Stacy smiled. “I assumed you would.”
Val now understood why Stacy had shared so much information. She thought the police should know what she’d discovered, but preferred to avoid them because she’d lied to them, claiming she hadn’t seen Otto after he left the saloon. Why had she lied? Maybe she assumed that the last person who admitted to talking to Otto would be a suspect. She’d rather the police believe that Otto had killed himself before either she or Trey left the saloon. But the sooner Stacy told the truth, the better for her.
“I’ll pass on your information to the police,” Val said. “If it’s related to their investigation, though, they’ll want to talk to you. After Otto disappeared from the yacht, we were all under a lot of stress and not thinking straight. I think the police would understand if you wanted to correct your initial statements. They’ll be less forgiving if you don’t correct them.” Val gave Stacy time to let her words sink in. “Are you going to accept Cheyenne’s invitation for tomorrow night?”
“I’ve already accepted. I want to say farewell to Otto.”
“I’ll see you then.” Val gave Gretel a goodbye pat and returned to her car.
She called Chief Yardley from her car, hoping to drive straight to his office. He was too busy to see her and suggested she stop by at six thirty. That gave Val ninety minutes to make arrangements for tomorrow night’s food.
She drove to the club, went into the Cool Down Café, and sat on a stool at the eating bar. Irene Pritchard, her sixtyish assistant manager, was busy behind the counter, assembling the ingredients for tonight’s special: creamy chicken and vegetables over egg noodles.
Val eyed the huge quantity Irene was making. “That’s a ton of food. You’re expecting a busy evening?”
“I sell a lot of take-home meals on Thursdays. Folks get tired of cooking this late in the week. Friday’s a lot slower.”
“On Friday nights, everybody would rather go to happy hour on Main Street than exercise here and get a take-out dinner.” Tomorrow Val could keep Irene busy and give her the chance to earn more than usual on a Friday. “I got a last-minute catering request for tomorrow night, a light meal like high tea for eight to ten people. If you’d be willing to make up some platters, you can set the price and include a twenty percent tip for yourself.”
Irene’s eyes narrowed. “Are you gonna take a cut?”
“I’ll add my fee for serving the meal. The rest is yours, Irene.”
“I’m surprised you’re getting any catering jobs after somebody died at one of your dinners.”
Val bit back a protest that her food wasn’t to blame for Otto’s death. She’d rather show Irene that her barb hadn’t stung. “Actually, I’m getting more catering requests than ever.”
“Huh. People sure are strange.” Irene cocked her head toward the café entrance. “And here comes one of your friends.” Her intonation suggested she considered the friend strange.
Chatty hurried into the café and sat next to Val at the eating bar. “I’ve got a vacancy in my schedule if you want a massage.”
“A massage sounds wonderful, but I don’t have a vacancy in my schedule.”
Irene left to wait on a man who’d just sat at a bistro table.
“Normally I’d be giving Louisa Brown a massage. This is her usual time spot. I didn’t expect her to show up a day after her husband was shot. You know anything about that?”
“Not much. I can’t wait to hear what the police have to say.” Val was grateful the chief had suggested she sneak out the back door of the Browns’ house. Otherwise, she’d have to answer questions from the media and from Chatty, Bayport’s ace gossip. “Speaking of Louisa . . . did you see her on Monday after you gave me a massage?”
“Uh-huh. She has a standing appointment on Monday and Thursday afternoons.”
“Did you happen to mention to her that I was going back to the yacht to pick up the scripts for the mystery game?”
Chatty ran her fingers along the edge of the granite counter. “Hmm. I think I did. You didn’t say it was a secret.”
“True.” But if Chatty had kept quiet, Val could rule out Damian and Louisa as people who might have shoved her into the trunk. Changing the subject, Val said, “I’ve been getting calls about catering Titanic dinners, proving that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“Themed costume parties are all the rage. You can have a niche market, catering disaster-themed dinners.”
