Flyin' Solo, page 5
It might be true, but this wasn’t the way I wanted to tell Sam about it. ‘Long time ago.’ I smiled, feeling suddenly like a referee in a fight. I saw Sam had on his cop face, taking everything in and giving nothing away. He nodded.
‘Campbell tells me you’re a detective with Metro.’
Sam nodded again. ‘That’s right.’
‘Homicide?’
‘That’s right.’
Fly’s face clouded. ‘You, uh, probably know, our accountant was, uh, killed not long ago. About the same time as that reunion, I think. Charlie Patton.’
‘Yeah.’ Sam wasn’t giving anything away.
Fly nodded. ‘Terrible thing. Tragic.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t guess you, uh, know anything more? About who did it?’
‘Not yet.’
Fly was still standing beside the table. He nodded again. It seemed rude to leave him standing there. I didn’t know what to do. Or say.
‘Have a seat, Fly,’ I said. ‘Are you meeting someone?’
‘No, and, look, I don’t want to intrude,’ he said. ‘I just stopped by. I’m on my way out of town.’
‘On that?’ I asked, inclining my head toward the boat.
‘Yeah, isn’t she great? I just bought her. The Manana. I’m sailing her to Florida. There’s a boatyard there, does great restoration work.’
‘Wow. Did this just come up? I didn’t know you sailed.’ He certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about it when we’d had lunch. Not that he had to tell me his plans.
Fly sat as he continued talking, obviously excited about the boat and his trip. ‘Yeah, I took an off-shore course a couple of years ago. I’ve chartered some, but this came up, got a great deal, and I couldn’t pass it up.’ A shadow clouded his face. ‘And there’s some business I need to check into.’ He laughed, but it didn’t sound as if he meant it. ‘There’s always some business. But don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for the trip with Cooper.’
Ethan came back. ‘Ready to order? I don’t want to rush you. I’ll be glad to come back. Could I get you something to drink, sir?’ he asked Fly.
‘No, no, I’ll just get another table.’
‘Join us,’ Sam said.
I looked at him. He looked perfectly amiable, but there was something in his voice, a challenge? A spider spinning a hammock for a fly to rest? And who was the prey – Fly or me? The Blue Moon was one of my favorite restaurants, but right then I wished I could be almost anywhere else.
‘You’re sure?’ Fly turned to the waiter. ‘I’ll have some bottled water, flat. Whatever you’ve got is fine.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ethan left.
‘Where were we?’ Fly said. ‘Homicide, is that right?’ Fly seemed ill at ease. Jumpy somehow.
Sam was still, watchful. He nodded.
‘Tough job. I admire you. I know this has been horrible for us. To have to deal with it every day …’ Fly shook his head. ‘And I think Campbell said you have a daughter?’
Sam nodded again. This was not the same man who had picked me up less than an hour ago. This man had narrowed eyes and a hard jaw. And he didn’t really look like he was having a good time.
‘You’ve just bought the boat?’ At least Sam spoke.
‘I did. I’ve always wanted a boat big enough I could live aboard for a couple of weeks at a time but not so big I couldn’t handle her alone. I’ll get her refitted, update the electronics, make sure she’s seaworthy.’ He shook his head. ‘When you’re sailing, you’re going along, skimming the water, riding it. Then, when the wind’s just right, it catches the sails, and it’s in control.’ He looked a little sheepish. ‘You’re riding the air then. It’s like you can fly.’
Sam nodded.
I have never enjoyed the pan-seared trout at the Blue Moon less. Fly talked about his plans, about high school teachers and friends, dances and ball games long past, about the two of us and young love. He laughed, reached over to take my hand when he remembered something funny, something sad. Sam sat back and watched and listened, nodding, prompting Fly occasionally. Anybody watching would have thought Fly and I were lovers, Sam a casual friend. But Ethan had been there from the beginning of the evening. Ethan knew better, and I saw him watching, wondering how this would affect his tip.
Finally, it was over. Fly insisted on paying for our dinner, and he was a generous tipper. Ethan was smiling – and probably better off.
