Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “This meeting with Busy won’t be so bad, Addie. Just close your eyes and it’ll be over before you know it.”

  “Sounds like bad sex.”

  “Is there such a thing?” Tyler laughed. “Just be prepared. Busy is gonna pump you for information about the murder.”

  “No way, the meeting was arranged last week and Busy might not even know about Dick’s death.” Busy lived in Blustery Winds, miles from Admiral Street.

  Tyler shook his head. “Busy knows all right. Gossip goes through this place like shit through a goose, and this is big. Mel Dick was a player in the Cove. His death creates a power vacuum, which Busy will be happy to fill. The more info she has, the better she can spin things to her advantage.”

  “You make Mystic Cove sound like a banana republic.”

  Tyler laughed but then his face turned somber. “I feel most sorry for Jesse Potts. Once the good folks of Mystic Cove find out that Jesse was at the murder scene, they’ll pick that boy dry.” I hadn’t thought of that angle, but Tyler was right. “In her own way she’s as vicious at getting what she wants as Mel Dick. Have you ever checked out her blog?”

  “Where’s that newspaper? I need to check something.”

  Tyler plucked the crumpled Commentator from the trash and handed it over. With Tyler peering over my shoulder, I pointed to the byline.

  “Mel Dick,” Tyler read.

  The door groaned open and Busy Rhodes stood in the doorway.

  Chapter Five

  The Woman in White

  She was tall and toned and glowed with a neon tan from a can. As always she was swathed in white—wide, flowing pants and gauzy peasant blouse. Unlike many older women Busy wore her champagne blond hair long. Today it formed a thick braid that she could almost sit on.

  “Good to see you again,” I lied.

  Tyler put on a dazzling smile.

  “Can I get you something, Ms. Rhodes?” Tyler asked.

  Busy Rhodes arranged her braid to one side and produced an aluminum bottle. “A refill of water. On cooler days like today the danger of dehydration is much greater.”

  A quick look between Tyler and me—Busy never missed a chance to lecture.

  While Tyler played water boy, I hustled Busy to the captain’s chair. I had just settled behind my desk when Tyler returned with Busy’s water. When Tyler slid into the chair next to Busy’s, one of Ms. Rhodes’s penciled eyebrows arched.

  “I knew you wouldn’t mind if Deputy Chief Andrews sat in on our discussion,” I said.

  Her lips formed a moue, followed by an abbreviated shrug of one shoulder. “I nearly canceled this meeting because of the tragedy.”

  Tyler shot an I-told-you-so glance my way and turned to Busy. “It was a terrible tragedy, ma’am.”

  Busy frowned. Like most Northern women she didn’t like being called ma’am, a fact of which Tyler was well aware. But Busy threw off her irritation and tried on a sad smile. “I’ve heard so many stories about Mr. Dick’s passing, some quite outrageous. The only constant in all the stories is that Mr. Dick was murdered.” Busy looked at me, then at Tyler. When nobody jumped in, she continued. “A person doesn’t know what to believe. Driving over, I had an interesting thought. It might be helpful if security set up a rumor control task force.”

  Tyler made a strangled sound and passed a hand over his face.

  “The control of information in a murder investigation is a police matter,” I said.

  “I understand, but our residents are frightened, and fear does strange things to people. It’s been particularly hard on me personally of course.”

  “How so?” Tyler asked.

  “It’s true that Mel and I had our differences, but it was never personal, at least not from my side. I didn’t dislike Mel. On the contrary, I admired him for the strength of his convictions.”

  Tyler caught my eye, our thoughts in line. Usually Busy’s lies were more discreet. The woman in white detested Mel, as did most people who spent more than five minutes in his company. Mel Dick evoked immediate loathing, the polar opposite of a devil like Jud Richt—now there was a man you had to know well in order to hate.

