Slow Boat to Murder: A Sam and the Junkman Murder Mystery

By Marilyn Salzano

“Shocking, juicy, and funny. It jumps off the page."

Slow Boat To Murder brings back Samantha Dvorshak and Tony DeFranco, Little Creek's industrious and meddlesome amateur sleuths along with a whirlwind of audacious characters. On a lazy summer afternoon while enjoying a sumptuous Italian style picnic on the banks of Little Creek River the twosome stumble upon a bizarre and gruesome crime that leads them on a chase to unscrupulous and bad-mannered miscreants, a treasure map, an obscure book of an ancient legend, and a clue to MURDER.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marilyn Salzano
• Release date: Nov 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005727987

Marilyn Salzano

Marilyn Salzano grew up in New Jersey and is of Polish/Hungarian decent. She has been a painter and storyteller often writing stories to go along with her paintings. Now she writes full time and paints the covers for her books. The art mentioned in this book are her own original paintings. Several of her short stories have won honorable mention awards in the prestigious 'Writer's of the Future Contest'. Marilyn lives in upstste New York with her husband Joe.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Look to the heavens! Flaming boulders have targeted the Earth. They're racing across the black depths of space to plunge without mercy on our heads. There is no place to hide! No place to escape!

The basso profundo voice grew deeper.

Stones of iron and ice will plummet your house, your grandmother’s house, all your houses. It has begun. Even as I speak, the home of an accountant in Nebraska has been destroyed. Smashed flat to the ground. Beware! Beware you fools!

The maniac on TV shook his fist at the camera. Volcano’s will spew forth fire. The earth will split open and release clouds of noxious gas that will envelope the land.

The narrator stopped, breathing heavily. Sweat poured down his face and dripped onto his long-sleeved purple puffy shirt. A red paisley bandana held back his damp stringy black hair. A gold-bracketed tooth shone dully under an enormous hooked nose. He took a deep shuddering breath, raised his arms, and screamed. The ocean’s waters will rise in monstrous waves and bury the mountains!

That already happened once, said Tony.

What boulders is he talking about? I asked.

That was space junk. He should get his facts straight.

Shh, I want to hear this.

We are doomed. DOOMED! The signs are here, hollered the TV prophet. The camera zoomed in until his face filled the screen. Greed, vice, murder. His voice broke and rose three octaves. His black eyes glittered manically. The innocent will be saved. Go to the mountain. Go to the mountain. NOW!

Which mountain is he talking about? Tony asked.

I guess only the innocent know that.

I thought the waters were going to rise over the mountains?

I turned to him. Can’t you just listen without asking a million questions?

I have a highly inquisitive mind.

I clicked off the sound. Tony, this guy can’t tell the future. And why is the future always filled with pain, horrendous destruction, and flesh-eating zombies? Maybe the future is nice, with pretty flowers, music, and free food.

Yeah, the future minus the Morlocks.

Exactly, and where is this guy getting his info? Satan?

Tony laughed. He’s watching too many of his own shows.

Why are we watching this?

It’s the only thing that didn’t get bumped for the presidential speech.

They could have at least left the Flintstones on. I sighed and sat back.

#

I’m Samantha Dvorshak, Sam for short. I’m a self-taught artist freelancing for science fiction magazines. I tried art school for a while but dropped out. The professors tried to make me paint like everyone else in their classes but I didn’t want to paint Barbie dolls in scary situations. So I quit. Then I moved to the north woods and tried living like a wood nymph with my ex-boyfriend Roland, the composting kingpin.

A Jersey broad has no place living like electricity was never invented. So I escaped back to my hometown, Little Creek, New Jersey where Mom and Pop insisted I move in with them.

Right now, I’m sitting at my parent’s home watching 'The Prophet of Doom' with Tony DeFranco, my best bud since diaper days. He’s the handsomest and coolest dude I know. He’s so handsome girls almost keel over when he looks at them. He’s tall, Italian, with black hair, and beautiful chocolate brown eyes. Eyes that can stop you dead in your tracks when he turns on the juice. He occasionally aims it at me but I’m determined to avoid a relationship right now. Besides we’ve known each other for so long it would be weird.

