Boudreaux opened up the newspaper and saw that the lead story, accompanied by a picture larger than his head, was about something going on at the florist downtown. The photograph showed a paramedic truck pulling out of the alley behind the shop.
Boudreaux scanned the first couple of paragraphs, then laid the paper back down on the table for a moment and slowly took a sip of his coffee. He let the slightly bitter liquid slide down his throat, then took a deep breath and let it out silently.
Maggie was handling this case. Of course she was. It was God’s continuing reminder that his past was always part of his present. He wondered if his estimable influence with the city and county was enough to talk them into getting a third investigator on at the Sheriff’s Office. They only had the two, and he would have appreciated it if Maggie would stop pulling cases that involved him.
He had just picked the paper back up when the back door opened and Miss Evangeline toddled through it, tailgating an aluminum walker fitted with bright green tennis balls.
His former nanny was close to one hundred years old, and her skin had the appearance of a papyrus on which someone had long ago spilled a cup of rich coffee. She stood less than five feet tall and weighed less than a sturdy fourth-grader, but she managed to be imposing nonetheless. She barked rather than spoke, and her sharp eyes, magnified behind comically thick glasses, could pin a person to a wall.
Boudreaux set the paper aside once more and rose from his seat. He walked around the table and pulled out Miss Evangeline’s chair as she scooted her walker along the hardwood floor.
“Mornin’, Mama,” Amelia said. She slid the egg onto a small plate and pulled a slice of bread from the toaster.
“Mornin’, baby,” Miss Evangeline answered, her voice like footsteps on autumn leaves.
“Good morning, Miss Evangeline,” Boudreaux said.
“Ain’t gon’ take your word,” she answered.
Boudreaux kissed her on the cheek once she reached him, held her chair for her as she delicately maneuvered her person onto it. Then he easily slid her chair in and walked back to his own seat.
Amelia brought the plate and a cup of tea to the table and set them in front of her mother, then went back to the island to clean up. Miss Evangeline carefully took a sip of her tea, then proceeded to painstakingly cut her egg into fractions. She took one tiny bite and carefully chewed it before swallowing.
“Amelia, I need you go back the store and get me some new underwears,” she said as she began to scrape some butter onto her toast.
“I just got you some the other day,” Amelia said.
“Ain’t no good. They too big,” Miss Evangeline replied. “I fell right out them underwears yesterday.”
Boudreaux tried not to smile as he poured another cup of coffee.
“That’s ’cause you losin’ too much weight, you,” Amelia said. “I almost can’t get you none smaller.”
“I ain’t lose nothin’, me. You got the wrong size.”
“I got the right size, Mama.”
Boudreaux couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from turning up just a bit, so he hid behind a sip of coffee before he spoke. “Perhaps Amelia could get you some underthings from the girls’ department,” he said smoothly. “Something cheerful, like Cinderella or Hello Kitty.”
Amelia groaned from the kitchen sink. Miss Evangeline stopped buttering her well-buttered toast and peered across the table at Boudreaux. He pretended not to notice as he set his cup back down on its saucer.
“What you say?” Miss Evangeline snapped.
“I said something from the girl’s department might fit you more snugly. And start your day off with a smile.”
“Chil’ren underwears,” she said flatly.
Boudreaux gave her the slightest of shrugs as he picked his paper back up. Miss Evangeline put down her toast and sucked at a bit of egg on her upper denture before speaking.
“You woke up the mouthy side your bed, then,” she said.
“Not at all,” Boudreaux said smoothly. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Help me some more, Mr. Benny. I help you out that chair by your nose hairs, me.”
Boudreaux turned to the third page of the paper, where the story continued, and scanned it quickly. The idiot editor, Dumont, had tried to sound anecdotal rather than speculative when he mentioned in the last paragraph that the building had once been owned by Holden Crawford, who had disappeared almost forty years prior.
The implication was clear, but pointless. Of course the “unidentified remains” would be Holden Crawford.
“Who go the ambulance in the paper?” Miss Evangeline barked across the table.
