Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

“Who was he?”

  “A local man. He and his wife are the nicest people you could ever meet. I can’t leave, you know?”

  “I understand. I’ll cancel your flight back. How about your B&B?”

  “I’ve already made arrangements to stay. I need you to start some research for me.”

  “Hang a second, let me get my iPad.” A few seconds later Agnes returned. “Okay, shoot.”

  “First, find out all you can on a Bobby Valentine. Maybe Robert. He’s a veteran of the Iraq war. Born in Georgia. Then—”

  “Wait. What city in Georgia?”

  “Don’t know that. Southern Georgia.”

  “Oh, that helps. Go on.”

  “Research the couple that owns the B&B. Their last name is Bixby. They own three homes here on Daufuskie.”

  “Who else?”

  “For now, that’s all. I’ll have more later.”

  “I’m sure you will. You need Mr. Pat to join you?”

  “Not at the moment. He can always join me later if I need him.”

  “You want me to research the victim? How was he killed?”

  “The victim is local. He’s lived here all his life. I don’t have the coroner’s report yet, but it seems the COD was a knife stab to the jugular after multiple stabs to his body.”

  “Oh my god! How gruesome. What about your other case?”

  “I’m on my way to talk to Wetherly, but this murder is going to take precedence.”

  “Is Valentine your suspect?”

  “Let’s say he’s a person of interest for now. Is my brother in?”

  “Yeah, he’s right here and listening to the conversation. You’re on speaker.”

  “Fine, Agnes. Call me the moment you have something. Brother, how are you?”

  “Joey, what is it that I tell you all the time?”

  “That everywhere I go I find a murder or some crime.”

  “You have a magnet for this stuff.”

  “It’s no different than a plumber always finding leaks, or a priest finding sinners. You know what I mean?”

  “I don’t think the metaphor works. So, you’re staying for a few days?”

  “I have to, brother. If you had met this nice gentleman, you would understand.”

  “Let us know if you need anything. Mr. Pat is ready to fly down there.”

  “Is he on speaker too?”

  “Yes, lad. I’m here and ready.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pat. I’ll keep you guys posted. Oh, Dom, do me a favor and let Marcy know for now. I’ll call her a little later and explain.”

  “Will do. Stay safe.”

  10

  Alice made me a coffee to go, and I took a freshly cleaned golf cart parked in front of the B&B and began making my way through tree-covered, sand-packed roads of the island. The bright yellow-green rays of the sun shone through the pines. Such a quaint, tranquil place this appeared to be. But who could take a kitchen knife and hack at poor Bernard, administering the final blow to his jugular?

  I arrived at the private and guarded entrance to Haig Point. “Good morning, I have a meeting with Mr. Wetherly.”

  The guard glanced at his clipboard. “Are you, Mr. Perego?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Very well, sir. Take this road. At the fork, veer left all the way to the end of the street. Mr. Wetherly’s home will be on your left. It’s the green three-story colonial. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re on your way.”

  As I approached the home, I noticed six four-passenger fancy golf carts sporting wide tires parked haphazardly in front of the house. How many people are here? As I walked up to the front door, a group of overdressed teenagers walked out. Most were wearing Gucci loafers, slacks, and Polo shirts, and all had on Gucci, Dior, and Cartier sunglasses. Most ignored me as I walked right by them. No “good morning,” or “hi there.” Two of them gave me a look of disdain as they examined my simple outfit of Docker’s khakis and a white short-sleeved shirt. “Fuck you too,” I murmured to myself, just in case.

  A well-uniformed maid in her seventies was waiting for me by the sprawling entrance to the home. “Hi, Mr. Perego. Mr. Wetherly is waiting for you on the back patio. Follow me, please,” she said politely and in a low tone.

  “Thank you.”

  “May I get you some ice tea, or perhaps some freshly made lemonade?”

  “Do you know how to make an Arnold Palmer?”

  “Of course, sir,” she replied, smiling. “That’s Mr. Wetherly’s favorite. Half ice tea and half lemonade. Lots of ice?”

  “That would be fine, thanks again.”

  “Here we are,” she said, opening the door to a wide, covered veranda surrounded by plants. “Mr. Wetherly,” she announced, “this is Mr. Perego.”

  Mr. Alexander Wetherly sat in a light-yellow wooden rocking chair similar to the ones I’ve seen for sale at Cracker Barrel, except this one was probably a lot more expensive. He stood, trying to extend what seemed like a skinny six-feet, five-inch frame. However, he looked a tad shorter, as his pronounced hunchback kept him from fully extending. His face looked frail and, from first glance, a lot older than I expected.

  “Mr. Perego, welcome to Daufuskie Island,” he said. His voice was monotone, but he smiled and extended a shaking hand that mimicked his shaking head. His eyes were deep cobalt blue just below his full, white eyebrows, matching a full head of snow-white hair. “You’re staying at Alice’s Bed and Breakfast, aren’t you? Please have a seat,” he added, pointing to a bright red rocking chair next to his. “Fine person Alice is.”

  “Yes, I am. You’ve known Alice for a while?”

