“Yes, that’s right.”
“So why didn’t you walk her to the door? You know, to make sure she didn’t act out or do anything else she shouldn’t?”
“I obviously should have, but I had a call from a member and I had to take it.”
“Was it that important that you’d let her walk out without being watched?”
“Sergeant, every call from a member is important here.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
Stilwell walked down the hallway where the four guest rooms were located, two on either side. The door to one of the rooms was open. Stilwell looked in and saw a woman in a maid’s uniform making a bed. The room looked sparely furnished and basic. He could see why members would prefer the staterooms on their yachts.
Stilwell went down the stairs and checked out the dining room. People wearing red waistcoats, white shirts, and black bow ties were setting up tables with silverware and glasses, getting ready for lunch. At the far end of the room was the bar. It was all dark wood and green glass banker’s lamps above shelves of bottles containing clear or amber-colored liquors. As he stood there, he saw Callahan enter from a door Stilwell presumed was the kitchen and move behind the bar. He was followed by a young man carrying something heavy, his arms straight but his hands below the bar top. He turned, raised his arms, and poured a full tub of ice into a bin behind the bar. As he did so, his grip on the tub slipped; he overcorrected, and a cascade of ice slid across the top of the bar and onto the floor in front of it.
“Goddamn it!” Callahan yelled. “You stupid asswipe, clean that up! We’re about to open.”
The kid looked mortified, like it wasn’t the first time he had taken a verbal lashing from his boss. He turned and scurried back to the kitchen. Callahan glanced into the dining room and saw that Stilwell had seen his response to the ice spill. He nodded proudly, as if saying, from one manager of people to another, This is how we do it.
Stilwell turned and left the club.
12
Before returning to the sub, Stilwell walked over to the hardware and marine-supply store on Marilla. The longtime manager was Ned Browning, and Stilwell knew him from following up on reported thefts from the store. Browning was in the back room, conducting an inventory of boat cushions.
“Sergeant Stil, how’s it going?”
“Not bad, Ned. You?”
“The body in the water. Bad stuff. Terrible.”
“Yeah.”
“So you want to see my records on recent anchor sales?”
Stilwell was surprised.
“Why would you say that?” he asked.
“Because Denzel Abbott was in here this morning,” Browning said. “He was ordering new air lines and filters. He told me all about the girl wrapped in an anchor chain.”
“Do me a favor and keep that to yourself.”
“Not a problem.”
“So, have you sold any anchors of late?”
“That would make your day, huh?”
“It would.”
“Well, sorry. I don’t move a lot of anchors. Most boats come out here equipped.”
“I kind of thought it would be a long shot.”
“Just so you know, somebody already asked me about anchors today.”
“Who was that?”
“A sheriff’s detective from overtown called, a guy named Ahearn. I told him just what I told you. We don’t sell a lot of anchors.
We have ’em. We just don’t move ’em.”
Stilwell was surprised that Ahearn had taken such initiative so early in the investigation.
“Did he ask you about anything else?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” Browning said. “Just the anchor.”
“Okay, then. Did Ahearn ask you to call him if anybody comes in to buy a twelve-pound Hold Fast plow anchor?”
“No, he didn’t ask that.”
“Then you can call me if that happens.”
“You got it.”
Stilwell headed out, but as he was walking back through the store to the door, he thought of something and turned around. Browning was still where he had left him.
“Ned, you sell handsaws here?” he asked.
“Sure,” Browning said. “What kind you need?”
“Like for cutting through PVC, fiberglass. Like that?”
“Aisle four.”
Stilwell went back and found the saw section. It took him only a few seconds to see a package that included a saw with a handle like the one he had seized. The package came with two extra blades. He looped the package off the hanging peg and returned to the back room to talk to Browning a third time.
“Do you know who Oscar Terranova is, Ned?” he asked.
“Sure, I know him,” Browning said. “Everybody knows him.”
“Does he have an account here?”
“An account? No, we don’t have accounts. Customers want something, they have to buy it. No credit. That’s a deal with the devil, having to chase people to pay their bills.”
“Is there any way of checking to see if he bought a package like this recently?”
“If he paid cash, no. If he used a credit card, we could go through the charges, but it would take a while.”
“Would you search by customer name or product?”
“Product would be easier. Our inventory is digital. We could pull up sales of that individual product. Credit card is more involved.”
“Good. I’d be interested in anybody who bought one of these in, like, the past sixty days.”
“Okay.”
“How long will that take?”
“Uh, give me a couple days. Is this about that buffalo beheading? Is that what they used?” He pointed at the saw.
Stilwell was never surprised by how fast word got around. Avalon was a small town, and everybody seemed to know everybody’s business long before it ended up in the Call. “Look, Ned—”
“I know, I know. Keep it to myself.”
“Please.”
“No worries. I’ll call you when I’ve looked.”
“Thank you.”
Outside the store, Stilwell checked his watch. The autopsy on the body of the woman from the water was still a few hours away. He pulled his phone and called Tash.
“Do you think I can grab a screen over there and go through the harbor cameras for earlier this month?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “I can set you up. It’s pretty quiet around here.”
“You want me to bring lunch?”
“That’d be nice. Blue Rose?”
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Chicken mole, please.”
“Okay, I’ll be over.”
After he disconnected, Stilwell called Maggie’s Blue Rose and put in an order for pickup. While it was being put together he walked back to the sub to check in with Mercy. Deputy Ilsa Ramirez was in the dayroom bent over some paperwork.
“Sergeant,” she said. “I just took a missing person report on a guy Mercy said you asked about the other day.”
“Who?” Stilwell asked.
“Henry Gaston? He works as a mechanic in the cart barn for one of the tour companies.”
A dull thud hit Stilwell in the chest and he was silent for a moment as he digested the news.
“Who reported him missing?” he finally asked.
“His wife,” Ramirez said. “She says he hasn’t been home since Saturday morning.”
“What happened Saturday morning?”
“Nothing unusual. She said he went into work because one of the tour carts broke down and they couldn’t replace it because all the tours and carts were booked for the weekend. He said he’d be gone a couple hours while he fixed it, but he never came home after that.”
“Did you take this by phone or in person?”
“In person. I went to their house up on Tremont.”
“Did you ask if any of his clothes were missing?”