Tidal Kin Page 7

  Norma took a pen from the desk drawer. She felt uncomfortable sitting at Dohnan’s desk, not because she’d gotten there under false pretenses. He deserved it and his receptionist should have prevented it. It was the desk picture of Dohnan and his wife that bugged her. They were gussied up for a banquet, doubtless an opportunity for Dohnan to make rain. What an apt term for the lawyer who brings big business to the firm. Someone like Dohnan brings plenty of rain to people’s lives. She glared at his face in the picture and thought about other bald men she knew. Some men took no notice of their naked pate, others tried to hide it with a comb-over. The Dohnans of the world wore their baldness as a symbol of virility, like their pink dome was a giant glans with a smiley face.

  “God, no wonder I’m single.”

  She settled down to her task. A half hour passed, and just as she was giving up on learning anything significant about the law suit against her she noticed a small manila folder, distinguished by its soft, greyed edges and a label that had probably been typed on an Olivetti. What made her heart race was the name on the label, Bradford C. Todd. What was that doing in the Cockle Cove-Temple litigation file? Couldn’t have been misfiled by the receptionist. Must have been Dohnan himself who put it there, which was interesting.

  Coigne had said Buddy’s real name was Bradford. Was it possible Bradford C. Todd was the late lamented Buddy? She perused the file quickly, shuffling through a power of attorney, an old invoice, correspondence, and notes from phone calls. Nothing of interest there.

  The receptionist popped his head in. “It’s almost 5:00. Isn’t that your deadline?”

  “Thanks for the time, Big Ben.”

  “My name is Carl. And your name is?”

  Her time was running out. She skimmed the next page.

  Title Insurance

  Insured: Bradford C. Todd.

  Property: 212-216 Samoset Way

  Red River, MA 02609

  What the hell? Based on the title insurance, it looked like Laney’s father owned property bordering Samoset Beach. She was sure that property was owned by Red River Resort. And why was that file in the Cockle Cove Inn-Temple litigation file? Wait a minute. How could a “lowlife drifter,” as Coigne described Buddy Todd, own that piece of property? Then she remembered. Coigne had said the family had owned property but sold it off. Maybe Bradford C. Todd was Buddy’s father.

  Carl took a step closer to the desk. “Your name is...?”

  “Just tell your boss ‘Last Night’ stopped by. He’ll know.” Norma winked. She hoped it would give Carl something to think about while she made her getaway.

  Her car was so hot from sitting in the sun, Norma could barely breathe. A vague concern crept over her as she sped down Iyannough Road, gusts of hot air buffeting her through the four open windows. She might be disbarred for what she’d just done, or worse. These worries about the rules of professional ethics were soon replaced by a bigger one. She needed to make sure Laney was safe. What Coigne had said was right. Laney was somehow connected to everything, maybe even the lawsuit against Norma.

  16

  Laney regretted wearing beaded sandals for a bike ride, but sneakers would have made her sweaty feet smell. She was glad she’d stuffed a five-dollar bill in her pocket. If she was willing to pedal far enough she’d reach Postal I Scream, a new ice-cream place in an old post office building. It was right off the bike path. The cost was worth it in this heat and she wouldn’t be depleting her stash that much. During the past six weeks she’d worked as a mother’s helper for the weekly summer renters down the bluff. She’d slip a postcard with her phone number, address, age, experience and references in their screen door every Saturday, timing it just right—after the current renters and cleaning people left, but before the new renters arrived. The family staying this week had brought their own helper, which was fine because Laney wanted time off to spend with Aunt Norma during her staycation.

  Making sure no one was coming in front or behind, she leaned over her handle bar and pumped her legs as fast as she could. Sitting upright, she lifted her hands up and coasted, the wind making her T-shirt bubble in the back. The warm air felt like it came from a blow dryer set on low. The trail down to Postal I Scream was right up ahead.

  A soft hum made her glance over her shoulder and she caught sight of a biker hunched over his razor-thin bike, moving fast. He wore goggles and a helmet, and with his skintight red and blue bike suit he reminded her of a comic-book character.

