Dead Wake (The Forgotten Coast Florida #5)

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  “Your husband’s case file says that Bennett Boudreaux got into a problem with your husband at Papa Joe’s the night Holden disappeared,” Wyatt said.

  Mrs. Crawford tugged at an earlobe for a moment. For some reason, it seemed to Maggie like the gesture of a much younger woman.

  “Yes, I remember something about that. I can’t say I remember what it was about. I wasn’t there with Holden.”

  “According to witnesses, they had some pretty unpleasant words,” Maggie said. “Something about problems between Alban Boudreaux and your husband. Business problems.”

  “Oh. Well, you know, Mr. Boudreaux wanted to buy that lot next to Crawford Seafood. We owned it. I think Mr. Boudreaux wanted to expand. But Holden thought he might do the same thing sooner or later, so he didn’t want to sell.”

  “That’s it?” Wyatt asked. “That’s all that was going on between them?”

  “I think they had quite a few arguments about it.”

  “Mrs. Crawford,” Maggie spoke up. “Bennett Boudreaux sold that building to the men that own it now. Did he buy it from you or from someone else?”

  “Oh. I sold it to him, eventually.” She took a sip of her tea. “I hung onto it for quite a while. I didn’t have much choice, really, until I could legally do something with Holden’s business. That was a real mess, you know, with us not knowing whether he was alive or dead. Poor Holden.”

  “How do you mean?” Wyatt asked gently.

  “Well, we eventually had to have him declared dead you know. We all knew he had to be, but there were legal issues.” She rubbed at a bright peach stain on the side of her cup. “For a while there, it was hard financially. While we waited for Holden to come back. The business was a mess, until we finally promoted one of the employees to run it for me.”

  “What about the other building?” Maggie asked. “The one where he was found? What was going on with it during that time?”

  Mrs. Crawford needed a minute to think about that before she spoke. “The new building. Yes, well, everything stopped there. They needed money to keep renovating and I didn’t have access to the money right away. It was a couple of years before they got back to work on it.”

  “So it was just closed up?” Wyatt asked.

  “Yes. For a long time.”

  “Who had access to it then?”

  “Oh, just me. I went over there now and then to pop in and see my husband.”

  “I’m sorry?” Wyatt said.

  “You know, when he was working over there, seeing how things were progressing. He was so excited about that place.”

  “No, Mrs. Crawford,” Maggie said. “We mean after your husband disappeared. Who had access to that building?”

  “Yes, I know. No, nobody.” She frowned at her cup. “Once they finished it, I used it for storage, for my antique business. But I’m the only one who ever went over there.”

  “When did Boudreaux buy the place?” Wyatt asked.

  “Let me think,” the woman said, her carefully-penciled brows coming together. “It was years later. I sold him the lot, too. It was right between his place and ours, you know. So, I guess the Boudreauxs got it after all.”

  “Do you remember when that was?” Maggie asked.

  “Hm. Well, it was not too long after Mr. Boudreaux died. He had a stroke, you know. His son moved here and took over. Bennett Boudreaux did. I sold him some boats and the lot and the building downtown. I needed the money.”

  She rubbed at the lipstick stain on her cup again. “Oh, this lipstick,” she said. “I have to order most things online now, you know, because I don’t drive much. I order my cosmetics from Ulta, but it’s so hard to know if something’s good until you get it.”

  She looked up at Maggie. “What brand do you like? Oh, you don’t wear lipstick.”

  Maggie almost felt like it was a gentle dig. “I’m more of a lip balm girl,” she said.

  “So, did you know Bennett Boudreaux well?” Wyatt asked.

  “No, not really. Wow, he was a real looker, though,” she said, smiling. “All the women went for him, though he didn’t really seem all that excited about that.”

  Maggie watched the woman as her face seemed to undergo some sort of subtle shifting. Her smile was bigger, more gregarious, her eyes grew larger as she looked at Wyatt.

