by B R Snow
“I’m right in the middle of dinner, Gavin. And we really don’t have anything to talk about.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Teresa. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” Teresa snapped.
The rest of the table stopped what they were doing and fell silent. Some of the people at nearby tables were also paying close attention to what was playing out a few feet away.
“Uh, hi, Gavin,” Gerald said, trying to sound upbeat.
“Hello, Gerald,” Gavin said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I need a word with my ex-wife.”
“Why don’t you just save it for another time?” Gerald said. “This probably isn’t the best place for that.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Gavin said, glaring at the Finance Minister. “Hello, Dr. Couch. Nice to see you again. I see you’re still traveling in the right circles.”
“Gavin,” Dr. Couch said, nodding at the man who now had his hand on the back of my chair. “I think you should take Gerald’s advice. This really isn’t the time or place.”
“Free advice from a doctor,” Gavin said, grinning. “Now I’ve seen everything. Why don’t you take two of these and call me in the morning?” He flashed an obscene gesture with his free hand and laughed at his own joke.
“Please take your hand off my chair,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at him.
“What?” Gavin said, barely acknowledging my presence.
“Your hand. Get it off my chair,” I said.
“Who is this man?” my mother said, glancing around the table.
“He’s my ex-husband,” Teresa said.
“Oh, the stalker,” my mother said, giving him the once over before dismissing him.
“And you’re obviously someone who doesn’t know how to mind her own business,” Gavin said, focusing on my mother. “Hey, I recognize you. You’re the rich one who likes to work behind the scenes, aren’t you?”
“Who I am is none of your business,” my mother snapped.
“Yeah, I know who you are,” Gavin said with a sneer. “Just another slimy northern carpetbagger. Ow! What the…”
He dropped to one knee and grimaced before getting back on his feet. He examined the four impressions my fork had left on his lower thigh just below where his shorts ended. I’d drawn blood, and I stared at the fork I was still holding.
“Nice shot,” Josie said, glancing at the four trickles of blood that were dripping down the man’s leg.
“I’m going to need a new fork,” I said, glancing around for one of the servers.
It had been a backhanded jab, a reflex reaction on my part for the way he’d insulted my mother, and I sat slightly hunched over anticipating a retaliatory strike. But before Gavin could turn his anger in my direction, I heard him groan. I turned around in my chair and saw Rocco with one hand on the back of the man’s shorts. The other was sunk into Gavin’s neck the way an eagle might sink its talons into prey. Rocco lifted the man, wheeled around on his heels, and marched him toward the exit, using Gavin’s head to open the front door. We heard the faint sounds of blows and muffled grunts followed by the sound of a car door slamming shut three times. I assumed that one or more of Gavin’s body parts had prevented the door from closing the first two times.
The clamor was followed by the sound of a car engine starting then driving away. I wondered how it was possible for Gavin to be in any shape to drive, but perhaps Rocco’s encouragement had been enough for the man to rise to the occasion. The restaurant patrons went back to what they were doing before the outburst, and a few minutes later I noticed that Rocco was back at work. He must have entered through the kitchen, and he seemed completely at ease chatting and laughing with the people sitting on the other side of the bar.
“Are you okay?” I said to the still rattled Teresa.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, exhaling loudly. “Wow, that escalated in a hurry.”
“It certainly did,” Dr. Couch said. Then he leaned forward to speak to me. “What did you do?”
“Stabbed him with my fork,” I said, casually shrugging. “He got off easy.”
“How’s that?” Dr. Couch said, frowning.
“He could have been standing behind Josie,” I said, laughing.
“Don’t start,” she said, grinning. “But I have to give you credit. Nice backhand.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It was a pretty easy shot.”
“Ah, dang it,” Dr. Couch said, staring down at his phone.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“I’m needed at the hospital,” he said, getting up from his chair. “It’s always something.” He gave my mother a kiss on the cheek then glanced around the table. “I’m sorry to do this, but one of my patients has taken a turn for the worse. Thanks so much for dinner. It was nice seeing you all.”
He waved goodbye and headed for the front door. The dinner chatter picked up where it had left off, and I got up from my chair.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said to Josie. “And don’t you dare eat my dessert.”
I headed for the bar and sat down at the far end. Rocco approached with a sheepish grin.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “But I couldn’t resist.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, waving it off. “You handled it perfectly. Did I hear the car door slam three times?”
“Yeah,” he said, frowning. “I had a little trouble getting it closed.”
“Because…?” I said, already wondering about the possibility of our getting slapped with a lawsuit on opening night.
“The first time his shoulder got in the way,” Rocco said, shrugging. “The second time was his head.”
“And he was still able to drive away?” I said, surprised.
“Oh, no,” Rocco said, shaking his head. “I was driving the car. I didn’t want to leave him out front and give our dinner guests the wrong impression. You know, a bleeding guy in the parking lot.” He gave me a big grin. “No, he’s in no shape to drive. I parked the car behind the restaurant. When he comes to, he’ll eventually figure out a way to drive himself home.”
