Crêpe Expectations

by Sarah Fox

  It was another beautiful spring day, with sunlight streaming down, birds singing in the trees, and a gentle breeze that smelled of the ocean. I parked in the first free space I found, even though it was a few minutes’ walk from Amy’s studio. I hadn’t visited Port Townsend for several weeks, and I wanted the chance to stroll around and enjoy the weather and the sights.

  Leaving my car behind, I set off along the street, passing several shops and the Crab and Gull, a restaurant I’d seen many times but had never eaten at. I’d heard it was good, and I made a mental note to suggest to Brett that we have dinner there sometime.

  I turned a corner and followed the street that ran along the side of the restaurant. As I drew close to the back of the building, angry voices floated toward me on the breeze. I couldn’t hear the words spoken, but it sounded like two men were arguing.

  At the rear of the building was a small parking lot, and when it came in sight I stopped in my tracks. Quaid was standing in the middle of the lot, his expression thunderous as he yelled at Jake Fellmen.

  Now that I was closer, I could hear what they were saying, and none of it was friendly.

  Quaid called Fellmen a string of unflattering names before jabbing a finger in his chest and saying, “If you keep poking your nose into my business, you’ll be sorry.”

  Fellmen appeared completely unfazed, despite the fact that Quaid was taller and bulkier than him. “Sounds like you’ve got something to hide.”

  Quaid swore. “I don’t have anything to hide. I just don’t like you sticking your nose into my business.”

  I took a few steps toward the two men. “If you don’t have anything to hide, how come you were dodging one of the sheriff’s deputies at the amateur chef competition?”

  A flicker of surprise passed over Fellmen’s face when he saw me, but he quickly schooled his features back into a neutral expression. Quaid wasn’t nearly so controlled. His stormy expression grew even stormier, and he practically snarled at me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just passing by,” I said.

  Quaid took a step toward me. “Like hell—”

  Fellmen put out an arm to stop him. “Leave the lady alone.”

  Quaid smacked Fellmen’s arm away. “Keep your hands off me.” He glared at me and Fellmen. “What is this? Are the two of you trying to set me up?”

  “She and I don’t even know each other,” Fellmen fibbed. “But how about you answer her question?”

  “I didn’t want the deputy harassing me like the two of you are now. So I had a fling with that girl before she died. So what? She was eighteen at the time. I didn’t have anything to do with her death. But I knew her, and I lived near the woods. So the cops are probably going to try to pin the crime on me.”

  “Has the sheriff talked to you since the remains were found?” I asked.

  “They called me in to Port Angeles this morning to grill me.”

  He’d probably been as charming to Ray and his deputies as he was being to me and Fellmen.

  “And I told them what I’ll tell you now so you’ll get off my back,” he continued. “If you want to know who killed Demetra Kozani, talk to that boyfriend of hers.”

  “Tyrone Phillips?” I said.

  “That’s him. He came by my place the night of that party. Late. He was drunk. He knew I had a thing going on with Demetra. She’d dumped him by then, but he still thought she was his girl. He ranted at me about leaving her alone. Even tried to take a swing at me. He was so drunk he missed.”

  “Then what happened?” Fellmen asked.

  “I told him to get lost. Last I saw he was stumbling off into the woods.”

  “And did you see Demetra that night?”

  “No. She told me she might come by after the party, but she never showed. And I never heard from her again.” Quaid yanked open the driver’s door of a black sports car. “Don’t bother me again or I’ll have you charged with harassment.”

  With that threat hanging in the air, he climbed into the car and slammed the door. The engine roared to life, and he tore out of the parking lot, disappearing down the street within seconds.

  Fellmen fixed his gaze on me. “You seem to be showing up everywhere.”

  “Small towns,” I said with a shrug. “I really was just passing by.”

  He continued to watch me steadily. “Guys like Quaid Hendrix and Tyrone Phillips can be dangerous, you know.”

  Annoyance prickled over my skin, but I tried to keep it out of my voice. “I’m aware of that.”

  “I’d advise you to leave the investigating to the professionals. You’re better off flipping pancakes.”

  He strode past me without another word.

  I spun around to watch him go, biting my tongue to keep myself from yelling something at his retreating back. I’d had that same lecture several times before from Ray, but he’d never been so condescending about it.

  “I don’t flip the flipping pancakes,” I muttered. “And the guy who does? He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be.”

  I stormed off, realizing I was actually glad the private investigator wasn’t related to me.

  * * * *

  Instead of resuming my path to Amy’s photography studio, I made a detour to spend some time down by the water. I needed to soak in the soothing effect of the ocean view after my encounter with Jake and Quaid.

  As I strolled along the waterfront, I focused on the warmth of the sun on my face and the cries of the seagulls as they circled overhead. My irritation ebbed away, and my shoulders relaxed. There was no point in letting the private investigator get under my skin. And despite not liking his parting words, my encounter with him and Quaid had left me with some new information.

