Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “This is your murderer?” Jimmy Crippins hissed at me. All prosecutors had a bit of bully in them, but Crippins had more than his fair share and now he smelled blood in the water—my blood.

  “Still,” Fairley continued, “I think our conversations helped Addie. She carries a lot of guilt from when she was with the Baltimore City Police. She told me herself that she felt responsible for her partner getting shot. He died, you know—that was hard for Addie.” Her silver-blue gaze held the sheriff’s for a long moment.

  “How did she...? I never,” I whispered, overwhelmed by her capacity for deception.

  “Addie has been carrying around a heavy burden for several years,” Fairley said. “I believe that sharing the investigation with me helped her with that burden.”

  “What sorts of things did Addie Gorsky share with you?”

  I inadvertently winced when Brad said my name, an accusation.

  “Oh, lots and lots of things,” Fairley said, finger tapping her chin. “I remember being struck by one oddity though. From the beginning Addie was certain Anita had nothing to do with Mel’s death. I remember she was quite upset when she told me your men had found the gun in Anita’s trash.”

  I heard Crippins curse under his breath. Despite my warnings of Fairley’s capacity for deceit, did he believe her lies? Even Brad was cold and still, as pitiless as a moai.

  “And there was that business about José’s illegal business enterprise, and everything about the autopsy just went right over my head. I was quite lost with all those medical terms.”

  Still Fairley poured it on. Her lies rained down like physical blows, much worse than an ass-kicking. Had she planned this from the beginning, that first morning when she came into my office, asking for my help?

  “Tell me, Mrs. Sable,” Brad said, “did you repeat any of this to anyone?”

  Fairley looked away, readjusted her skinny ass in the hard seat. “Addie warned me not to speak of it, but I may have mentioned it to my friends. That was wrong, wasn’t it?”

  Brad demanded details—who did Fairley talk to about the murder—what was said and when.

  “I can’t remember precisely. Alan and I talked about Mel’s murder a few times, and Tally a little bit—she’s been ill, you know. Gigi Tajani and I had spoken of it, but briefly.” Fairley smiled. “Gigi is a creature of sweetness and light and prefers not to dwell on unpleasantness.”

  Brad pressed, but that was the best Fairley could come up with, and the ruinous interview wound down. Crippins threw an angry look my way and stormed from the observation room.

  It hit me then, right in the face. To the world at large my reputation was a thing of shreds and patches, irreparably destroyed, if I could not catch this vicious killer.

  But it was showtime. I took a deep breath and rushed into the hallway to find Brad. The hallway was crowded but I caught Brad’s gaze.

  “None of it was true. She lied, Brad!”

  Cold eyes met mine. “It’s Sheriff Spooner, ma’am.”

  “Sheriff Spooner,” I said. “You don’t believe her, do you? Tell me you don’t.”

  “This isn’t the time or place.”

  “That bitch Fairley Sable lied!” I yelled.

  The place was deadly quiet. Brad’s chest heaved dangerously. Instinctively I took a step backward. Brad showed his teeth and pointed a finger right at me, as if I were a piece of shit that needed to be picked up.

  “Your part in this is over, Ms. Gorsky. You have contaminated this investigation, probably beyond repair. You are not to speak with anyone involved, especially Mrs. Sable—you’ve bothered that lady enough. In fact, I want you to keep away from Mystic Cove, GCSO, and me. Deputy Berry, please escort Ms. Gorsky from the building.”

  Berry grabbed my arm. I tried to wrench free but he held me fast. As I was led away, I tried to keep my eyes focused straight ahead. Even so, I saw her, feigning distress but inwardly rejoicing—Fairley Sable.

  Who was this woman? A demon out of history, an implacable Adicia bringing chaos to the world? No, that gave her too much credit. All in all, she was a murderer, and murderers could be caught.

  There was one chance left, if I had the guts and wits to pull it off.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  All Cats Are Black in the Dark

  “I thought you might show up at my door, but not quite this soon.”

