Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set

by James Kipling

  “I see. Well, I wish you had told me sooner. I thought you were busy enough with everything else, and I didn’t realize you wanted to juggle more.”

  “I am busy,” she smiled. “But I am very good at multitasking.”

  “Well, I guess we will have to see how well you actually do multitask. I’m sorry I didn’t realize your brilliance before. See what you can find out about both Sasha and Martin. If there’s something Sasha isn’t telling me, and I suspect there is, maybe you can find it.”

  “OK, but I won’t promise a report by tomorrow morning. I haven’t been hacking every day for the past six months, so I may be a little rusty, but I’m sure I can get the information. It may take two or three days.”

  “I understand. That’s okay. I need to stay here, I’m thinking, at least two days, and possibly more. Let me know if there’s anything dramatic.”

  “I will. I know you like these two people, boss; especially Sasha, so I hope there is nothing too dramatic.”

  “That’s my hope, too.” He shook his head. “Maybe they can just go their separate ways and mend their lives. That’s what I’m hoping. The problem is, a lot of hopes seem to be getting dashed recently.”

  “It’s something of a sad case, boss. I guess every divorce is. But I’m sorry these two people are friend of yours. That makes it hard.”

  “You’re right. Thank you for the understanding. But the case will be harder if I don’t find out what Sasha is hiding.”

  He didn’t see it, but Emily smiled. “While you are pounding the pavement in Linwood Springs, I will be pounding the digital pavement. But I promise you, if there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.”

  “Thank you, Emily. You’re a gem.”

  The compliment warmed her heart.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The restaurant had more than a decent menu, with smiling waitresses who gave the impression that waiting on him was the high point of their day. With his stomach still growling, he ordered New York Strip steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn and rolls. After dinner, he planned to get the Key Lime Pie, which was always a favorite in Florida. The waitress quickly brought rolls, and he grabbed one immediately, to quench some of the hunger pains. As he buttered the rolls, he kept thinking of the Richardson case. There was nothing in the background he had read that would point to a murderer. But, of course, that would been too much to hope for. Dozens of investigators had pored over those documents. He couldn’t expect to read them once and have a revelation.

  He did give enormous credit to Harkness. Two years after the crime, he got a whiff of evidence that Bayridge might have been the target, not Richardson, due to a business disagreement. Harkness was still interested enough to track it down. It was a dead end, but the man deserved credit for tracking down a possible clue. To be honest, most tips only lead to dead ends, but Harkness showed astounding tenacity. When he was a nine-to-five reporter, he must have been a hound dog.

  As he sipped his drink, he realized the growing closeness with Emily. It both delighted and alarmed him. She was a beautiful woman, and came from a rich family; not that he cared about that. She would have been a fine lady, even if she came from a poor family. It seemed he had been walking around in a daze during the past few months, and he never actually realized what a wonderful lady she was. Yet, this was not the time to start any type of a relationship or, possibly, even a friendship. A twenty-five year-old cold murder case would take up all of his time. Even if he focused 100 percent on the case, the odds were against him solving it. There was no chance of finding the killer if he only focused 50 percent, or even 90 percent, on the case.

  And was she really that good at hacking?

  He’d soon find out.

  He swallowed the roll. His stomach thanked him. When he buttered his second roll, he realized there was one thing he should have asked Harness. It was obvious, but he had missed it. He wanted to know if Lyndon Richardson’s wife was still alive. If so, he wanted to talk with her. And perhaps talk to Mr. Bayridge’s wife, too. Twenty-five years later, memories can fail, but they might provide him with a clue. Perhaps he should check to see if the banker Harkness spoke of was still breathing, too.

  He smiled, and grabbed his knife and fork when the meal was brought to him. He eagerly cut into the steak. The knife slid through the meat as easily as through butter. He forked a piece of meat and raised it to his mouth. But one nagging question bothered him. In some cases he had investigated, sometimes none of the suspects committed the crime. There was a wild card in the deck. He wondered if there was a wild card in this deck.

  ###

  Adele Richardson, the wife of the late Lyndon Richardson, was still alive, and looked rather vibrant for being in her mid-seventies. She was a slender woman, about five-four in height, with silver hair and, Orlando thought, a kind face with a tender smile. She had wide eyes and, even at her age, a firm grip as she shook his hand. The voice was firm, too.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Orlando. I knew Jack was going to make one last try at finding out who killed Lyndon. I must admit that I didn’t encourage him, not because I don’t want to know, but given all this time and so many failures, I doubted he would have any success,” she said.

  Orlando smiled. “Well, he still may not, but I’m going to do my best. There may be some benefit in getting a fresh perspective.”

  He sat with her in what Floridians called a Florida room. She sipped a cup of tea as they chatted. Orlando had a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other hand. A woman with a red face and gray-black hair stood at the entrance to the room. Adele pointed to her.

  “Mr. Orlando. This is my friend Grace Weathers. We’ve known each other for forty years. Grace is a little younger, so she comes over every day to check on me.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Orlando?”

  “Very well, thanks.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea.” She smiled. “We have a variety of flavors.”

