123118

A Price Beyond Pearls

My feet were up and my socks were white. I wiggled my big toe and considered whether it was time to get new shoes. Maybe this week the check would come in on the blackbird case I'd solved for the Royal School of Culinary Arts. Maybe. And maybe Lunar Cheese Corp. would crawl back out of bankruptcy and I could sell my 10 shares. My name is Hasp Deadbolt. I'm a P.I.

The door slammed open, glass rattling. A 2-meter lobster stormed into my office. He slapped a newspaper down on my desk and clacked his chelae in my face. The ceiling fan, a little off kilter, broke the ensuing silence with its wobbly click click click.

The lobster tapped the paper, leaned forward. “Whadda ya call this, Deadbolt? Keepin' a lid on it?” Clack! My gooseneck lamp was a spark-spraying stub.

My feet hit the floor. So did my ass. My wife Alma likes my nose and I want to keep it, for her sake.

“Cool it, Red,” I replied, scrambling to my feet and straightening my shirt. “Keep your shell on. I haven't seen the paper.”

He flipped it around. The headline read “Homarus-on-Homarus Violence: Bay Cannibal Slays SCUBA Instructor.”

I shrugged. “They didn't get this from me. Maxillipeds and eyestalks floating by Pier 13. No way to keep that quiet. But see that forest-green stain in the photo? Some of that blood is the killer's. And he's missing a right maxilla. I'll find him.” Before he regenerates, I added silently.

“You'd better.”

He was down the stairs and out the door before I saw the chunks missing from the front of my desk. “Son of a witch!” That was going on his bill.

Chester Homarus had hired me to find the infamous Decapod Destroyer. The cops were hopeless, and the Lethal Lobster was giving all Decapoda a bad name. Like “Ten-foot” wasn't bad enough already.

I put on a worn suede jacket and hit the street. Coffee shop on the corner still closed. This whole part of town was too full of for-rent dumps. Crumbling brick apartment buildings abandoned and occupied only by skittering vermin, unglazed windows whistling into the wind, garbage strewn about and piled up in windrows. Precisely why I could afford to keep my office here.

The downtown police station was an ugly brick, built in the decade before I was born. The wiring was in disrepair and the place smelled like an abandoned swimming pool. Lynne was at her desk in cubicle city. She was a friendly blonde about my age. She'd liked me since I changed her baby sister's flat tire for her at 3 in the morning.

“What can I do you for, Hotcakes?” She blew at a lock of hair hanging in front of her face. I poured some sludge into her “visitor” mug.

“What've you got on those two right maxillas fished out of the harbor yesterday? “I asked.

“Maxillae. Not a damn thing. Two-month backlog at the DNA lab.” She waved to the battered wooden chair beside me.

I sank into it like a third strike hitting a catcher's glove. “Come on. I know those tests have gotten fast and cheap.” I took a sip, shuddered, and poured the coffee into the trash.

Lynne shook her head. “Not for us. Not yet. City's still using a vintage tester bigger than my apartment.”

“Not even for the Horrid Homarid?” Not even.

On my way out I passed a room containing a cluttered white board. The door was open, and the room was empty. Naturally, I ducked inside. I thought the board might contain some new information about the Deadly Decapod. But this was about a completely different case. A whole school full of Crassostrea virginica youngsters (oysters, to those who don't dig the Latin tongue) had been abducted a couple of weeks ago. I remembered reading about it. Now, their empty shells had been found. The kids had all been murdered. Devoured.

A hand landed on my shoulder like a sack of cement on a loading dock floor. “What gives, Deadbolt,” someone said in a voice like a truckload of gravel. I turned around, and looked up. And up. Detective Sergeant Wilson must've gotten human growth hormone in his mother's milk. That's the only explanation I can come up with. He isn't skinny, either. He gets asked to play Santa Claus more than pickup basketball. “I wasn't aware you were working with us on this case.” He shooed me out of the room and closed the door behind us.

“Looking for the facilities,” I replied, moving towards the stairs, “have you renovated since the last time I was here?”

“Have you been here before?” He was reaching for my arm when a couple of patrol officers stepped out of a side hall between us. I strode off quickly and hit the stairwell.

