“I know what the newspaper said, what the Medical Examiner ruled and what Sergeant Payne believes. I hoped you could help us prove otherwise.”
For one brief moment, I saw something in her eyes that had the look of fear. Then her voice lashed out with the pent-up energy of a waterspout. “You come in here pretending to be an official investigator—”
“I made no such claim.”
“Well, that was the implication. You ask a bunch of stupid questions and try to trick me with this jacket. Tim is dead. Let him rest in peace.” She was almost screaming now. And then the tears began. “Get out! Leave me alone.”
We left her slumped over the table, face buried in her hands.
20
Glancing back toward the Gulf as we walked around the house, I saw the horizon had disappeared in an impenetrable shroud of black. Closer to shore, the clouds continued to build, their flat bottoms faded to gray. It could hardly have looked more menacing, though sometimes the storms remained out over the water and never blew ashore.
Back at the Jeep, I opened the door for Jill. “The sky looks about as promising as my interview,” I said.
She glanced up before getting in. “Won’t likely do anything before we get settled in. That is, if you’re ready to settle in.”
“I’ll have to think about it.” I raked my fingers through thinning gray hair.
After backing my Jeep out of the drive, I turned toward Gulf Beach Highway.
“Okay, babe,” I said, “what’s your assessment?”
“You want a woman’s opinion?”
“That’s why I keep you around, isn’t it?”
“Watch your tongue, Greg McKenzie.” She squinched her eyes. “As a woman, I’d say the relationship with Tim was a lot closer than Miss Sherry tried to pretend. The part about not having any contact with him for fifteen years may have been true, but whatever went on between her and Tim during his flying days...well, I’d guess it was probably rekindled by The Sand Castle project.”
“So you think she was the other woman?”
“I think she was in love with Tim. Notice how quickly she jumped to his defense? But I’m not so sure he reciprocated. Remember, I said Tara didn’t accuse him of anything. She was just discussing possibilities. He didn’t want to talk about what troubled him, but she didn’t seem to think it affected how he felt about her.”
“Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing?”
Jill nodded. “It’s possible Sherry Hoffman was a woman spurned.”
“And hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“But scorned enough to commit murder?”
“That’s a question we’ll have to look into,” I said. “Did you notice how nervous she got when I asked about Bosley Farnsworth?”
“Yes, and she was a bit quick to say their relationship was purely social.”
“She also claimed they never discussed the project, which sounded pretty absurd, considering their mutual involvement.”
“So where do we go from here?”
We were just passing a small white building on the right with a sign that said BIG LAGOON PRECINCT, ESCAMBIA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE. Parked in front was a green and white vehicle with SERGEANT painted on the fender. Ten-to-one the car was J. W. Payne’s. I had a feeling I would have to deal with him again soon.
“Lost Bay Church is only a short jog away,” I said. “I think I’ll see if Charlie Brown is still in his office. Maybe he can give us another lead.”
We found his big white Caddy in its accustomed spot beside the building. He had told us Lost Bay Church wasn’t a Cadillac appointment, but he didn’t intend to give up anything he’d earned in the past. Before coming to the Perdido Bay area, he had served one of the largest United Methodist churches in the Pensacola District. He had enjoyed his time there, but the congregation had decided to embark on a major fund-raising and building program. Despite their insistence otherwise, Charlie thought they needed a younger minister at the helm during this critical period. He had only a couple of years left before retirement and told the bishop he would prefer to finish out his career at a smaller location. With all the snowbirders and vacationers, though, his services still brought sizeable crowds, often with as many visitors as members.
When we strolled in, Charlie had the phone jammed against his ear, giving animated advice to the head of a local charity. He waved us to the chairs and began winding down the conversation. After a few minutes, he hung up the phone and smiled.
“They run day care for low income workers. I’ve pushed their cause for lo these many years. They’d better listen to me.” He leaned his elbows on the desk. “You’re back pretty quickly. Didn’t find her?”
“Found her and talked to her,” I said. “Now I have another name I hope you can help me with.”
“Is this another put-on-your-reporter-hat query?”
“Right. I hope the hat’s still handy.”
“You’re gonna wear it out.”
I smiled. “We’ll try to use some restraint. This one’s name is Bosley Farnsworth.”
Charlie folded his hands, tapped his thumbs and adopted a serious look. “Young Boz, huh? Actually, I can tell you a lot more about his parents than I can about him. They were generous contributors at a former church. Denton Farnsworth, his dad, is a wealthy Pensacola businessman. Owns a major auto dealership and a couple of funeral homes. Boz is the youngest of two children. His older sister is married to a prominent attorney, has two kids and works for a lot of good causes. Bosley didn’t turn out so well.”
“In what respects?”
He shrugged. “As my sainted mother would have put it, he’s a spoiled brat. One who deigns not to darken the door of the church, I might add.”
“Do I detect a little ecclesiastical sour grapes?”
