by D P Lyle
It was just after six p.m. when we met Ray and Pancake in the lobby and headed out. The descending sun lit up The Boardwalk while burnishing the gently rocking sailboat masts in the marina. Oddly hypnotic, they looked like a series of synced metronomes. It was warm with a light breeze off the Gulf adding a welcome hint of evening chill.
Ray and I fell in behind Nicole and Pancake. She had hooked his arm with hers. I smiled. I liked the fact that over the past few months they had developed a special bond. Not exactly brother-sister, but close. I think they had a mutual respect for each other’s smarts. To a casual observer, neither gave that impression on first blush. Pancake was a big-ole lumbering dude, and Nicole, well, just look at her. Stereotypes being what they are. I had known since we were kids that Pancake was smarter than the average bear, and Nicole continually amazed me. I mean, this whole documentary cover she conjured up was pure genius. And if Monica back at The Tidewater and Betty Lou were any indication, it was working.
If I had harbored any ideas that The Boardwalk wasn’t the center of Pine Key’s social actives, tonight would have quashed them. It was packed with people strolling over the warped wooden planks and filing in and out of shops, bars, and restaurants, everyone at an easy pace.
I imagined Billy Wayne here, mingling unnoticed with the “normal” folks. Like a shark in murky water, seeking prey. No one the wiser. Billy Wayne’s innocent face would definitely have blended in. I saw many such faces flow by. Was one of these the next Billy Wayne? Like sharks, serial killers seemed to possess a knack for locating victim-rich hunting grounds. If Billy Wayne found Pine Key, someone else could.
I pushed those thoughts aside. The evening was too nice for that brand of darkness.
We ended up back at Woody’s. Nicole had apparently told Pancake how good the food was, so he insisted. Besides, Nicole wanted another giant margarita. An idea I wholeheartedly supported.
Nicole did indeed order another sixteen ouncer, this one peach. I was sure she had a wooden leg. Or a cast-iron stomach. Maybe both. Either way, she could handle her alcohol. Pancake opted for the same size, only blackberry. I had the regular margarita, Ray bourbon.
Our waitress this time was Laurie Mae. Said so right on her name tag. Tiny would be the word. Barely five feet and a hundred pounds soaking wet. She wore cutoff jeans, frayed at the edges, and a plaid shirt, the hem tied to expose her middriff. Feisty would be the other word. She had a certain electricity about her.
“You the folks from Hollywood?” she asked.
“We are,” Nicole said.
“Mom said to take good care of you.”
“Mom?” I asked.
“Betty Lou. She’s my mom.”
Now I saw the resemblance. Same large, active blue eyes, and infectious smile. Laurie Mae simply a much smaller, slimmer version.
She looked at Pancake. “You look like you fell down some steps.” She fingered the side of her own face.
“Sort of,” Pancake said. “Alcohol and bicycles don’t mix.”
Laurie Mae laughed. “You’re cute.”
“That I am.”
Laurie Mae gave him a lingering smile. “Mom’ll be over in a minute.” She glanced toward the bar, where Betty Lou sat talking with a guy. “Actually, several minutes. She’s having an issue with one of our beer suppliers. He wants to raise the rates.” She leaned down, lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Ain’t going to happen. He just needs to learn you don’t try to snooker Mom.” That got a laugh from everyone. “Anyway, she’s got that list you wanted.”
“Good,” Nicole said.
She pulled a pad and pen from her hip pocket. “What can I get you folks?”
Nicole had another shrimp taco, but I passed, still full from our late lunch. Ray followed Nicole’s lead. So did Pancake, except he ordered four. Along with a bowl of clam chowder, a Caesar salad, extra dressing and croutons, and a side of onion rings.
While we waited, Ray went over their visit to the crime lab. He concluded with, “So, DNA was found in every case. Vaginally in only the first victim, and on the bedsheets in all seven. Prints also only at the initial scene.”
“That fits with what Billy Wayne told me,” I said. “After the first one, he wore gloves and used condoms.”
“Director Gaines also said the first victim put up a fight,” Ray said. “They found blood and skin beneath her nails. DNA there also matched Billy Wayne.”
