Sand City Murders (26 page)

“I didn’t notice,” Durbin admitted.

“In your country, you flip a switch up to turn something on, and down to switch it off, yes?”

“Generally speaking.”

“There are exceptions then?”

“Well, no, not that I can think of. Why?”

“This particular light is engineered in an unusual way. I think because there are two switches. One at the top of the stairs and one at the bottom…” Fynn motioned to me. “Patrick, if you will go downstairs a moment and flip off the light? But please, touch nothing but the switch.”

I complied, a bit uncomfortably, having to straddle the doctor’s corpse. The room went dark. I sprinted back up the steps.

“Well?” Durbin asked impatiently.

Fynn demonstrated. He showed us the switch. It was certainly in the up position but the light downstairs was still off. He flipped it down and the room remained dark. He flipped it back up and the light came on. “You see?” he asked as if it were evident. “The same goes for the switch at the bottom of the stairs… For the light to be on, it also must be in the up position, so, one may have to flip it twice.”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“It’s quite simple. The switch at the bottom of the stairs was in the down position when I first saw it. Someone must have turned the light off from there. I asked myself, ‘how could that be?’ It must mean someone, at some point in time, switched off the lights from the basement. There is no other explanation. This is most curious. Who would do such a thing? It could not have been Doctor Samuels.” Fynn smiled, looking quite satisfied. “Alyson is sure the light was off when she arrived. You yourself, detective, said the light was on. So there was no need for you or the ambulance people to fiddle with it. Someone else was here. Someone else had to flip that switch downstairs.”

“That could’ve happened anytime,” Durbin pointed out. “The switches, I mean… like last month when Alyson went down.”

“I would venture to say the downstairs switch is rarely used. Not by the good doctor who is loath to descend in the first place, nor by Alyson, who would have her arms full of these paper towels. In either case, this switch at the top of the stairs would be utilized.”

“That’s pretty flimsy, Inspector Fynn.”

“You are a skeptical man, Detective Durbin,” he admonished with good humor. “Think of these three scenarios then. One: our doctor for whatever reason decides to embark on a journey to the basement. At the top of the stairs, he turns on the light. A fair supposition, eh? So, if he slips and falls at this point, he ends up at the bottom. But this cannot be so, because Alyson finds the light off.”

“Okay, maybe it was suicide, like you first said.” Durbin seemed agitated. “Or… and I’m just saying, he might have slipped before he turned on the light.”

“A possibility, I will grant you. But unlikely to me. This switch is at least a step away from the stairs. Would you have him come to the edge and then lean back awkwardly to flip on the light? I think it would also be quite natural to grip the railing and then reach for the switch, if this were the case. And yet there are no marks here.”

“Alright. What’s the second scenario?”

“Ah yes, the other possibility: The doctor has no desire to go to the basement. Yet he feels compelled to investigate, because he sees the light is on already.”

“You mean someone is down there?”

“Yes. The doctor comes to the stairs… Perhaps he calls out, perhaps he thinks it is Alyson.”

“Wait— you’re not saying Alyson?”

“No, no. It cannot be Alyson, unless she is wrong about the light. I don’t believe she has any reason to lie to us… But to the doctor, it would seem quite likely… so he calls out, but that someone is not Alyson. He or she is an intruder. They bound up the stairs and push the doctor to his death. And, they turn out the light.”

“I don’t like that scenario,” Durbin said.

“Nor do I,” the inspector replied. “I’ve actually ruled this out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Again, the banister. If the doctor thought someone was in the basement because the light was on, surely he would have come to the top of the stairs and firmly gripped the railing?”

“Most likely.”

“So we are left with the third possibility: The doctor gets a visitor in his office. That person pushes the frail old man down the darkened steps, does his business and leaves. He uses the light as he needs it: To go down the stairs, to avoid the fallen doctor, and to retrieve the files. And they must switch off the light for Alyson to find. But the killer switches it off from downstairs… as I found it previously.”

“Who says someone else went down there?”

“Ah, on the file cabinets, I noticed a fresh smear… and no dust. Someone wiped one of the drawers. Why would that be, unless?”

“Which drawer?”

“It seemed to hold some records from the nineteen seventies.”

“Seemed to?”

“The drawer is empty now, as you saw.”

