by Nancy Bush
“NO! I knew you’d get upset. Geez. It’s fine. They know better than to send them all over the place. They know about sexting. I told them they were perverts. I mean, she’s so old.”
“I’m going to have to tell Tutti,” Jules said on a sigh. This was the last thing she needed. “You know that, don’t you? And Martina should know.”
Jules expected the girl to have a conniption fit, but Georgie just sank back into her seat and folded her arms over her chest. “They’ll never trust me again,” she said, pouting. “I just wanted to know about the boat, y’know? I didn’t ask them to show me the pictures of Martina. They just did.”
“The boat?” Sam asked before Jules could.
“Dad’s boat.” Her voice caught. “You know. On that day . . .” Her face crumpled and she started to cry. Embarrassed, she pressed her hands to her face.
“They were using the drone the day Joe took the boat out?” Sam asked, clarifying. He looked over at Jules, who met his gaze in a sort of slow motion horror as between them, Georgie nodded her head. “Did they get any pictures?”
She shook her head, seeking to stop the gulping sobs that racked her. “Not really.”
Jules wanted to collapse. It felt like she’d run a marathon, she was so wrung out.
“Only of the guy who came to the front door,” Georgie then added. “They weren’t supposed to be using the drone. They’re supposed to take it to the beach, but Tutti was with their dad and they were home alone and so . . . they do it every time their parents go on a date.”
“But they used it on Wednesday,” Sam said, clarifying. “That’s the day there was a guy at the front door.”
“Yeah, the day Dad . . . died.” She shuddered. “They wanted to show me the pictures, but they weren’t very good of the boat. It was just at the dock. Nobody on it. So, then they showed me the ones of Martina, which they’d taken a few days before, I guess. I don’t really care . . . except . . . I wanted them to have better pictures, y’know? I wanted . . . I thought . . . maybe I would see Dad one more time.” Tears ran down her cheek. Jules reached for her and she turned her face into Jules’s shoulder and cried, hard, racking sobs.
“Who was the guy at the front door?” Sam asked gently.
She lifted her head and wailed, “I don’t know.”
“You didn’t recognize him?” Jules pressed. “Was he . . . wearing a hoodie? Could you see his face?”
“I don’t know, no. . . .”
“It wasn’t anyone from the canal?” Jules couldn’t control herself.
“No, I told you!” She sniffed. “Why? Does this have something to do with Dad?”
“Could he have been in disguise?” Jules pushed.
“I don’t know!”
Sam’s attention had wandered from the road during this exchange, and he suddenly had to slam on the brakes a little harder than he’d intended. The laptop slid out from underneath the passenger seat. Georgie swiped at her eyes and looked down at it. “Is that . . . Dad’s?” she asked tremulously.
Jules picked it up. “I’m sorry, Georgie. I’m not trying to press, I just . . .” She drew a breath. “Could the man in the picture have been Stuart Ezra?”
“No . . . He was old.” She was shaking her head, rubbing her tears away with her fingers.
“This picture was definitely taken Wednesday, the same day of the boat accident?” Sam asked. “Taken that morning, before the boat went out?”
“I don’t know. I guess. That’s all I know. Why did you think it was Mr. Ezra?”
“We want to know what Mr. Ezra saw that day,” Sam said.
“Well, the guy in the picture was old. And he had a mustache.” Georgie gestured to the laptop, sniffing back tears. “What are you doing with it?”
“Trying to get into it,” Sam admitted. “Hoping it would tell us something.”
“I can open it for you,” Georgie said, taking it from Jules.
“You can? You know the password?” Jules asked hopefully.
Georgie frowned at her. “So do you. It’s what Dad always called me. You really can’t remember that? Come on, Julia. You know that one!”
“Georgiegirl,” Jules said softly.
“See? You do remember. You know, you just have to try harder, I think,” Georgie said earnestly.
“Think you could open it for us now?” Sam asked.
“Sure.” Sniffing back the last vestiges of her crying jag, she cleared her throat, then fired up the laptop and waited for the screen that asked for the password. When it appeared, she typed in: GEORGIEGIRL.
“I could remember ‘Georgie,’ but that was all,” Jules murmured.
