Handyman: A Sam Parker Mystery

Prologue

Del Gardner felt a cold, fleshy protrusion, grabbed it with thumb and forefingers and began to tug. An unnatural resistance opposed him. Gotta be a big motha, he grunted under his breath. Large razors could dig quickly and suck themselves deeper into the sand adding a little sport to the hunt.

He often bragged that he would never eat another razor clam as long as he lived. He disliked the heavy taste and rubbery texture of the shellfish. But he loved to dig them and trade them for beers at the Starboard Lamp Tavern. He dug clams the bluebill way as was done by coastal residents in the 1940s and ’50s using an ancient, rusty long blade clam shovel; shaking his head in disdain at anyone using the more popular tubular clam guns.

He had watched as the Northwest tide slipped westward across the broad, sandy wet beach. Then, shouldering the clam shovel, he had strode toward the outgoing tide, ignoring the persistent drizzle that spat from the gray overcast.

About ten feet from the water, he saw it - a perfect doughnut shape in the sand. He had faced the sea, pitched the long nose of the shovel into the sand slightly seaward of the doughnut and rapidly began scooping large mounds of the fine wet sand from the beach. After he had tunneled down about 14 inches, he got on his knees and began to probe for the clam’s neck; poised to pull neck and brown oval shell from the sand. Now he had it in his grasp.

Del set his back and thighs, and then slightly straightened, using his body weight to pull the treasure from the beach. He thought, This one’s gonna get me a pitcher by itself at the Lamp. Maybe it’s a record. He could see the headlines: Local Man Pulls Record Razor.

It came emitting a sound like a plunger unclogging a toilet. Del grinned triumphantly and held the treasure to eye level in his sand-covered hand, just to get a good look. A sudden sound of disgust erupted from his throat. He involuntarily flung the find down the beach, bent forward and violently vomited onto the beach and into the open flaps of his boots.

Ten feet away, the human hand he had dug came to rest against a pile of bull kelp.

One

Against my better judgment, I was grudgingly navigating the thick, muddy current of Seattle area traffic with patience running on empty. The day was decked out in typical spring gray with a splash of drizzle.

Morgan sensed my mood, gently took my tightly clamped right hand off the wheel and softly held it. Samuel Whitfield Parker. For the love of God will you relax? There are two hours until my plane leaves and the airport is less than 15 miles away.

I somehow managed to simultaneously smile and look disdained. This could take two hours in this traffic. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we move to Pacific Cove to get away from all the crowds, congestion and citified bullshit?

And we did. And after you drop me off you can go back home to no traffic or crowds…at least until you get to pick me up. But I can’t guarantee there will be no bullshit.

Morgan was dressed for riding the winged bus as if she were attending a business casual lunch. Cream slacks, crimson blouse with turned up collar, calf tan shoes that reminded me of ballet slippers. Her dark brown hair, newly cut in a shorter style, had a windswept, sexily messy appearance that I found suited my liking.

Couldn’t you have taken the train? I pleaded.

Feigning exasperation, she blurted, "To Hilo? Look, it’s only for three weeks. You were the one that encouraged me to go on this photography trip."

Which, by the way, was set up by your friend Deb, I replied. Besides, who’s going to soothe my temples when I’m in need of temple soothing while you’re in Hawaii?

Look. I’ll miss you too. But there’s nothing to worry about. You can do your guy stuff, drink beer, get started building that Tiki bar in the beer garden, play your Hammond all you want, and I’ll bring back lotsa pictures of reef fish and sunrises over the Pacific.

"Well, I like reef fish.".

"Yeah. Cooked in butter and Old Bay seasoning with a lemon slice. Besides, it’s the Pacific Cove Widow’s Walk Club. Widow’s Walk, get it? Women. No guys allowed. Deb’s been planning this for months. She found a temporary replacement to help Zoe run her shop. She’s been a part-timer up at SpeySide for nearly 3 years. Actually, Zoe recommended her. Her name’s Char."

Char what? I asked, really not caring but attempting to maintain conversation to keep my mind off the cold molasses pace of Interstate 5.

