by Mary Ellis
“Fine by me,” she said when Michael set out at a brisk pace. The squares were shady city parks with moss-draped oaks, brick pathways, fountains, benches, and statues honoring Revolutionary War heroes. Each one unique, each one soothing to the soul. Residents brought their dogs or kids or came alone to eat their lunch, read, meditate, or simply watch the world hurry by.
Beth matched Michael’s stride, grateful she’d opted for flats instead of last night’s heels. She was also grateful that his pace precluded conversation. Both of them needed time to adjust to the change in their relationship. Once they reached the insurance office, Beth took a seat in the waiting area—chilly, as anticipated—while Michael approached the reception desk.
“Hi, Miss Frost. Remember me? Michael Preston.” His smile would dazzle the comatose.
“Of course I remember. You had an appointment with Mr. Doyle that he didn’t keep. But can I ask why you want to speak with Mr. Reynard?” The girl spoke so softly Beth had to crane her neck to hear. “Mr. Doyle unfortunately has passed away, but I can easily set you up with another agent. Mr. Reynard is our sales manager.”
Michael cocked his head as though contemplating what kind of yarn to spin. Much to Beth’s surprise, he opted for the truth.
“I’ll be honest with you. I did want an appointment with Mr. Doyle that day, but it wasn’t to purchase insurance. I’m a private investigator hired by his wife. Right now my job is to look into his untimely death. I have a few questions for his immediate supervisor that won’t take very long.”
Beth held her breath to see how the truth would be received.
The girl blinked several times and tapped her screen. “Know what, Mr. Preston?” Violet whispered conspiratorially. “I liked Lamar. He brought in candy and donuts and jugs of apple cider. And he called me ‘Miss Frost’ like you just did, instead of ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie.’ I am sorry that he’s dead.”
“Sounds like some people might not have been,” said Beth. She’d crept close enough to listen but couldn’t stay out of the conversation.
“Who’s she?” Violet asked suspiciously.
“This is Miss Kirby. She’s in training at our firm.” Michael dragged her by her elbow to his side.
“Oh, I see.” Violet dismissed Beth after a quick perusal and refocused on her monitor. “If I make Mr. Reynard’s one thirty wait a few minutes, I can squeeze you in then. For now, please be seated.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Frost.” Michael all but bowed from the waist.
Beth followed him back to the upholstered chairs. “Your charm seems to have won another heart,” she said from behind a magazine.
“I can’t seem to help myself.” Michael picked up a copy of Southern Living. “Do you think it’s the new aftershave?”
“I have no idea, but I’d like to read that when you’re done.” Beth dropped her copy of People back on the stack.
Miss Frost, however, gave them less than fifteen minutes of reading time. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Preston, Miss Kirby, Mr. Reynard will see you now.”
Michael offered a second dazzling smile, while Beth nodded her appreciation.
The office manager was far less cordial. “Mr. Preston, Miss Kirby, what’s this all about? I was told it’s of utmost importance. I hope that’s true, because I have a full slate this afternoon.”
Beth’s initial appraisal of him offered her little optimism. Reynard’s face was taut and his posture stiff as he blocked their path to the cushy chairs. “We appreciate you making time for us, sir,” she said.
“And we promise to be brief,” added Michael. “We’re looking into the death of Lamar Doyle, and that’s why time is of the essence.”
“I don’t understand. I thought the police were investigating.”
“They are, but Evelyn Doyle hired us to make sure no stone goes unturned.”
“We just have a few questions.” Beth threw in her two cents’ worth of persuasion.
“Of course I’ll help if I can. Please have a seat.” Reynard walked back to his desk. “My wife served on a church committee with Mrs. Doyle. She’s a fine lady. How is she doing?”
“As well as can be expected, considering someone killed her husband.” Beth’s assessment was devoid of emotion.
Reynard froze. “Has Lamar’s death been ruled a homicide? I thought he’d taken his own life.”
