Murder on the Boardwalk

by Lee Strauss

  Jimmy slapped his thigh. “Mr. Henderson! I bet he did it. Guy told everyone he was gonna fire Vic.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug was followed by, “I dunno, but if you ask me, the guy was scared of Vic.”

  Rosa tilted her head. “Why was Mr. Henderson afraid of one of his employees?”

  “Vic was always sayin’ no to Mr. Henderson, no matter what he asked. He told ’im if he fired him, he’d have a lawsuit on his hands. Don’t think Vic knew much about the law, but he had this way of threatenin’ people. Ya always believed him.”

  Mr. Henderson was on the list of suspects, and now they had motive, but Rosa didn’t want to stop there. “Is there anyone else you can think of that might have wanted to see Victor, er, out of the way?”

  Jimmy lifted a narrow shoulder. “Coulda been anybody, but I’m telling you, Henderson’s your man.”

  Rosa changed tracks. “Who had access to the control panel that operated the roller coaster?”

  “Just whoever was on shift. Vic didn’t let nobody up on the platform with him if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “Right, but would there have been a time when Mr. Boyd wasn’t at his control panel? Is there a time when ride operators aren’t at their controls?”

  Jimmy slurped his soda. “Well, sure. When we go for a break or let the folks onto the rides. Vic’s got it—had it—rough, operating the coaster. Had to make sure each person was buckled right. The airplanes, which I run,” he went on, “they only got a rope that swings over their heads. Only takes me ’bout a minute to get all ten people loaded on.”

  “And the roller coaster held, what, thirty?” Rosa had counted the cars and then calculated the maximum number of passengers before leaving the park the evening before, so she knew this was true before she asked.

  Jimmy nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And so buckling each of thirty people in individually, that would have taken, what, four or five minutes?”

  “More like ten!”

  Would ten minutes have been long enough to reconfigure an electrical panel? The power would have surely had to have been shut off first and then turned back on at the very least.

  “There was a long pole, maybe seven feet long, with a hook on the end. Any idea what that was used for?”

  “The snatch hook? Sure, we all got one at our rides. Stupid idiots throw cups and popcorn boxes from the rides sometimes. There’s almost always a mess to clean up when we get back from break. We gotta use the snatch hook to get the junk outta the way.”

  Rosa slid her notebook toward herself and wrote: Snatch Hook. “And did you use Victor’s snatch hook to rig the bucket of water?”

  Jimmy nodded and looked like he was ready to laugh, but then he remembered the situation and stopped himself. “I knew Vic would have to use it sometime during the day, and he’s always annoyed when he does it. Grabs that thing like it’s his worst enemy’s neck. So, yeah. I had the idea to tie the bucket to it. Figured if I used a thin string, he wouldn’t notice nothin’.” After a pause, he added. “Guess he didn’t.” Jimmy’s emotions were as easy to read as a small child’s. He looked sad, and Rosa wondered how long it would take him to get over the fact that he’d been suspected of killing his friend.

  “You’ve been more than helpful, Mr. Thompson. Thank you. You can go now.”

  Jimmy drained his soda in one last long gulp then slapped the empty bottle down onto the table. “But if I were you, I’d spend my time looking at Henderson.” He pointed at Rosa. “Trust me on this one.”

  Back in Miguel’s office, Rosa slumped into a chair across from Miguel who sat at his desk. Past the point of purring, Diego was curled up in Miguel’s arm, fast asleep. Rosa kept her eyes on her notebook because the sight of an attractive police officer cradling a sleeping kitten was simply far too adorable. Especially this police officer and this kitten.

  “So, we’re back to listing every single person either of us recognized at the boardwalk,” she said.

  “We both know people who had the motive to kill Victor Boyd,” Miguel said in a soft voice as if not to awaken Diego.

  Rosa could probably have mentioned that Diego slept soundly through everything from Ferris wheel rides to her raging aunt, but she enjoyed Miguel’s soft tone too much to do that.

  “But who had the means?” he continued. “Who at the fair would have had the rewiring know-how to instigate the murder?”

