by Owen Parr
“Sometimes it’s easier for a stranger who is not close to the subject to see what’s going on. You understand?”
“I see that.”
“Answer this for me. Do you think you are running from something, or are you running toward something?”
The waitress came around, asking if we wanted a second round.
“Octavio?” I asked.
“No, nothing for me. Just a glass of water. Thank you.”
“Una Coca Lite. Por favor.”
I relit my Padrón. “That is a profound question. I’m not sure I can answer it without giving it some serious thought.”
“That’s a good answer. Is not an easy question. Think about it for a while. You might find out a lot about yourself when you come up with an answer. Now, tell me about what you want me to do here for you.”
8
With a smile and a wink, I was able to finagle my way into business class from Barcelona to London, and on to Philly. The smile and the wink failed me on the last leg to Savannah. Chuck Grant, the portly airline counter attendant at the Philly airport was not having a good day. It seemed he was having an allergy attack of some kind.
Agnes, as usual, did a good job compiling a comprehensive dossier, as they called it in spy craft, on Alexander Wetherly. Mr. Wetherly was a widower and retired to Daufuskie Island twenty years ago. He lived in a six-bedroom home, which his family had owned for many years. Attending to him are lifelong servants Ana and Joseph. His estate home, facing Hilton Head itself, sat on the beach in a private community called Haig Point.
Daufuskie Island was eight square miles. Two and a half miles wide and five miles long. From what I read, it looked to me that the island was a microcosm of the United States, with a diverse population of both race and class within the full-time community of approximately four hundred people.
“Mr. Perego,” called out an older African American gentleman wearing blue jean overalls and a wide-brimmed hat made out of palm leaves resembling a Tommy Bahama hat. He was standing on the dock as my boat approached.
I smiled and waved back at him, as the captain of my boat reversed the engines to slow us down. After docking at the floating dock, I thanked the captain and got off the boat.
“Hi, Mr. Perego. Welcome to Daufuskie Island. I’m Bernard. Let me have that bag,” he said with a southern drawl.
Bernard was thin as a rail, with deep grooves on his face that ran from his forehead to his chin. Marking every chapter of his life, I thought. His old, worn face told a story unto itself. From the looks of it, he was at least seventy-five. His hazel eyes were bright, and his smile showed warmth and kindness. “Thank you, Bernard, I’ve got the bag. Thank you for coming out here this time of night.”
“My pleasure, sir. Follow me.”
We walked up steps onto a pier of about fifty yards that extended from the dock to the shore. Below the pier, the marsh went out close to the end of the pier.
“This pier is rather long and high.”
“Yes, sir. This tide rises to eight feet sometimes.”
“How long have you lived here, Bernard?” I asked as I followed him.
“All my life, sir. I was born here.”
“And how long is that?”
“Seventy-seven years.”
“Always on the island?”
“Yes, sir. My wife and I do visit our son in Georgia. He works for Coca-Cola in Atlanta. God blessed us with a great son. He studied chemical engineering at Georgia Institute of Technology.”
“That’s wonderful. Any grandchildren?”
“Two beautiful ten-year-old twins. Monika and Riky,” he replied. “Here we are, Mr. Perego. Set your bag here,” he said, pointing to the back seat of a four-seater golf cart.
“A golf cart?”
“Yes, sir. It’s the best way to get around this small island. Gas is expensive, and the island is small. We have a cart for you at the home, and we’ll show you all the roads on a map tomorrow morning. You won’t have a problem getting around.”
We arrived at bed and breakfast in ten minutes. It was a graceful Georgian Colonial with stately white columns and a triangular gable roof. Walking into the home, there was a cozy living room to my left with area rugs over the original reconditioned wood floors and an old but comfy sofa to the left against a wall, with two early American armchairs in front of the couch, a matching coffee table in between. To my right, the early American décor continued with a beautiful wood dining table surrounded by eight complementary chairs. Beyond that, the room opened into a modern kitchen with an island and seating for four that faced the dining table. The owners had turned this into a warm and inviting space. I couldn’t wait for morning to see the sunshine through three sliding glass doors that opened to the wooded expanse behind the home.
“Mr. Perego, my wife, Carmelite, will show you to your room. If you’re hungry, she can fix something up for you real quick. I’ll see you in the morning, sir. Let her know what time you want breakfast.”
“Thank you, Bernard. Have a good night.”
Two rooms were located to the left of the living area, each with a private bathroom. Fortunately, my room had a similar sliding glass door that opened to the back of the home. I was starving, and Carmelite was ready for me. After showing me to my room, she said to come back to the kitchen. She was also in her seventies, and like her husband, she had a radiant smile. Her gray hair was up in a bun, and she wore a freshly laundered and ironed light-yellow uniform. These two looked like a great couple who had shared a lot together.
“How long have you and Bernard been married?” I asked as I walked back to the kitchen.
“We have been married for sixty years, sir.”
“That’s is wonderful, Carmelite. Congratulations.”
She asked, “You like pork, Mr. Perego?”
“Yes, I love pork. Please call me Carlo.”
