Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  “Of course,” I murmured. But I mentally adjusted my schedule for the following day.

  A loud rapping on the front door made me jump. Vaughn’s head popped up, and we stared at each other for a moment. I thought about making a snarky comment about my popularity, especially at supper time, but tamped it down and shuffled to the door.

  Bettina Godinou. I could barely see her in the peephole—she was so short—but the orange hair was unmistakable.

  “Your mother,” I hissed.

  Vaughn looked stricken, panicky almost, but just for a second. “She can’t see me here,” he whispered back. He stood by the stool uncertainly, hand on the counter.

  “Take your plate—quick. In the bedroom.” I pointed toward the dark doorway off the short hall.

  He blinked. “I can’t go in your bedroom. Not—”

  “I don’t sleep in there, remember? Don’t be so squeamish.” I flapped my hands at him as if that would make him move faster. While floating houses might have back doors, the escape routes don’t exactly lead anywhere—unless one wants to swim.

  He bolted into action, scooping up his plate and silverware and balancing his mug on top of the pile. He was a rapidly disappearing shadow when I flung open the front door.

  I blocked the opening with my body and stared down at the intruder. “Bettina.”

  “Did the bangles work? I want to know if you got the job.”

  I exhaled. Was that all? It took tremendous mental effort to change the direction of my thoughts. “Marvelously. In fact, I now have two jobs.”

  Bettina clasped her hands together and bounced on her toes. In her richly-embroidered tunic and skinny leggings, she looked alarmingly like the freakish clown that pops out of a jack-in-the-box. “I knew it,” she exclaimed. “I brought you more.” She wriggled past me and headed straight for the kitchen bar peninsula, a cloth bag dangling from her bent elbow. So much for my attempt at guard duty. I hoped Vaughn was chewing the remainder of his hash very quietly in the bedroom.

  “You’re eating?” Bettina wrinkled her nose.

  “Like most people I know,” I replied.

  She shoved my plate out of the way and proceeded to arrange her offerings on the counter. They consisted of a choker collar in intricate metal scrollwork, three chunky rings, four pairs of gigantic dangly earrings, and another smattering of bracelets.

  “Bettina, really,” I protested. “I rarely wear jewelry. I find it too constraining.”

  “Nonsense. Besides, I have too much inventory. It has to go somewhere.”

  You could stop making it, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Maybe it was the only hobby she had.

  “These earrings will look good with that yellow sundress you were wearing the other day. You like warm colors, right? Bronze, copper, natural materials? I have some beautiful polished wood beads that I could work up into a long, twisty necklace for you. Maybe some coral…” She tapped her chin while examining the glittering array on the counter.

  “You’re overwhelming me. Really,” I insisted. “My self-protection instincts, which involve running—and sometimes screaming—in the opposite direction, are threatening to kick in.”

  I meant it as a joke, but Bettina flinched as if startled and peered up at me. “You do that too?” she squeaked. “Because that’s what I’m doing. My coping mechanism is to dump perfectly useless jewelry on people and scrub my bathtub.”

  I laughed and stuck out my hand. “Truce?”

  She sighed and shook hands with me. Then she swept all the jewelry back into the cloth pouch. “But you’re keeping the bangles,” she said.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I tried to make my tone sound more grateful than I was feeling at the moment. “So why are you really here?”

  “To apologize for my snivelly distress the other night. You just moved in, and I realize I was laying it on pretty thick for a brand new acquaintance.”

  I patted her arm. “It’s all right. It was a big decision.”

  “Which I should have made much sooner, as you so wisely pointed out. Nigel is history.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I set the frying pan in the sink and squirted dish soap into it. I clattered the rest of my utensils together and dropped them into the sink too, trying to make as much noise as possible. I was very aware than an extra pair of ears was sitting in my bedroom, and I had a feeling Bettina was about to divulge information she’d rather her son not know.

  “Norman’s coming for dinner on Friday night. What should I make for him?”

