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“One time?”
Casinelli grinned. “Well, they caught us one time.”
Greta grinned back. “Hypothetically speaking, if I was not interested in the illegalities of abalone poaching, how often might two so inclined individuals do such a thing?”
“Hypothetically, they might do it half a dozen times or so, until one of the pair might’ve given it up since the number of abalones harvested didn’t match the risk of diving along this coast. With the cold, strong currents and high surf, it just made no sense. Also, the other individual might have been too unreliable. All this hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Of course. So, it’s your hypothetical belief that abalone poaching is not a profitable pursuit?”
Casinelli shook his head. “I didn’t say that. Only that where these two hypothetical men dove, there weren’t enough abalone to be worthwhile. Rumors are that there’re pockets rich in abalone and that there’re some individuals who make good money. The problem is knowing where those pockets are located, and word is that it can be a little dangerous to poach on a poacher.”
“And might you know where any of these pockets are located, and who might be regulars to such locations?”
“Nope. Of our hypothetical pair of men, the better looking and smarter one simply heard these rumors from the other man. However, that other man was willing to work on riskier and more meager locations, rather than chance the richer sites. Again, hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course,” Greta repeated.
Casinelli provided no other meaningful contacts he’d had with Toompas, and she believed he was being straight with her, in a hypothetical sense.
Back in her vehicle, she got a message that the investigation team meeting would be in Lincoln City on Monday morning at nine.
She called it a day and went home for a long hot shower, then donned thick socks and a pink and yellow zip-up robe. She looked at the clock. Five-thirty here meant two hours later back home in Missouri. She had to call home, having procrastinated and forgotten the scheduled Wednesday call.
The call went better than she’d anticipated. Her father expressed his usual concern for her and the details of her work. She told him of the investigation, and he picked up on her high interest about her first such experience. Naturally, they agreed not to mention her involvement in a murder case to her mother.
When her mom took a turn, to Greta’s relief, the topic of her social life never arose. Instead, Greta got updates on her mother’s current perceived ailments and her latest exasperation with Heather, the older daughter—a new boyfriend who hadn’t worked for more than a year and wore earrings in both ears! To top off her mother’s previous week, their church had inexplicably decided to go with someone else’s proposal for this year’s outdoor Christmas display.
Then Jeanine, her youngest sister, got on the phone. That didn’t happen every week, to Greta’s regret. Jeanine’s youthful enthusiasm for school and life in general was refreshing.
Greta needed to have Jeanine visit sometime. She and their father were the ones Greta really missed. It would also get Jeanine out of small-town USA for a few days. This Thanksgiving? Hmmm. She’d think on it a little more, though time was getting short—just over a month away.
Her weekly family duty done, Greta settled down to eat and then relax before going to bed. She had been a good girl for dinner the previous night, salad and bread, so she thawed out a batch of homemade pasta sauce and heated frozen ravioli. She also broke her usual preference for wine. White wine just didn’t work with a tomato-based pasta sauce. She had toured the Mount Hood area east of Portland during one of her training sessions for Oregon law enforcement hires. Generally, reds weren’t her thing, yet for whatever reason, a malbec at a Mt. Hood winery struck her fancy, and she splurged, buying a case. She still had eight bottles because it was only for specific occasions and meals that a red seemed appropriate for, such as tonight.
By the time the frozen ravioli rose to the surface of the boiling water, a steady hard rain drummed against the skylights. She sat at the table in the eating nook, windows on two sides, lights off, three candles lit on the table, and ate slowly, listening to the rain and just . . . existing. She relaxed with the sound of the rain and the darkness outside, forgetting everything, while fully experiencing that moment.
Sunday was a stay-at-home-and-do-all-the-chores day. The front yard weeds, not having the decency to die, succumbed to Greta’s onslaught in the first chore. Next, she cleaned the main bathroom. She avoided using the guest bathroom unless necessary. As a last bit of house maintenance, she refastened a loose shingle on a front window. It had come loose a week earlier when a Pacific front blew through.
Greta had had little experience in home repairs before moving to Tillamook. That changed when her father insisted on providing a down payment for a house. She had assumed she would rent an apartment, but her father argued that equity in a house was a better long-term investment. Greta knew he loved her, though she also suspected a factor in his insistence was regret because he thought he hadn’t been a good enough father. Greta would have argued against that if they had ever had such a discussion, which they never did. She had reluctantly checked at a bank in Tillamook City on loan conditions. The manager informed her the bank would accept a low down payment and that a favorable interest rate would be possible, given her position in the community and the recommendation of Mayor Blankenship. Finding herself an unexpected homeowner, she was diligent with repairs.
After finishing the planned chores around the house, she spent two hours on her monthly “donated” time for community cleanup and maintenance. In exchange for slightly lower monthly dues, residents could contribute time for general maintenance, such as trash pickup, community center cleaning and repairs, or whatever else the Gestap . . . er . . . Community Committee deemed necessary. This month she opted for trash pickup.
The day’s other activities included laundry—washing, drying, folding, and ironing deputy uniforms. The day ended with a short walk out to the beach, leftover ravioli, and a TV movie.
On Monday, the previous full-scale, all-hands, all-bureaucrats meeting was replaced at the Lincoln City police building by only the four investigating officers. The three Lincoln officers had been busy checking off the initial list of Toompas acquaintances and adding more. Connors handed out a revised list. It ran to five pages.
“We’re getting a pretty consistent view of Toompas,” Tomasek started off. “A user of various drugs, small-time dealer, petty crime, smart enough to not get caught often, and what no one would call a real friend. A real pillar of the community.”
So Toompas wasn’t Mr. Rogers, thought Greta. Still, he got ki
lled on our watch.
“Obviously, we’re not getting complete cooperation from most on the list,” Connors complained. “Hardly unexpected, of course. The one thing that stands out to me is that so far, no one has pointed to anyone with enough against Toompas to rise to the level of serious violence, much less murder.”
“That doesn’t rule out something new that happened or something that escalated,” said Boylan. “An argument or Toompas picked a fight that got out of control.”
“Right. But if that’s the case, then we’re back to where we were before we ever talked to any of the people on the list,” Tomasek said with a worried look. “It’s been five days since the truck driver found the body and about eleven to thirteen since the murder. With no real leads, it’s getting less likely we solve this one unless something breaks.”
“It’s still early,” rejoined Connors. “We’ve got more people to check on, so let’s not get too pessimistic quite yet.”