  Rosa shook her head. “I’m afraid that doesn’t eliminate any of the girls from my group of friends. When I was in school, we all worked at the aircraft plant together. I wasn’t as skilled at rewiring as some of the others. Joyce was especially skilled. I’m not from this town, and even I know a handful of people who had motive and the means to do this.” Rosa tapped her pen on her notepad. She had already listed Marjorie, Nancy, Pauline, and Joyce. They had all known and hated Victor, but Joyce had left before Victor had died. However—

  “Don Welks,” Rosa said.

  Miguel raised a brow. “Huh?”

  “From the top of the Ferris wheel, I saw Don Welks—that’s Joyce Welks’s husband—speaking with Victor Boyd. The conversation was short, but it didn’t appear too friendly.”

  “Are you sure? From that distance, it would be easy to get a fella mixed up.”

  “Mr. Welks is an extremely tall man,” Rosa said. “Head and shoulders above everyone else, and he wore a distinctive bowling shirt.”

  Miguel hummed. “Worth checking into the guy.”

  Rosa added Don Welks to her list, then drew a question mark beside Pauline’s name.

  “All the girls in the higher grades worked at the aircraft plant, except Pauline. She worked with her dad throughout the war, so I have no idea about her electrical wiring know-how.”

  Miguel motioned to Rosa’s notebook. “Why don’t we start with your list and go from there? Even if none of them are guilty, our inquiries could lead us in the right direction.”

  “Yes, one must start with what one has,” Rosa murmured. It was what her father, Basil Reed, had often said while working as a chief inspector for Scotland Yard.

  Miguel smiled, both dimples making an unnerving appearance. “You sound so very British when you talk like that.”

  Rosa straightened. “Like what?”

  “Like the Queen. ‘One must—’”

  “Pfft,” Rosa protested. “How would you know? When did you ever talk to the Queen?”

  “I haven’t. She hasn’t seen fit to include our little pueblo in her holiday plans so far, but I have seen newsreels. You talk just like her.”

  Rosa didn’t know if she should take that as a compliment or not. “Well, you talk like Desi Arnaz.”

  “He’s Cuban!” Miguel feigned a look of shock, but a slight smile teased his lips.

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that.” Rosa grimaced at her mistake. Not everyone who spoke Spanish in America came from Mexico. “Yes, well, I am very British, and I shan’t apologize for that.”

  Their eyes locked. The eleven years since Rosa had lived in Santa Bonita—sounding very American by the end of it—stretched between them.

  “I’d never ask you to,” Miguel answered softly. He cleared his throat, and his dimples disappeared. “I see that Gloria is not on your list—”

  Rosa’s head snapped up.

  “It’s just a matter of form,” Miguel added quickly. “She was part of the grouping at the fair that night. I’m just suggesting that you not reveal details if you decide to ask her questions.”

  Reluctantly, Rosa added Gloria’s name to her list. “I think we can quickly clear Gloria. She wasn’t even on the boardwalk when the rigging or the death occurred. She’d gone to the Lobster Bar to use the facilities and got caught up chatting with the manager there.”

  With his free hand, Miguel stopped petting Diego and scrawled “Gloria” and “Lobster Bar” on the notepad in front of him. “I’ll follow up on this one and see what I can find out about the other employees at the fair.�
��

  Rosa hated that Gloria was officially a suspect, but she figured the sooner Miguel investigated her alibi, the sooner the police would clear Gloria from suspicion.

  “And that’s everyone you knew at the boardwalk that night?” Miguel asked in confirmation.

  Rosa nodded as she stood and reached for her kitten. Miguel handed Diego over, then with a look of resigned determination said, “Thanks again for your help, Rosa. Please do continue on with what remains of your vacation.”

  It sounded like a dismissal.

  Rosa wasn’t about to be dismissed.

  11

  Diego, however, had other plans. Wriggling out of Rosa’s arms he sprinted out of Miguel’s office and down the hallway toward the front door.

  “Diego!”

