RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA, Chapter 4

Thunder storm last night! My favorite weather, truth be told. And this morning there is a tang in the air, recalling rough seas and sea-foamed beaches. And with thought let me give you another chapter of my Westport mystery:

RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA
Chapter 4
As silent as Mert had been on the topic of the murder he was the only one who was making like a clam at Bev’s that breakfast shift, other than the two cops that came in for a midmorning coffee break. As I took orders, delivered food, topped off coffee and gathered my tips I managed to collect quite a crazy patchwork quilt of information.
The crime scene tape still surrounded the Lens Building but the Grays Harbor police who had been processing the site were gone taking away whatever evidence they found. Though half the town had been interviewed no one had as yet been taken into custody. Carl Heslop’s throat had been slit with a fragment of lens prism - as close as they could tell, since the “murder weapon” was not at the scene and there were several broken prisms. Two shipyard workers shared that last gruesome nugget over their bacon and eggs. Quite amazing the capacity humans have for disconnecting their brains and good sense from their appetites.
What it amounted to was that time was flitting by and the authorities were no closer to learning why the old guy died and who did the deed. The clock was ticking. Matters were nudging close to that magic 48 hour mark beyond which things get hazy and evidence dries up. Once a trail goes stone cold it’s a crap shoot whether the crime will be solved or not. Especially if it is a one-off and not one of a series.
And from what I heard of this particular killing it appeared to be an impulsive act, not a premeditated homicide. Somebody got pissed off at old Carl, flipped out and slashed with the first thing handy, in this case a large sharp piece of glass which by now was no doubt at the bottom of the bay. Plus even if the guy had left a trail of bloody footprints right to his front door he might be home free since any trail would have washed away in the storm. Even dogs can’t track through a hurricane. (Photo Note: Breakfast at Westwind - Maritime Museum in background.)
When I got off work I picked up the Westport paper, rolled it into a tube, stuffed it in my purse and pedaled home. As I unlocked the door my phone was doing a rumba in the bottom of my pocket. I got it just before it went to voice mail. It was Cindy.
“Hey, C.J., your friend Mert called asking for you. I told him you had already left.”
“What did he say he wanted?”
“He said he forgot to get your number this morning. I was going to give it to him, then thought I had better ask you if that was okay.”
Hmm. Interesting.
“I suppose that would be fine,” I said. “Or if you have his number I can give him a call.” He had put the ball in my court after all.
“Sure, I have it. Got a pen?”
“Shoot.” I took it down and told her I would see her at work in the morning.
I shed my jacket, threw my purse on the counter and slipped out of my shoes. I would make myself a cup of tea and check out the newspaper - check if the media had anything to add to what I had overheard on the breakfast shift. Mert could wait. No sense looking too eager.
The murder held center stage right along with reports of the storm damage and clean up operation. No mention of “persons of interest”. Nothing about next of kin. Maybe at his age he had outlived his family. A note that speculation of burglary/vandalism had been dismissed - door was unlocked and Carl was found under the lens. Not robbery. There was surely not a possibility the man was killed for that little jar of donations he kept on the counter and I doubted he was rolling in dough.
Since he had the keys in his pocket, either Carl was already in the building or he let his attacker in. Of course, I thought, there had to be other people - the other docents - who had keys to the lens building. Was he meeting someone there? Why there and not at his residence or some more public place. Conclusion: they didn’t want to be seen together. I wondered if the police had gone through wherever it was he lived for clues to whatever he was up to. I wished I had faith they were that smart but I’d seen some pretty slipshod detective work in my time. A feeble old man killed under who knows what kind of weird circumstances might not interest them sufficiently to pull out all the stops. Sad that thorough police work often went hand in hand with pretty blond victims.
