Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "How do you load a spear-gun?" Rip asked curiously.

  "You hold the butt of the gun up against your chest. I use a chest loading vest, but Cooper didn't. He'd have bruises on his chest from the impact sometimes, but still wouldn't break down and buy a vest."

  "Stick to the basics." Rip was getting impatient. I remained silent.

  "Okay, so anyway, with the butt against your chest, you use both hands to pull the first band toward you and hook the wishbone into the front notch. Then you pull back the second band and hook it in the rear notch."

  "Sounds easy enough."

  "It is, once you got it down pat. It's more a matter of technique than strength."

  "I see." Sometimes Rip had the attention span of a blade of grass. I could tell he was losing interest fast in Milo's detailed descriptions.

  "You always load the guns in the water and keep the safety on until you're ready to fire, or it can be very dangerous."

  "I see."

  "Coop wasn't much on following safety procedures, but I never met anyone who could hold his breath as long as he could. I'd have to surface three times before he surfaced once. Pinto, who's older than us, would have to come up for air even more frequently. Cooper had unbelievable lung power for a guy who used to smoke."

  "That's nice," Rip replied absentmindedly.

  "I'm glad I bought the more expensive gun, even though sometimes, with a new model, the manufacturers haven't had time to get the bugs worked out."

  "That's nice," Rip repeated. He clearly was not paying attention to Milo's babbling.

  "One drawback of the cheap gun Coop bought is that the trigger mechanism was sensitive and had a habit of jamming when you tried to fire at a fish. Still, all-in-all, we were all pleased with our purchases. Because we all bought one at the same time, we were given a thirty percent discount."

  "I totally agree," Rip mumbled. Milo's rambling remarks had not registered. The exchange between them sounded like it was on auto pilot and neither man was paying a lick of attention to what the other was saying.

  When Milo's chattering ceased, Rip cocked his head in puzzlement, and asked, "So, what I still don't understand is what led you to instantly think the spear in Cooper's chest was fired from his own personal gun?"

  "I dunno. Just a gut feeling, I guess," Milo answered awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact with either Rip or me.

  Rip held up the frayed end of the line attached to the spear, and asked, "Is this spear designed specifically for the nineteen-inch model Cooper purchased? Or is it basically the same used on every gun? And how about the line attached to the spear? Is it generic or custom? This line's been severed, presumably so the killer could take the spear-gun, or in this case, the murder weapon, with him."

  "I dunno," Milo repeated. He shook his head, donning the expression of someone being backed into a corner with no escape route in sight. "I really have no idea."

  I began listening more intently to the discussion between the two men, and started to feel uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as Milo appeared to be. He started babbling once again, about red snapper recipes, spear-gun fishing techniques, and a new brand of fish fry batter he wanted to try. Milo chattered nervously about anything and everything but the spear in Cooper's chest and the line that connected the spear to the gun, which allowed the fisherman to retrieve a fish once it had been speared.

  When the cat finally grabbed a hold of Milo's tongue, he turned his back to us and ran his sleeve across his eyes. He was blotting tears with the fabric of his shirt, I was certain. I could sense Milo was not only on edge about Rip's questioning, but also embarrassed to show his emotional side to his in-laws.

  Meanwhile, Rip was performing another cursory inspection of the body lying across the forward casting deck. "He's got abrasions on his left knuckles, but taking into account they've nearly healed, I'd estimate they're at least four or five days old."

  I didn't bother to respond because it was evident to me Rip was talking to himself, not Milo or me. He turned Cooper's body on its side. Rigor mortis had already set in, so it was like turning a mannequin over, or, more aptly, a tuna that'd been chilling on ice for an hour or two. I listened as Rip continued to voice his observations. "He's got a three-to four-inch laceration on the back of his skull, but has already had metal staples applied to close the wound."

  Without thinking, I said, "So his attacker hit him with something before he shot him with the spear-gun?"

  Rip graced me with his oft-used "duh" expression, and said, "The fact he'd already received medical attention for the wound makes it clear it had no bearing on his death, dear. Did you really think the attacker whacked him on the head, closed the wound with a suturing staple gun he just happened to have on him, and then proceeded to shoot him dead with a spear?"

