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SANDY BARRETT: A strange young man
Ty Callison for Kennebec7 (#9)
[Interrogation 3]
When Sandy Barrett strolled onto the veranda, Mai arriving with Philip’s peony tea and my black coffee, I had one of those moments, that some of you might remember me describing from the Billy McCrae case. Everything stopped for me, and then it went slow motion. Couldn’t hear a thing. Just watched these folks in their slow dance. Watched their faces change as well.
Starting with Mai, the old servant. Her face got younger and she smiled, like she was holding back a laugh, as she reached toward me with the coffee. Something seemed extremely funny to her. Like maybe we knew each other from way back and we were sharing a private joke.
Phil gave me this slow motion glance. His nose seemed sharper, almost like it was swinging in my direction like a blade. I clearly saw into his transparent gray eyes, like I was seeing several lifetimes of conflict, sadness, hatred and even helplessness…despair, maybe …something like that. Then he reached out with his thumb and finger and took the blue and white porcelain teacup from Mai. The thought found itself into my brain that the cup was damn expensive.
But it was this Sandy who really caught me. Those eyes. When he first stepped onto the veranda, they looked sort of mischievous, ‘naughty’, as my mom used to say. Now I saw something else that made my upper back and arms get chills. The eyes turned devilish ~ might be a word for it ~ I’m not a writer ~ and sort of mocking. And this Sandy, in the vision I had, he did a little dance. One arm in the air, and trotting around in a circle making little steps, like a what ~ a flamenco dancer.
These sorts of visions, I don’t resent; I accept. They don’t last very long in real time. A second, maybe two. I know they always give me some sort of insight. I might not know it until later, but they always come around. However, they get me a tad dizzy, too, which I always worry about when I’m interrogating some sharp fella like Philip Weiss. However, it happened more than once around Billy McCrae, and I hope he was far more dangerous than Phil might be. I got through that one okay.
Anyway, I sipped some of that black Thai coffee, and that got rid of the visions fast enough. I heard Philip talking to Sandy in a snide voice, while I just gazed out at the Weiss landscape to get my brain calm again. Nice palm trees, coconut, bamboo, and something Jill told me is called frangipani, or some such thing, a tree with the sweetest smelling pink flowers you ever smelt.
I took a look up at Sandy standing there, hunching his shoulders defensively, but still grinning lopsidedly at his uncle. I just wanted Mister Martin to get the boat ready for me to take out to the islands, he said in a somewhat plaintive voice. I sipped my coffee and listened, not quite yet able to forget Sandy’s eyes during my vision.
That’s not Mister Martin’s function here, Sandy. You talk to Chai about things like that.
But Chai hardly speaks any English, uncle Phil.
Phil shook his head irritably. Did you forget that Mr. Callison is here to interview you?
Oh, I want Mr. Callison to interview me. Sandy looked at me with a happy smile. I’ve never been interrogated by a policeman before. Especially a famous one.
Callison is not a policeman. Phil talked at Sandy like I was no longer present. I just crossed my leg and took another sip of coffee. It was damn potent. He’s – I don’t know exactly – Heidi brought him over here.
Sandy addressed himself to me, his eyes lighting up. Who’s the babe you brought with you, Sheriff?
I looked back at him. Jill Evans’s a forensics specialist. She went to college with your cousin. Heidi doesn’t think your aunt committed suicide. What do you think, Sandy?
Phil looked utterly disgusted. He shook his head again to himself. He doesn’t know anything about it, Callison. He was here for two days when the accident happened.
But Sandy was pleased to vouchsafe an opinion. Aunt Miranda’s not the suicide type, Sheriff. She was a tough bird.
Philip started to get up. He put his saucer in one hand and the cup in another. It looked like he planned to finish his white peony tea somewhere else. If you’re finished with me, Callison, I have work to do. I’ll leave you in Sandy’s competent hands. He nodded to Mai to bring the teapot. He dripped with sarcasm.
I’d like to chat some more, Philip. Another time, okay?
When you can tell me what you think you’re accomplishing here, besides spending my niece’s money, or Evenside’s; I’ll have to investigate that more thoroughly.
Sorry for taking up your valuable time, Mr. Weiss, I said rising to my feet. Know how busy you must be with all those forensic accountants messing with Blessco’s books.
He started to turn to freeze me with his icy look, but just then another man stepped through the doorway onto the veranda. Sandy had seated himself on one of the wicker chairs with a soft cushion. He just grinned as he observed his father, Arthur, almost knock the tea cup out of Philip’s hand.
Arthur Barrett was still wearing pajamas at 11:45 in the morning. He had a vague and somewhat befuddled look behind his round, owlish spectacles. This was Miranda’s younger brother, aged 46, with brown tousled hair mixed with gray. In my notebook, I had him listed as a businessman, but even Heidi didn’t know exactly what he did to earn a living. Part of the time he lived in Mexico City. He had married Miranda’s deceased sister, Ruth, whose maiden name had been Villareal.
Arthur, please don’t wander around this house in the middle of the day in pajamas. Phil had that carping tone of voice again, but it was a tad milder with his brother-in-law.
I’m sorry, Phil. Arthur had a plaintive sound, very similar to what I’d heard coming from Sandy when he spoke to his uncle. I’m jet lagged or something. I couldn’t fall asleep.
You’ve been here a week. Ten days, for chrissakes. How can you still be jet lagged?
Well, it’s something. Where can we get sleeping pills around here?
Have to take you to a hospital to get sleeping pills around here, Art. For chrissakes, Mai get him a bathrobe.
Mai scurried off the veranda, politely worming her way past the two men. I guess her English was pretty good.
Sandy seemed to be bouncing lightly on his cushion. I could see excitement in his eyes.
He grinned up at his father, “Dad, don’t tell me that Miranda’s ghost has been bothering you, too?
[To be continued]
Ty Callison
Krabi, Thailand