Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  Sheriff Spooner was waiting for us in the living room, his long spare frame folded into a startlingly ugly blue-striped French Provincial wing chair—a chair that was so ugly it had to be expensive. Julie lighted on the more reasonable sofa and I sat beside her.

  “Morning, Ms. Gorsky. Mrs. Breyer here says you’re working for her now.”

  “That’s right,” I said, relieved that Julie had already explained how things stood. “I hope you don’t have a problem with me sitting in.”

  “Not at all,” Spooner said, turning to Julie. “First, I want to offer my condolences to you, Mrs. Breyer. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Empty words,” Julie whispered, but Spooner’s sharp ear caught the word.

  “They are only words, but they’re not empty. I am sorry for your loss and sorry that the sheriff’s department inadvertently caused you additional pain.”

  “It was hurtful,” Julie said.

  “And I’m afraid what I have to tell you next is going to hurt you some more, ma’am.”

  Julie crouched slighted, prepared for the blow that Spooner landed as gently as possible.

  “So my father wasn’t murdered,” Julie said when he’d finished.

  “At this point Dr. Rio suspects heart failure.”

  “There was nothing wrong with Dad’s heart!”

  Spooner nodded, “Dr. Rio didn’t find any signs of heart disease. That’s partly why she hasn’t settled definitively on a cause of death.”

  “This is absurd—it doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out what killed Dad—a bullet in a brain!”

  “The single certainty,” Spooner said, “is that your father was already dead when he was shot in the head.”

  “Stop, stop, I’ve heard enough,” Julie said, slapping both hands over her ears like the proverbial monkey.

  The sheriff looked to me. I herded Julie into the kitchen and laid it out for her. “If you’re not feeling up to it, you can put this off.”

  “Or?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

  “Or you can tough it out, get it over with. The bottom line is that Spooner has questions that need answers.”

  We retook our former places, and Julie waved for Spooner to continue. He asked many of the questions I had planned to ask. Mom and daughter talked on a regularly irregular basis, maybe every other week or so, with the conversation consisting of updates on the grandkids. Julie’s contact with her father was mainly through her mom—a quick “Dad says hi” tacked on just before hanging up. There was the usual exchange of cards with the requisite Xs and Os on birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day and any other holidays the greeting card companies could dream up. Sometimes Mel would email Julie, but never Anita. The sheriff perked at this, and I guess I perked a little as well.

  “Tell me about these emails,” he asked.

  “A lot of times he didn’t write anything at all, just sent a link to some article that he liked. Most of the articles were political. Dad is...was very active in politics. Sometimes he would mention some story was working on.”

  “For the Commentator?” I asked.

  “Yes—is that important?”

  “Did your father ever describe these articles?” I asked, ignoring Spooner’s hard look.

  “It depended. Dad was more close-mouthed about what he called his investigative pieces.” A small laugh. “Although he wasn’t shy about telling everyone what masterpieces they were. I can’t tell you how many times he said to Mom and me, ‘After this story is published, I’ll be bigger than Woodward and Bernstein.’”

  “What did you say?” I asked, leaning toward Julie.

  Julie’s brow knitted, thrown off by my intensity. “It’s just a family joke, that’s all. Woodward and Bernstein were the reporters who broke the Watergate scandal. Dad liked to brag that he’d be bigger than them.”

  I had found Woody and Bernie. Mel had made the same boast to Jesse, who’d misheard the names. When Mel had bragged of his imminent celebrity to anyone and everyone who would listen, he referred to the first of November, when he would publish his story in the Commentator—the big story that would make bring him fame and fortune. Was it about hookers at the G and G or something else? Something bigger?

  “Is it all right if I continue with my interview, Ms. Gorsky?” Spooner asked.

  There were more questions and answers, but nothing of import. The sheriff was preparing to leave when Julie Breyer dropped her little bomb.

  “Sheriff, when can I come to the morgue to see my parents?”

  Spooner worked his hat in his hands. “You don’t have to put yourself through that, ma’am.”

