She drew a sharp breath and her hand tightened on the edge of the blanket.
“My God,” she breathed. “How? When?”
“This morning. I went down to the beach to meet him. We were supposed to go jogging together. I found him there. He must have…have drowned.”
Stupidly, I began to sob, resting my head on my arms on the edge of the bed. Jenny lifted a hand and placed it on my hair comfortingly.
“Mad,” she murmured. “Must be mad!”
“What?” I sniffed. But her eyes were closed, the drug undoubtedly stronger than her will to fight it. I groped in my purse for a tissue and wiped my nose and face, then placed her limp hand across her chest and stood up to go. As if waging one final struggle to avoid sleep, she rolled her head slightly and her lips moved. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked up blearily, her hand groped the air, beckoning me.
“What is it, Jenny?” I asked, concerned.
“Grant,” she said. “Must find Grant.” Her voice was thick and her lids wouldn’t stay open. “Suzanna, he knows…”
There was no more. Her eyes shut and her lips, though still parted, were mute, her breathing deep and regular. I adjusted the blankets and left, puzzling over her words and chilled by their possible meaning.
There was no point in waiting for the police to come to me. I drove to the station and asked to speak to Sergeant Davison. He was naturally anxious to see me and led me into his private office, diplomatically not mentioning the telltale signs of tears puffing my eyes. This evidently wasn’t a part of the job he enjoyed.
He pulled out a chair for me and retreated to the safety of his own on the opposite side of the desk. He produced a form of some kind from a drawer and scribbled something at the top, then, with finger poised over the button on a cassette recorder, asked if I’d mind if he taped the interview. I shook my head in resignation.
Most of his questions were predictable. How long had I known Dr. Lancaster? Were we on friendly terms? When did I last seen him alive? How often did he visit Beacon? Was I aware of his habit of having an early morning swim? Wasn’t it unusual to continue these swims when it was so cold?
I answered absently, battling with myself over my own suspicions. After some minutes he paused, switched off the machine and leaned back in his chair.
He gazed at me curiously. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Fenton?”
I shook my head but relaxed a bit as he set aside formality. “If I’m not mistaken, you have your own theories about this accident,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear them.”
“Why?” I asked suspiciously. “The last time I gave you my opinions, you weren’t exactly encouraging.”
He made a wry grimace and fiddled with the papers in front of him. “Suzanna—may I call you Suzanna?—a lot has happened since we spoke last. I believe you have a right to know some of what’s going on, especially after the unfortunate episode at the river. By the way, how is Miss Hampton?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
He nodded. “It was unfortunate I couldn’t be more candid with you at the hospital. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed…uh…less than helpful but my hands have been tied.”
I eyed him in silence, wondering what devious trickery he was up to this time. Something in his world-weary brown eyes, however, told me that he was making an effort at sincerity.
“Before I tell you anything,” he said, “I must have your word you won’t share this with anyone.”
I nodded.
“Well, then…there’s an official federal investigation being conducted into your father’s death. I wasn’t at liberty to share this information with you before and if they find out I’m telling you now, they could very well have my badge. Your father was a powerful man. As you probably know, even the slightest hint his death might be anything but accidental could start a landslide of unwanted press coverage that’d slow things down considerably. However, I believe you have the right to know and I’m counting on you to understand the need for discretion.”
Slowly, my mind processed this information and I thought back to my conversation with Grant in the car by the lake. I looked up hopefully. “Is Grant…uh…Mr. Fenton, helping with this investigation?”
Davison frowned. “I really can’t give you all the details, only what you’ve probably already guessed. We’re dealing with a very intelligent person, or persons, who could very well have access to Beacon. And since we’ve been able to rule you out as suspect, it’s been suggested I speak to you and try to convince you to remove yourself from the area until the investigation is completed.”
I gazed at him dumbly. “You want me to go away?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
He cleared his throat. “I think it must be apparent there’s an element of risk involved if you choose to remain here.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know? And why just me? Sergeant Davison, do you have any idea who killed my father? Because, if you do…”
He held up a hand. “No, no—and please, call me Bill. I really don’t. I’m not even supposed to be working on the case, though I can tell you I’m not at all happy about it. The FBI contacts me through official channels and tells me very little, only what they want me to know. But since they bothered to suggest to me that you should leave the area for your own safety, I can only assume they have good reason.”
I sighed. “Well, it seems we’re both in the dark. I don’t suppose there’s any reason for me to ask for the name of someone I can contact at the FBI?”
He smiled. “Sure, I could give you a name or two but you know you’d only get the runaround.”
I nodded wryly, experienced with bureaucratic double-talk.
“I won’t go,” I said.
He didn’t seem surprised. His face was a picture of weary resignation. “I won’t waste my time trying to coax you. It’s obvious your mind is made up. At least, I can say I warned you and urge you to be extra careful. I’m sure what happened to Miss Hampton has made it clear to you we’re not dealing with a rational human being.”