There goes my paranoia running on steroids again. In reality the tragedy was no doubt the result of a simple squabble gone horribly wrong. One of those things someone will confess on his death bed someday. I was way too prone these days to see violence in terms of crimes, imagining all sorts of convoluted plots and counter plots. The net result of the hundreds of true crime books I read nonstop from the time my ex-husband was arrested to the day the jury delivered its verdict. I must have gone through everything the Boise Library System had on serial killers, police procedure, crime scene investigation, criminal prosecution and deviant psychology. The librarians started looking at me from the corner of the their eyes expecting me to go berserk at any moment. When I realized I was creeping everyone out I discovered the internet and redoubled my research. I gobbled up everything there was on the topic. I had to know what had happened to my life. It was like learning I had some rare fatal disease - I needed to know what this foul thing was that devoured my husband, ended our marriage, slaughtered those women, and was destroying my life.
By the time they locked my ex away I had the equivalent of a masters degree in criminal justice. I could have taught a class on serial killers. And now I was seeing murderous intent under every bush when probably the only cause of Carl’s pathetic death was a good old’ boy with an anger management problem. I’d come all the way to the coast to leave the malignant past behind but obviously I hadn’t traveled nearly far enough.
I flipped the page to check out the police blotter column, curious what kind of major mayhem had been going on the day Carl died - thinking the old coot might have run afoul of some ruckus around town that had nothing to do with him. By big city standard the entries were comical, with a preponderance of animal references.
6:12 a.m. - 600 Block S. Hoquiam. Complaint of dogs barking when let out at 4 a.m. in the mornings. (C.J.: “a. m.” and “mornings”? Nice to enjoy a bit of redundancy in the wee hours.) Advised to discuss problem with neighbor.
8: 30 a.m. - North Well Field. Subject walking his dog concerned about a person in Well Field carrying a knife. It was a mushroom picker.
10:15 a.m. - 400 Block E. Elizabeth. Report of very bad rotting smell. Officer followed his nose to Firecracker Point where he discovered loaded fish guts trucks. Officer contacted a Catch-a-Lot Seafood Company employee and asked why smell was stronger than usual. He was informed that since the fertilizer processing plant in Hoquiam was shut down for a few weeks, the truckloads of guts were sitting longer than usual. Officer requested that employee contact a supervisor and request something be done to eliminate the overwhelming smell. (C.J.: Such as a case or two of Glade Plug-ins??)
12:45 p.m. - 100 Block S. Broadway. Report that coyote killed cat and fled with it.
1:05 p.m. - Citizen request for a ride because she locked her keys in her car at Post Office. Gone on officer’s arrival.
1:35 p.m. - Float 3. Suspicious activity reported around the boats. Extra patrols provided. (C.J.: Wasn’t that the float I got thrown off of? Was I the “suspicious activity”? That thug didn’t seem to be the kind to rat out little old ladies to the cops, but who knows?)
3:50 p.m. - 400 Block E. Pacific. Complaint of two black labs running loose. Dogs knocked over child while he was riding his bike.
4:20 p.m. - 200 Block S. Montesano. Black Chevy full size 4X4 truck seen dragging a deceased dog by a chain tied to bumper. Officer searched area with negative results. (C.J.: Related to the above report?)
6:20 p.m. - 200 Block W. Pacific. Domestic Difficulty: Non-Criminal. Couple splitting up fighting over the return of each other’s belongings. Appropriate exchanged made and male left.
7:33 p.m. - 300 Block S. Forrest. Barking dog complaint and stolen bike reported. Officer took description of bike that matched one that had been reported abandoned at the corner of Sherman and S. Forrest for a lengthy time. Bike no longer there. (C.J.: Was it the one the neighbor sold me?)
10:40 p.m. - Viking Bowl - 300 Block S. Montesano. Theft of cigarette butt receptacle reported. Possible suspect and location of item named. Officer checked location with negative results.
Nothing particularly reached out and grabbed me from the village police reports - unless it turned out that Carl was done in by a dog, coyote, kitty cat, or succumbed to rotting fish vapors. The “suspicious activity” on Float 3 sounded promising. My foul mouth pal from Surfergirl throwing his weight around again? He did not seem to be Mr. Popular with the Westport community.
I had let Mert wait long enough, I thought, dialing the number Cindy had given me.
“Who is this, please?” answered a female voice.
“I am sorry, I must have the wrong number,” I said and hung up. I dialed again. The same woman’s voice answered.
“Whose number were you calling?” she asked. Who was she, I wondered. Wife? Girlfriend? If so why had he asked me to call?
