Dead Wake (The Forgotten Coast Florida #5)

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  “Rollie Fitch,” Wilson said. “Died of cancer…oh, back in the early eighties.”

  “So much for that,” Wyatt said. “We’re wondering about this thing with Boudreaux.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bennett.”

  “Which thing?”

  “The alibi. Apparently, he got into a problem with Crawford at Papa Joe’s that night.”

  “Yeah. I don’t remember what it was about, though. Just words; it didn’t get physical.”

  “But after Fitch came forward, you went to talk to Boudreaux?”

  “Sure,” Wilson said. He seemed a bit more wary, a bit less warm than he had when they’d walked in.

  “We see in the case file that you did, and that Boudreaux supposedly had an alibi for the time Fitch thought he saw Crawford and the other guys,” Wyatt said. “But there’s no statement.”

  “Sure there is. Check the file again.”

  “We did,” Maggie said.

  Wyatt coughed into his hand. “We’ll look around. Maybe it was mis-filed. What was his alibi?”

  Wilson looked over at Maggie, then back to Wyatt. “I’m sorry. I honestly can’t remember.”

  Wyatt nodded at his feet for a few seconds before looking back up at Wilson. “No offense, but there’s a faint taste of crap to that.”

  The man stared back at Wyatt. “No offense, but I don’t care what it tastes like. That was almost forty years ago.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Finally Maggie spoke up. “Did you know Bennett Boudreaux at all?”

  “Not much. He’d been to town a few times, but he didn’t live there then.”

  “What about after he moved to town? You know him much then?” Wyatt asked.

  “Everybody did.” Wilson seemed to put some effort into sounding less defensive or hostile. “But not back then.”

  “What was he like back then?” Maggie asked, and then wondered why she’d asked it.

  Wilson looked at her for a moment. “About what he’s like now.”

  “He was only twenty-two then.”

  The man shrugged. “He didn’t have the money, the connections, the rep back then, but people were leery of him.”

  “Why’s that?” Wyatt asked him.

  “He just had that way about him. The old man was a loudmouth and a hothead, always getting into fights and so on. Bennett Boudreaux was quiet, but you knew he meant business.”

  “But you don’t remember what his alibi was,” Maggie said.

  Wilson rubbed at his jaw and sighed. “Look. I’m too old and jaded for BS. One law enforcement officer to another, don’t waste your time on Boudreaux. I didn’t like the man, then or later. I know a lot of things he has done, none of which he ever got indicted for, but he didn’t have anything to do with this thing.”

  Wyatt and Maggie looked at each other, then Wyatt sighed at Wilson. “But you won’t tell us where he said he was at the time.”

  “And you can subpoena me if you ever come up with some wild evidence against Boudreaux, but I’ll probably just forget again.” He looked at his watch. “If he was a viable suspect, I’d tell you. Holden Crawford was a decent guy.”

  Wyatt stood, and Maggie reluctantly followed suit. “What about Mrs. Crawford?” she asked. “What was she like?”

  “Beth Crawford. I haven’t thought about her in years,” he smiled. “Franklin County’s very own Farrah Fawcett-Majors.”

  For some reason, that made Maggie sad. It also made her want to go back to the nursing home for a second look, because the description didn’t jibe with her memory.

  “Does she know yet?” Wilson asked.

  “We just left her,” Wyatt said. “She’s in an assisted living facility now.”

  “You don’t say. That’s a shame. She was always busy, always running. He was more laid back.”

  “Still is,” Wyatt said as he headed for the door.

  “That really rusts my bucket,” Wyatt said. “Let’s all be really open about the fact that we’re not gonna tell any truth here today.”

  Maggie pulled onto Hwy 98, then looked over at Wyatt. “You think he was taking money?”

  “How the hell would I know. Let’s go ask Boudreaux.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  Maggie chewed the edge of her lip. “Why don’t you let me go?”

  “No.”

  “I think he’ll speak more freely with just me.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Wyatt said. He took a drink of his Dew. “Nonetheless, we’ll go together.”