“You’re the detective,” he said with a grin. “Detect whatever you wish. But from where I sit, the boy—well, he’s nearly forty, so I should call him a man—he got everything handed to him by his dad. Now he thinks he should have whatever he wants. As for specifics on what he wants, I can’t tell you much. I know he graduated in engineering from the University of Florida, worked for several engineering firms and spent a goodly chunk of dad’s money on an abortive restaurant venture.”
“Didn’t his mama try to straighten him out?” Jill asked. Crossing her legs, she twitched her foot from side to side.
“If she did, she must not have had much luck,” Charlie said. “Actually, I think he’s become a bit of an embarrassment to the family.”
“Does that mean he could be on his own now, no more bail-outs by dad?” I asked.
“That’s probably a fair assumption.”
I rubbed my chin as I stared across at him. “If you can’t tell us any more about young Farnsworth, can you recommend somebody who might?”
He thought a moment. “Let me make a few calls and see what I can come up with. I’ll get back to you.”
21
We pulled up outside the condo just as the rain began to move ashore. Though the clock showed it was not yet five, a cheerless overcast gave the place the dismal look of an evening gone sour. We switched on lights and I checked the bedroom to make certain the window facing the beach was closed. Battered by wind-driven rain, the large pane began to chatter like the head of a snare drum.
“Turn on the TV and see if you can get a line on this weather,” Jill said. “I’ll fix us a fruit salad for supper.”
I sat on the sofa with the remote and surfed the local channels, which included both Pensacola and Mobile. I finally found a radar image showing a large, oddly-shaped blob moving onto the coast from the southwest. As a loud crash of thunder rumbled overhead, a slim blonde weatherperson in a hot pink outfit warned that we could expect the storm to hang around for the next few hours.
“I think this would be a good evening to stay home and read or whatever,” I told Jill.
She brought out two salad bowls filled with sliced-up bananas, apples, pears, red
grapes and pineapple and set them on the table, then looked up, grinning. “How about we read and whatever?”
Jill has a way of expressing herself that can at times seem perceptive, at others perplexing. However, this time I didn’t need anyone to draw me a picture. I leaned over and kissed her on the neck. “You’re on, babe.”
I had already sniffed with anticipation at the aroma of baking strawberry mini-muffins wafting through from the kitchen. She brought them out to go with our salads. Tall glasses of fruit tea, another of her famous creations—made with pineapple juice and a dash of cherry—completed the menu.
After we finished eating, Jill broke out a bottle of Riesling, filled a couple of wine glasses and set them on the coffee table next to our current books. She switched on the stereo and inserted a torchy Peggy Lee jazz CD. That was a concession to me. Her tastes ran more toward Beethoven and Bach. Her mother had studied at Julliard and pursued a classical violin career before meeting Daniel Parsons, who was already a highly successful insurance salesman. I parked beside Jill on the sofa with the latest novel by Sue Grafton, who, I noted, was about to exhaust the alphabet with her titles, and turned to the exploits of Kinsey Millhone, girl PI. The thunder appeared to have taken a break for the moment, though I could still hear the wind and rain doing a number on our balcony.
We propped our bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. After a couple of chapters and several sultry songs by Peggy, I felt Jill curl her toes onto mine, occasionally rubbing my foot suggestively. She topped off my wine glass and my head soon became filled with ideas about things other than reading. Then the phone rang.
I picked up the portable and answered.
“Mr. McKenzie,” said a deep voice.
“Yes,” I replied. “This is Greg McKenzie.”
“Sgt. J. W. Payne, sir. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
I wasn’t sure if there was ever a good time to be caught by J. W. Payne. But I said, “No, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering how your investigation was going. Brother Charlie Brown told me you had been by to see him.”
I hadn’t asked Charlie to keep our discussion confidential. Now I wished that I had. “Did he tell you what we talked about?”
“No, sir. I didn’t ask him. I knew Mr. Gannon had attended services at Lost Bay. I assumed that was what you were seeing him about.”
Thank goodness Charlie had been discreet regarding our conversation. I needed to dig a lot deeper before I would be ready to get into a detailed discussion of the case with Sergeant Payne. I decided to bring up a particular matter, however, and get his reaction.
“There is one point I didn’t mention yesterday,” I said, “since I wasn’t sure how it fit into the picture. But now it looks pretty clear.”
“Is this something involving my investigation of Mr. Gannon’s death?”
“Possibly. It happened in Nashville, however, way out of your jurisdiction. During the weekend, Walt Sturdivant, Tim’s assistant you met Monday, discovered The Sand Castle plans held by his company were missing. Not just the blueprints, but the entire computer file on the project.”
“That sounds odd.”
“It certainly does. And before he left here yesterday, Walt looked at the copy of the plans used by the Threshold Inspector, Bosley Farnsworth. Those plans showed smaller rebars than specified in the original plans. And the concrete strength was less than Tim had specified. No doubt that’s why the balcony collapsed.”
“Wait a minute,” Payne said. “You’re telling me the plans Gannon drew called for one thing, and the plans used down here called for another?”
“That’s what Walt said.”
“And how did he know?”
“He worked with the original and remembers what was in it.”
“But he doesn’t have a copy of the original to prove it.”
“Right.”
