Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 02 - Sex, Lies, and Snickerdoodles

by Wendy Delaney

  Steve swallowed. “That’s your big news?”

  Not entirely. “The autopsy’s scheduled for Tuesday.”

  “You realize it’s routine, don’t you?”

  Uh, no.

  It was just the second time that I’d spoken to Dr. Zuniga about an autopsy in my four weeks of working for the county. I might be deputized to interview witnesses and offer my opinion as a deception detection specialist, do background checks, and place calls to forensic pathologists on behalf of the Coroner, but absolutely nothing about an autopsy seemed routine to this former pastry chef.

  I sat ramrod straight as I nibbled on a lukewarm french fry. “Of course. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  He gave me an amused look. “Nice try, rookie.”

  After Steve finished the last of the fries, he handed me the grease-stained paper sack. “Thanks for lunch,” he said, shielding his eyes from the sun as he tracked a fishing boat motoring toward the marina.

  “Stay here.” He punched some numbers on his cell phone and started walking down the pier.

  Two minutes later, I watched Nathan, the youngest of the three Falco brothers, hop over the side railing of the charter boat and tie up to the dock, four rows over from the Lucky Charm.

  My most vivid memories of the boy who had been two years ahead of me in high school were of him coming into Duke’s every Saturday morning to load up on coffee and pastries for their customers when his dad ran the charter business. With Nathan’s dark tousled hair and athletic build, he resembled Russell more than the shorter, stockier Andy.

  I couldn’t hear what the men were saying over the engine noise, so I moved to a plastic lawn chair across from the adjacent slip and caught Nathan’s stony-faced glare when Steve hooked a line over a dock cleat.

  “We don’t need your help,” Nathan grumbled as Andy killed the engine.

  “Shut up, Nate,” Andy said, climbing down from the forty-foot fishing boat’s flying bridge.

  I didn’t need to be able to read their body language to sense the tension rippling like heat waves between the brothers.

  After saying their goodbyes to Nathan and Andy, the three middle-aged charter boat customers took turns stepping over the boat railing and onto the dock. The eldest of the three smiled at me as he passed.

  “Nice catch,” I said, pointing to the plastic bag of silver salmon on ice swinging from his hand.

  He grinned at his plastic-wrapped trophy. “Took me all damn morning, but I finally caught this bad boy.”

  I knew that Steve had called Andy almost three hours ago. Since most of the local charter boats trolled the fishing lanes off the south point of Harstone Island—no more than fifteen miles away from the marina—it appeared that Andy and Nathan cared more about guaranteeing their customers’ fish stories than their older brother.

  I forced a smile at the guy’s hollow victory. He was obviously clueless about Russell. “Congratulations.”

  Steve heard me and shot me a warning glance.

  So I wasn’t a very good sit and stay girl. He’d known that about me for twenty-six years. However, the second I saw Andy lock his amber eyes on Steve like a nuclear warhead set to launch, I knew to keep quiet with my eyes and ears open.

  Andy slowly climbed over the boat railing, his mouth a grim slit surrounded by dark stubble. Pulling at the brim of his red Falco Charters ball cap, shadow cut through his grizzled cheeks. “Where is he?”

  “Tolliver’s,” Steve said.

  Tolliver’s Funeral Home was the last stop in town for most of Port Merritt’s dearly departed. Since the county didn’t have money in the budget for a morgue, it was also where Dr. Zuniga would be gutting Russell like that tourist’s salmon.

  Cursing, Nathan lit a cigarette with a shaky hand.

  Ignoring his younger brother, Andy scanned the marina, his gaze landing on the Lucky Charm, tied up at the far dock. “Sheriff tow it in around seven?”

  Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Saw it when we were heading out. Thought that was his boat.”

  “You didn’t want to stop and ask why it was being towed in?”

  Andy shook his head. “I had customers who paid me to go fishing, not hear about another screw-up of Russ’s.”

  Steve lowered his voice and I couldn’t make out what he said. Seconds later, the two Falco brothers boarded their boat.

