Before taking off, I checked my email. Both Oscar Wall and Spooner had replied to my query. Oscar confirmed that Mr. Jinks had been at his master’s side when Mel Dick blasted through the Admiral Street guardhouse, in a hurry to meet his death. The sheriff wrote, “Yesterday the Dick house was quiet as a tomb. There was no dog. Is this important?”
It might be, Sheriff, but only time would tell.
I emailed my guards, asking that they keep their eyes peeled for Mel’s lost dog. I risked appearing foolish, but it was a risk I had to take.
I had to find Jinks, who’d very likely witnessed his master’s murder.
* * *
A summons awaited me at the office: “Chief,” Jud Richt’s smarmy voice oozed from the phone, “I need to see you in my office at the Mansion ASAP.”
I’d have to take the Vic as the large redbrick building that was home to Richt and the other Mystic Cove suits sat on the other side of Mystic Cove. It was officially named the Governor’s Mansion, circa 1801 according to Richt’s pseudo-history, but people in my circle called it the Shithouse, for obvious reasons.
Twenty minutes later the Barbie-doll receptionist herded me into Jud Richt’s office. As I followed it struck me that Richt’s receptionist was a ringer for one of those Real Housewives on TV, who all looked like one another: wavy blond hair, big breasts, big lips and small noses.
“Sit,” Richt ordered, ensconced behind the huge desk.
I sat, a good dog for now, but I had teeth. As the minutes passed, my hopes for a quick reaming faded. Richt stared at his monitor, occasionally plunking a key or moving his mouse. My eyes traveled around the bright, expansive office. Everything about it spooked me, which was probably the point. Not for the first time I reflected that Richt had to be obsessed with big cats. Pictures of lions lazing in the savannah and jaguars bolting through the rainforest stared from the arctic-white walls while a menagerie of feline predators stalked his shelves and desk top.
A slow groan of leather as Richt shifted in his chair. “I thought I made my position clear yesterday, Addie.”
“You did.” I tried to meet his gaze but my eyes traveled instead to the ebony panther crouched on his desk. It was a primitive piece, crudely carved, which enhanced its brutality.
“Can you explain your bizarre interrogation of Ms. Rhodes?”
Damn, the harridan had complained to Richt after all. I must have blanched for Richt smiled. He always smiled when he drew blood.
“I’m also curious about your meeting with Spooner.”
“I was the one who found Mr. Dick’s body,” I said. “The sheriff had some follow-up questions for me. How does that concern you?”
Richt’s grin widened. “You’re not here to ask questions, but to answer them. Does the sheriff have a suspect in mind?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.” I looked Richt in the eye. “I was there to answer the sheriff’s questions.”
Richt’s hands slapped the desktop. “I know you’re investigating Dick’s murder. You even tried to get your guards to act as your confederates!”
I managed not to flinch, but could not speak. Richt wasn’t bluffing. One of my guards had ratted me out. Was it Billy? He’d sell his soul for a beer. Or maybe Richt had put the squeeze on naïve Jesse.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Addie.” Richt wagged his head like a disappointed headmaster.
“But...” I began, then stopped. Nothing I said or did could alter my fate.
“I warned you not to get involved, and yet you...” The office phone buzzed. Richt glared at it, as if willing it to silence, but it buzzed again.
“Lisa, I told you I didn’t want to be interrupted and...”
Richt glanced at me, then swiveled his chair so his back was to me. The rest of the conversation was brief and all on the Barbie’s side. When Richt disconnected he was different. The mask was back in place, but something new bubbled beneath the smooth façade.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but something’s come up. We’ll take this up some other time.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a full pardon or a temporary stay of execution, but I knew a break when I saw one. I sprinted for the elevator, in full flight mode. When the elevator doors split open, a stocky gray-haired man in a bow tie spilled out, nearly knocking me down. I was going to make a smartass comment—”Hey, I’m walking here!”—but I got a good whiff of boozy breath so I kept my mouth shut. Men in bowties were troublesome assholes—add alcohol to the equation and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.
