Once the pleasantries were over, Abby Lee and I settled into the living room and waited for my aunt to come back out of the kitchen with the food. I couldn’t help but notice Abby Lee looked a bit more withdrawn than I’d last seen her. My friend’s once bright and optimistic disposition had turned sullen.
I had no new information to lift Abby Lee’s spirits, so we sat in silence as we waited for Aunt Lula to put together the finishing touches on lunch. To occupy the dead silence in the air, I was flipping through the pages of a Garden & Gun magazine my aunt had left on the sofa, when something caught my attention. Right there, on the bottom left corner of the page, was a brief write-up on Trouble Island.
Holy crap! I looked at the circulation date—it was the March/April issue. The piece mentioned our quiet “hidden gem” of an island town, showcasing its hometown feel and regional Southern cuisine.
There was a sudden sense of pride that surfaced from within, seeing our small island written up, but at the same time I felt it was the cause of all our troubles here in Trouble. The magazine was most certainly regional, catering mostly to Southern subscribers, but it was large enough that it would draw attention to our town.
“Hey, Aunt Lula—did you happen to read your latest issue of Garden and Gun?”
She came out from the kitchen holding a tray of tostadas and ceviche. “Of course I have. Why?”
“Did you see this?” I asked, pointing to the magazine article. “Trouble Island is mentioned.”
Abby Lee came over to where I was seated on the couch to take a closer look. “Oh yeah. I remember that. After the article came out, we had tons of restaurant people coming by The Poop Deck asking if Harvey was willing to sell.”
“Did he entertain any offers?” I asked.
“No. He said he’d never sell,” Abby Lee said. “Pissed off a lot of folks. But Harvey was adamant. He said he would never let anyone get their hands on his place. No matter how much they offered.”
“Let me see that.” Aunt Lula grabbed the issue from my hand as I helped myself to a tostada chip from the tray and dipped it in the ceviche—delish. I was ravenous, and no one made ceviche like my aunt, not even my mom, complete with extra lime and chile pepper for that extra kick.
I shoved another overflowing chip in my mouth as Aunt Lula perused the article. I couldn’t help but notice she had to squint in order to read the small piece on our island. She was too proud to wear glasses. “I guess I must have missed this. I only ever look at the pictures.”
A likely story. “Why don’t you get your eyes checked?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Once you admit to losing your eyesight, next thing you know, people will think you’re losing your marbles, too.”
Aunt Lula must have been losing a little bit of both. How could she have missed the attention given to The Poop Deck as a result of the write-up? Maybe the news wasn’t juicy enough for her to give it a second thought. Who cared about folks eating their weight in crab cakes and fried shrimp? Right?
“What are you thinking, Jules?” Abby Lee asked, bringing me back to the present. “Do you think it has something to do with the case?”
“I’m thinking that all the unwanted attention on the restaurant could have gotten Harvey killed,” I said.
“Oh my God! Do you really think someone would kill him for The Poop Deck?” Abby Lee asked.
“Dear, I hate to remind you, but the police already think you killed Harvey for the restaurant,” Aunt Lula pointed out.
The thought of unwanted publicity certainly broadened the pool of suspects. The only question was, who else besides Abby Lee, Sheila, or Donald had motive to kill Harvey over a small seafood shack?
Or what if Sheila had gotten wind that Harvey stood to gain some major bucks by selling his restaurant? What if some greedy restaurateur got angry at Harvey’s refusal to sell and wouldn’t take no for an answer? I began to get excited at the possibilities. I wanted to find out exactly when Donald came to visit Harvey. If we added him to the list of suspects, maybe we could cast some doubt on Abby Lee.
Donald said he had visited Harvey a few months ago. What if it was right around the time the article surfaced? I wondered if he or his mother found out about his uncle’s restaurant from this issue of Garden & Gun. If they had, I wondered if his previous visit to the island was for the purpose of buying the place from Harvey. What if Donald had demanded money, thinking Harvey was rolling in it? One look at the place would tell you it was nothing more than a modest restaurant, but maybe he figured it was worth much more, thanks to all the attention.
“Hey, did you ever meet Harvey’s nephew?” I asked Abby Lee.
She shook her head. “I didn’t even know he had family.”
“Well, he did, and when I spoke to his nephew at his hotel earlier today, he told me he had met Harvey once before. I’m guessing it was right around the time the issue came out. I’m curious if his visit had anything to do with The Poop Deck.”
“Harvey didn’t say anything about it,” Abby Lee said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Why? Do you think he did it? His nephew wasn’t even at your welcome-home party. At least, not that I know of. If it was him, when would he have slipped Harvey the poison?”
Damn. Abby Lee was right. Donald hadn’t been at my party. As far as we knew, he arrived right before the funeral. Still, it was a lead worth pursuing. At the very least, as Harvey’s blood relative, he could try to stake a claim on Abby Lee’s inheritance. Besides, how did we know Harvey’s nephew wasn’t already in Trouble with the intention to kill him? Donald could have easily laid low until the funeral. We just had to figure out how and when he’d slipped Harvey the poison.
