Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “I don’t buy that, and I’ll tell you why,” Brad said. “Alan Rand now knows that Mel was deceased when he was shot, yet he stands by every word in this statement, even though murder charges are off the table. What’s he protecting his wife from now?”

  “I don’t know.” I shoved Rand’s confession back to Brad. I waited until we’d both stopped bristling, then said, “Say, are Anita’s labs in yet?”

  “Nope, but I don’t know what you’re hoping for. Both Rio and Hackle agree that Anita drowned. It’s over. Pat yourself on the back for a job well done and move on.”

  “First I have to go to Dexter Memorial and tell Julie Breyer that her mother killed her father after all. At least her husband will be here soon.” I glanced at the clock. Breyer’s plane was due in at three-thirty, an hour from now. Soon, but not soon enough—Julie needed all the support she could get.

  “You can soften the blow.”

  “You don’t know Julie Breyer,” I said, pulling on my jacket. “She doesn’t like soft-serve.”

  There was a rattle of knocks on the door, but before Brad could say anything, the door peeped open and a gray-haired man stuck his head inside. His voice was a Southern purr as he asked if he might have a word with the sheriff.

  After the door closed, I gaped at Brad. “What’s drunk bow-tie guy doing here?”

  “You know him?”

  I told him about my brief encounter with bow-tie guy at Jud Richt’s Shithouse. “He was in such a hurry to get to Jud Richt’s office the old drunk nearly knocked me down.”

  Brad chuckled, but his face was dark granite. “Bow-tie guy, huh? Around here we know him as Coroner Titus Blanding.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Mask of the Beast

  The nurse was going over Julie’s discharge instructions when I slipped into the room. The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting zebra stripes over the room. I closed my eyes. It was one week to the day since I’d found the body in Birnam Wood, but the ordeal was almost over.

  “Addie?”

  I startled awake. I hadn’t heard the nurse leave. I mumbled sorry and dragged my chair the side of the bed. So far all Julie knew was that someone named Alan Rand had confessed to murdering her father, but little else.

  “I’m all done here, but I told the nurse to give us a few minutes. I need to know the truth. Did Alan Rand shoot my father?”

  “He’s confessed to it,” I said carefully.

  As I’d feared, Julie demanded the details of Rand’s confession. I took a breath and told her. When I was done Julie leaned back into her pillow. She took so long that I actually hoped she’d let it go for once. But she proved true to her blood. “Did this Rand also poison the tea?”

  “Alan Rand denies tampering with the tea.”

  “So the police think Mom did it,” Julie said. “And you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So Mom killed Dad after all.” A choked laugh. “And she almost killed me as well.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. We don’t know the circumstances of the initial gunshot—it might have been an accidental misfiring, for all we know. And even if Anita did put the jimsonweed in Mel’s tea, her intent was to punish, not to kill.”

  “And Mom’s death?”

  “There’s nothing new.”

  “But the cops think it’s suicide, right? That fits with their theory. Mom was guilty about Dad and drowned herself.”

  “Julie, maybe it’s not a good idea for you to go back to Admiral Street. I could take you the Seascape Motel in Lady-in-the-Hills—it’s very nice.” Actually it was a dump, but it beat that lonely house on Admiral Street.

  A heavy sigh. “Dwight’s on his way. I told him to drive straight to Admiral Street, where I’ll be waiting.”

  “Plans can be changed. Wouldn’t you rest better somewhere else?”

  “No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head slowly, punctuating each no. “My place is at Admiral Street. I need to do my duty to Mom and Dad. I need to go through their things, decide what to keep, what to sell, and what to throw away.

  “And then I need to bury my dead.”

  * * *

  I drove Julie Breyer to the empty house on Admiral Street, waited with her until Dwight arrived, and then left them to their sorrow. But there was one last stop before I could take my rest.

  “Thanks for coming,” Tyler Andrews indicated a seat.

  “Did I have a choice?” I asked, checking the shadows of my former office for a lurking Jud Richt.

