“I heard. Jack told me she left him food and books on occasion. She sounds like a very special lady.”
“Oh, she was. Much too special for that cantankerous, old Oliver. But old men were young men once upon a time, and the things that are unforgivable traits in their old age were once attractive quirks some young woman believed she could change for the better.”
“That’s very intuitive, Mrs. Arnold,” Shelby said, kicking Blake under the table. “Have you ever been married?”
She laughed, mouth open wide enough to show off the fillings in her back teeth. “No, I missed that boat by about a mile! Good thing too. I’ve got so many unforgivable traits by now that only Ginger can stand to live with me.” She bent down to pick up the cat rubbing against the spindles of her stool. Ginger perched on her lap, purring loudly as her back was methodically stroked.
“What a beautiful cat,” Shelby said, reaching out to pet the feline, but a hiss made her pull her hand back instantly. “Oh!”
“Excuse Ginger. She is not accustomed to visitors at dinner time,” she said, as though a different time would give better results.
Blake wanted to get back to the accident. “What happened after you found Clara? Did you call the police?”
“I hurried to the B&B and knocked on the door. Alice was cleaning the rooms upstairs, so Oliver answered. I told him where I found Clara and Buddy, and that he should call 911. He barreled out of the house before I even finished speaking. Jumped in his old truck and tore off. Alice must have heard us talking, and came down the stairs. Her face was white as a sheet, and she was sobbing. She let me in, and asked me to make the call. The person on the phone wanted to know Clara’s condition. I didn’t want to say it in front of Alice, but I told them, ‘There’s no need for sirens. Her spirit’s left her.’”
“Before you found Clara and Buddy, were you walking along the road? Did you see any vehicles when you were out?”
She shook her head, but stopped, putting a finger to the side of her nose. “Wait a minute. I did see a truck. But not on the road. I was cutting through the woods at one point. I’d found some wild blackberry bushes, and wanted to remember where they were so I could come back in the summer when they were ripe. I tied a yellow strip of cloth on a low hanging branch, and had just turned around when I heard an engine. Someone had parked off the road on a dirt service trail, in the trees. From my vantage point, I could only see part of the pickup. It was dark blue or black. Maybe charcoal. It blended into the shadows quite well.” Her brows rose like birds taking flight. “Do you think that’s what he was doing? Hiding? Waiting for poor Clara to walk by so he could run her down?”
Shelby reached out tentatively, still fearful of the cat, and patted the woman’s hand. Ginger took that moment to jump down and slink off into another room.
Blake said, “The police ruled her hit-and-run an accident. Is there a specific reason you don’t believe Clara’s hit-and-run was an accident?”
Fanny Arnold stared at him oddly, as though she was trying to figure him out. “Because Jack told me it was murder.”
<<>>
They talked Fanny Arnold into taking a drive with them. She showed them exactly where she came upon the bodies. They climbed out of the truck and followed her, as she pointed out the area where Clara and Buddy had been thrown. Blake left them talking in the ditch and moved back onto the road, scouring the area for black marks. The copy of the police report Mr. Booth had acquired, and Alice had let him read, indicated that there were signs of braking. Although, they couldn’t be sure the vehicle that hit Clara was the same one that left the marks. The skid marks they’d photographed for the report were actually made well past where the bodies ended up. So either the person hit the brakes after impact, or someone else had skidded to avoid a raccoon or deer that same morning.
Blake didn’t find any signs of early braking, so he moved slowly along the road past the area where the bodies had been thrown, eyes scanning the asphalt. There. He took out his cell phone and clicked a picture. A vehicle with wide tread had made those skid marks. Definitely belonging to a truck or pickup of some kind. No surprise there. He took a few more close up shots of the tread marks, for detail.
Shelby approached him from behind. “Get what you need?” she asked, hand up to shield her eyes against the setting sun.
He nodded and slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. Fanny Arnold was still in the ditch, kneeling in a patch of weeds. Her hands covered her face. “We better have her show us where she saw that pickup before she has a meltdown and we have to take her home.”
The trees and hilly terrain blocked most of the wind along this stretch of road, but the air was still damp and cold. Shelby shivered, and followed him back. Fanny looked up, her eyes glistening. She placed both palms flat on the ground and whispered something, then rose slowly to her feet.
“You want to see where the pickup was parked,” she said matter-of-factly and trudged up the incline.
“Should we drive?” Blake asked.
“It’s not that far.” She pushed her hands into the side pockets of her pink, white, and brown colored camouflage hunter’s coat, and led the way. Her legs were short, but for an old woman she made good time. She wore brown tweed pants and sturdy hiking shoes, and on her head sat a green army cap that looked as old as Jack’s coat.
Blake’s gaze narrowed as he watched her slow and step down into the ditch. Twin tire tracks cut a dirt path through weeds and grass, and were the only signs of entry until you moved into the wooded area. Hidden in the trees was a twisting dirt road that wound further into the forest. Probably a service access road for rangers.