“Is Captain Merton there. I am returning his call.”
“Are you relative or friend of Captain Merton?”
A queazy shiver slithered up my spine. I wasn’t sure if I could be considered a friend after only talking to him a few times but if I played dumb I was not likely to find out what was going on.
“I am a friend of his,” I answered. “Cora Jane Dooley. What has happened to Mert?”
“This is Officer Sharon Quigley of the Westport Police Department, Ms. Dooley. Captain Merton has been injured and is on the way to the hospital in Aberdeen,” said the voice.
“Oh my God! What happened?”
“We are not sure yet. We are investigating at this time,” she said.
“I understand. Can tell me how badly he is hurt?”
“No, I am sorry. Confidentiality issues.”
“All right, sure,” I said. “Officer, did you say he was going to the hospital? What hospital?”
“Aberdeen General. Actually it is the only hospital in Aberdeen.”
“Thanks.”
I didn't know what else to say. What am supposed to do now? Do I call the hospital? Would they even give me any more information on Mert’s condition than the cop? Probably not.
Then I remembered that Marg Garvin, Cindy’s aunt, was Mert’s business partner - she might be able to find out how he was doing.
No, I thought, I'll go down to the boat and see for myself what was going on down there. Why upset Marg and Cindy? Once I knew more I would call them. Wait, I don’t know that Mert was at his boat, do I? He might have been anywhere. Maybe this had been a traffic accident - the cop did not actually say where whatever it was happened. She just answered the phone when I called. It could have been a cell phone. This was one of those times I truly hate cell phones! You can never tell where anybody is anymore.
I mentally shook myself until my figurative teeth rattled. Was I completely nuts?. Whatever had happened to Captain Merton had absolutely nothing to do with me. I was in very real danger of becoming stereotypical meddlesome snoopy old biddy. The next step would to get myself a pair of binoculars and a camcorder. Somebody stop me before I become my own worst nightmare!
I heated a can of tomato soup, made a cup of tea and sat my rear down for an early supper and some soul searching. What was it about this tiny coastal town and its people that had so totally sucked me in hook line and sinker in such a short time? At this rate I would be considering myself a native in outside of a month. Already I was living here, working here, pitching in on community disaster relief - insinuating myself into people’s personal lives. When I left Boise all I could think of was escaping involvement. A week later I’m hip deep and sinking deeper. Now I either pull all of RV-GO’s various plugs and hoses and hit the road - or I settle in to learn what this place has to teach me about myself.
I dashed some Tabasco into the tomato soup for a little kick. What the hell. Nothing does the trick like comfort food when the night stretches like an obsidian river out before you.
* * *
The term ship-shape sprang to mind as I stood on my pedals before Carl Heslop’s cabin. The yard was a clean dune furred with short salt grass. No flower beds or shrubbery this close to the beach. No clutter of any kind. The cabin’s white woodwork looked freshly painted.
After work I had biked out Forest Street to South Beach, the Westport telephone book was more like a pamphlet, Heslop’s address being easier to find than gulls on salmon guts. It only took a few minutes of bumping my way around puddles and fallen branches to find his street - a gravel side street behind the lighthouse. The street narrowed to a sandy path threading between scrub pine and dune grass. I could hear the guttural thrum of surf as I spotted the cabin.
It was a weathered cedar-sided box, its stout porch draped in graceful green fish nets. No vehicle stood in the drive, a reminder that the owner would not be coming home, his car or truck - probably a truck - stranded in Westport or in some impound lot.
A bare bulb porch light was burning. I wondered who had turned it on. Carl, before he left for the museum the afternoon he died? Or the police checking out the house? Someone had driven into the drive since the storm. I made out clear tire tracks in the packed sand of the drive. Truck tires by the look of the tread. More than one set of tires. I added my bike tracks to the collection as I approached the cabin.
After leaning the bike against the porch rail I climbed the three steps to the porch, my footsteps echoing too loudly on the dry redwood decking. I had the guilty feeling of being too exposed as I approached the door. There was no reason I could think of why anyone would be watching me but I still felt eyes on my back as I knocked on the door. I hadn’t expected an answer and was not disappointed. Still, if any one had been observing the cabin they wouldn’t take me for a burglar. Burglars don’t knock.
