Death by the Sea

by Kathleen Bridge

  “I would go get you a cup of coffee, but Aunt Amelia made it.”

  He smiled. “That bad, huh?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  She tipped her cup toward him and he laughed. He said, “I wanted to stop over to tell you that Charlotte will be coming by the hotel around eleven for the fingerprinting. Until any DNA results come in, we can’t ask for samples. This is a small town, not like you see on television. All these tests cut into the budget.”

  “It would be a pretty dumb robber who didn’t wear gloves.”

  “Agreed. I told Charlotte I’d try to round up everyone and we’ll meet in the library.”

  “Who is ‘everyone’?”

  “Anyone who has been in the Oceana Suite. You, me, Iris, Captain Netherton, Aunt Amelia, Pierre, and Ryan. I have no clue on how to get ahold of Iris. Do you know where she went last night?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “David Worth is coming home from the hospital today. He asked if he could stay for a couple of days until he figures things out—not in the Oceana Suite, of course. I called Charlotte and she thinks it’s a good idea. I hope your great-aunt agrees.”

  “Is something going on with you and the beautiful homicide detective, Father Dear?”

  He smiled, but didn’t answer.

  Liz said, “I’m sure Aunt Amelia will want to rescue David Worth like she did Venus.”

  As if on cue, Aunt Amelia opened the French doors and stepped through them with Barnacle Bob on her right shoulder. She was the only one who could handle BB, and there wasn’t any worry he would fly away. He knew where his bread was buttered, or more aptly, his kiwi was halved.

  “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee, Fenton?” Aunt Amelia asked. Then she turned to Liz. “Lizzy, you didn’t offer your father coffee after the night he’s had? Hell, the night we all had.”

  Barnacle Bob said, “Good to the last drop. Good to the last drop. Maxwell House.”

  Not Aunt Amelia’s Maxwell House, Liz thought, as she glanced inside her mug.

  Fenton said, “I’m good, Auntie. I must get back anyway. Everything’s fine at the Indialantic. I just left Betty, Pierre, and Captain Netherton in the kitchen. The police should be leaving by noon. I’ll let Liz fill you in on the rest.” He got up and went over to Aunt Amelia. He clasped her hands in his and gazed into her matching sea-green eyes. Barnacle Bob moved his beak in Fenton’s direction. He released his aunt’s hands and took a step backward. “I don’t want you to worry about anything. This is a simple case of a robbery gone bad. I doubt that anyone at the Indialantic is involved, but I think it might be better if you stay here with Liz for a day or two.”

  Barnacle Bob squawked, “Robbery gone bad. Robbery gone bad.”

  “Hush, BB!” Aunt Amelia said, and the bird obeyed. “I promise to stay here at night, but during the day I want to be at the hotel. I’m sure your lovely Charlotte will catch this monster very soon. Also, I need to put a sign on the door to the emporium that we will be closed for the time being.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Fenton said. “Okay by you, Liz?”

  “Of course. Tonight, Auntie and I will turn the AC on high, put on our footie pj’s, make popcorn, and watch some of her old shows on DVD.”

  Her father left, and she filled her great-aunt in on what he’d told her about meeting in the library at eleven.

  After showering and dressing, Liz said good-bye to Aunt Amelia, who was sitting on a bar stool cuddling Venus in her arms like a newborn. As she walked across her deck, Liz heard her great-aunt crooning the melancholy song “Memory,” from the musical Cats.

  When Liz reached the caretaker’s cottage, the door was open, so she stepped inside. She surveyed the open living room and kitchen floor plan. It had been ten years since she’d been in her former home. Nothing remained the same except the white kitchen cupboards, countertop, wood table, and old stove. There’d been no reason to update the kitchen when Liz and her father had lived there, because they’d taken most of their meals at the Indialantic. There were doilies on every chair back and tons of knickknacks, mostly consisting of china bird figurines. A large framed print of two cockatiels hung over an old television produced before the advent of the flat screen. After Aunt Amelia’s friend’s passing, her great-aunt must have felt too sad to have anything removed.

