“You can’t stay at the house, Mr. Anderson.” Bay seemed to try to be patient with the man. “It’s a crime scene.”
“I drove by there. Doesn’t look like a crime scene to me. And from what I’ve heard from this pitiful place you call a town, he died out on the beach. Not at the house.”
Bay looked over at the two of us, letting his eyes rest on his grandmother. Then his eyes darted between Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. He took in a deep breath and blew it out.
“I’m putting up the tape tonight, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “As soon as I finish speaking with you.”
Mr. Anderson, pulling his belted pants up over his belly, spread his legs shoulder width apart, and let out a loud cackling laugh. “You don’t want to try my patience,” he said, his voice booming. “I’ve contacted a lawyer up in Augusta and he told me that I’ve got rights when it comes to what happens to Oliver. I’m getting an injunction. First thing tomorrow morning. There will be no autopsy.” He nodded his head as in confirmation. “I’ll – we’ll make sure of that,” he said jerking a finger toward his wife.
Charlie stood at the door. She hadn’t come all the way in. She held a small stack of papers in her hand, her head hung down the entire time her husband accosted Bay, she didn’t say a word.
“I think it’s best if you leave now, Mr. Anderson,” Bay said and walked over to the door.
“We’ll see who’ll be giving orders come tomorrow morning,” Mr. Anderson said in a huff and stepped out the door.
Charlie lifted up her eyes for the first time. She looked at us, a weak smile on her face. “So sorry,” she said. And handed Bay the papers she’d been holding.
“Hope to see you there,” she said, turning she took long strides to catch up with her husband. She got to the steps, turned around, came back and grabbed the knob on the open door. “Sorry,” she said again pulling it shut.
“What is that, Bay?” Miss Vivee said and pointed to the stack of papers in his hand.
I stood up and walked over to him. I read the title. It appeared to be an announcement – flyer style. I read it and shook my head.
Bay chuckled when he finished looking it over. He leaned over and gave the flyers to his grandmother.
“They’ve planned a memorial service for Oliver, it seems. Day after tomorrow at the Baptist church. And they are inviting us to come.”
“Oh he’s planned a memorial service?” Miss Vivee was visibly upset. “Well, I will certainly be there,” Miss Vivee said. She gave a nod of her head and bawled up the papers. “I’ve got something for that man.”
“No investigating, Grandmother,” Bay said and eyed Miss Vivee. “I heard about you wanting a notebook.” He rubbed his hand over his head. “Although, it’s because of you thinking there was foul play that I am going to put up that crime scene tape. But that’s no go ahead for you thinking you’re auxiliary FBI.”
Miss Vivee cut her eyes at me and then said to Bay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grandson.” Her words accompanied by a fake sweetness. “I just wanted the notebook to keep up with things. Keep my mind occupied and sharp. You know, like with my crossword puzzles.”
“This is FBI business, Grandmother,” Bay wasn’t buying what Miss Vivee was dishing out. “Don’t make me have to arrest you.” He looked at me. “The both of you,” he said and wiggled his pointer finger between the two of us. I wasn’t sure if his stern demeanor was real or not.
“I’m not investigating.” She spoke like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “When I said I had something for him when I see him at the memorial service,” Miss Vivee said her tone changing, “I didn’t mean questions.” She tilted her head to the side. “Or kind words.”
“No shooting either,” Bay said. “I’m sure it says somewhere on there,” Bay pointed to the wad of paper in her hand. “No snake-gun-toting old ladies allowed.”
Chapter Ten
I’d finally got something to eat and was alone in my room. I sat in the middle of my four poster bed, legs crossed Indian style and fired up my laptop. I took a bite of the lasagna cupcake – all the ingredients layered in a phyllo dough shell and cooked in a muffin tin – that I’d swiped from the kitchen and took a gander at the pictures I’d taken.
It was a good thing that I’d stayed so busy all day (not a good thing about Oliver, I didn’t mean that). It was best I didn’t talk about the fish until I found out more about it. And knowing me, if things hadn’t been so chaotic all day, I would have mentioned the fish to someone.
