Cracked to Death

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Ouch!” yelped Savannah. “What’s wrong? That’s not nice. You’re supposed to be the nice one.”

  Beowulf slowly walked to the back of the store and sat down near the antiques and collectibles aisle. Savannah walked over, and where she expected to see the volume Raymond had recommended, all she found was a gap in the row of books.

  Beowulf looked up at Savannah and immediately began to wash his back leg with an air of concentrated innocence.

  Savannah searched through the books shelved in the adjacent section but found nothing remotely helpful. She walked back to the reference desk.

  As she approached, Raymond asked, “Did you find the right section?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I found the right shelf. Are you sure you remember the glass book? I can’t seem to find it.”

  “I never forget an acquisition,” he muttered. “I remember that I entered it into the store’s computerized inventory. Dad doesn’t like to touch anything the least bit technical, so I do all the data entry.” He came out from behind the desk and made his way back to the antiques and collectibles section of the store. He looked directly at the gap in the shelf. “It was right there. Looks like it’s gone. Let me check the database to see if it’s been sold.”

  He returned to the reference desk, where he started tapping on the keyboard with amazing speed, and then he frowned. “It hasn’t been sold. Either it’s been misplaced within the store or someone has stolen the book!”

  Chapter 5

  Monday Evening

  Savannah drove down her redbrick street, still thinking about Amanda’s abrupt exit from the shop and her absentminded behavior. Forgetting to turn on the kiln was an obvious indication of anxiety. Maybe Amanda needed additional positive feedback to instill confidence.

  I’ve never been a boss, but I’ve got to get a lot better at it pretty fast.

  The tired driveway to her parents’ bungalow crunched under the tires of her smoke-gray Mini Cooper. She needed to get an estimate for repairing or replacing the driveway, but she dreaded the sticker shock. It would have to wait until the studio began to show some positive cash flow from the new glass students.

  It had been a tough decision to purchase her first new car. It had seemed like such an extravagance. But losing both her parents had taught her to live wholly in the present.

  I probably shouldn’t have bought this car, but I love it.

  No sooner had Savannah opened the car door and stepped up onto her wide front porch than “Savannah!” wafted across the street. Savannah turned to see her neighbor, Mrs. Webberly, wave a yoga-toned arm to catch her attention. “Savannah, I’m so glad you’re home. Rooney’s been howling nonstop while you’ve been gone.”

  As if he had heard what she said, Rooney let loose a bloodcurdling howl as he stood at the heavy oak front door.

  “And there he goes again. Now you can hear exactly what he’s been doing.” Mrs. Webberly shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t understand. I took him for a walk in the morning and in the afternoon, as well. Weimaraners are not typically needy dogs, although like any young dog, they need a certain amount of socialization. He must be upset about something.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Webberly. I’m sorry he’s been a pest today. I’ll try to figure out what’s bothering him.” She smiled. “He is quite a challenge. It doesn’t help that there aren’t any agility meets in the summer. Those obstacle-course trials seem to keep him calm.”

  The agility training had also been good for their bonding. Rooney had been her father’s puppy and wasn’t immediately keen to put aside his grief and accept Savannah. They were a crack team now, and she expected they would win their agility competitions this fall.

  She opened the door and was again confronted with a mournful howl, which slowly turned into a soft whimper. “What on earth is bothering you?” Savannah cuddled the big blue-gray dog and looked into his warm amber eyes. She gave him a vigorous rubbing that extended from behind his ears to his lean, athletic shanks. “Let’s go for a short run before Edward gets here. Does that enormous wiggle mean yes?”

  Savannah changed into running clothes and left the house with Rooney in tow. They started running and went on their routine two-mile neighborhood loop. He relaxed into the run after the first few blocks and returned to his normal cheerful self.