I tried the door. It was locked, which was not necessarily what I had expected since Westport residents boasted they did not need such big city security measures. Had Carl come down with a case of the nerves or had the cops obliged when they left? I tried to see in through the windows that flanked the door but the blinds were firmly shut, frustrating my attempts of see the interior of the cabin.
But I was not about to bike all the way out here only to leave empty. I scooted around to the back of the building where I found a small bare deck flanked by a carefully stacked wood pile. The deck was accessed through a sliding glass door but it was also locked and sported a dowel in the track to further thwart a break-in. The deck did not have so much as a chair on it. Didn’t the poor guy even own a barbecue, I wondered. What kind of retired guy did not grill a burger once in a while? It almost looked as if the cabin had been shut up for the winter, as many in the area were this time of year. Was Carl planning to leave town?
Good news - no drapes or blinds on the slider. I peered in through the glass. As I suspected, it was basically a one-room cabin, with a partition to separate the sleeping and bathroom area from the combination living room and kitchen. In the living room was an old fashioned pot bellied stove on a tile platform. Carl’s kitchen was a minimalist galley style affair along the right wall. White appliances and simple birch cabinets. No dishes in the sink or in the wooden dish drainer. I inwardly cringed at the contrast between his counter-tops and my own casual housekeeping. My closely held belief that bachelors were slobs took a major hit. Here was a man who liked to have everything in its place, no doubt a habit ingrained from his many years in the Coast Guard.
Not much personality in evidence here, no homey, individual touches to help me get a handle on who exactly he was. Had been. In hindsight I wished I had taken the time to talk to him longer at the lens building. But at the time I had seen him as simply an old man at a museum. Had he not been murdered I would never have given him another thought. Violent death has a way of lending a certain glamor to the dead they didn’t have in life.
I noticed a winking red light reflected off the shiny surface of the refrigerator and suspected that it indicated an armed alarm box on the wall beside the sliding door. I was not sufficiently techno-savvy to be sure. Pretty high tech for a rustic cabin, I thought.
I turned my attention to the living room. Brown sofa. Blue Lay-z-Boy chair facing a television on the back wall. Lamp, table, coffee table. Framed photos of boats and ships on every wall. Over the sofa hung a panoramic aerial view of the Westport Marina. No photos of people, as far as I could see though maybe he had family photos in his bedroom out of my line of sight. Mert was right, Carl almost lived for boats.
The only cluttered piece of furniture in the whole room was a long oak table adjacent to the kitchen. It had probably started life as a dining room table but now it was piled high with camera equipment, a large format printer and a computer. Carl was an octogenarian computer geek? Wonders never ceased. However I now understood why he so carefully secured this small house.
There was nothing more for me to see unless I wanted to risk breaking and entering, which seemed unwise considering it might be alarmed. Conventional wisdom held that to uncover the truth of a crime you must look to the victim. I always thought that put undue responsibility on an innocent person - still, the idea was that there was always some connection between crime and criminal if only one of proximity and opportunity. What connected Carl with the person who killed him I still did not know.
If I were to learn anything more about the old man I would have to ask Mert when he got out of the hospital. Cindy told me at breakfast that it could be any day, now that his eyes were tracking again. He was one lucky guy to have come away with only a concussion and not a skull fracture - or a broken neck. I still did not understand how he came to fall into the fish hold. And according to Cindy he could not remember that part, only waking up in the hospital. Good thing the deck hand from Molly IV had heard him groaning. Fishermen are always in danger on the open ocean, but moored in a quiet marina? That was pretty peculiar.
The previous few days I had bogged myself down with busy work - cleaning and oiling the bike, getting the RV serviced, having my hair cut - just to keep my mind off of Captain Merton. The longer he was in the hospital the more attractive the man became. It was quite an unsettling feeling. I had to admit I could hardly wait to see him again - and it had little to do with my need to talk about Carl Heslop. Our banter over the coffee “date” had been the most enjoyable interaction I had had with a man in decades, sad to say. I thought my ex husband had provided sufficient vaccination against me wanting to be on the same planet with a man ever, ever again. I’d have to watch myself, that was for darned sure.
