The Boathouse (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 14)

by Vickie McKeehan

  Brent shoved the paperwork across the desk so Colt could read it for himself. “Carnaby worked for Joe Ferguson, and Joe Ferguson is the one who had the Camaro towed from the harbor. At this point, all old Vernon did was tow a car with a body in the trunk. Does it sound fishy? Sure. But I’ve got nothing yet that says the person in the trunk met with foul play. I don’t know how he died. It’s a little too early to pull Vernon in and accuse him of, by my count, upwards of five murders. Meanwhile, my prime suspect was shot and killed by an unknown intruder three weeks ago, and I still have nothing on anyone here who might’ve been Ferguson’s accomplice.”

  Colt began to see the problem. “We need to start connecting some dots.”

  “That would be an understatement. We have a big-ass puzzle with a bunch of pieces, and nothing connects anybody to anything. There’s Tessie’s murder to boot. I don’t see Vernon murdering a kid.”

  Eastlyn joined them in the office and closed the door behind her. “I got a chance to look at the skull and the bones when the coroner loaded the remains up in the van. I couldn’t see a visible bullet wound anywhere. Which means he could’ve been stabbed, drowned, or strangled. If we plan to link this death to the others, we need something definitive to prove it. It wouldn’t hurt to get the ballistics from that .38 we found at Tucker’s house. The lab checked it for prints and came up empty.”

  “So, where does that leave us?” Brent prompted. “August 1985. Joe Ferguson’s boat blows up in the harbor. We have two college kids executed, bullets to the head. Joe collects a sizeable insurance claim the next year, shoring up his hardware store. We now know one of Joe Ferguson’s employees, one Gordon Carnaby, goes missing around that same time. Now we know where he’s been for the last thirty-five years—in the trunk of his car. Fast forward to 1993. Joe Ferguson’s five-year-old daughter, Teresa, is found dead, strangled at a spot where she used to play.”

  “You can’t ignore the fact that everything revolves around one man. Joe Ferguson,” Eastlyn concluded.

  Colt nodded. “Which is why Ferguson needed eliminating to cover up a connection to him and all these murders. The hooker was a witness, collateral damage, wrong place, wrong time, sort of thing. She had to be die right along with Ferguson. The killer has no problem taking out anyone who gets in his way.”

  Brent leaned back in his chair. “It means we still have a ruthless, cunning, unknown sub out there somewhere.”

  “And no idea who that is,” Eastlyn added.

  “Yeah. He looks like you and me, acts like you and me. But on the inside, he’s a cold-stone killer. We don’t rest until we find this guy.”

  Twenty-Two

  Finding another body caused the whole town to freak out.

  It didn’t help things when Tucker realized Vernon Jackdaw was not Brent’s primary suspect. He had to accept there was no evidence connecting the scrapyard owner to what Oliver had found in the Camaro’s trunk. Even Oliver had to get used to the idea.

  “I was thinking,” the teen began the day after he’d found the bones. He sat perched on a barstool in Tucker’s kitchen, going over his idea. “I’ll have to give the ten bucks back to Todd. But maybe I could work my debt off some other way without having to go back to the junkyard.”

  “You don’t have to go back there,” Bodie said as she wiped down the counter while Tucker loaded the dishwasher. They’d eaten pizza earlier because they’d decided to hunker down at home with the dogs and let Brent handle everything else.

  It made sense to lay low and try to avoid any fallout from the killer. Whoever he was, he wouldn’t be happy about Oliver stumbling across another victim.

  Bodie got out dog food for Lago, Chewy, and Roxie and filled their dishes. “We’ll think of something. I could ask Margie if she needs a busboy or a dishwasher.”

  “No need to do that,” Tucker advised. “I need someone to sort through old stock at the store. It’s boring work but he’d be perfect for it. And since I already have a permit from the state to hire young workers, I’m already set up for the paperwork. Novah started working for me when she was only fifteen running the cash register.”

  “I’ll be working with the girl with purple hair, right? Cool.”

  “Don’t let the purple hair fool you. She’s a hard worker. And Owen was sixteen when I hired him to stock the shelves. And at the ripe old age of seventeen, Matty became assistant manager.”