  “I bet they think you’re a real catch. Of course, a lot of people thought that about me, too,” she said to him, and actually winked.

  Wyatt smiled back, his polite smile. Maggie wondered if the woman suddenly thought she was in her thirties again. Her facial expressions and speech had become almost flirtatious. Maggie wasn’t sure if it was creepy or just sad.

  Wyatt stood and gently pushed his chair back in. Maggie stood with him, though she wasn’t sure she’d finished asking questions.

  “Mrs. Crawford, I appreciate you speaking with us,” Wyatt said as the woman smiled up at him. “Again, we’re very sorry for your loss. Someone will be in touch with you about making arrangements for your husband.”

  “Poor Holden,” she said. “He really was the nicest guy.”

  Molly had picked up a bottle of pills, and was shaking one into her hand.

  “We can see ourselves out,” Wyatt told her.

  A few minutes later, Maggie and Wyatt walked gratefully back into the present day sunshine, and started walking back toward the parking lot.

  “I changed my mind,” Wyatt said. “I don’t want you to put me here. If I start losing it, just drown me in the bathtub.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said.

  “It doesn’t matter how pretty the landscaping is,” he said. “Losing your mind is damn ugly.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments before Maggie spokeagain.

  “You should know that Boudreaux once told me he would never kill for money,” she said.

  “Maybe it was something else.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Boudreaux,” she said a little defensively.

  “I’m keeping an open mind,” he said back. “You should, too.”

  “I will.”

  When they reached the Jeep, Maggie unlocked her door and looked across the roof to ask Wyatt if he wanted to stop for lunch. He was staring off across the parking lot. Maggie looked, and saw a tall, slim man in black trousers and a white button down shirt walking toward the front doors.

  “What?” Maggie asked.

  “Is that Evan Caldwell?”

  “Who?”

  “Hey, Evan?” Wyatt called. “Evan!”

  The man looked over his shoulder, then stopped. He had almost jet black hair, and when he took off his sunglasses, Maggie thought he looked familiar.

  The man started walking toward them, and Maggie left her door open and followed Wyatt as he met the man halfway.

  “Hey, Wyatt,” the man said, his voice both rough and smooth at the same time, like good bourbon.

  Wyatt held out a hand, and Caldwell took it and gave it a firm shake.

  “How are you, man?” Wyatt asked him.

  Caldwell nodded as an answer, and glanced over at Maggie. Wyatt looked at her, too.

  “Maggie, you remember Evan Caldwell? He helped me with the Joey Francis case my first year here.”

  Maggie remembered him then. The missing persons expert from somewhere on the other side of the state. Wyatt had worked with him a few times back when he’d been the sheriff in Cocoa Beach.

  “Yes, how are you?” she asked, holding out her hand. When he took it, his long fingers wrapped around it firmly but without commitment.

  “Lieutenant,” he said.

  “It’s good to see you,” Wyatt said. “You still in Vero?”

  “No. No, I moved to Port St. Joe a few months ago,” Evan answered.

  “No kidding. You’re not retired are you?” Evan was only in his early forties, Wyatt knew.

  “Somewhat,” Evan answered. “I’m consulting these days.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Wyatt said. “You
here on a case?”

  “No.” Evan scratched at a narrow scar that ran from one corner of his full mouth down to his chin. “No, I’m here visiting my wife.”

  “Your wife. Hannah, right?”

  “Yeah. She, uh, she had an accident a little while back,” Evan said, looking just past Wyatt’s shoulder. “There was some neurological damage. I had her moved here.”

  Wyatt was quiet for a moment, his eyes going warm and serious.

  “Geez, man. I’m sorry.”

  Evan nodded, then looked back at Wyatt finally. “Thank you. This is supposed to be the best facility in the state.”

  Wyatt nodded. “It seems like a decent place.”

  The men seemed to run out of things to comfortably say, and everyone looked at the ground for a moment.