  When they got back home, Savannah took a quick shower, and afterward, she slipped on a white eyelet summer dress. In the kitchen, she put on her apron, tied it in the back, and then pulled open the refrigerator door. The organic New York strip steaks had been in a thin marinade of Worcestershire sauce, olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar, and a spice mixture since last night. From the vegetable drawer, she grabbed three ears of fresh corn, along with two small sweet potatoes and a bag of fresh baby salad greens.

  “Thank goodness for prepackaged greens, Rooney. I’m more a meal assembler than a real cook.”

  She looked at the kitchen clock. The invitation was for seven—plenty of time for a simple meal. She washed the potatoes, slathered them with olive oil, and put them in the countertop toaster oven. She stripped the silk from the corn, then dumped the ears into a steaming pot of salted and seasoned water. After placing two dinner plates and a basket of sourdough dinner rolls on top of the toaster oven to warm, Savannah put her mother’s heavy iron skillet over a medium flame to preheat it.

  She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, with her hands on her hips. The table sat ready, with plain white service pieces and silver cutlery. Rooney swung his head from side to side, following her every step. With the feeble hope that feeding Rooney would dampen his interest in the unusual feast being prepared, Savannah fed him an extra portion of his favorite wet food.

  “Have I done everything right?”

  Rooney sat and tilted his head. His amber eyes were clear and curious.

  “I hope so. You know I’m better at reservations than at actually cooking a dinner. Except for your dinner, of course. But you’re too nice to complain.”

  His tail thumped against the wooden floor, a gesture she took as approval.

  At ten minutes to seven, Savannah swirled a generous pat of butter in the skillet and waited until it had melted fully and a slight bit of foam had disappeared. The steaks sizzled and popped in the hot skillet and filled the kitchen with a savory, mouth-watering aroma. She placed the cooked corn and sweet potatoes on the warmed plates and then mixed equal shares of a local honey and grainy mustard in a small servicing dish. She carried the dinner rolls, the dressing, and the salad bowl to the table.

  The doorbell rang, and Rooney barked a friendly woof. Savannah checked her lipstick in the framed wooden mirror by the front door and ran a hand through her black curls. She opened the door wide.

  Edward stood there, grinning, and held a bottle of red wine, along with a white bakery box tied with curly red ribbon. “Am I too early?”

  “No, not at all.”

  She stepped back to let him into the house. As he passed by, he planted a drive-by kiss, and then he made his way into the living room.

  She smiled. “The wine opener is on the counter. You do like your steak medium rare, right?”

  “Too right!” He expertly wielded the opener and poured the fragrant Médoc into the large goblets on the table. He brought them over to the stove and handed one to Savannah.

  “Here’s a toast to a beautiful wine, a beautiful steak, and a beautiful cook.”

  They clinked their glasses and then sipped with their eyes locked.

  Savannah’s eyes sparkled over the rim of her goblet. “Fine speech, but you’re cooking breakfast.”

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday Morning

  The early morning light was teasing the birds to welcome the day as a young couple strolled down a narrow beach with their chocolate Lab, Charlie. His puppy energy was focused on catching and fetching the driftwood stick the young man threw out into the shallows of Boca Ciega Bay, the intracoastal channel that separated the main peninsula of St
. Petersburg from the barrier beaches of Treasure Island.

  Charlie lost interest in the stick when he got a whiff of something that captured his attention. He lifted his nose high and sniffed great gulps of salt air to find the prize. Spying a dark shape in the soft dawning light, he galloped down the beach a hundred yards to sit beside the source of the fascinating scent. He was puzzled by the reaction of his owners. They didn’t seem at all happy to find the lifeless diver lying facedown at the edge of the water. Not happy at all.

  * * *

  “Are you the couple who found the body?” Officer Boulli’s substantial bulk stood over the couple who had found a small bit of driftwood to sit on in a tiny bit of shade. Charlie was lying on the sand, panting like a steam engine. They were about twenty yards from the activity around the diver.

