The Sum of Her Parts

By David P. Simmons

THE DUCK POINT YACHT CLUB, located on a peninsula on the New England coast, has welcomed invitees for over one hundred fifty years. When the charred relic of the clubs dory appears on the river and a naked wooden leg peeps out from under the stern thwart, two men suffering from professional loneliness are suddenly thrust into the midst of a murder mystery.

Paul Leach is a retired orthopedic surgeon who, with the help of a down-and-out police detective, becomes a self-appointed murder investigator. Eva Gitane, a seductive young beauty, has mysteriously vanished; when her body part turns up abruptly, Leach becomes frustrated by a confusing trail of gruesome clues. Unable to pinpoint any one of three males who once rivaled for Evas attention as her killer, Leach focuses on locating her body, wherever it might lieunderground or underwater.

As body pieces continue to emerge along the seashore, the doctor studies them in secret, applying knowledge gathered in his medical career and bone-collecting hobby. But as Leach arrives at a startling discovery only he could have fathomed, he realizes that Eva may have been not only enchanting, but also smart enough to catch her own killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450254458

David P. Simmons

DAVID P. SIMMONS is a retired physician. When not writing, he enjoys life with his wife and extended family, reads French, photographs nature, audits courses, watches sports, and carves wood. Simmons lives in Annisquam, Massachusetts, the New England village where his first novel, The Sum of Her Parts, takes place.

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Copyright © 2010 by David P. Simmons, MD

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-5444-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5446-5 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-45025445-8 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010912563

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 12/31/2010

To Bill:

Professor

Partner

Pal

Pop

A fool there was and he made his prayer

(Even as you and I!)

To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair

(We called her the woman who did not care)

But the fool he called her his lady fair—

(Even as you and I!)

—Rudyard Kipling

The Vampire

Contents

The First Body Part

Driftwood

Derelict

Dancing Around

Donor

Duck Rock

Further Dissections

Bits and Pieces

Doctor Leach

Detective Grandfou

Chez George

Dunked or Dry?

The Second Body Part

Flotsam

Oliver Adams

The Mansion

First Biopsy

Pathology One

The Third Body Part

Jetsam

Jack Wylde

The Market

Second Biopsy

Pathology Two

The Fourth Body Part

Sea Glass

Quincy Mollo

The Exchange

Third Biopsy

Pathology Three

Final Reconstruction

Differential Diagnosis

Prima Facie

Brain Waves

Exhumation

Postmortem

Epilogue

missing image file

The First Body Part

It is in truth a most contagious game:

HIDING THE SKELETON shall be its name.

—George Meredith

Modern Love

Driftwood

A flash of light peeled back my eyelids. A fiery eruption expelled the night. A white sheet framed a black shape. The clubhouse prowled like a great monster on scrawny legs knee-deep in the water before me.

Was I hallucinating? The Fourth of July party over at the Duck Point Yacht Club had ended long ago. Since the celebration had finished with fireworks, perhaps a smoldering fuse had sparked an encore. Yet the final boom never came. Since the weather had been playing tricks of late, perhaps dawn was coming early. Yet the sun could never approach from the west.

An orange halo crowned its charcoal roof, golden beams parted its ebony pilings, and a silvery gleam blanched the inky water below. The silent shadows swooping across the incandescent screen were fleeing bats.

Often, sleep sailed in with dreams in tow when I was resting on my porch. But now, once my knuckles had rubbed illusion into truth, the yacht club stood silhouetted by light, motionless as usual, solid on its pilings, way out in the harbor. This was not a dream.

A burning boat burst out from behind the clubhouse. Its cargo was shimmering white heat. Nimble yellow flames danced on its gunwales as tongues of red fire lapped skyward. Running free on the wind and waves in a chaos of conflagration, the vessel hurtled down the river. When a shroud of darkness doused her exotic running lights, she disappeared from sight.