Back out on the street, I wasn't sure what to do next. The oyster shells had been discovered in a heap out behind an abandoned boat-building shop a few miles north of the city. But of course, that wasn't my case. I needed to find that injured lobster. It was about lunchtime, and I headed down to chelicerate city. This is an area along the waterfront where a lot of crustaceans hang out, and I thought I might be able to find out something about the murder. I ducked into Pinch's, and took a table in the corner. The area away from the bar wasn't too crowded yet, because this place was not known for the quality of its food. Or of the clientele. When the waitress stopped by I ordered a beer, and I mentioned that I was looking for information. I gave her a tip for her trouble.

“There will be more if I learn anything useful,” I said. She shrugged all of her shoulders and sashayed away. I wasn't sure she was going to pass my request along, but a few minutes later a blue crab sidled up to my table. “Have a seat,” I said. His claws snapped together nervously, and I was afraid he was going to run. I passed him a couple of bills and offered to buy him a drink, but he said he couldn't stay. He did sit down, and fiddled with the graffiti carved into the stained wooden table. “Who killed the lobster?” I asked, but he just blinked. “I know he lost a limb, have you seen him?” Nothing. I asked him every way I could think of, but he just kept on messing with the table and he didn't say a word. When he finished his beer, he left. I stood up to leave myself, and that's when I noticed the fresh scratches across the table. A crude drawing of a saber toothed mermaid. What the hell? It had to mean something. I took out a pocket knife and defaced the drawing quickly. It was time to go.

There were some other people I would like to talk to about dead decapods, but I wouldn't be able to get to them for hours, so I decided to take a drive up the coast. Alma wasn't busy, so she went with me. I rolled down the windows to make a poor man's convertible and soon we were flying up the highway, the wind in our hair and the sun on our shades. For most of the way I took the inland road, because there was less traffic. Rolling hills dotted with the white puffs of sheep, windmills, weatherbeaten old farmhouses, and clusters of trees in the stream valleys. Not like the shining white mansions lined up along the sea cliffs on the “A”. When we got close I turned left on a shell road called Carpenter Bay Road. It wasn't named for a woodworker, at least not directly. The Carpenter family had lived at the end of the road for generations. Gradually they dwindled, and no one lives on the property now, but they still won't sell the land to developers. The road dead ended on Carpenter Bay, a small and shallow water body whose waves lapped against the rotten pilings of Carpenter Boatbuilding Inc.

Nothing left standing besides the swaybacked boathouse, and a couple of small shacks that looked like they had been used for storage. In a previous century.

“Are you sure you're up for this,” I asked again, as we picked our way through thorny scrub toward the back of the boathouse,”might be kind of gruesome.”

“For God's sake,” Alma snapped, “we had raw oysters for dinner just last week!”

“Okay, okay.” We continued on our way in silence, but as we did so a somber mood took hold of me, and Alma put her arm through mine just before we turned the corner and beheld the site where the shells had been found.

There wasn't much to see anymore. The investigators had picked up all the shells. There was a scattering of reflective bits that could've been flecks of mica if we didn't know better. I wasn't interested in the children's remains, anyway. I was hoping for some information about the killer or killers that might have been missed by the local police.

“What do you think this is?” I pointed to some areas where the ground looked like it had been swept by some heavy object. “It's almost like a footprint, but not a human one,” I said.

“What could have caused it?”

“I don't know, but I may know someone who does.” I took pictures from several different directions and distances. We found plenty of human footprints, but we couldn't tell which had been made by police investigators and whether the large creature whose tracks we'd found had butchered the oysters alone.. “Too bad there were no eyewitnesses.”

“What about the gulls?” Alma asked.

“Birdbrains!,” I said. “Everything's a joke to them.” These were laughing gulls; they're the worst. You never get anything useful from them.

Professor Dani Martini is a marine biologist at the Institute of Marine Sciences. She studies tracks. You would know at first glance that she had tenure, because anyone with that much facial hardware isn't trying to suck up to old guys. Her small office was crowded with books, computer hardware, skulls of marine creatures, framed photos, and other bric-a-brac. I'd had to shift a half-meter stack of papers just to find a place to sit.

“What do you think?” She had been scrutinizing my photos for 15 minutes.

“Hmm. At least a ton, I'd say. Something more at home in the water than on land. See? This is the mark of a flipper.” She tapped a pencil against one of her monitors.

“Sooo, can you identify individuals?”