Elms. She does a lot of fill-in around town; bookkeeping, reception, cashier work. Just like a lot of people in Pacific Cove, she makes a living being flexible. I heard she had initially enrolled as a student at SpeySide when she first came to town, but quit for some reason and stayed on part-time to guide tours and help out where she was needed. Now can we get on with it before I miss the plane?

Okay, okay. Just be careful. And remember: a Hammond C3 is no substitute for you, so don’t drown.

As I pulled to the curb in the departures zone, Morgan paused before opening the door.

Like I told you already, everything’s all set. Deb’s meeting me at the airport, I’ll change into island clothes and we’ll drive to the cottage. I’ll call as soon as I get settled in.

I unloaded her luggage and kissed her.

I’ll miss you. Watch out for sharks…especially the ones with legs.

She squeezed me, and looked into my eyes.

And I know where to kick ’em.

Two

After arriving home and letting Sophie out to pee, I thought that I’d start my guy time in style with beer, a few bratwursts and an early season Mariner’s game. Two bites into my first brat, heavy fists pounded on the door.

Lemmee in, man! I know you’re in there. I got wheeskey.

I shrugged and padded to the door.

What’s the secret word, Doc?

Black Bush, of course. I could hear the smile in his voice. I swung open the heavy teak door.

Doc was undoubtedly the best friend I have ever had, except for Morgan. He had been medically discharged from Naval Intelligence after being wounded in the right leg during an operation in Ankara. His pension was supplemented by occasional government contracting to hack into hostile computer systems. I have often described him as an amicable walrus, complete with huge moustache, thick strong limbs and an extremely charming personality. And he has been described as a skirt-chaser, letch and ass bandit; all of which he would vehemently deny, but with which I would agree.

Doc tossed me the bottle, burst past me, patted Sophie on the head and sprawled on the couch in front of the television.

Sophie followed and in typical Jack Russell fashion, pawed at Doc’s leg and mouthed canine words; begging for the Vitabone Doc always brought for her.

He waggled the biscuit in front of Sophie. That new lefty should kick some serious ass this year. We need to get our act together for a playoff run. Mmmmm - brats the way I like ’em. Boiled in beer and onions and finished on the grill along with caramelized onions. Nice touch. What’s the smoky flavor, man; hickory?

Apple chips, Doc. You seem rather jovial, today. Either you won the Lotto or you got a horn trimmin’ last night.

Last night and this morning, Park. While you were trudging through the sludge of I-5, a rather stunning and acrobatic Pilates instructor demonstrated her ample flexibility to the tunes of Miles Davis. Made me an instant fan of exercise.

The game was entering the bottom of the eighth. The Mariners were up by five runs. Spring rains moved onto the field. A rain delay was imminent and the brats had tranquilized us into a state of indifference to the game. Doc had nodded off and was emanating sounds that would drown out a Husqvarna 500 series chain saw. The lithe Pilates instructor must have tuckered him out. Welcome relief came when my cell phone rang.

Three

Karen Philips was freezing her ass off and thinking about being in her warm kitchen with a nice hot cup of Earl Gray tea. Instead, she was on the misty beach, bracing a northwest wind while her Black Labrador Retriever romped enthusiastically after a small driftwood stick she tossed into the surf. Over and over and over.

That sonofabitch vet, she thought, Making me exercise Beaker every day; rain, shine, wind… She let her mind wander to help ignore the cold and found it taking her to a familiar place; the beaming warmth of the San Diego she left behind to marry him. Boat captain and owner he had said. Great in the sack and even better to look at. And a masterfully magnetic personality. Now, two years later, she was a twenty-six year old divorcee stuck in a windy Washington beach town with a big dog he insisted they had to have, a mortgage he insisted they jointly sign for, and fourteen months left on an iron-clad lease for a marginally solvent antique shop. Last she heard about him, he was a scuba instructor in Thailand and shacked up with a 19 year old fortune cookie. The asshole.

She pictured herself walking in Old Town San Diego on a spring afternoon wearing a flowing skirt and her favorite linen blouse. Listening to the music in any one of the parks. Sipping a blended strawberry margarita or maybe a mojito…

The husky barking disturbed her daydream. Where the hell was that dog? She brushed her streaked long brown hair out of her eyes and tucked strands behind each ear. The wind played hell with sound direction, swirling the barks, and making locating Beaker nearly impossible. Then the quivering whip-like black tail caught her eye. He was crouched behind a drift log - tail in the air. Damn fool’s probably got something cornered, she muttered to herself, briskly walking toward the log.