Sometimes I envision us being together but then I remember the hell of being hooked up with Roland of the Timberland who dragged me down like an overloaded fishing net. It took me a long time to untangle myself, so I’m not keen on getting involved again even with a nice guy like Tony—but maybe someday.

He’s a seriously dedicated apocalyptic fear monger, I said turning up the sound on the TV.

When is this supposed to happen? Tony asked.

I suppose you heathens are wondering when all this will take place? the TV asked.

We looked at each other.

Wow, interactive television, said Tony.

The prophet threw his head back and laughed. My name is Quentin Beaver and I’ll never tell. But I have one more thing to say and you know who I’m talking to. He pointed a boney finger at the camera. I know what you’re up to and I know you know that I know. He gave the TV viewers a dismissive wave. The camera panned back. Quentin mopped his face, grabbed a pint of whiskey from off camera, and gulped down half the bottle.

I don’t think he knows he’s still on, I said.

He started arguing with someone we couldn’t see. The sound was abruptly cut off. An arm appeared and grabbed at him but Quentin held on tight to his chair. He was practically foaming at the mouth. Even though there was no sound we could read his lips.

Wow, what a nasty mouth. Tony put his hand over my eyes. You’re too young to see this.

I pushed his hand away. You’re two and a half months older than me.

A couple of guys ran on stage and hauled Quentin, chair and all, off screen.

That last bit was more interesting than the whole show, I said.

This was a rerun except for the part about global warming and Haley’s comet heralding the latest reincarnation of Mark Twain, said Tony, popping a Cheetos into his mouth.

I grabbed the box from him. Maybe Haley’s comet will have a neutralizing effect on global warming or accelerate it.

Anything to just get it over with.

What’s on next? I asked.

He looked at the TV program. Africa. A day in the life of a baby gazelle.

I clicked off the TV. No thanks. It starts out so wonderful, the music, the animals, the scenery, the cute little baby gazelles. The babies are born. They bond with their mama. She loves them so much. They get strong and take their first wobbly steps. So damn cute. Suddenly the music goes into a minor key and a pack of slavering hyenas cut into the herd and chew the baby up like corn flakes while the mama’s heart breaks.

Tony clicked the TV back on. Come on. I like hyenas. They have to eat too.

Freak no. These nature films give me nightmares. I grabbed back the remote, clicked it off, and sat on it.

He looked at my butt. I really want that remote. He moved closer.

I just glared at him.

He sighed and checked the time. I should go and make some money. Don’t forget I’m taking you on a picnic tomorrow.

I never forget free food.

I walked him to the door and watched him get into his huge black—'I am a man truck'. I sighed. What a hunk.

#

I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of some kid screaming bloody murder. I stumbled out of bed and lurched over to the window. My next-door neighbor, seven-year-old Benny Shuyler and his twin sister Honey, were chasing each other up and down the street. Honey’s shrieking was an earsplitting, high-pitched whistle.

Hey, pipe down out there.

They stopped and stared at me.

You look funny, said Honey.

You look like you saw a Sasquatch, added Benny.

Yeah, don’t remind me. Sasquatch figured big in our last ridiculous escapade.

They skipped away laughing their heads off.

I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I still had cold cream on my face and my hair was sticking up like Side Show Bob. Even messed up my light brown shoulder length hair looks pretty good, especially when the sun catches the red and gold highlights. I'm not the glamour type, but at five-foot-eight, svelte, with hazel eyes, I can turn a head or two. I washed up and bopped downstairs into the kitchen still in my pj’s. The morning sun streamed through the window lighting up the canary yellow walls and sienna floor tiles.

Mom was sitting at the table drinking tea and reading the paper. Her hair was the same color as mine but streaked with gray. She was built like me too, tall and lithe.

Hi Mom, what are you reading?

Political stuff.

Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’ll just get mad.

I made some tea and grabbed a raspberry jelly donut. It was still warm from the bakery. I went upstairs to my bedroom, which was also my studio. My latest painting was of two guys in a misty swamp. One was holding a spear and the other a machete while unbeknownst to them a huge red and black alien bug hovered silently behind them. I was almost done except for one guy’s face. For some reason it kept turning out like Speed Racer. Too much Manga influence, I think. That was not the image I had in my head.

