Maggie looked at the face. “No, I don’t remember him.”
“He died in a car wreck…oh, back around ’86 or ’87,” Gray said. “On his way to pick up some family from the airport in Tallahassee.”
“That’s too bad,” Maggie said.
“So what’s your interest in these guys?” Gray asked.
Maggie chewed at her lip. “Well, Bayside was doing the renovations on the building where Crawford was found,” she said.
Gray studied Maggie’s face for a moment. “That’s right,” he said finally. “I’d forgotten about that.”
She didn’t say anything, and Gray looked back down at the picture. “This guy here, holding up his beer, that’s Terry Luedtke.”
Maggie leaned over to look. Luedtke was standing up behind her father, and had raised his bottle to the camera. He looked to be in his early thirties. Maybe he’d still be around.
“Who is he?” Maggie asked. “I don’t recognize the name.”
“He was a nice guy,” Gray said. “Give you the shirt off his back. He moved away after Crawford’s closed.”
“Why?” Maggie asked.
“Well, he worked for Crawford,” Gray answered. “He was a processor. He took over as manager sometime after Crawford disappeared, then he left when Boudreaux closed the place. I’m not sure why. Maybe he just didn’t want to work for Boudreaux.”
Maggie thought about that for a moment. “What happened to the people that worked at Crawford’s back then?”
“Most of them went to work for Boudreaux,” Gray said. “I’ll give him that at least; he didn’t fire anybody.”
Maggie looked at her father’s face as he studied the picture in his hands. His longish hair had dropped over his brow, as it tended to do, and she wanted to brush it out of his eyes, as she tended to want. She also wanted to not ask or think anything that would ever hurt this man who would crawl through fire for her with only half a reason.
“Do you recognize any of these other guys we don’t have names for?” she asked finally.
Gray tapped the picture with one finger. “This man, his name is right on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t get to it,” he said. “I didn’t know him very well.”
“Can you think of anyone who’s not in the picture that worked for Bayside back then?”
Gray ran a tongue along his lower lip. “I don’t think so. But I was only there off and on, like I said, whenever I had time to make some extra money.” He looked up at Maggie. “Your Grandpa’s old boat was ailing pretty badly back then. This job helped me pay for a rebuilt engine.”
Maggie nodded and took a breath before speaking. “Do you remember if there was a brick wall splitting up the flower shop, Daddy?”
Gray looked at her a moment. She thought maybe he was going to ask her a question, and she held her breath just a little. But then he shook his head. “I couldn’t say. I didn’t work on that building.”
Maggie hadn’t expected that answer. “You didn’t?”
“No,” he said. “They didn’t need me over there yet. I just did trim work. Carpentry and so on. Cabinets. That kind of thing.”
Maggie looked down the docks, pretending to be distracted by an outgoing shrimp boat.
“I just figured you would have,” she said.
“No.” Gray said. “And it was almost a year before anybody started back on that place. By that time I wasn’t working for Bayside anymore.”
“Why not?” Maggie asked.
“Because you came along,” he said. “I didn’t have time for side jobs anymore.”
Maggie nodded again. “Gotcha,” she said.
She smiled up at her father, squinting against the sun.
“Well, thanks, Daddy,” she said. “I appreciate the help.”
“No problem, Sunshine,” Gray said.
He kissed her on the forehead, and she jumped back onto the dock and headed back to her car.
She would have been more relieved than she could remember being, if it weren’t for the squirming sensation deep in her gut, telling her that Daddy had told her some of the truth, but not all of it.
The following afternoon, Maggie threw her pen down on her desk and rolled her head to get the kinks out of her neck.
The thick folder containing the missing persons file from 1977 lay open on her desk. Next to it was the much thinner file from the murder investigation. They’d had a lot more people to interview thirty-eight years ago.
Maggie stood up and arched her back, then grabbed her empty coffee mug and headed down the hall to the break room. She was trying to make the horrific office coffee into something worth drinking when Deputy Dwight Shultz walked by.