“Mr. McKenzie, it sounds to me like an excuse to get out of some big lawsuits. If he wants anybody to believe that nonsense, he’d better produce the evidence...the original plans.”
“But they’re missing, apparently stolen.”
“You know what I think?” Payne’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Tim Gannon arranged to have those plans destroyed before he committed suicide, so his people could claim they would show something different.”
He was expressing the same thought I had considered at first, though I no longer believed that a possibility. “What difference would it make to Tim if he wasn’t going to be around?”
“Well, I’d say he hoped it would keep his name from being tarnished.”
And suicide wouldn’t tarnish it? I saw this was going nowhere, so I thanked the sergeant for his interest and said I would talk with him later. I’d barely finished relating the conversation to Jill when the phone rang again.
“I think I have what you’re looking for,” Charlie Brown said.
“What did you find?”
“A fellow named Harold Nixon. He was a roommate of Boz Farnsworth at Gainesville.”
“That’s the University of Florida?”
“Right.”
“What does he do now?”
“He’s a civil engineer. Works for the state in highway construction.”
“How did you find him?”
“Sorry. Us reporters are like you detectives,” he said with a chuckle. “We have to protect our sources.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “Sergeant Payne just got through telling me that you had confessed to being one of my sources.”
“Confessed? Come on, Greg. You never said anything about keeping your visit a secret. The secretary could as easily have told him you were here.”
“No problem, Charlie. Payne said you didn’t tell him what we talked about. He just assumed it had something to do with Tim Gannon since Tim had attended church there. I don’t mind him knowing I talked with you.”
“Good. You can be sure I won’t mention what we discussed with anyone.”
“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, do I need to look up Mr. Nixon in the phone book, or do you have a number for him?”
“What do you take me for, a cub reporter? Of course I have his phone number.”
I copied it down, then asked, “Is it okay to mention your name as a reference?”
“Sure. I don’t mind people knowing we’re acquainted.” He chuckled. “But it may not get you anywhere. Chances are he’s never heard of me. I got his name from a relative.”
“Thanks a million, Charlie.”
I told Jill what I had learned.
“Are you going to call this Nixon fellow?”
I checked the clock, which showed a little after eight. “Right now.”
When I dialed, the phone was answered by a teen-sounding voice.
“Could I speak with Harold Nixon?” I asked.
I heard the girl call out, “Dad...it’s for you.” He came on the line a few moments later.
“I got your name from Reverend Charlie Brown at Lost Bay Church,” I said. “My name is Greg McKenzie. I’m an investigator, and I was told you might be able to give me a little background on Bosley Farnsworth.”
“Must be about that mess at The Sand Castle,” he said. “I read where Boz was involved in it.”
“That’s right. I plan to talk with him when I can arrange it, but I’d like to know a little more about him before we meet. Would you mind helping me out on that score?”
“Fine with me. But I haven’t been too close to him in several years. I’m afraid we don’t travel in the same circles. You know who his dad is. Mine was a tire salesman at Sears. I run into Boz now and then professionally, but his thing is a lot different from mine.”
“When would be a convenient time to get together?”
“I’m sure you don’t want to get out in this storm tonight. Anyway, I’m helping a high school sophomore with an assignment due tomorrow. In case you weren’t told, I live in the area north of Saufley Field.”
Saufley was a Navy air base on the west side of Pensacola, and that gave me an idea. “How about having breakfast at the Cracker Barrel off Pine Forest Road near I-10?”
His voice brightened. “That I can manage. They have the best pancakes around. Would seven-thirty be too early for you?”
“Sounds fine,” I said. “See you in the morning.”
I noticed Jill had been listening with keen interest. “You aren’t going to the Cracker Barrel for breakfast without me,” she said after I had hung up.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, babe. You know, he sounded just like you. Said they have the best pancakes around.”
“Good. Then it’s a date.”
I took her hand like a French count and kissed the back of it. Then I did my Maurice Chevalier impression. “Mon cherie, I am thinking we have the date for tonight, non?”
She pushed up from the sofa, fingering the buttons on her blouse, and gave me a coquettish grin. “Why don’t you join me in my boudoir, monsieur?”
22
The moment we met Harold Nixon, I saw why the pancake breakfast had appealed to him. He was built like an inflated version of Drew Carey. Dressed in a tan suit that might have provided enough material for a pup tent, Nixon had short brown hair, a round face, bright blue eyes and the friendly, open smile of a man who knew how to get along.
After we had introduced ourselves and were ushered to a table, Jill inquired about his teenage daughter.
“She’s a good kid,” Nixon said with obvious pride. “She’s doing pretty well in school, but she’s still got a lot to learn. Says she wants to be an engineer like her daddy. We’ll see.”
We all ordered pancakes. Jill and I chose the variety with pecans scattered over the top. Nixon chose the full breakfast, with three eggs, sausage, biscuits and grits in addition to pancakes. I looked at Jill and grinned, knowing what she was thinking—There, but for the grace of me, goes you. I hadn’t been quite that bad a year ago, but I was on my way.
“So what do you want to know about my old roomie?” Nixon asked. “What has Boz done?”
Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 10