  The young man nodded. “Yes. My wife and I were on our regular early morning walk with Charlie.” He looked over at his wife, who was drip feeding water from her bottle into Charlie’s lapping mouth. “We live a few houses down the street. We’d like to go home and get Charlie out of the heat.”

  “Okay, okay.” Officer Boulli opened a tattered notebook and pulled a pen from his white uniform shirt. “Your full names?”

  Standing up, the young man said, “My name is Paul Wedlake, and this is my wife, Julie. We live in the second Mediterranean Revival house over there on Park Street.” He pointed to their house and waited until Officer Boulli had lifted his head and noticed which house before telling him their full home address. “We were taking Charlie out for some exercise when he found the diver.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “I turned him over to see if there was any sign of life, but it was obvious he had been in the water for a long time.”

  Officer Boulli scribbled in his notebook. “How did you know? Are you medical specialists?”

  “No, we’re not medical specialists. We’re certified divers and have experience in researching sea life using robotic surface and underwater vehicles.” He paused and inhaled a shallow breath. “Crabs don’t feed on the living.” He looked down the beach toward all the activity. “Can we go home now?”

  “Give me a contact number.” The officer wrote it in his notebook. “Most likely, the homicide detective will be along to get statements from you.” He put his pen away, pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief, and wiped his face before handing them a business card. “Until he gets your statement, don’t leave your house.”

  * * *

  Homicide detective David Parker arrived at the crime site at the same time as Coroner Sandra Grey. They both parked on red brick–lined Park Street, near an enormous, three-story Mediterranean Revival mansion.

  “Good morning, David. It looks like we got the call at the same time.”

  “How are you?” His smile brought out the small dimple in his chin. “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Only Sandra could look sensuous in the white forensic coveralls. They fit her curves perfectly. He wondered if she had had them tailored for her petite form.

  “That’s because the city of St. Petersburg has been strangely silent on murders lately.”

  “It’s the dog days of summer. Most of those who can afford it are now cooling themselves in the mountains of North Carolina. The rest of us are too hot to get up to much.”

  They followed the yellow crime-scene tape back to the narrow beach area behind the mansion’s garden and screened-in pool. A portable canopy with view-blocking panels on three sides had been erected to discourage onlookers.

  The tide had gone out, and the body was faceup and fully outfitted in diver’s gear, with one flipper missing and no sign of a tank. Sandra knelt beside the diver’s face.

  “He’s been struck . . . a single blow.” She glanced at the hands. “It doesn’t look like he put up a fight, so we might not get DNA from his fingernails.”

  “His diving knife is also missing from its sheath. Time of death?” Parker had been scribbling away in his notebook.

  “You know I don’t like to speculate on TOD prior to the autopsy.”

  “I do know that. I also know how much experience you have.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled as winningly as he knew how.

  “Okay, okay. You can turn off the charm. It looks like he died sometime after midnight and probably before two a.m. He’s been in the water at least a few hours. Sufficient?”

  Detective Parker nodded. “Before the body is taken away, can we look in his dive bag?”

  “No problem. We can do it now.” Her gloved hands untied the blue mesh bag, the size of an eight-by-ten-inch sheet of paper, from the diver’s weight belt. She pulled open the top and removed a key ring and what looked like fragments of a broken deep blue bottle. She held one of the larger fragments, which appeared to be the bottom of the bottle, up toward the rising sun. “It looks odd.”

  Parker tipped his head so he could also take a look through the fragment. “Difficult to tell with so much grime and growth.” He placed his hand on Sandra’s and turned her hand ever so slightly. The new angle revealed the broken edges of the glass. “This is a recent break. You can see the clear color of the glass, without any evidence of it being underwater.”

  “It looks like the entire bottle is in the dive bag.”

  “Well . . . ,” he began, then quickly released Sandra’s hand, as if it had a mind of its own. “I know a young woman who knows a lot about glass. I’ll give her a call and see if she can help identify the bottle.”

