LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  “I know the law,” he snarled.

  “You know the law?” Sheryl asked, hands on hips. “Then, I take it you were intentionally trying to intimidate this woman by attempting to run her over.”

  “I didn’t attempt nothing. She was on a construction site—”

  “I understand she was on the public street. Even if she’d been on the construction site,” Sheryl ground out, “that doesn’t give you license to run her over. And speaking of licenses, may I see your license to operate that piece of… machinery?”

  Allie heard titters coming from the workers. The man’s face went florid, and she could see a vein throbbing so hard in his neck that it should hurt.

  “You assholes get back to work,” he shouted over his shoulder as he headed to the construction trailer with Sheryl inches behind him.

  Allie wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t want to go inside and leave Sheryl to handle it alone. After all, she was the one who started it. No, she wasn’t. The man had started it by almost hitting her twice. The habit of taking blame for others’ behavior was ingrained in her, first by her mother and then by Garrison, but no more.

  “That’s my girl. Stand up for your rights, Allie.”

  “You’re darned right. You know what? It feels pretty good.”

  “I know it does, honey. You keep it up. Pretty soon, you’ll be kicking butt without a cop at your elbow.”

  Allie laughed. The foreman must have heard her. The look he shot her over his shoulder could’ve melted steel.

  That decided her. Sheryl was able to do her job without Allie’s help. She turned and started for her house. The construction workers were going through the motions of working, but most eyes were on the trailer. No catcalls followed her, and the silence was almost eerie.

  The early cessation of noise worked its magic on Spook. He met Allie at the door, his little body wiggling a welcome. Allie locked the door behind her and scooped him up, rubbing his head and cooing at him. She was hoping that if she rewarded him for these displays of courage, some day he’d have some for real.

  It was a half-hour before Sheryl appeared at her door. For the first time since Allie’d known her, she knocked like a normal person and waited until Allie opened the door.

  “Their papers are in order, ma’am,” Sheryl said in a voice loud enough to carry next door. Obviously, she was still in her cop persona. “If they give you any more problems, you just call us.” Then, lower, “What a cringing worm. Says if you’re so damned worried about construction, you should sell and move. What do you want to bet he’s a land developer on the side?” She tipped her hat back. “Seriously, Allie, I’ll put everyone on alert about the situation. If these assholes give you any more trouble, just call 911, and you’ll have a car here within thirty seconds.”

  “Thanks, Sheryl. I’m sorry to interrupt your day off.”

  “Hell, it was fun,” she said, grinning. “I love kicking ass.” And she was gone.

  A few minutes later, the construction noise resumed full throttle, probably trying to make up for the time Allie had cost them. Spook jumped out of her arms and returned to his hideaway. Allie was halfway to her office before she remembered she’d left her purse and briefcase in the Jeep. She reversed directions. No catcalls greeted her as she retrieved them and turned back to the house. She saw the foreman glaring at her from his perch on the Bobcat. So what if he was angry? He’d deserved what he got. At the last moment, she pressed the remote to lock the car. No need to tempt fate.

  As soon as she was inside, she dismissed the entire event. She needed to be thinking about Jean Arbutten—as if she could help it.

  A few people were reluctant to speak with Allie, at least at first. It seemed that Allie wasn’t the only one who looked down on reporters. Eventually, though, most came through, and a few surprised her with their willingness to discuss the late Mrs. Arbutten. The clear consensus was that Jean Arbutten was a social climber who considered herself above the “common folk” to the point that she discounted them completely. Allie might have expected that from what the sheriff had told her. The rest of the picture had her confused.

  Jean Arbutten seemed neither a depressed woman hanging around the house in her housecoat while she licked her soon-to-be divorce wounds nor a frightened woman cowering within her own four walls, terrified that her husband would kill her. Instead, she had spent the last few months joining committees, reaching out to people she had previously shunned, and making plans that stretched months into the future. According to her contemporaries, she had been more friendly and outgoing lately than at any time in their memories. Not that any of them had been fooled by it. Had she been desperately trying to cement her place in society before she lost her Mrs. Sheriff status? If so, how did that compute with her son’s claim that she was terrified for her life. The answer was simple. It didn’t.