‘I’ll call you, Campbell,’ Fly said. ‘I’ve got my laptop and phone. Can’t leave civilization totally behind. But we’re all set for Alaska, aren’t we?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s all taken care of,’ I told him. ‘When the documents come in, I’ll get them to your secretary, if that’s OK.’
‘Perfect. Sam, good to meet you. Thanks for letting me barge in on dinner.’ Fly went inside to confirm his arrangements to spend the night tied up at the marina before starting for the Gulf the next morning.
The boat bobbed gently, bumpers nudging the dock.
TWELVE
Long ride home.
‘The old boyfriend from your reunion was Franklin Young? The Third?’
‘Umhmm.’
Then there were several miles of silence.
‘You might have mentioned it.’ His voice was tight.
‘Well, I was trying to tell you about it, but you fell asleep.’
He nodded, muscles moving in his jaw.
‘And I didn’t know the murder you were investigating that weekend had anything to do with him, not until I read an article about his IPO. You didn’t say who it was or where he worked.’
More silence. I tried to make conversation, something I’d never had to do with Sam before. I asked about Julie, what she was doing, the latest installment in her dating life. Would she and her high school boyfriend make the transition to college? Did she want them to? Did Sam want them to? Sam answered questions, but he didn’t seem too interested.
When we got to my house, he walked me to the door and handed me my keys.
‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked, surprised that I felt I had to ask.
‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘I’d better get on home.’
I nodded.
We both knew his leaving now had nothing to do with the time. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t thank him for dinner because Fly had paid for it. I couldn’t tell him I’d enjoyed the evening. We’d both know that was a lie. I felt like I needed to apologize, but I didn’t know what for.
‘Well. Goodnight,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Goodnight.’
I went inside. He waited on the porch until I had closed and locked the door behind me, and I watched out the sidelight as he walked to his own car and drove off.
I went to bed, early for a Friday night, and tried to read, but I ended up throwing the book across the room as if it were to blame and glaring at Stephen Colbert until he gave up and signed off.
THIRTEEN
I cried when I heard that Fly Young had been lost at sea. Little more than a week before he had been sitting in the chair beside my desk laughing about sailing into the sunset. I was sitting at my desk, trying not to cry any more, trying to make myself work after Fly’s secretary had called.
‘He’s lost at sea,’ Marcella said. ‘That’s all we know, but it doesn’t look good. First Charlie, now this. We’re in pieces over here.’
I urged her to let me know if there was anything I could do.
Marcella thanked me. ‘I’ll call you if we hear anything new.’
He had sailed his boat down the Tombigbee Waterway the morning after Sam and I had seen him, the last time I had seen Sam, too, incidentally. He had sailed out into the Gulf of Mexico and across to Cedar Key, a nod to Travis McGee. After a couple of nights and some minor repairs there, he had bought fuel and some supplies and sailed south, through the Keys to the Atlantic.
Fly had been in contact with his office and his family regularly by phone and email. There had been no sign of any trouble until a storm had come up off the coast of south-eastern Florida.
He had even called me the Friday before. ‘I’m flying back the middle of the week,’ Fly had said, ‘and I need to be in Seattle for a nine a.m. meeting on the Monday after that. Get me a car; mid-size is fine. Book me at the Hyatt for two nights, then back to Nashville on Wednesday after one. OK?’
‘No problem. If I have a question, should I just leave a message with Marcella?’
‘Yeah, and call her anyway, just to confirm that it’s all set up. Marcella’s putting all my messages on my voicemail, so I can access them anytime, whenever I get a chance to call in. I tell you what. Email it all to me and copy Marcella, too. That should cover everything.’
‘OK. So how’s the sailing?’
‘It’s great, Campbell. I’m loving it. I’ve chartered a boat from the guy who’s going to refit mine. I’m going to spend a couple of days out in the blue water, then fly back. I’m telling you, the minute the kids are out of college, I think I’m going to become Cap’n Fly. You can be my booking agent. Start collecting information on charter boat companies.’