After painting and repainting that face I threw down the brush in disgust. I’ll just give it a rest. Anyway it was almost noon. I had to get ready for the picnic. I changed into blue shorts and a red and white striped tee shirt. I decided to wait outside on the porch. It was a beautiful balmy summer day. Mom’s red and coral colored roses were in full bloom and perfumed the whole yard. Jays, chickadees, and robins flew around trying to kill each other to get to my homemade birdfeeder I made when I was seven. It looked like a miniature orange hobo shack.

Tony pulled up a few minutes later and honked the horn.

Hi. I said climbing into the cab.

Hi. You look patriotic.

You look a cat burglar.

He was dressed in a black tee, black shorts, socks and sneaks. His Yankees baseball cap was on backwards.

Fold those socks over, I commanded. They were pulled halfway up to his knees.

I like them that way.

"You look like those old Italian Bocce ball players at the park.

I can’t fight DNA.

He was a Guido through and through.

We drove into town and made a right onto Old Main Street to Little Creek River. It was a wide slow moving river with a drawbridge for the tall boats sailing down to the ocean, which was only a ten-minute drive away. The fog from this morning was lifting but upriver was still obscure. The weather guy said it would burn off and be a sunny warm day. Perfect for a picnic.

We parked and picked a spot on the green grassy slope under a willow tree close to the river where the waves sloshed lazily against the bank. Finally the sun broke through the fog. The scene was idyllic, like a Seurat painting. The grass was bright yellow green and the shadows were sharp. Tony spread out a red and white checked tablecloth then promptly stretched out on the grass and closed his eyes. I stood there looking at him.

Where’s the food?

Oh, yeah. He jumped up and lifted a huge cooler out of the back of the truck. It clanked and rattled as he set it down.

What can I do?

You just sit down and relax. I’ve got everything covered. He laid out fancy napkins, real plates, metal forks, and knives. Then he took out a bunch of glass casserole dishes.

Where’s the hot dogs?

Get real. We have eggplant parmesan, ziti with meatballs, and broccoli rabbi sautéed in olive oil and garlic.

Holy smokes, Tony.

That’s not all. I have crusty Italian bread and for desert my mom’s pistachio cannoli.

This is the best picnic I’ve ever been on. Did you make any of this?

I made the eggplant and the broccoli. The ziti was left over from last night’s dinner. I hated this kind of picnic when I was a kid. I’d look around and see all these blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids chowing down on hamburgers and playing Frisbee and I’d think, I want an American picnic. But my Sicilian Grandmother had other ideas.

So what happened?

This stuff tastes better.

We plowed through the main dishes and were starting on the cannoli when Tony pointed up river. What’s that?

We stood up and strolled over to the water’s edge.

I shaded my eyes against the glare. A small white boat with a bright billowing lime green sail glided like a ghost out of the fogbank.

There’s nobody in it.

Yes there is. Someone’s lying down in it, said Tony squinting.

I put on my sunglasses. There’s no one lying down in it.

Tony rubbed his eyes. Ha, I don’t believe it. That looks like one of those wooden cigar store Indians. The tobacco store on my street used to have one standing out front until the PC police made him get rid of it.

What a neat idea, making a boat out of one of those. But where’s the owner?

It must have gotten away from him. Somebody lost a cool boat.

The wind died and it drifted closer. I could see it clearer now.

That’s not a boat. Looks like a door to someone’s house.

The Indian was lying on a white wooden door with a pole fastened to its chest. We stood there staring. The wind picked up again. The weird little sailboat started to move past us.

You know, that really doesn’t look like a wooden Indian to me, I said.

Just then a wave rocked the boat. The figure’s head flopped over and looked right at us with milky-white lifeless eyes.

Oh Lord, you’re right, said Tony. You want to just let it sail away into the Great Atlantic?

Are you kidding? Aren’t you even curious?

I am but I’m not keen on getting involved with yet another decomposed bloated cadaver.

I couldn’t blame him there. Not after our last nauseating dead body experience. Meanwhile the scary little sailboat was serenely drifting farther away.

Come on, I said. While it’s still close.

I'm not real enthusiastic about this. I thought we’d have a nice relaxing summer free of stiffs and mean sarcastic suspects.