  So what were the letters about that she sent her son? Allie stepped back. If Jean was the one who’d written the letters.

  She realized she stood in the middle of her living room, still holding her briefcase and purse. She tossed her purse on the couch and put the briefcase in the doorway to her office before going into her bedroom to change.

  At her desk, she spread her recorder and notes across her desk, but in her mind, she saw that tidy stack of typed letters. Typed, not handwritten. Did Jean Arbutten have a computer and printer? Was she technologically adept? If not, someone—anyone—else could have written those letters, including the recipient himself or anyone else who wanted to implicate the sheriff. Rand Arbutten seemed to be the only one who considered the sheriff violent. No one else seemed to know him well.

  Hours later, she barely registered the key turning in her lock. A Styrofoam box appeared at her elbow. Sheryl was getting better at this stealth thing. Joe would have been proud of her.

  “Thanks,” Allie said, looking over her shoulder.

  “No prob. Del says hi.”

  “Del?”

  “Del Delaney at Lester’s. He was great tonight. Treated Libby like she was a queen. She laughed until she almost fell out of her chair.”

  “Speaking of her chair, how is she going to manage to cook dinner from a wheelchair?” Allie asked.

  Sheryl shrugged. “She can get around pretty well. Gets in and out of the bathtub on her own. She can even stand some. She just can’t walk. Don’t worry,” she said with a grin, “between us, we’ll manage to get you fed.” She started to leave, but then turned back. “I fed Spook and took him for a walk. He’s good until the morning.”

  Allie sagged in her chair. Spook. She had totally forgotten him. He wasn’t the kind of dog that demanded dinner. Or anything. She knew she was neglecting him. Before she’d started on this project, they’d spent a few hours a day on the beach. She vowed that they would again. Soon. But first…

  Chapter 13

  It was nearly two in the morning before Allie called it a night and almost ten the next day before she surfaced from troubled dreams. The construction chaos was in full swing, so she was surprised to see Spook cuddled up in bed next to her.

  “Hey, puppy,” she said, scratching his ears. “How’s my gutsy little boy?”

  Spook’s courage held until Allie threw back the covers to get out of bed. Then, he made a beeline for the nook behind the couch. Still, it was progress.

  Allie decided to make an appearance at the newspaper. They ought to get something for the exorbitant salary they were paying her, even if it was just the occasional update. First, she would spend some time with her dog.

  After she fed him, she clipped on his leash and took him down to the beach. The morning was warm but tolerable. They jogged the mile down to the Canaveral jetty. Spook seemed to enjoy it as much as she did. They even played in the water for a few minutes before running back to the house. She felt alive, exhilarated. Yesterday’s run-in with the brute at the construction site seemed a distant memory.

  When they got inside, Spook’s little tongue was hanging out of his mouth,
and he collapsed in the middle of the living room floor. He was still there after Allie had showered and changed. “Sleep well, little dog,” Allie said as she let herself out the front door.

  When she entered the Brevard Sun’s reception area, Myrna was at her desk, the phone propped on her shoulder. “I told them, Mr. Fitzgibbons,” she was saying with exaggerated patience, “but they want to talk to a board member. I knew you would be the best one because you have such a good knowledge of the newspaper industry.” She looked at Allie and rolled her eyes. “You will? And you’ll let me know what they say? That’s wonderful. Thank you. We really appreciate it.”

  Allie came over and perched on the side of Myrna’s desk. “What was that all about?”

  “Bunch of vultures. Come on; I need a cigarette.” She punched a button on the phone.

  Allie followed her outside. She saw that someone—probably Myrna—had installed a bench and a trash can on the four-foot patch of grass off the front walk.

  Myrna led her there, a lit cigarette already in her hand.

