McGowan shook his head. “Larry barely had the money to cover legal fees. He sold his boat, and after that money ran out, I took the case pro bono. There wasn’t money to hire an investigator. The good news for Larry is the case has generated some media interest. Once I get the national media down here, that’ll keep the prosecution from pulling any funny business.”
“What was the other evidence against Wofford?”
McGowan slapped the arms of his leather chair with a resounding smack. “Very little. He had a history of drinking and brawling. Witnesses had heard him argue with Trotter in the past.” He held up his hands, palms toward the ceiling. “The prosecution had no real evidence, but public sentiment was high. Trotter was a character almost everyone knew. Wofford radiated trouble. And he swaggered and refused to show concern. He was out drinking the night before the trial. He looked guilty.”
“Surely you have some theories about who might have killed Mr. Trotter.” It would be interesting to hear whom McGowan came up with.
“Trotter’s daughter, Angela, pissed off a lot of people. Powerful people. I’d heard rumors Jameson Barr vowed to get even with her about the stories she did on him. He would have skated on hiring a hit man to kill his wife if Angela hadn’t bird-dogged the story.”
Check! His name was on my list, too. “Anyone else?”
“The sheriff hasn’t lost any love in her direction, but Benson’s a smart man. Why risk everything to kill a harmless old dreamer like Trotter just to settle a vendetta with Angela?”
I saw his point. “What about Rick Roundtree? I hear there was bad blood there.”
He shrugged. “My money would be on Barr. The thing with Roundtree—Angela rode his ass about development on the island. You know building contracts are where a lot of money slides in the back door. Angela opposed development on the island, so she made it her life’s goal to keep those contracts honest. It killed a bunch of deals. But Roundtree wouldn’t have harmed the old man. If Trotter had actually found the Esmeralda treasure, it would have opened the door to tourism on a big level. Theme park, diving adventures, you name it. The discovery of pirate’s booty on Dauphin Island would have created the biggest boom in development possible. Roundtree might have hired someone to kill Angela, but not her dad.”
6
Only a few blocks uptown from the lawyer’s office was the sheriff’s office, a far cry from the low-tech, charming old courthouse domain of Coleman Peters. Sheriff Benson’s suite of offices was housed in a new brick complex. When I was shown in, he rose from behind a desk that must have been six-by-eight, a vast expanse of mahogany. Behind him were flags, awards, and grip-and-grin photos celebrating official ceremonies.
“Sheriff Peters called,” he said without preamble, “and asked that I extend every courtesy to you. He also assured me you were licensed and ethical. Such isn’t always the case with private detectives.”
“Sheriff Peters and I have worked together numerous times.”
“So he says.” He motioned me into a leather wing chair that faced his desk. “Here in Mobile County, law enforcement is done by professionals, not private investigators.”
“Sheriff Peters believes we can all work together in the pursuit of justice, but I’ve handled cases in other counties where the prevalent attitude was similar to yours.” I paused. “And I’ve worked in places where law enforcement was corrupt. For obvious reasons, I wasn’t welcome there.”
His lips compressed, and I wondered if I’d pushed it just a smidgen too hard. But I’d done nothing to warrant such a high-handed attitude. Pushback followed on the heels of nasty arrogance.
“What do you want, Ms. Delaney?”
“To examine the physical evidence in the Larry Wofford case and permission to speak with law enforcement officials who were involved in the investigation.”
“You don’t mind asking for the moon, do you?”
“That’s what I need. Provide them, and I won’t trouble you again.”
“You do know that Ms. Trotter has tried to prove Wofford’s innocence before. Unsuccessfully.”
“She told me.”
“I understand you’re on vacation. You’ll be gone in what, five days tops? Why take on this thankless case? Wofford killed John Trotter. He may regret it. Hell, he may not remember it—the man spent half his time pickled in alcohol. But he did it. I have no doubt. None.” He patted the top pocket of his shirt, and I realized he had once been a smoker.
