Murder at High Tide

by Lee Strauss

  Rosa tapped her lips with her pen. “A rather interesting coincidence.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Wouldn’t that make my involvement in the case a conflict of interest?”

  Miguel paused, his palm on the door of the exterior door, ready to push. “At the moment, neither your aunt nor your cousin are persons of interest.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Rosa said.

  Miguel narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean?”

  Rosa hesitated. If she was going to work this case with Miguel, she had to share every bit of information she knew, even if it came back to haunt her. The night before, at the Legion, Raul Mendez hadn’t been the only one to have one too many. Gloria had gotten a little too happy herself. Rosa didn’t know if her cousin remembered what she’d said, but Rosa hadn’t forgotten how shocked she’d felt at hearing the news.

  “What is it, Rosa?” Miguel prompted.

  “My cousin Clarence and Florence Adams once dated.”

  10

  Rosa followed Clarence—who drove the 1955 bright-red Ford Fairlane, from the Forresters’ fleet of cars—into the sizeable six-car garage. Gloria, with a hint of mockery, had told her that Clarence had made a show of attending specific board meetings as if his presence was significant. Rosa was certain Clarence was right, though, like his sister, Rosa didn’t think that Clarence believed it. Easing out of the driver’s seat, Clarence tugged on the lapels of his shiny slate-blue suit jacket and straightened his narrow black tie then narrowed his eyes at Rosa.

  Rosa put the car into park and turned off the ignition, cutting the song Rockin’ Robin out mid-chorus. She did a double-take when her gaze landed on the 1941 Schwinn Deluxe Hollywood bicycle parked in the corner. Rosa could see it had been kept shining clean. A wire basket was fastened to the front fender and handlebars, and a small ringer sat on the left handgrip. A chromium finish sparkled on the rims. Rosa loved this bike. When she was fifteen, too young to drive a car, the Schwinn had become a symbol of personal freedom. She’d often ridden it down the main street or to the beach.

  Rosa exited the Bel Air and carefully closed the door.

  “Howdy, detective,” Clarence said.

  Rosa didn’t miss the hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Hi, Clarence.”

  “Solved the case already?”

  “No, but I do have a few questions.”

  He patted the hood of his car with affection. “About the Fairlane?”

  Rosa shook her head. It would surprise her cousin to know that, despite her pretty clothes, she was rather well acquainted with car engines. Her mother had insisted that she’d learned the basics, and as a police officer, the information had come in handy more than once.

  She smoothed her skirt—navy blue with white polka dots—and pulled off her short white summer gloves. “Actually, I understand that you and the deceased were acquainted.”

  “The deceased?”

  “Yes. Miss Adams.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “She was fairly well known around town, and she worked with my mother, so sure. We were acquainted.”

  Rosa stared at her cousin with disapproval. “I think you know what I’m getting at, Clarence. Is it true that you and Florence Adams were once romantically involved?”

  Clarence folded his arms across his chest. “So, what if we were?”

  “Did the affair happen while you were married to Vanessa?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You and Vanessa were both at the scene of the crime at high tide. Vanessa found the body.”

  “What, wait—are you suggesting that Vanessa killed Flo?”

  “It’s motive.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Did you end things with Florence?”

  “I had to. She wanted to get married. I wasn’t about to jump from the frying pan to the fire.”

  “I bet Florence didn’t like that.”

  “She was hysterical. I told Mom to stop working with her. She was bad for business, bad for our family name.”

  Obviously, Aunt Louisa hadn’t agreed, since Florence hadn’t been fired.

  Rosa ducked her chin. “You know that looks bad for you, don’t you?”

  Clarence seared her with a look. “Are you accusing me now?”

  “I’m not,” Rosa was quick to say. The last thing she wanted was to get on Clarence’s wrong side. “But don’t be surprised if Detective Belmonte eventually asks to speak to you. I just thought I should warn you.”

  Rosa found Gloria reading leisurely at the pool. The sun shone brightly, and a warm breeze caused the palms to flutter. A yellow finch daintily bathed itself in the cool waters of a cement fountain surrounded by a garden of red and yellow roses.