  “I admire your attitude, Ms. Rhodes,” I said. “Personally, I wouldn’t be quite so forgiving if I were in your place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Dick’s article in October’s Commentator contained some pretty outrageous accusations about you.”

  Busy Rhodes’s tanned face turned to stone. “Yes, I read the article, but I’m not a hater. Forgive and forget is my philosophy. It takes far too much energy to hate. Forgive and forget, I always say.”

  I shook my head. “You’re a better woman than I. I could never forgive a man who attacked me like that. What did he call you in that article again?”

  Busy Rhodes glared.

  I slapped my forehead. “Stupid me, of course you’ve forgotten the slur—forgive and forget, right?” I produced the crumpled Cove Commentator. “Here it is. Mr. Dick calls you a ‘modern-day Nazi who gleefully tramples the grapes of liberty,’” I read, adding air quotes. “He also compares the HCA to brownshirts that—”

  Ms. Rhodes raised an imperial palm. “All of that is in the past.”

  “Since when?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Since when did you forgive and forget Mr. Dick for his nasty comments. Was it before or after his death?”

  A long stretch of silence. I could tell by Tyler’s face that he thought I’d gone too far.

  At last Busy said, “I don’t appreciate your unprofessional attitude.”

  I ignored the comment. “If Mel Dick had insulted me like that, I would have run, not walked, to the Commentator office and had it out with him. What would you have done, Deputy Chief Andrews?”

  “Same as you, Chief.”

  Tyler and I stared at the woman in white, the ball in her court.

  Busy forced a smile. “This conversation is beginning to feel like an interrogation.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said.

  Busy’s eyes narrowed. My unapologetic apology hadn’t slipped by unnoticed. “I don’t have to, but I’d like to share something with you.” She opened her hands in a gesture of supplication. “I have nothing to hide.”

  Sure you do, Busy. We all have something to hide.

  “As a matter of fact I did speak to Mel about the article. I bumped into him at the Barnes and Noble in Founder’s Centre shortly after the article came out. I was rather shocked to see Mel there—he’s not much of a reader—but he’d come for Kristin Donald’s book signing.” Busy frowned. “She was there to promote her memoir I Am Not a Witch. That...that was the last time I saw Mel alive.”

  I pounced, smelling a lie, and decided to call Busy on it. “You were surprised to find Mel there, even though the Cove Commentator sponsored the event?” Eager for a big crowd, Mel had saturated Mystic Cove with news of Donald’s upcoming appearance. Everyone in Mystic Cove knew that about the event and Mel’s connection to it.

  Busy took a swig of water. “I...I had simply forgotten that Kristin Donald’s book signing was scheduled for that evening.”

  “Who is Kristin Donald anyway?” Tyler asked.

  “Some politician,” I said.

  Busy smiled condescendingly and proceeded to enlighten Tyler and me. “Kristin Donald is a former prosecutor who unsuccessfully ran for the Senate a few years back—no one important, just one of Mel’s political pets.”

  “Okay,” I said, not sure what to make of that statement.

  Busy wriggled in her uncomfortable chair. “As I started to say, it was happenstance that I ran into Mel that night. Somehow I managed to pry Mel from Miss Donald. I let him know that I thought his article dishonest and contemptible.”

/>   “Bet that got a rise out of him,” Tyler said.

  “Not really. He said politics wasn’t for the faint of heart and if I couldn’t take it, I should stay at home and bake cookies. After that he rushed back to Miss Donald’s side. I left and that was the end of it.”

  That didn’t sound like Mel, who never left a slight pass unchallenged. Either Busy was downplaying the exchange or Mel had become more reasonable.

  “And now,” Busy said, rising to leave, “if you’ll excuse me...”

  “Ms. Rhodes!” I said sharply. The woman in white’s well-toned ass froze in midair. “Leaving so soon?”

  “We’re finished.”

  “But we haven’t even discussed the golf cart crisis. Wasn’t that the reason you requested the meeting?

  “It can wait.”

