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

by Jeanne Glidewell

  Like Regina, I was pretty much cemented into place. I felt a bit sorry for my son-in-law, even though I now had more serious doubts about his innocence. I'd rarely witnessed Rip in his element, as he was at that moment. Unmoved, the unyielding lawman stared silently at the recipient of his brutal interrogation. The look in his eyes was menacing when he leaned forward again and asked, "I want the truth right now, son. Did you kill Cooper Claypool? Were you involved in his death in any way at all? Damn it, boy! I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth. Shooting blanks is not going to get us anywhere in trying to convince the investigating team of your innocence. I have no intention of looking like a fool trying to help you if I don't know the facts. Tell me the truth right now, or you're on your own to fend for yourself! One call by me and the detectives will be here within minutes to haul you down to the station and book you on murder charges."

  Rip's voice had risen so that he was nearly yelling. Visions of Jack Nicholson were floating around in my mind. I half expected Milo to jump on the couch and scream, "You can't handle the truth!"

  Milo stared at Rip with trepidation. I had never seen such rugged resolve in my husband's eyes, and it was unnerving to me, too.

  I think I'd have confessed to killing Jimmy Hoffa and tossing his body in the alligator-infested pond at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge if Rip had directed that intimidating glare at me. Along with Rip and Reggie, I waited nervously for Milo's response.

  It was a good fifteen uncomfortable seconds later when Milo looked up and said through his tears, "I swear to you I didn't kill him, sir. I promise I had nothing to do with his death. In fact, I felt really bad after I left the scene. When I went by his house around three to make amends he was gone, as was his boat. I assumed that in order to cool off, he'd gone fishing or taken his boat to the car wash to wash the salt off it. You know, down here on the coast, the salty air can—"

  "Don't try to distract me, boy. I lived here for more years than you've been alive. I know all about salt."

  "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

  Rip barely took a breath before continuing his questioning. "When Cooper wasn't home when you stopped by Saturday afternoon, did it occur to you he might have had to go get his head stitched up?"

  "Um, no, not really."

  "Well, he did!" Rip said forcefully. "Gaping head wounds normally require attention, as someone your age should know. According to Detective Reeves, records indicate he was treated at the Care Regional Medical Center in Aransas Pass by a Dr. Rinehart on Saturday afternoon from twelve-oh-five to three fifty-five. Not only did he require sixteen stitches to sew up the gash, Cooper was also treated for a severe concussion and held there in the ER several hours for observation."

  "I'm sorry," Milo muttered. "I really didn't know I'd hurt him that badly."

  I was appalled. Would he show the same lack of concern if our daughter were to sustain an injury of that magnitude? In a venomous tone I couldn't contain, I lashed into Milo. "You didn't think to check on your so-called best friend directly afterward? You know, like to inquire about his injuries to make sure you didn't give him permanent brain damage or something? I find your actions and apathetic attitude deplorable. Should I be concerned about my daughter's welfare if she suffers a similar injury?"

  Milo's wide-open eyes were trained on me, as if the fight or flight response was kicking in, and he had only seconds to flee before I pounced on him like a mama bear whose cub he'd chased up a tree.

  Before Milo could choose an option, Rip shot me a look that said, "Sit back, shut up, and leave the questioning to me."

  I'll admit the hair on the back of my neck bristled at Rip's unspoken remark, and you can be sure he'd hear about it later. After nearly fifty years of marriage, he was accustomed to being in the doghouse for things he didn't say but I knew damn well he was thinking. However, I was also aware the current situation was in Rip's wheelhouse, not mine, so I reluctantly sat back, shut up, and concentrated on Milo's next remarks.

  "Oh, man! What did I do? I could have killed him. Oh, man!" Milo repeated, as a tear escaped and ran down his left cheek. Then, as if the gravity of the matter had just sunk in, he sat up straight and with a quivering voice, said, "I didn't kill Coop, Rip! I'd swear on a stack of bibles I didn't see him after I drove away from the bar following our tussle in the parking lot. Or, at least not until we found him floating in the Gulf."

