Sunset in Old Savannah

by Mary Ellis

  “You’re telling me our client’s husband is dead?” Nate squawked.

  “Yes. Mr. Doyle was shot sometime Saturday night.”

  “One day after Mrs. Doyle gave a glowing report about you two, along with a bonus and an extra week of expenses?”

  “Correct. While Mrs. Doyle was sleeping and her husband was sitting on the deck, someone must have—”

  “Was it a robbery? Some kind of home invasion?” Nate’s impatience easily traveled three states and several hundred miles.

  “I doubt it. There were no signs of forced entry, but we haven’t seen the police report yet. The security system was turned off because the Doyles were home and awake.”

  “Do you suppose it was his girlfriend, Miss What’s-her-name? Didn’t Mr. Doyle break off his affair in hopes of reconciling with his wife?”

  “Yes, he did, but we haven’t had a chance to—”

  “Who are the police looking at, Preston? Don’t tell me it’s our client!”

  “In that case, I don’t know what to say.”

  Two or three moments passed while Nate processed the information. “Has Mrs. Doyle been arrested?”

  Finally, Nate allowed Michael to explain the sequence of events while he listened without interruption. “What do you think? And what’s Kirby’s gut telling her?”

  “For a change, Beth and I are in complete agreement. Mrs. Doyle behaved rather oddly because she’s in shock. Plus she has a total buffoon for an attorney. But we don’t think she’s a murderer. I plan to call the bar association for a criminal defense referral.”

  “That’s a relief.” Nate’s laugh held little amusement.

  “How do you want us to proceed?”

  Nate didn’t answer immediately. “Help Mrs. Doyle replace the lawyer. Then help her arrange the funeral if she has no one else, but don’t interfere with the murder investigation. Let the police do their work. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on vacation for the next week, along with a side assignment.” This time his chuckle sounded genuine.

  “What kind of assignment? Will I finally get to go undercover?” Michael reached for a tablet and pen.

  “Not this time. We need to hire another PI in Savannah. I want you and Beth to interview prospective candidates.”

  “Which one of us is getting canned?”

  “Neither. Thanks to Mrs. Baer—the lady I met in Mobile—we now have several new cases. The owner of a nail salon suspects her bookkeeper of embezzlement, a restaurateur wants to know who’s stealing food from his kitchen, and a woman wants us to track down her long-lost cousin. Work keeps pouring in for Savannah, so unless you want to permanently relocate, Price Investigations needs a satellite office on the East Coast. Would you mind narrowing the field of applicants? If you and Beth can agree on a candidate, I’ll hire him or her on a trial basis for a few weeks. Then I’ll fly to Georgia for final approval.”

  “No problem,” Michael answered without hesitation. “Beth and I would be happy to do it.”

  “Thanks. Maxine posted the job online a couple days ago, along with our minimum qualifications. I want an experienced investigator because Kirby won’t be staying long enough to train someone from scratch.”

  Like me, he thought.

  “Résumés will initially be reviewed on my end. Maxine will email the contact info of those who make it to the next step.”

  “This is happening fast, Nate. Shouldn’t we get Beth in on this discussion? She’s in her room.”

  “No time, Michael. Isabelle and I are on our way to an engagement party for my brother. Tomorrow I start a new case here in Natchez. Give Beth my best regards, and tell her to watch her email for those résumés.”

  Nate ended the call before Michael could ask any more questions, so he headed to Beth’s room, where his inability to get a word in edgewise continued.

  “We need to celebrate,” Beth greeted as she opened her door. “Mrs. Doyle’s sister, Charlotte Harper, said she’ll come to Tybee Island tomorrow and will stay until this ordeal is over.” Beth rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead. “Thank goodness. What do I know about arranging a funeral? I doubt if Mr. Doyle’s body has been released yet.”

  “And I left a message on the legal referral help line. It shouldn’t be long until someone returns my call.”

  “Good work,” she said, and then she rattled on about funerals she’d attended.