  I gaped at Tyler, then at Busy. “But you said that you nearly canceled this meeting because of Mel Dick’s death. I assumed your concern about the carts overrode any squeamishness over Mr. Dick’s passing.”

  “I assumed the same thing,” Tyler said, “but you know what they say about assumptions.” Tyler and I laughed while Busy glared.

  “I made a mistake in coming here.”

  “We all make mistakes, Ms. Rhodes. Have a good day.”

  When Tyler returned after escorting Busy to the door, he was bent over with laughter. “I could barely keep a straight face! You worked her over good. Better hope she doesn’t complain to Richt.”

  “She won’t go to Richt. She despises him almost as much as I do.”

  “I can’t believe she thought we’d swallow that whopper about her and Dick being good buddies. Maybe she’ll think twice about lying to us.”

  “I hope not.”

  Tyler shot a quizzical look my way.

  “You learn a lot about people by the lies they tell. Sometimes you can learn more from a lie than from the truth.”

  “You mean a lie is as good as the truth.”

  “No, what I mean is that lies can be useful. If you can figure out why a person lies, you’re that much closer to the truth.”

  “So why did Busy lie about admiring Mel Dick?”

  “Maybe Busy is a conventional, old-fashioned sort who doesn’t believe in speaking poorly of the dead.”

  “Busy isn’t conventional.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “Busy Rhodes sees herself as unconventional, but that doesn’t mean she is.”

  “So why did Busy lie? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  “It could be an ego thing. Busy has a need for moral superiority—I think that’s part of the reason she always dresses in white. The vicious feud with Mel threatened that self-image somewhat, but with him gone, she can afford to take the high road.”

  “You mean, pretend to,” Tyler said.

  “Hard to say, there’s a thin line between pretending and believing. People with healthy egos like Mel and Busy have a remarkable capacity for self-deception. It could be that Busy believes her own bullshit. Now that I think about it, Busy and Mel are a lot alike.”

  Tyler looked dubious.

  “They’re intelligent, ambitious, and proud to the point of arrogance. They only differ in style. Even so, Busy’s little lies may not be relevant.”

  “Not relevant to what?” Tyler asked.

  “Not relevant to the...I don’t know.” I stopped just in time. I had been about to say murder investigation—a clear sign I was deeper in the mire.

  “There is another explanation for Busy Rhodes’s fib,” Tyler said softly.

  “I know.” Maybe the cold war between Mel and Busy had turned hot, but hot enough for murder?

  But it was past five and time to go. We were halfway out the door when the office phone rang.

  “Let it go to voice mail, Addie,” Tyler said.

  “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you at Eddie’s.”

  It was Spooner. He wanted me at GCSO headquarters ASAP so that we could “finish our talk.”

  “I’m on my way, Sheriff.” A long time ago I learned that anticipating unpleasantness could be a lot worse than the unpleasantness itself. Parents knew this—that was why they liked to warn their kids before punishing them. That way the kids’ fear got a chance to fester, like a thorn beneath the skin.

  I called Pop to let him know I’d be late.

  “Adelajda,” my father said in his old man’s voice. I loved the way he spoke my name in all its archaic beauty: Ad-e-la-ya. American tongues got twisted over the Polish inflection and with Mom gone, he was the only who still called me by my given name. I was even Addie to my sisters nowadays.

  “Does your being late have anything to do with Mel Dick’s death?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “The five o’clock news led with the story. Page Becket reporting live from Mystic Cove.”

  Damn, Tyler Andrews was right about Mel having been a player. His murder rated top billing on the local news program.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said quickly. “Sheriff Spooner asked me to stop by his office. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I can.”

  “Is it murder?”

  “I’ll fill you in when I get home.”

  “I’m dying to hear all your news, but please don’t wait too long.” He made a sound that in another place and time might have been laughter.

  You see, my father was dying; it was sort of a joke between us.

