“Why were you on the golf course the night Ilsa was killed?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were seen wearing a Pie Town hoodie.”
“Then someone made a mistake.”
“Then where were you before you met me in the bar?” I asked.
“I was on a phone call. The hotel will have a record of it. That’s why I was a tad late meeting you at the bar that night.”
“I heard Nigel borrowed money from Regina,” I said. “Was that to pay off his more . . . urgent debts?”
His lips twisted. “He had? He’d told me he’d borrowed from a friend, but I didn’t know who had been foolish enough to do so. Still, Regina makes sense. She and her husband are wealthy, and I think she had a soft spot for Nigel.”
“What do you know about her finances?” In any murder, the spouse is the most likely suspect. Regina’s money was now Steve’s, no divorce or lawyers needed.
“Just gossip. She and her husband made their money in real estate, and I believe their TV shows have done well. But Regina was the power behind that success. She knew what made good TV. Everyone I’ve spoken with agrees on that.”
“What about Luther?”
He smiled, rueful. “I wish I could help that poor soul with his drinking problem. I believe he mentioned something about going to the beach today. The one with the crab shack?”
“Sam’s Crab Shack and Bar?” I knew that beach. “Great. Thanks.” I scraped back my chair.
He looked up at me from the table. “You’re not going to try to find him alone?”
“It’s broad daylight,” I said. “What could happen?”
“And now you’ve just jinxed yourself.” He stood. “I’m coming with you.”
I forced a smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I’m sure you’re busy.” I needed some alone time to process his latest revelations.
“But I want to.”
I grabbed my purse off the kitchen counter, and Frank followed me outside. The caterer’s teal van had arrived, and their team was setting up the picnic table.
Maureen fluttered to us, her coin belt jingling. “Are you leaving so soon? Won’t you stay for lunch?”
“What a delightful prospect,” Frank said, taking her plump hand and brushing a kiss across its back.
“No,” I said. “We can’t. But thanks.”
“Surely Luther can wait,” Frank said.
“No.” I glared.
He sighed and tipped an imaginary hat to Maureen. “Duty calls.” He opened the passenger door of the silver Tesla.
I leveled a glare at him.
He smiled in return, his hand on the open car door.
Oh, h-e-double hockey sticks. Maybe bringing along some muscle wasn’t such a bad idea. Luther was a big guy. If he’d been drinking, I wasn’t sure I could handle him. “Fine. You can come.” I lowered myself inside.
Frank got in beside me, and we zipped off. He managed to avoid the branches on the sloped driveway that I always scraped.
Soon, we were flying down the One, the top down and the wind whipping my hair. Frank darted around a big rig and waved jauntily to the driver.
I gripped my seatbelt.
“There’s nothing like a convertible on a sunny day at the beach.”
“In theory.” I clawed my hair into a bun. A piece whipped free and stung me in the eye.
He glanced at me. “Should I raise the top?” Frank shouted.
“We’re almost there.” I pointed to a turnoff ahead.
“Right.” He screeched around the corner, and we bulleted toward the shore. Frank piloted the sports car into a parking lot surrounded by high sea grasses and low dunes. Since it was late Monday morning, the parking lot was only half-full—I guessed by local teens on their summer break.
Frank screeched to a halt in a spot furthest from the beach and surrounded by empty spaces. He winked. “No sense getting this beauty dinged up.”
I stepped from the Tesla and headed toward the bar, a low, gray-painted building with weathered, wood sideboards. A crooked deck wove across the sand toward the water. We started toward the door.
“Look there.” Frank halted, pointing. A man lay sprawled, the top half of his body on the sand and his feet on the deck. “Is that Luther?”
My stomach rolled. “Oh, no.” I veered around the bar and onto the beach.
I raced toward the assistant cameraman. Not Luther. Let him be alive.
“Val,” Frank called, “wait!”
My shadow fell across Luther’s still form.
He opened one eye, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Getting some sun?” Frank huffed up behind me.
