A Minor Case of Murder
By Jeff Markowitz
Smashwords Edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Copyright 2011 by Jeff Marcowitz
Cover Design by David Dodd
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Now that I write murder mysteries, I see dead bodies most everywhere that I go. On more than one occasion, I have recounted for my wife Carol the details of her gruesome and untimely demise. Carol listens and smiles and encourages me to write. She is a lover of good murder mysteries and seems to count my stories among the good ones. Carol is not my most objective reader. But I didn't marry her for her objectivity.
To my lovely wife Carol, I dedicate A Minor Case of Murder.
Hot Cocoa with Mini-Marshmallows
It was a raw September afternoon on Godiva Beach, lonely and deserted, the wind whipping in off the water stinging Cassie's face—good weather, she told herself, for burying a friend. The church service in the morning had been small: twenty family and friends sharing their grief, saying goodbye, perhaps half that number continuing on to the cemetery to pay their last respects to the late Harrison T. Dicke.
Cassie hadn't seen the octogenarian naturist and amateur historian of White Sands Beach in quite some months, but that didn't lessen her sense of loss. Standing at the water's edge, Cassie wanted to laugh, but needed to cry. She told herself it was only the ocean spray moist on her face. Cassie was unprepared for the tap on her shoulder. Jumping at the stranger's touch, she nearly landed in the cold September surf.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
Cassie examined the stranger closely. He was a good-looking gentleman in his thirties, handsome in a way no longer fashionable, not health-club handsome, not rock-star handsome, but Eisenhower-era handsome, Pillsbury-doughboy handsome, his hair cut by a barber rather than a stylist, his suit purchased at a discount warehouse.
"You were at Harrison's funeral this morning."
Cassie was unsure whether the stranger was asking or telling.
"I'm Andy MacTavish, Harrison's great-grand-nephew … I think."
Cassie realized she was looking at Harrison as he must have looked some fifty years ago. "I'm Cassie O'Malley."
"I thought you might be." Andy noticed that Cassie was shivering in the chill September air. "You must be freezing out here. Please, take my coat."
Cassie, in her slate gray funeral dress, was ill-prepared for the offshore wind. "Thank you. I'd like that."
"Would you like a hot cocoa?" Andy wondered. "I know a real nice spot in town."
Cassie thought she knew every restaurant in White Sands Beach, but Andy bypassed the trendy eateries along the water, instead going inland to Cubby's, a luncheonette untouched by time and tide, down to the wall-mounted jukebox at every table, and the music, The Big Bopper, The Chordettes, Patti Page, Bobby Darrin, The Everly Brothers, the "A" side hits mostly familiar, the "B" side tunes unrecognizable. Sitting at a small booth in the back, sipping hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows, listening to the Dell-Vikings—"Come Go with Me"—Cassie and Andy made small talk, picking their way carefully through the minefield of first impressions.
"I met your uncle when I was researching a story. I had no idea what to expect. No one warned me I was meeting an eighty-year-old nudist, but he truly was a charming gentleman. You know, there's a lot of Harrison in you."
"Thank you … I guess." And Andy blushed, imagining Cassie imagining him naked under a blue beach umbrella. "Just so you know…I don't share Harrison's…I mean…what I guess I'm trying to say is, I'm not a clothing-optional kind of guy."
It was Cassie's turn to blush. "I'm sorry…no…when I said you resemble Harrison, I mean…I didn't mean…well, you know what I mean."
Andy decided it was time to change the subject. "Harrison showed me some of your stories. He loved your stories, the more outlandish the better."
"Thank you. And you?"
Andy busied himself with his mini-marshmallows, as though somehow the hot cocoa might reveal the polite response. "I think you are a very talented writer."
"But?"
"But," Andy continued, "don't you think that the magazine you write for is just a little bit trashy?"
Cassie laughed. "I think the magazine is incredibly trashy. But that's its charm."
"I see." Actually, he didn't. Andy hit E2 on the jukebox and lapsed into silence. He sipped his cocoa, and, looking over the rim of his mug, allowed himself to consider the woman across the table. Andy reminded himself that a woman in her thirties, in our youth-oriented culture, is supposedly past her prime; but if she were, Andy decided, past her prime, Cassie was more impressive than most people's prime. She was of an age when women believed they were supposed to cut their hair, but Andy noted with satisfaction that Cassie looked great with her dirty-blond hair falling halfway down her back.
Cassie's taste in music ran toward the giants of jazz—Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie—and her taste in men…well, it had been so long, Cassie told herself, she could hardly remember. But sitting in the booth at Cubby's sipping hot cocoa with Andy MacTavish, listening to Dion and the Belmonts on the jukebox, she began to consider the possibilities. And when Andy asked if it would be okay to call her, Cassie said yes, and, for a change, she meant yes.
After her lunch with Andy MacTavish, Cassie decided to spend the chilly afternoon on the boardwalk. The boardwalk, like the town itself, was an extraordinary mixture of Victorian charm and carnival schlock, tearooms abutting tattoo parlors, ateliers tucked in alongside arcades. Cassie noticed a brand new storefront—Om Depot—a neon eyeball in the window—Madame Alexina, Spiritualist—and she decided to go in. Her editor had been pressing her for a new story idea, so she wouldn't be going in for any personal reason, she told herself, certainly not to learn about Andy MacTavish.
Madame Alexina, with her bright red bouffant hair and slight orange moustache, dressed in lime green polyester bowling shirt and pink capri pants, greeted Cassie warmly at the door. "Ah, my first customer. Please come in. Don't mind the mess—I'm still unpacking."
"That's all right. I can come back later."
Madame Alexina fixed her gaze on Cassie, her eyes like hazel tractor beams locked on Cassie's soul. "Ah, you met a man today."
Cassie took a seat and waited, while Madame Alexina searched for her crystal ball among the partially unpacked paranormal paraphernalia. Madame Alexina dumped the remaining boxes on the floor, revealing a veritable landfill of the sacred and the profane.