‘OK.’ Right. I’d give it eighteen months before he was franchising the operation. Cap’n Fly’s charters in every coastal town with a commercial airport. He’d have done his market research. Nothing left to chance.
‘No, I’m serious. I probably need to go where there aren’t too many already. I’ll do some research on it when I get home. I’ve got plenty of time.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Well, have a good time. I’ll set this up and get the confirmation to Marcella and you.’
‘Great. Thanks. I’ll talk to you next week.’
‘OK. Good luck.’
‘Campbell.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve had a lot of time to think out here. I really want to talk to you next week.’
‘Sure.’ I didn’t know what he meant, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I could tell from his voice that it was serious.
Not long after that, according to Marcella, he’d bought two six-packs of Samuel Adams, some bottled water, bread, sandwich meat and four apples at the Miami marina where he was docked, boarded the Floridays, and sailed out of the harbor for a two-day charter.
The Floridays was nearly new, sleek and trim with all the new electronic gear, practically sailed herself, the owner, Captain Dave, had told Marcella. She had the latest GPS satellite navigation technology on board, a life raft with GPS transmitter, shelter tarps and emergency food and water. Fly had the satellite phone he had called me on.
Fly had sailed out of the harbor and, unfortunately, into the path of a summer storm. Marcella said he’d been talking from the boat on Monday afternoon to Captain Dave at the boatyard where he had made arrangements for the refitting, telling them about the storm. Apparently there had already been some damage to the boat, and Fly was asking for instructions and advice. Then the phone went dead. They couldn’t raise him again. The Coast Guard had sent out a helicopter and spotted a boat in the general area of Fly’s last known contact, but there was no sign of Fly.
FOURTEEN
I was trying to get back to work, to concentrate on plane reservations for a client going to Dallas, simple enough, but I couldn’t seem to focus. Then Sam called.
‘Are you OK?’ There was alarm in his voice, responding to what he heard in mine. ‘Campbell?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I sniffed, making unpleasant, mucusy sounds. ‘I’m fine, really. It’s a friend, a client, Fly Young. You know, you met him. He’s lost at sea.’ I reached for another tissue and got myself moderately under control.
‘Lost at sea?’
‘Yeah, there was a storm. They don’t know what happened.’
‘Where was he?’
I told him, told him about all the sophisticated electronics.
‘Not the boat we saw, then?’ he asked.
I guess Sam couldn’t help thinking like a police officer. ‘No. It was a boat he leased there.’ I told him about Fly’s trip and his plans.
‘You hear of a lot of piracy these days, drug runners, mostly, but it’s usually the boats they want.’
‘His secretary’s going to call me when they hear any more.’
There was silence.
‘Look, Campbell, this may be bad timing, but I called to see if you wanted to do something, maybe … see a movie tonight. I mean, I understand if you don’t … I just …’
I sniffed. ‘Sure.’ I hadn’t seen or talked to him since the disaster at the Blue Moon. He hadn’t called, and it’s not that I didn’t think I could call him. I am evolved. On a good day. I just didn’t know what to say, then a few days passed and a few more. Anyway, I was glad he had called, and I sure didn’t want to sit around by myself tonight. I’d prefer Sam’s company to my own. And a movie would give us something to do besides talk about the last time we were together, a way to avoid the ‘relationship talk’. ‘Did you have something in mind?’
‘I don’t know.’ He named the new Denzel Washington movie and the new Kate Winslet, neither of which I had seen. ‘No police movies.’
Police movies, Sam said, were either stupid, nothing at all like the reality of police investigation, or too much like work. Sometimes both. He found himself wanting to pull out his notebook, start making notes and delegating assignments, get this thing solved.
‘Either one,’ I told him. It wouldn’t matter. I doubted if I could follow a plot anyway.
‘I’ll come by about a quarter to seven, OK?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘And if I hear anything here about Young, I’ll let you know.’