  While Beth reminisced, Michael scanned the room. Clothes, newspapers, magazines, and empty snack food bags were scattered everywhere. Beth’s suitcase had been emptied onto the queen-size bed, leaving her the small half to sleep on. “Did someone ransack your room while we were on Tybee?”

  “No, I just prefer an eclectic type of decor,” she said after a quick perusal. “Anyway, since both of Mrs. Doyle’s immediate needs are taken care of, we’re free to pursue more important concerns.”

  “What’s that? You need help finding your purse or maybe your Glock? I hope you plan to leave the maid a big tip.” Michael remained by the door, uncomfortable invading Beth’s privacy.

  “Nooo,” she drawled. “I know exactly where everything is. We need to find Lamar Doyle’s killer.”

  “That’s Detective Rossi’s job, along with the Tybee Island Police Department.”

  Beth made a sour face. “Rossi has already made up her mind.”

  “Mrs. Doyle will soon have competent representation. And her sister will be here for moral support.”

  Beth closed the distance between them. “Neither one of those people will take the bull’s-eye off her forehead. If Rossi has an easy target, she won’t look for the real murderer. That’s where you and I come in—her private investigators.” She poked his shoulder with her finger.

  Michael pushed away her hand. “Nate has other plans for us in addition to some R&R. Remember him? He’s the boss.” As succinctly as possible, he recounted his recent conversation.

  Beth’s nostrils flared with annoyance long before he finished. “Nate wants us to stay another couple of weeks, yet I don’t have a say in the matter?”

  “He was in a big hurry, but nothing’s set in stone. What’s wrong with the idea of interviewing potential employees?”

  “I’m fine with that, but I have no intention of abandoning Mrs. Doyle. After we’ve taken the rich lady’s money, now we’re going to throw her to the wolves? No way! If you have doubts about her innocence, fine, you can abandon her. Since I don’t, I’ll work her case in my free time. Price Investigations doesn’t own me twenty-four hours a day.” She turned her back on him, something she’d never done before.

  “Take it easy, partner. I’m with you.” Michael poked her in the back.

  “I feel sorry for her,” Beth said softly over her shoulder. “She’s all alone.”

  “Not anymore, she’s not. Who do you want to look at next?”

  Beth started pacing the room. “There’s only one logical choice—the duplicitous Bonnie Mulroney of Bull Street. Maybe she retaliated after Lamar dumped her and ruined her chances for a bright and work-free future. Nothing says motive like a woman spurned.” Beth dug her purse from the pile of debris and sprang toward the door. “And nothing spikes an appetite like a good lead. Let’s go to dinner.”

  ELEVEN

  After an invigorating four-mile run along the river, Beth decided to skip breakfast. Instead, she opted for a hot shower and then coffee and peanut butter crackers in her room. Even she’d grown tired of fried potatoes and cheesy grits after several days. Of course, no one had twisted her arm to choose hot food over low-fat yogurt and a hard-boiled egg. But when the scent of bacon and eggs wafted through the air, what was an American girl to do? At least she’d gotten enough exercise lately to counteract the calories. Today she hoped for a slower pace.

  Beth opened her laptop to look at email. Surprised at the number of messages that had accumulated since she had last checked them, she deleted those from her favorite outfitter catalog, candle and scent shop, and tea purveyor and systematica
lly whittled down her in-box to two dozen. Did anyone need to buy yoga pants or raspberry shower gel every day? She dashed off quick replies to her mother, Aunt Dorrie, and two girlfriends. Then she looked at the emails from the office assistant.

  Maxine insisted on keeping Beth in the loop with local gossip: Their last client, Mrs. Dean, had decided to sell the family home and move to California with her daughter. Isabelle Price, Nate’s wife, had several embarrassing bouts of morning sickness, one at a well-attended open house. Izzy planned to leave real estate for a few years after the baby was born, but if the nausea continued, her exit date would be sooner. Finally, Maxine got down to business and forwarded the five résumés of Savannah applicants that Nate liked best. Maxine put a little smiley face in the upper corner of her personal favorite.

