“And then panicked when he realized she was dead, and tossed her in the water?” I frowned. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to lose his cool so completely, but of course I don’t really know him.”
“Don’t tell me you guys are talking about the murder? I thought we agreed to avoid that topic tonight,” Julie said, as she crossed the patio and plunked a wooden salad bowl filled with a mixture of greens and fresh vegetables on the table.
“Sorry, that’s my fault.” Scott slid over to allow Julie to sit beside him. “I mentioned Roger and, well …”
“Okay, but let’s just drop it now.” Julie shook her fork at him. “Oops, looks like I forgot my wine.”
“I’ll get it,” I said, swinging my legs around so I could jump up from the attached bench. “What’s your preference?”
“With the fish and the heat, some of the white.” Julie fanned her face with her paper napkin. “Maybe this eating outside wasn’t such a great idea.”
“But it’s lovely out here,” I said, as I set a full wine glass in front of Julie. “And once twilight falls, it will cool off.”
“But that won’t happen for another hour, at least.” Julie thrust a set of wooden tongs into the salad. “It’s just fish and salad. I hope that’s okay. I did buy some fresh peach ice cream for dessert.”
“Looks delicious,” I said, as I filled my plate. The salad was dressed with Julie’s homemade vinaigrette, which she knew was my favorite.
Scott unwrapped the foil from the fish and handed me the metal spatula. “Here, help yourself. There’s plenty, and it’s better fresh, so don’t stint.”
“Perfectly grilled.” I slipped a large portion of the fish onto my plate.
“One of Scott’s many talents,” Julie said, saluting him with her wine glass.
Scott leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek and Julie beamed in response.
We focused on our food after that, chatting about everything except the death of Lisette Bradford, which was a relief. But as we polished off the ice cream, obviously homemade and topped with fresh peaches, Julie raised a question I wasn’t really prepared to answer.
“That Gavin guy,” she said, waving her spoon at me, “what’s up with him? I’ve seen his spiffy boat at the docks, so I know he doesn’t need to shack up with Ellen, and she doesn’t seem that fond of him. What’s the story there? Is he really a cousin?”
I thought about the le Carré book I’d just been reading. The British intelligence officers had called their American counterparts the cousins. I smiled. “In a way.”
Scott lifted his russet eyebrows. “What do you mean? You’re either someone’s cousin or you aren’t, or so I’ve always believed.”
“Well, I don’t think they’re related by blood,” I said, before licking the last little bit of ice cream from my spoon.
Julie spun around on the bench so she could stand up. “He certainly doesn’t have Ellen’s flair. Rather a dull sort, I thought.” She swept up the paper goods and plastic utensils and piled everything on one plate. “Keep talking—I’m just going to dump this, and then fill up everyone’s glasses.” Balancing the leaning tower of trash between her hands, she slowly walked over to the garbage can placed to one side of the alley entrance.
“I figured Gavin for an accountant,” Scott said. “But apparently he’s some sort of freelance researcher. Which is an equally low-key personality type of job, I guess.”
“Unlike an author?” I asked, with a wry smile.
“Not all authors are quiet types. Take me, for example,” Scott said, before his next words were cut off by the slam of the garbage can lid.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Julie’s words were staccato as drum beats.
Scott spun around and leapt to his feet while I stared over to where Julie had faced off with a man standing in the alley.
Sliding off the bench, I also jumped up. The man, wearing a navy-blue hoodie despite the warm weather, looked vaguely familiar.
Billy Bradford, I thought, curling my fingers into fists as he marched forward, ignoring Julie.
He strode up to Scott, who’d rushed to intercept him. I unclenched my fingers and thrust my hand into the pocket of my jade-green linen pants, my fingers scrambling to clutch my cell phone.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Scott asked, in a tone I’d never heard him use before.
“Looking for your pal, Roger Warren,” Billy used one hand to yank back the hood shading his face. “I’ve tried to track him down but haven’t had any luck. Saw you come in and out of here several times over the last few days, though, and when I heard voices, I thought I’d see if you could clue me in.”