But disturbing thoughts of bowties and booze vanished when the Shithouse receded in my rearview mirror. All I could think was how much happier I would be if I never had to return to this blasted place.
* * *
As I parked the Vic at the Admiral Street guardhouse, Jesse Potts stuck his head out the window. “I saw the BOLO for Mr. Jinks, but I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
Nobody else had either. The only reply I’d received so far was a smartass email from Oscar that suggested the corpulent pug might have wound up as gator bait or a coyote snack.
“I just thought I’d have a look around for myself,” I told Jesse. “Say, isn’t this your day off?”
“I’m covering for Billy. He didn’t feel too good this morning.”
“I bet he didn’t.”
An hour later I had walked the length of Admiral Street several times. I sensed that my presence had created a quiet agitation within the shuttered McMansions. Faces peeked from window corners, and curtains twitched, but most stayed inside. Violent death had touched them and for most, fear trumped curiosity, though a few brave souls ventured outside, ostensibly to place letters in mailboxes or pick up a few stray twigs but really wanting to know what I was up to. I explained about Jinks, but no one had seen the old pug. To a person they promised to look, but I knew what their promises were worth.
I returned to the Dick house, standing in the shadow of the huge American flag. A shadow moved in the left dormer window. I shaded my eyes against the bright morning light, but when I looked again the shadow was gone. Seconds later the front door opened. Anita Dick beckoned me.
“What do you want?” Anita’s voice was soft and indistinct, but there was a wariness behind the lidded eyes. I was halfway through explaining my doggy mission when she cut me off. “There’s no need for you to search for the dog.”
“It’s no trouble, Mrs. Dick. I’ve already notified my guards to look for him.”
“There’s no need,” Anita Dick repeated.
The door was closing; I stuck my foot in it. “I’ll let you know if we locate your dog.”
“Don’t bother. If you find it, take...take it to the pound.”
“But Mr. Jinks is an old fellow. Animal Control would have a hard time adopting him out and if they don’t find a home for him...”
A wary smile and she said, “I know what they’ll do.”
After that I broke off my search. Driving to my office, I wondered if I had misjudged Anita. Yesterday I had seen her as a weak victim, but this morning she was a pitiless woman who would destroy an innocent dog. I had fallen prey to the either/or trap. People were not one thing or the other, but many things. A person could be both a victim and perpetrator. In fact, the two went hand in glove.
At the office I hit the phones. Anita Dick’s heartless suggestion sparked an idea, something that should have occurred to me earlier. I called Animal Control to see if they’d picked up any morbidly obese male pugs. They hadn’t but promised to contact me if any turned up. Next I called Sheila Green. She was working tonight, but agreed to meet me before her shift. She suggested a bar just outside Mystic Cove. I knew the place, and we agreed to meet at three.
* * *
“I appreciate this,” I said.
“Anything I can do to h
elp.” Sheila Green ran both hands through masses of thick red hair. She’d started early, an empty shot glass in front of her. We were at Fisherman’s Pub, a favorite hangout of Mystic Cove employees because of its proximity to Founder’s Centre. At night it was fairly busy but this afternoon she and I were the only patrons. The bartender slumped on a stool, watching Sports Bloopers with the glazed eyes of an addict.
I ordered coffee and another drink for Sheila, which turned out to be peppermint schnapps and a diet cola chaser.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” Sheila said, eyeballing my notepad and pen.
“Be thorough. I want to see that night through your eyes.”
Sheila thought about that for a long minute. Although she was in her twenties, I could see the older woman she would become. She disposed of the schnapps in one gulp, followed by a sip of soda. “The rain had cleared by the time I started my shift. It was the first cool day of the season, so I hoped for a good night. You know the cool weather brings ’em out.”
Yes, it did, like worms after a storm. Mystic Covians and locals alike had wakened from their summer stupor, venturing from the air-conditioning to soak up the plastic ambiance of Founder’s Centre. I didn’t get it. I’d rather be throwing back beers in an honest dive.
