The Indigo Brothers Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vickie McKeehan

  Jackson reached over and took his mom’s hand. “That’s probably a good idea. We have some time yet before…” His voice trailed off, knowing there would have to be autopsies done. “Plus, there’s no guarantee Royce will agree with you. He may choose something else entirely different for Walker.”

  “That’s fine,” Tanner tossed back. “We’ve thought of that already, too. We don’t care what Royce does with Walker once the Coast Guard finds him. But Royce will have a fight on his hands if he tries to block me from burying Blake with his mother.”

  After spending the past week in Nags Head dealing with her family, Tessa could better understand the feelings in play now. “What about having a service in the park? Use that one closest to the beach, the one with all the palm trees. From there, you can even see the statue of Koda Indigo and the marina. You could call it a memorial service instead of a funeral, no caskets, just music and eulogies, and anyone who wanted to speak, could.”

  Jackson kissed the top of her head. “That sounds like the answer. Mom? Dad?”

  Lenore reached over toward the middle seat, patted Tessa’s hand. “That sounds like it might work. Tanner, what do you think?”

  “That’s fine. That’s the way we’ll go then.”

  While Garret was busy with family, Anniston spent her time running down the owners of the vacation rental. It wasn’t all that difficult. Using tax records she found in a public online database, she discovered none other than Royce Buchanan owned the property.

  She headed out of town to what the locals called Buchanan Hall, a nineteenth century antebellum plantation that looked like one day it would make an ideal location for a historical museum. Anniston could see it now, tours of people fanning out over the grounds and gardens. Wandering around might take half a day.

  Turning down a long driveway with towering magnolias on either side, she had time to admire the house, the massive Greek columns, the long wraparound porch on the first and second floors, and the four chimneys poking out of the roof.

  When she got out of the Ford Explorer it was like taking a step back in time. “Scarlett O’Hara here I come,” she muttered to herself as she walked up to the porch and rang the bell.

  A woman answered the door wearing the traditional housekeeper’s uniform—black dress with a white apron, even a little hat on top of her head. It reminded Anniston that she could’ve easily sailed through the time machine beginning in the late 1800s right through to the 1950s in a matter of a few minutes.

  “Hi there,” Anniston began. “I’m here to see Royce Buchanan. I called first. He’s expecting me.”

  “Yes, yes. Right this way. Mr. Buchanan is in his study.”

  She was led down a spotless corridor with rich wood flooring and into a massive office, complete with leather furniture, dark wood all around, and books everywhere. Walker’s father sat behind a huge mahogany desk that seemed to swallow the old man up. He looked a little like Batman’s faithful Alfred Pennyworth, tall and gangly in his prime, but now reduced to a frail scarecrow that seemed to have forgotten to eat.

  “Mr. Buchanan, I’m Anniston Marcelli. We’ve spoken a few times over the phone.”

  “Please, come in. Won’t you have a seat? Would you like something cold to drink?”

  She dropped down in a tufted wingback chair with leather as soft as a baby’s behind. “Sure. Whatever you have on hand is fine.”

  Royce waved to the housekeeper, who still stood in the doorway. “Muriel, will you bring us some of your fresh lemonade?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your father has an excellent reputation in Miami. I checked.”

  Anniston grinned. It always warmed her to hear praise for her dad. “Yes, he does. My brother and I try our hardest to continue that excellence.”

  “Quality is never something that goes out of style. Has there been any word on my son yet? Do you know if they’ve located another barrel? I spoke with the Coast Guard myself about an hour ago and they had nothing to report.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Buchanan, but I don’t know any more than you do. I’ll check when I leave here, if you like.”

  “Call me Royce. I keep making a pest of myself with them. It might be nice if someone else took a turn at getting answers out of them.”

  She’d always believed in that old adage that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Royce gave her a smile, showing off his pearly whites. “Thank you for that. When you called earlier you wanted to know about the vacation property down the street from Walker’s. May I ask why the interest?”

