Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set

by James Kipling

“Acrimony enough to kill?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t know Crone that well. I only met him two or three times, at some type of business function. But I don’t think he had a violent reputation. Many times, business deals have destroyed friendships, but people rarely murder because of it.”

  “Maybe rarely, but it does happen,” Orlando said.

  “But, if I recall, and it’s been so long ago I could be wrong, but it seems the dispute between Allan and Crone occurred about a year before the accident. That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”

  “The Hatfields and McCoys held a grudge a lot longer.”

  She stretched and sipped some more of the wine. “I’ll be honest with you, David, my second husband could be…let’s just say, hard driving in business. If he cut a few corners it didn’t bother him. In the fight in the Linwood Springs government, I think Allan picked the right side, but for the life of me I don’t know why. Maybe just because he was a friend of Lyndon. My third husband stayed far away from politics, and that was fine with me.”

  “The third husband would be Manatee?’

  She flinched as if bitten by an angry bee. “Well, you have been doing some investigating. Yes, my third husband was Manatee. I married much too young, then divorced. Allan was an older but stable man, and he brought some stability to my life, which I appreciated. If I had met him when I was forty, I don’t think I would have been attracted to him, but I met him when I was about twenty-seven, and emotionally scarred from the lousy first marriage. But all in all, it worked out well. So did the third marriage, for a while. Manatee was the one person who wondered from the first if the intended victim was really Allan. As I told you, Allan could be ruthless in business, and Manatee always wondered if one of those bad deals went really south and really sour.”

  It was a possibility, albeit a slim possibility, that Orlando was considering.

  “We divorced some time ago. We had sort of an open marriage. At times, he did his thing and I did mine. We didn’t get in one another’s space. I didn’t worry about his business, the same way I was with Allan, and he didn’t worry about mine. We kept the accounts pretty much separate. But we had fun together.”

  “Adele Richardson mentioned he’s in a hospice now. Is that true?”

  “Yes, Indian River Medical. But not for long. I think he has about two months, maybe less. Doctors found cancer in one of his kidneys, and had to take it out. Medically, he did fine for a while, but then they discovered the cancer had spread. Doctors found spots in his other kidney, and in his lungs. All those problems took a toll on his heart. The last I heard, the kidney and the lung were operating at about 60 percent capacity, and the heart was down, too. It’s such a shame.”

  This woman troubled him. The tone of her voice didn’t seem sorry about the hospice. She sounded like she was indifferent to it.

  “As I said, we had a lot of fun together. He ran his construction business until he got too weak to work.”

  “He was in construction?”

  “Yes, he built a lot of fine houses in the county. We had a lot of growth for a number of years, both residential and commercial. Manatee had his own company and he kept busy. He did some demolition, too. We’re known for growth and building, but sometimes, before putting something up, you have to tear down what is there.”

  He smiled and didn’t know what to say. There was something in Sylvi that appalled him. She seemed to go along with whatever she thought best for her at the time.

  “Did you love your second husband, Mr. Bayridge?” he said.

  “I don’t believe in love, David. Allan and I had a good time. That was enough.

  “And Mr. Manatee?”

  “Manatee was good to have fun with, but not to love. He was too selfish, in his own way. He could get angry, but he wasn’t a particularly strong man. He could go any way the wind blew.”

  “I have the feeling you are a very strong woman, Sylvi.”

  She smiled. “I have made my way in the world, mostly on my own terms.”

  He stood up. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime. I hope you fine the solution to this mystery. Nobody else has, but maybe lightning will strike and you’ll find the killer.”

  He walked back through the house and out the front door. It was a sunny Florida day and he had gotten hot sitting outside. But walking through the house, he felt as cold as ice.

  ###

  Emily breathed easy as she opened the door and let her Golden back in the apartment. He ran to the kitchen, expecting a treat after the walk. It was a bad habit that she had gotten into. She had started, for whatever reason, giving him a treat after a walk. Now, he expected it and bounced up and down in front of the counter where the treat jar was. Emily frowned and walked over. She opened the jar and brought out a treat in the shape of a bone.

  “OK, one more time, but we are going to change this procedure,” she said. The Golden’s eyes focused on the treat, not the words. She dropped it into his mouth. “As of tomorrow, you’re getting only half a treat when you walk, not a full one. If not, you’re going to be fat in no time.”

  She glanced at her computer and knew she had more work to do. She was not looking forward to it. The wine bottle was still sitting on the counter. The bourbon bottle sat in a cabinet. Choosing between the two was a dilemma. Finally, she opened the cabinet and took the bourbon bottle out, and set it on the counter. She found a short glass and filled it with ice, then poured the bourbon in. She didn’t want to go directly to the computer. She paced back and forth, sipping from the glass. The liquor tasted strong, and it burned going down her throat. She thought the situation might not be as bad as she first thought. Maybe.

