I searched every inch of that crusty room and failed to find what I was looking for; a fat orange life jacket, the one that gave him the look of a stuffed sausage every lobstering season, the one he wore under his clothes to hide the truth about a proud, tough old sailor who couldn’t swim.
But was I wrong?
I stepped to the broken window to peer through Lobster’s telescope. I had to bend awkwardly to look toward the harbor where his old lobster boat was tied to one of the docks. The scope brought the boat into wonderful closeup, including the detail of the lifeline that Lobster had jerryrigged along the inside edge of the boat. At the bow, a metal hook dangled from, the line, waiting to join up with the metal eye on the life preserver that Lobster McGee would have worn every time he went out on that boat. And if the old man always wore a life jacket and hooked up to the lifeline when he was out in the boat, that meant that if he’d been knocked overboard accidentally or fallen out of the boat, the jacket would have kept him afloat for a good long time. At the least, the Coast Guard would have found his body, still hanging from the lifeline, soon after the accident happened.
The old man didn’t drown in an accident.
He was murdered.
Even without the proof of the well-worn jacket I should have found in that room, I felt I could convince Geof. But murdered by whom? Why? Exactly how?
My theory ended where those questions began.
I tried to swing the telescope to starboard, but found it locked in place. A quick fumble with the catch loosened it. Now I could see Goose down at the site, waving his arms at some of his men. And there was Webster Helms, strutting into his rebuilt shack. I swung the scope again, this time finding what was left of the old pier where my committee had dived into the bay. And then I swung it still further around and, in so doing, found myself dropping naturally into the chair beside the window. Now I realized that it was pulled up to the telescope so that a person using it could sit comfortably in this position, staring in this direction. And what I saw from this position was lover’s leap. I watched a young couple in a Datsun 210 drive up and park. She was a pretty brunette with a few dark hairs between her eyebrows. He turned off the ignition, took his hands off the wheel and put them on her blouse . . .
I looked away.
Sitting here, Lobster McGee might have observed any number of secret things that the people involved would not have wished anyone to see. Did he sit here night after night in lobstering season and day after day in off season, eating his hamburgers and peering through his telescope at other people’s private lives? Did he see something that somebody didn’t want him to? Something so private, so secret, so wrong that they killed him for his knowledge?
I stood up, pushed the telescope away, and stared sightlessly down at the old lobster pound. On this hot day its stench rose up to me through the broken window.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I’m not much help to you, but I think I can help old Lobster McGee rest easier in his grave.”
The house was haunted to me now. I scrambled out of it, returned to my car and drove to the police station.
chapter
27
“Lobster McGee was murdered?” Ailey Mason looked at me like a juggler who’s just been handed one too many balls. We were standing in the hallway outside of Geof’s office, which Ailey was blocking with his short, wide body. He stared at me resentfully. “What the hell are you talking about? That was, what? Four years ago? Three?”
“Two.” I tried to walk around him, but he moved with me. “You’re not on the football team anymore, Ailey. You don’t have to block for the quarterback. Let me see him, please. Now.”
Grudgingly, he moved aside. I opened the door and received a much more welcoming smile from the detective inside. Before I could say hello, Ailey announced my mission.
“You’re not going to believe this, but she’s got this theory that old Lobster McGee—you remember him?—was murdered. She wants us to drop everything to figure out who committed this alleged murder five years ago.”
“Two,” I said. “I don’t want you to drop everything. I just want you to know.”
“Hi,” Geof said. “Come on in. Ailey, sit.”
The younger detective obeyed. I reached across Geof’s wide metal desk to kiss and be kissed, then I took the remaining chair across from him. He looked at me expectantly, as if waiting to be entertained.
“How’s your father?” he asked.
“Safely restrained.”
“I think that would take a straitjacket, but never mind. What’s this about Lobster McGee? Another murder to solve is just what we need around here, you know.”
“I know,” I said apologetically. “I was on the boat last night with my dad, Geof. And in the middle of the night, I woke up with the solution to one of the mysteries about Lobster McGee.”
“You not only know he was murdered, but you know who did it?” Ailey was disbelieving.
“Not that mystery,” I admitted. “I figured out why he used to look so stout in the winter and so thin all summer. Now wait a minute, this is more important than it sounds! Do either of you remember how Lobster seemed to put on a lot of weight every lobster season, only to lose it when the season ended?”
Geof shook his head in the negative, but Ailey admitted to having noticed that phenomenon.
“Well,” I said, “the reason is that during the lobstering season, the old man wore a life jacket under his clothes. He couldn’t swim! And I guess he was so vain that he couldn’t bear for any of the other lobstermen to know, so once he put the darn thing on, he had to keep it on all day long. He wore it under his clothes, Geof.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I admitted. “At least not in the sense of having a signed affidavit from the old man himself. But I know.” I explained how my unconscious had made the deductive leap from the memory of the barrel-chested silhouette of my father to the memory of the seasonally barrel-chested Lobster McGee. And I told them about having spied the lifeline through, the telescope.
“I won’t ask how you got into Lobster’s bedroom,” Geof said.
