Miz Scarlet and the Acrimonious Attorney

by Sara M. Barton

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Our phone number is right there at the bottom. Give us a call.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be in touch.”

  Kenny didn’t know it yet, but he was going to join me, even if I had to hog tie him and toss him onto that boat. As I folded the brochures to put them in my pocket, I remembered Grimacing Grimshaw. He was, after all, the reason we were in Islamorada.

  “Do you do fishing charters too?”

  “No, sorry. Harry’s Marina does. It’s just down the road.”

  Back on my bike, I decided it was time to call it an afternoon. Harry’s would have to wait until Kenny and I joined forces. Surely he would be done with his phone calls by now. When I found a little patch of shade under a swaying palm, I steered the beach cruiser onto the soft shoulder of the road and stopped to text him.

  On my way back. Be there shortly. Lots to tell you.

  I pressed the button to send it and climbed back onto the bike seat. No sooner had I steered back onto the narrow bike path when I heard that familiar sound. Bing!

  A emoji sporting a shocked expression popped up on the screen. Lots to tell you too. You won’t believe who’s been arrested.

  “Arrested?” I punched in one word. Who?

  I waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. He was probably making more phone calls.

  “Well, that’s just mean. How hard can it be for him to just spit out the name?” I grumbled, thrusting my cell phone back into my pocket. I had a sneaking suspicion that he intended to drive me batty, just because it amused him to see me discombobulated. But two could play that game. I was fairly certain that if the suspect was back in Connecticut, the cops had the wrong guy. It was just a matter of figuring out a way to prove it. In the time it took me to beg him to tell me over the phone, I could be back there to shake the news out of him in person.

  I had to wait to cross the southern lane of the highway at the entrance of Angler’s Reef. When I saw a dark SUV and a white sedan tootling along at a reasonable speed in the distance, I did the math and decided I would not wind up as road pizza, provided I didn’t dawdle. And then I remembered I wasn’t on my ten-speed bike. I’d really have to scramble to beat the traffic, but it was doable.

  Thwack! The stinging sensation on the back of my left calf made me cry out.

  “What the....” I reached down to soothe my injured leg, and that’s when I felt another sharp sting, this time on the back of my right calf. With both my legs throbbing with pain, I took them off the pedals as I rolled along. Look, ma! No feet!

  My hands frantically pumped the useless handlebars, desperate to brake. By the time I realized my error, it was too late. As the bike skidded onto the sandy median strip, I tried to compensate for the unexpected shift in weight and leaned too far to the right. The bike bucked me like I was a novice bronco rider at the Wild West rodeo. When the wheels slid out from under me, I pitched forward, arms outstretched, hoping to land on soft ground. “Oh, crap!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I sat myself up in the rough beach grass that poked up through the grit. Other then skinned knees and elbows, I was relatively unscathed. I checked the bike. It, too, seemed to have survived the unexpected calamity.

  “Scarlet!” Fifty yards away, waiting for me by the gate, Kenny waved frantically. I watched him bound across the pavement with those long legs of his, dodging traffic like a Thompson’s gazelle pronking on a Kalahari savanna. “Are you okay, honey?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I don’t know. I felt a sharp pain in my left calf, and a moment later, the same thing happened to my right calf.”

  “Let me see.” He examined the backs of my legs. “It looks like you got hit with flying gravel. It probably got kicked up by a passing car.”

  “And just happened to hit the backs of my legs?”

  “Stranger things have happened. Did you hit your head when you went down?” he inquired, his concern palpable.

  “Who was arrested?”

  “Come on. Let’s get you back home.”

  “Can you just tell me who was arrested?” I dabbed at the blood that oozed through the scraped skin of my knee. “Was it the wife in Miami?”

  “No. It was his....”

  “Greg Monaco, the captain of the Siren of the Seas?”

  “No. It wasn’t him either. It was....”

  “Johnny Zee, the owner, or one of the crew members on the fishing boat? Which one did it?”