Durbin said nothing for a while. He finally spoke. “Okay, I’ll call in the techs, call the coroner…this is a crime scene after all. I’ll pull his phone records too...” He rubbed his face. “Jesus, Fynn, you are damn good at this, I gotta admit.” He turned to me. “Not a word, Jardel.”

I nodded. I had heard that before. “When?”

“Give me a day or two… and don’t say anything to Leaning.”

“Um, Alyson needs to know about the shelter tonight.”

Durbin gave me a look, a questioning expression.

“They need to open up... walk the dogs… feed the cats…”

“Right. The shelter… that’s way across the street, right? I’ll post a couple of uniforms, should be okay.”

Across the street? Did Durbin mean Bedrock Road? It was really just a big driveway that divided Samuels’ huge compound in half. Down the street was the kennel, the shelter, a fenced-in dog run the size of a football field, and a bunch of campsites and cottages. “Okay, I’ll tell her.”

Durbin reached for his cell, more or less dismissing us. We left and walked towards my car, and Alyson, who was still waiting. I stopped the inspector with a hand on his shoulder. He turned. “There’s something I’m not telling you.”

“What’s that, Patrick?”

“It’s about the collar.”

“You are speaking of Roxy?”

“Yes, and if I remember right, he was wearing a collar from nineteen seventy-five. It had Clara’s name and address on the back.”

“Well… this does clarify a few things. Thank you for mentioning this.”

“What?”

“There is no doubt Doctor Samuels was murdered.”

“Murdered? Aren’t you going to tell Durbin?”

“I have… at least in my own way.” The inspector turned and gave me a broad smile. “I’ve given him several clues, certainly. But he must reach his own conclusions.”

“You should tell Durbin,” I repeated.

“I’m sure he will not reach the
same conclusions
.”

“Who did this?”

“I have no idea, but it was not a reckless action. Something planned perhaps, not a sloppy ransacking…” Fynn stopped in his tracks. “Something else is going on here too, though I am quite baffled for the moment.”

“What?”

“The basket full of walking sticks.”

“Why is that important?”

“I don’t know yet.” Fynn resumed his pace. “But I had a very strong urge to defile the crime scene.”

“What?”

“One of the canes was of particular interest. I wanted to take it, but thought better of the idea.”

“This isn’t a
libra lapsus
thing, right?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, something else,” I said, “Alyson’s description of the doc’s friend… it matches the one that Mrs Lovely gave me. Some guy at the library, interested in microfiche files...”

“Now, that is very interesting. I would like to find this man and speak with him.”

“Why is someone looking for Roxy?”

“I don’t think they are. They are looking for his owner, Clara…”

“In the present, you mean?”

“No.”

“Her address… in the past?”

“Exactly.”

“But Durbin doesn’t know, doesn’t remember...”

“No,” he said flatly.

“But I still do.”

“Yes.” Fynn tried to smile. “There is one other possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“If Alyson is lying about the light, then she is the doctor’s killer.”

“But—”

“I am just saying it is possible, not at all probable.” Fynn patted me on the back. “Now, you must take her home. I’ll get a ride with the good detective. Off with you.” He waved at Alyson until we pulled out. I was left with a single thought: Delusional or not, the inspector was very skilled at deduction.

***

Alyson lived down in Kettle Pond, not far from the water tower. A dreaded winter rental, that is, a summer cottage that had been winterized. Ha, that meant some plastic stapled over the windows and a kerosene heater if you were lucky. That meant a winter of freezing your butt off, or unaffordable heating bills. Take your choice. Not that my place was any warmer.

Somewhere along Captain’s Way, I turned to her and asked about Roxy.

“Roxy? How do you know about him?”

“From Joey,” I said. Apparently she didn’t seem to remember our first late night call, nor all the cutesy messages she had left.

“Oh yeah, pet-of-the-month… He’s your friend?”

“Joey? Nicest guy I ever met.”

“I think so too.” Alyson tried to smile. “Emma is a little sweet on him.”

I made a hard left into a maze of cottages. Single track dirt roads and even smaller sandy driveways. “Um, so… anyhow, what about Roxy and his collar?”

“You mean the tags?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it was so weird, I just had to show it to Samuels.”

“And what did he make of it?”

“I don’t know. Never really said anything... Seemed surprised though. But who wouldn’t be?”

