Killer Crab Cakes

by Livia J. Washburn

  Sam leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. “You sure about this hanky-panky goin’ on?” he asked Phyllis.

  “No, not really. I just saw Sheldon Forrest and Jessica Blaine alone together in the Blaines’ room yesterday afternoon, and they looked like … well, they looked like something had been going on. And they acted like they knew exactly where Leo and Raquel were, and I took that to mean that they were together the way Sheldon and Jessica were together …” Phyllis sank into one of the empty chairs. “Oh, I don’t know what anything means anymore. All I know is that I thought this would be a chance for the four of us to get away and have a nice vacation while I helped out my cousin at the same time. I didn’t know we were going to land smack-dab in the middle of more murders.”

  “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Sam said.

  Phyllis had no clue what he meant by that, unless it was the idea that terrible things often came out of nowhere, with no warning. Even though she had just sat down, she stood up again and said, “I’m going to the police department. I want to see Consuela, if they’ll let me.”

  “They probably won’t,” Carolyn said. “They’ve probably got her locked up in some little room with bright lights and rubber hoses.”

  Eve said, “I don’t believe the police do that anymore, dear, if they ever did.”

  Sam got to his feet as well and said to Phyllis, “I’ll go with you.”

  She started to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but then the prospect of venturing into the police department without his strong presence at her side seemed too much to contemplate. She nodded instead and said, “Thank you.”

  Carolyn said, “It’s nearly time for supper. If anyone wants to eat, there’s a pot full of tamale soup I can have finished in a few minutes.”

  And it probably still smells delicious, Phyllis thought as she went out the back door with Sam at her side. But not to her.

  Two murders in two days had pretty much ruined her appetite right now.

  Chapter 17

  A late-afternoon breeze ruffled the fronds of the tall palm trees along the road. Tall, ungainly-looking gray herons stood in the shallow waters of the bay, waiting for fish to venture unwisely close. Seagulls floated in the sky with apparently effortless grace. To the west the thick clouds that had hung over the area earlier had begun to break up, letting shafts of orange sunlight slant through them. Everything was as beautiful as ever around here …

  Except the police department. There was nothing beautiful about it.

  Sam parked the pickup and they went inside. The officer on duty at the reception desk asked if he could help them. The name tag on his shirt read KINCAID.

  “We’d like to speak to either Chief Clifton or … Assistant Chief Clifton,” Phyllis said, wondering if the two top officers in the department having the same last name ever got awkward.

  That didn’t appear to be a problem, because the officer said, “Dale’s not here, but Abby still is.” He reached for a phone. “Who are y’all?”

  “Just tell her that Phyllis Newsom and Sam Fletcher would like to talk to her,” Phyllis said.

  The officer nodded, punched a button on the phone, and relayed the message after saying, “Couple folks out here to see you, Abby.” Obviously, they didn’t stand on formality around here … at least, Officer Kincaid didn’t.

  When he hung up the phone, he said, “She says for you to come on back. Her office is—”

  “We know where it is,” Phyllis said, remembering how she and Sam had come here to give their statements that morning. It seemed a lot longer ago than that now. “Thank you, Officer.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  They found Abby Clifton standing in the door of her office, waiting for them. She smiled as she said, “I didn’t expect to see you again this soon. Come on in. What can I do for you? Did you remember something that could be important to the investigation?”

  “Actually, we just came to see Consuela and make sure she’s all right.”

  Abby’s friendly smile disappeared. “We haven’t been working her over with a rubber hose, if that’s what you mean.”

  Sam said, “Carolyn’s gonna be disappointed.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Phyllis said. “I’m sorry … Do I call you Chief, too?”

  “Why don’t you just call me Abby, like everybody else around here? And Consuela’s fine. She declined to answer any questions until she talks to her lawyer, which is her right. But he can’t get here until tomorrow morning.”

  “So you’re going to hold her overnight.”

  Abby shrugged. “It was Consuela’s decision. I don’t like it any more than you do, Mrs. Newsom. I’ve known Consuela practically since I was a little girl.”

