CHAPTER 11
Bloated, half his face eaten away by the fishes, poor Randy didn’t have any looks left to be vain about when I finally met him. He was a big man, though. Puffed up even bigger by the gases that come with putrefaction.
The breeze off the water lifted his fine, light hair and ruffled through the shirt of his creamy silk pajamas, so that he looked as if he were panting after a hard swim. His last, best effort. Around his legs was still wound a shroud made from a luscious peach-colored satin sheet, accessorized with three anchors on chains.
When I looked down at him from the balcony, he had been a beached absurdity, a Macy’s Parade balloon that had strayed. Up close, however, he was beyond grotesque. Poor Randy.
Mike had Mentholatum smeared under his nose, like the other police and the county coroner’s people. I could smell it ten feet away. I could smell Randy, too, though he wasn’t as bad as I had expected.
I wondered how many men leave home forever wearing their monogrammed pajamas.
Mike stayed with the locals until Randy was zipped into a green plastic body bag. Green about the same shade as the trash bags that held a few cubic yards of his personal treasures. Odd, the tomb he had been taken from. Like the pharaohs, buried with the junk that gave him pleasure in this world. Had he, like they, planned to take it with him? Or had someone simply done a very thorough housecleaning, emptied the closets along with the occupant snoring on the left side of the big satin-covered bed?
Mike stripped off surgical gloves, dropped them into a receptacle for contaminated waste. Then he got down on his belly at the edge of the dock and scrubbed his hands in the dark water. I wouldn’t have done that. Randy had come out of the same water.
Martha had given me a vacuum bottle of coffee before she went inside to stay, to lie down she said. Regina had long since called her husband to pick her up.
I poured Mike the last of the coffee and carried it over to him. His hands were still wet when he took the china mug from me.
“Thanks,” he said.
“What happened to Randy?”
Mike inhaled the steam rising from the cup. “Throat was cut. Deep. Severed the trachea.”
“That makes three, if you count the raft. So, is it over? I mean, don’t bad things come in threes?”
“Sure. Unless they come in fours or fives.”
“I was looking for reassurance.”
“I can’t give you any, Maggie.”
“So, tell me. What sort of madman would sink a raft right over the very spot where he had left one of his victims? A victim, need I say, he had gone to great lengths to keep on the bottom.”
“Couple of possibilities. One, he didn’t know Randy was down there. Two, he wanted us to find Randy. I’m inclined toward number two, because I don’t believe in coincidence of the magnitude implied by number one. Two also makes this raft business a crime of opportunity, suggesting he didn’t know who the hell you are.”
“Meaning he didn’t follow me here?”
“That’s what I would like to believe.” He filled his lungs.
“I’m finished for now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m staying over with Martha tonight.”
“I think that’s a real bad idea.”
“She’s scared, Mike.”
“She should be.”
“I can’t leave her alone.”
“She must have family.”
“She asked me.”
“Is there any point in arguing with you?”
“Is there ever?”
Tired, stressed, he sighed.
I took Martha’s empty cup from him and poured the coffee dregs into the water. “Why don’t you stay with us?”
“No.”
“Martha thinks you have a nice ass.”
He wasn’t ready to be jollied.
“She told me she takes her hearing aids out at night. Can’t hear a thing.”
He looked up at me from under furrowed brows. “Did she really say that?”
“Not exactly. She said it was pleasant to watch you walk away.”
“Uh huh.” He wasn’t buying yet. “Sure she did.”
“I can’t leave her alone, Mike.”
“She isn’t expecting to climb into bed with us, is she?”
“Maybe.” I smiled; he had come around. “You never know. She might be a lot of fun. Ben Franklin said all women are the same in the dark. And older ones are so much more appreciative.”
“He was old his own damn self when he said it.” Mike wiped at the Mentholatum under his nose. “I don’t have any clothes.”
I glanced over at the pile on the dock. “Maybe Randy will lend you something.”
“Maybe I’ll do without.”
“Even better,” I said.
Martha put us up in a downstairs guest room that faced out on the Ramsdale side of the house. As cheerful as her chatter was, I knew she was scared half to death. While her house was equipped with a state-of-the-art alarm system, it wasn’t enough for her that night. She was immensely relieved to have our company. She walked around the house with Mike, checking every window and door with him. When we called a moratorium on fussing and saw her up to her room, she was still edgy.
“To think he was next door all the time. Right there under the dock.” She had a grim thought that crossed her lined face like a gas pain. “What if he had floated up?”
“Then we would have known what we know now, just sooner,” Mike said.
Martha shuddered.
“Try to sleep,” I said. “We’re right here if anything happens. Don’t worry.”
She wasn’t so upset that she had lost her sense of humor. She stretched up to kiss my cheek. “I’ve always been one to believe that I could take care of myself. But, now and then, it is nice to have a man around the house, isn’t it, dear?”
I had Mike by the hand. I gave it a pat. “It’s nice to have this man around.”
Martha had found toothbrushes for us, and a razor for Mike. He shaved, and then got into a hot shower.
I folded my clothes over a flowered chintz easy chair and slid, naked, between the crisp sheets.
According to my watch, it was just after eleven. I dialed my home from the bedside telephone to make sure Casey had gotten in from Denver on time and intact. The machine came on after the fourth ring.
“It’s me,” I said after the beep. Then I gave Martha’s number. “Call me if you have a problem. Otherwise, I’ll talk to you in the morning. Lyle, the muffins were wonderful, but I think you were too skimpy with the pineapple in this batch.”
Mike had given me the code so I could check his answering machine for messages from Lyle. I called Mike’s number, pushed the code, and listened.
Mike’s ex had called to tell young Michael she would be home late. Michael called. He was home safely but had left his calculus book in Mike’s car. He needed it for class Monday morning. Lyle called. Casey’s plane had arrived on schedule at nine, but Casey wasn’t on it. At ten-thirty he had called again. He was still at the airport. No Casey.
I quit breathing.
Shaking so hard I almost could not hit the buttons, I dialed the airline, and got nowhere. I called the San Francisco airport and had Lyle paged. He must have been listening for the call, because he came right on the line.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight. “Except she’s not here.”
“Did you call Scotty?”
“Constantly. No one answers.”
“Lyle, will you stay there? If she missed her plane, she knows to page you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I gave him Martha’s number. Then I hung up and dialed Denver. Scotty, my ex, answered just as his machine kicked on. He fumbled to shut off the outgoing message, muttering crankily. Finally, he said, “Hello.”
“Scotty, where’s Casey?”
“What the fuck?”
“She didn’t arrive in San Francisco.”
“Shit, Maggie. We put her on the plane. Where could she be?”
“It was a nonstop flight, Scotty. If you put her on, one way or another, she would have to get off at the other end. She didn’t.”