Murder in Harbor Springs

 

The image of Trixie Dillon, star attraction of the Harbor Springs Water Festival, beckons would-be attendees from 8X10 posters plastered in every bank, grocery store and convenience market in town. The red bikini against suntanned skin leaves little to imagine. She’s tilted back, holding a ski rope with one hand and waving with the other, platinum blond hair secured in a ponytail, lips red and full, slick with color.

Dale stands in front of the Save-A-Lot, staring at Trixie, champion water skier of the Southern Women’s Competition. He can hardly believe someone like her will be performing in dinky, run-down Harbor Springs, an out-of-the-way Tennessee town on the banks of the Cumberland.

Dale runs his finger along the lines of Trixie’s lips. A shiver shoots through his body like electricity. He’s never seen a woman as beautiful as Trixie.

Back home, in the trailer he shares with Stan, his brother, Dale grabs a sketch pad filled with drawings of cats, aliens and girls. He sits outside in a lawn-chair to draw because the window air conditioner stopped running again.

Dale closes his eyes a moment to picture the poster in his mind, then begins the portrait. In his sketch, Trixie stands with hands on hips in a bikini that shows the waves of her rib cage. Her eyes gleam and her lips carry a smile.

  Stan, who is Dale’s legal guardian until he turns 18 next year, comes blasting up the driveway in his old white pick-up truck, country music blaring out the rolled down windows. Dale’s fingers begin to tremble so he stops drawing. Stan walks in the trailer without a word, grabs a beer and returns.  

Stan is tall and muscular from lifting weights. That’s all he does, other than drink beer and watch TV, since getting fired from his job as a Harbor Springs policeman. Dale liked it better when Stan worked all day and partied at night. Dale likes having the trailer to himself after school, no half-drunk Stan there making fun of him or twisting his arm until it hurt. Stan calls Dale stupid, but he’s not stupid. According to Mr. Jackson, his teacher at the school, Dale has “intellectual disability.”  When Dale tried to explain the difference, Stan had let out a loud snort, which is his way of laughing.   

               Stan towers over Dale, peers down at the drawing.

 “Imaginary girlfriend?”  Stan asks. He sits on the trailer steps and lights a Marlboro.

“No,” Dale says, looking down.  

“You getting off on that drawing, little brother?”

“Shut up,” Dale says.

“No girl like that is going to look at you.”

“I know it,” Dale says. “I’d like to meet her, just once.”

“She not real, is she?”

Dale doesn’t answer. He wants Stan to stop talking about Trixie.

“Aw wait,” Stan says. He grabs the notebook and examines the picture. “She’s the poster chick! Look at those knockers!”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Dale says.

Stan takes a long sip of beer then crunches the empty can in his hands. He has an idea. A way to make money. He needs to act now. The water festival is tomorrow. Pretty girl will be gone after that.  

“I’ll find her for you,” Stan says.

“No!” Dale shouts. “Don’t do anything.”

Stan has that creepy look on his face that Dale dreads. Squinty eyes and a smile that goes up on the right side and down on the left.”

“Only two motels in town,” Stan says.

“No!” Dale stands, hands balled into fists at his side.  Stan ignores him, walks inside, then returns with his truck key and three Coors Lights dangling from a plastic stipe looped over his finger.

“Leave her alone!” Dale yells, but Stan is already in the truck.

Dale plops in the lawn chair and whimpers. “This is bad,” Dale thinks. “Really bad.”

                                                                           _________

Trixie slouches against the passenger side in the front seat of Kyle’s mini-van, in cut off blue-jean shorts and a white T-shirt. She leans her head against a sweater balled against the car door and runs through her mind all the reasons she hates Kyle, her ski instructor who is also her high school boyfriend. She’s about to put a stop to that, though.

 Trixie won the Southern ski competition, but didn’t make it to the nationals because Mom’s cancer recurred and she went down fast. Trixie’s plan was to stay home with Dad for the summer, find a waitressing job, and go back to UT Knoxville in the fall. She has two years left to become a physical therapist.  But Kyle had dropped out of college and had other ideas.

“You’re a star,” he said. “Cash in on it.”