A worry stone. The I Ching. Hippie dog tags ("War is not healthy for children and other living things"). The Tibetan Book of the Dead. An iron cross. A rabbit's foot. Tickets from a Bruce Springsteen concert in Indianapolis. A Life magazine photograph of John F. Kennedy. A Mad magazine drawing of George W. Bush. The Sayings of Chairman Mao. The prophecies of Nostradamus. The wit and wisdom of Baba Booey. Zig-Zag rolling papers. Trail mix. Trojans. (Trojans?) Double-stuffed Oreo cookies. A Frisbee. A boomerang. Her unfinished collection of Zen limericks ("There was a Bodhisattva Kannon/Who was known for the men that she'd blown/With her eleven heads perched in ten different beds/She still had a mouth left to moan"). Two parking tickets. Three plantains. Four dried ancho peppers. Five golden rings. A balsa wood airplane. The New Testament. Support hose. An Ozzy Osbourne bobble-head doll. Her favorite fortune cookie ("Please disregard all previous fortune"). A gold tooth. A silver dollar. Her bronzed baby shoes. A stuffed rat. A rubber spider. Plastic vomit. The Lord of the Rings DVD. A black light. A blues harmonica. An autographed copy of Steal This Book. A ceramic cow. Chinese handcuffs. A Swiss Army knife. A French tickler. A Belgian waffle. A Led Zeppelin CD. Diet pills. Depilatory. A can of Sterno. A box of Red Zinger. A Louisville Slugger.
But no crystal ball.
"Damn, I was sure I had it in there. Wait, I've got an idea." And Madame Alexina bounded over to the closet, returning with her bowling bag. "I'll improvise."
Cassie imagined her editor's reaction when she turned in the story of the psychic kegler (or was it the kegling psychic?).
Madame Alexina began by gently caressing the ball, alternately stroking and tickling it, the foreplay to fortune telling. She explained to Cassie, "I've got to awaken her desires before the bowling ball will surrender her ebony defenses."
As Cassie watched, the bowling ball did seem to be losing some of its blackness. More precisely, it seemed to Cassie as if the ball were composed of a translucent shell containing an inky interior. Madame Alexina began to tease the bowling ball, tracing little circles around the finger holes. The shell was becoming steadily more translucent, the interior less dark, more liquid. Hesitantly, Madame Alexina slid her fingertips ever so slightly into the holes and, emboldened by the lack of resistance, began to probe ever more deeply and vigorously.
Sitting there, Cassie felt like a peeping Tom. She was fascinated, aroused, embarrassed and silently writing the first paragraph even as she watched. ("Woman has sex with bowling bowl. And sees the future!")
As Madame Alexina's pace quickened and her fingers grew more confident, the inky depths grew ever weaker, until, in a moment, the bowling ball surrendered itself—transparent, exposed, and vulnerable. She stared intently into the depths of the crystal-clear bowling ball, all the while rocking and quietly chanting. "Now we can begin," she announced, her words muffled in the eerie silence of the now-fetid storefront…
"You met a man today, yes?"
"Yes."
"And you want to know if he's the man, right?"
Cassie was not ready to admit that—not to Madame Alexina, not to herself. "Let's just say I'm curious."
Cassie spent the next half-hour chatting with Madame Alexina about love and death, about Andy MacTavish, but also about her late husband Rob, gone nearly fifteen years, and Harrison T. Dicke, interred just that morning.
At the mention of the morning's funeral, Madame Alexina again consulted her bowling ball. She chose not to tell her first customer that she saw many more funerals in Cassie's future.
The Developer's Daughter
Driving home to Doah in her rebuilt '67 Ford Mustang, the election just two months away, interspersed with small handmade signs promoting various local businesses—"Live Bait," "Authentic BBQ," "Small Appliance Repair"—Cassie couldn't help but notice the mass of political signage decorating the countryside. Nationally, interest was focused on the off-year elections and control of Congress. New Jersey was focused on a hotly contested campaign for governor. But in the Pine Barrens, the issues were more local and the contests more personal. And in Doah, the campaign that had captured the hearts and minds of the citizenry was Cheyenne Harbrough's independent campaign to unseat Mayor "Big Jim" Donovan.
Cassie was proud of her good friend and one-time Princeton roommate. When Cheyenne kicked off her campaign, no one, not even Cheyenne herself, believed she would unseat the popular mayor. But Cheyenne wanted to force the town to address the issue of development, an issue which sharply divided Doah, provoking otherwise rational officials to fisticuffs. The daughter of a controversial developer, Cheyenne was an articulate advocate for responsible development. Still, as the daughter of a developer, herself a part-owner of Harbrough and Daughters, the conventional wisdom was that Doah would never elect a developer as mayor.
For many in Doah, a rural town of pygmy pines and cranberry bogs, there are few epithets used with more disgust than "developer." And yet "developer" was only one of the derogatory labels that had been attached to Cheyenne Harbrough. For Cheyenne was not only a "developer," she was also a "homewrecker," it being well-known in Doah that Cheyenne lured married men to violate their sacred vows.
When Cassie got home to her condo in Doah, the answering machine was blinking hello. She was curious about the messages, but first, Cassie needed to get out of the funeral clothes. Ten minutes later, dressed comfortably in her black Princeton sweatpants with orange lettering and her Jameson t-shirt, a first shot of Irish whiskey already warming her and a second waiting patiently by her side, Cassie was ready to check the message.
"Hi, Cassie. It's me. Cheyenne. Don't forget, tonight's the mayoral debate. Shit, I'm scared. Remind me why I did this, okay? Anyway, call me."
Cassie dialed Cheyenne's apartment. "I'd like to speak to Mayor Harbrough, please."
"Hi, Cassie. I'm so glad you called."
"You're gonna do great tonight, Chey."
"I wish I felt that way. Right now, I'm pretty nervous."
"Relax, girlfriend. It's gonna be fun."
"Yeah. Okay. So tell me what you think, Cassie. I bought a new outfit for the debate. A black skirt, conservative but sexy, and a turquoise blouse. It should look great on camera. So, what I want to know is, is it proper to wear f-me pumps to the debate?"
"And to think I plan to vote for you, Chey."
"Yeah, me too. What am I thinking? Anyway, will I see you there tonight? Are you coming to the debate?"
"I don't think so, Chey. I'm sorry, but I'm kind of exhausted."
"That's right. I'm sorry. I forgot. How was the funeral?"
Cassie was stumped. Is there a right answer to How was the funeral? "Okay, I guess." Cassie paused for effect, savoring the next line, anticipating Cheyenne's reaction to what she was about to say. "I met a guy."