I eased the pack out of my purse and held it up. “Is there a place we can smoke without being arrested?”
He gave an unwilling chuckle and hit the intercom on his desk. “Wanda, please bring two coffees to the … portico.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rose and motioned for me to precede him out the door. He led me through a maze of corridors until we came to a glass door opening on an outside covered drive-through. Cigarette butts filled an ashtray. I gave him the pack of Native American cigarettes made from organic tobacco and no chemicals. He shook one out and offered it to me. We both exhaled, just as his secretary delivered two black coffees and a disapproving glare.
“Thanks,” he said. “Smoking is the one vice I can’t shake.”
“I quit for a long time.”
“Don’t make it a habit,” he said with a wry grin. Sheriff Benson had a certain amount of charm when he wasn’t being an ass. “Why have you taken on Angela Trotter’s ghosts? This is a waste of your time.”
The question was truly none of his business, but we’d established a truce and I didn’t want to fire the first cannonball. “She believes Larry Wofford is innocent. She wants the person who killed her father to pay. I understand her emotions, on a lot of different levels.”
“Wofford is in jail, where he belongs. All you’re doing is encouraging Ms. Trotter in false hope.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “You know, I’ve been guilty of a whole lot worse.”
He laughed. “Haven’t we both? Here’s my deal. You can see all the trial evidence. Whatever you want. If you promise one thing. Once you’ve gone through it, you do your best to convince Ms. Trotter justice has been served. If I thought Wofford was innocent, I’d be working right beside you. The truth is, he and John Trotter were drinking buddies. They got toasted on a regular basis. When that happens, sometimes two men disagree. In this instance, Wofford and Trotter got into some kind of argument, and Wofford shot him in the chest. It’s just that simple. No conspiracy to hide the truth, no ulterior motive to frame Wofford. He’s a damn good carpenter who happens to be a violent drunk.”
“I heard there was a problem with the security cameras at the marina.”
“That’s a question better put to Arley McCain, who owns the marina. We collected the recordings, just as we would in any other case. When we tried to look at them, the CDs were blank. Faulty wiring, wet night, someone failed to turn the system on—it could be any of the above. Bottom line is there was no evidence to prove Wofford’s statement that someone else was on the dock but also no evidence to show him running away from John’s boat covered in blood. It sort of balanced out, if you ask me.”
“Were there any other suspects?”
Impatience tightened Benson’s expression. “Feel free to interview the investigating officer. I’ll tell Randy to find the time to speak with you.”
I had a question about Chavis. “He’s a patrol officer, not a detective. A story Angela wrote about him kept him from being promoted to detective.”
“Chavis is one of my best officers. He displayed poor judgment a time or two in a high-profile case, and Angela rode his ass for it. That’s all true. But Chavis has closed cases no one else could. He was first on the scene at Trotter’s murder, and he led the investigation. He’s lived on the island his entire life. Some of those islanders can be clannish. It was better to have one of their own work the case.”
“Thank you. Where will I find the trial evidence?”
He motioned me back inside and left me with the secret
ary, who delivered me to the court clerk in charge of trial records. It was going to be a long search.
* * *
Mobile County kept trial evidence in a storage facility, and after doing a little legwork, the property clerk helped me locate the Larry Wofford file. The sad thing was, there was little to go on. No murder weapon. No evidence of a motive. The physical evidence was a box with fingerprint files, blood samples, photos—the usual.
A private investigator shouldn’t be upset by crime scene photos, but I was. John Trotter was shot in the chest in front of his desk. He fell backward and died on the floor. It was a violent and gruesome scene. A man was dead, and his daughter was left with a sense of injustice and loss.
I’d get a trial transcript from the court records for reference, but the attorney McGowan had filled me in on the broad strokes. As much as I liked conspiracy theories, it didn’t seem probable Sheriff Benson had gone out of his way to frame Larry Wofford. Or I hadn’t found the connection to take me down that path. Not yet, at least.
