Fifth Night

by Kathi Daley

  It took only five minutes for me to hear the sweet sound of hammering. Jack was handy with a hammer; I didn’t understand why he wasn’t simply handling the remodel on his own. Of course, it had been a busy couple of months, and he’d been trying to juggle all the various parts of his life for quite some time. Most of the time, he made it look easy, but when I stopped to think about it, it was remarkable the way he managed to produce two New York Times best sellers a year while running the newspaper and spending quite a bit of time investigating the seemingly endless series of mysteries our group had found reason to dig in to. And I supposed at some point he was going to have to go on a book tour. His newest mystery was releasing next month, and while he hadn’t said as much, I fully expected he would need to be away from Gull Island for at least some time.

  I guess it was a good thing Jack had brought me on as a partner of sorts. I loved the life I was building on Gull Island, but he knew I missed being part of a newspaper. Sure, his weekly could never compare to the paper I’d last worked for, but writing articles about bake sales and community events seemed to fill the hole that had been left in my life when I moved from New York to South Carolina.

  “Is that hammering I hear?” Jack said as he placed a white take-out bag from the local bakery in front of me.

  “It is,” I confirmed. “You should have both cabinets and paneling done by the end of the day.”

  Jack smiled. “That’s great. How’d you get them to work it out? I’ve been trying for days.”

  “There’s nothing a man hates more than a woman on the verge of hysteria.”

  He laughed. “It’s hard to imagine you convincing anyone you were bordering on hysteria, but I appreciate whatever you did to get things back on track.”

  “How’d your meeting go at the bank?” I wondered.

  “Well, Abby is five months behind on her mortgage payments. I paid half of what she owed, and the bank agreed to restructure the remainder into the balance of the mortgage. I even worked it out so her next payment isn’t due for a month. Hopefully, we can prove Bobby didn’t commit suicide and she can get the money she’s owed from the insurance company by then. If not, I’ll help her out if need be.”

  “You really are a special guy.”

  Jack shrugged. “I have the money, and she seems like a good kid. I thought she seemed like she might not welcome a handout, so I asked the bank not to mention the payment, just let her know they’d reworked the mortgage to give her the time she needed to work out her finances.”

  “Now all we need to do is find the real arsonist and expose them as a killer.”

  He opened the take-out bag and pulled out a muffin. He set it on a napkin, then poured us both a cup of coffee from the pot. “I’m not saying it will be easy, but it doesn’t seem any harder than any of the other cases we’ve taken on. I’ve been thinking about a plan of attack, and I think we should start by hearing what Rick has to say.”

  Deputy Rick Savage was the deputy assigned to the island and had become a friend of those in the Mastermind group when he began dating Vikki. He didn’t come to the meetings, but he was usually able to help, at least to an extent.

  “That’s a good idea,” I replied. “Question is, what should we do about Mutt and Jeff?” I tilted my head toward the room where the two men were working. "I think they plan to be here for most of the day.”

  “I’ll talk to them. As long as they agree to play nice, I think we can leave them alone for a while.”

  Jack spoke to the contractors and secured their promises that they’d work together to complete the work by the end of the day. Then we headed to the sheriff’s office. We weren’t sure Rick would be there, but we’d found it was usually best to just drop in. If he wasn’t around, we could always move on to plan b.

  “It looks like the two of you are on a mission,” Rick said when we appeared in his small office after passing through the reception area.

  “New case,” I said.

  “Another closed one you feel shouldn’t have been?” Rick asked.

  “Yes and no,” I replied. “We’re helping Abby Boston look in to the death of her husband Bobby.” I walked further into the office and sat down on one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk from Rick. “I’m aware you were the one who looked in to the matter, and I’ve been told you didn’t find anything that indicated Bobby hadn’t set the fires and then killed himself. But Abby is certain he would never do what the note he left seems to indicate. It’s important to her and her family to find the truth.”

  “What if the truth is exactly what the investigation turned up?” Rick asked.

  “Then Abby will know she’s done what she can. Even if it does turn out that Bobby killed himself, she won’t be any worse off than she is now. However, if we can find something—anything—that might convince you to reopen the case, it could mean Abby will receive the insurance money she so desperately needs.”

  Rick didn’t answer.

  “She’s a twenty-five-year-old woman who’s been left to raise four children plus one on the way on her own. She’s all alone in the world and needs our help.”

  Rick ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. I’ll help if I can. The sheriff put a lot of pressure on me to close the case at the time, though it did feel a little off. What do you know at this point?”

  “Not a lot,” I admitted. “Abby attended the Mastermind meeting last night, and between her and Brit, we have a general idea of what occurred. They mentioned the five fires and that a man died in the fifth one. They also described the circumstances under which Abby found her husband’s body. We haven’t had a chance to come up with a plan of action, but we figured we’d start by speaking to you.”

  Rick put his hands on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced at the clock, then grabbed his coat from the rack. “I haven’t eaten yet and I’m starving. How about you buy me lunch and I’ll tell you what I know?”

  “Deal.”

