Secrets Don't Sink, page 6
Why didn’t you mention this yesterday?
I didn’t really know what to make of it. I was more focused on the fact he said he might be in trouble, and the angry parking spot thief seemed a more likely perp, but I watch a lot of crime shows. The spouse is usually the prime suspect.
I’ll pass it along. Screenshot your message and text it to me. After a minute, he sent a second text. Unless it’s too personal.
It wasn’t personal.
It might be helpful information for the investigation.
Just as I was about to dig into my research, another message came through.
BTW, I hope I didn’t cause problems with your boyfriend.
He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t know what he is yet.
I’m surprised he hasn’t come up in our conversations.
Neither does your relationship with Emily.
Touché. Can we meet tonight after work? To talk.
I promised Viv I’d watch her sing at Nautilus tonight.
I could meet you there.
I’m trying to get there in time for her 8pm set.
I waited for a response, but after a few moments of silence, I set down my phone and grabbed a pen. My conversation with Holden had caused a rush of warmth to creep into my cheeks, which I slapped. Focus, Audrey.
I opened the book to page one.
Jonathan Chatterton was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, in 1831. He arrived in the Washington Territory in 1858 along with his young wife Madeleine, a native of Herefordshire, England.
Jonathan believed the location of present-day Chattertowne, a pristine inland valley nestled alongside a crystal-clear river at the foothills of a lone peak, was the perfect area to build his logging empire. He’d descended from a multi-generational legacy of logging and shipbuilding along the Merrimack River and so possessed the skills and know-how to tame the land and make his mark.
I stopped reading and scowled. I was already annoyed with the book and what felt like its glorification of one white dude while completely ignoring the story of the Coast Salish, the Indigenous People who’d resided in the valley at the time of his arrival.
My ninth grade Washington State history teacher had only allotted a measly three weeks to teach us about the Coast Salish who have called this area home since long before the explorers/invaders and colonizers arrived, but it was enough for me to understand the importance of learning their history and honoring them by highlighting their story and culture whenever discussing our region and I’d read every book about the topic I could find.
I’d learned that the tribes of the Pacific Northwest had a robust economy with an extensive and competitive system of exchanging goods until it got mucked up by so-called pioneers who believed they had a better way of operating. That way was only better for the pioneers.
About three years prior to Jonathan showing up, Chief Si’ahl (Seattle), Territorial Governor Isaac Stevens, and representatives from the Duwamish, Suquamish, Snoqualmie, Snohomish, Lummi, Skagit, and Swinomish Nations–along with other local tribes—had met at Mukilteo to sign the Point Elliott Treaty establishing reservations and rights. No surprise, the government didn’t hold up their end of the treaty. That paved the way for opportunists like Jonathan Chatterton to claim large swaths of land and then name it after themselves.
This book was turning out to be little more than Chattertowne propaganda, but I kept reading and jotting notes in hopes the unvarnished history its title promised would yield something worth discussing in my articles.
Within a few short years of stepping foot in the valley, Jonathan’s vision had become a reality. The logging industry grew, particularly in the business of shingles, as did his wealth and stature in the area. Chattertowne officially came into existence in 1861. His wife Madeleine died in childbirth in 1862, leaving Jonathan with a newborn son, Michael. The midwife who’d attended her, a Flathead woman (Bitterroot-Salish) called Nettie, stayed on to care for the child after Madeleine’s death.
In 1924 Councilman Arthur Robinson led a movement to rename Chattertowne to Swobilak.
“Wait. Why does it skip from his wife dying to the kerfuffle about the town’s name over fifty years later? That’s a lot of history to yada-yada.”
I flipped back and forth. I’d been reading page thirty. The next page skipped to thirty-five.
“There are pages missing!” I yelled and then cowered when I remembered I was surrounded by coworkers and thin walls. I repeated in an excited whisper, “There are pages missing!”
The binding was still intact, but the pages were gone. Some of the others were loose, but the missing ones had been torn from the book, as evidenced by the ragged remnants of where they’d once been. I flipped backward a page and continued reading in hopes of getting context for what came before and after the missing information might reveal what should have been there.
Mr. Robinson, a descendent of one of Chattertowne’s original settler families, announced at a Council meeting he’d been informed by a Salish elder Chattertowne was originally called Swobilak. He asserted the woman had told him—on her death bed—Swobilak was a previously undocumented sub-tribe of Salish. The elder had succumbed to smallpox one year prior, so there was no way to verify the story. Robinson demanded the town be renamed in her honor and in honor of the original inhabitants. Robinson also claimed the woman had attended the signing of the Point Elliot Treaty.
Truth be told, Arthur Robinson’s underlying motivation for the name change was not historical accuracy but instead was a blow across the bow of his nemesis, Mayor Frank Chatterton. Political rivals who’d turned city council meetings into chaos with their bickering, Arthur begrudged the relegation of his own family’s pioneering legacy to the back pages of town history, while Frank believed governing the town was his birthright as a Chatterton.
A linguistics professor from the University of Washington was able to clarify one thing: the word wasn’t Swobilak, as Robinson had clumsily attempted to pronounce it, but x̌ʷubiləxʷ. It also didn’t signify an unknown tribe. It was, in fact, a Lushootseed word meaning be quiet.