Luther’s Hawaiian shirt gaped, exposing his hairy belly. “Can’t a man enjoy the beach without being harassed?” he asked, his words perfectly clipped. For once, maybe he wasn’t drunk.
“No rest for the wicked,” Frank said.
“What do you two want?” He tossed a handful of sand at Frank’s feet.
“Watch it.” Frank’s brow creased with annoyance.
“I thought the filming was over,” Luther said.
I sat cross-legged in the sand beside him. “I’m sorry about Ilsa. I could tell you two cared about each other.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. “If I knew who killed them, I’d kill him myself.”
“You know more than the police, I’ll bet,” I said.
“That’s what you say.” Luther opened his eyes and stared at a seagull hanging motionless high above us.
“Maybe you can help bring their killer to justice,” I said gently. “What’s happening with the Pie Hard crew? Because it has to be someone on the crew, don’t you think?”
He glared at Frank. “Maybe.”
“The police are asking all sorts of questions,” my father said. “You must admit, you’re not the easiest assistant cameraman to work with—”
“AC and sound,” Luther corrected.
“Be that as it may,” Frank said, “Regina kept you on. Why?”
“I’ve been pondering that very question.” Luther sat up and rubbed his head. Sand trickled from his hair. “I was always on thin ice with her, but she wouldn’t let me quit. She insisted I could fight the booze. For a while I believed her, but she was just projecting.”
“Projecting?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“She thought she could fight, cure herself. Hell, maybe she could have. If a miracle could happen to anyone, Regina could make damn sure it happened to her.”
“Wait,” I said. “Are you saying Regina was ill?”
“Ill?” Luther blinked blearily. “Regina was dying.”
CHAPTER 22
“Dying?” Stunned, I stared at Luther, sprawled in the sand.
The waves crashed—a rising drumbeat. A seagull wavered in the sky. It ha-ha-ha’d at us, then landed on the bar’s shingle roof.
Luther scratched his sunburnt cheek, and a trickle of sand drifted from his fingers onto his Hawaiian shirt. “There’s no cure for what Regina had.”
“What did she have?” Frank knelt in the sand beside him. A breeze flapped the bottom of his tweed blazer.
“Lou Gehrig’s disease, ALS.”
A roar of laughter rose from the outdoor bar, and involuntarily, I turned my head toward the weathered, gray building. I didn’t know much about Lou Gehrig’s, but I knew it was awful.
“When was she diagnosed?” Frank asked, somber.
“Nine months ago. I only found out because . . .” He looked toward the ocean and blinked rapidly. “She told me if she had to fight ALS, I could damn well fight my drinking problem. We’d agreed I’d go to rehab after we finished shooting this season.”
“How much time did she have?” Frank asked.
Luther shrugged. “Three years? Five? Ten? Hell, with Regina, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she beat all the doctors’ predictions. She was that kind of determined.”
Small black birds with long, narrow bills raced
along the shoreline. Swerving up and down the sand, they avoided the lap of waves.
“Did anyone else know about her disease?” I asked. If Regina was dying, this put a new perspective on motives.
“Aside from Steve? I don’t think so. After we finished the season, they were planning on going to India together, try some special treatment. Stem cells, I think.” Luther shook his head. “She’d be in India, and I’d be in rehab. Now none of it’s going to happen.”
“You can still go to rehab,” Frank said. “It sounds like Regina would want you to.”
His laugh turned into a cough. “Regina doesn’t want anything anymore. Besides, who’d pay for it?”
“Regina was going to pay for your treatment?” I asked.
“Yeah. Don’t think Steve was too happy about it, but it was Regina’s money.”
“Her husband didn’t have money of his own?” I asked.
“They came up together. Both of ’em started from nothing, and they were always share and share alike. But Regina was the driving force. She made the big bucks. But if you think Steve killed her for the money, you’re wrong. He knew she was dying. All he had to do was wait, see? There’s only one person who would have reason to kill her.”