  “Thank you. Do you have cinnamon apple?”

  “Yes. How would you like it?”

  “With milk and extra sugar. That extra sugar is a bad habit of mine.”

  She smiled and walked toward the kitchen.

  “So how can I be of help to you?” Adele said. “I must admit, after twenty-five years, I tend to think whoever killed Lyndon is in his grave by now. He didn’t get justice this side of the cemetery, but he’s facing justice now. Both my husband and I, and our children, are believers. We can forgive, no matter how difficult that is. Forgiveness doesn’t mean you condone the crime, but it allows you to move on without bitterness. Bitterness can cripple you emotionally, and even physically. Forgiveness is better. It’s letting go of the past so it won’t ruin the present and future. There are times when everybody needs to do that.”

  Orlando nodded. He knew two other people who might need to exercise that trait.

  “I was just wondering, Mrs. Richardson, if—”

  “Please, call me Adele.”

  “Adele, I was just wondering if, in reflection, some man stands out as a prime suspect, maybe more than he did twenty or thirty years ago, for whatever reason.”

  “That’s probably a good question, but the answer is no. I was stunned at the murders and remain stunned today. I realize Lyndon had made a lot of enemies due to his political work for the city. He was a fine man and a fine mayor, and I know he cost a lot of people money, but I never dreamed of violence. They were fighting with ballots, nothing else.”

  But someone upped the ante, Orlando thought.

  “But to answer your question, I don’t think anyone stands out in my mind after all these years. I don’t think any new clues have been discovered, or any new motives. I think we all knew the motive for Lyndon’s death. He was trying to clean up a city, and succeeded. Linwood Springs is a fine city, and a debt of gratitude is owed to Lyndon for his part in that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure of that.”

  “During that
time, there were some death threats against Lyndon. Anonymous callers would ring him up and say he was going to die if he didn’t resign. For a while, the threats were almost routine, and we had a few letters where the writer threatened to kill Lyndon. We took those down to the police department, but we didn’t really think the threats were serious or credible. It was just someone letting off steam.”

  “Did the police ever find the person who wrote the letters?”

  “No. But the city police chief did assign a security man to protect Lyndon. A plainclothes man, who was one of the detectives in the bureau, stayed with Lyndon for about a month or six weeks, as a precaution. But there was no attempt on his life, or even any behaviour that the security man deemed threatening.”

  Orlando nodded.

  “I think, right after the murders, everyone might have pegged Rollo Armister for the crime. He did have something of a reputation.”

  “Yes, I heard the name.”

  “And he looked the part. You could dress Rollo up in a suit, and with his slicked back hair, he’d look pretty good, and sound good, too. But he could curse a blue streak, and didn’t mind letting a few words loose in a council meeting. And he was ruthless. But, believe it or not, he always got along with Lyndon and Lyndon, to my exasperation, always got along with Rollo. They’d often have lunch down at the Inlet, which is a restaurant here, and a tourist landmark. Rollo would bulldoze anyone over without breaking a sweat, but…” she paused for moment. “But if there’s one man that he wouldn’t have killed, it would have been Lyndon.”

  Orlando frowned. That wasn’t an airtight alibi, but coming from the widow of the murdered man, he had to give it credibility.

  “I was told both you and Mrs. Bayridge were usually on the walks, but both of you were down with the flu that night. Is that true?”

  “Yes. At that time, we were having a bad flu year. Several of my friends had been hit with it. It was a two-week flu, or close to it. My friends said anyone hit with it was down at least a week, and still weren’t moving too fast during the second week. The afternoon of the walk, I started feeling bad at about one o’clock. Sylvi, she was Allan Bayridge’s wife, came over about three to check on me, and I was already in the bed watching television. I remember I couldn’t read well that day. I think the flue was affecting my eyes. Everything looked blurry to me, but I could watch television pretty well. Silvi and I talked for a while, and she made me some soup. Then the flue hit her later on.” Adele shook her head. “I almost hurried her off so she could make the walk. I told her she had to leave, because it was getting late and I was getting along fine, at least as fine as you can when you have the flu. I was so glad she got it, too. If not, she would have been killed, as well.”

  “How long had you all been friends?”

  “About ten years. We were not buddy-buddy. Sylvi is younger than I am, and had a different set of friends. But we saw one another occasionally because our husbands were such good friends. Whenever Lyndon and I invited friends over, we always included Allan and Sylvi. She was younger than Allan. It was a second marriage for both of them. When we walked, she could outwalk and outrun us, but I always thought she had a sound marriage with Allan.”

  “Dan Harkness told me that several years after the murders, he heard a rumor that a colleague of Bayridge’s, a business partner, had a rather nasty dispute with him. The man accused Bayridge of cheating him.”

  She sipped her tea, and her features showed it was a subject she didn’t want to talk about. Her mouth gave a defensive wriggle, then she sighed.

  “Mr. Orlando, I know there was an incident like that, but I know very little about it. And I can’t remember the name of the man involved. I know Allan mentioned, just once, he was in a bitter struggle with another businessman who had been involved with a project with him. Sylvi also told me about the matter once or twice. She said the two men had hired attorneys and were going to fight it out in court. The man was really hostile to Allan. What was his name? I’m trying to recall….one of the many problems in getting old, Mr. Orlando, is that the memory does fail you. And when you are watching “Jeopardy”, the answers, which you should know, slip away from you.”