Val rolled her eyes. “A small niche, probably disappearing once Otto Warbeck’s dinner party is no longer in the news.”
“But you should capitalize on it and expand your repertoire. You could put on a Last Dinner in Pompeii with the guests in togas, lolling on cushions and eating peeled grapes. Or a Last Dinner before Prohibition, with the women dressed like flappers. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we’re dry.”
Val laughed. “I’d have to put liquor in every dish. Prohibition was certainly a disaster for some people, though not on the scale of Pompeii or the Titanic. But thanks for the suggestions.” She didn’t expect to act on them.
Irene came back from waiting on the man at the bistro table. She grumbled that he’d only ordered a coffee and would probably nurse it for an hour while he read his e-mail.
“That reminds me. I should check my messages.” Val took out her phone.
Chatty slid off the stool. “I’m going to spend some time on the stationary bike before my next client comes in. Don’t forget we have a tennis team practice on Saturday, Val.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” If everything went as she hoped tomorrow night, the police would have a murderer in custody by then.
Val glanced at her messages. Bethany had texted, asking if she needed any help with the food for the memorial gathering on the yacht. Val texted back that Irene would prepare the food, though Bethany could make s’mores again.
For the next fifteen minutes, Val and Irene discussed the menu for high tea on the yacht. Irene came up with a list of sandwiches and other finger foods she’d serve. Val suggested tarts for dessert. Irene also wanted to serve scones with clotted cream. Fine with Val. As she was leaving, Irene handed her a bag of four scones, two for her and two for Granddad. He and Irene had something in common—a gruff exterior that almost, but not quite, hid the soft spot inside.
Val filled a large insulated cup with coffee for Chief Yardley. On her way to the car, she spotted Althea in the club parking lot and asked how Jerome was doing.
“He’s remembered bits and pieces about Saturday night,” Althea said. “He’s still foggy about most of it.”
“There may be a way to lift the fog faster.” Val told her about Cheyenne’s plans for tomorrow evening. “If Jerome is willing to go back on the yacht, sitting in front of the controls might jog his memory.”
Althea frowned. “Inviting all those people back on the yacht is playing with fire. One of them might not want Jerome to remember anything. You know what drug they found in his system? Rohypnol. Also known as the date rape drug. It relaxes you and makes you forget everything that happened.”
“Shouldn’t that convince the police that he didn’t drug himself?”
“Not necessarily. It’s a party drug. High school and college kids take it to enhance the effects of alcohol. First it makes them high, and then they sleep well.”
So Jerome was still on the hook as a pilot who took drugs on the job. Val was convinced Trey had drugged Jerome. The proof of that might be locked away in Jerome’s memory. “I understand your concern about Jerome, but I think returning to the yacht will help him figure out who drugged him and why. If I can get Chief Yardley to give him a police bodyguard, will that ease your worries?”
“A little. I’ll tell Jerome my concerns, but it’s his decision whether or not to go. I think he’ll jump at the chance of a redo.”
Val hoped so. Now to talk the chief into allowing that redo. She climbed into her car and drove to the police station.
Chapter 22
> When Val went into the chief’s office, she handed him the coffee and gave him a bag of scones, minus the two she’d left in the car for Granddad. “Blueberry scones, baked by Irene.”
“So it’ll be her fault, not yours, if I break a tooth? I’ve crunched down on some hard scones in my life.”
“Eat at your own risk.” She grinned as he gave the scone in his hand a doubtful look. “Just kidding. Irene makes good scones.”
“You bring sweets when you want to ply me with questions. And today I get decent coffee too. You must have a lot on your mind.”
“This time I have some answers, not just questions. I’ve figured out who shoved me into the trunk. Louisa found out I planned to take the script booklets from the yacht Monday evening. Yesterday when I was with her, she said she was afraid Damian would shoot her, throw her in the trunk, and dump her body where no one would find her. Being thrown in a trunk was on her mind because she knew it happened to me.”
