In time, the wind got too loud to hear much. After a shouted conference with his parents, from which he came toward me looking ashamed, Sean cupped his hands, leaned in to form a wind tunnel between his mouth and my ear, and said, “You’re great for doing this, Lane. Look, uh, my mom is too grossed out to scatter the ashes, and she wants me to, but I can’t, I just can’t. Will you?” The wind howled, the waves slapped the sides of the boat, and I tried to look at his face, but my hair blew across my eyes. He leaned in to my ear again. “Anyplace out here’s good. Let’s get it over with. When we’re through, there’s a few things I really need to tell you about.”
The guy could really pick a great time to act secretive, since I could barely make out what he was saying. I turned, tunneled, and said back, “Okay, give me the box.”
He staggered back and got it, opening and holding it for me. Meanwhile, his mother stared at the rolling black clouds over the rising and falling horizon, and his dad sat at the helm trying to look like he was the captain of his soul or master of his fate or however that goes.
I’d never done this before, so rather than just dump the whole box overboard, I began scooping ashes out in my hand and flinging them down over the side, trying to avoid the wind getting them in anybody’s face. The remains get pulverized into dust, and it wasn’t as disgusting as you’d think, just kind of fine powder. To get the last of the ashes out without having to beat on the bottom, I reached deep inside and Sean tilted the box while I dumped the last bit into my palm. I made a loose fist and as the wind sifted the ashes through my fingers, I felt something square and hard in the palm of my hand. I peeked at it through my blowing hair. It was a metal tag, something like a soldier’s dog tag, some kind of identifying label. I stuck it into my pocket to give to Sean later in case he wanted it.
The rain started falling again. We got back to shore wet, cold, and silent, heading for a nearby restaurant where the bar offered a blazing fire and an ocean view — actually, an increasingly black view of rain. We were led to a heavy table with captain’s chairs around it. After we had drinks — hot toddies for the three of them and cocoa for me — the Masons thanked me and left in their car as though running away, but I stayed behind to hear what Sean wanted.
He sat looking into the liquid he swished around at the bottom of his mug. I couldn’t help noticing his careless blond perfection, the black fringe of lashes, the sensitive mouth, the unexpectedly determined set of the square jaw. Fortunately, he chose then to talk. “Danny made me his executor. I guess that was because he was a user and knew he could die young.”
“Yeah, but that’s a lot of responsibility to lay on you, Sean. You were, what, twenty-two when he died?”
He shrugged his strong shoulders, somehow indicating he could handle weight, physical or symbolic. “Maybe he wanted to spare our folks. Maybe he knew they’d be too messed up to handle it. I was up to carrying out his wishes, but I felt a little strange right away about Nick Ludlow. He’s the guy in charge of body donations for the school,” he explained. “He didn’t seem real normal.”
“How not normal?”
“Just something not right. Anyway, I signed the donation papers, and the coroner’s office sent Danny’s body to the hospital over there after they were done with it. They did an autopsy, but the school could still use it. We never heard another word until just after Christmas. This Nick Ludlow calls me to ask me to meet him at the White House in Laguna at nine at night.”
“A restaurant? At night? Whatever happened to an office during business hours?”
“Just what I wondered. He shows up in an unmarked van, dressed in a long leather coat like a Satanist or heavy metal. Not big, maybe five eight or nine, but built like he trains. Kind of red-blond hair and a little devil goatee. About our age.” He paused to glance directly into my eyes.
I did a quick redirection of my eyes to the chocolate crude oil in the bottom of my mug. Our age, he’d just said. An intimate little encroachment, I’d say. Apparently Sean thought the gap between us had narrowed, too. I nodded, hoping he’d keep talking and miss hearing any respiratory uptick from my side of the table. Outside, the storm lashed at the windows, which also helped. Both the story and the storyteller were getting really interesting, and we could be there until closing for all I cared. “By the way, you’d make a good witness,” I encouraged. “What else happened at the restaurant?”
“So Nick Ludlow says there’s more papers to sign. He says I owe six hundred dollars for the cremation and returning the ashes. So I write out this check, but he tells me to make it out to some company called Academy Transport, not SCPU.”
“Yeah,” I said, slipping into professional mode, thank God. “That’s a little insensitive, but neither here nor there since the university could be using a contractor.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. But there’s this, too. He tells me to follow him out, and thanks me for the donation and tells me his assistant has the day off and can I help him pick up a donation.”
“Shut up!” I said, astounded. “That’s dis-gusting!” We exchanged an irresistible smile, though it wasn’t exactly funny. “To be fair,” I offered, “maybe it’s like with cops, and people get jaded in his business.”
“Guess so! He swings the back door open so I can see there’s this zipped-up body bag back there on a gurney. You know what I think? He was getting off on it. I wasn’t going anywhere with him. I told him I had to go, and you know what he says? ‘We all gotta go sometime, man,’ and starts to laugh. Then he slams the rear door, gets back in the front, and drives off.”
So that was why he’d called me to join them today, not for old times’ sake or out of family feeling, but because he already knew I was a private investigator. That’s why he hadn’t been surprised about my job when he called. He’d brought me in so he could find out why Nick Ludlow had been acting weird. I waited a long minute before I said, “So you wanted to ask me about it professionally. Is that it?”
Something about my tone must have made him feel sheepish, and he must have worried that I thought he wanted me to do it for free. “I know something isn’t right, but they’re not going to tell me anything. Of course, I can pay whatever you usually get. Okay?”
Hiding a little disappointment, I said, “No problem. You were right to get in touch, and you seem to be on to something. Besides that, I have something to show you I found in the box out there.” I glanced at the window, where I saw my own windblown wild-woman image in the dark glass. Afternoon was turning to evening.
I showed him the tag from the box of ashes, which read, “SCPU Anat. Waste 12/7/2003.” I waited while he did the obvious calculation I’d performed earlier in the ladies’ room, where I’d gone to check the engraving out in better light.