Shallow Grave

by Karen Harper

  “Remember I told you that Grant’s mentor and the man’s granddaughter—his name was Steve Rowan, CEO of the insurance company Grant now owns—drowned at sea and their bodies were never found?”

  “I remember the newspaper coverage of it too, the search by the coast guard and their finally calling that off when their yacht washed ashore empty.”

  “Yeah, well, the woman with him is Margot Rowan, daughter of Steve and mother of Leslie, who drowned. At least he’s still making an effort to support their family.”

  “Could they be romantically involved?”

  “Can’t say, but I think he’s a real loner. Passionate about his adventure treks and his vision for zoos of the future without bars and cages.”

  “I’m starting to like him better already. So maybe that’s how he got hooked up with Stan Helter. The animals roam there without bars and cages, though they’re endangered in another way—namely, of being shot dead in a setup orchestrated by Stan Helter.”

  They stopped talking as another couple came into the box and sat behind them. They nodded in greeting just as the penetrating sound of the oboe to tune the other instruments cut through the buzz of the audience. Lane, as first violinist, made an entrance on stage, then took his prominent place to more than polite applause.

  * * *

  After the concert, they met Lane and his wife, Sandra, at Brick Top’s Restaurant in the nearby outdoor mall called the Waterside Shops, though the place itself wasn’t waterside. It did, however, have pools that reflected the sliver of autumn moon in the dark night sky. Lane’s wife, as Jace had said, had fabulous makeup and not a hair out of place to complement her sleeveless, glittering black sheath. Claire, in the only dressy black dress that still fit her and had a jacket, felt both overdressed and underdressed.

  Sandra had preordered crab cakes, blackened fish tacos, spicy tuna sushi, and they all had wine. The place was abuzz with regular concertgoers who called out comments or kudos to Lane, and he seemed to drink it all in in more ways than one as he raised his glass. He had, at least, arranged a booth for them out of the mainstream so they could hear each other talk.

  “So, did you stay awake through the most sweeping, soothing parts?” Lane asked Claire. “She’s with child, Sandra, though she hardly shows it in that dress,” he told his wife, and smiled at both Nick and her.

  What a change, Claire thought, as the suddenly ingratiating man talked about Gershwin composing the symphony, about how his tastes were actually a bit more classical. “I always go back to Bach,” he said.

  But, Claire thought, either Brit or Ann must have told him she was pregnant, because men usually weren’t that observant, and she’d been dressed in loose shirts the several times she’d been near him.

  Small talk mingled at first with the generous appetizers and the wine. Lane said he never ate before a concert, so he was putting food away now and didn’t seem to have a care in the world, nor did Sandra, just as at Ben’s funeral.

  But, staring into his glass of white wine, Lane said suddenly in a lull in the conversation, “Rhapsody in Blue was the perfect piece for me to practice lately and play tonight. I try to carry on, but I’m mourning not only my father’s loss, but the loss of what we could have had if he’d just understood me.”

  Sandra nodded, overly long, Claire thought, but here was the opening she’d wanted. “Your mother and even Jackson said he was very sad and depressed lately,” Claire said. “They were actually worried about his state of mind. I guess he left some sort of note in large print, regretful, perhaps a little despondent.”

  Claire realized she’d just broken another forensic psych rule: even if you do some leading in an interview of a suspect, do not lie. Well, she hadn’t, exactly, but she felt the steady, increased pressure of Nick’s leg against hers under the table.

  “Really?” Lane said, sitting up straighter. He started to stroke his immaculately trimmed beard. “Like—like he’d try to hurt himself? He didn’t hurt easily, I’ll tell you that, so it’s—so dreadfully terrible what happened—how he did it—if he did it.”

  Lane stared into his goblet again, frowning. Sandra put her hand on his upper arm and gave it a squeeze. Those broken comments just now, the remorse that seemed false... Funny, Claire thought, but he’d said earlier he was sorry he’d given them the wrong impression and wanted to make up for that tonight. Yet the reflection of his lower face in his wine made it look as if he were smiling. And if he believed tonight would ease their opinion of him as unsympathetic toward Ben at best and bitter at worst, he was so, so wrong.