Sam gave her a swift look. “You okay?”
The gray veil was shifting, lifting more of the blocks to her memory, nearly overwhelming Jules, but she wanted to know. She was sick to death of not knowing. “I’m fine.”
The laptop uploaded to a dark green screen, the desktop littered with file icons across its face. Jules looked them over, then pointed to one in the shape of a notebook, labeled “TCF.”
Georgie used the mouse to click on it, and the Cardaman file opened up.
* * *
Stuart backed the Civic into its spot at the For Sale lot, grabbed the sign with his smeared phone number and placed it back on the inside of the windshield. He climbed out, sucked in a breath of salt-laden ocean air, then looked at the license plate. He was going to have to pick up one of the others he’d pilfered over the years, one of the ones hidden in the back of a cabinet of his garage, one with current tags. He’d been lazy about changing this one out, but just today alone it had to have been seen by the motel camera, and probably the hikers as well. That one old broad had probably memorized it and was calling 911 as he stood here! And then there was the guy from the motel.
Sloppy, Stuart. Very sloppy. But improvisation sometimes went that way.
He needed to get rid of the car, but first, the license plate had to be changed out ASAP.
So, that meant he had to go home.
He looked down at his dirty knees and hands. He opened the trunk, hoping he’d left a gym bag inside with a change of clothes. No such luck. He’d moved the garbage bag with the bleach, Jackie’s heels, and her purse to the trunk, removing the gun. His stash of hypodermics was in the toolbox that sat next to the shovel, the end of which was still covered in mud. He’d tried to kick most of it off, but again, he’d been aware of time passing. Jackie’s cell phone he’d smashed into pieces at the grave, making sure it was completely dead before tossing the remains into the hole with her. He’d done a slapdash job of burying her; her grave wasn’t near deep enough. Later, when he had more time, he would go back and cover her up, conceal both her corpse and Mulhaney’s a hell of a lot better.
Slamming the Civic’s trunk, he pocketed the keys. Then he pulled out the ones for the Trailblazer and unlocked his SUV. He sat behind the steering wheel for a few minutes, thinking about what he should tell Bette. She had her suspicions about Jackie. He was going to have to spin one hell of a yarn, wasn’t he? And what about this dirt all over him?
Car breakdown. Flat tire.
Good one, Stu.
He got out of the vehicle and dug underneath the chassis, found the crank hole to lower the spare. Pulled the tire out and ran it around in the dirt until it didn’t look quite so damn clean, then pulled out his pocketknife and stabbed it hard.
He put it back and got behind the wheel again. Wondered why he felt so weary. Coming off a high. Like a bad hangover. He switched on the ignition and pulled away, his thoughts returning to Jackie.
Damn if he didn’t miss her already.
* * *
Griff called again as Sam pulled into the driveway of Joe and Jules’s home. As if on cue, both Sam and Jules looked over to the Ezras’ house, while Georgie got out of the car, still holding the laptop open. The Ezras’ front door was closed, the blinds drawn. They didn’t know if Bette was still there or, by the way she’d been dressed, if she’d gone
to her yoga class.
“Why don’t you two go inside,” Sam said as he pulled up his phone. “See what’s on the laptop. I’ll be in in a minute.”
Georgie had already pulled out her keys as Jules headed up the front porch steps. She heard Sam connect with his friend and say in a low voice as he climbed back into his truck, “What have you got?”
Georgie had seated herself at the kitchen table, the laptop in front of her. “It’s just a bunch of names and phone numbers,” she said as Jules walked into the kitchen.
“I know.”
“Who are they?” She looked over at Jules, then inhaled swiftly and asked in a whisper, “Did one of them kill Dad?”
“We don’t know what happened,” Jules said, searching through the cupboard for the tin of tea bags. She grabbed a mug and filled it with water, sticking it in the microwave. “You had breakfast at the Bledsoes’?”
“Yeah. Frozen waffles.” She asked in a small voice, “Do you think Mr. Ezra did it?”
“Sam just wants to talk to Mr. Ezra.”
Ezra . . . Jules’s breath caught. She could hear Tiny Tim saying, “The name on the license started with an E, maybe a B. . . .” Not a first name, she realized. A last name. Stuart had been the man at Tiny Tim’s and the woman had been Jackie. . . .
