by Bobbi Holmes
Chris picked up his glass of water. Before taking a drink, he said, “So basically, as far as we know, his sister was the last one to see him alive.”
“No, Melissa and the witnesses were.”
Chris started to say something but paused, still holding onto his glass of water. “You might want to close that file. Our subject of interest is standing outside on the sidewalk, looking in the window. If he decides to come in, you need to figure out if you want to ignore him or let him know you can see him.”
Danielle closed the folder and then placed it on the seat next to her, under her purse. “I intend to let him know I can see him. Just not right now. I want to learn as much as I can about him first.”
The server arrived at the table just as Antoine Paul did.
Order pad in hand, the waitress smiled down at Danielle and Chris, Antoine by her side. “Have you decided what you want to order?”
“I’ll have a grilled cheese,” Danielle told her, ignoring Antoine, who waved a hand in front of her face, trying to get a reaction.
“They said you can see spirits. Did they lie?” Antoine dropped his hand to his side and glared at Danielle.
“Do you want the French fries?” the waitress asked.
Danielle smiled. “I’ll have the fresh fruit.”
“And to drink?”
“What good are you if you can’t see me?” Antoine disappeared and then reappeared, sitting in the booth seat next to Chris, facing Danielle.
“Ice tea, please.” Danielle smiled at Chris, trying her best not to look over at the unwelcomed spirit.
Antoine let out a sigh and leaned back; closing his eyes, he shook his head back and forth. “Why me? Was I really such a bad person? Yes, I had one little lapse.”
Danielle bit her tongue. You call murdering Melissa a little lapse?
The server looked to Chris. “What will you have?”
“I’ll have the cheeseburger, fries. Ice tea. Make the burger medium rare.”
When the server left their table, Chris and Danielle sat in awkward silence, trying to decide what to say with Antoine looking on.
Danielle fidgeted with her water glass. “So how’s your new office going?”
“They’re supposed to install the furniture next week.”
Ten minutes later, after listening to Danielle and Chris discuss the trivialities of transforming the Gusarov Estate into a new office complex for Chris’s foundation, Antoine let out a groan. “This has to be absolutely the most boring conversation in the world.” Antoine disappeared, yet not before Heather Donavan stepped into the diner and saw him sitting with Danielle and Chris.
Danielle glanced around, looking for Antoine. Yet it wasn’t the ghost she spied, but her neighbor Heather, who stood at the entrance of the diner, staring blankly at Chris and Danielle’s booth.
Chris looked toward the door and spied Heather. “Do you think she saw him?”
“By her expression, I think she did.” Danielle forced a smile and waved at Heather, urging her to join them. Instead of accepting the invitation, she turned abruptly and fled the diner.
Danielle groaned. “I need to talk to her. She’s going to think she’s crazy.”
Chris shrugged. “In all fairness, I suspect she was already partway there.”
“That’s not fair, Chris. You know what it’s like having the ability to see spirits. And with Heather, hers is pretty hit and miss. Although, I suspect it’s getting stronger.”
Their conversation was interrupted when the server arrived with their order. The two sat in silence as plates were set on the table. After asking if they needed anything else, the server turned and walked away.
Watching the parting server for a few minutes, Chris finally said, “The thing is, I really don’t feel comfortable having someone like Heather know I can see spirits. If she starts to broadcast that—and then people start taking a closer look at me—”
“Hey, I get it.” Danielle picked up her grilled cheese sandwich. “Heather already knows about me, although I haven’t gone into detail with her. She doesn’t have to know about you. But I need to let her know about Antoine. Before, she thought he was a real person. And now, seeing him vanish before her eyes, I can’t imagine what she’s thinking now.”
After lunch, Danielle dropped Chris off at his house and then drove down the street to Heather’s. She sat in her car for a few minutes, trying to decide what she wanted to say.
When Heather opened her front door a few minutes later, she carried her calico Bella in her arms, her face devoid of expression. “What do you need?”
“Hi, Heather.” Danielle reached out and scratched behind Bella’s ears. “Bella.” Dropping her hand back to her side, she smiled at Heather. “I was hoping we could talk.”
With a shrug, Heather turned from the doorway, leaving it wide open, and headed to the living room. Danielle took that as an invitation to come in and followed Heather, closing the door behind them.
She smelled lavender. Glancing around, she noticed the diffuser sitting on the fireplace mantel, a pillar of steam wafting up to the ceiling. “Mmm, lavender. It smells nice.”
“Lavender is supposed to be calming.” Heather plopped down on a chair, Bella now on her lap. “But I don’t feel especially calm.”
“I think we need to talk about something.” Danielle took a seat on the couch across from Heather.
“Did you see him?”
“I assume you’re talking about the man who was sitting next to Chris in Lucy’s.”
“And then just disappeared. Did Chris see him?”
Nibbling her lip nervously, Danielle shook her head. “No. I saw him, but Chris didn’t. He can’t see spirits.”
“Does he know you can?”