“Billy Wayne said the first victim, Marilee Whitt, was almost an accident. He picked her up and when she backed out of having sex with him, his temper got the best of him.”
“So, he took what he wanted,” Pancake said. “But good for Marilee for putting up a fight.” He gave a half shrug. “Not that it did her much good.”
“Her fighting sure freaked Billy Wayne out,” I said. “He simply ran away. Leaving her there.”
“He also left a forensic trail,” Ray said.
“Again, thanks to her fighting him,” Nicole said.
“He told me the trip back to Tallahassee was a blur. He was panicked. Knew he’d made a huge mistake. Knew he should have stayed long enough to clean things up. He said it didn’t occur to him until he was a ways up the road. He considered going back but knew that wouldn’t have been wise. Better to just run with it. But he also said he knew right then that somehow, someday, he’d get caught.”
“He was right,” Ray said.
I sighed. “Unfortunately, that murder also woke up some demon inside him.”
“That’s an understatement,” Nicole said.
“The evidence Gaines went over with us correlates exactly with what Billy Wayne told you,” Ray said. “The first was a frenzied accident, of sorts, the others were planned.”
Our food arrived. Good thing I hadn’t ordered anything because this discussion was definitely an appetite killer. Not so for Pancake. But then, I’ve never seen anything come between him and food. Between mouthfuls, he laid out his thoughts.
“From everything I’ve read and heard, no one around here remembers seeing Billy Wayne. Before or after. At least no one came forward if they did. Means he’s very sneaky, or simply blended in well.”
“If you met him, you’d see why no one remembers him,” I said. “Even if they saw him. He appears pretty innocuous. Wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.”
Pancake dabbed clam chowder from his chin. “Likely means he didn’t hang around here between the killings. If he had, you’d think someone would remember. Even vanilla folks register if they keep showing up. Probably went back up to Tallahassee to cool down.”
“I didn’t think to ask him,” I said, “but that makes sense.”
“But, did he return to Pine Key?” Nicole asked. “If he’s lying, he came back and committed two more murders, and if that’s the case, why would he return here when he didn’t anywhere else?”
“Could be easy hunting,” Pancake said. “Seems like the kind of place where folks turn in early.”
“I guess some towns are too laid back,” Nicole said.
“So it would seem.” Pancake popped an entire onion ring in his mouth. “But if he’s being straight up with us, he didn’t come back. Someone else picked up the ball.”
Ray nodded. “The question is who? And how are the other two murders connected? Right now, I don’t see it.”
“Me, neither,” Pancake said. Another onion ring. “I can see Clark being good for the killing of his wife. But the other murder? Noleen Kovac?” He shrugged. “If he did that one, too, there’s a connection. We just have to find it.”
By the time we finished our meal, including the pecan pie and ice cream Pancake added to the tab, Betty Lou showed up. I introduced her to Ray and Pancake.
“You guys don’t look Hollywood.” Betty Lou laughed. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Ray said. “We’re private investigators.”
A look of concern laid across Betty Lou’s face. “P.I.s?”
“Ray is Jake’s father,” Nicole said. “He has a P.I
. firm. Over in Gulf Shores. But that’s not why he’s here. He and Pancake are technical consultants. To help us understand all the police stuff. Investigation, evidence, that sort of thing.”
“If that don’t beat all,” Betty Lou said. “You guys think of everything.”
“We try.” Nicole smiled. “We need to understand the crimes if we’re going to show how they affected everyone.”
“Makes sense.” Betty Lou pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “Here’s the list you wanted.” She handed it to Nicole.
“You got time to talk?” Ray asked.
“Sure.” She looked around. “A might bit noisy in here. Let’s take a walk, and I’ll go over it with you.”
“Sounds good,” Ray said. “As soon as we clear the bill.”
“On the house,” Betty Lou said.
“No,” Ray said. “We’ll pay. You got a business to run.”
“Want me to introduce you to a beer distributor? One that thought he could negotiate with me?” She laughed that great laugh of hers.
Ray raised his hands. “You win. Thanks.”
