Murder on the Boardwalk

by Lee Strauss

  Just then, Miguel made his way back over. “Officer Richardson will be keeping an eye on everything and taking photos until the park closes,” he said to Dr. Rayburn. “If you wouldn’t mind checking in with him before your team leaves . . .”

  Dr. Rayburn nodded to Miguel and gave a long look at Rosa before he held up her folded paper, raised his pale eyebrows, and headed off to contact his team.

  After Dr. Rayburn had walked away, Miguel turned to Rosa. “Thank you for all of your help tonight. I’m sorry we seem to have disrupted your vacation once again, but hopefully, you can get back to your fun now.”

  “I was happy to be of service,” Rosa said, even though she had no intention of leaving just yet. She hoped to look over the place a little more closely. Something about Victor Boyd’s death wasn’t sitting right with her. Perhaps it was the regret at not having taken time to have a word with him earlier and letting him know she remembered him and how he’d once come to her defense. Whatever the reason, she didn’t feel ready to leave.

  Rosa turned to Gloria and the other girls. “Any chance you can catch a ride home with these ladies, Gloria?” she asked. “I might still be a few minutes and poor Diego needs a bit of food and water.”

  “Sure I can,” Gloria said as she reached for the satchel.

  “Gloria can ride with me,” Marjorie offered as the ladies drifted away. A moment ago, they had been in shock from discovering a dead body at the funfair. Now, it seemed, they had moved on to realizing their high school bully had finally gotten what he deserved.

  As Rosa waved goodbye, Terence, Miguel’s bandmate, approached, accompanied by a striking blonde. Styled in large waves, her hair moved as one when she turned her head. She had thick eyelashes, and her bright-pink lipstick matched her shoes and her purse, which looked lovely against a creamy swing dress.

  Terrence cocked his head as he stared at Miguel. “I told Charlene what had happened and offered her a ride home, but she insisted on speaking to you first.”

  Charlene took three quick running steps, tiptoeing toward Miguel on her pink patent-leather T-strap ballroom pumps, and grasped his hand. “Oh, darling. I can’t believe what happened. Are you all right?”

  Por todos los santos!

  Rosa held in a groan. This was Charlene Winters. Gloria’s description of her hadn’t been far off—she did have a Marilyn Monroe quality. And that explained the gorgeous shoes. Rosa recalled that Miguel’s fiancée worked as a receptionist for a shoe company in Los Angeles while hoping to become the next movie star.

  Miguel stroked Charlene’s hair in a manner that made Rosa’s chest tighten.

  “All part of the job, sweetheart,” he said gently. “I’m just sorry I had to leave you alone all night. Will you forgive me if I find you another ride?”

  Charlene pushed out her full lower lip. Miguel, seeing this, changed his mind.

  “Actually, I was just leaving for the precinct. I can drop you off at your motel on my way. How does that sound?”

  Charlene’s face blossomed into a grin, and moments later, they were leaving together hand in hand. Rosa couldn’t seem to help the jealousy that shot through her as she watched the leggy blonde—his fiancée, she reminded herself—strut off with Miguel.

  But for the first time that night, she felt somewhat satisfied that she had given out her phone number.

  7

  Not long after the medical examiner’s team had removed Victor Boyd’s body, Officer Richardson finished taking photos with his Busch Pressman camera. The funfair, much darker after sunset, was also much prettier with its colored lights against the night sky. Officer Richardson’s gaze met Rosa’s, but he didn’t offer a smile. He’d made it clear the last time they’d met that he didn’t approve of her involvement in Santa Bonita police work.

  “You don’t have your kitten with you tonight?” Officer Richardson said with a subtle snarl.

  Rosa ignored the slight. “I’ve sent him home early.” Her kitten had probably saved her life tonight, and that thought spurred her on to add, “Though I think he earned his keep.”

  Officer Richardson persisted, “Why are you still here?”

  It was a good question. Unlike last time, Miguel hadn’t invited her to consult, and Aunt Louisa hadn’t interfered by getting the mayor involved. She should’ve gone home with Gloria, but something undefined created a sense of unease Rosa had learned to pay attention to. Her mother would’ve called it a hunch.