“Yes, Mr. Carlo. How about bourbon? Do you drink bourbon?”
I didn’t want a drink of bourbon right now. “I rather drink a Coke if you have one,” I replied.
“Yes sir, I have a Coke. But the sandwich has a little bourbon. Is that okay?”
“Sounds like a good sandwich, Carmelite. What else is in there?” I asked, pointing to the incredible plate.
“This is called a Southern Gentlemen Grilled Cheese sandwich. We mix brown sugar, sweet cherries, bourbon whiskey, cornstarch, pulled pork and a little relish. Then, we add Gouda cheese, butter the bread on top, and grill it. You want to try it?”
I sat on a stool at the kitchen island and rubbed my hands with anticipation. “Serve it up.”
After my meal, I went to bed, setting a small digital alarm clock on my night table for seven a.m. As soon as I hit the pillow, I went right into a deep sleep. As soon as the clock rang, I hated myself for setting it for such an early start. My body was still on Barcelona time. The meeting with Mr. Wetherly was eleven that morning, and Carmelite had told me last night that I was a fifteen-minute golf cart ride from his home.
After that incredible sandwich last night, I couldn’t wait for Carmelite’s breakfast.
As I was getting dressed, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. “Be right there,” I said.
Without warning, my door flew open. Two uniformed officers were standing in my room with their guns drawn.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
One of the officers said, “Please come outside, sir.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, stepping into the home’s living room.
I was wearing a pair of slacks and a tee shirt. They could easily see I was not carrying any weapons.
“Do you have any weapons in your possession?”
“No. I don’t carry any weapons,” I replied.
“Do you mind if we look in your room and through your luggage?”
“Have at it. As I said, I don’t carry.”
“What is your name?”
So much for my undercover alias. “My name is Joey Mancuso. What’s going o
n?”
The officers looked at each other. One of them asked, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Alva?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”
“Mr. Bernard Alva. Did he not pick you up at the dock last night?” the same officer asked.
“Bernard, yes. He dropped me off here about one in the morning. Why? What’s happened?”
“What did you do after he dropped you off?” One officer asked as the other went into my room.
“His wife, Carmelite, fixed me a sandwich, and I went to sleep.”
The officer looked at a notepad. “You’re registered under the name Giancarlo Perego. Care to explain?”
“I’m happy to explain, but can you tell me what’s going on?”
Putting his gun back in his holster, the officer asked, “Mr. Alva was murdered early this morning. Now, why the different names?”
My eyes opened wide. “Murdered? Why? Who? How?” I spat out questions in rapid succession in my disbelief.
“We’re asking the questions. You can answer them here, or we’ll transport you to Hilton Head’s police station, and you can answer them there.”
I sat on an armrest of the sofa. “I’m NYPD retired homicide detective Joey Mancuso. I’m here with an alias working on a cold case.”
“Retired, but still working. Explain,” the officer said as the other came back shaking his head.
“I’m a private detective now,” I replied. Both officers exchanged glances. “I’m working a twenty-year-old murder case.”
“What murder case?”
“The murder of my father, Paolo Mancuso, that’s who.”
“Can anyone collaborate that?” Officer Harrington, as his name tag read, asked.
“You can call Captain Alex Johnson of the NYPD’s Midtown South Precinct. I work for him as a consultant.”
“So, if we call him, he’ll tell us you’re working for him?” Harrington asked.
Shit, this was getting complicated. “Not exactly, I’m not working for the NYPD on this case. I’m working on my own.”
“So, why the alias?” Harrington’s partner, Officer Reed, asked.
Well, shithead, I’m working on the murder of my father. “I can’t use my name while investigating the murder of my father. I’m talking to suspects, or at least persons of interest.”
“Who is your person of interest on Daufuskie Island?”
“Mr. Alexander Wetherly.”
“Mr. Wetherly? Are you serious?” Reed asked.
“Anyone is capable of murder,” I replied. I immediately realized it was the wrong response.
“Are you?” Harrington asked.
“Look, why not call Captain Johnson and confirm my bona fides. Perhaps I can be of help.”
“Oh, Mr. NYPD detective wants to help us,” said Reed sarcastically.
“If you get my phone in my room, you can dial him directly. He’s listed as a favorite contact. My code to open the phone is 0217.”
Harrington nodded to Reed.
If they were playing good cop, bad cop, Harrington was the good cop. “Officer Harrington, how was Bernard murdered?” I asked.
Reed walked back from my room and his conversation, I hoped, with my captain.
“What’s the word?” Harrington asked.
“Mr. NYPD is cool. Our captain called. I guess he spoke to New York after my call.”
“What does he have to say?”
“It seems our detective here has some record for solving murders. He wants us to let him work on the case if he wants to.”
Harrington looked back at me. “What do you say, Mancuso, want to get involved?”
I had to get involved. Bernard’s murder was such an atrocity. Such a waste of human life. Who could do this? “Who else knows my true identity, besides the two of you?”
Exchanging glances again with Reed, Harrington replied, “No one. Just us two and the captain.”
