Death in Donegal Bay

by William Campbell Gault

“Max Kronen,” I told her, “is an investigator who almost lost his license three years ago. He has a reputation in the profession as a man who puts his own self-interest above loyalty to a client. With Max, self-interest translates into money.”

  “Oh, yes!” she said. “Self-interest, that’s the dominant theory today. And my father, who spends thousands and thousands of dollars trying to instill some of our fundamental values back into this sick society—he is maligned as some kind of tyrant.”

  “Not by everybody,” I soothed her, “not by a long shot. There aren’t that many Alan Bakers in the world.”

  “Do you have any idea,” she asked, “what Alan has learned that he thinks might damage my father’s reputation?”

  I shook my head. “Possibly some complicated financial deal. Hasn’t he told you anything about it?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “But I suppose the newspapers will have a field day with it, no matter how little substance it has. You don’t think it has anything to do with Lucy’s uncle, do you?”

  “That’s what I came up to find out. Will Lucy be home sometime today?”

  “Not for two weeks,” she told me. “Father thought she needed some relief from the turmoil of the last few days. So he treated her to a long-overdue vacation, two weeks in Hawaii.”

  “Would it be possible for me to phone her at her hotel there?”

  “I doubt it. Father thinks she should not be disturbed. The poor girl was close to hysteria when she left. But he’ll be home sometime tomorrow. If he feels it won’t distress Lucy, I’ll have him phone you.”

  Don’t call me; I’ll call you. I didn’t ask for their phone number. I stood up and told her, “I have to leave. I’m due in Donegal Bay in twenty minutes.”

  There was a sudden interest in her eyes and in her voice. “Donegal Bay? Father planned to build there before he found this property. Do you have friends there?”

  “One friend,” I said, “a former boxer named Mike Anthony. It’s possible your father knows him, if he is also a boxing fan. Thanks for talking with me. I hope it hasn’t been too much of an intrusion.”

  “Not in this house. You will always be welcome here, Mr. Callahan. As I told you on your last visit, my father will be so sorry that he missed you.”

  And so surprised, I thought, when you tell him Mike Anthony is a friend of mine. That ought to keep him off balance, and me off his mailing lists.

  I hadn’t planned to stop at Donegal Bay on the way home. But with Lucy Barnum in Hawaii, the search for Luther’s killer was temporarily at a halt. And the day was young.

  It was warm and sunny at the freeway end of Ranch Road. The mist began to drift in from the ocean and the temperature to drop at the crest of the first rise. It grew cooler, and the fog became thicker on the long climb to the bluff. Driving down that narrow, steep, curving road to the beach would be hazardous today.

  Forge on, self-anointed knight in tarnished armor. …I switched on the fog lights, put the car into low gear, and kept my foot on the brake pedal. I kept the speed constant at five miles an hour.

  The door to Duane’s office was not locked, but he wasn’t there. Through the thin wall that separated it from the bait store, I heard the sound of angry voices. One of them was Duane’s.

  I went out to the covered porch that served both places and through the open door of the store.

  Duane was standing in front of the counter, facing an obviously discomfitted nephew. At the far end of the counter, Laura was stacking reels in a glass display case, probably to steer clear of the argument.

  Jeff looked up and saw me, and there was relief on his face. “Good morning, Mr. Callahan,” he said. “You just walked in on a family feud.”

  Duane turned around. “Hi,” he said. “Trouble?”

  I shook my head. “Should I wait outside? I don’t want to interrupt your discussion.”

  “You’re not. I’ve said all I have to say—for the moment. Let’s go to my office.”

  In his office, I said, “I could hear you through the wall. It sounded to me as though you were playing the heavy uncle.”

  “Kids!” he said. “You know what those two did? They hit Felicia for fifty thousand dollars! And I’ll give you track odds that that damned Mike is mixed up in it.”

  “Fifty thousand? For what?”

  “For a boat, a charter fishing boat. I don’t know what they cost. A friend of mine told me he’s sure that Mike put some money in it, too.”

