Corkscrew Page 2

  She was fifteen, and I figured she had a kind of crush on me. If she was waiting table in the Tavern when I dropped by, she always shuffled positions so that she served me. And I got my meal faster than anybody else in the place, even the big spenders from the cruisers tied up outside. She's young enough that her comments usually choke themselves on giggles, but she's a nice kid, dark-haired and pretty in an intense way. She'll be a looker when she grows up.

  "That's the Spenser boy," she told me, and giggled. "He's always around here. He usually tries to take my picture." She blushed at the thought and amended it. "Our picture, any girl's picture."

  That was interesting, and I followed it. "Is he a pint-sized ladies' man, Beckie, would you say?"

  That convulsed her, and her friends. I waited until the laughter had petered out. "He thinks he is," she said. "He always acts, oh, you know, King Cool."

  "Has he made friends with anybody, boys or girls, that you've noticed?"

  She looked at me, shading her eyes with one hand. "Not really. Oh, he tries an' that, tags along, but generally one of the guys tells him to get lost and he goes away."

  "Thanks. If he shows up, call me, please, would you, and tell him his folks are worried about him."

  "Sure will." She beamed. I left, listening to the chorus of laughter behind me. Maybe her crush wasn't as secret as she thought. I checked the restaurant. He wasn't there, either, hadn't been in, Lee Chong said. That left the grocery and the bait store. I struck oil in the grocery.

  "Yeah, he was in here around noon, bought some film," Dorothy told me. "I know for sure it was him. He's been in three times this week for film. Lord knows what he's takin' pictures of; he's only a kid." She threw her hands up. "Four fifty plus tax an' he doesn't turn a hair. His old man has to be loaded."

  "He says the kid's a camera buff," I told her. "He's carrying about five hundred bucks' worth of camera round his neck. Did you talk with him?"

  She frowned. Some vacationer was behind me, carrying a case of pop and a bag of ice cubes, as tense as a combat medic waiting to dress somebody's wound. I figured he had an emergency situation back in the cottage with his lady. I beamed and nodded at him to let him know this was official and waited while Dorothy scratched her rusty-looking head of gray hair.

  "No, I didn't. But now you say it, Carl Simmonds was in—you know, the photographer." I nodded, and she went on, more thoughtfully. "Yeah, he made some comment about the camera the kid had on. Him and the kid went out together."

  "Thanks." I smiled at her. "I'll talk to Carl."

  She turned away to ring up the refreshments for the other guy. "Yeah, good idea," she said matter-of-factly. "Makes a lot of sense."

  The tourist was anxious to show what a good citizen he was, how he didn't mind delaying his tryst while the law sought the truth. "Why's that, then?" he asked brightly.

  Dorothy, who is a generously built farm-wife type, gestured casually with one hand. "Oh, you know," she said disarmingly. "What with Carl bein' queer an' all."

  I didn't wait to see the guy do his double take. I've known Carl for a couple of years now. He's gay, but I've never heard of his doing anything about it in town. He's a nice guy, kind of lonely, like a spinster aunt. But if he was the last one to see the missing boy, it was worth a call. Maybe he and the kid were talking photography.

  Carl's place is small, a winterized cottage, really. He keeps the front neat, a couple of flowerbeds and well-trimmed grass behind a picket fence. His Toyota was in the driveway, so I parked behind it and walked up to the front door with Sam at my heel. Carl must have seen us coming. He was at the door before me. "Hi, Reid," he said. "Got time for a cold one?"

  "Yeah, please, Carl." He waved me in, and I sat down in one of the cane chairs he'd installed since a militant feminist group had smashed his place up one busy night last winter. Sam flopped down beside the chair, and we waited. Carl came back quickly with a couple of light beers and a glass for me, which I waved away. "By the throat's fine; save washing up."

  He gave me the beer and sat down. He had an empty glass on the coffee table in front of him and a pile of wedding shots he'd taken. "I'm trying to find one where the best man's squint doesn't show," he said. "I hate to confront people with their faults."

