“So you keep saying. But I need proof,” he said. “I have proof that Jody was at the crime scene. She had both guns in her hands. She’d fired both guns. She even had a pretty strong motive to shoot Cassidy.”
“Did you talk with Luella Marie?” I asked.
He nodded. “Nothing she said changes any part of our case against Jody Dalton.”
“Did Luella Marie tell you how she overheard Cassidy arguing with Fletcher?”
“She did tell me that. And I’ll talk with Fletcher about it.” He paused as if trying to choose his words carefully. “Still, that doesn’t change the evidence we have against Jody.”
“She’s lying,” I said. “She lied to me and she lied to you about what she saw that night. It makes me wonder why.”
“She lied?” He leaned toward me, suddenly interested. “How?”
I explained to him how the sliding doors to Cassidy’s house had been open and how the music had been playing. Someone was there with Cassidy, someone he was wooing. Was Luella Marie the object of his affection that night? Had he threatened to tell the world about her cosmetic surgery if she didn’t sleep with him? Had those threats worked? Did she kill him to stop him from talking?
Had Fletcher even been there? These were all important questions that needed to be answered. These were all questions that put Jody’s guilt into doubt.
“Jody was set up,” I said.
“Nothing you’ve told me suggests that,” he pointed out. “All it tells me is that Luella Marie is embarrassed about what had happened that night, so she changed the facts around.”
“Did she tell you that she went there to kill him? And that someone did the deed before she could?” I asked.
“She told you that? In those words?”
“Yes.”
He groaned before saying, “That still doesn’t change the evidence I have against Jody. I have evidence, Penn, not conjecture.”
I wanted to stamp my feet and scream in frustration. While I appreciated that Gibbons was doing the legwork and actually interviewing witnesses and potential suspects, I couldn’t understand why he was so stubbornly set on keeping Jody in jail. Clearly the facts he believed in so fervently, when looked at another way told a different story altogether. What I needed to do was to figure out who owned that second gun and which islander thought their secret was big enough to kill over.
But instead of actually stomping my feet and making a big scene, which would accomplish nothing, I lifted my hand from the ancient tree and rubbed my sore palm against the skirt of my sundress. “I’m worried about Gavin,” I said.
“I know you are.” His voice gentled.
While it looked as if I might never find my mother, there was still hope for him. He could still grow up with a mother who was present for him in his life.
He needed his mother. Jody might be a thorn in my side, but even Harley insisted she was a loving mother to her son. Yes, she’d made scores of bad decisions. Yes, she was always on the offensive. And yes, she distrusted nearly everyone. Good gracious, she was just like me.
I had no idea what had made her the way she was, no idea what had broken her. And her past really didn’t matter. Whether she wanted it or not, I was going to save her and, in turn, save Gavin. After that, I had no idea what I was going to do.
“You found something plastic and red in the sand at the crime scene,” I said. “Can you tell me what that was?”
“You know I can’t discuss those kinds of details of the case. I’ve probably already told you too much.”
I knew he was going to say that. But I didn’t let it deter me. I pulled out the red anxiety-relieving spinner from my pocket. “Is this what you found?”
The way his jaw tightened told me all I needed to know. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“They’re all over the beach, aren’t they?” I said.
He snatched it from my hand and slipped on his glasses so he could read the words printed in white on one side: Grilled to Perfection. “Not these,” he forced through his teeth.
“Fletcher has one just like this,” I said, feeling my heart rate start to speed up. “I watched him drop it today. And I found this one near the steps leading up to my apartment yesterday morning. Has Fletcher been following me?”
“Anyone could have dropped this outside your shop or on the beach,” he said, but he frowned as he said it. Was the little toy a piece of evidence that didn’t fit in with the rest? Was this the chink in their unbreakable case against Jody? “Fletcher could have dropped it after he and Cassidy fought.”
“If they fought,” I interjected.
“It’s a toy, Penn, not a murder weapon. It doesn’t point a finger of guilt at anyone.”
