Chapter 28

 

I rolled over to look at the clock. Hell, it was 7:00 o’clock. A little later than I thought. I turned back and fluffed my pillow. Then it came to me: it was Saturday. I didn’t have to be at work. Today was Ashley’s day, and I hoped she meant what she said about being to work on time. Maybe my little rebellion the day before had something to do with her acting a little more like a proper supervisor, i.e. one that obeyed her boss.

It had been nice, walking out of the post office at quitting time with just a hint of a spring to my walk. I even went easy on the guy working on a big van’s engine in the rear parking lot.

“You know you’re going to have to move that truck by Monday, don’t you?” I had asked the driver. 

The poor guy had leaned back from the engine’s hole, showing the fresh grease and oil all down the front of his coveralls.

“Yes, sir, I’ll have it out of here by Monday, for sure,” he said, wiping his hands with an even dirtier rag.

“Well, if you’re not gone by Monday, I’ll have to have you towed . . .at your expense, of course. This is federal property.”

With that admonition, I had hopped back into the Jeep and copied down the license number and the name of the company, Moot Point Shipping, from the side of the van. Some two-bit outfit, I thought. Probably never see them again.

But like I said to Jeanette that evening, I had some sympathy for the little guy in business, trying to make it out there against ever increasing competition from big box stores and companies. “Yes, I agree,” my love had said, and then, “Moot Point Shipping . . . Moot Point Shipping . . .seems to me I’ve heard that name somewhere before.” We had wished each other a pleasant weekend, exchanged I-love-you’s, and rung off.

I turned over and wondered what to do with my Saturday. Then came the blessed smell of pancakes. I loved pancakes almost as much as granola cereal. No more bed for me, no sir! It was get-up time. 

I had to admire Mrs. Mordant. She might be nosy at times, but her jolly attitude could not be denied. Every day was the same for her, and there was no letup in her care of the old man. She had not put him in a nursing home but, instead, had kept care of him herself. The cleaning and feeding went on and on, and I wondered if she ever had time for herself. Since I had become almost a family member, she no longer fed the old man in his room, but brought him out to the kitchen.

“There, Dad,” she said, as she dabbed a piece of pancake from his chin. “Doesn’t that taste good?”

He replied with a mutter. I put my coffee cup down and said, “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful fall day out there. I understand the temp might get up to sixty degrees.”

The old man made a noise, getting his chin dirty again. Mrs. Mordant shot me a smile of appreciation. I had a hunch the old man was not easy to please and, at times, no doubt resented what he took to be her forced cheerfulness. I checked my watch. Nine o’clock. Where had the time gone? 

I got up from my chair and stretched. “Well, good people, I have to go into town. Thanks for the meal, Mrs. Mordant. It was great.” 

She smiled and murmured her thanks. A minute later I was out the door and walking up to the bluff’s edge to view the beauty that lay below me. The bay was dead calm, almost millpond smooth. Well, that settled it. I knew exactly what I was going to do.

Twenty minutes later I pulled up to the waterfront and sat for a minute. Thanks to my busy life, I had not yet been fishing. It might be late in the season, but fish or no fish; I was going out on the water and try it. Like they say, “A bad day at fishing is better than a good day at work.”

I walked down to the float where the old man that managed the skiffs sat, and true to form, he was there, sucking on his pipe. 

He looked at my fishing gear and smiled. “Going fishing, eh?”

I nodded and asked if I could rent one of his skiffs.

“Sure, take that one; it’s the only one left.”

I’m sure I froze in place, for I recognized that skiff. It was the one Gloria had used the day she died. 

The old man chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s been checked out, stem to stern.”

“Great,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

It was just too nice a day to pass up simply because it was the same boat she had died in. I walked to it and threw my gear in. 

The old man came along behind me. “Know how to run that thing?”

I took a minute to look at the engine. It was the same kind I was used to on the river back at Howes Bluff. No sweat. I pulled out the choke and gave a pull on the starter cord. The engine roared to life on the first pull. Piece of cake. I nodded to the old man, who untied the line and cast me off.

Soon I was out of the harbor and boring my way out into the bay. God-in-heaven but it was a beautiful fall day. The engine sang its sweet song and I began to forget about post office stuff. After an hour of going full tilt, about a half-mile out from the shore, I slowed and stopped, turning the engine off. Rather than put the anchor out, I decided to let the skiff drift with the tide and maybe drift into some old halibut hungry for some herring bait. 

I threw out my line, dug out my thermos of hot coffee, and leaned back. The boat rocked gently and I began to doze. This was high living and I reflected that a man ought to play this fishing game more often. After a while, getting a little bored with all the quiet, I took out my binoculars and scanned the shoreline. Nothing but brush and trees. Then I had the feeling I was being watched, and for something to do I scanned the bluff more carefully, noting the field of roses, their red petals now almost gone.

Son of a gun! There was somebody watching. It was the old man at his place on the bluff, looking at me with his binoculars! I waved. And watched as he raised his arm. He saw me! Good for him! I noted Mrs. Mordant sat next to him on the bench, doing something with her hands, probably knitting. I put my binoculars down. I had sat here long enough. If Mr. Halibut wouldn’t bite here, maybe he would elsewhere. I turned around in my seat and gave a pull on the starter rope. Nothing but a few chugs. Hmm . . .probably needed the choke pulled out a little. The engine still refused to start. I couldn’t be out of gas. After another fifteen minutes of pulling on the starter cord, I gave up.

Crap! Well, I might as well call in for a tow. I felt in my usual pocket for my cell phone. Damn! It wasn’t there; must have left it on the dresser. Now what?

I gazed back up at the top of the bluff and pointed at my engine with the hopes the old man would get the message. I looked through the binoculars. Sure enough, he was trying to get Mrs. Mordant to understand. I swore I could see her roll her eyes at the old fellow, but finally she took the binoculars and looked out at me. Again, I motioned at the engine and shook my head, hoping she would get the idea. She nodded her head, and the last I saw of her, she was wheeling the old man back down the bluff. After they disappeared, it became very lonely. Nothing like being out on the sea with an engine that won’t start. It tends to make one think about his will. There was one thing in my favor; the tide was coming in. No need to throw out the anchor until the tide changed.

While I waited for the fates to turn in my favor, an idea began to germinate in my brain. If the old man could see me, then maybe he was out the day Gloria was killed. The idea took hold, and I began to fidget. Was that what the old man was trying to say, that he saw the murder, or knew something about it? Just when did he have his stroke?