Something about the scene stopped me dead in my tracks. I wanted to rush to Graf and ask who the woman was and whether he knew her. I couldn’t. Dread held me motionless. Had Graf come down to the beach to meet this woman? Or was it just coincidence?
The woman and child disappeared into the darkness, and I still couldn’t move. In a moment, Graf approached me, and I forced myself to call his name. I didn’t want him to find me standing in the dark as if I was spying on him. When he drew abreast, I waited for him to greet me with a hug, but he didn’t.
“I’m glad to see you’re making new friends,” I said, hoping my tone was not accusatory.
“The lifeguards had red flags warning against swimming. I just wanted to be sure they knew.” He bent to pet Sweetie, who was dancing around him. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.
* * *
My sleep that night was restless and filled with images of jagged glass, knives, saws, scissors, and a fleeting blonde who moved through the shadows like a ghost. Graf and I had watched a movie, and he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. I left him there.
When I finally got up, dawn was breaking. I made coffee, and Sweetie and Pluto followed me outside, where I sat on the steps to smoke a cigarette.
I crushed the butt beneath my heel and sipped the hot black coffee. The gulf breeze rattled the sea oats growing on the dunes. As much as I loved the Delta, the sea spoke to me. The rush of the waves against the shore, the wind, the dazzle of the white sand in the sun, or the shifting clouds massing on the horizon—each held its own allure.
The water’s vista stretching to the edge of the earth was similar to the Delta, but the Gulf had suffered some hard environmental blows in the past decade. Years of fertilizers and pollutants washing down the Mississippi had been dumped into what was once the most bountiful marine incubator.
My thoughts turned to Dr. Phyllis Norris and her desperate attempts to save the turtles. What once had been so natural and easy was becoming a life-and-death fight. Thank goodness for people like her, working to save species. I sure didn’t have any answers. Not personal ones or the bigger ones for the planet.
“Are there any real answers? I’ve asked Clark again and again, but he doesn’t tell me anything.”
The question came from my right, and the speaker was a pregnant woman in a black designer suit à la 1960, wearing a thick veil that hung to her waist. I knew the image. It was part of every film buff’s lexicon. Jitty had come a-calling as another young widow. “Kay Gable?” My heart fluttered at the implications.
“I will never understand why Clark had to die before the baby was born,” she said. “Knowing his son would have given him such joy. He was a good man. He should’ve watched his son grow up.”
And my parents should have known me as a grown-up. Orphaned at twelve was a cruel fate. But I didn’t say it. I merely took in the apparition Jitty had created. The wind buffeted her dress and the veil, emphasizing her evident pregnancy.
“You never remarried.” I wasn’t an authority on Hollywood history, but I recalled Mrs. Gable had often attended functions with handsome escorts, but she’d died Clark Gable’s widow.
“I was married several times before Clark. Of course, he was, too. It took us a while to find each other, but we were really in love. I didn’t think I could love anyone that way again.” She lifted the veil and revealed her neat blond hair and clear eyes. She was a lovely woman, serene.
“Do you have a message for me?” I dreaded to ask, but I had to know. This widows’ parade held significance, even if Jitty wouldn’t come right out and say it. I felt surrounded by loss.
Her features transformed into those of my most beautiful haint. “Life continues, Sarah Booth. If you don’t die, you survive. You can choose to survive and have a life of joy, or you can survive and have a half of a life, one foot in the grave. I was young when Coker died. Same for Miss Alice. We had children to raise. There wasn’t really a choice for us. Not much choice for Kay Gable either. She had a baby to tend, and she had to keep herself healthy to do it.”
“Jitty, why are you coming to me as widows? I know you’ll say you can’t tell me, but you have to. If there’s danger around Graf, I deserve to know.”
“I don’t know, Sarah Booth. Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I can summon information whenever I snap my fingers. I don’t know. That’s the answer to both your questions.”
“Can you change what you’re doing, then? As much as I hated the cartoon characters, they’re better than these black-clad mourners. I’m worried enough. What about famous cancan dancers? Or maybe famous strippers? Or famous female outlaws? Anything other than famous widows.”
