Sneak Peek – The Marine Corpse
A knock on my door nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Meno male, who in their right mind would be out at a time like this? It was a Saturday, after all. Aren’t most people still in bed on a weekend? Even in my college days, when I was a die-hard party girl, I was in bed before now. Of course, I also used to sleep until well after noon in those days. It might have been fun back then, but I’m too old to have friends drop by at all times of the night anymore. I’m a grown woman. I’m a mature adult.
I am not, for instance, scared to death of who might be outside my door right now. That would be childish. Whoever was out there, it can’t be anyone dangerous. Danger doesn’t knock first to announce itself.
Does it?
Oh…maybe it’s Max. That’s a better idea. I like that idea a lot. Yeah. It must be Max…
Karloff lifts his head high, staring at the front door with both of his ears pricked forward. Deep in his chest, a grumble became a growl. Minx turns herself to look where he is. She gives the door a cute little hiss, defending their home just like her big friend is doing. Neither of them likes what’s coming.
So…not Max, then. Maybe sometimes danger does knock.
The door is locked, of course, because I used to live in a city and I don’t care if most of the people in this small town leave their homes open at all hours of the day. They might trust their neighbors, but it’s not always your neighbor at the door. I never got out of the habit of locking my door every night. There’s too much out there in the big, bad world that can hurt you if you aren’t careful.
So being careful, I stand between the living room and the open kitchen, and call out, “Who’s there?”
After a short pause, an answer comes to me from the last person I expected.
“Mrs. D’Angelo. I’d like to speak with you, please. Can I come in?”
My jaw drops open, but I really don’t think anyone would blame me for that. I’ve got Seaside’s chief of police out there, asking me very politely if he can come inside for a chat. That’s two things that have never happened before. Two things I would have bet money would never happen.
Chief Alvin DeRoche is coming to me instead of demanding that I come to him…and he just used the word ‘please.’
Hell must have frozen over. Either that or something is very wrong.
He knocks again when I take too long to answer, his voice rising in volume without losing its polite tone. “Mrs. D’Angelo? It’s Chief DeRoche. I know it’s early, but I’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind. Hello? Mrs. D’Angelo?”
There’s something else that he never does. I still am ‘Mrs.’ D’Angelo. I kept my husband’s last name and my married title as his wife, even now that he’s gone. It’s part of how I keep his memory alive. I’ve just never been able to hammer that through DeRoche’s thick skull. He always insists on calling me ‘Miss’ D’Angelo, as if my husband being dead somehow changed who I was. It was a constant back-and-forth with us.
If he’s willing to call me by my proper name, then yeah. Something must be wrong.
I really hope he’s not here to arrest me again.
“Um. I’m coming,” I tell him through the door. “Just a moment.”
After a deep breath, I undo the lock and open up for him, but he just stands there staring back at me. It’s like he’s suddenly lost the power of speech.
Alvin DeRoche is a tall man, but now his shoulders are slumped, and his hands are wringing the brim of his gray Stetson hat. Without it screwed onto his head like usual, his flattop haircut is revealed, making his pinched face look even more severe than usual. His uniform—and yes he’s wearing his uniform even at four in the morning—is rumpled, and it’s never rumpled. The perfect creases of the blue shirt are twisted at the waist, one of the black pocket tabs unbuttoned. He’s not smiling behind his broom-handle mustache, but he’s not scowling at me like usual, either.
In fact, he looks…upset?
“Thank you,” he says to me, spinning the hat in his hands again. “For opening the door, I mean. Thank you. May I come in?”
Okay, now he’s even saying ‘thank you.’ He’s really starting to freak me out.
“Er, sure Chief,” I tell him after realizing I’ve just been standing here, staring. “It’s a little early but maybe I could make us some coffee, or something.”
With a tip of his head he takes a step inside. “That would be very neighborly of you. I could really use some caffeine. I’ve been up all night with this—”
Karloff’s growl vibrates in the air as he abruptly steps off the couch to the floor, one back leg still up on the cushions. The fur around the back of his neck is standing up. His wolf’s eyes flash with internal light as they fix on DeRoche.
Seaside’s police chief does not like dogs. As far as Karloff is concerned, he feels the same way about the Chief.
Taking a step back, DeRoche puts himself outside again. “If your dog’s gonna be this inhospitable,” he says, holding his hat up like a felt shield, “I’d just as soon talk to you out here.”
Looking over my shoulder, I give Karloff a stern glance, and mouth the words stop it before he gets me in trouble.
He flicks his ears at me, and just for a quick second one of his eyes blinks.
My dog just freaking winked at me.
“Stop it,” I whisper to him loudly.
He licks his nose.
Oh, yeah. That’s a big help.
He’s enjoying how uncomfortable this is making DeRoche. He’s going to tease the man to make up for all those times he wouldn’t let Karloff into the police department, and called him a ‘mutt,’ and threatened to have him muzzled. He’s playing with him. That’s not to say he wouldn’t take a chunk out of the man’s backside if he had the chance, however, and I’m really not in the mood to play peacemaker between these two.
“Actually, Chief,” I tell him, “we can just go out on the front steps, if you want.”
I make sure to turn the outside light on first, and once we’re outside I close the door behind us. I get just one more glimpse of Karloff and Minx, as they turn to each other and sniff the air.
Oh, great. Now they’re laughing at me.
Maybe I won’t leave them any meatloaf after all.
