“Why?” I'd ask.
“Even if you've done nothing wrong,” he said, “don't talk. Things can be taken out of context and used against you. Someone else might point a finger at you and your words could come back to haunt you.”
My father had offered sage advice. Later, when I came face-to-face with a particularly trying situation, I had reason to applaud Dad's wisdom.
Skye climbed into the back seat of one of the police cruisers. I grabbed my purse from the ground and climbed into the back seat of Detective Murray's vehicle. Once the door slammed shut, I fell into some sort of a stupor, a combination of exhaustion and shock. When we arrived at the Stuart Police Department, Detective Murray shook me to wake me up.
He led me to an interview room. Once I was seated, he excused himself. I put my head down on the table and fell asleep.
“I need an attorney,” I mumbled, when he returned with two coffees.
“Do you have a photo ID on you?” Detective Murray set the coffees in the center of the table. From his coat pocket he withdrew creamers and a variety of sweeteners.
I handed over my driver's license. He excused himself, presumably to have someone run it through the system.
I loathe artificial creamers and sweeteners. Nasty, nasty stuff. Tastes yucky and all those chemicals are bound to make you sick. However, in my exhausted state, I grabbed two of each, doctored the poor excuse for coffee, and drank it greedily.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” He asked me when he returned. Under the fluorescent lighting, I could see a small scar splitting his right eyebrow. Mostly, his face qualified as craggy or rugged, but definitely more interesting than handsome.
“I've had nothing to drink and I'm not drunk. I've been awake for a day and a half now with only a short stop at a hotel in Georgia.” I explained that I had been on my way to Coral Gables and University of Miami to see my son when my car started acting weird.
“Do you have a local address? Family here?”
“Dick Potter is my grandfather.”
“You were planning to spend the night at his house?”
“No, we had a quarrel,” I said. “I decided to spend the night at Essie's. The Treasure Chest. Where we were.”
“That's trespassing.”
“No, it's not.” I dug around in my purse and offered him my copy of the contract. “I wrote a check for earnest money and signed the contract. Mr. Humberger gave me the keys. Now could I please call a lawyer?”
He glanced over the pages of the contract.
“This only indicates your willingness to buy the place. You aren't actually the legal owner. Not yet.” He passed the papers back to me
“I want an attorney. I refuse to say anything more without one.”
“Sure,” said Detective Murray. He handed me a phone. Fortunately, I knew Ed Wilson's home number by heart, since he and I had worked together to settle my parents' estate after my father died. Wilson had been Dad's attorney for as many years as I could remember.
“Ed? It's Cara. Cara Mia Delgatto. Right. Sorry to bother you at home. Got a little problem. I've been arrested, I think. Or I might get arrested. Either way, I need your help. I'm down here in Florida. Stuart. That's right. Where Dick lives. My grandfather. Could you help me? Oh. Right. No Florida license. I guess I knew that. You can't help me at all? No, I'm just really, really tired and not thinking straight. So you can't, huh? Okay, right, so you'll call me tomorrow with a name? Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
I clicked the phone closed. “Thanks for nothing.”
My parents had always given Ed Wilson the best seat in the restaurant. Wilson never paid a cent for all his meals and wine.
Now I needed help, and the man couldn't be bothered. Okay, so he didn't have a Florida license, and he wasn't a criminal attorney. He could have still told the detective to buzz off. If he had, Detective Murray would probably have backed down, because that's the way it works.
But no, Ed Wilson couldn't figure out a way to help me.
My parents treated loyalty like a religion. Now that they were dead, I wondered if they'd worshiped a false god. Wilson's lackadaisical reaction to my predicament was one in a long line of encounters with folks my parents had treated like extended family. People who had looked the other way when I turned to them.
The sharp flavor of bitterness honed my senses. I couldn't believe how alone I was.
“Look,” said Detective Murray, “you aren't under arrest, Ms. Delgatto, but I do need to know what happened. I need your statement.”
Despite the coffee, I was drifting toward unconsciousness again. My eyes were heavy.
