by N. C. Lewis
The man's lips moved silently as if he was repeating the name. "Who?"
Amy detected a whiff of stale liquor on his breath. "Mr. Segenam Fainéant." She imagined the property manager waiting impatiently in his office. If they didn’t show up soon, he'd be on to the next thing. That's how it was for busy executives. You missed your time slot—tough! "We have a nine o'clock appointment."
From somewhere under the counter he pulled out a bicorne hat, placing it at an angle on his head. The color returned to his face. "Ain't no one goes by that name here. You sure you ladies got the right place? This ain't the hotel, that's a ways down the road."
"Is this the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club?" Amy asked.
"Yes."
"Then we are in the right place."
"Sounds like." He rubbed his chin. "Who would you like to see?"
"Mr. Segenam Fainéant," Amy repeated, failing to hide her frustration. "We have a meeting with him."
"You members?" He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Then adjusted his name tag so it hung correctly.
Mrs. Lopresti stepped forward. "No, we are not members. We wish to speak with Mr.—"
Before she finished, he raised a hand. "Members only. This is a private club, not open to the public. I must ask you to leave."
"Eddie," Mrs. Lopresti said, reading his name tag, voice calm and level, "we are not members, nor do we have any desire to become members. We are here to speak with the property manager, Mr. Fainéant. Can you let him know we have arrived?"
Eddie stood very still for a few moments with his head bent and eyes half closed as if he was concentrating hard. His face lit up. "Oh, you mean Siggy? Everyone calls him that 'round these parts. I see… Yes, you are here to meet with Siggy…err…Mr. Fainéant…the property manager?" His eyes darted nervously from woman to woman as if suddenly recognizing their importance.
"Yes."
"One moment, please."
He shambled out of sight. The sound of drawers opening and closing, cabinets banging, and shuffling of papers told them everything they needed to know. "I'm looking for Mr. Fainéant's appointment book. I know it is here somewhere. I won't keep you long."
Danielle glanced at her cell phone. "It’s ten after." She let out a frustrated huff, strolled over to the door that led to the clubhouse and docks and tugged.
It swung open.
"Come on, girls. This way," she said, disappearing through the doorway.
Mrs. Lopresti shot after her.
Amy let out a disapproving gasp and followed.
The security guard reappeared at the window. "Ladies, I can't seem to find—"
Chapter 18
It was a magnificent sight. Dozens of boats bobbing lazily in the crystal-clear water, expensive yachts with fancy names next to sleek, sporty speedboats. Then there were the sailboats, tall and elegant with their sails wound tightly around their masts. Everything looked shiny and new.
"Wow!" Amy murmured. "If Nick worked as a detective for a hundred years, we'd never save enough to own one of those."
"My Stan, neither. Music doesn't pay what it used to, not like the 1980s, or so I hear." Danielle let out a low whistle. "I sure could get used to one or two of those beauties."
"I wouldn’t mind relaxing on the water with a martini in hand," added Mrs. Lopresti. "That would make for an enjoyable afternoon. No fishing, though, can't stand the scaly critters unless they come baked in a lemony cream sauce."
A violent yapping caused the three women to turn around. It came from a small dog dashing toward them. A dachshund, Amy thought, and not in the first flush of youth, either.
"Mr. Lightfoot, stop that!"
The sharp rebuke came from a middle-aged woman, somewhat overweight, with long gray hair swept up into an untidy bun and a pair of spectacles with thick lenses perched at the end of her nose. "I apologize. Dachshunds are rather excitable, even in their dotage." She stuck out a hand. "The name's Mrs. Nudel. I'm a writer and thinking about joining. I have a meeting at nine with Siggy. Are you members of the club?"
Before anyone answered, Mrs. Nudel leaned forward slightly, glancing over Amy's shoulder, her eyes wide. "What on earth?"
Behind Amy, from the reception area, the security guard came running, his short legs jerking up and down quickly, although his flat feet, pointed at an angle, hampered his actual progress. Amy thought he looked vaguely familiar but couldn't place where she'd seen him before.
His eyes focused on Amy, Danielle, and Mrs. Lopresti.
He wasn’t smiling.
