Conch Shell Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  “How may I help you?”

  “By answering a few questions.” Katie pulled out her notebook and as she settled into her chair, she felt the leather cushions mold to her hips and back and she welcomed the warmth. “How long will you stay on here, Mary?”

  “Until the family asks me to leave. Porter Chitting’s in charge now, but…well, he’s a busy man and there are bills to pay, accounts to keep, queries to answer. And the family owes me employment at least until the end of the month. That’s for sure. I depend on that paycheck.” She motioned to the computer terminal on her desk. “Of course, I have a lot of free time, too. I write. It’s quiet here and I come in early each day. It’s a good place to work.”

  A luxurious place to work. An office a writer might kill for? “When did you find Alexa’s body, Miss Bethel?”

  “When I came to work last Tuesday morning.”

  “Where did you find the body?”

  “Alexa…she…it was behind her desk, slumped over the arm of her swivel chair.”

  Katie saw a slight shudder of revulsion cross Mary’s shoulders, but in spite of her hesitations, her voice sounded strong and she continued to meet Katie’s gaze.

  “Did you think there was a possibility that she might be alive?”

  “No.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “No. No.”

  “But you were sure she was dead?”

  “Yes. I was sure.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. “There was so much blood everywhere, and her head…her head was too badly…mutilated. I knew without a doubt that she was dead.”

  Now Mary became restive, squirming, licking her lips, twisting her slim fingers. Katie eyed the fingers. They looked too fragile, too well manicured to have wielded a conch shell.

  “What did you do after you discovered the body?”

  “I called the police.”

  “Not the ambulance?”

  “No.” Her voice grew harsh. “I told you. I knew that she was dead. An ambulance crew couldn’t have helped her. I called the police.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I waited for them to arrive.”

  Katie noted the sarcasm. “Where did you wait?”

  “I stood outside on the balcony. I couldn’t bear to stay in the room with…”

  “I understand. How long did it take the police to arrive?”

  Mary thought for a moment. “Five minutes or so, I guess. But that morning, it seemed that it took them forever. Seems to me they owe people a quicker response.”

  “They questioned you, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Quite thoroughly. I agree with them that Alexa must have surprised a burglar, probably a drug addict. I can’t imagine why she didn’t fling the money at him and tell him to go.”

  “He? You feel the murderer was a man?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I can’t imagine a woman doing such a thing or having the strength the attack must have required.”

  “When was the last time you saw Alexa alive?”

  “When I left work on Monday afternoon.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Around five o’clock. Maybe a little after.”

  “Was there anything different about that afternoon?”

  “Nothing that I remember. I had done some shopping for Alexa. Personal things.”

  “What sort of personal things?”

  “A new nightgown. New panties. Some Shalimar perfume.”

  “Was there some special occasion in her life?”

  “A late evening date, I think. She didn’t reveal her plans.”

  “Did you often do her personal shopping?”

  “Yes. Often. I was far more than a secretary to her.”

  “More like a daughter?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. No.”

  “I understand that Alexa and Diane were often at odds. Perhaps she treated you better than a daughter.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then what did you mean by your comment that you were more than a secretary?”

  Mary shrugged. “I merely meant that I did much more for her than take dictation and type letters and keep files straight.”

  “I see.” Katie looked at Mary, saying nothing more. She had learned that trick as a teacher. Her principal had pointed out that few people could tolerate a prolonged silence, that some atavistic need usually prompted speech. She waited.

  Again Mary grew restive, and then words came tumbling. “I mean, I’m not complaining about the personal errands I did for Alexa. Don’t misunderstand. Alexa paid me well and she allowed me to choose my own hours. All she asked was that I get the marina work done on time. She was a good boss, a true friend, and I hope you can find the person who killed her.”

  “I’m certainly going to try. Why was it important to you to work, as you say, your own hours?” Katie sensed Mary’s slight hesitation.

  “I enjoyed the convenience of it. Most bosses expect an employee to punch the time clock. Alexa was different. If I didn’t feel like coming until ten o’clock, that suited her. No problem. She paid for work completed rather than for the number of hours expended.”

  “You like to sleep late in the mornings?” Again Katie sensed a hesitation in reply.

  “No. I get up around six to write. I like to do my own work in the quiet of early morning while my mind is fresh and before I came to the office.”

  “When was the last time you saw Alexa alive?”

  “I already told you. I last saw her a week ago Monday when I left here for the day around five o’clock.”

  “Tell me about that time.”

  “There’s nothing special to tell. I finished three or four letters and placed them on her desk for her signature. I knew she probably wouldn’t sign them immediately. She usually reread letters and signed them the following morning. Sometimes she changed her mind about mailing them.”

  “A sound practice,” Katie said. “But go on. What else did you do before you left for the day?”

  “Nothing. I just slipped on my sweater and walked out the door. Alexa called good-bye, and I returned her farewell. There was nothing special about the moment.”

  “Did you go straight home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you stayed at home all evening?”

  “Yes. I have a neighbor who can vouch for that. Maria Gonzales.”

  “You talked to this neighbor that night?”

