Janwillem De Wetering - Just a Corpse at Twilight

"All holy men are frauds," Grijpstra said.

"Why?"

Grijpstra shrugged. "Because there's nothing holy."

"This fraudulent holy man I refer to," de Gier said, "saw God, and he came back to tell us that things are the way they are because God is not a nice man. He said God is not our uncle."

"Flash Farnsworth is nice," Grijpstra said, "and Bad George is nice. And that dumb dog is nice too." He paused so de Gier could serve dessert. He spoke through a mouth filled with ice cream. He ate. "Who is not nice here? The sheriff. Who else?" He pointed his spoon at de Gier. "Who came here to murder girlfriends?"

"During my previous visit here," de Gier said "I met the hermit Jeremy. I thought he knew what I wanted to know. I didn't come here to murder girlfriends."

"Jeremy lives on this island?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier smiled sadly. "As I said, God, not being my uncle, cannot be helpful. The search has to be chaotic. There are thousands of islands here. This is not Jeremy's island and Jeremy is long dead. Maybe he got it, maybe he lost it. What's for sure is that he was getting old and feeble and the town voted to place him in a home, so to escape he did what you almost did this morning…"

Grijpstra lowered his spoon. "Hermit Jeremy rowed away never to be seen again?"

"That's correct."

"Planned?" Grijpstra asked.

"Planned."

"What would it be like if you planned it?" Grijpstra asked. "I didn't plan and I saw lots of stuff."

"Hallucinating?"

"Nellie in a hat, waves by Hokusai swamping the bicycle shed, a dog-faced woman paddling a canoe."

"Farnsworth's mother." De Gier began to clear the table. "I live here for months preparing for the breakthrough and see nothing; you've hardly arrived, and you see it all."

"Not that you sent Ishmael to meet me," Grijpstra said. "Because I didn't see that and because Ishmael pretended the meeting was accidental so he could ask some questions. About you, for instance. He doesn't trust you."

"Ishmael knows nothing about Lorraine disappearing," de Gier said.

"Who is the detective here?" Grijpstra asked. "Fill me in on Ishmael. How long have you known him?"

"Ishmael met me last time I was here."

"What did he do then?"

"Drunk preacher?" de Gier asked. "That was the impression I got at the time. He said so himself too. Addicted to God and liquor. We met in Jeremy's cabin. Ishmael said he was giving it all up."

"Alcohol?"

"The securities," de Gier said. "As Ishmael saw them. Jeremy had to help him out." De Gier cheered up. "I tell you, Henk, that's where the way out has to be. Away with it all." De Gier looked pensive. "Including the guru, the guide, kick them over the precipice. But.. ."

"But…?"

"The guide, the hermit has to show you where the precipice is."

Grijpstra looked stern. "So you can kick her off the cliffs? Lorraine was the guru?"

De Gier shook his head.

Grijpstra stared.

"Lorraine was a nice woman," de Gier said.

"Back to firmer ground," Grijpstra directed. "More about Ishmael. The man is too smart for his own good. Why his interest in what brings me here?"

"Ishmael?" de Gier asked. "Ishmael is okay."

"The plane was clean," Grijpstra said. "Since I quit BC smoking I can smell narcotics. Your sheriff also found nothing. Ishmael mentioned crossing borders. Bringing in aliens maybe?"

"You're accusing Ishmael of something?"

"You're being accused," Grijpstra said, "of murder. You're being blackmailed. Any connection with Ishmael perhaps?"

"You've got Flash and Bad George," de Gier said.

"They didn't ask me questions. They saved me."

"Ishmael," de Gier said, "flies his plane to see Mohawks in Canada and Mayas in Mexico, like Jeremy used to. Indians who practice shamanic wisdom."

"You visit Indians too?"

"I thought I no longer needed teachers."

"Organized shamanism," Grijpstra rubbed his thumb and index finger. "A profitable business these days."

"Ishmael doesn't care for money."

"Please," Grijpstra said. "Forget your nonsense for a moment. Do it for me, because we are friends. Pretend we're back in law enforcement. We study society's other side. We investigate those who profit by illegally taking from others. We concentrate on criminal untruth. Why didn't Ishmael tell me you sent him? Is he hiding a secret? What does he do for money?"

"Fixes marine diesel engines," de Gier said. "Does a good job, makes good money."

"Lots of kids?" Grijpstra asked. "A gambling habit? Uninsured ailments?"

"Healthy bachelor, lives alone," de Gier said.

"The past?" Grijpstra asked. "Molesting boys during Bible study?"

"He likes Aki."

"Who doesn't?" Grijpstra asked. "You two are pals? Ishmael visits here?"

"Yes. I visit him too. He plays piano."

"Expensive hobbies?"

"Collects valueless objects he displays in a four-story former cannery, an ancient building on the Point that he got for free somehow. I say…"

"You say?"

"You did understand," de Gier said, "that I sent him to Boston to collect you?"

"Right," Grijpstra said, looking around. "Nice place you have here."

De Gier agreed. The pagoda seemed to be the best choice for a well-funded seeker of truth, out of several vacation homes rented out by Bildah Farnsworth. This temple-like structure was the work of Goldy Yamamoto, a New York architect, designed along neo-Chinese lines. Yamamoto also believed in supplying all comforts: pumped spring water, air-conditioning and oil heat, fireplaces, automated kitchen. And Yamamoto had finished it off nicely. The inside wainscoting was orange-tinged pine, the beams were redwood, the floors western oak. Tall windows with wide windowsills offered views of seascapes and other islands. The apparently simple furniture was Quaker inspired, expensive, labor intensive. Coffee tables were made from varnished driftwood. The rugs were Oriental. A large abstract painting, obviously inspired by the local coast, calmed the mind with easy strokes of green on gray, pale blues for water, a white splash for a sail.

"Money buys good art," de Gier said. "The place was custom-built for an investment banker, a practicing Taoist, a man who, by losing his ego, became the flow of money himself."

"Bankrupt and out of a job now?" Grijpstra asked.

"Right."

"Nice," Grijpstra said. "How much are you paying?"

"Five hundred."

"A month?"

"A week."

"To who?"

"To Bildah," de Gier said. "Bildah Farnsworth picked it up when junk bonds crashed. He'll make a bundle when the present slump is over and property like this becomes marketable again."

"You know about Bildah building Hairy Harry a palace at half cost?"

De Gier laughed. "Ishmael told you. Sure. Harry had his drug profits laundered. Bildah is The Man here."

"Local business wizard?"

"Local everything," de Gier said. "Puppeteer in chief of the Twilight Zone. Checks on the game Hairy Harry and Billy Boy are playing, owns most of the ground Jameson is built on, holds the paper on the fishing fleet, cashes in on whatever is going."

Grijpstra shivered. "Bad guy, this Bildah?"

"You cold?" de Gier asked. He got up to make coffee. Grijpstra followed him to the open kitchen. They watched the coffee machine perform. "Bad guy?" de Gier repeated. "I don't think so."

"Marital status?"

"Not married. Housekeeper for half days, bookkeeper a few days a week."

"Sex?"

"Housekeeper is old, bookkeeper has a relationship with Big Max."

"Describe Bildah."

"Peaceful?" de Gier asked. "Likes to hike beaches and trails. Bildah feeds the birds. Keeps a pet raven, name of Croakie, that flies around him." De Gier thought. "Haven't seen Croakie for a while."

"He who finances local activity with good collateral can enjoy his hiking," Grijpstra said. "Interest flows day and night. Subject do any work himself?"