by Kylie Logan
“Yeah. The view. That’s what got me into trouble in the first place. I couldn’t resist the view.”
“You’re talking about the burial mound.” I was glad, because I wanted to bring the conversation around to it, anyway. I leaned a bit to my left in the hopes of seeing more of the yard. “Can I—”
“See it?” He snorted, slid open the patio door, and led the way. “Sure. You might as well. Everyone else has been here taking a look at it—the state archeological society, the local historical society, a whole bunch of newspaper reporters.” We rounded the corner from the backyard to the side, and he waved toward a grassy bump, maybe a foot high and twelve feet across, just where the driveway ended and the lawn began. “There you go.”
“That’s it?” I cringed, and hoped that was enough of an apology. “What I mean is—”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. You mean you expected something more grand and mystical and tribal-looking. Hey, if this mound was a little more spectacular, maybe I would have noticed it when I bought the property. The way it is—”
“No one would ever know it was even here,” I said, moving around to the northernmost end of the mound for a look at it from another angle “Not if they weren’t looking.”
“Exactly.” Donahue turned and headed back into the house, and I followed him. “You can see why I was surprised.”
“So how did you find out?”
“About the mound?” He reached for a box of orange Tic Tacs that was on the counter and tapped a few out of the pack, and the way he chomped on them told me oodles about how he felt about the topic. “Some college kid here for the summer and doing a paper on indigenous people. Indigenous people!” His snort pretty much said it all. “They’re all long dead, so why should we care about them? What about the people who live here now?”
“The people who want swimming pools where ancient people are buried.”
The sarcasm was lost on him. “Exactly.” He grabbed a few more Tic Tacs. “Don’t we count for anything? It was right after I moved in, and when that kid came to me all excited about what he had found and said he was going to call the state to verify that it was what he thought he was, I offered the little creep five thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut. And you know what he said to me?” I knew I didn’t have to ask, and I was right, because Donahue went on. “He told me that history is more important than money. That we owe it to all the people who came before us to honor their memory. What a lot of crap!”
“So you were angry.”
“You’re darned right.” He picked up that scotch bottle and was all set to screw the cap back on when he paused and shot me a look. “I don’t suppose it’s any secret.”
“On an island this size . . .” My shrug said it all. “And I suppose if it’s true and if you didn’t know a thing about that burial mound before you bought the property, you have every right to be angry. Except yesterday, I heard that it’s not true. I heard that Vivien Frisk told you about the burial mound before you signed the papers on the house.”
Donahue’s dark eyes flashed. “Who told you that? Oh heck, what difference does it make?” He re-capped the bottle and took it over to the wide steel gray kitchen counter that bordered one side of the great room. “There’s always gossip in a place like this. And it’s not always true.”
Rather than taking the risk of looking too eager, I took my time joining him in the kitchen. “What about this time?” I asked him. “Is it true?”
“That Vivien told me about the mound? Absolutely not.” He grabbed a used wineglass from the counter and filled it with ice and water from the fridge. “Whoever told you that . . .” His fingers closed around the delicate stem of the glass and I waited for it to snap. “Well, I guess I can’t blame anyone if they heard the story and repeated it. But I know for sure where the lie came from. Vivien.” He bit his lower lip. “It must have been her. She was the only one who would dare to spread that sort of rumor.”
“You didn’t like her.” I remembered saying something similar to Chandra and how it had caused her to melt into a puddle of emotion and painful memories, but if I expected the same from Donahue, I was wrong.
He laughed. “No one liked Vivien.”
“And pouring that bucket of water over her at the memorial service the other day, that was your way of showing it.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut again. “Look,” he said, “I had kind of a rough night last night. I didn’t get much sleep. If you’re expecting me to make some sort of confession—”
“I’m not. Honest.” I held up a hand, Boy Scout–style. “I’m only looking to fill in the blanks. That’s all Hank asked me to do. One of the blanks definitely is not how you felt about Vivien. Everyone here on the island knows you two were enemies.”
“Yeah. Enemies. Right.” Donahue downed the water in his glass. “So what else is there for me to tell you? I was downtown last night at the bar in the hotel when I heard the news about what happened to Vivien. There were . . .” He pursed his lips, thinking. “There were maybe forty or fifty people there. Forty or fifty witnesses. I’m afraid I didn’t catch all their names but Joe, the bartender, might know most of them in case you want to verify my alibi.”
“Only it really wouldn’t, would it?”
My gaze locked to his, I let him think about it for a moment. “You were at the bar when you heard the news, but Vivien was killed earlier in the evening, and earlier in the evening . . .” Oh so casually, I ran a finger over the countertop. “You were right across the street from Estelle Gregario’s a little before seven thirty.”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, and I told myself it was exactly what I should have expected. A man like Zane Donahue doesn’t get where he is and what he has—the money, the reputation, the women—by caving easily.
“So?” he asked.
“So from what I’ve heard, Hank told you not to go anywhere near Vivien.”
