Casco Viejo: the Second Season: Chapter Nine
For a moment, Jack did not realize that the faint buzzing sound was actually coming from the buzzer to his door. It had been weeks, months maybe, since anyone had come to visit and pushed 3B. He was both surprised and irritated. Why was he being bothered? His cell phone seldom rang. Jack Smith had gotten used to being by himself. Sure his name was recognized as the restaurant critic for The Visitor, but that required a certain degree of professional anonymity, so he often flew solo. Every once in a while he brought the editor Edward Jacobs along because the young American, who had learned Spanish while his parents were missionaries in Bolivia, always seemed to appreciate a free meal. Jack had gotten used to his loneliness. In a way, he romanticized his isolation as a tribute to his dead wife. Nobody could take Patricia’s place. She had been his best friend; his lover; the mother of his children1; his confidant. It was disturbing, almost scary to have his solitude interrupted. The buzzer sounded again. Reluctantly, Jack stepped over to the intercom and enquired “Who is it?” Nobody answered. The buzzer sounded again. “I hope this isn’t kids pulling a prank,” Jack thought, because he had heard it happened to other people, though never to him before. So again, “Who is it?” This time he heard a voice, cut off at the first syllable when he released the button. “Oh, shit,” and then with the button held down, “I’m sorry. Who is it please?”
“It’s me, Barb. I need to talk to you. Can I come up for a minute?”
The feeling Jack had at that moment could only be explained as panic. Brief, fleeting, illogical but that is what he felt, and not just because he was seated in his parlor in his boxer shorts and a woman was trying to gain entry. It must have been something in her voice. Why would she need to talk to him?
“Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute. Is Mitch with you?” Jack wasn’t sure why that mattered, but he wanted to know. He grabbed an old pair of khaki shorts and tucked in his tee shirt.
“Just me,” Barb Multusky said.
“Oh, oh,” Jack thought. Even over the static of the intercom, Barb’s cheerful-enough tone sounded forced, excited maybe or anxious. “What is this about? I hope Mitch is okay,” he wondered wringing his hands in a worried way. “This is silly. It’s Barb for Christ sake.” Sometimes Jack did speak out loud to himself, and this was such an occasion. “Come on up,” he said and this time he held down the release button that unlocked the exterior door, with a jailhouse clank.
When he opened the door, Barb darted into the room, strafed him with a quick air kiss and positioned herself in the middle of his living room. “I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” Barb said. Burst was exactly what she had done. Had she looked around, Barb would have noticed a rather old fashioned, very tidy apartment decorated in what would have to be called Spanish Colonial style. There was actually a faux painting of a bullfighter with his red cape swirling as a hefty bull reared its horns. The coffee table, side tables and dining room set were all done in thick dark wood and the soft couch was upholstered in shiny green and gold brocade. The place had been decorated by Jack’s late wife and he saw no reason to change anything. He motioned toward a chair with his hand, but Barb acted puzzled by the gesture. Her agitated movements did nothing to quell the feeling of dread that Jack felt when the buzzer first sounded.
“My god, Barb, what’s going on? Is Mitch okay? Please, please have a seat and tell me what exactly is going on.”
“Oh, Mitch is fine,” Barb said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s at practice with his little team, trying to figure out if they’ll ever win a game. Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?” Jack was in no mood to be patient.
“Well, you know about poor Beth…”
“Of course—it was on the front page of La Penza. Terrible, absolutely terrible,” Jack said, and he meant it. Nobody deserves to be murdered, but he, like many people, was shocked and troubled by the fact that it was somebody he knew and liked.
“So,” Barb said as she slid to the edge of her chair, “who do you think did it?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” Jack said, even though the first person he thought of when he saw the newspaper was Jerry Cole. After all, Cole had made no secret of the fact that he was furious with poor Beth and railed against her at every opportunity. Even though he hadn’t read many mysteries as an English professor, sticking more to serious fiction, he had read enough and seen plenty of movies, where the perpetrator of the crime was never the most obvious candidate, so he wasn’t about to speculate.
“But you must have some suspicions,” Barb persisted.