  Rosa grabbed her hat and satchel and made a run after her cat, flushing with acute embarrassment as the policemen stared, some with mirth pulling on the corner of their lips and others with looks of derision, clearly disapproving of Rosa’s decision to bring a cat with her to the precinct, or possibly they disliked that Rosa came in at all.

  She slowed her jog and lowered her voice. “Diego!”

  Miguel dashed past her, leaving a waft of musky cologne in his wake, but just as he was about to reach her cat, someone from the outside opened the door, and Diego slipped out.

  Rosa no longer cared that she was being watched and judged, and broke into a run. If Diego decided to climb one of those palm trees, Rosa had no idea how she would ever get him down.

  Pushing through the entrance into the bright sunlight, she prepared herself for the worst.

  She scanned the treetops. “Where is he?”

  Miguel shoved two fists into his pockets and grinned. “I think he wants to go home.”

  Rosa followed Miguel’s gaze to her Schwinn bicycle. Diego sat in the handlebar basket, licking one of his paws as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Rosa let out a breath of relief that turned into a nervous giggle. She slapped a palm over her mouth, feeling like a complete failure when it came to police professionalism. After a moment, she straightened her shoulders and walked as casually as she could to her bicycle. Lifting Diego, she placed him into her satchel and then put the satchel into the handlebar basket. Dratted Miguel hadn’t yet gone back inside, but instead he leaned against a palm tree as he watched her with interest.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” Rosa asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Miguel pushed off the palm with one foot. “I’d forgotten that cat rescue belongs to the domain of firemen. Good day, Rosa.”

  Rosa swallowed her humiliation and pressed down on one pedal, launching her bicycle onto the sidewalk.

  “I’m taking you home, Diego,” she said with a reproachful tone. “And if you’re not careful, I’m going to take away your deputy badge.”

  Diego poked his head out of the satchel, meowed, then turned his back on her, like he was a prince and she was the hired hand.

  Once back at the Forrester mansion, Rosa deposited Diego into Señora Gomez’s care in the kitchen. With a shake of her finger she said, “I’m still mad at you.”

  “Oh, Miss Reed,” Señora Gomez said as she poured a bit of milk into a small bowl and placed it on the terra-cotta tiled floor. “What did Señor Diego do?”

  Rosa relayed her story and Señora Gomez laughed, wiping a tear from her eyes. “I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall.”

  For the first time since it happened, Rosa smiled. “I suppose it was a bit humorous.” A little time and distance had a way of putting things in perspective. Being the laughingstock of the entire Santa Bonita police department wasn’t the end of the world.

  Right?

  Leaving Diego to his snack—Señora Gomez had produced a bit of tuna—Rosa grabbed an apple then headed through the house and up the long flight of stairs to her bedroom.

  The room looked much the same as it did when Rosa had occupied it in the early forties. A canopy bed sat against the wall in the center of the room, its oak head and footboards carved ornately and matching the dresser, night tables, and a vanity desk that had an oval mirror and padded stool.

  Dark curtains hung on square windows that overlooked the tennis court and a kidney-shaped pool. Besides her clothes, which she’d brought from England and a few pieces purchased in town since her arrival, Rosa had very few personal items. The stack of books that sat on one night table were a selection of novels she’d picked from the Forrester mansion library. Rosa ran a finger along the spines: the latest volumes from C.S. Lewis, Agatha Christie, and Erle Stanley Gardner. Rosa suspected Clarence was behind keeping the family library updated, but it was largely a collection of fiction, and what Rosa needed now was non-fiction, particularly on the subject of electricity.

  Though Rosa had a basic understanding of how electricity worked, it bothered her that she didn’t understand exactly how the mechanics of the sabotage at the roller coaster ride had been executed. Her work at the aircraft plant had been basic at best.

  Getting more detailed information required obtaining specialized textbooks on electrical engineering, not something the local bookstore would carry. No, if Rosa wanted to find comprehensive resources on the subject, she’d have to visit the local library.

  The thought of that excursion made Rosa’s blood cool. She flopped onto the bed with a bout of light-headedness. Coming to America was meant to be a break from emotional memories. Rosa had envisioned herself lounging about the pool reading books and eating meals that contained pineapple and coconut. Long walks along the beach with the waves crashing loudly enough to block out her thoughts about Winston, who must be fuming with anger toward her now, and poor Vivien whose grave she hadn’t visited in almost a year.

