Murder by the Seaside

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Claire met me on the sidewalk. “Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?”

  “Leaving.” I pushed her toward the cart and gunned the engine to life.

  Deputy Fargas’s SUV flew past us before Claire drew her legs inside the cart. No lights. No siren. No warning.

  “For crying out loud!” she screamed, annoyed by another close shave with a police vehicle. A black town car pulled up beside us five seconds later and powered down the window. Mayor Hayes leaned out.

  “What’s he doing, chasing you down for that tour?” I muttered softly.

  She shushed me.

  “Hi, Mayor Hayes.” I waved, eager to leave before Karen noticed me out front of Beau’s office.

  The mayor’s expression was grim. “Ladies, they think Brady McGee’s wife committed suicide.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I spun onto the road with a bark of the tires. My little golf cart rocked into a full U-turn down the center of Main Street. Claire’s eyes widened, but she kept them on the road. A good thing. There was no time to argue traffic laws or my inability to be ticketed if local law enforcement was already at a crime scene.

  With one hand braced on the tiny dashboard before her, Claire dared a glance my way. “Where are we going? The deputy went the other way.”

  “Shortcut. We can cut through the old ball field.”

  “You don’t think Mrs. McGee killed herself.”

  “Not a chance. She just got paid. Didn’t care he had a mistress.” I shook my head. “Nope. No way.” I cut down the closest alleyway and then jumped a curb onto the sidewalk. The cement broke into gravel ten yards farther and launched us onto the grass of a ball field.

  “Look out!” Claire covered her eyes.

  I banged my hand against the steering wheel, praying the cart had a horn.

  Arroooga! Figured.

  I caught a glimpse of horror on Claire’s face as I bounced the cart over a row of aluminum baseball bats. The field I remembered as perpetually empty was speckled with tiny ball players clad in red and white uniforms. A spattering of moms in lawn chairs turned in our direction, their mouths hanging open. I gawked back a second too long. Our cart nicked the side of a card table, sending Gatorade and fruit snacks splashing down the front of us before sailing over the back of the cart and rolling in the field.

  “Can this thing go any faster?” Covered in kiddie snacks, Claire pointed at the maternal mob forming behind us. Half ran onto the field to comfort screaming ballplayers; the other half glared, red-faced.

  I gunned it around second base and a man wearing polyester shorts with tube socks. He puffed his whistle and waved his arms. The angry moms gave chase, fussing and screaming about snacks and respect. As I ran out of field and into a bordering yard, I cornered the cart on two wheels, deftly avoiding a pristine flower bed. We were losing the moms until lawn sprinklers doused us in ice water, setting the cart on a hydroplane path of destruction.

  “Hold on.” I turned the wheel into the slide. We banked a tiny hill and turned on water-slicked grass until we faced the women. “Uh-oh.”

  Weighing the options, I did the only thing I could and headed right for them, steering one-handed while shading my face with the other. With any luck, I could pretend later it wasn’t me scaring children and destroying property. Wisely the crowd parted, and I escaped a vehicular homicide charge.

  Crossing another backyard, the cart shot between two houses at the edge of the field. We picked up speed on the asphalt driveway. Thirty seconds later I parked the cart behind a shiny silver Range Rover.

  “You’re in trouble,” Claire teased, enunciating each syllable.

  “Shoot.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Across the street, Sebastian stood tight-lipped in a group of EMTs and rubberneckers. His arms crossed over his chest and he nodded at the sight of me. Mirrored aviators hid his full expression. I hoped it was amused and not agitated. If he was agitated, he needed to take a number and get in line. In the distance behind me, muffled complaints erupted and at least one child cried. We hadn’t hit anyone, so the snack situation must’ve been the problem.

  “What happened with Sebastian’s bust?” I asked. “He said he has mandatory time off. The FBI never gave him time off for anything before. In fact, they called him first most of the time.”

  Claire looked conflicted. “The bust didn’t go as planned.”

  “I gathered. Would you like to expound on that?”

