The Wind Will Howl Page 2

  “Raleigh?”

  Mike Margolis walked toward me. He had a bowlegged gait which I now realized might be from sea legs.

  “Come on around back,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to Clementine. She’s already heard a little about you.”

  I followed Mike’s bandy-legged stride past the main entrance, glancing back once as the bagpipers blew the saddest song of death. For a moment, I wondered whose funeral they were rehearsing for.

  Only later did it occur to me that the funeral might be mine.

  The back of the harbor station was a cavernous space accessed through a gigantic roll-up garage door that faced the lake. One white police tug sat on dry-docked rafters, filling the air with the biting scent of marine varnish. Mike swerved around the boat and stopped at an extended folding table by the far wall where a black body bag dripped on the concrete floor. A woman stood beside the table.

  “Clementine,” Mike said.

  The body bag was unzipped, and two feet stuck out. One foot was bare. The other wore a checkered skater-style sneaker.

  “Raleigh,” Mike was saying, “this is Detective Clementine Kyle, Seattle PD.”

  Clementine Kyle was a lean woman somewhere in her forties. She had a short cap of black hair that carried one dyed-blond streak back from her broad forehead like an errant wave of beach foam. She wore brown slacks paired with a mannish wool blazer and held a Styrofoam cup of coffee like a weapon.

  “You’re the rower who fell in the drink?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  I gazed into her eyes. They were a confusing color, somewhere between brown and gold, a kind of polished copper. The color was both pretty and off-putting all at once. When I released her handshake, her grip remained on my skin. Much like the feel of the rope latched around my ankle. I stuck my hand in the back pocket of my jeans. “Male?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Shoe’s probably a size sixteen. Maybe seventeen.”

  Detective Kyle sipped her coffee. But the copper eyes never left me. “I heard you were with the FBI. Something with geology?”

  “Forensic geologist.” Water pooled under the dead man’s feet. “Could I see the rest of his body?”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Detective Kyle said.

  Her condescending tone surprised me. I glanced at Mike Margolis. But he wasn’t making eye contact with me or Detective Kyle. Even when she said, “Mike, go ahead.”

  He folded back the top of the body bag down to the breastbone and stepped back, awaiting further orders from the commandant.

  I stepped over to the table. Only the face and neck were visible. I leaned in closer.

  “Don’t touch it,” she said.

  “I heard you the first time.”

  The dead man’s coal-black hair hung straight, as if slicked with petroleum. His eyes were wide open. Deep brown, almost black. With an expression of pure horror. As if his soul was still screaming.

  I leaned down closer, checking his irises.

  “Don’t. Touch.”

  “I. Know.”

  Mike cleared his throat. When I glanced up, he looked away.

  “Could I see the rest of the body?” I asked.

  “What for?” asked Detective Kyle.

  I held back a sigh—and a solid punch to her head. “Drowning deaths are difficult to diagnose, what with the unreliability of later tests, but judging by his face, it looks to me like he was dead before he went into the water.”

  “Oh, really.”

  That tone.

  I pointed at the young man’s face, just close enough to annoy the detective.

  “His skin’s not waterlogged. No blood or foam coming from his mouth or nostrils. And if he drowned with his eyes open like this, we’d probably see busted blood vessels around his irises.”

  Detective Kyle stared at me, copper and sass, then gave a curt nod. Mike folded back the body bag all the way down to the protruding feet.

  The young man was bare-chested. No shirt. And his left shoulder was gone—completely disappeared. In its place, ragged torn ligaments dangled over the shattered ball joint. It was a violent and sudden amputation. Not cut. Ripped. Torn away. The kind of traumatic wound that could bleed a man to death—if the shock didn’t kill him first. I leaned closer. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. And his gaze. The terror of it.

  Detective Kyle grabbed my elbow.

  “Detective, I won’t touch anything.”

  She released my arm. But like her handshake, the feel of her grip remained.