“Heather, I’ve told you I really avoid discussing this with anyone. It only causes problems. But I thought it was important that you know more about the man who you saw sitting next to Chris—so you can protect yourself.”
“Protect myself from what?”
Danielle considered the question a moment and then said, “Honestly, I’m not quite sure. I just know that spirit you saw, when he was alive, he murdered someone.”
“Who is he? And why was he sitting with you? Why do I keep seeing him?”
Danielle leaned back on the sofa, her eyes on Heather. “When Hillary was staying with me, she told me about a reoccurring dream she had. In the dream, the same man kept coming to her and showing her murder scenes. She called him her muse. She said those scenes inspired her stories. But the fact was, those murder scenes really happened. In fact, the last one she saw was Jolene’s.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hillary’s muse was really a spirit who regularly visited her dreams. I have no idea what his motive was. But one thing I’m fairly certain of, when he was alive, he committed the first murder he showed Hillary. When he was alive, his name was Antoine Paul.”
“Why is he here now?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t know I can see him. I would like to keep it that way until I know more about him. I think he knows you can see him, since you called the police after you saw him staring in the window.”
“I guess that explains why there were no footprints in my flower bed.” Heather tossed Bella, who was now getting restless, to the floor.
“I’m trying to find out more about him, to figure out some way to convince him to move on.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to talk to him? Ask him why he’s here?”
“I plan to. But first, I want to learn more about him. At this point, he could say anything, and I wouldn’t have any idea if he was telling the truth or making stuff up. If I knew at least something about the man he was when he was still alive, I might be in a better position to deal with him.”
“I guess this explains why he didn’t help me when I found Steve’s body. He was dead too.”
“You haven’t seen Steve, have you?”
Heather smiled. “I assume you’re t
alking about Steve’s ghost?”
Danielle nodded.
“No. Which is fine with me. Although, I liked Steve. I got to know him a little bit at the museum.”
Danielle had forgotten Heather had been briefly involved with the museum. She had learned from Millie Samson that her neighbor had volunteered to be a docent for a brief time, yet Heather soon realized she didn’t particularly enjoy chatting with all the visitors. Although, she did appreciate the fact she could make phone calls at the museum without her phone number popping up on someone’s cellphone. She had used the museum’s phone when looking for a diver to help her locate the Eva Aphrodite, several months earlier.
“I just wanted you to know you aren’t going crazy. You did see Antoine Paul.”
“I guess I should tell the police chief not to run the picture in the paper,” Heather suggested.
“It’s not going to hurt if he runs the picture. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“But he knows about you, doesn’t he?”
Danielle frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Chief MacDonald knows you see ghosts, doesn’t he?”
“Heather, even if he did, if he was to acknowledge something like that, it would be detrimental to his career. Trust me, when a person starts telling others they can see and talk to spirits—or if they tell others they believe it’s possible and they know someone who does—their credibility begins to crumble.”
After Danielle left, Heather picked up her cellphone and dialed the Frederickport Police Department.
“May I speak to Officer Brian Henderson, please.”
When Brian got on the phone a few moments later, Heather said, “Hi. This is Heather Donovan. I live on Beach Drive.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yeah…I suppose you do. I wanted to apologize for my outburst the other day. I’m afraid, after finding another dead body on the beach…well…I may have temporarily snapped.”
“Temporarily?” he said under his breath.
“And I wanted to tell you something else. This morning I realized my alarm clock must be broken. It’s not keeping accurate time. I’m pretty sure it was much earlier when I took the trash out on Thursday than I originally told you. So obviously, I saw Hillary right before she went back to Marlow House and went to bed.”
Nineteen
Joe Morelli couldn’t help but wonder how someone could afford a vacation home like this. Located on the same street as the Gusarov Estate, it faced the ocean, and he wouldn’t be surprised if someone were to tell him it had once been featured in an architectural magazine spotlighting seaside mansions. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. He would never be able to afford anything like this, at least not on his salary.
Baron Huxley was already opening the door when he reached the front porch. Joe had called ahead and arranged the meeting. After exchanging greetings and a brief handshake, Baron led Joe to the back porch overlooking the beach. A pitcher of iced tea and two glasses waited for them on the patio table. Slices of lemon bobbed along with the ice cubes in the tea-filled pitcher.
Joe took a seat and got out his notepad as Baron poured them each a glass of tea and sat down.
“I was shocked to hear about Steve. I’ve known him for years.”
Joe thanked Baron for the tea and then asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”
“On Wednesday morning. I had just gotten into town. Like I mentioned on the phone, I don’t live here full time.” He was about to take a sip of his tea but then paused mid-sip and asked, “How is it you got my number?”
“Mrs. Klein gave it to us.”
Baron took his sip and then set his glass back on the table. “I’m not really sure why she would give you my number. I thought Steve’s death was some sort of accident. Didn’t he fall off the pier, hit his head? At least, that’s what the paper said.”
“Apparently Mr. Klein had gone into anaphylactic shock shortly before he fell off the pier.”
“Ahhh…his shellfish allergy.” Baron reached into his shirt’s front pocket and removed a thin cigar and silver lighter.