  “I’ll be fifteen in August,” Oliver pointed out. “I’m good at sorting through old stuff.”

  “Really? It turns out we have a lot of old stuff around here that needs sorting,” Tucker cracked. “This house is a veritable stockpile of relics. Look around. There’s stuff on the shelves that’s been here since Reagan was in office. I’m ready to clean this place out for real and make it my own.”

  “Then why don’t I start right here?” Oliver suggested. “I don’t have anything to do now…and I could spend the night.”

  “Are you afraid to go home, Oliver?” Bodie asked. “It’s okay if you are. I’m a little scared to stay by myself, too.”

  “But you’re a girl.”

  Tucker chuckled. “I can vouch for that. But she isn’t the only one who’s got the jitters. Just because Brent had to let Jackdaw go, doesn’t mean you should stay home alone. I’ll call Kris and clear it with him first, though.”

  “That’d be great. I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt Chewy like they did Lago.”

  Bodie glanced over at the dogs chomping down on supper. “Chewy’s fine right where he is.”

  “He likes being back with his sister,” Oliver noted. Rubbing his hands together, he slid off the barstool, ready to get to work. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Let’s tackle those boxes in the garage. Toss out whatever I don’t need, which is probably seventy-five percent of what’s in them. The cartons are in the way. I’m tired of not being able to get my truck inside at night.”

  Before it got dark, the trio went to work, digging through the boxes and trashing old documents and useless receipts from decades back.

  After emptying several of the cartons, Bodie came across a treasure trove of old photographs. “Why don’t you go through the pictures, that way, you know what you want to save or get rid of. Although I personally think it’s a good idea to hold on to old photos. And your parents did take all these with them to Florida when they moved. They must’ve considered these special, so keep that in mind.”

  “She’s right,” Oliver stated in a wise voice. “Even now, I still like looking at pictures of my mom and dad. I have one in a gold frame that sits on my nightstand.” When he realized what he’d disclosed, his cheeks turned bright red from embarrassment. “Not that I sit around looking at pictures of my mom and dad.”

  Tucker downplayed the admission. “I get it. Here’s a nice photo of my parents on their wedding day.”

  Bodie stopped to take the heavy porcelain frame out of his hands. She studied the couple in the photo, the bride wearing a lace wedding dress, the groom dressed in a tux. “See? This might be the only one of its kind commemorating that day. Look how happy they seem. They’re all smiles staring into each other’s eyes, their faces filled with hope.”

  “Happy ever after certainly didn’t last long with them,” Tucker muttered as he set the photo aside and began to go through more loose snapshots until he found the ones his mother had framed from his childhood. He held one up in a red picture frame. “This was Tessie and me sitting on Santa’s lap down at the pier. See the harbor in the background? I have memories of watching the Christmas parade from the sidewalk on Main Street, waiting to get a look at Santa. He would always arrive on the very last float, his sleigh pulled by a horse. I think even way back then Wade Hawkins had white hair. The beard was fake, though. But I didn’t care. We would follow the sleigh around the corner until it stopped right in front of the water, and all the kids would get in a long line with their parents, waiting to sit on Santa’s lap and get their pictures taken.”

&nbs
p; Bodie took the frame out of his hands and saw two adorable tots looking up at the guy with the white beard. “Aww, you both look scared to death. How old were you there?”

  “I was probably four, Tessie two.”

  “That’s a keeper then,” Bodie said as she set the frame aside on top of one of the cartons.

  Two minutes later, all three dogs sprinted out of the house and into the garage. They started a game of chase, bumping against legs, careening over trash sacks, weaving in and out of boxes. Bodie wasn’t sure which dog’s tail swished into the photos she’d set aside, but all the frames went flying, crashing onto the cement. There was the sound of breaking glass as the shards scattered everywhere. Glass splinters littered the floor.

  Tucker grabbed at the first dog he could reach, which happened to be Roxie. Oliver made a mad dash for Chewy while Bodie tried to tackle Lago to keep him from stepping in the sharp broken pieces.