We stood. I tugged a couple of twenties from my pocket and laid them on the table for Laurie Mae. Betty Lou noticed and gave me a wink.
“You guys like cigars?” Betty Lou asked.
“Sure,” Pancake said.
“Me, too.” She waved Laurie Mae over. “Grab some of those R and Js and pour me a bourbon. Knob Creek.” She looked at us. “Anyone else want a bourbon for the walk?”
Sure, why not.
“Hell, just bring me the bottle and some glasses.”
The sun had dipped into the Gulf, the western sky now dark blue, and the crowd had thinned. We followed Betty Lou along The Boardwalk to a staircase that descended to an expanse of thick green grass near the southern edge of the marina. An array of redwood picnic tables flanked an ornate, white, octagonal gazebo. We settled around the gazebo’s central, white wrought-iron table on the matching bench seats. Concentric rope lights beneath the canopy cast shadowless light over us.
Betty Lou doled out the bourbon and we fired up our Romeo y Juliette cigars. Even Nicole had one. I swear I had no Freudian thoughts. I swear, I swear.
Nicole passed around the list Betty Lou had given her. While each of us looked it over in turn, Betty Lou talked.
“I think you’ll want to talk with Peter Swift, Loretta’s husband, of course. But also, Charlaine Anders. She’s Loretta’s younger sister. Helps run Swift’s Bakery. With Peter. He needed the help and she stepped up. She and Loretta were only a year apart so they were more like twins. Very close. Losing her sister was a big blow. She ain’t recovered yet. Peter neither for that matter.”
No one responded. Not much to say.
“Then I’d chat with Tommy Lee Kovac. He’s Noleen’s brother. He runs a fishing charter.” She pointed toward the marina. “His boat’s out there on Pier Three. Near the end. Got himself all sideways with the cops. Blamed them for not finding Billy Wayne earlier. Before he killed his sister.”
“Which cops?” I asked.
“Hell, Tommy Lee blamed all of them. But mostly Frank Clark and Terry Munson, his partner.”
“Clark’s wife was the third victim,” I said.
“Exactly. And that cooled Tommy Lee off in short order.” She knocked an ash from her cigar. “Mostly, anyway.”
“Mostly?” I asked.
She clamped her cigar with her teeth. It bobbed as she spoke. “Tommy Lee ain’t the kind to back down. Or admit he was wrong. Ain’t in his nature. But, for the most part, Frank losing his wife settled him considerably. Overall, I’d say they’re copacetic now.”
“What’s Clark’s story?” Ray asked.
“He’s been here, on the force, for quite a while. A dozen years at least. He and Munson handle most of the major stuff. Major for us. We don’t get murderers around here. Fact is, I think there’s only been one in the last ten or more years. If you take Billy Wayne Baker out of the equation. It’s more like burglaries, break-ins, occasionally an assault. Nothing very big.”
“I take it Clark and Munson are the top dogs around here?” Ray said.
Betty Lou smiled. “You could say that. Don’t think Chief Morgan could run the department without them. I mean, most of the other officers are good old boys. Do an okay job. But those two are pros. Don’t miss much as far as I can tell.”
“Sounds like you admire them,” Nicole said.
She nodded. “I do. I think most folks do. Leastwise those that don’t get sideways of them. They take lawbreaking seriously. You don’t want them sniffing around your dirty laundry.” She flicked another ash and laughed. “Relentless, I’d say. We like that around here. Makes those who plan to do something stupid reconsider their choices.”
“How did Clark take his wife’s murder?” I asked.
“Not well. Not well at all.” A puff, two, from her cigar, a sip of bourbon. “They were close. All the way back to high school. One of those situations that everyone knowed they’d end up together.”
“So no trouble in paradise there?” I asked.
She looked at me. “Why’d you think that?”
I shrugged. “No reason. Just trying to get a feel for everyone involved.”
The question was a mistake. Nicole thought so, too. She kicked my leg under the table. But my answer seemed to satisfy Betty Lou.
“Frank and Sara are, were, pillars of the community. She worked on about every board you can think of. Parks, planning, school, even the tourism board.”