From the evidence, which included Chavis’s investigation notes, Wofford’s conviction rested on the fact he was on scene, which he never denied. No motive except drunkenness had ever been tendered or proved. Alcohol, guns, and tempers could be a lethal mix, but these men were known to be friends. Benson believed they’d caught and convicted the right man, but I wasn’t so certain.
* * *
On the drive back to the island, I listened to a local radio station, surprised to hear that the tropical storm in the Caribbean has been upgraded to a Category One hurricane. According to the excited DJ, the storm was headed into the Gulf, where it was expected she would slow forward movement and gain intensity.
It was hard to take such things seriously when the weather was picture-perfect. When I got back to the cottage, I needed to see if the television had access to a twenty-four-hour weather channel. While there was no sense of urgency or worry, I also knew enough about gulf storms to realize I had to pay attention. Hurricane Margene might be the biggest bitch I’d ever confronted.
I stopped at a specialty grocer and picked up organic vegetables for dinner and then hit a local seafood shop on the way back to the island. Nothing like fresh red snapper for a perfect meal. And a sushi snack for Graf while he was waiting for dinner.
Tonight, I would propose the wedding to Graf. I simply couldn’t allow his distance to thwart me. I had to bring our relationship back on track, and I couldn’t let my tender feelings get in the way of achieving the goal. Graf loved me and I loved him. Nothing else mattered.
When I got to the cottage, Graf was watching television. “It could get bad, Sarah Booth. Maybe we should pack it in and go home to Zinnia.”
According to the news coverage, the storm was compact—nothing like Katrina. That didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous, but it wouldn’t overwhelm the Gulf Coast. Everything depended on which steering currents took hold of it. On east and west extremes were Tampa and Brownsville. In other words, Hurricane Margene had the entire Gulf Coast as her playground. Only time would tell where she would strike.
“It’s still too early to throw in the towel,” I said.
“I don’t want to be here if Margene comes dead at us.”
“Me either.” I moved behind his chair and rubbed his shoulders. They were tight. Graf might appear relaxed, but the opposite was true. He was like a high-intensity spring—coiled and ready to unleash.
“Let’s have an early dinner. Spend some time together.”
“Do you have something on your mind, Sarah Booth?” There was almost a suspicious tone to his voice, as if I were plotting some nefarious deed.
“Being with you. Putting the past behind us. We can play cards, talk, drink ourselves silly. What does it matter as long as we’re doing it together? I miss you, Graf. You’re right here in front of me, but you’re not really with me. It feels like a part of me has been amputated.”
He caught my hands in his and squeezed them. “You deserve so much better than me.”
I felt my heart crack at his words. “Oh, no, Graf. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You are. I’m sorry you were hurt, but I’ve learned something so important. There is nothing in my life that even comes close to you.”
He inhaled and his shoulders sagged. “I’m not worthy of your love.”
I would not badger or argue. I would only love. I kissed him, slow and tender. “I missed lunch, but I picked up some sushi to snack on until I grill the snapper, asparagus, and sweet potatoes.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Pluto jumped in Graf’s lap and rubbed his whiskers on Graf’s chin. I went to the kitchen. Pluto could do more to lift Graf’s spirits than I could. And I had work to do.
* * *
After the grilled snapper, we took a stroll on the beach. Graf improved each hour, it seemed. He was walking and jogging in the sand, tackling the rehab with all he was worth. I wanted to praise his hard work, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.
Instead, I held his hand and let the wind blow the cobwebs of strife out of our lives. A more perfect day could not have been invented.
Back at the cottage, we talked about the Black and Orange Ball and what surprise Tinkie and Cece had in store for me. They’d promised something special, but I had no idea what it might be. Graf had purchased a gown for me on Rodeo Drive, and it was a creation to behold. He had a tux that would have made James Bond howl with envy. We were ready for the big event, which would also mark the celebration for our wedding, though Graf didn’t know it yet.
