by Debbi Mack
Marsha paled. She raised a hand to her chest and sputtered. “I didn’t kill him for my gain. I swear, I did it for Junior. I’m going to take care of him.”
“Like you took care of Curtis?”
Marsha shook her head. “You don’t understand. Dwayne said Curtis was jeopardizing our whole operation. We had to get rid of him.”
“Who? You and Dwayne?”
“I … I’m not saying anything more.” She crossed her arms.
Far as I was concerned, that was as good as an admission. With any luck, the cops could tease out the details. I turned and scanned the distance. “Here they come.”
Marsha’s mouth was agape. “Who?”
“The cops. They’re here.”
I waved a hand toward the cop cars pulling into the driveway.
“Why? How?” Marcia asked.
“I told them my theory. And now you’ve confirmed it.” I opened my shoulder bag and revealed the small tape recorder I’d borrowed from Barbara Feldman of the Wicomico Weekly Alternative. She’d have a big scoop on her hands now.
“Marsha,” I added. “Just so you know, I didn’t have a birthright. My parents both died when I was nine. And sometimes life just isn’t fair.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
That evening, Mulrooney was in his cups. Based on the taped confession, the cops were willing to drop the charges against Jamila. After the cops had taken Marsha and Junior in, he’d used his not inconsiderable influence to set up a quick hearing and get the charges against Jamila dismissed that afternoon.
Fortunately, the recording was obtained without police knowledge, thus negating Fourth Amendment concerns. Admissible or not, it provided plenty of probable cause to arrest Marsha and Junior. The siblings had lawyered up, but the recording had already done significant damage.
Mulrooney had even managed to wangle two additional days free stay for us at the condo from Bower, Sr. In exchange, Mulrooney provided every assurance that he’d keep the big man’s name out of it when he spoke to the press about the matter. Clearly, Bower, Sr. was pulling out all the stops to distance himself from the actions of his wayward kids.
I called Russell to let him know I’d be taking a couple more days off. Any concern I had that he might feel put upon melted away when he said, “Good for you. Take another week, if you like.”
“Well, that’s not necessary,” I said. “But thanks for offering.”
“Having fun?” Russell’s nasal voice intoned.
“Yeah, I’m having a blast.” I was so not going there. “How’s Oscar?”
“The little asshole?” I could picture Russell, in his smoking jacket, with scotch on the rocks in hand. “He’s just fine. You know I’d call you if there was a problem, right? Now, have fun and don’t worry about a thing.”
I tried to swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Thanks, Russell.” I love you, too.
*****
The three of us celebrated with dinner at one of Mulrooney’s favorite seafood restaurants. The Crusty Claw was right by the bay and had piers, making it accessible by car or boat. Seated at a table on the outdoor deck, we toasted our success with a bottle of Chardonnay and watched the sun melt into the clouds, spreading its dying glow like hot butter.
When the waitress, a petite blonde who looked about sixteen, took our order, I couldn’t help but notice her slight foreign accent.
I smiled and said, “I take it you’re not from around here?”
She shook her head and returned the smile. “I’m from Germany. However, for the next few years, I’ll be attending Oxford.”
I nodded. That was one foreigner with a temporary visa who wasn’t going to be picking crabs or hauling chickens to slaughter.
Naturally, Jamila was in high spirits. “I’m so relieved this is settled. And I’m on the program tomorrow. No question.”
“I’m glad we could make the whole thing go away,” I said.
Jamila looked at me. For a moment, I thought she looked sad.
I smiled. “It’s over, Jamila. Everything’s fine. You’re in the clear.”
She beamed. “Of course.” She leaned toward me and squeezed my arm. “And I have you to thank for that.”
Our food arrived around the time they lit the tiki torches. The water shimmered inky dark with silver glimmers of reflected moonlight and squiggly yellowish-white streaks cast off from houses and dock lights along the shore. Boats with green and red lights eased by now and then, creating the illusion of illuminated dots skimming over the water.
Mulrooney had opted for all-you-can-eat steamed hardshell crabs. Jamila chose crab cakes. I dined like royalty on flounder stuffed with crab imperial.
“Thanks again for taking us out, Mr. Mulrooney,” Jamila said. I kept picking at the crab, expecting to find shells and cartilage, but it had neither.
I avoided thoughts of Luisa and her kids working side by side to keep my dinner free from annoying bits of inedible matter.
Mulrooney attacked a blue crab with a knife, wedging it in the crack between the shells. “Think nothing of it. Frankly, I’m glad Sam and Conroy were able to find out what they did, so we could get the matter dropped before the state began prosecution proceedings.”
“Yeah.” I glanced at Jamila, who was working on her salad. She didn’t know a thing.
“Thank your lucky stars you’re not defending the case now,” Mulrooney continued, deftly flipping the crab shell apart. “The feds are crawling all over it. The INS, the DEA, the IRS. You name it. It seems Marsha was quite the entrepreneur. The nonprofit was saving sea turtles, but it was also allegedly engaged in various illegal activities, including money laundering.”