  “And yet you believe she could have stabbed a man in the chest. Murdered him.”

  “What I believe or don’t believe doesn’t matter,” Abby said with a sigh. “Around here we go by what the evidence tells us.”

  “What evidence?”

  Abby opened her mouth to say something, then stopped abruptly. Her smile came back, but it wasn’t completely friendly.

  “You know better than that, Mrs. Newsom. I can’t divulge details of the investigation. But I’ll tell you what … I was just about to go out and grab a bite to eat while I’ve got a chance. Why don’t you and Mr. Fletcher come with me, and if you’ve got any ideas about the case, I’d be glad to listen to them.”

  “You mean an unofficial interrogation?”

  Abby shook her head. “Nope. Just a conversation. I know you’ve done some investigating in the past, and I’d love to pick your brain about this mess.”

  Phyllis hesitated. She wasn’t hungry, and she suspected that the assistant chief was really fishing for more evidence that could be used against Consuela, but it was always possible that Abby would let her guard down enough that something important might slip, something that could help Consuela instead of hurting her. Phyllis glanced over at Sam to see what he thought about the invitation.

  “Where’d you plan on goin’?” he asked Abby.

  “A place called The Dancing Pelican.”

  Sam nodded. “I’ve seen it when we were drivin’ by the water. Wouldn’t mind checkin’ it out.”

  “All right, then,” Phyllis said. “I don’t suppose it would hurt anything.”

  “I’m glad,” Abby said as she pulled the door of her office closed. “Actually, I think we could be friends, Mrs. Newsom, if you’ll just give it a chance.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Phyllis said, her voice cool. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be friends with someone who could arrest an obviously innocent woman such as Consuela.

  But then she realized that she was falling into the trap of jumping to conclusions of her own. As much as she wanted to believe that Consuela couldn’t be a killer, it would certainly be nice to have some proof …

  Phyllis and Sam followed Abby in Sam’s pickup. The assistant chief drove along the waterfront until she came to a point of land that jutted out into the bay near the boat basin. At the very end of that point was a weathered-looking building with a rear porch built on pilings, so that it extended out over the water, and a pier that stuck out even farther. Old fishermen’s nets and floats hung on the walls, giving the place a nautical look. A large wooden sign on the roof proclaimed THE DANCING PELICAN, and in addition to the words, the sign also depicted a cartoon pelican who seemed to be dancing an enthusiastic jig.

  Abby parked the police cruiser in the crushed-shell parking lot, and Sam pulled the pickup to a stop beside it. As they all got out of the vehicles, Abby grinned and asked, “What do you think of it?”

  “Very picturesque,” Phyllis admitted.

  “I have an ulterior motive for asking,” Abby admitted. “I own the place. Inherited it from my uncle Dave, my mother’s brother.”

  “The assistant chief of police owns a bar and grill?”

  Abby shrugged. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It looks
sort of odd. That’s why I’ve got a good manager, the same one who ran the place for Uncle Dave. Come on in.”

  Quite a few cars and pickups were parked in the lot, so Phyllis wasn’t surprised to see that The Dancing Pelican was doing a brisk business. The interior was dimly lit, with a bar across the back and tables covered with mismatched table-cloths scattered over the floor. A jukebox in one corner blared loud music. The interior walls were decorated with nets and floats, like the exterior ones.

  “Good Lord,” Sam said as he looked around. “It’s 1972 all over again.”

  Phyllis leaned closer to him and asked over the music, “Is this what they call a honky-tonk?”

  He looked at her. “You’ve never been in a place like this before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I guess it’s part honky-tonk,” Sam said. “Part biker bar, part fisherman’s bar, part hippie bar, and pure beer joint. Some of my, uh, misspent youth was misspent in places a lot like this.”

  Phyllis clutched his arm. “I’m not sure I like it.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he told her as he patted her hand. “Just don’t throw a drink in anybody’s face and start a brawl.”

  She frowned at him, thinking that he was joking. He had to be joking.