The toxicology report. It would tell us exactly what kind of poison was used—and once we knew that, the police could determine a time frame.
I took a page from Aunt Lula’s playbook and set out to have another look at Harvey’s nephew. This time, I planned to do my homework first, instead of approaching a suspect totally blind.
If anyone thought I relied only on my aunt and the local gossip mill to dole out valuable information, they’d be wrong. I had a friend on the inside that I knew would be willing to help.
One of my colleagues, Charisse Berree, a crime analyst like myself, was another Weight Watcher Wendy casualty. When the opportunity for a transfer came up at the Boston Field Office, she vied for the opportunity to get out from under Wendy’s reign of terror. I would have jumped at the opportunity myself, but I was involved with James and I didn’t want to move. She knew that with me not competing against her, she was a shoo-in. In the end, she got the transfer. Charisse was so happy to get out of there she said she owed me big-time.
It was time to collect.
“I need you to do me a huge favor,” I said. “Can you look up a Donald Walker and let me know what you find? I’m looking for the usual. Debt, liens—anything that raises any red flags.”
“Screening a prospective boyfriend?” Charisse laughed. She knew about my breakup with James, so it was no surprise she’d jumped to that conclusion, even though I knew she was kidding. She didn’t say it, but I was sure she was happy he and I broke up after the transfer opportunity came up, or I might have been the one sitting pretty in Boston right about now.
“No. Just a potential suspect.”
“Causing trouble in Trouble already, Jules?”
“Hardly.”
I gave her the lowdown and what I knew of Donald: age, birth date, place of birth—everything I was able to glean from the Internet. Hopefully she would be able to get some dirt on Harvey’s nephew, the info I couldn’t get with just a simple online search, anything that could put him on the suspect list.
“Oh, and can you also check his credit card transactions within the last week or so?” That would tell me the exact date he arrived in Trouble. “I’m interested in any charges made to the Tr
ouble Island Hotel.”
“You got it, Jules.”
Two hours later I had my answer. Charisse never disappointed.
“The guy is clean. No judgments, liens, pays his taxes on time,” she said. “It was hard to sort through the credit card transactions for specific dates, but it looks like he arrived in Trouble on the seventh.”
The day of my welcome-home party.
We had a timeline, but I was hoping she’d find something else that could give Donald some kind of motive. Or at least cast some reasonable doubt on Abby Lee. If he was in debt or owed money to someone, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine him wanting to get rid of his uncle for the restaurant.
“Thanks, Charisse. I owe you one,” I said.
“I’ll just put it on your tab,” she said and hung up.
I settled in to review the facts of the case. I pulled out my agenda to take some notes. With all the advances in technology, I still preferred to write things down. I was sure I was one of the few people left on the planet that still used a notebook agenda instead of an electronic calendar. There was something satisfying about writing things down and being able to scratch them off a list—a sense of accomplishment. That, and I was always afraid that if I deleted something permanently, I would need the information again later and it’d be gone. So it was pen and paper for me.
I started with a fresh page and began to write down all the facts:
Harvey was poisoned.
Harvey left The Poop Deck to Abby Lee.
Sheila is contesting the will.
Abby Lee is a suspect in Harvey’s murder.
Sheila is also a suspect.
Magazine did a write-up on The Poop Deck.
Harvey’s nephew arrived the day he was killed.
The last item certainly made Donald Walker a suspect in my book. Something about his presence in town the day of the murder nagged at me. Was there a failed reconciliation between the family members during his last visit, and had he come back to finish what he started?
I continued to glare at the list, hoping I would see something I’d overlooked. So far, most of the items on my list seemed to tie directly to The Poop Deck.
Jotting down notes and staring at my short list made me more frustrated than before. Even if Harvey didn’t have much money, the real estate value on his restaurant or future earnings from the place alone could be enough for an estranged nephew—or anyone for that matter—to kill over. As next of kin, Donald certainly had a right to contest whatever Harvey left in his estate. Then I realized the same held true for Sheila.
And Abby Lee—the person who ended up inheriting it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As much as Aunt Lula supported me investigating Harvey’s murder, she still demanded much of my time at Palmetto Pink. She didn’t budge an inch on her insistence that I help around the store. I had hoped that once she was on board with our plan to help clear Abby Lee’s name, she would find someone else to take over my responsibilities at the store, but no such luck.
I was stuck in perpetual retail hell.
This particular morning made me once again regret my decision to work for Aunt Lula at Palmetto Pink, even though I didn’t remember agreeing to be a part-time associate in the first place. For in walked the kind of customers every retail sales associate dreaded—children.
There were five kids total, all under the age of ten—I think—running around the shop, picking up items, imprinting their ice cream–slathered hands on the mirrors, and leaving droplets of Big Red, resembling a trail of blood, on the pristine white tile behind them.
I watched in horror as the little hellions continued to wreak havoc around the store like a tornado. I cringed every time one of them handled a scarf, touched a bikini bottom, or picked up a pair of sunglasses. I had no choice but to follow behind them, straightening every item they managed to put out of place. Where in the hell was their mom?
