Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)
Page 17
That was quite likely the most words I'd ever heard Milo speak in a row. And every single one of them was spoken in a trembling and panicky manner, which made me feel for Milo. The agony in his voice reassured me he was telling us the absolute truth.
"And you didn't think to tell all this to the investigators when they interviewed you Monday morning? Couldn't you have at least clued me in about it?" Rip asked. There was resentment in his tone. "What's up with you, Milo? I hate to say it, but in the detective's eyes, you're behaving like a guilty man trying to cover his tracks, bud. What else do you know that you haven't told anyone?"
"I swear I had nothing to do with my friend's murder, Rip! Please believe me. I wouldn't do something like that to my worst enemy." Turning a bit green around the gills, Milo pushed away the appetizer plate next to his glass of water that the waitress had recently delivered.
"Was Cooper your worst enemy at the time of his death, Milo?" Rip asked, clearly not yet won over by his son-in-law's declaration of innocence.
"No, of course not. I loved him like a brother, Rip. I really did. Ask Regina."
Regina nodded woodenly. She'd made it clear earlier she wasn't all that fond of Cooper, but I'm sure she understood the two business partners had a long-standing friendship.
Milo resumed explaining his relationship with the victim. "We've had our squabbles over the years, naturally, but it never affected our friendship. We'd have forgotten and forgiven the Friday afternoon brawl in the bar's parking lot within days, I assure you."
The greenish tint to Milo's complexion made him appear as if the shrimp he'd eaten off the appetizer platter were rancid from being out in the sun too long. But despite any queasiness he might have been experiencing, he continued to defend himself.
"I'm scared to death, sir. Those messages for Cooper have me really shook up, and I'm afraid of what this dude might do to me if I mention him to the cops. You should have heard some of the things he threatened—no, actually promised—to do. Not just to Cooper, but to me and my family, too. He even knew Dusty and Tiffany's names and where they lived. I had hoped the homicide detectives would arrest the killer without me having to put my family's well-being in jeopardy."
It shook me to the core to hear Milo say this bully had even threatened to do harm to my grandchildren. Tiffany was Regina's twenty-eight year-old daughter who lived with her husband in Albuquerque. Dusty, who was named after my late brother, was twenty-six and living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with his male partner. We didn't get to see our grandchildren often, but I spoke with each of them nearly every week on the phone.
"I understand your concern. But you still need to come clean with the crime scene investigators, son. Keeping important information to yourself is not going to help the police force get this killer arrested and off the street." Rip was obviously exasperated with Milo. He tried to reassure Milo and ease his fears. "I'll see to it you have police protection until this murder case is closed."
"Yeah?" Milo's appeared unmoved. He evidently needed more convincing than Rip could offer. I knew I would. "So, what about your daughter, Rip? For that matter, what about you and Rapella? Are we all going to be followed by cops at all times of the day and night? It's Regina I'm most worried about."
"You and me, both, son. No offense." This was clearly a catch-22 situation for Rip. He desperately wanted Cooper Claypool's killer caught and brought to justice. After all, the focus of his life for many years had been putting bad guys behind bars and protecting good guys from being victimized by them. But just as adamantly, he wanted to keep his family safe and sound. Could he really put his only child in harm's way, even if it was his best hope of exonerating her husband?
I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I leaned toward Reggie as she quietly whispered to me. "By 'police protection,' is Daddy referring to that witness protection program where we'd have to move away from everyone we know and assume new identities?"
"No, sweetheart. Nothing near that life-altering. Just police officers keeping an eye out for your personal safety around the clock until this crime is solved and the real killer has been apprehended. Relax, honey. Your dad knows what he's doing, and he'll make sure you're never in any kind of danger." Even as I tried to assure her with my comforting words, I was praying for my daughter's safety. I leaned back in my chair as Rip questioned Milo about the threatening calls.
"Please tell me you saved those messages sent to Cooper by the thug, or thugs."
"No, sir. I'm sorry. I never imagined they'd end up being important in a murder investigation."