Jack was not a big man, at 5’8” a little below average, thin but not fit, with a short gray haircut, with a sloppy part, but he looked even smaller to Barb as he leaned back into the cushions of his couch.
“I’m afraid with our friend Beth there might be quite a list of suspects, to be honest,” Jack said with shrug. “Being unhappy or jealous or whatever is one thing; but being capable of murder and motivated enough to do such a thing is quite a different proposition. And then of course, it could be somebody we’re not even aware of; a burglar for example; or a rapist; or somebody from a part of Beth’s life we know nothing about.” Jack hadn’t realized until that moment, but he had done some thinking on the subject of who just might be capable of strangling Beth, which was the reported cause of death.
“Exactly,” Barb said waving her right index finger in the air. In some ways, Barb reminded Jack of his mother, who died at the age of 86, small, frail but energetic, with an intelligent glint in her blue eyes. “I don’t suppose you heard,” Beth continued, “but the police arrested that poor street person Horace and charged him with Beth’s murder for goodness sake.”
“Who?” Jack had no idea. “But there you have it. Case closed without slandering anyone.”
“You know, Jamon, Ham, that’s what they call him, the street guy…” At that Barb rose to her entire 5’3” height, “but I don’t for a minute believe it was him. He’s harmless and helpless and he’s no bigger than Beth. To be honest in a fight, I think she would kick that poor drunk’s butt and definitely not allow him to choke her much less to death. It’s ridiculous and just too easy. Poor old Horace or Jamon was passed out in an alley when they picked him up. Mitch was out walking Carmen and watched as the cops had trouble waking the guy up, for goodness sake. Not much of a getaway; and of course no alibi; but I just can’t believe it. You said there would probably be quite a long list of suspects; but I bet Jamon wasn’t on the one you came up with, was he?” In a pair of skinny pedal pushers and a white blousy top, Barb paced back and forth across the worn oriental carpet as Jack watched like a spectator at a tennis match.
“Of course because first I don’t think I know the fella and secondly, I don’t have an actual list.” Jack leaned back into the sofa.
“Oh please Jack, don’t be obstinate.” Barb flopped back into her chair and her feet actually came off the ground. “I need your help. Obviously the wrong person is being accused, while the real murderer is out there and for all we know could be somebody we know. We can’t let the real murderer get away with it, can we?”
“Now wait a minute, will you,” Jack said trying to sound calm and firm as if he were attempting to cool down an argument at a faculty meeting or a confrontation in a classroom. “You keep saying we and that you need my help; but to be quite honest, I don’t see how I’m involved at all. Or you, for that matter. It’s none of our business.”
“She was a friend of ours—one of us, a member of our little community. There’s nobody else—no husband; no children; I don’t know if there’s even a next of kin. She died alone, like a lot of us will down here, since we’ve made a clean break with back home; this is home, our home. At least we should challenge the police to make sure they’ve got the right person.”
Jack sat up straight in his chair. He didn’t like hearing about dying alone. Little Barb sat across from him making him feel very uncomfortable and guilty and alone. “Why are you saying these things to me? I knew Beth, sure; I even liked her; but we were far from fast friends. She has never been in my apartment, for example. What am I supposed to do? Why are you here?”
“Because, you’re a journalist, you know how to investigate things, you know, like crimes.”
“I’m a fucking restaurant critic,” Jack said throwing up his arms. “Excuse my French, but the only thing I investigate is the dessert trolley.”
“Jack, you taught journalism for years, I know that, and I’m sure you know how to be an investigative journalist.”
“No never,” Jack said. “Theory sure, and a couple of my students investigated crimes on campus or misappropriations of funds or something like that but not often and nothing like this. Who do you think you are Agatha Christie or Miss Marple or somebody?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. This is serious and I’m serious. You know more about conducting an investigation than I do…”
“Don’t be so sure,” Jack interjected.
“…and there is nobody else; nobody else. If it had happened to me, Mitch would have tried to find out the truth, but I sincerely feel that the poor dear wouldn’t get very far. How about if you got mugged or murdered? Who would look after your interests?”
