Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “Describe Mel’s affect.”

  “Huh?”

  “What was his mood? His emotional state?” I already had a pretty good idea, but I needed every nugget out of this witness.

  “That’s easy—Mel Dick was scared, scared shitless.”

  Oscar had smelled the same fear on Dick. “What did Mel’s friends do then?”

  “Everything was so crazy with the police and everything, I didn’t see, but I guess they got the hell out of there. But I gotta go. It’s already past four.”

  After she’d gone, I coaxed more coffee from the bartender and reviewed my notes. I now had a clearer picture of the events at the G and G, but it was like viewing the last act of a play without knowing what had come before. In murder, as in life, what’s past is Prologue. Something had driven these friends apart. Had that something also driven one of them to murder?

  The obvious answer was that Gigi and Mel’s reckless liaison had split the group, but I wasn’t so sure. I had no idea how Alan and Tally Rand viewed the pathetic affair but Fairley Sable had certainly taken it in stride. And despite casting herself as Anita’s good friend, Fairley Sable had no scruples in remaining on friendly terms with Gigi. Sheila, who was as close to an objective observer in this hot mess, believed the affair was in the past, an interpretation also encouraged by Mel Dick’s harsh final words to his mistress: Et tu, Gigi?

  But if the affair had ended, why had Anita chosen that particular time to confront her husband about his infidelity, especially given her penchant for burying her head in the sand.

  But then the betrayed did not act rationally.

  Mel’s mental deterioration further complicated matters. Over the last weeks of his life Dick had swung between fearful paranoia and grandiosity. On the night of his murder Sheila and Oscar saw a man scared shitless, a man running for his life. But perhaps Mel had run from phantom demons, and the murderer he spoke of on Spooner’s voice mail existed only in his diseased imagination. Dizzy with speculation, I slapped the notepad shut and headed back to the Cove. I was on Cove Road when I got the call.

  “I’ve got the preliminary autopsy report,” Spooner crowed. “The bullet Blanding dug out of Dick’s head was clean, and ballistics identified it as coming from a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, a match to the gun registered to Mel Dick. I’m on my way to Admiral Street, search warrant in hand.”

  Things had gone from bad to worse for Anita Dick.

  Chapter Eight

  And Dog Will Have its Day

  Usually I parked the Crown Vic in the enclosed garage—the Vic was Pop’s pride and joy—but the parking lot next to the Financial Building was nearly empty, not a Lexus or Escalade in sight. Was it a holiday for the suits? Then I remembered that the renovations of the upper floors had begun today. During construction the financial advisors had relocated to temporary quarters.

  I punched the code to the rear entrance and hurried for the stairwell in the back. Mystic Cove’s armada of golf carts sat in neat rows. Usually the vehicles evoked childish memories of kiddie rides at Gwynn Oak Park, but now they seemed almost sinister. I was hurrying to the stairs when I heard something moving, coming from somewhere in the nest of carts.

  “Who’s there?” Old instincts died hard, if at all—my hand reached for the Glock that was gathering dust in my closet. “I know you’re there!”

  A figure in Mystic Cove khaki stepped from the shadows. “Addie?”

  “Jesus, Tyler, you scared the shit out of me!”

  “Sorry, I was...uh...waiting for you. Got a minute?”

  “Sure.” I started for the stairs, but Tyler hung back.

  “Thing is, I only got a couple minutes before I have to relieve Oscar.”

  “Whatever—let’s at least get out of the fucking garage.”

  At the stairwell I punched another code. I sat on the bottom rung of the stairwell and signaled for Tyler to begin.

  “It...it happened a couple weeks ago at the Cove Creamery.” Tyler kept shifting his weight, like he had to pee or something. His face was unreadable in the muted light, but I supposed my little display of temper had put him ill at ease. Had Tyler grown a sensitive side since our breakup?

  “Chocolate raspberry still your favorite?” I asked with a little laugh.

  Tyler’s shoulders unhunched and he sat next to me.