“I really, really need some sleep.” I slid down and rested my head against the back of the chair. Despite how uncomfortable the seat was, I dozed off until the detective shook me.
“I'm not trying to play the heavy,” said Detective Murray, while spreading his big hands wide, “but I can't let you leave here without a statement. A man is dead. Give me something to work.”
I threw up my hands. “Okay.”
Detective Murray proved himself to be a “by the book” type of cop, as he switched on a tape recorder and took me through the routine elements of an interview.
I explained more carefully about my drive down from St. Louis, my car problems, and how Hal Humberger told me someone was planning to run my grandfather out of business by knocking down Essie's building and replacing it with a franchise.
Lou listened carefully and nodded to me. “Continue, Ms. Delgatto. You're doing just fine.”
I retraced my steps to the point of finding Mr. Humberger's body and getting help. I could hear myself slurring my words. I sagged in my chair and rested my forehead on the tabletop.
“Could I please just get some sleep? Lock me in a cell if you have to!”
CHAPTER 15
When he realized I was too exhausted to be of any use, Detective Murray led me out of the interview room, and back to the waiting area where my new friend was sitting.
“I’ll need to talk to you at length, Ms. Delgatto, but I think that can wait until tomorrow.” Lou handed me a business card.
Skye offered to let me stay at her place for the night, but Lou wasn’t done with us. Not yet.
“Skye? I’d like to see her back here at ten tomorrow morning. I’m entrusting her to you.” Since I obviously wasn't going to get back into The Treasure Chest, I gladly took her up on her hospitality, but I did need my things.
“I've been wearing the same clothes for three days,” I said to Detective Murray. “I dropped my stuff right outside the door of The Treasure Chest. Remember? You saw me pick up my purse. Is there any way I could have some toilet articles and a change of clothes? Please?”
“We'll see,” he said.
We loaded ourselves into his car, and he took us first to Essie's store. After a quick conference with the crime scene people, he brought me my belongings. Then he dropped us off at Skye's car, an ancient black Mustang, parked behind Pumpernickel's. I picked up the smell of mold right away and started sneezing.
“Sorry. There's a leak in the roof. Otherwise, it's been a great car,” she said. A cluster of crystals and a dream catcher hung from her rearview mirror.
My nose dripped, my sinuses clogged up, and my eyes itched. By the time she parked in front of an ugly apartment building, I was totally miserable. She led me up a flight of stairs, gave me a Benadryl, and I was out like a batter after three strikes. Benadryl does that to me.
The next morning, I woke up to the wonderful aroma of fresh brewed coffee. Soon the seductive scent of bacon joined in. I rolled out of a lumpy narrow bed and stretched, taking in my surroundings.
Imagine opening your eyes to the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. Add maple furniture. Ugh. The combination actually hurt my eyes. Wrapping my sheet around me, I stuck my head out the door and ventured a few steps into the hall. “Skye? Hello?”
“Good morning!” She waved a spatula at me. “Your things are in the bathroom. I fig
ured you'd want to take a shower, but you might want to hurry because the food will be ready any second. The bathroom is to your right. I put out a fresh towel and a new bar of soap.”
Wow. Was she a gem or what?
Right off the hall, I found a tiny bathroom with an itsy-bitsy shower stall. While the water warmed up, I caught a glimpse of myself in a medicine cabinet over the sink. My face was bloated. Dark purple bags hung under my eyes. Here I'd been hoping for a tan, some rest, and a glamorous South Beach vibe. No such luck.
Oh, well.
The shower produced a weak stream of water, but it still felt heavenly. I surrendered to the divinity of cleanliness. Afterwards, my fresh clothing seemed to caress me with a reminder of all that was familiar and well-loved.
In the galley kitchen, Skye finished scrambling a mound of bright yellow eggs. She piled them high on two plates. These she carried to a table covered with a snowy damask cloth.
“That smells so good. I think I died and went to heaven. Those vases on the table are beautiful,” I said. Three decorated bottles were clustered together. Each held one simple geranium blossom.