  “What’s up?” Allie asked.

  “Advertisers,” Myrna grumbled. “They’re getting cold feet. With Rupert dead, they’re afraid the paper’s going to fold, so they don’t want to renew their contracts.”

  Allie didn’t want to admit she’d had the same thought.

  Myrna snorted. “Like he ever did anything around here.”

  Allie sat down on the bench beside her. “What are you going to do?”

  Myrna looked thoughtful. “I asked Fitzgibbons to call them. He’s a jerk, but he has some pull. Maybe that’ll work for a while.” She puffed on her cigarette. “What we need around here is a figurehead. Someone who could schmooze these nervous Nellies.”

  “Why not you?”

  Myrna ground out her cigarette under her shoe and didn’t immediately light another, clearly indicating how upset she was. After a minute, she picked up the butt and tossed it in the trash before pulling out another cigarette. “They see me as a receptionist. An office drone. Period. That’s all they’ll ever see me as.” She lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke through her nose. “What we need is someone with presence. Someone who can bullshit their fears away. Someone with a penis.”

  They both stared down at the asphalt, thinking about that for a minute. Then, Myrna looked over at Allie. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be out questioning leads.”

  Allie smiled. “I did that yesterday and the day before. I even talked to the sheriff and his son.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “The son? He’s acting like a little boy who’s been told a lot of different things, and now, he doesn’t know whom to believe. The way the sheriff tells it, his mother spent years convincing him that his father is a monster. Cord wasn’t around enough to dispel the myth. Now, Rand’s here in town where everyone thinks the sheriff is a fine, upright man.” Allie looked over at Myrna. “He’s determined to believe his father’s as bad as his mother told him. If, as I said, it’s not all an act.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Allie shrugged. “The death has been ruled a suicide, but you know the son is claiming his father murdered his mother. Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he really believes it.”

  “He seems awfully determined to make everyone else believe it. There are other questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Jean Arbutten didn’t act like a woman planning to kill herself.” Allie waved a hand in the air. “Things aren’t adding up. I think it was easy for everyone to take what happened at face value.”

  “But not you.”

  Allie shrugged. “I’m a skeptic.”

  “Are you going to talk to the son again?”

  “I tried this morning. He’s flown the coop. Maybe he went back to Orlando.”

  “That where he lives?” Myrna asked, squinting against her smoke.

  “I think he’s lived there since he graduated from law school.”

  Myrna perked up. “He’s an attorney?” When Allie nodded, she said, “Think he’d consider—”

  Allie held up her hand. “No, don’t even think about it. He’s not even local, and he already has a job.”

  “He has the requisite equipment,” she said with a smirk. At Allie’s scowl, she said, “OK, It was just a thought.”

  That was too quick. Allie looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Then, unthink it, Myrna. It wouldn’t work. Believe me; we do not want Rand Arbutten here at the newspaper.”

  ***

  Not five minutes after they walked inside, he arrived. Allie had run into the newsroom to borrow some supplies—printer paper, binder clips, a Scotch tape holder. It was amazing how much stuff it took to stock a home office. She’d stopped to speak to the new girl, Holly Miller, when Myrna walked up with Rand Arbutten in tow. “Allie—” she began. Then, she just waved her hand and walked away. Rand was dressed in a lightweight gray suit and pale blue dress shirt and looked every inch the lawyer.

  “Ladies,” Rand nodded as he approached them. He looked at Allie. “I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time.”

  What could she say? Hell no, you terrify me? That seemed ungracious. Besides, dressed as he was, he didn’t look like a man who took no for an answer. She compromised. She turned without a word and led the way into Rupert Cornelius’s office, ignoring Myrna’s curious look. Once there, her courage failed her. Instead of taking her seat behind the desk as she’d intended, she led him over to the conference table on the other side of the room. She motioned for him to sit down and then sat across the table, putting a four-foot shield of mahogany between them.

  Rand took in the office. “Nice,” he said.