  Once they’d corralled all three canines back in the house, Bodie returned to see Tucker already sweeping up the mess. She bent down to shake the glass off the photos. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “Yeah, but I should’ve taken the time to put the photos you wanted to save inside the laundry room on the washer.” She looked down at the picture of Santa, Tucker, and Tessie. “Wait a second. There’s another photograph here behind the one with Santa Claus.”

  “Let’s see.” Tucker stared at a much older photograph in black and white—three men posing for the camera, standing on the deck of a boat, water in the background. The three men had their arms outstretched and resting on each other’s shoulders. His father stood in the middle. On one side was a man dressed in a white t-shirt with bib fishing pants. On the other side of Joe stood a guy dressed in a light khaki shirt and dark khaki pants. “That guy’s wearing a police uniform. That’s a deputy sheriff.” He flipped the photograph over to read the writing. He recognized his father’s familiar scrawl.

  Maiden voyage of the Stella Greer. May 1981. Clive, Gordon, and me.

  Bodie glanced up at Tucker and saw the look of astonishment on his face. “Clive? Is that the same Clive you guys call ‘the sawman’ at work?”

  Tucker swallowed hard. “I’m afraid so. But I never knew he was a cop. He came around after my dad left for Florida looking for a job. I thought I was doing him a favor. He certainly knew how to work a saw. Look, you stay with Oliver. I’m taking this to Brent.”

  “No way. If Clive has ties to this, he’s been watching you all this time, staying close to monitor your every move. We should all three stick together.” Bodie opened the door to the utility room and yelled for Oliver. “Round up the dogs. We’re going with Tucker.”

  Eastlyn showed Todd Ferrin and his father into Brent’s office. She watched as a nervous Todd sat down and began to tell his story.

  “Two nights ago, I got this phone call asking me if I wanted to make some money. All the guy said was that I needed to get this kid named Oliver, who worked at the junkyard to get him to grab some emblems off a Camaro. He said if I was interested, there would be an envelope in my mailbox with a hundred bucks for me and fifty for the kid. He said he’d leave pictures inside so the kid would know what to look for. Once Oliver came up with the emblems, I was to put them in a box and leave them under the pier for pickup. At first, I thought it was a prank my buddies thought up. That is until I checked the mailbox. I figured the guys I hang with don’t have that kind of cash lying around. So, I figured, what the heck? I’ll do it. I wasn’t gonna turn down a hundred bucks. Plus, I figured a kid like Oliver could use some cash, too.”

  Brent folded his arms across his chest. “So basically, you were doing a public service, suddenly turning into a philanthropical man about town, is that right?”

  Todd’s father, Dave Ferrin, tried to stifle a chuckle. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. But you know kids.” He gave his son a sidelong glance. “Now hand over the envelope with the cash.”

  “But I went along and did my part,” Todd protested as he slid the white envelope across Brent’s desk.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Brent began, handing it off to Eastlyn. “By my count, there should still be a hundred and forty dollars in there. We’ll hold it as evidence. Once the case is closed, we’ll give it back.”

  “Really?” Todd said. “All right. But what about Oliver’s forty?”

  “You’re right. Oliver should get his share. Still looking out for the little guy, huh, Todd?”

  For the first time since entering the office, Todd grinned. “He’s the one who found the body. I’m glad that wasn’t me.”

  After father and son had gone, Eastlyn and Colt huddled around Brent’s desk for a brainstorming session.

  “Wow. Someone is going the extra mile to muddy the waters and misdirect this case,” Colt surmised.

  “Would Vernon be clever enough to send us to his place to find the body?” Eastlyn stated. “I mean, this was all a ruse to find the body, which we did. Who wanted us to find Gordon Carnaby, and why now?”

  “Obviously, he’s deflecting attention from himself and putting it squarely on Joe,” Brent speculated.

  Colt tapped his fingers on the chair. “But if we believe that Joe’s accomplice was a former sheriff, that leaves out Vernon. He’s always had that business, inherited it from his dad. He was never in law enforcement. And as far as we know from the airline passenger lists, Vernon never left California. And there’s no private pilot’s license in his name.”

  Brent wasn’t satisfied. “Get out there and see if that holds water. See if Vernon bought junk from anyone that day. See if anyone saw him around town running errands. I want statements from a witness that places Vernon in town that Tuesday the day Joe was murdered.”