"At the funeral? Shit, Cassie, what is it now, twelve years? All this time I've been trying to set you up, trying to talk you into getting back into the game, and after all this time you go and pick up a guy at the funeral? Details, girl, I want details."
"It's Harrison's great-grand-nephew…I think. His name's Andy MacTavish."
"Not the Andy MacTavish!"
Cassie again was stumped. "I didn't know that there is an Andy MacTavish."
"Wake up, Cassie. Don't you read Barron's? They say Andy MacTavish is worth millions."
"You know I don't have a head for business. Anyway, it must be another Andy MacTavish."
"Cassie, we have to talk. I'll meet you for breakfast. Okay?"
"Okay, Chey. Nine o'clock at the Eggery. And I'll be watching you tonight. Make sure they get your shoes on camera."
Cheyenne was nervous walking into the Municipal Building, but the evening started well, she decided, although, in truth, she had only a limited basis for comparison. She was pleased with the power of her footwear selection, recognizing even before she took her seat that sex and politics are nearly identical ambitions. She made a point of seeking out the township manager before the meeting was called to order, leaning in close to the young man, letting her scent linger in his airspace, drawing him into her sphere of influence. She greeted each of the council members warmly, councilmen and councilwomen alike. Cheyenne found the women to be polite, perhaps too polite, and vaguely suspicious. The men…well, Cheyenne knew exactly how the men would react: polite, perhaps too polite, and vaguely aroused, running awkwardly for the cover afforded by their seats behind the large council desk. She looked for an opportunity to say hello to Big Jim, but the mayor was already working the room, flaunting the trappings of incumbency.
At the manager's prompt, Mr. Caputo, the self-appointed watchdog and political pundit, moderator of the mayoral debate, outlined the evening's format. Joe Caputo, young and articulate, was known around the Municipal Building as the "Boy Barrister." Mr. Caputo was fiercely neutral, took great pride in the fierceness of his neutrality, and reminded the three mayoral candidates that he would not shy away from asking the tough questions. In her case, Cheyenne assumed that the tough questions would focus on land development and sexual innuendo. Feeling the power of her footwear, Cheyenne was determined that Mr. Caputo would not make sport of her.
Cheyenne gauged her opponents. Big Jim Donovan looked mayoral, tanned and relaxed, ten pounds thinner for the campaign and sporting a new toupee. He was prepared to run on his record. Only Councilwoman Beverly Becht appeared anxious, squirming in her seat and interrupting, then lapsing into silence. Public comment at the debate was unusually subdued. Big Jim was masterful, turning the chaos of his first term into a testament to participatory government and the triumph of ideals over partisan politics.
Mr. Caputo was making a point about the debate rules when Ms. Becht interrupted, unable to contain herself any longer. "Excuse me, Mr. Moderator. I realize that I am speaking out of turn, but time does not permit me to delay. We are only a few months away from the holiday season, and with Christmas fast approaching, I am deeply concerned by the decision made by this township not to decorate the Municipal Building this year. I understand that it is on the advice of our attorney who has indicated that the courts have found such displays to be unconstitutional. I do not agree with his legal opinion and I am embarrassed by the cowardice being shown by the township on this issue.
"I grew up in this town. And I remember there were always two or three houses in Doah that bore no evidence of Christmas. Jews, my mother explained, decent but misguided citizens who would never pass through the Gates of Heaven into the Kingdom of our Lord. I always felt sorry for the people who lived in those houses, their souls as barren as their homes at Christmastime. I still feel sorry for those in our community who do not believe—the Jews, the Muslims and the Chinese, the homosexuals, the liberals and the atheists. But now, when I think about the Municipal Building at Christmas, dark and unadorned, I have to ask, 'Is the very town of Doah going straight to hell?' "
The witnesses to the councilwoman's diatribe, elected officials and local residents alike, sat there in stunned silence, embarrassed by Ms. Becht's outburst. Many residents shared her disappointment at the anticipated absence of the Nativity scene which had stood proudly on the front lawn of the Municipal Building for so many years, but even her supporters—especially her supporters—sat there in silence, appalled by her interruption.
"And in a town that has abandoned its Christian values…" Ms. Becht turned to stare at Cheyenne Harbrough, "…it seems that just about anyone believes they can be mayor."
But Cheyenne Harbrough would not be shamed into silence. Cheyenne seized the issue with a disarming, self-deprecating humor.
"Did you hear the one about the traveling salesman and the developer's daughter? A traveling salesman's car broke down, so he walked to the nearest house—it happened to be the home of a developer—and asked if he could stay the night. The developer told the salesman that yes, he could spend the night, but you'll have to sleep with my daughter. "So…" Cheyenne continued, "…the traveling salesman climbs into bed with the developer's well-endowed [here Cheyenne blushed] daughter and cautiously makes a pass at the young woman. She turns to the middle-aged salesman, warning, 'Stop that right now or I'll call my father,' but she gives the gentleman a kiss and rubs up against him and before long they are enjoying intimate relations. An hour later, the salesman finds himself ready to go again. 'Stop that right now,' the young lady again insists, 'or I'll call my father.' But, under the covers, she runs her fingers along the inside of his thigh. The story repeats itself each hour, on the hour, each time the young lady threatening to call her father, but in truth, the young lady instigating, controlling, and reveling in the coupling. Finally, at four in the morning, the young woman's naked body pressed up against the exhausted, middle-aged salesman. 'Stop that right now,' the salesman insists, 'or I'll call your father!' "
Watching the debate at home on her TV, Cassie poured herself another Jameson.
Three Web Sites and Two Jamesons Later
Some men like to conduct their business on the golf course, standing on the first tee or lining up a putt on the back nine. Big Jim was not a golfer and had no use for the business and political opportunities to be found on the links. He was more likely to be found at his regular table at the Eggery, the large round table that had come to be known as the mayor's conference table, sitting at the table with a plate of Jimmy Dean breakfast links and a coffee black, one sugar, finding fact, dispensing wisdom and cutting deals that would benefit Doah Township, and coincidentally, the mayor himself.
The Eggery was nothing special—that is, of course, unless you like your eggs over easy, thick slabs of homemade bread dripping butter, bacon extra-crispy, home fries extra-spicy, coffee so rich you can smell it from your car. You see what I mean: nothing special unless you like a waitress who knows when to leave you alone but who appears at your side scant moments before you yourself become aware of your desire.