  * * *

  “Nick Markwood to see Grant Manfort,” Nick told the receptionist in the lobby of Grant’s four-story insurance office on Monday morning.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir? I don’t see it here.”

  “Please just let his secretary know Nick Markwood is here.”

  “Have a seat please, and I’ll tell her.”

  Nick knew this was a gamble, but he was starting to feel this so-called Tiger Cage Case was too. He was banking on Grant’s seeing him if he was here, not just putting him off via phone or email if he asked to set up a meeting. He didn’t want another lunch date; he wanted to see him right now.

  Nick tried to get hold of himself. That end-around trick of Stan Helter’s trying to steal Bronco with the house bribe had really teed him off. Of course Bronco and Nita had stars in their eyes over it, even though they said they didn’t want to stop working for the Markwoods and would take time to think about it.

  It was obvious to Nick that he’d do better bargaining with Helter through Grant than arranging a head-on collision. Of course, in the end, it would be Bronco and Nita’s decision, but he didn’t like dirty tricks and he didn’t like that Bronco, who had been upset by the earlier attempted trick of the seduction at the ranch, was being invited to sell his soul to someone like Helter. The ranch owner was a take-no-prisoners kind of guy, and that was trouble. Maybe it had been trouble for Ben too.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he heard the receptionist say into her mouthpiece as she shifted her gaze toward him. He steeled himself. Maybe he’d made a mistake, but he felt he’d built a bond with Grant in the past.

  “He’ll see you now, Mr. Markwood. Please follow me, and I’ll take you right in.”

  He followed her down a carpeted corridor with individuals working in glassed-in cubicles, most staring at large screens, some on the phone. This entire fourth floor was laid out much like the law offices. He found Grant in a corner office with walls of windows overlooking Venetian Bay. He was standing at one of those desks you could elevate. It annoyed Nick to go through the usual what-brings-you-here, glad-to-see-you-again formalities, but he did.

  “Sit,” Grant said, gesturing at a chair for Nick but ignoring one himself. “I don’t always stand, but I like to keep in shape. I swear, I’m heading back on a climbing trip or safari soon. So what can I do for you?”

  “I’m here about the house Stan Helter offered to Bronco. Gratis, in East Naples, insured by your company and with a life insurance policy from here thrown in for good measure—as an added bribe.”

  “Whoa,” he said, holding up both hands. “Yeah, I signed off on the policies, but I thought Bronco had agreed to work for the ranch—”

  “Bronco agreed to work part-time three days a week. Look, Grant, the guy is not only a friend but his wife is our nanny.”

  “Then aren’t you happy for this really sweet deal he’s been offered? And I admit, I didn’t think it was a—”

  “Bribe, I said.”

  “Buyout, I’d say. So your wife is upset too, of course.”

  “As I recall, you’ve never been married, so maybe you don’t get the impact of that, but frankly it’s Bronco and his bride we’re worried about.”

  “Meaning you don’t trust Stan to keep his word or your guy will get hurt doing that dangerous work?�
��

  “I really think Stan’s playing dirty. I’m sure there’s a clause somewhere to get Bronco completely under his thumb with no freedom, and the guy needs that.” Nick almost blurted out that Stan had a strong motive to be happy Ben Hoffman was dead, but he finally fought to stop the accusations and calm down.

  “I’ve known Stan a long time,” Grant said with a shrug. “I admit he goes for the jugular to get things done, runs the ranch without guardrails sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know he’d like to get his hands on the BAA property when he’s already sitting on massive acres.”

  Nick noted, for the first time, Grant showed his frustration in his face as well as his voice, but he had to admit he’d come on pretty hot and heavy—not like him, more like Jace. Grant’s cheeks and forehead reddened and a vein stood out, beating madly at the side of his neck before he turned away and looked out his sweeping windows to the glittering bay lined with buildings.