My bitter laughter echoed off the thin walls.
How was I supposed to draft an accurate article about Chattertowne’s history which wasn’t going to upset the entire town? All I had to work with was a narcissistic city founder, displaced and ignored First Nations People, petty ego-filled arguments, and a failed crusade to rename the town the Lushootseed word for “shut up.”
I leaned back and inhaled deeply, followed by an exhale I hoped would expel the stress which had overcome me.
This assignment was proving to be more complicated than I’d anticipated. What I’d thought would be a fun retrospective piece was now peppered with landmines for potential backlash.
I took another deep breath.
Regardless of what people claimed, they didn’t really want their media to provide truth unless it fit with their worldview and preferred narrative.
My next cleansing breath was interrupted by a text from Holden.
See you then.
Chapter Eight
The sky was moonless, and the stars were hidden behind the fog as I approached Nautilus. The club was situated between two antique stores, already closed for the evening. A chilly wind blew from the river, so I pulled my jacket tight against my body. The bouncer, Sam, stood watch outside the entrance. He greeted me with a smile and a brief hug before he stamped an anchor on my hand with glowing ink and waved me inside.
The interior of the club was dim as well, lit by what appeared to be original Edison lightbulbs eking out their final remnants of illumination.
In its previous life, Nautilus had been a grungy fisherman’s hangout, a place where men could do…well, whatever men used to do before having to slog home to the responsibilities of a wife and kids after a day (or longer) trolling the river or forging the Sound. When they weren’t in the choppy seas off the coast of Alaska, many of Nautilus’s former clientele commuted an hour each way to Ballard, home of the larger fishing vessels. My father claimed he encountered three of the guys from Deadliest Catch shortly before the bar changed ownership a couple years ago, but I’d yet to verify his story.
I’d always imagined crusty, white-bearded old salts in Ernest Hemingway-style cable-knit sweaters downing one foaming pint of ale after another while regaling the crowd with tall tales of sirens and sea monsters. More likely, it was the hiding place of guys in rubber overalls slimed with fish guts hoping to avoid dinner with their in-laws or their daughter’s brutal nightly performance of “Fur Elise” on the piano.
Gentrification and new management had brought with it a much different vibe, jazzy and sophisticated with a touch of hipster. Padded orange velvet booths replaced worn barstools. In the back hall leading to the restrooms hung the last remaining vestige of a bygone era, a pay phone once used by husbands making excuses to their wives for why they’d be late for dinner.
“Hey!” I smiled as I approached the table.
Viv wore a burgundy satin dress and a long strand of pearls. Her short blond hair was accented by a twenties-era flapper-style rhinestone band strapped across her forehead. Our friend Amy and her husband Isaac were at the table with Viv.
“How’d the first set go?” I squeezed into the booth.
Amy responded on Viv’s behalf. “She slayed it, as always.”
Vivienne appeared pleased but embarrassed by the compliment. “I feel it went well.”
Amy and Isaac had been in the middle of regaling Viv with stories of their recent honeymoon, an amazing trip to Santorini replete with food, architecture, and stunning sunsets. Eventually, however, the conversation turned to Marcus’s death. I gave an update based on the latest information I’d received from Holden.
“Well, look who’s here,” Vivienne crowed. “Speak of the handsome devil himself. His ears must be burning!”
I peered into the inky room, but the crowd obstructed my view. “Who?”
“Mr. Dark and Sexy himself, and he looks to be alone. Left the Mrs. home tonight, hmm? Someone’s on the prowl.”
“She’s not the Mrs.. They’re still just engaged.”
Vivienne assessed me with the laser focus of a sister’s intuition. “Somebody’s feeling defensive. What’s that about?”
The dim lighting mercifully shrouded my flaming face as Holden approached.
“Evening.” His teeth gleamed, and the curls on his head were damp and glistening. He wore medium-washed jeans and a quarter-zip burgundy sweater with a black t-shirt. In his left hand, he held an old-fashioned glass half-filled with an amber liquid on the rocks.
“Well, hello there, Holden. How are you this fine night? Out keeping an eye on the city? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Chattertowne’s own Bruce Wayne. Or should I call you the Dark Knight?”
I kicked Viv under the table.
“I’m good, Viv. Hey, guys.” He nodded at Isaac and Amy. “Audrey, can I talk to you?”
Easing my way out of the booth, I avoided looking at my sister, who I was certain wore an expression of judgmental curiosity. I followed Holden to an unlit corner away from the crowd.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just didn’t want an audience for this conversation.”
He pulled out a chair for me, and I tried to play it cool, used to that sort of chivalry.
“What’s going on?”
He sat across from me and took a deep breath. I held mine.
“The coroner completed her initial report. Blunt force trauma to the head prior to Marcus falling in.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he didn’t purposely go for a swim.”
“Well, it is February, and the water smells like the drainage runoff of a sardine cannery, so I’m not tremendously surprised by that revelation. Blunt force trauma isn’t always inflicted by another person, though, right?”