  The three of us headed over to Gertie’s on the Wharf. The owner, Gertie, was a longtime local who always knew the island gossip and served meals that reminded you of home. I first met her shortly after arriving on the island, and in the months since, she’d become one of my closest friends. Gertie had a natural if not blunt way about her. Not one to spare words, she was the sort who’d look you in the eye and tell you exactly what she thought. I liked that.

  Jack had driven, so when we arrived at the wharf he parked in front of the restaurant and the three of us climbed out. Jack led the way, while we followed at a slightly slower pace. The marina that was serviced by the wharf where Gertie’s was located was busy in the summer, but during the winter months there were only a few fishing boats tied to the series of buoys that extended out to the sea. A pelican that had been sitting on a post near the door to the restaurant flew away as we approached.

  “Who died?” Gertie asked as we walked in.

  “Why do you think someone died?” I asked as I slipped off my jacket and hung it on one of the hooks provided for just that purpose.

  Gertie made a clucking sound, shaking her head all the while. “I may not know everything there is to know, but when the three of you get together in the middle of a workday, something’s goin’ on.”

  Jack led us to a booth in the back, by the window overlooking the marina. It was late for breakfast and early for lunch, so the cafe was empty of customers. During the summer and on the weekends, the place was packed from opening to closing, but on a weekday during the winter, only a few locals stopped by at this time.

  “No one died,” Rick answered. “At least not recently. I’m helping Jack and Jill with one of their projects.”

  “Uh-huh. And what project might that be?” Gertie asked as she handed us menus.

  “We’re looking in to Bobby Boston’s death on behalf of his widow,” I said as I settled into the booth next to Jack.

  “Been wonderin’ when someone was going to take some initiative and help that poor woman.” Gertie
glanced at Rick. “I done tried to provide some relevant insight at the time, but it seems our good deputy here wasn’t interested in what ol’ Gertie had to say.”

  “You told me that Mortie said Bobby was murdered.”

  “It’s a true fact,” she insisted.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think a ghost no one but you can see is going to be the sort of witness who can sway the sheriff to change his mind.”

  Gertie poured us each a cup of coffee without bothering to ask if we wanted any. It was a cold day and the coffee smelled wonderful, so I took a sip as I waited for Gertie to continue. “Mortie’s testimony might not convince the sheriff that he’s barkin’ up the wrong tree, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen to what he has to say.”

  “What did he have to say?” I asked.

  “Mortie done told me the fires were started with a very specific purpose in mind. He said the cops were so busy lookin’ for evidence of some sort, they totally missed seeing the underlyin’ motive.”

  “The motive?” I asked.

  “Who stood to gain something. Can’t rightly see that Bobby stood to gain anything by burnin’ down five structures.”

  “Mortie has a point.” I looked at Rick.

  He looked down at the menu, then set it aside to focus his attention on me. “We considered the motive during the investigation. Initially, I thought one of the victims of the fires might be the arsonist. Every structure that was burned was very well insured. As far as I could tell, except for the man who perished in the last fire—and Bobby and his family, of course—it appeared everyone involved was better off afterward than before the fires occurred.”

  I frowned as I tried to digest this detail. “The idea that one of the victims was the arsonist makes sense, actually. Why did you drop that line of reasoning?”

  “I couldn’t find a single piece of evidence to support the theory. There were five totally independent victims who seemingly had nothing in common other than that they were well insured. They had policies with different insurance companies, and none of the five seemed to know any of the others. Additionally, in every case, the owner of the structure was off the island when the fire took place.”

  “Didn’t the fact that they were all off the island seem odd to you?” Jack asked.

  “It did at first, but then I realized the arsonist intentionally targeted structures that were unoccupied. It tracks that they looked for targets where the owner was away for some reason. I imagine that decreased the chance they’d stop by and become an unwitting victim.” Rick looked at Gertie. “I knew you were disappointed I didn’t do more to act on Mortie’s tip, but at the time I did what I felt I could.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Rick opened his menu again and gave it another quick glance. “I’d like the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes.”

  Gertie was giving him somewhat of a dirty look, but she pulled out her pad and wrote down his order. I wasn’t all that hungry, so I ordered a bowl of soup and Jack chose a sandwich.

  “I think not paying as much attention to Mortie’s tip as Gertie felt you should has landed you in the doghouse,” I said to Rick as she went into the kitchen.

  “I seem to spend a lot of time in the doghouse when it comes to Gertie. I know she means well, but everything is so random with her. Either something is a fact or it isn’t. A tip provided by someone who’s been dead for over thirty years isn’t a fact. The sheriff would have laughed me clean off the island if I’d gone to him with it.”

  I unfolded my napkin and set it in my lap. “I’ll agree you were in a tough spot, but now that we’re looking in to things again for Abby, I don’t see how it would hurt to keep Mortie’s tip in mind.”

  Rick lifted a brow.

  “I’m not saying Mortie is definitely real or that he’s definitely living in Gertie’s house, but I’m not saying he isn’t either. His tips have helped us out in the past,” I pointed out.

  Rick smiled a crooked little half smile. I could see he didn’t believe in Mortie, which was fine; he didn’t need to believe in him to make use of the tips he provided.