The chief raised a skeptical eyebrow. “People killed by the mob end up in trunks too. Are you saying she pushed you into the trunk?”
“No. I glimpsed a dark figure a split second before the trunk lid came down. Someone tall. She’s shorter than I am. She told Damian I was picking up the booklets. He’s the one who pushed me into the trunk. He wanted what was inside his booklet—Otto’s business card with the note about meeting him on deck.”
“You don’t know that the card fell out of his booklet.”
Val hoped the police could settle that issue. “Did you check for fingerprints on the card?”
“We found some smudged partial prints, but nothing good enough to be used as evidence in court. It wasn’t worth fingerprinting everyone on the yacht for an inconclusive result.” The chief sipped his coffee. “We can take another look at the card, now that we have Damian Brown’s prints to compare with what’s there.”
A step in the right direction. “What I learned today convinced me that Otto planned the party and adapted the Titanic mystery game with Damian in mind because of something that happened thirty years ago.”
Val summarized what Stacy had told her about Andrea, Damian the Demon, and Louisa, Andrea’s harasser.
The chief, who’d jotted notes on a pad while she was talking, put his pen down. “The incident thirty years ago might explain why Otto changed the mystery game, but what does it have to do with his death? Do you think Damian or Louisa had any idea that Otto was Andrea’s brother?”
Val shook her head. “They wouldn’t have gone to the dinner party if they’d known.”
“Otto sprang that game on his guests after they were on the yacht. Why would Damian have brought a gun with him? Even if he always carried a gun, he wouldn’t have risked a murder rap to cover up a drug sale that no one would ever prosecute.”
Val agreed with the chief. “Otto realized that too, so he took justice in his own hands. He set up a meeting with Damian, confronted him about Andrea’s death, and pulled a gun. Damian grabbed it and turned it on Otto.”
The chief sipped the coffee. “Possible. How do you explain the anonymous letter?”
Val shrugged. “No matter how I put the pieces of this puzzle together, I always have that one piece left over. It doesn’t fit anywhere. The only people who could have seen Damian shoot Otto would have gone to the police with the information.” She studied the chief’s face. Had he made sense of the letter?
He twirled his pen. “Got anything else to report?”
Val told him about Cheyenne’s planned gathering for Otto’s Titanic dinner guests on the yacht.
“Not a good idea.” He touched his forehead as if a migraine had attacked him. “One of them might be a murderer.”
“But the rest of them aren’t and could help figure out who killed Otto. Granddad, Bethany, and I brainstormed about what occurred after Otto left the table, but we were busy with the meal and might have missed something. The others were at the opposite end of the saloon. We couldn’t hear what they were saying with the music on. I hope to get the whole group talking about what happened or, better yet, going through the motions.” Val could tell the chief hadn’t changed his mind. “It’s like crowd-sourcing to solve a problem. You can get to the truth faster than if you interviewed them separately.”
“We interview suspects alone so they can’t influence each other. Crowd-sourcing an investigation isn’t standard operating procedure.”
Val threw up her hands. “Okay. If you don’t want to be there, I’ll tell you what happens.”
“No, no, no.” He slapped his desk. “If it’s going on, I want police there.”
“Not in uniform, I hope. That will stifle the conversation. Could the officer who pilots the patrol boat sit next to Jerome on the upper deck? Althea told me he’s getting back his memory little by little. Being at the helm of the Abyss again might help him fill in the gaps.”
The chief crossed his arms. “Anything else?”
Just a few questions. “Did Otto’s autopsy results come in?”
“The findings aren’t complete yet. Specimens from the body still need to be tested. I heard from the medical examiner who performed the autopsy, but until the final report comes in, I’m not making any public statements about it.”
But he might answer a specific question in private. Val gave it a stab. “Did the medical examiner mention that Otto had Alzheimer’s?”