  “Scarlet, are you going to let me finish my sentence?” That furled brow of his warned me that he was in no mood to indulge me.

  “Fine. Go ahead. Who was arrested for C. Philip Grimshaw’s murder?”

  “His nephew Jason.”

  “What?” That left me open-mouthed.

  “It turns out that Jason was stealing from him, to the tune of forty thousand dollars.”

  Disappointed, I stood up and brushed myself off. Larry would have an absolute field day rubbing my nose in this when I got back to Cheswick. Those coal black eyes of hers would twinkle as she reminded me of our agreement. I was not looking forward to fulfilling my end of the bet I just lost. Edna Mae Rivera staying at the Four Acorns Inn for an entire week was the stuff that brought on nightmares.

  “Can you show me what he looks like, Kenny? I want to see if I recognize him.”

  “Sure.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Larry sent me a photograph.”

  “Of course she did,” I replied, sighing. While he tapped on his email icon, I bent over and retrieved the beach cruiser. I was really surprised, and more than a little disappointed, that the killer had no association with the Florida Keys. I really did expect that Grimacing Grimshaw had been murdered over money. Well, I was half right if Jason bilked him out of forty grand.

  “Here you go.” Kenny held up the screen. Peering closely at the face, I shook my head.

  “That’s not the guy.”

  “Honey, they have evidence that he was robbing his uncle. That’s a strong motive.”

  “Kenny, he is not the man I saw in the parking garage.”

  “It’s possible the two events are unrelated. Maybe that guy was just a junkie who stumbled across Grimshaw’s dead body, Scarlet.”

  “No, the guy I saw in the parking garage was the killer. This man is not the killer.”

  “And you know this how?” he demanded. “Larry said the Hartford Police Department has significant evidence that passes muster. The State’s Attorney reviewed it and authorized his people to file for an arrest warrant.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Jason is not the guy. What about the fingerprints on that knife?”

  “I know you had your heart set on solving this case, Miz Scarlet, but it’s just not in the stars this time around. The Hartford cops are satisfied that they found Grimshaw’s murderer.”

  “They’re wrong. I just know that they’re wrong, Captain Peacock.”

  “Come on. Let’s cross the highway while we can.” He took me by the elbow and guided me across the northbound lane while I pushed the bike.

  Feeling forlorn, I admit I spent the rest of the afternoon mourning my loss. Kenny, to his credit, did his best to convince me that we should spend our time enjoying the best of what the Florida Keys had to offer, but I just couldn’t seem to rally any enthusiasm for a trip to the beach.

  “Okay,” he said at last, his frustration with me mounting, “why don’t you tell me what you were going to tell me before I went and spoiled everything by telling you the arrest warrant had come through? What was your big announcement, Miz Scarlet?”

  “Forget it,” I mumbled, totally disheartened. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Hold on. You went to all the trouble of coming up with a theory on the killing. The least I can do is hear you out. Convince me they caught the wrong guy. Even though you’re wrong, we might be able to convince Larry that your theory is pretty solid, just based on logic and reason.”

  “
It’s a moot point. You and your law enforcement friends believe you got the guy.”

  “Show me what you did to build your case. Dazzle me with your brilliance. Maybe you’ll convince me I’m wrong.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Captain Peacock.”

  “I promise you I’m not doing that.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “I have enormous respect for that brain of yours. If you’re this miserable because Jason Grimshaw is in the pokey, the least I can do is hear you out. Tell me why you think he’s not the guy.”

  “First of all, Jason has two blue eyes that match. The man in the parking garage had a green eye and a brown eye.”

  “Okay. Keep going.”

  “Why would a junkie use a special hunting knife to rob someone? Why didn’t he just bring a kitchen knife or a steak knife,” I asked him, “or even a pen knife to the garage? That fancy hunting knife cost a good deal of money, Kenny. He had to go out of his way to buy it. Since when do junkies have a lot of spare change for weapons?”