  Beth refilled her mug, stretched out her legs, and studied each résumé carefully. Each candidate possessed a different set of skills and educational background, yet every one of them had experience in some type of investigation. On paper, all five looked good, but most people stretched the truth when looking for a new job and locked away their skeletons in the attic. After Beth stacked the papers in order of personal preference, she called her partner.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “I’ll tell you my news if you spill your guts first.”

  Michael snorted. “The productivity level of my morning will be hard to top, even for a type A personality like you. I got ahold of a real human being on the referral line. They gave me several criminal defense recommendations if our client doesn’t qualify for a public defender. I assured the woman our client does not. Since then I researched the firms where each lawyer worked, and using a ten-factor algorithm, I narrowed them down to the perfect attorney for Mrs. Doyle.”

  Beth rolled her eyes skyward. “What did the algorithm produce for Mrs. Doyle? I’m picturing an aluminum capsule straight from Back to the Future. Suddenly, a door lifts up, and out walks a half-human, half-robotic lawyer.”

  “You do realize that… Oh, never mind. I found Mrs. Hilda Gwinn. She worked as a public defender for twenty years, winning several landmark cases, and is now a partner at a well-respected firm. She’s fifty-seven, down-to-earth, and has tons of courtroom experience. I think the two ladies will get along fine.”

  “I hate to be the voice of doom, but will Hilda Gwinn take the case?”

  “She has already agreed. When I described Mrs. Doyle’s missteps thus far, she wasn’t even surprised. She said people do all kinds of strange things while they’re in shock. People only maintain their cool on TV shows. Mrs. Gwinn plans to meet her client this afternoon.”

  “Good work. Now we can cross ‘find new lawyer’ off our list. If you don’t need the car, I’m on my way to Tybee Island to talk to Detective Rossi.”

  “Give me five minutes, and I’ll go with you.” From the background noise, Michael had already started moving around the room.

  “No, I want you to review the résumés Nate emailed me because we must agree on the final candidate. While I’m gone, you can check references and make sure former employers have actually heard of them. I’ll drop off printed copies at your room on my way out.”

  Beth knocked on his door five minutes later—not enough time to tidy up—yet Michael’s room was neat as a pin. “Where’s all your stuff?” she asked, handing him the résumés. “This room looks the same as the day we arrived.”

  “Clothes are either in the drawers or the closet, toiletries in the bathroom. My computer and briefcase are on the desk.” Michael pawed through the papers. “Only five résumés?”

  “So far those are Nate’s favorites. I already narrowed it down to three. If you agree with my assessment, call the three candidates and set up interviews—the sooner the better.”

  “What’s wrong with these?” Michael scanned the two rejects.

  “Nothing, other than one lives in Swainsboro and one in Hinesville. Those are little towns just south of nowhere. Our Savannah office should have a Savannah resident for the same reasons we gave Mrs. Doyle.”

  “You must have forgotten where we live,” he muttered. “But I suppose we must start somewhere. Are you sure you don’t need me today? I’m curious what you plan to show Rossi that doesn’t violate our client’s confidentiality.”

  “The client-investigator privilege isn’t protected like a doctor’s or a lawyer’s, so I must show the police any evidence that could have bearing on Lamar’s murder, like the lovely photos of Bonnie.”

  “What if my work here doesn’t take long?”

  “Then feel free to relax. Maybe you could go for a carriage ride. You’ll see me when you see me.” Beth walked out the door before Michael could argue. As much as she enjoyed his company, she wanted to be alone when she talked to Rossi and when she checked on Mrs. Doyle.

  Beth arrived at the police station three blocks from the beach around two o’clock. Detective Rossi had been in another part of the building but quickly joined her in the conference room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said. “Thanks for coming in today.”

  “We’re happy to help find Mr. Doyle’s killer.” Beth settled on an upholstered chair.

  “Speaking of whom, where is that handsome partner of yours?” Rossi asked with a grin. “I was hoping he’d talk more about that gun Mrs. Doyle fired.”

  “Like I told you, we saw no gun.”

  “Did you know a Beretta Pico compact is registered to Lamar Doyle? Although the autopsy isn’t finished, I put in a rush order for the ballistics. Guess what I found out about the bullets that killed her husband?” Rossi leaned across the table toward Beth.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “They’re thirty-eights, just like the gun that’s registered to Lamar Doyle.”