“That’s just my point,” Jack said and surprised himself with the bitterness he felt. “Nobody. Nobody in the world would bother to investigate as you suggest. Why would they? Nobody cares. They would tisk, tisk, tisk over white wine at happy hour and go about their business. I would be surprised if you would be out tracking down my killer, to be quite honest, my dear.”
“Maybe so, maybe so, I don’t know,” Beth said with a sincerely sad look on her face. “I would like to think I would do what I could; to do the right thing. That’s what I want to do, the right thing by Beth, by myself by all us lost souls looking for a home in somebody else’s country. I’m sorry Jack; it’s not your problem, but who else is there? And excuse me, what else is going on in your life? Or mine? Why can’t we stick our nose in and see if we can do our part to make sure this horrible business turns out correctly?”
“I write my restaurant reviews.” Jack tried to look indignant.
“That takes three hours, four hours max and two of those hours are spent eating the dinner. You’re a professional. I read your reviews. They’re fine and informative, but you’ve got it down to a pattern and then what?”
Jack was pleased that Barb actually read his stuff and at the same time upset that she felt she had detected a formula. Of course there was a formula, especially when writing to certain space limitations, but it was his job to hide that from his readers. “I’m sorry, you find my reviews tedious,” Jack said.
“Oh, stop it,” Beth said. She looked cross and exasperated. “I find your reviews very entertaining, but that’s not what we’re talking about. I’m here because a woman we knew was killed, before her time, by somebody who is still walking around; and laughing; and having a life; and eating in nice restaurants that you recommended while some poor jerk takes the fall and nobody cares. So I say, let’s care. Why not?”
“Well, the murderer could get you or me next especially if he finds out we’re playing Sherlock Holmes. That’s why not.”
“Only if it’s not Jamon. We’ll be discreet. I’ve asked our friend Beni, you know Benito, my lawyer to help out with the Spanish speaking police and all; and when I told Bobby Boar, Beth’s attorney, that they arrested a bum off the streets, he laughed. He promised me he’ll look into some things too. So we’re not alone. Please Jack, help me out. I need somebody to brain storm with and snoop around and, you know, work with me. It might even be rewarding; but I can’t do it without help.”
“And, it’s me, not Mitch because?”
“Because Mitch would never do it and he’s not up to it, to be honest. And it’s you; because I did work up a list of possible suspects and Mitch and you are the only men I know who are not on the list, if you really want to know. You didn’t murder Beth, did you?”
“No, I didn’t,” Jack said. “By the way, why are you sure it’s a man?”
“I’m not. I don’t know who did it. But I will tell you that Allen’s hooker ex-girlfriend is on my list.”
“Tell me,” Jack said. “Was, as far as you know, anything stolen from her house?”
“I have no idea. That’s something I hope Beni finds out from the cops,” Barb said, then, she smiled.
“Well, that’s important,” Jack said. He sat straight up. “If nothing’s missing that means it was probably a crime of passion.”
“So do you want to compare lists?”
Since she read in Panama News, an English-language news website, that Beth Page had been murdered, Madge had a knot in the pit of her stomach. The thought “stupid Jerry, stupid Jerry” played over and over like a refrain in her brain. When she read the first paragraph of the article and realized that the “Prominent Real Estate Developer…” in the headline was Beth, the first person Madge thought of was Jerry. After all, her husband, more than anyone else, had gone out of his way to establish a motive. He told people that he “hates that bitch.” He cussed her and yelled at her and made angry faces at her at parties and even on the street. Madge was sure that there were dozens of hateful e-mails on Beth’s computer from her bitterly angry, often distraught husband. How difficult would it be for an investigating detective to find that incriminating paper trail, or electronic trail or whatever it’s called?
