Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “How’d she accomplish that?”

  “Easily,” I said. “She and Anita were friends. While having coffee in Anita’s kitchen, it would be a simple thing to slip a little datura into Mel’s tea jug when Anita wasn’t looking.”

  “What if Anita drank the tea? That would put a fly in the ointment.”

  “You forget—Anita was diabetic, which Fairley knew. What Fairley didn’t count on was Julie drinking the tea. That was a break for us, Brad.”

  “So why didn’t Fairley just kill Mel and be done with it?”

  “First Fairley wanted to destroy Mel’s credibility. Her most pressing task was to get rid of any evidence. She had to gain access to his computers. She expected the datura would get Mel out of the office so she could examine the computer and destroy the evidence—then and only then would she would kill him.”

  “What about Mel’s computer at home?”

  “Once Mel was gone it’d be a piece of cake to get to Mel’s home computer. Fairley feeds Anita some BS, and she’s in. But initially Fairley’s focused on Mel’s office computer.”

  “Unfortunately for Mel Dick the plan backfired.” Brad glanced at the group of students who’d just invaded the shop.

  “It was a comedy of errors, Brad. If Fairley had succeeded in hacking Mel’s office computer she would have realized her mistake immediately, and Mel and Anita would still be alive.” I looked outside. The traffic was touch and go, but the sky held promise of another day in paradise. “Another thing, Fairley also didn’t anticipate the datura’s effect on Mel—it made him more suspicious, more paranoid. He guarded his secret more closely than ever. That must have angered her deeply. Maybe it became personal after that.”

  “And it wasn’t before?” Brad asked.

  “Not at all. Fairley was just protecting herself, and Mel set it up perfectly for her. At the G and G he brought all the buried conflicts of the group to light, creating a slew of potential suspects—the shadow fight with José Barracas, his public indictment of his friends, including his wife, the messy affair with Gigi, which Fairley made damn sure Anita knew about. In a way, Mel was an accomplice to his own murder.” I laughed softly. “From the outside looking in, the only person who lacked a motive to kill Mel was Fairley Sable.”

  “She had me snookered,” Brad said, his mouth tight.

  “After Mel’s breakdown at the Grub and Grog, Fairley took Anita home. She might have spent a few minutes with Anita, but not much longer. She needed to be home so she could track Mel’s movements, which she did until Anita called. Fairley spirited her distraught friend to her house and put her to bed, but not before giving her something to make sure she would sleep soundly. When I talked to Anita that morning, I should have seen that she’d been drugged.” I remembered the zombie I’d met in Fairley’s garden. At the time I’d attributed Anita’s disorientation to shock or illness, but now I knew it had been Fairley’s poison.

  “Addie?” Brad leaned across the table.

  I rubbed my eyes. “Sorry, didn’t get much sleep last night.” I took a breath. “Next Fairley located Mel’s golf cart on the GPS. He was in the clearing in Birnam Wood. She’d been trailing Mel for several weeks and knew the spot. She found him there, presumably asleep. And that was when she made her big mistake. She shot him, or rather shot his corpse.”

  “How did she get Mel’s gun?”

  I grimaced. “I don’t know yet, and I also don’t know how Alan Rand wound up with the murder weapon. Everything that happened after Fairley shot Mel is hazy as hell, though I’m pretty sure that’s when she got her murderous hands on the hard drive from Mel’s home computer.”

  Brad poked my arm. “But before you said Fairley was more concerned with hacking the office computer.”

  “Yes, and I stand by that, but after she shot Mel, everything changed. Now there was going to be a murder investigation, something Fairley had avoided until now.”

  “I get that. She couldn’t take the chance that the police would examine Mel’s home computer. But how’d she get inside the Dicks’ house? Mel’s house key was found on his body.”

  “She either squirreled Anita’s key out of her purse, or left a door unlocked when she picked up Anita.”

  “The only hard piece of evidence is the GPS tracker on your car, and that was free of prints.”

