Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  Following the direction of her good arm, I saw dark shapes bobbing in and out of the water, sometimes propelling themselves completely out in a graceful arc.

  “Glad you had some success at dolphin watching,” I said. “I wish I could say the same for my detecting.” I told her about my unsuccessful attempt to reach Detrich.

  “What about Baucus, the developer?” she asked. “Didn’t Walt say he also had a copy of the plans?”

  “True. And I’m sure he could clue me in on Mr. Detrich.”

  I went back to the telephone and called The Sand Castle office. Again I was given a phone number in Biloxi. There I reached a receptionist who informed me that Evan Baucus was out of town.

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “He should be here Friday. He’s visiting corporate headquarters.”

  Walt had said the development firm was Perseid Partners. “What corporation would that be?”

  “Perseid, Limited,” she said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I was beginning to feel like a baseball player in a batting slump. I had struck out again. “No,” I said. “I’ll contact him later.”

  Jill had come in from the balcony. When I gave her the bad news, she shook her head. “Doesn’t sound like you’re making much headway, dear.” She held out the bag with the velvet jacket in it. “What about Sherry Hoffman? Are we going to confront her with this?”

  I nodded. “Looks like that’s all we’ve got at the moment. But we’ll keep it under wraps until the time is right.”

  Jill had brought along a large handbag that I always kidded her looked more like a weekend bag. I had her drop in the red jacket to serve as my ace in the hole when we called on Ms. Hoffman. But first I had to find her.

  A call to Coastal Realty brought word that she was not in the office today. She was not feeling well and had decided to stay at home.

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said, trying to convey genuine concern.

  “She isn’t sick, actually,” the woman said. “I mean she isn’t ill. It’s just that she lost a friend she’d known a long time. I think it hit her pretty hard.”

  “Anybody we’d know?” I asked. Of course, she had no idea who I knew, since I hadn’t identified myself. But she took the bait.

  “He wasn’t from around here,” she said.

  When I repeated the conversation for Jill, she gave me a puzzled look.

  “A friend she’d known a long time? A man?”

  “It may be somebody else,” I said, “but it sure sounded like Tim. Somebody from out of town who just died. Sounds like we’re on the right track, doesn’t it?”

  “Do we pay the lady a visit at home?”

  “Absolutely. But I doubt it would be wise to call in advance. She might put us off with the excuse that she’s not feeling well. Anyway, surprise is always good to have on your side.”

  “Think she’ll talk to us?”

  “If she won’t, we’re back to square one.”

  Chapter 19

  It was after 3:30 when we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and turned right onto Gulf Beach Highway. Sherry Hoffman’s home was in an upscale development not far past the Big Lagoon State Recreation Area, a heavily forested park that looked across to the National Seashore on Perdido Key. I turned between angular stone pillars that marked the subdivision entrance and drove past trim green lawns, fashionable homes, mostly brick, many with large boats perched on trailers in the driveway.

  The real estate broker’s street ran along the waterfront. I found her mailbox beside a concrete drive that ended beyond a decorative stone wall. The wall partially hid a long brick ranch with a dark red roof, almost a match for the velvet jacket. As I turned the Jeep into the driveway, palm trees swayed in the closely cropped yard. A bed of red and white impatiens accented the wall.

  I parked in front of a closed garage and we walked across herringbone-patterned bricks to the front entrance. The door was large, mahogany, with shiny brass hardware, and stood behind a black wrought iron security door. I pressed the lighted button and waited. I was beginning to wonder if she had changed her mind about staying home when the door opened slowly.

  Appearance-wise, Sherry Hoffman lived up to her billing. She had a strikingly attractive face with wide brown eyes. She looked closer to thirty than forty. Long, tanned legs below bright green shorts provided the foundation for a shapely body. A short-sleeve green shirt that left her midriff bare completed the skimpy outfit.

  “My name is Greg McKenzie,” I said, smiling. “This is my wife Jill. I hope we’re not intruding. I’m investigating the accident at The Sand Castle, and I need your help. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”

  She frowned. “Are you with the county?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m a private investigator.” It was a risk, but one I felt I had to take.

  “Who are you working for?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. I’ll try to keep it short, though. I know this has been a difficult time for you, witnessing that terrible tragedy Friday night.”

  “Who told you I was there?”

  “It came from Sgt. J. W. Payne.” Not directly, I didn’t add.

  Her shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, then she unlocked the security door and invited us in. Finally, I had something to thank the sergeant for.

  The first thing I noticed as we entered was the unmistakable scent of Shalimar. I glanced around and saw Jill twitch her nose. The second thing I noticed was the bizarre collection of furnishings. Sherry Hoffman led us through a living room that looked like a combination of South Sea Islands and Disney World. A large wooden sculpture I took for a Polynesian god stood in one corner. Tropical plants and rattan furniture abounded, along with large, stuffed Disney characters placed about like live occupants. We crossed a glassed-in den with recliners in colors that practically glowed, a large TV and enough books to delight a New York Times reviewer. I believe it’s called a Florida room down here. We emerged through a rear entrance onto a broad terrace with a marble-chip terrazzo floor. That led us back to the South Sea mode, where a small grass hut was surrounded by plants and totems and beach chairs. A swimming pool lay just beyond.