Michael and Beth exchanged glances, but Beth was first to react. “Why would you assume such a thing?”
“Lamar rushed home during a mandatory meeting because there was some kind of family crisis. And we heard it happened while he was alone after his wife had gone to bed. Perhaps I jumped to an erroneous conclusion.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Michael. “No official ruling has been made yet on the cause of death. Our questions today have more to do with Mr. Doyle’s situation at work, in order to provide clarification for Mrs. Doyle.”
“Such as?” A muscle in Reynard’s neck jumped.
Michael opened his folder of notes. “Primarily, I was shocked by Mr. Doyle’s income last year. And from what I understand, he hasn’t been doing much better lately either.”
“If you’re privy to Lamar’s finances, then you know he didn’t need to work to maintain his lavish lifestyle. Of course, I would have appreciated a bit more effort.” Reynard’s lips pulled into a thin line.
“That’s exactly what I’m getting at. I hope this isn’t too intrusive, but I’m curious why you kept Mr. Doyle around.” Michael crossed one leg over the other.
“Wouldn’t his sales figures bring down the average for your entire team?” asked Beth. “Doyle made your franchise look bad.”
Her question produced a smile. “Selling insurance isn’t like major league baseball, Miss Kirby. His personal batting average didn’t affect the rest of us. But Lamar had taken up space here long enough. I told him if his sales figures and new client acquisitions didn’t improve, this would be his last quarter at Town and Country. That’s one reason I might have jumped to a wrong conclusion.”
“How did he take the news?” she asked.
Reynard sighed wearily. “Same as always. Like rain off a duck’s back. Lamar promised to work harder and went about his day as usual.”
Michael leaned forward in his chair. “Was that how he took the news he was needed at home? Like rain off a duck’s back?”
Reynard considered his answer carefully. “No, Lamar was definitely worried something was wrong with Evelyn. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left, in light of my recent ultimatum.”
Beth tapped her toe. “You would fire someone who needed to tend a sick wife?”
“No, Miss Kirby,” said Reynard, his patience slipping. “Although quarterly meetings are crucial, I gave Lamar a full quarter to improve his numbers.”
“Okay, but it still sounds as if you didn’t like him.”
“How dare you judge me? The truth is that I put up with Lamar’s total disregard for company protocols far too long because we had mutual friends at the country club.” Reynard tossed his pen across the desk. “People in sales must be assertive. Yet he would only close the deal if the client practically begged for a policy. If someone was the least bit hesitant, he wouldn’t even bother with a follow-up call. How could such an agent mentor the new people we just hired? I need agents who can close the sale, not drink coffee in somebody’s kitchen. Those days are gone.”
“More’s the pity. That’s why I don’t own life insurance,” she said, offering him a megawatt smile.
“And with that I’m afraid your allotment of borrowed minutes is up.”
Michael scrambled to his feet and tucked his folder into his bag. “We’re grateful for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.” He helped Beth to her feet as though she were eighty years old, but halfway to the door he stopped. “One more question, sir. Did Town and Country have a life insurance policy on Mr. Doyle, and if so, who was the beneficiary?”
“Now see here, young man—”
&n
bsp; “It’s a simple question, and the answer will soon be public record. We would like to facilitate matters for Mrs. Doyle.”
A muscle jumped in Reynard’s neck. “He had the standard term life policy for one million, same as every employee, with the payout split between Evelyn and the company.”
“Five hundred K would go far to make up for Lamar’s shortfall in commissions,” Beth murmured softly.
Reynard’s chin snapped up. “What’s the matter with you? I told you Lamar and I used to be friends.”
“Money can wreak havoc even on besties. I was wondering if you have an alibi for the night Mr. Doyle died.”
A flush crept up Reynard’s neck into his face. “If I need an alibi, I’ll provide it for the Savannah or Tybee Island police, not for two obnoxious gumshoes from out of town.” He added a contemptuous inflection on the last three words. “Now get out of my office before I call security. And if you ever come back, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” He stabbed the air with a finger aimed at Beth’s chest.