“You knew about his allergy?”
“Certainly. We enjoyed a lot of dinners out over the years—yet never one at a seafood restaurant.” Flicking the lighter, Baron lit his cigar and took a puff.
“I understand you gave him some tamales the day you saw him. According to his wife, that’s what he took with him fishing.”
“Yeah. It was sort of a custom with us. I’d bring him some tamales when I’d come to town. I’d usually bring him a couple dozen, and he’d toss them in his freezer. But I haven’t ordered any lately, so I just grabbed a couple from my freezer before I headed for Frederickport. For tradition’s sake, I couldn’t really show up in town empty-handed.”
“Was there any possibility those tamales contained shellfish?”
“Absolutely not. They were pork tamales. As far as I know, Carlos’s wife only makes pork or chicken tamales.”
“Who’s Carlos?” Just as Joe asked the question, he got a whiff of cigar smoke. There was something familiar about the scent, yet he couldn’t place it.
“My gardener. His wife makes absolutely the best tamales. I always buy some from her when she makes them.”
“And there’s no chance the two you gave Steve contained shellfish?”
“Carlos’s wife only makes one type of tamales at a time. One month it’s pork, the next chicken. The ones I gave to Steve came from a batch of pork ones I bought. So unless Carlos’s wife made a batch of fish tamales and they got mixed up with mine, then I’d have to say Steve didn’t have a problem with the tamales. But I’ll be happy to give you Carlos’s number if you want. You can check with him.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Baron stood for a moment—his cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth—and dug his wallet out of his pocket. Standing, Baron removed Carlos’s business card from his wallet and handed it to Joe. He then returned the wallet to his pocket, sat down, and removed the cigar from his mouth after taking a puff. “Damn, I sure as hell hope they didn’t accidently give me a couple fish tamales.”
“How long have you been friends with Mr. Klein?”
“We met in college. Before he took the job here, we frequently worked together. But I think Steve wanted a more stable job, something with a real salary and benefits.”
Joe glanced over at Baron’s house. While the Kleins had a nice home, it was nothing like this. “Looks like you did alright for yourself.”
Baron smiled. “When it comes to business, I’ve been fortunate. But Steve came out the real winner. He had a lovely wife and two great kids. I envied him that.”
“You aren’t married?”
Baron let out a sigh. “I’m a widower.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Baron shrugged. “It’s been a while now. Like they say, it gets easier over time. Of course, I still miss her every day.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Joe closed his notepad.
“Thank you. I hope you find out those tamales I gave Steve didn’t have any seafood. I don’t think I could live with myself if I discovered I’d inadvertently gave seafood to Steve. I can’t even imagine how I could tell his wife and kids.”
When Joe returned to his vehicle twenty minutes later, he pulled out the business card Baron had given him for Carlos’s landscaping service. Instead of waiting to make the call, he dialed the number on his cellphone. Less than five minutes later he had his answer. Carlos’s wife never made fish tamales. Just as Baron had said, she only made chicken or pork.
Instead of putting his phone down, Joe made a second call.
“Where are you? What are you doing?” Joe asked Brian when he answered the phone.
“I’m at the station, getting ready to call it a night. Where are you?”
“I just wrapped it up with Baron Huxley.”
“The tamale guy?” Brian asked.
“Yeah. What are you doing for dinn
er?”
“I don’t know. Probably a TV dinner. Something exciting like that.”
“Why don’t you meet me at Pier Café. We can have dinner.”
“Is this a work dinner?”
“What do you think?” Joe slipped the key in the ignition.
“So what’s this all about?” Brian asked Joe twenty minutes later. They sat together in a booth at Pier Café.
“The tamales Steve ate were pork, not fish. I spoke to the person Huxley bought them from. Some guy name Carlos, he’s Huxley’s gardener. Carlos’s wife makes tamales, and Huxley regularly buys them from her and shares them with Steve. According to Huxley, they were pork. Carlos verified that. Said they would have to be pork or chicken; those are the only kinds his wife ever makes.”
“So if there was fish in the tamales, someone had to put it in there later—intentionally.”
Joe nodded. “I just wish we’d found something on the pier. According to Beverly Klein, Steve had a paper sack with him, and the tamales were wrapped in foil. But we never found the sack or the foil.”
“Probably blew off the pier overnight.”
“Or someone removed it later.”
“So why did you want to come down here?” Brian glanced over to the waitress station. He didn’t see Carla. “Did you want to talk to Carla?”
“I called after we hung up. She’s not working right now. But the cook who was working that night is.”
Brian frowned. “And?”
“I’m curious. Did Steve order something else to eat that night? We know he bought coffee. Did he order something else we don’t know about?”
“Pier Café doesn’t have shellfish on its menu,” Brian reminded him.
“True. But Carla could have brought some with her,” Joe suggested. “After Steve ordered his food, she slips it in. Right now, she’s the only one with a motive. As far as we know, Beverly had no idea about the affair. And Carla couldn’t have been happy being dumped like that.”