“Did he say anything to you?” I said.
“Yeah, a few things,” he said with a small shrug. “Please. Please, no. I’m sorry. And there were several grunts and groans tossed into the mix.”
I tried not to laugh but failed miserably.
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“To the restaurant?” Rocco said. “I seriously doubt it. And if you see him hanging around anywhere near Teresa or the kids, you let me know right away. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Nice work with the fork.”
“Thanks. Just a lucky shot,” I said, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” Rocco said, then gestured to a patron that he would be right there.
“It’s just that I was hoping to have a word with the guy. I think he knows the woman Captain rescued on the beach. And we still have her dog.”
“Well, whenever you’re ready to have a chat with him, let me know. I want to be there with you.”
“Just to encourage him to talk, right?” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Sure,” Rocco said, nodding. “I’ll even help him get into his car.”
Chapter 12
Things settled down soon after the encounter, and we were able to enjoy our dessert in peace. An hour and a half later, we were still sitting at the table in the otherwise empty restaurant. Chef Claire and Finn joined us after the kitchen closed, and they were drinking wine and basking in the glow of a very successful opening night.
That is if we didn’t count the guy who was probably still bleeding all over the front seat of his car in the parking lot behind the restaurant.
I’d changed seats and spent the last hour sitting between my mother and the now lubricated and suddenly chatty Mr. Smith. I learned he was originally from somewhere in Europe, actual country of birth undisclosed, and that he was a heavy hitte
r when it came to big development deals around the globe. McMansions surrounded by golf courses and man-made lakes seemed to be a specialty of his, and he wasn’t shy about letting me know he was on a first-name basis with several pro golfers. References to Jack, Tiger, and Arnie – rest his soul – were liberally sprinkled through his stories, but when I asked him what he was working on at the moment, he fell silent and gave me a small frown.
“Not much, really,” he said, eventually.
Even though I might still be a bit of a financial neophyte, I’m pretty good at recognizing a lie when I hear one. I seriously doubted a day passed when this guy spent his time doing not much. But if he didn’t feel like sharing the specifics of his latest deal, that was fine with me. I’d heard more about eight-bedroom McMansion floor plans and the difficulties of maintaining bentgrass greens in hot climates I’d ever dreamed possible. And it was more than enough to last me a lifetime.
“Do you live here during the winter?” I said.
“I used to have a place on Seven Mile Beach, but I unloaded it a few years ago,” he said, taking a gulp of wine.
“John used to own the place two doors down from me, darling.”
John Smith?
I pondered the name. I’d always heard it was one of the most common names, but I was pretty sure the John Smith sitting across the table from me was the first one I’d ever actually met. The moniker was also used in the UK, in much the same way as John Doe is used in the States to describe an unknown man or as a placeholder name for an unidentified corpse. If this guy was going to the trouble of using an alias to conceal his true identity, he certainly wasn’t demonstrating a lot of creativity. Unless the guy was trying to be too clever by half, I decided that John Smith probably was his actual name.
“Darling?”
“What?” I said, catching the odd look she was giving me.
“Are you still with us?” she said, laughing.
“Of course,” I said, flushing red with embarrassment. “I was just trying to picture the house Mr. Smith was talking about.” I turned to him. “The big white one with the gigantic pool in front?”
“That’s the one,” he said. “Nice house. But somebody made me an offer I couldn’t refuse so…”
He gave me a smile that let me know he was sure I understood completely, and there was no need to finish the sentence for me.
“Sure, sure,” I said, nodding sagely.
My mother snorted softly and laughed.
“Shut it, Mom.”
Then we heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the back of the restaurant. I followed Chef Claire and Finn into the kitchen, then raced out the back door. Teresa was standing next to the silver Mercedes with the driver side door open. The overhead light inside was on, and she was staring into the car with a look of disbelief. The rest of the dinner guests had made their way outside and, as a group, we slowly made our way toward the Mercedes. I leaned forward and glanced down into the car, then grimaced and shook my head as I looked away.
“Oh, my word,” my mother said, then also turned away.
Gerald approached the car, knelt down to examine the body, then stood and softly closed the door. The overhead light went dark. He removed his phone from his pocket and placed a call.
“Dead?” Josie said, not looking into the car.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“From the beating Rocco gave him?” Josie said, frowning.
“No, from the two bullets he got in the back of the head,” I said, exhaling loudly.
“He got shot?” Josie said, barely managing to avoid taking a peek inside the car.
“Yeah, and given the lack of external head trauma, my guess is that the shooter used a twenty-two. Effective at close range and very quiet. Just walk up to the car, pop, pop, then walk away. Easy as falling off a log.”
My mother stared at me in disbelief.
“What?” I said.
“Where on earth did that come from?”
“Hey, if you’re around enough of these things, eventually you’re gonna learn some stuff,” I said, shrugging.