The chief’s eyebrows rose. “Examining the brain after death is the usual way to confirm that diagnosis. The medical examiner looked at the brain. He said nothing about Alzheimer’s. Why do you ask?”
“Otto’s father had Alzheimer’s. Stacy said Otto told her he’d commit suicide if he ever found out he had the disease.”
“That tells me something about Otto’s character, but it doesn’t explain his death.” The chief laced his fingers behind his head, elbows out. “People who deliberately shoot themselves generally do it with their dominant hand. Otto Warbeck wrote right-handed, but his wound was on the left side. That’s why I was skeptical of suicide from the start, but I can’t rule it out. Your granddaddy called today to tell me what he observed in old photos at the Warbeck house. When Otto played baseball, he was a switch hitter.”
A man who batted from either side could shoot himself with either hand. Val gave herself a mental kick for not coming to the same conclusion about Otto’s baseball photos as her grandfather had. “Granddad’s a better sleuth than I am.”
“He’s sharp.” The chief pushed his notepad to the side. “You don’t have to worry about him if you decide to leave Bayport. He gave me a lot of support after my father died. I’ll be there to help him if he needs anything. He has a whole community here he can rely on.”
So Granddad had confided in the chief about her possible move to D.C. “Did he tell you to say that?”
Chief Yardley shook his head. “I know him well. He’d want you to make the decision that’s right for you.”
“I will.” She’d already done it, but hadn’t told anyone. It was time to do that. She stood up. “Thanks, Chief.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow after I speak to the widow.”
Val hoped he wouldn’t talk Cheyenne out of the gathering.
She drove from the police station to Gunnar’s house, wondering how to explain her decision to him. It didn’t matter to Gunnar where he lived, but it mattered very much to her. He could plop down for a few months or years in one location and then move on. He’d done it before and he’d do it again, without looking back. Not the life she wanted. Growing up in a military family, she’d lived in a lot of different places, but the place she called home was where she’d spent her summers, in Bayport with her grandparents. This was where she belonged.
Explaining that to Gunnar was less difficult than she’d anticipated. When they sat down in his living room, he apologized for pressuring her to move. It wasn’t fair to ask her to make a commitment when his life was in flux. They agreed they’d had a transitional relationship, rushing into it after b
roken engagements. A separation would give them both a breather.
She left his house relieved and convinced that he felt the same way.
Back home, she told Granddad what she and Gunnar had decided.
“I’m glad,” he said. “You should settle into one of the bigger bedrooms upstairs, instead of staying in the small room you had as a kid.”
She could handle a move down the hall.
* * *
When Chief Yardley called Val at noon the next day, she expected to hear that he’d talked Cheyenne into abandoning her plan for the gathering on the yacht. Instead, he said he would also be on the Abyss that evening. Based on the medical examiner’s report and other evidence, he wanted to test a theory about Otto’s death. He wouldn’t tell Val anything about his theory or the evidence that led to it.
She proposed an experiment to pin down the time of Otto’s shooting. She’d need a prop Gunnar could borrow from the local theater group.
“I could use a prop too,” the chief said. “I’ll contact the theater group. They won’t turn down a request from the police. Gunnar can be in charge of props if he’s available.”
“I have a role for him in my experiment. What about Jerome?”
“He’ll be sitting at the helm this evening with a police officer who has a captain’s license.”
Everything was falling into place for a fitting memorial to Otto. Val hoped it would end in an arrest for his murder.
* * *
Val peeled off the last piece of static-cling film covering the saloon’s windows on the Abyss. With the opaque film gone, she could clearly see the dock on one side of the yacht and the river on the other. With the aft deck visible through the sliding glass door, everything would be out in the open for this gathering, unlike the last one.
Bethany came in from the aft deck, toting two large soft-sided coolers. She wore a black skirt and a white top, suitable for catering a memorial gathering. Her outfit mirrored Val’s, though they hadn’t coordinated. “Irene had all the food packed and ready to go. Where do you want it?”
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