Beaker sensed her coming toward her and, decades of selective breeding kicking in, dutifully retrieved and ran toward his owner, skidded to a stop and dropped the human hand at Karen’s feet.

Four

So we’re going to the cop shop to see a hand? Doc shouted above the Danny Gatton CD.

We were driving Highway 109 into Pacific Cove in the F-150 Super Crew that Morgan and I bought to replace the 4-Runner. The wipers were on slow delay to clear the pervasive April drizzle from the Ford’s windshield.

"Two hands, Doc - different people. At least that’s what Harriet said on the call that interrupted our Mariner’s rain delay."

Doc reached over and turned the volume down. Why us? I was just getting a comfortable Black Bush buzz when that damn phone tore us away from a killer ball game.

Hell, you were snoring, for chrissakes and the phone woke you just as the ump called the game delay. Besides, it’s just a fly-by at City Hall. They need an unofficial opinion.

"Yeah, but again, why us?" Doc asked.

Evidently, the Towne Council liked your work on the Brose case, and told our new Sheriff to call the both of us.

"Me? Me! So why’d your cell phone ring?"

I looked over at him with a mock look of disapproval. "Well, Doc, because you don’t ever take yours with you and the Starboard Lamp hadn’t seen you, so that narrowed it down to me.

He raised the volume of the stereo and looked straight ahead. "Glad I’m so predictable. I’m not goin’ for it. And, I’m smellin’ a big fat rat wearing Sam Parker clothing."

I was on autopilot driving on the road lined with huge conifers and occasional small gravel driveways that led to modest homes of those who, like me, were escaping from the metastasis of the Puget Sound cities and the pace that seemed as if everyone spiked their coffee with methamphetamine. I was working on my ploy to avoid entanglement with the police work that I knew would unfold around the two hands found on the wet gray sand in a tourist town rapidly approaching Memorial Day. A sense of panic would be inevitable.

Businesses relied on the trade tourism brought. Crime would be the last thing on the vacation agenda for people with enough sense to leave the city and find a little solace by the sea.

I guess my silent musings got to Doc. "You with me Park? They were looking for help from me and decided to have you tag along?"

I snapped out of the stupor, amazed that I had already passed through the hairpin turns without actually remembering navigating them or without hearing Doc’s chatter. Well, they didn’t specifically ask for you. I stretched the part about the reflective fondness of your work on the Brose case, but I figured you’d just growl and want to stay behind and guzzle up all the Irish whiskey if I didn’t conniver to get you to come along. I changed the topic as a deflection. And by the way, what’s up with you and women in Jeeps?

Doc raised an inquisitive eyebrow. What do you mean, Jeeps?

I swung by your house on the way back from the airport, planning to bum a Bloody Mary off you. But there was a pink Wrangler parked in front. No way that could belong to anyone but one of your little tricks. I thought about barging in, but decided to be cool about it. Besides, who the hell buys a pink Jeep? And how? Pink ain’t stock.

Look, man. The thing about you married guys is that just because you can’t dive into the pool, you always disdain the water.

What the hell does that mean? I asked.

Don’t ask me. You’re the science guy. You figure it out.

*    *     *

The word around town was that Sheriff Will McCoulder hated interruptions while he was eating. New to Pacific Cove, he had taken the recently vacated Sheriff’s job; reportedly seeking solace from the city of Portland Oregon where being a police captain had been a constant source of frustration, interruption and burnout.

I could see how a small Washington coastal town could, on the surface, seem to be the perfect escape. Hell, how much could happen in a seasonal tourist village? Traffic stops? Occasional drunks to be dealt with? Fights among the locals? Tourist’s dining and dashing? Teenage assholes? Nothing compared to the relentless complexities and insanities of the largest city in Oregon.

When the call interrupted the baseball game, it was relayed to me by Harriett, Will’s chatty dispatcher, that Will had been likewise interrupted while at lunch at the Clonakilty Bay Pub. And the fact that he had spilled white Irish stew on his starched white shirt in the process of answering the call only added fury to his annoyance.