Her knees quivered. Stuart and Jackie had helped Dennis Mulhaney disappear! She nearly dropped her mug as she pulled it hot from the microwave. She dunked the tea bag, saw her hand was shaking.
“You do think he did it!” Georgie declared in alarm, jumping up from the table.
“Georgie, Sam’s figuring it out! Don’t do anything!” she added, as the girl was stumbling toward the front door.
“He killed Daddy, didn’t he?” she accused, tears welling again.
“Georgie, please.”
“Tell me! Tell me!”
“I’m starting to remember. I remembered Stuart on the boat.”
“Oh, God . . . Does Mrs. Ezra know? I feed their dogs!”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. Please, Georgie, wait for Sam. He’s working with the police. He’ll be here in a second—”
“What if Mr. Ezra comes here?” She backed away from the door, tears running down her face. “He’ll kill Sam and you and me.”
“Georgie, hold on. Just . . . wait. Sam’s on it. Please. He’s working on it. Okay?”
At that moment they heard a squeal of brakes outside. Georgie shrieked in fear and ran to her room and slammed the door. Jules raced to the front door, sick with fear as the engine to Sam’s truck suddenly roared to life.
What?
Reaching for the door handle, she peered through the side lights and saw Sam behind the wheel, making a three-point turn, then tearing away from the canal toward the highway, gravel spraying from behind the truck’s wheels. Her cell phone rang at that same moment and she tore back to where she’d left it on the counter. Had to be Sam. He was the only one who knew her number besides Georgie.
“Sam?” she answered anxiously.
“Ezra just showed up,” Sam said tautly. “I’m in pursuit. Stay inside.”
“Sam . . . Sam . . .” She gulped. “Ezra was the name on the driver’s license, Sam. That was the name Tiny Tim saw at that bar when Denny Mulhaney disappeared!”
He exhaled sharply. “Shit. Yes. I gotta go.”
“Be careful. Sam.” She sank against the edge of the kitchen counter. “Oh, God, be careful.”
“You too. I’ll call soon.”
And he was gone.
* * *
Stuart’s heart jumped and leaped in his chest, pounding so loud he was deaf, as he tore back toward the coast highway, the Trailblazer screeching and swerving onto Highway 101, heading north.
What had happened? What the hell had happened? Frantic, he checked his rearview mirror. Nothing. Still, he couldn’t stop the thundering of his heart, the nervous sweat breaking out all over his body.
He’d pulled into his driveway and hit the button to lift the garage door, aware that the truck in the Fords’ driveway belonged to the brother, Sam Ford. He hadn’t been worried about it. Ford was hanging tight with Julia, probably wanted to get into her pants, which wouldn’t be a bad place to be, he’d thought a bit jealously. He’d been wondering if there was a way to separate Ford from Julia and have some time with her himself before he had to kill her.
And then Bette had run outside, screaming at him about Jackie, looking like a wild woman.
At the same moment Sam Ford, cell phone pressed to his ear, had stepped from his vehicle, his gaze targeting Stuart like a laser, his manner grim and purposeful . . . like a cop on a takedown.
Bette had been still shrieking, but he’d been deaf to her.
One thought had crystalized in his brain: Sam Ford knew.
Ford had leapt into his truck and backed out in a rush. Stuart had taken off.
How? How the hell had Ford put it together?
He shouldn’t have run . . . stupid . . . but nothing else to do.
The end of the line.
No.
He could still get away. He could turn off before Ford found him. Make his way back to the Civic. Switch vehicles again. Fuck. No time for a new license plate. Fine. He’d steal one somewhere else.
He’d go south. Into Tillamook. Then east. Hole up in the Coast Range . . . somehow....
* * *
Sam tore after Stuart Ezra. . . . Ezra . . . shit. That was the name on the damned driver’s license. And Jackie. God. They’d killed Dennis Mulhaney together. He was certain of it. They’d killed him over the investment money. And Stuart had killed Joe for the same reason. It’s about the money. His father had gotten it right.