Well, I had gotten as much from my visit to the cabin as I was going to get so I stepped back off the deck and took a look around. The breeze was freshening from direction of the sea indicating a tidal change though the dunes blocked any view of the beach. A foot path led out from the deck toward the dunes. Carl must have enjoyed walking the beach, I thought.
What a magical place even without the ocean view - wind-pruned pines leaned companionably toward the cabin like giant bonsai. Beneath their boughs bronze pine needles cradled newly sprouted bright red speckled mushrooms. A wisp of white cloud drifted through a sea-blue sky. I longed for one of Carl’s cameras to capture how lovely it was here, everything washed clean and pure after the storm. A camera would be nice to have, I thought, yet who would I share the prints with? Plus sometimes people get so caught up capturing images they do not actually see where they are.
What was that? Something large in the stand of pines to the side of the cabin - rustling like someone pushing between the branches toward me. Damn, Cora Jane, how could you be so stupid as to come out here alone, I asked myself. A twig snapped and blades of fear arrowed between my ribs. My God, how would I get back to my bike? I hadn’t heard a car - whoever it was must have been there all the whole time, watching me snoop around. I stood stock still, my ears straining for the slightest sound, ready to dash as fast I could manage for the road. Praying my knees wouldn’t buckle under me, hoping against hope my legs would obey me.
Crash! A rush of air. Heavy shadows falling toward my head - I duck, flatting myself against the ground - pine scent and fungus filling my senses, my heart pounding.
I gasp . . . as the dusky doe vaults over my head like an acrobat, vanishing into the dunes, her glistening black hooves flashing a farewell toward the sky. I lever myself to a squat, breath stalling at my teeth.
There I hunkered minutes on end staring down the trail in the direction the deer had fled, thinking that I really needed to switch to decaf. When had I ever been this jumpy and fearful? If I wasn’t careful I stood a fair chance of being the next one airlifted to Aberdeen. I unfolded my stiff body into a wobbly stand and brushed myself off. Then and there I decided to get myself a cell phone - as much as I hated the miserable things - so that I could call for help the next time something jumped at me, something that wasn’t a skittish deer.
* * *
If you want a cell phone you have to go to the big city, which meant driving RV-Go thirty miles into Aberdeen to the South Shore Mall. And as long as I was already in Aberdeen I thought I might as well see how Mert was doing over at the hospital.
I sat next to a planter filled with dirty and dying plants. A woman wearing green scrubs said she’d check to see if it was okay for me to visit Mr. Merton, as she called him. She then promptly disappeared down a green hall. The only thing in the hospital not green seemed to be the plants. I went green contemplating what germs might be evolving in that horticultural dead zone. That kept me occupied briefly, then I caught up on what Brad Pitt was up to in the People Magazine. Not a lot as it turned out. I was looking for something on Johnny Dep. I always felt that Brad Pitt looks a little too much like a chipmunk to be truly sexy - but that is just me.
“Get me the hell out of this place, Dooley.”
I looked up from my magazine. It was not Captain Jack Sparrow, it was Captain Merton, his head swathed in bandages. He was wearing a piratical scowl however.
“Should you be out of bed?” I said.
“I stood up and I did not fall over,” he said. “That was good enough for me. You have a vehicle, Dooley, or did you bus in?”
“I drove.”
“Great. Mind if I catch a ride with you?”
“Not at all, but did the doctors say you can go home?”
“Pretty much. I signed myself out and nobody complained. This place is driving me stir-crazy,” he said. “Anyway I’ve been hoping I could talk to you. You didn't return my call.”
“Actually I did but a woman answered - a very serious sounding Westport police officer.”
“Ah well, I hope you weren't too jealous.”
“Not under the circumstances,” I said. “I was more puzzled as to why you decided to nose dive into your fish hold.”
“I'll tell you the story on the way back to Westport,” he said. “Do you think we could stop by Denny’s first for something to eat? They fed me tapioca pudding and steam table chicken in here. It was worse than airline food. I need a bacon burger, quick.”