“Did they have any kids?” Nicole asked.
Betty Lou shook her head. “No. I think they tried, but it never worked out.” Another sip of bourbon.
“You think he’d talk with us?” Ray asked.
“I’m sure he would.”
“What about Munson?” Pancake asked. “What’s the deal with him?”
“Terry Munson is God’s gift to women.” She laughed. “Don’t believe it, just ask him.” Another laugh. “Actually, he’s okay but he does have a rep for chasing the ladies.” She nodded back up toward her restaurant. “Seen him work his magic right up there many times.”
“I take it he’s not married,” Nicole said.
“Nope.” She watched the smoke rise from her cigar for a few seconds, and then said, “I think he was engaged, or at least had a regular, for a while. I forget which. Anyway, she moved away and since then I don’t think he’s had another long-term relationship.” She gave a quick nod. “I could be wrong on that.”
The list now lay in the middle of the table. Nicole slid it toward her and examined it. “Charles Morgan? He the police chief?”
“Yep. Good guy. Been the chief forever and a day.” She looked out toward the Gulf. “Over thirty years now.”
“Who’s Gwen Olsen?”
“She’s the mayor. Over twelve years now. I suspect she and Charlie can offer some insights on all this craziness.”
“Anyone else we should talk with?” I asked.
She glanced out toward the marina, as if thinking. A slow shake of her head. “Those should give you a good start. If I think of anyone else, I’ll let you know.”
“This is a huge help,” I said.
“Glad to do it,” Betty Lou said. “Like I said before, I like your idea for the documentary. Showing the other, less sensational, side of the story.”
“That’s the plan,” Nicole said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, just after eight a.m., I called to arrange an appointment with Mayor Gwen Olsen. Her secretary had just gotten in and said the mayor had twenty minutes at nine thirty. She also knew who we were.
“You’re the ones from Hollywood?” she asked. “Making that film?”
“We are,” I said.
“Cool.”
The small-town grapevine up and running.
Last night, after our meeting with Betty Lou broke up, and while we walked back to the hotel, Ray suggested that Nicole and I take the
lead on any interviews. His thinking was that we offered a “more benign face.” Less likely to cause any of the wrinkles that naturally follow the designation P.I. Even the moniker technical consultant might prove confusing and off-putting. As Pancake saw it—keep the temperature low in Pine Key. Ray and Pancake would remain in the background and handle any research or outreach to other jurisdictions.
A chunk of their research pinged my laptop as I hung up from the mayor’s office. It indicated that Gwen Olsen had served as Pine Key’s mayor for over twelve years, surviving a highly contentious first election, then easier reelections, the most recent four uncontested. Must be doing a good job. She and her husband, Ralph, owned a hardware store on Main and lived on Elm Street, just three blocks down from City Hall, which housed her office. I liked that. She could walk to work. Of course, anywhere in Pine Key was walking distance. Made me envious. With the sticky traffic in Gulf Shores, most days I wished I could walk to Captain Rocky’s. Sure would make life easier. But then, the mayor had to actually show up; with my manager, Carla Martinez, I rarely had to make an appearance. Except that Pancake, when he wasn’t at Ray’s, considered Captain Rocky’s his office. He was there most days and he enjoyed, actually expected, my company. Carla did, too. An unchaperoned Pancake usually resulted in mischief.
This morning, I opted for tan slacks and a navy blue RGP shirt; Nicole black slacks and a pink RGP shirt. We looked the part, now we had to play the role. Hollywood producers on the job. We were, in fact, stealthy spies digging for information.
Longly, Jake Longly.
When we stepped outside, the sky was clear and the temperature mild. I knew it was headed up, the high predicted to be near ninety by midafternoon.
City Hall was a white clapboard building, black trim, crushed shell walkway, and a gallery porch that extended its considerable width. Two pairs of white, slat-backed rockers flanked the front door, taking advantage of the shade. Two sixty-something ladies relaxed in the rockers to the left, one working a crossword, the other knitting. A small black dog lay between the two. They looked up and smiled as Nicole and I approached.