  “But don’t you need me—” Julie swallowed, “—to identify the remains?”

  A quick look passed between Spooner and me and he said, “No, ma’am. Your mother identified her husband, and last night Ms. Gorsky provided the official ID for Mrs. Dick.”

  “I...I still want to see them,” Mel Dick’s daughter repeated.

  “Fine then,” Spooner said, “I’ll make arrangements and get back to you.”

  I followed Spooner outside—out of Julie’s earshot—and ran my idea past him. He agreed, and I asked about Anita’s autopsy.

  “Dolores Rio says that Anita drowned though she hasn’t gotten all the labs yet. The body was bruised, but postmortem injury is typical in drowning victims. A lot of time the body is buffeted by water currents.”

  “Mystic Bay is a drainage pond. There aren’t any currents.”

  “There was some wind last night, and you did find Anita near the pier. Being whacked against those pilings could do some damage. There was one other thing. Some of the bruises were on Anita’s upper and lower forearms, shoulders and back of her hands.”

  “All consistent with defensive posturing,” I said excitedly.

  “My thought as well, but Rio is certain the bruising occurred antemortem, a day or two before Anita’s death.”

  “Damn.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  I didn’t. The defensive bruising—if that was what it was—occurred in the general time frame of Mel Dick’s death. Maybe the quarrel between Mel and Anita on the night of Mel’s death deteriorated into something physical. Sick and tired, Mel ran for the woods while Anita fumed. She got Mel’s gun and went to search for her husband, eventually finding him in the clearing of Birnam Wood. She shot him in the temple, unaware he was already dead. A lot was still unaccounted for, but I had to consider the possibility that Anita Dick was the shooter after all.

  * * *

  “Is something wrong with the computer?” Julie asked from behind.

  The second Spooner left, I’d pounced on Mel’s computer, certain I would find the article he’d been working on at the time of his death.

  “The monitor’s not coming on,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s not plugged in.”

  “That’s not it.” I pointed to the lighted buttons. I turned the computer tower around and asked Julie for a screwdriver so I could take a quick peek inside.

  “Why don’t you use my laptop?”

  “I need to examine Mel’s computer. I promise I won’t break anything. Please, the screwdriver.”

  While Julie searched I rolled back the desk chair and stretched. I hoped Julie hadn’t heard the irritation in my voice, but I responded poorly to micromanagement and she’d insisted on breathing down my neck while I scoured Mel’s computer. I’d pleaded with her to get some rest, promising to call her if I found anything, but she wouldn’t have it. Of course my motive was less than pure—in addition to searching for the article, I was itching to view Marco’s video on the large monitor, preferably without Julie’s help.

  Five minutes later Julie returned with several screwdrivers. I picked one and got to work. The screws came out easily. I popped
off the back, with Julie hovering behind.

  “That doesn’t look right,” Julie muttered, peering inside the gutted tower.

  “No, Julie, it isn’t right. At least now we know why the computer doesn’t work.”

  Someone had stolen the hard drive.

  * * *

  A quick inspection of Mel’s liquor cabinet revealed slim pickings: Bacardi, Smirnoff’s and a bottle of no-name brandy that had probably been poured on last year’s Christmas fruitcake. I called out the choices to Julie.

  “Brandy seems appropriate,” Julie said.

  After our discovery of the missing hard drive Julie had collapsed into a broken heap. They said that what didn’t kill you made you stronger, but people forgot that sometimes it did kill you. I poured the drinks, putting slightly more in Julie’s snifter than mine. I also brought the bottle along. Just in case.

  Julie slumped over the tan recliner like a sopping blanket. “Here,” I said, placing her drink on the side table. I rolled the desk chair closer.

  “What do you expect to find on the computer?” Julie asked.

  “A motive for murder.”

  A harsh laugh. “Spooner said it wasn’t murder.”