  Gloria glanced up, and with her gold-framed, green-lens sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, she looked every bit the TV star she aspired to be.

  Upon seeing Rosa, she raised the LOOK magazine in her lap to show off the cover. The subtitles read Segregation in the North, and Music or Madness: The Rock & Roll Ruckus. Below those was a head and shoulders shot of Elizabeth Taylor, her rich, dark curls blowing softly in the breeze.

  “Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” Gloria asked.

  “Gorgeous,” Rosa admitted. The violet eye beauty with her trademark dark brows was known around the globe.

  Gloria patted her own light brunette waves. “Maybe I should go darker. Or I could go blond? Platinum like Marilyn Monroe?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Rosa said. “Your hair is lovely.”

  “Oh, I suppose it’s good enough for now.” Gloria pushed off her lounger and languidly moved to a chair at the patio table. “Come, join me. Señora Gomez has made me a delightful lunch, far too much for one person.”

  Rosa sat across from Gloria, and her stomach growled at the sight of tuna and cucumber sandwiches. She was instantly reminded of home. Such finger food was very English, especially with tea. Of course, in England, the drink was hot. A pitcher of iced tea and a single half-filled glass sat on a table nearby.

  Gloria waved at the pool boy, “Ricardo! Be a dear and get a glass for Miss Reed.”

  “I can go myself, you know,” Rosa said, feeling a tad embarrassed.

  “Phew,” Gloria said with a casual wave. “I need you to tell me all about your adventures. I’m bored silly. All my good friends are off on fantastic summer vacations.” Her well-manicured eyebrow arched playfully. “Did you see the handsome detective?”

  Rosa felt herself blush. “It’s hot out already, isn’t it?” She fanned herself with her hand. The month of June in London was a lot cooler. “I’m not used to all of this sunshine.”

  “Don’t change the subject, sweetheart.”

  “Well, if you must know, I did. Aunt Louisa was quite insistent that I help with this case, and Detective Belmonte agreed.”

  “Oh, lucky you!”

  Ricardo returned with Rosa’s glass and poured for her. She sincerely thanked him, then immediately took a drink.

  “Come on,” Gloria whined. “Won’t you tell me anything?”

  Rosa patted her lips with a linen napkin. “Were Clarence and Vanessa very much in love?”

  “Oh.” Gloria’s expression darkened. “That’s out of the blue.”

  “I met Vanessa for the first time after she found the body, so naturally, I’m curious. I wasn’t here to witness the romance.”

  “I suppose, but—” Gloria leaned in to whisper, even though no one, not even Ricardo, was about. “They had to get married.”

  It was Rosa’s turn to release a soft “Oh.”

  “Mom was furious, of course. Called Vanessa terrible names and accused her of chasing family money. There was no stopping—things—once they were started, and Mom finally decided that Clarence deserved whatever it was that was coming to him.”

  Rosa twisted her lips to one side as she pondered this information. “I don’t know if you remember this,” she began, “but you told m
e that Clarence and Florence Adams were once involved.”

  Gloria blushed. “Starting immediately, I’m swearing off tequila.”

  “Did the affair happen during the marriage?”

  “Yes, and afterwards too.”

  “I imagine there was bad blood between the ladies.”

  “You can say that again,” Gloria said. “It was a catfight whenever the two of them were in the same room.”

  “And you don’t think it odd that Vanessa found Florence’s body?”

  Gloria cupped her mouth with her hand. “I thought it was a horrible coincidence. You don’t think—”

  “I’m just asking questions.”

  “You know, I shouldn’t say this about my niece’s mother, but Vanessa has a terrible temper.”

  Rosa selected another sandwich triangle. Had Vanessa Forrester been angry enough to kill?

  11

  Feeling nostalgic, Rosa asked Aunt Louisa if she could take the Schwinn bicycle for a spin.

  Aunt Louisa lowered the newspaper she’d been reading and stared at her over her reading glass. “Don’t be silly. Take a car.”