“If we can keep it that way, I’ll be happy to help.”
“Very well,” replied Harrington.
“How was Bernard murdered?” I repeated my question.
“He was stabbed numerous times in the chest and back with what seems like a small kitchen knife. The death blow was delivered to the jugular.”
I shook my head in disgust. “And of course, you didn’t find the murder weapon?”
“We don’t expect to either.”
“Can I see the body?”
“It’s already on its way to Hilton Head.”
“Any other murders in the past with a knife like this?”
“No, but we’ve had other murder stabbings of older folk in the island. Never found the perps.”
“No clues whatsoever?”
Harrington shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“Where is his wife, Carmelite?” I asked, looking around the house.
“She got on the patrol boat, accompanying the body. They’ll perform a full autopsy in Hilton Head.”
“Such a nice couple. What a shame,” I added, shaking my head.
“Who is this Perego character supposed to be?” asked Reed.
I smiled. “Perego is a freelance journalist working on an article. Mr. Wetherly was my only interview here on the island.”
“And you think he’s involved in your father’s murder?” Reed inquired.
“Not necessarily, but he may know something that can lead me to the killer.”
“The captain has agreed, so, we don’t have a problem,” Harrington said as he looked at Reed’s frowning face.
I glanced at my watch; it was ten o’clock. “I have an appointment at eleven with Wetherly. Call your captain, and let’s do this if he’s on board.”
9
Taking a small map of the island I found on the kitchen counter, I traced my ride to the Wetherly estate and planned my course of action. All of a sudden, solving my dad’s cold case was not a priority. The vicious attack on Bernard needed a resolution, and I was not about to leave Daufuskie Island until I had one.
I proceeded to finish dressing when I heard footsteps outside my room. Stepping out, I saw a short, middle-aged lady walk into the kitchen. “Hi there.”
“Mr. Perego,” she said, turning around to face me. “I’m Alice Bixby, the owner. Oh my gosh. What an unfortunate thing to have happened this morning. The officers just told me they spoke to you.”
“They did. Have you spoken to Carmelite?”
“Not yet. She accompanied the body and will be back later. I’ll take over for her. Can I fix you some breakfast?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I kinda lost my appetite with the news about Bernard.”
“Poor man. He was such a nice gentleman. How about I make you some fresh coffee?”
“That would be fine. Thank you. Tell me, is my room available for a few extra nights?”
“I had a couple coming in for their honeymoon, but I’ll move them to one of my other homes. You’re planning on staying?”
“Well, with what’s happened, I plan on staying and helping the police solve this murder.”
“Oh, I thought you were a reporter.”
“I’m a freelance journalist, but I have some experience from a past life that could come in handy.”
“They could sure use the help. These fellows are nice, but, between you and me, murder is not their forte.”
“How many homes do you own?”
“My husband and I own three homes. We came here on vacation four years ago and fell in love with the island. So, we stayed, and over time, we’ve bought houses.”
“All of them are bed and breakfasts?”
“Yes, there’s this one. One house over is our second. And the third, where we live, is about a five-minute golf cart ride.”
“Did Bernard help you with all three?”
“Here. Drink your coffee. Cream?” She said serving coffee in a mug.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Bernard and Carmelite live here. They have an area behind the
kitchen. And yes, the poor man helped my husband and me with all three. Doing odd jobs and maintenance. We’ve since hired a new fellow to do repairs, replace shingles, that kind of thing. Bernard used to do that, but he was getting up in years. Oh my gosh, poor Carmelite…” she said, voice trailing off.
“Who is the new fellow?”
“Bobby Valentine. We call him our redneck cousin from southern Georgia.”
“How well do you know him?”
“He’s my husband’s cousin. We really don’t know him all that well, but he served in Iraq,” she said as if that was a qualifier.
“But, how well do you know him?”
“Oh, I see where you’re going with this. No, no. Bobby couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a very gentle person, very quiet and to himself.”
So, she wasn’t going to tell me about Bobby. Maybe she had no clue. “How long has he worked for you?’”
“Bobby started working for us two years ago as we needed him. Then, about a year ago, he moved to the island full time. He lives in our home. It’s a five-bedroom home, and we have plenty of space for the guests and us.”
“I see. Did he and Bernard get along?”
“Bobby got to like Bernard. But Bobby has some prejudices against black folk. His upbringing, you know.”
“May I speak to him at some point?”
“Of course. He’ll be back later. My husband sent him into town this morning to buy some roofing supplies. I think he’s bringing Carmelite back with him.”
So, my first person of interest was a quiet, introverted, and all-around nice guy veteran Bobby. Who was more than likely a little racist.
I went back to my room for privacy and dialed Agnes back in New York.
“Hey, Joey, how’s Daufuskie Island?” she asked as she answered.
“Quaint little island, but something just happened here, and I’m going to stay for a few days.”
“Uh oh. What happened?”
“The fellow who picked me up at the pier last night was murdered in the early hours this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Anyway, I’m going to stay a while longer and help the police figure this out.”