When her husband would come home frustrated and angry, it seemed like he was letting off steam by describing the method he would use to “get rid of that Beth bitch.” That’s what he called her, never simply Beth or that Page woman or anything like that but always “that Beth bitch.” He would often go into detail, about the creative ways he would wreak his revenge—a briefcase that supposedly contained the last payment which he never intended to make but was stuffed with explosives instead; a poisoned wedding cake “if she ever married that jerk Allen”; a Fer-de-Lance tucked under her pillow; and the not so creative methods involving aluminum baseball bats; chainsaws; shotguns and machine guns; steak knives or machetes; or his favorite, his bare hands. Oh, oh, that’s a little too close to what reportedly happened. Madge had taken out a tissue and wiped her glasses when she read that Beth had been choked to death. Jerry had told her repeatedly that he “would love to wring her neck.” That’s what he said. Most of the time, Madge would laugh off the threats as silly fantasies and Jerry would make it seem comic with exaggerated gestures and a deep announcer’s voice as he described lighting the fuse to the stick of dynamite or running her over with a bulldozer from the construction site.
Of course, he was joking. Where was Jerry going get his hands or grenades or a Glock. But his bare hands, there was the rub. As was often the case lately, Madge had had her first vodka tonic around noon and usually switched to Absolute on the rocks with a twist by cocktail hour. As a nurse, she knew she was self medicating and as Jerry’s wife she felt she needed to tranquilize herself. Jerry never hit her. That’s what she always told herself. However, if the truth be told, he had shoved her a couple of times and grabbed her arms and left bruises that she had so far successfully hidden from friends and colleagues with long sleeves or makeup. So was that enough to mean that he was prone to violence? Even though they weighed about the same, not always but lately, Madge was in fact afraid of her husband, because there was no way she could match his intensity. She tried to tell herself that it didn’t happen often, but sometimes he would yell loud and rage at her and call her fat, which was true and stupid which wasn’t true at all. His small pinched face would contort into an ugly grimace, while his words would be cruel and direct without sarcasm, simply mean—fat pig; four-eyed sow; stupid cow; stupid hippo; stupid mutt…One time, it finally struck her as so ridiculous that she laughed and said that “you’ve called me every animal name under the sun.” To which he responded, “you’re right, you stupid pile of shit.” No more laughing it off.
Of course, he almost always apologized and said that he regretted losing his temper and would even show up occasionally with the cliché flowers or champagne and always with a promise to do better. He didn’t mean what he said. He was out of control. If anything, he needed her help and was so, so very sorry. He never actually promised that it would not happen again, but did say that he would try, whatever that meant. Marge was embarrassed that as a medical professional she couldn’t get herself out of the cycle.
Moving to Panama was supposed to help. Now that he was retired—forced out was the not-for-public-consumption story—building their dream house on the beach was supposed to keep Jerry occupied and stimulated. He was an engineer, after all, who for most of his life had specialized in oil rig construction; so how hard could it be to build a house. It was supposed to be their latest adventure. Really, they had moved around enough that Marge assumed that settling in Panama on a pensioner’s visa would not be that much of a challenge. The main reason they had chosen Panama was that even expats on a pension were exonerated from property tax for 20 years. Jerry loved the idea of not having to pay taxes. An unforeseen consequence was that Madge could no longer work locally because that was prohibited because she was the spouse of someone with pensioner’s status. There was no home base. They didn’t own a house anywhere else like in Houston or Curacao. So she could say she was on leave, since she had kept her certification up to date, but the reality was that no particular hospital had her on its books. Nobody was anticipating her return. Madge was trapped. She felt trapped. Sure she considered leaving Jerry, though she still felt loyal and responsible some times, but she had no particular place to go—by herself; all alone; a fat four-eyed cow with no prospects. It was Jerry, with all his faults and most of the money, or nobody.
Then Madge had the extra worry that her stupid misguided husband may have actually gone too far. The main reason that Madge found it difficult to sleep at night was that she could not provide an adequate alibi for her husband’s whereabouts the night of the crime. He wasn’t home at their apartment in the Columbus House until almost midnight. Plenty of time to do poor Beth in. Supposedly he was out at a bar along the highway socializing with his architect and one of the sub-contractors, trying a new approach of getting along with the people he was working with. However, it was an hour-and-a-half drive back to the city from Gorgona, so lots of unaccounted-for time even if he had someone who could corroborate his story. Then he was up and out by a bit after 6 a.m. and on his way back to the construction site. Again he had time to pay Beth an early unwelcome visit and still be on the Pan American highway before rush hour. Such thoughts filled Marge’s head with dread and her heart with a sadness that she couldn’t express to anyone, least of all her number one suspect, her own husband.