“Those shots were meant for me, weren’t they?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve recovered two of the bullets but forensics hasn’t been able to come up with any leads. If you want my personal opinion, I’d have to say yes. You must keep in mind, however, there’s no proof anyone was actually firing at you. It’s still possible someone was out hunting and wasn’t even aware you and Miss Hampton were in the area.”
He smiled at my look of disbelief. “Yes, I know it sounds farfetched but accidental shootings take place more often than you realize. People go out with rifles and shotguns and don’t know how or where to use them properly. We have to look at all the angles.”
“What about Giles?” I asked. “That was no accident.”
His face closed in an instant and he studied me. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on,” I said, impatience making me short. “My father was murdered. Giles tells me he’s got something urgent to tell me—something that makes him believe I’m in danger. I go to meet him and find him dead! Do you really think I’m stupid enough to believe it was an accident?”
Bill leaned forward and put his hands flat on the desk. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Suzanna. Perhaps you can start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.”
I shrugged and waited for him to switch the tape recorder back on, then I launched into a summary of my experiences of the past few days. I felt more comfortable with him now. At least, he was no longer treating me like a mindless bimbo and this small spark of human kindness gave me the incentive to confide in him.
He shook my hand warmly when I stood to go.
“Tell me, how did you rule me out as a suspect?” I asked. “And why is it no one from the FBI has approached me? I’d think they’d be extremely anxious to pick my brain for information.”
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve wondered that myself. Al
l I can guess is for some reason, they don’t need to—that they’re on to something neither you nor I know anything about. Still, I’d appreciate it if you’d come to me if there’s anything else you can remember, or any other suspicions you might have.
“They may not want me on this case but I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit on my hands and do nothing.” He smiled. “And as for ruling you out… Well, we have our ways. I can’t give away all our tricks.”
“All of them?” I smiled. “I’d settle for one or two!” But I didn’t pursue it, satisfied there was something being done and someone who cared about what I thought.
After assuring him I’d keep in touch and call him at the least sign of danger, I left, more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this gruesome puzzle. Time was of the essence now, for whether or not I wanted to admit it, my life might depend on finding the answers.
By the time I left the police station, I was feeling considerably less dejected. Giles’ death made my heart heavy but at least I now knew I wasn’t overdramatizing things. My suspicions about Leo had proved correct and, though Bill reminded me emphatically that an autopsy was not yet complete, my deductions about Giles’ “accident” were shared by more than a few.
At least, this was something the local police could get involved in. They’d send experts to inspect the speedboat and keep me notified as to the coroner’s findings.
Grant’s part in the affair was becoming more and more confusing. It seemed he’d told the truth about the FBI’s involvement. This, however, didn’t necessarily rule him out as a suspect. The best place for a murderer to be in this situation was at the heart of the investigation, where he could always stay one step ahead by removing clues or silencing anyone who might appear to be a threat like poor Giles.
Mentally, I skimmed over my private list of suspects and realized it was not growing smaller. The only substantial clue I had was the poker and that was gone now. I was certain Grant would’ve handed it over to the authorities. He would have had no alternative. But he was smart enough to know his fingerprints on it would prove nothing, since he and I handled it the day he wrested it from my grasp. I was surprised, however, that the police hadn’t dusted for fingerprints in and around the fireplace where the poker was kept unless, like me, they knew the murderer must be someone who lived in or frequented the house.
I drove toward the marina and noted that it was open for business. With David away and Colin preoccupied with Alicia, Mike would undoubtedly be taking care of things. On impulse, I turned in the drive.
It was still drizzling and the place looked deserted. The door to the office was unlocked but no one appeared when I entered. I peered over the counter trying to see into the small room behind. The appointment book was open on the counter and I perused it, noting only one fishing reservation scheduled for ten a.m. The clock on the wall said one. Unless Mike had captained the cruiser himself, he should be somewhere around.
I followed the path around the side of the building and onto the boardwalk, where a number of vessels bobbed rhythmically in the dreary rain. At the far corner, tied well away from the boats, was the Dirkston seaplane. It was there I found him, squatting at the rear of one pontoon, engrossed in manipulating some attachment there. I hailed him from the pier and he looked up, his face shadowed within the hood of a bright yellow slicker. Without hesitation, he rose and made his way agilely over the rocking pontoon, ducking beneath the wing and stepping neatly up beside me. I pulled my own hood closer about my face.
“I was in town, so I thought I’d stop and see if I could help out here but it looks as though it’ll be a slow day.”
He regarded me curiously, then nodded. “It’s been pretty quiet lately. Gettin’ close to the end of the season.”
“You left the office open. Aren’t you worried someone might rob the till?”
He flashed a broad smile. “There’s nothin’ to steal in there. We did the banking yesterday.”
I glanced over his shoulder. “Is something wrong with the plane?”
“No. Just checking things out. It pays to go over it regularly.” He brushed some water from his face. “No point standing out here. Come inside and have a cup of coffee.”
