The Sad, Sad Time I Turned Detective

Millions of years ago, Mother Nature bit into the upper left corner of Indiana. That chomp became the lower tip of Lake Michigan, a salt-free inland sea with waves and tides. In some places, shores are rocky, but great swaths of sand dunes form the Indiana Dunes State Park and the Indiana Dunes National Park. Generations of families camp and picnic, sunbathe and swim, seek solitude, sail and pedal and paddle, and play in the sand along the lake. In the distance lie islands where Scouts pitch tents and couples find privacy.

That’s where my then newish girlfriend Candy (real name just as sugary) and friends chose to vacation. She was invited by her cousin and cousin’s boyfriend, Nan and Dan. There on an extended August weekend, they’d boat and ski among the islands where they’d sleep for the night.

The plans proved frustrating to me. I mentioned I had a work commitment Friday through Sunday, but I was free other weekends. Nope, said Dan, that’s the date they’d reserved for motorboat rental. Well, damn.

Candy and I had been tacitly exclusive for six weeks. Neither of us were mature enough for marriage material, but she was cute, cuddly, and fun. Her mother liked me and mistook my workaholism for gravitas.

Her eyes limpid, Candy said, “Don’t worry baby. I’ll phone you every evening.”

“No, you can’t,” said Dan. “We’ll be out of range of cell phone towers.”

Candy departed with tears and a big, sloppy kiss. My nape twinged. I felt uneasy.

That weekend, I took hostage an oversized computer and buried myself in work– software that would be shipped to Böblingen, Germany on Monday. I survived on Shandong fish, way too many litres of cola, and not much sleep.

At six Sunday evening, Candy called. “I’m dying for pizza. Can you pick up on your way? I’ll unlatch the door and hop in the shower.”

She stepped out of the bath the moment I arrived. Her tan looked good and she blew a kiss as she towelled off. “Photos on the coffee table,” she said.

I leafed through them. Picture of their packed SUV. Candy and Nan in bikinis, Dan in those long, odd-looking, misnamed shorts. Picture of the boat, picture of the largest picnic basket I’d ever seen. A case of beer, bottle of cheap wine. Shot of Candy struggling on waterskis and another of Nan nailing it. Nan topless. Candy topless.

Okaaay, I’d lived on South Beach, tops optional. I visited piscines (swimming pools) in France, tops optional. I’d strolled through nude gardens in München, clothing optional. Like most guys, I want my girl to be joyful and playful with me, not other dudes, but… We weren’t engaged, so I wouldn’t get worked up.

Next, photo of an island and its beach. Picture of a campfire that wouldn’t light. Shot of Candy, Dan, and Nan standing in the boat, arms around one another’s waists, the three of them… topless. I took a deep breath and turned to a photo of them playing volleyball. Portrait of… wait. I turned back to the trio.

Candy was saying something in the bathroom, but I couldn’t hear her. Blood surging made my ears sounded buried in surf. I stood, stiffly, I walked toward the door. Try not to judge me.

Nan, Dan, Candy: backside of the photo,
so to speak, because of our PG rating

“Hey,” Candy called. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

She glanced at the photos on the table. “Just because I tanned topless?”

“Because you deceived.”

I closed the door on her protest, feeling rotten as I left.

Not ten minutes later, Nan phoned. “What’s wrong with you? Candy likes you. She loves you. No need to get jealous.”

“Cheating.”

To Nan’s credit, she didn’t attempt to deny. “How did you know?”

And that’s the question posed by a true event. To salvage something from this disaster, make this misfortune your mystery.

What caught the attention of my fledgling detective skills?

As you no doubt surmised, a fourth party was present at their private retreat. In photos of the three of them together, who took the snapshots?