  She looked at Sebastian for several seconds. “A lot of people got dead.”

  “Oh. Oh no. I had no idea. He didn’t say.” How much did he hide behind those glasses?

  “No one from our team, but Sebastian’s under investigation for allegations of excessive force. Five members of the Risso family were killed. Sebastian played the role of Angelo for a long time. They never knew what hit them.”

  “Wow.” All those wives and children who lost their dads and fathers...crime family or not, they were loved and needed at home. “Did they get enough evidence to put Jimmy away?”

  “No.”

  “No?” I guffawed.

  “Jimmy the Judge got away.”

  Terror ripped through me. “Jimmy knows Sebastian was undercover FBI.”

  “Yeah.” The sadness in her voice wrenched my heart.

  Sebastian had time off work and probably instructions to lie low. When Jimmy the Judge put a mark on someone’s head, it rolled. No wonder Sebastian was so eager to come to the island and help me out. It was perfect timing, and no one would look here.

  I was a hideout for him. My heart sank a little further in my chest.

  When I started toward him, he met me halfway. Claire tugged and swiped at her once-white tank top. She kept pace, not speaking. Despite two dozen onlookers, you could hear a pin drop on the street. The occasional bleating tugboat punctuated the tension in the air. Expressions on the crowd of somber faces confirmed my suspicions. No one believed this alleged suicide to be true.

  Someone had killed Mrs. McGee. Just like they killed her husband.

  “What do you think?” Sebastian approached, coming so near to my side that his hip brushed mine. “I liked her for Brady’s murder. Well, her and the partner. This...” Words escaped me. “I didn’t see coming.” She’d been nervous the last time we spoke, but I assumed it was the telltale sign of a guilty conscience. Now I had to wonder, what did she know?

  I took a long look at the crowd. Often killers lurked in plain sight, listening, basking and whatever else crazy people liked to do.

  Sheriff Murray stepped onto the porch, one hand in his hair, the other carrying his hat. He looked beleaguered. The deputy mingled in the crowd, taking statements. He scratched against a little black notepad, engrossed in his work. If only I read lips.

  “This is bad, Patience. You know that, right?” Claire tugged at my hand. “You were with her before your car was bombed. Now she’s dead. You’re driving a golf cart. Living alone in a haunted apartment. None of this is good.” Wide brown eyes pleaded with me to turn tail and go back to Norfolk with her immediately.

  I squeezed her hand and gave my best please-love-me-anyway smile. “Don’t worry. The apartment’s not really haunted.” I crossed the McGee lawn to see the sheriff. He narrowed his eyes when he saw me coming. His mouth turned down at the corners. The midday sun had drawn a line of sweat across his brow and upper lip. He replaced his hat and forced a hard smile. “Miss Price.”

  “Hi. Hello. Hi.” I swallowed the brick of fear in my throat with one big gulp. Time to woman-up. He might be the sheriff, but this was my case. He’d all but signed Adrian’s guilty verdict without considering any other possibility. “Has the coroner had a chance to take a look?”

  He raised a puffy gray brow in warning.

  I rolled my shoulders b
ack. “I don’t think Mrs. McGee committed suicide. I spoke with her the same day my car was bombed. She wouldn’t talk about what happened to Brady. I think she knew something.”

  “Knew what?” His beady eyes edged in close behind a long, straight nose. He’d thought I wanted his job when we first spoke. I needed to proceed with care.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say, but she made it clear she didn’t want to talk to me.”

  His cheeks dropped into a droll expression. I guessed it wasn’t hard for him to imagine. Not wanting to talk to me likely topped his list of dreaded activities, right above having a colonoscopy or adult circumcision. He widened his stance. “Is there something you aren’t telling me? I can’t do my job without all the information. Is there something you want me to know?”

  If he wanted the information I had, he could have easily gotten it. He didn’t bother looking any further than Adrian from the start. No one besides me had considered other possibilities, and now a woman was dead. The sheriff’s question felt like a threat. Threats made me defiant. “No.”