“You’re right, but I read over the initial police report. There wasn’t anything found in the vicinity with blood on it which could’ve been a contact point. No stationary objects near where they think he went into the water. Whatever his head encountered must’ve either gone in with him or been removed from the scene. There was, however, blood spatter found on the dock in the covered area of the marina.”
“So, you’re saying…”
He cracked his knuckles. “CPD officially believes Marcus was murdered.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, head wounds bleed a lot.”
“You speaking from experience?”
“I am, actually. I once cracked my head open by standing up under a glass escalator and you would have thought…well, let’s just say my poor friend who was standing next to me looked like Carrie at the prom. My point is the perp definitely would’ve gotten at least some blood on them.”
Holden smirked. “I guess it depends on the angle the perp used to inflict the blow and where the spatter went as a result. There wasn’t a whole lot of blood on the scene, which kind of contradicts your supposition. Some people are more likely to bleed externally, while others have more of a propensity for internal contusions and brain bleeds. From what I read in the coroner’s initial report, Marcus fell into the second category. I was told a more comprehensive report with all those details is pending. I’ll try to get my hands on it as soon as I can.”
“There’s no chance he hit his head after going into the water, even if he were pushed in? What if he accidentally bonked his head on a sailboat jib, and then stumbled around in an injured state before falling in somewhere else?”
Holden laughed, which seemed inappropriate and crass, considering our mutual friend lay cold on a slab in the morgue.
“I think that’s a bit of a stretch. Based on the lack of significant water in his lungs and the condition of his skin, the coroner says he wasn’t in the water more than an hour, most likely fifteen to thirty minutes. He was dead, or close to it, before he went in. Otherwise, he would’ve sunk instead of floated. When lungs fill with water, bodies tend to sink, ya know?”
“Dead people don’t breathe.”
“Not typically.” He chuckled again.
Irritation warmed my cheeks. “What I mean is his lungs didn’t fill with water because he wasn’t breathing. And he wasn’t breathing because he was already dead, which means the impact on his head must’ve been pretty significant for practically instant death.”
“That about sums it up.”
“Marcus had the temperament of a lost puppy dog. Who could have gotten so angry with him they’d want to literally bash his head in, and why? That sounds like a lot of anger for one whack.”
“It does. What’re you thinking?”
“It feels personal.”
“I agree.”
I chewed my lower lip. “The man I saw on the docks seemed angry enough to hurt someone. Do the police think he might have done it?”
“Too soon to say. They’re looking at everyone right now. Including you.”
“Me?” I reared back. “Why me?”
“When I told Kimball you’d heard from Marcus not long before his death and you two had a past romantic relationship, she became adamant she needed to speak with you directly, ASAP. I’m guessing you’ll get a call in the morning.”
“I’m a witness, not a suspect!”
“Right now, everyone’s a suspect. The only thing they know for certain is the motive wasn’t robbery. Marcus’s wallet and phone were still in his pocket. Unfortunately, the damage to his phone rendered it inoperable, and they’re unlikely to get any information from it, like who he might have messaged or called right before he died. Kimball said they’re bringing in a forensic artist from Seattle to work with you sometime this week to try and identify the guy you saw since he may have seen something that could help the investigation.”
“Or he’s the killer.”
“Audrey, you’re making a pretty big leap from snarling parking spot thief to murderer.” He reached out to pat my hand, treading dangerously close to the condescension zone.
“I know that, but if you’d seen him, you’d know why he freaked me out.”
Holden paused. “There’s one more thing I haven’t told you about the crime scene.”
“Do I even want to know? Don’t tell me if it’s going to give me nightmares. I already know I’m gonna have trouble sleeping with all this talk about cracked skulls and blood spatter.”
He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “They found traces of wood in his wound. Initial comparison with wood from the dock isn’t a match.”
“What else could it be?”
“I dunno, maybe splinters from the handle of a wooden rake or shovel.” He cupped a handful of mixed nuts from the bowl on the table and popped them in his mouth.
“Why would someone bring a rake to a marina?” It was my turn to be condescending. “There aren’t any leaves there. Also, if you had a shovel for a weapon, wouldn’t it make more sense to use the shovel side rather than the handle? I’m no seasoned killer, but that seems like common sense.”
“Probably. You might not want to use that argument in your interview with Kimball, though. Besides, if we’re talking about a crime of passion, common sense rarely enters the picture. What you’re talking about is pre-meditated murder. I’m just brain-storming possible weapons. Hell, it could be a hockey stick or a rolling pin for all I know…and, before you ask, no, I don’t have an explanation for why someone would bring those items to a marina either.” He tugged at the zipper on his sweater even though it was already pulled down as far as it could go.
“Fifteen to thirty minutes. That means Marcus may have still been alive when I went into the marina office.”
He reached for my hand again. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
“It’s just, to have been right there when it happened…if I’d seen him, maybe….” My voice faltered.
“You can’t think about it that way. My window overlooks the marina, and if I had looked out, maybe I could’ve seen what was happening and tried to stop it, or, maybe not, if they were inside the covered boat house. Woulda-coulda’s won’t do either of us any good at this point.”