The sight of the boat snuffed worries about my imagination, but left me wondering about the facts. Why was the boat on fire? Where had it come from? Where was it going? Was anyone aboard? I finished the night, sleepless, staring into bottomless black.

When the sun showed up for work, I too was eager to get going. Out on the water across from my porch, the yacht club resisted this wake-up call, its windows glaring back as sunbeams lifted mist off its roof and stripped murk off its walls. One bit of tarnish defied the luster of dawn. The yardarm slung on the flagpole was bare; the red, white, and blue salute to sunup was missing. I should have known what that meant.

Off your butt, Sawbones.

A hedge paralleled the club’s walkway where it met the shore beside my house. Tall and dense, the shrubbery hid my porch. Passersby and porch-sitters could not see each other through it, but if some people on one side of the hedge were talking, anybody on the other side could hear the conversation.

We’ve got work to do.

The commands slicing through the hedge showed how hard it was to muffle George Grandfou. Even though he was not an Irish cop from Boston, he was your typical gregarious flatfoot, informal and outspoken with everyone. Which explains why he had climbed up my stairs to introduce himself as my neighbor the first day he moved into the village. Over time, what Grandfou was hoping for grew into a given, and a now and then beer or two evolved into getting together several times a week. In fact, because he was on my porch so much, the villagers mistook us for the best of friends.

Be right with you, Detective. I just have to leave a note for Judith.

Connecting with Grandfou or anyone for happy hour was out of the ordinary for me because during years of clinical practice I socialized little and never drank—at least whenever I was working or on call. Since we were so different, it was hard to figure why such a relationship developed at all. Yet pairings like Fat and Skinny or Abbott and Costello prove opposites do attract.

If you hustle your butt, you’ll get to see what’s goin’ on.

The best explanation for our connecting was that I had turned my back on surgery at New England Coastal Hospital about the same time Grandfou had hit the skids with the City of Beauport Police. I was not making diagnoses, and he was not solving crimes, so we were both suffering from professional loneliness. Although I had locked myself out of medical cases, Grandfou still had access to criminal ones. We began analyzing some of his cases together, and it turned into a rewarding pastime. The physician picked appetizers off the policeman’s platter. The price paid was free beer.

Come on, Doc. We’ve got a great one to work on right under our noses.

Years of night call had trained me to leap from sleepiness to sharpness, so it took little time to answer this summons. Besides, I was still dressed from last night’s party, and even if a little festive, the coat and tie would make my involvement look official.

After skirting the hedge at the front corner of my house and heading down the walkway, I caught up to my fellow investigator and downshifted into the swagger that had always got me by hospital security without any questions. Grandfou omitted even a nod of recognition, for it was morning hangover time.

Thanks for including me, George. I was wondering what was up.

In thinking about the fire out on the water, if what I was getting into was uncertain, where I was going was clear. Like Mutt over Jeff, I could look right over my associate’s head and see the target ahead. A cormorant lingered beside the moon on the clubhouse peak.

The Duck Point Yacht Club ruled the waterfront at the tip of the peninsula formed by the Eel River and Snug Harbor. For over one hundred and fifty years, whether by land or sea, the Club had welcomed invitees and confronted intruders. Like a gigantic bird feathered in shingles, the clubhouse nested on piles sunk into the ocean’s bottom. Depending on how one looked at it, the supports either exposed or protected the building. Depending on how the tide and wind combined, it was either getting water-soaked or blow-dried.

What’s going on at the Club? Is it too early for you to bring me up to date?

Grandfou stopped lurching forward, leaned over the rail, and hung his head. Hands spread and feet planted, he spit into the water below. He was trying to hide his need to rest. At least, he did not vomit.