  I sipped my beer a moment, then told him, "The Spenser boy is missing. Have you seen him at all?"

  He looked up, holding a photograph in each hand. Suddenly serious. "Missing?"

  "Yes. His folks are worried. He's been away since ten or so. He's usually home for meals, like most kids."

  He set his pictures on the table and looked at me anxiously. "And you think I had something to do with the fact that he's missing?"

  "No." I shook my head. "Of course not. But you were the last person to see him that I've traced so far. I wondered if you got any idea where he was going."

  "He didn't say. I assumed he was going home." Carl crossed his knees, then uncrossed them again and stood up. He was tense, but he didn't seem guilty of anything. There's a difference. "He said he was interested in shooting some boats. He'd seen some shots in a book. It's hard to say, but I feel he's got a good eye for composition. He mentioned trying to get the curve of the bow into it." Carl's voice ran away on him, going nervously higher until he stopped and cleared his throat. "He could be anywhere is what I'm saying."

  I nodded and sipped again. "Was he here, in this house?"

  He flushed and bit his lip, then spoke in a rush. "You don't think I'm interested in children, do you?"

  I shook my head. "No, I'd be asking anyone the same question if they were the last person to see him. Was he here?"

  "Yes." He nodded and blushed, then sat down angrily. "Dammit. Why would I feel embarrassed about that? Yes, he was here. I showed him my darkroom equipment. We chatted for half an hour. He had a Coke and left. That was all there was to it."

  In the moment before I could answer him, he rushed on. "I would have done the same for any enthusiast regardless of how old they were or what sex."

  "Look, I don't suspect you of anything, Carl. I'm just trying to track the kid's movements. I'd ask anybody the same questions."

  He held up one hand apologetically. "I should know better. I'm sorry, Chief," he said formally. "But we have some very square people in town, and they get strange ideas about anybody who's gay."

  "They're mostly kind," I said. "Murphy's Harbour isn't a really redneck town."

  He picked up his glass, then set it down and looked at me levelly. "I've always kept my private life away from town," he said. "I have friends who wonder why I live here, away from the action. They wonder why I don't have them up here to visit. I just don't. This is my home. When I'm home, I'm just another guy, the one who isn't interested in peering down the waitress's front at the Tavern."

  I put the beer bottle down. "I know. Don't get upset; I'm just following procedure. I'll finish my beer and go look around some more. I only have one more question for you. Did you see which way he went when he left here?"

  "No. I started processing a roll of film, and in the middle of it he said he should be going and let himself out. I was in the darkroom a couple of minutes more, and when I came out, I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of him."

  "Them's the breaks," I said. I swallowed the last of my beer. "Thanks for the drink. I'll go earn my pittance."

  He followed me to the door, looking anxious but not speaking. I waved to him and got into the car, with Sam beside me. He didn't wave back, just stood there, looking worried. It seemed like overreaction, and I put it into my memory and wondered what past experience this was bringing back to him.

  The radio in the car called me, and I picked up the receiver. It was Wales at the motel. "Been trying to reach you, Chief," he said. "No need to come back up. Two o' the bikers came back with a spare wheel. They changed it and left, no problems; never even came in here."

  "Fine, that's one worry over," I told him. "Don't lose any sleep about them. I think they were just mo
ving through."

  I hung up the receiver and drove to the marina. Walter Puckrin was working at the engine of a big inboard. He stopped when I got there and swore at Chrysler for a while, then offered me a beer, which I turned down, and told me he hadn't noticed the kid around.

  "Maybe he went down the dock in front of the Tavern—there's boats there if he wanted pictures—maybe to the lock, maybe anywhere. Not here, though," he said.

  "Fine, Walt, keep on cussing. I'll look around." I still wasn't worried too badly. The boy could be anywhere. It was coincidence that Carl had seen him last, nothing more. Right now he was out somewhere around boats, taking pictures.

  I walked over to the Lakeside Tavern and strolled out onto the docks behind it. The usual crowd of pleasure boaters was standing around, comparing routes up and down the waterway and trying not to be too obvious about ogling one another's girlfriends. None of them had seen the kid.

