Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “So where do we go from here?” I asked, shaking off my handlers.

  The two guards exchanged a nervous look. If the cops didn’t show, maybe I could squirm my way out of this little snag. But then the roar of a car, traveling hard and fast, sounded through Admiral Street. Only cops and criminals rode their cars that hard. Or so I’d thought. I almost smiled as the car screeched to a halt. I knew this car. Had ridden in it many times.

  Acting Chief Tyler Andrews had answered the call.

  My two bodyguards ran to their new boss, and I followed. When guilty—as I was—the best defense was to act innocent. I planned to tell Tyler that I was leaving and if there was a problem, he knew how to get in touch with me. But my scheme was shattered when I saw a familiar figure striding Admiral Street like a gunfighter at high noon, with me in the crosshairs. I’d forgotten Brad had been babysitting Julie. Of course he’d heard Tyler’s noisy arrival and was coming to investigate.

  “Where the hell’s going on?” Brad asked.

  “Glad to see you, Sheriff.” Tyler smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Mr. Rand claims that this woman—” he jerked his head at me, “—assaulted him, but he doesn’t want the police involved.”

  “I did no such thing,” I said quickly. “Sheriff, you need to talk some sense into Mr. Rand.”

  Rand had ended his call and now looked at us with an expression that could only be described as stark terror.

  “What happened here, Mr. Rand?” Brad asked.

  But Rand didn’t even acknowledge Brad’s presence. He only had eyes for Tyler. “I...I told you I didn’t want the police involved,” the old man sputtered, pointing a bony finger at the Acting Chief of Mystic Cove Security. “Mr. Richt won’t like this one bit.”

  Tyler frowned. “I didn’t call GCSO—tell him, Sheriff.”

  “I happened to be in the neighborhood. No one called me, but now that I’m here, you better tell me what happened.”

  Rand swallowed. “Nothing.”

  “Did you,” Tyler said in a cracked voice, “or did you not just tell me that Addie Gorsky beat you up, Mr. Rand?”

  “It was an accident. I fell,” Rand said.

  Tyler scowled at the feeble man. “That’s not what you said a minute ago. You heard him, didn’t you?” he asked his guards, but they were too engrossed in cloud-watching to answer.

  “I was confused.” Rand licked his lips, looked at the house. “Now that I think about it, that woman didn’t touch me.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  “Was the forcible entry an accident too?” Tyler asked me. “Sheriff, when my guards arrived they found Gorsky inside the house, without Mr. Rand’s permission—isn’t that right, Mr. Rand?”

  Rand didn’t answer. He glanced again at his house.

  “Mr. Rand!” Tyler’s voice had more than a touch of hysteria. He had no idea what was going on, but I did.

  “Mr. Rand wasn’t inside the house,” I said, “but Mrs. Rand was.” Rand gave me a scathing look. “Ask her if she gave me permission or not. She can clear up any misunderstanding.”

  “Mr. Rand,” Brad said, a voice of calm reason. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I want all of you to leave me and my wife in peace.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.” Brad said.

  Tyler threw up his arms. “Do whatever you want. We’re out of here.”

  After Mystic Cove Security quit the scene, Rand turned to Brad. Although Rand’s words were for him, his eyes were on me. “I’ve just consulted with my lawyer, Sheriff. If Addie Gorsky comes near me or my wife, I will take out a restraining order.”

  “Ms. Gorsky understands.” Brad and I started to head back to the Dick house, but Rand wasn’t finished.

  “To this point I’ve cooperated with your investigation into Mel’s murder. I’ve been forthcoming with Deputy Berry. Going forward my lawyer will represent me at any future interviews.”

  * * *

  When we got back to the Dick house, I told Brad that I was going to check on Julie. I wasn’t particularly concerned about her—she was a tough cookie, like her dad—but I wanted to check on something. It also wouldn’t hurt to give Brad a few minutes to get over being pissed.