My heart sank. Nigel. He was the only one left, assuming Luther was to be believed. “You think Nigel killed Regina?”
“He owed her money. Lots. I’m guessing she was pushing him to repay, and he gave her a shove over the cliff.”
Frank rubbed his chin.
“And Ilsa?” I asked.
“She must have seen him throw her off.” Luther shot upright and pointed. “That ninja kid.”
“You think he looks like a ninja too?” I shook myself. Focus. “What about him?”
“What the hell’s he doing here?” He pointed.
Dark head bent, Doran slogged up the beach, his hands in the pockets of his khakis.
Startled, I jumped to my feet and brushed sand from my jeans. “You’ve seen him before?”
“That kid’s been turning up since we got to San Nicholas,” the assistant cameraman said. “Who is he?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” I said grimly and started forward.
Frank grasped my arm. “Maybe we’re seeing threats where there aren’t any. The young man is staying at the same hotel we are, and this is a small town. Of course we’re seeing him everywhere.”
“He’s a freelance graphic designer,” I said. “How’s he staying at such an expensive hotel? And why for so long?”
“Maybe he has a wealthy client here?” Frank said.
Doran crested a dune near the parking lot.
“Let’s ask him.” I moved to pull away, but Frank’s grip tightened.
“It isn’t safe, Val,” he said. “You can’t accost random strangers and demand answers.”
“Then come with me.”
Doran wove through the cars near the beach’s edge. The sun glittered, blinding, off their windshields.
“I’m no detective, Val, and neither are you. Two people have been killed. This is serious.”
“It’s broad daylight.” I shook myself free. “He’s not going to try anything in a parking lot.” I jogged beside the crooked deck toward the line of seagrass that marked the boundary of the black pavement.
“Val! Wait!”
Ignoring him, I slogged through the sand and arrived, panting, in the lot. Doran was nowhere in sight. I wove past the cars clustered by the sand’s edge, past teenagers unloading body boards and hampers and towels, past an elderly woman walking her corgi.
I swore beneath my breath. Doran had vanished. Maybe he’d gone inside the bar?
Frank caught up to me. “I told you this was useless.”
“You told me it was dangerous. He could be in the bar.”
“He was coming from the beach. Why wouldn’t he just use the beach entrance?”
“Well, he’s not here,” I said, exasperated and wishing I’d tackled Luther with Charlene instead. Nothing ever stopped her from charging into an investigation. That tendency had gotten us both into some sticky situations.
“I’m checking the bar.” I strode inside the weathered gray wood building. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling. Picture windows looked out over the beach. The interior was mostly empty, the bulk of the patrons on the deck outside, retirees by the look of them.
Frank rubbed his hands together. “Now that we’re here, we may as well have a drink.”
“It’s a little early,” I muttered.
“It’s never too early for a Bloody Mary or a mimosa,” Frank said. “Want one?”
“No.” Dammit, Doran wasn’t here. He must have left in a car.
“Maybe the bartender saw something.” He ambled to the bar.
Lacking any better ideas, I trailed behind.
A burly, middle-aged bartender with startling blue eyes ambled to us.
“A Bloody Mary for me and a mimosa for the lady,” Frank said cheerfully.
The bartender smiled and grabbed a bottle of vodka off the shelf.
“It’s only polite,” Frank said to me in a low voice. “If we’re going to bother him for information, the least we can do is order.” He lowered himself onto a barstool.
Frustrated, I sat beside him. This was a waste of time. Unless Doran was skulking in the bathroom, he wasn’t here. I was stuck. Frank had already settled in, and he was my ride. I did love mimosas. I also knew the bartender, Tom, slightly. He had two kids under the age of ten, and they both loved cherry pie.
Tom mixed our drinks and set them on the damp bar.
