by Mary Maxwell
“Afternoon, detective,” I said. “I’m Liz Hutton. My brother Matt’s with the CBPD.”
“Sure,” he said, walking over and shaking my hand. “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
“I was on the way to Publix,” I said. “Since it’s in the area, I thought that I’d stop by and see if you’d be available for a quick conversation.”
He was tall and slim, wearing a white shirt, dark green tie and gray suit pants. The matching jacket was draped over the back of his desk chair. I noticed a picture of two Golden Retrievers on the credenza behind his desk. When he saw me studying the photograph, he asked if I liked dogs.
“And cats,” I said. “I plan to get one of each at some point. When I was growing up, we had two dogs and two cats, but I don’t think my apartment would be big enough for that.”
He smiled. “How did they get along?”
“Like a dream,” I said. “There was the occasional fight over chew toys, but we generally break those up by flipping a coin.”
He frowned slightly. “Yeah?”
“It always worked pretty well,” I told him.
“But how did they flip it?” he asked. “I mean, without thumbs and everything?”
I felt a flicker of delight. Handsome single men with a good sense of humor seemed to be in short supply lately. I made a metal note to ask my brother for more info on the CBPD’s new detective’s personal story.
“Touché,” I said.
“So?” He offered another toothy grin. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Well, I hope that you won’t mind, but—”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Are you here to ask if I’ll fix a parking ticket?”
I shook my head.
He chuckled. “Speeding ticket?”
“No, I’m a compliant driver,” I said. “The only time I’ve run afoul of the law was—”
“In ninth grade,” he said. “When you hit the gas instead of the brake and drove your mother’s Pontiac into the back of a patrol car.”
I smiled. “How do you know about that?”
“Your brother told me,” Ethan answered. “He gave me a tour of a few local highlights my first week with the department.”
“And it included mention of my high school criminal record?”
“We were walking by your aunt’s ice cream shop,” he said. “You were behind the counter helping customers. Matt gave me a quick recap of your family’s history in town and a few other things.”
“What else did he say?” I asked, hoping that my brother had left out the most embarrassing entries from my youth.
Ethan glanced at his watch. “I have a conference call in a couple of minutes,” he said. “We definitely won’t have enough time to go over everything that Matt told me.”
I sensed that Shaw was keeping something to himself about his conversation with my brother, but decided to ask him about that another time.
“Okay, so…” I reached into my pocket for the slip of paper with the license number from the SUV that Jacob Palmore saw in front of Simon Wargrave’s office. “Can you run this through the system?”
He looked at my hand, chuckled softly and glanced up at me. “Your brother said you’d do this,” he told me. “He claimed that solving puzzles and mysteries is one of your favorite pastimes.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I smiled. “Some people would call that an admirable trait to have.”
“You won’t get an argument from me,” Ethan said. “Matt also told me that you fell in love with police work when you were in Atlanta.”
“Well, to be fair, I’ve loved solving mysteries and puzzles since I was a little girl,” I told him. “I don’t plan to get in your way or anything. I was just having a conversation with someone earlier who told me something interesting that he observed at Simon Wargrave’s office.”
Ethan nodded. “You’ve been talking to Jacob Palmore.”
“Is that a question or a statement?” I asked.
“All of the above,” he said. “Mr. Palmore called the Crime Busters Hotline right after he heard about Wargrave. Since nobody else has come forward with that information, I figured that’s who you were referring to.”
“Do you know who the vehicle is registered to?”
He smiled. “I’d rather not reveal that information at this point.”
“I thought you might say that.” I took a breath and looked at the photograph of his dogs again. “What are their names?”
“Who are you…” He hesitated. “Do you mean my pups?”
“They have names don’t they.”
“Is that a question or a statement?” he asked.
I laughed at the look of triumph on his face. “Touché, Detective Shaw,” I said. “Since you have their picture in your office, I’m guessing that they’re your pride and joy.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“Alright,” I said. “Nonetheless, you don’t want anything bad to happen to them, right?”
His forward creased. “I’m not following you.”
“I’m talking in general terms,” I continued. “As a member of the law enforcement community, your job is to protect and serve, right?”
He nodded again. “Pretty much everyone knows that.”
“And one of the ways that you protect and serve is to identify and capture criminals as quickly as possible, isn’t that right?”
“Keep going,” he said when I paused for his response.
“And if that process can be expedited with the assistance of concerned citizens that you know and trust, why not share the identity of SUV’s owner?”
He held up one hand. “Alright, Ms. Hutton. I think we can put a pin in that argument.”
“Liz,” I said. “Ms. Hutton is too stuffy and formal for my taste.”
“Okay, Liz,” he said. “Like I already told you, Matt was pretty certain that you’d want to help with our investigation.”
“Smart guy,” I said.
“He is,” Ethan agreed. “Smart guy with a smart, clever sister. And even though it’s a bit unusual, I’ve worked with consultants before on my last job.”
