Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  Berry grunted, closed his notebook and sauntered over to Spooner, who was extracting his head from the murder cart. By now the clearing was a picture of chaos—cops and techs teemed over the area like termites over rotting wood. But it was a controlled chaos. Yellow crime tape protected the scene, CSU techs searched the adjacent woods, and deputies had begun the neighborhood canvas. Spooner might not be much on charm, but he could secure a crime scene. Since Berry was still chattering away, I called my deputy chief. When Tyler Andrews didn’t answer his cell—no surprise—I left a detailed voice mail. I had just ended the call when I felt a hand on my arm.

  “Good job on fucking up my crime scene, Gorsey.”

  “The name is Gorsky, Sheriff, and I didn’t fuck up your crime scene.” I folded my arms and glared. Spooner had a reputation as a bully and I didn’t intend to be his latest victim.

  “Your footprints are all over the place.” Spooner’s face betrayed no emotion, but his voice was intense.

  “It was unavoidable. When I saw Mel, I...”

  “Yeah, I went over your statement with my deputy. I’ve got some questions.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Did Mel Dick have any enemies?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Spooner knew as well as I that Mel Dick collected enemies like a Māori warrior collected heads.

  “Just answer the question. You know anybody might have wanted Dick dead?”

  Now, there were lots of people who wouldn’t cry over Mel’s death, but I gave a bullshit answer about him having a forceful personality that many people found grating. It went on like that for a bit—the sheriff asking questions about Mel and me bullshitting. I felt his growing impatience, but I didn’t have his answers. Since my promotion to chief six months earlier, I’d had little direct contact with the residents. What information I had was as stale as old beer.

  “Tell me about the 415 at the Grog and Grub last night.”

  I looked sharply at Spooner. “A disturbance at the G and G?”

  The day was warming up, but Spooner’s smile was cold. “You don’t know about it, do you?”

  I’d taken yesterday off to take Pop to his doctor’s appointment and missed all the fun. But Spooner was more than happy to fill me in.

  “At around six-thirty last night Okpulo County Sheriff’s Office responded to a 911 call reporting a disturbance between Mel Dick and José Barracas.”

  “Big deal,” I said, waving off the sheriff’s concern. There was no love lost between Mel Dick and the owner of Mystic Cove’s favorite watering hole. “Dick and Barracas probably got into a shouting match. Customers misinterpreted their dislike for aggression—an easy thing to do—and some busybody called the cops.”

  “Barracas wasn’t the only one Dick had in his sights last night.” Spooner pulled on dark sunglasses. “According to witnesses he threatened several customers.” He went on, painting a picture that made no sense. None of this sounded like Mel Dick, who took care of nasty business in private, and since when did José start arguing with paying customers? But I couldn’t sort it out with Spooner talking at me.

  “Damn it, Sheriff, this is the first I’ve heard of any of this. I’m just as confused as you.”

  “What the hell good are you then? You don’t know shit!” He turned to go, but I grabbed his arm.

  “All I know is that some sonofabitch shot Mel Dick at extremely close range and fucking Mel just sat there and let him do it!” I let go of Spooner’s arm. He was glaring at me, and I guess I was doing the same.

  “How you figure that?” he asked at last.

  “Because of the stippling around the wound, of course. The murder weapon couldn’t have been more than a foot away from Mel’s head when it was fired.” I shut my mouth, but too late.

  “That’s right, you were a real police once.”

  I flinched, whether from surprise that the sheriff knew of my past or from hurt, I couldn’t tell. But Spooner was right. I was a real police once.

  “Sheriff Spooner!” A female voice called. A short, round woman in jeans and a black bubble jacket jogged toward us. It was Dr. Dolores Rio, the deputy coroner.

  Spooner led Rio to the body. Once the death was ruled a homicide, the forensics crew would begin its work, taking photos and gathering and bagging evidence. But that had nothing to do with me. Spooner wasn’t through with Jesse, so I asked him to stop by security headquarters before heading home. We needed to finish our conversation. I left by way of Admiral Street, having had enough of Birnam Wood for one day.