  “I’m almost done,” Rosa said, not exactly answering the question.

  Studying the scene from all angles, Rosa still couldn’t seem to relax. Perhaps it was the regret of not speaking to Victor while he was still alive that ate at her and nothing more.

  Officer Richardson was buckling up his camera case when Mr. Henderson dragged a tall wooden ladder through the funfair and toward the roller coaster. It wasn’t until he had it under the barricade rope that Rosa realized what he meant to do with it.

  Rosa stopped him. “Mr. Henderson! Please desist!”

  He looked over with the same agitated frown he’d been sporting all evening.

  “What is it now, Miss Reed?”

  “This is still a crime scene,” Rosa answered. “You’ll need to check with Detective Belmonte before touching anything.”

  “I don’t need no trouble, miss,” Mr. Henderson said. “I gotta get the park up and runnin’ by mornin’. Gotta get that stupid bucket outta there. Don’t know what that idiot Jimmy was thinkin’!”

  As grumpy as he was, Rosa still felt for him. If the medical examiner’s office was busy, or if any unforeseen bits of information arose while interviewing Jimmy Thompson, it could be a matter of days or even weeks before the roller coaster reopened. If Jimmy Thompson’s interview left any doubt about the prank that had killed Victor Boyd, the police would most certainly remove the bucket themselves and check it for fingerprints.

  Mr. Henderson placed a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, which stunned Rosa, and if she could go by Officer Richardson’s wide-eyed glare, it dumbfounded him as well.

  Officer Richardson spoke up. “Sir, I have to insist that you keep your hands off until you receive permission from Detective Belmonte. If he finds you’ve tampered with the scene, he’s likely to not only shut down this one ride, but your entire funfair, and you could face charges.”

  Mr. Henderson froze in place, and a long moment later, the policeman’s authoritative voice had the desired effect. Mr. Henderson stepped down from the ladder and reached for the metal brace in its middle.

  “Why don’t you leave that here,” Rosa said, a sudden thought coming to her.

  Mr. Henderson snorted but moseyed along with his quick, short-legged gait.

  “What do you got in mind, Miss Reed?” Officer Richardson asked.

  “There’s something about that bucket that bothers me. Would you mind if I had a quick look?”

  Officer Richardson nodded begrudgingly. Rosa had the feeling he was uncertain about the arrangement Miguel had with her—none—but Rosa wasn’t about to enlighten him just yet.

  She spotted a long metal pole with a hook on the end leaning up against the fence. She glanced at Officer Richardson. “Is it all right if I touch this?”

  “Sure. I’ve got my photographs. Do you got gloves?”

  Rosa had a pair, but she’d left them in the satchel. She held up her bare hands.

  Officer Richardson sighed, and removed a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket. “Here. Don’t say I never do anything for ya.”

  Was that a hint of a smile? Perhaps Officer Richardson was warming up to her.

  After examining the hooked end and the dangerously sharp tip, Rosa said “Isn’t it odd for an item like this to be left out by the fence for anyone to grab?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Officer Richardson conceded.

  With her gloved hands, she held the pole over her head, aimed for the frayed string which hung from the bucket, and sure enough, it just reached.

  Had
the pole been used in Jimmy’s prank? That would be a question for Jimmy. Rosa wondered what the purpose of the hook was, and why it would be near the roller coaster ride.

  “I’d like to climb the ladder and have a look,” Rosa said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Officer Richardson held an offering hand out toward the ladder. “I suppose I’d get an earful from Belmonte if I did. The power’s still off to the ride, so there shouldn’t be any danger.”

  Rosa found it awkward climbing the ladder in a dress—even with a less-than-full crinoline slip—and in heels, even if they were more sensible than the flashy ones Charlene Winter had been wearing.

  Blast! Why did she have to think of her?

  Rosa shook her head and focused on the task at hand. The last thing she needed was to fall on her bottom and flash her knickers.

  She went as high as she dared but still couldn’t see inside the bucket. Like Miguel, she reached into the pail to check the water level. She could see by the damp line on her rubber glove that it was still a quarter full, which seemed odd. The bucket must not have fully turned over.

