by N. C. Lewis
"Really?" the reporter said, more as encouragement than as a question. He grinned into the camera, flashing pearly white teeth. "KATV-News will keep you in the know even when you are on the go. I'm with food critic Henry Escoffier outside the recently closed Joyeux Mangeur Bistro. Please continue, Mr. Escoffier."
"I like to keep in contact with the movers and shakers of the Austin food scene."
"Yes," the reporter said, urging him on. "Why did the restaurant close so suddenly?"
"The short answer is the owner ran out of money."
"So sad. It was such a popular spot." The reporter stared into the camera with an exaggerated frown. "Can you share a few more details with our audience?"
"Cody's financial backer pulled the plug."
"Shame," the reporter continued. "We would love to interview him for this show. I hear he used to run an exceptional food truck."
"He did. A very successful venture. Alas, running a food truck differs from running a sit-down restaurant. It's tough to make that transition, and Cody Laurent's failure with Joyeux Mangeur Bistro reminds us of that."
"Any news on Cody Laurent's whereabouts?"
"He left town."
Danielle clutched Amy's arm. "Do you think?"
"Could be," Amy responded in a hushed whisper.
Both women leaned forward, eager to hear what came next.
"Is that so?" the reporter asked. "Is he still in Texas?"
"No. Connecticut."
"Why?"
"I believe it was a personal matter. The catering business here in Austin is small, and we all keep in contact with each other. Cody is a friend. He left town to reconcile his marriage. Mrs. Laurent lives in Connecticut. He's been out of town since last Wednesday. That would be the eleventh. The restaurant has been closed since then."
"We wish him well, and hope he is back soon to open a new dining experience." The reporter looked into the camera with hopeful eyes, again exaggerated. "This is Jack Skanky reporting for the What Y'all Just Missed series for KATV-News."
Amy scratched her head. "That's another suspect we can take off our list."
"Suppose so," Danielle replied. "Where do we go from here?"
Amy shrugged. "I've no idea."
Chapter 24
It was late afternoon as the two friends hurried across the car park of the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club. A handful of cars, all luxury brands, clustered near the entrance.
"I don't like it, Danielle," Amy said. "I don't like any part of it."
"Me neither," admitted Danielle. "But they always say a criminal returns to the scene of the crime. I guess we'll find out whether that's true, and you want to know who killed Gwen Williams, don't you?"
There were no signs of a police presence or of anything to show a suspicious death had occurred. The security booth was vacant, and Amy had no intention of ringing the bell. "Come on, Danielle. Let's go straight through."
Everything was as they remembered it. The clubhouse was to the left and the boats and yachts to the right. They stood still for a moment, their eyes following the yachts, speedboats, and sailboats as they bobbed gently to the ebb and flow of the lake water.
Danielle glanced up at the gathering clouds then at the Star of Gwen. "This place gives me the creeps."
Amy was about to agree when she saw it. "Look!" she whispered, pointing to the Star of Gwen then tugging Danielle by the arm into the shadows of the overhead awning. "There's someone on deck."
A figure in blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt stood by the entrance to the cabin glancing out over the lake. The head was lowered as if in prayer, hands clasped together.
"It's a woman," Danielle said in a hoarse whisper.
"Oceana Peach!" Amy replied.
The security guard, Eddie Yates, came out of the cabin and strolled over to Oceana. They talked for several moments before he returned to the cabin, and she hurried down the ramp onto the dock.
Oceana turned toward the entrance. Then stopped, eyes probing the shade where Amy and Danielle stood. She appeared startled for a moment, then waved and made her way over. Her footsteps struck the flagstone pavement like pistol claps.
"Amy and Danielle!" Her eyes flashed with some undefinable emotion. "We meet in the strangest places, don't we?"
Her face reminded Amy of a cherry tomato ripened too long in the sun and about to go rotten. "Are you a member of the club?"
"No, but I knew Gwen Williams. She is..." Oceana corrected herself. "She was famous on the auction circuit and very knowledgeable about Rodin." The sunken eyes and straight line for a mouth seemed burdened by some great secret.
"So y'all were friends?" Danielle asked.
