Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "What?" I couldn't believe Rip had said that after all the leads I had uncovered in our private investigation of Claypool's death. He acted as if he thought I'd become a Loony Tune; Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. He quickly endorsed that impression with, "I'm afraid you're losing it, sister."

  The fact Rip had the habit of calling any man who was younger than him "boy" usually tickled my funny bone, but none of my bones were laughing this time. And whenever he referred to me as "sister," I knew he was annoyed. But it didn't shut me up this time because I was now more annoyed at him than he was at me.

  "Listen, buster. You may think I'm being ridiculous, but I think it's worth looking in to. The detectives have made no breakthroughs in their investigation. Sometimes checking out a hunch pays off, you know. Remember that case you had involving the elderly woman working as a greeter at Wal-Mart? She was so old and frail the store manager should have held a mirror under her nose every hour or so just to make sure she was still alive. And do you remember what your gut told you? You had a hunch she was behind the rash of thefts. Sure enough, she was caught shoplifting jewelry on her breaks and hiding the loot in her under—"

  Rip cut me off with an offensive expletive. He then said, "Mrs. Primrose's kleptomania is hardly on the same level as this murder case. We haven't got the luxury or time to chase down every wild goose in the county. I'm going to the station today to discuss the potential suspects we've tracked down and see if they've been given thorough-enough scrutinizing. I might have to tear down walls to get in to see Detective Reeves again, but I'm going to give it my best shot."

  "Okay, fine. But not before I drop a dime on my new son-in-law," I replied, resentfully. I reached for the cell phone and found Milo's name on the contact list. He picked up on the fourth ring as I was thinking about the voice mail message I might have to leave.

  "Quick question, Milo," I said, pleasantly after greeting him. "By any chance, is Philip Bean the friend you referred to on Sunday as Pinto?"

  "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

  Before I responded, I turned and nodded at Rip with a smug smile I couldn't resist. Then I asked Milo, "Do you know if he's been interviewed by the homicide detectives?"

  "Yeah, he called me from the police station yesterday morning. He'd been totally shocked at the news of Coop's murder. Pinto said he heard about it from a fisherman when he was delivering some table shrimp to a bait stand in Rockport Harbor. Did you know you can buy table shrimp to cook at some of—?"

  "I'm interested in any motive Pinto might have had to kill your friend, not boiling shrimp for supper. Please stay on point, Milo."

  "Yeah, okay. So he drove straight to the police station to see if there was anything he could do to help out with the investigation. The detectives interviewed Pinto, of course. But he was cleared right away and Detective Reeves took down his cell number in case they needed to contact him later," Milo replied. "Which, as far as I know, they haven't."

  "Rip and I were just discussing how often a premonition turns out to be right on target. So, what's your gut feeling about Pinto? Could he be putting on a front? Any chance he had a 'pissed-off bone' to pick with Cooper and lied about it to the detectives?"

  "Nah. He thought the world of Coop. We met Philip at the same bait shop I was just talking about, only a short time after he moved here from Galveston about four or five years ago. He supplies a number of stands with shrimp, mullet, crabs, and even sea lice, to sell as bait. He told me once he makes more money supplying bait stands than he does harvesting oysters."

  Milo was straying off topic again, but this explained to me why neither Rip nor I had ever heard of Philip Bean before. Being an officer of the law here for so many years, there were very few Rockport residents Rip wasn't at least somewhat familiar with. But Philip Bean had relocated here after we'd already left the area to become full-time RVers. He most likely wouldn't realize we were Milo's in-laws. Not recognizing Rip as the former sheriff of this county would be to our advantage, too, if we got the opportunity to speak with the oysterman. "Where might we locate Mr. Bean to speak with him?"

  "Why would you want to speak to Pinto? He already spoke to the detectives and was cleared. He wouldn't have any clue what happened to Coop, I'm sure."

  "You're no doubt correct," I replied. "But just for the pure heck of it, tell me a little more about him."

  "Well, all right. Not that it's going to help any. Trust me!" Milo seemed very reluctant to talk about Pinto. It was almost as if he felt he was ratting out a close friend.

  Why does it seem to me that every time Milo opens his mouth, my faith in him gets a little more uncertain? I wondered. And why, whenever he says "Trust me," does my trust in him plummet even further?