“No problem. This place is colder than a tomb.” Beth skipped out the door with Michael breathing hard down her neck.
Once they reached the street, he blew out his breath in a sound close to a growl. “Why on earth did you bait Reynard until he blew his stack and kicked us out? You’re the senior investigator, and that’s not how you trained me.” Michael lifted his hands as though in supplication.
“Because I realized the good PI–bad PI gig was working for us. You usually get them talking, and then I incite them to let something slip. If we confuse the person in the hot seat, they can’t anticipate or second-guess us.”
“So that was all part of your plan?” He screwed his face into a scowl.
“Absolutely. Was there any doubt?”
“Right from ‘hello.’ You might let me know what you’re up to next time.” Obviously irritated with her, Michael started back toward the hotel.
Beth had to run to keep up. “What’s your hurry? Are you mad at me?”
“Not mad. Just eager to get to my computer. While you were launching your next salvo, I watched for Reynard’s reactions. The beneficiary question made him nervous. I want to see if it’s his name and not the agency listed as co-beneficiary.”
“Good idea. I’ll call candidate number three and get that particular show on the road… Should I meet you at the pool later?” Beth gulped air in between sentences.
“Sure, but don’t bother waiting for me. If anyone needs some extra head-soaking time, it’s you, Kirby.”
SIXTEEN
Any hotel guests present on the rooftop yesterday never would have guessed they were dating. Michael swam his laps while Beth read a paperback book stretched out on a chaise. Then she did her laps while he watched CNN Sports on the outdoor TV. For supper they picked at the assortment of free appetizers, augmented with a take-out pizza. They chatted about college football, an excursion to Fort Pulaski, and the case, as well as Beth’s success in lining up the third candidate for tomorrow morning. They had heard nothing from Nate’s headhunter. At eight o’clock, Beth grabbed a fistful of celery sticks and went to her room, leaving Michael the rest of the pizza. There had been no warm embrace, no poignant farewell, and no peck on the cheek. Michael abandoned the pizza to the seagulls and headed to his room for a night of bad TV, his hopes for tender, romantic conversation squashed.
The next morning, the professional appearance of their next applicant was a pleasant surprise. “Miss Webb?” Michael asked when a young woman dressed in a white blouse and navy suit approached their usual spot in the breakfast area.
“Yes, I’m Kaitlyn Webb. You must be Michael Preston and Elizabeth Kirby. What a pleasure to meet you both! Thanks so much for giving me an interview.” She spoke with proper diction and grammar and shook hands with a firm grip, which earned her high marks. Then she waited to be invited to sit. More high marks.
“Please have a seat,” Michael said, but he deferred to his partner for the first question.
“As our classified ad suggested, Price Investigations is looking for someone with surveillance experience,” said Beth. “What previous work experience qualifies you in this regard?”
And please don’t say you put up spy-cams to keep tabs on neighborhood pets, Michael thought, drumming his fingers on the table.
But Miss Webb was apparently prepared to back up her résumé. “My current position is with the Georgia Industrial Commission, a branch of Workers’ Compensation. Although I started with the Florida Bureau, I transferred here on assignment and have since relocated. I use old-fashioned surveillance, besides monitoring social media, to verify that those applying for permanent disability are truly unable to work.”
Michael threw out his first question. “What if they were injured and can’t work at their present job, such as lineman for the phone or electric company?”
“For that sort of injury, we allow a certain period of disability and compensate for any permanent impairment suffered on the job. This is known as partial disability. Then if a worker can no longer string high tension lines, for instance, the utility company will find them a desk position. Permanent total disability means that person can’t function in any job, not even answering telephones in an office. The legal definition is quite rigid and specific.”
“So that man or woman shouldn’t be painting the house or scuba diving with buddies while on vacation,” suggested Michael.