Big Jim's desires were prodigious, but uncomplicated—mayoral acclaim served with a side of breakfast sausage. At the start of his first term, Big Jim made it a habit to eat breakfast at the Eggery the morning after every political event in Doah Township. He would meet with his shadow cabinet, official and unofficial advisors, political friends and foes alike, to discuss the wants and needs of the good citizens of Doah. Big Jim was truly bipartisan, welcoming the advice of his political opponents, who were, as well, his fishing buddies, bowling partners, drinking companions and lifelong friends and neighbors.
Cheyenne was not a regular at the mayor's conference table. She was not even an occasional participant at these breakfast meetings, but she recognized that spending a few minutes with the mayor was the perfect opportunity to gauge the impact of the debate. When Cassie walked into the Eggery, meeting Cheyenne for breakfast, she found Cheyenne sitting with the mayor, her hand under the table, resting lightly on the mayoral thigh and discussing campaign strategy. As Cassie approached the table, Big Jim rose in greeting, until half out of his seat the mayor froze, awkward and embarrassed by his too-obvious arousal. Cheyenne chuckled, giving the mayor a quick peck on the cheek before greeting Cassie with a hug. Cassie and Cheyenne excused themselves and found a private table in the back of the restaurant.
"So, Cassie, what did you think of the debate?" Cheyenne tried to hide a grin behind her coffee cup.
"I thought you did pretty well last night. Held your own with the mayor. Made some good points about land use. But really, Cheyenne, was the sex joke really necessary?"
Cheyenne's grin spilled out from behind the rich French roast. "I wasn't sure about it last night, but I'm feeling pretty good after talking to the mayor this morning."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Big Jim thinks that Beverly is such a whack job that I come across pretty normal. He wants the sex issue to be this big thing that's never discussed openly, this thing always lurking in the background, making it unseemly for me to be the mayor. But he doesn't want it out in the open where people will be reminded who it is I like to fool around with."
"Is that why you had your hand on his thigh this morning? To remind everyone?"
Cheyenne put down her cup of coffee. "To tell you the truth, Cassie, I like teasing the man. Anyway, enough about the debates. Tell me about Andy MacTavish."
Cassie didn't know where to start. "He bought me a hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows. We talked."
"And?"
"And he's kind of dorky. His clothes. His hair. His music. It's like he's stuck in the 'fifties."
"And?"
"And he asked if he could call me."
Cheyenne heard a lilt in Cassie's voice she hadn't heard since Cassie buried her late husband Rob. "And?"
Cassie's face reddened. "If he calls, I think maybe I'm ready this time."
Waiting for a man to call was harder than Cassie remembered. She needed to call her editor and discuss a story idea, but suddenly she felt like she was fifteen again, afraid to tie up the phone line and miss a call from Andy. She felt foolish, but on Monday afternoon she placed a call to her editor and pitched a series of stories about New Jersey psychics. Morris jumped at the idea, pleased that his star writer was thinking of multiple stories. He accepted the idea without argument, asking Cassie if she could have the first installment ready by the end of the week. She spent the rest of the day at her computer, trying, without success, to write "The Psychic Bowling Ball of White Sands Beach." Cassie went to bed, Monday night, waiting for a phone call from Andy MacTavish.
On Tuesday, Cassie searched the Web, intending to look for links to psychic phenomena in New Jersey, but she found herself Googling Andy MacTavish instead. A page of links popped up on her computer screen, but the idea of reading up on Andy made her feel like a Peeping Tom. Without opening any of the links, Cassie exited the screen, reverting to her psychic search. She was directed to hundreds of thousands of hits and sampled a few, reading about levitation, ghosts, astral projection, psychic pets, prophecies, magic, mythology and secret societies. There was no way for Cassie to systematically sample the sites. She scrolled through page after page of search results, bypassing hundreds of links, waiting for…what? Cassie was confident she would recognize the site that she needed amongst the endless scroll. And she did. As she read about military applications of psychic phenomena, her story began to take shape. Three Web sites and two Jamesons later, Cassie logged off the Internet and began to write her newly retitled story.
The Psychic Spy Network
Tucked away in a small kiosk on the boardwalk here in White Sands Beach, dressed in her lime green polyester bowling shirt and pink capri pants, chain-smoking Pall Malls, manning the express lane to psychic assistance (twelve questions or less), Madame Alexina remembers the Cold War.
"I was in graduate school then. Nineteen seventy-one, I think. Yeah, 1971 and I was studying paranormal psychology. You know, ESP, astral projection, dream research, and stuff like that. Anyway, I was sitting in the psych lab one evening running data on an old-fashioned Wang calculator, trying to demonstrate the validity of the trance state and growing frustrated by the analysis of variance. It was getting pretty late—the place was empty, just me and a few lab rats— when I was approached by two suits. You know the kind, crew cuts, and shiny black shoes. I wasn't really into drugs—shit, I was having out-of-body experiences without pot, but it was 1971, so I figured they were narcs."
But they weren't narcs. According to Madame Alexina, she was approached that night by the CIA and recruited for Project Stargate. At first I was skeptical, but now I've seen the documentation. The Russians were already developing remote spies; the CIA was determined to develop their own psychic spy network.
"That first night, when they tried to tell me about their research priorities, well, I just threw them out of the lab. Anyway, they gave me an encoded access pass and went on their way. It was months before I decided to give them a call."
If you believe Madame Alexina (and I do), she spent the next two decades fighting Communism as a remote spy for the CIA. We can only guess about the ways in which her psychic abilities were employed. Madame Alexina was understandably evasive when I asked about specific assignments, but she seems to have spent a good deal of time keeping watch from afar on Communist activity in Cuba and South America. Madame Alexina maintains that she has never left the country; my own research confirms that she has never applied for a passport. Still she has a detailed knowledge of persons and places in Chile and Nicaragua that cannot be found in any book. And she has way too much information regarding Castro's toilet habits.
According to Madame Alexina, she left the CIA sometime in 1992, worn thin by the strain of two decades of remote spying. The transition to civilian life was not easy for her. Her academic approach to psychic phenomena no longer held her interest and she had great difficulty holding on to a job. She worked briefly in the Atlantic City casinos, spying on card counters and cheats, but she left when she found herself rooting for the cheats to beat the casino. On at least two occasions that she can remember, Madame Alexina was the state's guest at the Greystone Psychiatric Hospital.