  “Hello. I’m here,” Liz called out, moving next to a lumpy-cushioned plaid couch. Under a side table, scarred with drink rings that a dozen crocheted coasters couldn’t hide, was a basket. Inside the basket was a half-finished knitting project. Liz had an urge to rescue the lacy aqua something that Aunt Amelia’s friend and costar from Dark Shadows had started. But first, she would have to learn to knit.

  Ryan came out of the front bedroom, Liz’s former bedroom. His thick dark hair was perfectly messy, and his navy Brooklyn Engine 205 FDNY logo T-shirt clung to his muscled torso like a second skin. Liz thought she saw a tattoo on his upper arm, but she looked away, not wanting him to think she was interested.

  “You’re late,” he said brusquely.

  “How can I be late? There was no set time. You said ‘morning’. This is morning.”

  “Wow, you always go that extra mile to irritate, don’t you, Bossy Pants?”

  Now who was being childish?

  Ryan stepped into the kitchen, and Liz sat at the small, rectangular table in the tiny breakfast nook. There were marks in the wood from the impression her own pens and pencils had left after years of doing homework at the table. There was the faint indent of the cosine symbol, bringing back memories of her father sitting with her night after night as she tried to master trigonometry—her least favorite subject, unlike English.

  “Want some?” Ryan held up a glass carafe of coffee, and she inhaled the rich scent of the dark roasted beans. “I make a mean cup of coffee, taught by the best.”

  She thought about refusing, but this game they were playing was getting old. She didn’t have room in her world for a Ryan, or any other male. And if Pops had taught him how to make the coffee, then she wanted in. “Sure.”

  He put the pot back under the coffeemaker, left the kitchen, sat at the table, and began thumbing through a file folder bulging with papers. Without looking up, he said, “Well, princess, what are you waiting for? Pour yourself a cup of joe and let’s get going.”

  Liz banged her fist on the table, her face prickly with heat. “You say, the ‘P word’ one more time, you’ll be sorry. And that is a threat. You don’t want to cross me. You obviously know what happened when someone else did.” She didn’t care. Let him believe what he wanted. She had nothing to prove to anyone. Ryan had hit the largest of her many raw nerves. Travis’s nickname for Liz had been “Princess,” and because of their age difference, it had always made her feel uncomfortable. “Princess” was more of an endearment a father might call his daughter, not his girlfriend.

  The same night when she and Travis had celebrated a year of being together, they’d both fallen apart. Liz had first met the Pulitzer Prize–winning author while at the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, researching Let the Wind Roar. They met in the archives, both reaching for the same pencil to fill out a microfilm request. Travis was gathering information on WWII for the sequel to The McAvoy Brothers, and Liz was researching WWI for her novel.

  Travis’s book The McAvoy Inheritance would never be published, and Liz was to blame. Or so everyone thought.

  Liz looked at Ryan’s smug face. Jerk! She got up, stomped over to the kitchen, grabbed a mug from the cupboard, and poured herself some coffee. After returning the carafe to the coffeemaker with a thud, she opened the fridge, took out a carton of milk, smelled it, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Yuck,” even though the milk was fine. When she put the milk back, she slammed the door extra hard, rattling the contents inside.

  She hated drinking her coffee black, but it was well worth it when she saw R
yan glance inside his mug for curdled milk. Score one for the good guys. Liz changed her mind about not playing games—let the jousting commence.

  When she sat back down at the table, they faced each other like a married couple in a divorce proceeding. Ryan insisted they discuss her father’s case and what role each of them would play, before he would tell her what Captain Netherton had told him last night.

  “Okay. I’ve fulfilled my side of the bargain,” Liz said a few minutes later. “I promise to work with you on Dad’s case, but I also know we might have to postpone it, especially after everything that happened last night.” She got up, went back to the kitchen, and filled her cup with coffee, then without thinking, she took out the milk from the fridge and poured it into her cup.

  From behind, she heard, “Touché.”