"None of them? Seriously, Milo? Not even this last one you just discovered Friday?"
Milo shook his head apologetically for the second time, and Rip slammed his drink down with a thud. It made a hard enough impact that water jumped out of several of the glasses on the table. Then Rip exploded with a few profanities I wouldn't have wanted to repeat. Finally, he settled down and asked wearily, "What in the tarnation were you thinking, boy?"
Half of the people in the restaurant turned to scrutinize us once again. I wanted to tell them all to mind their own business, particularly that nosy Bertha Snow who I'd recognized from across the room. She'd been shoveling it in like she was dead set on acquiring a third, or was it fourth, chin. But as sure as I'm telling you this story, Bertha would be the first to pass on her rendition of the disturbance at our table to every gossip hound in her 'Purple Hat' club.
I restrained myself from making a scene to avoid a disgusted look from Rip, even though he'd prompted the situation himself with his exceedingly loud cursing.
"I guess I wasn't thinking, sir," Milo responded. In alarm, he'd pushed himself a foot or two away from the table when Rip had laid into him. Under normal circumstances, Rip would have requested Milo refer to him by his first name, but I sensed he intentionally didn't in this case so to maintain the upper hand. He wanted to keep Milo on the defensive, where he was more apt to leak any knowledge regarding the murder he'd previously held back. Rip was impatient, wanting this canary to sing with no further delay.
"What's the loan shark's name, Milo?"
"I don't know, sir. Neither Coop nor I had a clue to his true identity."
"Okay. So what do you know about this local goon who works for the El Paso loan shark and was pressuring Cooper?" Rip asked.
"Not much. Never met him or heard his real voice. As I told you already, even the British accent might have been a result of the voice disguiser's distortion capabilities. I don't know his actual name, but Coop referred to him as Captain Hook. He must have introduced himself to Cooper with that nickname," Milo replied, before swallowing as if his throat was filling with bile. The poor guy looked miserable, and I felt for him. I knew he was being more open and honest than Rip could have hoped, but it wasn't nearly enough to satisfy the former detective.
"Okay," Rip said. He took a long, deep breath to keep himself calm. He was usually a very mild-mannered man. But if you ignited his fuse, you'd better jump when and exactly how high he demanded. With annoyance, he asked, "So let me ask you this. What have you done about the financial quagmire the company had found itself in? Have you personally done anything to try and appease Julio Sarcova?"
"I tried. Coop knew MC Hammerheads was in the red already and didn't want to borrow the money to satisfy the buyer. I appealed to him to let me loan the company some capital, interest-free, until things turned around. I'd been putting excess funds away for a rainy day and felt it was in Reg's and my best interest to use our personal savings to get the company back into the black." Milo paused to turn toward Regina, shrug, and whisper, "I'm sorry." Then he turned his attention back to Rip and continued. "After all, MC Hammerheads provides a major portion of our livelihood, and taxes on Key Allegro don't come cheap, you know."
"Yes, I do know. If you remember right, I tried to talk you two out of buying a pricey home on the island until you had accumulated enough money in savings to put down a substantial down payment. But, instead you—"
Rip nodded after a short hesitation and encouraged Milo to continue.
"So, I knew we had several lucrative contracts on the horizon if we bid the jobs conservatively. If we'd tried to make it all back on one project, we'd never be the lowest bidder. But I couldn't convince the hard-headed guy to let me help bid the jobs, or fix the issue and prevent a lawsuit. I mean, don't get me wrong. I loved the dude like a brother, but he could be very obstinate and hard to deal with at times. I was concerned about his drinking and gambling, but I couldn't get him to talk it over with me. That's basically what started the fight in Crabby's parking lot. I found him drinking there after he'd told me he'd be visiting his dying uncle. He'd promised to complete a project we were coming down to the wire on before he left for San Antonio. I was counting on him to make good on his word, you know. But he accomplished nothing on either Thursday or Friday, and the job was left to me to finish, which I managed to do Saturday morning before I headed over to Crabby's. We had enough to deal with as it was, without one partner bailing out on the other and leaving him in a tight spot."