  “We’re alone,” Tyler said as he shut the office door. When he’d called and said he had to see me right away, I figured it was about my unlawful visit to his office last night—some deduction, right? But the only thing I didn’t get was why I was still walking around and not sitting in jail.

  “I guess congratulations are in order, Addie. I heard about Rand’s arrest.”

  Not the tone I’d expected, but I was in no mood for pleasantries. “You didn’t ask me here to congratulate me, Tyler, and I’m too tired to play games.”

  “All right then, I spoke with Jeremy Louis and I know you broke into my office last night. I don’t know why it couldn’t have waited until today, but I wanted to give you a chance to explain.”

  “Frankly, after the scene at Eddie’s I didn’t expect you to help me,” I said. Tyler had the grace to blush. “But the bottom line was that it couldn’t wait for the morning. I had to get my hands on the dog’s bandana last night.” Then I spewed out some bullcrap about lives being at stake and to my surprise Tyler lapped it up like cream.

  He whistled and said, “Poison tea, huh? I can understand your urgency.”

  Really? Tyler acted as if I held the whip and not he. Either way, it worked out in my favor. I said something vaguely conciliatory and prepared to leave.

  “Not yet, Addie,” Tyler said, his hand grasping my arm. I sat back down. “I also know you were in my desk last night.”

  “Well, yes, that’s where I found the flash drive.”

  “That’s not all you found.”

  I stared at Tyler. Was this about the porno? Then I remembered the report on Captain’s Castle that I’d found in his desk. My pilfered copy was sitting in the glove compartment of the Crown Vic, where I’d shoved it last night. ASAP I needed to take a closer look.

  “I’m sorry I had to break into your desk, Tyler,” I said, playing dumb.

  “I know you saw the report. You notice things. You have to promise me that you won’t tell Mr. Richt about what you saw in there.” Tyler’s hand clenched tighter. “Promise me.”

  “I’m not interested in your business.”

  “Promise,” he said, his hand crushing my arm.

  “Sure, I promise.”

  Tyler examined my face. When he was satisfied, he released my arm. “Still friends, Addie?”

  “No, Tyler, we’re far from being friends.”

  I turned and left.

  * * *

  I picked up Chinese takeout on the way home—two bags full, enough for me, Pop, and Frankie Buchanan. Good old Frankie had spent the night on the sofa, watching over Pop like a mother hen. Well, a mother hen with the vocabulary of a sailor and the disposition of a bull gator. But we were all a bit raucous at the dining table, drinking beer and slurping noodles.

  “No need to thank me, Addie. I couldn’t leave the old man in the state he was in—nervous as a fuckin’ whore in church.” Frankie grinned, chomping on a rib.

  “What are you talking about?” Pop reached for another egg roll. “I was the one holding your hand. I told you my girl would figure it out.”

  Frankie tipped his bottle of Bud my way. “It was a good piece of work, Addie.”

  Pop grabbed his beer. “To Addie Gorsky, priva
te investigator.”

  “Hey, I like the sound of that,” I said, and I did. “But there are a few loose ends.”

  Frankie belched into his hand. “From what Stan says, the case sounds pretty tight.”

  “My daughter doesn’t like the truth she found, but the truth doesn’t care.”

  “Geez, Stan, the fuckin’ way you talk.”

  My cell buzzed; it was Hackle. I excused myself to take the call. Anita’s labs were in. As Hackle went through the results, I found my mind wandering, but was jolted to attention when he said, “The vitreous humor analysis was interesting.”

  “Remind me what vitreous humor is again.” I asked, not that I’d ever known.

  “It’s a clear gelatinous mass between the eye lens and the retinal lining. Got it?” As usual, Hackle didn’t wait for an answer. “Anita Dick’s vitreous humor not only revealed a dangerously high glucose level, but was positive for ketones.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “As you know, Mrs. Dick was a type one diabetic, dependent on insulin.”