I had met Sam when I had found myself mixed up in a murder he was investigating. I was on the scene of what turned out to be a murder, and it was touch and go for a while whether he would ask me out or lock me up. We had eventually become friends, though, and, while the only relationship he was committed to right now was parenting his daughter, we saw each other fairly often. It had evolved into a mostly comfortable, low-key, low-stress relationship that was low-maintenance, too. He wasn’t seeing anyone else, and neither was I. But we hadn’t made any commitments to each other, either. That was part of what had made that night at the Blue Moon so awkward. We haven’t defined our relationship, so we didn’t know where the boundaries were. There might be expectations, assumptions on both sides, but we hadn’t acknowledged them, not officially anyway.
I switched from the airline reservation system to the internet, thinking I’d check my email so I could pretend to myself that I was doing something. I had mail. I scrolled down, past junk mail, past some confirmations, until I saw the one from Fly. Sender: FLY3@HealthwaRx.com. My hand shook as I clicked on it. I had to do it twice.
‘Campbell, Having a good Monday? I am. Except for this little storm. Wish you were here. Is there a chance of that someday? Is it too much to ask you to wait for me? Don’t give up on me. See you. Fly.’
My phone rang, but I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe. I looked at the information on the email again. He had sent it less than an hour before his last contact with the boatyard. My hand still shook as I hit the print command. I copied it, too, saved it to a file on my hard drive. I sat there holding the copy I had printed out for a long time.
By the time I left work to head across I-440 for home, I hadn’t learned much more about Fly. ‘No news,’ Marcella had said. ‘I’ll let you know.’
FIFTEEN
I like working in Hillsboro Village. It’s a little community within the city, a little like I imagine some of New York’s neighborhoods to be. People know each other by sight, if not by name. The waitress at Pancake Pantry always seems glad to see me and remembers how I like my coffee. And the business people look out for each other. Still, I always feel a little better at the end of the day when my Spider turns east on 440 to head back to my side of town. Like a mule smelling the barn, my dad would say.
I take the Briley Parkway North exit, pass Opry Mills and the Grand Ole Opry, and turn back toward the river. Just before the road dead-ends at the river, my little road – No Tourist Attractions Beyond This Point – slips off to the right, parallel to the Cumberland River.
The two rivers, the Stones and the Cumberland, used to meet in Donelson, still do, I guess, at the water treatment plant, although the progress of Stones River is somewhat impeded by J. Percy Priest Dam, named for a one-time Tennessee congressman who had become Secretary of Transportation.
It makes for a lot of winding, can’t-get-there-from-here roads, but there’s also a lot of beautiful and fertile river bottom land around here. Once it was a land of huge farms and plantations: Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage, his niece’s Tulip Grove across the road. Closer to the rivers, though, were Clover Bottom and Two Rivers. Clover Bottom is state property now, housing offices of the state historical commission. There’s a mental health facility on the grounds that most people think of now when they hear the name. And the Tennessee School for the Blind is there.
Two Rivers Mansion, on McGavock Pike and once home to the family of that name, is a Metro park now, and some claim it’s haunted. You can rent it for parties and weddings, a grand, ambitious Italianate home with ruby glass framing the doors that once welcomed the South’s powerful to this land between the rivers.
Now that fertile bottomland holds campgrounds, a golf course, shopping center parking, children’s soccer fields. No structure too permanent because once every few decades or so, the rivers reassert themselves, reclaiming their land with floods that will not be controlled. Managed, minimized maybe, but never eliminated. The last one put Opry Mills out of business for a while until it could be rebuilt.
My little house, though, is not in danger. Not from the floods, anyway. I’m perched on a limestone bluff, high above the Cumberland, in a little stone house built half a century ago from the same gray limestone. It’s on a quiet street, hidden behind shopping, parking, souvenir shops and vacation condos. Like the faithful remnant of a decimated army, it clings with a few companions to a last bit of land between neon commercialism and the river that brought Nashville’s first settlers. Sometimes, when the wind is high or the developers’ interest rates low, I feel our hold is shaky.