As we talked, my dream of marital bliss seemed within my grasp. We’d gone through the dark land of shadows and doubt and come out on the other side. “Let’s go back.” I tugged at his hand as I whistled for Sweetie Pie. Pluto had refused to leave the cottage.
“Sarah Booth…” His voice faded.
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I closed the distance and wrapped my arms around his neck. “What is it, Graf?” Lingering doubt kept him from sweeping me into his arms, as he would have done before he was shot. “I don’t care if you act again or not. I’ve made some decisions about my life. I’ll find someone to care for the horses, and I’ll stay in Hollywood with you. I want a solid marriage. I want that more than a career.”
He untangled my arms and held me at arm’s length. His expression was … disturbed. “I won’t allow you to do that. I won’t.”
“I’m doing it because I love you and want to be with you. In Los Angeles, while you’re making your films. We can return to Dahlia House in between. This is the right thing, Graf. I want to be your wife, the mother of your children. I want to champion your films and be with you to share your successes.”
“That’s not who you are, Sarah Booth. I won’t allow you to turn yourself inside out for me. I don’t deserve it. You won’t give up your life for me.” He strode away from me, and for a long moment I stood on the beach and watched him disappear into the distance, walking away from the cottage rather than toward it.
7
The cottage came with two bicycles—the wonderful old cruiser kind with fat tires and upright handlebars. Although it was windy, the sun was bright and the day warm enough for jeans and a short-sleeve shirt. I decided to ride into the town of Dauphin Island and see what I could discover.
Graf’s reaction had unbalanced me. Instead of dwelling on why he’d reacted so strongly to my offer to support his career, I decided to work. Time and distance might generate the wisdom I needed to figure out what was going on with him.
Because Sweetie Pie was the best-behaved dog in the universe, she went with me. A constant breeze blew the tang of salt as we set out. For the most part, the pedaling was easy, except where sand covered the road. That required a bit more effort and better balance, but as we left the west end of the island, the road cleared and our ride took us beneath palms and oak trees that had weathered many a storm.
As I rode along, I tried to imag
ine what the island was like when the first European explorers came on the scene. It was long a destination of the Native American tribes that populated the Gulf Coast. Pascagoulas, Biloxis, Chickasaws, Creeks, Choctaws—there were many different tribes and allegiances. It must have been a paradise with the white sand beaches and the beautiful aqua surf.
When I came to the T where the main road ended, I chose town. Sweetie trotted at my side, barely panting while I huffed and puffed. The coastline of the island was spectacular, but the interior held a different kind of beauty—pines, oaks, palm trees, and older residences that had withstood many a hard storm.
The island was home to a number of families who’d settled there in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Whatever their heritage, they all had a huge helping of tough. When the hurricanes came barreling out of the Gulf, these people hunkered down, rode it out, and managed to survive, often cut off from the mainland and all power supplies.
They were the shop owners, the men and women who earned their living from the water. Boat repair, beach rentals, grocery providers. It was a tightknit community much like Zinnia.
I passed the marina, where the Miss Adventure was moored. She was a beautiful boat, and well cared for. In fact, cleaning and paint supplies were on the deck. I wondered if Angela maintained the boat herself. It hurt my heart to think she kept the boat so well preserved as an homage to her father. I’d always been told the two most labor-intensive hobbies were boats and horses. I couldn’t speak to boats, but horses required time and sweat. And were worth every minute of it.
Looking at the lines of the sailboat, I could appreciate the high adventure of treasure hunting and the life of a vagabond sailor. John Trotter had been a romantic, a dreamer, and the boat reflected those things in her graceful lines and teak fittings. She was the epitome of a treasure-hunting boat with her high mast and crisp black, red, and dark green trim. If I were the type of person to indulge in fantasies, I might imagine Jack Sparrow or even Captain Hook striding across the deck to the bow.
Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 6