  “Someone noticed this morning the house has a security camera installed on the roof line and it’s angled toward the street. If I could look at the feed, I might get a sense of who came and went at that intersection.”

  “Which might lead to who took Walker and Olivia out of the house.” It wasn’t a question. Royce shifted in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Unfortunately that camera hasn’t worked since last year. One of the winter tenants down here from Maryland did something to it. At least that’s when my right-hand man reported it broken.”

  “Your right-hand man? Would that be your mechanic Roger Baskin?”

  “Indeed it would.” He paused to let Muriel bring in the tray with the lemonade and serve it up in highball tumblers rimmed in gold. As soon as the housekeeper left, Royce picked up his train of thought. “Roger also acts as my chauffeur when I require it, my property manager when needed, and in that capacity maintains the rental properties I own.”

  “You mean like a handyman?”

  “When it’s necessary, yes. As I recall, the Maryland couple stayed for three months, I believe, beginning December first, and left around the end of February. Snowbirds, I believe the locals call them. Naturally when they left, we had to charge them extra for the damage to the camera.”

  “Naturally.” Anniston picked up her glass, politely sipped on the best lemonade she’d ever tasted. Even Lenore’s or her own mother’s didn’t measure up. To put him more at ease, she asked, “What’s the secret to Muriel’s lemonade? It’s delicious.”

  Royce smiled again. “I believe she boils the rinds to get out the full flavor of the lemons. But you’d have to ask her for the specifics.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  He lifted his glass in a gesture of friendliness. “I could give you a key to the rental. You’re welcome to inspect the camera and see for yourself that it’s been in a state of disrepair for quite some time.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on that. Is there any reason you chose not to fix it?”

  “Not really, other than it seemed an unnecessary expense at the time. Either that, or Roger just never got around to it.”

  “Working on other things, was he?”

  “Probably. I keep him fairly busy. And of course, Roger has his own lucrative car repair business.”

  “I see. It’s a shame, though. That he never got around to fixing the thing. Looking back, I’d say it might have held the clue we needed to find out who’s responsible for abducting your son and his family.”

  Royce leaned forward in his chair. “Is that what you think happened? Because from the very beginning I waited for a ransom demand that never came. I’d convinced myself that it was only a matter of hours before a demand for money would come in. But then days went by and then a week…”

  Anniston noted how sad he looked. “I’m very sorry, Mr., uh, Royce. I promise to put in a call to the Coast Guard for you as soon as I get back to my hotel.”

  “You’ll let me know if you hear anything, won’t you? Anything at all?”

  “I will. And thanks again for seeing me.”

  “No problem. I’ll get you that key before you leave.”

  The rental wasn’t as upscale as Livvy’s house down the street but it still had that British West Indies feel to it. Out of curiosity, Anniston wandered through each room decorated in bamboo, rattan, and wicker.

>   She could appreciate the airy digs—high ceilings with tongue and groove planks and wooden beams. It made her think of warm tropical nights and sea breezes coming through the gabled windows.

  She made her way out to the columned front porch where the video camera had been mounted to the roof. It didn’t take a mechanical genius to figure out Royce had been right. It didn’t work because the video card had been removed, disabling the ability to record. It was impossible to tell if the card had been taken out by the snowbirds back in February, or by Mr. Baskin himself a mere two weeks back.

  Which meant another dead end.

  Anniston got back in her SUV. Instead of heading to the Indigo house, she decided to leave the family to their grief. She drove back to the Mainsail Lodge with a headache from hell brewing at the temples.

  She kept her promise to Royce Buchanan and called the Coast Guard. The official word from the petty officer on duty was they’d found no signs of Walker and little Blake.

  Using a messenger service that the hotel provided, she sent the house key back to Royce with a note thanking him for his cooperation. After all, she might need his help again in the near future. She also included the update from the Coast Guard, which wasn’t really any different than what he already knew. But she wanted him to know she’d kept her word.

