Sunset in Old Savannah

by Mary Ellis

  Beth shrugged. “A chance we’ll have to take. Now, who do you think tried to kill our client?”

  “That’s easy.” Michael plopped down beside her. “The husband, of course. If Mrs. Doyle was out of the picture, he wouldn’t lose half his net worth in a divorce settlement. Dollars to donuts, Doyle probably has an insurance policy on her as well.”

  Inhaling deeply, Beth filled her lungs with the salty sea air. “My money’s on the strumpet. If Bonnie takes out the wife, Mr. Doyle would be free to marry her.”

  “Are we both talking about the same one-hundred-pound girl who makes lattes in a beret? No way would Bonnie drive out here to shoot somebody.”

  “So only large people wearing ball caps are killers?” Beth couldn’t suppress a grin.

  “You know what I mean. Consider the statistics in most homicides. They weigh heavily in favor of those you know over strangers.”

  Beth glanced sideways at him. “Here I thought you were the hopeless romantic. Anyway, the strumpet would qualify as a ‘known’ perpetrator.”

  “I might be a romantic, but this marriage has run aground. Big money makes people do terrible things.”

  “Okay, you check out Mr. Doyle’s alibi. If he is in Augusta on business, someone there will vouch for him. I’ll take a hard look at Miss Mulroney. Maybe one of her neighbors will talk to me if she plays her music too loud or doesn’t clean out the lint filter in the dryer. I need to know how low her moral bar is set.”

  They silently watched until the sun broke free of the horizon. Then Beth jumped to her feet. “Show me where someone was hiding.”

  For a few minutes, she methodically photographed the crushed section of plant along with the shell casing from several angles, careful not to leave behind any hair or fibers. Squatting down, Beth pulled on latex gloves and lifted the shell high enough to determine the caliber. “Chalk up one for my suspect—the bullet came from a thirty-eight. That’s a chick gun if I ever knew one.” She carefully replaced the casing and got to her feet. “Let’s get back to Savannah. We have our work cut out for us.”

  SEVEN

  Michael thought long and hard about everything he learned on Tybee, and everything his partner had said. On the one hand, Beth was right about him being a hopeless romantic. Once he fell in love with the right person, he planned to stay married for the rest of his life. “Till death do you part,” and all that stuff. On the other hand, if a man dropped so low that he took up with a woman young enough to be his daughter, who knew what evil he was capable of?

  What he couldn’t understand was Mrs. Doyle’s optimism for the future. She believed that given time and counseling, their marriage could be saved. Nothing but a speed bump in the road of marriage. Could she be that optimistic married to a man capable of murder? How well do people in love really know each other? Remembering his former fiancée, Rachel, and her amazing abilities at subterfuge curdled the protein shake he just drank.

  Instead of trying to figure out human nature, Michael took a long, hot shower and put on a suit. An hour later he walked into the offices of Town and Country Insurance. “Good morning, I’m Michael Preston. I have an appointment with Mr. Doyle.”

  The receptionist, whose nameplate identified her as Violet Frost, blinked her large brown eyes. “An appointment with Mr. Doyle? There must be some mistake.”

  “No mistake. I have an eleven o’clock with Lamar Doyle.” He smiled politely and glanced at his gold watch, a gift from his grandmother. “We set this up last week to write new policies on my home, car, and boat.”

  The girl’s expression turned anxious as she tapped her computer screen. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Preston, but we’ll have to reschedule.”

  Michael shot his cuffs with mild impatience. “Why would you have to do that? If Mr. Doyle is with someone else or running late, I’d be happy to wait.” He gestured toward a comfortable-looking couch. “I can catch up on my email.”

  “That’s very nice of you, sir, but Mr. Doyle isn’t here. All of the agents in his department are in Augusta for a three-day seminar. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  Michael straightened and opened his day planner on his phone. “This is quite bizarre. I remember he mentioned something about a conference, but he had changed his mind about attending.”

  Violet giggled like a child. “Oh no. Mr. Doyle would never skip these meetings. They’re mandatory for every underagent on the team.”