  “No. But Maria’s the curious kind who keeps tabs on the neighborhood. She’s innocuous. You know the sort. Elderly. Little to do to occupy herself. She usually knows what’s going on in the houses around hers.”

  “She’s snoopy?”

  “No. Just interested. And aware. She’s a good kind of neighbor to have. She told the police that she heard my radio that night and that she saw me sitting at my desk. In fact she had a guest that evening. Rosa Abresco. They both saw me—heard my radio.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Of course. My desk sits by the window. My landlady’s Italian and she’s strong for cooking with garlic, so I keep my window open a crack to let in fresh air even on chilly nights. I also keep my shade drawn, but the ladies could see my shadow. They knew I was home.”

  “You were writing that night?”

  “Yes. I’m a freelance writer. Articles, mostly.”

  “The radio doesn’t distract you?”

  “No. I tune in an FM station that plays classics. The music masks other noises that might be a distraction.”

  “Where have you been published?”

  Mary opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thick scrapbook, which she shoved across the desk toward Katie. “Here’s some of my work. I’m no wishful tyro. I’ve sold to lots of national newspapers and magazines.”

  Katie turned the scrapbook pages, pausing to read two short articles in their entirety. Lucid writing. Strong leads. Good middles. Strong endings that harked back to the leads, giving the reader the satisfying feel
ing of having come full circle. Mary’s writing showed a competent journalist at work. Katie could identify with her. They both enjoyed words.

  “Nice articles, Mary. You must have worked hard to accumulate so many published credits.”

  “Right. I have worked hard. Writing requires lots of time and quiet concentration. I try to keep no less than a dozen submissions in the mail.”

  “Now you have more time for your work.”

  “Yes. I have lots more time and now I do most of my writing here. I enjoy using the computer.”

  “What time do you arrive at the office?”

  “Usually before seven. That gives me a couple of uninterrupted hours before the phone starts ringing.”

  “Did you ever work at the office at night?”

  “Sometimes, but not often. If Alexa had extra work for me, I might return at night and do it because that would free my morning for my own writing.”

  “Alexa was generous to you in her will.”

  Mary straightened in her chair, then leaned forward. “That’s true. But if you think I killed her for financial gain you’re mistaken. I’m a thrifty person. I manage nicely on my salary and the checks for my writing.”

  Katie stood. “Thank you for your time. Your answers have facilitated my investigation.”

  As she left the office, Katie sensed Mary’s shrewd gaze boring into her back. She didn’t turn, but she knew Mary watched her until she was out of sight. Little Mary Bethel. Somehow Po’s diminutive didn’t quite fit, and her own comparison of Mary to a fragile silhouette now seemed flawed. Determined. That was the only word for any freelancer who rose at six to write, who kept a dozen submissions circulating at all times.

  THIRTEEN

  Late Tuesday afternoon, Katie delivered the Lowery report as Mac had requested, then she wrote three dun letters that would go out in Wednesday morning’s mail. In a cash flow emergency she could draw on the Chitting retainer, but she preferred to wait until she had finished her investigation before touching the Chitting money. Mac would have had no such qualms. She sighed. Maybe if she solved the Chitting case before Mac returned, it would bolster her confidence. She reached for the telephone.

  Setting up interviews just minutes before her arrival gave a suspect less time to prepare answers. However, she knew Po Chitting had probably been polishing his alibi ever since Mary Bethel had discovered Alexa’s body.

  So, back to the marina. She parked in a visitor’s slot then hunched her shoulders against the dank fish-scented wind as she walked toward the dockmaster’s office. Near the planked walkway, three gulls fluttered and screamed, fighting over a foul-smelling scrap of squid a captain had tossed from his yacht.

  “I have an appointment with Porter Chitting,” Katie announced, standing just inside the dockmaster’s doorway. “Could you direct me to his office?”

  A young dockmaster wearing the Chitting uniform and logo smiled and rose from his desk. “Yes, Ma’am. I’m going that way. Just follow me.”

  Their steps echoed against concrete in the lower level of a parking ramp before they reached a spacious, high-ceilinged shed that housed new boats, motors, and a repair shop. The smell of fresh paint and diesel fuel permeated the area as someone revved a motor. Startled, Katie almost slipped as she sidestepped a small pool of spilled oil.

  “There’s Po’s office, Ma’am.” The dockmaster nodded to a closed door at the rear of the shed. “Just knock. He’s in there.”

  She approached the door and gave three hard raps.

  “Come in.”

  Opening the door, she stepped inside the office, where her nose caught the smell of dank plaster as her eyes adjusted to the dim light that slanted from three high windows. Po’s furniture consisted of a scarred desk, a couple of oak chairs, and a small bookcase with a broken bottom shelf. The only bright spot in the room was a lighted aquarium where tiny fish darted among floating water plants. By comparison, this room made the McCartel/Hassworth office seem plush.

  With a cold pipe clamped between his teeth, Po slouched in one corner, winding line on a fishing reel. Pausing, he wiped one hand on his chinos then pushed up the sleeve of his black turtleneck.

  “Give me a hand, will you?” His violet-colored eyes were dark with concentration.