He leaned forward, his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide, and just to be sure I heard him loud and clear, he raised his voice enough for it to ping against the open ceiling. “Are you listening to yourself?” he asked. “Because maybe if you were, you wouldn’t make stupid statements, Ms. Cartwright. After what happened at the yacht club on Thursday, you’re right, Hank did tell me to stay away from Vivien. And I did.”
“But Vivien—”
“Was at Estelle Gregario’s. Yeah, I heard. I heard that’s where she was . . .” He ran his tongue over his lips. “I heard that’s where they found her body. Only since I hadn’t seen Vivien, since I hadn’t talked to her, and since I was staying far, far away from her just like I was told to do, I couldn’t have had any way of knowing she was at her aunt’s, could I?”
He had a point, but he didn’t need me to tell him that. Even if there wasn’t a burial mound in question, I could see why Vivien and Zane would never get along. Not in this universe or in any other.
Two such huge egos couldn’t possibly coexist at one time and in one place.
“Then it was you I saw near the church yesterday.” He didn’t deny it, so I went right on. “What were you doing there?”
“What were you doing there?”
“Going to see Vivien.”
“Then maybe you’re the one who killed her.”
“I didn’t have any reason.”
“And you think I did?” He lit a cigarette and didn’t bother to turn aside when he blew a stream of smoke in my direction. “If you must know, I was enjoying the summer evening before I settled in with a few scotches over at the hotel. I had dinner at the Yardarm. Lobster bisque and a fish sandwich, and tell Hank that when he wants it I can provide him with the receipt. I’m sure there’s a date stamp on it, and a time stamp, too. After dinner I went over to the Frosty Pirate and got an ice-cream cone. Chocolate peanut butter. Yeah, I know. It’s not good for me.” He slapped a hand t
o his pancake-flat stomach. “But it sure was delicious, and once in a while, I like to treat myself. After that, well, I told you, I was at the hotel bar when I heard the news about Vivien. Looks like I’m not your killer.”
“I never said you were.”
“But you wondered.” Donahue moved through the kitchen and toward the front door, and I got the message: It was time for me to hit the road.
“Hank will probably have some follow-up questions,” I told him on my way out, mostly because I knew it was true but also because I wanted to make him squirm just a little. “And you can be sure he’ll be verifying your alibi.”
“Verify away!”
As soon as I was outside, Zane slammed the door behind me.
I grumbled all the way back to my SUV, and grumbled some more when I got as far as town and found out there was a library-sponsored parade all set to start. Don’t get me wrong, I love readers—especially ones like the kids who were lined up in DeRivera Park dressed as their favorite characters from books. But I was so not in the mood for the Cat in the Hat. Or Harry Potter. Or Winnie the Pooh. Just like I wasn’t in the mood to find streets blocked for the parade and my trip home put on hold.
With a sigh, I grabbed the first parking place I could find and got out of the car. If nothing else, I could take care of some business while I was downtown. I grabbed a copy of the local newspaper to check to see how my latest ad looked and headed over to the Frosty Pirate.
Hey, I was obligated, right? I mean, Donahue had mentioned it, and it would be downright sloppy of me if I didn’t check his alibi.
Besides, I had visions of sitting on the front porch that evening with an entire pint of ice cream, drowning my business woes and my detective troubles and my in-the-dumper love life in calories, chocolate, and peanut butter.
I headed past the shop that sold T-shirts and other island souvenirs, dodged a couple of people already coming out of one of the local drinking establishments a little tipsy, and made a right at the front door of the Frosty Pirate.
Where I stopped dead in my tracks.
Closed.
That’s what the sign on the door said, in big red letters.
Refrigeration problems.
Below that was scrawled, Sorry, and the owner’s signature, along with the date the sign had been hung.
Three days earlier.
Two thoughts hit simultaneously. The first was all about how I’d miss the chocolate peanut butter ice cream.
The second?
Bye-bye, Zane Donahue’s alibi.
8
With no promise of ice cream to brighten my evening, I dragged through the morning and afternoon, wondering about Vivien. There was no question what happened to her down there in that laundry room, of course. That was clear from the get-go. So I spent my time thinking about the biggest part of the equation—the who.
Who was in the house with Vivien?
Who had the motive and the opportunity?
Who wanted her dead?
And I couldn’t help but think that in other murders I’d investigated, I never seemed to have enough suspects.
This time, it was almost as if there were too many.
Cody Rayburn, Vivien’s stalker.
Zane Donahue, the man who made no secret of hating Vivien and who’d lied about his alibi.
Alex Canfield, who didn’t look like a suspect on the face of things because he claimed to actually like Vivien. In my book, that alone made him suspicious.
And then there was Chandra, of course. My mind always came back to Chandra. She of no alibi, no explanations, and a hatred for Vivien that had simmered for twenty years.
It was enough to make me crazy. And very sleepy.
I finally gave up and took a nap, and in an effort to thumb my nose at the Fates and my own way too overactive imagination, I left both the door to my bedroom and the door to my suite open. I woke just in time to hear the clock in the front hall strike six, and feeling more refreshed and more alert than I had all day, I uncorked a really good bottle of wine and settled on the front porch to look through the newspaper I’d picked up when I was downtown earlier in the day.