On September 11, 2001, Madame Alexina was in the day room at Greystone watching TV when a plane struck the first tower. On September 12, Madame Alexina was discharged. Today, she offers psychic advice (and sunscreen) to tourists in White Sands Beach. I asked her whether that was all she was doing, but Madame Alexina chose not to respond.
You be the judge.
Cassie e-mailed the story to her editor, poured herself a Jameson and water, and turned on the TV. Channel surfing, she sampled a fashion makeover and a reality wedding before stopping to watch Hepburn and Bogart navigating the rapids in The African Queen. Cassie allowed herself to wonder whether Andy MacTavish might be her Humphrey Bogart.
Inspired by her tale of psychic spying, Cassie found herself wishing she, too, had Madame Alexina's gift, but hard as she tried, Cassie could not look in on Andy MacTavish in his home in White Sands Beach. Tuesday night, Cassie went to bed and, again, Andy MacTavish did not call.
On Tuesday night, Cassie fell asleep thinking about Andy MacTavish, but her dream that night, as always, was of her late husband Rob. The details might change from night to night, but the dream never changed, nor did the result.
They were twenty. In her dreams, Cassie and Rob were always twenty. They were at the seacoast. Not the Jersey coast; they were picking their way along huge granite cliffs, ancient, geometric slabs of granite, Ice Age sculpture. The tide was coming in, and they were wet and cold, victims of the collision of tide and cliff. Time was coming in, decades pounding against the granite cliff.
They were twenty. In her dreams, Cassie and Rob were always twenty. They huddled behind the granite outcropping, hiding from time and tide, seeking shelter from the fierce ocean spray. Soaking wet, Cassie pulled off her sweatshirt and shorts, laying them out on the granite to dry.
They were twenty. In her dreams, Cassie and Rob were always twenty. Huddled together in a glacial cave, surrounded by ancient slabs of granite, the crash of ocean on rock obliterating the world beyond, Cassie and Rob made love. Secure in the confines of their private granite universe, they made love and fell asleep.
They were twenty. In her dreams, Cassie and Rob were always twenty. Asleep in the glacial cave, Cassie dreamt of children, of grandchildren, of great-grandchildren. Cassie dreamt of Grandpa Rob and Grandma Cassie. They were seventy. In her dreams, Cassie and Rob were always seventy.
Suddenly, in her dream-within-a-dream, a seventy-year-old Cassie flew into a rage, screaming at a Grandpa Rob that would never be. In her dream, a twenty-year-old Cassie, still sleeping, was pounding on her husband, her pain echoing in the closeness of the glacial cave. And in a condo in Doah, a thirty-something Cassie sat up suddenly in bed, shivering in a sweltering heat, bug-eyed, exhausted.
Cassie yearned for the morning that the sun would rise before she did.
Her First Official Date
Wednesday passed by in a blur. Cassie remembered just enough of the dream to be discomfited all day. She was teetering on the edge and unable to focus. She made a list of her reasons to be cranky, actually wrote out a list, stopping at reason number 342, finally giving in to the truth, unable to avoid the one reason she had refused to write, had refused even to think. It was Wednesday and, still, Andy MacTavish did not call.
When Wednesday, mercifully, drew to a close, Cassie prepared for bed, dreading the dream she knew was waiting for her just on the other side of consciousness. But the dream did not come. Cassie enjoyed an undisturbed night's sleep, was still sleeping soundly when her phone introduced her to morning.
She mumbled into the wrong end of the receiver. "Guh mawnin."
"Good morning, Cassie. I hope I didn't wake you."
"Hunnnh?" Cassie looked at the receiver and tried again. "Is that you…Andy?"
On a beautiful Thursday morning in September, the sun warming her face, the phone call warming her heart, Andy MacTavish phoned Cassie O'Malley and asked her out on a date.
Cassie had waited for years to care again about a date. She had waited for days wondering if he would call. After an uneventful night's sleep, she lay in bed Friday morning counting the hours until she could drive to White Sands Beach for her first official date with Andy MacTavish. He had offered to pick her up in Doah, but Cassie wanted to drive. She needed to know that, at any point in the evening, she could simply say good night and head home. Certainly, she had no intention of spending the night with Andy MacTavish. After ten years of waiting, she would not have a man think she was easy. According to Andy, they would be going to a minor league ball game. Cassie could not honestly attribute her excitement to baseball.
Andy MacTavish dated infrequently. He liked to tell himself that his business responsibilities kept him too busy for meaningful dating, but late at night, alone and lonely, he would allow himself to face the truth—his business success was not the cause of his difficulty getting dates, it was the result. Even now, he would gladly cut back on his wide-ranging business activities in exchange for a social life. It had taken Andy most of the week to prepare himself to call Cassie O'Malley. Sharing hot cocoa after a funeral was not the same as dating. She was beautiful. She was sophisticated. She was ever so slightly disreputable. She would not be interested in Andy MacTavish.
By Thursday, Andy had run out of excuses to not call. And when he did call, she said yes. She said yes. And then suddenly, it was Friday evening, and they were meeting at the ballpark.
Cassie and Andy had agreed to meet at the main gate half an hour before game time. Driving down from Doah, Cassie knew she was going to be late; still, she took the back roads, enjoying the drive through the Barrens, Freddie Hubbard on trumpet, Hubert Laws on flute, enjoying especially the evening's sweet anticipation. When she arrived at the ballpark, Andy was waiting out front, chatting with the ticket takers. It was Cassie's first visit to the cozy brick ballpark; immediately she felt at home. The ticket takers greeted her warmly; as they walked to their seats, Cassie noticed that everyone at the ballpark, the ushers, the vendors, all the personnel, stopped to say hello as Andy hustled them to their seats.
The Sand Skeeters played ball in a 7,200-seat bandbox. Every seat was a good seat, close to the players, but some seats were better than others. Cassie was startled when Andy directed her to the best seats in the ballpark, the owner's luxury suite.
"Are you friends with the owner?" Cassie was curious.
Andy reddened. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."
He didn't know what else to say, so he took the opportunity to offer Cassie a brief history of minor league baseball in New Jersey.
