled by the morning's breeze.

"So?"

"So," Grijpstra said, "we should get out of here."

"So who is the corpse?" de Gier asked.

Lorraine and her kayak were still in view. Sunlight reflected on Lorraine's short blond hair.

"Obviously, not Lorraine," Grijpstra said. "And if she wasn't Lorraine, then who cares?" He gestured. "An anonymous dead woman we have no knowledge of."

"How come the anonymous dead woman had Lorraine's hair?"

"Braided into her own hair," Grijpstra said. "By Bad George after he used a pair of rusty shears on Lorraine."

"El Al should have a flight out of Boston tonight," de Gier said. "We could be having dinner at Nellie's."

Grijpstra patted the side pocket of his jacket.

"You don't smoke anymore either," de Gier said.

"Are you happy now?" Grijpstra asked as he and de Gier moved across Jeremy Island. De Gier stopped dancing when Grijpstra said he wanted him to check out the remains of the anonymous woman's corpse in Mr. Bear's tunnel again.

"You recognize her?"

De Gier thought he did but it was hard to recognize a body that has been ravished by a bear.

"The
Macho Bandido
lady?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier thought so, maybe.

"Had you met the
Macho Bandido
lady?"

De Gier had not but thought that the corpse matched the body Aki had described as belonging to the
Macho
Bandido
lady.

"She who accompanied the three Latino sailors or alleged drug dealers who then disappeared in a rented limousine?"

De Gier thought so, maybe.

"Take a closer look."

De Gier tried to leave the tunnel. Grijpstra dragged him back and pushed him down.

De Gier was sure now.

"So you think it is likely that this corpse belonged to the beautiful lady who accompanied the three Latinos on the
Macho Bandido?

"Yes." De Gier staggered out of the tunnel and ran toward the beach again.

"I think there is something here that might be figured out," Grijpstra said, squatting next to de Gier while de Gier washed his face with water scooped up from a puddle.

"I think you should phone Nellie," de Gier said, in between retching.

"Phone the commissaris?"

"We call that 'phoning Nellie' now," de Gier said, peering at Grijpstra with bloodshot eyes, "or connecting with Higher Judgment."

Chapter 18

"But of course," the commissaris said. "A party. That's what we need. Musical rallying of the troops. Good luck, Henk." He switched off his cordless telephone, gave it to his wife, and carefully maneuvered himself down the slippery garden steps.

She took the phone back into the house and returned to the garden. By then he was out of his chair and leaning on his stick, talking to the turtle, who, half-in, half-out of tall weeds, watched him attentively.

"I wish you'd lie down," Katrien said.

"Amazing, don't you think?" the commissaris asked Turtle. "All this rationalizing. You know what rationalizing means?"

Turtle, extending a scaly neck, didn't seem sure.

"Rationalizing means devising reasonable but untrue excuses to perform meaningful acts," the commissaris said.

"Turtle
wants
lettuce," Katrien said.

The commissaris had a few leaves in the pocket of his silk robe. He pulled one out. Turtle ate.

The commissaris turned to Katrien. "Grijpstra and de Gier pretend that they're these cool cucumbers, out there for kicks, but they're essentially do-gooders."

"Good for them," Katrien said.

"I've always been a do-gooder too." The commissaris prodded his own chest accusingly. "I find that amazing."

Katrien steered her husband back to bis chair, gently pushed, made him sit down. "What's bad in doing good?"

"It's silly," the commissaris said. "So some unpleasant stuffis going on there involving third parties only. So what? My fine boys are guests in that great and beautiful country and de Gier inadvertently got himself into a little trouble and Grijpstra was good enough to get him out of it and that's it, Katrien." The commissaris nodded briefly. "Home, sweet home." He nicked his hand. "Home sweet home, Katrien. Our boy is off the hook. We all relax."

"But things aren't right there, Jan."

"Well," the commissaris said, "there may be mutual benefit in doing the good work, of course. If the investigation works out all parties involved might learn something." He held out more lettuce for Turtle. "Or feel better. This Aki maybe. And Beth."

"You don't care about Beth," Katrien said. "She isn't pretty. Remember that dinner party she threw for Grijpstra? Grijpstra described Beth as a homely woman. You never care much for homely women."

The commissaris looked at Katrien. "I love homely women."

Katrien brought up another garden chair. "Its different with me. I'm old. You remember the way I looked before. There are photographs to remind you. And you need me more now." She frowned. "But maybe you are right. What has it got to do with us, what happened there? Grijpstra accomplished his mission and de Gier is probably still crazed. They'll be better off here."

"Tell them to try not to be heroes?"

"It's America," Katrien said. "Americans are so quick on the draw. That poor woman may have gotten herself cowboyed."

"Or Indianed," the commissaris agreed.

"An unnatural death brought about by that hairless sheriff just because he wanted the
Macho Bandido?"
Katrien asked.

The commissaris fed his last leaf oflettuce to Turtle. He softly scratched the reptile's head with the tip of his cane. He looked up. "Situations just happen along but when a good one runs into us"—he grinned—"why not try and use our good fortune?"

"This is a good situation?" Katrien asked. "With the bones of that poor woman being gnawed by Mr. Bear?"