  Rosa tested the mechanism by pulling the string. She put some force behind it and nearly lost her footing on the ladder, but the bucket still barely budged. On closer inspection, Rosa could see that a metal beam holding up the roof was in the way.

  Strange. Rosa remembered where Diego had found a drink of water near the back edge of the platform—on the side furthest from the controls. She reached up and turned the pail ninety degrees. This time, when she pulled the string, the bucket tipped easily. The bucket was rigged so it could only tilt in one direction—away from the controls.

  Speaking immediately to Miguel was crucial. The prank with the water could not have caused an electrical malfunction since it didn’t dump anywhere near the controls.

  Jimmy Thompson’s prank had not caused the death of Victor Boyd.

  8

  The Santa Bonita Police Department looked nothing like Scotland Yard headquarters in London. During the day, the red-clay tile roof and white stucco exterior of the smaller Spanish mission-style building shone brightly under the California sun. Now, in the last wisps of dusk and under a moonlit sky, it had the essence of a holiday resort.

  Rosa parked the Bel Air and walked up the palm-tree-lined sidewalk, but when she pulled on the glass front doors of the police station, she was surprised to find them locked. Her mind was on high alert from the evening’s events, and she’d been prepared to barge through a busy office to find Miguel. She rapped on the glass door with two knuckles.

  There was movement in the office behind the reception counter, and a second later, a young policeman in uniform unlatched the door. She hadn’t met this officer, and she wondered if he always worked nights.

  “Ma’am? How can I help you?” he asked, opening the door wide to let her inside.

  “I’m WPC Rosa Reed, a friend of Detective Belmonte’s.” Rosa thought her use of the word “friend” was optimistic, but the truth of their relationship status was complicated. “I’m the one who found the body at the boardwalk. I must speak with him as soon as possible—before he finishes his interview,” she added.

  The policeman locked the door behind them and led her through to the open office area. This section, filled with cubicles, was dimly lit, quiet, and empty of other officers, which was a complete contrast to how it had been in the daytime when she’d been here.

  “I believe Detective Belmonte has finished in the interrogation room,” the policeman told her. “But please, wait here, and I’ll check.” He disappeared down the hall where Rosa knew Miguel’s private office was.

  Only seconds later, the policeman returned with Miguel on his heels.

  “You didn’t arrest him, did you?” Rosa spouted. The policeman headed down the hall to the reception area, leaving her alone in the cubicle-filled space with Miguel.

  Miguel perched on the edge of a desk. “Well, good evening to you too. And, no, I didn’t make any arrests. Delvecchio wanted a full report by morning, so I’m working on that and hoping Richardson will have some photos developed for me soon.”

  Rosa fanned her notebook. “I discovered something before leaving the boardwalk that will exonerate Jimmy Thompson from any manslaughter charges.”

  As Miguel listened intently, Rosa explained the mechanics of the bucket placement. “I believe someone rigged the bucket to dump when Victor handled a pole with a hook on the end. The bucket could only turn in one direction—away from the control panel and toward the back of the platform. I found the pole out by the roller coaster’s fence. I also looked over the control panel closely, and there were no signs of moisture.”

  Miguel nodded, deep in thought. “Dr. Rayburn said the wet patch on Victor’s shirt was water. We can theorize that as he headed out of the back of the platform with this pole, it pulled on the bucket, splashing him as he stepped off. But what was the pole doing there, and how did Jimmy know that Victor would grab it.”

  “Not sure, we’ll have to ask Jimmy. I would guess it’s something that’s used regularly. Perhaps to clear the track of any debris or unjam the chain drive on the tracks.”

  Miguel tapped a pen on the desk and looked at Rosa for so long, it bordered on uncomfortable. But when he spoke again, it was clear his mind was still firmly fixed on the case.

  “At any rate,” he finally said, “it looks like Jimmy didn’t even know enough to realize he was innocent.”

  “It seems so.” Rosa cleared her throat. “At the very least, I think it would be prudent to question him again in the morning about the bucket positioning and the pole.”