  The plank floor seemed to be vibrating a little from the loud music as Abby led them over to the bar, where a huge man with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard was filling beer mugs for his customers. Nobody seemed bothered by the fact that a police officer had just come in, so Phyllis supposed that Abby was a regular visitor.

  “Hey, Boaz,” she said to the massive bartender, “couple new friends of mine, Phyllis and Sam.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at them. Evidently everybody was on a first-name basis around here.

  “Howdy,” Boaz rumbled as he nodded to them. White teeth gleamed in a grin partially hidden by the beard. “What can I get you folks?”

  “Cheeseburgers and beers all around,” Abby ordered for them, then shook her head. “Deep-six the beers. I’m still on duty. Better make it Dr Peppers instead.” She glanced at Phyllis and Sam. “That all right?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Sam said, and Phyllis didn’t want to be a problem so she nodded, too.

  “Comin’ right up,” Boaz promised.

  Abby led them over to a booth upholstered in red Naugahyde that showed cracks of age. The dark wood table was scratched and bore countless ringed stains where condensation had dripped off of icy beer mugs. She slid in on one side, Phyllis and Sam on the other. The song on the jukebox changed from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” to “Dust in the Wind.”

  Phyllis leaned forward and said, “Calling it picturesque doesn’t really do the place justice, does it?”

  Abby grinned. “I practically grew up here and at the police station. Not your normal upbringing for a little girl, I know. But I turned out all right … I hope.”

  “I’d say that bein’ assistant chief of police is turnin’ out all right,” Sam said.

  “My dad plans on me taking over the department when he retires in a few years.” Abby shrugged. “We’ll see.” Those pleasantries aside, she got down to business. “You’re convinced that Consuela is innocent, aren’t you, Mrs. Newsom?”

  “That’s right,” Phyllis answered without hesitation.

  “Then who do you think killed Sheldon Forrest? Give me something else to go on.”

  “First I’d like to know why you arrested Consuela.” Phyllis had been pondering that very question, and when Abby hesitated and didn’t answer, she went on, “I suppose it was because the murder weapon came from the kitchen at Oak Knoll.”

  If she had hoped to startle Abby into agreeing with that theory, she was disappointed, but the sudden look of surprise in the assistant chief’s eyes was enough to convince Phyllis she was on the right track.

  “If that’s all you’ve got to go on, it’s not very much,” she continued. “I’m sure you’ll find Consuela’s fingerprints on the knife. It came from her kitchen. She used it all the time. And she had absolutely no reason to kill Sheldon Forrest.”

  “Then who did?” Abby asked. “Who had a motive to murder Mr. Forrest?”

  It was Phyllis’s turn to hesitate. All she had to go on was speculation, but if she wanted to help Consuela, she was going to have to share that with Abby.

  “If I were you,” she said, “I’d take a close look at Raquel Forrest, as well as Leo and Jessica Blaine.”

  “The spouse is always one of the first people we look at in a murder,” Abby said. “We’ll question Mrs. Forrest as soon as she’s recovered from the shock of finding her husband’s body. Don’t worry about that. But what motive would the Blaines have? It’s my understanding that they’re all good friends.”

  “Sheldon and Jessica may have been very good friends.” Again, Phyllis felt like a gossipmonger, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “As in, they were having an affair? Now, that’s interesting. I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Well, I didn’t actually … you know … catch them in the act.” Phyllis felt her face warming. “But I saw enough yesterday to suspect that it might be possible.”

  They were interrupted then by Boaz, who brought a huge platter containing their cheeseburgers and Dr Peppers over to the booth. He set the food and drinks on the table with an easy grace unusual in such a big man and asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”

  Phyllis and Sam shook their heads, and Abby said, “No, we’re good. Thanks, Boaz.”

  He lumbered off, and Abby went on, “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” She gestured toward the burgers. “Dig in.”

  The cheeseburger was huge, dripping with grease, and surrounded by potato chips. Phyllis was rather intimidated by the size of it, but she managed to pick it up and take a small bite.