After looking at them on my phone, I emailed the pictures of the fish to myself. Pulling up my AOL account I went in and downloaded them.
“Okay, Mr. Fishy. Let’s see who you are,” I said to the fish that was staring at me from my computer screen.
I typed “fish of the Savannah River” into a Google search screen. Oh good, I thought after reading one of the links. There are twelve hundred miles of streams in Georgia.
This is not going to be easy.
I found a list that appeared to be pretty exhaustive of the fish in the area. Some I knew right off what they looked like and could rule them out. Bass, rainbow trout, catfish . . . Some I didn’t know, so I looked up pictures of them. Chain pickerel, bream, crappies . . .
I searched for two hours, even finding other fish classified in the same family of fish I did know to try and identify it. But I couldn’t find it, or anything similar to it, anywhere. I fell back the pillow and kicked the laptop away with one foot and the plate back with the other.
How is it so hard to find a fish?
I put my pillow over my face and let out a muffled growl.
What the hey . . .
I sat up. I needed help. I looked at the clock. Midnight. My mother was in the bed. She’d be groggy this time of night and wouldn’t be any help at this time of the night. And I didn’t think she knew anything much about my fish anyway. But it made me think. What would my mother do?
I smiled. I knew exactly what she’d do.
I opened up my contact list on my computer and found the name I was searching for. I had decided to email a colleague. It was what my mother did whenever she couldn’t figure out something. And she had told me it was good to network with people in other disciplines – may come a time when you’ll need their expertise. “You never know,” she had said.
This was exactly one of those times.
I clicked on the “Email” icon and typed in the email address from the contact I’d found. He was a zoologist. And I remembered once that he’d told me that he wanted to concentrate in ichthyology – the study of fish. Didn’t know if he followed through, but I figure it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.
I wrote him a quick message and attached a few of the pictures. I pressed send and closed the lid of my laptop. I tossed and turned through the waves of my covers the rest of the night, dreaming of Oliver, fish smoking e-cigarettes, and blonde-haired mannequins.
No more lasagna at midnight.
By the time morning light fell on my room, it seemed as if I hadn’t gotten any rest at all. I felt restless and still drowsy.
Maybe a shower will help, I thought sleepily.
Oh! I shot up. The fish.
So before I even bothered to wipe the crust from my eyes or even brushed my teeth, I turned on my side and pulled my computer close.
Maybe he emailed me back. A slight smile emerged subconsciously and I felt my heart pick up its beat. Looking at my email I saw I had one message. It was from [email protected].
That was quick.
I opened it up and it was ten words long. All caps with a string of exclamation and question marks. I read it very slowly, taking a breath each time my mouth formed a word.
“THAT FISH IS EXTINCT!!!! WHERE DID YOU GET THE PICS???
Omigosh!
I slammed down the top of my laptop and jerked my hand away.
Is this good? Now it felt as if my heart had stopped beating all together. This couldn’t be a good thing
. I stared at my laptop and inched my hand toward it like it might leap up and snap at me. I lifted the lid, swiped my hand over the mouse pad and read the email again. Then again.
Crap.
I closed the email.
I thought about deleting the message. Evidence and all. But that wouldn’t help. Fishywannabe knew now that I had proof of this living “extinct” fish. I pulled up those pesky pictures and stared at the fish that no longer existed.
Only it did.
How can you be extinct and you’re swimming around my excavation site?
Then I thought about how Renmar and Oliver – dead Oliver Gibbons – were always on that Island and always so secretive about it. Memories smacked me with a jolt. Renmar never wanted anyone to have the recipe to her bouillabaisse. Her world famous bouillabaisse. A stew made from fish. And when Sheriff Haynes thought it might have been the bouillabaisse that killed Gemma Burke, Renmar had had Oliver get rid of the whole pot before the Sheriff could get his hands on it.
I wonder. Does she make that fish stew of hers with an extinct fish?