  “What’s an underagent?” Michael rubbed his chin.

  Violet glanced around before whispering conspiratorially. “Agents whose sales figures and new client acquisitions don’t allow them in the President’s Gold Club. I’m sure Mr. Doyle will make it next year.”

  “Just the same, could you call the conference and verify? I hate to drive all the way back to Garden City when he could be on his way here now.” He gave her a look that didn’t encourage negotiation.

  Violet glanced to the left where a burly man—presumably her boss—was bent over a computer in his office. “Of course, sir. I would be happy to.”

  Michael leaned across her desk. “Find out if Mr. Doyle has been there the whole time. I want all the facts before I pursue this further.”

  Violet talked in low tones to a female on the other end. After a three- or four-question repartee, she hung up and offered a bright smile. “That was Mr. Reynard’s assistant, Sarah.”

  “Who’s Mr. Reynard?” asked Michael.

  “He is Mr. Doyle’s sales manager. Rachel confirmed that Mr. Doyle is there now and arrived yesterday. The seminar will conclude tomorrow around noon, and then the agents can come home.”

  “Thank you, Miss Frost.”

  “Shall we reschedule your appointment now?”

  Michael tucked his phone into his pocket. “No, I don’t think so. Why would I want to do business with a company that treats customers so poorly?”

  “I’m sure it was just an oversight. Mr. Doyle is very nice and would never behave rudely. All of the other agents and assistants love him.”

  Spotting an opportunity, Michael pretended to mull the matter over. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll say no more about this for now. In fact, don’t even tell Mr. Doyle that I stopped in. I’ll wait for him to follow up with me. It was probably an innocent mistake.”

  “That’s a great idea. Thanks, Mr. Preston. Again, I apologize for your inconvenience.” Her phone rang, giving him a chance to exit gracefully.

  Across the street in one of Savannah’s famous squares, Michael sat on a stone wall and tried to figure out Lamar Doyle. His wife appeared to be in love with him. The office assistant liked him enough to shield his blunders from the boss. Apparently, he wasn’t the one lurking in his flower bed, cracking off a few rounds when Evelyn took her midnight stroll. Yet plenty didn’t add up. How could Lamar afford a beach house when he sure wasn’t on the fast track at Town and Country Insurance? If the money was Evelyn’s, would she be so doggedly loyal?

  With a sigh, Michael pushed off the wall and headed back to the hotel. He might be making strides with his PI training, but his comprehension of people—women in particular—couldn’t fill a thimble.

  Beth regretted not heading straight to the coffee shop when Michael left for Town and Country Insurance. But after a 4:00 a.m. wake-up call, laps in the pool followed by a hot shower sounded like heaven. Unfortunately, when she strolled through the door of Cool Beans, Miss Mulroney was nowhere in sight. Fortunately, her new career mentor was wiping tables with a linen cloth and a bottle of cleaner.

  “Hi, Crystal. Remember me?” Beth offered a friendly smile.

  Crystal cracked her gum. “Sure. You finish that application yet? If you don’t get a move on, they’ll hire somebody else.”

  “I’m having trouble coming up with three references. All I can think of is my mom.”

  “You think anybody ever checks those? Just pick two names out of the phone book.”

  “Good idea. I’ll finish that application tomorrow or maybe on Saturday. Hey, is
Bonnie workin’ today?” Beth lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone.

  “She was here for the morning rush but left about an hour ago. How do you know her?”

  “I’m tryin’ to get to know all of you, in case I get a job here. Bonnie was real nice to me when I stopped in one day.” Beth shuffled her feet.

  Crystal tucked her rag into her belt. “She’ll be in tomorrow at noon, but in the meantime, let me give you some advice. Don’t worry about making friends. Go home and finish that application. Then call Mrs. Fletcher and ask for an interview. Once you get hired, you’ll find we all stick up for each other.” She offered a maternal pat on the arm.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Beth. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. At least her partner had walked to Doyle’s office, leaving the car for her to use. If she had to walk to Bonnie’s, it would have served her right.