  Without even waiting for my response to his sarcastic, rhetorical question, he continued, "But I do think the odds are good that whoever caused this wound came out here in the middle of no-man's land to finish the job. The killer would have known there'd be a slim chance of the murder being witnessed by anyone out here."

  He then turned to Milo, and asked, "Know anything about this head wound?"

  After a brief interlude, Milo slowly shook his head. His hesitancy made me think he knew more about the laceration than he cared to share. But given the circumstances, I could understand Milo's reluctance to own up to any knowledge about anything at all.

  "Do you think your other fishing buddy might have gone out with him on his fishing trip?" Rip then asked. "What'd you say his name was again?"

  "Pinto; and no, I can guarantee you that he wasn't out here with Coop."

  "Why are you so sure?" Rip asked. Before Milo replied, he exhaled loudly and slowly. He then looked up briefly, as if asking God for guidance before speaking.

  "Pinto doesn't have time to fish right now. He's out on his boat working daybreak to dusk this time of year. I'm almost positive he didn't accompany Cooper," Milo said. His expression was that of remorse, more than sorrow. "I doubt Pinto even knew Coop was out here. If he did know, he wouldn't have been happy about it. But that doesn't mean someone else didn't come out fishing with him."

  "Any idea who else might have accompanied him?" Rip asked.

  "No, not really. But I know it wasn't Pinto." Milo seemed intent on making sure his friend, Pinto, was not suspected of Cooper's death. Almost too intent in my opinion.

  "Pinto's sure an odd name," I said.

  "Everyone calls him that because of his last name. His first name is actually Philip, but—"

  "All right, folks. We need to get a move on," Rip cut in. I could tell Rip would have liked to continue his Q and A session with Milo, but knew time was of the essence. His years of experience in dealing with emergency situations had taken over. "Get back on the radio, Milo, and notify the Coast Guard of our discovery. Then ask them to advise us."

  Milo contacted the Coast Guard once more to report the finding of his friend while Rip and I held on tightly to Cooper. It was as if we were afraid the body would unexpectedly come back to life and take flight, forcing us to begin searching for it again. I listened to Milo as he conversed with another man over the marine radio. The great despair in Milo's tone saddened me. His responses to Rip had indicated he might have had some prior knowledge of Claypool's death, but now his voice and demeanor said differently. Milo's contradictory reactions confused me.

  The man on the other end was relieved to hear we'd retrieved Cooper's body and asked that we bring it in with us. With a lot of square miles to search, it might have taken many hours to locate the body in the morning, the man said. Was the Coast Guard rescue team truly afraid we'd just dump Cooper's carcass back in the water and let them try to track it down the following day? But then I realized these men had probably dealt with a number of dim-witted morons in the past and didn't want to risk us being three more. Nor did they want us to attempt to intercept them to transfer the body to their vessel, which was already many miles away from us.
Locating another boat in the dark would have been a big challenge. The deep voice on the radio commented that a rip tide had probably been what caused Cooper's body to drift so far from the abandoned boat.

  "Oh, no!" Milo exclaimed, shaking his head. "I forgot all about Cooper's boat. We need to find it and tow it in behind this one. I was only concentrating on locating him at the time."

  Rip put his arm around Milo's shoulders to comfort him and said, "The boat is of no major significance right now, son. We could be out here all night trying to locate it again. We best let it go and head in before we lose what little light we have left. As it is, we'll be lucky to get home before its pitch black out here. I'm sure the Coast Guard will eventually be able to locate the boat. As a career law enforcer, I know that because there's a homicide involved here they'll need to process his boat for any DNA evidence, signs of a struggle, and so forth. But, as far as we're concerned, getting Cooper and ourselves back to shore takes precedence right now."

  After more discussion with the Coast Guardsman, it was clear he agreed with Rip. He instructed Milo to come straight in to the boat ramp at Rockport Beach. They'd meet us there to pick up the corpse and transfer it to the morgue.

  "Oh, my God; oh, my God; oh, my God," Milo muttered, his head in his hands. The word "corpse" spoken with total lack of emotion seemed to bring the finality of the situation home to him. After a moment or two, he turned to Rip and me and said, "I have this terrible feeling something horrible is about to happen."