  “That’s why we need to talk to Rand. If we can get him to talk, the other pieces would fall into place.”

  “All right,” Brad said, reaching for the phone, “but forget about this ‘we’ crap. I’m talking to Rand—alone.”

  * * *

  I watched from behind the curtain, along with a red-faced prosecutor named Jimmy Crippins. The prosecutor tried to hide it, but he was as nervous as me—a couple of turkeys come the third week of November. Brad waited in the interview room his long legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, doodling squiggles and curlicues on the legal pad in his lap. At last the door cracked open. Alan Rand shuffled in, butter-smooth attorney at his side.

  Before Brad could get a few words out, the buttery lawyer butts in and it looked like the interview was going nowhere, with Alan just sitting there like he was in a dream. And maybe he was.

  “We’ll try it this way then,” Brad said. “I’ll talk and your client listens. You can listen, can’t you, Mr. Rand?” No response. Maybe Brad was wrong; maybe Rand was beyond listening.

  Brad went over Rand’s confession with a fine-tooth comb, challenging Rand on several points, but the old man didn’t take the bait. “Let’s move on to the night you were arrested, Mr. Rand.”

  The lawyer issued another warning while his client stared at the concrete floor.

  “Your wife told us that you received a phone call just before Ms. Gorsky’s arrival. Is that true?”

  Alan Rand lifted his chin slightly, but then let it fall to his chest.

  “I thought we were just listening here,” the lawyer piped.

  “Am I to assume that your wife lied about the call?” Brad asked.

  That got Rand’s attention. “My wife does not lie.”

  I laughed—good thing Rand didn’t have a sense of irony.

  “After the phone call Mrs. Rand said you became very nervous,” Brad said.

  “I don’t see...” the lawyer said.

  “Look, Mr. Rachet, you really, really want your client to listen to this.” The lawyer melted a little under Brad’s stare.

  “I think this caller told you that a visitor was coming your way.” An almost imperceptible nod from Alan. “I have an idea who this person was, but I’d appreciate it if you’d just go ahead and tell me the name.”

  A small sigh and Rand said, “It was Fairley Sable, a friend of ours. She was out for her evening walk and had seen the Gorsky woman snooping around Founder’s Centre. Fairley knew that Addie Gorsky had been harassing us and just wanted to make sure we were all right.”

  “Did you and Fairley ever discuss Mel Dick’s murder?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand why you’re asking about this.” Rand looked to his lawyer, who patted his hand and whispered in his ear.

  “Tell me about these conversations.”

  “There were so many. Fairley was interested in the murder. We often talked about it.” Rand paused while his lawyer whispered more sweet nothings. When they finished, Rand said, “I meant to say Fairley was interested in Mel’s death—there was no murder.”

  “Whatever you say—please go on, Mr. Rand.” Brad’s Southern accent was getting more syrupy by the minute.

  “Fairley’s the sort of person who likes to be on top of things and she kept abreast of the mur—death investigation. She said Gorsky often confided in her, told her all sorts of things.”

  “Bitch,” I muttered, ignoring the dirty look Jimmy Crippins sent my way.

  “What s
ort of things did Fairley tell you? Be specific, Mr. Rand.”

  “Well,” Rand said, stroking his chin, “she told me when the police found the gun in Anita Dick’s trash can, the gun I put there.” Rand waved off his lawyer.

  “Anything else?”

  “I...I can’t remember exactly. There were several conversations.”

  “Why all this conversing between you and Fairley?”

  “What does it matter? I didn’t kill Mel—he was already dead—so what does it matter? I want to go back to my cell now.”

  Alan Rand was done, at least for now. But I caught the doubt and puzzle in his eyes as he was led away. Was he awakening to the truth at last, that he was just a pawn in Fairley’s murderous game?

  * * *

  “Why the long face, Addie?” Brad asked. “Things are breaking the way you wanted them to.”