“No, but it places Fletcher at the scene of the crime.”
“So did Luella Marie. But that doesn’t mean he pulled the trigger. He doesn’t even have a gun registered to his name.”
That gave me pause. “He doesn’t?” I asked. “Althea told me that everyone on the island owned a gun.”
“Fletcher doesn’t,” Gibbons said.
“He doesn’t own a registered gun. Didn’t you say the murder weapon wasn’t registered to anyone?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I understand what you’re trying to do, and I respect it. But this”—he waved his hands around as if our conversation were a tangible thing—“this isn’t going to work. You’re grasping at straws and hoping one of them will look like a piece of evidence that proves Jody didn’t do what every other piece of evidence says she did.”
“There’s Johnny Pane,” I said desperately. “Cassidy had a powerful hold on him, and it clearly worried my painter. He told me the day before Cassidy’s murder that he had a plan to free himself from Cassidy’s clutches.”
Gibbons rolled his eyes, but said, “He said that, exactly like that?”
“Not exactly.”
Gibbons mumbled something under his breath and started to walk away. He didn’t make it too far when he paused and turned back to me. “Are you coming with me?” he asked.
“Coming where?”
“To grab a few straws.”
* * *
It appeared that Johnny Pane was dragging his brush over the same spot on the ceiling as he had been when I’d left with Gibbons. The detective put his hands on his wide hips and looked up at the painter.
“Could you come down here for a moment?” Gibbons said in an overly friendly tone. “I have a few questions.”
“About the night of the murder?” Johnny’s brush stilled. “I was wondering when you’d get around to talking to me about it.”
Step after step, Johnny slowly made his way to the ground. He then carefully cleaned his brush before looking over at Gibbons who had silently watched with a funny look on his face. It almost looked like amusement.
“Yes,” Johnny said as he came out from behind the plastic screening and settled into one of the café chairs. “I’m ready to talk.”
Gibbons smiled at the older man. “How well did you know Cassidy?”
“He would hire me from time to time. He was a real estate agent, you know?”
Gibbons nodded encouragingly. But he wasn’t writing any of this down. He hadn’t even taken his little notebook out of his suit jacket’s pocket.
“I’d work jobs for Cassidy from time to time,” Johnny said.
“And what did you think about him?” Gibbons prodded.
Johnny shrugged. “He paid upfront and in cash.”
“But he knew something about you, just like he knew things about many other people on the island?”
Johnny looked at the floor. “He’s dead. What he knew or didn’t know, doesn’t matter much anymore, now does it?”
“Not really,” Gibbons agreed. “But his death was a blessing to some around here.”
“To some,” he agreed. And that got me to wondering about Johnny’s secret. It had to be something pretty damaging that just the mention of Cassidy’s name had him ag
reeing to Jody’s demands.
From what I could tell, Johnny lived and breathed for his painting business. He worked for Cassidy. And Cassidy noticed things.
“Were you at Cassidy’s house the night he died?” Gibbons asked, apparently content to let Johnny’s secret remain a secret.
“I may have stopped by his house before meeting up with my daughter's family for dinner,” Johnny admitted.
“And did you talk to him?” Gibbons asked.
“I did.”
Gibbons sighed. “What time was this?”
What secret might a painter keep that would jeopardize his business? The only hold I could think of that Cassidy might have over a man like Johnny was one that threatened his painting business. And what could a painter do when left in a home, alone, working? Oh my goodness, of course, my missing salted sea turtles.
“Cassidy caught you stealing from the houses you paint!” I blurted.
Both Gibbons and Johnny’s heads snapped in my direction.
“You’d take things from the houses you painted. I imagine just little things,” I said in a calmer voice. “Cassidy noticed and threatened to get you arrested.” And I suddenly realized I was accusing him in front of a police detective. I held up a hand. “Don’t answer that.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. Don’t have rocks for brains, now do I?” Johnny said, which made Gibbons sigh.
