Death in Donegal Bay

by William Campbell Gault

  I switched on the local radio station. The world news was being covered—riots, terrorist murders, revolutions, famines, and rest-home fires, all the cheerful morning fare that sets up a citizen for the dawning and demanding day.

  The local news opened with the Donegal Bay story. Marijuana with a street value of three hundred thousand dollars had been seized. They love that phrase—“street value.” It probably translated into the twenty-three thousand dollars left over after Jeff had bought the boat.

  Mike Anthony, former middleweight contender and present Donegal Bay restaurateur, had been questioned by the officers but not held.

  Jan went to work after breakfast. I had nowhere to go. I read the rest of the paper and went back to my notes. An image was beginning to take form in my mind—the image of the killer. But it was a doubtful image and would be difficult to prove.

  There had been too many side roads in this quest, too many obscuring lies, misleading truths, and confusing alliances. The battle lines were clearer now. With Alan Baker, I was almost sure, it was jealousy that had prompted him to hire a detective. Max Kronen had undoubtedly switched employers for pecuniary reasons. And Felicia might have told me the truth; it could have been Allingham who had started the blackmail war. He was certainly the most vindictive.

  I was still thinking of Felicia when the phone rang. It must have been an extrasensory moment. She said, “Alan and I would like to talk with you. Could we come over now?”

  “I’ll be home,” I told her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THEY WERE AT THE door twenty minutes later. Alan looked abashed, Felicia as spritely as ever. “Surprise!” she said. “We’ve come to join the good guys.”

  Several biting comments came to mind, but I said, “I’m glad. Was it a unanimous decision?”

  “More mine than Alan’s,” she admitted. “Do we come in or stand out here like beggars?”

  “I’m sorry. Come in.”

  We went into the living room. Alan took a chair in one corner of the room. Felicia sat on a couch next to me. “First of all,” she said, “we want you to know that we had nothing to do with what almost happened to Mike last night.”

  “I believe that,” I told her.

  “And Alan lied to you,” she went on. “When he first phoned you, he said he wasn’t worried about whether I was back-dooring him with Mike Anthony. He was.”

  “I suspected that,” I said. “And I believed you when you told me that Allingham started the blackmail war between you. Now, did you tell Alan about the money you gave Jeff and Laura to buy that charter boat?”

  She nodded.

  “Then tell me this—was it a loan or a payment for a piece of the action?”

  Her face stiffened. “What are you suggesting, that I would get involved in narcotic traffic?”

  “Only you know that. I asked the question because I can’t believe you could even imagine that you might get your money back on what a charter boat could earn. Not if the money is split four ways.”

  She said coldly, “Our agreement reads that they will pay me twelve percent interest on the loan. If they never pay off the principal, that’s all right with me. Neither Alan nor I have children.”

  “So you lent them fifty thousand dollars to buy a twenty-seven-thousand-dollar boat?”

  She nodded. “The rest was for extending and repairing the pier.”

  “Laura told me the pier didn’t need extending. Mike proved that last night. The boat was moored at the pier and left from there.”

  She stared at me and glanced at Alan. He said, “I told you they were conning you.”

  She sniffed. “What do you know about boats and piers?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted. “But I can spot con from a block away.”

  “And now,” I said, “we come to the big question.” I looked at Alan. “What is this blackmail ammunition you intend to use against Cyrus Allingham?”

  His gaze met mine evenly. “I am not going to tell you that, because I no longer intend to use it. He made his move, sending Kronen down into Mexico to find that narcotic connection to Mike, hoping to involve Felicia. It backfired on him. I’m saving my ammunition for his next attack, if any.”

  “Does Lucy know what it is?”

  He shrugged. “You’d have to ask her that. Did you find her?”

  “No. She wasn’t in Florian. I think she’s on the run.”

  Felicia said, “Alan never asked for a dime from Mr. Allingham after he got the settlement money. Between us, Alan and I have more money than we are ever going to spend. If you want to confirm that, our accountant will give you all the information you need.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  She smiled. “Would you still believe me if I couldn’t prove it?”

  “Don’t flutter your eyelashes at him,” Alan said wearily. “Any more questions, Brock?”

  “One. How did you know that Max Kronen had gone to Mexico to investigate Mike’s connection? He’s working for Allingham.”

  “Farini told me. I never met this Kronen. But the picture I’m getting is that he may be working for Allingham but he is still reporting to Farini.”

  “That could be,” I agreed. “Felicia, if you have any influence on Jeff, please use it. He has stopped listening to Duane.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  They hadn’t told me much that was new, but they had confirmed what I suspected. It was logical that Max would turn double agent; it would double his income. That was one corner that I had never cut.

  It was possible that the San Valdesto Police Department had put their investigation of the murder of Luther Barnum into the dead file. It was also possible they had learned some things that I had not. I went down there after lunch.

  Bernie was standing at his front window, staring out at the traffic outside, an occupational habit of his when he wasn’t hunched over his desk, elbow-deep in paperwork.

  “Did you read about what happened in Donegal Bay last night?” he asked me.