"I see. So it sounds like he had his own demons to deal with," Rip replied, thoughtfully. "I assume you knew about the company's ever-increasing debt to Mack's Well Company, also. Correct?"
"What? What debt?" It was clear by the way Milo's face instinctively flushed, he knew nothing of the impending lawsuit threatened by Mack Schilling to recover the money due the well-digging company. I totally believed him when he said, "I have no idea what debt you're referring to."
Rip asked me to explain to Milo what we'd learned earlier that day at Mack's Wells, Inc. Afterward, Milo turned to Reggie and asked, "Why didn't you tell me about that before we headed over here for supper?"
Regina had been silent like I had, still brooding about the dressing-down she'd received from her father, I'd guess. She looked as if the bartender had slipped a mickey in her peach margarita and I had to nudge her to bring her out of her stupor. She recovered quickly and replied, "For one thing, Milo, I thought you surely knew about it, and I was angry you hadn't discussed it with me. This morning was the first I'd heard about it, too. And I didn't have time to say anything about it earlier today. You got home ten minutes before we had to leave to arrive here by five."
"I'm sorry, Reg. I was kept in the dark about our blossoming financial woes. Cooper never said much to me about the bills and payments. I knew very little about the money side of the business. That was Coop's wheelhouse and I trusted him. Foolishly, of course, but I didn't realize it at the time. I was more of the hands-on partner. Cooper was rarely on site, unless I needed a helping hand to get a project finished. Just like I needed on Saturday morning, but I assumed Coop was with Uncle Charlie."
As Milo spoke, our waitress was passing out plates of delectable-looking food. The aroma had my stomach growling. We spent the next forty minutes lingering over our supper. Milo looked drained and emotional, so I was relieved when Rip chose not to continue the conversation after we'd finished our meals. Instead he hugged Regina, and put his arm around Milo as he said, "Let's talk tomorrow, son. We'll drop by after breakfast. Keep your head up, Milo. We're here for you and Regina and will do whatever it takes to help."
As I got in the truck and fastened my seatbelt, I wondered how much "whatever it takes" was going to cost us. Not only in money, but in blood, sweat, and tears, as well.
Chapter 15
I got up with the chickens the following morning. After a cup of coffee, I walked over to the campground pool to swim a few laps and get some much-needed exercise. While I'd been over-working my brain, I'd been under-working my body. I left a note next to the coffeemaker so Rip wouldn't be concerned at my absence when he crawled out of bed. I knew he'd tossed and turned half the night and was, at last, dead asleep when I quietly slipped out from under the covers. Under normal circumstances, Rip beat me up nearly every day. (And that's something you want to be careful saying lest you get your husband arrested for spousal abuse.)
After an hour of water aerobics and laps, I returned to the Chartreuse Caboose to find Rip reading the Corpus Christi Times. He had walked to the campground office and bought one from the paper machine out front. He glanced up at me, and said, "This article I just read says despite the best efforts of the investigating team, no perpetrator has been arrested in the murder case of the fifty-two year-old Rockport construction worker. It goes on to say the DNA report on some skin found under the victim's fingernail came back matching that of the victim's. My guess, Claypool probably scratched a mosquito bite or something."
"Does the article say if they found any useful trace evidence at all?" I asked.
"No, what little trace evidence they'd been able to recover was all attributed to Claypool, so the results were of no benefit to the case, according to Sheriff Peabody. Then the article states the only suspect under investigation at this time was the victim's business partner, but so far they'd been unable to discover any non-circumstantial evidence against him. Didn't mention Milo's name, but everyone in town knows who they're referring to. Real subtle, huh?"
Rip's aggravation with the media was apparent, and I wasn't happy with them either. The evening news the night before had also indicated Milo was the main suspect. The reporters obviously had no credible information to share, so they threw Milo under the bus, probably in order to appease the public with some kind of update and make their assignment newsworthy. If the evidence against Milo was as overwhelming as the media had been implying, he'd already be under arrest for first-degree murder."