  Brad was right. Fairley Sable said she was more than happy to help the police, and would be at GCSO headquarters at four o’clock sharp, if that was convenient.

  There was no point in hanging around the sheriff’s office all day, so I picked up a bag of tacos from Mexico Loco and headed home, my stomach growling like a pit bull on steroids. I hadn’t had supper last night and breakfast had been toast and coffee. Meals and sleep had been catch-as-catch-can since this started. The game was nearly done, though I did not know the manner of its ending.

  The second I opened the door, I sensed something was wrong, all wrong. The apartment smelled like a funeral parlor, the cloying scent filling my nostrils. I spotted the flowers on the coffee table, a chaotic bouquet of yellow carnations, purple lobelia and—oh God, no!—white angel trumpet.

  “We’re in here, Adelajda.”

  I followed Pop’s voice into the dining nook where he sat with Fairley Sable, a pot of tea between them.

  “What did you call your daughter, Stan? A-del-ee-a?”

  “It’s hard for American tongues,” Pop said, laughing. “That’s why everyone calls her Addie. That’s a good American name.”

  I walked up to Fairley, glared down at the petite woman. “What are you doing here?”

  Pop gaped—even I am not normally so rude—but Fairley calmly sipped her tea.

  “You have no right!”

  Fairley Sable met my gaze. “I was so sorry to have missed you last night, Addie. If I’d known you were going to visit, I would have stayed home. As I told Stan, I was in Lady-in-the-Hills shopping and thought I’d stop by. I am one to return the favor, you see.”

  “Get the fuck out.” I snatched the cup from her hand, threw it to the floor, smashed it to bits.

  “Adelajda!”

  “That’s all right, Stan. I’ll leave.” Fairley pushed away from the table. “Please, enjoy the tea, both of you. It’s my special blend.”

  “Get out now!” Instinctively my left hand moved toward the Glock. Pop noticed for I heard him gasp. I kept my eyes peeled on the treacherous bitch until she cleared the door. I locked it and ran back to Pop. “Did you drink the tea?”

  “Yes, we both did.”

  “You’re...you’re all right then.”

  A slow nod. Pop looked okay, and now that I was calming down, I could see it didn’t make any sense for Fairley to poison Pop. No, her intent was to terrorize, and she had succeeded.

  A reversal of fortune—now I was the hunted.

  After dumping Fairley’s tea down the drain, I called Angie, hoping against hope that she had come up with something more I could use against Fairley. She did have something, but was it enough? My next call was to Frankie, who came right over. I made him promise that if Fairley Sable showed, he was to call me or Brad Spooner.

  “Don’t let her in the apartment, Frankie. Don’t let her near you or Pop!”

  “We’ll be fine, Addie,” Frankie said.

  I paused at the door, stared back at the two old men. I wanted to say more, but the weight of time was on my shoulders. Was this how Pop felt?

  I flew down the stairwell. It would be a throw of the dice, but I had no choice. Pop was in danger and it was either Fairley Sable or me. There was much, much to do before four o’clock came round.

  * * *

  “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Sable.”

  A brief handshake and Brad guided Fairley Sable into the interview room. After a fake apology about the interview room being the only room available and the usual offer of coffee, which Fairley wisely refused, Brad got down to business. As before, I sat on the other side of the glass with Jimmy Crippins for company. The prosecutor was even more nervous now. I hadn’t been present when Brad talked to Crippins, but I could tell he had more than his share of doubt. Hell, so did I.

  “I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Sable, a couple loose threads that need to be tied off.”

  “Any way I can be of help,” Fairley said, returning the Sheriff’s smile. That had been her mantra since showing up thirty minutes early for the appointment: “Anything I can do to help, any way to be of service to the police.” Fucking nauseating.

  “GCSO is grateful for your cooperation.” Spooner opened a portfolio and shuffled papers.

  Fairley’s blue eyes crinkled. “It is rather ironic that you called, Sheriff. All morning I’ve been debating whether or not to call you myself.”