  I stuck my head in the guest bedroom. Julie was a lump in the bed. Next I slipped into Mel’s office. Mel’s library wasn’t extensive and I found the book at once. Kristin Donald’s memoir I Am Not a Witch. Since both Rand and Busy Rhodes had mentioned Mel’s excitement over this latest acquisition to his library, it was worth a look.

  Kristin Donald’s bland face graced the cover. She was close to Mel in age. Was there a personal connection? But the inscription was formal. To Mel Dick, Best Wishes, Kristin Donald. I flipped to the inset of photos. Many of the pictures were from some trial in 1974. That was when Assistant District Attorney Kristin Donald had earned her bones by putting away some notorious sixties radical. I flipped back and forth through the photos, but they meant nothing. I closed the book. Just a tedious political memoir that would be in the discount bin next week.

  I found Brad in the kitchen. The coffee smelled fresh so I poured two cups and pulled up a stool next to Brad.

  “Julie slept through the excitement,” I said. “Something to be thankful for.” Brad didn’t look thankful. “Look, I know that things could have gone better back there, but...”

  “You think? Damn it, you could have been charged with trespassing, assault, forcible entry.” He counted my crimes on his fingers.

  “Not assault, Brad—I didn’t touch Rand. In fact, I tried to help him when he fell, but he wouldn’t let me near him.”

  “Can’t blame the man.”

  “And maybe I was trespassing, but forcible entry? The front door was wide open, and Tally didn’t ask me to leave.”

  Brad shook his head. I didn’t know if he had kids, but it was definitely a parental sort of headshake. “You’re damn lucky Rand isn’t pressing charges.”

  “Lucky?” I opened the fridge, found a pack of bagels. “I’m not so sure. You saw the way Rand looked at me. He wanted my ass in jail.”

  Brad shook his head but there was just a ghost of a smile on his lips. “He surely did.”

  “Exactly,” I said as I put a bagel in the toaster oven, “so why did Rand let me off the hook?”

  “First, he did threaten you with a restraining order.” I made a dismissive sound. “And Rand probably wants to keep the police out of it because he doesn’t want to put his wife through the ordeal of a police investigation—you’ve said yourself that she hasn’t been well.”

  “I guess.”

  “I just wish he and Tally hadn’t lawyered-up—that makes my job a lot tougher.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said, the words slipping out.

  “What’s that?”

  “Earlier I spoke with Gigi Tajani and Busy Rhodes. I learned a lot of good stuff, but unfortunately they...”

  “Let me guess—they lawyered-up.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” The toaster oven rang, and I busied myself with smearing a little jelly on my bagel.

  “So in one day’s work you’ve managed to lawyer-up five witnesses.” The fingers were out again.

  “Only four, Brad—Fairley is still talking to me.” As far as I knew, that was. “But after I tell you all I’ve learned, you’ll agree it was worth it.” First I told him about Busy tailing Mel.

  “So Mel went to his office and dressed his dog in a sweater vest.”

  “Not a sweater vest—a bandana, or bufanda, depending on who you ask.” I bit into my bagel and realized I was starving.

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t get it either, but it was an odd thing for Mel to do.”

  “No shit.”

  I re
minded Brad that Jinks’s collar had been found on Mel’s body, in the pocket of his shorts. “So at his office Mel took off Jinks’s regular collar and replaced it with that bandana. I wouldn’t peg him for one to play dress-up with his dog.”

  Brad rubbed his temple. “Me neither, but so what? It’s just more craziness from Mel.”

  “Busy said Mel kept worrying at Jinks’s bandana.”

  “Let’s move on, Addie.”

  If Brad was less than impressed, so be it. But the detail was important, even vital. In the last hours of his life Mel had fixated on his beloved dog. Crazy always had a reason. What was Mel’s?

  The sheriff showed more interest in my little talk with Gigi. “So if Gigi’s account is accurate, then the first gunshot was fired in this very house, most likely by Anita Dick.”

  “I agree, but we don’t know the circumstances. The gun might have accidentally discharged.”

  “Or Anita tried to kill Mel and was just a lousy shot.” Brad pulled out his cell. “I’ll get CSU out here. We need to find that bullet, compare it to the one we got out of Dick’s brain.”