  “You two working a case?” Evan finally asked.

  “Yeah, we are,” Wyatt answered almost gratefully. “You know Beth Crawford? Lives in that one over there?”

  “No. Hannah’s in the main building here. I really don’t know anyone.”

  “Ah. Well, her husband went missing back in the seventies. We just found his body.”

  “Natural?”

  “No. Found him in somebody’s wall.”

  “Probably rules that out,” Caldwell said quietly.

  “We’re thinking,” Wyatt agreed.

  Caldwell nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the front door. “I should get inside. Good luck with the case.”

  Wyatt shook the man’s hand. “It was good to see you, Evan. I hope your wife’s better soon.”

  Evan nodded noncommittally then raised a hand at Maggie. “You two take care.”

  They watched him walk away, then they headed back to the Jeep. Wyatt didn’t speak until they were both buckled in.

  “She’s only like forty years old, you know,” he said to the windshield.

  Maggie put the key in the ignition, but she didn’t start the car. She sat and watched Wyatt as he frowned out at nothing.

  “I only met her a few times, but she was a neat lady. Beautiful.”

  Maggie waited, as Wyatt took his cap off, ran a hand through his hair, then slapped the hat back down on his head.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I hate this place.”

  “So, you think she gets it that he’s actually dead?” Wyatt said as he unnecessarily salted his fries.

  “I think she’s known it for a long time.” Maggie stuck her straw into her sweet tea and crumpled up the wrapper. “Whether she’ll always know that is another thing.”

  “What did you think of her?” Wyatt took a bite of his grouper sandwich, then immediately opened his mouth back up. “Hot,” he sort of said.

  “Of course it’s hot. Why don’t you wait three seconds?”

  “Ah…gah,” he said, trying to get cooling air into his mouth and chew at the same time.

  Maggie rolled her eyes and waited while he gingerly chewed and swallowed. Once he had, he shrugged sheepishly. “Hot grouper.”

  Maggie sighed and thought about her words for a moment, staring out the window at the little marina where they’d stopped. “I think she’s one of those veneer women.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” He stared at the sandwich in his hand, as though gauging its temperature.

  “One of those women who focus on appearing to be what they want other people to think they are.”

  “Huh.” Wyatt started to take another bite, then aborted before he actually broke a piece off. “Hot.”

  “Do you need me to blow on it for you?” Maggie asked sarcastically.

  “I’m starving,” he said. He took the top off of the sandwich and set it aside. “So do you think she was giving us some kind of crap?”

  Maggie shrugged. “No, I just think that’s who she is. Kind of like some of the soccer moms, you know, always presenting this perfect image.”

  “You’re a soccer mom,” he said.

  “I’m a softball and baseball mom.”

  “Which differs in what way?”

  “It’s just a term.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  Maggie thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know her.”

  “Was it the lipstick thing?” Wyatt waved ineffectually over his sandwich, then looked up at her. “I happen to like your lip balm.”

  Maggie managed not to smile, busied herself with her grouper chowder.

  “So, after lunch we’ll put go on over and talk to our former sheriff.” Wyatt said. “Since we’re halfway to PCB anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d also like to hear what he says about all this before we hear your friend’s side of the story.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “No? What is he then?”

  She was about to answer when her cell phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out and looked. She recognized the number from the night before.

  “Ugh,” Maggie said before connecting the call. “Hello, William.”

  “Sheriff, it’s William the florist,” William explained unnecessarily. “When will you people be done with our shop?”

  “The crime scene techs are going back there today, if they haven’t already,” she answered.

  “They haven’t been here yet. The crime scene tape is still on the door, and passerby are looking askance at me.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Robert was set upon at Piggly-Wiggly this morning by three different people who were relieved he was okay,” he said. “Like it couldn’t have been me in the wall.”

  “They should be finished sometime today,” Maggie said. “I’ll be stopping by there later on, too.”