“As usual José’s ass was glued to a barstool and his mouth to a scotch. He’s not a bad guy and he used to be a decent boss. Some nights after closing we used to have a couple of beers, his treat, but not anymore. Do you know why he switched to scotch?” Sheila’s voice was indignant, even angry.
“No idea.”
“Some idiot told him that scotch doesn’t give you a hangover, that it’s purer or something, so he trades his rum for scotch. But from the look of him in the mornings, he was told wrong.”
“When did Mel and Anita arrive?”
Sheila absently twirled the straw in her glass of soda. “It was around four, along with the other happy-hour regulars.”
“So the Dicks were happy-hour regulars.”
“Just him, not her. Used to be Mel would come with his friends, but lately it’s just him by his lonesome.”
“José mentioned that Mel’s old friends were also there that night.”
“The usual suspects.” Sheila smirked, then frowned. “Fairley Sable was there around five, and Gigi a few minutes after her. I’m not sure when the Rands showed up.”
“Why is that?” By now, I knew I’d struck gold with Sheila—as close to a competent, objective witness as I was likely to find.
“It was close to six when Marco bitched that the deuce in the back needed refills—that’s when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Rand for the first time. They must have ordered their first round from the bar and then sat themselves on the patio.” Sheila shook her head and the red hair trembled. “People aren’t supposed to do that, but they do.”
I waved for a time-out. “You speak Spanish?” A headshake. “When I tried to interview Marco all I got was, ‘No hablo ingles.’”
Sheila’s mouth dropped a mile and her face crinkled. “Marco played you. He speaks English real good, just like me, but when he doesn’t want to talk with somebody he pulls that ‘Me not speaka English’ shit. He does it to customers all the time. He got you but good.”
While Sheila was laughing her ass off, I got an idea. I was still having trouble visualizing the scene at the G and G so I turned to a fresh page in my notepad. I drew a big circle in the middle and wrote DICKS inside of it.
“The Dicks are here.” I pointed to the circle. “Show me where the others sat in relation to them.”
Sheila wiped her eyes with a napkin and studied my artwork. “No problem.” A few quick scribbles and she pushed the paper back.
I almost laughed. If I connected the three points I’d have a nearly perfect equilateral triangle. As usual Mel had commandeered the best table for himself. He and Anita would have had a prime view of the glorified retention pond called Mystic Bay. His former friends sat to his back, not a great view of the bay, but an excellent view of Mel Dick.
“Things started percolating when Gigi Tajani made her grand entrance. She ordered a margarita and when I got back with it, she was at the Dicks’ round-top, right next to lover boy.”
“The old lady has balls.”
“Tell me about it. Gigi was laughing and patting Mel’s hand, chattering like a magpie. It was ‘Oh, Mel, how are the margaritas tonight?’ or ‘Mel, are you going in costume to Harvest Fest?’”
“You heard her?”
“Gigi always talks real loud, like she’s on stage or something, you know? But loud as she was, Mr. Dick ignored her. It was weird.”
“What do you mean?”
Sheila slurped her cola dry. “It was almost as if he didn’t know Gigi was there. Maybe he did it on purpose so she would leave—and it worked, she skedaddled back to Fairley pretty quick—but I don’t think it was on purpose.”
“Why not?”
Sheila put her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. “Mr. Dick was a big mouth. He wasn’t scared of telling people what he thought of them, but that night he was all inside himself. Before José got him riled, Mr. Dick just sat there drinking and thinking and drinking some more, like he had a really bad problem that needed fixing. I don’t know how to explain it any better.”
“Was Mel drunk?” I imagined the old man tossing back drinks, marinating in his foul juices. Perhaps the mysterious cognitive decline my guards had noted in Mel was alcohol fueled.
“Oh, no, he only had two margaritas. When I say drinking, I mean water. I lost count of the times I filled his water pitcher, and it wasn’t even hot out.”