“Unidentified remains from inside a wall in the flower shop,” Boudreaux answered distractedly.
“Who remain?”
“Somebody who died a long time ago.”
“Why they find him now, then?”
“I guess he was just waiting for precisely the worst moment to turn up,” Boudreaux said.
Miss Evangeline poked her Coke bottle glasses back toward her plate and took another bite of egg. “Dead folk don’t ha’ no regard, no. Do what they please.”
“Yes.”
Boudreaux had finished the article, such as it was, but he continued to stare at the print as he got caught up in his own thoughts. Of any case that Maggie could have gotten, Boudreaux would have asked that it not be this one.
“Even so,” he heard Miss Evangeline say. “You put a dead body in the wall, he s’posed to stay put. Ain’t no call to be runnin’ round bein’ dead everyplace, scarin’ folk.”
Boudreaux lowered the paper and looked across the table, his brows pressing together above his startling blue eyes.
“Have you taken your medication?”
Early in the afternoon, Maggie’s cell phone rang and she picked it up off of her desk.
“Good afternoon, Maggie. It’s Larry.”
Maggie swung away from her monitor. “Hey, Larry. What’s up?”
“We’ve had a spot of good luck,” Larry answered. “Victor Manning has his father’s patient files going all the way back to the sixties. I have Holden Crawford’s dental x-rays on my desk, and Holden Crawford himself on my autopsy table.”
“How fortunate,” Maggie said quietly.
“Indeed.”
“I don’t suppose you have a cause of death yet?”
“No, not as yet, but I should have something to share with you by tomorrow.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Maggie hung up, then heaved a sigh. Everything would have been much simpler if it had turned out to be someone else.
She slid her cell phone into the back pocket of her jeans, then grabbed her purse and headed down the hall. She stopped in Wyatt’s doorway. Wyatt was peering at his own monitor, leaning into it despite his reading glasses.
“Hey,” Maggie said.
“Hey.”
“We have a positive ID on the body. It’s Crawford.”
“You don’t say,” Wyatt said, taking his glasses off. “I have news, too. Guess who the flower shop guys bought their flower shop from?”
Maggie’s chest suddenly felt weighted. “Who?”
“Your personal Boudreaux.” Wyatt picked his Sheriff’s Office ball cap up from his desk and slapped it onto his head. “Isn’t that entertaining?”
Maggie sighed and looked away from Wyatt for a moment, then looked back at him. “So do you want to go with me to talk to Mrs. Crawford or what?”
“Why, yes.” Wyatt unfolded himself from his chair, his endless legs almost as long as Maggie’s entire body, and walked around the desk. “I’ll need to stop for a Mountain Dew.”
Port St. Joe was a quaint little coastal town not too unlike Apalachicola, and about thirty minutes out Hwy 98. The Sunset Bay community, an assisted living and rehab facility, was just outside town. Maggie was impressed with its upper-middle class suburban feel. It looked more like an upscale gated neighborhood than it did a place old
people went when they had nowhere else to go.
Wyatt whistled softly as Maggie followed the long driveway through the well-manicured grounds. “I’d say Mrs. Crawford must be pretty well off,” he said.
“Looks that way,” Maggie replied.
They passed a few single-story Spanish style buildings that could have been condos or vacation rentals anywhere along the coast. Here and there, elderly people tottered around their patios and flower beds, some with walkers, others in wheelchairs, and a very few without any manmade assistance. There were also several staff members, all wearing yellow polo shirts under their lab coats and sweaters.
The driveway ended in a small parking area in front of a three-story building with a fancy portico and mahogany double doors. Maggie parked and she and Wyatt walked inside to find themselves in what could have been the lobby of a nice hotel. Wyatt led the way over to a blonde, middle-aged receptionist seated behind a glassy teak desk.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”
“Hi. Sheriff Hamilton and Lt. Redmond to see Beth Crawford. We phoned a little while ago.”
“Oh, yes. If you’ll wait here for just a moment, I’ll have someone take you to her. She’s in the Magnolia building.”