  Sandra put the key ring and the bottle fragments back in the dive bag, pulled its string tight, and placed it on top of the diver’s chest. She rose and signaled for the technicians to prepare the body for transport to the morgue downtown. “I’ll start the autopsy immediately. We’re going to need some luck with this one, David.”

  “I’m going to need more than luck. Thanks.” After admiring Coroner Grey’s retreat, Detective Parker spotted Officer Boulli and waved him over.

  “Where are the witnesses?” the detective asked.

  “Oh, they’re a young couple with a dog who live right in the neighborhood, so I sent them home to wait for your interview.”

  Detective Parker lifted his eyes to the sky and growled low. “What if they were not telling you the whole truth, Officer? What if they wanted to escape, perhaps? You certainly gave them an easy way to leave. You had better hope they are honest citizens. Now, give me the address, and you stay here and keep people out of the crime scene.” Under his breath Parker continued, “And out of my way.”

  The walk back toward the street gave Parker the small bit of time he needed to recover from his temper. Officer Boulli could frustrate a monk, but he always managed to perform his job minimally—not in any way proficiently, but not badly enough to be dismissed or reprimanded.

  The witnesses’ house was indeed only two doors down from the body of the diver. Detective Parker rang the doorbell, and a fierce barking instantly followed. He could hear the owners telling their dog to quiet down. The barking instantly stopped, and then the door was immediately opened.

  “Good morning.” Parker showed his badge. “I’m Detective David Parker, a homicide detective from the St. Petersburg Police Department. My colleague Officer Boulli gave me your information. Are you Paul and Julie Wedlake?”

  “Yes. Please come in.” Julie said.

  The young couple led him through the sparse but beautifully furnished house to the huge screened-in lanai, dominated by a sparkling pool with an unobstructed view of the water. The carefully placed landscaping gave the illusion of privacy. Julie waved her hand at a large sectional, with a low table the full length of the sofa, facing the water. On a short outdoor kitchen counter to the side were an electric kettle, a small sink, and a selection of clear canisters filled with loose tea and ground coffee.

  “Make yourself comfortable. What would you like to drink? I have regular and decaffeinated coffee, but I also have green tea and herbal tea,” Julie said.

  “Black coffee please. Regular would be
great.”

  Julie nodded, deftly filled a French press with ground coffee, poured hot water into it, and brought it, along with an empty cup, over to the low table and placed them in front of Detective Parker.

  “Thanks.”

  She grabbed her green tea from the table and sat with her hands folded around the ceramic mug. “This is an upsetting situation. I crave my comforting routines. You must be used to it.”

  In a low voice he said, “I hope I never get used to a violent end to life, Mrs. Wedlake. Never.” He pulled out a notebook and pen from his inner suit pocket. “Now, as clearly as possible, can you describe how you came to discover the diver?”

  * * *

  Back in his office, Detective Parker opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a new manila folder. With a perfectly sharpened pencil, he wrote “John Doe–Bottle” on the tab. Although most modern-day investigative information was stored on the St. Petersburg Police Department’s secure server, there were still bits of paper that needed wrangling with even after they were scanned.

  Sandra Grey leaned into his office, waving a few sheets of paper. “Would you like to see my preliminary autopsy report?” Without waiting, she plopped the report in the center of his desk and sat down in the nearest of the two guest chairs. “It’s not complete, of course, but there’s enough for you to start.”

  “That was fast.” He scanned through the pages with a practiced eye, then looked up from the report. “He didn’t drown?”

  “Nope. I thought you might find it interesting.”

  “How? It wasn’t obvious at the beach.”

  “Well, we were hampered by the wet suit. It covered a massive trauma to the spine. He died in a matter of seconds.”

  “Any indication of what type of weapon was used?”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “I’ve noted the ubiquitous blunt instrument, but it was the same shape as the injuries we saw on his face.”

  Detective Parker sat staring at the last sheet of the preliminary report.