Teresa slowly trudged toward us with tears in her eyes. I gave her a long hug.
“Are you okay?” I whispered into her ear.
“I don’t think so,” she said, trembling. “I can’t believe it. I came outside to see how he was doing and found him slumped down in his seat. Then I saw the pool of blood. So much blood.”
She began shaking, and I squeezed her tight.
“Why did you feel the need to check on him?” John Smith said.
“Because he was the father of my children,” Teresa snapped as she glared at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Of course. That makes perfect sense. I’m sorry.”
“I know that Rocco was only trying to protect me, but I was worried he might have gone too far,” Teresa said.
“I’m sure Rocco knows when to stop,” I said, glancing around. “That’s odd.”
“What?” Josie said, following my eyes.
“Where is Rocco?”
“No, that’s not possible,” Teresa said, sensing where I might be headed with the conversation. She nodded at her dead ex-husband. “Rocco would never throw away what we have on that loser.”
The look of hatred in her eyes was unmistakable, but no matter where my mind tried to take me, I just couldn’t picture Teresa as someone capable of shooting anyone, including her stalking ex-husband. We went back inside and waited for the police and ambulance to arrive. Thankfully, Rocco was back behind the bar restocking the coolers. When we all walked back into the dining room, he paused to look up and chuckle.
“There you are,” he said. “I was wondering where the heck you guys went.”
Teresa approached him and gave him a long hug. She whispered in his ear, and he flinched, took a step back, and stared at her. If he was faking his surprise at hearing the news about the dead guy in the Mercedes, he was doing a great job.
“That’s a relief,” Josie said, studying Rocco’s expression.
“No kidding,” I said, nodding. “He didn’t kill him.”
“Think the cops will believe it?” she said, glancing at me.
“Now that’s a very good question.”
“Thanks. So, now we wait, right?” Josie said, shaking her head. “Again.”
“Yeah, time to spend a couple of hours with a new batch of cops,” I said, sitting down on one of the barstools and reaching for a couple of glasses and a half-full bottle of wine. “Are you ready to do this?”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing to worry about,” she said. “You’re the one who stabbed him with a fork.”
Chapter 13
The initial investigation into the shooting was led by Detective Renfro, someone we’d gotten to know during our last visit to Grand Cayman when one of my mother’s dinner guests had gotten stabbed in the chest with a metal skewer more commonly used for shish kebabs. The detective was a thorough and professional cop and had impressed us with his pleasant personality. He’d also been smitten with Chef Claire as soon as he met her and had asked her out to dinner. Chef Claire had willingly agreed, but he’d permanently ruined his chances with her when he began talking about marriage and the prospect of their having half a dozen kids before they’d gotten through the salad course. As such, their dating history, while memorable, was brief.
But he didn’t seem to have taken her rejection too personally, and he was interviewing her and Chef Finn with a smile on his face as he jotted down their responses. When he finished with them, he headed for Josie and me still sitting at the end of the bar closest to the door.
“It’s nice to see you, Detective Renfro,” I said, extending my hand.
“Hello, Suzy. Josie,” he said, nodding at both of us. “Here we go again, huh?”
“Yeah, here we go again,” I said, shrugging.
He pulled up a chair and sat down between us. He flipped his notepad to a fresh page, checked his watch, and got started.
“Where w
ere you when you heard the scream?”
I pointed into the dining room.
“I was sitting at that table having dessert.”
“Were you also sitting at the table, Josie?”
“I was.”
“And what were you doing at the time?”
“Is that a trick question, Detective?” Josie said.
“What?”
“I was eating dessert. What else would I be doing?” she said, flashing him a coy smile.
“I have no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s why I asked the question.” He scribbled in his notebook. “Okay, let’s move on. Who was the first person to find the body?”
“Teresa,” I said. “By the time we all got outside, she was already standing next to the car.”
“I see. And what was she doing at the time?”
“Grieving, primarily,” I said with a shrug.
“Did you see her try to move the body?”
“No.”
“Touch it in any way?”
“No.”
“I see. Did you hear any gunshots?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But I imagine that was because the shooter used a low caliber. Probably a twenty-two.”
“Interesting. Why do you say that?”
“Because nobody heard a gunshot,” I said.
“Hard to argue with your logic,” Josie deadpanned.
“Unassailable, right?” I said, grinning at her.
“Are you two enjoying yourself?” Detective Renfro said, glancing back and forth at us.
“Yeah, as far as cop interviews go, this one’s not bad,” Josie said, nodding.
“Yeah, I’m good with it, too. Please, continue, Detective.”
He took a deep breath and fiddled with his pen as he composed himself.
“Did you see what happened earlier when the man named Rocco had the confrontation with the victim?”
“Yes, we were both right in the middle of it,” I said. “He came over to our table, got offensive with several of our guests, then Rocco escorted him outside.”
“I heard he used the victim’s head to open the door,” Detective Renfro said, his pen at the ready.
