Or his wife got launched overboard. “So they’re an item now?”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t know as I’d go that far,” he said at last. “But he’s sure showing a heckuva lot more interest in her than he ever did before.”
I nodded. “Okay, let’s continue on with what happened that day.”
“Right. Anyway, I’d done a lot of shoppin’ for the trip—laid in some filet mignons, lobster tails, champagne, the works. We were goin’ to have a real feast Sunday night—the night of their anniversary.” He paused, a catch in his throat. “We never got to that, though,” he said softly.
“Well, we spent Saturday anchored just off Pelos Island. Everyone went out in the dinghy on a shopping trip, all except Mrs. Grainger. She said she didn’t feel well—thought she might have a migraine coming on. She stayed on board the ship.”
My ears perked up with interest. “How long were the others gone?”
He stared off into space. “Lessee—they all went out in the dinghy to grab a bite of lunch and walk around—so they were gone from twelve o’clock till around three thirty.”
“You weren’t with them?”
He shook his head. “I was fixing things for dinner, plus I had some cleaning to do.”
“And Mrs. Grainger stayed in her stateroom the entire time?”
He shrugged. “I suppose. I had chores to do. I wasn’t about keepin’ tabs on her. She had a headache. When she got one of those headaches, she usually laid down and took a nap in her stateroom.” His lips puckered. “Now, she coulda been wanderin’ around the yacht, I dunno. Like I said, I had some things to do down in the hold and the galley. I had music on, so I didn’t hear anything.”
“Okay. Then the others came back at three thirty. Then what?”
“Then they headed straight for the bar. They were all feelin’ pretty good already, if you ask me. They all wanted to continue the party. Mr. Grainger asked me to mix some drinks—I make a mean margarita and Bloody Mary—and there was wine and beer all over the place.”
“Did Mrs. Grainger recover enough to join in these festivities?”
He nodded. “She came out around four thirty. She was dressed to kill, too—man, it looked as if she’d put on every piece of jewelry Mr. Grainger had ever given her. I made her a Bloody Mary and then she sat in the main cabin with the rest of ’em. They were all discussing some new work contract, but Mrs. Grainger looked pretty bored to me.”
“Kind of an odd way to spend one’s anniversary, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “Not really. They didn’t have many friends. Mr. Grainger didn’t have any, and Mrs. Grainger might have one or two, but no one real close. They didn’t have kids, or relatives.”
“Except Mrs. Grainger’s sister,” I prompted. “And since they’d apparently been estranged for years, what did they do on holidays?”
“Spent ’em together, or else they went abroad. Sometimes Mr. Grainger would schedule business trips and they’d both go. They went to Rome last Christmas—stayed through New Year’s.”
How sad, I thought. I could see where Lola might have wanted to reconnect to her sister. “Go on,” I said to Lott.
“Well, they all kept drinkin’ and talking shop. Around seven I called ’em all into the main dining area. We had grouper for dinner. Afterwards they all went back to the main cabin to continue drinking.”
“And this was around what time?”
“Eight o’clock.” He shifted in his chair. “They all had after-dinner drinks—that was when things started to get a little dicey.”
My ears perked up. “Dicey? In what way?”
He shifted his gaze away from mine. “Maybe dicey ain’t the right word. Uncomfortable? Awkward?”
“In what way?”
He half rose from his chair. “Look, are all these questions necessary? They won’t bring her back, ya know. Nothing will. Besides, I told all this to the police already.”
“Yes, but I’d much rather hear it firsthand from someone who was actually there, rather than have my article just be a rehash of old news.” I parted my lips, gave him my most disarming smile. “Humor me.”