  She came back and sat at the table. “Okay. Spill it. Your turn. Start with what you learned from the first responders.”

  Ryan opened the folder in front of him and took out a legal-sized piece of paper with handwritten notes. He noticed Liz looking at the paper. “I take notes on everything. A sign of a good investigator.”

  What Ryan didn’t know was that Liz was looking more at what was sticking out of the folder—a ripped-out page from a newspaper. The header read The Daily Post, with a date that coincided with the morning after her and Travis’s night of terror. She would bet her life that the thick sheaf of papers in the folder had as much to do with her as they did with her father’s case and Regina’s murder.

  Ryan said, “Captain Netherton made the nine-one-one call at seven forty. When the first responders got to the scene, a limo was waiting under the port cochere at the entrance to the hotel. The fire and rescue guy I talked to didn’t go inside, but he did see David Worth when he was carried out on a stretcher by the ambulance crew. He’d been stabbed once in the back on his right side below his shoulder blade. David seemed pretty coherent and kept asking about his wife. Then one of the officers from the sheriff’s department started asking him questions. My guy overheard David tell the officer that he’d gone down to get ice for his wife’s knee to take with them in the limo for their night out. When he got back up to the suite, he saw that the shutters had been closed in the bedroom and the lights turned off. He walked into the dark room and discovered his wife lying on the bed at a twisted angle. As he bent toward her, someone, who must have been hiding behind the door, stabbed him in the back, then ran out.”

  Liz shivered. “Wow. That’s a lot of info for a stranger to divulge.”

  “Bill used to live on Long Island. His company was one of many who were called to the Trade Center on nine-eleven. Just like the police force, there is a comradery between first responders and the fire department.”

  “What did Captain Netherton tell you?”

  “He said he was in the dining room, which is below the Worths’ suite. First, he heard scuffling. Then he called the housekeeper in and they both listened. When they heard Mr. Worth scream, they ran up to the suite. The door was open, and they found him crawling on the floor from the bedroom. Captain Netherton called nine-one-one. The housekeeper entered the bedroom, checked Mrs. Worth for a pulse, and didn’t find one.”

  “Was Regina stabbed?”

  “No, choked.”

  “What was she choked with?”

  “The captain didn’t know, he didn’t go into the bedroom. Said he was too overcome when he saw the cat sitting on top of Regina’s chest. He stayed with Mr. Worth in the sitting room.”

  “How tragic. My father got a call from Agent Pearson. She wants anyone who was in the Worths’ suite to meet in the library at eleven so her officers can take prints for elimination purposes. I guess you fall into that pool, because you carried the woman up to the bed after her fall. And one other thing, I know it’s still early, but my father wasn’t able to track down Iris.”

  “Didn’t she tell your aunt where she was going last night?”

  “Great-aunt,” Liz corrected. “No, and Aunt Amelia hired her without checking her references. She had a feeling in here”—Liz thumped at her chest—“that Iris was ‘honorable’.”

  “She didn’t put an address on her employment forms?”

  “No. Because she would be living at the Indialantic.” Liz didn’t want to tell Ryan that if Iris didn’t show up at eleven, she planned to check her rooms for any clue of where she’d gone.

  Ryan got up and put his coffee mug in the sink. She assumed that meant their meeting was over. Liz stood, reached over, and pulled out the front page from the Daily Post with her and Travis Osterman’s photo and the headline “Writer’s Rampage.” She walked up to him, crumpled the newspaper-clipping into a ball, then pushed it into his chest. “If you want to know what happened, even though it’s none of your damn business, ask me sometime, Mr. Investigator.” Then she strode out the door.

  Chapter 20

  Liz stepped inside her favorite room at the Indialantic, the library. The furniture in the library was similar to the lobby’s: light wood, bamboo, three rattan cushioned sofas and armchairs, a humongous area rug, and a large desk. There was even a fireplace. Each wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with volumes dating all the way back to the late 1700s.