The wooden walkway was the only way for a pedestrian to enter or exit the yacht club. This centipede of linked planks on log legs stepped away from the clubhouse, plodded through water, crawled over rocks, scurried across marsh, and climbed up onto the shore. The spread of seawater underneath this pathway expanded or contracted according to the state of the tide. At high tide, it swelled into a bay of one hundred yards between the piles under the clubhouse and the rocks on the shore. At low tide, it shrank into a moat of twenty yards between low walls of granite and marsh grass.

The chief’s on his way over.

That can’t make you very happy, but it tells me this is a big deal.

What’s a big deal for some is a pain in the butt for others.

The scowl was standard early morning Grandfou. Pasty fat squeezed bloodshot eyes, and a dry tongue parted parched lips. With any luck, at least you’ll get the flavor of what went on before the bum kicks you out.

I’ve been hungry for some explanation ever since the fire woke me up last night.

You already know about that monkey business? I figured you were dead to the world. That I was in the know crushed Grandfou. In the course of our hobby, my knack as an analyst had relegated him to supplying facts, which he recognized as the demotion it was. When I came up with twists or angles he had not considered, he did not just mind it—he hated it.

It was a goddamn empty boat, Doc. Burned to the waterline. Driftin’ down the river in the middle of the night. Doesn’t make any damn sense at all.

If you’re right about those facts—I’d have to see for myself to be sure—there’d be reasons for all three.

Bein’ a physician and a surgeon doesn’t give you the right to be so cocky. Besides, this ain’t no postmortem. We’re lookin’ forward, not backwards. When the guy who pulled the boat in called me, he bet it would trigger a huge investigation.

And who called him?

The dispatcher on duty. That’s how it works in the police business. Mentioned a muffled voice. He couldn’t even tell if it was Dick or Jane. But what can you do if a snitch hangs up?

I thought anonymous tips were mostly a waste of time.

Not always. Anyway, it’s ancient history now. We better get a move on.

Grandfou staggered back from the rail and lurched again toward the clubhouse. I dogged his steps to disguise my intrusion, and the junior officer stationed at the main entrance made no protest. He must have concluded I was okay because, as far as he knew, this was Grandfou’s turf.

Why Grandfou had moved from the city of Beauport to the village on Duck Point was unknown. It was not a job change—the Beauport Police Department had jurisdiction over the whole cape. Maybe he sensed he was wearing out his welcome in his old haunts. Perhaps it had something to do with the size of the fish and the pond. Whatever the case, he had not answered the question in our conversations, even as relaxed as they were.

As we passed through the main door, a blast of hanging scents, a mix of lobster, beer, and cigarettes, rebuilt the party scene inside my skull. With only a hangover inside his head, Grandfou had to work from what he could see. We had discussed whether having prior notions when facing a crime scene was an advantage or a disadvantage, but we had never reached a conclusion.

Looks like you had yourselves quite a party here last night.

We love to kick off the summer this way. Most yacht clubs up and down the New England coast celebrate the Fourth of July with clambakes and fireworks as we do. The Duck Point Yacht Club is proud to have started the tradition. It’s a high point for the DPYC, and it’s important for the entire village—except for stick-in-the-mud types like you.

The fact I don’t give two hoots about you and your yacht club cronies has nothin’ to do with what I’m drivin’ at. You can’t write this caper off as a bunch of drunks just lookin’ for laughs. Last night, someone torched property and set it adrift on the river. That’s arson and public endangerment to boot. This thing will get a full look-see.

Don’t be too quick to blame the members. The Club shut down for the night long before anything happened. Better to think of it as a separate event.

Baloney! You were just braggin’ about your club bein’ so important. Well, I’ll have to agree now because someone connected to the Club has gotta be involved in this whodunit.

Not necessarily. It could be someone who hates the Club. You won’t join, George, and you talk like you’d love to burn the whole thing down. Incidentally, I hope you’ve got a good alibi for last night. Broaching a subject often steers an inquiry away. I wanted to let my alibi continue sleeping in her bed back at home.