  I was suddenly aware our premise of vindicating Milo was on shaky ground. How could we persuade an entire team of investigators our son-in-law was in no way, shape, or form connected to Cooper Claypool's death when we weren't convinced ourselves? I listened closely when Milo finally began to explain his and Cooper's relationship to Philip Bean.

  "Pinto's an older dude who probably shouldn't even still be oystering at his age, but he goes spear-fishing with us on occasion too. Never out of season, though. Pinto seems to be in excellent condition. He's always treated us both as if we were his own sons. The old man shared a lot of interesting stories with us, and on occasion, a rare nugget of wisdom."

  "That's nice," I said, not swayed one bit. I was certain Ted Bundy and Jack the Ripper could have spun fascinating tales too, and even once in awhile come up with some drivel a guy like Milo would consider wisdom. "How old is this buddy of yours?"

  `"Well, um, I didn't mean to say he was old, you know, just um, you see, I meant just older than us," Milo stammered.

  "How much older?"

  "Well, you know, a few years."

  "Exactly how old is Pinto, Milo?" I felt like I was trying to pull a rolling pin through a keyhole.

  "Pinto's like sixty-seven, I think."

  "Okay. I'll give you a pass on that one, even though I don't consider Rip and me old at sixty-eight. When you're Pinto's age, in a mere fifteen years, I guarantee you won't consider sixty-seven old, either. So, anyway, had there been any ill will at all between him and Cooper recently?"

  "I dunno. I don't think so. Why? You aren't seriously thinking Pinto might have killed Coop, are you?"

  "You never know. As my pal, Lexie Starr, told me, you never want to leave any stone unturned when you're investigating a crime. Do you think he'd let us help out on his oyster boat? You know, just for the experience and all. He made a comment to that effect in an article in this morning's paper."

  "Yeah, I read that too. But I doubt he meant it literally. Pinto surely knew Cooper and I would give him a hand whenever he seriously needed some free labor. So, are you saying you want to feel him out?"

  "Of course we do. Got a problem with that? We're trying to prove you're innocent, you realize. And if that takes incriminating a good friend of yours, then so be it."

  "I know. And I appreciate your help. I really do," Milo sounded sad. After a brief silence, he added, "Let me give him a call and I'll get back—"

  "No! Wait! I don't want him to know of our connection to Cooper, or to you. And, I certainly don't want him forewarned of our intention to question him. Understand?"

  Silence.

  "Understand?" I repeated.

  Sustained silence. I looked at the phone to ensure the seconds were still clicking off. We hadn't been disconnected.

  "I asked you, Milo, if you understood what I told you and agree not to give him advance notice of our desire to meet with him." I wasn't going to take no for an answer. Nor was I going to except a non-response as an affirmative one.

  "Okay. I promise I won't contact him," he finally said.

  "Where can we find him? We'll arrange an accidental meeting, so to speak." As I spoke with Milo, Rip was shaking his head and groaning. Again I prayed his eyes would stick in the current rolled position permanently.

 
; "He hangs out on his boat most of the time, even when he's not out in the bay working. He's kind of a lonely old, er, I mean mature, man. That's why we invite him out fishing with us now and then. Sometimes Coop and I would stop by the marina just to visit with him. Share a beer, and shoot the shit, you know." I could detect a fondness for Philip Bean in Milo's voice. He confirmed my deduction when he added, "He didn't kill Coop. Pinto loved him, and I'm pretty sure he would have given his own life to save Cooper's. He's a real decent and straight-shooting kind of guy."

  "I agree he's an unlikely suspect, Milo. We'll in no way insinuate we believe he's capable of murder. But conversing with him might lead to some clue we've overlooked that'd help nail down the real killer. So, what's his boat look like?"

  "Pretty much like every other oyster boat in the marina. It's white with a faded orange stripe down the sides. Only real distinguishing feature is the boat's name, 'Hook 'em,' painted on the stern."

  "Hook 'em?"

  "Yeah. He spent most of his life in Austin, you see."

  "Oh, sure. I get it. 'Hook'em Longhorns' is the motto of the University of Texas, which is located in Austin. Right?" As a long-time Texan, I knew how devoted Longhorn fans were.