"That's not fair! It's just plain wrong to drag someone's character through the mud when there's no concrete evidence to prove they're guilty of the crime. They should have to wait until they have substantial proof against a suspect before they can denigrate him in newspaper articles and television broadcasts," I said indignantly. "It's no different than when some kid accuses a teacher of some form of abuse; physical, verbal, sexual or otherwise. The media never seems to take into account the child might have just wanted to get back at the teacher for giving their pathetic book report a failing grade. The poor teacher's life is turned upside down and his integrity and character are irreparably destroyed before his innocence can be verified."
"Calm down, sweetheart. I totally agree with you, but I'm not awake enough yet to be up in arms about it, or anything else," Rip said. He pulled out the chair across from where he'd been sitting at the kitchen table and urged me to take a seat while he poured me a glass of orange juice. He must have instinctively known I had far exceeded my morning quota of caffeine. Perhaps the only clues he needed were my bugged-out eyes, flailing arms, and the incensed exclamations erupting from my mouth during my rant against the media.
We sipped on our juice as we exchanged sections of the newspaper. I read an article about the diminishing amount of oysters being harvested in Aransas Bay. The oystermen were only averaging fifteen to twenty bags full per commercial boat. The article stated the season was November first to April thirtieth coast-wide in Texas. "Aransas Bay, once a plentiful source of oysters, has been over-harvested for so long, the beds are about gone. A poor oyster harvest isn't only tough on me, it's hard on the local economy too," a local boat owner named Philip Bean was quoted as saying.
There was a black and white photo of the oysterman but the sun was behind him, silhouetting Mr. Bean's body and making his features hard to distinguish. More of his statements were included in the article. "I've been working my crew hard, trying to dredge up enough oysters to keep the operation running. But between the fuel and the help, I'm barely breaking even this season. I'm about to the point of begging a few adventuresome tourists to go out with me just for the experience of harvesting oysters."
I sat back and thought about this article for a few minutes. My mind wasn't nearly as sharp as i
t'd been fifteen to twenty years ago. Or, more honestly, even fifteen or twenty days ago; my memory seemed a tad bit fuzzier with each and every revolution of the sun. But I knew the name Philip sounded familiar. I thought perhaps Rip might have a lot more brain cells left than I did, so I asked, "Honey, do you remember the name Milo gave us for that third fishing buddy of his and Cooper's? Wasn't it Philip?"
"What third fishing buddy?"
"Never mind." So much for Rip having an overabundance of brain cells to throw around. Granted, we both were holding on to a corpse at the time Milo was talking about this friend of his. Still, the name Philip rang a bell with me. I recalled Milo telling us that he and Cooper had a friend who bought a spear-gun at the same sporting expo as they had. They called this man Pinto, as in pinto beans, and Philip's last name was indeed Bean, according to the article I'd just read. And now I realized that when Milo said Pinto didn't have time to fish this time of year because he was "out in his boat working from daybreak to dusk," he almost certainly was saying Pinto was a commercial oyster harvester.
What are the odds this Philip Bean is the third of the three stooges? For that matter, what are the odds this so-called friend of Milo and Cooper's called Pinto was involved in Cooper Claypool's murder? I wondered. And was this fellow in the newspaper article serious when he said he'd like tourists to help him in exchange for the experience of harvesting oysters?
Suddenly there was nothing I wanted to do more than experience firsthand the art of harvesting oysters!
* * *
Needless to say, Rip was less enthusiastic than I about the opportunity to learn how oyster boats operated. When I explained my reasoning, he rolled his eyes and asked, "Have you lost what few marbles you had left? There's an impressive fleet of oyster and shrimp boats moored in Fulton Marina. It's beyond me how you came to the conclusion that the Philip Bean in that newspaper article is the third friend the boys called Pinto. Have you been into the cooking sherry again, sweetheart? Sniffing the crazy glue? I'm serious, Rapella. You're grasping at straws now."