Guess you didn’t think to check the library at the Maritime Museum. Of course I didn’t voice those words aloud. “The police are looking for you,” I said instead.
“Right, ’cause they think I killed Lizzie. Which I didn’t. Never would, whatever she might’ve told those weird followers of hers.”
“This is private property,” Scott motioned for Julie, who was still standing by the back wall of the building, to move behind him., but she shook her head. “You’re trespassing, which is a crime, in case you didn’t know.”
Billy hitched up his drooping jeans and glared up at Scott. “Tell me where I can find Roger Warren and I’ll be happy to leave.”
“So you can do what? Attack a man old enough to be your father?” Scott squared his shoulders. “No way. I’m not telling you anything.”
“Protecting that murderer, are you?” Billy spat at the ground near Scott’s feet. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, all you high-and-mighty types always stick together.”
“What makes you think Roger murdered Lisette?” I asked, as I slipped my phone out of my pocket and held it behind my back.
“Heard people talking while I’ve been hiding out. Lizzie supposedly threatened to do something bad to his books. Something to do with reviews or whatever. Figured that might tick him off. And more than that”—Billy wiped the back of his hand under his nose—“I saw them, arguing, down by the waterfront that night. Lizzie had just come out of a restaurant with some other people, including that ridiculous Amanda woman, but they didn’t stick together. All went their separate ways, leaving Lizzie by herself.”
“Were you stalking her again?” I asked.
“Not stalking. Just keeping an eye out, so I could find the right time to talk to her.”
Scott harrumphed. “From what I hear, Lisette didn’t want to speak to you. Ever.”
“That’s what those other broads might’ve told you, but you shouldn’t pay them no mind. They love to exaggerate,” Billy said, shuffling his feet.
“Wait.” I waved my free hand. “You saw Roger Warren talking to Lisette after she left the restaurant?”
“Yeah, the group split up. Went their separate ways, like I said. Anyway, Lizzie wandered down to the end of the boardwalk, where those excursion boats are docked. There weren’t many people around there at that point, so when that older fellow strode up and began talking to Lizzie, I hung back behind the ticket booth and kept watch. Heard her call him Dr. Warren, so I was able to figure out later who he was.”
“If you saw him harm your ex-wife, you should tell the police,” Scott said.
“Like they’d believe me.” Billy snorted. “They’ve already convicted me. The angry abusive ex, or so they probably think.”
I glanced over at Julie, who held up her cell phone before mouthing something that looked like, “keep him talking.” Realizing that she’d probably already contacted the police, I nodded.
“But you have pertinent evidence,” I said, catching Billy’s eye. “That could change everything.”
“But I didn’t see the old man kill Lizzie. Just overheard them arguing. I had to sneak away before they split up, ’cause there was some cop on patrol headed my way.” Billy met my inquiring gaze with a twist of his lips. “Hid out for a bit, and when I got back to that spot, the Warr
en guy was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t see Lizzie either, but there was this excursion boat blocking my line of vision. I was about to get closer, to see if she was still around anywhere, but the cop walked past again, on his way toward the main part of town, it looked like. I didn’t want to be seen by the police, so I split while I could.”
Flashing lights from the street caught my eye. A police cruiser, not blaring its siren, had pulled up and parked.
The thud of booted footfalls alerted Billy, who spun around, coming face-to-face with several uniformed officers.
He shouted, unleashing a colorful string of swear words. But there was no way for him to escape through the alley, which was blocked by cops. In desperation, Billy scrambled toward the stairs to the apartment, where Julie barred the way, holding the lid of the garbage can in front of her like a shield. Scott, obviously fueled by adrenaline, leapt forward and tackled Billy to the ground.