And then I repeated it out loud. “Extinct fish.” I laughed. “I just found something that everyone thinks is extinct.” I shot up straight in the bed, staring out at nothing necessarily, my eyes big and thought about that if I did just find an extinct fish, I would be famous.
A grin curled up the side of my lips.
Well, maybe not famous, but at least well-known.
Almost.
At least in the field of ichthyology.
Like anyone’s heard of that.
A sudden burst of energy hit me. My feet and legs fought with the covers as I tried to leap from the bed. Today was Friday. The Maypop served Renmar’s bouillabaisse every Friday. I was going to find out about that fish she put in it that made it win awards. And then, I was going to call my mother and tell her I was about to be more famous than she ever was.
Chapter Eleven
Oliver died on a Thursday. And at the Maypop on Fridays, Renmar always made bouillabaisse. But the Friday after Oliver died she wasn’t making her famous fish stew, she was making crab cakes instead.
I had thrown on some sweats and a T-shirt that said “I Dig Dead People” with a dancing skeleton, and slipped my feet in a pair of flip-flops. But before I made it out my room I saw my reflection in the mirror and thought about Oliver. Extinct-Fish-Reviving-Oliver, but still Dead Oliver and realized my shirt might be insensitive. I pulled it off and put on the one that simply said “Archaeologist.”
I had walked slowly into the kitchen and stopped. Sniffing the air in front of me, I tried to catch a smell of the longtime-gone fish, prepared to pounce on Renmar if necessary to find out what was going on. I stepped lightly into the room and found Renmar, Brie and Hazel Cobb (I had taken to calling people by two names just like Miss Vivee) sitting around the kitchen table. I let my eyes scan the room. No 18-quart pot on the stove simmering. No mussels. No shrimp spread out on the butcher block top of the island.
“Why are you standing there, honeybun,” Brie said. “Grab a cup of coffee and come sit with us.”
“What’s going on in here?” I asked suspiciously as I walked to the table.
“Nothing,” Renmar said. “We were just reminiscing about Oliver.” She patted the seat next to her, signaling me to come and sit. “I was saying that I was probably the last person to see him.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
I stopped dead in my tracks. I’d forgotten all about that argument she’d had with Oliver. I swung my eyes over to look at Renmar at the same time her eyes met mine.
Was the argument about the fish? I tried to remember what she had said.
She would hurt Oliver if he told . . .
Told what? I gasped at the thought.
Maybe he told someone about the fish and she was the one that killed him.
Crap!
Am I staying at the home of a murderer?
“You okay? Come sit down.” Renmar patted the seat again. “I’ll get your coffee.”
“I’ll get it,” I said in a voice louder than I intended.
Wasn’t sure if I wanted possible murderers, who poisoned people no less, pouring anything for me.
“No bouillabaisse?” I asked in a sweet, tiny voice after I gained my composure.
“Not today,” Renmar said. She seemed sad. Maybe even . . . Remorseful?
Like she was sorry for killing someone?
“Just don’t have it in me today,” she was still talking. “You know after Oliver and everything.”
I poured my coffee and remembered how Miss Vivee had put Renmar on her list of suspects she’d compiled in Gemma Burke’s death. She said that Renmar had a mean streak.
Is what I witnessed yesterday – the argument with Oliver – what Miss Vivee meant?
I walked over slowly to the table, deep in thought, when Bay came and grabbed my sides making me almost spill my coffee.
“Bay!” I said and smacked him on his arm. “I could’ve gotten burned.”
“Morning, Miss Archaeologist,” he said pointing at my shirt. He went and stood behind his mother’s chair. “How you doin’, Ma?” Bay put his arm around his mother’s neck and she leaned her head back into his chest.
“I don’t know. I just can’t believe Oliver’s gone,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow and slid into a kitchen chair, one leg tucked under me.
Unless of course you’re the reason he’s gone.
“I know,” Bay said, an exaggerated sad face showing he empathized. He went and leaned over to Hazel Cobb sitting in the chair and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Aunt Hazel. You doin’ okay?”
