Murder on the Thirteenth (11 page)

“Something's happening,” Jake shouted.

Everyone ran out onto the dock.

“What?” Tretheway shouted.

“I can't see the first boat.”

“What about Beezul?”

Jake squinted through the glass. “I see him. He's the only one left.”

No one was more surprised than Beezul. He watched with amazement as the sails on the leading
Rainbow
disappeared, and the loud snap of the breaking mast carried back to him on the gale force wind.

“My God.” Beezul realized they were first.

After two more tacks they sailed close to the dismasted
Rainbow.
The disconsolate crew sat, oblivious to the high wind and rain, staring at the stump of a spar. They didn't
look up or wave as Beezul passed.

“Ready about!” Beezul pushed the tiller hard over. “Hard alee!”

The
Rainbow's
hull flattened out, turned nimbly through the eye of the wind, then back to a forty-five degree slant in the opposite direction onto what Beezul and crew hoped would be the last tack. They ducked under the boom and clambered up to hike on the other side.

From his position on the wet topsides, Beezul peered through the pattern of sails and shrouds over the pointed bow of the
Rainbow
to the committee boat now not too far away.

“I think we're going to do it,” Beezul said.

“Of course we are,” Zoë shouted.

A sudden shift of wind blew spray in their faces. Warbucks smiled the way he thought an old salt would smile and gave the main sheet one last, contemptuous and unnecessary yank. The pulley on the floorboards of the boat gave way completely. What had been, seconds before, a taut main sheet, became a loose snake of manila rope with ten feet of slack. Warbucks shot overboard like a flare from a Very pistol.

Zoë screamed. Beezul froze. They both watched while Warbucks landed in the choppy waters with a splash that was hardly noticeable in the storm. He swung around, still clutching the line now taut to the boom pulley, until he dragged directly astern, adding another white line to the wake. The
Rainbow
lost surprisingly little speed.

“Stop!” Zoë screamed. “We have to pick him up!”

Beezul tore his gaze away from the hapless mainman to the finish line only fifty yards distant. He checked Warbucks again.

“Hang on, Tremaine!” Beezul held his course. “We're almost there.”

Zoë's protests were lost in the wind.

Seconds later, which seemed longer to the three of them— especially Warbucks—the bell rang to signal the first one over the finish line; and this time, the only one. Immediately Beezul turned into the wind. The boat flattened out and came to rest. They hauled Warbucks in. He was stunned but unharmed.

“Are we finished?” Warbucks's eyes were glassy.

They lowered the mainsail and reset the jib. Beezul steered toward shore while Zoë helped Warbucks unclench his stiff fingers from around the sodden main sheet.

The mood on shore was jubilant. There had been a momentary concern when Jake reported Warbucks's sudden plunge over the side. But when the pealing bell signalled the winner and Warbucks was hauled back on board, Jake and Gum danced on the roof, hugging each other.

The victorious
Rainbow
entered the protection of the Yacht Club's basin to the cheers and happy shouts of the hardy spectators. Beezul couldn't stop smiling. His crew smiled too, although Warbucks's eyes were still glazed. As jibman, Zoë fended off the boat's prow from the dock, then made ready to jump ashore and tie up. Warbucks unchivalrously grabbed Zoë by the collar and pulled her back into the cockpit. He jumped ahead of her onto the dock.

“A Banger!” Warbucks pushed between Garth Dingle and Patricia Sprong, but ran around Tretheway into the locker. “I'm in dire need of a Banger!”

The Beezul Banger tradition had started in a small way about ten years before. After a particularly late finish in a club race, Beezul felt a quick lift was called for for himself and his crew. The ingredients were chosen simply because they were there. A syrupy dark rum from the Islands formed fifty percent of the base. To this was
added strong prune juice, a dash of soda water and a liberal shake of Tabasco sauce. A fresh green onion was stirred in with the elements in a large tumbler and remained as an ornament. “They should be served cold, but no ice,” Beezul always said. “No dilution.” And as everyone knew, Beezul was his own best customer. Tretheway for one, could not understand the popularity of Beezul Bangers among club members. But as Jake pointed out, “The price is right.”