  Once at the Bull Street apartment, Beth determined in less than five minutes that Bonnie wasn’t there either. No one answered the buzzer at the unit Lamar Doyle had leased. And when she gained access to the building, no one responded to her incessant knocks on the door. Zero for two, she thought.

  Just as Beth concluded this would be a fruitless trip across town, she spotted someone in the back garden. “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”

  A woman clipping spent blooms from the roses peered up. “I’m capable of doing two things at once. Are you with the renters’ association, the historical society, or the police?” Her drawl was slow and richly textured, almost melodic. Not at all how people sounded in Natchez.

  “None of the above. I’m a private investigator, hired to check into one of the residents who lives here.” Beth flashed her ID.

  The woman dropped her clippers into the basket, her interest piqued. “Which resident would that be?”

  “Miss Bonnie Mulroney in apartment 306.”

  Her expression left little question as to her opinion of Bonnie. “I’m not surprised someone is looking into that one’s background.”

  “Could you be more specific?” Beth pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head.

  “Look around. This is a nice neighborhood. People go to work, maybe out to dinner, and occasionally have a few friends over. Let’s just say that girl only has late-night gentlemen callers.”

  Gentlemen callers? What century is this? “Are you saying Miss Mulroney might be a professional escort?” asked Beth.

  “That’s your job to determine.” The woman picked up the clippers and savagely attacked a low-hanging bougainvillea branch. “But if that’s what you conclude, you’ll need to inform the association. That sort of behavior doesn’t fly here.”

  “Would you say Miss Mulroney has a variety of…callers?” Beth pulled out her little notebook.

  The rose clipper paused to reflect. “Two, I suppose. One is an older gentleman—well dressed, late fifties or early sixties. He drives a new BMW, or maybe it’s a Lexus. I don’t know cars very well.”

  Beth tamped down her irritation. People who didn’t mind their own business were her pet peeve, but without busybodies, her job would be a lot harder. She pulled a snapshot from her tote bag. “Is this him?”

  The woman took only a cursory glance. “Looks like him, but I don’t make a habit of memorizing her visitors.”

  “What about the other frequent guest? Could you describe him?”

  She huffed. “I wouldn’t let that one through my front door. He’s twenty-five, maybe thirty, long hair, scruffy beard.” She rubbed the end of her chin.

  “Do you mean a goatee?” Beth asked.

  “I suppose so. And his clothes are always dirty.”

  Beth jotted prodigious notes. “What color hair does this thirty-year-old have?”

  “I haven’t a clue. He wears a ball cap. A dirty ball cap.”

  “Does he visit as often as the older gentleman? Maybe late at night?”

  “Oh no. He’s only been here two or three times, usually in the afternoon.”

  “Getting back to Miss Mulroney. Was she home last night?”

  “No, I didn’t hear a peep from her unit, and her car was gone all night. She drives a Honda in a horrible shade of yellow,” she added helpfully.

  Beth stopped writing and stared. Either this woman is a stalker or someone Nate needs to hire. “How would you be sure, Mrs.…”

  “Mrs. James. I live in 305, across the hall from Miss Mulroney, although I didn’t know her name until today. My assigned parking spot is next to hers, and I can see both cars from my window. We’ve had trouble with teenagers stealing things from unlocked cars.”

  “Can you remember anything else?”

  The neighbor pulled off her gloves to rub her neck. “Once when that creepy man came to visit, he parked his truck in front of the building. And when he left, mud dropped from the undercarriage all over the street. Ugh. Why would that girl spend time with him when the other man drives a Lexus?”

  “There’s no accounting for taste. Thank you, Mrs. James.” Beth threw her notebook in her bag and started toward the gate.

  “You won’t repeat anything I said, will you? I wouldn’t want to run into Scraggly Beard late at night.”

  Beth turned to face her. “I won’t as long as our visit remains a secret as well.”

  Mrs. James gave a thumbs-up and whacked at dead flowers with new vigor. Beth returned to her car to resume her vigil, unsatisfied with what she’d learned. Was Mr. Scraggly Beard another paramour? If not, who was he, and where was Bonnie last night?