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, then. Pinto's boat should be easy to locate," I said. "And I think it's worth a shot, don't you?"

  "Whatever," Milo said. He sounded like a man who had resigned himself to let the chips fall where they may. I wasn't about to let that happen. I've heard of many a prisoner who's been exonerated after being falsely incarcerated for several decades. I was determined my daughter's new husband wasn't going to be one of them.

  I ended the call and looked into Rip's eyes. Without saying a word, he knew what I was asking. With a deep sigh, and a shake of his head, he echoed Milo's halfhearted reply. "Whatever."

  * * *

  "You do realize I think you're barking up the wrong tree thinking this Philip Bean had anything to do with the murder, don't you?" Rip asked me before he took a cautious sip from his cup of steaming "Jumping Red Fish" espresso. I was already over-caffeinated so had ordered "Copano Sunset," a Nicaraguan decaf.

  We'd decided to grab a quick bite to eat at the Rockport Daily Grind on South Austin Street where the best coffee in town could be found. Their daily quiche specials were favorites of ours, too. We didn't linger over breakfast as we usually did; chatting with the gregarious owner or getting acquainted with newcomers visiting Rockport and/or the coffee shop for the first time. It was already almost eight and we didn't have time to dawdle. Before ending the call with Milo, he'd warned me Pinto liked to head out of the marina at straight-up nine.

  Twenty minutes later, Rip and I were strolling down the parking lot next to the bulkhead at Fulton Marina. As expected, it didn't take long to find Philip Bean's boat. The captain of the "Hook 'em" stood in the hull of the boat stacking empty burlap bags in a neat pile when we walked up. Darkly tanned, his face was weathered and wrinkled from too many hours in the sun. He seemed to personify the Old Man and the Sea character, Santiago. In Hemingway's story, Santiago killed a large Mako shark with a harpoon, much in the same way Cooper had been speared. For some odd reason I felt sad, just as I had when I'd read the classic novel.

  Dressed in old but clean denim overalls, Philip Bean looked older than most of us sexagenarians. I'm not sure why they call a person in their sixties a sexagenarian because, at least in our case, it had become somewhat of a rare occasion when sex entered the picture.

  The scene before us now, of a fellow working aboard his old boat with its veneer as weathered as the fisherman's face, was so peaceful and serene that my first instinct was to snap a photo with our cell phone. It reminded me of an old painting I'd admired in one of Rockport's many art galleries. It made me wish for a moment that I, too, had the talent to capture this scene on a canvas.

  "Good morning, sir. Beautiful day, isn't it?" I asked to catch Philip Bean's attention.

  With a friendly smile, he tilted his head up, nodded, and replied, "Aye-aye, my lady. Morning to you folks, too."

  He immediately resumed stacking bags. He didn't seem anxious to be distracted from his task. That didn't stop me from trying to start a conversation with him, however. "Say, you look familiar. Aren't you that fellow I read about in the Times this morning?"

  "That I am." His response was short and given without a pause in his work. Rip gave me a "let's not bother the guy" look, which I naturally ignored.

  "If I recall correctly, you mentioned the possibility of taking tourists out on an oyster run and letting them work in exchange for the unique experience. Were you serious?" I asked.

  He set down the empty burlap bag he was holding and turned toward us. After giving us the once over and apparently deciding we didn't look like productive oystering material, he replied. "Nah, just joking with the kind lady who writes for the paper. It's been a rough season so far. Hard on the bones. Harder on the wallet, though."

  "Oh, dear. That's not good. Too bad you were just kidding. My husband and I would love to go out with you and learn how an oyster boat functions. It would be a memorable adventure for the two of us. It really does sound like a lot of fun."

  "Aye. It is that," the man agreed. "For about five minutes. After that it's just hard, backbreaking labor."

  Rip spoke up then. "I can only imagine. Have you thought about retiring? Men our age should be kicking back, enjoying life while we still have any of it left."

  "Then what would I do?" Pinto asked, wearily. "This ol' bloke's gotta keep eating. This season's even worse than when we had the red tide a few years back. So, you see, I ain't exactly rolling in it. No retirement fund to fall back on in this bloody business. And my Social Security check won't even pay for the fuel to operate this hunk of junk."