  What she needed at the moment was time to think. Maybe a hot bath would do it, or a run on the beach to get rid of her excess frustration. Maybe the run first and then a long soak with bubbles up to her chin.

  She changed into a pair of running shorts and an old top and was just about to head out the door when her cell phone rang. Her brother’s picture flashed up on the digital display.

  “Hey, Sebastian. I hope your case is going a lot better than mine.”

  “I’m about to wrap it up by the end of the week, float some evidence I collected to the Daytona PD. Need some help with yours, baby sister? Yours is a big ol’ nasty one, if you ask me. My missing persons case—underage girl from Syracuse meets older boy online and comes down to Florida to be with him—was a piece of cake compared to yours.”

  “I wish mine had been that simple. The coroner still doesn’t have a cause of death for Ryan Connelly. It’s making me crazy.”

  “You need to increase Chuck’s kickback to make sure he keeps you in the loop.”

  Chuck worked as a forensic pathologist in the county medical examiner’s office. She and Sebastian often compensated him to provide details about autopsy results. Chuck acted as their eyes and ears—a window into the county morgue. He was also a close family friend and the older brother to Dack Hawkins.

  “Believe me, I’m keeping Chuck supplied with plenty of expensive lattes and French wine.”

  “What’s Dad’s take?”

  “That I have so many suspects it’s insane. And now my missing family has turned into two homicide cases while I’m standing around waiting for it to turn into four.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “I could use a ton of it.”

  “Go back to the beginning. Take your suspect list and run background checks on all of them. Don’t leave anyone out because you think they’re noble or virtuous or untouchable respectable citizens. And for God’s sakes, remember to reroute the Wi-Fi signal and use the private IP address out of Miami so that no one’s able to track your searches. You are, after all, in a hotel, using their public Internet.”

  “Good point. But just so you know, I don’t think any of these people are all that virtuous or respectable. You don’t go out of your way to sidetrack a search without having a major agenda.”

  “Amateurs make mistakes all the time and send up red flags. That was a big one. So it should be easy enough to dig up some dirt.”

  They chatted another twenty minutes about family issues before Anniston ended the call and headed for the beach and that run she wanted.

  While she jogged, she thought about the six who made up her suspect list. At the top was Royce, the slick developer millionaire. But he didn’t seem that slick this afternoon. If gut reaction counted for anything, Royce appeared to be genuinely grieving. She also didn’t think he had it in him to hurt his own son. Not that he acted like he cared so much about Olivia, as he’d called her, or his grandchildren. Odd. She’d definitely slide that attitude to the weird column.

  That left the five Tessa had seen at Royce’s house. She’d already done her homework on Jessup Sinclair, the chief of police—a definite dirty cop in his former life at the highway patrol. He’d been forced into taking early retirement for unethical conduct. His jacket had been jam-packed with phrases like “once a bully always a bully” and “Wyatt Earp syndrome.” All negative connotations for an officer of the law. But what possible motive did Sinclair have for murdering a web designer and a family of four?

  Werner Dietrich. She’d already dug up the dirt on him. And according to Mitch, a very bad man. She’d give the rich guy five stars and move him to the top.

  What she hadn’t done were the backgrounds on Royce’s so-called right-hand man, Roger Baskin. She’d take care of that chore tonight. She also planned to look into the mayor, Dave Oakerson.

  That left the last man—Boone Dandridge, pastor and upstanding citizen who had in fact misdirected the search for the Buchanan family on purpose. Chalk another one up for the odd column.

  By the time she’d sorted all this out in her head, her Fitbit said she’d logged two miles. Not bad if she rounded the corner and did a return jog back to the hotel.

  An hour later, after indulging in a luxurious bubble bath, she sat on her bed with her laptop, running names through the system.