“Fine.” His fingers drummed a swift tattoo against the smooth surface of the desk. “The alcohol was starting to get to ’em—all of ’em—and tempers were a mite short, shall we say? Miss Patti spilled a drink, and I thought Mrs. Grainger was gonna have a stroke—started goin’ on and on about the silk cushions. Then the topic changed to politics, and she and the shorter guy—Buck somethin’—got to arguing over the election. The others joined in, and it was pretty loud for a bit, and then I served port and dessert, and it quieted down. Ms. Patti and Buck, they excused themselves around ten thirty and went to their rooms, so’s it was just the four of us—me, Mr. and Mrs. Grainger, and the Connor guy—and Mrs. Grainger and Mr. Connor, they was having a conversation on one side of the room. Around eleven o’clock he interrupted ’em—pretty loud, too—and he told his wife that she didn’t have to overdo it—pretty much his exact words. And she says, ‘No, I don’t, but at least one of us should be honest around here. One of us shouldn’t try to be somethin’ we’re not.’ And then he says to her, ‘Just what does that mean?’ and she says, ‘You know damn well what it means,’ and then she got up and just left. Then Mr. Grainger, he and Mr. Connor talked for a few minutes, real civil-like, and then Mr. Connor went to his room—that was around eleven fifteen.”
“And Mr. Grainger? Did he retire as well?”
“No, ma’am, he had another drink. I sat with him. He raised his glass and said to me, ‘To women, Shelly. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.’ And I agreed, naturally. And then . . .”
“And then?” I prompted as Lott fell silent.
He nibbled at his lower lip. “And then, he says, ‘Ya know, Shell, sometimes they make it damn hard to live with ’em.’” He cleared his throat. “Then he said good night and went down to his cabin. I started clearing up the glasses and plates. Next thing I know, he—Mr. Grainger—is grabbin’ my arm, and he’s all wild-eyed and nervous like. ‘Shel,’ he says to me, ‘help me. Lola’s gone.”
I stopped writing in my notebook and looked at Lott. “What time was this?”
He scrunched up his lips. “Around eleven thirty, maybe a few minutes later.”
“So at that point you and Mr. Grainger started looking for Lola?”
His eyes darted around the room, settled at a point beyond my left shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what we did. We went all through the boat, and then Mr. Grainger noticed the dinghy was gone. Then he seemed to relax a bit. ‘That fool woman,’ he says. ‘She just took the dinghy out, probably wants to piss me off. She thinks I’ll go lookin’ for her. Well, we’ll show her,’ he says. So we waited about a half hour and she didn’t come back. So then he started to get real nervous like. He thought she was just havin’ a hissy fit, ya know? But then it was like, he realized somethin’ was wrong, very wrong. So we called the Coast Guard.”
I held up my hand. “You said this was around midnight? The news account said the Coast Guard wasn’t called until three a.m.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” His hand swiped at the back of his neck. “I might be a bit off on the time. He mighta waited over an hour for her to come back in the dinghy. And then he took the small cruiser out, lookin’ for her, but couldn’t find nothin’.”
“He went out on his own to look for her? That wasn’t in the news account.”
“Hey, what can I say? The reporters slipped up. If you get the police account, it’ll be in there.” Shelly pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped it across his forehead. “Anyhow, the Coast Guard finally found her around five a.m. She’d drifted into a small cove. Guess that’s why Mr. Grainger didn’t see her when he went out in his boat.”
“And where were all the others during this time frame?”
I frowned. “Did you knock really loudly, bang really hard? Or didn’t you have a master key? Even if they were sleeping, you could have opened their doors, just in case—”
“Mrs. Grainger wasn’t in any other room,” he barked. “And no one else was up,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Now, that’s what happened. Satisfied?”
Hardly. “You’ve been captain of their yacht for how long, Captain Lott? Years, right?”
“Ten years. Well, actually nine. I was in a bad car accident—I was laid up almost an entire year. Mr. Grainger—I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He paid for all my surgeries, all my medical bills, even kept paying me my salary—and then once I got a clean bill of health, he took me right back, bless his heart.”