“Just as well.”
“So what if he wore a life jacket?” Ailey broke in. “What’s it got to do with his death?”
I explained that, as well.
By the time I was through, Geof was staring at me thoughtfully and Ailey was gratifyingly silent.
“So,” Geof said, “did somebody take him out in the boat and toss him over? Or did they kill him someplace else? Is his body on land, or at the bottom of the sea? And why would anybody kill that old hermit?”
I told them then about the telescope.
Geof’s eyes lit up. “That’s very interesting, Jenny. What do you think happened on top of that hill the week that Lobster died? What did he see that somebody didn’t want him to see?”
“Well,” I said, “it is a lovers’ lane.”
“You think maybe somebody parked up there who didn’t want to be seen?” Geof stared at me with heightened intensity. “Jenny, you say the telescope was turned to the sea when you found it, and locked into position?” I nodded. “And yet the chair was situated so the telescope was awkward to use when you looked through it at anything other than the top of the hill?” Again, I nodded. “Then who turned that telescope around?”
“The preservationists?” Ailey ventured.
“No,” Geof said, “I think it was whoever killed Lobster. That person locked that telescope in place so no one would cotton to Lobster’s favorite hobby. But assuming he did spy on somebody, how would they find out about it?”
“Blackmail,” I said.
“Bingo.” He turned to Ailey. “Get a team over to that house and go over it as if McGee had just died today. I know it’s an exercise in futility, but check the damn dust for fingerprints, the whole works. And keep this quiet, will you? Take a couple of unmarked cars and park out of sight of the construction site.”
Ailey looked sourly at
me and pulled a long face. “Thank you so much.” He trudged out of the room.
Geof smiled at me. “You may have a future as a detective.”
“Good. I may need a job. So tell me, how are you doing on Port Frederick’s more recent homicides?”
He shifted in his chair. “Jenny, when Reich came to your office that Friday before he was killed, whom did you inform of his visit and his threats?”
“I called Goose to ask. him about Reich, but I didn’t actually tell him that Reich had threatened the project. And I called all the other members of the committee to tell them, but I didn’t give Reich’s name.”
“What did you say about him?”
I tried to recall my words. “I guess I said that a man had come to my office. Accused me and the Foundation of contributing to the death of his son. Made threats of revenge against the project.”
“That’s it?” He looked disappointed. “You’re sure you didn’t give out his name?”
“Positive.”
“Did you tell them he worked at the harbor?”
“No. Well, I may have mentioned construction.” I smiled. “They all wanted to know why I was so scared of this stranger, and I told them he was a giant of a man, a construction worker, and they’d be shaking, too.”
The disappointment vanished from the detective’s face. He leaned back in his chair as if satisfied. “Any one of them could have identified him from that description, Jenny.”
“What? How?”
“Think about it,” he instructed. “How many construction jobs are going on now? Apart from a few homes, the harbor is the only game in town. They don’t call us depressed for nothing, you know. And how many giants does Goose have working for him? Even given the size of some of those bruisers, nobody to match Reich. He stood head, shoulders and hard hat above the other workers, I’d say.”
I was horrified. “Oh Geof.” My hands came to my face, but they couldn’t cover my dismay. “I led his killer to him! Wait a minute! You’re talking as if you think his death was tied to those threats against the project. And that means you think he was killed because somebody thought he might stop or delay it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” I said, “great minds. I think so, too.”
“I’m now working on the assumption that somebody killed Reich by accident when they tried to scare him into leaving the harbor alone. And since your committee alone knew of those threats, I’m afraid it has to be one of you.” He smiled apologetically. “Them.”
“What about Atheneum?”
“He was also killed because he represented a threat to the project.”
“But he’d agreed to go after his relatives for the money!”
“Who says so, Jenny?” Geof leaned forward and his chair cracked. “I’ve tried to pin down exactly who got that agreement out of him and nobody can say for sure. Betty Tower says Ted Sullivan told her about it, and Ted says he heard it when Pete and Jack Fenton were talking in the hall by the water fountain, and they both claim they heard it from Hardy, and he doesn’t know who told him but he knows he didn’t persuade McGee, and his wife thinks . . .”
“I see what you mean.” I held up a hand to stop the flow of conflicting, confusing testimony. “But I’ve been asking around, Geof, and there’s nobody on my committee who has a strong enough, motive for wanting the project to succeed. Oh, sure, we all want it, but I’d swear nobody has a motive strong enough to kill for.”
“You’ve been checking?” He gave me a look. “So that’s why you’re taking these days off. I guess you know my official police opinion of that.”
“I guess I do.”
“I guess you don’t give a damn about my official police opinion.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“All right.” He sighed. “Now tell me what you know.”
I conveyed the information I’d gleaned from my phone call to the Federal Reserve, my lunch with the Towers and Web, and my interview with Jack Fenton at the First. When I was done, I spread my hands wide. “So there you have it . . . nine good suspects, no good motives.”
“But you’re assuming the killer wants the project to go forward because of something he or she desires,” he said slowly.