Fanny pressed her lips firmly together and nodded, looking around. “The pickup was backed in here, nearly out of sight.”
Blake spotted a couple of empty beer bottles on the ground. Someone had dumped a whole ashtray of cigarette butts as well. He opened the camera again and turned slowly, looking back through low hanging branches and close growing evergreens, toward the road. “It’s beginning to look like you’re right, Mrs. Arnold. He’d be nearly invisible waiting here.”
“That means it had to be someone who knew her, and knew her routine,” Shelby said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Never a good sign.”
She took Fanny’s arm. The woman was shivering despite her warm clothes. “Let’s get back to the truck. It’s getting cold out here.”
Blake snapped a few more pictures, and then on a hunch he poked a stick down the neck of one of the empty bottles and picked it up. When he returned to the truck, he wrapped it in an old blanket and placed it in the backend. Maybe he could get a set of fingerprints off of it, and have Don put them through the system. It was a long shot, but at this point it was better than what they had before. Nothing.
Chapter Sixteen
Farley Jones called Blake’s cell as they were pulling in front of Luanne’s for dinner. They’d already dropped Fanny off, and thanked her for her help. She’d been unusually glum, barely raising a hand to wave before letting herself into the little cottage. Revisiting the accident scene obviously weighed heavily on her.
Blake reached in his pocket and took out the phone, looked at it, and grimaced. “Do I want to answer this?” He turned the screen so Shelby could see caller ID. He still hadn’t had the chance to fill her in on the conversation with Mrs. Jones. If he waited too long she would think he was trying to hide things from her.
She lifted one shoulder. “You wanted to question him before we left town.”
“Sure, but all he wants is to get our names on a mortgage.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten how to steer a conversation around.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “If he won’t cooperate, I can always use my feminine wiles on him.”
“Hah! I think not.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Good evening, Mayor. How are you?”
They ended up meeting Farley on his boat. It wasn’t a yacht, but a thirty-two foot Weekender,
named Carolina. He was already waiting when they got there. Apparently, he didn’t like doing business with his mother watching. He invited them aboard, and offered champagne.
Blake allowed the man to show them around the vessel. They even went up for a look from the fly bridge before they got down to business. It didn’t take long. “Very nice, Sir. Do you take her out often?”
“As much as I can.” Farley patted the wall like a classic car. “Paid for with my real estate earnings. It may not be a mansion, but she’s all mine.”
“It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?”
“Blake feels the same way about his Bronco. I’m sure she has a name too, but he won’t share it with me.” Shelby slipped an arm around his shoulders as they sat close together in the tiny cabin.
Farley opened the file folder on the table between them. “So, you want to be bed and breakfast owners,” he said, with a sly smile and a wink. He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on clasped hands. “Truthfully, I was rather surprised when Alice called me about selling the place. She’d already turned that Davies fellow down when he made an offer a year ago. And last month, Oliver wouldn’t even listen to my offer. How did you manage to get the old man’s okay?”
Blake gulped the rest of his champagne, deciding what to tell the mayor, but before he could say a word Shelby dove right in.
“Mr. Booth agreed to sell us The Drunken Sailor when Blake solves his wife’s hit-and-run. I’m sure it won’t be long now.” She lifted her glass for a refill.
Farley’s eyes went wide and sweat broke out on his forehead. For a politician, the man sure had a nervous problem. He licked his lips as he lifted the bottle to fill her glass. “You’re here to solve Clara’s accident? But you’re retired from the police force.”
“I’m not a detective anymore, but that doesn’t stop me from investigating on my own. In fact, I’d like to pick your brain, if I might.” He hated that phrase, but it seemed to work on egomaniacs. They always thought they were smarter than the police so when treated special, they invariably let their guard drop a bit.
Farley nodded. “Anything. Anything at all. I truly wish that drunk had been caught and strung up by his hindquarters, but the police were unable to find any evidence other than a set of black marks and they weren’t even sure if those belonged to the vehicle that hit her. Poor Clara. She was a good, kind woman.”
“Drunk driver?” Blake asked.
“A logical assumption. Most people around here assumed the driver would have to be drunk to hit them both in broad daylight and keep on going.”
“I see.”
Shelby rubbed a finger around the rim of her glass. “We did find empty beer bottles nearby. They could have been the killers.”
“Killers?” Farley breathed out, “You think there were more than one?”
Blake ignored the question. “How well did you know Clara?”
“About as well as I know anyone in this town. I’ve lived here my entire life. I was the best man in Oliver and Clara’s wedding. I go to the same church, frequent the same stores, eat at the same café, and hear the same town gossip. We weren’t as close as we once were, but we still said hello to one another when we met in town.”
“I heard there were still bad feelings between you two over the court ruling for the beach property ownership,” Blake said, not buying his everything was swell act.
Farley blew out the grunt of a laugh. “I guess I should have kept my mouth shut. But when I came across an old document in my great grandfather’s papers, I was excited. I was only trying to get to the truth.”