So that explained the limp and walking stick—and the unswerving loyalty. Grainger certainly was a generous employer. “So you mean to say that in all that time, you never knew Mrs. Grainger had a fear of deep water? That she was afraid she’d die by drowning?”
The tongue came out again, swiped over his lower lip. “We never really had personal conversations, miss. We just talked about stuff relatin’ to whatever cruise they were takin’.”
“Regardless, do you really think it’s a plausible explanation for a woman with a deep-seated fear of water to suddenly take off in a dinghy in the middle of the night?”
He lowered his gaze. “She had a lot to drink,” he mumbled.
“Not that much. You only made her one Bloody Mary.”
“It mighta been two,” he said defensively. “Now I think of it, I’m pretty sure she did have two.” He paused. “And some wine.”
I tapped my pen against the edge of the desk. “By your own admission, Mrs. Grainger wasn’t one to get carried away with drinking. Not only that, but don’t you think a woman who was just getting over a severe headache would have enough presence of mind to limit her alcohol intake, let alone mix drinks?”
He thrust his lower lip out. “She might not have wanted to appear ungracious in front of company. All I know is, that’s what happened.”
“Can you answer me this? If Mr. Grainger thought she took the boat out for a spin, then why did he tell the police she must have slipped while trying to retie the dinghy?”
“We didn’t know what happened for certain. It could have been either scenario. Either she took the boat out, got disoriented, and fell in, or she went to retie the dinghy, slipped, and fell in.”
“Slipped and fell in. Is that how Mr. Grainger accounted for the bruises on his wife’s body?”
His tongue snaked out, rubbed over his lower lip. “Bruises?”
“There were bruises on the body—her legs, across her left side, her chin, the base of her skull.”
He studied the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I didn’t see no bruises.”
My eyebrows rose. “So you did see the body, then? After it was pulled out of the water?”
His eyes darted around the room. “I—ah—went with Mr. Grainger to view it. He was in no shape to look at it alone.”
“Really. Because I thought you and Marshall Connor were the ones who ID’d the body. Grainger was in no condition to look at her.”
A thin sheen of sweat broke out on his wide forehead. “Well, now, let me think . . . yes, that’s right. He wanted to, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. So me and Mr. Connor, we ID’d her.” His face took on a dreamy look. “She looked beautiful—just like she was sleepin’, not dead. I kept hopin’ she’d open her eyes.”
“I see. And who noticed the bruises?”
His head snapped back. “Will you stop harpin’ on bruises? I didn’t see any, I tell ya.”
“An eyewitness insists there were.”
I saw a blush start to creep up his neck. He reached out, grabbed the walking stick, and clutched it, knuckles bled white. “That—that’s—” He shook his head. “An eyewitness, you say? Who?”
“I rather hoped you’d tell me.”
His finger shot out, jabbed at the air under my nose. “What is this? An inquisition? You’re tryin’ to trip me up, aren’t you?”
My heart beat double time as I scooted to the edge of my chair and met his gaze head-on. “If you’re telling me the truth, Captain Lott, then there’s nothing to worry about.”
Lott abruptly scraped back his chair and rose, splayed both his palms across the desktop. “I think this interview’s over. I’ve said all I’ve got to say. You need more information, you read the news accounts. Or you ask Mr. Grainger himself. You newspeople are all alike. Try and sully the memory of a good person just to sell a few papers.”
“That’s not what this is about. I think you know that.” I paused. “Were you aware Lola called her sister from the boat?”
His head jerked up, eyes narrowed. “She did? No, ma’am, I did not know that.”
“Well, she did. Furthermore, she told her that she’d found out something Kevin might kill her over, if he were aware she knew.”
His lips compressed into a thin line. “Fool talk, that’s what that is. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You don’t,” I admitted. “But I assure you I am.” I leaned forward. “If you know something, Captain Lott, anything at all that would shed some light on this—”
He drew back abruptly and hunched his shoulders. “Sorry. I’m not sayin’ another word, hear me? Not another word. I said too damn much already.” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the pack of Kents, and scissored one between nicotine-stained fingers. “Lola Grainger was a good woman who wouldn’t harm a fly. I can’t think of a person on earth who’d want to see her dead.”