  Miguel Belmonte had to ruin it for her. Drat that man!

  Rosa heaved herself off her bed with a long sigh. There was nothing stopping her from doing what she’d come to do. She didn’t have to involve herself in this latest case. She barely knew Victor Boyd, and Miguel was perfectly capable of solving the case himself. Surely, he’d been able to do his job respectably before Rosa arrived.

  She’d stay out of this one, that was what she’d do. Plucking The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe out of the pile—one couldn’t get further from a blasted murder mystery than that—Rosa swapped her tennis shoes for sandals and skipped down the stairs in the direction of the pool. In America she wasn’t a police officer. She was just a girl on holiday! Surely Señora Gomez would make her a fruit salad with lots of fresh pineapple and coconut if she asked.

  Just as she hit the landing, Rosa heard unfamiliar voices coming from the living room. Forgetting momentarily that she was a girl on holiday! she took it upon herself to investigate.

  A quick peek revealed Grandma Sally drinking tea and watching television, which explained the sounds. Clarence occupied one of the chairs, an ankle braced over his knee.

  Rosa announced her presence. “Hiya. What are you watching?”

  Grandma Sally waved to the image on the black-and-white television. “The Edge of Night. Have you seen this show? I wouldn’t start if I were you. Silly nonsense, but tremendously addictive. I just can’t stop watching.”

  Clarence straightened, his face flushing with embarrassment. “I’m just keeping Grandma company. I don’t really pay attention to these kinds of shows.”

  “Come on, now,” Grandma Sally said. “You like the mystery elements.”

  “Yeah, sure, but the romance is a bit thick.”

  A Pillsbury commercial for instant mashed potatoes flashed across the screen. A stylish housewife in a crisp apron served her husband a dinner plate then winked at the camera. “Nothing says lovin’ like something from the oven, and Pillsbury does it best!”

  Grandma Sally patted the spot beside her. “You’re welcome to join us, Rosa, if you like.”

  “Maybe another time,” Rosa said. “I’m headed out to the pool to read.” She lifted her book as if she needed to provide proof.

  T
he episode started playing again, and despite Clarence’s protestations of being uninterested, his actions declared otherwise, and his brow furrowed as he focused on the black-and-white images.

  Rosa was pleasantly surprised to find Gloria poolside wearing a flouncy pool dress that was opened at the front showing off a red one-piece bathing suit.

  She peered at Rosa over a pair of cat-eye sunglasses. “Hiya!” she said as though they hadn’t seen each other in a year. “Where ya been?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Rosa reclined in a cedarwood lounge chair, exactly the same as the one Gloria occupied. “I missed you at breakfast. And, you took the car.”

  “I had a hair appointment,” Gloria said, patting the upturn of the tips of her hair and twisting to present her new do, which had been teased into a bouffant.

  “Ah, yes,” Rosa said, her voice light with approval of the new style. “It suits you.”

  “It’s blonder,” Gloria explained needlessly. “Can you tell? Blond is all the rage!”

  “You look fabulous.”

  Gloria’s eyes suddenly flashed with uncertainty. “Do you think so?”

  Rosa wasn’t sure why Gloria seemed to need so much validation. Then again, with a demanding mother like Aunt Louisa . . .

  “Yes, Gloria. You’re simply stunning.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Gloria collapsed back into her lounge chair with an expression of relief.

  Rosa opened her book, but the words swam without meaning in front of her. Instead, the sensation of rising into the air on the Ferris wheel captured her thoughts, and how she’d felt both trapped and liberated by the sensation of being suspended in the air. Once she’d let go of the fear of falling—an irrational fear at best since she’d never once heard of a carriage simply falling off such a machine—she’d been captivated by the view. She closed her eyes, and in her mind’s eye she could see the ocean off to the west and in the distance, facing east, a range of mountains. Beyond the natural beauty were the sparkling lights, golden white in the town and an explosion of neon in the fairgrounds.