  Thumbing the direction of the parking lot, Steve closed the distance between us. “Andy wants to see Russell.”

  Understandable. Sometimes that was part of the grieving process, an opportunity to say goodbye. Or in this case, maybe yell one last time at his brother.

  I tried to keep pace with Steve’s long strides as we passed by the bench where he ate his lunch.

  “They’re going to gather up their gear, then I’m meeting them at Tolliver’s,” he said, surveying the parking lot. “Don’t know how long this will take.”

  The implication couldn’t be more clear. Time for me to go.

  I had to collect a statement from Fred Wixey so it wasn’t like I didn’t also have places to go, people to see, but it felt like I was being dismissed.

  Steve turned to me when we reached my car. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “If you’re lucky.”

  That earned me a lopsided smile which disappeared the instant that a blue and white Port Merritt Police car pulled up next to his pickup.

  “Don’t let anyone near Russell’s boat,” Steve said to Howie Fontaine, a fresh-faced, uniformed officer who barely looked old enough to drive. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Howie promptly took his post in front of the caution tape, and Steve pulled out onto Main Street, leaving me alone in the marina parking lot.

  As first dates go, this wasn’t my best. But I didn’t have time to overthink my relationship with Steve. I needed to see a man about a dead body.

  Chapter Three

  Standing on Fred Wixey’s front porch, I read the three laminated signs above the doorbell:

  NO SOLICITORS

  BEWARE OF DOG

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ~ SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN

  Since I’d known Mr. Wixey for most of my life and I was at his doorstep on official coroner business, I wasn’t too worried about the first two signs. The third one made me wish that I had called to let him know I was coming, especially since Barney, a hyperactive fox terrier, was sounding the intruder alert.

  The door swung open and Mr. Wixey peered out at me while Barney’s toenails clacked on the wooden porch as he danced around me, sniffing my leather sandals.

  “Barney, inside.” The diminutive Mr. Wixey smiled apologetically, revealing a missing canine tooth as the fox terrier patrolled the tiny entryway like a furry centurion. “You’d better come inside, too, or he’ll never settle down.”

  On the warmth meter, Fred Wixey’s welcome barely registered a blip, but I didn’t see a shotgun by the door, so I figured all the bark at the ancient beach house was worse than the bite.

  “Must be my day for visitors,” he said as I followed him to the U-shaped kitchen where a stack of dirty dishes filled the sink and a pan of tomato soup bubbled on the white fifties-era stove.

  I was immediately struck by the fact that he had no family pictures on the walls, no homey curtains in the kitchen, and no dining room table in the adjacent room. Instead of feminine touches, faux wood blinds with a few missing slats covered the windows, and the house smelled like an old cigar room, making me suspect that it had been a long time since the never-married septuagenarian had entertained a lady friend here.

  With Barney sitting with rapt attention at his feet, Mr. Wixey pointed at a rickety-looking barstool on the other side of the white tile counter. “Have a seat, Charmaine.”

  I gingerly slid my butt onto the stool where he probably took most of his meals. Guessing that I outweighed Fred Wixey by thirty pounds, I prayed that I wouldn’t land in a heap on his scuffed hardwood floor.

  He turned his back to me
to give his soup a stir. “With all the excitement this morning, Barney and I are a little behind on our chow.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Wixey—”

  “About time you called me Fred, don’t you think?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

  I’d called him Mr. Wixey ever since the day I moved in with my grandparents when I was three. To distract me from my actress mother’s hasty departure to the Everglades to co-star in some swamp creature flick, Gram had taken me to the Big Scoop where Fred Wixey, the owner, introduced me to my first banana split.

  Was it any wonder that I’d become a true believer that a big bowl of hot fudge and ice cream could turn a frown upside down? Probably one of the many reasons why I now outweighed my host.

  Nope. Thirty-one years after my earliest memory had been burned into my cortex, there was no way I could call him anything but Mr. Wixey.

  I smiled and left it at that. “Ben Santiago suggested that I stop by to take your statement.”

  “I already told Steve everything I saw. Don’t know that there’s anything else to say.”