“That sounds serious,” I said “Hope you don't mind riding in my RV.”
“I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter,” he said. “If I were feeling better the prospect of riding off with a woman in what amounts to a bedroom on wheels . . . well, let us just say it would be an appealing prospect. As it is, I am just glad you showed up, no matter what you are driving.”
I suddenly remembered I had not made the bed this morning and my pajamas were in a heap on the floor.
“Better just keep your mind on the burger, Captain,” I said.
“No problem. Can I ask you something though?”
“Sure.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Aberdeen was the closest place I could buy myself a cell phone.”
He looked at my quizzically.
“I mean what are you doing here at the hospital?”
“Visiting you, of course.” Maybe I should have brought him a hand full of pretty flowers to clarify my intent.
“Oh . . .well, that is okay then.”

“That was certainly not much of a story.” I said, as we pulled up before the marina. “You promised me a good story about how you ended up in the fish hold, and all you could come up with is you must have hit your head on something and fallen?”
“It got me a ride, didn’t it?”
I originally volunteered to drive him all the way home but Mert wanted to stop by to check Angel Face - make sure she was “put to bed”, as he termed it. He couldn’t seem to get his mind off of beds, which could be a sign he was healing. Then he added that his truck was still parked by Float 9. For a man if there is one thing that out ranks a bed in terms of importance it is his truck.
“Nice rig,” he said, as I parked RV-GO next to his silver Dodge pickup.
“Yours or mine,” I laughed. After all, an ancient Minnie Winnie was hardly something to write home about.
“Yours,” he said, taking a long look over his shoulder at my living quarters. “A real classic, like a fine old wooden cruiser. Must be kind of like living aboard a boat for you. How long have you had her?”
Her? I had not thought of RV-GO as being any particular sex. If I had to pick, I would have said it had more male characteristics than female - hard to wake up and tending to pull to the right.
“I bought it a while back.” No need to go into details.
“Very nice,” he said, his eyes lingering on my lacy floral pajamas there on the floor - or so it seemed to me.
“Well, I'd better be off,” I said. “You sure you are okay to drive?”
“Yeah. No problem. Thanks for the ride, Dooley.” He opened the passenger side door, climbed out, swayed back and forth before slumping against the side of the RV.
“Oh my god!” I yelled. “Wait right there.” I got out, ran around to his side and put my arm around his shoulder.
“Whoa, that was weird,” he said. “Kind of dizzy all of a sudden.”
“Here, lean on me. We will lay you down in the RV.”
“No, help me down to the boat. I can rest awhile there in my bunk.”
“If you're sure,” I said, helping him up.
I looked toward the long ramp leading to Float 9 and wondered if I had the strength to hold him if he started tumbling into the bay. We staggered like two drunks down the ramp to the float. I kept a firm grip on Mert’s arm as we wove a path to Angel Face.
“Damn, I don’t know what’s wrong with my eyes,” he said. “Everything is wiggling around.”
“I’d say off hand you’ve got yourself a concussion,” I said. “You shouldn’t have left the hospital, Mert. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do.”
We climbed onto the deck.
“I want to see what beaned me.”
He led me to the stern where the fish hold was. Mert looked around at the various winches, pulleys and what not that surrounded the hatch.
“Dooley, you see any blood on anything?” he said. “Whatever hit me would have blood on it because I got a sizable crease on the back of my skull.”
I looked all around at anything that wasn’t stationary. No blood that I could see.
“Are you sure you didn’t get cut when you landed in the hold?”
“Not sure, no. But then what sent me into the hold in the first place? I didn't just trip over a line, Dooley. I have been a seaman all my life.”
I walked back toward the main hatch that led down a short ladder to the living quarters and engine room. There I spotted a smeared splotch of brown blood right at the top of the ladder. I mutter a very unladylike curse under my breath.
“Mert, it's over here. Blood.”
“What . . . “
“I would say off hand that someone clobbered you as you came up the ladder, then dragged you to the fish hold.”
“That is crazy. Why would anybody do that? I don't have an enemy in the world as far as I know.”
“Well, come over here and see what you think”
He joined me at the hatch, his face grim.