  Rip nodded solemnly; obviously sorry he'd asked the man such a personal question.

  "Yeah, I hear ya." I shook my head as I commiserated with the poor fellow. I wanted to appear humble, as if we were in the same boat he was. Truth was, if we hung around Milo and Regina much longer, we really would be sharing Pinto's financial woes.

  "At least I don't sail outta here at first light like I did in previous years. I'm getting too old to get motivated that bloody early in the morn."

  "Yeah, I hear ya," I repeated.

  I could feel the door closing on our chance to question him about Cooper Claypool and started to turn to walk away when I was surprised by the craggy man's next words.

  "If you folks would like to tag along on our run today, I'll be happy to welcome you aboard. My crew should be here shortly. I don't want you involved in the work, though. It can be a dangerous job if you're not used to it."

  "I'll bet!" Rip said cheerfully. His attitude had suddenly improved dramatically, now that he knew he wouldn't be expected to earn his way.

  "Oh, my goodness!" I exclaimed. I jumped an inch or two off the pavement in exhilaration, then placed a hand on each cheek and gushed. "That would be wonderful, sir. Thank you so much. Are you sure you don't mind? We wouldn't want to be in your way while you're trying to earn a living."

  My exaggerated giddiness was not lost on Rip, who muttered under his breath, "Easy, girl."

  "No worries. I'd enjoy the company; someone new to converse with 'sides the crew who talk about nothing but hot women and their next drunk fest." With a laugh the seaman leaned over the side of his boat and reached across the span between the stern of his boat and the bulkhead to shake my hand. "My name's Philip Bean, as you already know from the newspaper article. But I'd prefer you call me Pinto like everyone else does."

  "Aye, aye, Captain Pinto," I playfully replied with a salute. "And you can call me Rapella."

  He then turned to Rip and the two men introduced themselves. Pinto must have noticed Rip's "God help me" expression. He asked, "You sure you're up for it, my friend?"

  "I guess so. You know how it is. Gotta keep the old lady happy." In response to Rip's smart aleck remark, the oysterman flashed Rip a knowing
smile. When Rip quit grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I punched him in the shoulder in retaliation for being dubbed his "old lady."

  Pinto laughed and told us he was planning a short run that day because two of his three deck hands had to attend a court-ordered AA meeting that afternoon. With a shrug, Pinto added, "Can't keep the Willis boys off the hooch, if you know what I mean. They're both one DUI away from hoofing it. But help's hard to find these days. You gotta take what you can get. If I pay the Willis boys just enough clams to buy a couple of six-packs, they're happy as a clam at high tide."

  Pinto chuckled at his own clever double entendre, which I thought was a fitting analogy for a guy in his line of work.

  Rip laughed along with Pinto, and then said, "Yeah, I know what you mean. Things just aren't like they were back in our day, are they?"

  "For sure." Pinto agreed before he motioned for us to walk down the pier next to his boat. He reached out his hand to assist each of us in turn as we boarded his boat. Even though I had an ulterior motive for wanting to be there, I truly was eager to watch an oyster boat in operating mode. Rip's disposition was rather subdued, more resigned than anything.

  I was ready to set sail, looking forward to a new adventure. I didn't realize it at the time, but I'd soon be looking forward even more to getting my feet back on solid ground.

  Chapter 16

  We watched as a faded green vehicle pulled into the marina's parking lot. Two sketchy looking men in their mid to upper twenties wearing stained, tattered jeans crawled out of the cab. Both were of medium height and didn't have a spare ounce of fat between them. One of them, the crustier of the two, opened the tool box alongside the bed of the El Camino and brought out two pair of thick rubber gloves. The other one reached in and grabbed a couple of pairs of rubber boots.

  A newer model Jeep Wrangler with no top pulled up beside the El Camino, and a middle-aged man built like a WWE wrestler joined the other two fellows. I was surprised to see his right arm was a prosthetic, with a stainless steel claw on the end where his fingers should have been. Maybe he's a lumberjack who had a rough go-round with his ax, I thought. If so, at least he left his blue ox at home.