I smiled. “I just love cases involving the feds,” I said, clearly not meaning it. This reminded me a bit too much of a previous case involving people who changed their identities, committed crimes, and attracted feds like flies to chicken shit.
“You have to admit, Marsha is a pretty shrewd business woman,” Mulrooney said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Jamila said. “Criminal queenpin is another.”
I chuckled but thought back to my talk with Danni. She said Marsha wanted to be different from her family. But how far had the apple really fallen from the tree?
“My theory is Marsha and Dwayne killed Curtis,” I said. “Were the police able to apprehend Dwayne?”
Mulrooney nodded. “The idiot was found this afternoon. His boat nearly reached Chincoteague before it ran aground. On alert by the local police, the Coast Guard arrested him and impounded the boat.”
Hmm, I thought. Marsha would no doubt want to trade information in order to plea to a lesser charge than first-degree murder and since she was a member of the influential Bower clan, I suspected Dwayne was royally screwed.
“So … I wonder who called me from Curtis’s phone?”
Mulrooney gouged crab meat from the shell. “Marsha.”
“Why?”
“According to the police, Curtis was already dead. Marsha admitted to making the call to throw them off and make you a suspect, too.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It worked. Marsha’s a pragmatist.”
“That’s one word for it,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I hate banquets. I hate any occasion that requires wearing a dress. Lately, when I go to court, I’ve been getting by with pantsuits, depending on whether the judge is able to handle such a radical concept. I’d managed to scrape up a decent form-fitting navy knit number that ended a few inches above the knee.
I checked myself in the mirror, adjusted one leg of my tights and swore. “We should be having fun, not going to some stuffy-ass banquet,” I muttered.
“Are you ready?” Jamila appeared at the door, dressed to the nines in a shiny black sequined sheath with a bolero jacket.
“I hate tights. My legs feel like sausages.” I struggled with the hose, twisting and pulling. After a f
inal yank, I said, “Fine. I’m ready.”
“Aren’t you going put on makeup?”
I waved a hand and made a “pfft” sound between puckered lips. “Why? Who am I trying to impress?”
“C’mon, Sam. It’s a banquet.”
“Exactly. It’s a banquet. Not my coming-out party.”
As we hustled to grab our bags and get to the car, I thought about those words. “Coming out” took on an interesting possible meaning in light of what Jinx had threatened. However, it would be fascinating to see what the night would actually bring.
“I still can’t believe this nightmare is over,” Jamila said, as she drove. “I can’t believe that woman went to such lengths to set me up.”
“It was opportunistic. Since Dad owns the place, Junior was able to get a copy of the key to the condo and slip it to Marsha. So, while we were out on our nature hike on Assateague, she snuck in and stole the knife and clothes.”
“All because they knew about our argument the day before?”
“That and the noise complaint that started everything.”
“Well, I guess there’s a lesson in this, isn’t there? If your neighbors make noise, ignore them.” She laughed, which made me even happier than I’d felt during dinner the night before.
*****
The banquet was standard fare. A big room jammed with round tables hidden beneath white tablecloths, each set for eight people. A long dais ran along the far wall with a head table for the bigwigs. People in their finery milling about, drinks in hand, sampling from a selection of hors d’oeuvres like bacon-wrapped scallops, chicken wings, and mini crab cakes set up over steam trays, plus a big bowl of chilled shrimp on ice with a ceramic cup of cocktail sauce jammed in the middle. The crowd jostled me. The air was stuffy, even though the AC was blasting. Conflicting scents of excess cologne made me sneeze. As is usual at these things, everyone seemed to be talking at once.
While Jamila grabbed a couple of seats at a table near the dais, I got a glass of wine at the open bar. My second glass of wine in two days? I’m not usually a drinker, but this wasn’t just any old night. Although I normally would have preferred a table along the periphery, tonight I wanted a front row seat for what I anticipated could be a most interesting show.
As I took my seat next to Jamila, I saw him. Ray was seated at the head table. Of course. His very young fiancée, Amy, was next to him. Both of them were beaming. Ray was talking a mile a minute to a gray-haired guy in an expensive navy suit. Clearly, Ray was in his element. He stopped talking and did a visual sweep of the room. His glance drifted my way momentarily, paused a second, and kept going.
“Hey, guys!” Kait Farrell’s voice interrupted my thoughts. She walked up to the table and, over her glasses, bestowed a mock glare my way. “Where’ve you been all weekend?”
“Um, kind of busy.” I glanced at Jamila. As always, her expression was unruffled.
Kait made a loud “tsk, tsk” sound, while shaking her head. She smiled at Jamila and said, “Your presentation this afternoon was great, by the way.”
Jamila nodded, looking serene. “Thank you.”
I looked at Jamila. I felt so proud of her. She looked just like a judge should. I could picture her in robes one day.
“Sam.”
I knew the voice. I turned to my left to see Jinx wedged between myself and the man sitting next to me.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I think you know darn well what’s up. There’s going to be a show after dinner. A slide show with photos you won’t want to miss.”