Dwight was thin, prematurely balding, and always seemed to be nervous, even when he was calm. Maggie adored Dwight, and worked hard at not thinking of Don Knotts every time she saw him.
“Oh hey, Maggie, there you are,” Dwight said as he veered into the break room.
“Hey, Dwight,” Maggie said, stirring one more sugar into her coffee.
“That guy William Overton called for you,” he said, holding up a piece of scrap paper. “You know, the florist?”
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “What did he need?”
“He said to tell you he put five suspicious bricks outside his back door for you,” Dwight said.
Maggie squinted at Dwight. “What does he suspect these bricks of doing?” she asked.
“Well, uh, he suspects them of being tainted,” Dwight said. “He says they have spots. He wants you to take ’em away.”
Maggie sighed. “I’ll stop by there later and throw them in his dumpster.”
“He, uh, he was kindly agitated,” Dwight said seriously.
“I’m sure he was,” Maggie said. She took the paper from his hand. “Thanks, Dwight, I’ll take care of it,” she said.
“No problem.”
They went in opposite directions once they left the break room. Dwight headed back to the main room up front, and Maggie headed for Wyatt’s office. She nearly bumped into him coming out of it.
“Hey, I was just coming to talk to you,” Wyatt said.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Apparently,” Wyatt said, walking back into his office.
Maggie followed him over to his desk. He sat down behind it, and she settled into one of the hideous red vinyl chairs in front of it.
“I’ve been going over the statements from ’77,” Wyatt said. “Interesting thing about Jeffries.”
“Who?”
“Vincent Jeffries, Crawford’s best friend,” Wyatt answered.
“Oh, right,” Maggie said. All of the names from almost four decades ago were starting to run together in her head. “What about him?”
“Well, his alibi may or may not be crap,” Wyatt said.
“Why?”
Wyatt flipped through the pages he’d copied from the original file. “Kojak was on that night, I checked,” he said.
“Nice,” Maggie said, taking a regrettable sip of her coffee.
“Wikipedia,” Wyatt told her. “However, according to his wife’s statement, she was asleep when Jeffries came home that night. She worked late the night before—she was a nurse—and she was tired that night, which is why she didn’t go out to this raw bar crawl thingy.” Wyatt pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “She woke up around eleven to find him watching TV out in the living room.”
“Okay. So maybe he doesn’t have that great an alibi,” Maggie said. “Fitch saw Crawford and the other guys around ten.”
“Right,” Wyatt replied. “Conceivable that he could have been one of them.”
“Why?” Maggie asked.
“Who knows? He seemed to think a lot of Mrs. Crawford. Maybe he had a thing for her.”
“Maybe. But have you seen the pictures of her from back then?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, and she was very pretty.”
“Very. And did you see Jeffries’ wedding picture in the china cabinet?”
“He wasn’t,” Maggie said. “Pretty.”
“Neither was Crawford,” Wyatt countered.
“He wasn’t bad looking,” Maggie said.
“Are you gonna tell me now that only a good-looking guy could have done it?”
“No, wiseass, I’m saying that if Jeffries killed Crawford because he had a thing for his wife, then he was probably deluded.”
“Whatever,” Wyatt said. “It’s a possibility.”
“A possibility,” Maggi agreed. “But then what about the other guy that was there?”
“I still think Boudreaux.”
Maggie let out something that was half sigh and half grunt. “Boudreaux couldn’t have cared less about some other guy’s unrequited love,” she said. “He sure as heck wouldn’t kill over it.”
“No, but he could have done it for his reasons, and Jeffries could have helped him for his,” Wyatt said. “Boudreaux was the short guy and Jeffries was the taller one.”
Maggie twisted her mug around in her hand for a moment, staring at the Sheriff’s Office insignia as it went by.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Maggie said. “Meanwhile, while you were trying to find some way to fit Boudreaux into your theory, I heard back from Bay County on Terry Luedtke.”