  Up and down Admiral Street, the circus was in full throat. Flashing lights throbbed over staid McMansions, booted feet tramped pristine St. Augustine lawns, voices pierced the morning air, demanding and incessant. Curious residents gathered on sidewalks and tidy lawns, taking in the show. In not so long a time the ambulances and cop cars and EMS vehicles would be gone, and the spectators would return to their everyday lives only to find that things weren’t quite the same.

  You see, murder changed everything.

  As I approached the Dick residence I slowed my cart to a funereal crawl. A GCSO cruiser crouched in the driveway, a solitary uniform inside.

  A disquiet overtook me, as if the earth had shifted just a little and all that was once familiar was rendered strange. The giant American flag on Mel’s front lawn hung dejected in the still air, and the house was dark and silent, locked unto itself. I realized I hadn’t spotted Anita Dick’s face among the spectators, though I had looked long and hard. Anita was a hardcore homebody; if she wasn’t home, where could she be? My uneasiness grew. I tried to shake it off, but it was like trying to shake off one of those biting horseflies endemic to Florida. Once it got your scent, it’d pursue you to the death.

  I made my slow way to my office, one question running through my mind. Where was Anita Dick?

  Chapter Two

  A Woman with a Past

  I drove slowly through the belly of the beast, through the winding streets of Mystic Cove.

  Most of the Cove consisted of residential areas, gated enclaves with vaguely nautical names like Whipstaff Hamlet or Windbound Harbor, where Mel Dick had lived and died. Each community was filled with retirees from somewhere else, seeking shelter from taxes and the cold. Miles and miles of McMansions with lawns at thick as shag carpet and twisting roads and dead ends that drive the EMS guys nuts. But I should be thankful. I only had a job because each residential area required a gate, and gates required guards to work the locks. As my boss Jud Richt was fond of saying, he sold security, which as far I could tell was just fear by another name.

  But the plastic heart of Mystic Cove was Founder’s Centre. A poor man’s Disney World, the Centre was a cheap imitation of a nineteenth-century New England fishing village as imagined by a five-year-old girl. Richt’s visioning team contrived a complicated pseudo-history for the place. There was a fake old jail, fake courthouse, fake oyster house, and so on. Some fabrications were more ludicrous than others, with one of the worst offenders being the Grub and Grog Pub, which occupied the former site of the Olde Salmon Shack, circa 1869, or so the fake plaque on the frontispiece proclaimed. Salmon fishing in Florida!

  Security headquarters was located in the Financial Building. It consisted of two rooms—a small reception area and my smaller office—situated on the first floor, squeezed between the employee bathroom and the janitor’s storage closet. The financial planners resided on the upper floors of the building that bore their name, and though there was little interaction between the suits and those of us in khaki, on quiet afternoons I often heard their movements from above, like rats in the attic.

  Once inside I headed straight for the coffee. My hand was on the pot when I saw a sliver of light peeping from my open office door, which I was certain I had locked.

  “Who’s there?” I said
, kicking the door open.

  A dark figure coiled behind the desk. It stirred and said, “Good morning, Chief.” It was Jud Richt, CEO of Mystic Cove Development.

  “I was just about to have some coffee. Want a cup?”

  Richt eased up in the chair, flashed his pearly whites. “We need to talk.”

  With Richt ensconced behind my desk, I had no choice but to take the wooden chair facing him. It was a captain’s chair of odd proportions that I’d intentionally chosen for its discomfort—visitors didn’t linger in such a chair. But now it was my ass that squirmed.

  “This unfortunate episode is a potential catastrophe for the Cove,” Richt said.

  “Are you talking about Mel Dick’s murder?”

  Richt nodded. I wasn’t surprised Richt knew about the murder, but his choice of words pissed me off. Unfortunate episode? Was he for real? Getting pepperoni on your pizza when you ordered sausage was an unfortunate episode. Mel Dick was an asshole but his murder couldn’t be so easily dismissed. Oh, there was more than a whiff of brimstone about Jud Richt.