  I pulled out a pen and one of the witness interview forms I carried in my tote bag. “I realize you’ve talked to Steve—Detective Sixkiller—but would you mind me asking you a few questions while you eat your lunch?”

  “No skin off my nose.” Mr. Wixey turned off the front burner of the stove. “Fire away.”

  I skipped the first two questions since I didn’t need him to help me fill in the blanks about his name and address. “I understand you called nine-one-one this morning.”

  He met my gaze as he pulled a glass bowl from a nearby cabinet. “I realize you’re new at this, but isn’t that why you’re here?”

  He reminded me of my grandfather the time I’d shown him my report card with the “C-” I got in Physics. You’re better than this, Char.

  I would concede Mr. Wixey the point if it would get him talking. “Yeah, but we need to start somewhere.”

  He poured his soup into the bowl and pushed it across the counter. “Not that I mind the pretty company, but why don’t we skip the stuff you already know.”

  “That’s the problem, Mr. Wixey—”

  “Fred,” he interjected as he took the seat next to me, Barney’s toenails clickety-clacking behind us. “Go lay down,” he told the fox terrier, who click-clacked to the corner and hopped onto a suede dog bed that looked like a giant bagel.

  “The Coroner needs to determine the cause of Mr. Falco’s death and we aren’t necessarily privy to the information you provided to Detective Sixkiller.” At least I wasn’t. “Sorry if this seems repetitive, but could we start at the beginning?”

  Mr. Wixey shrugged and slurped his soup.

  I took that as a yes.

  “What time did you discover Russell Falco?” I asked.

  “I didn’t. Barney did.”

  I glanced back at the dog whose ears had perked up at the mention of his name. “And what time was that?”

  “Nine-ish.”

  I wasn’t about to submit a report to my boss with a time of nine-ish. “Do you think it was before or after nine?”

  “Like I told Steve, it was around nine. Barney and me, we left the house around eight forty-five. After that, who knows? I’m retired. Don’t wear a watch anymore.”

  Fine. Nine-ish.

  “Where did you find him?” I asked as I made note of the approximate time.

  “Ben was there. He saw where I found him,” he said, enunciating every word as if I were hard of hearing. “Don’t you people talk to one another?”

  “I need the exact location for my report, so—”

  “Government bureaucracy. Everyone asking the same questions. Damned inefficient way to do business if you ask me.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I pasted a smile on my face. “I’m sure you’re right. But back to the discovery you made around nine. Sorry to ask you this while you’re eating, but could you describe what you saw and where you saw it?”

  Mr. Wixey dropped his spoon in his bowl. “I served two tours in ’Nam. Saw a buddy’s arm blown off. Gave me nightmares for months. Seeing what Barney discovered was nothin’ by comparison. Just a dead guy on the strip of rocky beach this side of the boat launch at Cedars Cove.”

  Andy and Nathan might beg to differ about the nothin’ aspect of Barney’s discovery, but at least we were finally getting somewhere.

  “I guess hypothermia set in while the poor bastard was swimming for shore, then the tide washed him up under that scrub brush,” Mr. Wixey added, picking up his bowl to suck down the last of the soup.

  “Why do you say that?” As far as I knew, Fred Wixey had no information about Russell taking a tumble from his boat.

  “Well, it didn’t look like he walked to shore. And he wasn’t wearing shoes. Just socks.”

  After making a note of Mr. Wixey’s observation, I looked up to see him frowning at his empty soup bowl. “What? Did you remember something else?”

  “Just occurred to me. Now that I know that the stiff was Russell, he seemed kinda gussied up.”

  “What do you mean, ‘gussied up?’”

  “White shirt. You know, the kind with a collar, long sleeves. New-looking blue jeans. Never seen him in anything but a black t-shirt before.”

  Neither had I. “Did you notice anything else that seemed unusual?”

  He turned to me, a twinkle in his watery gray eyes. “You mean aside from him being dead?”

  “Yep.”

  Mr. Wixey shook his head. “Nah. That’s about it.”