  “Whatever Stan’s faults—and we all have some,” Grant said, his voice unsteady now, “I have to admire his ambition. Always have. He came from next to nothing and now hobnobs with the internationally rich and famous. And I admit, I’m still tied to him, because some of his clients have become mine. Many of them are movers and shakers, lots of them wealthy, and they need to protect their financial and family assets.”

  “Helter borders not on ambition but aggression. You heard the BAA overseer was hit on the back of his head much like Ben Hoffman was.”

  “I read about it. A tragedy,” Grant said, turning back to face him and finally sinking into the other chair. “But you’re not accusing Stan, are you? They don’t think the guy could have fallen from trying to climb the fence? And Ben Hoffman’s demise is your concern too, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t discuss that case further.”

  “So it is a case? And I can’t discuss this wedding gift matter until I check with Stan. Look, Nick, you and I had kind of an understanding from way back over losing the men we both cared for, the ones we pattern ourselves after, right? I was devastated by that loss—and that of Leslie too. Beautiful girl, red hair, green eyes...”

  Nick nodded, but he was thinking of his own red-haired, green-eyed girl. He and Claire had been round and round about what was so damned important about the few acres of the BAA. Meanwhile, Claire was getting emotionally sucked into a case that looked more dangerous all the time, when he didn’t want her to go farther than their orchid-covered backyard wall and a trip to her sister’s right now. Damn, was he losing it. Should he just let all this—and Bronco—go?

  No, because he owed it to his dead father, who was murdered by an evil man who wanted it to look like suicide. He’d sworn to help others who might have been caught up in such evil, whether the motive was greed, revenge, hatred...

  “Tell you what,” Grant said in the sharp silence between them. “Stan owes me from way back for supporting the ranch in more ways than one. I saw it as a refuge for animals, even if there was hunting there. I’ll see if he’ll go back to the half-time deal for Bronco and maybe let him buy the house cheap, reduced rates, and I’ll throw in the insurance until he gets on his feet, so you can have his service half-time.”

  Nick remembered to exhale. Grant extended his hand, and they shook. Maybe he had done the right thing to come to Grant.

  “Your new wife must be a hell of a woman if you finally settled down,” Grant said, leaning back in the chair, seeming calmer now, though his foot crossed over his other leg bounced. “Saw you two at the concert Sunday. She’s a beautiful woman. Maybe I should try marriage sometime. That was Steve Rowan’s daughter I was with, if you noticed me. I like to keep in touch with her, squire her around once in a while, since she’s divorced and alone now. I’m just as driven as you to make something good come from tragic losses in the past.”

  “And more recent ones,” Nick told him. “That’s my focus too.”

  Grant nodded, frowning, and went to look back out at the panoramic scene again. Nick stood and gazed out too.

  “A beautiful view,” Nick said.

  “But it’s not this I want that money can buy,” Grant said with a sigh. “Give me the sweep of the raw, great outdoors with exotic animals, even if it’s bred in them to attack each other, even if running free means facing death from human hunters. Sometimes, sadly, that costs human lives too, the price we pay for paradise in peril.”

  Nick realized that was Grant’s manifesto. Admirable but—was he justifying Ben’s death? Jackson’s injuries? No, it was just that Claire’s obsession with finding guilt had rubbed off on him, surely that was it.

  21

  After Nick settled down from his conversation with Grant, he went home for lunch to talk to Claire. Thank God he did! A police car followed by an unmarked vehicle had just pulled up at the curb in front of the house, and Claire was already opening the front door to step outside. After the dead gator and python were dumped on their property, the police said they’d drive by more, but this must be something else.

  Nick pulled in the driveway and jumped out. He raised a hand to keep Claire from coming out farther, but of course she paid no attention. They faced two Naples police officers and one man dressed in plainclothes—oh, yeah, Detective Ken Jensen, who had investigated Ben’s death at the BAA. Nick didn’t know the policemen.

  “Officers. Detective,” he greeted them. His pulse started to pound. “I’ve been keeping tabs on how James Jackson is doing. Is he—”

  “The same,” Jensen said, stopping partway up the front lawn. “Life support until his brain swelling goes down. Hope he remembers what happened to him if—when—he regains consciousness.”