  “He could have stolen it.”

  “In that case, why didn’t he steal a handgun? Why steal something that’s hard to carry around openly on the street without scaring the bejesus out of the public? It’s not your normal ‘I’ve got to get myself a killer knife’ knife, is it?”

  “That’s a valid point,” he conceded.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied. “Hmm....”

  I could see he was intrigued by my theory, so I proceeded to state the obvious. “That was no junkie in that parking garage. I’d stake my life on it.”

  By the way those eyes I so dearly love suddenly widened, I knew my words had reached his cerebellum and lit up that cerebral cortex of his like the Fourth of July. He was definitely coming around to my point of view.

  “Well....” That was the only word he said to me before he stopped speaking altogether. I jumped into the void with enthusiasm and purpose.

  “While you were on the phone, I did some research. Have you checked into the people he fished with down here?”

  “We did some research,” he admitted grudgingly. “We know that he and his wife....”

  “His wife wasn’t part of the team he fished with, Kenny. I’m talking about Johnny Zee, the man who owned the Siren of the Seas. What does he do for a living?”

  “I don’t know that it’s relevant, honey.”

  “Not relevant?” I was horrified that he was so willing to overlook someone who might have played a pivotal role in this murder. “The man owns a boat worth a couple million dollars and you’re not curious about how he made the money he used to buy it?”

  “Ah....”

  “And what about the captain, doesn’t he count? Did you know that he and his team took in more than two hundred and sixty grand on that last trip with Grimshaw?”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “It’s public information. They caught twenty two sailfish for their big win. That’s about twelve grand a piece...for a fish! Didn’t his financial records reflect that, Kenny? As one of the anglers, Grimacing Grimshaw would have had a contract that spelled out exactly what he was expected to pay each of the crew members and even the owner. They all get a piece of the action.”

  “Oh,” he nodded slowly as the wheels turned. “I get it.”

  I could tell he had no idea what I was talking about, so I went over the information I had collected. “There’s a required polygraph test. Did you get to see the results of that? Did all of the crew members pass?”

  By the time I got around to the chumming rules and the cheaters, Kenny had heard enough to agree that the case deserved another look. “It’s time to rethink this investigation, Miz Scarlet. My clients are still paying me to solve this case. Give me fifteen minutes to call Neville Martin. In the meantime, see if you can find out where Siren of the Seas is docked. I’d like to take a run over there tonight and have a look at it.”

  It didn’t take long to find the marina where the Merritt Sportfish had a berth. I jotted down the address in Islamorada. And then I did a quick check on Johnny Zee.

  According to an article by Kyle Beidleman in Fishing Today, Zee made his fortune as a real estate developer, entrepreneur, horse breeder, and owner of the My Papaya restaurant chain based in Miami.

  Zee has a reputation as a fierce competitor and wily foe. Whether on the polo grounds in Boca Raton or on his yacht, competing in a billfish tournament, he fights hard for every point. The same could be said for his management style in business. He prefers profit over performance. As long as the money flows into his coffers, he’s happy. Zee once told an ex-wife that he was thrilled to finalize their divorce because it meant that she was no longer on his payroll.

  “What kind of man treats his wife like an employee?” No wonder he had money to throw around. I could just see him every night, kneeling by his bed as he counted the hundred dollar bills he shoved under his mattress. Or did he stash it all in his own version of Fort Knox, some impenetrable tower attached to his mansion?

  As I read on, it became obvious to me that Zee was the kind of man who brooked no nonsense. Going by his public comments, he clearly expected results from his captain and crew. Maybe he entered all the fishing tournaments as much for the money as for the glory. Were bragging rights the icing on the cake? How much pressure did he put on Greg Monaco and the others during a competition?

  What I could not understand was why he allowed Grimacing Grimshaw to fish with his team. Was the acrimonious attorney really that good with a rod and reel? I wouldn’t have thought so, at least not from looking at him. Maybe he was a man of hidden talents.