  That Wyatt might not trust her to be forthcoming was actually pretty well justified. It bothered her anyway. It also bothered her that she preferred to talk to Boudreaux alone. She stared out the road for a moment.

  “Say it,” Wyatt said.

  Maggie looked back at Wyatt. “Say what?”

  “Whatever you’re trying not to say.”

  She shrugged. “You’ve got every right to insist.”

  “So I did.”

  “It still bugs me.”

  Wyatt fiddled with the air conditioning vent for a minute before he replied. “Let’s get some perspective. I’m not only your boss—the sheriff, no less—I’m also your best friend. Of course I’m going to get in between you and your pet serial killer—”

  “There’s nothing serial about his killings—”

  “Excuse me. His run of the mill killings. In any event, the man has killed two people in the last few months, on your behalf I will add.”

  “Alessi was choking me to death!”

  “And all Sport Wilmette did was stand by while Gregory Boudreaux absconded with your honor.”

  Wyatt stopped as he saw the look on her face. “I didn’t mean that as flippantly as I said it.” She nodded. “All I’m saying is that he was already a known criminal, and now we know him to be somebody who has taken enough of an interest in you to kill people.”

  “It’s not that kind of interest.”

  “I didn’t qualify it.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’m telling you, he doesn’t have the hots for me or whatever incorrect way you’ve put it before.”

  “He has something.”

  “It’s platonic.”

  “It’s weird! That’s all. He’s a crook and a killer. You’re a cop. That makes it weirdness.”

  “You didn’t seem especially eager to press charges against him for Alessi.”

  “Oh, I agreed with the sentiment, if not the method or the extreme. He cut his throat from one side to the other, Maggie.”

  “I know that. The freaking body washed right past me.”

  “Did you ever ask him how he killed Sport? I mean, before he chopped him up and threw him into the Gulf?”

  “He never straight up said he did it. It was a hypothetical conversation.”

  “My ass.”

  “I never asked.”

  “Well, I will go with you to speak with Boudreaux, and I’ll be there to make sure we don’t forget to ask any important questions, okay?” Wyatt picked up a French fry.

  “Fine,” she said, sounding like it wasn’t.

  “Okee-doke,” Wyatt said back, sounding like he didn’t care.

  Boudreaux’s seafood business, Sea-Fair, was located on Water Street, right on Scipio Creek, which opened into Apalachicola Bay. Maggie’s tires crunched through the oyster shell parking lot, and she parked the Jeep near the front door.

  As she and Wyatt climbed out of the car, a moist breeze from the water brushed past them. Maggie looked up at the sky. There was just enough low-hanging gray to let her know they’d get their customary 3:15 shower. When she breathed in, she tasted a hint of wet metal.

  They were greeted by Boudreaux’s slightly-mousy blond receptionist, who seemed reluctant to call Boudreaux, but did so anyway. When she hung up, she let them know that Boudreaux was in the fish processing room and that she’d take them back. Maggie advised her back that she knew where it was and they’d find the
ir own way. The receptionist was displeased, in an inconsequential sort of way.

  Maggie and Wyatt made their way through several hallways, finally coming to the metal door where Boudreaux’s crew dressed and packed grouper, snapper, and other high-demand fish for the restaurant and supermarket trade.

  Wyatt knocked on the door, and it was opened a moment later by Boudreaux himself.

  He was dressed in his usual manner; casual but expensively. Light-colored trousers and a blue chambray shirt hung perfectly on his still-trim frame, and his boat shoes were practical, but cost more than all of Maggie’s shoes combined. As always, his thick, sandy brown hair was impeccable. He didn’t look all that surprised to see them.

  “Hello, Sheriff Hamilton,” he said smoothly.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Boudreaux,” Wyatt said politely.

  Boudreaux’s eyes rested a moment longer on Maggie, and he nodded at her. “Maggie.”

  “Mr. Boudreaux.”

  He opened the door wider, and stepped back to let them in.