  "Really?" I asked in astonishment. "Your best friend and business partner was just viciously murdered, Milo. I'm thinking the 'something horrible' ship has already sailed. Or, more appropriately in this case, the 'something horrible' boat has already floated away with the rip tide."

  Chapter 4

  After I tentatively knocked on Reggie and Milo's front door Monday afternoon, I asked Rip, "What kind of welcome do you think we'll get from our daughter today?"

  "I don't care if we get a warm reception or not," Rip replied. "We aren't here to speak to her anyway. We're here because Milo asked us to come over, which is good because I wanted to talk to him before the detectives got hold of him. Besides, you should be accustomed to Reggie's wild mood swings by now. Let it go in one ear and out the other."

  Easy for him to say, I thought. Rip was always quick to put incidents like our spat with Reggie behind him. I, on the other hand, tended to brood about them for days. I certainly wasn't going to attempt to pacify her just because she was acting like a spoiled brat, and I hoped Rip wouldn't cave in and pander to her, either.

  "Hey there! Good morning, Mom and Dad," Reggie greeted us with a cheery disposition and a broad smile that revealed entirely too many of her bright white and perfectly aligned teeth. However, having invested several thousand bucks on that dazzling smile during Reggie's teen years, I was pleased to see her utilizing it. She gave us each a quick hug and invited us inside.

  For a few seconds I wondered if the woman standing on Reggie's doorstep was an imposter, as flashbacks from Saturday afternoon flitted through my mind. With another brilliant smile, she said, "Milo's on the phone, but he'll be with us in a few minutes. Mom, your hair looks gorgeous."

  "Well, I guess I did comb it this morning." My hair looked exactly as it had the last twenty-thousand times she'd seen me: shoulder-length and naturally curly, with a few gnarly strands that had a mind of their own and stuck out at unnatural angles. The color is best described as that of a grey squirrel's tail: a mixture of grey and brown, with a few white and black hairs thrown in for good measure. At sixty-eight, I was at that stage in life when my original dark brown hair knew it was time to turn into a lighter color but was fighting the transition every step of the way. Personally, I could care less about it changing, even though, if I had my druthers, it would turn a pretty shade of white rather than mousey grey.

  "Well, it's a very good style for you, Mom," Reggie said. "It highlights your beautiful blue eyes."

  I didn't know how my mop of multi-colored hair could highlight my denim-blue eyes, but I had to agree my eyes were one of my most becoming features. I knew this was Reggie's way of apologizing for the way she'd treated us on Saturday. Despite my valiant efforts to teach her, she had never learned to pronounce the words, "I'm sorry." It must have been the double "R" that stymied her.

  "At least she still has some hair," my nearly bald husband quipped.

  "Ha, ha. You're so funny, Dad. You're one of those men who still look like a young handsome stud, even without hair." It seemed that Reggie's father was on the receiving line of Reggie's sweet-talking attempt for forgiveness as well. Young, handsome stud? Rip? I thought. Wow! Reggie's really on a roll. I watched as Rip straightened his shoulders and sucked in his belly roll, grinning like he'd just been awarded his own star on Hollywood's walk of fame.

  "You really think so?" Rip asked, oblivious to the actual motive behind his daughter's flattery.

  "Well, yeah. For an old guy, that is." After that reply, I could actually hear Rip's ego deflating, like air whooshing out of an over-inflated tire. Even Reggie realized she'd just stepped in it because she continued with, "I meant that in a good way, of course. Seriously, Dad, you've got it going on."

  "Yeah, right," Rip replied, no doubt wondering how one could be called an old guy in a good way. Before she could put her foot in her mouth again, Reggie became the thoughtful hostess.

  "I'm sorry. You two must be very thirsty. Can I get you something to drink while we wait for Milo? How about a diet cranberry and pomegranate green tea? Or, perhaps a Monster energy drink? We've got Red Bull, also."

  You've got what? Reggie already believed her parents still lingered in the Stone Age, so I just shook my head and replied, "I'm good. Thanks, anyway."

