Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

“I was a good ways away, but it could have been. Yes, of course it was—it was painted an odd green, sort of an acid green.”

Congo nodded. “That’s it. I remember Bick got that green paint on sale a decade ago, long before your time, Chief. Everyone in town had a good laugh.” He looked down at his watch. “Sorry, Chief, I can’t do any more dives. I gotta get back to the diner. Willie’s the only cook there. He can’t fry an egg worth spit and he’s always burning the toast.”

Ty thanked them all, sent them home, and set everything in motion. She called Hanger Lewis over in Haggersville, set him up to drag this part of the lake in his ancient pontoon boat with its big dragging net. She called Charlie to check in. Nothing yet, no one had seen anything, no sign of one of Bick’s acid-green rowboats and no sign of anyone who didn’t belong there. She said, “No surprise, though I really did hope someone might have seen something. Okay, Charlie, keep the others scouting the east shore. Hanger will be here in about an hour. You go out with Harlette and Hanger, she’ll show you guys the exact spot. And Charlie, be on the lookout for loose bones. Congo found a skull when he dived to look for the man I saw shoved overboard.”

2

* * *

Ty got back to her cottage ten minutes later, grabbed a slice of toast, smeared on some strawberry jam, and ate it while she drove to downtown Willicott. She played over and over what she’d seen. What burned her was that she’d been nothing but a bystander, unable to do anything, only watch the murder unfold like a movie on the screen. Ty wondered what the odds were of a chief of police actually witnessing a murder. She prayed Charlie and Hanger would find the body whe

n they dragged the lake.

As if a missing body and a skull weren’t enough to keep her running, tomorrow was the first day of the yearly Willicott Book Festival. Despite everything, she had to make sure it went off without incident. She admired the banners already flying over High Ginger Street, snapping in the morning breeze, announcing the festival on Saturday and Sunday. Signs were everywhere hyping books, authors, attractions, signing venues, workshops, and panels. A gigantic banner in the middle of it all advertised Osborn’s BBQ, the best barbecue in the area, honey from Osborn’s own bees jazzing up the sauce.

The stores lining High Ginger Street were buffed and shined, showcasing their best goods behind sparkling glass windows. Kismet’s Lingerie had enjoyed its yearly paint job, white with killer red trim to match a daring red satin teddy on display surrounded by six artfully arranged colorful thongs.

Most of the publishers, agents, and the sixty or so visiting authors had already arrived with mountains of luggage, their entourages, and signing pens. Marv Spaleny, president of the Willicott Festival Committee—the WFC—and owner of Spaleny’s Best Books, had informed the city council and the Willicott Weekly Informer they were projecting at least seven thousand visitors this year, coming from as far away as Seattle. Visitors to the festival had begun arriving in Willicott earlier in the week in a nice steady flow, with few complaints and no gridlock, all smooth sailing so far. Since this area was a tourist destination, there was sufficient housing for the visitors—motels, B&Bs, three high-end resorts—many booked months in advance. In addition, some of the area locals rented out rooms, which meant the surrounding towns would enjoy the annual economic windfall along with Willicott. The festival committee even hired on more water taxis to ferry visitors staying on the east side of the lake.

Ty had brought on twelve volunteer deputies to smooth any troubled waters and to help the other volunteers answer visitor questions. She’d had only six extra deputies on hand last year, and that hadn’t worked out—too many unexpected kerfuffles. She still shuddered at the mayhem that had erupted when Ponsy Glade, owner of Glade’s Gas, had gotten into it with a reader who’d cut in a long book-signing line. Ponsy actually belted him in the chops, the line of readers cheering him on.

Everything was set, all the schedules were nailed down, everyone knew where he was to be when, and if a visitor had a question, there were dozens of volunteers to help. She decided she and Willicott were ready. She could focus on finding the body in the lake.