She chuckled softly and sat beside me on the steps.
“Can you talk to the dead, Jitty? Can you ask Mrs. Gable or Jackie Kennedy questions?”
“Messages have a way of gettin’ relayed in the Great Beyond. No guarantees, though. I put it out there, and sometimes it gets through. Like with your mama and daddy. They know you’re in a hard spot right now. They’re aware, but there’s not much they can do. They did all they could for you while they were alive. Got something you want to say?”
I considered. “Maybe just thank you.”
She sighed. “You’re lower than a snake’s belly.”
“There’s a woman on the beach. I’ve seen her with Graf.”
“When a man’s self-image is damaged, he wants to see a new reflection of himself. Another woman can sometimes supply that. The gunshot made you realize exactly what you want. For Graf, it’s just the opposite. He knew. He had the future all lined up in his head. Now those plans don’t fit him anymore because he sees himself as damaged goods. You got to give him back another reflection of himself.”
“How do I do that?” I would try anything.
“Call Tinkie. Don’t just talk to her; get her over here. She’s the smartest woman I know at showing a man the reflection he wants to see. If that don’t work, she’ll kick his butt.” She arched an eyebrow. “Or you could pull on your big-girl panties and confront him about the woman on the beach. Don’t let him dodge the issue.”
* * *
For all of Jitty’s advice, I got a second cup of coffee and another cigarette. Graf was still sound asleep, and there was no chance of relaxing for me. I left him a note and told Sweetie and Pluto to watch out for him. I could be at the inlet off Heron Bay in no time—and back before Graf was ready for breakfast.
The tricky part was the location of Remy Renault’s boat. I drove down the barely paved road where the wild foliage brushed against the sides of the car. Isolated didn’t do the place justice. If Remy Renault was as bad-tempered as Snill indicated, I could be making a mistake coming alone. And unarmed.
The house was a surprise—a fine brick structure, but obviously a summer home for someone wealthy, because the shutters were closed and the place locked down tight. When I got out of the car and walked toward the back, I saw the dock and a boat the same size as the Miss Adventure, but in a sad state of repair. Tied off to the dock was a Cobalt ski boat with a 300HP outboard. The ski boat was in a lot better condition than the sailboat. A middle-aged man wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and suspenders came out of a small rental cottage.
“This is private property. Get!” He couldn’t bother with even a shred of courtesy.
“Remy Renault?”
“What’s it to ya?”
“I’m interested in the Esmeralda treasure. I heard you might know something about it.”
If I was reading him correctly, he was torn between ego and annoyance. Ego apparently won. “I know something about it. What’s it worth to you?”
“Maybe an interview in a start-up magazine called Secrets of the Deep. Sarah Booth Delaney,” I held out my hand, which he ignored.
“I don’t talk for free.”
“And I don’t pay for an interview unless the person actually knows something of value.”
Heat jumped into his cheeks. He was a drinker with a temper. “A
re you calling me a liar?”
“I’m not calling you anything. You appear to be a blunt man. I thought you’d appreciate a direct answer. Tell me what you know and if it’s worth my while, I’ll set up for a full interview. We can offer up to three hundred dollars.”
“Pah!” He turned to leave.
“Which could lead to more interviews.”
That caught him, and he pivoted to face me. “I want the money first.”
“No deal. I’ve got a lead on another treasure hunter who was murdered. That may be the more interesting story anyway.”
“Hard to interview a dead man.” He grinned.
“I’ll bet there are plenty of living people who can remember John Trotter. Seems he was well liked. Which can’t be said about you, Mr. Renault.”
His hands clenched into fists, and I thought for a minute I’d overplayed my cards. “Get out of here.” He shook a fist at me.
“Okay. I just thought you might want a chance. Trotter is dead and you’re alive. But I’m easy.” I made it twenty paces across the lawn before he called out to stop me.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Did Trotter find the key to the Esmeralda treasure? And if he did, was that the reason he was murdered?”
