Whack A Mole

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We catch our first break.

Well, we actually catch two. First: the family that discovered the jars while they waited out the thunderstorm did, indeed, sign the guest book. Second: they were admirably thorough and filled in every detail requested: NAME(S), AGE(S), HOME ADDRESS, ADDRESS WHILE VISITING THE ISLAND.

Ceepak suggests we take the book with us.

“Not many visitors,” he remarks. “About two or three a day. However, given the apparent lack of basic housekeeping and the low level of museum security, there is no telling when those two jars were placed in the bookcase. We may eventually need to talk to every person listed in this register.”

So we pack up the green book, secure The Scrimshaw Room, lock up the museum, and head off to the Seahorse Motel to visit the Pepper Family of Okemos, Michigan. Warren, Brenda, and the kids: Heather (13), Warren Jr. (10), and Maddie (6). I figure Maddie was the one howling like a miniature banshee when she saw the ears bobbing up and down inside their little glass bottles. I don't blame her: I would have done the same thing.

• • •

The Seahorse is an L-shaped brick building with a neon-green sign jutting out from the wall facing Nutmeg Street. At night, the neon flashes through a series of poses turning the tubular seahorse into an underwater bucking bronco.

We walk past the rattling ice machine and head into the office. The nice girl watching TV behind the front desk tells us we're in luck: she just saw the Peppers heading for the pool, which is located around the back of the building.

We say thanks and head that way. The day is cooling off after the thunderstorm, but not the steamy air around the motel. As we walk around to the pool, we're blasted by hot exhaust from the ice machine, the Gatorade vending machine, the coin-operated dryer vent, and every dripping air conditioner we pass.

We round a corner and smell chlorine. I see three kids splashing in a cool blue rectangle about the size of a postage stamp. The parents are sitting in white plastic chairs on the pebbled concrete path lining the pool. The chairs are the kind they always have on sale at Wal-Mart and in the seasonal aisle at the grocery store.

The kids are playing Marco Polo, thrashing and splashing in their blind frenzy to find each other. The pool is, as I mentioned, tiny. Maybe ten feet wide by twelve feet long. It's an in-ground pool but the motel didn't have much ground left to put it in.

Mrs. Pepper sees our uniforms and nudges her husband.

“Warren? It's the police!”

Warren wakes up.

“Hmmm?”

He reaches for his sunglasses and knocks over a beer can snuggled in a foam Koozie.

One of the kids just did a cannonball into the pool. I know this because the seat of my shorts just got soaked.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pepper? I'm Officer John Ceepak of the Sea Haven Police Department. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”

Ceepak pulls out his pad. “We'd like to ask you a few questions about what you saw at the Howland House Whaling Museum.”

“You mean those … things? In the jars?” whispers Mrs. Pepper.

“You mean the ears?” a boy blurts out from the pool.

“They were gross!” screams the teenaged girl.

“No, they weren't! They were awesome!” I'm figuring the boy is Warren, Jr. “Maybe some sailor lost them to scurvy! We read about scurvy in school. He didn't eat his limes so his ears fell off and then they pickled them!”

Now I hear bawling. A little girl in water wings who wants her big brother to shut up.

“Mommy, make him stop!” Must be Maddie.

“It was disgusting,” says her mother. “I told that woman-she should be ashamed.”

“How long will that ear exhibit be in there?” her husband now asks Ceepak. He sounds genuinely interested.

“Warren?”

“Well, the boy wants to go back … maybe take the cousins … it's kind of educational….”

“The museum will remain closed for the foreseeable future,” says Ceepak.

“Really?” Mr. Pepper sounds disappointed. “I was just telling the guy in 109 about it. He's been coming down here for fifteen years and never even knew they had a museum, let alone one with, you know, mummy ears.”

“Were those King Putt's ears?” Warren Jr. has climbed up the ladder and hauled himself out of the pool. Currently, he is standing beside me, shivering and dripping on my shoes. “Dad says they were probably from like a caveman….”

Ceepak ignores the boy. “Did you see anyone else at the museum, ma'am?”

“No,” says Mrs. Pepper. “We were the only ones inside. It's not a very popular spot. I can see why.”

“Did you see anybody coming out when you were going in?”

“No.”

“You're certain?”

“Positive. We ran in when the thunderstorm started. I told the kids they could look around. Nobody else was in the building until the old lady showed up.”

Ceepak nods. “Thank you, ma'am. Sir. Danny?”

He puts away his notebook and we head back to the parking lot.

“That was certainly helpful,” I say as we drive away. “They can go into the Witless Protection Program.”

“Now, Danny, you know that police work involves a lot of walking down trails that turn into dead ends. However, walk down them we must.”

Ceepak checks the time. It's nearly six P.M.

“Where to now?” I ask. “Any more dead ends we can get out of the way today?”

The radio on the drivetrain hump between us bursts with static.

“Unit Twelve?” It's a female voice. “This is Special Officer Diego. Over.”

Ceepak picks up the microphone. “This is Twelve. Go ahead, Officer Diego.”

“Where are you guys?”

“Seahorse Motel.”

Or more correctly, traveling down a dead-end street to Nowheresville.

“Can you swing by the house?” she asks. “Like right away?”

Ceepak snaps down the microphone button with renewed vigor. “Did you find something on Mary Guarneri?”

“Oh, not much. Just Miss Milk Carton's mother.”