  Four hours later, after Beth finished her novel and the newspaper, she fell asleep behind the wheel. A tap on the glass jarred her back to reality. She lowered the window to her partner’s smiling face.

  “What kind of surveillance is this?” asked Michael. He carried a large sack around to the passenger side and climbed in. “You were out like a light.”

  “I must have dozed off for five minutes. What’s in the bag?”

  “Dinner. Now stop destroying the ozone layer.” He switched off the AC and rolled down the windows.

  “How did you get here when I have your car?” Beth asked as she regained her full faculties.

  “I took a bus. Where’s Bonnie?” Michael pulled two chef salads from the bag.

  Beth checked the assigned parking spot. No bright yellow Honda. “Still hasn’t come home after her shift this morning, but I did have an interesting chat with her neighbor across the hall. Bonnie has two male visitors—Mr. Doyle and some creepy thirty-year-old with dirty hair. According to the busybody, Bonnie was gone all last night, which makes her a possible for the shooting on Tybee. How did you do?”

  “Lamar is an impossible. He was in Augusta on business and will stay until tomorrow afternoon.” He doused his salad with fat-free dressing. “When I got back from his office, I checked the databases for crime on Tybee. Mrs. Doyle was right—there’s very little. No recent rash of break-ins, no serial killer stalking the dunes, shooting at late-night joggers. Local police write a lot of speeding and parking tickets and make a few underage-drinking arrests. That’s about it. Aren’t you going to eat?” He pointed at her untouched salad.

  “I will back at the hotel. We might as well hang it up. I’m bushed and need to get out of this car.” With a sigh, she started the ignition.

  Michael turned it off. “Walk one block east and catch the bus to the riverfront. Go, Beth. I can watch for our chief suspect.”

  Beth offered an apologetic expression. “Don’t take this wrong, but I want to be the one to question Mulroney. Since we’re both females, I might make more headway with her.”

  He shrugged. “No offense taken. I’ll sit for a few more hours to see if she returns and if she’s alone. It’s been a long day. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Beth started to exit the vehicle with her salad and then turned back to him. “Thanks for relieving me and bringing supper. You’re the best partner I ever had.”

  “Even better than Jack Lejeune?” Mic
hael asked, fighting back a smirk as she got out and closed the door.

  The memory of her old partner at the Natchez PD tightened Beth’s already sore muscles. “After working with him, I’m lucky I’m not doing twenty to life. I mean it, Michael. Thanks for showing up tonight.”

  “In that case, I have a little gift for you. Your own set of car keys.” He passed them through the open window to her.

  “Thanks. I’ll protect these with my life.” It was funny how one honest statement could revitalize a person. Beth had walked halfway to the hotel before she remembered to wait at a bus stop. A breeze had picked up, cooling her skin and clearing her mind. Working with a man who transitioned from a hopeless trainee to her best friend rather quickly had certainly put a new spin on life.

  The next morning Beth slept in and then swam laps in the pool. No sense in rushing back to the apartment. With Doyle out of town, Bonnie might have gone home or to see a girlfriend. According to Crystal, Bonnie’s shift started at noon. That would be soon enough to keep an eye on Cool Beans. She left Michael alone until almost time to leave because she didn’t know how late he’d staked out Bonnie’s.

  “Good morning,” she said when he picked up the phone. “Did Miss Mulroney get home safely?”

  “If she did, it wasn’t to Bull Street. She must have another place to crash other than the luxury accommodations paid for by Lamar Doyle. I stayed past two o’clock.”

  “My opinion of the gold digger just dropped a notch, if that’s even possible.” Beth grabbed an apple from the bowl in the lobby, not in the mood for anything heavy. “I’m on my way to the coffee shop, hoping she doesn’t skip her shift. Is it okay if I take the car?”

  “Sure. But first I need to talk and you need to listen. Give me another five minutes on the phone.”

  “I have all the time in the world. What did you find out?”

  “A Beretta Pico compact is registered to Lamar Doyle of Oleander Drive, Tybee Island. A thirty-eight-caliber Beretta. Same caliber of bullet we found under the bush.”