  “Alan Baker let Felicia do that?”

  “He’s got nothing to say about it. Felicia’s money is her own. She had two short-term rich husbands before Alan. That dopey Felicia never said one word about it to me. How can those kids hope to pay her back with charter-boat rentals?”

  “Maybe it isn’t a loan. Maybe she’ll be a partner and share in the profits.”

  “She couldn’t live long enough to get that kind of money back. What burns me is that those kids would sucker a friend of mine into that kind of deal. And I learn about it after the fact. They probably explained to her that I wouldn’t stand still for a deal that risky.”

  “Are you going to question Mike about it?”

  “We’re not talking to each other,” he said. “Not anymore. I’ve overlooked a lot of his shortcomings over the years. This time he went too far.”

  He sat in his chair behind the desk. “Damn it, my doctor told me my heart couldn’t take much agitation. Sit down, Brock, and I’ll try to relax.”

  I sat in his customer’s chair. I said soothingly, “It’s Felicia’s money. Let her worry about it.”

  “I know,” he admitted wearily. “But she is my friend and they took advantage of that. Wouldn’t that burn you?”

  “It would.”

  “What are you doing in town?” he asked.

  “I decided to stop here on my way home from Veronica Village.” I told him about my visit to the castle and what I had learned there. “Lucy,” I explained, “was my last best hope on the Barnum murder. I sure as hell can’t phone every hotel in the islands to find out if she’s registered.”

  “I have friends on Oahu who could,” he told me, “real friends. They run a chain of hotels over there and can phone the others. I’ll find out for you and let you know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going home for lunch. Why don’t you eat with us?”

  “Not today, thanks. But let me follow your taillights up the road. It scared me plenty, coming down.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted. “I hope Mike tries it—and goes over the edge.”

  “We’ll let Cyrus Allingham take care of Mike,” I said. “Horses for courses, Duane. Dirty men for dirty jobs.”

  “Right,” he agreed. “You stick with that end of this mess. I’ll keep an eye on this end. I’ll phone my friends in Hawaii today and report to you as soon as I learn anything.”

  I followed the glowing taillights of the Datsun up the shrouded road and came out to clearer air at the top. I waved good-bye to Duane and headed for home.

  Fifty thousand dollars for a boat? I had no idea what a charter fishing boat would cost, but that seemed high. The only time I had priced boats, they had cost about a thousand dollars a lineal foot.

  I knew even less about how much income a charter boat could clear in a day. That would depend, of course, on how many anglers it could hold, how many signed up, and how much each was charged for the trip.

  Mike was a wanderer, fretting to leave his isolated home. It didn’t seem likely to me that he would stay around long enough to help payoff a fifty-thousand-dollar loan. Most of the people in this area had their own boats, for fishing and pleasure.

  I was back on the freeway when I saw a car that looked like Corey’s heading the other way. I recognized him when he came abreast on the other side of the divider. My first thought was that he was following Felicia again. But the only vehicles within his range of vision were two campers, a truck, and four cars too old and cheap to be carrying Mrs. Alan Baker.

  If he wa
s heading for Donegal Bay, it was possible that Alan Baker may have learned about Felicia’s extravagance and sent Corey up to check it out.

  I didn’t want Corey to go up against Mike Anthony; the urge to follow him was strong. But the next exit was two miles down the road. And, as Corey had told me, he was a big boy now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MRS. CASEY INSISTED ON being told whenever I wasn’t planning to come home for lunch, and resented my coming when I wasn’t expected. I stopped at Hannah’s Hamburger Heaven for a cheeseburger and a milkshake.

  One bite of the cheeseburger was all I could handle. My stomach was growling, my ulcer burning. I drank the shake slowly. Frustration gnawed at me. All of that mileage behind me and what had I accomplished?

  Allingham had his double-walled fortress—one wall of stone, one of money. And why should it matter to me who won this blackmail showdown? They were both enemy camps to me. The innocents, if any, in this mélange of characters were the late Luther Barnum and his cousin. One was dead, the other out of reach.