I followed him back to the office and he disappeared into the back while I removed my dripping raincoat and hung it on a coatrack near the door. The waiting room was far from luxurious. I sat down on one of the four deck chairs arranged around the cheap, blond laminate coffee table. When Mike returned, he was carrying two steaming mugs, his own sodden rain gear discarded. He didn’t sit down but propped an elbow on the counter and regarded me over his cup, making me feel uncomfortable.
“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said.
“About Dr. Lancaster? Sure.”
“It was quite a shock to us all.”
He nodded. “Guess all that health and fitness stuff makes no difference, eh? When it’s your time to go, well…” He smiled, not needing to complete the thought.
I shifted, biting back a tart remark. I didn’t like his nonchalant attitude. His insensitivity was irritating. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I changed the subject. “Where are you staying these days, Mike? Still in town?”
He nodded.
“I suppose you’ve got enough work around here to keep you busy?”
“For now. But they’ll be shutting the place down for the winter soon.”
“You’ll still be flying for Dirkston though.”
His brows drew together and he took a noisy slurp of coffee before responding. “You’d know more about that than me. Mr. Fenton seems to want to do most of his business over the phone lines. He’s made it pretty clear I should start looking for work elsewhere.”
“What?” I asked, surprised. “Did Grant say that?”
He shrugged. “Not in so many words but he and I never hit it off too well and I’m not one to hang around where I’m not wanted.”
I mulled this over. It was true the seaplane was rarely used once the snows set in but there was the helicopter kept on its private pad at the Dirkston offices, or when needed, here at the small airport in Ludington. A pilot was essential no matter what time of year, not just for Grant but for the other executives as well. It didn’t make sense to me that Grant might suggest otherwise.
Mike was frowning into his cup sullenly and I almost felt sorry for him.
“I can’t understand why Grant would want you to leave. Perhaps you misunderstood? Maybe I could talk to him. Do you have any idea why he took this sudden attitude?”
His voice fairly dripped with bitterness. “You’ll excuse me for saying so but Mr. Fenton seems to be getting rid of anything or anyone that reminds him of your father. Now he’s got his fingers in the honeypot, he’s not interested in what happens to the people who were loyal to Mr. Dirkston.”
I frowned, wondering with renewed apprehension if there was any basis to Mike’s accusations. Setting my coffee cup down, I stood up and reached for my raincoat, my mouth set.
“Thanks for the coffee, Mike. I’ll talk to Grant. Maybe we can sort this out.”
He raised his brows in surprise and flashed me a charming smile. “That’s mighty kind of you.” I opened the door. “Tell David, if you see him,” he added, “I’m real sorry about his dad. Tell him I’ve got things under control here.”
I nodded and left, grateful the rain had let up sufficiently to allow me a dry run to the car. Was Mike exaggerating, or was it true Grant was making even more changes behind my back?
I stopped at Spindrift to check on David on my way home, surprised and more than a little annoyed to find Darla still fawning over him. She’d obviously made herself right at home, greeting me at the door and ushering me through as though she’d lived there all her life.
David was immensely improved since I last saw him. He was dressed and shaven, sitting on the sofa sipping a cup of frothy coffee that reeked of whisky. He greeted me over his shoulder and patted the seat next to him.
“Why don’t you fix one of these for Suzanna, Darla? She could probably use one too.”
Darla smiled stiffly but acquiesced. I waited until she disappeared into the kitchen, then turned to him.
“How are you?” I asked with concern.
He made a feeble attempt at a smile. “I’ll be okay. How about you?”
“I’ve been to the police.” I saw no reason to beat around the bush. David needed to know what was going on and I preferred to tell him without Darla present.
He raised his eyebrows. “So soon? I suppose they’ll be knocking on my door any minute. What did they want?”
I hesitated, torn between an instinct to protect him from further hurt and the conviction he should hear about Giles from my lips and no one else’s.
“David, the police have their suspicions that Giles’ death wasn’t an accident.”
Slowly, he raised his pale blue eyes over the rim of his cup. The shock in them made me regret my bluntness. I looked down at my hands folded tightly in my lap and proceeded to tell him what I knew. He set the cup down and I noticed that his hand shook slightly. After a few moments of thought, he rubbed the back of his neck wearily.
“Murder,” he breathed. “I can’t believe it. Who would want to… Do they have any idea?”
I laid my fingers gently on his arm. “I really don’t know. They aren’t saying much. But I think we can assume it all ties in with Leo’s death. Your father had something important he wanted to tell me. I think he knew something about Dad’s murder. He may well have known who did it. I think that’s why he was killed.”
David stared at me. Before he could reply, Darla returned and, oblivious to our somber expressions, began chattering about the unpredictable weather and the inconvenience of having to change clothes almost hourly to suit it. She nodded in the direction of the huge windows.
“See what I mean? The rain’s stopped and the sun’s out! Now things will heat up and I’ll be simply sweltering before the end of the afternoon. It’s September, for heaven’s sake!”
I grimaced and sipped the warm drink she’d placed before me. Darla sat opposite and her bright eyes darted between us with open curiosity.
ShadowsintheMist Page 18