  “Returning to the facts as we know them,” Jack joined in, “assuming you were correct and none of the victims were responsible for the fires, I think we need to ask ourselves, other than the victims, who else had motive?”

  “No idea.” Rick shook a packet of sugar, tore off the top, and dumped it in his coffee. “Part of the reason the sheriff insisted on closing the case was because we had a confession and absolutely zero other suspects. If there had been other leads, we would have followed them, but there just weren’t any.”

  “How about the fires themselves?” Jack asked. “Was there a signature?”

  “You’re thinking the fires might not have been set by the same person?” Rick stirred his coffee, then took a sip.

  “It’s a possibility,” Jack said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Maybe we’re looking at a Strangers on a Train sort of thing. All five victims might have been off the island when their own structure went up in flames, but I’d be willing to bet they weren’t all off the island when all the fires occurred.”

  Rick drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s an interesting idea. It does seem a bit too coincidental that not only were all the structures that burned insured but they were very well insured by different companies. If one company had written all the policies, the inspector would have taken a very close look at them. But because each company was only on the hook for one fire, only a cursory investigation was conducted.”

  “Okay, so suppose the five seemingly unconnected victims were connected in some way,” I jumped in, warming up to the idea. “Maybe victim one, the boat owner, is in a bar whining that his boat is in dry dock and he can’t afford to fix it. Victim number two, the man who lost the barn that was in the process of a remodel, jumped in, saying he had a remodel that had gotten away from him and he couldn’t afford to finish it. Both men are crying in their drinks and they get to talking. At some point, they realize they would both be better off if the money-sucking shackle around their neck burned to the ground and they were able to collect the insurance money. They realize if they burn their own structure, they’ll become the primary suspect, so they agree to burn down each other’s property.”

  “That makes sense, but there were five structures involved, not two,” Rick said.

  “So maybe the guy with the boat was buddies with the bakeshop owner and she decided to get in on the plan. Maybe she knew the artist and invited her to join them, and maybe one of them knew the owner of the house that burned down. All we really need to do is find out how any one of the victims is linked to any other one. They don’t necessarily have had to all know each other before the plan was put into action.”

  Gertie returned with our meals. She set the food down but lingered next to the table.

  “Seems like a long shot,” Rick said as he stirred gravy into his mashed potatoes.

  “Maybe, but it gives us a starting point,” I argued.

  I could see by the look on his face that Rick was thinking about it. It would be a lot of work to find all the links and prove them, but I felt a whole lot more hopeful now than I had when we first arrived.

  “Do you have copies of the reports from the fire marshal?” Jack asked.

  “I do.”

  “Why don’t the three of us meet again tonight to go over them, as well as everything else in the sheriff’s department’s file,” Jack suggested.

  “The three of us?” Gertie complained. “This whole thing came about because of Mortie’s input. I want in.”

  I glanced at Rick. He shrugged.

  “Okay, the four of us,” I agreed.

  “What about Quinten?” Gertie asked. “He might be able to help.”

  Quinten Davenport was a retired medical examiner and Gertie’s gentleman friend.

  “Okay, the five of us,” I amended.

  “You may as well make it six,” Rick said. “I have a date w
ith Vikki tonight. She isn’t going to be happy if I cancel on her without asking her to join us.”

  “Fine by me,” I said.

  “Let’s meet at my house,” Jack offered. “I’ll have dinner brought in.”

  By the time we finished our lunch, I felt we had a plan to tackle the mystery head-on.

  Rick went back to his office, Jack went back to the paper, and I headed to the center of town for my interview with Derek King, the man who wanted to build huts over the marshland. King was staying at the Gull Island Inn, so we’d arranged to meet in the inn’s business center, which had a long table along one wall with computers and printers and a round table in the middle for meetings.

  “Mr. King.” I held out my hand to the tall, thin man with a thick head of brown hair that hung long in the front, partially covering his wire-rimmed glasses. “My name is Jillian Hanford. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes, I’ve been expecting you. Please have a seat.”

  I sat down at the round table and King sat next to me.

  “I understand you’re interested in my project.”

  I paused as I considered how to delicately let him know I was interested in his project only because I thought it was nuts and would make an interesting article. “I’ve heard you’re proposing to build huts on a raised platform over the marshland on the west side of the island.”

  “That’s correct.”

  I took out a small notepad and pen, prepared to take notes. “Isn’t most of that land publicly owned?”

  “Much of it is, but the piece of marsh I’m looking to build on is part of the Littleton estate.”

  I tapped my lower lip with the pen. “The Littleton estate? I’m new to the area and I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that particular property.”

  “Marcus Littleton bought up large plots of land back in the thirties. At the time, his holdings constituted over sixty percent of the total land mass of the island, which was mostly uninhabited back then because the only way to reach it was via private boat. During the fifties, the ferry began to stop on the island and the first resort was built, raising the value of the land and opening the door to additional development. Littleton loved the island but was a businessman first, so he began selling off chunks of his acreage for a premium price. Currently, the Littleton family owns just two hundred acres, including forty of marshland. I’ve offered the family a very good price for sixty acres of land including the forty acres of marsh, contingent on my ability to obtain a permit to build over the marsh.”