  After Liz’s great-grandmother Maeve’s parents passed away, Isle Tor in Cornwall was willed to Maeve’s brother, Connor, but the books in the castle’s library were left to Maeve. During the Indialantic’s early years, Liz’s great-grandfather William Holt commissioned a ship to bring every book from Isle Tor’s library to America as an anniversary gift for his beautiful Maeve. The addition of a fireplace in the library was also a gift from William to Maeve. Florida’s steamy climate didn’t necessarily call for many roaring fires, but its presence in the library helped Great-Grandma Maeve feel less homesick for England.

  The library had been Liz’s oasis as a child. The hours and hours spent inside fostered Liz’s desire to become a writer. Her love of reading had been passed down from both of her parents. Before her mother’s death, Chloe Holt had been an assistant acquisitions director for the rare books and documents division at the New York Public Library. Liz remembered her mother and father taking her to the library on her fifth birthday for an insider’s peek at the library’s legendary children’s collection. That day, Liz imagined that the mammoth lions at the top of the library’s steps had been part of her birthday present. Years later, every time she rode down Fifth Avenue and passed her marble feline friends, Patience and Fortitude, she smiled with the memory.

  The library was the only room in the hotel that was kept locked. As children, Liz and Kate were only allowed inside under her father’s watchful tutelage. Kate’s habit of talking to books like they were old friends, even chastising characters like Heathcliff and Edward Rochester for their bad behavior, had come from the hours spent with Liz in the library. As Liz got older, the library became a refuge from the growing pains of crossing that rickety bridge from adolescence to tweenhood. Many a time, after finishing a book, Liz would walk out of the library feeling like she was the story’s main character, sometimes even speaking with an English or French accent. Everyone had their little idiosyncrasies, so when Kate talked to her books, it had never seemed strange to Liz.

  Guests weren’t allowed inside the library, and no matter what financial difficulties the Indialantic had gone through in recent years, not one book had ever been sold. Which made it a strange place for Liz’s father to allow fingerprinting to be done.

  Agent Pearson sat behind the huge bamboo glass-topped desk like she was at command headquarters at Quantico. An officer from the sheriff’s department had pulled up a chair at the side of the desk, and he motioned Liz forward like she was a truant called into the principal’s office.

  After her fingerprints had been taken, Liz turned to Agent Pearson and asked if she could go up to the Worths’ suite and collect Regina’s cat collar and crate, along with any food
or toys for the feline.

  “I thought I made it clear to your father that no one is allowed in the Worths’ suite until I say so,” said Agent Pearson. “I’ll send Officer Martinez when he’s done.”

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing. Did anyone tell you that someone threw a brick at the Worths’ car yesterday? Supposedly there was a note attached.”

  “No,” she said. “Do you know what happened to the note?”

  “Pierre, our chef, told me that Iris Kimball might know. She saw David Worth come into the hotel with the rock sometime in the afternoon.”

  “I sure wish we knew where that woman was. If you see your father, please tell him I must cancel tonight and that I’ll explain later.”

  “Will do. Dad said that you know David Worth plans on staying here for a few days, until he can get his affairs in order. You’re okay with that?”

  “Yes. But I told your father, Mr. Worth isn’t allowed to go into their suite without a police escort.”

  “Understood. I’ll also tell Aunt Amelia. Are you allowed to share how Regina was strangled?”

  “No, I’m not allowed to tell you, and I hope your father knows better than to give out any information in an ongoing murder investigation.”

  “Um, yes. I’m sure he knows that.”

  Agent Pearson changed her tactics and attempted a smile before continuing, “I am aware of how disliked Mrs. Harrington-Worth was in this area because of the proposed demolition of her family’s mansion. Do you know of anyone else who might have wished her harm?”

  “I thought she was killed because of a robbery? I do know about the shoddy way she treated people, including her husband. And about all the rumors.” Liz didn’t like to talk ill of the dead, but if anyone could conjure up a dozen enemies, Regina would have been the one.

  Agent Pearson looked up from the papers in front of her. It was the first time since Liz had walked into the library that she’d looked directly at her. “What rumors?”