“Thank you,” Wyatt said.
She picked up her desk phone, and Wyatt and Maggie wandered away, looking around at the expensive looking upholstered furniture and original oils of Panhandle scenery.
“If I ever need long term care, I’d appreciate it if you made sure I ended up here,” Wyatt said.
“Please. You’re gonna drop dead of a heart attack with a thirty-two ounce Mountain Dew in your hand.”
“You don’t have to get all sentimental about it,” he answered. “I’m just saying, if I get really grouchy and incontinent, this is where I want you to put me.”
Maggie almost asked him why he thought it would be her task, but she was afraid he might tell her. Instead, she pretended she’d just noticed the painting of a seagull on the wall next to her.
“Officers?”
Maggie and Wyatt turned to see a young, dark-haired woman in a navy polo shirt and scrub pants.
“I’ll take you over to visit Mrs. Crawford,” she said. “It’s just a short walk if you want to follow me.”
“Thank you,” Wyatt said, and opened the mahogany door for the two women, then followed them outside.
“Are you Mrs. Crawford’s nurse?” Maggie asked as they walked along a brick-paved path.
“Oh, no. I work in the main building, with the more medically-needy residents. I just happen to be handy.”
“So Mrs. Crawford doesn’t need a nurse?” Wyatt asked.
“All of our residents have some level of medical assistance. Mrs. Crawford is in the Magnolia building, in that section up there that we call The Residences.” She pointed up ahead to the cluster of one-story buildings they’d passed coming in. “Those are for residents who just need a nursing assistant and on-call medical. Each building has six apartments and one twenty-four hour CNA. One of the registered nurses visits twice daily to administer any medications and take vitals.”
“So she’s in good health?”
“Physically, yes, pretty good. I know she has some dementia.”
“Will she be able to understand us well? Answer questions?” Wyatt asked.
“I really don’t know that much about her condition,” the woman answered. “But you can talk to her caregiver. I think Molly Vinson is on duty this afternoon.”
They turned off the path at the second small building, and the young woman opened the front door and beckoned them in. Maggie and Wyatt walked into a hub-like room, off of which were several doors.
“Each residence has its own patio, so the residents can enjoy the outdoors, but as you can see, help is always right at hand.”
A woman about Maggie’s age, with red hair gathered in a loose bun, came out of one of the doors to the left and smiled at their little group in general.
“Hey, Molly. These are the officers that have come to talk to Mrs. Crawford.”
The woman held her hand out to both Maggie and Wyatt in turn. “Hi, I’m Molly Vinson. I’m one of Mrs. Crawford’s assistants.”
“Hi,” Maggie said. “Lt. Redmond.”
“Sheriff Hamilton,” Wyatt said as he shook the woman’s hand.
“I’ll leave you to your visit,” the first woman said as she headed out the door.
Molly Vinson frowned at the two of them. “So is something wrong?”
“Actually, yes,’ Wyatt answered. “Mrs. Crawford’s husband went missing years ago. We just recovered his remains. We need to notify her.”
“Oh, my gosh,” the woman said.
“I imagine she assumed him dead a long time ago,” Maggie said. “But is she up to this kind of news?”
“Well, is anyone?” The woman blinked few times. “But, she’s pretty lucid most of the time, and she’s not really a frail woman. Emotionally, I mean. She should be fine, but I’d like to go in with you.”
“That’s fine,” Wyatt said.
“She’s in Unit 5,” the woman said, and led them to one of the doors at the back of the hub. She knocked lightly, and after a moment, they heard a woman’s voice tell her to come in. Molly opened the door, and preceded Maggie and Wyatt into the small apartment.
The room was the size of a smallish suite at a decent hotel, with a kitchenette, sans stove, to the right and a spacious living area that ended with a sliding door to a back patio. To the left was a door that opened into a bedroom.
Beth Crawford sat at a small table near the open sliding door, a book and a cup of tea beside her. Maggie was surprised at her appearance. She’d expected a white bun and frilly robe, but this woman was nothing like the delicate little old lady that Maggie had assumed she’d be.