He looked to the right and down as he thought. “John Trotter was a lying thief. We were partners. He was supposed to share his findings with me, and he didn’t.”
“Was there a contract between the two of you?”
“Gentleman’s agreement. There was a time when a man’s word was good enough. We shook on it.”
“So he must have shared his findings with you.” I didn’t believe a thing he said. Remy Renault was all about bravado, braggadocio, and plain old bullshit.
“I don’t like your tone.” He’d grown quiet. And far more dangerous.
“I’ll need to verify your claims, Mr. Renault.” I had slipped my cell phone from my pocket and used the camera to snap some photos. It might be interesting to see if Renault had been around Trotter’s boat the day he was murdered.
“Get off this property, and if you show up again, you’ll regret it.”
“Are you threatening me?” I asked. He did have a wicked temper and a wild look in his eyes.
“I don’t make threats. I just fulfill promises.” He spun around and headed back into the rental unit.
“Where were you the night John Trotter was killed?”
“I’ve got an airtight alibi. Check it out. I was in jail in Mobile. Got into a bar fight at the Dog River Marina. Took my sister three days to bond me out.”
That was easy enough to check. “Thanks for your cooperation.” I couldn’t resist having the last word—a trait that had gotten me into trouble more than once.
* * *
When I got back to the beach cottage, Graf was still sleeping. I wanted to wake him, to snuggle with him, to find the safe place in his arms that now seemed unavailable to me. Instead, I called Sheriff Benson. Perhaps I yielded to my cowardly nature, but I couldn’t force myself to confront Graf. I didn’t want to be that insecure woman who flew to conclusions because I saw my man speak to another woman. Graf had never given me a reason to be so … suspicious. He worked with beautiful women every day in the movies. My reaction was nuts, and it was only because I felt guilty about the gunshot.
I had to gain control of my reactions to everything before I tried to make it Graf’s problem. With that in mind, I focused on Angela and her case.
Larry Wofford’s innocence—or guilt—that’s what I had to prove. So I called Sheriff Benson and asked him to arrange a visit for me at the state prison in Atmore. Benson wasn’t pleased, but I explained Angela wouldn’t rest until I spoke to Wofford face-to-face.
Ten minutes later, he called me back. “Come by here. Deputy Chavis will drive you to Atmore. He can give you the details of the investigation before you allow Wofford to fill your head with stories about how he was framed.”
I didn’t relish hours in a car with Chavis, but I couldn’t easily refuse. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can. By the way, can you verify that Remy Renault was a guest in your jail the night John Trotter was killed?”
“Without a doubt. He was there for assault charges. Ms. Delaney, we did investigate this murder, though you seem to think we didn’t.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
When I went back inside, Graf had made fresh coffee. “Thought you might need a jolt of caffeine,” he said as he handed me the cup.
“I do. Thanks. Graf, should I be worried about us?” I stared deep into his eyes and he didn’t blink.
“I love you, Sarah Booth.”
It wasn’t the sentiment I was expecting. I had a harder question for him, but he beat me to the punch. “Headed to the prison to see the convicted killer?”
“If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.”
“Sarah Booth, I don’t blame you for the gunshot. Gertrude was mentally off. If you’d been a newspaper reporter or a painter, she might have zeroed in on you and blamed you for her problems. It wasn’t you or your job. Visit Larry Wofford and see if he can tell you anything useful.”
“I know you’re going through a lot. I came to Dauphin Island to be with you, to share this and help.”
Instead of looking at me, his gaze centered on the beach visible through the window. “See what you can do for Angela. I love you, Sarah Booth. There are things I need to figure out. I always knew you were haunted by the past. Now I understand. I’m not being dishonest or dishonorable. I promise you that. And I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can. For right now, work on Angela’s case. That’s the best thing for both of us.” At last he faced me. “I love you so much. I only want to do right by you. I have to figure out what that is.”
Before my heart broke and fell at his feet, I hurried to the car for the drive to Mobile. If space was what he wanted, I would oblige. What other option did I have?