  Nobody had at the north lock, either, so I crossed the bridge there and drove back down the other side of the lake, the side his cottage lay on. I met his mother, about two miles up from their cottage, still calling. For the exercise more than anything, I walked back with her as far as the lock. It was only about a quarter of a mile. Sam needed the airing, and she was getting anxious, more because of what her husband would say, I thought, than for her son.

  "He's Ken's stepson," she explained nervously. "It's just a coincidence that they're both named the same. My first husband's name is Harry."

  "Does your son get on well with his stepfather?" I asked her, and she shot a glance at me.

  "What makes you ask?" Her mouth was a straight line. I could read the tension in her face.

  "A standard question. If they don't get on, Kennie might be tempted to stay away longer for fear of a licking when he goes home, that's all."

  "That won't happen," she said firmly. She glared like a lioness protecting her cub. "I won't let him beat Kennie."

  "Has he tried it before?"

  "He did once, when we were just married. Kennie threw a tantrum at dinner, and the next thing, Ken pulled him away from the table and whacked him, hard, before I could stop him."

  "Then you stepped in?"

  "Yes," she said, and then suddenly closed her mouth on her next word and shook her head, angry at herself.

  "And did your husband stop right away?" I let the question dangle a moment before adding the one I really wanted answered. "Or did he take a swing at you?"

  She gasped. "I've never told a soul," she said. "I told my friends I'd walked into a door."

  We came around the last bend in the road that led to the lock, and I stopped. "It's a story I've heard a lot of times, Mrs. Spenser," I said. "It won't go any further. I just needed to know so I can be around when your son turns up. It won't happen again then."

  She looked up at me and smiled, a nervous little twitch at the corners of her mouth. It lit up her whole appearance. "Thank you," she said. "But I'll be fine. Just find Kennie."

  We walked down to the lock together. There were a couple of fishermen there with an illegal case of beer open beside them. They put a coat over it as we came up, and I ignored it. Beer and fishing go together, and these were steady-looking guys, not drunks. I asked them if they'd seen the boy, and they hadn't. Neither had the lockkeeper, so we walked back to the car, and I drove her to the house.

  Her husband was already there, with a fresh drink. This time he made an effort to be pleasant. "I've walked all the way down to the lock," he told us. "Called and called, nothing."

  I had Sam in the backseat of the car, and I let him out. "How about giving me something Kennie's worn—a dirty shirt would be fine—and I'll turn the dog loose to look for him."

  The husband shook his head. He didn't look worried at all. "It won't help. He's been missing since I dropped him off in town, the other side of the lake. He could be anywhere." He didn't look at me, just lifted his gin and sipped, slowly, shutting me out.

  "I understood he'd left from here," I said. He was beginning to be a pain.

  "Yeah, well, I thought about it. Carol was off painting, and it got too quiet for me and Kennie, so we took a ride around to the town." To the liquor store, I thought, but didn't speak. He waved one hand casually. "The facts are still the same. He's always home by lunchtime, and today he isn't."

  "Where did you see him last?" I cracked the question at him, trying to shatter the glassy haze he had set up between us. He looked up in surprise. I guess film students don't talk that way.

  "Like I said, in town." He spread his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry if I've wasted any of your valuable time. I'm sure you've got better things to do."

  I turned to his wife. "Do you have that shirt, Mrs. Spenser? I'll head over to the liquor store and turn my dog loose there."

  Her husband sat up, sloshing some of his gin overboard. "Now just a goddamn minute," he started, but she cut him off.

  "That's where you went, isn't it?" she said quietly.

  "I don't like this cop's attitude," he said, and stood up to face me.

  "And I don't like yours," I told him. "So sit and drink your gin and try to remember where you saw your stepson last."

  He whirled at the woman. "So you've been whiling away the afternoon giving this guy your pedigree, have you?" He thumbed at me over his shoulder. "Your type, is he, tall, dark, rough trade. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  She stepped past him, not looking at either of us, and went into the cottage. I stood there and he turned back, but not to face me. Instead, he finished his drink in three quick gulps and reached in his pocket for car keys. "Nothing to it but do the goddamn job myself," he said, and headed for the car.