  “What did you find, babe?” Kenny joined me on the balcony.

  “Check this out.” I handed him my notes.

  He gave a low whistle. “Well, well, well....Now I know something’s not right.”

  “How so?”

  “Neville Martin just told me Grimshaw came back from a tournament in Maryland, bragging about catching the winning billfish in a tournament in August, but no one believed him.”

  “Why?”

  “He claimed that it only took him five minutes to reel it in.”

  “And that’s not possible because the fish isn’t going to surrender that quickly?”

  “Not when it weighs eighty pounds or more. A billfish like that is going to put up a fight. Martin also said that when he asked if Grimshaw used a Shimano rod, he said he had used a spinner.”

  “And why is that was a wrong answer?”

  “Shimano is one of the premier manufacturers of fishing gear, and a spinner is not a rod, it’s a reel.”

  “Do you think they had a ringer on the boat, doing the heavy lifting while Grimshaw pretended to reel the fish in?”

  “I don’t know what to think, other than my girlfriend is one smart cookie.”

  “True,” I grinned. “Shall we get going?”

  “We shall.”

  We were in the rental car a short time later when something occurred to me. “If Grimshaw wasn’t really an accomplished angler, does that also mean his marriage was a sham?”

  “That’s a good question. Maybe Zee used Grimshaw as a front man.”

  “That suggests that there was someone else on that boat, Kenny.”

  “It does. And that someone might have some kind of past that Zee can’t afford to have exposed.”

  “Could Grimshaw have tried to extort money from Zee in exchange for keeping his mouth shut?”

  “We won’t know until we do some digging, but it’s certainly possible.”

  “I still think this whole thing is tied up with that weird marriage of his. Why would a man who loves his wife be content to live separately?”

  “I can think of many reasons, Miz Scarlet. It doesn’t necessarily mean a man doesn’t care.”

  “Okay, give me one.”

  “School. I spent three semesters living on campus when I was in grad school, while Jillian rented a studio apartment in New York.
We got together every other weekend.”

  “I did not know that.” I snuck a glance at him, wondering if he was thinking about his late wife. He caught me.

  “There’s no reason why you would. It isn’t particularly germane to our relationship, is it?”

  “No, I guess it’s not.” That’s the thing about loving someone who has a past. His past is his past, not mine.

  “The stepdaughter is enrolled in school down here. It seems reasonable to think that she’d want to finish out the school year,” he continued.

  “I’ll buy that too. Are there any other reasons?”

  “Maybe Margarita has got a great job down here and doesn’t want to live in Connecticut.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “But you don’t buy it, Miz Scarlet?” he asked, flipping on the indicator as he turned into the marina parking lot.

  “No. It all boils down to Grimacing Grimshaw the man, doesn’t it? He didn’t seem to like people.”

  “Neville Martin said the same thing. He described C. Philip as having all the personal charm of a toad. And yet, Dubinsky made him a junior partner, without consulting any of the other senior partners.”

  “I wonder if Dubinsky is a fisherman...or a buddy of Johnny Zee’s,” I suggested. “Then again....”

  “Then again what, Miz Scarlet?”

  “What if we’re missing clues about Grimshaw? Could that odious toad have been a blackmailer? Maybe he coerced Dubinsky into that junior partnership.”

  “Blackmail as a motive? You’re a nice woman who lives a relatively quiet life. How in the world do you come up with these ideas?”

  “You forget that I spent years working with teenagers. There were always plenty of cheese weasels who were willing to cross the line, just for the thrill of getting away with something or to stick it to a rival.”

  “Good point. College kids can be equally daft. Back when I was assistant public safety director, we had an incident that just about turned my hair gray, and I was only thirty eight at the time. Four guys wanted to celebrate the Tigers win at the Princeton-Yale football game. They couldn’t buy fireworks, so they substituted dynamite.”