  “It’s not—someone else hurt?” Claire asked. “Our daughter...she’s at school.”

  “No, ma’am. No problem with anything like that.”

  “Let’s step inside,” Nick told them with a sweep of his hand.

  “Actually,” Jensen said, holding his ground, “we’re on our way out to question Grace Cobham, since she just evaporated into the wilderness the first time I went to see her. We understand from talking to her son Ronnie, who works at Home Depot here in town—”

  Nick and Claire exchanged a wide-eyed glance. That sounded so homey, so normal, when Gracie’s boys seemed far from that.

  “We figured out the hard way,” Jensen went on, “that she’s an old Florida cracker who doesn’t like visitors unless they’ve been invited. Believe it or not, she has no phone out there in the boondocks, halfway down the Tamiami Trail, and we weren’t about to chase her into the swamp. Ronnie says she has a good relationship with you, Mrs. Markwood, and we wanted to ask if you would do a ride-along with us.”

  Nick almost wondered if his clever Claire had set this up. She’d been wanting to go see Gracie on her own turf, question her more about the day Ben died. At least he was here to head this off, and he tried to get a word in before Claire did.

  But he failed, as she turned to him and said, “Nick, you didn’t want me to go out there without an armed escort. He was just kidding, Detective Jensen, but what could be better than this? Yes, I have begun to build a relationship with her, which I would not like to see harmed by the company I keep, if you’ll excuse me from looking at your plan from her point of view. Perhaps the officers could hang back a bit, and you and I could talk to her.”

  Nick managed to get out, “Claire, I don’t th—”

  “I understand,” Jensen said. “Actually, I don’t like to involve civilians, but I know you’re a trained forensic psych, and part of their gig is interviews. I’m thinking we’ll more or less need a cultural interpreter once we get near her—if we do. We’ve picked this time frame because Ronnie Cobham’s at work and Lonnie Cobham drives a delivery truck for an exterminator, and he’s on the road in Fort Myers.”

  Lonnie and Ronnie. Sounded like cute kiddie TV characters, not overgrown men with h
atchets and knives, and Nick didn’t like the idea of one of them being an exterminator. Hell, they dealt with poisons. But with a police escort, maybe they could find out more about Gracie as a possible exterminator of Ben Hoffman. And since someone had evidently climbed the fence to hurt Jackson, Gracie and the boys could be considered prime candidates for that too. But wouldn’t Jackson have been more specific on the phone to Brit about what he’d seen? Both Claire and Brit had said he sounded not only scared but shocked. Well, maybe an old woman scaling the fence back by the tiger cage would do that.

  “You mean now?” Nick asked Jensen as Claire, looking pleased and excited, tore into the house to, as she put it, get her stuff.

  “We heard the old lady sells orchids on the roadside along the Trail, so we may not even have to drive back to her place again,” Jensen said. “Okay, Claire and I will go in together, with the police officers nearby as backup. We don’t expect any problem if we can just get the old lady snagged for a talk.”

  “Not to arrest her?” Nick clarified as, despite it all, his lawyer instincts kicked in.

  “Just question her,” Jensen said. “We’ll be careful, Counselor. Forensic psychs are trained for tough interviews, and we can really appreciate that. I remember when Claire was shot at the courthouse after testifying and then that Marco Island murder case where she fought the killer—”

  “Exactly,” Nick interrupted as Claire hurried out with a jacket, a purse and a notebook. “And we don’t need anything like that ever again, so please—” he lowered his voice “—keep a good eye on her.”

  She kissed Nick on the cheek and got in the front passenger seat of Jensen’s car. Just to steady himself, Nick stared at the holstered pistols the officers sported. Jensen no doubt was also carrying, so she was well protected. Why was it always that way with Claire, into the thick of things, pregnant or not? It was bad enough to lose some of Bronco’s time but, after what Jensen had just said about Claire, all he needed was the police trying to hire her, even as a part-time consultant.