  “Always and forever.” He nudged my shoulder with his. “Thelma was scooping my cone when Mel sauntered inside. He had the dog in one arm and a drink in the other, neither of which was allowed inside the shop. Most people in Mystic Cove would have let Mel Dick slide, but not Thelma. You know Thelma?”

  “I think so.” Actually I was pretty sure I knew this hard-boiled Thelma, though not by name.

  “Thelma told Mel that he needed to leave the drink and the dog outside. They argued a little bit, but old Mel blinked first. He was on his way outside when he bumped into Alan and Tally Rand, who were just coming in.” Tyler slapped his knee. “You should have seen it. The two old guys sized each other up, sniffing around like a couple of pit bulls.”

  I clenched Tyler’s arm. “You thought there was a potential for physical violence?”

  “At the time I didn’t think so, but now, I’m not so sure. What I do know is that something bad passed between Mel and Alan Rand.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Rand backed down first.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “No, but he did get kinda rough with his wife.”

  “No shit.”

  “He practically pushed Tally outside.”

  I was shocked. Alan Rand had always treated his wife with extreme consideration. “What did Mel do?”

  “Just watched them go.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Couple weeks ago, more or less.”

  Back in my office I paced. More than anything I wanted to drive to Admiral Street to see how Spooner’s search was progressing, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want my presence. And why would he? I was an adjunct to the investigation, an optional accessory that might or might not be of use. I needed to accept that and stop thinking—and acting—as if I were the damned primary.

  At five o’clock I didn’t want to go home. I was too juiced. I called the Cove Creamery.

  “This is Thelma Sky and who is this?”

  My heart warmed at the nasal voice deepened by years of cigarette smoke and too many hard knocks. I identified myself and asked if I could drop by the Creamery for a few words.

  “Sure thing,” the old broad said, “I’ll put on a fresh pot of joe for us—still cream and no sugar?”

  So she did remember me.

  We’d met shortly after I’d started at Mystic Cove. I’d wandered into the Cove Creamery for an afternoon coffee, but first needed the bathroom. I asked the tall wiry lady behind the counter where the bathroom was. Her jaw dropped a mile and a smile cracked the rutted face.

  “The baffroom is down the hall and to the left, hon.”

  It was my turn to smile. “By any chance, are you from Balamer?” I asked, though I had my answer.

  After that whenever I worked Founder’s Centre, I stopped in the Creamery for a coffee. Since my promotion to chief I hadn’t seen my old friend. Strange that we had never exchanged names, but then we hadn’t needed them. To me she was the Arundal Lady, having confided that her first job had been at the Arundal Ice Cream Shop on Greenmount Avenue. “And here I am fifty years later still scooping ice cream.” In between she had tended bar and waited tables and done what she had to, to keep bread on the table and the shadows off the door, but the end of life had circled back to the beginning. Whether that was cruel or kind, I could not say.

  Fifteen minutes later I was shaking Thelma Sky’s bony hand. Attached to the hand was an equally bony
body. Her dyed brown hair was tightly pinned at the back, topped by a steely bouffant worthy of a Myrmidon or an honest-to-goodness Baltimore hon. Oh, there was no false softness about Thelma Sky and I loved her for it.

  “Take a seat and I’ll get our coffees.” Thelma gestured at the small round table near the rear of the empty shop.

  Settling into her chair, Thelma sighed with pleasure. “That feels good. If I could have a cigarette, this would be perfect.”

  “I appreciate this,” I said.

  “We Baltimorons gotta stick together. So what’s shaking?”

  “I need information about an incident that happened at the Creamery a few weeks ago.” I related the particulars.

  “Yeah, I remember—I thought Mel and Alan Rand were gonna have at it right inside the Creamery. Goddamn Mel was always pissing people off, but he wasn’t as bad as people thought. The mistake people made was in kowtowing to him.”

  “Not you.”