  Actually I hadn’t known that at all. When Julie told me her mother was diabetic, I assumed it was good old type two, like half the overweight people in Mystic Cove.

  Hackle continued, “And there was evidence of cerebral edema, but of course that could have been due to blunt trauma from the drowning. However, the presence of ketones suggests diabetic ketoacidosis might have been the cause. Without treatment and, of course, if she hadn’t fallen into Mystic Bay, Anita Dick would have slipped into a coma and died, sooner rather than later.”

  “So she was depressed after Mel’s murder and didn’t keep up with her insulin,” I said, not getting Hackle’s excitement.

  “But if the cerebral edema was caused by DKA, then Anita Dick was a very sick woman before she fell or jumped into Mystic Bay.”

  “Just how sick, Doctor?” I asked, feeling a quickening in my gut.

  “There would have been extreme mental confusion, labored breathing, emesis, decreased reflexes, tachycardia.”

  “But how could someone so ill elude the police for several hours and then get herself to the pier?”

  “I doubt she could have, although people set on taking a life—be it their own or another’s—are often highly motivated, so I can’t discount it entirely.”

  “Does Spooner know all this?”

  “Of course, Gorsky,” Hackle huffed. “I’m calling you as a...a courtesy.”

  Or maybe the sheriff was not exactly enthusiastic and Hackle knew I’d be more receptive. I turned the conversation back to Anita. “I just need to be clear on this one point. If you’re right about the ketoacidosis, would Anita have been ambulatory?”

  Hackle sighed. “I think someone as sick as Anita Dick would have been hard-pressed to answer her telephone or go to the bathroom without assistance.”

  “Someone helped her off that pier,” I said, and Hackle did not disagree.

  * * *

  After sending Frankie on his way, Pop insisted I get some rest. He noticed how quiet I got after Hackle’s call and knew some new wrinkle had popped up, a wrinkle I had to iron out before laying the case to rest. But Pop was right. A little nap and I’d be a new woman. I pulled the shade tight and collapsed on my bed.

  I don’t know if it was sunshine peeking through the curtains or the smell of brewing coffee or the scratchy tongue on my cheek that woke me. “Bad Jinks,” I said, pushing the pug off the bed. I propped up on one elbow, disoriented by the bright sun. Shit, I had slept through the night and into the next morning.

  “You should have woken me,” I groused to Pop.

  “But I did—I sent the dog in to wake you.”

  “You should have woken me last night. Oh, and you shouldn’t let Jinks on the furniture. He just jumped on my bed like it was nothing.”

  “Here, drink your coffee.” Pop set the steaming mug in front of me. “You’re always grouchy before your coffee—just like your mother.”

  “Goddamn it, I am not grouchy.”

  A few minutes later, Pop caught me up on my messages. People were clamoring to see me, or so it seemed. Julie had called to remind me about today’s memorial service for her parents at Mystic Cove, Brad had called but left no message, and some madwoman named Page Becket had phoned, requesting an interview with Mr. Jinks.

  “Page Becket at Channel Twelve, the local news leader,” Pop said, outraged over my ignorance. “It’s not just Jinks, Adelajda. I’m sure she wants to speak with you as well.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered.

  “Here are Page’s numbers—including her personal cell and—”

  “Pop, please.” Pushing the paper away, I swiped my cell.

  “Sleeping Beauty awakens at last,” Brad drawled.

  “I’m sorry, Brad. My father should have woken me when you called.”

  “I told him to let you sleep. I wanted to give you a heads-up. The press caught wind of your involvement in the case and will probably be knocking on your door. Katherine Henderson’s arrest has become a national story.”

  “Too late,” I said. “Some reporter named Page Becket is leaving messages.”

  Brad whistled. “Page Becket? She’s a journalistic institution in these parts.”

  “You’re as bad as Pop. And FYI, this journalistic institution wants to interview Mr. Jinks. I’m an afterthought.” Then I asked if he’d gotten things straightened out with Titus Blanding.