The night is quiet around us, except for the crickets chirping in the background. It’s the end of August, nearly September, and the rainy season is right around the corner, but tonight the sky is clear. The stars are out and shining above us. All throughout Grace Gardens, lights are off and homes are dark. Everyone is asleep. Everyone, except us.
“So here’s the thing,” DeRoche says to me before I can even ask. “There’s been a murder.”
My blood goes instantly cold, and I shiver, but that passes. In fact, it passes a lot more quickly than I would have expected. A murder is a bad thing. A murder, anyone’s murder, should make the whole world stop and take notice. I guess when you live in Seaside, Oregon, you have to get used to words like ‘murder.’ It’s not that I’m getting jaded, or so I’d like to think. It’s just that hey, there’s been a murder in Seaside.
Must be a day that ends in Y.
Wait a second. He wouldn’t come out here just to give me a news flash.
“Chief DeRoche,” I say, crossing my arms at him curiously. “Are you here to ask for my help?”
He rubs at his upper lip with one hand, making the hairs of his mustache twitch. Then he shrugs. “Yes, actually I was. I understand you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I could surely use your help this time.”
I study him while he keeps his gaze down on the Stetson in his hand. I suppose that’s as close to an apology for his past behavior as I’m ever going to get from him. I don’t think things between us can be put to rest with just a few words like that, but DeRoche and I had already come to a place of tentative respect before today. And he is here, asking for my help. That’s got to count for something.
So I nod, and shift my feet to lean back against my door while we talk. “Okay. Who is it that was killed?”
“No one you know,” is his quick response. “If you could just, maybe, come with me to do one of your paintings for me, I would appreciate it. Like you did for Catherine Fisk during the surfing competition to find her missing daughter. I don’t…I don’t pretend to believe in it, Mrs. D’Angelo, but I’ve seen it work. I’m hoping it will work this time, too.”
I remember that mystery, of course. It was just last week. I remember the painting I did for Catherine. It’s in my bedroom closet, actually, along with one I did of Richard Ziegler before that. Partly, I keep them there because they’re both full-sized portraits and I only have limited space on my walls. I have other, smaller paintings on the wall in the living room. Ones that I want to show off to anyone who comes to visit.
The other reason those two paintings are in my closet is because I don’t want anyone to see them. Not even me. Ziegler’s is just…disturbing. The one I did for Catherine Fisk has its own mystery hidden in the art, one I haven’t figured out yet. Three numbers I painted in the corner without realizing I was doing it.
Numbers that I keep seeing everywhere. Numbers that are following me…
Putting all of that out of my mind for the moment, I focus on DeRoche’s contrite expression and the shadows being cast over it by the exterior light beside my door. For an artist, shadows are the opposite of color. Not in a bad way, but like two sides of the same coin. Light can exist without shadow, but shadows can’t exist without light. To an artist, both light and shadow have meaning. When I see shadows, I know bad things are coming.
And now I’m wondering what the shadows on DeRoche’s face might mean.
“All right, Chief.” I’m hoping I can coax him into telling me more about why he’s here. “So the victim isn’t someone I know? Are you sure? Because I know almost everyone in Seaside by now. If I don’t know them personally, I’ve probably at least heard their name—”
“It’s nobody you know,” he repeats again, just as quickly. Turning the brim of his hat through his hands, he says, “They didn’t live in Seaside. In fact, they didn’t live in the state.”
Oh. That certainly changes things. “So it was a tourist again?”
His mouth tightens when I say that, and a little of his usual belligerence flashes in his eyes. I guess he doesn’t like it when someone points out that all of the recent murders in his town have been non-residents. People who were just passing through Seaside. To be fair, he did arrest the murderer in each case, even if he couldn’t do it without my help. It’s probably a sore spot for him to have a reputation as the police chief of a town with a murder rate higher than Chicago or New York City.
DeRoche brings his hat up to put it squarely back on his head. “This isn’t some random tourist I’m here about. Due respect, lady, but I’m coming to you and asking for your help. I’m the chief of police. I don’t go hat in hand to anyone for anything. I’d appreciate it if you could take this a little more seriously.”
I stare at him, watching the shadows move under his eyes. “Chief, I know murder is serious. I may not do the job you do, but I am still a human being. Death be not proud, as the poets say. Someone is dead. That’s not anything to make light of. But honestly, you aren’t giving me a lot to go on to explain why you need my help. I’m asking questions to try and understand. Whoever the victim is, you just told me it isn’t someone from town, and it isn’t a tourist on a visit here. If it wasn’t anybody in Seaside, then why are you here?”
He nods, tapping his empty hand against his hip. “One thing I’ve never doubted about you, Mrs. D’Angelo, is that you’re smart. You know the right questions to ask.”
And now compliments. If I wasn’t freaked out before, I certainly am now. “Look, I know it’s late, or early or whatever, and we both look like we need to go back to sleep. I’m sure you’re busy with whatever’s going on, and I don’t mean to keep you any longer than necessary, but I’ve got to ask these questions. I’m trying to understand what your interest is in all of this. You’re asking for my help, and the last time you did that it didn’t go so good for me, as I recall. Or for Max, either. You know that, too, and you’re still here so this must be important to you. I just want to know…why?”
“It is important,” he tells me. “This is possibly the most important murder case I’ve ever had.”
“Okay, but why? You want my help. Tell me why.”
He takes a deep breath, and then lets it all out.
“Because,” he says, “this time it’s personal. This time, the victim was a friend of mine.”
Well. That explains a lot, now doesn’t it?