I nibbled at my lower lip, then blurted out, “What about Kevin Grainger? Could you think of anyone who might want to kill him?”
Lott paused, the cigarette midway to his lips, and tapped it thoughtfully against the desk. “Kill Kevin Grainger? Where’d that come from?”
I shrugged. “Just a theory I’m toying with. Could you think of any reason why he might be a target?”
His eyebrows formed a perfect V. “No. I don’t know where you dreamt up this crazy theory of yours, but that’s what it is—damn crazy.” Lott jammed the cigarette between his lips, floundered in his pocket for a match, scraped it into flame. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke right into my face. “Crazy,” he muttered again. “Next you’ll be telling me some mobster put a hit out on him. And I’m not saying a damn thing. Not another word.”
I waved my hand, trying not to choke on the cloying smell of nicotine and roses, stuffing my pad and pen back into my tote. “I just have one last thing to say. You seem a decent human being to me. You know as well as I do there’s more to what happened that night than Grainger’s let on to the press, or the police, or anyone else. Adrienne Sloane knew it, too.
“You’re probably the only one who can give Lola Grainger’s spirit the peace she deserves, Captain. Think about it. And when you’re ready to talk, here’s my number. Thank you for your time. Oh, and I think it might be best for both of us if what was said here today remained just between us.”
He grunted in assent.
I pressed one of my business cards into his hand and turned on my heel. When I got to the door, I turned my head slightly. Lott was slumped in his chair, my card clutched in one hand, glowing cigarette in the other, staring off into space.
I’d touched a nerve, I felt sure of it, as sure as I knew there was some sort of cover-up going down. I’d gotten the distinct sense he was lying when he said no one else on the yacht was up at the time Lola had presumably disappeared. All I could do was hope I’d gotten through t
o him in some way, because I had the definite feeling the others would be much, much harder to crack.
TWELVE
I finished slicing the onion for my salad and carried the bowl over to the table in my little dining nook. Nick was busy eating leftover burger from this afternoon’s lunch crush out of the blue-and-white ceramic bowl Chantal had picked up at the Pet Palace. HEAD CAT was emblazoned in large letters along the side of the bowl. I thought it oddly appropriate. I seated myself and picked up the oil and vinegar, poured it over the salad, then tossed it and heaped a large pile on my plate. Nick, done with his burger, hopped up on the chair opposite mine and rested his forepaws on the table. He eyed my dinner warily.
“Sorry, pal. No steak tonight, I’m afraid.”
“Ewwr,” Nick rumbled. He turned around twice and arranged himself comfortably on the chair.
I popped a slice of tomato into my mouth. “I know Lott’s hiding something,” I said as I chewed. “Right now it seems a bit pointless to try and drag it out of him. He’s just going to have to open up to me at his own pace, I guess.”
Nick watched me spear another slice of tomato. I held the fork out. He took a sniff and then sat back on the chair. I popped the slice into my mouth, chewed. “He’s my best guess on being Adrienne’s informant,” I said after I’d swallowed. “He’s also got my vote for the weak link in the chain. He certainly acted uneasy enough, as if there were something to hide. I don’t think he likes being part of a deception. I wonder how Adrienne got him to tell her the little he did.”
Nick hopped off the chair and walked away, wiggling his rotund bottom like a gal wearing a too small miniskirt. I watched him sashay over to the corner, give his behind a final shake, and then ease himself down, watching me over one shoulder all the while in sort of a feline pinup pose.
“Ah. You think maybe Adrienne used her feminine wiles to influence him?” I tapped my fork against my chin. “Maybe you’ve got something there. It wouldn’t be the first time sex was used to gain information.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 11