I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the water. We’ll have a good summer. I promise. We’ll go to the shore, swim, and sit around making fun of people.

Just the two of us?

Just the two of us.

The boat was close enough that we could wade out to it. The water was up to our thighs and bathtub warm.

Phew. Man, I hate that smell, said Tony.

By the time we reached the boat we were both gagging.

I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. The body wore a black silk shirt and baggy blue and white striped pants with elastic around his ankles. Many fake gold chains hung around his throat. The pole was driven right through the guy’s chest and into the white wooden door. The lime green sail was tied from the pole to his big toe.

He’s impaled like a vampire, I whispered.

He pointed to the blazing sun. If he was a vampire he would be dust by now. He shook his head. Man, what kind of sicko rams a pruning pole through a man?

A hard-hearted sicko. What’s a pruning pole?

It’s used to trim trees and vines.

Ugh, nasty. I pulled my t-shirt over my nose. He doesn’t look like an Indian to me. Looks like some kind of gypsy outfit.

We took hold of the door, hauled it to shore, and onto the grass.

A bunch of kids came running toward us.

Get out of here, Tony yelled. They kept on coming. Keep away. This is official business.

Oh boy, I guess that means we’re involved. The kids, middle school age, ran up to us, took one look at the body, and flew back up the grassy slope.

I bent over the corpse. I smell gasoline.

Tony examined the door. It’s scorched around the edges.

Maybe this is some kind of traditional Viking floating pyre-of-fire send-off.

I think they tried but the waves must have doused it out. He stared across the river. Although I think the Vikings used to cut off the head and stuff it with garlic so the dead couldn’t find their way back.

I never heard that. You’re thinking of some other culture’s myth.

Like Van Helsing?

I started to giggle.

Shh. I’m thinking. He stared at the corpse. I know that face.

Where on earth would you know him from? I bent down and touched his hair. The whole head of hair slipped off and fell on the grass. Gah. He’s been scalped. I covered my eyes. Is there a lot of blood?

Calm down. There’s no blood. It’s just a wig. Look.

"I peeked through my fingers. The man had a grey crew cut.

He’s no gypsy either. It’s what we politically incorrect Italian-Americans call a Gypsy wannabe.

We stared curiously at the body.

I know who that is. We just saw him on TV yesterday. It’s Quentin Beaver, the Prophet of Doom, I said.

He met his doom all right.

I could hear sirens in the distance. The kids were still standing on the grass near the road. One of them must have called the cops.

Tony, put the wig back on.

He hastily plopped the sodden thing back on the stiff’s head.

CHAPTER 2

Two police cruisers skidded to a stop on the side of the road. They got out and talked to the kids who pointed in our direction. Sheriff Franklin, a tall hefty black man wearing a Smokey the Bear hat and tan short-sleeved uniform trotted down the embankment followed by deputy Alex who was neither tall nor dark or hefty and, oh no, my older brother Frankie, who is also a policeman. He has black hair and a ruddy complexion. Darkly handsome.

He fixed those black merciless Hungarian eyes on me and shook his head. I should have known.

The Sheriff looked from the body to Tony and me. You two again. He bent down and checked for a pulse. Dead. Tell me what happened.

We were just sitting here having a picnic minding our own business when this dead guy comes floating out of nowhere and makes a bee line straight to us, said Tony.

We thought he was one of those cigar store Indians until he turned and looked at us.

So he was alive when you found him?

No sir, a wave rocked him.

Uh huh. He stared at the body’s head. You didn’t by any chance mess with his hair?

It fell off, Tony answered.

I didn’t mean it, I said.

Deputy Alex laughed. It’s on backwards.

I don’t think this is funny, said Frankie.

It isn’t funny, snapped the sheriff. He stared at the body. What’s he wearing? Some kind of gypsy outfit? He looked around. Are there gypsy’s camped near-by?

He’s no gypsy, said Tony.

The sheriff gingerly lifted the wig. I can see that.

That’s Quentin Beaver, the Prophet of Doom, I offered.

I’ve seen that show, said Deputy Alex. It’s a shame he couldn’t foretell his own death.

He probably wouldn’t have believed—this, said Frankie waving at the impaled corpse. He bent down and carefully picked through Quentin’s pockets.