“Heck no, Hasp. I can't even tell a walrus from an elephant seal. It's very rare to be able to recognize individuals from tracks. Some kind of unique deformity is about the only way.”

I should be so lucky. Still, I knew something I hadn't known before. I was looking for a large pinniped. And then I remembered the crab's carving. A saber-toothed mermaid? A walrus! And how many of them frequented the waterfront?

One, as it turned out. Doug Pinni worked for cash under the table, doing whatever called for a strong flipper and tight lips. As far as I could tell he had only one friend: an unemployed busboy named Lewis Carpenter with a soft spot for oysters on the half shell. Carpenter! How very interesting. Alma offered to find out how he was connected to the boatbuilding Carpenters. I decided to pay a visit to Doug the walrus. Then I really needed to do something to keep Chester pacified.

Doug lived in a one-room shack at the south end of the bay. Not much there but an industrial size freezer, a well-appointed kitchen, and a pool that communicated directly with the bay. This seemed to be where he slept. I knocked on the gray-plank wall.

“Come,” I thought I heard, so I did. Doug was wallowing in his pool, sucking on a hand-rolled smoke more than an inch in diameter.

“Damn, you ain't Lew!”

“We can be distinguished with the naked eye. The name's Dead-”

The walrus surged out of the pool and pinned me to the wall. “I know who you are,” it growled, one yard-long tusk pressing into my ribcage. “What are you doin' here?”

“Doug Pinni?”

“Duh. I am the walrus!”

“I can place you at the mass-oystering site on Carpenter Bay when those kids were shucked. Tell me you didn't kill and eat any of those children.” With a wordless bellow the walrus picked me up and threw me through the wall.

When I came to I made a mental note: don't barge in on a 2-ton walrus and throw your weight around. It was pitch dark by the time I limped up to the streetcar stop at Oysterers Wharf, and nearly midnight when I got home.

I smelled chowder. I tried to sneak into the bathroom to clean up before Alma saw me, but I guess she'd gotten pretty hungry waiting. She stepped into the hall, did a double-take, and screamed.

“You shoulda seen the other guy,” I mumbled. Then she hugged me and I screamed myself.

“Oh H.D.,” she moaned, “what am I gonna do with you?!”

“Bath, dinner, strong drink?” I suggested. But I must've dropped off before the bath was ready and that was all she wrote until morning.

The next day I hurt all over and I stayed in. I probably wouldn't have gotten far. A day of recuperation meant that I couldn't put the screws to Lewis Carpenter. I really should have tracked him down before tackling the walrus. Now, they had time to get together, come up with consistent stories, and tie up loose ends. There was little I could do from home, so I took a nap.

About 3 in the afternoon I got a visit from Lynne. I was lying on the couch, aching, and trying to make a to-do list.

“Deadbolt! You look terrible!” she cried. Her arms twitched.

“No hugs!” I whispered.

“You'll never guess!” she said. I just shook my head. “Carpenter's been found dead!” I blinked.

“Murdered, probably.”

“Makes sense,” I replied. Now what. That worm could have been my best witness against the walrus. “How did he die?” I asked.

“Beaten to death and thrown in the bay,” she said. Talk about loose ends! I was back to square one on the oysters, and hadn't made even that much progress on the lobster killing. But hold on, the crab had suggested that the two crimes were connected. Maybe the walrus knew who was killing lobsters. This time I wouldn't go unprepared.

Walruses are pretty nearly blind, so I went at night. I wore black and carried a flashlight with a dim red bulb. I walked softly.

The shack was dark and quiet. A light breeze carried the scent of the sea. A few of the brighter stars twinkled through a thin haze. I slipped through the open door.

The light came on. Pinni was staring right at me. “You want some more?” he growled. His muscles tensed.

“I want to talk,” I said. “I think you can help me.”

“Why should I?” He didn't sound inclined to do me any favors, but he was no longer poised to charge.

“Someone's been murdering decapods,” I said, leaning against the wall and crossing my legs at the ankle.

“Not me, I can't stand 'em. An oyster, now, or a quahog: yum! But lobsters? I'd have to be starving!”

I shook my head. “I know you wouldn't eat a lobster. But you might know who did. I've been hired to find out who killed the SCUBA teacher. Only that. I have no reason to bother the police with anything else.” I disgusted myself by saying it, a little. Does knowing that oyster parents never even know their spawn, that oysters lack the tiniest shred of empathy, salve the conscience? A little.