  If Tyrone had confronted Quaid on the night of the party and was angry enough to try to punch him, could he have then directed that anger at Demetra? When he stumbled back into the woods after leaving Quaid’s cottage, maybe he’d run into his ex-girlfriend as she was leaving the party.

  I didn’t know if I should believe Quaid when he said he hadn’t seen Demetra that night, but if his story about Tyrone was true, that confirmed for me that the former baseball star deserved a spot at the top of my suspect list. Confronting Tyrone likely wouldn’t get me anywhere, even if I had someone with me to ensure my safety, but hopefully I wouldn’t have to worry about getting information out of him.

  Quaid said he’d told the authorities about Tyrone’s visit to his cottage on the night of the party. I figured Tyrone had already been questioned by the sheriff’s department when he arrived in Wildwood Cove, and this new information would probably result in him getting grilled again.

  Maybe this time Tyrone would crack under the pressure and confess to killing Demetra.

  If he had killed her.

  Deciding not to worry about the murder case for the time being, I turned my back on the water and headed for my original destination. I’d come to Port Townsend with the hope of identifying the person who’d sabotaged the amateur chef competition, so that was what I’d focus on. All thoughts of murder and condescending private investigators could wait.

  It took me under five minutes to reach the street where Amy’s studio was located. Before going inside, I stopped outside the large window to check out the photographs displayed there. They were primarily portraits, some shot in studio and others outdoors. I was admiring a photograph of a young couple and their golden retriever, taken down by the water’s edge, when I glanced through the narrow space between two portraits and into the studio.

  I forgot all about the photos on display. The interior of the studio was dimly lit compared to the sunny outdoors, but I could see enough to tell that the place was a mess. I opened the front door and stepped over the threshold. Even in the couple of seconds it took for my eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, I knew something was terribly wrong.<
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  It looked like a hurricane had swept through the small reception area I’d entered. The gray-carpeted floor was strewn with photographs, papers, brochures, pens, and a jumble of other office supplies. A desk sat off to my right, all of its drawers open, the contents spewing out. A chair had been overturned, and a vase of flowers lay on its side on the floor, the carpet wet where the water had spilled out.

  A chill ran through my body.

  “Amy?” I called out. “Is anybody here?”

  I thought I detected a quiet moan from somewhere deeper in the building.

  Although apprehensive that the person who’d made the mess might still be lurking somewhere inside, I couldn’t ignore the sound I’d heard. I picked my way across the messy floor and through an open doorway that led to a hallway. At the far end of the hall was a metal door with an “exit” sign above it. To my right was a shadowy storage room with a tripod lying on the floor. To my left was a large studio space, stretching toward the back of the building.

  I took only a cursory glance at the layout because I was too focused on what was ahead of me.

  In the middle of the narrow hallway was Amy Strudwick, facedown on the gray carpet, her short, curly hair matted with blood.

  Chapter 27

  “Amy!”

  I hurried to her side and dropped to my knees. When I rested a hand on her shoulder, she moaned, making the same sound I’d heard moments earlier.

  She turned her head to the side, moaning again as she did so. Her eyes fluttered open, and I exhaled with relief.

  “You’ll be okay,” I said calmly, even though I didn’t know for sure if that was the case. “I’ll call for help.”

  As I called 911, Amy struggled to focus her eyes on me.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice thick and groggy.

  “My name’s Marley McKinney,” I told her before speaking to the dispatcher who’d answered my call.

  Amy shifted on the floor. I put a hand to her shoulder again. “Try not to move too much.”

  She ignored me and slowly rolled onto her back with a groan. She touched her hand to the back of her head, and her eyes widened when she saw the blood on her fingers.

  “It looks like there was a break-in or something,” I told the dispatcher once I’d answered some questions. “But there’s no sign of anyone else here now.”

  Amy pushed herself into a sitting position and leaned her back against the wall. She closed her eyes for a moment while I continued to talk with the dispatcher, and when she opened them again, her gaze wasn’t quite so hazy.

  “You look familiar,” she said, her voice stronger now.

  I held my phone away from my ear for a second. “I filled in as a judge one day at the amateur chef competition in Wildwood Cove.”

  “Right.” She nodded as she spoke, but then grimaced, as if the motion had pained her.

  A siren sounded in the distance, quickly growing louder. I told the dispatcher that help had arrived and ended the call.

  “Sit tight,” I advised Amy. “I’m going to show the paramedics in.”

  I hurried into the reception area as a patrol car from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office pulled up to the curb. I waved to catch the deputy’s attention as he climbed out of the driver’s seat. Another siren continued to blare, and a second later an ambulance turned the corner and came to a stop in the middle of the street.

  “Deputy Henry,” the driver of the patrol car introduced himself as he stepped into the studio. “I understand someone was injured during a break and enter.”

  “I don’t know if it was really a break-in,” I said, “but someone trashed the place. It’s the owner of the studio who’s injured.”

  By then the paramedics had followed the deputy into the reception area. I pointed them in Amy’s direction, hanging back since space in the hallway was limited. Amy was still sitting on the floor with her back to the wall. The paramedics crouched down to speak with her, and she indicated the wound on the back of her head.