I didn’t say anything. I felt his initial hesitation cooling off, and hoped that I could learn the SUV owner’s identify by simply being patient and allowing him to work through the idea on his own. Unfortunately, Detective Shaw wasn’t on the same wavelength. After a few moments of awkward silence, he was still hemming and hawing about departmental protocol, rules and regulations.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If I share something that I know about the owner, maybe you’ll be willing to tell me their name.”
He arched one brow. “What is it?”
“Do we have a deal?” I said.
“What if I already know whatever it is you’re going to tell me?”
I smiled. “Then I’ll vacate the premises and you can get on with your day.”
“My conference call,” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
“What is it?” he said again. “If it’s helpful to our investigation, I’ll consider your proposal.”
“Beachcomber Motel,” I said.
Shaw snickered. “Is that a local place?”
I nodded. “About a half hour south,” I told him. “It’s right on the beach a mile or so from Coral Glen.”
“And what’s the significance of the Beachcomber?” he asked.
“I noticed a parking tag from the motel on the rearview mirror in the Mercedes,” I answered. “In one of the pictures that Jacob Palmore took in front of Wargrave’s office.”
“Really?”
I held up my right hand and put the left on my heart. “On a stack of Bibles,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d notice it, since you’re new to the area and everything.”
He smiled. “And everything.”
I waited.
> “Okay, Liz,” he said a moment later. “I’ll share the guy’s name, but you have to—”
“Two stacks of Bibles,” I said, grinning. “I will not divulge the information to anyone.”
“I was about to add that,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that Chief Winslow will be okay with you doing some background sleuthing, seeing as how your brother’s a patrol officer and you used to work for the Atlanta PD.”
“And because I used to read Nancy Drew books to his daughters when I was their babysitter back in the day,” I said.
Ethan shook his head. “Small towns are funny. You never know the inside scoop until you’ve been around for a while.”
“Or until you meet someone who’s way ahead of you with the local gossip.”
“Like you?” he asked.
“Bingo,” I said.
CHAPTER 13
The Beachcomber Motel was a vision of pink and turquoise located beside the beach on the outskirts of Coral Glen. When I arrived late that morning, the parking lot was empty except for a light green panel van and a rusty sedan with duct tape around one headlight. The logo on the side—Mack’s Perfect Plumbing beneath an enormous red and black plunger—suggested the driver wasn’t there for the surf and sand.
“Help you?” asked the woman sitting in a folding lounge chair near the office entrance.
“Are you the manager?” I said.
She closed the magazine on her lap and offered a gap-toothed grin. “Close enough,” she said. “My husband’s officially listed on the paperwork, but I’m the power behind the throne. My name’s Val.”
“Nice to meet you,” I replied, walking over and shaking hands. “I’m Liz Hutton.”
Her face lit up with an even bigger smile. “Are you looking for a room?”
“No,” I said, reaching for my phone. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about a particular vehicle.”
The smile vanished. “Is this about Rollie hitting the beer truck?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s about a black Mercedes SUV with—”
She groaned. “Not that son of a biscuit again,” she muttered. “I told Kyle that guy was trouble the second he darkened our doorstep.”
“Kyle’s your husband?” I asked.
“My pet bird,” she replied. “My hubby’s name is Anthony, although most folks call him Third because he was named for his daddy and his daddy’s daddy.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Easy to tell the three of them apart that way.”
She nodded. “True. But it’s also a breeze to differentiate considering that Third’s the only one still above ground.”
I felt a twinge of regret for the comment, but it didn’t seem to slow her down. While I listened, she shared a story about her husband and someone named Rollie taking her Jeep Grand Cherokee to the store and accidentally backing into a beer truck that was making a delivery.”
“Cops thought maybe he was drunk,” she said. “But the strongest thing Rollie drinks is Pepto-Bismol Cherry Ultra.”
“Living clean, is he?”
She laughed. “Close enough. The truth of the thing was, Third told Rollie a horrible true story that involved a poodle, three gallons of road tar and an exotic dancer named Miss Enchantrella, who happens to be my—” She stopped in midsentence. “I am so sorry! You’d asked me about something, and I just went way off topic.”
I held up my phone so she could see the picture that Jacob Palmore had forwarded to the Crystal Bay PD. He’d copied me on the email, so I’d driven down to the Beachcomber to see if I could help identify the owner of the vehicle.
“Okay, right!” she said. “That nut’s from Jacksonville.”
“Is he still staying with you?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not after he ruined the last towel,” she said. “I gave him fair warning. The first one, I let it slide. I figured that some folks are raised in a barn and need a gentle nudge toward acting civilized. The next four times, my blood pressure went up higher and higher. And then, night before last, he did it again. I had Third go down to the room and talk to him. That went about as well as you can expect, considering you’re trying to have a polite conversation with somebody that wallows in the mud, eats for hours and nudge his snout into other peoples’ business.”
“I heard that pigs are actually pretty intelligent animals,” I said.
“Hey, anything can be considered smart if you lower the bar enough,” she said.