  “I’d really rather ride the bicycle.”

  “Then go ahead. You don’t have to ask every time you want to use something. Mi casa es su casa. Besides, wasn’t that your bike anyways?”

  “Yes, I guess so. Someone kept it clean and oiled, so I thought maybe someone had claimed it.

  “We have someone on staff who keeps everything in the garage clean. It’s still yours, if you want it.”

  After changing into a pair of teal-blue capri pants and a striped shirt, Rosa wheeled the Schwinn out onto the street and was soon happily pedaling her way through the affluent neighborhoods surrounding the Forrester mansion. The warm breeze teased her skin, and she felt grateful for a chance to clear her head.

  As her mind swirled with facts and questions about the case, she cruised down the gentle slope towards the town. She was used to letting her mind go, almost subconsciously rehashing elements of a case she was working on, even while she was off duty having dinner or doing such things as watching a film. It was part of the territory of being a detective; one’s mind was continually working. The first questions always came back to means, motive, and opportunity.

  Who had the means to pull off a murder? That depended on the cause of death yet to be determined. Who stood to gain the most by the death of the victim? Unknown. Who had the opportunity to kill Florence Adams? Pretty much everyone who attended the polio charity event, though one could narrow it down to those who were known to have ventured away from the party. So far, the police had only done a thorough questioning of Shirley Philpott, but Rosa knew there would be more suspects forthcoming as the investigation kicked into a higher gear.

  Hearing a vehicle come up behind her, Rosa directed the bike to the side of the road. Expecting the car to pass, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a siren blasted. She jolted to a stop and grabbed her heart.

  Miguel!

  A police cruiser parked right behind her, and Miguel, with his deep dimples, laughed. He stepped out of the car.

  “You scared me half to death!”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Rosa’s pulse slowed, and she saw the humor. She would’ve done the same thing in his shoes. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Miguel didn’t have to know she’d already forgiven him.

  “I had a flashback to the past,” he said. “Are you sure it’s not 1945 again?”

  He kidded her, but his words poked her heart. The ripping emotional pain she’d attached to that time obviously hadn’t stayed with him. She forced a smile.

  “I was just on my way to the station,” Rosa said.

  “How fortunate I came by. I’m on my way to the morgue. Apparently, Dr. Rayburn has returned. Do you want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  Miguel opened the trunk. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  Rosa watched as Miguel effortlessly lifted her bike and secured it in the trunk of the cruiser, then she opened the car door to get in.

  Miguel’s dark brow jumped. “Are you driving?”

  “Oh, sorry, wrong side.” Rosa blushed, quickly circled the car, and got in the other side. She chided herself for forgetting that American cars had the steering wheels on the left.

  Wearing a white doctor’s smock, a blue-eyed man in his thirties emerged from the second office behind the glass at the morgue. Rosa blinked in surprise, both at the doctor’s youth and his alarming good looks. She for one, preferred her attending physicians to be older and on the homely side, and she was pretty sure she’d feel the same way if she were dead!

  She kept her expression cool and professional.

  Miguel made introductions. “This is Rosa Reed. She’s an officer with the London Metropolitan Police and will be helping us on this investigation as a special consultant.”

  Dr. Rayburn held her gaze, then he shifted a clipboard to his left hand and extended his right. “Larry Rayburn. It’s a pleasure.”

  Rosa’s lips twitched upward at Dr. Rayburn’s Texan accent.

  His gaze moved to Miguel. “Detective Belmonte.” The young pathologist’s interest returned to Rosa. “Aren’t y’all part of the Forrester family?”

  “A relative, yes. Louisa Forrester is my aunt.”

  “I see,” Dr. Rayburn continued, “I’ve been assigned the Adams’ case. I’m assuming that’s why y’all are here?”

  Miguel nodded. “Do you have anything new to report? Cause of death?”

  “Kindly follow me.”