He’d told Griff about suspecting Stuart Ezra, and Griff had been telling him of the Seaside Police’s continuing talks with Walter Hapstell Senior, who’d been in a land deal with Byron Blanchette, and how Scott Keppler had worked both ends against the middle, pissing Joe off in the process, and that’s what had ended their relationship. Griff was just talking about Hap, and how he and his father were at odds, which was why Hap was so hell-bent on the Summit Ridge properties, when Ezra had suddenly appeared. Then all hell had broken loose as Bette had run out of their house, Ezra had spotted Sam, peeled out of his driveway, and the chase was on. Sam had told Griff he was in hot pursuit and gotten off the phone, called Julia to warn her, and now he was at the junction to the highway.
He lurched to a stop. No sign of Ezra. Which way? North? South?
North. Toward Seaside and the turnoff onto Highway 26, Portland and beyond. Ezra could pull off into a number of roads and try to hide. He wouldn’t go on to Seaside because he’d get caught in traffic. Though he might go south....
He put a quick call in to Detective Stone, who answered almost as if he’d been waiting for his call. Sam told him he was in pursuit of Stuart Ezra, Joe’s possible murderer, and told him to check with the Seaside Police for more information.
Stone asked, “Ezra’s the man in the pictures I sent you?”
“Yes,” Sam said, advising him that Ezra had driven onto 101 and disappeared, no telling which direction.
“We’re on it,” Stone said, and hung up.
Sam drove north, looking down offshoot roads, searching for signs of Stuart’s Trailblazer. He saw a flash of black as he looked down the road to Salchuk, and he made the turn himself with a squeal of tires and brakes, nearly missing the turn, fishtailing a bit as he regained control of the truck.
Maybe it was Ezra’s SUV, maybe not.
And where’s Jackie in all this? he wondered.
* * *
Jules paced the living room. She’d tried to talk to Georgie, but the girl had just wanted to be left alone, barricading herself in her room with her phone and iPad. Jules had let her be, and truthfully she needed time to think, to be in her own head.
Walking back and forth from the kitchen to the far side of the living room and back again for about five minutes, she’d gotten nowhere trying to pi
ece together what had happened. “Come on, Jules, think!” she’d admonished, when her gaze landed on Joe’s still open laptop. She slid onto the chair Georgie had vacated, her whole body feeling like there was an electric charge running through it. Waking the computer from sleep mode, she had to reenter the password, and then the screen opened to where Georgie had left it, the Cardaman file.
Names and names. Alphabetic. She ran her eyes down the list. Some she recognized. Anderson, Illingsworth . . . Rivera, Zoey . . . So Zoey had invested with Cardaman? She didn’t see Byron Blanchette’s name. Nor Scott Keppler’s, nor the Ezras’. But there was Vandra, Burton . . . had to be the sheriff.
Then she saw a name she’d initially skipped over.
Simpson, P. J.
“Uncle Paul?” she said aloud. Well, no. He’d been dead for years.
She debated on whether to call Sam with this information. Bad idea. Had to wait for him to call her. And it had to be a coincidence anyway. Her uncle had been gone for over a decade.
But maybe she should send Sam a text, get his brain working on it.
“It has to be nothing,” she muttered to herself as she wrote out: Cardaman file. P. J. Simpson. Same name as my deceased uncle. She pushed send, feeling a little sheepish almost immediately. She was seeing ghosts everywhere.
“Get a grip,” she muttered just as she heard a sudden knock on the front door. Jules nearly leapt from her skin.
She looked around for a weapon, settled on a butcher knife. Don’t get paranoid. You live on a damned canal where neighbors drop by all the time. Especially now, with everything that is happening.
She drew in a deep breath. It could be anybody. No one to be afraid of. Sam was in hot pursuit of Stuart Ezra. No need to worry.
But she kept the knife with her anyway.
She looked through the side light window. A man stood there. Head down. Huge mustache.
“Julia,” he said, his voice muffled through the door. “Can I talk to you?”
The voice. Familar. The gray veil shifted further, and she heard Joe’s voice again.
Get to the boat!
But this voice . . .
“I came by that day to talk to Joe. I saw you, too, but Joe told you to run and you slipped and fell. I wanted my money from Joe, but he couldn’t give it to me. We’d met face to face and he assumed the worst of me.”