Page 32 of Water's Edge

Joe sits in a chair with his back to the windows. He doesn’t introduce himself or ask our names.

“I’m Detective Carpenter. This is Deputy Marsh. If you’re Joe Bobbsey, I need to show you a picture.”

“My name isn’t Bobbsey. It’s Bohleber. Joe Bohleber. My brother is Steve Bohleber. We’re twins. Moved here from Indiana eight years ago and they took to calling us the Bobbsey Twins.”

I stand up and hand Bohleber the picture and say, “It’s not a pleasant picture, but I’m told you might know who this is.”

I watch for his reaction.

He looks at the photo for even less time than Cass. “Her name is Leann Truitt. She rents from me.” His flicker of recognition indicates a melancholy. “What happened to her?”

I don’t explain. “Can you give me her address?”

“I’ll have to show you, and I’m pretty busy right now. Can you come back later?”

“No.”

“Oh. Uh, okay. Do you mean right now?”

“Ronnie will follow you in my car and I’ll ride with you.” I look at Ronnie. I don’t care much one way or the other if she likes it. We have to put on a united front. I can see why Cass doesn’t like him.

“Okay. Why are you riding with me? Do you think I’m going to run or something? I’m not a suspect in whatever this is, am I?”

Joe is the second person in as many days to ask if he is a suspect. It must be catching.

“No. You’re not.” I’m lying now. He just became one. “I just want to ask you questions about your renter on the way. You get us there and you can leave.”

“You’re not going to tear the place up, are you? I run clean cabins. I check them once a week. If they’ve done any damage, they’re out.”

“I don’t think Ms. Truitt will be doing any damage,” I say. And she’s about as out as she can get. It’s interesting that he checks them so often. I wonder if he has a key.

Of course he does.

I hand my keys to Ronnie as Cass brings her a to-go box and whispers in her ear. Cass must think Ronnie is too thin.

I do too.

Seventeen

Parked right out front taking up two spots is Joe’s Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo four-wheel drive. A yellow two-person kayak is strapped to the top. The vehicle is coated in a thin, whitish gray dust. The kayak, however, is dust-free. I get in the passenger seat and immediately catch a whiff of marijuana. Probably more than a whiff. Joe notices that I notice. I don’t say anything.

He could shoot up heroin as long as he takes me to the victim’s house, or cabin, or whatever it is.

We drive north down Flagler for a couple of miles before coming to the opening where Mystery Bay is fed by Kilisut Harbor. I remember what Ronnie said about eight hundred or so people living on the island. I wonder what it would be like to have this type of seclusion. Isolation. Would it help me deal with my life, or socially alienate me even more?

We continue north toward Fort Flagler Historical State Park and turn onto a gravel embankment, then onto a rutted path between farm fields, and then over tall grass toward Mystery Bay.

“Does anyone live with her?” I ask.

He stares straight ahead. “Better not have anyone there.”

“Is that a yes or no?”

“It’s an I don’t know but she’d better not.”

“Does she have a rental agreement?”

“Yep.”

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