  "Are you a religious man, Milo?"

  "Well, no, not really."

  "Do you attend church on Sundays—or on any other day, for that matter?"

  "Well, no, not really," Milo repeated, looking ill-at-ease. At that moment, I believe Milo would have sacrificed his left testicle to have attended at least a few church services in the previous couple of months so he could have truthfully replied affirmatively to Rip's question.

  "In that case, you swearing on a stack of bibles means about as much to me as you swearing on a stack of Bugs Bunny comic books. Maybe you should consider joining a church. I don't think a little spiritual guidance would hurt you at this stage of your life. And Rockport has a number of fine houses of worship to choose from. So, Milo, what did you do after you couldn't locate Cooper at his home?"

  "I drove over to Tin Can Point to sit on a rock and try to cool off. I was still a little hot under the collar, you see."

  "And then?" Rip wasn't going to let Milo off that easy. He wanted an accounting of every single minute of Milo's whereabouts on Saturday afternoon.

  "When I couldn't find him at home, I took my own boat out to see if I might catch him out at our most productive floundering area. That's why we had to get fuel before the three of us went out yesterday."

  "Why that particular area?" Rip asked, not interested in the empty gas tank.

  "On Friday, Cooper suggested we go out and try to catch some flounder with these Carolina rigs he'd bought, since gigging's not allowed in November."

  I had no clue what a "Carolina rig" was, and I doubted Rip did either. But Rip wasn't interested in insignificant details, anyway. He wanted locations and possible individuals who could substantiate Milo's claims. He needed a verifiable alibi for Milo if he had any hope of convincing the investigating team his son-in-law could not have murdered his friend. "Go on. But stick to the basic facts, outlining your whereabouts that afternoon. I don't need to know what kind of fishing lures you use."

  "Sorry, sir. So, anyway, I still wanted to apologize and try to work things out between us, but he wasn't at our floundering hole, nor did I see his boat anywhere else I checked. But I couldn't cover the entire bay, you know."

  I thought Milo's description of his encounter with Cooper—"little tussle"—was a gross understatement. However, from his demeanor, I thought Milo might be telling the truth. I was certain Rip did too, because his manner softened as he said, "Go on. What happened next? That detail won't help your alibi much, I'm afraid."

  "Why?" I asked. It sounded to me like a fortuitous detail. "Surely, someone saw him leave in his boat and can attest to his whereabouts at the time. His subcontractors could also verify his presence at the project after he left Crabby's and returned to work. It would take a good deal of time to go out in the Gulf, kill Cooper, and make it back to shore, all before returning to his job."

  "Yes, dear, that's true. But he didn't return to work. Isn't that right, Milo?" Rip didn't pause for a response from our shell-shocked son-in-law. "And it's his whereabouts at the time that's going to further incriminate him."

  "Oh," was all I could say.

  Rip directed his next comments to Regina and me. "As you're aware, Milo's boat is unique. Kitschy, but unique. And, you're absolutely right, Rapella. Several witnesses at the boat ramp, as well as on the beach, did see him leave in his boat. But the witnesses all told the detectives the Maverick was headed directly toward the area where Cooper Claypool's body was found. That doesn't exactly scream 'innocent' to the detectives, I'm afraid."

  "Oh, dear God," Milo muttered. "I hadn't thought of that. First, I w
as going to check to see if he was spear-fishing out there, but changed my mind. Now I wish I'd stuck to my original plan. I may have been able to thwart the murder somehow. But it's crazy to go spear-fishing out in the deeper water alone, and I couldn't imagine that even Cooper would do something that foolish. I decided our flounder hole was more likely and changed directions just before I cleared the island, already out of view of the beach goers and people launching their boats at the ramp. I went back into Allyn's Bight instead of heading on out to the Gulf. You see, I was low on fuel already and was hesitant to venture out that far. Oh, dear Lord. What am I going to do?"