  “Alice is almost a local. Her parents lived on the island for a while. She was a beautiful girl.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  “Time, what little I have, is all I’ve got. Is Eunice getting you something to drink?”

  “Yes, sir, she is. Thank you.”

  “Good, good. What a beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked, spreading his arms out toward the wide Intracoastal Waterway with Hilton Head in the background. “Shame what happened to Bernard. We’ve known each other for most our lives. A good man he was. Did you meet him?”

  “So, you’ve heard?”

  “News travels fast here. Not many of us around.”

  “May I ask, who told you?”

  “Eunice told me about an hour ago.”

  “I see. And yes, I met Bernard last night. Actually, in the early hours of the morning. He picked me up at the dock.”

  “I see, I see. So, what brings you out here? You’re writing some article?”

  Eunice stepped out on the patio with my Arnold Palmer. She handed it to me with a small white napkin underneath the glass. “Eunice, may I ask you a question?”

  “What’s that?” replied Wetherly without looking at me, still staring at the scenery.

  Speaking a little louder, I replied, “I wanted to ask Eunice how she heard of Bernard’s death.”

  “Go ahead and ask her when she comes out.”

  I turned to face Eunice who was smiling politely. “I heard it from the boys. They were talking about it a little while ago.”

  “Thank you, Eunice. I’m sure you knew Bernard.”

  “Mr. Perego, his wife, Carmelite, is my cousin.”

  “My condolences, Eunice.”

  Wetherly turned back to me. “So, young man, what brings you out here?”

  This could be a lengthy interview. “I’m writing an article about your investment firm and your family.”

  “Right, right. What do you want to know?”

  I went right to the heart of the matter. “Tell me about your daughter-in-law and how she ended up being the CEO of your company.”

  “You’ve met Susana?”

  “Ah, no. I plan to do so in New York.”

  “Oh, I see. My son was fortunate to meet such a wonderful girl when he did. She is smart as a whip. Wonderful personality. Anyway, he’s always wanted to b
e an artist and had no interest in joining our firm. So, she joined us as a trainee before they were married, and within months, Susana was training others and developing her accounts.”

  “So, you made her the CEO?”

  “I stayed on longer than I wanted. You see, I have Parkinson’s and wanted to retire here long before I did. Fortunately, Susana developed into quite a leader, and I was able to promote her. I’ll tell you though, she earned her promotion.”

  “What about your partner, Mr. Stevens. Was he in agreement?”

  “At first, Richard thought she was a gold digger. You know, marry into a wealthy family and take over the lucrative business. However, he soon realized how capable she was. And, Richard didn’t want to hang around. He wanted to move away with his new trophy girlfriend. Funny, I thought she was the gold digger.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You’ve met her right?”

  “Yes, I was in Barcelona a few days ago.”

  “She’s what? Forty something?”

  “Forty-three, I think she said.”

  “And Richard is in his seventies, like me. Tell me, from your observation as a journalist, do you think they’re in love?” he asked, opening up his shaking palms upward.

  “They seemed to get along fine.”

  Wetherly started to laugh, which turn into a hacking cough. Picking up his Arnold Palmer with both hands, he took a sip through a long straw. He cleared his throat. “Shit, we get along, doesn’t mean we’re in love.”

  “I see your point, sir.”

  He made a point to move closer to me and asked in a low monotone, “Did she make a pass at you?”

  I was taken aback by his question, and my facial expression showed Wetherly the answer to his question as I raised my eyebrows and opened my eyes wide.

  “You see what I mean? She made a pass at me, days after meeting Richard, way back when. Of course, I never told Richard, nor did I accept her advances. She was what then? In her twenties or early thirties?”

  “Getting back to Susana, did you guys check her background?”

  “You mean like get a detective to do a background check?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “When she became a stockbroker, she must have filled out forms and a fingerprint card for the SEC. It all came back approved. That’s all we did.”

  “Well, sir, I think I have enough for my article. I appreciate your time today.”

  “Time is all I got until they punch my ticket. This patio is like God’s waiting room. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “It is a beautiful day,” I replied. Except for Bernard and Carmelite. “One last question, Mr. Wetherly,” I said, taking the last sip of my Arnold Palmer.

  “Ask all you want. Would you like some lunch, or did we have that already?”

  “No, we haven’t,” I replied, restraining my laughter. “I’m sure Eunice is getting that ready for you. Who are these kids in your home?”

  He looked around, surprised. “What kids?”

  “I saw a group of teenagers before I came in.”

  “Oh, those kids. One of them is my grandson, Alexander Higginson Wetherly. That’s the best thing my son Thomas has done for me, but even for that, he needed Susana,” he replied, attempting to laugh but coughing up a storm again.

  “And they’re all staying here?”

  “Some break at school. They all go to The Citadel in Charleston. They love to come here and hang out during the summer and school breaks. I enjoy having them. I used to do the same back when I was their age. Shit, younger. I’ve been coming here since I was a little boy.”

  I stood up, putting away my notebook. “Thank you again, Mr. Wetherly.”

  “Come back anytime, son. We’ll talk some more,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll stop by before I leave. I may stay on the island a couple of days.”