“Let’s go below,” he said.
I followed him down.
“Do you think the police saw the blood?” I asked.
“I doubt it. They responded to the 911 along with the fire department but it must have looked like an accident to them. They didn't show up at the hospital.”
We sat at the table in the boat’s tiny galley and for a while neither of us said a thing.
“I had better check to see if anything has been stolen,” he said at length. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”
“Show me where the coffee things are and I will make it while you look around,” I said.
Mert went down a short hall and through a door into what I assumed was crew quarters. A boat the size of Angel Face probably didn’t boast much more than a few bunks and a head. I had the coffee dripping by the time he got back.
“You know, Mert, you didn't have to go to all this trouble to get me to have coffee with you,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Whoever it was, tore the place apart back there,” he said.
“Was anything stolen?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” he said. “I never keep money on the boat. A druggie might get a couple of bucks for the fishing gear or navigation instruments - but it seems to be all there.”
“No idea what they might have been after?”
“None.”
“Do you realize that whatever it was they thought you had, they were willing to risk killing you for it.”
He rubbed his hand over his face.
“Dooley, what the hell is going on around here? First Carl, then this.”
“Are you going to report it to the police, Mert?”
“I don't see that I have any choice. Not that I think they are likely to find out who did it or why. They mean well but they are not exactly C. S. I. Miami.”
“After we finish our coffee, I had better drive you on home,” I said. “Don’t give me that look - you are not getting behind the wheel of that truck on my watch. Plus you might need back-up. If they ransacked the boat, who is to say they did not continue the party at your house?”
“Not a pleasant thought,” he said.
“No, that it is not.”

Mert directed me south on the 105 spur toward Grayland, then right onto Cranberry Bog Road. His house was a two story salt box overlooking the razor clam beds. I pulled RV-GO up to the garage door. There were no obvious signs of a break in, but I was no expert.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Well, we could sit out here and let the neighbors think we’re necking - or we could go inside and find out if I have had visitors.”
“I vote for going in,” I said, getting out of the RV and coming around to his side. I was not about to let him fall flat on his face this time.
“Dooley, about this idea you had for serving as my back-up - what exactly had you planned to do if we ran into trouble?”
“I'm not sure at the moment. I guess I'll wing it. You don’t happen to have a gun hidden under a rock out here do you?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Then I guess we'll just have to hope for the best.”

Together we made a thorough search of the house. Mert assured me he noticed nothing out of place or missing. I was vastly relieved. This whole cloak and dagger thing was wearing me out. Mert too was showing the strain now that he knew that he had been deliberately attacked. Once we had completed a full circuit of the house he dropped into a leather arm chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. The man shouldn’t be alone, I thought to myself, but what business was it of mine that he had left the hospital before he should. He is a grownup, I told myself. I should be on my way home.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Head is splitting,” he said. “They wanted to send me off with some pain pills but I turned them down. Now I am rethinking that.”
“I have some aspirin in my purse,” I offered.
A warm glow suffused the living room. Through the wide windows I noticed the horizon was coloring up for a spectacular sunset, the sea a tangerine soup all the way to Japan.
“Thanks, maybe that'll help.”
“I'll get you a glass of water.” I headed for the kitchen. “While I am out here I could whip us up some supper. That burger must have worn off by now.”
“I am a little hungry,” he said. “But if you think you'll find anything edible in my kitchen, think again lady. Why do you think I’m at Bev’s every day? I’m a lousy cook. You won’t find so much as a moldy bread crumb out there.”
“We could get a pizza delivered . . . “
“Forget it. I have a better idea,” he said. “Let me sit here for a minute or two until my head stops spinning around, then I’ll take us out to dinner. That is if you promise not to think of it as a date. I would not want to scare you off, you know.”
“Go back to Westport? I don’t know . . . “
“No, there is a place just down the road near Tokeland.”
“Okay, sure. But only if it’s not a date.”
“It is not a date,” he said. “And I will try to have a really miserable time.”
I found a glass in the cupboard, filled it with tap water, then sneaked a peek into his refrigerator. He was telling the truth. There was not a thing in it but a collection of condiment bottles of obviously antique vintage.