Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

Uncle would have agreed. “Care about nothing and nothing will take care of you very nicely.” He did want me to do a good job on anything that might come up. “Just for the hell of it, Jimbo.” Tom Tipper taught likewise but left out the “good job.” Tom definitely tended to overdo negation, to the point where nihilistic insights led to disorderly euphoria and Sheriff, on occasion, had to transport a handcuffed Tom to a Bangor crisis center.

Father Mikey, when stopping off at the Thirsty Dolphin between services, told us about love being the Mystery. The Mystery, by its very nature, could not, the father said, be explained.

“Anyone wants to fight the Mystery?”

Silence in the Dolphin.

“Then the Mystery has won.”

Another triumph for the noble priest.

Uncle Joe said that’s what he liked about the Church. “It goes every which way, Nephew.” He sometimes went to Mass. “To be with the Mystery.”

When I asked whether Uncle would be in hell now, Father Mikey smiled. “What if he is? A well-organized man, Vetty, and Joe was just that, will be comfortable anywhere.”

Ah well. Me worry? But just to be sure, every clear full moon, I float flowers (in winter cedar branches) just off Snutty Nose Island, where Uncle liked to fish for cod, and once in a while caught one, and, because it was endangered, put it back carefully.

We floated his hat when the current and the wind were outward, again behind Snutty Nose Ledge and the island.

Same place where Jacko, couple of weeks after Uncle died, in a rowboat that he actually paid for, successfully overdosed on whiskey and heroin, after mailing a note to Sheriff. The note said where to collect the boat.

Jacko left a note pinned to his chest:

I’M DONE

THANK YOU

The crime story? you ask.

Two dead pirates aren’t enough for you? And now a suicide? A suicide is not a crime, you say. Okay. Here we go.

Crime story #1 (continued)

I was happy in the cabin that I cleaned up after Uncle’s death. New oak floors, new roof, new plumbing. Coastal art on the whitewashed walls, by up-and-coming Maine artists. I linseed-oiled the hand-hewn posts and beams. I enjoyed the view from Uncle’s sturdy bed on wheels, that I moved about so Tillie, who slept in my arm, could enjoy the best views. I always spent more than my disablement check, filling the hole with cash I found under a loose board in a walk-in closet.

Uncle’s savings, even with inflation, could last me a lifetime.

“I got all my needs covered,” I declared on a fourth beer.

“Oh dear,” Priscilla said. “That means you haven’t.”

An Abinaki Native American further down the counter, raising a forbidding hand, agreed. He told me to be careful. Had I heard about the invisible ever-present Thunderbirds, who trap happy humans into learning situations until the goddess Manitou steps out of the woods and takes us away altogether?

“You must be getting bored,” Deputy Sheriff Sycophant said. Deputy Dog thought so too.

Everybody agreed that contentment equals depression. As I mentioned before, it’s a bad thing to be happy.

Stupid too. Tillie comforted me. Dolly was busy at that time.

“Breed koi,” Dr. Frederic J. Shanigan, MD, said. Koi are big carp that come in exotic colors. They freeze in their ponds in winter but thaw back to life in the spring. Dr. Shanigan breeds them for money on his island that none of us got invited to. Our medical recluse — who brags about his beautiful island home designed by an architect from far away, an Oriental who even created a Zen garden: artfully arranged rocks surrounded by white, carefully raked gravel — lives about ten miles out of Bunkport Harbor. He has a clinic in town that’s mostly run by Nurse, as Doc likes to travel. He uses his expensive powerboat as a ferry to the mainland, and a small but fast seaplane for getting further away. He is a sporty type who kayaks as well. Fastbuck Freddie heals for money only. No insurance, no treatment, unless there is top dollar in advance. Doc refers old people to out-of-the-way clinics because Medicare cuts into his bill. A pregnant homeless woman turned up with her baby stuck sideways. Doc sold her pain pills he got as samples. Priscilla, when she saw the woman collapse on her doormat, called the county helicopter service. By the time the chopper got to Bangor Hospital it carried a dead mother and a still-born baby.

But, you know, even Freddie Shanigan has different aspects. I had a splinter festering up my hand and Doc took it out for free. Priscilla broke out in shingles and Doc was right there with the injection and the ointment. Again: no charge. He treated Dolly, Sheriff’s wayward wife, for a fungus infection. Tom Tipper, treated free for side effects of alcoholism, claims Freddie sees us as members of his sacred inner circle.

I still won’t breed no koi or shoot, like Doc, the herons that sneak up into the pond to eat them.