  "Son, I think you need to report to the police station forthwith and give a full and detailed statement. A completely honest one. Spare no details. Tell the detectives exactly what you told me and anything else you can recall. That would bode much better for you than to force the detectives to confront you, which, according to Branson Reeves, is on their agenda for this afternoon. You don't want to look like you have something to hide. And I wouldn't dally if I were you. Squad cars could be pulling into your driveway at any second."

  Three sets of eyes were trained on Milo. He sat quietly, in deep thought. I wondered what was going through his mind as we all waited for him to respond.

  "Okay, I will. I'll head over there right now," Milo finally said, looking as if he'd rather be reporting to the front lines of an attack on an ISIS training camp with only a pocketknife for protection. The reticent expression worn by Milo, who was just shy of fifty-two, resembled that of a grade-schooler who'd been sent to the principal's office for peeking under a girl's skirt on the playground as he asked, "Will you come with me, sir?"

  "It's Rip, not sir, Milo. In fact, I'd be fine if you called me Dad, Pappy, or even my given name, Clyde. Anything but sir. And of course I'll go with you. Mind you, there's not much I can do to help you other than be there for moral support. My former position as the sheriff here won't influence the investigating team to turn a blind eye to any involvement you might have had in this crime. In this case, it's not who I know, but what you know."

  Suddenly, I wished we'd never returned to our south Texas hometown of Rockport. Home may truly be where the heart is, but my heart was doing flip-flops as it raced toward what felt like an impending cardiac arrest. However, a few minutes later my heart melted when my daughter walked over and stepped into my open arms for a long and loving embrace. She laid her head on my shoulder and wept softly.

  This mess might turn into a disaster. It doesn't sound promising for Milo. I don't know what Regina will do if Milo goes to jail for assaulting Cooper with a deadly weapon, I thought. It appears to me Reggie is worried about it, too. What can I possibly say to alleviate her fears?

  It sounded lame and unconvincing, but it was all I could come up with, when I said, "It will all work out okay, sweetheart. I promise."

  I had never reneged on a promise to my only child in the past, and I prayed this wouldn't be the first time I'd be unable to deliver on my word.

  Chapter 5

  "Your son-in-law is a blooming idiot," wasn't the first thing I'd hoped to hear when Rip walked in the door a couple of hours later. "It's all taken care of and Milo's off the hook for killing Cooper Claypool," or, "They've arrested the real killer," would have been preferable. His next comment was even more disconcerting.

  "He'll be lucky if he doesn't get the needle."

  Reggie walked into the room just in time to catch Rip's last words. In unison, she and I gasped. Then I asked, "The needle? Oh, good Lord. What's going on?"

  "I'm not entirely sure. He was still in the interrogation room when I left. On the way to the station I stressed to him how important transparency was. I told Milo he needed to tell the detectives everything he knew and exactly what happened at Crabby Joe's on Saturday, even though the truth wouldn't compliment his character any. He needed to give them no reason to doubt his word or believe he had anything to hide."

  "And?" I asked when Rip stopped talking.

  "First thing the knucklehead said when Detective Reeves walked in the room to question him was, 'I want to see my attorney.'"

  "He did?" Reggie asked. "Why does he think he needs an attorney when he's innocent? Dad, do you think there's a chance Milo really did have something to do with the murder? He never mentioned a word to me about the fight with Cooper before today. Could he be lying to all of us? As you already know, he'd never have mentioned the fight if not for being outed by the restaurant's security tape."

  "I really don't know, honey. I honestly believed he had nothing to do with killing Cooper. At least until he immediately lawyered up in the interrogation room. I guess all we can do now is wait and see what happens," Rip replied with a long sigh as he plopped down into the closest recliner.

  The wait took less than two minutes. Rip had gone out to the back deck to take a call on his cell phone. He walked back into the house after a very brief conversation with the caller and, with no preamble, said, "They've booked him on aggravated assault charges, as I was afraid they might. The judge granted a bond order. Judge Martin's a friend of mine, or it might have cost me even more to bail the fool out."