“I can see that side of the coin,” I said. “How did he ruin your towels?”
She smiled. “Because apparently the man eats Smokehouse for every meal.”
“The barbecue joint?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Val replied. “Mr. Oinky Doinky has a thing about using regular paper napkins. And his diet seems to consist of nothing but barbecue, fried food and chocolate truffle candies. You can imagine what our crisp, clean white towels looked like after he wiped his ugly mug on them.”
“And he prefers the food from Smokehouse?”
“Morning, noon and night,” Val said, rolling her eyes. “He either had it delivered to his room or drove to the restaurant. It’s no wonder the guy’s got my mama’s trifecta definition of a fool down pat.”
“Okay,” I said. “I have to ask. What’s your mother’s trifecta?”
She laughed. “Flabby, shabby and gabby! Flabby from eating all the wrong things for every meal. Shabby because he’s got barbecue sauce and chocolate down the front of his shirt half the time. And gabby because all the sugar and whatnot makes him talk a mile a minute from sunrise to sundown.”
“Sounds like a real prize,” I teased.
“For the loser, sure thing,” she said. “And I probably sound kind of harsh, so I apologize. I’m sure he’s got some redeeming qualities, but I’m not interested in scraping off all the muck to find ’em.”
“No doubt,” I said. “Any chance you know where he’s from?”
“Far side of the moon,” she said. “One that’s made of stinky cheese, I expect.”
“Did you say something about Jacksonville?”
She nodded. “That’s where he lives.”
I lifted the phone again so she could see Jacob’s photograph. “Thus, the Jaguars decal on his rear window, right?”
“That’s right,” she answered. “If he wasn’t talking about barbecue or chocolate, he was blabbering on about football.”
“And do you know his current whereabouts?”
“No, ma’am. He said something about driving up to Crystal Bay for some business meetings, but I couldn’t tell you where he is right this instant.”
“Would you be able to tell me his name?” I asked.
She frowned. “I called him Jabba the Mutt. You know, after that huge tub of lard in Star Wars?”
“Sure,” I said. “And what do other people call him?”
“Oh, I wish that I could say,” she replied. “But there are all kinds of laws about giving out personal details if you own a business. I really wouldn’t feel right divulging that information.”
“I completely understand,” I said, checking the picture on my phone again. “I have his license plate number, so that should help track him down.”
She cupped one hand beside her mouth. “Want another way to do the same thing?”
I nodded.
“I’d suggest his favorite restaurant,” she whispered. “Right about five o’clock or so, when they’re offering two-for-one draft beers and the ribs are half priced.”
CHAPTER 14
My nose detected the tangy aroma of Smokehouse Bar-B-Q when I was still a couple of miles away. The popular casual dining spot had been a legend with locals and tourists since the original owners began offering a five-pound rib eye steak for free if a single diner could consume the entire slab in one sitting.
My father had come close to claiming the dubious honor when I was sixteen. I’d been so embarrassed by the display of gluttony and machismo that I snuck out of t
he restaurant midway through his attempt. But now, pulling into the Smokehouse parking lot, I laughed at the memory and missed my father a little bit more than usual.
“Welcome to Smokehouse!” chimed the young guy at the reception desk. “How many in your party, ma’am?”
I held up a solitary finger. His dazzling grin faded a bit.
“Oh, okay.” His eyes bobbed around the room. “I can get you into a two-top by the kitchen. Would that be okay?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Emily Baxter,” I said. “Is she here this afternoon?”
“Is she expecting you?”
“I don’t exactly know,” I told him. “I left a message on her voicemail, but I didn’t hear back.”
He winced slightly. “Hmmm…”
“Is this a bad day?”
“Are you a friend of Emily’s?”
“We went to high school and college together,” I said. “I lived up in Atlanta for a few years, so we haven’t actually talked since graduation. But I was hoping to chat with her briefly about something important.”
The door opened and a rowdy group of middle-aged men and women poured into the restaurant. I noticed the look of panic on the young guy’s face, so I suggested that I wait at the bar while he took care of the new arrivals.
“Gosh, that would be awesome,” he said. “I’ll look for Em right after I get these folks settled at a table.”
“Sounds great to me,” I said, sliding between two beer bellies covered in plaid flannel.
I found a spot at the bar and asked for a club soda with lime. The bartender gave me a snarky look, but I left a sizable tip to compensate for the paltry order. While I waited for the host to finish herding the noisy group to a large table on the mezzanine level, I sipped my club soda and glanced around the room. The place was packed with two-for-one fans from the area and hungry travelers taking a break from the highway. I was watching an elderly couple dancing to an old George Strait number beside their table when someone tapped my shoulder.
“Is that who I think it is?” someone asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. It was Emily Marsden, looking not a day older than she did when we graduated from college. I slid off the barstool and we hugged for a good five minutes. When we finally lowered our arms and stepped apart, Emily’s eyes were damp and she was dabbing at her cheeks with a napkin that she’d grabbed from the bar.
