A low but large building with two over-sized garage doors, made for accommodating boats, sat far enough off the water it wouldn’t get hit by incoming tides. Weeds had grown up around it, and all three of the visible windows were broken, with tell-tale holes in the panes where someone had thrown a rock or a heavy seashell. A sign hung crookedly on a post, one of its chains broken and trailing as the sign swung with the breeze. The sign said, “Harbor Houseboats,” although the paint was so faded it was hard to tell. No vehicles sat in the parking lot, which would have been a surprise at that point if there had been any. Casey ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach and got out of the car.
“Where are you going?” Eric came after her.
She picked her way across the weedy bank up onto the parking lot and peered through one of the busted windows. “I guess they’re out of business now. Let’s see if we can get in.”
The side door was easy to open, since the building had apparently been broken into long before they’d gotten there. Casey stepped into the muggy space, which had been the front office. An old metal desk sat in the middle of the room, along with an office chair that had been home to more than a receptionist in the past few years. The walls held faded photos of houseboats in spotted wooden frames, and a curling, yellowed calendar from 2007 hung to the left of the desk.
Eric worked at the top desk drawer to get it open. “Old envelopes, all empty, some letterhead, bunch of paperclips…” He went through the rest of the drawers, but found nothing more interesting than outdated phone books and a broken model of a houseboat.
Behind the desk was a doorway, and Casey stepped through it into a large workspace. She ducked as something flew down from the rafters, wings beating a hasty retreat.
“What was that?” Eric came in behind her.
“Bird of some kind. There’s nests all around.” Other things, too, by the look of it. Including people, although all that was left was the trash they left behind. Beer cans, food wrappers, probably syringes and who knew what else. Casey didn’t want to get any closer to find out.
The large room was fronted by the first of the two huge rolling doors. Hoists were attached to the ceiling, and workbenches, littered with refuse, lined the walls. The shell of a houseboat lay lopsided on the cement floor, as if someone had taken one of its legs out from under it. It was the flat style, so the windows to the house were at eye level. Casey walked around it, looking in the windows, hoping she wouldn’t find anything disgusting inside. There were newspapers and a couple of old blankets and cardboard boxes, but nothing that looked too hopeful. Or gross.
“I’m assuming this wouldn’t be Cyrus’ boat,” Eric said.
“Too small. Plus, we don’t know that it ever got built.” She walked quickly to the next room, which was another garage with the second huge door. Nothing was in there except trash and bird poop. Casey continued on to the final door. This one led to a small hallway with offices and a bathroom. The offices had been stripped of all furniture, and the utilities had obviously been turned off long ago. That didn’t stop people from using the restroom. Casey tried not to vomit, and beat a hasty retreat outside, where she stopped and stared out toward the ocean.
Eric followed. “What now?”
“We find someone who knows what happened to this place.”
***
That someone was Mr. Howard Thornville of the Whitley Chamber of Commerce, a jovial stick of a man nearing retirement age. His office fronted Main Street in Whitley, the closest town to the defunct shipyard. Main Street wasn’t as busy as you’d expect from being the central street, but then, the town itself was smaller than Casey had expected this close to the shore. Thornville was more excited about relating the story of Harbor Houseboats than Casey thought natural, but perhaps it was good that someone wanted his job.
“They went out of business in 2007,” he said, which Casey had already guessed from the aging calendar on the wall of the warehouse. “It was a sad thing, but people were losing their regular homes, and could hardly afford a second, vacation one.”
“But I thought people lived in the boats.”
“Sure, some did. Some still do. But the bulk of the houseboat business—at least this particular one—was made up of wealthy people who wanted a unique place for the winter. Harbor Houseboats prided themselves on their workmanship and their leaning toward luxury.”
“Do you know anything about the people who owned it?”
He indicated his computer screen, on which he had brought up their file. “Brothers. Three of them. Their last name was Pinkerton—”
“Like the detective agency?” Eric said.
Thornville smiled. “Just like that. Don’t know if they’re any relation. I heard a rumor that—”
“Anyway…” Casey said. “There were three brothers?” Her head began to buzz. The Three.
“Yes, of course, sorry. Their father had started the business long ago, in the seventies, and the brothers took it over when he retired. This was the oldest, Zeke. He was the boss once the dad left.”
Casey looked at image on the screen, but Zeke was no one she’d seen before. Her buzz began to fade. “And the others?”
Thornville clicked back to the home page. “The second brother, Dan, he was the most hands-on. Knew his stuff as far as boats.” He brought up a photo of him. Again, someone Casey didn’t recognize. So much for that theory.
“Zeke took care of most of the business end. The numbers, schmoozing the rich folks, all that. Dan pretty much ran the workshop. They employed eighteen people at one point, including themselves, but that number began dropping as early as 1995.” He brought up a photo of a group of people, mostly men, and enlarged it. “This was their staff before the lay-offs began.”
“There he is,” Eric said.
“Who?” Thornville asked.
“Cyrus Mann. He was a woodworker from Marshland.”
