by Bobbi Holmes
She shook her head. “No. But they’ve argued before and then the next day everything’s fine again.”
Thirty-Two
Both Danielle and Lily moved their cars to the street so the truck belonging to the heating and air-conditioning company could park along the side of the house. Inside Marlow House, Walt was following the workers around, keeping an eye on them and making sure they were doing a good job. Not that he actually knew anything about installing a heater and air conditioner, but it was keeping him busy and he seemed to be enjoying himself.
After parking her car on the street along the sidewalk in front of Marlow House, Lily went with Ian to go shopping. Danielle stayed home; there was a book she wanted to finish. Wearing jeans and an oversized pullover sweater, Danielle sat on the front porch swing, reading.
When Danielle looked up from her book thirty minutes later, she wondered how long he had been there. It was Steve Klein’s ghost standing on the sidewalk, watching her. She looked at him for a moment and then glanced around. She didn’t see anyone else. When he kept staring at her, she finally waved him over.
The next moment he was no longer standing on the sidewalk, but sitting next to Danielle on the swing. His instantaneous change of venue made her lurch in surprise, dropping her book to the ground.
“You startled me!” she scolded, leaning down, slightly annoyed to see the book had closed, causing her to lose her page.
“Sorry. No one sees me, so I forget something like that might scare someone.”
“I’m not scared.” Danielle set the now closed book on her lap and looked at Steve.
Turning to her, he studied her for a moment. “I’m a ghost, aren’t I?”
“I thought you already went through that with Hillary.”
“I did.” He looked out to the street and leaned back in the swing. “It’s just that I grew up believing people are afraid of ghosts.”
“I think most are—but they generally can’t see them, so it’s sort of a nonissue.”
“It’s quite amazing to me that you can see ghosts. I never knew. Hell, I never even believed in ghosts when I was alive.”
“Where’s Hillary?”
“I don’t know. I left her on the beach. She’s trying to decide if she wants to stick around here or move on. It seems the prospect of seeing both her husbands at possibly the same time is a bit overwhelming to her.”
Danielle chuckled. “I suppose that could be awkward.”
“I think I’m ready to move on,” he said.
“I thought you were going to go after your funeral?”
He shook his head. “No. I can feel something pulling me—a constant tug from the other side. It’s time. But I can’t yet. Something’s bothering me.”
“The police are looking into your death. They think it might be murder. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering you.”
Turning back to Danielle, he frowned. “I wasn’t murdered. I was careless.”
“No. According to the coroner’s report, you had crabmeat in your stomach. We’re not talking about some cross contamination; we’re talking crabmeat.”
He shook his head. “That’s impossible. I didn’t eat anything that night except for the tamales.”
“If that’s true, then those tamales were tampered with. Who would do that?”
“I guess the obvious would be Baron; he gave me the tamales. But I don’t see why he’d want to make me sick. We had our disagreements, but nothing that would make him want to hurt me.”
“He did more than hurt you. You’re dead.”
Steve shrugged. “That’s only because I couldn’t find my EpiPen. I panicked and stumbled off the pier. It was stupid of me.”
“Did you take the EpiPen out of your tackle box? Maybe leave it somewhere?”
“No. I remember seeing it Wednesday night when I put some new hooks in the box.”
“Then someone removed your EpiPen and fed you crabmeat. What about your wife?”
“Bev? Absolutely not. I may not have been a perfect husband—but she was the perfect wife.”
“Then why did you cheat on her?”
Stunned by her question, Steve just stared at Danielle. Finally, he asked, “How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. I just do. Maybe your wife found out about Carla—or maybe Carla tampered with the tamales?”
With a groan, Steve leaned back in the swing and closed his eyes, rocking his head back and forth. A moment later, he lifted his head again and looked at Danielle. “You have to promise me something.”
“What?”
“If Bev finds out about Carla, please let her know that I loved her. That I never had feelings for Carla. She was the one I loved.”
Narrowing her eyes, Danielle glared at Steve. “Why do some men say crap like that? You cheat on your wife and then have the audacity to declare, gee, it was you I always loved. Sheesh.” She shook her head in disgust.
“Does that mean you won’t tell her?”
“I don’t know,” she grumbled.
After a few moments of silence, Danielle asked, “Tell me who had access to those tamales after you got them from Baron.”
“I was at the bank when he gave them to me. I put them in the refrigerator in the lunchroom. So basically, anyone who was at the bank had access to them. It’s not like the room is locked, and the hallway to the public restroom is right near the door to the break room.”
“Did you take them home that night?”
“Yes. Put them in our refrigerator at home. And then I took them fishing with me.”
“Did Carla have access to them?”
“I suppose she did when I went into the restaurant to get coffee. But there was no way she had time to tamper with them. Anyway, I don’t think Carla would do something like that.”
“Someone did!”
Steve let out a sigh. “I suppose it would be possible if she switched the tamales Baron gave me with crab tamales.”
“That seems pretty farfetched too. Where would she get her hands on crabmeat tamales?”