  She started with the auto mechanic and sometime chauffeur to Mr. Buchanan, Roger Baskin. Her jaw dropped at what she saw on the screen. The hits just kept coming. Roger had quite the rap sheet. He’d started out life in the French Quarter as Roger Thornton. By his teen years, he’d become such a well-known all-around thug, the Dixie mafia out of Biloxi came calling. The organization recruited the young Thornton and later groomed him into a first-rate mob enforcer. Thornton would likely still be on the job there if not for law enforcement taking down his immediate boss, Faron Edwards—thanks to a cold case unit reopening two homicides the cops believed were connected. Edwards caught a life sentence for an execution-style double slaying he’d committed eight years earlier. The boss ended up in the East Mississippi Correctional Facility and Thornton packed up and moved east to Florida, where he’d changed his name to Baskin. Somewhere along the way Baskin had caught the eye of Royce Buchanan. Anniston thought it would be an interesting challenge to find out how and why a Dixie mob enforcer was now working for one of the wealthiest men in the county. She knew firsthand that a name change didn’t equate to Thornton/Baskin altering his ways. Once an enforcer…

  After saving Roger’s information to another file and backing it up on a flash drive, Anniston keyed in the name Boone Dandridge. At first, she got zero hits on the preacher. Not a bad thing there. But she’d learned from the best that one should never stop digging. The red flag was Boone’s brief financial history. For a man in his early fifties to have such a limited credit history had her leaning back to the odd category. Boone seemed to appear from out of nowhere twenty-four years ago. She took what Lenore had told her about the guy and keyed in several markers that came up empty. Which meant his church bio was a complete fabrication. That caused her to probe deeper into the bones of Dandridge’s past, beginning with his age.

  She leaned back on the pillows and realized she was in for yet another ride. The pastor at Life Stone Church had been born Roland Wainwright in Vancouver, British Columbia. After emigrating to Seattle when he was twenty, Wainwright became a street hustler. It didn’t take long for the scam artist to get picked up on various cons he’d tried, but failed, to execute. After serving eight months in county lockup—and thanks to an early release—Wainwright claimed he’d found the Lord.

  To prove it, he settled down in a small town in Oregon and created a ministr
y geared toward the elderly. But he couldn’t quite leave his two-bit hustling days behind him. After getting caught defrauding several little old ladies out of their life savings, Wainwright faced fraud and theft charges, along with a subpoena over a stock scam. He chucked the ministry and went on the run, leaving the state and the little old ladies begging for their money back.

  Shortly thereafter, Roland Wainwright became Boone Dandridge. The statute of limitations had long since expired on the fraud and theft charges. Boone had spent the last twenty years off the radar inside the Life Stone parsonage.

  Now it all made sense about the golf course project south of town. According to Tanner, as pastor, Boone had started singing the praises about the resort land deal with gusto after offering his flock a piece of the action. If they backed and invested their money in Royce’s vision, they could trust the millionaire to deliver a tidy return.

  While Anniston could find no outstanding warrants now, Boone’s priors certainly didn’t equate to murder. His twenty years of what seemed like clean living went in the odd category, though, which just kept getting more crowded.

  Again, Anniston saved off Boone’s data to another folder and backed up the files before moving on to Carson Frawley, the doughnut shop owner. Carson had no priors and no aliases. At one time he’d been an outstanding South Carolina baseball prospect touted for his three-hundred-plus batting average and his glove in the field. His college coach had proclaimed Carson had a decent shot at the major leagues. But that all ended when a back injury in an off-season bar fight kept him from reaching anything higher than Double-A ball, a stint that lasted just under six months. Carson had been a washed-up never-was by the age of twenty-two. From his credit history, Anniston learned he was deeply in debt. He liked to gamble and according to the church roster was right in line with the rest of the congregation hoping for one big score off Royce’s land deal, a deal that promised a casino in the area within a year of closing down the nature preserve. Anniston also discovered that not long after arriving in town, Carson had borrowed fifty grand from Royce to start his business.