He was about as pissed as I’ve ever seen a person when he came in. I think he needs to go to anger management class, her voice had cooed over the phone. I had smiled, thinking, Harriet; always the amateur shrink to the local constabulary.

We parked in a visitor spot and clumped up the wooden steps onto the wooden porch that ran lengthwise across the building. Doc’s cane made a decisive sharp rap with each step. High noon in the Western town of Pacific Cove. I felt naked without my western garb, holster and Navy Colt 44.

The newly-formed Pacific Cove Towne Council had relocated the City Hall, courts, jails, the Sheriff’s Department and all municipal necessities in an old turn of the 20th century resort. The previous owners were now serving 15 years for drug dealing and money laundering. A few strings were pulled and the City was granted a 99 year lease of the federally confiscated building.

A brass plaque outside the entrance proudly stated that the building was officially christened Towne Hall on April first. I found the date ironic.

Doc stopped in front of the plaque, cocked his head and examined it as though it were a four-headed crab. He tapped the bronze face with his cane.

"Park, what’s this bullshit ‘e’ doing in back of the word ‘Town’?"

I shook my head. "That California developer who’s building those overpriced Nantucket style cracker boxes up north convinced the Council, with the assistance of a few bucks, that the town needed an ‘e’ to avoid downscaling his property. He thinks of us here in Pacific Cove as beneath his trendy standards."

You mean those overpriced, jammed-together outhouses he calls ‘ShoreHaven’?

Correction. Five hundred grand outhouses. And that’s just for a one bedroom. Not to mention that it’s twenty miles away from the nearest gas station or supermarket. I’ve never driven up there –mostly because I’m an obstinate bastard - but I hear there’s no shore. It’s in woods that rim the high bank across from the coast road with the view blocked by old growth timber. Doesn’t sound much like haven to me.

No shore… No haven, just price gouging. Those corporate assholes just keep fucking things up, don’t they, Park? Towne Hall and Towne Council - my naked ass. It was good to see Doc wasn’t losing his sense of sarcasm.

We clomped into the refinished oak-floored reception area. The exterior of the building reminded me of ancient pictures of Coney Island resorts. The inside was something else.

We were standing in what used to be the hotel’s grand promenade and lobby. Renovation wasn’t yet completed, but I could see that the architect was as equally out of touch with reality as the developer. The old charm was being replaced by tacky pastel Lucite panels that were draped spasmodically in a rough-woven fabric, which now concealed the old oak paneled walls. Parts of the original hardwood flooring in high-traffic areas had been removed, exposing the rough underlayment. It was being violated with coral carpeting, and the high ceiling of the once noble atrium was being assaulted by wormlike heating ducts, conduit and water piping. Word was that there would be no attempt to cover the mess because the planners wanted the industrial look. I wondered how long that fad would last and how much a new suspended ceiling was going to cost the tax payers.

This place looks like an overdose, Doc observed.

A crisp, athletically built woman with shoulder-length, light brown hair, early forties, wearing a short-sleeved Sheriff’s department khaki shirt sat behind a U-shaped desk in an apparently completed section of the old lobby. She was among the type of women who looked sexy in glasses, with large, smiling brown eyes with just a hint of a sarcastic lilt. The shirt was noticeably unbuttoned three rungs to reveal a camisole struggling to contain two copious breasts. I placed my hand on the corner of the desk.

Hi Harriet. Here we are - reporting as requested.

Down the hall. Room sign says TRAINING, ’cuz the Chief doesn’t like the name MORGUE plastered where everybody can see it.

She gave Doc a long, approving gaze and cooed, Hi Doc. Say, when are you going to pop the question? I’ve been pining away here just waiting to be swept off my feet.

Doc zoomed in, grinned like a game show host, winked, leaned rakishly on his cane and replied, Harriet. You are looking ravishing as usual. Park, doesn’t she have the most gorgeous brown eyes you’ve ever seen? Wow. Now don’t you tease my emotions, girl. You’re one killer catch. Sam, isn’t she a killer catch?

As usual, Doc would pick out a feature or aspect of his female follies and drive me to a mandatory response to a question whose response was embarrassing. I managed, Harriet sure is remarkable. Noncommittal, yet enough to make Doc quit hounding me for responses.