  I knew my daughter was a nervous wreck. She sat on the sofa sniffling, and her trembling hands continuously messed with the fine tufts of hair hanging down on her forehead like wispy bangs. That had always been a tell-tale sign she was troubled about something she had no control over.

  "Sweetheart, don't worry. I promised you this would turn out all right, and I meant it," I said to comfort her. When Rip turned to stare at me, I shrugged my shoulders and added, "Your father and I will do some looking into the matter on our own and see if we can't find some answers. After all, your daddy being the sheriff for so many years ought to make our pursuit much easier."

  As it turned out, "ought to" were the defining words in my reassuring statement.

  * * *

  "I'm having blackened amberjack. What are you having?" Rip asked.

  "I'm not sure yet," I replied, flipping through the menu. "I thought I might try the garlic shrimp skewer and grilled vegetables. Either that or the seafood platter. No, that's just too much food, and I'm not paying that much money for something that will go half-uneaten. You know what they say: waste not, want not."

  "It wouldn't go uneaten. Trust me," Rip said. I knew he'd clean up the leftovers, but I still couldn't bring myself to pay for the platter of mahi-mahi, shrimp, oysters, and mussels when there were a number of other things on the menu that were cheaper.

  "The grouper fillet sounds good. Maybe I'll—"

  Rip interrupted me with a touch of exasperation in his voice. "Really? Do we need to go through this every single time we go out for supper? It's the same routine over and over, nearly word for word, in fact. Who do you think you're kidding?"

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "We both know you're going to end up ordering the $10.95 grilled chicken breast, because it's the cheapest entree on—"

  "And quite tasty," I remarked, cutting him off just as he had me. "And, yes, I believe that's exactly what I'm going to have. Thank you for suggesting it."

  Rip shook his head before looking up at our waitress, Casey, who was ready to take our drink orders. We had decided to treat ourselves to an evening meal at our favorite restaurant, located in Fulton Harbor just minutes from the RV park. They were throwing a pot luck supper at the campground, but Rip had always refused to attend such events. "How do we know how clean all these other ladies' kitchens are? Even ours scares me sometimes," he'd always say with a wink, before getting walloped on the top of the head with the closest non-lethal weapon.

  We were chatting about Milo and Regina when I asked, "Seriously, Rip. What do you believe the chances are that Milo is truly innocent and wasn't, at least to some degree, responsible for his friend's death?"

  "I honestly don't know what to think, honey. He appears to be sincere, and I want to believe he had nothing to do with it. But it's hard to ignore all the evidence th
at point straight to him as the perpetrator. I know if I was the lead detective on this case, I'd be on Milo like stink on—"

  "Shush," I told my husband, whose low, resonating voice tended to carry clear across a crowded room, especially when he wasn't wearing his hearing aids. I never had any problem tracking him down at a party for just that reason. "Keep your voice down. Milo's headed down the crapper fast enough without your help."

  Silently, Rip turned toward the window looking out over Fulton's fleet of oyster and shrimp boats resting in their slips in the harbor's marina. I realized I'd probably offended him, but I didn't want to be the source of any rumors that could possibly incriminate our son-in-law.

  I still wanted to believe Milo was innocent, to the point I was willing to stick my neck out and, with Rip's assistance, do a little investigating. We'd been successful in proving our friend, Lexie Starr, wasn't guilty of murder in late August. Who was to say we couldn't be just as successful this time? After all, not only was Milo's future in jeopardy, our daughter's future was at stake as well.

  As I was ruminating on how to best launch into this impromptu investigation, my thoughts were interrupted by a boisterous group of four men who were seated at the table behind us. I listened as they ordered a round of drinks. The man with a ponytail asked for a rum and Coke, a short stocky guy requested a Miller Lite, the tall redhead with his back to me ordered a Guinness Black Lager, and the Hispanic man chose a dry martini. I never could quite figure out how any beverage could be served dry, but that's beside the point.

  I was most intrigued by the redhead. His voice had a very strong Irish Brogue to it. When I overheard the waitress ask him where his practice was located, he replied with what sounded like, "Terty-tude and Turd Stweet."