  “I really need to get that wall out of there,” he said. Maggie heard him take a long drag on a cigarette and blow it out. “I’m besieged by heebies and also jeebies.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. We’ll get things back to normal as quickly as possible, okay?”

  She heard him heave a sigh that should have snapped at least one rib.

  “Please do,” he said, then disconnected.

  Maggie set the phone down on the table and looked at Wyatt. He tried not to smile as he chewed and swallowed.

  “I don’t think he’s as fond of you as he used to be,” he said.

  Bradford Wilson, former Sheriff of Franklin County, was now the proud owner of one of the three-thousand T-shirt shops on the strip in Panama City Beach.

  The town was fairly quiet at that time of the year, and Maggie had no trouble finding a place to park in the small lot beside the shop. They walked through the open door, made their way through racks of shirts, hats and flip-flops, and ended up at a wooden counter in back.

  The man standing behind the counter reading a fishing magazine was almost as tall as Wyatt, but quite a bit heavier and many years older. His hair and beard were mostly gray, and he didn’t seem anxious to keep up with the maintenance of either one.

  He looked up as Maggie and Wyatt approached, noting their navy blue polo shirts with the Sheriff’s Office insignia. “Well, hello there,” he said in a deep voice. “What’s Franklin’s finest doing in PCB?”

  “Mr. Wilson?” Wyatt asked.

  The man held out a huge hand. “That’s me. And you would be Sheriff Hamilton, correct? Seen you in the paper a few times.”

  “Yes, I am,” Wyatt answered, shaking the man’s hand. “This is Lt. Redmond.”

  “Lieutenant.” He started to look away, then smiled at Maggie. “Wait a minute. Maggie Redmond?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He smiled broadly. “I see you followed in your grandfather’s footsteps.

  “Yes, I guess so.” Maggie’s maternal grandfather had been with the Apalach PD for thirty years.

  “He was like a mentor to me,’ Wilson said.

  “Me, too,” Maggie said.

  “I was sorry to read about your Grandma passing. She was a great lady.”

  “Th
ank you. She was.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “She’s doing well, thank you. My dad’s semi-retired now, so she’s happily busy making him remodel their house.”

  His eyes flickered for a second, as though he was trying to recall her father’s name. “Gray,” he said finally.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled again, but it was more polite than warm. “We’re all getting old.” He looked over at Wyatt. “So what brings you here?”

  “Holden Crawford. He disappeared in ‘77,” Wyatt answered. “Do you remember the case?”

  Wilson looked from Wyatt to Maggie and back again. “Now that was a long time ago. But, yes, I remember.”

  “We found his remains yesterday.”

  It took a minute for Wilson to respond, though his face was blank. “Where?”

  “He was bricked up in a wall. A building down on Commerce Street,” Wyatt answered.

  The man nodded slowly, then looked around him. “Let’s grab some chairs, huh?”

  He indicated they should come behind the counter, then pulled out a couple of metal folding chairs. He sat down on a torn leather bar stool and waited while Wyatt and Maggie got seated.

  “Do you remember the case?” Maggie asked.

  He frowned at her. “Sure. Somewhat.”

  “When you guys checked those buildings he was remodeling, do you remember if there was a brick wall in the flower shop?” Wyatt asked.

  “I don’t know of a flower shop over there.”

  “It’s in the unit right on the corner.”

  “Okay,” Wilson said. “After my time, I guess. But there was a lot of exposed brick all through those buildings. They’re old cotton warehouses, you know.”

  “So you wouldn’t remember if there was a wall in there, separating the back from the front?” Wyatt asked.

  “No.” Wilson shook his head slowly. “They were all under one kind of construction or another. He was gonna put a restaurant in one of them, I think.”

  “There was a witness that said he saw Crawford and two other men in front of his oyster business the night he went missing,” Maggie said. “Fitch. He said they seemed to be arguing. We haven’t been able to locate Fitch.”