  That was enough to convince her that she did have an appetite, after all. It was probably terrible for her health, but the first bite of burger tasted so good that she immediately wanted more. Fire speared into her mouth with the second bite, and she knew that the burger had jalapeño slices on it. She reached for the big glass of crushed ice and Dr Pepper and gulped some down to quench the fire.

  “Mighty good,” Sam said as he crunched on some chips. “Almost decadent.”

  “Sin on a plate,” Abby agreed.

  Now that the burning from the pepper had subsided a little, Phyllis was ready for more. She might pay for this later with a fine case of heartburn, she told herself, but it might be worth it.

  They devoted themselves to their food for a while. The pounding rhythm and incomprehensible lyrics of “Louie, Louie” came from the jukebox, followed by the catchy but almost-as-incomprehensible “Incense and Peppermints.” Phyllis began to enjoy herself.

  It was too bad they were here to talk about murder.

  Eventually they got back to the topic, though, as Abby asked, “What else do you think about Sheldon Forrest’s death? If he was carrying on with Jessica Blaine, that would give both his wife and Leo Blaine a reason to plant that knife in his chest, but what about Jessica herself ?”

  “Lovers’ quarrel,” Sam said. “Been known to happen.”

  Phyllis nodded. “And any of the three of them could have had a chance to take the knife out of the kitchen. Whoever it was could have worn gloves, too, to make sure that only Consuela’s prints were found on the knife.”

  Abby still didn’t confirm that that was the case, Phyllis noted. Instead the assistant chief asked, “What about the other people in the house?”

  “None of us who came down from Weatherford ever met him until we got here. As far as I know the same holds true for the other guests, Nick and Kate Thompson.”

  Abby took a drink of her Dr Pepper and then asked, “If Sheldon was enough of a dog to be carrying on with Jessica Blaine—even though he sure didn’t look like the type—maybe he made a pass at Mrs. Thompson, too. She could have told her husband about it.”

  “That seems awfully unlikely to me,” Phyllis
said. “Anyway, they were together in their room when Sheldon was murdered.”

  “Husbands and wives alibiing each other … not the strongest evidence in the world.”

  “Probably not,” Phyllis agreed. “But if it was me, I’d be checking to find out exactly where Leo, Jessica, and Raquel were during the afternoon.”

  Abby nodded. “That’s on the agenda. One thing at a time. You can’t think of any other motive for Sheldon’s murder other than jealousy over his possible playing around?”

  Phyllis hesitated. She didn’t want to tell Abby everything she had found out about the corporate intrigue going on between McKenna Electronics and the Jefferson-Bartell Group, because they were only linked indirectly to Sheldon Forrest. But if there was a connection, it went right through Sheldon, whose father-in-law headed Jefferson-Bartell and who worked for NASA, which did business with both companies.

  “What about Ed McKenna?” she finally said. “Could Sheldon’s death have anything to do with McKenna’s murder? Maybe Sheldon found out who was responsible for that and threatened to turn them in.”

  “Or tried to blackmail them,” Abby suggested.

  Sam shook his head. “The fella didn’t strike me as a blackmailer.”

  “He didn’t strike me at first as a philanderer, either,” Phyllis said. Sam shrugged in agreement with that point. Phyllis went on, “If you’ve made any progress in solving Ed McKenna’s murder, it might lead you right to Sheldon’s killer, too.”

  Once again, Abby didn’t rise to the bait. She didn’t say anything about how well the investigation into McKenna’s murder was going. Instead, she swallowed the bite of cheeseburger she had been chewing and then said, “You wouldn’t think that there would be two separate murderers at work in a single bed-and-breakfast, would you?”

  “Especially not within two days’ time,” Phyllis said. She hoped she had planted a seed in Abby’s mind. If the police investigation turned up the resentment Oliver McKenna felt for his father, or the fact that Ed McKenna had been trying to block Charles Jefferson’s takeover of his company, well, then, she couldn’t be held responsible for bringing all that out into the open, Phyllis told herself.