Doc’s silky smoothness with women wasn’t lost on Harriet. Women of all ages were attracted to him like a connoisseur is attracted to a vintage wine; the suave, spiced with the impish and finished with mental agility. It was usually entertaining to watch, but I was in a hurry.

Harriet gushed. Well, Doc, I do owe you some clam chowder. You have my number…

Doc placed both hands on the top of his cane, leaned in and gave Harriet a peck on the cheek. It’s forever in my soul.

I cleared my throat. Easy, man. Let’s keep on point here. Things to do, hands to inspect.

Doc whispered to Harriet as though it was a conspiracy, Mr. Parker is a buzz-kill.

Five

Deputy Claude Bridges opened the door to the morgue. Sheriff McCoulder smiled warmly and held out a meaty hand. You must be Sam Parker, and Mr. Biggs. Nice to meet you both. Thanks for coming down on such short notice, but we’re a little short staffed and an extra opinion might jump start the direction of our investigation.

William McCoulder was a stocky man with short, graying curly brown hair and twinkling blue eyes nested above an elfish, upturned nose. A slight paunch had encroached over his belt, providing evidence to support the rumor that cops in his department secretly called him ‘Dough-belly’.

I returned the smile. Well I’m not sure that we’re going to be much help, Sheriff, I was hoping that a heavy dose of charm might make the job of saying no go a little easier.

Call me Will. Look, after hearing about your helping the Feds on the Brose Walters case last year, I thought you two would be interested. Besides, any help is appreciated, no matter how small. Your reputation and work in forensic microbiology is pretty damn impressive, Sam.

Former reputation. I don’t do that anymore. It interferes with my napping. I avoided the topic of the meltdown that led to my avoidance of doing anything remotely associated with what Doc called my old gig. Will tried to hide the disappointment that flashed across his face, then just as quickly returned to a smile. Evidently, he was also on the fool ’em with charm team.

Gentlemen, come with me. This won’t take long. I just need your first impressions.

"You mean besides ick?" Doc whispered. Will ignored the remark.

The room had the mixed smells of hospital antiseptic and meat market typical of all morgues I had ever been in. Even though it was dimly lit, the details stood out. One wall housed the oversized file cabinet cooler for body storage. A stainless steel counter spanned the opposite wall where two empty gurneys crouched like airport taxis waiting for fares.

Near the center of the room, a stainless steel table gleamed from the overhead surgical lighting, giving it a theatrical appearance. Several uniforms and the medical examiner hovered over the slab.

The two hands lay side-by-side on the medical examiner’s table; pale, slightly water-wrinkled and unnerving.

One thing’s for sure, Sheriff, these aren’t from the same individual, Doctor James Egan quipped, examining the two left hands.

No shit, Jim. Now give me something I don’t know, Will retorted.

Okay, both are from female Caucasians, mid-twenties to mid-thirties by the skin texture and lack of arthritic features on the surface. As you can see, one hand is slightly smaller than the other. Both are slightly decomposed enough to screw up the possibility of useable prints for identification. Need DNA matches to make any I D. Estimates of the time they’ve been disembodied borders on impossible.

And why is that?

Well Will, they’ve been frozen. See? Freezer burn in the musculature of the carpal area. We’re talking cold storage rather than exposure to the outdoors. One more thing. They were probably placed on the beach within 48 hours of each other and had been there two weeks each, give or take about three days. But if you have other ideas, I’ll leave them to you and go home to something more stimulating, like watching Oprah.

Will made no effort to hide his skepticism. "If you can’t tell me specifics about how long it’s been since the hands were cut off, then what makes you so certain about the time on the beach, Doctor?"

The doctor didn’t react, but ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair. His words were carefully metered as he spoke.

"Your old home of Portland may be on a river and you might get a warm fuzzy feeling that things are just like Portland everywhere else on earth, but it might as well be in the Sahara compared to the coast. What you can’t know, unless you’ve lived here a while, are the cycles of life, the weather and tide that interact in this area.

"If the hands had been there for any less time, we’d have useable fingerprints; any longer and the sand shrimp and birds would have reduced them to skeletons and scattered the bones up and down the beach. For