  Suddenly, lifting the grates on the stove top and wiping off all the butter splatters seemed important. “Your Facebook friend? A knuckle sandwich.” Clang, bang, thump, swoosh.

  Bettina tittered and wiped at the corner of her eye with a manicured finger. “You’re hilarious. No, seriously. I want to impress him.”

  I opened the fridge and stuck my head inside under the pretext of returning ingredients to their rightful storage spots, hoping all that extra insulation would muffle my words. “Steak and potatoes. Nothing green if you can help it. Cheesecake.” Maybe Norman would keel over from a heart attack and spare Bettina the agony of another mangled relationship. Of course, my suggestion was awfully similar to what I’d just served Vaughn—and eaten myself—with the exception of the spinach.

  “You don’t think that’s too much of a come-on?” Bettina asked.

  I hit my head on a refrigerator shelf and backed out of the cold compartment. “Surely you’re still in the getting-to-know-each-other stage?” My voice cracked. “He’ll only think it’s a come-on if you make some kind of physical move, won’t he?” But what did I know?

  Bettina’s face was puckered awkwardly, and I realized her expression mirrored my own uncertainty. We were a pair of romantically clueless women.

  I shook my head. “Actually, I can’t help you there. Why don’t you cancel? You could develop flu symptoms.”

  “But I like this one.” Bettina was starting to sound miffed. “He’s going to review my investment portfolio and see if I’m in the right risk category for my age.”

  “Sounds like a dreamboat,” I muttered.

  “I think you’re jealous,” Bettina announced. “You really should find yourself a man.” She flounced off the stool and headed for the front door.

  My mouth hung open, but I managed to follow her, like an automaton hostess seeing her guest off.

  “Ta-ta,” Bettina called. “You should think it over, dear. Just let me know. I can arrange dinner with my son, Vaughn, whenever you like.”

  I exhaled and quietly clicked the door closed. At least she hadn’t suspected that Vaughn was actually under my roof at that very moment. Whew.

  “What was that all about?” The baritone voice sounded awfully close. One of the joys of a small house. Which, I might point out, only matters when there’s more than one person in the aforementioned house. I rather liked the coziness of my accommodations—when I was alone.

  I spun around. “Uh, I can’t tell you?” What I’d intended as an emphatic statement came out sounding as though I was asking his permission. I frowned and added more severely, “How much did you hear?”

  “Every word. You can’t tell me, huh?” That infuriatingly endearing tilted smile was playing at the edge of his lips again as he slid his dishes into the sudsy water.

  I shook my head. “Sworn to secrecy. Perhaps we should talk about why you’re more afraid of your own mother than of your boss, the chief of police, and his ethical guidelines.”

  Vaughn chuckled. “Not open for discussion. But you seem pretty good at guessing. Would you have wanted her to find us together—eating together? You think she’s meddlesome now…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. His wry grin spoke volumes. “It wouldn’t have mattered that our tête-a-tête tonight was part of an investigation.”

  I thought he was stretching the rationalizing a little too far. We’d barely discussed Ian Thorpe’s murder, mainly because he couldn’t discuss it, at least not with m
e. But I’d grant him that excuse if he wanted it—I’d probably have to cop the same plea myself if Bettina ever found out about my duplicity—and nodded in reluctant agreement. “You’re lucky this time.”

  “I knew about Nigel, by the way. But now it’s Norman, huh?” Vaughn said.

  “Rather dashing, apparently. With a head for numbers.” I planted my fists on my hips. “Can you run a background check on him?”

  “Not ethically.” Vaughn let the word roll off his tongue.

  And with a sharp lurch in my stomach I realized how much I really—and I mean really, really—liked his mouth. So much that I was staring at it. Openly—and he’d caught me. Blast.

  He edged past me on the way to the door. “If it makes your job any easier, Frank Cox has an alibi for the majority of the time span during which the medical examiner estimates Thorpe died,” he said in a low voice.

  “But—” I spluttered.

