C Corwin - Dig

We took U.S. 250 all the way to the Ohio River. We crossed into Wheeling. We looked for a cozy mom and pop diner for breakfast. We settled for a Burger King. Disappointed, but full, we continued our journey southward through West Virginia’s knobby hills. In the bustling metropolis of Pruntytown, we picked up U.S. 50. It would take us all the way to Harper’s Ferry.

We’d been on the road for four hours already and neither of us had said boo about Gordon’s murder. We just rattled on about our families, the television shows we watched, or refused to watch, and of course the beautiful green mountains. Which was fine with me. Even though I had my suspicions, Effie was an old friend. Someone whose company I’d always enjoyed. There would be plenty of time for me to wheedle.

Harper’s Ferry! Of all places, why did Mickey Gitlin have to live in Harper’s Ferry? Harper’s Ferry was that historic old town on the Potomac where the abolitionist John Brown tried to start a slave revolt by raiding the union arsenal there. You all know what happened. The revolt fizzled and John Brown was hanged. So chugging along U.S. 50 in that U-Haul with Effie, I couldn’t help but wonder whether my visit to Harper’s Ferry would go as badly as his.

U.S. 50 is one of America’s great old highways. It runs from Ocean City, Maryland, to Sacramento, California, some 3,000 miles, straight across the middle of the country. Except that here in West Virginia U.S. 50 isn’t quite so straight. It’s as wiggly as a worm. Between the harrowing mountain curves, and the pee breaks, and lunch at a roadside drive-in in the ominously named town of Mount Storm, it took us five more hours to reach Harper’s Ferry. Another hour after that to find Mickey Gitlin’s kayak livery.

Mickey’s place was actually located two miles north of Harper’s Ferry, in a thick woods right on the banks of the Potomac. I’d been expecting some dark, seedy looking place, with rusty pickups and pot-smoking mountain men. Instead we found a freshly paved parking lot filled with expensive SUVs. On the hillside to the left stood a modern two-story cabin, made of beautiful butterscotch-colored logs. On the right stood a long, sturdy barn, painted a happy green. The mural above the barn door featured a toothsome black bear skillfully paddling his tiny kayak through the rapids. Below the paddling bear it read: MICKEY’S KAYAKS

Rentals, Lessons, Sales

Effie and I slid out of the van and stomped some life back into our wobbly legs. There was no one around, but in the distance we could hear splashing water and people having way too much fun. We helped James out. I snapped on his leash. We headed off to find Mickey.

First we went to the cabin. Then to the barn. We finally found him on the riverbank, scrunched down in an huge Adirondack chair, bare-chested, in baggy shorts and sneakers, hair in a ponytail, clipboard in his lap, cell phone pushed into his ear, can of beer balancing atop his raised naked knee. A serious businessman at work. In the fast water just below him were a half-dozen frolicking kayakers.

Mickey spotted us right away but he made us wait for ten minutes while he finished his call. “Sorry about that,” he said. He was not the sourpuss I’d encountered the day of Gordon’s burial. A wide, friendly smile was hooked over his sunburned ears.

Mickey took a minute to scratch James’ ears then walked back to the van with us. He carried our suitcases to the cabin. Showed us our rooms. They were spotless. The beds were covered with colorful country quilts. Effie’s room was decorated with the head of a huge buck deer. Mine with a stuffed owl. When we came downstairs Mickey was waiting with two tall tumblers of iced tea. “There’s enough daylight left for a quick kayak lesson,” he said. “If you ladies are game.”

Effie was. I wasn’t. But she skillfully teased me into it anyway. “Oh, come on, Maddy,” she said, squeezing Mickey’s elbow. “Do you think this beautiful specimen of a man is going to let anything happen to us?” Ten minutes later Effie and I were outfitted in baggy men’s swimming trunks and tee shirts that said “Capsizing Is Fun.”

Well, you can imagine all the crazy thoughts going through my head as we walked back down the trail toward the river: Effie and Mickey were in cahoots, and they planned to drown me in the Potomac. My death would look like an accident. Mickey and Effie would get away with another murder. They’d divide Gordon’s estate. Carry on some sick May-December romance. Or maybe it was just Mickey who wanted me dead. Maybe it was his idea that Effie bring me along. Effie never said it wasn’t. Maybe Mickey said, “Say, why don’t you bring Maddy Sprowls along with you?” Or maybe it was just Effie. Or Effie and some other cohort. Somebody hiding in the trees. Chick or Shaka or God knows who. With a rifle. Or a crossbow. Or a big feather pillow to smother me in my sleep. Oh, my synapses were snapping with all sorts of crazy scenarios.

When we reached the river I froze, wrapping the end of James’ leash around my hands like it was the ripcord on an inflatable lifeboat. I’d seen the river before, of course, but now I had a stake in its ferocity. Good gravy! The slate-blue water was flying past us at a million miles an hour, exploding over sharp half-submerged rocks, swirling into whirlpools. The kayakers dumb enough to be out were all young and muscular. “We’re going to get lifejackets and helmets like those guys, aren’t we?” I asked Mickey.

“If I’ve got any left,” he said. I was too preoccupied with my impending death to know if he was kidding or not.

Mickey led us along the bank through a thicket of wild rhododendrons. We emerged on the rim of a small, square pond. Kayaks were stacked on the bank, along with a pile of helmets and lifejackets. “The practice pool,” he said.

I was embarrassed. But not enough to keep me from asking how deep it was.

“Three feet,” he said. “And all the alligators and piranha are vegetarians.”

I tied James to a tree. Gave him an hour’s worth of biscuits to gnaw on. Effie and I fought over the pile of lifejackets and helmets like it was a sale table at Wal-Mart.

Mickey dragged two small kayaks to the edge of the water. He helped us squeeze into the cockpits, those little round holes in the middle where the Eskimos stick out. He showed us where to put our feet and our knees. How to hold the paddles. How to use our hips to stay balanced.

He towed me into the water first. When we got to the center of the pond, he gently pulled his hands away. “Feeling steady?” he asked.

“Like an oyster cracker in a big bowl of soup,” I said.

He backed away from me and pulled Effie into the water. The second he let go of her kayak, she flopped over like a porpoise at Sea World. Mickey quickly uprighted her. She came up spitting and coughing and swearing a blue streak. “Just remember what your tee shirt says,” he said. My giggling made me wobble, but my ample post-menopausal bottom kept me stable.

Mickey showed us how to paddle forward. How to paddle in reverse. How to stop and how to turn. Soon Effie and I were scooting around the little pond like a couple of water bugs.

It was right in the middle of all that mindless, childlike glee that my fears came back to me like an iceberg full of hungry polar bears. I heard a low, long growl. I twisted my head toward James. A few feet behind him, in the shadows of the rhododendrons, stood a man. A tall, bulky man. Even at that distance I recognized his eyebrows. It was Detective Grant.

The rational front part of my brain told me to be happy. That he’d followed me, and now revealed himself to me, just so I wouldn’t worry. But the old reptilian stalk at the back of my head told me to be afraid. That Detective Grant wouldn’t be hiding in those rhododendrons if he didn’t think I was in danger. I instinctively threw up my left hand. I’m not sure if I intended to wriggle my fingers hello or just flash one particular finger. But the next thing I knew, the top of my head was scraping the bottom of the pond, wrapped in a swirl of air bubbles. I felt a pair of strong hands on my shoulders. I saw a flash of sunlight and heard Effie’s hyena laugh.