  “No?”

  We stared into one another’s eyes until my equilibrium strained.

  “I’ve spoken with everyone, sir.” The new deputy cast a shadow over me.

  “If you’ll excuse us.” The sheriff made a show of walking away with the deputy. Several paces into the yard, he turned back to me. “If you think of anything you’d like to add to this investigation, you know where to find me.”

  So it was an investigation. Even the sheriff knew this wasn’t a suicide.

  “That went well.” Claire had dried off, tied the bottom of her bespeckled tank into a side knot and pulled her hair away from her face in an easy chignon. She looked stunning even in Gatorade.

  I picked strands of crusty hair from my face where it had dried. “Ouch.”

  Sebastian lifted a brow in amusement as he admired my parent’s golf cart. Grass and mud covered the tires and headlights. Fruit snacks peppered the floor and backseat. Sticky puddles of orange liquid scarred the soft leather interior. With any luck, a swarm of bees or hummingbirds wouldn’t follow us home.

  “We should talk about this. She didn’t kill herself.” I looked at my partners, who nodded.

  “Agreed,” Claire said. She studied the cart.

  “Here.” Sebastian squeezed a sports bottle of water over the seats and grimaced. He popped the hatch to his Range Rover and tossed a gym towel our way. “I’d offer you a ride, but...”

  “We’re fine.” I folded my body in behind the wheel.

  “Ew.” Claire shut her eyes and climbed aboard.

  We rode back to my apartment in silence. I followed the Range Rover, taking real roads and stopping at the lights. A swarm of Little Leaguers buzzed outside the Tasty Cream. I cringed, parked and ran up the steps to unlock my door.

  Doink.

  A baseball beaned Sebastian’s Range Rover and rolled into the street. I motored inside and peeked out the curtain. Clueless, Sebastian retrieved the ball and lobbed it back across the street, where no one attempted to catch it. He rubbed his neck. Pausing to examine the Range Rover for damage, he looked up at me through the window. I dropped the curtain.

  Claire was already in the shower. Before I got my key out of the lock, she’d raided my closet and ducked into the bathroom. Water ran full blast behind the closed door. The whole place smelled like Lysol and mildew, but I didn’t risk cracking a window anymore. Summer heat filled every inch of space between my ugly paneled walls and choked me. If the thermostat had worked, it would’ve read TILT.

  “Why don’t you change and I’ll make us something to drink.” Sebastian walked into the kitchen and opened my freezer. He unloaded a tray of ice before I headed to my room. “Don’t plan on going anywhere soon, either. We need to talk.”

  I checked the closet and under my bed before I undressed in my room. Lying on the bed were a pair of cotton shorts along with three T-shirts Claire must’ve considered and passed on. They looked cute to me. Content in a well-worn FBI cotton tee and my black shorts, I dragged a brush through my hair. My hair had survived the Gatorade better than my shirt. I plucked a fruit snack from my cleavage and headed back to the living room, bringing the little oscillating fan with me.

  Sebastian worked at the counter, lining up glasses and plugging in my blender.

  I stopped at the sink for a wad of paper towels and soap. I washed up surgeon-style to my elbows, then my face and neck. “You want pizza? It’s dinnertime, and I’m too tired to worry about what it costs.”

  “It’s well after dinnertime, and it’s my treat.”

  I gave him a crazy face. “You’re my guest.”

  “I invited myself to stay for a week. You only agreed to a drink, which we never had. The least I can do is cover one meal.”

  What could I say? “I’ll call.” I leaned across the counter to grab a pile of takeout menus Mom left.

  “You smell good.” Sebastian filled a blender with ice and tossed strawberries in by the handful. “What were you two covered in earlier? Smells like oranges.”

  “Gatorade.”

  “Why?” A muscle twitched in his cheek.

  “We won the Super Bowl.”

  The blender whirred to life. Gnawing and crunching flowed into a steady whoosh. Sebastian removed the lid and spooned out a taste.