  He was powerfully built. Broad shoulders—what remained of them—and a muscled chest that barreled above a slim waist and washboard abs. But the muscles were pliable, wiry. Not the bulk that comes from lifting weights in a gym. This was working power, the kind earned by a stonemason. Bricklayer. Roofer. A young man with enough strength to swim to safety even in cold water. Maybe even with one arm. Which perhaps explained the yellow rope lashed around his waist. The rope was connected to four gray stones, each one about the size of my fist.

  “Have those stones tested for heavy metals,” I said.

  The detective hesitated. “Why?”

  I made a fist, wishing it could punch her, and said, “Stones this size are unlikely to weigh enough to hold down such a strong man. Unless the rocks contain heavy metals—iron, lead, something similar. Also have the lab check the rope. They’ll probably find my DNA.”

  “Really.” Detective Kyle didn’t sound surprised. “Your DNA.”

  “The rope got tangled around my ankle, probably scraped off some skin.”

  “Guess you should’ve stayed in the boat.”

  “If I’d stayed in the boat, you wouldn’t have a body.”

  “I don’t want a body.”

  “Tell that to his loved ones.”

  The metallic eyes tightened. “What time did you fall in the water?”

  “Thrown. And I don’t know.”

  “No idea?”

  “I don’t take my phone on the water.”

  “No watch?”

  “It rubs my wrist when I row.”

  “Poor you. Row often?”

  Two weeks ago, right after Jack proposed, we started these early morning rows. Both of us had unpredictable schedules. And most afternoons, I drove to the state insane asylum to visit my mom—sometimes she even agreed to see me. The best way to find consistent “couple time” was before the sun came up. Plus, we got a workout, too. These mornings were my favorite part of each day. Sliding across the water under misty dawns. Tucked inside a sleeping city. With just enough light from the sky and the battery lanterns attached to the shell to see Jack’s gorgeous body. Our first strokes always seemed solemn, tentative, but within five minutes, we had perfect rhythm, synchronized speed. It was an intoxicating feeling—until Jack started asking about picking a wedding date. And now, staring into Detective Kyle’s metalline eyes, I felt my palms get clammy. I rubbed them on my jeans.

  “We’ve been rowing every morning for the last two weeks.” I pointed through the open garage door. Across the lake, Jack’s cedar-sided houseboat looked like a cottage lifted from rural England. On the swaying dock, the upturned white rowing shell pointed back at me like a dead bone. “We usually start just before six and row for about an hour.”

  “And you think this body wasn’t in the water a long time?”

  “I’m not a medical examiner, Detective.”

  “But that’s your theory.”

  “Not theory. Just speculation.”

  “So if you’d screwed up sooner, we might’ve caught whoever put this guy in the water.”

  I tried to read her expression—sarcasm? Gallows humor?—but she was a veteran detective. They were mostly inscrutable. I opened my mouth, weighing my response, when a loud splash interrupted the silence. All three of us turned.

  The bagpipers stepped back as two divers in wetsuits pulled a long narrow object from the lake. It looked like a tree trunk. Bu
t as they set it down near the dry-docked tugboat, I realized it was a canoe. Carved from a hollowed-out tree trunk.

  I walked toward it.

  “Don’t touch it,” she said.

  “Too late. I already touched it underwater.”

  Inside the trunk, chisel marks sliced through the tree’s guts, hollowing out everything except a narrow wooden span stretching across the middle. The seat. At the front end, the prow had been carved into the image of a bird. Its beak had snapped off.

  “Get the dispatcher to send over an extended van,” Detective Kyle said to the divers. “Take this thing over to the state lab and—”

  “Not a good idea,” I said.

  Her copper eyes clocked me. “What?”

  “The state lab’s evidence room is already full. So y’all might just want to store this thing here.”

  “Y’all?” Detective Kyle mocked.

  “You all.”

  “What’re you—from Alabama?”

  “Virginia.”

