Island Storms

by Sherryl Woods

  “Perhaps if I had a little more cooperation and a little less interference, I could wrap this up by next week,” Michael said.

  “I cooperate,” Molly reminded him. “I shared that lead with you right away last night.”

  “Because I walked in and caught you discussing the murder with that Bates woman.”

  “What lead?” Liza demanded.

  Molly pretended she hadn’t heard either one of them. She glared at Michael. “On the other hand, you have shared diddly about what you found out.” Her bargaining position would no doubt be seriously jeopardized if he found out how many other leads she’d developed last night. Right now he was on the defensive, and she liked it.

  “Because you were asleep when I got in and I was in a hurry this morning,” he said, his expression grim.

  “Why didn’t you just wake me?”

  “Madre de Dios, woman, I picked you up, carried you to your room, and put the covers over you, and you never so much as blinked. Should I have set an alarm?” The brief explosion of Spanish was indicative of his irritation. It seemed to be a point of pride with him to restrict himself to using English. When he lost his temper, however, Spanish filled the air. Some of it, she suspected, would not be taught in class. “Okay, you’re right,” she said soothingly. “I don’t even remember you picking me up.”

  Liza edged closer. “How is that possible?” she whispered. “How could you not know the man took you to bed? God, what a waste!”

  “He didn’t take me to bed,” Molly protested, blushing furiously. She absolutely refused to look at Michael. “Not the way you mean. Let’s get inside.”

  “But I want to hear more….”

  “I’m going inside,” Molly announced firmly. She didn’t wait to see if anyone was coming with her. She wedged herself into an aisle seat in an already packed pew. Even if Liza and Michael followed, they’d have to sit elsewhere. She was in no mood to deal with either of them. When they settled together two rows in front of her, she began to understand the kind of irritation that might lead someone to stab someone in the back. In her case, though, she wasn’t sure which of the two she’d go after first.

  After the minister intoned several somber prayers and half a dozen people delivered eloquent eulogies, Molly caught sight of the Ocean Manor accountant who had signed off on last year’s budget. When he slipped out the back door, she followed.

  “Mr. Rawlings, could I have a word with you?”

  Stoop-shouldered from bending over a desk for thirty-five or forty years, Rawlings reminded her of a character from some dreary thirties movie, all black and white and gray. He hesitated at the edge of the lawn, squinting at her through thick glasses. “Do I know you?”

  “Molly DeWitt. I live at Ocean Manor.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets in a nervous search for his car keys. “Sorry, I’m in a rush. Tax season, you know.”

  “Could I make an appointment, then?” she suggested. At this rate, it was going to be a lost week again anyway. She’d already planned to go to the luncheon for Drucilla at the Intercontinental. She could squeeze Harley Rawlings in on her way to the luncheon if she couldn’t persuade him to talk to her right now or she could see him Monday. Vince was going to be thrilled when she announced her schedule for the week.

  The accountant’s nervousness increased. His gaze darted this way and that, and he continued sidestepping toward the street, as if he could hardly wait to escape. “Did you want me to do your taxes?” he inquired.

  “No, actually, I need your help understanding the building’s budget. I’d be happy to pay you for your time.”

  “No, no, that isn’t necessary. I’d be happy to explain it, but you see I’m no longer involved.”

  “You’re not the accountant for Ocean Manor?”

  “No, ma’am. Mr. Winecroft fired me.”

  “Fired you? Could he do that?”

  He blinked several times. “Don’t know if he could, but he did.”

  “When?”

  “Last Tuesday, as a matter of fact. The day he was killed.”

  Before she could ask him another question, he scurried away.

  “Well, I’ll be,” she murmured and tried to imagine the five-feet-six accountant jamming that knife into Allan’s back in a fit of rage. The picture wouldn’t come clear, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened just that way.

  CHAPTER 12

  Molly was still staring after Harley Rawlings when the chapel doors opened and the crowd spilled out. Michael was the first one through the door, his gaze scanning the lawn until he found her. He reached her in five long strides, wrapped a hand around her elbow, and kept on moving. Molly had to take quick little running steps to keep up.

  “We need to talk,” they said simultaneously.

  He stopped so fast, she bumped into him. He tilted his head. “Say that again.”

  “We need to talk.”

  He gazed at the sky in apparent disbelief. “Where’s the lightning bolt,” he muttered.

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  “Sarcastic? I’m flabbergasted. Why the turnaround?”

  “Let’s just say that a few things have come to my attention, and I thought I ought to share them with you.”

  “Praise be,” he said, along with something in Spanish she had a hunch would blister her ears if she could translate it. “Let’s go grab a cup of coffee at that shop across the street.”

  “Too crowded. There won’t be enough privacy. Besides, I want to wait here a minute to see if everyone showed up.”

  “Everyone meaning?”

  “All the suspects. Juan Gonzalez especially. Was he here? Once we got inside, it was so crowded I couldn’t see.”

  “Yes, but you can scratch him from your list.”

  “Why? I found out for sure that he’s been dropping in on Drucilla at all hours, whenever Allan wasn’t around. They have to be involved.”