  She had some facts, but she needed an explanation too. And she did not want to tell Orlando about this until she had more facts, and an explanation. She wanted to be an investigator. Now was a good time to investigate. She kept pacing, sipping the drink as she did. She had bragged on her hacking skills, but she had to admit, the bragging was a bit excessive. She was good, but not quite as good as she said. Emily knew she could accomplish this task, but not in the time limit she had given herself.

  She took a long sip from the glass, and walked to the kitchen and refilled it. She glanced at the computer as she walked back. She didn’t want to sit down at her desk, yet. Not yet. She looked at the computer warily, as if it were a wild animal she wanted to stay away from. Caution was necessary. She gave a sly smile. She needed one more drink before tackling the computer again. It’s amazing what bourbon can do to stiffen the nerves.

  But the limited information she had obtained would be devastating to Orlando. It involved a couple that he was friends with. She owed him all the truth, not just some of it.

  She sat down and took a deep breath. With the bourbon in hand, she knew she should attack the problem logically. She needed to add to the limited amount of information she had. She needed to search for additional medical information, both at the hospital, and from individual doctors. Be thankful for the computer age, she thought. Thirty years ago, you’d have to break into individual medical offices to check the files. Today, a computer is all that is needed.

  She also needed to check police reports. Those shouldn’t be a problem. Routine police reports are public record. Reporters check them every day. But additional work might be needed. Legwork this time, not just computer hacking. She might need to walk down to the police station and ask some questions.

  “I wanted to be an investigator. Now’s my chance,” she said.

  She swallowed more of the bourbon and moved to her desk, easing into her chair. She would try a simple task first, one that should reveal information, but not necessarily information pertinent to this case. Just something she was curious about. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for. These particular records were public. She nodded when they popped u
p on the screen.

  Martin owned a gun. He also had a concealed carry permit. It wasn’t hard to get in Florida. The Sunshine State was gun-friendly territory.

  Martin owned a gun.

  She didn’t know if it made a difference, in the situation she was investigating, but it might be very important.

  “Oh, I just thought of something,” she said, flicking her fingers over the keys again. “If I recall…the good thing about working at home is, when you talk to yourself, no one will hear and wonder if you are bonkers.” She sighed. “Actually, I feel better, physically and mentally, than I have for a long time. It’s nice to be active in something.”

  Orlando had told her only bits and pieces of the problems between Martin and Sasha, but she thought he had said Martin had moved out of their house, and had taken an apartment in the city. Now, she was trying to remember when he moved out. But she didn’t think Orlando told her a date. Was it back in July? If she recalled correctly, July was the month he mentioned. She could call him and ask for a more specific time, but he would be curious, and in return, ask some questions that she didn’t want to answer yet.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t recall any date, but the month of July stuck in her mind. She turned to her computer again and called up the information. The incident she was tracking happened July 15th, and Martin moved out in July.

  “I’m guessing it was after the fifteenth,” she said. “It would explain a few things. And I’m guessing he’s not going back. Sorry, boss, this is not going to be good news. It’s going to be very bad news. I don’t have all the details, but I will before I talk to you.”

  Hacking can be revealing, but there are some things even computers won’t share. Emily knew she would have to make that trip to the police station. She had a hunch what she would find, and it made her stomach turn cold.

  ###

  Orlando returned to his motel room and collapsed into a very comfortable chair. He kicked off his shoes and extended his feet to the edge of the bed. He was gathering a good deal of information, but wasn’t sure if he was making headway in the case. He still didn’t have a prime suspect; maybe a suspect or two, but not a prime suspect. The Pelican developer interested him. If a man had hundreds of millions of dollars riding on a project, and one man, a local mayor, stood in the way, that was definitely a motive. But motive enough to kill two men? And two women, for that matter, who thankfully didn’t take their usual walk on that dark day.

  The clang of the room phone caused him to jerk with surprise. He reached over and put it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this David Orlando.”

  “It is. Who is this?”

  The caller ignored the question.

  “You are investigating the Lyndon Richardson murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “You may have the wrong man.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Mr. Bayridge was a rich man. Do you know how much he carried in insurance?”

  “No. I’m guessing a lot.”

  “Yes. He had many business interests. The policy on his life was worth $800,000. And there’s one other piece of information you should know. Sylvi Bayridge supposedly had the flu the night her husband was killed, right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “I know someone who saw her at about six that evening, just about an hour before they were to begin the walk. She was fine, in the best of health.”

  “How do you---”

  The line went dead.

  Orlando frowned. He was not impressed. His heart didn’t thump, nor did his nerves race with anticipation. Being a private detective, he was familiar, to a degree, with how police work. He knew that, in any case, there are hundreds of tips and alleged leads; which is wonderful and vital to police work. The police have been directed to any number of dangerous criminals by tips. But it’s also true that 99 percent, well maybe 98 percent, of tips are worthless and lead to nothing. As he thought about the call, he walked to the table and picked up the motel restaurant menu, which the motel had considerately left in each room. He thought the chicken fried steak with gravy, three eggs, hash browns and three pancakes looked delicious. The menu had pictures, and one was of the chicken fried steak and trimmings. The pancakes looked sumptuous. He had not had pancakes for a long time. He looked forward to munching on them.