  “Titus Blanding and I came to an understanding, more or less. You’ll hear about it next week when he resigns so he can spend more time with his family.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “I’d misjudged Coroner Blanding. I knew Richt was a contributor to Blanding’s last campaign, but I didn’t fully appreciate the closeness of the relationship. Evidently Blanding doesn’t wipe his ass before checking with Richt. The drunk fool actually thought he was doing Richt a favor by delaying Mel’s autopsy. When Richt disabused him of that belief, our soon-to-be former coroner went into an alcoholic tailspin.”

  “And that’s a good thing?” I’d never heard an alcoholic tailspin described in such glowing terms.

  “Hell, yes, Dolores Rio is taking over as coroner.”

  “By the way, I spoke with Hackle.”

  “I’ll give you that the lab findings are suspicious,” Brad said, anticipating my train of thought.

  “You add a bunch of possibilities together, and pretty soon you’re talking about probability and after that...”

  “Addie, unless you have something other than conjecture, I don’t wanna hear it. You got any evidence?”

  I admitted I had nothing. At least not yet.

  * * *

  The memorial service for Mel and Anita Dick was just long enough to be respectable, though it was a good turnout. Mel Dick’s had a long list of acquaintances and co-conspirators who showed up to pay their respects. But when the pastor asked if anyone wished to speak, only a few responded, and those few spoke only of Mel. Even in death, Anita was a postscript.

  When it was done, the mourners, myself included, were unwilling to move on. We milled around Mystic Bay Chapel like foraging ants. I knew what I sought, but wondered what kept the others here, murmuring in small groups. It didn’t take me long to figure it out.

  “Over here, Addie!” José Barracas flapped his arms like he was trying to take flight, his face split by an incongruous grin. “Pretty exciting stuff, huh?”

  “The memorial service?” I said, playing dumb.

  “You know what I mean.” José gave my arm a light punch. “Say, I heard they put Rand on a suicide watch.” Two older gentlemen—Mystic Covians by the look of them—edged closer, obviously eavesdropping.

  “Addie,” another voice cried. I cringed as Jeremy Louis trotted over.
<
br />   And so it went. People who I’d barely known greeted me like an old friend, full of questions.

  Is it true they put Mr. Rand on suicide watch?

  I heard that Tally was the real mastermind.

  How’s Mr. Jinks holding up?

  The scene was repeated ad nauseam as the good citizens pumped their former chief, all seeking grist for the grinding mill. I was about to quit the scene when I spotted the faces for which I had been searching. I found them together, congregating by the little Shakespeare garden adjacent to the chapel—Busy Rhodes, Gigi Tajani and Fairley Sable. I pasted a smile on my face and greeted the weird sisters.

  “I suppose congratulations are in order,” Busy said, though her face told another tale. “According to the papers you successfully cracked the case.” A self-deprecating smile and she added, “Listen to me—I sound like a detective in one of those television shows.”

  “I’m just glad it’s over and things can get back to normal.” Gigi’s restless gaze passed over the crowd.

  Fairley touched my arm. “I’m still confused on one point, Addie. The newspaper said you found something in Jinks’s scarf. A flashcard or something—that doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, Fairley.” Busy patted the shorter woman’s shoulder. “I told you—it was a flash drive, for a computer.”

  “Oh, I give up,” Fairley said. “When it comes to all this technology, I’m at a loss.”

  “So what are you three ladies plotting?” I asked.

  “Fairley and Busy were talking about the Commentator, of all things,” Gigi said. “With Mel gone, I can’t see the paper carrying on.”

  “I agree,” Busy said. “With Mel dead and Alan...gone, the paper should go the way of the dinosaurs.”

  “You’re probably both right, but it seems a terrible waste. The paper is well established. If the right person took control—” Fairley glanced at Busy, “—the Commentator could be reborn in a new form.”

  “Like the Phoenix.” Busy stroked her chin. “Perhaps I have been hasty. With a little work the Commentator could be refashioned into something glorious.”