  “Nah, I never saw the point in kissing ass, even when I was young, and now that I’m old, there’s even less point.” She sipped her coffee. “Mel was a regular customer. Every other day he came in for his vanilla single-dip cone, and we’d dance our dance.”

  I smiled ruefully. “I wouldn’t take Mel Dick for much of a dancer.”

  “We’re all dancers, Addie.” Thelma looked outside. It was twilight and the street was emptying of people. “Anyhow, on that day he came inside with Jinks and his jug of tea, like usual. I told him no service till he lost the dog and the outside drink. Also like usual. We squabbled back-and-forth until he backed down. So the dance was just about done and Mr. Dick was headed for the door when the Rands came in. When Alan saw Mel, he got a look like he had just crapped his pants. There was a Mexican standoff for a couple of seconds and then Rand ran off, dragging Tally along for the ride.” She sipped her coffee. “That’s what I like about this business. There’s always something to see, if you’re watching for it.”

  “What did Mel do?”

  “Funny thing, I saw Mel’s shoulders shaking and for a second I thought, oh geez, he’s crying! Only he wasn’t crying. He was laughing his ass off. Rand’s discomfort amused him, which wasn’t very nice.” Thelma met my gaze. “Mel Dick wasn’t as bad as people thought, but he was bad enough.”

  “Bad enough for someone to murder?”

  Thelma’s long face did a slow nod. “Now, the interesting part is what happened next. You see, Mel always had a couple of irons in the fire. I just figured Rand got burned and after a while things would return to normal between him and Mel, but that’s not what happened.”

  I leaned close.

  “The next time Mel came in for his vanilla cone, he was all right, but after that...he was different. Poor Mel.” A shadow flickered over the lined face. I had seen shock and horror over Mel Dick’s murder but not yet sorrow. Not until now.

  “Different how?”

  “Mel was never one to hide his light under a bushel but now he was the big butter-and-egg man. He owned the bragging rights in Mystic Cove.”

  “What did he brag about?”

  “He didn’t say exactly, which was a little unusual for him.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Yeah, he’d always say things like, ‘Did you read my letter to the editor?’ or ‘Last Tuesday I beat Rand in handball.’ But now he said, ‘Come November I’ll be able to write my ticket.’ That mean anything to you? Addie?”

  The balls fell into their respective pockets. When Mel bragged to Jesse and the others that in a couple of weeks he would be a big shot, he was referring to the first of November when a fresh edition of the Cove Commentator was due. But what had he planned for November’s Commentator? An announcement of some kind? A ball-busting editorial? Or was he working on a shocking exposé, the story that would finally bring him the fame that was his due?

  “Tell me more about the changes in Mel.”

  “His memory was shot. Me and him didn’t do our dance anymore ’cause he couldn’t remember the steps. The last time he came in and ordered his cone, I handed it to him and he stared at it like it was shit on a stick. Then he turned those big peepers on me. I gotta say, for the first time in a long while I was scared.”

  “Scared of Mel?”

  “Kind of, but mostly I was scared for him. He looked like he was doped up or something. And he was just as scared as me, maybe even more scared.”

  “Of what?” I asked in frustration.

  “I don’t know, Addie—I wish I did.”

  “Makes two of us.” If I knew the cause of Mel’s consuming fear, I’d be that much closer to an answer. “So what did Mel do next?”

  “He threw the cone I’d just dipped onto the floor and accused me of trying to poison him. I tried to reason with him, but it was no good.”

  “He was beyond reason,” I said.

  “You got that right!” Thelma said with a finger pop. “That was the last time me and him talked, though I seen him a few times after that, shambling along the sidewalk with Jinks or buzzing along in his cart.”

  “Can you pinpoint when Mel’s symptoms first appeared?”

  “Geez Louise, I don’t know.”

  I shrugged. It was a long shot.

  “Hey, don’t give up so quick,” Thelma yelled, squeezing my arm. She disappeared into a back room, reappearing moments later with a supersized wall calendar, A Year of Adorable Puppies. She flipped back to September—a Chihuahua in a teacup, ugh—but quickly returned to October, which featured a couple of long-eared basset hound pups oozing adorability. As her crooked finger ran over October’s days, I noticed nearly every square was filled with Thelma’s chicken scratch.