  I spoke slowly, carefully, as much for myself as for Julie. “That it isn’t murder is a technicality. Whoever shot Mel meant to kill him. Furthermore, this person believes he was successful. So in his mind, he is a murderer. And that makes him dangerous.”

  Julie sipped her brandy, grimaced. “Do you think this murderer wannabe also took Dad’s hard drive?”

  “Oh, yes.” When I saw the mutilated computer, I knew I was in the presence of an intelligent evil. “I believe that at the time of his death your dad was working on a pretty shocking story.”

  “Shocking?”

  Without naming names, I outlined the prostitution angle. “I’d hoped to find something related to the story in the computer—notes, a rough draft, even the article itself. But someone beat me to it.”

  “So somebody shot Dad to keep him from publishing some hooker story in that rinky-dink newspaper of his? Sounds preposterous.”

  “Preposterous things happen all the time. More brandy? It’s not half-bad.”

  “It’s not half-good either,” Julie said, “but fill ’er up.” I refilled both snifters. “Even if you’re right, we’re too late.”

  “Don’t give up. I’m betting Mel had backup files on his office computer. I don’t think I’ll have any problem gaining access to it.”

  “Legally? The smile on your face is positively evil—you look like you’re plotting something nefarious.”

  “I have a pretty good connection—I’m sure Fairley Sable will let me take a peek at Mel’s office computer. All aboveboard.”

  Julie blinked in surprise. “Fairley Sable?”

  “You know her?” Now I was the surprised one.

  “I met her for the first time today, though I recognized the name when she introduced herself—Mom sometimes mentioned her. Fairley stopped by to offer condolences for Mom and Dad. She brought a big bouquet of flowers from her garden and a coffee cake.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I think she wanted me to invite her in for coffee and cake, but I just wasn’t up to it. She seemed nice.”

  Since Julie seemed to be somewhat restored, I put my little idea on the table. “I’d like to have a second autopsy done on your father.”

  The eyebrows shot up and her mouth formed a little o. “Is that necessary?”

  “I believe so.”

  But Julie Breyer wanted no part of it. She was going through her objections for the third time, when I made a hard decision. Julie said she wanted to be in the loop. I would take her at her word.

  “In the days before his death your father underwent a startling change in mental status.” I described the forgetfulness, the paranoia, the grandiosity. “I’m hoping a second autopsy will reveal the cause.”

  “No, no, no,” Julie said. “I don’t believe it—you make it sound like Dad was crazy! Who told you these lies about Dad?”

  “They aren’t lies, Julie. Several people, including my own security guards, witnessed Mel’s aberrant behavior.”

  “Did you see it for yourself?”

  I held her gaze and said, “Yes, and you can see it too.”

  It didn’t take long to find Marco’s masterpiece on Julie’s laptop. I pressed Play.

  A sharp intake of breath and Julie’s harsh whisper. “Dad.”

  On the monitor José Barracas and Mel Dick were squared off like drunken prizefighters. José’s back was to the camera, but Mel Dick’s red face filled the screen, his features contorted by hate. My God, he was a volcano of hate. Mel’s right arm reared back and then lurched forward, releasing a wad of paper that bounced off José’s head. A shiver of cries roiled the crowd. José stumbled backward, nearly falling. The camera caught a glimpse of José’s frightened face as he scampered off-camera. Mel launched into his rambling and mumbling j’accuse, almost incomprehensible. I assumed it was the poor audio, until Gigi Tajani’s voice rang clear and true, “No, Mel, no!”

  So the defect was Mel’s.

  After he’d expelled his venom, the old man lifted his frightened dog and cried, “This is my only friend!” As Mel lumbered from the patio, the video dissolved into kaleidoscopic chaos. When the picture resumed, Mel’s Humvee was disappearing into the night, but then I saw something I hadn’t noticed before—the hood of a white Prius, following in the wake of Mel’s golf cart. Then the video ended.