  “I saw it,” I told him. “I was there.”

  He said, “It’s tied up with Luther Barnum’s murder, isn’t it?”

  “Peripherally. And maybe with your friend, Joe Farini. And with Cyrus Allingham and the Bakers. That’s why Kronen was in Mexico, to find out about Mike Anthony’s source. The source, I am almost sure, is a man named Chico Maracho.”

  “What a fount of information you are!” he said. “Sit down, and fill me in.”

  I sat down next to his desk and told him what I knew and guessed.

  “Did you give all this to the sheriff’s station up there?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not? You’re still a citizen, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am. I thought you could tell them and earn yourself some county Brownie points.”

  “Sure you did!”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll tell them. May I use your phone?”

  “Never mind. I’ll do it.”

  I smiled.

  “Don’t smirk at me, you smart-ass,” he said. “We can’t work the way you do.”

  “I know that. Now tell me what you know.”

  “Nothing. We’re still looking for Barnum’s killer.”

  “So am I. I located his cousin, the Allingham maid.”

  “Where? What’s her address?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll handle it. To use your favorite line, it’s outside your jurisdiction. And I don’t want your ham-handed associates to blow it. Besides, at the moment she is not at that address.”

  He scowled at me.

  “Trust me, Bernie,” I said. “Have I ever given you reason not to?”

  “Not often,” he admitted. “To be frank about it, if we didn’t think we could tie Barnum’s murder to some chicanery of Farini’s, we probably would no longer be investigating it.”

  “Ain’t that the cynical truth? Some world, isn’t it, buddy?”

  “True. But it’s the only one we have. Stay in touch
, won’t you?”

  “I will. What would you do without me? I’ll get you your captaincy yet.”

  “Your lack of modesty is nauseating,” he said. “Get out of here!”

  I went to Rubio’s next, to learn if there was any new information my friends there had picked up. Court was not in session; The Judge was in bed with a summer cold, and it was Rubio’s day off. His wife was behind the bar. I went home and phoned the Dunes Motel to learn if Corey was still up there.

  He was, but not in his room now, the manager told me. He would be back at three o’clock. I gave the man my number and told him to have Corey phone me as soon as he came in. And added, “He can call collect.”

  The thought came to me after I had hung up—why was he still up there? Alan had admitted to Felicia that jealousy had been his reason for hiring Corey. The impression they had given me when they came to the house was that that was a thing of the past. Had he conned me again?

  I had maligned the man. When Corey phoned (collect), he told me that Felicia was his new client. She had hired him to keep an eye on Jeff.

  “Don’t ask me why,” he said. “He’s got to be much too young for her, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s not her reason. Has Jeff moved back with Laura?”

  “Nope. She’s running the store all by herself. Jeff went over to talk with Anthony for about an hour late this morning. Then he and that fat guy took off this afternoon along the beach in a dune buggy. I couldn’t follow them through that sand, so I came back here.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Detterwald?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. Man, is he steamed!”

  “Go back there. Tell him to warn Laura that she shouldn’t tell Jeff he had tipped off the narcs. It could get to Mike.”

  “Hell, he was going to tell Anthony. I think I talked him out of it. And I told Laura not to tell Jeff, if he ever comes back. She’s some girl, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Corey, you are more than a competent investigator. You are a citizen.”

  “I knew you’d approve,” he said. “Besides, Mrs. Baker pays well.”

  He was developing into a well-balanced young man, with a genuine concern for people and a proper regard for the dollar. I had trained him well.

  When Jan came home, she asked, “What’s going on in Donegal Bay? I talked with Daphne just before I left the shop.”

  “And?”

  “And she said Mike had been picked up for questioning again, and the sheriff’s department up there was looking for Duane’s nephew. His girl friend is being questioned by them now. Did you meet them when you were up there?”

  Bernie had earned his Brownie points. I said, “I met them. She is a wonderful girl living with a stubborn jock.”

  “Just like us,” Jan said. “And she mentioned that some man named Max Kronen is also being questioned. Isn’t he a private investigator?”

  “He is,” I said. “They’ll get blood out of a stone before they get any useful information out of Max Kronen. Do you have any samples you want me to take up there?”

  She frowned. “Tonight? Are you going up there? Is Corey up there? Is that why you’re going?”

  “I’m going up there tonight,” I said, “but not because of Corey. I’ll probably stay overnight. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I phoned Corey and asked him if there were any vacant rooms at the motel. There were, he said; he could reserve me one. “But there’s nothing going on right now,” he said. “The feds are questioning Max Kronen, and the sheriff had released Anthony. I haven’t been able to find Jeff.”

  “There’s something going on. Get me a room.”

  Silence through our drinks, silence through dinner. Jan was miffed.

  “Stop sulking,” I said. “You were the one who encouraged me to go back to work.”

  “I know!” she said. “I’ve got the big-mouth disease. I must have caught it from you.”

  Some more silence, and then she said, “It’s Corey, isn’t it? That’s why you are so concerned.”

  I shook my head. “It’s Laura, Duane’s adopted niece.”

  “And her boyfriend?”