“I walk the beach whenever I can and pick up trash. Those bottles washed up in the surf. I glued twine around them and added the rocks and shells. Like I told you, I hope that one day I'll find a way to quit waitressing and sell the things I make.”
Skye seemed to have a wonderful sense of style that was oddly incongruous to the rest of this tasteless place. As if reading my mind, she gave me a wry grin. “My roommate and I are not in sync. As you can see, she loves pink.”
“Whatever,” I said, as I peppered my eggs. “I really appreciate your taking me in. Otherwise I might have spent the night at the Martin County Jail.”
“That reminds me. Lou already called this morning, but I begged him to let you sleep a little longer. You were totally out of it.”
“Benadryl does that to me.” Actually, I was lucky that I hadn't had nightmares about finding Hal Humberger's body.
“I promised him that we'd go straight to the police station after we had our breakfast.”
Skye divided crisp bacon strips between us. When toast popped up in a toaster, she raced over and deftly buttered a slice for each of us.
“By the way,” she said. “The jail here isn't so bad, but they do get you up at six a.m.”
I wondered how she knew about this and decided I wouldn't ask. She'd been awfully kind to me. That was what mattered.
“Can I help you with anything?” I asked, as she hopped up to pour more coffee for both of us. “I should have offered sooner.”
Her smile was genuine. “Go on and eat. Would you like cream?”
“Is it the real thing?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Bring it on, please. Like I said, this is heaven. Thank you so much.” I dug in and ate with gusto.
“I plugged your phone into its charger for you. You had tried to plug it in, but you didn't get the charger all the way into the outlet last night. You were pretty tired.”
“That was thoughtful of you.”
“No problem.” She wore a gauzy floral skirt, tall boots, and an open-knit sweater over a solid matching camisole. A clip caught her blond hair in a soft chignon.
“You and the detective seem to know each other well.”
Skye sipped her black coffee before answering, “Uh huh.” From the deliberate way she avoided my eyes, I knew she wasn't going to make this easy. Rather than ask why she was so comfortable with him, I decided to take another approach.
“Should I trust him?” I asked.
When she turned those sky-blue eyes on me, they were moist with tears of emotion. “Absolutely. You can trust Lou Murray with your life. He's the kindest, most wonderful man in the world. Sure, he's a cop and he's sworn to uphold the law, but he's a cop for all the right reasons. He's decent. He's fair. He won't put up with baloney, but he'll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“That's some endorsement.”
She nibbled her last piece of bacon. “Believe me, he's a great guy.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Four years.”
“How did you meet?”
As if on cue, she popped up and headed for the kitchen. I wondered if she'd heard me. I thought of repeating my question. But instinctively, I knew I should be patient. Skye was working through her thoughts, parsing them, and trying to decide how much to trust me. For most people, inviting a perfect stranger to stay the night was a leap of faith. For her, the invitation had been easy. But telling me how she'd met Detective Lou Murray caused Skye to feel vulnerable. The set of her shoulders changed. Skye grew smaller as though she wanted to curl up in a ball.
I picked up my empty plate and carried it to the sink. She took it from my hands and rinsed it under hot water.
“We met because I'd made a lot of bad choices. Lou rescued me. Most men would have thought I was a piece of garbage, but he gave me a chance. That's how I know he can be trusted. Because of how he treated me. You can't possibly be the sort of challenge I was to him.”
I stared at her. “You might be surprised.”
CHAPTER 16
Two hours of sleep at his desk. That's all Detective Lou Murray had gotten before running his electric razor over his face. He carefully brushed his teeth and changed into a clean shirt, one of two he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Stopping by the ancient Mr. Coffee machine, he poured steaming black java into his mug. Despite the fact that his long night had produced few results in the matter of Hal Humberger's murder, Lou felt optimistic. Today would be a day punctuated by call-backs. In particular, Lou looked forward to talking to someone in St. Louis—anyone, actually—who could give him more insight into Cara Mia Delgatto.