  A hollow pit opened in my stomach. Oscar Wall had mentioned a Prius. On the night of his death Mel had blazed past the Admiral Street guardhouse in his golf cart, and hard on the cart’s ass was a Prius. I couldn’t remember whether Oscar had said the car was white or purple or streaked with rainbows, but the way this case was unfolding, I’d guess it was white.

  And who was the most famous—infamous?—owner of a white Prius in Mystic Cove? Why, the lady in white, of course—Busy Rhodes, who had sworn that she last saw Mel Dick at the Barnes and Noble, weeks before his death.

  Now why would the lady lie?

  * * *

  After several rounds of phone tag and multiple emails, Mel Dick’s second autopsy was scheduled for seven that evening. It would be performed by Dr. Hackle, a forensic pathologist on staff at University Hospital in Newnansville and Uncle Otto’s former protégée.

  Next I called Fairley Sable, who agreed to meet me at the newspaper office within the hour. Driving past the Admiral Street guardhouse, I spotted Oscar Wall inside. A bit of luck—I could ask Oscar about the Prius. Smiling, I rolled down the car window, but my smile died when I saw Oscar’s face. It was the mask of a dark Yoruba god up to mischief.

  “Ms. Gorsky,” Oscar said with a curt nod.

  “Oscar, I wanted to ask you about the night of Dick’s death. You said you saw a Prius—”

  “Can I see your visitor’s pass?” The voice of a stranger—I felt cold.

  “Pass?” I didn’t have a pass—Jesse Potts had waved me in, even though he’d known I was no longer chief. “What’s all this ma’am shit, Oscar? It’s me, Addie.”

  “What is your business in Mystic Cove, ma’am?” Oscar’s eyes narrowed on Jinks, who, concerned at the delay, had bounded into my lap.

  “I visited Julie Breyer at 1800 Admiral Street, but I want to ask you what color the Prius was.”

  “There’s no one living in that house, ma’am.”

  “Goddamn it, Oscar.” I gave him Julie’s cell number. “And once Mrs. Breyer clears me, I want a week-long pass. I’m going to be seeing her on a regular basis.”

  Fifteen minutes later Oscar handed over the pass.

  “But this is only good for today.”

  “New rules from the top,” Osca
r said with a vile grin. “Only daily passes from now on.”

  Then a sharp slap as the window snapped shut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It Smells to Heaven

  Fairley flipped the lights: “This is our reception area—isn’t it nice? Mel believed the Commentator office should put forth the proper image.”

  To me the place had the charm of an upscale dentist’s waiting room, with all the conventional accoutrements—a few potted palms, a stack of nondescript magazines, even an aquarium of angelfish. On sunny days, the large picture window would allow plenty of natural light, but on this rainy day the vertical blinds were shuttered. “I appreciate this,” I said.

  A shadow tempered Fairley’s smile. “This is the first time I’ve been here since Mel’s passing. It’s so empty and sad. I hate to think what will happen to the Commentator with Mel gone.”

  “You never know, somebody might step up to the plate.” I could care less about the Commentator and thought the best thing for all concerned would be for the paper to die a merciful death.

  “But who? There’s Alan of course, but I can’t see him returning to the paper, what with Tally being ill.”

  “Is Mrs. Rand’s illness serious?” I asked, remembering that Rand had guarded Tally like a Pekinese in the Forbidden City.

  Fairley’s hand flew to her throat. “I have no idea. I’m just repeating things I’ve heard.” She laughed. “Didn’t I warn you that I was a gossipy old lady? But let me give you the grand tour—that is, if your little partner promises to not to leave any surprises.” She wagged a playful finger at Jinks, who pressed against my leg.

  “He’ll be a good boy.” Just in case I picked him up.

  “This is our reception room. There’s a small kitchen to the left. That’s my little desk over there.” Fairley pointed to an unassuming desk in the corner. “You can check my computer as well. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not necessary, I just need Mel’s.” I followed Fairley down a short hallway at the end of which was a door marked with gold letters: Editor’s Office. With a Vanna White flourish, Fairley opened the door and bade me enter.