  “I couldn’t leave it as it was, Fairley.” Dizzy, my hands shaking, I struggled to keep my emotions in check. I wanted to split this monster open and see what foul things poured out.

  She cracked the door. “Is that gun of yours hiding beneath that ugly jacket? I wouldn’t want any accidents.”

  I opened my jacket for inspection. I had left the Glock behind—the temptation to shoot Fairley Sable in cold blood might be one I couldn’t resist.

  “Good,” Fairley said, “I dislike guns.”

  “They have their uses, though,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t need anything—you’re the one who needs.”

  “Then just listen,” I said, pushing inside.

  “I was in the middle of preparing dinner, but if you insist.”

  I followed her to the kitchen but hovered at the entryway. She hadn’t been bullshitting about dinner. It was waiting for her, neatly arranged on a wooden tray: an open bottle of cabernet sauvignon, a composed salad of micro greens and orange slices, a healthy wedge of blue-veined cheese beside a crusty baguette, still fragrant from the oven.

  “I deserve some answers,” I said.

  “You deserve nothing, and what makes you think I have any answers to give?” Fairley opened the oven, releasing the smell of chocolate. A quick peek inside and the door snapped shut. Then she faced me. “Really, Addie, you didn’t expect me to break down and confess. I’m not Alan Rand.” Her silverfish eyes fixed on mine. She was an ice sculpture, serene, cold, heartless. How could I break through the barrier of ice and pierce the heart of her? Did monsters like her even have hearts?

  “I want the truth of the murders, Fairley.”

  “Murders?” she said with a laugh. “Who else have I done away with, other than Mel Dick? Anita, I suppose! Goodness, why don’t you go home, Addie? The game is over and I’ve won.”

  “Murder is a game with you, isn’t it? A diversion.”

  “Call it what you please, but I’m the winner. That’s all that matters.”

  “I’m certain you killed Mel Dick and pretty sure you murdered Anita as well.”

  “Belief is one thing, proof another. I did not murder Mel. I had no reason to harm him.”

  “That’s the first true statement that’s come out of your mouth. You had no reason to hurt Mel—all this bloodletting, all this havoc, was unnecessary.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the clean white wall. “When did you learn that Mel hadn’t known of your murderous ways? Oh, you may have won your game of murder, but it was your stupidity that caused the whole bloody mess.”

  “I didn’t take you for a sore loser.”

  “I admit that I was a poor enough adversary, but at least I own up to my mistakes. You bury yours.”

  “Mistakes?” Fairley scoffed.

  I forced a laugh. “This case unraveled like a pilled wool sweater. A competent investigator would have pierced this mystery in a heartbeat! Although now that I’ve come to know you, I understand how your guilty conscience was working on you the night of Mel Dick’s birthday dinner at the Grub and Grog. Naturally you assumed Dick’s threats were directed at you.”

  “I don’t have a guilty conscience,” Fairley said.

  Another truth. People like her weren’t burdened by conscience.

  She slapped her forehand and scowled. “You made me forget about my cookies—they better not be burned.”
/>   I was speechless. This woman who crowed of winning had brought chaos down upon us all—Mel and Anita’s deaths, Alan Rand’s imprisonment, Tally’s exposure, and, last and most certainly least, the loss of my paltry reputation. It had been just so much collateral damage for Fairley. The cost of doing business.

  Fairley calmly scraped the fat chocolate chip cookies off the tray and placed them on a cooling rack. She shot a cross look in my direction. “They’re more done than I like—hard and crunchy rather than soft and chewy, but they’ll still taste good. I’m about to sit down to dinner. Why are you still here?” She turned on the faucet, squirted some soap into her hands, scrubbed her hands in the steaming water.

  “The thing I don’t get is the jimsonweed tea. It was a clumsy move. I mean, it’s a pretty ineffective way to poison someone.”

  “Maybe it was harmless fun, a little foreplay before the main event. Maybe the poisoner wanted to expose Mel as a fool, let the world see the great man as he truly was.”