“They do sell them at Beach Taco.”
Danielle glanced at Steve. “They do?”
“I stopped by there a couple weeks ago to pick up some takeout for me and Carla. I saw them in the cooler. Crab tamales. I never heard of such a thing.”
“So you were getting takeout for you and your girlfriend?” Danielle snarked.
“Yeah…I was. We really couldn’t go out and eat together in town. I remember telling her I’d never buy tamales at that place; they might give me the wrong ones.” He laughed.
Danielle flashed Steve a scowl. “Amazing you can joke about it, considering they did kill you.”
He shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it now.”
“I’m curious about something.”
“What?”
“Was it common for you to take tamales with you when you went fishing?”
“Yeah. Beverly can’t stand them. So we never have them at home. Baron usually comes into town at least once a month, always brings me some. Easier than making a sandwich.”
“Did the tamales taste different that night?”
Steve frowned and considered the question a moment. “Now that you mention it, they did taste a little different. But not like they had crabmeat. The sauce was different. It was a different sauce.”
“Perhaps your tamales weren’t tampered with—per se. Instead of someone replacing the meat, maybe someone switched your tamales.”
“Steve has moved on?” Police Chief MacDonald asked. He stood with Danielle in the Frederickport Police Department parking lot.
Casually leaning against her Ford Flex, Danielle nodded. “Yeah, after he told me all that about the crabmeat tamales they sell locally.”
“Did he have any idea who’d want him dead?”
“No. He insists his wife didn’t do it. And he didn’t believe Carla would, either. I asked him about Baron Huxley and he said while they had some issues over the years, it was noth
ing that would end up with one of them killing the other one.”
“We do know Carla was poking around in his things when he went to the restroom that night, and she did have a motive.”
“I’m not sure she had a motive exactly. I keep going back and forth about Carla. I like her, and I can’t imagine she’d do something like that, but she did have the opportunity, and she might have had a motive.”
“What I need to do is see if any of our suspects have recently purchased crab tamales.”
George Martinez stood behind the counter in his restaurant, Beach Taco.
“Sure, we sell crabmeat tamales. The tourists love them.”
“I was wondering if I could look at your credit card records to see who might have purchased any in the last month.”
Martinez laughed. “I guess you missed the sign in the window, Chief. Cash only. We don’t do credit cards.”
The chief took out an envelope and removed several photographs. He placed them on the counter. “Do you recognize any of these people?”
Martinez nodded. “Sure, they’re all customers. I don’t know all their names, but I’ve seen them all in here at one time or another.”
“Do you remember selling any of them crabmeat tamales?”
Martinez carefully studied the photographs for a moment, but then shook his head. “Sorry, Chief. I couldn’t tell you.”
“How about any of your other employees? Do you think they might remember who bought some recently?”
“It’s just me and my wife and one employee. Wife works in the kitchen, never waits on customers. The girl who works for us just started yesterday, so I don’t imagine she’ll be of much help.”
“What about the employee she replaced?”
“She moved out of town. I have no idea where.”
Picking up the photographs, MacDonald slipped them back in the envelope. He looked up at Martinez. “Any chance you have any cameras set up?”
“You mean like those surveillance cameras that capture hold ups, like we see on the news?”
“Yeah…”
Martinez laughed. “What would I need those for? You take good care of us, Chief. I don’t think any restaurant in town has ever been robbed.”
Thirty-Three
Brian Henderson drove into the Frederickport Police Department parking lot at the same time as the chief. They parked their cars next to each other. When MacDonald got out of his vehicle, he was carrying a sack from Beach Taco.
“Lunch?” Brian asked as he slammed his car door shut.
“I figured since I was at Beach Taco, I might as well pick up some tacos. I bought enough for everyone. Have you eaten yet?”
“No. I just left Beverly Klein’s. Why were you at Beach Taco?”
“Did you know they sell crabmeat tamales?”
“Any of our suspects purchase any recently?” Brian asked.
“Martinez didn’t know. The girl who usually works the front counter quit a few days ago and moved out of town. Since the girl who replaced her started after Steve was killed, she won’t be of any help.”
Now at the entrance to the building, Brian opened the door and let the chief go in first.
While going through the doorway, MacDonald asked, “How did it go with Beverly Klein? Did you learn anything new?”
Later that afternoon, after MacDonald returned to his office, he was surprised by two unexpected visitors from the FBI. They looked like FBI, MacDonald thought, as the two men walked into his office. He guessed they were in their forties. Each wearing a dark suit they were clean cut with closely cropped hair and firm handshakes. They identified themselves as Agents Thomas and Wilson. After each took a seat facing MacDonald’s desk, they explained they were there to discuss Steven Klein’s death.
MacDonald gave them a brief summary of the investigation to date and then asked, “Why exactly is the FBI interested in this case?”
“It involves one of your suspects, Baron Huxley,” Wilson told him.
“How so?”