"When the Thunder relocated from London, Canada, to Trenton in 1994, the conventional wisdom was that minor league baseball would not succeed in New Jersey. This, despite a history of minor league teams in New Jersey, which extends back for more than a century. Even the casual fan is familiar with the storied Newark Bears whose 1937 team may have been the greatest minor league team ever. The experts all said that the small town appeal of minor league ball would not take hold again in New Jersey, where south Jersey fans can follow the Phillies and north Jersey fans root for the Yankees or the Mets." Andy gulped for air. "I'm sorry. I hope I'm not boring you with all this."
Cassie was touched by Andy's enthusiasm for minor league baseball. When she fell in love with Rob, she had been attracted to him by the things they shared—their love for jazz, for sports cars, for power politics. With Andy, what she found attractive was how easily he allowed her access to new loves. What she found attractive was the melody in his voice. "No, please. Go on."
"Conventional wisdom said that minor league baseball would not survive, but try to tell that to the Thunder, or the Bears, the Jackals or the Cardinals, the Atlantic City Surf, Lakewood Blue Claws, Camden Riversharks or our own White Sand Skeeters.
"The name pays homage to the Jersey City Skeeters," Andy explained. "Believe it or not, the Jersey City team was named after mosquitoes. Apparently mosquitoes were a problem in Jersey City a hundred years ago. I guess some things never do really change. But the 1903 Skeeters were a great team, one of the best teams in the history of minor league ball."
In the top of the second, the Skeeters' shortstop misplayed a relay, allowing the first run of the ball game. In the bottom of the inning, the Skeeters strung together three consecutive doubles to take a two-one lead in the ball game. Cassie was enjoying the game, but even more, the activity between innings.
Pointing toward the field, Cassie wondered, "What's that?"
Andy chuckled. "That's our mascot, Skeeter. Watch this."
Three youngsters were called down from the stands to race against the mascot. Rounding the bases, Skeeter had a big lead, until, mugging for the fans, he tripped over third. Falling down hard, he was passed by two of the young fans. As he got back to his feet, Skeeter lost his balance, falling again, allowing the youngest of the racers to pass him by and sprint for home. The crowd roared its approval. All three children were crowned "Skeeter Beaters" and given official Sand Skeeter jerseys. Cassie cheered the three young fans and applauded Skeeter's losing effort. "This is fun."
Two innings later, Skeeter was back. "What's a dizzy bat race?" Cassie wanted to know.
"Watch."
Skeeter and a well-endowed female fan, chosen at random, were lining up near home plate. Standing a baseball bat vertically, with one end on the ground, they each bent over their bat, gripped the barrel with both hands, foreheads pressed against the knob end. On command, the two combatants began to spin in circles, the crowd laughing and cheering. Again, on command, they dropped their bats and tried to run a short course along the first base line. Dizzy from spinning, neither Skeeter nor his competitor could maintain a straight path. As the female fan weaved erratically along the foul line, Skeeter staggered out to the pitching mound before collapsing in a heap. In a mock show of concern, the trainer ran out to check on the mascot. After a tense moment, Skeeter struggled to his feet, waved to the crowd and congratulated the winner. Cassie howled in delight. "That looks like fun."
Andy had an idea. "Maybe next time, we'll pick you for the dizzy bat race."
Cassie was pleased to know that Andy was already thinking about a next time. "Maybe."
On Cassie's first date with Andy MacTavish, he took her to watch the Skeeters play baseball. Cassie knew surprisingly little about minor league baseball, but she was confident she would learn a good deal more if she continued to date the principal owner of the White Sand Skeeters.
The Skeeters lost the game that night, four to two, giving up a three-run home run in the ninth inning, but no one seemed particularly upset, not the fans, not Cassie. Even Andy seemed to take the loss in stride.
Andy and Cassie sat in the luxury suite, sipping coffee. Neither of them was ready for the evening to end, but neither were they prepared for the evening to continue. After an awkward pause, Andy invited Cassie to return for the final home game the following weekend. She quickly accepted.
As Andy walked her to her car, a young girl (Cassie sized her up, pegging her as twenty—pretty, but too young to be competition) stopped them for a moment.
"Tough loss tonight, Mr. MacTavish."
"Yes, but still, it was a very nice night."
"I guess. Anyway, good night, Mr. MacTavish."
"Good night, Donna."
As they continued on toward her car, Cassie was curious. "Who was that?"
"I'm sorry, Cassie. I didn't mean to be rude. That's Skeeter."
Midnight Birding
It was nearly midnight when Donna got back to her garden apartment. She was tired and achy from one too many dizzy bat races, grimy from one too many nights inside the mosquito costume. Still, her night was not yet done. She was supposed to meet Billy, who would already be down at the Point, midnight birding.
Donna took a quick shower, shimmied into her tightest size-six jeans and t-shirt, grabbed her iPod and a pint of peppermint schnapps and jumped back in her Miata. She had been skeptical when Billy first invited her to midnight birding, figuring it was just an excuse to suck face, alone in the salt marsh after dark. It turned out that midnight birding was not an excuse to suck face, but it was an opportunity, and she thought Billy was cute, so Donna had seized that opportunity.
Midnight birding had become their regular Friday night date. Driving down to the Point, Donna looked forward to the drinking and the sex, but also to the long periods of almost spiritual waiting, the long hours in the dark listening for the bird calls of the nocturnal migration.
Pulling into the parking lot, Donna recognized Billy's car and Heather's, and three or four more cars belonging to the midnight birders. There was an ancient VW minibus, with its expanding universe of rust overwhelming the original lime green paint job, Buddhist bumper stickers attached like surgical strips to the scarred side panels, offering commonsense advice and spiritual guidance (It is better to be pissed off than pissed on) and each one advertising the grand opening of the van owner's psychic superstore (Om Depot). There was a yellow taxicab, a Rambler, even older than the VW bus, sporting its own brand of bumper sticker wisdom, a short course in American political history (No one wins a nuclear war). The midnight birders were not well-liked by the birder establishment, who saw late-night birding as a threat to their more organized, better-regulated events.