  “Here it is,” she said, her bright eyes holding mine. “Mel started acting squirrelly around the middle of October. And I know this because on the day when Mel and Rand tangled, I was out of choc-razz and your boyfriend had to settle for rocky road.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I ran out of choc-razz on October seventh. See—I wrote a note so I’d remember to reorder.” A red talon pointed to the corresponding block. “I didn’t get my restock until the twelfth. So that gives me a range for the tiff between Mel and Alan Rand. Since he started acting weird a few days after the tiff with Rand, Mel must have gone bonkers sometime around...”

  “The middle of October,” I finished.

  “Give or take a few days,” Thelma added.

  “You’re a born detective, Thelma!”

  Thelma shrugged off the compliment. “I just like to keep an eye out. In this business there’s always something to see.” She placed her calloused hand over mine, her bright brown eyes burning with intensity. “Just get to the bottom of this mess, Addie. Mel Dick was an asshole but we’re all assholes part of the time. So find the person who did this—for all our sakes.”

  “All our sakes?”

  “You know as well as me that sometimes murder can become a habit.”

  I gave Thelma Sky my personal number and asked that she call me if she heard or saw anything interesting.

  “You bet, Addie.” Her gaze fell onto the dark street. “You know, Mystic Cove is a strange place. These people who live here, they act like they’re going to go on forever. These old people think they’re never going to die. Don’t they know the truth? Don’t they know they’re winter people?”

  * * *

  I was halfway home when I got a call.

  “We got your perp, Chief, or rather Mrs. Santiago’s got him.”

  Gooseflesh erupted on my arms. It was a disturbingly gleeful Oscar Wall. It wasn’t like Oscar to joke around, unless it was at someone else’s expense.

  “I got Mel Dick’s dog here in the office, along with Mrs. Santiago, the lady who found him.”

  “Are you sure it’s Mr. Jinks?”
>
  “Oh, it’s him all right. But listen, I’m off the clock and I need to get going, so...”

  “Stay put, Oscar! I’ll be there in five.”

  But Oscar didn’t stay put. At headquarters I found a middle-aged brown-skinned woman standing outside my office door. One hand held a plastic Publix bag and the other a slack leash. At the end of the leash sat a morbidly obese pug. I took in the gray muzzle and coat, glassy bug eyes, lolling tongue. Definitely Mr. Jinks, but the past twenty-four hours had been cruel to the old dog. He whined piteously and shook like a drunk with the DTs.

  “Mrs. Santiago?” The small woman nodded and I realized she was as frightened as the dog. I introduced myself and hustled her and the dog inside my office.

  Mrs. Santiago’s English was on par with my Spanish, and so I only put the whole story together later. Irma Santiago worked as a domestic for a family in the Cove. Yesterday on her way home she spotted Mr. Jinks in the gloaming, limping along the side of the road. An animal lover, she lured the dog into her car with a stale cheese doodle. She brought Jinks home, planning to return tomorrow with the dog and search for its owner.

  And that was what Mrs. Santiago and Jinks had been doing when Oscar Wall found them, after responding to resident reports of a “strange dark woman” lurking in the area. Oscar took firm and immediate action, whisking woman and dog back to security headquarters.

  I mimed for Mrs. Santiago to take a seat and was making a similar offer of coffee when Jinks’s constant whining took on sudden vigor. I crouched and offered the distraught animal my open palm, assuring him that he was a good boy. The cries lessened in intensity. The pug lifted his knobby head and sniffed my hand.

  “You like dog,” Mrs. Santiago said, looking down on us like a beneficent deity. “The man no like, but you like. You take him now.” Just then a series of smelly farts—like toots from a spastic horn—sputtered from the dog’s rear.

  “He do that all night,” Mrs. Santiago moaned. “I no sleep.”