  Deputy Henry hovered next to the paramedics for a minute, listening to what Amy was saying, but then he disappeared first into the studio area and then into the storage room. When he emerged from the storage room, he headed my way. I backed up a few steps so he could join me in the reception area.

  “Are you a friend of Ms. Strudwick’s?” the deputy asked me.

  “No,” I said. “I came to talk to her about some photographs she took at an amateur chef competition in Wildwood Cove recently.”

  “And the front door was unlocked when you arrived?”

  “Yes. I walked right in, but I knew something was wrong right away because of the mess.”

  The deputy’s gaze swept over the disarray around us. “Did you hear or see anyone when you arrived?”

  “Just Amy. I called out to see if anyone was around. She didn’t answer, but I heard a moan so I went into the hallway and saw her on the floor. She was facedown and barely conscious.”

  “Did she say anything about what happened?”

  “No. She asked who I was but that’s it.”

  Deputy Henry produced a notebook and pen. “Could I please have your name and contact information?”

  I provided him with those details, and he wrote them down. As he was putting away his notebook, he paused, as if listening to a voice in his earpiece.

  Outside the window, another sheriff’s department cruiser arrived on the scene.

  “Would you mind coming outside with me?”

  I followed the deputy out onto the sidewalk. He exchanged a few words with his newly arrived colleague, a woman with short blond hair. Then he returned to where I stood waiting.

  “Did you touch anything aside from the front door?” he asked me.

  I thought back over my movements. “No.”

  “And was there anyone else on the street when you arrived?”

  Again, I took a second to think before responding. “I don’t remember seeing anyone. I think a couple of cars went by on that street.” I pointed to the perpendicular road at the end of the block. “But I don’t remember anyone on foot.”

  “I’d like you to stay here for the moment.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  The two deputies entered the studio, wearing gloves, while I waited out on the sidewalk. I tried to peer between the photos displayed in the window without being too obvious about it, but all I could see were the backs of the two deputies as they stood inside the door, surveying the reception area.

  For the first time since I’d found Amy, I had a chance to settle my thoughts and think about what had happened.

  Why would someone trash a photography studio?

  The obvious answer was to steal expensive equipment. But then why tear apart the reception area? I’d only caught a quick glimpse of the actual studio space, but it had appeared to have been untouched. Aside from the tripod on the floor, the same was true of the storage room, as far as I could tell. But if Amy had interrupted the burglar, maybe he or she simply hadn’t had a chance to search beyond the reception room.

  That still didn’t make much sense, though. I’d noticed a laptop sitting on the reception desk. Why wouldn’t the thief have grabbed that? And why target the place during business hours? Sure, that saved the burglar from actually having to break in, but it seemed awfully risky. Much of the front window was blocked by the display of photographs, but anyone—like me—could have walked in off the street at any moment.

  Forgetting about the timing for the moment, I considered another angle. What if the person who tore apart the reception room wasn’t looking for photography equipment to be able to sell? What if that person had come to the studio for the same reason as I had?

  Maybe the saboteur had realized that Amy might have caught him or her on camera. The person could have come to the studio with the intention of destroy
ing any such evidence.

  The front door to the studio opened, and I set my thoughts aside temporarily. The paramedics wheeled Amy out on a stretcher, Deputy Henry following close behind.

  “Hold on a second,” Amy said, rubbing her forehead. “I remember something.”

  The paramedics brought the stretcher to a stop, and Deputy Henry moved to Amy’s side.

  “What’s that?” the deputy asked.

  “I saw who hit me. Just a glimpse before it happened.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “A man,” Amy said.

  “Do you think you could describe him for me?” Deputy Henry asked.

  “I can do better than that.” Amy clasped her hands tightly, her knuckles turning white. “I can tell you his name. He’s a former classmate of mine—Tyrone Phillips.”

  Chapter 28

  The paramedics whisked Amy off to the hospital soon after she’d mentioned Tyrone’s name. When Deputy Henry had asked if Tyrone had any reason to tear her studio apart, she’d seemed reluctant to say that he could have been after equipment to sell for some quick cash. Tyrone was staying in Wildwood Cove with his mom, so why he would come to Port Townsend to commit a burglary, I didn’t know. Unless it was to put some distance between himself and the crime. And maybe he’d specifically targeted Amy’s studio since he knew she was a photographer and would have valuable equipment.

  But if Tyrone was the person who’d hit Amy, then my theory about the saboteur looking for incriminating photos likely wasn’t correct. After all, what interest would Tyrone have in the outcome of the amateur chef competition?

  None that I could think of.

  Still, I decided I should tell Deputy Henry about the competition and the reason why I’d come to the studio. He made a few notes as I filled him in, and he seemed to take me seriously. By the time he’d asked me a couple of questions about the sabotage, the ambulance had left the scene. Deputy Henry told me I didn’t need to hang around any longer, so I set off along the street.