* * *
Chavis insisted that I ride in his patrol car. I was surprised he didn’t put me in the backseat. We’d barely gained the interstate before he speared me with an icy glance. “Larry Wofford killed John Trotter. You’re wasting your time, and if you’re taking Angela Trotter’s money, it’s highway robbery.”
“I’ll be sure and pass on the information. Angela will be impressed you’re concerned about her finances. And I appreciate you’re convinced Wofford is guilty. Still, there’re some troubling irregularities.” I tried to walk a fine line.
“Such as the fact I’m not a detective and worked the case?”
“It’s a point of curiosity. In most large departments, there’s a distinction between the two divisions. Is it common practice in Mobile County to allow patrol officers to handle homicides?”
“No, it’s not. Occasionally advantages override duty assignments. I grew up on the island. Believe it or not, I liked Mr. Trotter. He was a character. Some evenings, when he had a drink or two in the Mermaid’s Cellar, I’d join him after work. He could spin a yarn. More than a couple of times I drove him back to his boat when he got too tipsy to walk home safely.”
I was surprised at the genuine warmth in his voice. Up until that moment, I’d wondered if Randy Chavis had a human side. “You certainly don’t care much for his daughter, Angela.”
The deputy sighed. “I’m aggravated at her. She’s thrown away the last year of her life trying to save the man who murdered her father. I have no idea why she persists in believing Wofford is innocent. He’s a damn fine carpenter, but he’s a drunk. In case you haven’t had the pleasure of knowing one, alcoholics do whatever is necessary to ruin their lives and often the lives of those who love them. Angela can’t see that.”
I didn’t doubt she knew Wofford drank too much, but it was a far cry from being a murderer. “The case against Wofford was circumstantial.”
“A lot of cases are.”
He was correct, but those instances always left me with reasonable doubt. The burden of proof was on the state, and I
wasn’t certain the prosecution had met it. “Did Wofford have an adequate defense attorney?”
“As far as I could tell. McGowan got records, interviewed witnesses, the whole nine yards. Wofford had every benefit, including the victim’s daughter testifying on his behalf. And he was still convicted. That should tell you something.”
“But the most incriminating evidence was Arley McCain’s testimony, right?”
“Without a doubt.” He took an exit off the interstate, and in a moment we were driving through flat, clear fields where hay and other crops were grown. In the distance the road cut through what had once been a grove of pecan trees. We were almost at the prison.
“What’s your take on McCain?”
“Arley’s salt of the earth. Angela is like a daughter to him. And he looked out for John as best he could.”
“And Wofford?”
“There were times Wofford didn’t pay his slip fees for six months. Arley carried him. Folks at the marina look out for each other like a family. It killed Arley to testify against Larry, but he told the truth. Angela can’t accept it because she’s sweet on Larry. Those are the facts, Ms. Delaney. I did my job. I put a killer behind bars. You can investigate all you want, but it won’t change the truth.”
“What are your feelings for Angela?”
The skin beneath his left eye twitched, and I couldn’t tell if it was guilt or surprise. “My feelings have nothing to do with Larry Wofford’s guilt.”
“That right?” I’d hit a nerve. His attitude toward Angela had always been too extreme. Because he had romantic feelings for her? Or was something else at work? “Who shot up her house?”
“We didn’t find much to go on. No witnesses to speak of. A neighbor saw a black sedan slow down just before the shots were fired. We searched, but there wasn’t any physical evidence. Believe me, I’d like to catch the bastards, whether it was someone intending harm to Angela or juvenile delinquents, who fired off guns in a residential area.”
“So you dropped the investigation?”
He shot an angry glare at me. “We did not drop it. I can’t manufacture evidence, though you seem to think I do it all the time. We recovered the two bullets from her wall: .22 longs. It could have been kids acting out. Or it could have been a warning. Since Angela quit the newspaper, there’s little reason for people to want to intimidate her. She’s minding her own affairs and leaving the politicians alone.”
Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 8