“And you brought the document to Clara, thinking she would hand over the property that’s been in her family for a hundred years? Or did you meet with a lawyer first?” He couldn’t imagine anyone taking news like that lightly. If there wasn’t animosity between them before, there certainly was after that conversation.
“Out of respect for our past friendship, I tried to discuss it with them first. Oliver went ballistic, as usual, but Clara just sat there. It was almost like she knew it was coming, and had been preparing for it.” He took a sip from his glass and licked his lips, his expression thoughtful. “I had a feeling she knew about the agreement, but she didn’t admit it. The next thing I knew, her good friend Jerri Roper said she found the original deed in the historical document section of the library. Clara had it authenticated, and a judge threw out my suit.”
“What kind of document did your great grandfather have?”
“It was a letter to Clara’s ancestor, deeding her the land for as long as the house stayed in her family. Once it passed outside of her family, the beach land would revert back to our family. In other words, the land was never actually owned by Clara Bartlett at all, but borrowed until the unforeseen future when the Bartlett’s offered it to an outsider. As far as I could tell from other letters between them, my great, great grandfather was in love with the woman, but unable to marry her for family reasons. He wanted to make sure she was taken care of.”
Blake wondered if Farley’s grandfather had mommy issues as well. After all these years, Farley was still unmarried. Unless you could count the love he had for his boat, Carolina. “Alice said the house has remained in her family all these years. On what grounds did you think you could have the land revert back to you?”
“On the grounds that the B&B did change hands.”
“I don’t understand. It belongs to Alice now, and she’s a descendant of the Bartlett’s.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, confused. “When did it change hands?”
“What does any of this have to do with Clara’s hit-and-run?” Farley tapped his fingers on the file folder. He’d been hoping for a real estate sale, and instead was getting a hundred and one questions thrown at him about something that really wasn’t any of their business.
“Sorry.” Blake gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m sort of a history buff, and now that we may be moving back to Port Scuttlebutt, I find all of this rather fascinating. I suppose you’d rather discuss the details of our purchase agreement.”
Shelby sipped champagne and watched their back and forth from under lowered lashes. With her head propped lazily on one hand, she gazed out the tiny window and yawned. Blake knew she was listening intently, but for some reason she was playing bored and tired. She yawned again, catching Farley’s attention.
“Would you like some coffee?” He pointed to a thermos poking out of a duffel bag on the floor in the corner. “I brought some with me for tomorrow morning, but I’d be happy to share.”
“I’m so sorry.” She slanted him a smile, playing the empty-headed woman to a tee. “I know Blake and you have business to discuss, but would it be all right if I laid down somewhere? I have a terrible headache.”
He looked flustered, brushing his hair back with his fingers, but gallantry came to the fore and he stood. “Yes, of course. I didn’t show you the cabin below. It’s tiny, but there is a fold out bed. You’re welcome to relax there until we’re done with our business.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” she said, reaching out and giving his arm a squeeze. Then she was gone, moving quietly out to the steps that would take her down into the sleeping quarters.
Farley released a pent up breath and slid back into his seat. He didn’t seem too excited about the idea of a stranger lounging in his private berth. “Your wife is very persuasive.”
“So I’ve been told.” Blake cleared his throat. “You mind if I ask what you and Oliver are feuding about? His daughter tells me you two used to be best friends, and that not long before Clara was killed he discussed selling you the property.”
“Am I a suspect or something? All of these questions are rather impertinent, aren’t they? I’m the Mayor of Port Scuttlebutt. Not some homeless vagabond.” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and glared down his nose at Blake. “Perhaps you’d be better off interrogating that filthy bum who hangs out around here. I doubt he has an alibi!”
At mention of
Jack, Blake’s antenna went up, but he shook his head to ward off Farley’s suspicion. “I apologize. I had no intention of insulting you or accusing you of anything. I certainly don’t think the mayor of Port Scuttlebutt ran Clara down.” Having seen the mayor and his mother at work that afternoon, he was sure they’d pay someone else to run Clara down. “I’m just worried that past issues may be a problem as we go forward to make our own offer on the place.”
The Mayor relaxed at that, settling back into his seat and expelling a breath. After all, that’s what he’d invited them here for… to make a deal. He opened the folder again and slid the papers across the table. “I apologize as well. This has been a very stressful day for me. I assure you that I will do whatever it takes to get The Drunken Sailor for you. Perhaps you’d like to go over the details and tell me exactly what I need to make happen, to get you and your beautiful wife to sign on the dotted line.”
<<>>
Driving away, Blake reached out and caressed his wife’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “What was that all about? A headache? You never get headaches.”
She laughed softly. “Mayor Jones was eager to show us every nook and cranny of his precious boat, but he didn’t even open the hatch to the sleeping quarters. Didn’t that make you wonder even a little bit?”
“Not really.” He turned onto Silver Street and ended up outside Luanne’s again. He was starving. Another roadkill Pasty would hit the spot. The thing with Jack was still between him and Luanne, but he hoped she’d understand. The man was in the wind. If he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.
Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1) Page 17