He stopped in front of the women. Face flushed, eyes shrunken to cold, hard pinpricks. He seemed startled for a moment when he realized they were with another woman. "Mrs. Nudel," he said in a deferential voice, gasping for breath "I hope these ladies aren't—"
"Sorry I'm late," a tall, lanky man boomed, bounding on the tips of his toes toward the group and interrupting the security guard. He wore a rumpled linen jacket and crumpled pants. A tie hung loosely around his neck, and his yellow shirt hadn't seen an iron. "I'm Siggy"—he flashed a dazzling smile—"the property manager. Had a little trouble with the alarm clock, said it was eight thirty when I opened my eyes. I thought that couldn’t possibly be correct. But it was. I overslept! It's never happened before." There was deep sincerity in his voice, but his shifty eyes gave him away.
Amy glanced at the security guard. He blinked behind bloodshot eyes as if remembering something important. He gave a little bow and hastily turned to leave.
Siggy stabbed a thin finger in the air. "Eddie, where are you going? I will give the ladies a tour of the facilities. You may as well come along for the ride."
"But the front desk, sir," protested Eddie. "There is no one in the reception area."
"Not expecting any visitors today," Siggy murmured in a low voice. "And any existing members will just walk straight through."
The security guard placed a palm on his cheek, nodded slightly as if he had made up his mind. "The electricity to the boats has been out all weekend since the storm. I'm waiting for the electrician."
"What? Why wasn't I informed?"
"Sorry, sir. It didn't impact the clubhouse or the reception area. And you asked not to be disturbed this weekend on account of your attendance both days at the Merry Eats and Drinks Food Festival."
"Suffering from a touch of indigestion," Siggy replied, rubbing his stomach. "Too much Merlot, too much pinot noir, and a little too much brisket!" Then remembering the presence of the women, he dropped his voice to a deep, sincere tone. "Work seven days a week, once-a-year indulgence." But once again his shifty eyes gave him away.
The security guard nodded toward the yachts. "Only them boats lost power. They've had no electricity since late Friday."
"Well," said Siggy, resting a hand on his stomach. "I don't suppose anything can be done about it now. Come along with us. The electricians will call when they arrive."
Eddie opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Siggy's logic seemed impenetrable. He nodded like a robot. "Don't suppose it will do any harm to tag along," he said, his voice filled with an emotion Amy took as reluctance.
Siggy turned to the ladies. "It seems I have triple-booked today. Mrs. Nudel, would you mind if these ladies join us on our tour?"
There were a full three seconds before Mrs. Nudel responded. "They informed me this would be a personal tour." Her eyes flashed in calculation. "My husband and I are considering membership of the Golden Cove Lake Club. I wanted to look around this new place, see whether it might prove more suitable. But I can see…" Her voice trailed off.
There was an awkward silence.
Siggy stared at his feet. "Mrs. Nudel, you will love it here. This is an exclusive resort."
"That is what I've heard." Mrs. Nudel's eyes flashed again in calculation. "They say you have plenty of empty membership slots."
Siggy flashed his smile although it wasn't as dazzling. "The club is very selective."
Mrs. Nudel folded her arms, tapped her fo
ot and waited. Amy realized she was watching a master negotiator.
"And"—Siggy continued bowing from the waist—"if you and your husband joined, I'd be able to offer you a pleasing discount off the annual membership."
"A pleasing discount?"
Siggy stiffened, straightened out his jacket, eyes narrowed. "A very pleasing discount."
That did it.
"Ladies," Mrs. Nudel said giving a wink, "I'd be grateful if you joined me on this tour."
Mr. Lightfoot yapped as if in delight.
Amy was curious, wanted to look around the facility, especially if that was the only way she'd get to speak with Siggy about his plans to hire her business. It seemed Mrs. Lopresti was of the same mind. "That sounds delightful," she said with a genuine smile.
"The clubhouse first," cried Siggy in delight. "This way, ladies."
He set off with long, loping strides, the security guard scurrying behind, and missed Mrs. Nudel's request.
"I rather fancy a look inside some of these yachts. Wouldn’t that be exciting, ladies?"
"Oh yeah!" Danielle responded before anyone got a word in. "What about that one?" She pointed to a yacht with the Star of Gwen painted on the side. It looked sleek, long, and dazzlingly white in the bright morning sun.