“The manager guy,” Wyatt said.
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “And my thing is more interesting than your interesting thing.”
“And what is your thing?’ Wyatt asked.
“This guy Luedtke took over as manager at Crawford’s not too long after Crawford went missing,” Maggie said. “Possible motivation.”
“Possible,” Wyatt said, but he didn’t look enthusiastic about it.
“Then he moved to Lynn Haven in 1984, pretty much right after Boudreaux bought Crawford’s business.”
“Okay. But you said Gray told you that Boudreaux didn’t fire anybody from Crawford’s, so he moved for some other reason maybe.”
“Maybe,” Maggie said. “But he killed himself three months after he moved.”
“Huh,” Wyatt said, his face blank. He at back in his chair, took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair before he put his hat back on. “Okay, so maybe Boudreaux promised him a better job for helping him off Crawford, and didn’t follow through. Or maybe the guilt was too much for this guy.”
“I think you’re painting yourself into corners trying to fit Boudreaux in,” Maggie said. “You told me to keep an open mind.”
“Not so open that everything falls out,” Wyatt said. “And may I remind you that Boudreaux was already the main suspect; I didn’t just squeeze him in.”
“I know that,” Maggie said. “But he doesn’t fit.”
“Like hell,” Wyatt said.
“Anyway,” Maggie said. “I’m going to look into Luedtke some more, and I think we should ask Mrs. Crawford what she can tell us about him.”
“Okay. We shall,” Wyatt said. “But I can’t do it today. I have a meeting with the bigwigs.”
“This late in the day? What’s up?” Maggie asked.
“Sheriffy stuff,” Wyatt answered, shrugging. “Do you want to go talk to her alone or do you want to wait until tomorrow?”
Maggie got up from her chair. “I’ll wait. I’m going to make some more calls and then go home. The kids deserve a real dinner.”
Wyatt watched her as she made her way to the door. “I still think it’s Boudreaux,” he said.
“And I still think that people who lay their lives on the line deserve decent coffee. Why don’t you ask the bigwigs about that?” Maggie said as she left.
The next morning was clear and cool, cool enough to pass for autumn to those who longed for it. There was a fairly brisk breeze, and the hibiscus and holly bushes that lined the driveway at Sunset Bay were bending with it in an almost celebratory way.
They’d taken Wyatt’s cruiser, and Wyatt had been uncharacteristically quiet as he drove. Maggie was unused to silence with Wyatt. Even on days they’d spent every waking hour together, they always seemed to have something to talk about, even if it was football.
“So how did your meeting with the bosses go?” she asked, mainly for something to say.
“About how you would expect,” Wyatt said.
“What was it about?”
“When you’re the Sheriff, you can know what it’s about,” Wyatt said, but she could hear him forcing the lightness. “Right now, I’m the Sheriff, so I get to keep it to myself.”
Maggie stared at the side of his head for a moment. His mood bugged her, but pushing didn’t seem like a good idea. “Well,” she said, forcing her own light tone. “If it’s a pay cut, I’ll be the first one to punch you in the face.”
“Don’t forget your Barney step stool,” he said as he parked.
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
“Probably,” he said, and got out of the car.
The nurse’s assistant on duty that day was a different one from the week before. Wyatt spoke with her for a moment to explain who they were and to assure her that they just had a few questions, and she allowed them to go to Mrs. Crawford’s room unescorted.
Wyatt knocked on the door, and he and Maggie were both surprised that Mrs. Crawford herself opened it, even though they knew she wasn’t exactly an invalid.
Mrs. Crawford seemed a little taken aback to see them there, but she remembered who they were, or at least what they were.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” she said, smiling.
“Hello, Mrs. Crawford,” Wyatt said. “I hope we’re not disturbing you. We’re just hoping you can help us with a few things.”
“Of course not. Come on in,” she said, and opened the door wider.