  The room was busy, noisy with the sounds of at least a dozen white-clad people dressing and butchering fish at two rows of stainless steel tables.

  “I’m just packing up some fish heads to take home,” Boudreaux said, indicating they should follow him.

  He stopped at the nearest table, where several fish heads waited in a clear plastic bag. There were quite a few more in a bucket next to the table, and he reached down and took out two. They were redfish.

  “If I don’t bring some home for soup stock, Miss Evangeline starts slinging voodoo at me,” he said.

  “Does it work?” Wyatt asked.

  “Well, I’m bringing home the fish, so I’d say it does, wouldn’t you?” He smiled politely at Wyatt as he dropped the fish heads into a bag, then glanced over at Maggie. “Would you like to take some home, Maggie?”

  “No, thank you,” Maggie answered. “I’ve got plenty.”

  Boudreaux began twisting the bag shut. “How can I help the two of you?” he asked.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the building you used to own on Commerce Street.”

  “The florist,” Boudreaux said as he made a knot in the bag.

  “That and some other things. Maybe more privately?” Wyatt asked.

  Boudreaux reached up to grab the nozzle of a heavy, industrial hose that hung from the ceiling. He rinsed his hands and the bag before turning back to them. The water coursed down a nearby drain in the tile floor. The same tile floor that Wyatt hadn’t been permitted to tear up.

  “Let’s talk in my office,” Boudreaux said, and led the way back to the door.

  They followed him out, then down the hallway. “I assume this is about the body that was found,” he said as they walked. The hall was narrow and Wyatt was abreast of Boudreaux, towering over him by almost a foot. Maggie walked behind, not towering at all.

  “Why do you assume that?” Wyatt asked.

  “Because that’s what’s going on this week. And because I used to own the building.”

  Boudreaux opened a door and stepped aside to let them in. Maggie had never been in Boudreaux’s private office, and she was surprised that it was as impressive as it was. He tended toward understatement, but the rich mahogany furnishings and local artwork were meant to convey the money and power that he usually pretended to overlook.

  Maggie and Wyatt sat down in a pair of burgundy leather armchairs as Boudreaux put the bag of fish heads into a built-in mini-fridge and then sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in the leather desk chair that looked more comfortable than Maggie’s bed, and waited for one of them to speak.

  “The body that was found in the flower shop last night was Holden Crawford’s,” Wyatt said.

  “I see.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Of course I did,” Boudreaux said calmly. “I assume you read the file.” He glanced over at Maggie, and she could practically feel those blue eyes checking her bone density.

  “What was the issue between you and Crawford?” she asked him.

  She watched one finger scratch gently at his left eyebrow, something he did when he was choosing his words, which he always did carefully.

  “In general, the issues were between him and my father,” he said. “They were competitors. Between the two of them, they bought and sold ninety percent of the oysters that came out of the bay.”

  “What did that have to do with you?” Maggie asked.

  “Not much,” he answered. “But I had just graduated from Tulane, a Masters in finance. I’d started taking over the running of my father’s shrimping operation back home, so I was a little more involved in his business here as well.”

  “Did you have dealings with Crawford?” Wyatt asked.

  “Not really. But I was something of a go-between for the two of them, a role I found less than satisfying.”

  Maggie cleared her throat before speaking. “What happened at Papa Joe’s that night? The night he disappeared?”

  Boudreaux sighed softly and leaned forward onto his desk. “He was drunk. Or had been drinking. There was an event going on, what would probably be called a pub crawl these days. All of the raw bars and seafood restaurants were participating. I ran into him at Papa Joe’s.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said.

  “He had some nasty things to say about my father, in a fairly loud voice,” Boudreaux said. “I couldn’t disagree with anything he said, but I took exception nonetheless.”

  “What kind of things?” Wyatt asked.

  “That he underpaid for his oysters, which he did. That he undersold to the vendors to undercut Crawford, also true. That he was a bully and an ass, which he was.”

  “So where’d you go after Papa Joe’s?” Wyatt asked casually.

