LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  Rand sat in Rupert Cornelius’s chair talking on the phone when Allie walked in without knocking. He looked every inch the executive, dressed in a lightweight gray suit and white dress shirt, complete with the requisite power tie. Allie was surprised his feet weren’t up on the desk.

  He held up one finger when he saw her. “That’s great, Jim. Yes, lunch sounds fine. I’ll meet you there at one.” He hung up the phone with a grimace, looking up at Allie. “Our biggest advertiser. The man’s a jackass, but we need his money.” He brought his elbows to rest on the desk. “Now, why don’t you sit down? What can I do for you?”

  Allie hadn’t missed the “we.” She remained standing. “We need to talk.”

  He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “All right.”

  He looked so smug that it took all Allie’s control not to kick his chair out from under him. “I’m sure Myrna told you that I’m working on the story about your father.”

  “She might have mentioned it.”

  Allie ground her teeth. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable being bound by your threat to gag the story. I—”

  “Wait,” he said, straightening in his chair. “First, it’s not you who are bound. It’s the newspaper, and I do not intend to gag either of you. I merely want editorial control—”

  “So you can squelch the truth—”

  He talked right over her. “So I can ensure that any story you write is fair to all parties involved. That’s all,” he said, getting to his feet. “Fair.”

  Allie crossed her arms. “Fair.”

  “Right.”

  “To all parties.”

  “That is correct. To all parties involved.”

  “Which means—”

  “Which means exactly what I just said.” He shook his head impatiently and sat down again. Then, he stared up at Allie.

  The damn man wasn’t at all intimidated by her standing over him. Finally, she sat down. “OK, then I’ll need some help from you.”

  His brows came together. “What kind of help?”

  “Information. I need to know more about what happened. And more background.”

  His forehead smoothed out. “OK. Ask away.”

  Allie pulled her notebook out of her purse. She flipped through the pages to a blank one and opened her pen. “The day your mother—the day it happened, how quickly did you come inside?”

  She saw the spasm of pain wash over his face. Then, it was gone. He looked down at the desk. “Not long. The front door was locked. I finally broke it in. I was around the side of the house.”

  Peeking in windows, as she well knew. “What were you doing around the side of the house?” she asked, looking up.

  “I had just started for the front door when I saw him drive up. She had said not to let him see me, so I ducked around the side. Then, I heard the gunshot and came running.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the area?”

  “Like whom?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone. Walking. Parked on the street.”

  He thought for a moment. “No, there weren’t even any neighbors outside.” Oh, yes, there were, Allie thought, but she kept it to herself. “Probably because of the heat.”

  Allie remembered that day. It had felt like an inferno. “So, when you ran in, was anyone else in the house?”

  “He was there.” When Allie looked up, he said, “The sheriff.”

  Allie’s fingers tightened on the pen. “So, your father,” she said, giving the word added emphasis, “was there.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Was the garage door closed?”

  “Hell, I don’t remember. What does that—?”

  “Think back. Was it open or closed?”

  “Closed, I think. No, I’m sure. It was closed.”

  Allie sat back and crossed her legs. “Don’t you think he would have left it open if he’d planned to make a quick getaway?”

  Rand ran his hand roughly through his hair, leaving half of it standing up. For just an instant, he looked a bit like Butch. “What do I know? Maybe he wanted to muffle the sound. Maybe he didn’t think about it. Maybe he hadn’t planned to kill her then, and it just happened.”

  “A sheriff—a lawman of more than thirty years—didn’t think about it?” She made a derisive sound in her throat. “You know she was killed with his old service revolver?”

  “I read that.”

  “So, he just happened to have his old service revolver with him. Loaded.”

  He stood and pushed his chair away. “I know where you’re going with this and—”

  “I doubt it,” Allie said, looking up at him, “since I have no idea myself where it will lead. I’m just trying to get some information here.”

  He looked at her for a long moment as if trying to gauge her intentions. Then, he sat back down behind the desk. “What else?”

  “Did he have anything in his hand when you ran inside? A radio? A gun?”

  “A gun. A had his gun in his hand.”

  “The murder weapon?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “No.” He looked away. “He wouldn’t, would he? Not if he was setting it up to look like a suicide.”

  Allie ignored the question. She flipped back through her notes. “Where was he headed when you ran inside?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Was he headed toward the garage or toward the back door?”

  A mulish expression came over his face. “It looked like he was headed toward the back door.”

  “Not the garage and his car?”

  “Maybe he hoped to get out the back before anyone came inside.”

  “And what?” Allie asked, incredulous. “Jump in the canal and swim away? Leaving his car in the garage?”

  “Maybe he thought it would look like he was going after an intruder.”

  “Look to whom?”

  Rand looked away. “The neighbors. Hell, I don’t know.”

  He stood as if the interview was over. It wasn’t.

  “Did you see any suitcases in the hall? Any indication that your mother was leaving him?”

  “I didn’t see a God damn thing. He shoved me back out of the house.”

  During the run-in. She made a mental note to ask Cord about finding any suitcases. “Was there blood on his clothes?”

