Live Ringer

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  She stared at him without comprehension.

  “Your friends. I saw the cars parked outside and figured they were here.”

  “You came by?”

  “I thought you might need some dinner. I brought subs.”

  “You should have come in. Subs would have gone great with the fried chicken and Chinese.”

  He glanced into the house, as if he expected Joe and Sheryl to appear any minute. “I decided I’d better not. Your friends carry guns, and they act like they’d be more than happy to use them on me.”

  Even though he was right, Allie felt the need to defend them. “They weren’t carrying guns last night. They’re nice people. They’re just a little—protective of me.”

  “I’m sure they’re nice people.” He seemed as restless as she felt. “Do you want to get out for a while? You can’t enjoy being stuck here.”

  Allie hesitated. She knew she shouldn’t. Common caution and Joe and Sheryl’s suspicions told her she shouldn’t, but she suddenly realized that was exactly what she wanted to do. “What did you have in mind?”

  He smiled. “I don’t think you’re ready to jog on the beach. What do you say we go for a drive?”

  She stood before he finished the sentence. She wanted to get out of the house. She wanted to go somewhere. Anywhere. And with Marc. He was comfortable, and she trusted him. She didn’t know why she felt so certain. God knows, she’d misjudged Garrison, but her aunt had told her to trust, hadn’t she? If he murdered her, she could blame it on Lou. The thought brought a smile.

  It only took a minute to slip on her flip-flops—the only thing she could get on her injured foot—and collect her purse and the hated crutches. She made a point of locking the deadbolt this time before she climbed in the front seat of Marc’s car.

  As he turned south on A1A, Allie found herself content to sit in the passenger seat and watch the world go by. They didn’t say much, but there was none of the new-acquaintance awkwardness she usually felt, maybe because they’d already spent so much time together in less than ideal circumstances. She didn’t worry about how she looked. He’d already seen her hung over without makeup, in pain and in tears, and none of it bothered him. She felt as comfortable with him as she did with Joe. More comfortable.

  The thought startled her. More comfortable? She tried to pin down the difference. She’d known Marc only for the past few days, but they had shared some traumatic moments. She might have known Joe a long time, but it was the child Joe she knew well, the adolescent Joe. The new Joe, the sheriff’s deputy, represented pretty much an unknown.

  Marc continued south. Allie relaxed and watched the ocean pass them by. She got a clear view of the water as they went through Satellite Beach and the air base on the other side of the road. There were times when the military planes flew so low over the road, you felt you could touch their bellies with an outstretched hand. Farther down A1A, the big condos and hotels obscured the water. Progress. Still, the back windows were open—the air, cool and fresh. Allie drifted with the day, feeling more content than she’d felt in a long time.

  When Marc executed the little zag at Melbourne Beach, she smiled. They were headed to one of her favorite spots. This area of A1A was the narrow end of the barrier island, a strip of land sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the Indian River, that started at Cape Canaveral and ended at Sebastian Inlet. Many years before, the road ended at the inlet, a body of water with treacherous currents and a jetty that made the jetty at Cape Canaveral look puny. Then, the government came along and built a bridge over the inlet, opening the passage to Vero Beach and parts beyond. Now, there was traffic on A1A. Not a lot, but more than there used to be. Trendy homes were springing up. The once untamed dunes were now carefully measured lots for sale at enormous prices. Mom-and-pop motels such as the Sea Dunes and Turtle Tracks had long since succumbed to pressure and sold their landmark establishments to developers who were busy cramming single-family homes into every available square foot. Soon, all the remaining bits of old Florida would be a mere memory in the heads of those who loved it when. Fortunately, the state declared much of the land wildlife conservation area. Equally fortunate was the area’s distance from everything tourists wanted—bars and fine dining and amusement parks. Otherwise, the very things that made it such a special place would have been destroyed long ago.

  She saw a small land turtle at the side of the road and recalled Lou telling her about the loggerheads. Every summer, those giant sea turtles—loggerheads, she remembered reading—hauled their unwieldy two-to three-hundred-pound bodies up the beach to lay their eggs at the base of the dunes before dragging themselves back into the sea, where they were as graceful as dolphins. Allie had never seen one except in pictures, but now that she was back for good, she hoped to. Everyone, from commercial interests to kids who smashed the eggs for the hell of it, once pirated the nests, but these days they were protected. Much like Joe and Sheryl were trying to protect her. She shoved the thought away.

  Knowing it used to be more natural couldn’t spoil it for her today. She could see the Atlantic Ocean on the left, sun glistening on water as far as the eye could see. She spotted a cruise ship on the horizon headed into Port Canaveral. Seagulls swooped low over the sea, and she could almost feel the rush of salt spray against her face.