  She slowed and turned down the trail for ice cream.

  People who lined up on the wide front steps of Postal I Scream were always smiling and gossiping and playing with their kids, but never fighting. Laney thought it was because ice cream was something that could be counted on to please everyone, from grandparents to toddlers, new friends and old neighbors, all those people who’d cram into a summer cottage by the sea. For Laney, the fun was in choosing outrageous flavor combinations—moose tracks and pistachio was her favorite. She’d limit herself to two scoops, but go wild on jimmies.

  The steps were empty. Everyone must still be at the beach or getting ready for dinner, but someone was inside. She could hear “Y-M-C-A” playing on the juke-box.

  Gran told her the shop had been a real post office once, but all that was left now were wide-plank floors, a wall-size bank of numbered boxes, each with a small glass window so the owner could see if there was mail inside, and a long wooden counter over the ice-cream case where Mr. Tremba handed out ice cream and collected money. She liked to study the boxes, hoping one day she might see a forgotten letter inside. She would have studied them today but instead froze at the screen door.

  Isabella Miller sat facing the post office boxes, cone in hand, twirling her tongue around the tip of her ice cream. She was by herself. Laney stared as the dark-eyed girl now stuck the entire ice cream end of the cone into her mouth and pulled it out slowly, shaping the cool sweetness into a curl.

  Laney felt her face burn. Her hands were stuck in midair, as though still pushing open the screen door. She wanted to turn around and go.

  “Laney. Hi. Moose tracks. The best.”

  “I was going to order moose tracks.”

  “Mr. Tremba’s in the back. Get your ice cream and sit with me. I’ll put on another song.”

  Laney’s brain scrambled. What can I talk about that isn’t dumb?

  Mr. Tremba took her order. He always tried to sound cheerful, but his tall scrawny frame, sunken chest, and wisps of white hair made him look harassed and unhappy. While waiting for her order, Laney caught sight of her armpit sweat rings in the mirror behind the ice-cream case and wanted to die.

  Cone in hand, she made her way to Isabella’s table. For the next twenty minutes she listened, enthralled, as Isabella complained about how the summer was so boring, listed the courses she would take in the fall, and explained why she felt their English teacher was hot. Laney would have been in heaven if she hadn’t been so tongue-tied. She had no gossip or small talk to offer. The best she could do was complain about how hot it was along the bike path and about the comic-book character she’d seen there.

  “Did you hear about that guy who drowned on Samoset Beach? You live near there, don’t you, Laney?

  Haltingly Laney got the story out about finding the dead man. “The police say he was murdered.”

  “You found him? Why didn’t you say so? Tell me everything.”

  Laney recounted the tale, leaving out nothing but her encounter with Sandal Man. The thought of explaining how she’d hidden under the table at the Red River Resort was too embarrassing.

  Her moment in heaven ended all too soon. Two sets of parents and a knot of writhing children entered the shop, and behind them, Isabella’s father. As she left she said, “Why don’t you come over tomorrow, Laney?”

  Did she really say that? Laney stared at the doorway after Isabella left and tried to remember exactly what she’d said.

  The Village People brought Laney back to consciousness—she’d be hu
mming “Y-M-C-A” for the rest of the day. But what a glorious day! She unlocked her bike in a trance, and almost didn’t notice the comic-book character again, standing at the top of the trail. She’d called him Spider-Man for Isabella’s benefit and even made her laugh. He was adjusting his goggles and his lithe figure blocked her way. She hesitated. He moved his bike to the side to let her pass.

  She started heading east, but with the waning sunlight barely making it through the trees she changed her mind. When she turned around, the biker was practically on her rear wheel. They both braked fast. Straddling his bike, he nodded and smiled. His teeth looked so white next to his dark skin. It couldn’t be.

  The biker seemed to be talking to himself until she realized he was on a phone. “Now,” she heard him say.

  Laney gripped her handlebar. She heard wheels behind her.