  “It’s not mine,” Allie said. “It was the owner’s. He’s dead now.”

  Rand nodded slowly. “I remember reading about it in the newspaper.” He looked at Allie again and his eyes widened slightly. “You’re her, aren’t you? The woman he tried to kill.”

  Allie might have succumbed to pressure to talk to him, but she wasn’t a total pushover. The man was getting no information out of her unless he worked for it. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  The look on his face made Allie aware of her body language. She was sitting back in her chair, as far away from him as she could get. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her legs at the knee, and her entire body was turned slightly away from him. Most lawyers were aware of body language, and from his expression, Allie thought maybe he was among the “most.” She forced herself to uncross her legs, which earned her a one-sided smile. “I wanted to ask if you’d made any progress with your inquiries.”

  His voice was a smooth, rich baritone. Had she noticed that before? The thought appalled her. What was she thinking? This man could be a killer. “You got all dressed up and came here to ask me that?” she asked.

  He raised one eyebrow, obviously amused. “All dressed up?”

  Allie felt even angrier at his amusement. “You know exactly what I mean.” She waved her hand at him. “The suit. The tie.”

  He laughed aloud at that. He had a wonderful laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was pulling your leg.”

  He glanced down, and Allie thanked the heavens she was wearing pants, though she knew he couldn’t see through the table.

  “I have to admit,” he said, looking around again, “I wanted to see your lair.”

  “This is not my lair,” she said curtly.

  “So, you said. Okay, then, the newspaper office.”

  “Why in the world would you want to see that?”

  He shrugged. “Morbid curiosity? After all, this is the newspaper that’s writing stories about my parents.”

  “As is every other newspaper in the state of Florida,” Allie retorted.

  “I don’t have time to visit them all,” he said, his amusement returning.

  Where was the hate, the resentment she’d seen coming off him before? Was this some kin
d of ploy to get on her good side? A better question—was it working? He didn’t seem frightening today. He seemed—charming. The thought stopped her. Her best plan of action was to give him something so he’d go away.

  She turned a bit more toward him—intentionally. “I haven’t found out much that you would want to hear,” she said. “Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

  He thought for a minute. Then, he seemed to steel himself. “I guess you’d better.”

  Allie tried to think of a kind way to say it. There wasn’t one. “From the people I’ve talked to, I’m afraid your mother wasn’t very well liked. They’re small-town people, and they thought she put on airs around them. That didn’t go over well. They said she wasn’t really friendly, that she looked down on them.”

  “Which is hardly a crime,” he shot out.

  Allie sat, regarding him steadily.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. “Go on.”

  Allie didn’t know how much more she could tell him—certainly nothing he wanted to hear. “She’d been joining committees like crazy lately, making plans into the next six months, plans that often included your father.”

  He seemed to relax. “That doesn’t sound like a woman who was planning to commit suicide.”

  “Or one terrified for her life,” Allie shot back, though she’d thought the same thing herself. She jumped up from the chair. “That’s pretty much all I know at this point.”

  He was still sitting, staring up at her, his face troubled. “So, if she didn’t commit suicide, and she wasn’t terrified of my father—which I’m still convinced she was—what happened? Are you saying you think someone else killed her?”

  It was exactly what Allie was beginning to think. The real question was whether Rand was asking a valid question. People were saying Jean Arbutten had smothered her son, pressured him to live his life by her rules. Sitting here at a conference table with Rand Arbutten dressed in his business suit and tie, Allie couldn’t imagine his shooting his mother in the head, let alone staging it to look like a suicide. Then, another thought struck her. If Rand had done it, the sheriff had to know. Cord’s version of events had Rand running into the room just after the shot, but what if it happened the other way? What if the sheriff had run in and seen Rand standing over his mother? She shook her head. No. Impossible. Whoever killed Jean Arbutten would hae been covered with blood. But if Rand or the sheriff didn’t kill her, and she didn’t commit suicide, then who—