At first it seemed fun. She enjoyed little girls admiring her crown and asking how it feels to jump ski ramps. But she quickly grew tired of Kyle dragging her to dinky festivals in every sad town that would pay a fee for her presence. She didn’t like staying in cheap motels and giving him oral sex every night. If she refused, Kyle got angry, accused her of thinking she’s better than him, sometimes twisted her arm too hard or threw her against the wall.

She’s been missing Daddy. She resolves to call him tomorrow after the festival. Ask him to drive two hours or whatever it takes from Nashville and pick her up. He’ll be glad she’s leaving Kyle for good.

 At least tomorrow she gets to ski. She loves skimming the water, cutting through the wake and jumping the waves, sun glistening on the lake. It’s like flying, an eagle souring.   

 Usually the festivals are nowhere near water.  Her job is to parade in her bikini, smile and sign autographs, scrawling her fake name on those awful posters. Kyle had re-named her Trixie. Her real name is Patricia, which Kyle said isn’t a star name.

“This is the last festival,” she tells Kyle.

“We got four more booked.”

“I’m not going.”

“You fucking are!  You signed contracts.”

Trixie signs. Her head hurts. She’s going to break up with him tonight.

At the Harbor Springs Motel Kyle tells Trixie to slink down while he checks them in. She knows the drill. Kyle doesn’t want people to see her before the festival. He returns to the truck with a vase of white Chrysanthems.

“A fan left these,” Kyle says.  

An earthy smell fills the car. Trixie turns her eyes away. The flowers remind her of Mother’s funeral, so many white flowers. She wants to go home.

 

                                                            ________________________

On the way to Harbor Springs Motor Inn, Stan makes some stops to purchase a disposable phone and a flower bouquet for a trap. In the parking lot, he checks the glove compartment, retrieves his pistol and loads it. Delivers the flowers to the hotel lobby for Trixie.

Later, Stan watches as Trixie and the skinny man walk into their room. He’s patient, waits in the truck for the sun to go down, and sips his beer.

 Finally, Stan exits the truck and slips a ski mask over his head. He’s only worn it twice. It had been simple to rob those convenience stores a few towns over. Point the pistol, demand the money and run.

He walks toward the room and is about to knock. His plan is to storm the place when they open the door, hold the gun on Trixie, pull the motel phone from the wall, collect their cells and walk Trixie to the truck.

Stan is about to knock when yelling erupts behind the door. The man calls Trixie “dressed up trash.” Trixie says he’s an “asshole.” There is a scuffle, glass shatters.  Footsteps pound the floor, headed to the door. Stan steps away and crouches by a bank of vending machines just as the man walks out and slams the door.  When the mini-van is gone, Stan returns and twists the doorknob. Unlocked.

Trixie, sobbing face-down on her bed, doesn’t hear the door open. Stan lingers just inside and cocks the hammer of the revolver. Trixie looks up and gasps, scrambles to her feet, hands in the hair.

“Don’t shoot,” she says. “Please Kyle. I’ll go to the festivals.” Stan lays the gun on the dresser and runs at her, knocks her against the wall and in one quick motion has turned her around and tied her hands with a cord.

“Please,” Trixie begs.

He blindfolds her with a bandana, wads a sheet of hotel stationary in a ball and stuffs it in her mouth, then puts the gun to her back and walks her to the truck. Inside the cab, he removes the gag and blindfold.

She gasps for air, cries as she talks. “You aren’t Kyle. Who-ever-you-are, please don’t hurt me.” Her lips tremble. Her brown eyes look frightened and glisten with tears.

Stan feels his cock rise, but he isn’t going to touch her. No, there is something more he wants. $100,000 from her family, or Kyle, or the water festival board, for the safe return of Miss Trixie Dillon.

She sobs quietly, her arms and legs trembling, as they drive away. Stan pulls up ten minutes later at the trailer.

“Be nice to the kid until I can figure out who will pay to get you back.”

Trixie swallows hard but doesn’t say a word.  

--------

The man drags her roughly out of the truck and walks her up the trailer steps. Inside, someone sleeps on a sofa in front of a TV blaring a talk show. The audience laughs, and the sound is amplified in the small dark space, lit only by the TV.  The man clicks on a light in the kitchen and sits Trixie in a straight chair, lashes her legs to it with cords. Sweat drips from Trixie’s forehead and nose.  The man is sweating too. Trixie thinks the place smells of urine and sweat. Flies swarm left-over pizza crust. Dirty dishes fill the sink and crushed beer cans litter the counter tops and floor.