  “Well, Virginia, let me explain something.” She walked toward me, the blazer’s padded shoulders like warrior armor. “Here in the Pacific Northwest, we know boats. And we know how to handle boats. So y’all can stop worrying your pretty little head.”

  Fire snapped inside my chest.

  “Detective.” I measured my tone. “The only thing I’m worried about is finding out what happened to this guy.”

  “Don’t. That’s my job.”

  “I understand. But I’m a private investigator with a forensics background. I can help.”

  She glanced at Mike. He stood with the divers, their wetsuits dripping on the concrete floor. But the divers seemed to be waiting for further orders, like Clementine Kyle was their warden.

  Mike said, “Raleigh has solved some murders for the state—”

  Detective Kyle pivoted toward me, copper eyes like iced gold.

  “Thanks for the offer,” she said. “But all we need is your statement. Then y’all can be on your way.”

  5

  After giving my statement to Detective Kyle—more copper stares and curt nods—I raced the Pony up Capitol Hill and wove around Swedish Hospital until I found the halfway house. Parked at the curb, I stared at the dingy front window with its hand-lettered Vacancy sign. The house was painted various shades of faded blue, all of them peeling. Under Seattle’s winter sky, the place looked like a nasty bruise.

  I gunned down to Spring Street, turned left, and whipped the Pony into my aunt’s driveway. No missing this place—it was painted an alarming fuchsia color, like fake rubies. My aunt loved the color. And, okay, it was her house. But for at least the next month, I had to live here and be responsible for her three spoiled cats. They were named for gemstones. Opal, Beryl, and Sapphire.

  Despite the self-important cats, my aunt’s house offered some benefits. First, it was close to the halfway house where the state planned to send my mom after her release. Second, Madame the dog could stay here with me. And third, my fairy godmother Eleanor was joining us.

  On this morning, Eleanor was at the kitchen table. Her heavily ringed fingers gripped the pages of a script while her stage voice boomed lines to the empty room. After we moved in here, Eleanor found a nearby actor’s studio. For senior citizens only. They were putting on a play and Eleanor, age eighty-four-going-on-eighteen, quickly secured the most coveted role—the hussy.

  “That ghost hovered around me,” she bellowed, “like a man demanding something. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No.” I walked to the refrigerator.

  “That ghost knows where all the secret treasures are buried,” she continued. “And he can lead us to them.”

  I rummaged through the fridge, past all the healthy stuff—yuck—and found a can of Coke. I said a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Why, Harold,” Eleanor said.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” I said.

  She lowered the script, throwing me a harsh gaze through her rhinestone cat-glasses. Amazingly, the glasses were not part of the hussy costume, just normal Eleanorwear. Her face, however, was pancaked with stage makeup, including an eyeshadow so purple it almost matched my aunt’s house paint.

  “Raleigh, you’re ruining my rhythm.”

  I popped open the Coke. At the sound of the carbonated pfft, Madame came bounding into the room. I scooped her up with one arm. She kissed my chin.

  “Why, Harold,” Eleanor repeated in her trumpeting voice, “you’re such a gentleman.”

  I buried a groan in the dog’s black fur. Then whispered in her ear. “You deserve a medal.”

  “Raleigh, I heard that.”

  “Eleanor, at this point, even the dog has memorized those lines. ”

  She raised her chin. “Life is all memory, except this present moment that passes too quickly.”

  “Wrong play.”

  “I know that!” She shook the script at me, her many rings glinting in the morning light. “I am working on this night and day, but the lines are not sticking.”

  I set the dog on the floor. She glanced around—searching for cats—but the coast was clear. For now.

  “Just give it time,” I said.

  “And yet, Mrs. Goforth endures.”

  For much of her younger days, Eleanor was an actress in a Tennessee Williams troupe before her husband Harry swept her off the stage. All these decades later, the Southern playwright’s lines still feathered from her painted mouth. “I even put on the hussy’s makeup,” she said. “To get into character.”