Nothing here except his drivers license and a movie stub from the Lego Batman movie.

Deputy Alex took pictures while the sheriff wrote down our statements. Old Doc McDermott, the coroner, arrived just then. He’s short, round, with white hair, and wire glasses. We thought he was a nice old grandpa type until we experienced his bizarre sense of humor.

Well, this is a new one for me. Very ritualistic. Not often a guy gets a send-off like this. He grinned and looked around at us. Nobody felt like smiling. He bent over the body examining it. He’s was killed last night sometime. He took out a small recorder. Victim impaled through chest with pruning rod probably before midnight on July 29th. He put the recorder away and looked up at the sheriff. I’ll be more precise when I get him into the lab. He straightened up and rubbed his chin. It took some strength to ram that pole through his chest and into the wood. I’m guessing it was a man. A very angry man. How will we transport him? I don’t want to remove the pole here, so I think we should lift up the whole thing and put him in the back of my pickup truck. I’ll go get it. It's parked up on the hill.

Sheriff Franklin shook his head. Wonderful, I can just see us driving down the streets of Little Creek with that thing in the back.

We New Jerseyians love weird and crackpot scenarios, huh, Tony?

That’s right. Otherwise we’d never get anywhere in this world

That made sense to me but I don’t know why.

Too bad it’s not Halloween. Then nobody would notice, said Deputy Alex.

Look, I’m not about to pull that thing out of him in front of the whole town. Frankie pointed up at the road to where a line of cars were parked and people were taking pictures. I say that we clear out the gawkers first. We’ll get Doc’s truck, throw a tarp to cover it, and drive to the morgue.

After Doc drove his truck down the slope, the sheriff made us all put on surgical gloves to avoid confusing any fingerprints. Then we lifted the door and Quentin onto the back of the truck and secured the tarp.

You two meet me at the station, Sheriff Franklin ordered.

We packed up our picnic supplies and jumped into Tony’s truck. Two police cars were in front of Doc’s truck with us following behind. The tarp suddenly blew off revealing our passenger. People stopped and stared as our strange little parade rolled by.

Tony turned up the radio. Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, I Put A Spell On You blared out the window.

Look Mommy, a parade, a kid yelled.

Tony, I didn’t notice any blood, I said.

I didn’t either. Maybe the river washed it off.

I think there would have been some on his clothes. That’s a nasty wound.

Maybe he was killed first and staked later.

Maybe. We’ll see what Doc says.

We pulled around to the back of the courthouse that also housed the police station, holding cells, and morgue, which had a separate basement entrance. We sat in the truck watching them try to maneuver the body without knocking the pole out of Quentin’s chest. It was quite a show.

I’ll bet you ten bucks they drop the body, said Tony.

Okay, but I never pay bets.

You have to pay up.

What are you a bookie? You gonna break my knees?

No, you’ll have to wash my car.

If you lose you have to kiss Rosie.

The hell I am. She’ll mangle me.

Rosie Trenshaw has been my best friend since middle school. She’s five ten, one hundred and seventy pounds, with tiny waist, wide shoulders, and a forty-inch bust. She’s a real life Amazon with long red hair and violet eyes and doesn’t put up with guys hassling her.

Sheriff Franklin, Deputy Alex, and Frankie were straining to hold up the boat. Frankie turned to the Doc who was just standing there holding the morgue door open.

Don’t look at me. I have a bad back.

The wind was flapping the sail into the sheriff’s face. Alex, untie the sail from his toe.

What?

Untie the rope.

After a few tries the rope came free and the sail collapsed.

Hey, why don’t you two lend us a hand here, he yelled at us. We hopped out of the truck and ran up to them just as the whole thing was starting to tilt.

How are we supposed to get this through the door? asked Frankie.

The pole was twice as high as the door opening.

Put him down, ordered Doc. I’m going to have to saw it off. He ran inside while we stood around in the broiling sun sweating to death.

Is there a soda machine inside? I asked.

I’ll go look, offered Tony. You guys want anything? They waved him off.

Tony and Doc came back five minutes later with two Doctor Peppers and an electric saw. The cable trailed through the door.

Bone saw, Doc said. It’ll take me a second to get it off.