The walrus galumphed toward me. I tensed, ready to dive for the door if it charged. It might already be too close.

“Won't do you any good,” the walrus said, “what I have to tell you, but I'll hold you to your promise.” It opened its mouth wide, raising yellowed tusks. I nodded.

“It's not some crazed serial killer,” Pinni continued. I raised one eyebrow. “Two killers. The second death was revenge for the first killing. So there won't be any more. Do nothing and the furore will die down soon enough.”

“The one that's out there needs to be brought to justice,” I retorted angrily, then jumped back at the walrus' bark. He barked again and I realized he was laughing.

”You poor sap, you won't get paid. You were set up from the beginning.” The walrus dove into the pool and was gone.

This was bullshit. I'd seen Chester almost right after the second killing. He hadn't been maimed. But what else could Pinni have meant? Did the walrus mean that Chester had paid another lobster to kill and eat the SCUBA instructor? That seemed … implausible. Chester didn't have the kind of money that would require. The walrus had said “revenge,” which implied a connection between Chester and the first victim. I hurried back towards home. First thing in the morning I'd check out the back numbers of the paper at the library.

I walked up to the house and saw that the door was open a crack. No way Alma was going to let that happen. Something was wrong. I took the alley, more like a brick tunnel, narrow as it was, and glanced in the windows on my way. Living room, nothing; den: nothing; kitchen. Nothing. Back door hallway, nothing. Second floor bathroom window doesn't lock. I had long since figured out how to break in silently. My ribs wouldn't thank me, but I thought I'd make it. I climbed the wall, digging in to the toe holds, till I was within reach of the window. I stepped up a bit more, avoiding the loose brick, and gently pushed up the sash. I leaned in and the sash dropped. Tears came to my eyes. I felt like an icepick had come through the top of my head. I bit my tongue, waited while the pain subsided to a pounding that kept time with my pulse. I didn't hear anything stir inside the house. After a minute I climbed over the sink (ouch!) and went to the door. Listened. Out in the hall. I could hear the ticking of the bedroom clock. I went that way. The bed was made, nothing out of place. I searched the whole house: spare room (empty, but it hadn't been for long), Alma's work room, the other bathroom, the 5 rooms on the first floor. My home office looked like someone had rummaged through it, as usual. On the kitchen table I found a note, propped against the salt shaker. In Alma's hand it read “Your office. Hurry!” I was working blind, not knowing what Chester wanted, how he related to the killer's two victims, or what I'd find at the office. I needed time to make sense of it all, and time had just run out.

*

I parked right in front of my building, locked the car, and walked in the front door. I took the stairs. I haven't trusted the elevator since I found out what the maintenance schedule was: the mechanism gets a lube job every time hell freezes over, need it or not. When I got to the 4^th floor I paused to catch my breath. Outside my office I paused again. Were they here? Yes! I didn't hear the ceiling fan, which I never turned off. I knocked. Hard!

Some quiet muttering. I knocked again. After the third time, Alma said “Who is it?”

I didn't say anything, just gave 'em the old shave-and-a-haircut one more time. Someone ripped the door open. Chester stuck his head out. “Deadboooooolt!!” he screamed. I reached out, grabbed his right maxilla, and tore it off. Then I waved it in his face. The real new maxilla, growing from the stub the diver had left him with a few days ago, curled involuntarily as he glared and flexed his chelae.

“Was the first victim your son? Your brother?” I tossed him the plastic maxilla. “Look, it doesn't matter. No matter your justification, you have to pay your debt.” He opened his mouth, but it was Alma who spoke.

“Hasp! What if Chester had killed me? Would you have turned him over to the custodians of justice?”

“Heck no. I'd have torn out his limbs one by one. And fed them to him. But that's--”

She turned to the lobster. “Run. You have 15 minutes.” He didn't move. “GO!!” she screamed. He went.

The cops didn't hesitate when I told them Chester had overpowered me and skedaddled. They boiled out of the station like a nest of stomped fire ants, but they never found him.

Later, I mailed a photo of the walrus drag marks I'd found behind the Carpenter's boathouse to Lynne. I hoped the cops would figure that one out on their own. Since I had promised not to tell.

End

Reference: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Walrus_and_the_Carpenter

More Hasp Deadbolt: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42875