  The smiling biker looked over Laney’s shoulder. He pulled his goggles down to his chin. “Please do not worry, Laney. No one will hurt you.” His voice sounded like a lullaby, but his eyes were black stones. She had no more doubt. Spider-Man was Sandal Man. “You must come with us now,” he soothed.

  The wheels she’d heard a moment before stopped behind her. She turned. The other biker was looking at Sandal Man, waiting. She turned back around again slowly, then willed herself to go, go, go, popping a wheelie and propelling forward for dear life. As Sandal Man swung around to follow her, his wheel caught hers and he lost his balance.

  She was frightened and her tears made it hard to see. The bike path was bordered on each side by steep declines, on one side thick woods, on the other, Marymac Pond. No choice—straight ahead, then back to Postal I Scream. Could she make that sharp turn at this speed without falling?

  Voices behind her. They were catching up. No time to reach the trail. Laney swung her bike off the path and down the hill toward the pond. “Don’t look back,” she told herself. A branch smacked her face and barely missed her eye. She held on when her tire hit a rock. The ground turned soft closer to the pond and her front tire stuck. She ditched the bike, used her arms to thrash through the brush, and ran into the pond, dolphin diving as deep as she could go. Her sandals slowed her down, but she wouldn’t stop to take them off.

  She tried to calm herself, reasoning, I’d hear them if they were in the water. Then she realized, No, my splashing drowns out their noise. She surfaced and looked around without slowing her crawl stroke. Was that a man in a kayak? How far away? She dared to look behind her and spotted two men by the side of the pond, one bent over, removing his shoes, the other holding two bikes.

  Her side ached. The kayak was moving away, the oar dipping from side to side, the boat gliding out of view. She treaded water. “Help!” The wind was against her. He couldn’t hear her. “Help!” She started moving forward again. The kayak was slowing down and turning her way.

  Laney looked back again. One man still holding the bikes, the other in the water.

  17

  Norma rounded the corner of Samoset Bluff Lane. A cruiser was parked in Anne’s driveway. Norma parked on the street and stomped on the emergency brake, the violence of the movement relieving a little anxiety. They were probably following up on the murder investigation, that’s all. Or maybe they were telling Gin about Ken Crawford’s death. The fact that Coigne didn’t mention these follow-up plans when she spoke with him an hour and a half ago shouldn’t have surprised her. He wasn’t going to give up information without getting something in return. She slammed the car door and tore across Anne’s front yard.

  What did surprise Norma was the living room tableau, two young, chubby-faced policemen staring at her, Anne standing stiff as a mummy, and most astonishing of all, Gin smoking a cigarette in Anne’s pristine living room.

  Gin reacted to Norma’s arrival first. She didn’t finish exhaling before speaking and the cigarette smoke weakened the force of her attack. “If Laney’s with you, you sure as hell better have a good reason for keeping her out without calling us.”

  “That’s a reasonable accusation, coming from Mother-of-the-Year.” Norma wasn’t taking any bullshit. “As a matter of fact, she’s not with me, so let me ask you….” Her instinct for blasting any adversary made her almost miss the point. Laney wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She turned for confirmation to Anne, who had backed against the curve of her baby grand, away from the fray. The grooves from her nose to the corners of her mouth seemed to have deepened in the last few hours.

  “What’s up, Anne. I take it no one’s heard from Laney?”

  “We were hoping she was with you,” she said, her voice almost inaudible.

  Norma nodded, trying to show there was no reason to get excited. “Where did she say she was going?”

  Gin cut in. “She didn’t say. She just took off. Not exactly considerate.”

  “Oh shut up, Gin!”

  One of the policemen flinched at Anne’s rebuke. Gin smashed her cigarette into a saucer.

  The tug of war between Anne and Gin was too all-consuming for Norma to get their attention. She turned to the policemen, who looked like frightened twins. All they could add to the information she already had was that Ms. Sager had called 911 and they’d just arrived to take the report.