  Michael took off those blasted sunglasses and regarded her evenly. “You’re sure now? This isn’t just more wild speculation?”

  “Absolutely not. After you left last night, I went to visit the couple across the hall, the Loefflers. I knew from Liza that they knew all about Ingrid and Allan. It stood to reason that they might have seen someone coming and going from Drucilla’s.”

  “And they had seen Juan Gonzalez?”

  “Yep. Often.”

  “Did they see him the night of the murder?”

  Molly blinked. “I don’t think so. At least they didn’t mention it. Besides, they say they go to bed by ten. Why?”

  “Because he claims that after he briefly chatted with Allan in the cardroom that night, he came up to see Drucilla and tell her that Allan had agreed to a divorce.”

  Molly stared at him. “A divorce? Drucilla wanted a divorce?”

  “So it seems, at least according to Juan.”

  “If she wanted one and Allan wanted one to marry Ingrid, where was the need for persuasion?”

  “As the story goes, Allan had been reluctant to give up his cut of the family fortune.”

  “Do you think Juan used that knife to persuade him?”

  “He says it was Drucilla’s settlement offer that did the trick. In retrospect, I have to wonder, though he did tell me there were half a dozen witnesses that Allan was alive when he left. I checked, and they all confirmed it.”

  “Maybe so, but would he have risked going to see Drucilla if Allan was likely to turn up at any moment?”

  “What’s the risk if Allan already knew all about them?”

  “Which we can’t prove or disprove now that he’s dead.”

  “That is the dilemma,” Michael confirmed. “The alternative theory is that Juan had his talk with Allan about whatever. Afterward, he hung around outside the cardroom until the others left. Then he went b
ack and stabbed Allan. From there he headed to Drucilla’s, knowing there was no chance they’d be interrupted by an irate husband.”

  Molly glanced toward the doors of the chapel just in time to see Drucilla exit with Juan at her side, solicitously holding her arm as she made her way to the waiting limo. They made a striking pair, he in his dark suit, she with a black mantilla over her red hair.

  “So much for discretion,” Molly muttered.

  Michael steered her to his car. The Jeep, she noticed, had been washed for the occasion, but it still had a clutter of soccer equipment in the back. “Let’s go to the grave site after all,” he suggested. “See who else is weeping and wailing.”

  “Speaking of weeping, did Ingrid show? I didn’t see her.”

  “She’s over there by the steps.”

  Mourning became her. Dressed all in black, she looked glamorous and mysterious. She was standing alone, staring at the hearse bearing Allan’s body. Occasionally she touched a handkerchief to her eyes. Molly glanced back as the procession drove off. Ingrid was still standing there, clutching one of the apricot roses Allan always sent.

  On the way to the grave site, Molly filled Michael in on her conversations with Ralph Keller and with the fired accountant.

  “My, my, for a woman who swore off investigating, you have been busy.”

  “Admit it. They’re good leads.”

  “Yes,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll check them out myself this afternoon.” He glanced over. “I haven’t had a chance to ask before. Any calls last night?”

  “None.”

  “Will you and Brian be okay alone in the apartment tonight?”

  “Hot date, Detective?”

  “It’s Easter weekend. I have some family stuff. I could shake loose if you need me there, though.”

  “Staying in my apartment was your idea, not mine. I’ll be fine.”

  He was quiet for several minutes. His fingers tapped a nervous beat against the steering wheel. “You and Brian could come along,” he said, but without much enthusiasm.

  “How would you explain that? Would you tell everyone you’re holding us in protective custody?” She couldn’t keep an edge out of her voice. Why bother to offer, when he knew what he was suggesting was bound to be awkward? No doubt that macho protective streak was surging again.

  Challenged, he clenched his jaw. “There’s no one to whom I owe an explanation.”

  “Oh? Bianca might not see it that way.”

  His smile was rueful. “Probably not.”

  Molly figured as long as the subject was finally out in the open, she might as well run with it, see how committed he was to the woman who answered his phone in the middle of the night. “So, what’s the story with you two? Does she have some claim or not?”

  The rhythm of his fingers against the steering wheel picked up. “Depends on whom you ask, I suppose.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  The drumming stopped. He glanced sideways for a beat. “Then the answer is no.”

  Molly held back a desire to whoop with delight. “She doesn’t see it that way?”

  “Let’s just say I made the mistake of letting her think she had a hold on me. We’re working it out.”

  “At the end of this process, do you expect her to go or stay?”

  He studiously kept his eyes on the road. He switched on the radio. His fingers began to tap again, beats ahead of the salsa sounds that filled the car. “That’s up to her,” he said finally. “As long as she understands there’s no future for the two of us.”

  “Then why not just tell her to go? You’re copping out, Detective. Using her. Sounds pretty lousy to me.”

  “Look,” he snapped. “I care about her. She’s a good kid. She was there when I needed her. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “How far will you go with that?” she asked, irritated by his apparent mastery of self-delusion. “Do you plan to marry her so she won’t get her feelings hurt?”

  He slammed his palm against the wheel. Apparently it was a thought that had crossed his mind before. He wasn’t crazy about the question or about what his answer said about his lifestyle. “No, dammit. What the hell business is this of yours anyway?”

