The Building of the Long Serpent

The Building of the Long Serpent

By Michelle Knowlden, excerpt

While Robyn read over his shoulder, I inspected the nearly stocked shelves against the walls. The room smelled of varnish, thick iron nails, graphite dust, turpentine, and wood shavings. The middle of the shed was crammed with worn worktables. Half-shewn oars lay in the shavings on the tabletops. The door had a heavily padlock, and the one small window was barred. I leaned against a worktable and wondered if the long serpent of Robyn’s investigation would interfere with dinner.

My pager jangled loudly, interrupting my thoughts. On the screen I read: “’Michaela. Call me immediately at 909-555-0444. Helena.”

I accidentally pressed the erase button. “Robyn,” I said. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”

It was difficult to turn the double-wide trailer’s doorknob with gloved hands, but I managed. The first door I opened led to a room where a gray-haired man and a plump blonde woman stood tightly clinched together.

“Excuse me,” I said as they sprang apart. I closed the door.

Building of the long serpent. Photo by Elena

At the third door down the narrow hall I found the ladies’ room. I was washing my hands when the blonde woman eased in, breathing heavily and pink with embarrassment. “It’s not what you think,” she began.

I raised the finger that I was gingerly drying off.

“None of my business,” I said and carefully put the surgical gloves back on my hands.

“No, please, let me explain. You’re one of the fire investigators, right?”

I shook my head. “That would be my cousin, Robyn Cardex. I’m just her assistant. My name’s Micky.”

She frowned.

“Micky Cardex? That sounds familiar. Have we met?

“I don’t think so.” I wound the cellophane tape back around my wrists.

“Well, it’ll come to me. I have a knack with names. I’m Gwen Stockard, the office manager. Don’s my husband.”

“Ah?”

“Yes, that’s right. The man in the office with me was Arne Ruskilde. Don’s partner.”

“Ah.” I said again.

“This has nothing to do with the fire. Don and I are getting divorced, but not because of Arne and me. Don doesn’t even know about us. We’re just waiting to tell him after the boat’s launched.”

“Shame about the delay,” I said and tried to edge past her to the door. She didn’t budge.

“Darn tootin’ it’s a shame,” she grumbled. “This is killing me and Arne. That boat better launch next month because by God I’m not waiting till spring.”

“I’m sure they’ll find the arsonist soon,” I said and tried another sally out the door. She stood like Gibraltar in the straits and her eyes narrowed.

Published in September 2000, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery magazine.