  “Mel’s murder doesn’t threaten Mystic Cove.”

  “Of course it does! How many times have I told you that I don’t sell houses at Mystic Cove—I sell security, privacy, freedom from fear.”

  I braced for another lecture. Richt had never been an amiable sort, but lately he’d been riding my ass hard. “I realize that, Mr. Richt, but...”

  “This murder and the subsequent investigation threaten all of those. Understand?”

  “Yes, but the best outcome is for Mel’s killer to be found ASAP. Our best option—our only option, really—is to aid the investigation. The sooner it’s over, the sooner things will return to normal.”

  Richt’s face hardened. “No, I don’t want Sheriff Spooner or his goons on my property.”

  “You can’t prevent that.”

  Richt smiled, the preternaturally white teeth gleaming in the soft light. “Perhaps not entirely, but Mystic Cove Security doesn’t have to make it easy for them.”

  “You’re talking about obstructing a homicide investigation.”

  Richt leaned across the desk. “Not at all. I just want to ensure that our privacy is not violated. I know you, Addie—don’t let your curiosity get the better of you. Mr. Dick’s death is none of your concern.”

  “I don’t...”

  “There was quite a bit of grumbling when I promoted you to chief. There were other qualified candidates, candidates with more seniority and without your...irregular employment history. For once, consider your best interests.”

  “This is a murder investigation.” I spoke calmly and kept my face impassive, but Richt wasn’t fooled. His wolfish grin told me that he knew his arrow had struck its mark. Jud Richt might know the facts, the bare bones of my life, but he didn’t know the truth. One thing for sure—I would not impede Spooner’s investigation. I was about to inform Richt of this when the outer door scraped open.

  “Chief,” Jesse Potts said, striding into my office, “I got doughnuts—oh, I didn’t know you was busy.”

  Richt waved off Jesse’s discomfort. “That’s fine. The chief and I were finished, and I’m late for my nine-thirty.” Richt eased into his charcoal Brioni suit jacket.

  “Oh, Chief.” Richt paused at the door. “How is your father doing these days? Did he make it through the chemo okay?”

  I stared at Richt, a chill traveling down my spine. He wasn’t much for small talk and he didn’t give a damn about my father’s health so why ask? “He’s fine.”

  “Good, I know how overwhelming a serious illness can be. The bills certainly start piling up.”

  “My father and I are fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Bastard,” I muttered, pretty sure I’d just been threatened. If I didn’t tow Richt’s line, I might find myself out of this shitty job. I wouldn’t mind if it was just me, but there was Pop to think about. But threat or no threat, I needed answers.

  “Jesse, make us some fresh coffee to go with the doughnuts, and then we’ll talk.”

  “Sure thing,” Jesse mumbled, mouth working on a jelly doughnut.

  While the coffee brewed, I rifled through my inbox. If there really had been a free-for-all at the pub last night, then Tyler should have written an incident report. But there wasn’t one. Maybe the fight angle was overblown, after all. When Jesse came back with our coffees, he was almost bright-eyed. Good, just so his sugar high lasted long enough for me to get what I needed from him. To that end I edged the box toward him. He scooped up the last jelly doughnut.

  “How’d the interview with Spooner go?” I hoped my question wasn’t too open-ended. Jesse could be terribly literal, and getting information from him was like walking a minefield.

  “The sheriff was awful fired up about the dust-up at the Grub and Grog last night.”

  “You know about that?” I tore off a piece of cinnamon doughnut and dunked it in my coffee.

  “Sure. Last night when I relieved Oscar he told me all about it.”

  That would have been at eleven. I made a mental note to talk to Oscar Wall, who’d been manning the Admiral Street gate at the time of the incident.

  “Did you see Mr. Dick last night?”

  “Nope, Admiral Street was quiet for a change.”