  Boudreaux regarded him for a moment. “I went home.”

  It wasn’t the answer Maggie expected. “To your father’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your father there?” Wyatt asked.

  “No, he was on a fishing trip that weekend.”

  “Huh,” Wyatt said.

  Boudreaux looked at him mildly. “That wasn’t unusual.”

  “Well, the thing is, according to Bradford Wilson, you had an alibi for the time at which Crawford was seen arguing with another man in front of his business. Home alone isn’t much, as alibis go.”

  “I suppose it isn’t,” Boudreaux agreed.

  “So why would he say you had one?”

  “Sheriff Wilson smoked a lot of pot,” Boudreaux said, and Maggie could just see one corner of his lip twitching.

  “Is that a fact?” Wyatt asked, as though Boudreaux had shared some mildly interesting fact about the mating habits of sandpipers.

  Wyatt had a low BS threshold, and Maggie could see by the set of his jaw that he’d already breached it.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Wyatt somewhat pleasantly. “At the time Crawford went missing, you were under some suspicion because of the argument you had with him at Papa’s, and the fact that a man of similar stature was seen arguing or fighting with Crawford later. Your alibi, or the alibi Wilson says you had, was what knocked you out of the running.”

  He waited for Boudreaux to say something. Boudreaux waited as well.

  “But now, there’s the fact that you bought Crawford’s business later on, including the building where his body was found,” Wyatt continued. “That alibi would be even handier for you now. And you’re telling me you don’t have one.”

  “Nor do I need one,” Boudreaux said quietly, as he folded his hands on the desk. “I didn’t have anything to do with his disappearance, or his death. Yes, I bought his business and his property later on. It was beneficial to me, and to his wife. The business was falling apart.”

  “What did you do with the building?” Wyatt asked.

  “For a while, it was just a tax write-off, which I needed by then,” Boudreaux said. “Then I had new floors and windows put in and leased the spaces out.”<
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  “What went in there?”

  “A hair salon,” Maggie answered for Boudreaux. “I had my hair done there for prom.”

  “Yes,” Boudreaux said. “Then it was a gift shop, but that went out of business fairly quickly. That was when I sold the building to the gentlemen who own it now.”

  Maggie had a brief memory of sitting underneath a hair dryer up against that brick wall. If she’d known what was encased just behind her, she’d have been more curious than anything else, even then.

  “Let’s revisit your alibi for a second,” Wyatt said.

  “I don’t have one,” Boudreaux said.

  “I don’t believe you,” Wyatt said. “And that’s problematic.”

  “I suppose it could be,” Boudreaux said smoothly. He looked over at Maggie.

  “Mr. Boudreaux,” she said. “It concerns me that you won’t tell us where you were or who you were with. Just clear it up.”

  “I apologize, Maggie.”

  “I tend to think you didn’t have anything to do with this,” she said.

  Boudreaux held her stare for a moment before he spoke. “Why is that, Maggie?”

  Maggie was trying to come up with an answer when Wyatt spoke up.

  “Maggie says you wouldn’t kill for money,” Wyatt said. Maggie thought about shooting him.

  “Is that right?” Boudreaux asked, smiling slightly at Maggie before he looked at Wyatt. “She’s correct.”

  “So why would you?”

  “Why would you?” Boudreaux countered. He sat back in his chair. “Buying Crawford’s assets was an investment. It cost me money for quite some time before it actually made me any. To be truthful, I had no need of his business at the time, and my father was misguided in thinking that empty lot would help him. He just wanted to get what he wanted, whether it was a good business decision or not.”

  “But he didn’t get it. You did,” said Wyatt.

  “Yes. My father passed away the year before Crawford was declared legally dead, and his wife was free to sell the business.”

  “Then you took over both businesses.”

  “Correct.”

  “Do you know of anyone else that might have wanted to kill Crawford?” Maggie asked.

  “I don’t really,” Boudreaux answered. “He was a decent enough man, though a poor businessman.”