“Did you confront Cassidy?” the detective asked.
“I planned to confront him, but when I got there he didn’t have time for me. Some woman arrived not more than a minute after me, now didn’t she? She was dressed in a large flowered dress, the kind you’d described, Penn. And she had a scarf over her head and was wearing dark sunglasses even though it was already dark out. Cassidy handed me a hundred dollar bill and told me to go away.”
“So the woman wearing the muumuu was the woman Cassidy was romancing that night,” I said, feeling a little triumphant. Luella Marie had lied to us.
Gibbons nodded, still focused on what Johnny had to say. “And Cassidy was alive when you left?”
“Very much so, sir.”
“And this woman you saw. If we talked with her, do you think she could confirm your story?” Gibbons asked.
The old painter shrugged. “She was so covered up, I couldn’t even begin to tell you how to find her.”
“Don’t worry about that. We already know her identity,” Gibbons said. “I’m sure you can understand why we’re not releasing her name.”
“A gentleman never names names,” Johnny said approvingly.
The two men smiled at each other. And that was it. Gibbons thanked Johnny for his time and handed him his card, telling him to call if he thought of anything else. And then the detective started to leave. Since I was still in no mood to stay in the shop, I followed him.
“Miss Penn,” Johnny called to me before I made it out the door. “I understand if you think you now know who’s been stealing your chocolate turtles, but I’m telling you as earnestly as I’m able that you’re wrong.” He glanced over at the collection of vintage teacups displayed on a shelf that lined the length of one wall. Were some of them missing? “Ask anyone on the island, I can’t eat chocolate. Gives me the worst kind of headache if I do.”
“Okay,” I said as I left the shop and locked the door behind me.
Gibbons was waiting for me. He gave me a sad smile. “Are you beginning to understand the trouble with grasping at straws when investigating a murder? It’s a Pandora’s box.”
“I suppose it might be.” Questioning Johnny didn’t help get Jody out of jail, and now I knew something about him that I really didn’t want to know.
“Look,” Gibbons said, “sometimes it’s not about the little details. Sometimes things are actually as they appear. For that matter, sometimes when I’m reading a crime scene what isn’t there leads me to the biggest clues.”
I nodded somewhat absently. I was still thinking about those missing salted sea turtles. If Johnny wasn’t taking them, who was? The thefts had stopped after I’d installed the security camera. Only a handful of people knew about the tiny camera I’d installed near the display case. Was that a clue, or was it coincidence? “So are you saying I should be looking for something that wasn’t at the crime scene but should have been?”
“No, I’m saying you should stop obsessing over tiny details that really don’t have much, if any, bearing on this case. Jody was holding both of the guns. She fired both of them.”
“She shot me with the murder weapon. But I don’t think she meant to. Don’t you see? It wasn’t her gun. She didn’t know it had a touchy trigger.”
“How do you know about its trigger?” he demanded.
“I don’t. Well, I didn’t. But I’m right, aren’t I? My goodness, I’m glad she shot me—by accident. This bullet wound might be the one thing that keeps her from spending a long time in prison.”
Gibbons growled at me. He told me he didn’t like the sudden gleam I’d gotten in my eyes. He told me not to go and do anything stupid. But I didn’t listen. Why would I? While I didn’t know who killed Cassidy Jones, I suddenly knew exactly how to catch him. Or her.
And after my dealings with the Maybanks, I was feeling more than a little reckless.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bertie was upstairs in the apartment, humming a happy tune as okra sizzled in a big pot of oil. I was glad she was happy. She deserved to be happy with Bubba.
“I’m going to walk Stella,” I told her.
My little dog must have sensed my agitation. She growled and nipped at my hand when I reached down to clip the leash onto her collar. “I’m not upset with you,” I told her, hoping my tone would calm her. She backed away and barked. It sounded like a warning, but I’m sure she was only reacting to my nervous energy.