  “Agreed.”

  The overhead light cast shadows under Miguel’s eyes, but Rosa thought some of it might be pure fatigue.

  “Any chance you’d let me sit in on that?” Rosa asked. She knew her request could step on toes, but she was sincerely interested in what had happened to Victor Boyd.

  “Well, since you found the body and key evidence,” Miguel said, “I think it only fair to bring you in, once again, as a consultant. If Delvecchio agrees.”

  Rosa felt a flutter at this seal of approval and unconsciously moved a strand of her chestnut hair back into place. Rather than letting herself bask in this, she changed the subject.

  “What was responsible for Victor’s electrocution, if not Jimmy’s prank?”

  Miguel shifted on the desk and twisted his lips in deep thought. “Electrical malfunction?” But even as Miguel said the words, Rosa sensed he didn’t believe them. She didn’t either.

  “The fair manager, Mr. Henderson, insists his regular maintenance is thorough,” Rosa said. “And from what I saw from Skip—the carnie who shut off the roller coaster—his employees are trained well.

  “Mr. Henderson is eager to get the roller coaster up and running again,” Rosa continued. “He wants to get his electrician in first thing tomorrow to look over the roller coaster control panel. Perhaps you should let him.”

  Miguel nodded, still clearly in thought. “I’d like to get an independent electrician at the same time.”

  Rosa awoke the next morning to a loud shriek. “What is this thing doing in my living room?”

  Pushing herself to a sitting position, Rosa let out a weary sigh. With less grace than an orangutan, she wrestled herself into her silk housecoat, did a desperate search for her slippers, and headed for the stairs to face her angry aunt. What has Diego done to upset her now?

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Rosa called the moment she reached the bottom of the stairs. The Forrester mansion was a sprawling, two-level estate with many rooms and corridors. The yards, both front and back, were an impressive display of west coast gardening expertise with fragrant flowerbeds, elaborate water fountains, and manicured hedges.

  Rosa raced for the living room situated in the west wing and practically skidded along the hardwood floors. Standing about the slate-blue, low-back Scandinavian-designed couch were her stern-faced aunt and her cousin Clarence, w
ho attempted but failed at hiding his amusement. His little girl, Julie, squealed with delight, her blond ringlets bobbing as she skipped over the yellow area rug.

  Diego’s sharp front claws had pierced Louisa’s heavy front room drapes—yellow, embossed with a white geometrical pattern—and the kitten hung from them like an acrobat. With one paw, he stroked the air trying to catch the curtain’s pull string. Even at the height of mischievousness, he was simply adorable!

  Clearly, Aunt Louisa didn’t see it that way. Impeccably dressed in a striped pencil skirt, and her short brunette hair neatly styled around her ears, Rosa’s aunt crossed her arms. A hard frown etched her tanned and make-up-adorned face.

  Wearing slacks and a light cotton shirt, Clarence removed a paperback book—a James A. Michener novel—from his back pocket and tossed it onto the glass coffee table before lowering himself into an armchair. He casually crossed his legs, and chuckled. Julie giggled in turn.

  Rosa shot her cousin a look that said, You’re not helping!

  “I’m sorry!” Rosa said again as she raced across the room, the hem of her housecoat flapping. She grabbed Diego firmly by the scruff of the neck with one hand and used her other hand to push the middle of his front paws one at a time until his claws released. When she had him cleared of the drapes, she scrutinized the fabric, and sure enough, there were two arcs of tiny holes left behind.

  With a sheepish glance toward her aunt, she said, “I’ll be happy to replace them.”

  But as expected, Aunt Louisa huffed out a breath of despair. “They’re irreplaceable! They’re from Venezuela.” Rosa held in a breath of exasperation. All her aunt’s home furnishings seemed to be imported from some distant land, and they were all irreplaceable.

  “I’m really sorry, Auntie,” Rosa said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

  “Can I play with him?” Julie tugged on Rosa’s housecoat. If anyone could defuse the tension it would be her aunt’s little granddaughter.

  “Of course you can,” Rosa said. “Perhaps you can take him to the nursery?”