“We’ve been investigating Huxley for over six months,” Thomas explained. “It involves one of his companies, a mortgage consultant company that supposedly helps at-risk homebuyers who’ve fallen behind on their mortgage.”
“Supposedly?” the chief asked.
“We believe he’s used the company to take advantage of his clients, many of whom have lost their homes after dealing with him,” Thomas explained.
“What does Klein’s death have to do with this?” MacDonald asked.
“Klein was Huxley’s business partner when the company was initially set up, but they had some sort of falling out and Klein left the company,” Wilson told him.
Agent Thomas then said, “Recently we came across some information we intended to use to convince Klein to work with us in exposing his former partner.”
Are we talking blackmail? MacDonald wondered, yet he kept the thought to himself. Instead, he asked, “What is Huxley facing if charges are brought and he’s convicted?”
“Considering his age and the number of charges, it could send him away for the rest of his life,” Wilson said.
“You think Huxley is the one who murdered Klein?”
Wilson shrugged. “He had the motive.”
“Did he know Klein was going to roll on him?” MacDonald asked.
“We hadn’t spoken to Klein yet.” Wilson glanced to his partner and shifted in his chair. “You see, Chief MacDonald, this is very sensitive, and it can’t leave this office.”
MacDonald nodded. “Understood.”
“We believe there was a leak in our office—someone Huxley has been paying off—and we’re fairly certain he tipped Huxley off about us going to Klein.”
“So Klein had no idea you were going to talk to him?” MacDonald asked.
Wilson shook his head. “Not unless Huxley told him, which we don’t think he did. If Klein knew everything we did about him, I imagine he would be calling us, considering his past history.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Were you intending to bring murder charges against Huxley?” Smith asked.
“I’m not there yet. In fact, we can’t find Huxley.”
Wilson bolted up straighter in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been trying to locate him since yesterday afternoon. No one’s at his beach house, and his car was parked overnight at the pier. Of course, it’s always possible he had car trouble and left it down there overnight. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.”
“You said he wasn’t at his beach house last night, have you checked this morning?” Thomas asked.
“He wasn’t there this morning, and we know he didn’t return last night. My officer left a note on his door, and it was still there this morning. Plus, he hasn’t been answering his cellphone.”
Thomas looked at his partner. “Did he skip town?”
“I spoke to Adam Nichols about Huxley,” the chief said. “He’s Huxley’s Realtor. According to Adam, Huxley was planning to stop by the office before he left town. The last time I spoke to Adam, he still hadn’t heard from him. So as far as Adam is concerned, Huxley is still in Frederickport.”
“Maybe his car broke down at the pier, and he called a friend,” Wilson suggested. “If it was a lady friend, it might explain why he didn’t return home, but stayed with her. Not so unusual he wouldn’t be answering his phone if that were the case.”
Thomas flipped through his notes and shook his head. “There’s nothing on any women he was seeing locally.”
Wilson looked at MacDonald. “Do you know if he was seeing anyone in Frederickport?”
MacDonald shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of. I know he wanted to take Danielle to San Francisco for dinner, so that would lead me to believe he wasn’t seeing anyone seriously in town.”
“Danielle?” Wilson asked.
“I spoke to Danielle today. I know she hasn’t seen him since he stopped over to her house on Friday night.”
Thomas took out his pen and looked up at the chief. “What’s this Danielle’s last name? Where does she live?”
“Danielle Boatman, she owns Marlow House. But really, if she had seen him, she would have told me.”
Thomas jotted down something in his notepad and then looked up at the chief. “Do you have her address and phone number?”
Edward MacDonald sat alone at his desk and stared at his phone. The temptation to call Danielle and give her the heads-up was overwhelming, but the FBI agents had been crystal clear—he was not to inform her they were on their way to her house. If he did tell her, it could backfire, should she slip and let them know she had been tipped off about their impending visit. With a sigh, MacDonald shoved his phone aside. He wished to maintain his good relationship with the FBI.
The heating and air-conditioning people had just left. Yet the installation of the new unit looked like it was going to take a few more weeks. They had mentioned something about a problem with the ductwork and back-ordered parts.
While she should be annoyed with what appeared to be a larger project than she had initially anticipated, Danielle figured that in the big scheme of things it was really a minor bump. Considering what other people were dealing with, she figured she should just be grateful she could easily afford the new unit. She told herself, until it was installed, she would simply put on a sweater if it got too cold or open a window if it got too warm.
Danielle headed for the front door, car keys in hand. She was going to move her Flex and park it back in its spot next to the house on the side drive. Danielle swung the front door open and came face-to-face with two serious-looking gentlemen, one of whom was preparing to ring her bell.
“Oh, hello,” she greeted them. Without thought she blurted out, “Are you Jehovah Witnesses?” Several days earlier, two men—much older and not as attractive—had shown up on her porch, wearing suits. They had been Jehovah Witnesses. She wondered briefly if the church was in the midst of some spring membership drive.
The man who had been about to ring the bell pulled out an identification badge and showed it to Danielle. The second man then showed his badge.