Another notion added guilt to the mix of feelings that made Madge ill. If Jerry had in fact done it; and she certainly didn’t have any proof he did, then that might be the last nail in the coffin and she could, would be forced to crawl out from under his thumb. Was Madge hoping that her own husband of 25 years was a murderer? In a way, yes—that would be an undeniable last straw; uncontestable grounds for divorce, with Madge getting most of the money. The beach house would eventually be completed and she could live there; get a dog; and be free; free of abuse; free to leave if she wanted. However, there was also the possibility that he had nothing to do with Beth’s death. In fact, when she told him the news, Jerry had appeared to be sincerely surprised and more than a bit bewildered. As far as Madge could observe he didn’t act guilty, though she also wasn’t very sure how guilt would be displayed. What he said was “So, the bitch is dead. How about that?”
To say that Madge’s nerves were on edge, jangled even, was an understatement. During the past couple of days, she couldn’t sleep, had trouble concentrating on the book she was trying to read and went on long walks around Casco Viejo, just to use up some of her nervous energy. Pacing the hallway of her small apartment made her feel like a crazy woman.
So there she was walking along the sea wall with the Gulf of Panama stretched out to the horizon. The tide was out and what waves there were in the hot afternoon calm broke some 300 yards away. Somebody had told her that the Pacific tides could run as much as 17 feet from low to high. Indeed there were times when waves splashed over the wall, but at that time long, flat brownish rock formations and sandy patches stretched out for what seemed like a couple of city blocks. At one point, a flock of 30 or 40 pelicans sat and rested on a rock formation that would be totally submerged at high tide.
Madge was at loose ends. She was on more of a wander than a stroll. There was no destination. Her only goal was to get out of the apartment. Not a smoker, she didn’t need cigarettes. Without a car, she couldn’t drive into the city and pretend to go shopping or out to lunch. A taxi was too much trouble. Even before she had the worry that her husband may have done a very bad thing, she sometimes thought of their apartment, with its rented furniture and a big screen TV that she didn’t watch very often, as a jail cell. She still wanted to visit the site where their dream beach house was being built, but Jerry often made her feel unwanted; not needed; in the way. How could she be a third wheel in a partnership of two? Without being able to escape to a job at a hospital, where she was treated with respect as a professional, because that’s what she was, she felt useless without an outlet.
At first, she was able to express some creativity by helping with the design of the house. Jerry seemed quite open, even welcoming to her suggestions. The upstairs balcony off the master bedroom; the wide doors that opened onto the terrace from the dining room as well as off the living room; the skylight over the stairwell; the way that the built-in flower beds curved around the terrace and the stairs down to the swimming pool were all her ideas. However, when construction actually began, Jerry suggested that she would be bored or even in the way. So, she was left back at the apartment and only visited the beach once or twice a week, most of the time on the weekend when the workers weren’t even there. The house was taking shape and Madge could see that it was going to be quite spectacular, when it was completed with an expansive view of the Pacific and Toboga Island out near the horizon.
However, progress did seem to be very slow. At times she couldn’t see much difference from one visit to the next. Costs also seemed to continually escalate. That was what angered Jerry the most. The contract that he signed that was brokered by Beth Page through the real estate agency with the contractor wasn’t as binding as Madge and Jerry had expected. At juncture after juncture, prices for materials seemed to go up and needed to be renegotiated and then paid up front. Permits took weeks to be approved instead of days. Bribes were offered, but then ignored; or accepted with no tangible speedup to the process. The specified windows were unavailable, even though the holes were already cut in place. Eight-inch tiles turned into six-inch. Twelve-inch tiles didn’t look right either. There was no drain hole for a sink in one of the bathrooms. Openings for light switches were behind doors. The guy who was supposed to do the very attractive blue-on-blue tile work in the pool got started right on time and then never showed up again. Plus Jerry didn’t handle the contractors and workers that well. Not only did he speak in pigeon Spanish, but he was too quick to yell. Whole crews quit and walked off the job because he disrespected them and made it clear because as Jerry said more than once “I don’t respect these guys. They’re useless at best and dishonest at worst.”
