circumstances,” Joshua said.
“Mysterious circumstances?”
Joshua continued. “Yes, sir. The suspect’s known girlfriend, Rena Baker, is gone. Her whereabouts are, therefore, a mystery.” (He paused after “therefore” for dramatic effect.)
The police chief was confused. “I thought we were discussing the case of the missing lady cyclist and the hit-and-run. Who is Rena Baker?”
“Sir,” Arnold explained, “we believe that Rena Baker is the cyclist, done away with by her boyfriend, Madison Fuller, who then placed an ad in the newspaper for Rena’s replacement.”
Chief Davenport rubbed his chin. “It’s an intriguing theory, I admit.” He thought for a moment then went on. “Have we found the girl’s body?”
“No, sir.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No, sir.”
“A single clue?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it seems to me like you gentlemen are playing a parlor game, not conducting an investigation.”
Joshua opened his mouth to speak but the Chief silenced him with a raised hand and went on. “What’s more, a guilty man may walk free because of your clumsiness.”
“Sir?” Joshua said, offended. “Clumsiness?”
“Clumsiness,” the Chief repeated. “Thanks to you, our prime suspect has been tipped off. He knows now to get rid of the evidence. And, thanks to you, he has all the time in the world to do it. While we sit here chatting, he’s probably burning her clothes and tossing her body into the sea.”
“What do you suggest—?”
Before Arnold could finish his thought, Chief Davenport had ordered the officers to write up a full report and to complete the forms for a search warrant. He wanted them back at the Fuller house by sunrise.
15
I did say that Raoul Orlean was known for his eccentricities. The night Officers Tullsey and Smart pleaded their case to Police Chief Davenport was a case in perfect point. Although Raoul, for years, had refused to entertain the notion of island magic, he was starting to re-think his position on island luck; it struck him, as he connected the missing Rena Baker to the R. Baker on his wall who needed finding, that had the police shown up at his house any earlier than they did, there may well have been enough daylight for them to catch sight of the incriminating message on his two-hued cottage wall. If such a thing as island luck did exist, then, Raoul didn’t want to push
his
. Wasting not a minute, he abandoned his dinner plate, changed his shirt, and strapped a bright light onto his head.
Were Raoul married to anyone but Ms. Lila, this sort of behavior would have triggered no end of marital discord and culminated, no doubt, in a trip to the psychiatric hospital at the edge of Port-St. Luke. Ms. Lila knew better, and when she saw Raoul emerge from their bedroom like a miner from a hole, all she said was, “I’ll feed your pigeon to Fragile.”
Fragile was Ms. Lila’s dog, the third one to be named so over the course of nearly two decades of married life. Like her predecessors, Number Three (as Raoul liked to call her) was small and fearful and rarely made a peep (let alone a bark) or left Ms. Lila’s side. Most days Fragile accompanied Ms. Lila to work, where she (the dog) watched her (Ms. Lila) from the vantage point of a low Medieval European History shelf (which, as a rule, the islanders rarely consulted), and where Ms. Lila had placed a satin pillowcase stuffed with feather down and stitched tightly shut.
While Ms. Lila used her fingers to separate the meat from the tiny bird-bones and Fragile panted anxiously at her feet, Raoul collected his paint and brushes and went outside to cover the anonymous message painted on the house. He decided that, if it were indeed evidence, he was better off to cover it up than to let the police get the faintest wind of it. They would turn his house into People’s Exhibit heaven-knew-what and make a terrible mess of his yard, all the while failing to decipher the message’s true intent. Not only that,
“Mysterious circumstances?”
Joshua continued. “Yes, sir. The suspect’s known girlfriend, Rena Baker, is gone. Her whereabouts are, therefore, a mystery.” (He paused after “therefore” for dramatic effect.)
The police chief was confused. “I thought we were discussing the case of the missing lady cyclist and the hit-and-run. Who is Rena Baker?”
“Sir,” Arnold explained, “we believe that Rena Baker is the cyclist, done away with by her boyfriend, Madison Fuller, who then placed an ad in the newspaper for Rena’s replacement.”
Chief Davenport rubbed his chin. “It’s an intriguing theory, I admit.” He thought for a moment then went on. “Have we found the girl’s body?”
“No, sir.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No, sir.”
“A single clue?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it seems to me like you gentlemen are playing a parlor game, not conducting an investigation.”
Joshua opened his mouth to speak but the Chief silenced him with a raised hand and went on. “What’s more, a guilty man may walk free because of your clumsiness.”
“Sir?” Joshua said, offended. “Clumsiness?”
“Clumsiness,” the Chief repeated. “Thanks to you, our prime suspect has been tipped off. He knows now to get rid of the evidence. And, thanks to you, he has all the time in the world to do it. While we sit here chatting, he’s probably burning her clothes and tossing her body into the sea.”
“What do you suggest—?”
Before Arnold could finish his thought, Chief Davenport had ordered the officers to write up a full report and to complete the forms for a search warrant. He wanted them back at the Fuller house by sunrise.
15
I did say that Raoul Orlean was known for his eccentricities. The night Officers Tullsey and Smart pleaded their case to Police Chief Davenport was a case in perfect point. Although Raoul, for years, had refused to entertain the notion of island magic, he was starting to re-think his position on island luck; it struck him, as he connected the missing Rena Baker to the R. Baker on his wall who needed finding, that had the police shown up at his house any earlier than they did, there may well have been enough daylight for them to catch sight of the incriminating message on his two-hued cottage wall. If such a thing as island luck did exist, then, Raoul didn’t want to push
his
. Wasting not a minute, he abandoned his dinner plate, changed his shirt, and strapped a bright light onto his head.
Were Raoul married to anyone but Ms. Lila, this sort of behavior would have triggered no end of marital discord and culminated, no doubt, in a trip to the psychiatric hospital at the edge of Port-St. Luke. Ms. Lila knew better, and when she saw Raoul emerge from their bedroom like a miner from a hole, all she said was, “I’ll feed your pigeon to Fragile.”
Fragile was Ms. Lila’s dog, the third one to be named so over the course of nearly two decades of married life. Like her predecessors, Number Three (as Raoul liked to call her) was small and fearful and rarely made a peep (let alone a bark) or left Ms. Lila’s side. Most days Fragile accompanied Ms. Lila to work, where she (the dog) watched her (Ms. Lila) from the vantage point of a low Medieval European History shelf (which, as a rule, the islanders rarely consulted), and where Ms. Lila had placed a satin pillowcase stuffed with feather down and stitched tightly shut.
While Ms. Lila used her fingers to separate the meat from the tiny bird-bones and Fragile panted anxiously at her feet, Raoul collected his paint and brushes and went outside to cover the anonymous message painted on the house. He decided that, if it were indeed evidence, he was better off to cover it up than to let the police get the faintest wind of it. They would turn his house into People’s Exhibit heaven-knew-what and make a terrible mess of his yard, all the while failing to decipher the message’s true intent. Not only that,
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