“Thank you, Mr. Kepler, but we’ll take it from here,” said Detective Johnson, looking regal and stylish in a pale-yellow sheath dress and heels. I wondered if she’d been pulled away from a night out, and considered how law enforcement officers, like teachers, were often called on to do much more than a nine-to-five job.
Scott sat back, scooting out of the way while two police officers handcuffed Billy before helping him to his feet. Detective Johnson read Billy his Miranda rights as he was marched out to the street and the waiting patrol cars.
“So much for our calm and relaxing evening,” Julie said, tossing the lid back on the can with a bang. She looked over at me with a wink. “Good thing you brought that extra bottle of wine.”
Chapter Seventeen
When I finished helping Alicia clean up after breakfast on Thursday I decided to walk to the Maritime Museum. Despite Scott’s comment about Roger Warren using the museum library frequently, I knew finding him there was a hit or miss proposition. But a walk wouldn’t hurt, whatever the outcome.
I strolled the few blocks to Front Street. The Maritime Museum, located right across the street from the waterfront, didn’t charge admission. But I always paused at its plexiglass donation box to drop in a dollar or two, happy to support the museum’s preservation of history and its educational programs. Glancing up, I admired the main hall’s tall, open-timbered ceiling, which reminded me of the interior of an old sailing ship.
As I crossed to the other side of the building, I cast a quick glance toward one of the most popular displays, which chronicled the history of the Queen Anne’s Revenge. The flagship of Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard, the ship was believed to have been purposefully run aground in 1718 in the waters of Beaufort Inlet. The pirate and his crew escaped, but the ship sank. It was not rediscovered until 1996, when the wreck site was claimed by the state of North Carolina as it fell within the three-mile state waters limit. Many of archeological finds from the Queen Anne’s Revenge were kept on display in this building, making the museum a popular tourist attraction.
I crossed the lobby to reach the area that housed the museum’s research library. Its balcony-style second level, positioned along one side of the room, was accessible via a wooden staircase that looked like it belonged on an old sailing ship. However, only staff could access the upper level, even though the ground floor, with its wooden bookshelves, large study table, and an inviting fireplace, was available for use by visitors.
Seated in a leather upholstered desk chair, Roger Warren was bent forward, poring over the books scattered across the wooden table before him.
“Hello, Dr. Warren,” I called out in a hushed tone. Even though there wasn’t anyone else in the room, somehow being a library made me keep my voice down.
He lifted his head, pushing his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. “Yes, may I help you?” He turned his head with a puzzled expression that cleared after he looked me over. “Ah, Ms. Reed, isn’t it? We met at the Amanda Nobel event, if I recall correctly.”
“We did.” I crossed to the other side of the table and sat down across from him. “Scott Kepler introduced us. He’s a friend of mine.”
“And mine,” Roger said, absently stroking his short white beard as he examined me. “What brings you here today, Ms. Reed? Doing a little research related to your B and B’s events? I hear you like to focus on books and authors, but I imagine historical reenactment events would also go over well.”
“Please, call me Charlotte. And no, I’m not here to conduct any research. I just wanted to talk. Scott told me you’d been using the library a lot this week, so I stopped by on the chance that I might find you here.”
Roger crossed his arms and rested his chin on one hand. “I suspect you want to question me about Lisette Bradford’s murder. Why you’re so interested in this case, I can’t imagine, but I can assure you that I had nothing to do with her death.”
“She was my guest. That’s reason enough for me to want to discover the truth, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. Although I’d leave such business to the police if I were you.”
I opened my mouth to say something about helping the authorities, with their blessing, but thought better of it. If Roger Warren had any hand in Lisette’s death, I’d be a fool to tip him off to my, or Ellen’s, amateur sleuthing. “I just feel a certain responsibility for those who stay at Chapters and, of course, I want to ensure the safety of my guests.”
Roger quirked one bushy white eyebrow. “To protect them from the deadly machinations of a batty old professor?”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that I find it a little strange that Scott’s leaving town soon and has been trying to get in touch with you, to no avail.” I grabbed a well-worn bookmark off the table and fanned the back of my neck. “He told me you missed your dinner date Saturday night, by the way.”