  “Okay, and then you called the police around …”

  “Nine-thirty-ish.”

  Since Steve’s captain called him almost an hour later, it seemed like Russell Falco wasn’t a priority for anyone this morning. At least I could verify the time with the nine-one-one dispatcher. “Why not call right away?”

  Fred Wixey pulled a small bone-shaped biscuit from his pocket and tossed it to his dog. “Barney hadn’t done his business yet. Old guys like us can get a little ornery when we’re rushed. The plumbing just ain’t what it used to be.”

  “No cell phone?”

  He shook his head.

  “No one else on the beach with a cell phone?”

  “Nah, quiet as a tomb down there.” He winked. “Barney likes his privacy, so it’s one of his favorite places.”

  If this wasn’t an accident, that might also make that stretch of beach a great place to dump a body.

  I eased off the barstool and handed Mr. Wixey one of my cards. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  He squinted at my business card, a scowl carving lines into the marionette-like folds under his cheeks. “Leaving so soon, Charmaine Digby, Special Assistant to the Prosecutor/Coroner?” he asked, reading the card. “Me and Barney were about to have some ice cream. You still like strawberry?”

  I planted my butt back on the barstool. “Maybe I can stay for a few more minutes.”

  * * *

  After making a quick stop at Clark’s Pharmacy, I pulled into the marina parking lot, walked to the end of Dock A, and flashed a smile at Howie Fontaine. “I just need to check one more thing for my report.”

  He stepped between me and the caution tape. “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you pass.”

  I pulled on a pair of the latex gloves I’d picked up five minutes earlier at Clark’s, snapping one against my wrist like a doctor prepping for surgery. “You can’t let the public pass. I am a deputy coroner here on official business.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “The Coroner’s waiting and I don’t have all day.” Because Steve could show up at any moment.

  Howie shot a worried glance toward the parking lot as if he were hoping backup would roll in to rescue him from having to make a decision. “Maybe I should call—”

  “Officer Fontaine, do you really want to look like a rookie who can’t show good judgment?”

  While he stared at me as if
I’d asked him a trick question, I slipped under the caution tape. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  I stepped down onto one of the two unvarnished bench seats of the Lucky Charm’s stern. In fact, almost every square inch of the Lucky Charm appeared to have been stripped of its varnish. Between jobs like the one at Kelsey’s shop, it looked like Russell had been keeping busy.

  Maybe that accounted for the red and black plastic toolbox I saw on the floor of the cabin. But it wouldn’t explain the circular saw in an open compartment next to that toolbox. I’d seen my grandfather use a similar saw when he built the deck in our back yard. Unless Russell had planned to give up his restoration efforts and make kindling out of the Lucky Charm, that saw had no purpose on this boat.

  I took a quick inventory of the contents of the toolbox. Files, hammers, screwdrivers, drills, compartments with assorted bits, tacks, and screws, a plastic bag of nails, and not one varnish brush—exactly what I’d expect to see in the toolbox of a handyman.

  Lifting one of the bench seats at the galley table I saw two handsaws atop a couple of orange life jackets. Next to the life jackets was a cardboard box filled with dirty rags, sheets of sandpaper, and a dozen assorted brushes, most still wrapped in plastic. I turned to the other bench seat. There I found epoxy tubes neatly stored in a small wooden crate along with several cans of turpentine, linseed oil, resin, and varnish.

  Other than the stained rags and several well-used sheets of sandpaper, the bench seats looked more like storage lockers, filled with inventory for a boat restoration project that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

  I agreed with Steve. It appeared that Russell had been working somewhere other than on his boat yesterday.

  One thing was certainly evident. Russell was definitely one of those a place for everything and everything in its place guys. Except for the black t-shirt that had been tossed over the back of the cracked leather captain’s chair.

  I leaned over to sniff the shirt. Not unpleasant and most decidedly male. Light flecks resembling sawdust dotted the black cotton. I brushed one of the larger pieces into my palm and held it under the sunlight cascading through the cabin window. It appeared to be a thin sliver of wood.