Jerry had never been known as a patient person and Madge had always had to deal with his quick temper and biting tongue. However, Jerry was no fool at his job and conducted himself in what could only be called a professional manner. That was until he had a “falling out” with his superiors and been forced into early retirement. At least that was Jerry’s side of the story and Madge really never had a chance to find out what exactly happened. Then when they decided on Panama and committed to the beach house, the trend continued. Things seemed to consistently go wrong and Jerry seemed constantly unhappy. Jerry had so many fallings out that Madge had joked to herself that her poor husband was in free fall.
Madge simply stood along the seawall and stared out at the distant ships anchored off the end of the Amador Causeway waiting their turn to pass through the canal. Mitch, with Carmen on a leash, was almost right next to her before she noticed her friend and his dog.
“Hola Senora. So what are you up to?” Mitch said. Tail wagging, Carmen jumped up and Madge caught the little dog’s front paws in her hands. “Down you bad dog,” Mitch said with a smile and a tug on the leash.
“Oh, nothing.” Madge shrugged. “I just had to get out of the apartment. How about you—what’s up?”
“Well, I know it’s silly but I like taking Carmen for a walk, every morning and afternoon. She even usually takes a pee and sometimes both.”
“Why’s that silly?” Madge patted the dog and gently pushed her away from her white peasant skirt.
A brief look of mild surprise passed over Mitch broad friendly face. “Well, she’s actually a street dog and really doesn’t need my help or permission to do her duty. She’s free to wander the neighborhood and poop where ever she sees fit.”
“Oh, I know,” Madge said. “I saw her once all the way up by the fish market. But, I guess she always comes home, huh?”
“So far.” Mitch said and nodded. “I guess you could say we’re out role playing as owner and loyal pup.” It was obvious to Madge that the big burly man in front of her loved the dog, that in no way appeared uncomfortable in its role as pampered pet. “I think the secret is that we feed her.”
“And love her,” Madge said. At that moment Madge felt more than a tinge of jealousy and wanted a dog of her own. The problem was that Jerry was dead set against owning a dog. Madge figured that he wanted all her attention for himself.
“So what do you think of this Beth business?” Mitch enquired while Carmen placed both paws on the edge of the wall and peered out to sea. “Carmen loves a good view,” Mitch would say when ever Carmen did that or stopped and looked around.
Meanwhile Madge knew exactly what she thought of the Beth business but had no idea what to say about it, so she came up with “Terrible, simply terrible,” then a bit more candidly, “I just don’t know what to say or think for that matter.”
“Any way, did you hear they arrested poor ol’Jamon for Beth’s murder?”
Genuinely surprised and relieved Madge said “No I hadn’t. So it’s solved then.”
“Hardly,” Mitch said and shook his head as if considering a bad play on the basketball court. “The guy’s tiny. Smaller than Beth and I’m sure she’s tougher. Both Barb and I agree that there is no way that sickly, usually drunk or stoned street guy had enough gumption or strength to overpower much less strangle to death a healthy, determined woman like Beth. No way.”
“Oh, dear,” Madge said, sincerely concerned. “Then who do you think did such a thing?”
It was at that moment that Mitch realized that not only was he talking to an acquaintance and fellow expat in the neighborhood, who would be properly concerned, but that he was also speaking with the wife of a leading suspect in the case. “Me and my big mouth,” Mitch thought as he sputtered “Oh, I have no idea.” Mitch was sure he saw worry in Madge’s expression and also strongly suspected that she sensed that he had grown nervous about the subject they were discussing, which he brought up. The two stood in awkward silence for a long moment as Carmen wrapped the leash around Mitch’s leg. “Oh no, you don’t,” Mitch said to Carmen, in a sincere effort to change the subject. “You’re not going to pee on my shoe.” The remark did make Madge giggle and at that Mitch said, maybe rather too briskly, “We’re off, take care.”
Madge wasn’t fooled. As she watched the tall guy hustle off with the small black and white dog, she realized that at least some of the people around Casco Viejo probably suspected her husband; and why wouldn’t they? She did.
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