The commissaris was staring at tall weeds growing around his feet. "That kindly sheriff and Billy Boy, the frustrated model-boat builder—they are using the situation too. You know"—he patted her hand—"what else are bad guys doing but taking care of business. . . doing the best they can under the circumstances? Just the same as good guys. Imagine the situation out there, everybody growing pot on islands, a locally born and elected sheriff, what's he going to do? Arrest the town? Of course he joins his good old buddies, and being smarter he does better, and then greed takes over. Greed is a fat demon with a small mouth and whatever you feed it is never enough. I always have to laugh when I hear vindictive prosecutors sum up cases, pretending we have conscious criminals who willingly, by choice, create evil to hinder society. Bah. . . never happens that way. Never."

Katrien frowned. "Really, Jan. You call what the sheriff keeps doing unavoidable choice? How about clever self-serving manipulation of random circumstances?"

"Clever?" The commissaris reflected. "No. Unaware. Dragged down by circumstances. Poor Hairy Harry didn't pay attention. Started off okay, pleasing his mother in his new uniform, and then we see him slowly sliding down the chute of power, becoming a freak. Now what are we the well-intentioned to do? Given the world we live in, a power freak has to be done away with somehow." The commissaris patted Katrien's arm. "But let's do our moralizing later. For now we can theorize, fit our facts into some structure. Reconstruct reality." He smiled.

Katrien looked businesslike. "Reconstruct away."

"The sheriff," the commissaris said briskly, "boarded a mnlion-dollar yacht,
Macho Bandido,
that was abandoned in Jameson Harbor." The commissaris held up a finger. "Situation one. You go from there, you're a lawyer too, Katrien."

Katrien touched Turtle's shield with her foot, rubbing it, making the animal stand firmly on its sturdy legs and close its eyes in pure enjoyment. "Situation two: We surmise that Hairy Harry found a woman aboard, the subject described by Aki as 'a model.' Subject was dead. There had been three men with her, South American types, with big drooping mustaches, golden bangles and chains, and tailormade sailor clothes. They were seen with the woman, partying on the yacht. This went on for some days. Then activity stopped, after Aki had seen a car, early one morning, probably a rented limo, pick up our yachtsmen at the dock. We assume the woman was left behind. Our witness, Aki, said it was still too dark to see who got into the limo. The luxurious vehicle arrived, people got in, the limo drove off. Hairy Harry knew that too. He or his deputy . . ."

"Billy Boy," the commissaris said. "The sheriff's office must keep an eye on the dock."

"Yes, Billy Boy saw it all." Katrien narrowed her eyes. "We keep presuming. The men leave, the woman doesn't, the yacht appears abandoned, he takes a peek aboard, finds the woman's dead body."

"Fits in, doesn't it?" The commissaris asked.

"The woman got overdosed?"

"Cocaine," the commissaris said. "We had a similar case right here in Amsterdam on the Emperor's Canal. Remember? Attractive young lady in a splendid gabled house in the best part of town gets herself coked up. She visits a few pubs and picks up three university students. She takes them home, parties, dies. We have an anonymous call, which de Gier, by following the victim's movements that evening, traced to one of the students who was with her when she died. Through him we located two more murder suspects. But, once again, we ran into a web of mishaps. Suspects stated that their hostess seemed insatiable, kept sniffing and handing out more cocaine, broke out the liquor, insisted on more sex. And she was enticing her partners—the cocaine kept exciting them too, of course, it does that in the early stages of the addiction . . .

"... I thought it made the user paranoid?"

"Later, Katrien. Much later in the process. The user can't bear being touched then but first there's the sexy stage. As I said, subject kept inciting her guests and the students kept complying. She finally went into a dead faint that changed into a coma. One of the boys placed an anonymous call to a doctor, we verified that from the doctor's answering machine, and eventually called us."

"You believe the students were just trying to please?"

"Where does mutual pleasure become abuse?" the commissaris asked. "This model versus the Latinos could be a similar situation. Remember the boat show we visited during that holiday in Naples? Expensive yachts, beautiful saleswomen, champagne, smoked salmon on toast? You kept saying you thought some of the buyers had to be big-time dope dealers. Same here. South American types pick up a brand new beautifully equipped yacht, the saleswoman, 'the model,' goes along on the maiden voyage." He stared at Katrien. "Can you see it? The cocktail party on board? The clients joking that they'll buy the boat for cash if the seller throws in the girl too? Everybody hopped up on something or other. Everything seems just beautiful and easy. The seller takes the model aside and offers her a commission in cash if she goes along with the joke. The buyers are happy with their new boat, the model is happy with the prospect of profit-sharing, a week of partying and beautiful island hopping—quite risky, of course, as in our present case where the joy ride becomes a hair-raising trip up the dangerous Maine coast. The Latinos do manage to make it to Jameson, the effort warrants a party, pot plus whiskey and a wild wild woman, things get out of hand—we have a dead woman. . . ."

"But the South American types didn't call a doctor and the police anonymously," Katrien said, "like our nice university student on the Emperor's canal."

"All situations differ because happenstance cannot repeat itself exactly," the commissaris said. "We may safely assume that foreign suspects will not want a tough American sheriff to check out their boat. As soon as their beautiful lady becomes seriously unwell, suspects decide to run for freedom. Abandoning a million dollars' worth of yacht means nothing to them and it might stall the sheriff, like throwing a bone to the wolf that pursues you."

"Why didn't suspects attempt to hide the body? Throw her overboard themselves? Bury her on an island somewhere?" Katrien shook her head. "But they didn't. The yacht was left in Jameson Harbor, anchored with a short line that made her dip her nose at low tide."

"Too hung over from that final party?" the commissaris asked. "It would mean taking the boat out of Jameson Harbor, feeing shoals and tides and currents and winds once more. I bet you they swore they'd never handle that boat again."