A fog had settled in over the harbor, snugged up so tightly to the water that I could only make out a faint thicket of masts. But the clanking of rigging against wood and metal sounded an atonal cacophony, louder than I remembered hearing in sunny weather. Underneath all that, I heard the noises of hose beating against metal. My acquaintance Derek from the other day must be washing down the deck of the big Sebago catamaran—in case the weather cleared. Conditions could change on a dime on this island and the tourists would be clamoring for the sails to be set and the party to begin.
“Good morning!” I hollered once Derek’s wiry frame and yellowing beard emerged through the mist. Then I noticed Turtle, the homeless man I’d seen fighting with Derek the other morning, was lounging against the hull, pointing out spots that hadn’t been hit by the hose.
“Someday maybe you’ll get your own damn job instead of standing around bothering me,” Derek groused in return. Turtle spun around, swirling his cape like Dracula and growling like an angry bear.
It occurred to me again that the cape looked exactly like the one I’d glimpsed on Rizzoli the other night, as he dangled from the mast. No way it could be the same—that garment would be buried deep in the stacks of police evidence. But would these guys have heard news about the murder? Something more than what the detective had been willing to tell me? They appeared to spend a lot of time here—maybe they’d even been lurking in the shadows as Rizzoli was strung up.
“Turtle,” I said, diving into the conversation without grace. “Where’d you get the cool cloak?” I imitated his swishing movements with the hem of my T-shirt.
“Fantasy Fest last October,” he said, flashing a big snaggletoothed grin. “Damn tourists get so damn drunk they leave all kinds of good stuff right alongside the road.”
“Terrible thing about the murder the other day,” I said, trying to sound open-ended and conversational without coming off as shallow. “Wasn’t Mr. Rizzoli wearing a cape like yours?”
Turtle slitted his eyes with suspicion.
“Nothing unusual about that. Anyone with a few bucks could pick one up at the pirate shop on Simonton Street,” said Derek, bristling a little and sidling closer to Turtle. Making it clear that while they might have been fighting to the death the other day, I was still the outsider—a recent transplant from the northeast who had money and relatives and options. Who didn’t have to worry about supper and a place to sleep in the visceral way that Turtle did.
“I didn’t mean to suggest you had anything to do with it,” I said. “Sorry if it came out that way.”
“It was ugly, that hanging,” Derek said finally, and Turtle nodded in agreement.
“Were you guys here before it happened?” Even if they’d seen the whole thing, I doubted they’d admit it. Not to me.
“I was in bed by nine,” said Derek, waving toward a beat-up apartment building a couple blocks east of the harbor.
“My digs ain’t quite as fancy as his,” Turtle said.
“He likes the old Waterfront Market’s Dumpster,” Derek added, snickering. He pinched his nose. “He sleeps better surrounded by eau de garbage.”
Turtle pointed an imaginary gun at him and pulled the invisible trigger. “I heard an awful ruckus,” Turtle told me with a big guffaw of laughter, “loud enough to wake the dead. Or even those of us not dead, only slightly pickled.”
“There had to be half a dozen police cars, and every one with its damn siren blasting,” said Derek. “Usually I would roll over and go back to sleep, but I could tell this was something big.”
“And besides the fuzz, they called in the Navy scuba guys. Those dudes were in the water for hours. Glub, glub, glub, glub.” Turtle chortled.
“How long did it take the cops to get him down?” I’d seen that part myself, but I wanted to hear about their experience.
“Cutting him down wasn’t the problem,” said Derek. “But they had to wait a damn lifetime for the photographer.”
“Hey, show her the picture you got,” said Turtle.
“She don’t want to see that,” Derek said with a scowl. But at the same time, he hitched up his faded blue jeans and pulled a smartphone out of his back pocket. With a few quick jabs of his finger, he found the photo in question and passed the phone to me.
The scene was worse than I even remembered. Sam Rizzoli had been laid out on the decking, the black cape spread out underneath him. The yellow wig was askew, revealing a fringe of thick, black curls. A rope was still tied around his neck. Even now, knowing exactly who it was, I could barely recognize his face under the makeup caking his swollen skin. No surprise that I hadn’t been able to work out his identity when I’d seen him from a distance the other night.