  “Certainly. What’s to do?”

  “Grab that spool of line and steady it.”

  Katie picked up the spool, holding it in her cupped hand as the line played from it.

  “Promised both grandkids new reels for our fishing trip next week. They’ve got a contest going. Trying to see who’ll catch the first sailfish. I spoil them with reels and lures instead of ice cream and candy.”

  “Does Diane object?”

  “Nope. Never has. At eight and ten, they’re great kids. They keep me young.” He finished winding the line and took the empty spool from her. “Thanks. You saved me some serious grief.”

  Po laid the reel on his desk, motioned her to a seat beside the aquarium, then dropped into his swivel chair as if gravity had conquered all his muscles. On his disheveled desk, file folders and old newspapers mounded in stacks that threatened to glissando to the floor. Beck had been wrong about a computer. Nothing that modern graced the office. She eyed a sheet of yellowed paper protruding from an ancient Royal sitting on a typewriter table at one side of Po’s chair.

  “Tell me about your aquarium.” She watched the colorful fish swimming in the huge tank.

  “It’s a salt water set-up.” Po laid his cold pipe aside. “Lex and Tracy are helping me monitor it and catch suitable specimens. There’s a lot of mathematical detail involved in maintaining the correct water temperature, salt concentration, oxygen level. I like to see the grands learning some math skills on a practical level as they enjoy working with the fish and the tank. But you didn’t come here to discuss aquariums. Let’s get to business.” He clamped the pipe between his teeth again.

  “I understand you’re a writer.”

  “Correct. Been working on a novel for some time now. It’s coming along fine. I just need to do a bit more background research before I can finish it.”

  “Will this be your first book?”

  Po turned and pulled a thin volume from his bookcase. “Years ago when I was in college, the university press published this volume of my short stories. It won the Remington Literary Award. The honor carried no monetary value, but I basked in lots of honor and glory.”

  “They must be good stories. I did some writing while I worked on my master’s degree. But I never won an award.” She took the book, opened it, and ran her forefinger down the table of contents. “Sea tales. Interesting.”

  “The grandkids love them. When they stay overnight at our house, they get bedtime pirate yarns instead of fairytales.” Po chuckled as if the thought gave him pleasure. “Some of the stories are true, too. Key West has a fascinating history. I had visited the islands and studied them many years before I met Alexa. My parents came here on holidays when I was a kid.”

  Katie returned the book to him. “Po, when did you learn about Alexa’s death?”

  “The police brought the news to my door a little after nine o’clock in the morning one week ago today. Tuesday.”

  She could tell the question wearied him. And he’d probably be tired of the others, too. But she had to ask.

  “Were you surprised by the news?”

  He looked at her, startled. “Why, of course. I could hardly take in what they were saying. I rushed to the marina and to Alexa’s office immediately.”

  “You hadn’t realized that she had been absent from home all night?”

  “No. We live in a spacious house. It’s no big secret that we go our own ways. I was unaware of her absence.”

  Suddenly she felt sorry for two people caught in such a perfidious relationship. Her voice softened. “When did you last see Alexa alive?”

  “On Monday morning. I saw her twice that Monday. We had breakfast together at home, then she stopped here at my office later in
the morning.”

  “Was that her usual habit?”

  “Not necessarily. But sometimes she would stop by or maybe I’d go to her office. It all depended on circumstances.”

  “What were the circumstances that brought her here that last Monday?”

  “She wanted to discuss her new will and she was also talking about applying to take an experimental drug that some doctors believed might help lung cancer patients.”

  “How did you feel about this?”

  “The medicine? I was all for it. What she needed more than anything else was hope.”

  “I notice that you smoke a pipe.”

  “Smoked a pipe, I’ve been trying to stop ever since we learned of her cancer. Figured I might be next.”

  “The will—let’s discuss that.”

  Po shrugged and dropped the pipe into his desk drawer. “I really doubted that she’d carry out her threat to sign the new will. Alexa’s always been headstrong. Understandably, she was upset and angry at this time, but I had talked with her doctor and he had told me that anger was a phase terminal patients went through before they accepted their situation. I didn’t believe Alexa would vent her anger on her family by leaving everything to the Preservation Group.”

  “When was she scheduled to sign the new will?”

  “The next day. She had an early-morning appointment with Sam Addison on Tuesday.”

  “Were you the only one who knew this?”

  “No. The whole family knew it. Little Mary Bethel knew it. Business associates at the marina knew it. Alexa made no attempt at secrecy. I think she enjoyed the attention.”

  “Anyone else besides close associates know about the will?”

  “Town gossips spread the word here and there. I heard innuendoes in the bars. Where there’s money, there’s talk. Someone acted before the deadline.”

  Would Tyler Parish have known the time of the new signing? Katie refrained from asking that question. “Then you doubt the robbery theory?”

  “Right. I do. A robber would have used a gun, not a conch shell. And a person who had planned a robbery would have made certain that he had taken all the money available.”

  “How much money did he overlook?”

  “Over three hundred dollars. Not a lot to some people, but megabucks to a hophead. No. I’ll always believe someone planned the robbery as a sham.”