  “I guess I can see that.” I shrugged. “You destroyed Mel’s credibility the way you destroyed mine.”

  “I said maybe, Addie. It’s all hypothetical.” After turning off the faucet with an elbow, Fairley tore a sheet of paper toweling with her fingertips and dried her hands.

  “But I don’t get why you left the poisoned tea in the Dicks’ refrigerator.”

  She paused, her face clouded, then resumed drying.

  “Why didn’t you pour it down the drain when you had the chance? You had plenty of opportunity—you could have dumped it when you stole the hard drive or later, when you visited the grieving widow. For me, that was the real break in the case, when Julie became intoxicated after drinking her dad’s iced tea.”

  “What fool would drink days-old iced tea?” Fairley muttered, the mask slipping.

  “Julie drank the tea because she missed her dad. It was a way of being close to him. But you don’t get that, do you?” No answer, but I could tell she was listening. “After I found the jimsonweed tea, I knew that the murderer had access to the house. That’s when I starting thinking about you, Fairley. While visiting Anita it would be a simple thing to dump a little datura in Mel’s tea. Then I found you were spending time with the Rands, spreading more poison. What tripped me up was motive. Once I had that, I had you.”

  “You have nothing,” Fairley said, wheeling on me, “but I’m curious, what was my motive?”

  “You thought Mel found out that you murdered Harry.”

  Surprise filled Fairley’s wide blue eyes, but then the eyes grew glacial-cold. “As I said, you know nothing.”

  I knew this wouldn’t go much longer. Soon she’d throw me out. But before that happened, I had to get the truth out of her. So far she had deflected my clumsy jabs and accusations with ease. I suspected that we could go back and forth like this all day. I needed to attack from another direction. “I saw the picture of you and your first husband, Asa. Did your daddy make you marry that old fat fuck or did you figure that was the best you could do?”

  “That’s none of your business.” One of my darts had hit home at last. Who knew? Even angels of death looked homeward.

  “What’s wrong, Fairley? You did your homework on me and I did likewise.” I smiled. “I’m also one to return the favor. Tell me—was your first husband your first?”

  “How dare you!”

  I forced a laugh. “No, you misunderstand. I don’t care who you fucked or when.”

  “You vulgar trash!”

  “I’m just wondering if Asa was your first murder victim.”

  Fairley slid a balloon glass from the wine rack above. As she filled the glass with dark red wine, her hand was rock-steady. In mid-pour I grabbed the bottle from her grasp, raining crimson droplets over the spotless countertop. While Fairley scrambled for the paper towels I turned the bottle in my hands.

  “Black cherry and berry notes with a hint of ginger. Pretty fancy stuff for a hick out of Alva, Georgia.”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “It must have been hard on you, being the preacher’s daughter in a town where everybody knew everybody else.”

  “It was a small town like any other.”

  “I’m not so sure. Some of those old Southern towns have a quaint charm that shines through the decay, but Alva’s butt-ugly, just like you.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Just a salad and cheese for dinner? Not much of a meal by my count, but I can see why you watch your calories. You were a fat little porker. You must have weighed at least two hundred pounds, and you’re so tiny—five foot at a stretch. Better not eat too many cookies or you’ll be tipping the scale again.”

  “You are no one, Addie Gorsky!” Fairley shouted. “I saw to that. Your friend Sheriff Spooner despises you. When I’m through with you, you’ll be lucky to find a job washing dishes at the Dixie Diner.”

  “Children can be so cruel. I bet they teased you terribly—’Fatty, Fatty, two by four, couldn’t get through the bathroom door, so she did it on the floor, licked it up and did some more.’”

  “Why are you doing this? You don’t like these people any more than I. So what if I killed a few of them. They don’t matter.” Fairley Sable took a step toward me, filled with some secret emotion. The mask was ripped off and the murderer stood before me. Somehow I stood my ground, though how I longed to run.