  “Tomorrow at nine. Maybe I’ll see you there?” And Vaughn was gone, solidly latching the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ooooo. That man. How irritating. He had a wealth of details about the investigation—we both knew it. But dropping that particular detail and then skipping out? Dastardly.

  Also relieving. At least now I could work, if indirectly, for Frank Cox without injuring my poor little conscience. But that didn’t prevent my mind from devolving into a jumble of questions.

  Vaughn hadn’t thanked me for the meal. Maybe somehow not acknowledging it made up for the unethicalness of eating food prepared by an involved party? If it even was unethical. If we’d called it a date, would sharing a meal and each other’s company have been permissible then?

  Enough already. I forced myself to clean up the rest of the dishes and go through the motions of preparing for bed.

  After I was in my pajamas, I flicked on the overhead light in the bedroom. Vaughn hadn’t left any visible trace of his temporary occupation. I sniffed, just to make sure. Nope. There was no respectable reason why I should feel disappointed about the absence of his scent. I snapped off the light.

  I trudged up the stairs and stood in the darkness against the glass wall, looking out over my corner of the marina. It really was pretty—with the lampposts lining the walkways and their light reflecting off the rippling water and the dappled boats gently swaying in their berths.

  There was a warm, yellow glow shining through the cabin porthole of Cal’s sailboat, and I recalled Vaughn’s assurance that Cal would have found the body if I hadn’t.

  For all his reclusive tendencies, Cal seemed to be acutely aware of the marina’s happenings, perhaps even more so on a nocturnal basis. On an impulse, I lifted my arm and waved.

  The light in Cal’s cabin blinked off and on three times.

  oOo

  The Fidelity police station was of modern and ultra-practical concrete-bunker construction dressed up with lick-and-stick stone veneer on the side that faced the street. Somebody had thought to plunk a few shrubs in the ground outside the main entrance, but the paltry greenery didn’t do much to aesthetically offset the blank surrounding expanse of asphalt parking lot.

  It was a good thing I arrived early, because I nabbed the third to last open seat in the back row of chairs in the conference room. It wasn’t a large room, and a wide swath along the rear wall had been reserved for television crews. They had their equipment and extensions cords strung all over the place.

  “Eva?” A petite young woman dressed in brown corduroy pants and a trim chambray button-down shirt slid into the seat next to me. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun which she’d secured with a number-two pencil. Hazel eyes regarded me through a pair of stylishly retro, teal-framed glasses. “Lila,” she informed me, even though it wasn’t necessary. I recognized her voice from our multiple phone calls.

  “Thanks for coming.” She leaned closer, whispering, “Frank wants talking points immediately after the press conference. Three news stations have already asked him for interviews. Normally he does really well at off-the-cuff comments, but it’s important this time for him to sound…well, appropriate.”

  “Concerned? Saddened? Eager for justice but respectfully confident in the abilities of the investigators?” With a reassuring smile, I waggled a notepad where I’d already jotted a few of the classic lines. “I’m on it. Is there a fund—perhaps a trust set up for the next of kin—that he could donate to? I also think it’d be admirable for Frank to openly acknowledge the tension that sometimes existed between Ian and himself and to emphasize that he welcomed their ideological differences in an iron-sharpens-iron sort of way.”

  “That’s good. I’ll give Frank a heads-up and let him mull it over,” Lila breathed. We needn’t have worried about being overheard because the television crews were making enough racket to cover an air-raid siren, but she tilted even closer until our shoulders bumped, still whispering. “The next of kin thing is a problem though. There’s an ex-wife with whom Ian had a son. There’s also a slew of ex-girlfriends and two other women who are both claiming to be the current girlfriend.”

  My brows shot up. This information—obviously—hadn’t been included on the websites I’d visited in an attempt to find out about the person who’d lived in the body I’d found. It wasn’t the sort of glowing character reference a nonprofit organization would boast about. Ian Thorpe sounded a great deal like another man I knew. Unfortunately, my family background had provided ample experience in the tricky art of maneuvering through a sea of disgruntled women.