  * * *

  With his dark features and hook nose Bubba Spooner bore a remarkable resemblance to a hungry vulture as he hunched over his computer screen. Without diverting his gaze, he gestured for me to sit. I shoved some papers off of a chair. Finally Spooner closed whatever he had been working on and fixed his cool gaze on me.

  “First thing,” Spooner said in a soft voice that demanded attention, “I want you to describe the crime scene.”

  “I...I gave Berry my report. I don’t know what I can add.” I hated that I sounded petulant, but I was tired. My usual drive home to Lady-in-the-Hills took me in the opposite direction of rush-hour traffic, but today I’d driven down its throat.

  “I’m not talking about your damn statement. Just describe the murder scene.” Spooner’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Didn’t you work homicide in Pittsburgh?”

  “Baltimore.”

  “So take me through the murder scene.”

  I didn’t know where this was headed, but I’d give Spooner what he wanted. I took a moment to recreate the scene. I have an excellent memory and the details came easily—the smell of fresh dirt and oleander, the dim light of early dawn, the dead body in the golf cart.

  “At first I assumed it was a natural death.” I looked pointedly at Spooner, but he didn’t take the bait, just nodded and said it was a reasonable conclusion.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Old people tend to die and Mystic Cove is full of old people. And Mel did look awful peaceful in that stupid cart.”

  “The most peaceful I’ve ever seen him,” Spooner agreed.

  “Then I saw the head trauma. The shape of the wound and stippling indicated Mel had died from a close-range gunshot wound. Since Mel wasn’t holding a gun, I figured it was murder, not suicide. There were no obvious defensive wounds, no signs of a struggle around the cart.” The words were coming fast and hard now, and I kept glancing at Spooner for any confirmation, but his face told me nothing. “My best guess is that Mel was taken unawares. I also didn’t see any casings near the body so the shooter either cleaned up after himself or I’m dead wrong about it being a close-range shot. Oh, and Mel was wearing someone else’s clothes.”

  Spooner’s head snapped. “I agree that Mel looked like a damn clown, but what makes you think they weren’t his clothes?”

  “The shirt was at least two
sizes too small.”

  “That wasn’t vanity? Dick has put on a little weight.”

  “Nah, and besides, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and nylon shorts wasn’t Mel’s style.” Like many of our male residents Mel lived in golf shirts and polyester pants. “And I know he wasn’t dressed like that at the G and G.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because...because Anita wouldn’t have let him out of the house dressed like that, if only to keep him from freezing to death.” Not the truth, but plausible enough. Spooner didn’t need to know that Anita Dick wasn’t the only witness I’d talked to today. I was pretty sure that if Mel had been dressed like a clown, José Barracas would have mentioned it, if only to dig at his adversary.

  “Now tell me about your little chat with Anita.”

  “Sure, but first you need to know how I happened to find her.” I related my lengthy conversation with Fairley Sable and the aborted one with Anita, stressing that I did not inform Anita about Mel’s death. “She knew her husband was dead before I opened my mouth.”

  “I wish you hadn’t talked to Anita Dick, but here we are.”

  And where was that?

  “Everything you just told me,” Spooner was saying, “fits with the statements we got from the merry widow and her girlfriend.”

  “You mean Anita and Fairley Sable?”

  “When Berry interviewed them, he...”

  “Berry?” I blurted. “Berry’s the primary?”

  Yeah,” Spooner drawled. “I can see Deputy Berry’s made an impression on you. He does have that talent.”

  I wasn’t sure if Spooner was playing with me, but his tone suggested Berry’s memorability was not a good thing.

  “How well do you know Anita Dick?”

  “When I was a guard I saw her almost every day.” In my early days with Mystic Cove security I’d often gotten stuck working the Admiral Street guardhouse. “We’d exchange pleasantries. She was pleasant, down-to-earth, although sometimes she seemed a little lost.”

  “In what way?” Spooner shifted in his chair.