“Was this excessive thirst a recent thing?”
“Yeah, now that your mention it, it is.” Sheila picked out a cube of ice from her glass and started crunching.
What caused Mel’s greedy thirst? It could be diabetes or drugs, both legal and illegal. I had no idea what, if any, medications he was taking, but a lot of prescription drugs were notorious for causing dry mouth—Pop knew about that. Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink—not quite Mel’s situation but close enough.
“You said Mel didn’t respond to Gigi. What about Anita?”
Sheila made a disgusted sound. “That mouse didn’t squeak, but I could tell Anita was listening to every word Gigi was dropping, not like Mel. If it was me, I would have shut the bitch up!”
“So you knew about Gigi and Mel’s affair?”
Sheila shrugged. “They didn’t make a secret of it.”
“Did Anita know?”
“She had to have known about it. Like I said, Mel and Gigi didn’t bother to hide it. I used to see them kissing on Long Pier all the time.”
I quickly blocked out the unwanted image. “You said you used to see them kissing, does that mean the affair was over?”
“Sure looked like it, but who knows? The thing is, for months Mel and Gigi flaunted their little love affair all over Mystic Cove—Mel didn’t even care about his wife enough to be discreet, and Mrs. Dick just takes it and takes it. She’s a woman who liked to suffer.” Sheila wasn’t as objective as I’d thought—she’d obviously taken a dislike to Anita Dick.
But then Sheila was young and the young were merciless. She had not yet learned that it was dangerous to try to gauge the truth of a marriage, which created its own particular truth. We were all on the outside looking in. Even so, Sheila’s description fit with the Anita Dick I had met in Fairley Sable’s backyard yesterday: a ventriloquist’s dummy, minus the ventriloquist. But even the gentlest of souls had a limit. Had Mel finally pushed Anita too far?
I gestured to the bartender for a warm-up on my coffee and got Sheila another diet coke. All that ice eating was getting on my nerves.
“Did Alan or Tally Rand talk to Mel?” I asked. Sheila shook her head. �
�Fairley?” Another head shake. “Strange that Fairley didn’t say hello to her good friend Anita.”
“I didn’t know they were good friends.” Seeing my puzzled expression Sheila added, “But like I said, Anita didn’t get out much.”
I moved to another line of inquiry. “How did Fairley and Mel get along in general?”
“All right,” Sheila said. “They used to come in for lunch or drinks and yap about that stupid newspaper.”
“Fairley works at the Commentator?”
“Yeah, the way those two talked about it, you’d think it was a big-deal newspaper like the...the...” Sheila stammered, searching for an appropriate comparison.
“New York Times?” I offered.
“I guess.” Sheila glanced at her watch and frowned. Not much time left.
“Let’s fast-forward to the confrontation between José and Mel.”
“I told José to let sleeping dogs lie, but he wouldn’t listen—if men would listen to women, it’d be a better world. I was waiting at the bar for my drink order when it went down, so I saw it pretty good.” Sheila eye’s glistened. “After José had put down the check, Mel threw it back at him. Then Mel got to his feet, looking like he was going to punch José’s lights out—like this.” Sheila fell into a pretty tight boxing stance.
“Play nice, ladies,” the bartender called from behind the bar.
Sheila gave him the finger. “It was sad, Addie. Everybody laughing and pointing. Just a big joke until Mr. Dick turned on his friends. That’s when everybody got scared.”
“Tell me about that,” I said.
“It looked like Mel was gonna hit José until Gigi yelled for Mel in that big voice of hers. Mel looked at her like she was some kind of snake. Then he did the same to the others, glaring at them like they were snakes. He said he knew they’d been plotting against him. When he was done, Mr. Dick grabbed Mr. Jinks and ran away.” Sheila’s face screwed up. “Only...only he didn’t really run. It was more like he hobbled away. That’s when I called security.”
Murder in Mystic Cove Page 8