“Okay, Jinx. Are you sure you want to do this, though?”
“Positive.”
“Well, I can’t stop you.”
“Nope.”
“Have fun.”
Jinx flounced off. Kait had left to join the other state’s attorneys. White-coated waiters swarmed the tables, depositing plates of chicken, veggies, and rice before everyone. One glance at the chicken and I thought I’d get sick to my stomach. I ordered a second glass of wine.
“Why do they always have to serve chicken at these things?” I said.
“We’re on the Eastern Shore, Sam,” Jamila said. “And crab cakes were probably too expensive.”
I tried—really tried—to saw the chicken breast and eat little pieces. But there’s a reason they call these events “rubber chicken dinners.” Knowing what I did about the slaughter of chickens and migrant workers didn’t make things any easier.
I polished off my salad, rice, and vegetables, poked the chicken, and gulped my wine. I raised the nearly empty glass to flag a waiter down for another. He brought it, and I swallowed what was left before handing him the empty.
The room seemed stuffy and loud, but I felt good. Really good. Relaxed. I had another swallow of wine. I felt it go down and warm my belly. My face went hot. I picked up a program and fanned myself.
“Is it me or is this place hot as hell?” I asked Jamila, poking her arm and raising my voice above the din.
Jamila, who I’d interrupted mid conversation with someone, turned and looked at me. “Well, it’s a bit … You look … um, you look kind of …”
I laughed. “What? I look kind of … what?”
Her gaze drifted toward the wine glass in my hand. “How many of those have you had?”
I shrugged. “Who’s counting?” I laughed some more. Everything was funny.
“Maybe you’ve had enough wine.”
“Yeah,” I said. I looked around at all the lawyers. So many white faces. Then I looked at the waiters. So many black faces. “Maybe I couldn’t possibly drink enough.”
Jamila placed a hand on my arm. “Is something wrong?”
My head was buzzing. I thought about telling her. Confession was good for the soul, wasn’t it? But once the toothpaste was out of the tube …
I started to speak, when a speaker crackled to life on the podium.
“Okay, everyone. While they’re serving coffee and dessert, let’s bring this meeting to order. Now, before we get underway—”
“Hold it!”
The voice that rang out from the back of the room was Jinx’s. She rushed up to the dais, clutching a laptop with a small projector, and whispered something into the emcee’s ear. She placed the equipment on the table near the podium and fired it up. The emcee frowned and hovered near, but she elbowed him aside and stepped up to the mic. A hush fell over the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jinx said into the mic. “It is my sad duty to inform you that the president-elect of this organization has engaged in acts of moral turpitude.”
“Hmmph,” Jamila said. “Who knew she could even use that word in a sentence?”
I smiled and said nothing.
I looked at Ray. His face was stoic, but his eyes showed fear. His gaze locked onto mine.
“I have pictures here that prove my point.” Jinx repositioned herself behind the laptop. She inserted a flash drive into it, clicked the mouse a few times and projected an image onto the wall behind the dais. For a moment, you could’ve heard a pin drop.
Then, the room exploded in laughter.
Jinx turned and looked at the wall. “No!”
It was a huge photo of her on the toilet.
Jinx shut off the computer, scooped everything up and stalked out without a word.
Jamila and I doubled over. Ray laughed harder than anyone else at the head table. He wiped his eyes, looked at me and smiled. I turned away.
“Well,” I said. “That was … interesting.”
Jamila shook her head. “I’m … lost for words. Anyhow, where were we?”
“Would you excuse me a moment?”
I got up and stumbled through the tables toward the rest rooms. Jinx’s stunt had ground proceedings to a halt. The room resonated with talk and laughter, making me even more disoriented. The wine wasn’t helping matters. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in a number.
/> “Yes,” he answered.
“Nice work,” I said.
“Thanks. It was no big trick. I just followed her from that dive where you met to her motel. While she was out, I planted a hidden camera and got the photo. I had plenty of time to figure out where she stored the photos of you, too. She left her room for several hours so the maid could clean it today. I was able to make the switch before the banquet with no problem. Now, will you honor your word and keep my name out of it?”
“Yes, Ellis. I can call you that, can’t I? We are friends now, aren’t we?”
“Sure,” Conroy said.
“You make it sound so depressing. I’m really nice, once you get to know me.” I hung up.
I took a few moments to use the facilities, then managed to find my table again. Jamila looked at me with concern.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d fallen in.” She placed her hand on my arm again. “Okay, before we were so rudely interrupted, I asked if there’s anything wrong?”
I looked at my friend. “It’s nothing. Really.”
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debbi Mack is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sam McRae mystery series and other novels. She’s also had several short stories published in various anthologies and been nominated for a Derringer Award.
Debbi is also a screenwriter and podcaster who hosts the Crime Cafe podcast, where she interviews crime, suspense, and thriller authors twice a month.
A former attorney, Debbi has also worked as a journalist, reference librarian, and freelance writer/researcher. Along with writing mysteries, Debbi is currently working on a new trilogy of crime novellas and other projects.
www.debbimack.com
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