  “Just trying to see what makes you tick.”

  “The same hormones that make any man tick.”

  “A cliché, then? How disappointing.”

  He glanced in her direction. Molly’s own sarcastic expression reflected back at her in the sunglasses. “I wonder something, Detective. I wonder if you’re really as tough and controlled as you want everyone to think you are.”

  “Believe it,” he said tersely.

  Molly smiled as a reluctant sigh escaped him.

  “You know,” he said, “my life was moving along just fine before you jumped in and decided to examine it.”

  She held up her hands, all innocence. “Hey, I’m just passing through. Solve this murder and you never have to see me again.”

  “I can’t wait,” he muttered.

  To her regret, it sounded suspiciously as if he meant it.

  * * *

  No mourners threw themselves on Allan Winecroft’s casket at the grave site and confessed. Half the suspects weren’t even there. Michael didn’t even bother to leave the Jeep. He parked it where he could observe the proceedings, then sat there in stony silence. Molly walked over to the plot of newly turned earth and joined the throng listening to the minister’s final prayers for Allan’s eternal soul. When the graveside service ended, she murmured her condolences to Drucilla and, after casting a speculative glance at Juan, returned to the Jeep.

  The ride home was as tense and subdued as any movie set during the filming of the climactic scene. When they reached Ocean Manor, Michael pulled up in front of the building and cut the engine.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as if the words were unfamiliar and faintly troubling.

  “For?”

  “What I said back there. Sometimes you irritate the hell out of me. I’ve been telling myself it was professional anger. No cop wants an amateur screwing up an investigation. But…”

  Molly waited. Finally he turned to face her. The sunglasses came off, revealing that vulnerability that was so appealing, and that he so rarely allowed anyone to get close enough to see. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  “And you don’t like ambiguity.”

  “No.”

  She risked her own vulnerabilities. “Can I tell you something, without your making a federal case out of it?”

  For an instant, he looked almost nervous. “You aren’t going to confess or something, are you?”

  She grinned. “Not to the murder. I was just going to say that I’m not all that crazy about ambiguity myself. So if you happen to figure out just what it is you are feeling here, let me know.”

  His gaze locked with hers. He leaned toward her, then caught himself. Instead, his hand cupped her chin and the pad of his thumb caressed her bottom lip. “I’ll do that.”

  Molly’s knees were knocking so hard when she got out of the car, she could barely stand. She plastered a jaunty smile on her face and waved as he drove off to spend what was left of the weekend with another woman. Sometimes life sucked.

  By Sunday morning Molly’s mood had improved slightly, though not enough to convince her that an Easter egg hunt on the grounds would be terrific fun. Brian had his heart set on it, though. She mustered sufficient enthusiasm to drag on her clothes and go out to the pool where the dozens of children and visiting grandchildren were clustered in their holiday finery.

  To her amazement, the first person she saw was Juan Gonzalez, surrounded by a trio of dark-haired girls dressed in frilly pink dresses. They were dancing around excitedly, pleading with him to help them hunt for the eggs. “Niñas, that would not be fair,” he protested, laughing. “You must find the eggs o
n your own if you wish to win the prize. Now go and listen to the instructions.”

  “Tío, we need you,” the littlest one said earnestly, turning her dimpled smile on him.

  So he was their uncle, Molly thought as she walked over to join him. She grinned. “Looks like you have your hands full.”

  He lifted his soulful dark eyes to the heavens. “Yes. My niece brought the little ones by, then ran off to church. Niñas, this is Señora DeWitt.” He pointed to the oldest, a plump child of maybe nine or ten. “This is Elena. That is Margarita. And the baby here is…”

  “I am not a baby, Tío. I am ’cesca.”

  “Francesca,” Juan corrected. “She is three and very precocious.”

  Molly called to Brian and his friends and introduced them. “Boys, why don’t you take the girls with you to hunt the eggs. You’ll find that many more, if you all work together.”

  From the disgusted expression on Brian’s face, she had a feeling she would pay later for the suggestion, but he did as she asked. Juan looked relieved.

  “Thank you. I was not looking forward to crawling around on my hands and knees at my age. Come, join me in the shade.”

  Molly followed him to two chairs under a striped umbrella. She took the opportunity to study him more closely, noting the distinguished streaks of gray in his coal-black hair, the expensive gold watch and ring, the silk-blend shirt and tailored slacks. Everything about him shouted understated wealth and classic taste. The sparkle of amused tolerance in his eyes when he’d spoken to his grandnieces seemed an unlikely response for a man who might have committed murder only days before.

  “I saw how you watched me yesterday, señora. You know about Drucilla and me,” he said, his voice quiet. “From the detective, I presume.”

  “And others.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “And we thought we had been so careful.”

  “Believe me, there were no rumors. I asked some of the most observant gossips about that. It was little things, an observation here, a comment there. They added up.”

  “I see.”

  Made bold by the crowd around them, Molly dared to ask, “Did you kill him?”

  Laughing brown eyes met hers. “You are very brave.”