  At the end of a short corridor, they entered the autopsy room. The floor was smooth, white-painted cement. The walls, tiled white and yellow, produced an echoed acoustic like a small gymnasium. Stainless steel cupboards and countertops lined the walls and displayed various surgical instruments and jars of chemicals. Hanging from the ceiling, a large steel tray with a round scale meter above it measured the weight of organs and body parts. A strong smell of formalin antiseptic permeated the air, a scent Rosa was familiar with having made many trips to mortuaries in London.

  In the center of the room, two bodies, covered in white cloth, lay on operating gurneys. Dr. Rayburn walked over to one and uncovered the head. Florence Adams’ brown hair had dried now, and her bloodless face seemed almost placid. Dr. Rayburn also revealed her hands and arms.

  “This is a bizarre case. Death wasn’t a result of drowning as there was no seawater in the lungs. However, the body shows signs consistent with the cessation of life by asphyxiation. Lack of oxygen resulted in death.”

  “She was strangled?” Rosa asked.

  “The obvious signs of strangulation are absent. No bruisin’ on the neck, and the hyoid bone remains intact. Even if she was intoxicated and subsequently smothered, there are no defensive wounds anywhere on her body. However, there are vertical scratch marks on her neck and upper chest. The skin fragments and blood we found under her fingernails are her own. This means she wasn’t passed out when she suffocated. She was conscious.”

  “What makes you think she suffocated?” Miguel asked.

  “Signs of suffocation usually include very high levels of carbon dioxide in the blood and extremely bloodshot eyes.” Dr. Rayburn opened one of the deceased’s eyelids. The ordinarily white area of the eyeball was red with purple splotches. “What’s baffling about this,” the pathologist continued, “is that the symptoms are consistent with the inhalation of a pulmonary agent.”

  Rosa was stunned. “Poison gas?”

  Dr. Rayburn nodded. “Phosgene comes to mind. It was used in the latter part of the First World War and was a more efficient killer than chlorine.”

  Rosa was impressed with Dr. Rayburn’s knowledge of what her parents had often referred to as the Great War. The events of the Second World War dominated the hearts and minds of most people nowadays.

  “The esophagus was clamped almost completely shut.” Dr. Rayburn walked over to a clipboard hanging from the en
d of the gurney and held it up. “The thing is, lab tests confirm that there isn’t even a trace of anything like that in her blood. Besides, how can someone breathe in a poison gas standing at the end of a pier on the Pacific Ocean?”

  Rosa was as perplexed as Dr. Rayburn. “What do the tests show?”

  “High levels of carbon dioxide, which I already mentioned, is consistent with asphyxiation.” He paused for a moment. “There are other interestin’ things found in her in blood.”

  “Such as?” Miguel asked.

  “The high level of alcohol indicates that she was drinkin’ to excess on that evenin’. However, signs of ongoing alcoholism are absent, such as liver fibrosis, etcetera. Small traces of cocaine were also found. But . . .” He held up a finger. “The most surprisin’ thing so far is that we found traces of digoxin, a drug used to treat cardiomyopathy.”

  “You mean she had a heart condition?” Rosa asked.

  “Yes. More precisely, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. She had abnormally thick heart muscles in her left ventricle. I called her doctor this morning, and he confirmed it. He was treating her and thought it to be under control. It’s typically a genetic condition.”

  Miguel’s eyebrows pulled together as he shook his head. “A person who has a heart condition should avoid things like alcohol and cocaine, shouldn’t they?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dr. Rayburn nodded. “That’s a dangerous mixture, not to mention if it’s mixed with undue stress.”

  Rosa immediately thought of the two arguments she’d witnessed the night of Miss Adams’s death.

  “Despite all that,” the doctor continued, “it wasn’t the digoxin that killed her.”

  Miguel and Rosa shared a look.

  “What did?” Miguel asked.

  Dr. Rayburn worked his lips. “It appears that she inhaled a substance that mimics poison gas. Whatever it is, it must be very obscure. Whoever gave it to her probably hoped that because she fell into the water while drunk, and along with the fact that she was sniffing cocaine with a weak heart, that the true cause of death would be missed. I believe the killer wished to throw you off the scent.”