“Where’s Roxy now?”

“In the shelter.”

“No one has adopted him yet?”

“I thought you were going to take him.”

“Me?”

“Why not?” she asked and glanced at me.

“Where is Roxy’s collar?”

“Not sure… the doc had it…” her voice cracked a little and she started sobbing. I parked under a pine tree in a sandy spot beside the cottage and gave her a quiet hug. Some minutes passed in silence. We just sat there in my old Saab.

 “I get kicked out of here next month,” Alyson told me while unlocking the door. Her rental was one big room, part kitchen, part living room with an upstairs sleeping loft. There was a sofa, a TV, and a wood stove inside as well.

“Got anyplace to go yet... for the summer?”

“No. Why, you got room for me?”

“Ha, you’ve seen my place. There’s not even enough room for me and Zachary.”

“Zachary?”

“My cat.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“I got him from your shelter.”

“When?”

“Before you started working there, I guess.”

“Well, I might be sharing a carriage house with Emma. Some old lady in Cedar Bluffs.”

“Nice neighborhood.”

“Yeah. I’m going up Saturday for a look. Got my fingers crossed.”

Every cottage in Kettle Pond came with a legacy, some quite different from others. It could be toys, magazines, mugs, glasses, even boardgames, but especially paperbacks. It was a Sand City tradition, and probably a tradition in just about any resort town, to leave your books. This was especially true for Kettle Pond. The deal was this: you rent a cottage for two weeks and whatever few paperbacks you brought to read on the beach, you left for the next folks, the next batch of renters. They did the same… It wasn’t long before the cottage was transformed into a library, and as the years went by, those libraries got pretty big. There wasn’t a rental in Kettle Pond that didn’t have a wall of overflowing bookshelves.

“Makes good insulation.”

“What?”

“All the books.”

“Funny, Patrick.” Alyson glanced over to the wall lined with tattered paperbacks.

“Who’s your landlady, Mrs Lovely?”

“I wish... there’d probably be a better selection.”

I casually scanned the shelves, fingering various titles: Vance to Vonnegut, Uris to Updike, Mailer to Monroe, Felicity to Fleming, Grisham to Gisson, Hawking to Heller, Atwood to Astor. They all meant nothing to me. I felt a deep anxiety. Faded covers, torn, yellowed pages dog-eared repeatedly, missing chapters… I had seen all these books before, not here but someplace else. I was slipping away, overcome by an ancient memory: I was standing on a city street, a big city, a bustling place. It was hot, summer hot. People were walking by quickly. I was small like a child, standing in front of a kiosk full of paperbacks. I could smell the place, the diesel fumes, pigeons, hot concrete, cool marble, and maybe something like jasmine or flowers… cigarettes and bitter coffee. I could hear people talking. I could understand about half of what they were saying but none of the words were in English. I looked up. A blue bus lumbered by, then a yellow trolley. I heard someone calling my name: Patrick… Patrick…

It was Alyson bringing me back to the present. She came over and took my hand. “Wow, I’ve never seen that look before.” 

“What look?”

She stared up at me, searching. “Somewhere between panic and confusion… I don’t know…”

I tried to smile. It didn’t come easy.

“What’s the matter, Patrick? You don’t seem okay.”

“It’s just that I look at all these books, hundreds of them, and they mean nothing to me. Like, I know the names, most of them, the writers… but I can’t remember any of the stories. All these books that I’ll probably never read, all these lives I’ll never know… It’s a weird feeling.”

“Don’t you like books?”

“I don’t read much, especially fiction.”

“That kind of surprises me, you being a writer and all.”

“A reporter, nonfiction mostly.” I tried to smile again.

“What, you watch a lot of TV?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh, that’s right, now I remember. How about movies?”

“Yeah… but I never seem to remember them either.”

“Well, let’s watch one tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

Alyson made a pot of coffee and we went outside to her deck. Under a big pile of blankets we lay together quietly on her hammock, cuddling for warmth, just staring at Kettle Pond. It had turned a metal gray in the failing afternoon light, shadowed by the spindly pines. The wind was kicking up again, rippling the water. We snuggled closer and shared a long lazy kiss. Both of us tasted like lattes. Neither of us felt like talking but it was a tender moment. Alyson fell asleep not long afterwards.