  “Tell me about Mel, please. For my own sake, I have to know the truth.”

  For the longest time she studied me with her awful eyes. Whatever she saw convinced her that I was no threat. Then her eyes turned inward to some secret place, and she smiled.

  “It was complicated with my first husband.” Fairley poured out a glass of cab and sipped. “Asa was diabetic, like Anita, only Asa was type two. If he had eaten better and exercised, he would have never gotten sick, and I would have never had to give him insulin injections in the first place. I was curious about how much insulin the human body could safely absorb. Let’s just say I satisfied my curiosity.” Another sip of wine.

  “And Mel?”

  “You’re right about guns being effective. Mel had been drinking the tea for weeks, with mixed results. His credibility was damaged and I’d been tracking his movements almost constantly via GPS, but I still hadn’t gotten my hands on either of his computers. The fool had the constitution of an ox and the mentality of a flea. Ultimately I concluded that I needed him incapacitated, either permanently or temporarily. Only then would I be able to search his computers and purge any incriminating material.”

  “And opportunity knocked,” I said.

  “And I answered.” Fairley opened her arms wide, as if embracing the world. “That night when I saw Mel at the Grog and Grub, I knew I was looking at a dead man. After he raced away in his golf cart, I took Anita home. She wanted me to stay with her, but I had business elsewhere.”

  “I can guess the next part,” I said. It was strange, but we had fallen into our familiar routine. A discourse on murder.

  “Yes, that part of the night happened pretty much as I told you. Anita called me after she shot Mel. The fool actually wanted to call the police, but I convinced her otherwise. At my house I made her a nice cup of chamomile tea, which calmed her right down.” The grinning Santa Muerte added, “Of course the several milligrams of flunitrazepam I slipped into the tea aided the process.”

  “You gave her roofies!”

  Fairley shrugged. “And why not? It’s an effective sedative with the added benefit of producing anterograde amnesia. With Anita out for the night, I checked the GPS tracker. Mel was parked in one of his favorite spots in Birnam Wood. I had wasted enough time on this man and was prepared to end it then and there.” She frowned. “If I’d stuck to my original plan, things might have gone a bit smoother—I prefer injections or discreet medications to firearms—but it turned out
well enough, I suppose.” She smiled brightly at me, letting me in on the joke. “It was certainly a lot more fun than Harry’s dull death—don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know if fun is the right word.”

  “Anyway, when I reached the clearing I found Mel asleep, or so I thought. Were the papers correct in that Mel was dead when he was shot?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “A shame,” Fairley said. “I saw the gun resting on the passenger’s seat just as that damned dog of Mel’s started yapping. I grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck and hurled it into the bushes. Then I took the gun and fired. I pocketed his office key but left the gun on the passenger’s seat. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when it turned up in Anita’s trash can.”

  “I bet you were.”

  “Next I let myself into the Dicks’ house with Anita’s key. I didn’t have Mel’s password. I tried Commentator and a few other obvious options, but nothing worked.” She frowned, shook her head. “If I’d had more time I could have gotten in, but I had to get to the Commentator office. So I took the hard drive.” She poured herself more wine. “You can imagine my shock when I opened November’s file and found nothing about me! It was all about Tally being this Henderson person.”

  “Oops!”

  “Exactly,” Fairley laughed, taking a sip of wine. “I don’t mind saying I felt more than a little foolish. I had made a mistake, a small one. I thought it best to leave November’s file intact. Then if anyone happened to discover it, the suspicion would fall on Alan and Tally.”

  “So Alan did delete the files,” I said.

  Fairley looked at me as if I were a bag of dirt. “Obviously. But I was quite pleased when you discovered the deleted file.”

  “I got to give the devil her due—you played me good, Fairley. In fact, you played us all.”

  She nodded at the compliment. “The morning after Mel’s death, one look at Alan’s insipid face told me all I needed to know. He must have stumbled across Mel’s body after I’d shot him, and assumed Tally had done the deed, an assumption I encouraged.”