  “Yes. Some. On his shirt and pants.”

  “Some.”

  He looked away. Allie gave him a moment to take it in. Then she said, “There was a woman in a wheelchair at the viewing and at the funeral. Cord said she was your grandmother. How do I get in touch with her?”

  Rand leaned against the corner of the desk. “Why don’t you ask Cord?” he said, his voice bitter.

  Now, Allie’s eyebrows met in the center of her forehead. “Because I’m asking you.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, he looked away. “Bayview Retirement Home. It’s off US 1.”

  “Do you think she’ll agree to talk to me?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “She’d probably love to talk to you. She and my mother didn’t get along. They hated each other. But take what she says with a shaker of salt. She’s a liar.”

  “According to whom?” Allie asked innocently.

  “According to—” He hesitated. “According to my mother.” His shoulders sagged slightly.

  Allie felt a wave of pity go through her. She tried to squelch it. “We’re after the same thing here, Rand,” she said quietly, “and that’s the truth about what happened. I’m not trying to put words in people’s mouths. You’re welcome to conduct your own investigation.”

  “No one will talk to me,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

  “Why is that?”

  He looked at her. “Because I’m the sheriff’s son. Because I’m the only guy in town who doesn’t bow to him.”

  Allie knew she had no right to ask, but that didn’t stop her. “Why do you hate him so much?”

  Rand gave a humorless laugh. “Well, there is the li
ttle matter of him shipping me off to boarding school when I was twelve.”

  “Was it that awful?”

  She could see the yes form on his tongue. Then, he hesitated, saying, “No, not really.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “I was a real snot back then. You know about my running away from school?” When Allie nodded, he said, “The second time, he had the police hold me in jail until he arrived. Then, he took me out into the woods. I was scared to death. I thought he was going to beat me to death. You know what he did?”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “No, I don’t.”

  “He sat me down on a log, and he told me he was ashamed of me, that his son would be such a coward that he would run away from what life had dealt him. He said my next chance was the only one I was going to get, that if I ran away, he would have me put in the Sheriff’s Boy’s Ranch with boys who had real family problems, like a drugging mother or an abusive father. He said maybe if I saw what their lives were like, I’d begin to appreciate my own.

  The silence in the room was total. Allie knew cars were passing by on the highway outside the office, but the only sound inside was Rand’s breathing. Or maybe it was hers.

  “Do you want to go with me?” Allie asked finally. “To see your grandmother?”

  “No,” he said quickly. Then, “She hardly knows me. It would be like talking to a stranger.”

  Allie started to remind him that she would be talking to Allie, who really was a total stranger, but she thought better of it. Maybe the woman would be more willing to talk to her for that very reason. “Okay.”

  She stood, tucking her notebook in her purse. When she was halfway out the door, she stopped and turned around. “I don’t even know her name.”

  Rand looked up, as if the question surprised him. “It’s French. Janet French.”

  ***

  “Mrs. French is in the day room,” the elderly nurse told Allie when she arrived at Bayview an hour later. The woman looked like she might be a resident there playing dress-up in her nurse’s white uniform and cap. Did nurses still wear caps?

  The drive had taken only fifteen minutes. Allie spent the rest of the time trying to organize her thoughts. Trying to get her mind off Rand Arbutten, to be precise. She knew he was angry and aggressive, and worse, unpredictable, but something in his eyes got to her. That lost little boy thing. Now that she knew beyond any doubt that he hadn’t killed his mother, all she could feel for him was pity.

  It was as if he’d based his view of the world on what his mother told him, had taken everything she said at face value, believed it totally, and why not? He wasn’t around enough to question what she said or to see any evidence to the contrary. The worst he knew about Jean Arbutten was that she loved him and wanted to be close to him. It might have been suffocating, but it was also flattering. Who wouldn’t want their mother to worship them? But Allie was getting a different picture of Jean Arbutten’s feelings for her son. She was beginning to believe that Rand had been abused, as in lied to, manipulated until he didn’t know what was real. She wasn’t looking forward to meeting the grandmother.

  The outside of what they charitably called a retirement home was depressing enough. If Allie had to guess, she would say it used to be a motel, awkwardly converted, with a tacked-on addition serving as a hallway leading to the rooms. Single story. The exterior had weathered quite a few storms. Or maybe it had looked that way when it was new. The interior was even worse. Linoleum floors curling at the corners, water damage visible on the walls near the ceiling.

  The so-called dayroom was really two motel rooms combined by knocking down a wall. One-half of it was a TV room; the other might have been a game room, except that there were no games in sight. A cluster of women sat around a table; otherwise, the room was deserted. She saw Rand’s grandmother immediately. The dyed black hair stood out in stark relief to the white heads surrounding her. Janet French appeared to be the ringleader, a funny one, judging by the laughter. She didn’t give the impression of frailty, despite sitting in a wheelchair with skin that looked like it rarely saw the sun and washed-out watery blue eyes. Her broad smile vanished when she saw Allie walking toward them. Allie stopped.

  “Who the hell are you?” Janet boomed out, her voice raspy with age and overuse.