  “To hell with him,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  THE OVERCAST WAS SEEPING in from the ocean, blanketing the stars, misting the moon. It would be a cold, damp night in Donegal Bay.

  The feds had no case on Mike, the way I read it. If the sheriff had released him again, they must have realized the feds had no case. They had the Maracho connection now. Max would give them exactly as much information on that as would serve his present purpose. Putting Mike away would have earned him bonus money from Allingham, but Max hadn’t come up with enough to take into court. If he had, Mike would now be in the slammer.

  Maracho had not been on the boat when it was seized. The crew could make a deal with the feds for shorter time if they implicated the boss. If they didn’t implicate the boss, they would get more expensive legal defense—and longer lives.

  The Cad was in the Detterwald driveway, but not the Datsun. Daphne opened the door to my ring. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “Did Jan tell you about what happened today?”

  I nodded. “Isn’t Duane home?”

  “No. He’s down at the office. At least he told me he was going there. Laura’s here. She’s resting. I gave her some sleeping pills. Damn that Jeff!”

  “Is Laura being implicated?”

  “No. She’s in the clear. Aren’t you coming in?”

  I shook my head. I’m going down to talk with Duane.”

  “Please try to talk some sense into him!”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised.

  There was patchy fog on the road down, short stretches of five-mile-an-hour clarity and then one-mile-an-hour blindness. The light was on in Duane’s office.

  He was sitting behind his desk. Corey was sitting in a rattan chair next to it, sipping a can of beer.

  “Welcome to kook city,” Duane said. “The town is crawling with crazies.”

  “Make sure you don’t join them,” I said. “Is Mike still in town?”

  “I don’t know. Your young friend here has convinced me not to make any foolish moves. But that dumb pug had better not come looking for me.”

  “Is that why you’re down here at night, so he can find you? You want him to come looking for you, don’t you?”

  “Of course not! I came down here to get away from Daphne’s tongue and have a couple of quiet drinks.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. “Won’t you join us?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  He poured me a stiff jolt in a tumbler, and one for himself. It didn’t need ice or water; it was vintage sipping whiskey. I sipped.

  Corey asked, “Why did Jeff run? They let Laura go.”

  “Laura didn’t talk with Maracho,” I pointed out. “Kronen probably told them that Jeff did.”

  There were footsteps on the porch and then the door opened.

  “Speak of the devil,” Corey said.

  Max Kronen stood in the doorway. He glanced at me, at Corey, and then said to Duane, “I wanted you to know that I had nothing to do with involving your nephew or his nice girl friend in this mess, Anthony was the guy I was after.”

  Duane nodded.

  “Pour him a slug of this good booze, Duane,” I said. “The man is all worn out.”

  “I could use it,” Max agreed. “Feds—Jesus, the arrogance of those bureaucrat bastards!”

  Duane poured him a half tumbler of corn. Max sipped it.

  “They really sweated you, huh?” I asked him.

  “Did they ever! And then they released the report to the press that I had been brought in for questioning. I walked in! I volunteered. I gave ’em the Mexican connection.”

  “Did you see any money change hands down there or up here?”

  “Not a dime. They don’t have a case, but I gave ’em all I had. They’ll probably blow a few more grand
of taxpayers’ money before they’ll admit they don’t have a case.”

  “I know what you mean,” Duane agreed. “Almost every year the IRS sic their bloodhound accountants on me. They spend a couple thousand to squeeze another sixty or seventy dollars out of me.”

  Max sipped some more and licked his lips. “This is whiskey.”

  “Is Anthony in town?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know and I don’t give a damn.” He gulped the rest of his drink. “I’m going home.” He grinned sourly at me. “You won’t have Max to kick around anymore. But I guess I owe you, taking care of Anthony the way you did.”

  “Tell me, Max,” I said, “do you really believe in that—owing and being owed?”

  “I’d say yes,” he said, “except that you wouldn’t believe a goddamned thing I had to say, anyway. Thanks for the drink, Mr. Detterwald.”

  “Drive carefully,” I said. “Go good home, Max.”

  “Screw you,” he said, and walked out.

  I was almost beginning to like the slob.

  Corey said, “I’m going over to see if Jeff and Fatso have come back. I’ll see you at the motel, Brock.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said. “Duane, don’t you think it’s time for you to go home?”

  He shook his head. “I’m overdue on my June quarterly tax estimate. I want to figure it close so those vultures can’t sit on my money.”

  Outside, Corey said, “That was bull! He’s waiting for Mike. I smell trouble.”

  “So do I. Let’s hope it’s Jeff he’s waiting for. Why don’t you check out Fatso’s shack? I’ll go over to the restaurant to see if Mike is back.”

  It was too misty to see into the Anchor from outside. I went in. A half dozen customers were drinking at the tables, but apparently no meals were being served. The door to the kitchen was open and it was dark in there. A waitress was behind the bar.

  I asked her if she knew when Anthony would be back.

  She shook her head. “Not before closing. He phoned and told me to close up. We close at midnight.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see him in the morning. Does he live in that building behind the kitchen?”