"More like acquaintances. It is a real shame she died in such a violent way."
Amy wondered how much Oceana knew about the circumstances of Gwen's death, and from whom. "There wasn’t much about it in the news media."
"Suppose not. The security guard told me everything. I hope they catch the dawg."
Amy spoke her next words with care and watched Oceana closely. "I'm sure the county sheriff will capture the culprit in short order."
Oceana's cheeks seemed to sag, her left eyelid twitched, and she shook her head. "From what I hear, there hasn't been much of an investigation to date. The killer could be miles away, even in another state."
The group fell into silence. As Amy glanced at the Star of Gwen, she saw Eddie Yates on deck, staring in their direction. Amy waved. He strode across the deck, down the entrance ramp and onto the dock.
"That reminds me," Danielle said, breaking the silence. "When do y'all return to New Jersey?"
Oceana looked from Amy to Danielle with mournful eyes. "Friday. I'd like to stay longer but can't get any more time off work."
"At least you've paid your respects," Danielle said, half turning toward the Star of Gwen. "I suppose y'all have been part of a steady stream of visitors?"
Oceana gave a faint smile. "I've been here for a little over an hour. Eddie, the security guard, was kind enough to let me stroll around the yacht. As far as I know, I'm the only visitor."
Amy placed a hand on her cheek trying to remember. "What about Marge Christopher, Robert, George, Brendan, and Reginald?"
Oceana's eyes darted back to the yacht. The security guard was hurrying toward them. She lowered her voice, presumably, so he wouldn't hear her. "Keep this to yourselves; Marge and Gwen Williams never got along. They were more like enemies than friends."
Chapter 25
That evening the temperature dropped, and a crisp, blustery wind came from the north, bringing with it driving sheets of rain that tapped on the windows and rattled the doors. Amy, in her robe, nibbled an oatmeal cookie and drank a glass of warm milk at the kitchen table while recounting her day.
Nick listened impassively as Amy described the meeting with the headwaiter at Moonies Burger Bar and the information gleaned from the news reporter outside of Joyeux Mangeur Bistro restaurant. Eventually, Amy said, "So you see, honey, I've come to a dead end."
It was several moments later as the rain continued to pour that Nick let out a grunt as if at last, he had digested all she had said. "It may not be a dead end."
"How so?"
"Since Cody Laurent has a rock-solid alibi and her husbands are dead, overseas, or in care, the next step is to look at Gwen Williams' friends. In most cases, the killer is known to the victim. What have you got so far?"
Amy crimsoned; she hadn't thought of that line of investigation. She picked up another cookie from her plate and replied sheepishly, "Nothing, yet."
"Understandable," Nick said. "You've done well for the first day on the job. I should give you my badge."
That is why Amy loved Nick. Even after twenty-two years of marriage, he always made her feel good, even when she felt bad. "Thanks, honey."
Nick continued, "Most people only have a handful of close friends. If you identify her inner circle, you might have the name of the killer."
Amy ran her finger around the r
im of her glass. "Gwen Williams' friendships are a mystery right now. I'll need to dig a little." Then she had a thought. "What about CCTV cameras? I saw a lot at the boat club. I wonder if they caught the killer on film?"
Nick snatched up the remaining cookie on Amy's plate and took a big bite before she could protest. "Friday's storm knocked them out," he said between bites. "Focus on Gwen's friends; maybe you'll get lucky."
It seemed the most logical course of action, and Amy determined she would pursue it. After a sip of milk, she turned to Nick. "Were you able to find anything out about the county sheriff's investigation?"
"Officially, nope." Nick's lips twisted into a sly smile. "Through my private network? Yep." He pulled out a large brown envelope from his jacket which hung on the back of his chair. "Got pictures of the crime scene. Not all of them but enough." He glanced at his wife. "Do you want to look?"
The thought of Gwen Williams' lifeless body soured Amy's stomach. What good would it do to see the grisly scene again? "Not really," she said in a hoarse whisper. "Why don't you tell me what you make of them?"