"Excellent idea," crowed Mrs. Nudel setting off toward the boat, and in the opposite direction from Siggy. "Follow me, ladies. This is going to be good."
Amy, Danielle, and Mrs. Lopresti watched from the dock as Mrs. Nudel scurried up the gangplank and along the deck, Mr. Lightfoot trotting merrily at her side, tail wagging high in the air. "Come aboard," she cried waving at the ladies. "Let's have a poke around the Star of Gwen."
Then she disappeared into the main cabin.
It wasn't until Siggy was almost at the clubhouse he realized the women weren’t with him. He turned and hurried back toward the dock. The security guard hung back.
It was the sharp whimper of Mr. Lightfoot Amy heard first, followed by a bloodcurdling scream that rang in her ears long after the police arrived.
Chapter 19
Amy was first up the boarding ramp, followed closely by Danielle and Mrs. Lopresti. If Amy had stopped to think of what lay ahead, she would not have moved with such speed. But Amy didn’t think, only reacted. Like a mother bear protecting her cub, Amy had to help.
She stumbled across the deck, almost falling over in her haste to get to the source of the terrifying cry. For a brief moment she slowed down, steadied herself, then set off again. The lake was calm, boat swaying gently, sun shining hot and bright from a clear blue sky, but it seemed as if Amy was clambering across an ocean liner during a great storm. Her mouth was dry, her legs trembled, but onward she hustled toward the source of the cry.
Inside the cabin of the luxury yacht the wall of humid heat hit Amy hard, the smell harder: pungent, fruity, with a sharp tang of sourness. She’d breathed that pungent odor before, knew what it was, understood what it meant. It seemed to ooze from the oak-paneled walls of the dim cabin, filling the luxurious space with the unmistakable stench of death.
For a moment Amy held her own breath, swallowing hard to control a rising panic.
The scream was louder in here. It echoed off the walls like a freight train rumbling through a long, dark tunnel. Amy's hands flew to her ears, and with one sweeping glance she took in the scene.
She took in Mrs. Nudel standing in a corner screaming inconsolably, arm outstretched, scrawny finger pointing toward a slumped figure on the floor. She took in the small coffee table by the door with the bronze statue of a bird with blue feet staring impassively, and she took in Mr. Lightfoot under the executive desk, whimpering.
In less than three seconds, Amy took it all in.
Then she ran to Mrs. Nudel. "It's all right," she said in a soft voice. "Help is on the way."
The screaming stopped.
Mr. Lightfoot continued to whimper.
"So cold and stiff and bloody," sobbed Mrs. Nudel in a strangled voice. She looked to the heavens as if pleading for help, then she lowered her head and made the sign of the cross. "God rest her soul."
Amy stared toward the door she had just entered. If she so much as breathed in any more of this foul air, she would be sick. Her eyes moved off the door, glanced at the corpse that was once Gwen Williams. Perspiration started up on her forehead, and she could feel sweat trickling down the sides of her cheeks. Her face burned hot, her hands were cold, and her sour stomach was churning.
Danielle and Mrs. Lopresti bustled into the room. Without words being exchanged, they instantly understood. Danielle pulled out her cell phone. "I need the police and an ambulance."
Mrs. Lopresti wrapped an arm over Mrs. Nudel's shoulder. "Let’s go outside, get some fresh air. There is nothing we can do here."
"I know that woman," Mrs. Nudel wailed as Mrs. Lopresti led her from the cabin. "Her name is Gwen Williams. She lives in our apartment building, on the fifth floor, I think. This is her boat."
Danielle's hand covered her nose. "Amy girl, this don’t look right." She took a shallow breath of air. "Like a burglary gone wrong."
Amy glanced at the body. She understood what Danielle was getting at. There was a pool of blood beneath the woman's head, and her arms were strangely twisted as if fending off an attack. "Looks that way," Amy replied in a somber voice. Then she remembered what Nick had told her. "Professional burglars will turn a place upside down. They are almost as thorough as a crime scene team. When they kill the victim, they have all the time in the world."
Amy scanned the room. The cabin appeared untouched, in order, with no obvious signs someone had searched the place. A chill ran down her spine. "Danielle, I don’t think this was a burglary gone wrong." She stopped abruptly, unable to say what she really thought.