  For a change? Now what the hell did that mean? I rubbed my temple, feeling the beginning of a headache. If only I’d been on duty last night. The one time when something happened in this shithole, I was nowhere to be found.

  “Don’t feel bad.”

  I looked at my young guard, who always seemed to sense my feelings. “You read me like a book.”

  Jesse solemnly shook his head. “I don’t read books much.”

  “I just wish I had been here last night, that’s all.”

  “Nothing or nobody could have saved Mr. Dick.”

  “Is that why you called him a dead man walking earlier?”

  Jesse yawned and knuckled his eyes, the sugar high rapidly dissipating. His hand hovered over the box of doughnuts, fingers wiggling like worms, but for once discretion ruled and the hand returned to his lap. “The last time I seen Mr. Dick he was a dead man walking, only he was sitting in his Humvee, and he...”

  “Just a sec,” I said, grabbing a pen and notepad. I needed to keep track or I’d never find my way out of the rabbit hole. “When was the last time you saw Mel?”

  “Saturday night Mr. Dick drove by the guardhouse.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No, ma’am, Mr. Jinks was sitting next to him.”

  “Mr. Jinks?” I’d thought I knew everyone in Mel’s entourage.

  Jesse’s eyes bugged. “You know Mr. Jinks—that’s Mr. Dick’s dog!”

  “The fat pug.” I laughed.

  Jesse grinned. “Yeah, he’s a cute little fellow.”

  I wasn’t sure about that. I recalled an old pug with lethal breath and glassy eyes. “Let’s get back to the last time you saw Mel.”

  “It was after midnight. I waved Mr. Dick through the gate like always but he made like he wanted to tell me something, only he won’t talk through the window. So I got out of the guardhouse. Mr. Dick made me lean in close, like he’s afraid somebody’s listening. He’s grinning, but it wasn’t a good grin. He told me I was looking at a real important man.”

  “Meaning himself of course.” Mel Dick had always had a healthy ego, but this sounded a bit extreme, even for a narcissist like Mel.

  “Yes, ma’am, and then Mr. Dick said, ‘This time next week everybody will know who Mel Dick is. Next week I’ll be more famous than Woody or Bernie.’”

  “He said what?”

  “He said he’s gonna be bigger than Woody or Bernie. It don’t make no sense, but I told him, ‘Sure thing, Mr. Dick
.’ I guess he didn’t like that ’cause he gave me the finger and drove off real fast.”

  “Who are Woody and Bernie?”

  “Heck if I know.”

  I circled the names in my notes. “Makes two of us but what...”

  Jesse’s knobby chin rested in a cupped hand and his eyes were at half-mast. I’d gotten all I was going to get out of him—at least for now.

  With Jesse gone, I pulled out the Mystic Cove calendar and counted the days from Jesse’s encounter with Mel, trying to see if some event had been in the works that would fit the timeline. Since it was an election year, Mystic Cove had been a cauldron of political activity in recent months, but nothing of import fell on or around the target date. Except for Halloween. Founder’s Centre hosted an annual Harvest Fest every October 31, but Mel Dick didn’t get off on pirate costumes and haunted houses. I was pondering this when my cell buzzed. My missing deputy chief at last.

  “It’s about time, Tyler.”

  “Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Tyler had the kind of voice that was always on the verge of laughter. I guess it was an attractive trait, but one I’d always found grating and more than a little suspicious—hell, nobody was that happy all the time.

  “What happened at the G and G last night?”

  “Just another round in the Dick-Barracas war,” Tyler said.

  “War?” The two men didn’t like one another but Mel Dick was a loyal if fractious customer of the G and G, and José—needing all the customers he could get—always accommodated the elderly curmudgeon.

  “It was no big deal. I mean, nobody got hurt.”

  “Mel Dick might disagree with that conclusion, but just give me the blow-by-blow.”

  A long pause, and Tyler said, “Meet me at Maude’s Café for lunch and I’ll tell you all about it.”