  Brad dropped his papers and looked at her. “Call me?”

  “Well, not you personally, but the sheriff’s department. You see, I was burgled last night.”

  The portfolio closed with a snap and Brad slanted his body toward Fairley.

  “Someone broke into my house while I was at the Harvest Fest.” Fairley’s voice carried the right note of puzzlement—bring on the fucking Oscars. “Only they didn’t break in exactly. There were no broken locks or windows. That’s why I hesitated to call the police. Our new security chief Tyler Andrews thinks it may have been some sort of Halloween prank. Unfortunately one of his guards—Jesse something or other—was involved. Chief Andrews fired him, so I consider the matter closed.”

  “But you’re certain someone broke into your house.”

  “Yes. I’m rather a bad girl. I keep an extra house key underneath a planter in my backyard. Our former chief, Addie Gorsky, used to warn me that it wasn’t safe to hide it there. She said that’s one of first places thieves look, but I didn’t listen. I can be a hardheaded old woman, Sheriff.” Fairley’s blue eyes cast downward.

  I ignored Crippins’s stare and wiped off the beads of cold sweat that had broken out on my brow. My stomach clenched when I saw that Brad’s face had drained of blood.

  “Was anything stolen, ma’am?”

  “Nothing,” Fairley said. “That’s what makes it all so puzzling. I could tell someone had been through my things—a woman always knows when her things have been touched—but nothing was taken.”

  “Later you may discover that something was taken,” Brad said. “When we’re done here, Deputy Berry will take your report.”

  “If you think it best—after all, you’re the expert. Now, how can I help you?”

  “On the night Alan Rand was arrested, he said that you called him.”

  Fairley bobbed her head. “Indeed I did. I was on my evening walk and happened to see Addie Gorsky. She was sitting in her car in the Grub and Grog’s parking lot. I was going to come over to say hello, but before I could speak to her, she left the car and ran into Birnam Wood.”

  Crippins made a disgusted sound. I started to give him the finger, but retracted just in time.

  “Did you follow Ms. Gorsky into Birnam Wood?”

  “Of course not—why would I do such a thing?”

  Brad smiled and shook his head. “People do all kind of things, ma’am. What did you do after Ms. Gorsky left the Grub and Grog parking lot?”

  Fairley fidgeted. “I was worried that Add
ie was going to see Alan and Tally, even though Addie’s initial visit was nothing short of a disaster. Like me, Addie is a determined woman. It’s not a bad quality but it can get us into trouble now and again.” A self-deprecating smile. “So I called Alan to tell him that Addie Gorsky might be paying him a visit.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I thought I’d made it clear. Addie’s earlier visit to the Rands ended with Alan sprawled on the ground and Tally frightened to death. I was afraid there’d be further violence. I called Alan to let him know that Addie was in the neighborhood.” Fairley leaned toward Brad. “Of course at the time I had no inkling about Tally being this Katherine Henderson person. I was simply looking out for my friends. You...you believe me, don’t you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police about this phone call?”

  “Maybe I should have, but I didn’t think it was important. In all this, I’ve only wanted to be helpful! That’s all!”

  “Calm down, Mrs. Sable. There’s no call to get upset. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, I’ll be all right if you’ll just let me explain.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Fairly smiled her thanks, then took in an exaggerated breath and let it out. “In my defense, I intended to tell Addie about the phone call during one of our bull sessions, but I never got the chance. Alan confessed and the murder investigation was done. I thought it was over.”

  Brad’s brows knotted and his jaw tightened. “Back up a second—what do you mean by bull sessions with Addie Gorsky?”

  “Conversations, that’s all,” Fairley said. “Addie and I often talked about the murder investigation. She took pity on a lonely old woman and kept me up-to-date.”

  Brad’s jaw tightened another notch. “How often did you and Ms. Gorsky have these...bull sessions?”

  “Quite often,” Fairley said. “I liked to think that we were partners, though I’m really just a foolish old woman who’s read too many mystery novels.”