Cynthia Moon and Addie were rinsing out dusty glasses at the sink when Warbucks barged in. They watched as he seized one of the milk bottles filled with the inky liquid, tore off the elastic and temporary cellophane top and took several large swigs. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at Cynthia and Addie.

“Does that ever hit the spot!” Two purple rivulets ran from the corner of Warbucks's mouth into his grey beard, but his eyes had lost their glassiness.

Zoë caught up to him. ‘Put that down.”

“Pardon?”

“You're drinking too fast. And out of the bottle.”

“She's right, Tremaine.” Addie handed Warbucks a clean glass.

“Oh, no you don't.” Warbucks said; he hugged the milk bottle to his chest.

“Let me have it,” Zoë said. “You should get into something dry.”

“Leave him alone.” Beezul came up to them. “A Banger'll dry out anyone.” He reached for another milk bottle. Cynthia handed him a glass. Zoë took one too.

“A toast to the winning crew.” Warbucks raised his bottle high, and took another deep swig.

“Here, here.” Beezul raised his glass. So did Zoë, reluctantly. Others joined in. Beezul Bangers were passed around. Someone put a record on the Victrola. Warbucks started dancing by himself. Beezul danced with anyone
near him. Garth's, Pat Sprong's, Cynthia's, Wan Ho's, Jake's and even Addie's lips showed the tell-tale purple of the Banger drinker. Tretheway and Doc Nooner stood off to one side sipping Scotch.

“Good party,” Doc Nooner said.

“If he's any indication, yes.” Tretheway huddled toward Warbucks who was laughing loudly and spinning around by himself.

“He won a race, don't forget.”

“So did Beezul and Zoë. You don't see them imitating a whirling dervish.”

“They also haven't had a quart of Bangers.”

“You're right.” Tretheway smiled.

Warbucks stopped spinning while the music continued.

“C'mon. Join the party.” He waved toward Tretheway.

“We're okay, Tremaine,” Tretheway answered.

“Not you. The people behind you.”

Tretheway and Doc automatically turned around. No one was there. The record finished. Warbucks started spinning again. “Love that piece.”

“What was that all about?” Tretheway looked at Doc. Doc raised his eyebrows. “I don't know.”

The temperature and humidity in the locker room were increased by the natural heat of wet-clothed bodies pressed together imbibing and dancing. People spilled out into the late dull afternoon. Despite the persistent cool showers, their mood remained exuberant.

It dropped temporarily when word arrived of a protest by the dismasted skipper under the rule which dictated that “The same number of crew members must finish the race as started the race.” But this was disallowed by the racing committee with the decision that although Warbucks was ten yards behind the boat, he was still physically attached by the main sheet and therefore technically still part of the crew. It was official. Beezul had won the Rainbow
Division.

Beezul's smile broadened. Even Zoë's purple lips turned up. But Warbucks seemed to be out of it.

“Albert.” Addie and Cynthia Moon approached Tretheway.

You'd better talk to Tremaine.”

“Why?”

“He's out on the lawn. Crying.”

“More like sobbing,” Cynthia said.

Tretheway sighed “You'd better come with me, Doc.”

They found Warbucks standing close to the water, gazing out across the grey expanse of Fort York Harbour. He had stopped crying, but damp marks streaked the purple parts of his face.

“How's it going, Tremaine?” Tretheway asked.

“I just saw Mother.” His gaze remained on the harbour.

“Eh?”

“Where?” Doc Nooner asked.

“Out there.” Warbucks pointed to the open water. “She was in a dinghy. Coming toward me. My dog was with her.”

“Your mother died,” Tretheway said gently. “Ten, fifteen years ago.”

“So did your dog,” Doc said.

“Henley. A King Charles spaniel.”

“Tremaine,” Tretheway put his hand on Warbucks's shoulder, “There's no one there.”

Warbucks bolted. Tretheway and Doc were taken unaware but gave chase. Some members, thinking it was part of the fun and games, joined the hunt. Warbucks led them across the rain-soaked lawn, between empty chairs and tables, scattering sea gulls and pigeons and constantly repeating “Henley, Henley.” The chase ended when Warbucks slipped and fell going up a terrace of wet grass. Doc Nooner was the first to kneel beside him. Warbucks lay flat on his back, eyes wide open, pupils huge, staring
heedless into the falling rain.