  “Yes, I know how that is. I doubt I would be a winner on that program. Do you know what the disagreement was about?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t. I don’t know the details.”

  “What type of businesses was Mr. Bayridge in?”

  “Oh, Allan had a lot of interests. He was heavily into real estate. He owned a stake in the Peninsula Plaza in the city, and I know he had a 30 percent share in Bay Island Subdivision. I’m sure he had many interests that I knew nothing about. He was a man of foresight. That was the time when the high-tech era was just taking off. Allen recognized how powerful and influential the high-tech industry would become, and he invested heavily in it. As I said, it had not quite taken off yet, but even at that time, he began reaping some financial benefits. Alas, he was dead when the investments zoomed up the stock markets….Crone, that was his name. The man who was fighting with Allan. Augustus Crone. I think they were friends at one time, but parted bitter enemies.”

  “Augustus Crone. Is he still around?”

  Adele nodded. “I think so, but he moved to Oak County and, the last I remember, was involved in a few businesses, but I really haven’t heard much about him for years.” She sipped her tea again. “I did hear….when was that….about ten years ago? Bill Newridge mentioned that he had been down to Oak County, and Crone was still complaining bitterly about Allan. He said Allan really damaged his career and cost him money.”

  “It doesn’t appear like he forgot the disagreement.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Orlando thought about who would know about a business disagreement twenty-five years ago. He wanted to talk to Crone, but with his bitterness, the man might not be a good, objective source.

  “You really think this is helping your investigation, Mr. Orlando?”

  He nodded. “It might. Mr. Harkness,,, I don’t know if you remember him, but he was one of the reporters covering the murder,…

  “I do. I always thought he did a good job.”

  “He was kind enough to loan me files of some of the newspaper coverage, and there were many stories about the murders. For a month, at least, the newspapers were filled with crime stories. And there were any number of suspects in the crime of killing your husband, and more than enough motives, given his background. But, maybe being an outsider and looking at this case from the vantage point of a quarter of a century later, I have to wonder about the second man in this case, Mr. Bayridge. No one considered that he might have been the target, and not Mayor Richardson. In one sense, that would have been a perfect murder. Every city investigator, every detective in the county and state, and every reporter focused on Mayor Richardson, believing he was the target of the crime, and that Mr. Bayridge was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody even thought he was the target, so they weren’t investigating that angle of the case.”

  Adele stiffened a bit and sat up. She glared at him. “Do you really think that might be the case?”

  He drained his tea glass. “I think your husband was the target of the driver on that long-ago night, but I don’t want to overlook any possibilities. If Bayridge had an enemy, a vicious enemy…if the target was Bayridge, the killer must have known everyone would think Mayor Richardson was the target, and that would give him an advantage. No man with a badge would be searching for him.”

  Adele slowly nodded.

  “I forgot to ask you, is Mrs. Bayridge still alive?”

  “Oh, yes. She remarried about a year after Allan was killed, but divorced the man about four or five years ago. I know people change over the years, and I guess Manatee changed too much, or not enough.”

  “Manatee?”

  “Yes, his name is Manatee Sutton. Manatee being a nickname, of course. He was a small businessman in
town, in construction. There was a lot of construction going on back then. Sylvi and I sort of drifted apart after the murders. It was a tough time.”

  “I’m sure it was, Mrs. Richardson. Thank you for the tea.”

  Orlando eased the saucer onto the coffee table in front of him, and rose from his chair.

  “Mr. Orlando, you took on a daunting task.”

  He smiled. “That’s highly possible. But every once in a while, you should take a daunting task. It does you good. Your husband took on a daunting task, and won.”

  “Thank you for appreciating that. You’re a good man, Mr. Orlando. I wish you well.”

  He walked out with a warm feeling in his chest. From his brief chat, he thought Adele Richardson was an honest, tough and admirable women. The fact that she called him a good man resonated in him. He took momentary pride in the statement, and renewed his intention to find out who killed her husband.

  ###

  John Waylon was almost totally bald. A few sprinkles of white sprang from the pale skin on his skull. Orlando noted the photos on the wall, of Waylon in his younger days, with a full head of hair. But the photos were not the only thing that attracted Orlando’s attention. One plaque on the wall noted John Waylon, several years before, had been the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for investigating police corruption in the city of Pensacola. No doubt, Waylon had won the award before losing his hair. He was a smiling, gregarious man with a much younger, blond wife. The wife, Staci, was also jovial and outgoing, and popped into the office where Waylon and Orlando were sitting, to see if they needed anything. There was a bottle of Scotch was on the desk, and that’s all that Waylon needed. He sipped often from his glass and, when it was empty, poured more Scotch in it. He pointed a tan figure at Orlando.

  “Do you want to know one man I suspect of possibly being involved in Lyndon’s murder, but no one ever suspected. I mean, he flew below the radar,” Waylon said.