Donna, especially, was disliked by the regular birders who considered her employment with the Sand Skeeters as a betrayal of sorts. When the proposal to build the ballpark had been before the council, most of the birders were opposed to its construction, maintaining that the ballpark would disturb the habitat of migratory waterfowl. The birders were not the only group that opposed the ballpark, but they were the most vocal. It seemed to Donna that the birders' real complaint was that the ballpark would disrupt their bird watching, rather than cause any real disturbance to the birds themselves. It was not an unimportant argument, Donna concluded, but hardly the same thing. Donna kept her opinions to herself, but when she applied for a job with the Skeeters, ultimately becoming Skeeter, the very embodiment of the team, the regular birders roundly disapproved. She was especially pleased to see her friend Heather's car parked at the Point. Heather, like Donna, was more of a party-birder.
Donna took the short path through the high grass to the platform in the marsh. She stopped to say hello to the spiritualist and the cabbie, but Madame Alexina and Spit were deep in conversation. Donna found it nearly impossible to follow as their discussion moved from WMDs to spider holes to judicial appointments to political action committees and back again to WMDs, all without taking a breath. Political analysis and peppermint schnapps were a poor mix.
Donna continued moving, spotting Heather and Billy nearly hidden in the high grass, sharing a blunt. Giving Billy a kiss hello, she drew in musky Billy scent, mixed with the pot and just a hint of Heather. If Billy felt any guilt about messing around in the marsh with Heather while he was waiting for Donna's arrival, he was not going to let it become a problem. He told himself if he was patient, he would soon be making time with both ladies. Donna took a hit off the joint and offered Heather the peppermint schnapps. Taking a long drink, Heather announced she was going back to her car to get more pot.
Billy, wearing a Rob Zombie t-shirt and cut-off jeans, his spiked hair tipped in green, was embarrassed by his fascination with birding and found, in nocturnal birding, a strategic accommodation. Middle America could identify birds by the light of day; it took a truly warped mind to spend the night alone in the salt marsh, or in the bayberry thicket, listening for the call of migratory birds. And it took a freakin' genius to parlay that midnight obsession into sex with Donna and maybe, before long, Heather too.
"C'mon, Billy, I'm exhausted. Let's just tell Heather we're splitting. Okay?"
Before Billy had a chance to respond, Heather came back up the path. Still Billy slipped Donna a glance as if to say, "Don't get jealous, Donna. You know you're my girl." Then he turned his attention to Heather, who was adjusting her bra strap for his benefit.
Reassured as to Billy's intentions, Donna announced that she needed to find a place to pee. She was barely out of range when Heather rubbed up against Billy.
Billy rolled another joint and passed it to Heather. Looking past the joint in his hand, Heather's gaze was fixed on another threatening to peek out of his cut-offs. Donna, returning quickly, still fixing her belt buckle, stepped between Billy and Heather.
Twee-twee-twee. Billy turned away from both girls to listen. "Do you hear that ladies. Yellow-rumped warblers. Cool, huh?"
Donna adjusted her belt. "Huh?"
"Yellow-rumped warblers."
"That's great, Billy. Can we go now?"
Heather poured herself another shot of peppermint schnapps, toasting the warblers. "Yeah, let's go to the diner." It was nearly morning, but the yellow-rumped warblers had changed Billy's plans. "Why don't you guys go on without me? I'll catch up." Donna, her arms now around Billy, gave him a kiss. "You really are a strange one, Billy MacTavish. Don't be long."
Donna and Heather sat at their regular booth at the diner. Donna ordered corned beef hash, eggs over easy, and Heather had a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Between bites, they talked about a lot of stuff, but mostly about Billy.
Heather was curious about Donna's relationship with Billy. "Billy told me you guys are going to the White Stripes concert."
"Yeah, I guess so. I don't know. I'm supposed to work Friday."
"So take the day off. No big whoop."
Donna's radar picked up the signal. "I don't know. It's the last game of the season. Everyone expects me to be there."
"C'mon, Donna. Get real. You run around in a mosquito costume."
"Yeah, I know it's lame, but it's what I do. Besides, Mr. MacTavish has been real good to me."
Heather was surprised by the formality. "You call him Mr. MacTavish?"
"He's my boss."
"Yeah? So? You're going out with his brother."
Donna tried to explain her work ethic to Heather. "Exactly. I don't want anyone saying I get special treatment." Donna reached across the table, spearing a bite of chocolate chip pancake. "Thanks."
Heather pondered the complexity of family relationships. "Billy and his brother don't have much in common, do they?"
"Well, there's a fifteen-year difference in their age. Mr. MacTavish, he's like your father."
"No way."
"Way."
"You and Billy look good together. When'd he do his tips?"
"Last week. I told him purple, but the green looks all right, don't you think?"
Heather thought Billy looked real cute. "If you decide you have to work, is it okay if I use your ticket?"
Heather pushed her pancakes around the plate. Donna picked at her eggs.
Once Upon a Time
Driving home to Doah, her first date with Andy MacTavish officially in the record books, Cassie could still feel the soft tug of his lips on her lips, the sweet taste of life rediscovered. She felt foolish, alone in the car, reciting the platitudes of new love, her life changed completely at a minor league baseball game.
On a back road in the Pine Barrens, sometime after midnight, Cassie remembered a joke her father used to tell.
"How do you pronounce M-a-c-H-e-n-r-y?"
"MacHenry."
"How do you pronounce M-a-c-D-o-n-a-l-d?"
"MacDonald."
"How do you pronounce M-a-c-T-a-v-i-s-h?"
"MacTavish."
"How do you pronounce M-a-c-h-i-n-e?"
The very air in the car reminded her of Andy MacTavish.
It was well past midnight when Cassie let herself into the condo, her answering machine beeping a friendly hello. She turned off the machine without bothering to retrieve the message. It would be Cheyenne checking in, wanting the latest gossip from White Sands Beach. Cassie wasn't ready to talk about her date, even with Cheyenne. Instead, she brewed herself a pot of chamomile tea and pulled out a photo album.
It had been quite some time since Cassie had allowed herself to look at the old photos. Rob playing tennis; Rob on skis; the vacation in Vermont; Rob in his sports car, tanned and fit; the both of them at Princeton graduation, beaming, ready to take on the world; Rob in law school, buried behind his books; the apartment in D.C., Rob smiling for the camera. But his eyes, in all the photos Cassie could see the look in his eyes, or rather the look Rob tried to keep hidden behind his eyes: the fear of going to sleep, the night terrors. She was so young then, too young to be married, much too young to be widowed. Once upon a time everything was possible. And then nothing.