  11

  I sat in my golf cart and pulled out the map of the island, trying to get my bearings to get back to the B&B. My iPhone dinged with a text message. “Meet us at Bloody Point when you’re done. Officer Harrington.”

  Bloody Point was on the other side of the island, and I wished I had my 1967 GT500 Mustang with me instead of this golf cart right now. But, I proceeded, like a tourist, to take the roads shown on the map at full speed of fourteen miles per hour.

  Approaching my destination, I noticed the boys from The Citadel parked on a dune overlooking the coastline about three hundred yards away. As I turned to look at what they were looking at, I saw two police Jeeps parked by the shore.

  Parking my chariot just before the entrance to the beach, I walked one hundred yards to the location of the police vehicles. Four officers were in conversation over a taped-out crime scene. Two were my buddies, Officers Reed and Harrington.

  “Good afternoon, Officers. Is this the murder scene?” I asked, observing a crudely taped-out section on the sand about ten feet by ten feet, for which they had used yellow crime tape tied to dried tree branches held down by stones. It looked like something the Bedrock Police from the Flintstones series would have done.

  “It is,” replied Reed.

  I walked around the scene twice and looked up and down the shore to the entrance of the beach. This was not the murder scene. I knelt next to the supposed location of the body and saw very little blood on the sand. “How many times was Bernard stabbed?”

  “I counted twelve times,” Harrington replied, “but we’ll have an exact amount once the autopsy is completed. Why?”

  “Well, if he was stabbed twelve times, including once to the jugular, he would have bled to death here. Yet, there’s very little blood at this scene.” I stood up and looked at the sand around the area.

  The four officers looked at each other. “So, you’re saying he was killed elsewhere and dropped here?” Reed asked.

  I ignored the question. “Was his body wet?”

  “Wet?” Harrington asked.

  “Was it?”

  Reed, sounding a bit disgusted with my questions, replied, “No, he was dry. Why would you ask that?”

  “If he was wet, then I would surmise the tide rolled in and washed away the blood, but if he was dry, then he was dropped here in the hope that the tide might take him out.” I looked at the body of water in front of us. “What kind of waterway is this?”

  “This is the Calibogue Sound. It leads south to the Atlantic Ocean, there,” Harrington said, pointing. “And north to the Port Royal Sound.”

  “Strong currents?” I questioned.

  “Yes, quite strong,” Reed replied.

  I looked at the sand around us again and saw a million footprints and tire tracks. “Did you guys walk around the area?”

  “Of course, we did, and so have a bunch of other people before us,” Reed said.

  “What are you looking for?” Harrington asked.

  Without responding, I inquired, “Do people drive on the sand?”

  “Depends on the vehicle. Four-wheel drive can, but others would get stuck.”

  “How about golf carts?”

  “Not unless they’re gas powered and have wide wheels. For instance, yours would never make it down here.”

  “I see.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  I ignored his question. “Is it low tide now?”

  “Tide is coming in. Take a look at your right. See that rise in the sand, there?” said Harrington, pointing.

  “That? Twenty-yards away? What about it?”

  “That’s the high tide mark. In an hour, this whole area will be covered with water.”

  “Then the body was dumped here. They either carried it or drove it here. The intent was for the tide to carry the body out to sea.”

  The four officers looked at each other and nodded, as if it were choreographed.

  “Did you search for the murder weapon in this area?”

  “We found nothing,” Reed said.

  I looked over the water and around the shore. “Does
it get deep right away?”

  “At low tide like now, yes,” said Harrington.

  “Did any of you go in the water searching for the murder weapon?”

  The four Bedrock cops shook their heads.

  “Do you have goggles or a mask in the car?”

  “I have one in the trunk,” Reed said. “Are you going to go in? It’s cold.”

  “I’ll think about it. Who found the body?”

  “Some lady was walking the beach,” Reed replied.

  “A local?”

  “Well, actually, her dog found the body and didn’t stop barking at it until we got here.”

  “Local lady or tourist?” I asked again.

  “They all looked at each other again. Two shook their heads, as Reed shrugged his shoulders. They didn’t have a clue.

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “I did,” said one of the other two Bedrock cops.

  “Did she see anything?”

  “No, sir, she said she did not.”

  “I’ll want to speak to her.”’

  Harrington replied, “We can arrange that, no problem.”

  “You said there had been other murders here on the island. How many?”

  “Three in the last two years, and we have two missing persons.”

  “What do you mean, missing persons?”

  “Two people have disappeared from the island. Their bodies were never found.”

  “Of the three you found, where did you find the bodies?” I asked. I started walking up the beach as the small waves signaled the tide was moving in.

  “One was found floating in Port Royal Sound. One was found similar to this one, on the beach. And the third…” He hesitated.

  Reed replied, “The third was found on the marsh on the north side of the island. Right off Governor’s point. That was the first one, two years ago.”

  “This marsh you have in so many places, can you walk in it?”

  “I assume you can in some places, but you would want to wear high rubber boots. However, in some place, it drops a few feet deep.” Reed replied.

  “How would you get around otherwise?” I asked, noticing The Citadel boys leaving their observation post.

  “Some people own airboats,” Harrington responded.