The creepy man won’t take off his mask or put down the gun.  He takes a beer from the refrigerator, offers her one. She shakes her head “no.” He sits in a chair across the table and gazes, bleary-eyed. Trixie feels his eyes check every part of her body, watches the curve of his lopsided lips as he smiles approval.  Then, his eyes jolt up. Trixie turns to see what has caught his attention.

A hefty teen-ager stands in the doorframe, his mouth wide open and fingers trembling as he pushes a lock of thick black hair off his forehead.

“Told you I’d find her,” Stan says. His words slur.

 “Let her go, Stan,” the boy shouts. “She don’t belong here.” He walks toward Trixie and bends down to loosen the leg cords.

Stan walks over and kicks the kid with his boot heal. The kid rolls in a ball and covers his head. This isn’t the first time he’s been kicked, Trixie thinks. Poor kid. Stan bullies him to go to bed, pushes him out of the kitchen. “I hate you,” the boy cries, then retreats to his room.

Stan turns to Trixie. “Little brother’s touched in the head. But you on the other hand,” Stan says. “I say we figure out the money thing tomorrow.  His face floats close to hers as he attempts to kiss her lips, but Trixie turns her head.

 He slaps her cheek so hard it brings tears to her eyes. He yanks off the leg cords and fast-walks her to his bedroom, the gun at the small of her back. Her legs feel like noodles and her mouth like cotton.  “I’ve made him angry,” Trixie thinks, and panics.

When Stan pushes her on the narrow bed and unbuckles his belt, she thinks briefly of her Daddy and how she may never see him again. She sends a prayer to Jesus to save her. Then, the world goes blank and Trixie blacks out.

The next sound, a loud “pop” coming from the doorway. Smoke fills the room. Stan’s body falls heavily on top of her. The boy stands at the door, pistol shaking in his hand, tears streaming down his cheeks. Stan is shot in the back, slumped over but breathing.

“I’m sorry Stan,” the boy says. “I said don’t go find her. She is perfect. She shouldn’t be here. I’m gonna turn myself in.”

The room is oddly silent for a moment, except for the soft sobs of Trixie and the boy. Stan emits a loud sigh and falls to the floor.

Trixie rushes to the boy, who undoes her hand cord. She hugs him tight.

“You saved my life,” she says. “You won’t go to jail. I’ll tell them everything.”

“I did a bad thing. I have to go to jail,” Dale says. “It’s the rule.”

“Trust me,” Trixie said. “I’m going to tell the newspapers. Let everyone know what happened.

 

  

Dale doesn’t attend the festival the next day. He is taken to jail and charged with murder. But then Trixie arrives and pays bail. Trixie and a tall man drive him to the trailer, which is marked off in yellow police tape that reads “Crime scene. Do Not Enter.”

Dale sighs. He can barely bring himself to look at the trailer. He sees Stan in the front yard, washing his truck, laughing. He wasn’t always mean.

“You can’t sleep here tonight,” Trixie says. “You can stay with us until we find you a place.”

“Are you crazy?” the man asks. “He’s not staying with us.”

“Not you,” Trixie says. “Daddy’s on the way to get me.”

The man is quiet for a while, but Dale knows it’s not a good quiet. It’s the quiet Stan got before going into a rage.

“Get. Out.” The man says it measured and calm but Dale knows he’s seething. “Get. Out. Now.” Trixie and Dale scramble out and the man squeals off.

Dale sneaks past the tape and retrieves his sketch books, a suitcase of personal things and clothes. They sit in the lawn chairs and wait for Trixie’s daddy.

Trixie takes Dale’s big white hand in her small tan one and kisses the top of it. Dale knows he might go to prison, but right now he’s content, sitting here with Trixie, the kindest, most beautiful women he’s ever met.

“You know Kyle’s gonna always track me down,” Trixie says. “He’ll never leave me alone. Try to kill me probably.”

Dale nods. The sun leaves pink streak to the West as it slips down the sky. Trixie and Dale both have troubles ahead, he knows. But this moment is nice.  An abused water-skier and an artistic murderer, happy to sit in the trailer yard, because no one is here to twist their arms, kick their backs or throw them against a wall. The lunatics are gone.  They sit in silence and watch the sunset.