“Of course. He was one of the first lay-offs, I’m afraid. And,” he cleared his throat, “I hear he met his end not long after that.”
“That’s actually why we’re here.”
Thornville sat back. “Really? Has new information come to light about his murder?”
“Well, it’s his daughter,” Eric said.
“The poor girl who disappeared? Did they find her?”
Casey tuned them out and looked at the men on the photo. She picked out the older brother, Zeke, in the back row, wearing a suit. Dan, the garage foreman, stood on the end of the middle row in blue coveralls. There were a few women, most wearing office-type clothes, one in coveralls. Casey looked carefully across each row, studying the faces, until she stopped, her heart in her throat. “One of them’s here, Eric.”
Eric stopped talking and looked where she was pointing. “I see him.”
“Who?” Thornville angled the screen so he could see, too.
“This man. We have him on another photo. Do you know who he is? Is he still around?”
“Well, of course he is,” Thornville said, laughing. “He’s the youngest Pinkerton brother. He works right down the street at the police station.”
Chapter Forty-one
“He’s a cop?” Casey couldn’t believe it.
“No, no.” Thornville waved his hands, like he needed to stop her. “He’s the motor pool manager. Oversees the fleet. Keeps their vehicles ship-shape. His name’s Randy.”
“So what was he, a mechanic for the boat company?”
“Yes. Wasn’t always happy working for his brothers, but he was the baby, by several years, and not always the most reliable member of the staff. Between you and me, I think they would have rather laid him off than some of the others, but how are you going to do that to your own brother? Although eventually, they sort of did. He didn’t work with them during the last, oh, ten years of the business.”
Casey stood up so fast her chair tipped. Eric caught the chair, and her wrist. “Casey.”
“We need to go see him.”
“In a minute. We nee
d to ask a few more things first.”
Casey took a deep breath and sank back into the chair.
“You have the picture?” Eric said. “Of the men?”
Casey pulled out the shot of Cyrus talking to Randy and the other guy. “You know this person?”
Thornville held the photo at arm’s length. “Well, that’s Randy, of course, back when he was young, and Cyrus.”
“But what about the other guy?”
Thornville pinched his lips. “I recognize him. Les Danvers. Small-time crook, but a child of the town, so we put up with him. He’s been in and out of the police station different times. Nothing ever stuck except for a shoplifting charge, and he got off with a slap on the wrist. Should have been a slap on the behind, you ask me.” Thornville’s sunny demeanor had darkened. “He was not a good influence on Randy. I know Mr. Pinkterton wished he wouldn’t hang around him. Tried to get him to stop, but there’s only so much you can do.”
“So did Randy get in trouble, too?”
Thornville dropped the photo onto the desk and sat back. “What are you really here for?”
“These guys,” Casey said. “We wanted to find out who they were.”
“But why?”
Casey glanced at Eric, and he nodded. “Because we think they might have had something to do with Cyrus Mann’s death. And now his daughter’s.”
Thornville’s face was blank for a moment before his expression changed. “His daughter? She’s alive?”
“No. She was. Until last week.”
“Wait a minute. She disappeared all those years ago. The papers always thought she was dead.” He paused. “Or that she had killed her father and run.”
“She didn’t kill him. But she did run.” Casey hoped it was true, but she had to go on the assumption that Elizabeth was innocent.
“And you think these guys—” he tapped the photo “—killed her father? And now her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Oh, geez.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Oh, geez. That’s just…just awful.”
“Did Randy ever get in trouble?” Casey asked again.
Thornville wouldn’t look at her. “I’m not comfortable with this. I don’t think I should talk to you anymore. Randy is part of our community, but I don’t know you. If you have any more to ask, you should probably just go ask him.”
“Fine.” Casey stood. “But one more question. Was there a third guy they hung out with? We have information that there was.”
Thornville’s expression remained stubborn, but Casey could see him thinking. “Do you know any more details about this man that could help trigger my memory?”
“No. Just that there were three of them. And he was sort of creepy.”
Thornville picked up a pen and turned his computer toward him, like he was ready to resume work.
“Mr. Thornville?”
He closed his eyes, and let the point of his pen rest on the desk. “Yes, there was a third one. His name was Marcus.” He shook his head. “Marcus Flatt.”
“What was he like? What do you know about him?”
He shook his head again, like if he did that enough he wouldn’t have to answer. “He was trouble, too. But in an entirely different way.” He looked up at her, his eyes bleak. “God help Cyrus’ daughter if Marcus Flatt was the one who found her.”
Chapter Forty-two
Casey stormed out of the office and headed toward the police station to grab Randy Pinkerton by the throat. Eric jumped in front of her.
“Get out of my way, Eric.”
“No.”
She tried to dodge past him, but he stepped in her way again. “Casey, look. He works for the police department. Charging in there and accusing him of murder isn’t going to fly. We have to think about this.”
“He’s right, you know.” Death stood behind Eric, also in-between Casey and the police station.