It didn’t matter though; Danielle was ahead of her.
"Amy girl, are you saying someone murdered Gwen Williams?"
Chapter 20
"Don't worry, ladies," Siggy said in a tremulous voice. "The sheriff will be here soon. He'll get to the bottom of this." Siggy and the security guard had returned from the scene of the crime, and they were all standing on the dockside awaiting the arrival of the flashing red and blue lights.
The county sheriff arrived ahead of the emergency medical team. Chewing gum and wearing dark shades to protect his eyes from the bright morning sun, he swaggered along the dock, his shiny, brown cowboy boots matching his wide-brimmed hat. The man wouldn't look out of place in a 1970s Hollywood crime-caper movie, Amy thought with a growing sense of alarm. Her concern only grew when he drew close. His corrugated face seemed to sag at the sight of the gathered crowd, his stooped back arched into a question mark, and his head jerked like an ostrich as he walked.
Amy watched, astonished as he ambled over to Siggy, gave him a hug then slapped him on the back.
"What we got here, Siggy?"
"Uncle Sykes," Siggy said, placing a hand to his mouth. "It's a nasty one. Gwen Williams, she's...dead!" He pointed at Mrs. Nudel. " She found the body. Go see, Uncle. Go see."
He held up a scrawny hand. "Facts first, Nephew; you know that. You say a Mrs. Gwen Williams is dead?" He drew out the name as if he was searching for a long-lost memory.
"Stone cold."
His ostrich neck jerked back and forth. "Not from around here, is she?"
"Nope. From Austin."
"A townie, eh? Thought as much." Sheriff Sykes took off his shades, glanced at the yachts, but made no move toward them. "She in there?" He pointed in the general direction of the boats.
Siggy nodded. "The Star of Gwen. Dead as dry toast." Then he retched.
Sheriff Sykes shuddered. "Don't hold back, Nephew, get it all up and out." He glanced at the Star of Gwen and again shuddered. "Was hoping for a quiet week and all."
Amy opened her mouth to say something but closed it when she realized it wouldn't be positive. She didn’t want to poke her nose into the investigative procedures of the county sheriff's office. She o
nly hoped that when the investigation got started, it picked up speed.
The sheriff rubbed his chin. "This place used to be part of Ogden's ranch. Nothing but cattle roamed these parts." He turned around slowly, taking in the surroundings like a tourist takes in New York City. "Now rich folks from the city come sailing their big boats and dying. I always said all this new development was the devil's work."
Amy couldn't restrain herself any longer. A woman lay dead on her yacht, and probably because of foul play. If Sheriff Sykes didn't get on board the yacht, seal off the area and collect evidence, what chance was there they would catch the killer? "Are you going on board to investigate the crime scene?" Amy asked pointedly.
The sheriff turned and scowled. "Know about these things, do you?"
"Her husband's a detective in the Austin Police Department," said Danielle. "And Mrs. King tracked down the Beast of MoPac. Nailed that killer real good."
"Shh!" He stumbled back a few steps, corrected himself, his ostrich neck jerking. "Well then, ain't that a fact?" His jaws moved up and down, working the gum hard. "Got to get the details first, see. Once I got the details, I'll go on ahead onto the boat and take me a little look."
"Shouldn't you look first, might be foul play? We ain't going nowhere," said Danielle.
"Foul play?" He rubbed his chin
"Could be," Danielle replied. "Someone smashed Mrs. Williams' head in."
"Two months left; that's all I got till retirement, and now I got this!" He shook his head.
"You'd better go on board and investigate," Danielle pressed.
His eyes narrowed. "Now then, little lady. I'm in charge here. I'll climb aboard that big ole boat when I'm good and ready. And right now I ain't ready. City folks don't get the ways of the Hill Country. We collect the facts first."
Danielle let out a disgruntled groan.
"Facts is what keeps criminals at bay." Sheriff Sykes steepled his fingers and chewed, neck jerking back and forth. "Facts is what we collect first."
Amy had no idea what to say to that. She fumed but bit her lip. She already knew it was murder and hoped the investigation would be thorough and they'd catch the killer. But upon glancing at Sheriff Sykes, with his craggy face, dull eyes and reluctance to visit the crime scene, hope began to dwindle.