We guzzled our drinks while the doc went at it. He placed the sawed-off piece of pole on the body.

Okay, let’s get him inside, he said.

The stench of bleach, formaldehyde, and decay assaulted my nose. We loaded the whole shebang on the table in the morgue. Tony and I stood around with our shirts pulled over our noses listening to them talk.

The sheriff spied us and jerked his thumb at the door.

Out. Deputy, take them upstairs and get their statements.

After we told him what we knew we went outside and sat in a shady place on the courthouse steps.

Look at these people walking by going about their everyday normal lives while just beyond the door lay the recipient of an evil and twisted mind, Tony said, pulling a cookie out of his pocket. Want one?

I shook my head and waved the linty thing away. A creatively evil and twisted mind. That whole pole thing took some thought.

He gestured to the passerby’s. But I have to think that probably half of the people out there watch movies that are twice as twisted and sick.

You watch those movies?

Well, I used to enjoy them, especially Pumpkinhead. But not anymore. Too creepy.

I sat up straight. Here comes the sheriff.

He stopped and stared at us. Did you two give your statements?

Yes sir, I answered.

Well, what are you still doing here?

We’re thinking.

He laughed and walked away.

Let’s find out what Doc has to say, Tony said.

I made a face. In the morgue?

This is part of being a professional PI. You take the good with the bad.

The good being what? A dead guy floating down the river on a door with a pruning pole through his chest?

No. A sumptuous Italian picnic with your best friend. He got up and pulled me after him. Come on, woman.

We went around to the back entrance and stood in front of the big white swinging doors.

Go ahead, I said.

You go ahead.

It was your idea.

He pushed me through. A sight from the depths of hell met my poor innocent eyes. Doc was laying across Quentin legs while his assistant, Thomas, was standing on the table straddling the body trying to pull the rest of the pole out of Quentin’s chest, consequently making the body hump up and down despite Doc struggling to hold it down.

Get over here and help us, Doc hollered when he saw us.

We turned and ran into the hall where we couldn’t see the grisly procedure.

So much for taking the good with the bad, I said.

Doc, did the pole kill him? Tony shouted through the closed door.

No, he was already dead when they impaled him. Of what, I don’t know yet.

Will you call us when you know?

"Why don’t you come in here so I don’t have to shout?’

We’re okay right here. The view is better.

Actually right in front of us was a sink full of very sharp bloody surgical knives and what looked like a small block and tackle—maybe for heavy dudes or ones that are frozen and stuck in ice or something—and a laundry bin overflowing with cut up blood stained clothes.

I might throw up, said Tony looking around the gruesome narrow hallway. The knives bother me more than all of this.

The fluid stains on the floor were getting to me. I could see shapes in the splatter patterns. Scary shapes.

Suddenly we heard a sucking ripping sound and a loud crash. We peeked around the door. The assistant was lying on the floor holding the pole up away from him.

Thomas, are you all right?

Yes, sir. Thomas was tall, lanky, and black with close cropped hair, wire rimmed glasses and a constantly bobbing Adams apple. He looked like he was just out of high school.

It didn’t hit the floor?

No sir, I kept it clear.

Good boy. No contamination of the blade. It'll be examined with the door and his clothes after the autopsy.

So, will you call us when you know something? I asked.

Are you here in any official capacity?

Tony took one of our cards out of his wallet, held it up, and quick put it back.

Doc squinted at the card. So you’re legitimate?

That’s what the card says, I lied.

Last year when we were involved in a particularly gruesome homicide we made up business cards so we would look legit when questioning suspects. The cards say P.I. for Private Interests. We didn’t want to go through all that licensing rigmarole. It’s not our fault if people misinterpret that we’re licensed Private Investigators.

Okay, I’ll let you know when I know.

Outside we headed for Tony’s truck.

That card’s a miracle worker, I said.

Only if they don’t get a good look at it. Why didn’t we just print that we were private eyes?

Because that’s fraud.

Tony looked at me. What is it now?

Mistaken identity.

#

So, now what? Our picnic was ruined.

Not really. We got to eat all that food. Thanks Tony, it was delicious. Let’s go to my place and look up Mr. Beaver on the Internet. There might be something that’ll give us a clue.

So, we’re on the case? asked Tony. "That’s