Felicity McBride loved to talk about people, but never about her father, the lighthouse keeper who blew out his brains when she was eight. He had been a morose reclusive man suiting himself in raw solitude, leaving a seldom-visited wife and daughter in a coastal shantytown not far from land's end. Actually, it was the sky that killed him. Observing his actions night and day, it was an all-seeing eye much like the one on a dollar bill. It ruled the limitless void beyond his jumbled mind, and yet, it hovered so close behind the right ear lobe that the man could feel a pressure of beating wings. When the existential horror became too great, Captain Wescott removed his Webley service revolver from its desk drawer and ended eveything. Of this Felicity was dead certain.
*
Not long after Brother Ambrose and Sonya Chekov departed in the Skell Van, Mary Jane the greengrocer saw Felicity approaching the tent, and noted how advanced the splotches on the old widow's face had become, looking like nipple-sized pink crabs. A gaunt crone in a black gown with stained armpits smelling like wilted roses.
"Morning, Mary Jane."
"Felicity."
"Well guess who came knocking yesterday."
"Haven't a clue."
"That Jew newspaperman. Asked me what it was exactly I saw going on at that hippy church down near Gresham's Wood, the one that used to be a barn. It seems he gets news from the sherrif's blotter."
"Yah--yeah, folks like to read stuff like that, especially the way Scoop slants it. Petty crime, domestic disputes. Arrests. All from the record. It's like reading good gossip."
"That's what worries me. He's liable to make me sound like a jackass. Instead of taking that preacher to task."
"Felicity, you're the one who ratted, instead of minding your own bee's wax."
"You offend me, Mary Jane."
"I'm sorry. But you are such a nosy person. What in God's name were you doing down there anyway? That's quite a walk from your--"
Felicity whirled like a black-robed dervish, losing her balance in a moment of lightheadedness, and strode off as if a bee had stung her in the ass. If Mary Jane's tent had sported a door, Felicity would have slammed it shut.
*
Kirkland McBride had left Felicity with modest income, a 401K and an 1890 house, painted pearly white, with two gables and a gingerbread front porch. At the end of the porch was a parlor window. The elegant little room waiting inside, forever in breathless gloom, had a mahogany mantel where a clock's stentorian tick-tock suggested the passage of time. Kirkland McBride's ashes were treasured in a brass urn.
*
Scoop found Sheriff Ito Tanaka in freshly starched khakies at his desk closely observing the hesitation waltz of a Mexican jumping bean. His black hair was pasted to a porcelain scalp showing male-pattern baldness, giving him a samurai look.
"What the hell, Ito?"
"Look how it moves. Isn't that something?"
"Yeah. Magic, I guess."
"Moth larva, inside, moving around."
"I gather this is not a busy day."
Although the Mexican jumping bean had given him an occult insight toward solving a cold-case murder, the sheriff blushed like a schoolboy caught peeking down a girl's blouse. Then, annoyed, he crooked an eyebrow.
"What can I do for you, Hoffman?"
"Tell me what Widow McBride saw out at Gresham's Wood."
Ito cracked a grin. "An orgy. A satanic orgy. Naked people fucking and hollering and having a damn good time."
"You're kidding."
"I'm kidding. She's got a screw loose somewhere. What she actually saw was an old fashion baptism. Full immersion. Blub blub."
Scoop smiled wistfully. "I see. My late wife was a Mormon. They do the same thing."
*
That afternoon Scoop visited Mary Jane and they shared some Green River herbal tea. He told her about Ito Tanaka's Mexican jumping bean.
"That Jap cheechako. What a card!"
"He's a clever little guy. What's a cheechako?"
"Tenderfoot."
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