  “It won’t be Oliver as a witness,” Eastlyn said. “Oliver didn’t start working at Vernon’s junkyard until the following week. So no help there.”

  “I just keep thinking that we’re overlooking something,” Brent stated. “It’s driving me nuts. I’ve been around here longer than the two of you. I’ve gone over Joe’s old friends in my head. Most of them are dead already.”

  “That doesn’t mean they weren’t involved in the drug trafficking with him,” Colt suggested. “The Stella Greer shrimping enterprise could’ve encompassed a network of people we don’t even know about yet.”

  “Yeah, and it could’ve been a zombie company with only one employee. Tucker said he only found one legitimate guy, and that was Carnaby. And Carnaby ends up dead.”

  “Great,” Eastlyn groaned. “We’re no closer than we were before. By the way, the coroner called. He wants to meet with you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Eastlyn hesitated. “I did ask him about the guy in the trunk.”

  “And?”

  “Our victim died from a stab wound to the center of the heart. One huge nick in the ribcage indicates he was stabbed with some force and then stabbed a second time.”

  Brent nodded. “Sounds like a carbon copy of what happened to the college kids. Did you get hold of the Carnaby family for DNA?”

  Eastlyn nodded. “To this day the daughter maintains a website about her father’s disappearance. She gave DNA five years ago that was uploaded to the lab in North Texas. If the medical examiner gets us DNA, we should be able to get a match from that. Until then, it’s down to dental records.”

  “Meanwhile, we sit around here worrying who’s the next victim. Who else does this guy need to eliminate to cover his tracks?”

  They all heard the outside door open. It was Colt who got to his feet and went out to check the reception area. Spotting Tucker and Bodie, he frowned at the teenager bringing in three dogs. “What’s up? This looks serious.”

  Tucker handed him the picture. “Read the back. That’s Clive Ogilvie in the cop uniform and Gordon Carnaby wearing the fishing gear.”

  Colt jerked his head back toward the office. “Where’d you find this?”

  “Those boxes I brought back fr
om Florida. It was hidden behind another photo like Dad wanted to conceal it.”

  With so many people and dogs crowding around Brent’s desk, in a matter of minutes, the office became cramped and claustrophobic. To allow for everybody, Brent gave up his chair and went to lean against the wall. He watched Oliver plop down in the chair instead of Bodie. Clearing his throat, Brent leveled a scowl on the kid. “I think maybe you should let Bodie sit there.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure.” The teen looked sheepish and moved around to the window to stand next to Brent so Bodie could sit down.

  “If everyone’s comfy now,” Colt began. “Tucker wanted you to see this.”

  Tucker gave Brent time to study the black and white image. “That’s Clive, the guy who works the saw at the lumberyard, on the left. Surely you recognize Dad in the middle. And standing to his right is Gordon Carnaby. It identifies each man on the back. On the way over here, I realized something. The Tuesday I left for Florida, Clive left me a message that he needed to go take care of his ailing mother. I have no idea where the call originated from. For all I know, he could’ve been about to board a plane. He did take a sick day the Tuesday I left for Sarasota Springs. Hell, I’m not even certain I know where Clive lives. I don’t even know if he has a sick mother. She’d be what, ninety by now? I trusted the guy, worked to fill orders next to him. I didn’t think anything about his excuse at the time because he’d mentioned for several years how his mother had breast cancer, same as mine. He made a point of that.”

  “I remember you asking him about his mother, the night I came by wanting more time,” Oliver reinforced. He looked at Bodie for confirmation.

  She nodded. “It’s true. Clive said she was fine, but now that I think about the conversation, he dismissed Tucker’s concern fairly quickly. And it’s obvious from the picture that Clive was once part of the sheriff’s department.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Colt said, picking up his binder and thumbing through the pages of reports he’d copied over the last few weeks. “I’m pretty sure the deputy who put forth the theory that the kids stole the raft and drowned in the harbor was a Deputy Ogilvie.” He tapped the notebook on one specific page. “There. Black and white. The report from 1985, signed by C. Ogilvie.”