Frank slid a fifty toward the bartender and kept his fingers resting lightly on the bill. “I was wondering—”
I touched the sleeve of Frank’s tweed blazer. “Hey Tom. We’re looking for someone, maybe you’ve seen him around. Mid-twenties, a bit younger than me. Always wears black. Nearly black hair that falls over one eye. Tall, thin, but not skinny.”
Tom nodded once, his expression sobered. “Yeah. I was planning to tell you about him. What with the kids’ ballet practice and ukulele practice and drum practice and surf lessons, I haven’t had a chance.”
Startled, I straightened on the barstool. “You were? Why?”
“A guy like you described was in here a couple days ago. He was asking about you.”
“It might not be the same person,” Frank warned, toying with his celery stick but not drinking. He hadn’t taken a single sip, which made me feel better about driving with him. “It’s not as if we have a photo to show you.”
I gripped the bar and leaned closer. “What was he asking, exactly?”
“He started by asking about Pie Town, then about the old guy who was killed there last spring. It’s all public info, so I didn’t see any harm. I mean, everybody talks about that murder.”
“He wasn’t killed there,” I said heatedly. “He just died there.” Poison. It was complicated.
“Everyone knows you weren’t to blame. You even got a commendation for trying to save his life.”
“Not exactly.” It wasn’t an official award or anything, just some nice words from the mayor.
Frank nudged me. “I always knew you’d grow up to be a hero. Ever since you were a little girl—”
Tom’s pale eyes lighted. “Are you Val’s father?”
Frank nodded.
Tom shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
My jaw clenched. He may have been my biological parent, but he wasn’t my father. Fathers stuck around. I took a swig of the mimosa. “But about Doran . . .”
“Doran?” the bartender asked. “Was that his name? Anyway, the questions started to get personal. He said he’d read about you online. That business at the Bar X Ranch, remember?”
How could I forget? It had only been a month or so ago that a killer had threatened a shootout at the Bar X’s corral, with me between the gunslingers. “Yeah,” I said, terse.
“He wanted to know what kind of person you were.”
The bartender laughed. “Yeah. I told him to check your online reviews.”
“Sounds vague to me.” Frank removed the celery stick and took a token sip of his Bloody Mary.
“What else did he ask?” I said.
He wiped a beer mug with a towel. “How you got involved in all those murders if you weren’t, you know, involved . I told him it was bad luck. Don’t think he believed me though.” He polished the mug more vigorously. “It was just dumb luck about all those bodies dropping around you, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. Bad luck and some prodding from my partner in crime solving, Charlene. She had a talent for trouble.
“Of course it was,” Frank said heartily. “What else could it be? Besides, this is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s not that big a stretch that Val would be connected to some crimes. I’m sure other people around here are too.”
“Yeah.” Tom looked at me sideways. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.” He vanished into the kitchen.
“Weird.” Suddenly thirsty, I took another gulp of the mimosa. “There is something going on with Doran. I thought he was interested in Pie Hard, but it seems like he’s interested in me.” But why?
Frank set his near-full glass down with a clunk. Red droplets splashed the polished wood bar. “He’s probably curious about Pie Hard, which just happened to be shooting in your pie shop. You know how people get about Hollywood and stars.”
I sipped the mimosa. Frank was right about one thing, I could drink these any time of day. “Okay, let’s say that’s true. Pie Hard is cool, but it’s not that cool.”
“It doesn’t need to be a top-rated show to attract a stalker. Nigel and Ilsa are both popular figures.”
“Then why kill Regina? She’s not in the public eye.”
Frank snorted. “You don’t read the industry blogs, do you?”
“No, but Ra . . .” I stopped myself. It was one thing to get Ray involved. Telling suspects about his involvement was another story. “We did an online search for people on the show. I didn’t see anything about Regina on the industry blogs.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s because her name’s in code.” He pulled a cell phone from the inside pocket of his blazer and tapped the screen. “Let me see . . . Okay . . . Here it is . . . And cake, cake, cake . . . Ah, there we go.” He handed me the phone.
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