Hazel wasn’t Bay’s aunt, she was really a cousin. Best friend to his mother and cousin to his father, Hazel, Renmar and Oliver were a threesome. Other than at the Island, when Oliver was around Renmar, so was Hazel. And it seemed that Oliver, per Miss Vivee, was Hazel’s cousin “by slavery,” as she put it. They shared the same great, great, great grandfather.
“I know that the relations between me and Oliver go back more than a century,” Hazel said dabbing her eyes. “But he was still family.”
“I’ll have to drive up to Atlanta with the body,” Bay made the announcement to the room after double kissing his Auntie Brie on her cheek. He walked over to the stove, lifting the lids he looked inside the skillet and pots.
“No food, Ma?”
“I have a plate for you. I put it in the warmer,” she said and got up to get it.
“And isn’t this Friday? Where is the bouillabaisse? I was counting on having some,” Bay said grabbing silverware out the drawer and taking a seat.
I lifted my eyes over the rim of the cup and looked surreptitiously at Bay.
No bouillabaisse for you, Bay. And I hate to tell you because it just might ruin our relationship, but I think your mother is a murderer. With a capital “M.”
“Atlanta? Why?” Brie asked
“We’re going to do the autopsy there. At the Bureau.”
Cup still up to my face, I trained my eyes on Renmar, watching her reaction to Bay talking about the autopsy.
“Mother told me that that God awful man was going to get an injunction,” Renmar said as she poured Bay a glass of orange juice and set it in front of him. “Put a stop to your autopsy.”
I bet you’d like that, Renmar.
“Ron Anderson won’t win that argument,” Bay said confidently, forking in a mouthful of scrambled eggs that he had covered in hot sauce. “Georgia laws states that an autopsy is legally required if a death is a result of violence or no doctor was in attendance at the time of death. Or,” he pointed his fork at his mother. “If the victim had a suspicious death - sudden like a person that appeared to be in good health.” He cut a slice of fried country style ham and stuffed it into his mouth. “All the above apply to Oliver’s death.”
“He’s at the courthouse. Ron Anderson. I heard it this morning,” Renmar said. “People coming by first thing telling me. Says he�
��s the next-of-kin and no one’s going to tell him what he can do.”
“An injunction to stop an autopsy might work where he’s from. But it won’t work in Georgia. Here,” Bay took a swallow of his orange juice, “the medical examiner doesn’t need permission from the next-of-kin to perform an autopsy. Any judge in Georgia oughta know that.”
“Evidently, he thinks differently,” Renmar was shaking her head. “He also said you can’t keep him from getting into that house,” she lifted her eyebrows at him. “Says he going to get an injunction for that, too.”
“That man talks a lot, Ma, but that’s all he does.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin. “He has no legal standing to do any of the things he says.” Bay pushed his plate back and folded his arms on the table. “Anyway, I thought it was Charlotte, the wife that was related to Oliver? How is he running the show?”
“Who knows what’s true with those two. She’s so mousy and obsequious. He could probably put her up to anything,” Renmar said.
Ah, was she trying to pass her murderous deeds off on someone else?
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed poor Oliver,” Renmar said. She shrugged and raised her coffee cup to her lips. “They’re awful people,” she said before taking a sip.
Uh-huh. She was definitely going on my list of suspects.
Chapter Twelve
Finding out that Ron Anderson had actually gone to the courthouse and a judge might listen to him put Miss Vivee in a tizzy. I had gone up to her room after breakfast to see how she was doing and had told her the latest about what was going on with “the cousins.” And then I told her about Renmar being the possible murderer. When she heard it I thought she was going to faint dead away.
I hadn’t meant on telling her, but I just couldn’t carry the burden of that secret all by myself.
I just told her about their argument. I wasn’t going to spill the beans on my going-to-make-me-famous fish. My lips were sealed tight on that. But when I relayed the quarrel she clutched her chest, like she was having coronary attack, eyes rolling around, she kept making whoosh sounds with her mouth like she was in labor.
Coastal Cottage Calamity (A Logan Dickerson Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 5