“There's more here than too much booze.” Tretheway leaned over the two.

Doc Nooner nodded. He put the palm of his hand on Warbucks's rapidly rising and falling chest. “I don't like the way he's breathing.”

Tretheway straightened up. He caught Jake's eye on the edge of the crowd. “Ambulance!” he shouted.

The sober command stilled the Henley chant that someone had started. Someone opened an umbrella over Warbucks. Several offers of help came from the crowd.

By the time the ambulance came, most of the people who had been outside had joined the regatta celebration continuing in the main clubhouse. Few of them knew about the events on the front lawn. Those who had joined in the chase thought it was simply the result of overindulgence. Only Tretheway and Doc were aware that Warbucks might be in serious trouble. And, Tretheway thought darkly to himself, maybe one other.

Doc Nooner volunteered to go in the ambulance with Warbucks to the hospital while Tretheway went back to the clubhouse. Beezul had pushed several tables together at the back of the room; he and his guests sat awaiting the prize presentations. They were all concerned about Warbucks, but not alarmed.

“I mean, “Garth said, “these things happen. The race. The excitement. And all those fast Bangers.”

A party atmosphere prevailed. People changed to other alcoholic beverages when the Bangers ran out. Tretheway switched from Scotch to Blue. He had just ordered a quart when the call came. He answered the phone.

“Tretheway.”

“Nooner here. It's about Warbucks.”

“Go on.”

“He just passed away.”

“Good Lord!”

“We don't know why. Won't know till the autopsy. But…” Doc Nooner hesitated again. “Keep it to yourself. It has all the earmarks of a poison. Some sort of hallucinatory drug. One that eventually leads to paralysis. He just stopped breathing.”

“Poor bugger.”

“You'll have to tell everybody there.”

“I know.” Tretheway grimaced.

When he got back to the table, a fresh Molson's Blue sat at his place. At the front of the room, the Commodore of the RFYYC was presenting Beezul with his first place, engraved trophy—“Winner, Rainbow Class, 1943, Great Lakes Regatta.” A congratulatory message crackled over the PA system. Everyone cheered, except Tretheway.

Beezul marched back to his table holding the trophy on high. “C'mon everyone!” he shouted, “To the hospital!”

“Hold it a minute, Beezul.” Tretheway raised both hands in the air to silence the crowd. It had little effect. “We can't go.”

“Sure we can. We have to show Tremaine. Couldn't've done it without him.”

“Listen, everybody!” Tretheway slapped the table, disturbing the glasses and ash trays. This time people stopped talking. “I'vegot some bad news.” He looked right at Beezul. “I'm sorry. Warbucksisdead.”

Beezul finally stopped smiling.

Although most of the celebrants wouldn't hear about the Warbucks tragedy until the next day, the party wound down quickly after the trophies were awarded. Beezul went home, forgetting his cup. Garth and Gum disconsolately walked the grounds together. Wan Ho had gone to the hospital. Addie, Pat Sprong, Cynthia and Zoë were, Tretheway thought, visiting the ladies' room.

Only Tretheway and Jake still sat at the table. Tretheway wrestled inwardly with his half promise to Doc Nooner. He wanted to confide in Jake.

“Poison?” Jake said.

“Keep it down,” Tretheway cautioned. “We're not sure.”

“How?” Jake lowered his voice.

“Probably in the Bangers.”

“He had enough of those.”

“And they'd cover the taste of anything.”

“Just a minute,” Jake said. “Everybody had Bangers.”

“Warbucks drank from one bottle only. Remember?”

“So only one was poisoned?”

Tretheway nodded.

“Then how did anyone know…”

“It was marked,” Tretheway remembered. “A piece of string.” He stood up. “It might behoove us to slip over to the locker. Check the bottles.”

“Good,” Jake said. “We can join the ladies.”

“What?”

“Addie, Cynthia, Zoë and…”

“What are they doing there?”

“Cleaning up. You know Addie. Beezul's gone home and they thought…”

“Christ!” Tretheway pushed tables and chairs aside getting to the door, Jake following closely. They ran across the lawn around the corner of the dock to the locker.

“What are you doing?” Tretheway said more loudly and harshly than he had intended.