Surprised, Casey looked over Eric’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
Eric glanced backward, and frowned. “Casey. Are you all right? You know I’ve been with you all along.”
“You’re obviously back to old form,” Death said, sighing. “Ready to die.”
“I’m not ready to die.”
“That’s good,” Eric said uncertainly. “I guess that means we’ll take this slowly?”
“Listen to the man,” Death said. “Running in there like an unprepared avenging angel isn’t going to solve anything. You’ve got to be smooth. Like me. In and out, nobody knows you were even there. Well, except that someone’s dead.”
She looked at the sky, then back down. “What do you suggest?”
“Ask around,” Eric said. “Find out if he’s been gone lately. See if we can locate the other two.”
“And you might want to do it before the Chamber of Commerce guy decides it’s his civic and neighborly duty to warn them.” Death indicated the window of the Chamber office, where Thornville stood watching them.
Casey glared at him. Eric plastered a smile on his face and waved, pulling Casey across the street to a coffee shop.
“I’m not thirsty,” Casey said.
Eric kept dragging her. “It’s not about the coffee.”
“Although it should be,” Death said. “From my research this place is supposed to have the best lattes around.” Death held up a Nook with the banner “Best Coffee in Texas!” across the bottom of a screen that showed the shop.
Casey stopped resisting. “Fine.”
Eric left her in a window booth and took out his phone. “Why don’t you give Chief Kay a call, tell her we identified the men in the photo.” He left her and went up to order a couple drinks, while Death fashioned a steaming mug of something that said, “Nothing like a little Elixir of Life to start the day!” with a yellow smiley face. Death took a sip and considered it. “A bit bitter, but some sweetness to it. Perhaps a taste of honey. Or is it ambrosia?”
Chief Kay wasn’t in, so Casey left the information with the officer who answered, which unfortunately was the same one she “assaulted” in the street. It wasn’t the most pleasant conversation.
Eric stayed at the counter longer than she thought necessary, talking to the pretty young barista. He came back with a blueberry muffin large enough to feed all of southeast Texas. Eric cut it in pieces and took a bite. “Mmm, good.” He spewed crumbs, and grinned. “Whoops.”
“Ricky is in jail,” Casey said.
Eric took another bite. “I know. That’s why I was chatting up the girl at the counter.”
“Is that the only reason?”
Eric grinned some more. “Jealous?”
Casey looked out the window.
“You’re pathetic,” Death said, and took another sip.
Casey gripped her cup. “So what did the girl say?”
“She knows Randy and the other guy, Les Danvers. They come in here on most Wednesdays. Apparently, Les works over at Galveston Bay, loading and unloading ships, and that’s his day off. When he comes to town they try to be the civilized business types and hang out at the coffee shop, but they don’t quite pull it off.”
“According to the girl.”
“Britney.”
“Britney. Of course that’s her name.”
Death laughed, and raised a toast. “To Britney.”
“She says Randy tries to keep it cool, but Les usually gets too loud, or complains about the coffee, or offends another customer somehow. Also, it seems Randy has been trying to get her to go out with him since she started working here two years ago.”
“Not exactly a surprise,” Death said.
Casey took a sip of her coffee, but refused to admit she enjoyed it. “What about the third guy? Marcus Flatt?”
“She’s not sure. She says there was another guy who stopped by once, but he didn’t get a drink, and he didn’t stay long. She was glad, because just looking at him gave her the creeps. She said his eyes were like a shark’s.”
“Bing
o,” Death said loudly, and raised another toast, making Casey wonder exactly what was in the mug.
“I don’t suppose she has any idea if Randy and his buddies have been out of town?”
“Actually, she said he and Les missed their usual Wednesday last week. She hadn’t really thought anything of it, except that she hasn’t had to refuse Randy’s advances for a nice, two-week stretch.”
“The timing would fit.”
“Sure would.”
Casey took another drink and gazed out the window. Thornville no longer stood watching. She hoped he had just gone back to work, and wasn’t tattling to the police. “When was it she saw Flatt?”
“A while ago, I guess. She didn’t really remember.”
“So now what? Can we go talk to Randy?”
“Or is it time to call the cops?”
“Um, Eric?” Britney was calling him.
“She knows your name?” Casey said.
Britney was still talking. “The guy you were asking about? Randy?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s right over there.” She pointed toward the street.
Randy Pinkerton was driving away in a red Camaro.
Casey stood up so fast her coffee spilled. Eric caught the cup, so his hands weren’t free to stop Casey this time.
“Come on, Eric!”
She ran out to their car and waited impatiently for Eric to catch up.
Thornville peeked out at her from his window. Obviously, he had called and warned Randy Pinkerton they were coming.
“Do you want this?” Eric ran up holding out her half-full drink.
“Eric, get in the car!”
He tossed the drink in a trash can and beeped open the car. They jumped in and sped after Randy Pinkerton.
Eric squeezed past a yellow light. “Where do you think he’s going? Home? To warn Les Danver?”
Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series) Page 25