  He slid the menu back on the table. Still, he thought, he couldn’t ignore the call. But it would have been more credible if the caller had given his name, and said how he knew this information was true. The call was not credible yet. If it was, the caller would have told him who saw Mrs. Bayridge at six o’clock in good health.

  But even that piece of information was almost worthless.

  Orlando, like most people, had caught the flu several times in his life. Once, he had returned home after a day’s work, felt tired and stretched out on the couch. What he could best describe as a mass of ickiness hit him in his feet, and travelled up his legs and into his stomach, chest and head. In less than five seconds he had a flu attack akin to the D-Day attacks on Normandy beach. He had a fever, aches, and hardly had enough strength to walk to the kitchen to see what he had in the medicine cabinet.

  Some years later he experienced another flu attack, almost as swiftly.

  So, even if the story was true, and Sylvi Bayridge was seen bright and perky at six in the evening, it did not mean she wasn’t groaning with the flu at six-fifteen. That’s one of the problems with detective work, Orlando. You have to consider all possibilities. At one time, he thought it was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. You had to find the right piece. But that was a bad analogy. If you find the proper jigsaw piece, it fits into its spot. In detective work, you can identify a number of very good reasons why the piece doesn’t fit there, and the puzzle itself tends to keep shifting, so the hole isn’t the same size it was five minutes ago.

  He was hungry and thought of the pancakes, and grew more disgruntled with the call he had received. He glanced toward the menu again. He bet the chefs here made very good pancakes.

  There was another reason to question the call. If someone was genuinely upset that he was conducting another investigation into the murder of Mayor Lyndon Richardson, then one response was to create doubt in the case. If the target of the driver truly was Richardson, which seemed likely, even with the call, then create doubt by throwing suspicion on someone else, in an attempt to confuse the detective.

  Confuse and annoy him, Orlando thought.

  “He succeeded in the latter,” Orlando said. “Or maybe I’m just annoyed because I’m not eating pancakes yet.” He sighed, and realized he did not want to grapple with the details and nuances of the case tonight. He would wake up tomorrow morning and deal with them. Tonight, he only wanted a good meal, with pancakes, an after dinner drink, and then he would watch a baseball game, Maybe a local cable channel was broadcasting the Tampa Bay Rays game. He rooted for the Rays. He prepared to head down to the restaurant, when he heard the annoying ringing of his smart phone. He groaned. Everything was annoying him tonight.

  He said hello, and heard Emily’s voice.

  “Hello, boss. How’s the case going?”

  Orlando snickered. “About the way you’d expect a twenty-five year-old cold case to go. I think I have made some progress in gathering details, but I’m not ready to solve it yet. How is everything in your neck of the woods?”

  There was a pause, which Orlando thought was ominous.

  “Don’t say something that will spoil my appetite tonight, Emily. I’ve been thinking about pancakes for dinner. I haven’t had them for a while. Don’t spoil the taste.”

  In spite of her news, Emily laughed. “OK, I won’t. I didn’t want to talk to you about my findings over the phone, anyway. It’s better we do it in your office. But I found one or two things I think you should know. It sheds a little bit of light on the d
ivorce, and what went on before it.”

  “Good. You’re doing a good job. Maybe I shouldn’t close the agency. Maybe I should make you a partner. I bet the firm would prosper if I did that.”

  She chuckled. “We can discuss that when you get back, too. Just wanted to say I’m thinking of you, and have a good dinner. Oh, when will you be back?”

  “I got a phone call tonight. I may, or may not, have to stay one more day here. I’ll decide tomorrow morning. Right now, I’m guessing I need to stay one more day. And I’ll probably have to make another trip down here. The case is twenty-five years old, and it’s going to stay unsolved for a few more days.”

  “I have confidence in you, boss. You’ll find the killer.”

  “Thank you, Emily. You’re adorable.”

  The compliment thrilled her. She smiled.

  “So long now. I’m going for the pancakes.”

  ###

  The pancakes were worth the wait. Three blueberry pancakes, and the blueberries must have been fresh, topped with butter and flooded with syrup. He had forgotten how long it had been since he had eaten pancakes. He didn’t know why he’d quit, but he was going to take up the habit of eating pancakes again. The chicken fried steak was good, too. It had some type of gray gravy on it, that was fine-tuned to go with the meal.

  As he closed the door to his hotel room and sank down in a chair, he wondered if he should take the night off or do some work. Work meaning going over the voluminous notes that Harkness had given him, or going over his own notes on the case. He flicked the television on and discovered the New York Yankees were playing the Tampa Bay Rays at Tampa Bay. A home game for the Rays. They were strong in home games, and the Yankee home record was considerably better than their road record.

  “That makes my decision. I can take a night off,” he paused for a moment and thought he might feel guilty if he ignored the case. “OK, I will compromise. I will watch the game, but have the notes on the coffee table so I can glance at them from time to time. That way, I can do a little work along with watching the game.”