She was obviously fairly tall, at least five-six or seven, and she sat up straight in her chair. She was thin in the way that formerly athletic women tend to be when they get old, and her hair was a wavy ash blonde, though artificially so. The most jarring thing about her appearance was her make-up. She appeared to be wearing self-tanner, a good deal of it, and her face was thickly coated with makeup. It wasn’t badly done, just done to excess for a woman in her seventies.
She looked uncertain for a moment, then smiled politely at Maggie and Wyatt. “Hello,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice, and it sounded like a question.
“Mrs. Crawford, these folks are from the Franklin County Sheriff’s Office and they need to speak with you.”
“Hello, ma’am,” Wyatt said, holding out a hand. “I’m Sheriff Hamilton, and this is Lt. Redmond.”
Mrs. Crawford took and released his hand, gave Maggie a glance, then looked back up at Wyatt. “Won’t you sit down?”
Wyatt and Maggie both took seats at the small round table. Molly remained standing, though she moved to stand beside her patient.
“Mrs. Crawford, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid we have some unpleasant news,” Wyatt said gently. He paused a moment, but the older woman didn’t speak, just looked at him expectantly. “I’m afraid we recovered your husband’s remains yesterday evening. He’s been positively identified by the medical examiner.”
The woman stared at him a moment, then looked over at Maggie. “Holden?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maggie answered. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
The woman looked out the sliding door for a moment, seeming to focus on the cardinal that was bouncing from branch to branch in a coral hibiscus near the tiny patio. As Maggie watched, she blinked a few times, but there were no tears. Finally, she sighed softly and looked back at the two of them.
“Well, my loss took place a long time ago, didn’t it?” she asked them softly. “I’ve known he was dead for years. Even so…” she drifted off, stared at the table a moment before looking back up at Wyatt. “Where was he?”
Wyatt took a moment to answer, his voice soothing and quiet. “He was found in the flower
shop downtown, on Commerce Street.”
The woman’s brows pulled together and they could see her thinking. “The flower shop?”
“On Commerce Street. It’s in the building your husband used to own.”
Mrs. Crawford’s lips pursed at that, and after a moment she nodded. “I see. But I don’t understand.”
“Ma’am, someone had placed his body behind a brick wall in what is now the flower shop,” Wyatt said. “Someone hid his body.”
They watched her think about that for a moment, as Molly placed a hand on her shoulder, a hand she didn’t seem to notice.
“Well. I know it was always assumed that someone had hurt Holden, but to tell you the truth, I never really put much stock in that.”
“Why not?” Wyatt asked.
“Oh, well, you know Holden,” she said, though they didn’t. “Everyone liked him.”
She looked over at Maggie, and the light in her eyes seemed to flicker, like an overloaded circuit box. “Are you new here?” she asked Maggie.
“No, Mrs. Crawford,” Maggie answered. “I’m Lt. Redmond. I work with Sheriff Hamilton,” she said, gesturing at Wyatt.
“Yes, right.” Mrs. Crawford looked up at Molly. “Is my tea ready yet, honey?”
“You have your tea there,” the woman answered.
Mrs. Crawford frowned down at her cup. “Oh, this is cold. It’s from yesterday, I think. Could you make me another cup?”
The younger woman picked up the cup, and Maggie watched her take it over to the little kitchen area. There was one of those insulated electric carafes there, and Molly dumped the contents of the cup and poured fresh tea into it.
Maggie heard Wyatt say something, and she turned back to the conversation.
“No, I don’t know of anyone who had problems with him, really,” Mrs. Crawford was saying.
“What about the Boudreauxes?”
The woman faltered for a moment. “Who?”
“Bennett Boudreaux and his father, Alban. Alban owned Sea-Fair.”
“Oh, yes. From Louisiana.” She nodded at Molly as the younger woman set the new cup of tea in front of her. “They were competitors, of course. But not the only ones.”
Dead Wake (The Forgotten Coast Florida #5) Page 4