My emotions felt like that sizzling pot of oil on the stove. I was still reeling from Althea’s betrayal and the thought of losing the Chocolate Box. If I lost the shop I’d also lose this apartment, which felt more like home than pretty much anywhere else I’d ever lived. Not to mention I was determined to catch a killer tonight. Not the safest of undertakings.
“Dinner will start at seven,” Bertie said as I headed out the door with Stella growling at me every step of the way. “Be sure to be back by then. Althea, Harley, and Gavin will be here as well as Bubba with his pork. It’s going to be like a party.” She must not have heard what had happened.
“Are you sure you don’t want it to be like a date?” I asked her. “Just you and Bubba and soft candles and his pork?”
Bertie laughed. “That Bubba is going to have to work a good sight harder before I’m going to give him any kind of break. That lame excuse he gave that he wanted to do something for Althea and Bailey … did he really think I wouldn’t realize that what he really wanted was an excuse to have dinner over here? If that boy wants to have a bona fide date with me, he’s going to have to come to me with that grubby Camellia Beach ball cap in his hands and ask me proper.”
“Good for you. You shouldn’t demand any less,” I said as I led Stella outside. I could learn a thing or two from Bertie about dating. She certainly knew how to stay in the driver’s seat.
I took Stella down the marsh trail that wound through some of the undeveloped areas on the island. While Stella sniffed around in the underbrush near the grassy marsh, I sent Harley a text. The more I thought about what I planned to do tonight, the more I realized how dangerous it would be to try and handle things alone. I needed help.
My first choice would have been to bring Althea along as backup. But I wasn’t talking to her anymore.
A hunky surfer with the ability to take care of himself (not to mention his awesome kissing skills)? I couldn’t have asked for a much better second-choice to bring along with me tonight. I hoped he’d agree. He’d already proven how he’d make a perfect sidekick.
REALLY? LOVE TO, he’d texted back almost immediately. I’LL HAVE BERTIE WATCH GAVIN.
That
was an odd response to my asking him to risk his neck to catch a murderer red-handed. I looked back at the short text I’d sent him. “Oh, no,” I said as I read what I’d hastily written. I hadn’t wanted to give a lengthy explanation of the trap I planned to set for Cassidy’s killer. For one thing, I didn’t want him to try and talk me out of it. For another, I was still working on the plan. But I should have written more than, COULD YOU JOIN ME ON THE BEACH ALL NIGHT TONIGHT?
He must have thought I meant … “Oh, no.” I mean, I wouldn’t mind … maybe … in the future … when I wasn’t still stinging from Althea’s betrayal.
I started to write back to explain that he’d misunderstood. I’d started to type, I NEED BACKUP, when Stella jerked her head up from where she was sniffing. A low growl rumbled in her throat as she watched the bushes.
A shiver traveled down my back.
“Hello?” I called out.
No one answered.
I looked around. We’d wandered far enough down the marsh trail that I couldn’t see any other buildings through the jungle-like growth of bushes, vines, and small trees. I suddenly felt isolated and vulnerable.
“Let’s get back to the Chocolate Box,” I said to Stella. She seemed to understand my words. With a quick “yip, yip” she led the way down the dirt trail. I had to jog to keep up with the quick pace my tiny dog had set. Something out there had spooked her. We both paused in the courtyard behind the Chocolate Box. She sat down and started to scratch one of her oversized ears. I stared at the marsh trail for several minutes, half expecting a madman to coming running out at us. When no one appeared, I started to finish composing my text to Harley.
I was about to hit “send” when someone behind me cleared his throat.
My nerves still on edge, I jumped.
“Is s-something wrong?” Fletcher asked. He was standing right behind me. Was he peeking over my shoulder in an attempt to read my text messages?
I whirled toward him as I shut off my phone’s screen and quickly stuffed it into my sundress’ pocket.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Y-you texted me,” he said.
“That was hours ago.”
In Cold Chocolate Page 24