  I now knew what Charlie Brown meant by kooky. Actually, I had been known to display a few oddities around the house myself, like an album full of beer bottle caps my dad helped me collect—some kids had to settle for postage stamps. But Sherry had me beaten hands down. Still, no more than ten feet away lay a small island of normalcy, where ordinary white metal chairs were clustered around a glass-topped table. A big flowered umbrella sheltered the table, its scalloped edges flapping in the strengthening breeze.

  Stopping behind one of the chairs, she spoke in a bittersweet voice. “I love it out here at this time of day, but I don’t often get the chance. Please have a seat. I rather doubt that I can be of any help. My only connection with The Sand Castle project was to help sell a few units.”

  As we sat down, I looked out across the lawn to the rippling waters of the lagoon. Billowing white clouds had begun to crowd the sky overhead; darker ones were farther out. In the distance a line of white dunes cluttered with sea oats and scrubby bushes—the Gulf Islands National Seashore—stretched endlessly in either direction. Man’s wasteland, I reflected, was an endangered mouse’s castle. And that thought brought me quickly back to the woman across the table.

  “I understand you’ve had some problems with Evan Baucus, The Sand Castle developer,” I said, locking eyes with Sherry.

  She took a deep breath before answering. “You might say that.”

  As she continued to stare in silence, I realized this could turn into one of those teeth-pulling interviews. “What was the problem?” I asked.

  “No big deal.” She tried to sound indifferent, but she moved her hands nervously and shifted her eyes toward Jill and back at me.

  “I was told it involved some controversy over sales you thought were yours.”

  She folded her
arms defensively. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I guess it’s no secret. When the project first started, I proposed that Baucus use my firm to handle pre-sales. He said he had a sales staff of his own. What he meant was he didn’t want to have to pay a commission.”

  “You must have talked him into it.”

  “He finally bowed to the inevitable, agreed on three percent for clients brokers referred to him.”

  “Did he pay you for those?”

  “Eventually.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t see what this has to do with the accident.”

  I smiled. “Just background. Have you had any dealings with Claude Detrich, the general contractor?”

  “No.”

  “None at all? Not even casual contact?”

  “I always steered clear of him. Frankly, he’s a boor.”

  “What about Bosley Farnsworth?”

  The nervous movements intensified. “Boz and I are friends socially. We never talked about his work on the condo.”

  That seemed unlikely, if both of them were involved in the project. But I let it go for now.

  “How long have you known Tim Gannon?” I asked.

  Her eyes clouded and signal flags went up everywhere. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because the lady at your office told me the reason you decided to stay at home today. She said you’d just lost a male friend from out of town you had known for a long time. Tim Gannon was buried yesterday in Nashville.”

  A muscle twitched in her face as she looked down at her hands. “Some employees talk too much.” Looking up again, she said, “I’m sure you know my father was Admiral David Hoffman. I met Tim back when he was a pilot at the Naval Air Station. It was a real surprise when I found he was the architect for this project. I hadn’t seen him in...I guess around fifteen years.”

  “Were you close friends back then?”

  “You’re getting pretty far removed from the accident again,” she said.

  “Do you think Tim was responsible for the balcony falling Friday night?”

  She frowned. “That’s what they’re saying in the newspaper, isn’t it? I’m no engineer, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “When did you last see Tim?”

  “At the party, of course. Everybody else just stood around gaping when the balcony fell, but he started the rescue efforts. He risked his own neck to pull up one unconscious man. Tied a fire hose around his waist and had Detrich lower him through the doorway.”

  “Do you think he committed suicide?”

  She started to open her mouth, then closed it. She pushed herself up from the chair, stood and leaned her hands on the glass table, eyes flaring. “Who are you, Mr. McKenzie? And what are you investigating?”

  I reached across and took the large handbag from Jill. “I’ll answer that in just a moment, Miss Hoffman. But I have one more question.” I pulled out the red jacket and laid it on the table. “Do you remember where you left this Friday night?”

  She stared at it, eyes widening. “Where did you get my jacket?”

  I stood up and Jill followed. Facing your quarry from an inferior position isn’t good interrogation technique. “We found it in our condo at Gulf Sands, where Tim was staying,” I said. “You were there Friday night—your perfume still lingered when we arrived yesterday. The key to the condo Tim had is missing. Do you have it, Miss Hoffman?”

  She grabbed the jacket like a pelican snatching a fish from the surf. “Of course not. What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, just looking for some answers. I guess Tim never told you who owned the condo he stayed in. We’re from Nashville. His parents are our closest friends. I’m a retired Air Force OSI agent, and Tim’s dad asked me to come down here and find out who killed his son.”

  “Who killed...?” She gasped.

  “We don’t believe he committed suicide.”

  “But the newspaper said—”

  “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.

  Chapter 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 tol
d 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.”