  What about Felicia Baker? “Innocent” might be a misuse of the word, applied to her. But judging by her charity to Mike and now to Duane’s nephew, neither could she be considered larcenous.

  From the wall phone at Hannah’s, I phoned the Baker house and she answered. So Corey couldn’t have been following her. I asked, “Would it be possible for me to speak with you alone?”

  “Why alone? Is it something about Alan?”

  “It might be something you don’t want him to know about. I’ve just come from a visit with Duane and he is really steaming. He learned about the money you loaned his nephew.”

  “That’s none of his damned business,” she told me. “It’s my money and I love those kids. Duane is a good friend of mine, but he’s turning into a miser. I liked him better when he was a horse player.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I just thought I’d let you know.”

  “Wait,” she said. “There’s more, isn’t there? There are things bothering you besides that, aren’t there?”

  “There are. But they involve Alan, and I’m sure you know him a lot better than I do.”

  “Not as well as I should, the way it’s beginning to look. And I didn’t tell him about the money I loaned Jeff and Laura. Could we meet somewhere?”

  “We could meet at my house,” I suggested. “We’ll be chaperoned. The housekeeper will be there.”

  She laughed. “Couldn’t you send her to the store or something?”

  “I could try,” I promised, “but she’s a stubborn woman.” I gave her the address.

  She was closer to our house than I was. She was waiting in front of it in a yellow Citroën when I pulled into the driveway. She walked across the lawn and met me at the front door.

  She was smiling, her green eyes glinting impishly. “I rang your bell. Nobody answered. How much time do we have?”

  “I am a faithful husband,” I said sadly, “and this is the first time I’ve ever had reason to regret it.”

  She sighed. “It’s not a total loss. I will see the inside of a Jan Bonnet house. Daphne told me Jan is redoing hers.”

  Mrs. Casey was coming across the lawn from our neighbor’s house. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan,” she said, “but I didn’t know you would be home for lunch.”

  “I’ve had lunch,” I told her. “This is Mrs. Baker. Perhaps she’d like some coffee.”

  “I would, thank you,” Felicia said.

  Mrs. Casey smiled. “Meaning no impertinence, Mrs. Baker, but you’re Irish, aren’t you?”

  “Mostly,” Felicia said. “How could you tell?”

  “Only the Irish are that beautiful,” Mrs. Casey explained. “I’ll go make your coffee now.”

  She went to the kitchen. We went into the living room. Felicia stood there, admiring it.

  “I’d take you through the rest of the rooms,” I said, “but that would include the bedrooms and Mrs. Casey is a little prudish. Let’s sit out in back. It’s cooler there.”

  We sat in the shade near the house. I said, “One of the things that’s troubling me is Alan getting involved with Joe Farini. He has a very unsavory reputation.”

  “Involved?” She frowned. “I’ve met Mr. Farini only once, that afternoon you came to the house. That day, all he and Alan talked about was another threat that Cyrus Allingham was making. Ever since Alan divorced Joan, that has been going on. That old monster won’t give up. He still resents the divorce settlement he gave Alan. What do you mean by ‘involved’?”

  “I could have been misinformed,” I said. “Did you know that Joe Farini hired a detective? That detective is now working for Allingham, checking on Mike Anthony.”

  “That’s too complicated for me. Do you mean that this detective is working for both of them?”

  “No. He changed sides. He switched over to the big money. Did Duane tell you about the fight I had with Mike up at Donegal Bay?”

  She stared at me. “Nobody told me. What’s going on? Why are they keeping all this from me? Do they think I’m the village virgin? I’ve been around, and in some pretty rough places, too.”

  “You’ve certainly weathered it well,” I told her. “The way it happened, Duane and I were trying to talk Mike out of beating up the detective. Mike got lippy and I had to put him to sleep. He’s in some kind of trouble up there which I’m sure Allingham thinks he can use as ammunition against your husband.”

  “But Alan doesn’t even know Mike! It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You know Mike,” I pointed out. “You could be Allingham’s target.”