His initial call had been particularly frustrating. Who knew that St. Louis was actually a conglomeration of ninety-one separate municipalities? And that they didn't necessarily share information with each other? His request had seemed so simple: Who the heck was this Cara Mia Delgatto? Who was he dealing with here? What could they tell him about her?
The answer: Not much.
His best resource so far had been Skye.
Next to Showalter, Skye was his best friend. She was also an incredible asset because in her role as waitress at Stuart's busiest restaurant, she observed hundreds of people every day. She knew almost everyone in town, which wasn't implausible when you considered that the population of Stuart was only a little more than 15,000. As a server, she was essentially invisible, so she overheard the darnedest things. More importantly, she possessed women's intuition or ESP or whatever you wanted to call it. Skye could get a bead on most characters in nothing flat. Her accuracy astonished Lou.
When they had a moment alone last night, after Ms. Delgatto excused herself to use the restroom, Skye had flat out told him that Cara Mia Delgatto wasn't their killer.
So who had killed Hal Humberger?
And why?
What was the motive?
Lou felt confident that they had found the means. A crime scene investigator discovered a socket wrench in the trash can near the back door of The Treasure Chest. Although the tool had been wiped clean of fingerprints, the size was nearly the same as the pulpy area of Hal Humberger's skull. Confirmation would come after the autopsy, but the match looked good.
Working from loose notes, Lou had sketched out a timeline. After he finished a time of death, it might be possible to clear Ms. Delgatto and her grandfather Dick Potter.
Lou sipped his black coffee slowly and walked back to his desk to tidy up his papers. What if Skye was wrong? What if Cara Mia was involved? Could Dick Potter be the killer? Dick had been quarrelsome of late, picking fights and taking offense where none was intended. Was it possible Dick was sliding into dementia? Or was this a normal, short-term response to the death of his daughter, Cara Mia’s mother? Dick had changed dramatically after he heard news of his only child’s death. The once tidy old man now showe
d up in dirty overalls, unshaven with dirty hair. Worse yet, his mind seemed to be going. Even if Dick swore on a stack of car part catalogs that he'd gone straight home after stomping out of Pumpernickel's, his testimony wouldn't mean much. He'd become unreliable.
Lou hated to think that Dick might be behind this.
“Don't let your personal feelings cloud your judgment,” warned Showalter.
Lou knew he was right, but he didn't think Dick was capable of murder.
First things first.
Today Lou would flesh out the skimpy statement Ms. Delgatto had given him.
“You're too eager to clear Ms. Delgatto,” Showalter grumbled.
“Maybe,” Lou admitted.
“You didn’t want to cross Skye.”
“Probably.”
“You still need to know more about her. She might not be working alone. Better see what you can find,” Showalter said. “There's bound to be mention of her on the Internet.”
“Ollie?” Lou approached Detective Ollie Anderson's desk, noting with disgust that the man had left donut crumbs all over the surface. Ollie had gone home around two a.m. and returned four hours later with a box of pastries. “See what you can dig up about Ms. Delgatto online, would you?”
“You got it,” said Ollie, setting down his éclair, sucking the chocolate icing off his thumb, and typing with two fingers. “Maybe we'll get lucky, and she'll be one of those bleating fools who shares her dirty laundry on Facebook. Or Twitter.”
Lou shook his head in disgust. People were casual to the point of being stupid about what they shared online. A private life should be exactly that: private. It was shocking what an investigator could pull up with very little effort.
“How long you think it'll take you to poke around?” asked Lou.
Ollie only grunted.
“I'll be back in a jiffy,” said Lou. “I need some fresh air. Skye and Ms. Delgatto will be here any minute.”
He stepped out of the concrete block building in time to see a seagull cartwheeling across the cornflower blue of the morning sky. Lou's footfalls startled a tiny green lizard, an American anole. It cocked his head at Lou and blinked solemnly. The cop stopped and stared at the tiny camouflaged beast, admiring how perfectly it had managed to blend in with its perch, a green and yellow croton leaf. “You take care, little buddy,” said Lou. “An egret might swoop down and have you for breakfast.”
Second Chance at Love Page 6