  She had to reach Coigne. Only he fully understood the implications of Laney’s disappearance and could commandeer the resources to find her.

  Anne had turned her back to the group and was staring out the window toward the water. On any other occasion, the sun’s disappearing act would have been the center of everyone’s attention. Norma joined her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “When you called earlier asking us to stay put,” Anne said, “I thought Laney was upstairs. She must have left hours ago, when Gin and I were on the deck. Maybe I should have waited before calling the police, but she’s never been gone so long. And what with everything on the beach yesterday . . .”

  “She’s fine, Anne. I’m sure she is.”

  Her friend crumpled and wept on Norma’s shoulder. Anne had reason to worry, but Norma needed her to be clear-headed. She was relieved when her friend stopped crying.

  “Oh, Norma, we behaved badly in front of her. That’s probably why she left without saying anything. This is my fault.”

  “Cut it out, Anne. This is no time for self-recrimination.” Anne’s deteriorating condition made Norma realize everyone needed a job to do to keep them from tormenting themselves or one another.

  She turned to Gin. “You stay by the landline. If anyone calls about Laney, you call me or Lieutenant Coigne, whoever you reach first.” Norma read out his number from her cell phone. “Anne. Contact Laney’s classmates and find out if anyone knows where she might be. Then call me or Coigne. I’m going out to look for her and I’ll come back in a couple of hours. I’ll leave the Tarleton Twins here with you in case Coigne wants them to do something.”

  Gin said, “I haven’t heard from Kenny in a long time either.”

  Gin would be in for a rough time when she learned of Crawford’s death, but Norma couldn’t keep the brutality out of her voice. “Focus on your daughter for once.”

  She slid behind her wheel and checked her watch. Not yet 7:00 p.m. Were they all overreacting? Reflecting on her dog’s dead body, to say nothing of two dead men, answered that question.

  She pulled onto Route 28 and tried Coigne. No luck. While trying another number, she reviewed the scene she’d just left. Anne was normally the calm one, the personification of control in the face of adversity. Yet, in the last day or two she’d been almost remote, and even when she was in the present and paying attention she was irritable. Of course Norma hadn’t had that much exposure to Anne in the bosom of her family. God, she’d hate for anyone to have seen her in the bosom of hers. She thought about her own parents. When she was young, a lot of kids at school pitied a girl named Sarah Winkler, whose parents had died in a plane crash. Norma didn’t pity her, she envied her. But why think of that now?

  Dusk. Impossible to see much along the
road. At least traffic wasn’t bad.

  Anne’s life had been different, enviable. She’d grown up in a posh suburb of New York City, a daughter of privilege. She’d floated through school winning all the prizes and then she’d married Milton Milquetoast, at least that’s what he sounded like from Anne’s description. But then, that seemed to be the worst that could be said about him. Why did she choose him? He was probably a good musician. Not as good as Anne, perhaps. Norma wasn’t sure Anne would have married him if he had been. Another thing that puzzled Norma was how their offspring, little Gin, had turned out to be so whacked. Norma occasionally considered telling Anne to ease up on Gin. The girl was doing the best she could with what she had. But who was Norma to criticize? She’d only raised a dog and had let him down when he needed her most.

  She finally reached Coigne. They agreed to meet in the parking lot of Sidney’s Diner, a greasy spoon whose year-round popularity defied explanation. Its mid-century counter stools were always filled to overlapping with 21st century behinds. Sidney’s was in West Nauset. That was something that bugged her about the Cape. She could find no correlation between the points on a compass and names of the towns. West Nauset wasn’t in the western part of Nauset, nor was it west of East Nauset. Good thing she knew the way to Sydney’s.

  Coigne’s cruiser must have had a jet engine. His and two others idled in the empty lot as she pulled up.

  He walked over and she tried to calibrate his level of concern. Not that she intended to rely on his assessment of the situation. She just wanted to know.

  “We’ve put out an Amber Alert and I just heard from Ms. Sager with an update on what Laney was wearing. She must have changed her clothes before going out. Everyone’s getting briefed.”