  “Tell CSU to start in the garage, that’s probably where it went down. I figure Anita was waiting for Mel, and when she heard the garage door open she rushed to the garage to confront him.”

  “With the gun,” Brad added.

  “Probably,” I said, “though it’s certainly possible that Mel had the gun, at least initially. According to Gigi there was a brief argument, followed by the gunshot, during which Jinks ran off, probably through the open garage door.”

  “Then Mel took off to pay his girlfriend a visit,” Brad added.

  “What are you two plotting?”

  Brad and I started like guilty children.

  Julie Breyer was a sight, sweating in one of her mother’s voluminous bathrobes. Brad and I watched in stunned silence as the unsteady ghost shambled to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank. The glass dry, she slanted against the counter for support, a leaning tower of Julie.

  “Have you eaten anything today?” I asked, going to her side. “I could fix you a bagel.”

  Julie shook her head. “Not hungry. The kids came down with the flu last week—I guess I didn’t dodge the bullet after all.” A weak laugh and she added, “Like father, like daughter.”

  “You should get back to bed.”

  “I heard what you said about Mom shooting Dad.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” Brad said, “but you understand we got to check this out.”

  “Do what you have to do—you will anyway.” She shrugged off my offer of help but asked if I would pour her a glass of sweet tea. I spotted orange juice in the fridge and suggested that might be a more appropriate beverage.

  “No orange juice, I want Dad’s sweet tea. In the summer Dad brewed a fresh batch every couple days. Mom can’t drink it ’cause of the sugar.” The smile faded. “But when the tea is gone, it’s all gone. Dad won’t be making any more.”

  “Sweet tea it is,” I said.

  As Julie stumbled away, clutching the glass of tea, she muttered, “Gone, gone, all gone.”

  * * *

  CSU found the bullet wedged in the front leg of Mel’s garage worktable, but the really good news was that the bullet was intact. Now there was an excellent chance that the lab could determine if the bullet matched the one recovered from Mel’s brain.

  “You were right about the garage,” Brad said, joining me in the kitchen. “Addie?”

  “What?” The past days had caught up with me, all at once. I was pleased about my hunch being right, but didn’t have the energy to do a victory lap. Although I felt I had enough pieces of the puzzle to put at least some of it together, my sleep-deprived brain couldn’t focus.

  “You look like you’re dead on your feet. Do yourself a favor and take the night off. Get a decent night’s sleep for a change.”

  I shook my head. “Anita’s autopsy is tonight.”

  “If by chance Hackle finds something that Rio missed, I’ll call you. Go home, get some rest, say hi to your family.”

  “It’s just Pop,” I said through a deep yawn.

  “Then go home and say hi to Pop.”

  Driving home, I keep seeing Alan Rand behind the wheel of the silver Lexus, the patrician face distorted by hate and fear, hands gripping the steering wheel, one foot hovering over the gas pedal, eager to pounce. But worst of all was that face, that awful, hateful face.

  It was the face of a murderer.

  * * *

  I woke as the day died. The rain pattered softly and the day’s last light slanted through the window, painting strange shadows on the wall. From the living room I heard Judge Judy tearing some litigant a new one—Pop loved those idiotic court shows. My sleep had not been restful, shot through with dreams of these past days. But I have always been a dreamer.

  “Hungry, Pop?”

  “I can eat.”

  We had a late dinner. I found a couple of Portobello mushrooms only a little past their prime and a jar of Ragu. I even managed to coax out a couple of glasses of red wine from the box, hoping the wine would mellow my mood—it didn’t.

  Over dinner I caught Pop up on the day’s major developments, leaving out the unimportant details, such as his daughter almost getting arrested.

  “A clever mind is at work,” Pop said, moving his pasta around the plate.

  “An evil mind as well,” I added.

  “You still believe the murderer is one of Mel’s friends.”

  “More than ever.”

  “Still, the bulk of evidence points to Anita,” Pop said, taking a birdlike sip of merlot. “She shot her husband once, why not twice?”