  “Milkshakes?”

  “Daiquiris.”

  “Daiquiris?”

  “I told you. I owe you a drink.”

  The water shut off in the bathroom. Sebastian poured three tall glasses of pink froth and wedged a strawberry on the rim of each. I plugged the fan into an outlet near the couch. Sebastian sat on the floor facing the fan and me. My muscles tingled as I sank into the cushions and tucked my feet under me.

  “I figured you for a beer guy.”

  “I’m flexible.” Good to know.

  “What happened with your bust the other night? You were on your way when we spoke on the phone. You never told me how it went.”

  “It didn’t go well.” He had the cop face again—no expression or body language to clue me in to his mental state. Was he as worried about his safety as I was? Did he have a plan for catching Jimmy the Judge?

  “You want to talk about it?” My mind raced for words in this scenario. When you deceive a crime boss and he gets away wasn’t in any of my counseling course books. “Nope.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  He shook his head and pressed the glass to his lips. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re hiding.”

  A flash of heat lit his eyes and faded. “I’m not hiding. I’m helping a friend save her ex-boyfriend’s ass.”

  “Drinks?” Claire floated into the room looking refreshed. She dug around in the kitchen for a straw and came to sit with me. “What are we doing?”

  “I’m hoping we muscle information out of your BFF here,” Sebastian said. “She’s tight-lipped.”

  I snorted, suppressed a comment about kettles and pots and sucked on my straw to keep my mouth busy.

  “On another day I’d appreciate discretion in a woman. Today I need to know what she’s gotten herself into.”

  Claire pressed the straw to her lips and smiled widely. “Go on.” She nudged me and got comfortable.

  “I don’t think Adrian killed Brady,” I said. “I think there’s something else going on here. Something huge. At first I thought Sheriff Murray was lazy or preoccupied with Pony Week coming, but now I’m certain this is all part of something bigger. Brady’s murder wasn’t personal like I thought. I bet whoever killed him was hiding something else and they got rid of Brady’s wife to cover the trail. Just in case he confided in her. In fact, I think that’s the same guy who’s after me. He knows I talked to Mrs. McGee. Probably thinks she told me his secre
t, which explains the car bomb and drive-by. I think those were warnings. I can’t figure out why the sheriff’s not looking into this more. He can’t think Adrian’s on the run but making time to kill and terrorize women. Maybe the sheriff’s being blackmailed to keep quiet.”

  “Or he’s in on it,” Claire interjected.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” Sheriff Murray was rude and a number of other unpleasant things, but not a killer. I sipped my drink to buy some time. Icy strawberries masked the rum. I had another sip. “I think the man who broke in here and tied me up is the murderer.”

  “You don’t sound positive.” Sebastian leaned forward and looked me over.

  I emptied my drink.

  “What aren’t you saying?”

  I lifted a finger and dialed the Pie Corner. Nothing on the island was what it seemed. “Hi, I’d like two pony pies, please. One veggie. One...” I looked at Sebastian. “Pepperoni?” The kid on the other end asked my name. “Patience Price.”

  Claire handed me her drink.

  After I was done ordering, I tossed my phone onto the couch between us. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Are you picking it up?” she asked. “You didn’t give your address.”

  “Everyone on this island knows where to find Patience.” Sebastian turned to me.

  “You’ve been checking up on me?”

  He nodded, unruffled by my screechy voice. Digging into Adrian’s life made sense. I, on the other hand, wasn’t sure I liked being investigated.

  “Who have you talked to? What did they say?”

  “I’m more interested in what you aren’t saying.”

  I counted to ten and waited. Sebastian gave no indication of answering my questions. “Fine. If the man who broke in here was the killer, why didn’t he kill me?”

  Maybe he would have killed me if Adrian hadn’t interfered, but then why did he take the trouble to tell me to stay out of it if he planned to kill me five minutes later? The whole ordeal bothered me on multiple levels.