“What else?”
“Desire implies future, Jenny. What about the past?”
“What about it?”
“Maybe there’s something that somebody on the committee wants to hide from his or her past?” He looked at me meaningfully, but still it took a moment for me to grasp it.
“My God,” I breathed. “Lobster McGee’s murder.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
Now I wondered if he was only being tactful in limiting the suspects to the committee. I wondered, as well, where my father was during the second week of February two years ago.
chapter
28
“Your stepmother keeps our social calendar,” my father said that afternoon when I rowed back out to the Amy Denise to ask him. “She would know. You had better ask her, dear.”
It was a more direct answer, by far, than he usually emitted, but that was only because I had asked it, with various permutations, no fewer than seven times. He stayed on the same wavelength with me long enough to inquire, “Why do you ask, dear?”
I saw the gray eyes go foggy and drift out to sea.
“Because,” I said clearly, “a man was murdered that week and I want to know if you have an alibi.”
“Do you know,” he said fretfully, “I have reached the point on this boat at which I do believe I would welcome a night at the Ramada.”
“Was that a joke, Dad?”
He focused briefly, “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
I fixed him a martini, broke open a can of macadamia nuts, stuck a small roast in the oven and rowed back to shore. My back and shoulder muscles were developing nicely; at this rate I would qualify for the women’s Olympic sculling team in no time. From the nearest pay phone, I placed a credit card call to my stepmother, Miranda. Before meeting her, I had thought that only stepmothers in fairy tales had names like Miranda, but she was all too real.
“Hello, Randy,” I said. “It’s Jennifer.”
“Yes, dear,” she said brightly. Miranda was five years older than I. “Is your father there with you?”
“No, he’s . . .” It would take too much effort to explain. “Miranda, do you happen to have retained your social calendar from two years back?”
“Of course, dear.” She didn’t seem surprised at the question. But then, this was a woman who lived with my father, she had probably long since ceased being surprised at anything. “I keep all our records for tax purposes. I wouldn’t want the IRS to steal one dollar more of your father’s hard-earned money than they absolutely have a right to.”
“My father’s hard-earned money? Which money is that, Miranda?” I put my hand to my forehead. “I’m sorry. Never mind. Listen, if you can put your hands on the calendar, it would help Dad. I’ll explain later, if you don’t mind. Would you look for it now? I’ll wait.”
She dropped the receiver without a word—which was probably what I deserved—and was gone for several minutes. When she returned, she was polite as ever to her snippy, resentful stepdaughter. “Yes, dear, now what is it you need from the calendar?”
“Look up February, please.”
“I have it here.”
“Second week.”
“Um. Yes, here it is. Oh, don’t you remember, Jennifer? That was the week we were in Port Frederick for your sister’s birthday. Don’t you remember the mixup? She thought we were coming the following week, and when we arrived, she and her whole family had left for Puerto Vallarta. We stayed with you for a night, remember, and then you had to leave suddenly on business.” She managed to say all that in a sincere voice that gave not a hint that she knew perfectly well that Sherry had left me holding the bag, and that I had taken all I could before escaping on the first flight, and the
first pretext, to New York.
How could I have forgotten that awful week?
“Please,” I said weakly, “don’t tell me you were in town that whole week. I thought you left right after I did.”
“Oh no, dear. Your father wanted to visit with his old cronies.” Her laugh started as a clear, bell-like sound, but then it cracked. “Only his old cronies weren’t so eager to see him.” She covered up that peek into reality by adding quickly, “Why dear? Is it important?”
I forced a laugh. “Life and death, Miranda.”
Her melodious laughter floated to me from California. I pictured her, fresh, tanned and voluptuous—and five years older than I—holding the phone in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. “Oh Jennifer,” she trilled, “you’re so theatrical sometimes . . . like me. Someday, you’ll appreciate how much alike we are in some . . .”
“Thanks so much, Randy.” I swallowed. “And Dad sends his love.”
“Kisses to him,” she said. “Kissy, kissy to my Jimmy. Bye dear.” I hung up before I threw up. I already had a mother. I didn’t want another one who was young enough to be my sister. Besides, I already had a sister and she was too much for me as it was.
I leaned my shoulder against the wall of the phone booth. “Oh Dad.” I sighed. “Poor Dad. They’re gonna hang you in the closet and I’m feelin’ so sad.”
I wasn’t, however, feeling particularly civic-minded. If Detective Geoffrey Bushfield wanted to know where my father was the second week of February two years previously, he could just ask the man himself. That would make him sorry he’d ever inquired. I wondered if my father could so buffalo a prosecuting attorney and a jury that they would acquit him on grounds of self-defense. Theirs.
* * *
Before I left Geof’s office that morning, he and I agreed on a strategy that would probably get him fired if his superiors found out about it.
“Jenny,” he said, “I want to know what was happening in the lives of your committee members around the time that Lobster died. But if I ask them, or Ailey does, we may alert the killer that we’re digging back into Lobster’s death. You could talk to them without arousing their suspicions.”
Say No to Murder Page 15