“Exactly. My job is to verify claims for permanent total disability. We don’t want to deny benefits to anyone entitled, but unfortunately people try to scam the system, which hurts employers and employees alike.” Kaitlyn tried to make equal eye contact with both interviewers.
“Yes, some people do try to get something for nothing,” said Beth. “But I hope you understand PI work is often tedious and usually a far cry from the secret-agent lifestyle portrayed in the movies.”
“Or the action-packed manhunts of Dog the Bounty Hunter.” Michael couldn’t rid himself of the memory of Anita Hancock and her quest to beat bad guys to a pulp.
Kaitlyn’s expression brightened. “I certainly hope so. I took the job with the Industrial Commission because I wanted to work behind the scenes, investigating in a nonconfrontational way. I’ve never had aspirations of becoming a police officer or a federal marshal.”
Michael glanced back at her résumé. “Our boss, Nate Price, expects his investigators to be weapons trained and licensed for concealed carry. Would you have a problem with that?”
“Not at all. I’ll complete whatever training the agency requires. I’ve taken gun safety classes and have fired a handgun before. My parents keep a gun at home under lock and key.”
Michael asked the question foremost on his mind. “Have you lived in Savannah long enough to establish any relationships with local police?”
“No. I’m afraid our paths have yet to cross, either professionally or personally.” Kaitlyn punctuated her sentence with a smile.
“The personal part is a good thing,” added Beth. “Settling a long string of parking tickets can derail a gal’s budget.”
“That brings back memories of my days at Florida State. I was so afraid the dean would withhold my diploma until I paid the city of Tallahassee that I borrowed the money from my grandmother interest-free. But I paid her back in full.”
“We appreciate people who handle their finances responsibly,” said Beth.
“So you’re a former Seminole fan?” asked Michael, chopping the air with an imaginary hatchet.
Kaitlyn’s eyes grew round. “You won’t hold that against me, will you?”
Michael laughed. “Of course not. I’ve outgrown my rabid Bulldog days. But I am curious how long you’ve lived”—Michael quickly scanned her résumé—“on Fifth Street.”
“Not very long. Less than a year.” Kaitlyn’s lower lip began to quiver.
The ambiguity of her answer struck an odd chord. “Could you be more specific? And is this a house or an apartment?”
“Four weeks, and I would describe it as a long-term rental.” For some unknown reason, Kaitlyn flashed a pleading look at Beth.
“I’m sure we don’t need to belabor semantics,” Beth murmured.
“All right. We’ll call it an apartment.” Michael made a notation on the sheet.
“Actually, it’s a motel you rent by the week, but I want more than anything to stay in Savannah. I love it here.”
Michael shifted in his chair. “The ad posted by Price Investigations was quite specific—we’re looking for a local resident who’s familiar with the area. I don’t feel that staying in a motel for four weeks qualifies.”
“I didn’t lie on my résumé, Mr. Preston. I consider my move to Savannah to be permanent even if my address is only temporary. This is my new home. As far as finding my way around, thanks to GPS in my car and Google Maps on my phone, I don’t see that as a problem.”
“Just for the record, where exactly did you live previously?”
Kaitlyn’s grip on her purse tightened as she delivered a one-word answer. “Florida.”
Florida—a state that stretched from Key West to the Florida-Georgia line with millions of people, yet Kaitlyn offered no further details. Michael exhaled, dismayed by her secrecy.
Beth, however, left little doubt as to whose side she was on. “I love the fact you’ve worked surveillance here for the past month.”
Michael wasn’t so convinced. “Have you ever dealt with law enforcement in a professional capacity?”
The question should have been fairly straightforward, but Miss Webb contemplated for half a minute. “No, not really,” she finally said. “But according to my most recent evaluation, I have great people skills.”
“May we contact the supervisor who made that assessment?”
“Of course. She’s listed as one of my references, Vicky Stephens.”
“That’s her phone number there.” Beth tapped the spot on Miss Webb’s résumé.