Nick placed his hand on the envelope, half closed his eyes and spoke as a detective recounting the facts. "No signs of forced entry. Nothing was stolen. Not much of a struggle. I'd say she knew the killer. Medical examiners confirmed a fatal blow to the head by a heavy, blunt instrument, possibly a hammer or iron or something like that. Time of death between nine p.m. and midnight, Friday the thirteenth. No fingerprints, and no DNA. Nothing else to go on."
"It all seems rather bleak," Amy said when he had finished. "I don't suppose the sheriff has made much progress."
Nick drummed his fingers on the table and slowly shook his head. "I've pinged three contacts in the county sheriff's office, and all say the same thing—not a priority."
A sense of injustice washed over Amy. The wheels of the investigation had scarcely turned. Gwen Williams deserved better than this. "Let me see those photographs."
"They are not pretty." Nick spent a moment shuffling through the images and placed them in three piles on the kitchen table. He pointed at the first pile. "Begin with these."
For a brief moment she hesitated, took in a sharp breath, picked up the first photograph in the pile and forced herself to take in the image. It showed the interior of the cabin as did every picture in that pile. The slumped figure of Gwen Williams was visible in some shots although it was not their focus. The photographs left the impression of a neatly organized, lavishly furnished cabin.
After a minute or two, Nick spoke. "This wasn't you're typical smash and grab gone wrong. It wasn't a break-in for theft. Whomever Gwen met either went there with a murderous intention or snapped in the moment."
Next, Nick pointed to the second pile. Amy shuffled quickly through the pictures. There were shots of the ship taken from the dock, photographs of the entrance to the cabin taken from the deck, and snapshots from inside the entrance of the cabin out onto the deck.
"It all looks exactly how I remember it," Amy said reflectively. "Except for Mr. Lightfoot."
"Mr. who?"
"Mr. Lightfoot. He is Mrs. Nudel's dog, a dachshund. He was whimpering under the executive desk." She paused, thinking. "An expensive yacht is not a place one would expect to have a murder."
Finally, Nick pointed to the third pile. "You might find these disturbing."
Amy drew in her breath, letting it out long and slow before picking up the first photograph.
It was a close up of Gwen Williams' head.
"Enough!" Amy's mouth was almost too dry for words. She slid the pile away. "I can't look at the rest, way too grisly for me."
Chapter 26
Sleep wasn’t possible. Amy had seen too much. Lying in bed they talked late into the night about family, friends, the goings-on at Nick's workplace, and Amy's plans for her business. Eventually, a little after one a.m., Amy felt her eyelids grow heavy.
She was on the Star of Gwen. In the cabin sitting in a leather armchair, the only light from candles shimmering dimly to illuminate the dark. The cabin seemed to stretch on and on, vanishing to infinity at the horizon.
A voice cried out for help.
Amy struggled to her feet, rushing headlong into the darkness, twisting and turning to avoid tripping over an infinite number of coffee tables. Every time she jumped over one coffee table another would appear. Keep your head up girl, she told herself. Don't look down, lest you trip and fall. Eventually, exhausted, her eyes drifted down. On each coffee table, an identical statue of a blue-footed bird stared back.
The voice cried out again.
"I'm coming," Amy called from her sleep. "You're not alone. I'm almost at your side. Help is on the way."
"What is it? Wake up, honey. You're dreaming."
Amy slowly opened her eyes, her mind filled with the fog of dreams. "I…err…"
"You were crying out in your sleep like you were having a nightmare. Are you all right?"
"I am now." Her voice was groggy, eyelids heavy. "Bad dream."
Nick rocked her back and forth in his arms, kissing her lightly on her forehead. Amy's eyelids fluttered shut, and she floated on fluffy, white clouds high in a deep-blue sky.
She slept soundly until four in the morning when the rhythmic snoring of Nick jolted her awake. It took a moment for sleep to clear from her mind, and in that state between dreams and consciousness, an idea formed. It was so vivid she reached out to touch it, realizing only when her fingers grasped thin air that it was a figment of her imagination. Now, like a burst balloon, the idea was gone.