  I gulped the Coke, wondering what else was “in character” for an elderly slut.

  Eleanor eyed me. “How was the gruesome exercising?”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t believe you. You look strange.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Mendacity.” She lifted her chin. “I despise mendacity.”

  “Big Daddy.” I sighed. Eleanor always raised her chin to deliver Tennessee’s lines. “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And, okay, I rowed into a dead body.”

  “Stop exercising.”

  “That’s your response?”

  “Raleigh.” She shook her white-haired head. “You have no time for corpses. You’ve got a wedding to plan.”

  I guzzled the rest of the Coke, held back two burning burps, and felt my eyes watering from the carbonation. At least, I told myself that’s why my eyes were wet.

  “Did you pick a date?” she asked.

  “I have a date.” I tossed the empty Coke in the recycling bin. “In two days, my mom gets released from the insane asylum.”

  In all the world, there was no stage makeup that could disguise the sympathy flooding Eleanor’s soft brown eyes.

  “I can plan the wedding,” she said.

  “Thanks but—”

  “Something tasteful.”

  “Really?”

  “Just the essentials.”

  “Which are?”

  “A band with a horn section.”

  “No.”

  “Harpist?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Alright, then I insist on proper foundation garments.”

  “What?”

  “Raleigh, every designer gown requires—”

  “There’s no designer gown.”

  She pointed the script at me. “You’re not wearing some off-the-rack dress. This is your wedding.”

  I released the world’s longest belch.

  Eleanor glared. “Coca-Cola is banned from the reception.”

  “And that’s why you’re not planning it.”

  I walked to the pantry, found three cans of cat food, and snapped them open. Just like the pfft calling Madame, the sound of slicing aluminum brought the cats sauntering into the room. Although hungry, they strolled as languidly as starving runway models pretending they could go without food. Beryl hissed at Madame. With a soft whimper, the dog slid under the kitchen table and rested her chin on Eleanor’s sparkly platform shoes that were anything but orthopedic. I
dumped brown goo into the three bowls bearing their gemstone names, and gagged at the stink.

  “May I offer you one piece of advice?” Eleanor asked.

  “Just one?” I glanced over my shoulder. Her chin was already rising—the Southern playwright was about to speak. Then I could either name the character and the play or endure another lecture. I braced myself.

  “You are a young woman,” she said, “but if you don’t plan well, the future will soon become the present. And the past will quickly turn into eternal regret.”

  “Amanda.” I looked at the dog. She sighed in sympathy. “The Glass Menagerie.”

  Eleanor raised the script, obscuring those purple-shadowed eyes, and said, “It would be wise to listen to her.”

  After my thespian lecture, I put the dog in the Pony and zoomed over to Dick’s Drive-In on Broadway Avenue. Under an awning that long ago turned amber from the glorious grease fumes floating in the air, we sat at an outdoor table and ate well-deserved cheeseburgers and extra-large fries. I dipped my fries in mayo—and tried not to consider my life—while Madame finished her first burger. As I unwrapped her second, her tail started wagging. Her wag had a circular motion. Like the gorgeous Ghibli sports car, Madame had suffered her own near-fatal bullet wounds just before Thanksgiving.

  I set the burger on the ground. “You deserve every bite.”

  My praise would’ve continued except for the Tijuana Brass coming from my pocket. I pulled out my phone, read the screen.

  Unknown Number

  “Probably my darling Clementine,” I told the dog, swiping my finger over the screen. “This is Raleigh.”

  “So she did give me the right number. What do you know?”

  The voice was female. But it wasn’t Detective Kyle.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who is this?”

  “Your Aunt Charlotte told me to call you.”

  “My aunt—is she alright?”

  “Oh, yeah, Charlotte’s fine. She just wanted me to talk to you about your wedding date.”

  I looked at Madame. Seriously? Now total strangers were in on this? What was next—telemarketers? “Ma’am, whatever my aunt told you, please disregard. I don’t need—”