  I nodded slowly. “Numerous suspects, then.”

  Lila smiled grimly and offered a who-knows? shrug in response. She ducked down the aisle and settled into a seat in the second row beside a sandy-haired man in business attire. Even from the back he oozed affluence. It was Frank Cox—on his best behavior, apparently. And it was my job to make sure he had the tools necessary to maintain that impression.

  Soon the space became cramped, standing-room only. The air was muggy with the odors of stress perspiration, bitter coffee, and fast food breakfasts eaten too quickly. The reporters and camera operators murmured and prepped, clanking their equipment and swapping caustic jokes behind me.

  A door opened at the side of the front of the room, and a line of official-looking people dressed to match their occupations strode in. A few of the men took seats at the long table that was studded with microphones. Even more crammed in behind the designated speakers.

  Vaughn was there—closest to the door, arms stiff at his sides, with a blank gaze directed well over the heads of the assembled information vultures. He was clearly uncomfortable with the rigmarole and was keeping his escape route open. He probably had his toes dug into the industrial carpet for traction, prepared to bolt as soon as a reasonable excuse presented itself. He looked like a truculent, overgrown child who’d been dressed up in his Sunday best against his expressed wishes. But the suit hung well across his shoulders, and the deep brown herringbone set off his eyes and features quite handsomely.

  I briefly considered dialing his cell phone number and making a false report about some emergency just to give him the opportunity to skip out of the pending torture. But a stint in jail for falsifying a police report wouldn’t do me any good on the personal income-generating front.

  The man seated at the center of the table—wearing the dress blues, badge, and bulky gun belt of a hands-on police chief—cleared his throat into the bank of microphones. We all jumped to attention, wincing at the blast.

  Then he rambled for five minutes—the concise dissemination of information not being his forte, but I also thought the impression was perhaps intentional in this particular situation—while loosely referring to a sheet of paper which he held tipped in front of him. He didn’t present any facts I didn’t already know.

  Next, the man in the lab coat—the medical examiner—spoke. And this is when the juicy bits started coming out, in dry professional detail—or what passed for detail when a body had been in the water for se
veral days.

  Time of death: sometime in the twenty-four hours following when Ian was last seen on Tuesday night, but most likely earlier in that time period rather than later.

  Cause of death: drowning. But—and this was huge—Ian had been unconscious when he’d entered the water. Hence, murder, or at the very least, manslaughter.

  I bit my lip and scribbled furiously. The police must have been able to rule out suicide and accident. How? But both the chief and ME had been tight-lipped, sparing only a few tidbits that hadn’t already been public knowledge. Perhaps I could learn more from what wasn’t said than from the bare outline of facts they’d been willing to divulge.

  The third man at the table took his turn. He was the executive director of the Friends of River Otters, dressed appropriately in jeans and plaid flannel shirt and about two-years’ worth of beard, behind which I couldn’t even see his lips moving. He was grieving for his friend, and, with difficulty, he read a compiled statement from several of the environmental groups Ian had supported and/or been instrumental in organizing.

  I was a little surprised this guy had a place at the table. But he also represented the human interest side of the equation, and perhaps it saved time, because when they opened up the floor for questions, the reporters directed most of their initial barrage at him.

  Then the questioning turned into a scattershot melee. The medical examiner immediately became exasperated with the inane and redundant questions the reporters kept lobbing at him. Finally, he resorted to dully stating “I already answered that” or “I can’t comment on that aspect” or “unknown at this time” over and over again. He took to staring at a spot where the wall met the ceiling in the back of the room, in much the same way Vaughn had been—and continued to be—occupied.

  I shifted on the hard metal folding chair and recrossed my legs. TB had set in with a vengeance. My hand was still cramped even though I’d stopped taking notes a while ago. Impatient irritation prickled up the back of my neck, but it was too crowded for me to wriggle my way out of the row without causing a scene. Plus, I was getting paid to be present, numb bottom or not.