Amy slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Nick, and walked to the window. A gentle pitter patter alerted her to the beginning of another downpour. She drew back the curtains slightly as soft raindrops splashed against the glass. The slanting rain made it difficult to make out the familiar shapes of the garden shed, cars parked in the driveway, or the edge of the railing that bordered their property. It was then Amy saw it in her mind's eye, the vivid image of the dream, the thing she had missed in the photographs. She gave a little cry, hands flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.
"What is it, Amy?" Nick sat up and flipped on the light. "What's wrong?"
"The blue-footed booby!" Amy's voice was almost a shriek.
"Eh?"
"The bronze statue of the blue-footed booby is not in any of the crime scene photographs. It should be. I saw it on the coffee table when I entered the cabin…and I think I know who took it."
Chapter 27
"See!" Amy pointed at the photographs lined up on the kitchen table. "When we discovered the body, there was a statue of a bird with blue feet on the coffee table. It's missing from the crime scene photographs."
Nick sipped his coffee, black and strong at this early hour of the morning. He examined the photographs. There was nothing on the coffee table. "So, what happened to it?"
"It took a while to figure it out, but it all goes back to the Tin Man."
Nick took a large gulp from his mug and swallowed hard. "I think you'd better start at the beginning, and give the caffeine a chance to do its thing."
"Remember I told you about the Tin Man?"
"How could I forget! A Tin Man steals a purple suitcase with a yellow bow outside of Joyeux Mangeur Bistro on Congress Avenue during the Oz parade. If the owner didn’t file a report, I'm not sure I would've believed it."
"The suitcase belonged to Marge Christopher, a collector from New Jersey. It contained a work by the artist Rodin."
"The bird statue, right?"
"Yes. I believe it was the same statue I saw on Gwen Williams' coffee table."
"Are you sure of that?"
"I wasn't at first. I thought it might be a copy. But Gwen's cabin is full of original artwork and expensive furnishings. I'm almost certain the statue on the coffee table was the Rodin."
"Troubling." Nick's brow furrowed, and his eyes were wide.
Amy pulled up a picture of Rodin's statue from an internet search. "See? That's what I saw.
Marge Christopher purchased it at the auction, but it was on Gwen Williams' coffee table."
Nick leaned forward, his eyes darting back and forth between the image and his wife's eager face. "Go on. I think I get it." He took another gulp from his mug.
"We know the Tin Man stole the suitcase which contained the statue."
"Yes."
"And I saw the statue in the cabin on Gwen's yacht."
Nick rubbed his chin. "Yes… Go on."
"I asked myself how it ended up on the coffee table. The answer—the Tin Man put it there."
"I see, but who is the Tin Man?"
"The security guard—Eddie Yates."
"What?"
"Eddie Yates seemed strangely familiar when I first saw him, but I couldn't figure out where we had met before. Then it hit me this morning—I hadn't ever met him before!"
"Explain yourself, honey."
"I noticed Eddie's shambling gait as he went to get the guest logbook for the sheriff. It was the same flat-footed shuffle I saw as the Tin Man took off with the suitcase. Eddie Yates is the Tin Man. He seized the statue from Marge Christopher and took it from Gwen Williams' cabin."
Nick steepled his hands. "Interesting, but why did he steal it from the cabin?"
Amy thought for a moment. "The murder weapon was a heavy object? Maybe he used it to kill Gwen Williams."
"Was he a friend or acquaintance of Gwen?"
"I don't think so."
"Why would he want her dead? "
Amy hadn't considered that. The idea was too fresh, but she had a first stab at an explanation. "Eddie tried to sell the statue to Gwen."
"Why kill her?"
"She wanted nothing to do with stolen property and threatened to tell the police"—it sounded far-fetched even to Amy, but she persisted—"or Marge Christopher."
Nick was silent for a moment. "Why would Eddie wait until you discovered the body before retrieving the murder weapon?"
Nick was right. It didn’t quite fit together, but Amy blurted, "He forgot about it."
"Might be true…but he had all weekend to go over what happened."
Amy had no answer. "Not sure," she said at last, partially deflated. Then she remembered the strong smell of booze on Eddie's breath. "We had to bang on the security window to get him up, and his breath reeked of alcohol. Suppose he killed Gwen Williams in a drunken stupor and only realized what he had done when he came to on Monday morning?"