It was time to let go of the guilt, to allow herself another chance to be happy. It was time to fall in love again. That night Cassie dreamt she played third base for the Jersey City Skeeters. With a runner on third and one out, Cassie was alert for the suicide squeeze, when she was distracted by a ringing in her ear. As play continued, the manager walked toward her at third, carrying a telephone. "It's for you," he explained, but the ringing continued. Cassie tried to stay focused on the batter, on Roosevelt Stadium, on Jersey City, on the race for the Eastern League Championship, but gradually it all slipped away, replaced by her own familiar bedroom.
She answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi, Cassie." With Cheyenne's cheerful greeting, Cassie was fully awake. "How was Andy MacTavish?"
"It's all good."
"Details, girl, I need details."
Cassie shared enough of the story to keep Cheyenne at bay before changing the subject. "What's happening in the campaign?"
"Oh wow, Cassie. Last night, I spoke at a meeting of the Friends of the Library and I opened with, listen to this—'Did you hear the one about the traveling salesman and the developer's daughter?'—not the whole joke, mind you, just that line, and most of the audience responded warmly. I'm starting to believe I might actually win this thing."
Cassie gave that some thought before asking, "Do you want to?"
"Maybe. It's not that simple. You know who else asked me that, just last night?" Cheyenne paused for effect. "Rocki."
"Mrs. Big Jim? She came to your event?"
"Yeah, how cool is that? After the meeting, she asked me if I was serious. Asked me to get out of the race, if I was just in it for show. For all the BS he's put her through, she still loves her husband." Cheyenne thought for a moment. "She's okay."
Cassie knew Rocki from when Rocki was a suspect in the death of a lover. "I guess I never saw her at her best."
"I guess."
Cassie suddenly remembered the phone call of the previous night. "Anyway, Cheyenne, I'm sorry I didn't call you back last night. It was late and I was tired."
Cheyenne was startled. "Sorry, girlfriend. If you got a call last night, it wasn't me."
Cassie barely had time to hang up the phone before it began to ring again.
"Hi, Cassie." Her editor, as usual, preferred to be nameless. "I read your piece about psychic espionage. Great story, Cassie. Really awesome."
"Thanks."
"I'm gonna revamp the whole next edition. 'New Jersey remembers the Cold War.' Bomb shelters, air raid drills. Did you know that 'the button' was made in New Jersey?"
"Really?"
"Does it matter?"
"Morris, did you try to call me last night?"
"Me, no. Anyway, I've assigned one of our new writers to work up some stuff to wrap around your piece, but if you've got any more Cold War stories, I want to see them ASAP. Gotta run. You're the best."
Cassie acted quickly, before the phone could ring a third time, retrieving the deleted message from the previous night.
"Hi, Cassie. I wanted to make sure you got home all right." Andy coughed. "And to tell you how much fun I had."
Once upon a time everything was possible. Again.
Work in Progress
"So, sweetheart … what've you got?" Cassie chuckled. Her editor was always looking for more. "I've got an idea. It's not what you asked for, but it is a war story." "Is it good?" was all her editor really wanted to know, "And is it ready?" "Yes. And no. Gimme a break, Morris." Her editor knew that she hated to send him anything before she had a chance to polish every word.
"Look, I need it fast. Can you send me the draft?" Cassie hung up the phone without answering. Morris would have to wait until she was satisfied with the piece. Pouring herself a drink of Tullamore Dew, she looked at the work in progress.
The Mosquito Capital of New Jersey
The honeybee celebrates its thirtieth anniversary as New Jersey's official state insect, Cassie read, and yet this event passes virtually unnoticed. No parades. No banner headlines. No proclamations. Just a small gathering of aging bees meeting in a run-down lodge hall near the parkway, a keg of lo-carb mead, getting buzzed, remembering the good old days when Governor Byrne had invited them down to the statehouse for the signing of A-671.
The honeybee may hold the title, but another insect can surely lay claim to being the people's champion. And so, let us devote a moment to this other insect, the unofficial insect, the insect that sits atop the New Jersey food chain, the insect that myths are made of—the mosquito!
Imagine a simpler time here in the Garden State, a time before safety warnings, before health risks, before car seats, before cancer, a time when generations of happy children pedaled furiously down the street, inhaling deeply, enveloped by the fog of industrial-strength insecticide, the sweet narcotic of the municipal mosquito spray.
If the mosquito is the unofficial state insect, then the mosquito capital is most assuredly Jersey City. One hundred years ago, Jersey City honored its hordes of marauding mosquitoes, naming its minor league baseball team the Jersey City Skeeters. Mosquitoes were so prevalent in Jersey City that they were implicated by the Germans in the attack on Black Tom Island at the start of the First World War.
If you don't believe the story that I am about to tell you, just visit Liberty State Park and look for the Circle of Flags.
Once upon a time, Black Tom Island occupied a spot in the waters between Jersey City and New York City. In 1916, before the U.S. entered the war, Black Tom Island served as a top-secret munitions depot, storing war materiel for shipment to England. Early on the morning of July 31, the island exploded, shock waves from the explosion causing damage to the Statue of Liberty, and panic in New York as well as New Jersey. Eventually we learned that the explosion was the result of German saboteurs.
We should not be surprised that the Germans, when confronted with the evidence, denied any role in the explosion. What may come as something as a surprise to those of you who are not familiar with the story of Black Tom Island is the alternate theory of the crime offered by the Germans.
The German defense? Not us, they insisted. And who did they suggest was the real culprit? That's right, mosquitoes.
Cassie sipped her Irish whiskey and smiled, pleased with her unfinished story, anticipating her editor's all-too-predictable response.
Every Night that Week
The telephone lines hummed all week in Doah and in White Sands Beach, long conversations and brief messages traveling back and forth between Cassie and Cheyenne, Cassie and Morris, Donna and Billy, Donna and Heather, Heather and Billy, Billy and Andy, Cassie and Andy, telephone calls exploring questions of mayoral politics, Cold War incidents and oddities, concert tickets, minor league baseball, loyalties and love…
Cheyenne was feeling the excitement of her mayoral campaign. "The experts say you've got to put your own negatives out there for the voters to see. That way, you control the message."
Cassie was skeptical. "Well, did you hear the one about the traveling salesman and the developer's daughter? It definitely puts your negatives right out front."
"It's branding, Cassie. Its sound bites. And it makes the mayor look bad if he attacks me."