How I feel about your pals gettin’ wasted out here won’t get in the way of my findin’ out what went on. Puttin’ the clubhouse on stilts doesn’t put its activities outside legal limits. It’s not like a floatin’ gamblin’ joint in international waters, you know. A long inhale fueled a familiar harangue. Don’t start arguin’ with me. We’re not doctors makin’ rounds, you know. I’ll be teachin’ you how to conduct a proper investigation. You should appreciate bein’ involved in the real thing, with a real pro, and right in your own backyard. Did you ever imagine chuckin’ your MD would bring a great chance like this?

Yes, the invitation to directly analyze the crime was exciting. I could not recall being so fired up since I had retired. For the first time, we would not be batting stale details around but studying fresh facts. Grandfou could hardly contain himself, too. His long slide down in status on the force was the reason. Now, he would have the chance to show the others he was not finished as a cop and me how he did his job.

All of a sudden, a whiff of smoldering damp wood hit my nose, so I chased the lure through the clubhouse out onto the front porch. For most people, inoculation with enthusiasm for the beauty of the Duck Point Yacht Club occurred at first sight, and the disease spread contagiously once they reached its encircling porch. Above, a splendid roof on stately pillars provided shelter. Below, a spacious deck accommodated many feet. All around, a broad rail offered a fence, footrest, or seat. The 360-degree view explained how the DPYC dominated the surroundings from its perch above the water.

This morning, on the far side of the Eel River, the cresting tide had pushed the mainland beach out of sight. As far as the eye could see, between the river’s mouth out to the right and downriver toward Beauport to the left, only a rim of marsh and a few dunes banding the bluffs had survived. And, close in, tied up to the float, bobbed the main attraction.

The night’s confusing phantom lay naked in the day’s revealing light. The boat was a toasted relic. Ribs gnawed short by fire, her framing had fared little better than her planking. Forward, where it cut through seawater, her stem, though charred, had survived. Aft, the skeleton’s home port was still legible on her scorched transom where the carved letters DPYC stared out, deep sunken eyes within a smutted face. It was the yacht club’s dory. Distinguished by its sharp bow and raking stern, only one double-ended dory plied the waters around Duck Point peninsula anymore. Since she was a lady who never went out after sunset, could Death have been her pilot?

Makes you wonder how you get a waterlogged old wreck like this to burn, don’t it, Doc? She wouldn’t even be good for matchsticks now.

Having caught up with me on the porch, Grandfou was pushing in from behind, which produced a new, uncomfortable feeling. Even though I would have missed seeing this scene without him, I resented being dependent upon him for it.

A fire out on the water is often intended as a beacon, George. That inferno signaled something, and I spent the night wondering what? Was it a warning or an invitation?

It was just a dumb fire. Perps do stuff like that to destroy evidence, but you can count on them to screw it up. That’s lesson number one for you, which I’ll prove when I get out the fine-tooth comb.

The ocean was abnormally high, practically at eye level. For several days, villagers had flocked to the shore in hopes of seeing a record set. No one could remember ever seeing the tide reach such heights. Speculation soared about whether the clubhouse would hold tight and take on water or rise off its pilings and drift away.

Both the dory and float were riding on the shoulders of the tide almost level with the porch. Spared the usual tricky descent, I accelerated deeper into the mystery and headed across the gangway to the float. Given his bulk, Grandfou followed obliquely, like a giant crab.

Beside the dory’s berth, a bizarre tattoo dirtied the float. Coating its linear planking was an irregular patch of gummy globs, like rotting strawberries in boxes side by side. Flat gray bands, roughly the same length and equal in width, intersected raised red squares, almost exactly the same size. Such order denied accidental origin. Such geometry contradicted casual inception. Both defied rational explanation.

So, Doc, who do you suppose is the hotshot artist? Gotta get some photos. Lesson number two for you is not to screw up a crime scene. So long as you don’t step on it, the boys from the lab will figure this goo out.