“I had car trouble. I hope he told you that as well.” Roger leaned back in the chair, lifting the front legs slightly off the floor.
“He did. But he also said that you haven’t been in touch since, which he, and I, found a little strange.”
Roger’s expression hardened into a stone mask. “I’ve been busy, and despite our friendship, I’m not in the habit of checking in with Scott every day, or even every week.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but the thing is”—I tapped the corner of the bookmark against the table—“someone else said they saw you down at the waterfront Saturday night …” I held up the bookmark in an instinctive protective gesture when Roger rattled the table by dropping down the front legs of his chair. “To be fair, I suspect the person who told me this isn’t the most truthful individual, so I wanted to ask you about it directly. Before I say anything more to the police.”
“Who said that?” Roger leaned forward, stretching his arms across the table.
“I don’t think I should tell you that.” As I scooted back my chair, its legs scraped against the wooden floor.
“But you’re more than happy to share this story with the police, is that right?” Roger’s eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“I have to at least admit I heard it, if I’m asked. Other people were present, for one thing. Besides, I imagine the speaker will be sharing the information with the authorities, if only to help his own cause.”
“I see.” Roger stared down for a moment before banging one fist against the tabletop.
I jumped to my feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought if you had a good explanation for being at the waterfront and talking to Lisette … Well, I know for a fact that someone claims they saw you there, so if you can just explain it to me, maybe I could help you. If I know the truth, I could speak to the police on your behalf.”
Roger sat back, his glare hot as the July sun. “Being innocent, I’m not too worried about what you do or do not tell the authorities. Share your rumors if you wish. It won’t make a scintilla of difference.” He stood to face me across the table. “The upshot is, I do not need your help, Ms. Reed. Nor do I desire your company
. If you would simply walk away and leave me to my research, that would be much appreciated.”
I studied his stony expression, trying to determine whether his disdain was based in justified anger, or guilt. The truth was, I couldn’t tell.
A failed mission, I thought, as I mumbled a goodbye and scurried out of the library. You’ve learned precisely nothing.
Except that Roger Warren appeared to have a temper, as Scott, and Ellen’s friends, had said. And perhaps the self-assurance that allows someone to murder and proclaim their innocence without displaying a crack in their façade.
I stepped outside the museum, blinking in the bright sunlight. Jamming my sunglasses over my eyes, I strode across the street, where a gray barn-like building housed the Harvey W. Smith Watercraft Center. Leaning against the wood siding, I stared into the cavernous structure, where masters of the craft restored boats and demonstrated shipbuilding techniques to visitors.
As soon as I returned to Chapters I planned to share the details of my encounter with Roger Warren with Ellen. I hoped she could give me some insight as to whether Roger’s actions should move him to the top of our suspect list.
But before I dove back into the troubled waters of our sleuthing partnership, I decided to walk to the end of the boardwalk to clear my head. Because after what Ellen herself told you, and what Gavin said, you aren’t quite as trusting of Ellen as you once were, are you? I sighed and tucked a few tangled strands of my wind-blown hair behind my ears.
When I reached the docks, I paused for a moment to stare out over the flotilla of boats, musing about how lovely it would be to jump on one and sail away. Leave it all behind, even Chapters, I thought, as I leaned against the weathered top of the wooden railing.
A waving arm and familiar voice caught my attention. I stared at the figure casting off the line from the cleat mooring his vintage cabin cruiser to the dock.
“Charlotte, so glad to see you here. Saves me coming to look for you.” Gavin motioned for me to join him. “I have information I can now actually share.”
I hesitated for a moment before walking over to the opening in the rail and making my way to his boat slip. Thankfully, I was wearing sneakers with grips on their soles, so I wasn’t too worried about my feet sliding out from under me on the water-slicked wood planks.
Reserved for Murder Page 16