  "Got any plain old black coffee?" Rip asked. With their single cup brewer, it felt like only a matter of seconds before Reggie returned with a steaming cup of dark coffee. She knew her dad liked his coffee hot and robust.

  "Oh, and I made a pan of those double chocolate brownies you love so much," Reggie said lovingly to Rip. She was practically fawning over her father now, and had been so friendly and overly polite to me that I was beginning to get concerned about the nature of this pow-wow with her and Milo. I knew nothing good could come of this over-the-top reception we were receiving.

  "Thanks, babe. They'd go great with this coffee." Rip smiled at his beaming daughter, who then virtually skipped out of the room on her way back to the kitchen to retrieve a plate of brownies. Rip was a pushover when it came to sweets. You could lead him to hell and back if you dangled an apple fritter in front of his face.

  After she'd left the living room, Rip turned to me and said, "I wonder if Reggie and Milo know there's a stranger in their kitchen. I don't know who that woman is, but I like her. I hope her brownies are as good as Reggie's."

  "You're not beginning to get at least a little apprehensive?"

  "Yes, I admit it's scary, but how bad could it be? I'm sure the reason Milo asked us over has to do with Cooper's death, but I haven't been able to connect the dots yet."

  "Maybe that's because visions of brownies are dancing in your head. Speaking about Reggie's most recent mood swing, it sure doesn't seem as if she's very upset about her husband's best friend and business partner's brutal death, does it? Surely Milo has told her about it, wouldn't you think?"

  Reggie reentered the room before Rip could respond. She placed the plate on the coffee table directly in front of Rip and calmly asked, "Can I get you anything else, Dad? How about you, Mom? I've got some fresh grapefruit from the valley."

  Rip shook his head, and I replied for both of us, "This is more than enough for us, sweetheart. Have a seat and relax. How are you holding up with Cooper's death, and all?"

  "I'm fine. Never cared much for him to begin with, Mom." Reggie's quick response made it clear she wouldn't be losing too much sleep over Cooper Claypool's grim demise. I listened as she elaborated. "It seemed like Milo and Cooper had been dis
agreeing on every single business decision the last several months. It's kept Milo so uptight that he's been hard to live with at times. Recently, he's been upset so much of the time and wigging out over the tiniest things. When he's stressed out, he's not much fun to be around. Sure you guys don't need anything else?"

  "I'm good," we both replied in stereo. It was evident Reggie didn't want to go into details about the business decisions behind the frequent disputes between the two men, so I let the subject drop. It occurred to me she might not even know what the problematic issues were.

  "Okay. Just checking, in case you changed your mind about trying some of my green tea."

  "No, but thank you, sweetheart." And, by the way, dear. Your diet cranberry and pomegranate green tea sounds absolutely god-awful.

  "Hey, Dad. Did I tell you we decided against buying a new car?"

  "Oh, really? How come?" I asked. I was curious if her "we decided" might be more a matter of "Milo decided for us."

  Her next remark sounded stilted and rehearsed but I was relieved to hear it. "My car is still in like-new condition and—"

  "That's what I tried to tell—umph—" Rip exhaled loudly as I elbowed him in the ribs. He spat out a morsel of brownie he hadn't swallowed yet.

  Ignoring her father, Reggie added, "I don't really need a new one right now, anyway. Maybe in a couple of years or so we'll reconsider getting a new one."

  "That's nice. I'm sure that's probably the best decision." I tried to be as nonchalant as I could, as if their decision to put off buying a new vehicle didn't matter to me one way or the other. Rip, however, tends to be a little less subtle.

  "Damn straight!" He exclaimed. "Buying a new car right now would be downright foolish. We tried to tell you umpteen times that—umpth—"

  I elbowed him in the sweet spot again before he could say any more. It caused him to choke a little on the brownie he'd just stuffed into his mouth, but it effectively shut him up. "Zip it," I said under my breath. I didn't want him to say anything that might provoke Regina's evil twin sister to re-emerge. As he'd been speaking, I could see Reggie's ire building with each word. I swear I saw a tiny smoke ring drift out of her left ear. No sense fanning the fire after we'd almost distinguished it.