  “That’s a common weapon, Detective. Probably lots of homeowners keep one handy.”

  “Not in Georgia, they don’t. We love big guns. But let’s not get off track when we have things to discuss.” Rossi leaned back in her chair and interlocked her fingers. Like most cops, she had short fingernails. No acrylic manicures for women in this profession. “I’m rather troubled about that gun being missing. According to Mrs. Doyle’s statement, Lamar’s gun was kept in the wall safe in their bedroom. However, whenever hubby went out of town, Evelyn moved the gun to her nightstand drawer. Pity the poor cleaning lady who forgets something and comes back for it.” Rossi clucked her tongue. “Since Mr. Doyle came home the day before, here’s what I don’t like: Evelyn doesn’t know where the gun was Saturday night. Maybe in the drawer, maybe Lamar had locked it up. And now it seems to be missing.”

  Beth shifted uncomfortably. “Truly, they needed a class on firearm safety.”

  “According to Alfred Singleton, no one had the combination to the safe except for Lamar and Evelyn. I’m not sure why the attorney knew that, but that’s what he told me.” Rossi offered a smile.

  “For the record, Singleton is no longer her lawyer. He was replaced today by someone with criminal experience.”

  “Probably a good idea since I believe Mrs. Doyle to be a criminal. As her friend, Beth, you might want to give her some advice. I will soon present evidence to the Chatham County DA. My guess is Evelyn will be offered a deal. Perhaps if she pleads guilty to a lesser offense, such as second-degree murder, she might avoid a lengthy sentence with no chance of parole. After all, it was a crime of passion.”

  Beth flinched as though someone pinched her. “Plead guilty to something she didn’t do? I don’t think so.”

  Rossi shrugged. “Just a suggestion. Who knows? In order to spare the state a costly trial, the DA might even consider a manslaughter charge. Maybe the couple fought that night; maybe Lamar threatened Evelyn’s life. But if Mrs. Doyle sticks to her story, she might be the first blue-blooded former debutante on death row. I don’t know about Mississippi, but Georgia still has the death penalty.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You asked for anything pertinent to your case. This is what I have.” Beth pulled a fo
lder from her leather tote and laid it on the desk.

  Rossi at least had the decency not to spread the photos across the surface. Lifting the stack, one by one she examined the proof of Lamar’s lapse in judgment or conscience or common sense. Perhaps all of the above. With each candid shot, Diane Rossi’s cool demeanor faded. She frowned at the last shot of Lamar and Bonnie embracing. “Yep,” she concluded. “If the new lawyer seats a majority of women on the jury, I’d say manslaughter is a fair verdict. But then again, I’m married and the DA is both single and male.”

  Beth made no comment.

  “Considering how much Xanax and how many sleeping pills she took that night, a good lawyer might even try a mental impairment defense.”

  “You ran a tox screen on my client?” Beth didn’t hide her incredulity.

  “Sure. Mrs. Doyle agreed to give us a blood sample, and her lawyer didn’t object. Actually, that woman is lucky she didn’t die in her sleep.” Rossi waited for some sort of reaction that didn’t come. “What else is in this folder?”

  “Proof that Lamar was paying Miss Mulroney’s bills and the name of Mrs. Doyle’s pastor, Reverend White. Lamar called him Friday night and requested marriage counseling. He hadn’t been a churchgoing man lately, but apparently he was ready to turn over a new leaf. They made an appointment for Tuesday evening. Does that sound like someone on the verge of leaving his wife?”

  “Not really, but since you’ve been forthright, I’ll also share something. Apparently, you think this woman pulled the trigger because Mr. Doyle broke up with her. I went to see Bonnie Mulroney of 472 Bull Street this morning. She has an alibi for Saturday night. She was at a sleepover at a friend’s house, a coworker from the coffee shop. I already talked to the girl. She swore Bonnie was there all night, even willing to testify in court.” The detective closed the folder. “I do my job, Miss Kirby. I’m not trying to hang this on Mrs. Doyle.”