Wyatt let Maggie go ahead and, as she walked in, Maggie took note of the fact that Mrs. Crawford looked, as she had the first time they’d met, like she was getting ready to go out for the day.
She was wearing tailored gray trousers, a lavender blouse, and gray leather ballet flats. Apparently, they were never going to find her wandering around in slippers and a robe. Maggie had to give her credit for that, considering that she herself would have been more than happy to live out her final decades in bare feet and yoga pants.
Mrs. Crawford led them over to the same table where they’d sat the other day.
“I got a call this morning saying I could go ahead with funeral arrangements for Holden,” Mrs. Crawford said as they got settled. She looked at Maggie. “It’s funny. I never actually thought I would.”
“Would what, Mrs. Crawford?” Maggie asked.
“Have a service for him,” the woman answered. “We had a small ceremony when Holden was declared legally dead, you know, just a few friends at the house.”
“I’m sure this must be difficult, Mrs. Crawford,” Wyatt said.
“Yes. He finally gets a funeral.” She dabbed at one corner of her eye with her pinky finger, then smiled weakly. “Only, most of our friends and family are dead.” She shook her shoulders a bit, as though she were shaking away her mood. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“We wanted to ask you about a couple of things that have come up since we started investigating your husband’s case,” Wyatt said. “First, we spoke to Vincent Jeffries the other day. He said your husband had seemed to be under a lot of stress the week or so before he disappeared.”
Wyatt paused. Mrs. Crawford was staring at him as though she was still waiting for him to speak.
“Do you remember Mr. Jeffries, Mrs. Crawford?” Wyatt asked.
“Well, of course I do,” she answered, sounding slightly irritated. “I’m not that far gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt said. “Do you remember what your husband was worried or upset about?”
Mrs. Crawford dabbed at the corners of her mouth as though she were tidying up her mauve lipstick.
“I don’t think he was under any special stress,” she said. “They asked me things like that when he first went missing, you
know. Was he upset about anything, was there any reason he would just leave, that kind of thing.”
“But nothing in particular comes to mind?” Maggie asked.
The older woman sat and looked out the sliding glass doors at the sunshine and the flowering bushes, and became noticeably bothered. Her fingers brushed idly at hair that wasn’t out of place, and her eyes darted around what parts of the outside, or inside, world she could see.
“You know, sometimes it seems like it was someone else’s life, and sometimes it’s my life and it was just the day before yesterday,” she said finally, still staring out at the yard.
Maggie and Wyatt waited for her to go on, ready to remind her of the question that had been asked.
She finally looked back at them. “Holden had a lot going on that week,” she said. “He was worried about money, and spending a lot of time on getting the new building ready.”
She smiled and flipped her hair back, or would have, if it hadn’t been shellacked into place. “He was doing that for me, you know,” she said. “He knew I loved all those old buildings, and he was trying to diversify a little. He wanted to put a café in there next to my new shop, you see.”
She smiled at Wyatt as he nodded, then turned her gaze on Maggie. “He loved me very much.”
“I’m sure he did,” Maggie said.
“Are you married, Georgia?”
That stunned Maggie for just a second. “Georgia’s my mother,” she said. “I’m Maggie Redmond.”
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Crawford said with a dismissive wave. “You know what I mean.”
“So nothing special comes to mind, anything that he might have been particularly stressed about?” Wyatt asked.
“Not really, no,” Mrs. Crawford answered. “I mean, it was a crazy week. My sister was very ill at that time; she had breast cancer.”
Maggie cut her eyes over to Wyatt, who was looking at the table. His wife Lily had died of breast cancer just over ten years before. It was the main reason he’d moved from Cocoa Beach to Apalach.
“So, the business was very busy, and we had cheerleading championships,” Mrs. Crawford was saying. “My car had finally died for good and we were trying to figure out how to pay for a new one. Our roof was leaking because of a storm the weekend before. One of those stupid pines.”
Dead Wake (The Forgotten Coast Florida #5) Page 12