  “I knew Mike,” she corrected me. “I haven’t talked to him in two years. Even when I visit the Detterwalds, I make sure that Mike won’t be there before I go up.”

  “That afternoon at your house,” I reminded her, “you told me that you didn’t know what he was doing now. You lied.”

  “I had to, in front of Alan. Duane talks so much about the old days that Alan has this absurd notion that Mike was the great love of my life. The truth of the matter is that he doesn’t even rank in the top ten.”

  Mrs. Casey brought our coffee, gazed at Felicia for a few seconds, sighed, and went back to the kitchen.

  “Duane doesn’t like Alan much, does he?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “He never drops in when he’s in town anymore. But he still likes Mike. I’ll take Alan over Mike any day.”

  I smiled. “Or night? Is Alan in the top ten?”

  “Don’t get vulgar, Callahan. I bought Mike that restaurant three years ago. Strictly for auld lang syne. Duane insisted I keep the title in my name. I’m glad he did, now. Is that the connection Allingham thinks he has? I had a hunch Mike was in trouble. Is it serious?”

  “Maybe not yet. But Duane and I think he’s heading for it. The rumor up in Donegal Bay is that Mike is going to be a partner in that charter-boat venture you financed.”

  “So what? Is that illegal? None of this makes sense.”

  “To me, either,” I admitted. “But it might be wise if you alerted Laura and Jeff about Mike’s … propensity for getting into trouble.”

  She said, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. If skinflint Duane knows about it, he has probably read them the riot act.”

  “You are demeaning a great little guy,” I told her.

  “I know. But he’s so stuffy these days! We used to have so much fun when Mike was a contender and Duane a horse player—”

  And you a hustler, I thought. Those golden days!

  “What are you smirking about?” she asked.

  “I’m remembering my own youth.”

  “I’ll bet you are!” She stood up. “I have to go. Alan will be home soon and I want to get my questions ready for that sneak. Once a con man, always a con man. Right, Callahan?”

  I smiled again.

  “You bastard!” she said. “Alan was right about you. You are one sarcastic bastard—even when you don’t open your mouth.”

  “I know. But
you like me, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s mutual,” I told her.

  I went to the door with her and came back to finish my coffee. Mrs. Casey came to pick up Felicia’s cup but mainly to say, “A real Irish beauty, isn’t she?”

  “That she is. And tricky, too, like all the Irish.”

  “Speak for yourself,” she said. “Not for the rest of us.”

  “Why don’t you pour us a couple of slugs of that good Irish whiskey you keep in the kitchen,” I suggested, “and we’ll discuss it. Unless, of course, you think it would be tricky if we don’t tell Jan.”

  “There is necessary tricky and unnecessary tricky,” she informed me loftily. “I’ll be right back.”

  We sat in the shade and discussed the novelty of a Polish pope. We talked about how the Protestants and agnostics in this mixed neighborhood were finally sending their kids to Catholic schools, where the disciplinary problems of our time were solved in the old-fashioned way—learn or burn!

  Then she went to her room to watch the late-afternoon feature movie on the tube, starring Spencer Tracy.

  I sat and tried to fit the pieces of information I had gathered today into some semblance of a pattern.

  There were too many ill-fitting pieces in this puzzle that couldn’t be matched up. I hoped I had stirred up some new allegiances today that would separate the white hats from the black. Too many of them were still gray.

  Felicia now knew that Alan was up to no good. Farini knew that Kronen had gone over to Allingham. And Allingham would wonder about my supposed friendship with Mike Anthony.

  Felicia had told me that she had a hunch Mike was in trouble. If she hadn’t seen him in two years, what were the grounds for her hunch?

  I suspected that Alan had confided in her at least enough to give her an inkling of what was going on. A tricky lass, that Felicia. But maybe it was Mrs. Casey’s necessary tricky. I wanted to think so.

  I was dozing on the couch when Jan came home. “Mrs. Casey told me you had a visitor this afternoon,” she opened.

  I sat up and yawned and stretched. I knew what was coming. I said, “Mrs. Casey told you the truth.”