Ted snorted. “Harlette, you wouldn’t recognize the devil even if he perched on your rocker. Ty, I think you’re right. The victim’s probably weighted down. Or maybe held by the water reeds.”
“The reeds aren’t that thick this far out, Ted, too deep,” Congo Bliss said. “I’m betting on a brick tied around the victim’s waist to keep him under.” Congo was the owner of Bliss’s Diner, going on twenty-five years now, known far and wide for his meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes. He was tall, fit, good-looking, going on fifty, and as proud of his physique as his meatloaf. Congo was on his fourth wife and his fourth rat terrier, all former terriers choosing to depart with the wives. More important, he was the group’s designated diver, and he was already dressed in a partial wetsuit. He spat over the side. “Water’s about twenty-five feet deep here. I’ll do some free dives, see if I can find him before you call Hanger to drag the lake.”
Congo pulled on his mask and fins and made four dives. No sign of the murdered man, but he brought up a present for Harlette and tossed it to her. Harlette caught it, let out a yell, then cursed. “Not funny, Congo.” She held up the skull he’d thrown to her. “This sure isn’t your guy, Chief. I wonder how old this skull is. Could be fifty years, who knows? I haven’t heard of any local disappearing, ever. Some long-ago tourist, you think?”
Ty pulled her boat closer and took the skull from Harlette, turned it over in her hands. “No bullet hole, no crushed bones, and three teeth left. I’ll take the skull to Dr. Staunton later. Right now we need to find the man I saw murdered an hour ago.”
She handed the skull to Albert Sharp, owner of Sharp’s Sporting Goods, with Harlette in her boat. He was the designated provider of any necessary water equipment and once a champion swimmer. Albert looked like he wanted to hurl, but he knew he couldn’t because he’d never live it down. He swallowed half a dozen times. Nobody said anything. He carefully wrapped the skull in his daughter’s blue polka-dot beach towel and laid it on the seat, wiped his hands on his pants, and attempted a manly smile.
“You said it was a rowboat,” Harlette said, shading her hand over her eyes as she searched the water. “Did you recognize it, Chief? Was it one of Bick’s rentals?”
“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 when 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.”