Ty stopped at Dr. Staunton’s office, carrying the skull still wrapped in the polka-dot beach towel under her arm. Dr. Morgan Staunton was a transplant from New York City, the borough of Manhattan, she’d announced upon arrival. She’d been a general practitioner here in Willicott for ten years now, had learned to water-ski and fish, and served as the local volunteer medical examiner, a service she didn’t provide often. Everyone called her Dr. Scooter, after her Vespa, a common sight in Willicott.

Dr. Staunton wasn’t in her office yet, so Ty left the skull with her nurse, Pammie Clappe, eighty years old and still going strong. Pammie opened the towel, looked down at the skull with complete indifference, wrapped it up again, tagged it, and set it in the inbox tray. She said in her scratchy smoker’s voice, “Kismet would sure like that skull to be her mother-in-law. Have you seen those thong things she displayed in her window? I’m thinking I might get the purple one. You all ready for the festival, Ty?”

“All’s good. I saw Kismet’s mother-in-law yesterday,” Ty said, “tossing a Frisbee, so Kismet is out of luck.”

“A pity. I don’t much like her, either. This is exciting, Ty, one of my favorite horror authors is coming.”

Ty said over her shoulder as she left, “Purple’d be a cool color on you, Pammie, go for it.” She headed to Bick’s Bait and Rental on South Pier, wondering if Pammie read horror novels in bed at night. Talk about gruesome nightmares.

It was eight thirty in the morning, the sun was bright, and the temperature would hit the high eighties today. Lots of business for Bick and his rental rowboats, but not for a couple of hours, until he opened at nine thirty. His store always smelled like Lysol, to kill the fishy odors, Harlette had told her, but fish and Lysol weren’t a happy combination, not that Bick seemed to care. He bought the Lysol wholesale by the case. Bick was an energetic seventy-five, with tufts of white hair sticking out of his ears, nose, and eyebrows and a love of Jim Beam. He was standing behind his counter, eating a corn dog loaded with mustard and coated with sweet relish, a Diet Coke at his elbow, his daily breakfast, since his seriously vegan wife didn’t work in the shop in the mornings and so wasn’t around to throw the hot dog to the walleye in the lake. “Hey, Chief, what’s up?”

Ty told him what had happened, described the rowboat she’d seen.

“What? You actually think it was one of my boats?” He sounded outraged, like she’d accused one of his children of dealing meth to the local teenagers.

“Can’t be one hundred percent sure, Bick, since the fog was so thick, but I think the rowboat was acid green like the paint you use. Did anyone turn in a boat in the past couple of hours?”

“Don’t know, but I tell everyone where the boats go and they can bring ’em back at three a.m. for all I care.”

“Let’s check names against boats,” Ty said.

It didn’t take long. Rental boat number six, the Green Gaiter, scheduled to be returned at 6 a.m. this morning, wasn’t parked in its slot beside rowboat number five, the Green Lantern.

The name of the renter of the Green Gaiter was Sala Porto of Washington, D.C.

“Yeah, I remember him,” Bick said. He ate the last bite of his corn dog after dipping it into the small bowl of mustard Ty knew he would wash and put away before Mrs. Looney came in. “He rented the Gaiter for a week, fishing, lolling around with his girlfriend, drinking beer and swimming, that sort of thing, not here for the book festival. He said he had to be back in Washington today, so he’d return the Green Gaiter no later than six o’clock this morning.

“I told him his name was real interesting, I mean, how often do you hear the name Sala Porto? He smiled, said he heard that a lot, but he wasn’t a gangsta, didn’t hail from Sicily. He was an FBI agent, and the name was good because the bad guys thought he might be Mafia and that scared them lots more than a federal cop with a vanilla name and all those rules and regulations to worry about. You think he might be the guy you saw get hit over the head and thrown into the lake?”

“I don’t know, Bick. He actually told you he was an FBI agent?”

“Yep, he showed me his ID. ‘Creds,’ he called it.”

“Was anyone with him? This girlfriend?”