The examiners crowding the float were not examining; they were just standing around. Afraid of messing up before the chief arrived, they had not touched a thing. Only the tide was bold enough to move. Their inhibition gave a gatecrasher like me the chance to move in.

At first glance, the dory seemed empty. Save a pair of oars, the shipwreck had nothing in its hold. All of the required flotation devices, the Coast Guard-approved buoyant and nonflammable seat cushions, were missing. A closer look revealed water in the bilge, which was peculiar for a well-caulked boat in sheltered waters on a rainless night.

Bare as a baby’s butt. That’s too damn bad. Oh, oh, the chief’s here now. I gotta go. That a big guy could move so fast surprised me. Grandfou was back on the gangway, looking as though he had been wedged there for quite a while. You’re a goddamn goner, Doc. If you don’t tell him I brought you over, I’ll drop by later and fill you in.

Almost out of sight, an odd mass peeped out from under the stern thwart. Slick, smooth, and skin-colored where not singed, this object did not belong in any boat. L-shaped, almost half a yard long, the thing looked like an oversized mallet. The longer part was bulbous at one end with a deep cavity inside it. From there, it tapered down cylindrically until it bent in an abrupt right angle to narrow into a stubby tip.

Leaning in, I almost fell in.

A crude foot—five toes complete with painted nails—greeted me. It was a wooden leg. A thin leather band, loosened by the wetness, barely hung on to the ankle.

I needed no more information.

It was the Gypsy’s prosthesis.

Eva Gitane was dead and gone.

Some circumstantial evidence is very strong,

as when you find a trout in the milk.

—Henry David Thoreau

Journal entry, November 11, 1850

Derelict

You’re always hangin’ out here, Doc.

The porch along the back of my house united isolation with inspection. A complex grid of pillars and balustrades hid me yet permitted me to survey the harbor to the left, the clubhouse straight ahead, and the walkway to the right. Along the lines of the well-known home-castle coalition, it was my favorite hangout. So, it was the natural place for me to contemplate the morning’s startling events.

I’m happiest right here on my porch. It’s as simple as that.

It was my private space, and even the midges, when they left their soggy lairs along the waterfront below the house, were barred. Some called them gnats, others called them no-see-ums, but there was universal agreement on their attacks. Tiny in size but huge in insolence, these pests hugged the shoreline until the wind and tide fell at dusk, and then they charged, clogging your eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. You could brush them from your eyes, blow them out of your nose, and spit them out of your mouth, but you could not get them out of your ears. At such times, that more insects occupy one square mile of rural space than humans exist on our entire planet became a believable fact. But the rare midge hardy enough to reach the height of my porch I could expel with a swipe of my hand.

When I want to pester Doctor Leach, at least I know where to find him. Before I go ahead and fill you in, take a guess about what’s been goin’ on.

Duck Point awakened early on summer Sunday mornings, especially on a day like this one when the sun beckoned boaters onto the water. However, the harbor in front was empty of traffic, and the street behind was filled with noise. Bands of fluorescent orange crime tape blocking the walkway to the Club explained the inconsistency, but confused the mariners. As they heated up, their frustrations crackled through my hedge.

I’m letting that crowd over there do all the guesswork, George. They’re busy theorizing about who lit the dory on fire and set it adrift. That they even know those details is surprising. The list of candidates is long: a bunch of mischievous teens. A rejected applicant for membership. Some dejected loser in the Cape Regatta. Someone discontented with the dory, hoping to replace the ancient craft with a modern conveyance. It goes on and on. Most focus on a prankster. Some fixate on a pyromaniac.

Well, just wait’ll they hear the yacht club manager—that lady friend of yours—didn’t show up for work and is nowhere to be seen. The whole thing smells like murder. That’ll really get ’em jumpin’ up and down. Grandfou was not jumping up and down; he was hoisting a plastic trash bag up and down in front of my face. Detective George Grandfou on the job. Wheezed words blew the sweat off his lips.

"What’s got