Or at least I would have if Jerry Garcia weren’t in my favorite chair.
“Shoo!” I don’t know why I bothered, since I knew there was no way the sassy tabby cared what I thought or what I wanted or that he was on my front porch instead being of over at Chandra’s where he belonged, but I set down my glass and the bottle of wine and waved both hands in his direction.
He watched me with as much interest as a fat cat can muster—right before he yawned and went back to sleep.
“Come on, Jerry!” Since my hands were free, I scooped the feisty feline off my chair and deposited him onto the porch floor. “Go home where you belong.”
Much to my surprise, he did. But not before he stopped to sniff the geraniums in the pots on the steps. I didn’t watch to see if he used them as he usually did: as a bathroom stop. I didn’t want to ruin my mood.
Instead, I settled down with my wine and looked over the front page of the newspaper and an article that talked about planned improvements at the marina. No, I’m not a boat owner, but boating and fishing are part of the lifeblood of the island. Anything that affects commerce and tourists affects me.
Especially when I have no commerce or tourists.
My sigh had just faded into the evening air when I noticed Kate coming across my front lawn.
“That better be a Wilder wine!”
“It’s not,” I called back to her. “But I bet I can talk you into a glass.”
She sauntered up the steps two at a time and peered at the label on the wine bottle. “French white burgundy. You really know how to tempt me, don’t you?”
“Get yourself a glass.”
She ducked into the house and was back outside in a minute. She poured, swirled, sipped, and smiled. “I’ll tell you what,” Kate said, “we might be able to grow chardonnay grapes around here, but they’ll never taste like they do when they come from the Côte de Beaune. This is one of the best perks of having a famous author for a friend. You can afford the really good stuff.”
“It is nice, isn’t it?” I sipped, too, letting the wine’s aromas of soft white flowers, dried grasses, and fresh apple and pear mingle with the slightly mineral taste and dance along my tongue. “It’s what the French call vin de soif,” I told Kate. “Thirst wine. Nice for just sitting and sipping, no meal required.”
“Except I’m starving.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, over the black Wilder Winery T-shirt she wore with khaki-colored shorts. “You want to go into town for dinner?”
“On a Saturday night in June?” She should have known better. “I might have a pizza in the freezer.”
“And I have a bag of salad greens.”
We agreed on the menu without another word and settled back to drink our wine, and after a few moments of quiet, Kate glanced at the newspaper I’d tossed onto the wicker table in front of my chair. “Marina, huh? Changes down there should make Luella happy.”
“And a lot of tourists, too.” I reached for the paper and flipped the front page, and it was a good thing I’d put down my wineglass before I did, or I would have dropped it for sure.
“The Twins.” I pointed one trembling finger at the picture that took up a good portion of the top of page two just so Kate couldn’t miss it. “Another interview with the Twins, and the picture was taken at Tara.”
Kate’s lips twitched in a way that told me she didn’t care.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have either. But . . .
I tapped my finger on the picture, right between Riva and Quentin. “That’s it,” I said. “That’s my curly maple highboy!”
I’d been so excited about having the piece in my house, of course I’d told Kate about it, so of course she was perfectly justi
fied in asking, “The one you bought from Estelle?”
“The one I couldn’t buy from Estelle because it wasn’t at Estelle’s when I got there. Now I know why.” In an effort to drown my outrage, I downed the rest of the wine in my glass. “They stole it out from under me!”
“Well, maybe not,” Kate said, then decided she was being altogether too reasonable. “But they must have, right? I mean, Estelle told you—”
“That I could buy it.”
“And Vivien told you—”
“To come pay for it yesterday and arrange to pick it up.”
“And the Twins—”
“Never said a word to me about it, not even when I was standing there in Estelle’s living room staring at the blank wall where the highboy used to be. That’s not right!” To emphasize my point, I slapped the newspaper back on the table and stood. “I’m going to talk to them about it.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Unlike Chandra, Kate is usually the voice of reason, and it was just like her to make the effort.
Only I was in no mood to be reasonable. “I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not, I want to know what happened and how my curly maple highboy ended up at Tara.” I went inside for my purse and made sure (okay, double sure) both the front and back doors were secured before I went back out onto the porch. “You coming with me?” I asked Kate.
She looked at the bottle of white burgundy wistfully. “When we get back—”
I wound an arm through hers and pulled her down the steps and to my car with me. “I’m not planning on attacking the Twins and making off with the highboy. I swear, we won’t get arrested and be gone for days and days,” I promised her. “When we get back, we can finish the bottle.”
• • •
My B and B is on the north side of the island. Tara is on the south side, not far from the western shore and the ferry dock. We went the long way around and managed to avoid the downtown crowds, but it was Saturday evening, the ferry ran into the wee hours, and people were still arriving in droves, looking to make the most of the perfect weather and the vibrant party atmosphere that gave the island the nickname “Key West of the Great Lakes.”