  “Anita and Mel were victims, Pop.”

  “Both murdered?” Pop asked, putting down his fork.

  “I’m not sure about that. I do suspect that there’s something more to learn from Anita’s death. One thing I am sure of—Alan and Tally Rand are hiding something.”

  “It’s all right, Adelajda. I know you will find your murderer.”

  “First of all, it’s not my murderer and how can you be sure?” I shot back. “You didn’t even think I’d make it as a cop, much less a detective.”

  “Why do you say that?” My father’s shocked, hurt face should have stopped me, but I was on a roll.

  “You didn’t approve when I signed up for the police academy, and yet now you’re so sure I’ll solve this murder.”

  “You misunderstand, then and now. I had reservations about the academy. You’re not like your sisters. You’re different, more like me. You’ve never been good at following rules. You like to go your own way.” He smiled sadly. “You see, a person doesn’t wear a uniform, it’s the other way around.”

  I stared at this man, my father. When I was a kid I had seen him as a knight, part of the blue line that kept the rest of us safe. I’d always thought it was his calling, but maybe the fit had not been as perfect as I’d imagined. Some of my anger left me and all I wanted now was for this conversation to be over.

  “Maybe you were right about the academy, Pop, considering how it ended.” One thing I’ve learned—it didn’t matter how things began, it was the ending that counted. And my career at BCPD had ended badly.

  “You’ve never talked about it.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” I said.

  Pop sighed. “But I know you’ll succeed in finding the murderer. To hunt a killer requires a profane devotion, a single-minded ruthlessness, and you have these things.”

  I pushed my chair back even though I knew Pop wasn’t finished. Wordlessly I cleared the dinner dishes, leaving them to soak in the sink. Seeing that I had sunk into one of my moods, Pop didn’t waste his breath. He just padded into his bedroom, with Jinks right behind.

 
I stretched out on the couch to consider my next move, but couldn’t focus. I shifted through several options, but nothing appealed. The long nap had left me restless, in mind and body. I walked out on the tiny balcony.

  It was a beautiful night, cold and clear, the stars glittering like a carpet of shattered glass. Very like the night of Mel’s murder. An idea formed in my brain. A mad idea, and I liked it.

  A midnight stroll through Mystic Cove might be my way out of the labyrinth. Tonight I would follow Mel Dick’s movements on the final night of his life. Walk in Mel’s shoes, so to speak. Maybe then understanding would come.

  There was just one thing—I needed to keep the hell away from Alan and Tally Rand.

  * * *

  Billy Blake fixed his clouded eyes on my visitor’s permit, as if to commit the thing to memory.

  “Come on, Billy.” All I wanted was to get to the Dick residence, the starting point of my journey.

  Billy tapped the paper and declared, “This permit is not valid.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “This here permit is for October twenty-eight.”

  “Which it is,” I pointed out.

  Billy showed off brown teeth and pointed to the clock on the guardhouse wall. Both hands pointed dead-straight at the twelve.

  “You gotta be kidding me! You kept me waiting a good five minutes.”

  Billy didn’t budge. I could have had him call Julie for a new permit, but she needed her rest. So I gave Billy a two-fingered salute, executed a three-point turn, and took off in the opposite direction, toward Founder’s Centre.

  I’d show fucking Billy Blake that there was more than one way to skin a cat—or a security guard.

  * * *

  Hours later I stood in the small clearing where Mel Dick had met his end, no wiser for all my effort. I danced the flashlight over the ground, searching for the past but finding nothing. I eased down and sat on the cold earth.

  Billy’s clumsy attempt to keep me out of Mystic Cove had been easily circumvented. I’d driven directly to Founder’s Centre, parked in the empty G and G parking lot, and begun my journey from there. After hopping over the low fence, I’d wandered around the Grub and Grog patio for a bit, seeing it as it had been last Monday night—Mel and Anita at the round table near the front, Alan and Tally in their dark corner, and Gigi and Fairley to the side, drinking and laughing. Where had Busy been? No doubt nearby, a silent witness.