  "Forget it," I told him, and he paused for a moment, then turned back and stood with both hands on his hips like a little girl, facing me down.

  "Are you telling me not to drive my car?" he bellowed.

  "Yeah." I walked over to him and spoke softly so that he had to pay attention to hear me. "And I'm also telling you to keep your voice down and stop acting like a common drunk or I'll take action. Understand?"

  He looked at me for a moment, debating whether to go the distance and take a swing. I guess he thought better of it. He dropped his eyes and threw his keys on the ground. "You go to hell," he said. "I'm damned if I'll help you anymore." Then he turned and walked away into the cottage, letting the door bang.

  He couldn't have helped me much less, but I was glad he'd quit. I picked up the keys and stood tossing them in my hand until his wife came back with a sweatshirt. "Kennie wore this last night when it got dark," she said. "Everything else is clean."

  "That's fine. Thank you." I took the shirt and handed her the keys. "Your husband dropped these. Maybe you should keep them for a while."

  She looked at me and gave her fleeting little smile again. "Thank you. I'm glad you were here." She stood for a moment, then said, "I think I should stay with him. He gets kind of jealous sometimes, for no reason."

  "Good idea." I hissed at Sam, and he came to heel. "Now don't worry. I'm sure Kennie's gone for a walk with some other kids. This isn't any kind of big deal, tracking him. It just gives me a chance to give my dog some exercise."

  She nodded without speaking and went back to the house. I could hear him shouting at her as soon as she went through the door. Who says it's only the working man who gives his wife a hard time?

  I drove back to the town lock and dropped in on Murphy. He still hadn't seen the boy, but I could tell he had some news for me. It came out after he'd rolled one of his homemades and lit up. "We've got a pair of bikers in town," he said. "They went over the bridge and then north without stopping. Two of them."

  He took his cigarette out of his mouth and examined the tip. "I hope they're not scouting the place for one o' their shivarees."

  Chapter Three

  Murphy gave me the description. He was with the police office long enough that he's a solid eyewitness. Both thirtyish, grubby, leather jackets, one with no sleeves
over a bare chest, the other long sleeves over a T-shirt, the first with a black helmet, the second wearing a Wehrmacht steel pot. "I've put bullets through a couple of hats like that," Murphy said grimly. "I wouldn't mind with this bastard, either."

  "Don't take it personally. This guy hates everybody, not just veterans," I said. "Thanks for the information. I'll check the Tavern and the beer parlor, see they're not up to any tricks."

  There were no bikes outside either place, so I didn't bother going in. Instead, I went back to the liquor store and parked. The usual string of sunburned visitors were threading in and out, and they all nodded or acknowledged me as I called Sam out of the car and let him sniff Kennie Spenser's sweatshirt. Then I told him, "Seek." He ran in quick circles, then scratched at the door of the store. I let him in, nodding to the help and the customers, and watched as he followed the trail and went to the other door. Outside he circled some more, then ran a little way to a spot on the parking lot. There was no knowing whether the kid had started or ended his visit there, getting in and out of the family car, or maybe both, so I walked Sam around the whole area. No matter where he picked up the track, he went to the same place. Kennie had both started and finished his visit in the same car, which meant that his stepfather had taken him on somewhere else. I wondered if that other place was close enough that the guy hadn't remembered clearly or if I was going to have to talk to him again. The guy might have been boiled enough that he had trouble remembering all the details. So I walked Sam down to the store, and he picked up the track again just outside. I didn't go into the store with him but coaxed him on, from the doorway off to the side of the road. This time he followed for about a hundred yards, around the first corner to the street of inexpensive insul-brick-covered houses with their "Rooms for Rent" signs in the windows. But again Sam ran into a dead end, about six feet from the curb. And this time I was certain: the boy had gotten into a car. But there was no knowing whether it was the same one or somebody else's.