“And Mom thinks this is what I need in my life? No thanks,” I said out loud to no one in particular and certainly out of earshot from the kids. At least, I didn’t think they heard me. Who was I kidding? I didn’t really care if they did.
Judging from their clothes, the kids were definitely tourists. Plus, no Trouble Island mom would allow her kids to storm into Aunt Lula’s shop without supervision. They knew better. I was still searching for their mother when Aunt Lula came out from the back room.
“Oh, dear,” she said upon seeing the running children. She had to step back in order to avoid one of the boys running past her.
I glanced up, grateful we were both on the same page. “You have insurance, right?”
At that precise moment, a frazzled-looking woman ran into the store. “There they are! I was window-shopping, and somehow they managed to get away from me,” she said breathlessly, rounding up her spawn. “I hope they weren’t any trouble.”
“None at all,” Aunt Lula said.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from suggesting she invest in leashes, but somehow I didn’t think she wanted my opinion on the matter. It was an unspoken rule that if you didn’t have children of your own, you couldn’t criticize someone else’s.
She quickly rounded them up, and they left the store—amazingly leaving the store in one piece—with the mother again apologizing for the inconvenience.
“This is exactly why I don’t want kids,” I said to Aunt Lula. “Much less five of them.”
“Oh, I bet you’ll think differently when they’re your own.”
That’s what they all say. “You don’t have any,” I pointed out.
“No. Your Great-Uncle Jep and I never did,” she said. “Wasn’t in the cards.”
From her tone, I couldn’t figure out if she was regretful or grateful.
There was a lot about Aunt Lula I didn’t know, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Every time I asked about anything too personal, she would shut down, and the matter was closed. I even tried asking my dad about Aunt Lula’s past, and true to form, he also remained mum on the subject. “If she wants you to know about her past, it’s her story to tell,” he told me.
With no other customers to corral or clean up after, I straightened up the store for the second time that morning. The task was mundane and beyond boring. I wondered to myself for the billionth time why Aunt Lula insisted she needed the extra help. It was obvious she didn’t need another sales associate.
With all the ruckus from the kids and the redundancy of folding T-shirts every hour on the hour for lack of something else to do, I almost forgot to eat. My stomach fortunately reminded me of the time.
And who should show up right as I was about to take my lunch break?
Justin.
“Care to join me for lunch?”
Aunt Lula didn’t even give me a second to turn him down or wonder what he was doing at the store before answering for me. “She’d love to go to lunch.”
As a properly raised Southerner, I couldn’t very well decline after that. My mom, not to mention Aunt Lula, would tan my hide. I shrugged my shoulders and grabbed my purse. “Sure, why not?”
The two of us walked in silence as we made our way over to the diner across the street. It was owned and operated by Carol Breault, one of Aunt Lula’s best friends. Since Carol was also a member of the Trouble Island Ladies Trap & Skeet Club, the diner boasted pictures of their championship trap team along the far wall of the restaurant. Only open for breakfast and lunch, it was another favored landmark on the island. Her pies were legendary—if you could make it there before three.
“Glad you finally decided to take me up on my offer,” Justin said, sliding into the booth across from where I had already seated myself.
I didn’t remind him that it was Aunt Lula who accepted on my behalf. “This is lunch, not dinner.”
“So it is,” he said, oblivious to my indifference. “Either
way, I’m glad you accepted my invitation. I know you’re still mad at me, and I don’t blame you, really I don’t. But you of all people know I’m just doing my job.”
Yeah, I’d heard that one before. Why did every male member of the law enforcement community use “the job” as an excuse for everything? Little did he know I’d only reluctantly agreed for fear of Aunt Lula’s wrath and to find out what he knew about the case. If I played nice, maybe he’d offer up something. He had to know I would try to pry information out of him sooner or later. He probably already had a defense strategy in place. But it wasn’t going to stop me from trying.
I shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s only lunch.”
“Come on, Jules. I know you’re still pissed that we took Abby Lee in for questioning. Believe me, it was the last thing I wanted to do. At least, not the way it went down,” he said. “If you want to be mad at anyone, be mad at Chief Poteet. It was his call.”
“Sure.”
He sounded sincere. I knew he hadn’t intentionally treated Abby Lee that way, but I kept telling myself he was still the deputy chief. He could have intervened.
We placed our order with the waitress and spent the remainder of the time while we waited for our food staring at each other. As we sat there in silence, I realized that no matter how angry I was at him, I would always have a soft spot when it came to Justin. I wondered again what would have happened if we had gone to college together and gotten married. It was a moment of wishful thinking on my part—with my track record it probably wouldn’t have ended up well.
The silence between us was palpable, and the tension didn’t go unnoticed by Justin. “Jules, this is ridiculous,” he finally said after ten minutes—yeah, I was keeping track. “You can’t keep blaming me. We’re just doing our job.”
There was that word again—his job.
“I know, OK? But just because I understand doesn’t make it any easier,” I said. “Abby Lee is my oldest friend. And your friend, too, I might add. I can’t just let her go down and take the rap for someone else. She’s being railroaded, and you know it.”
Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1) Page 9