  “Hello, Mrs. French,” Allie said, fixing a smile on her face. “I’m Allison Grainger. I work with the Brevard Sun.”

  “Well, whatdaya know, girls,” Janet said, nudging the woman next to her. “Looks like I’m news these days.”

  The women tittered.

  Allie gamely hung on to her smile. “I was wondering if I could talk with you for a few minutes.”

  Janet squinted up at her. “What about?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Allie asked. “Somewhere private?”

  Janet looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “What’s wrong with here?”

  Allie tried not to grit her teeth. Apparently, Janet French would not make this easy. “Here is fine, if that’s what you’d prefer. I wanted to ask you about your daughter.”

  No one moved. Then, Janet abruptly wheeled her chair around and headed to the other side of the room. She stopped next to the television, a good distance from any chairs.

  Allie followed her. She dragged a chair over to where the woman parked and sat down. She reached in her purse and almost cursed when she realized she hadn’t brought her tape recorder.

  “I don’t like to talk about Jean,” Janet said, her voice just as harsh, though the volume was down a few decibels.

  “I know it has to be painful for you—”

  “You know nothing.”

  Allie tried again. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. French. I’m writing an article about the tragedy—”

  “You practice that shit in front of a mirror?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That sympathy shit. You TV people are all alike.”

  “I’m not with a television station, Mrs. French. I’m with the Brevard Sun newspaper. I’m doing an article—”

  “Who told you it’s Mrs.?”

  Allie sat back. “I—I assumed…”

  “You know what assuming makes you, don’t you?” She laughed, but there was little humor in it. “It’s Frenchie. That’s what they call me. Or they used to when they called me. Now, they don’t call me nothing ‘cause they don’t call me.” She chuckled at her own joke.

  Allie couldn’t even manage a smile. “Would you mind answering a few questions for me, Frenchie?”

  She looked suspicious. “What kind of questions?”

  “I’m trying to understand your daughter better—”

  “Me too. Never could make heads or tails of the girl.”

  “For the article,” Allie added through clenched teeth. “I’d like to ask you some questions about her background. About her marriage to Cord Arbutten.”

  Allie could have sworn the woman’s face softened at the mention of her son-in-law’s name. Then, it turned to stone. “She was a bitch, and she made his life hell,” she said. “Now, she’s dead. End of story.”

  With an effort, Allie reined in her temper. “Not quite the end,” she said.

  “Well, it should be. That man is a saint. He’s paid long enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Janet French glared at her. “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.” She turned her face toward the wall.

  Allie thought for a moment. “Do you know that your grandson is claiming Cord killed your daughter?”

  The head whipped back around. “That’s the biggest crock of shit I ever heard.”

  “I agree,” Allie said quickly. “That’s why I’m looking into his allegations.”

  “You the police?”

  Was the woman senile? Cord had said no, but… “No, ma’am. I’m with the Brevard Sun. It’s a newspaper.”

  “Oh, I heard you say that,” she said, waving the words away. “I just figured maybe you were undercover or somethi
ng. You know, like on CSI?”

  It took Allie a moment to react. “Uh—no. I’m not undercover. I’m just writing an article.”

  “So, Rand’s still in town, is he?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was no way she would tell her he was working at the paper.

  “Trying to hang his daddy all right and proper, I’ll bet.”

  “He has made allegations—”

  “She ruined him. Jean.” Her mouth snapped shut.

  “What do you mean?”

  The watery eyes narrowed and turned crafty. “What’s it worth to you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t be a dope.” Janet sat straighter in her chair. “What are you willing to give me? How bad do you want information?”

  Allie was shocked, although she couldn’t have said why. It was exactly what she should have expected to come out of the woman’s mouth. “What do you want?” she asked. “Money?”

  “Yeah, right. Like money’s gonna do me any good in this dump.” She pursed her lips. “How about booze?”

  “You want—booze?”

  Janet cackled. “If you lived here, wouldn’t you want booze?”

  Allie looked around the room and barely suppressed a shudder. She had a point. “OK, any particular kind?”

  “Grand Marnier,” she said without hesitation. “The big bottle. Hundred-year old. Bring it tomorrow afternoon. Then, maybe I’ll answer your questions.”

  “That’s all? A bottle of Grand Marnier?”

  She cackled again. “That’s all.”

  It was all Allie could do not to run out the front door. If the place had been horrible, the woman was infinitely worse. It had never occurred to her that Janet French would need to be bribed to talk, but Allie felt like she’d been let off easily. One bottle of liquor? How much could that cost?

  Chapter 16

  “Eighty-six dollars and seventy-five cents.” Allie plunked the bottle down on her kitchen counter. She had gone directly to the liquor store from Bayview. When she saw the prices on the Grand Marnier display, she had almost turned around and walked out of the store. Thank God, Janet hadn’t specified the hundred-and-fifty-year-old bottle. Those were almost two hundred dollars, the kind of stuff they kept behind the cash register in a locked glass case. On the way home, she called Sheryl and asked if she and Libby could come to her house for dinner. She felt like she’d explode if she didn’t vent.