Free Sandy Gingras - Lola Polenta 01 - Swamped by Sandy Gingras

site.”
    It’s called bluevisitorsguidetoftpalms.com. It’s a hokey kind of retro site, one powder blue page—A picture of a blue sunset and a highway, and a picture of blue-ish 50’s guys in swimwear standing next to a surfboard, one of blue-ish men making muscles for the camera. The text appears to be a kind of travel guide to Ft. Palms—what to visit, what to do. Joe jots down a copy of it on a little pad.
    “I think it just leads gay people to like-minded souls,” Joe says reading it. “See here, ‘The Blue Parrot.’ That’s a bar down on Wycomb St. It’s a gay bar.”
    “I guess Ted and Fritzie visited it,” I say.
    “But look,” Joe says, clicking away. “It was visited just a week ago. And here’s the history. It was visited several times in recent weeks. And they’ve been dead for three months.”
    “Oh yeah,” I say. “Let’s keep looking.”
    But there’s nothing else.
    “There’s something to this,” Joe says waving his pad at me.
    “Maybe,” I say.
    “We should find out what,” he says.
    He almost shaking, he’s so excited. But he suddenly looks frail to me. I wonder how old he is really, late 70’s? A vein is throbbing in his temple. I wonder how his daughter would feel knowing her father is involved in a murder investigation. “Remember how Ernie ended up with a golf club in his head?” I ask Joe.
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells me.
    “I’m not kidding,” I say
    I look around. Joe’s trailer is tidy. Shelves are filled with books and pictures and plants. “Is this your wife?” I ask picking up a picture on the desk.
    He smiles up at me, “She was the love of my life.”
    I look at him. It’s amazing to me how people go on after sadness.
    I walk with Joe back to Marie’s trailer. She makes us take our shoes off at the door. Her place is very puffy and floral. There’s not even a dust speck floating in the stream of light filtering through her curtains. Joe puts down the laptop on the kitchen table.
    “Can we take a look in Ernie’s room?” he asks Marie.
    “The police put tape up,” she says. Joe and I look at each other. He peeks down the hallway. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Marie says.
    “It’s okay,” Joe says. We duck down the hallway and under the tape.
    Ernie’s room looks like a guest room. The twin bed’s got a blue and yellow floral coverlet, the wallpaper is striped blue and white; there’s a flounce on the bottom of the white curtains. Marie peers in at us from behind the tape, “I did this kind of French provincial,” she tells us. There’s a picture of the Eiffel Tower on one wall.
    “He didn’t bring much,” Marie says. There’s a neat row of clothes in the closet, a dresser with balls of socks and folded underwear.
    “Folded,” I say. “That’s impressive.”
    There’s an old squat box of a TV. Dustless. A digital clock. There’s a white wooden desk with gold drawer pulls. Joe looks at Marie, then slides open the top drawer. There’s a checkbook. I look over Joe’s shoulder. The handwriting is neat and fits tightly between the lines. There are deposits for social security checks and paychecks. There’s $3800 in his account. There are no checks written out to his sister or an electric company or cash. There are no checks written out period. It’s weird. “Did he help you with expenses?” I ask her.
    “Half the property fees,” she says. “He gave me cash every month. Also for the electric bill.”
    “Cash?” Joe says.
    Marie nods.
    “Didn’t Ernie have a camera?” Joe asks.
    Marie says, “I don’t know where it is.”
    “Did he have a cell phone?”
    “He didn’t believe in them. I think he just didn’t like to talk.” Marie says.
    “He didn’t have a car?” I ask.
    “He travelled here on the bus. His wife kept the car. He shared mine when he needed to go anywhere.”
    I look under the bed. There are weights under there, a barbell. There’s a suitcase. I pull out the suitcase. It’s