  Marc didn’t make a lot of idle conversation, which suited Allie fine. Once or twice, she caught him looking over at her and smiling a decidedly un-killer-like smile. He seemed to know how much she was enjoying it—the sun, the wind that whipped in through the open windows. He took his time, and she tried to absorb it all—palmetto scrub, more of the sea oats and sea grape that dotted her yard. She could see that Melbourne Beach suffered from last year’s hurricanes. Debris lay scattered on the roadside, and more than one house wore a blue tarp across its roof.

  She watched Marc as he drove. He seemed a relaxed, capable driver. Mostly, he kept his eyes on the road. Looking at him, Allie wondered how she ever could have thought Garrison handsome.

  She pulled the band out of her hair and let it blow wild, whipping around her face. The sense of freedom that filled her went beyond getting out of the house. Maybe it was the wind or the salt air or the warm sunshine, but she felt free. And happy.

  Marc pulled into the entrance to Sebastian Inlet State Park and stopped the car. “I know you’re not up for a walk on the pier. Should we head back?”

  Her spirits sagged a little. “I guess so,” she said, cursing her stupid injured foot.

  He turned around and headed north but, with a smile in her direction, he turned left when he reached the 520 causeway. It appeared her dream day wasn’t over yet.

  The traffic in Merritt Island slowed them a little, but when they crossed the second bridge into Cocoa, she marveled at the metamorphosis that had taken place. The caterpillar Cocoa had turned into a butterfly, at least the little part of it that composed Cocoa Village. Marc pulled down a one-way street and parked the car. Restaurants dotted the area. Lush planters dripped pink and purple flowers from wrought-iron hangers attached to the buildings. Tables dotted the wide sidewalks, many of them occupied.

  He turned in the seat to face her. “Feel up to getting a bite to eat?”

  She looked down at her shorts and top. Flip-flops. “Dressed like this?”

  “You’re in Florida.”

  He was right. She almost purred with pleasure. “I’d love to.”

  They spent almost three hours sitting at a sidewalk table. Soft jazz serenaded them from outdoor speakers, as they nibbled on salads and iced tea. A bit later, they shared a plate of boiled shrimp and a couple of beers as they talked—Marc about growing up in Miami and the changes the years wrought there. He told her about his parents and stories about his cousins and their kids that made her laugh.

  Allie told him about Atlanta, about her attorney mother and Vivian’s obsession with success; about her brother, the star in her mother’s universe; and about her dad, the prototype for the stodgy professor
. Somehow, it all came out funny when she told Marc. Neither of them talked about their former marriages. It was way too early to share those confidences.

  Allie couldn’t pinpoint the moment when things changed with Marc. She only knew that when they climbed back in the car, something felt different. There was a newfound awareness of each other, an excitement in the air. On the way back to Cape Canaveral, he reached over and captured her hand, and it felt silly and old fashioned, and right. Allie didn’t want the day to end, but knew she needed to get home. She had antibiotics to take and daydreams to spin.

  They crossed the second bridge, and they were nearing the intersection at A1A when she felt Marc stiffen. She glanced back and saw a Brevard County Sheriff’s Office cruiser behind them. Joe Odum sat behind the wheel.

  Chapter 11

  He didn’t turn on his lights or siren, but continued to tail them. Her euphoria vanished, replaced with fury. Joe might be attracted to her but following her around was another matter. Marc let go of her hand and gripped the steering wheel. His expression turned grim, and she knew hers was a mirror image. Her teeth ached from her grinding them so she wouldn’t scream in frustration. They turned in to her neighborhood with Joe still behind them. Mrs. Feelie lifted her sunglasses to get a better look when she saw Marc’s car with Joe hot on his tail.

  Allie sank in the seat in humiliation until they pulled up in front of her house. She waited a minute to see if Joe would get out of his car. She was unsure what she would do if he did, but she knew it wouldn’t be anything to strengthen their friendship. When he didn’t, she deliberately leaned over and planted a kiss on Marc’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly. “I’ll straighten this out.” Marc surprised her by doing her one better. Turning in his seat, he pulled her to him and gave her a kiss that took her breath away, and for a moment, she forgot Joe, forgot her throbbing foot.

  Marc got her crutches out of the backseat and helped her to the door. She didn’t know what was going through his mind, but she knew what was going through hers and despite his excellent kiss, it wasn’t pretty.

  “I’ll call you,” she told him, as she let herself into the house.

  She watched from the window as Marc drove away. If Joe had approached him, she would have flown out the door, at least as fast as one can fly on crutches, and let him have it. Fortunately, he waited until Marc drove away before walking toward the house. Allie swung the front door open before he could knock and stood, hands on her hips, blocking him from entering. Her face must have been fierce, because he took a step back.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Joe took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Can I come in?”

  “No, you can’t come in.”

  Her response caught him off guard, but only for a moment. “Please, Allie. I need to talk to you about what I’ve found out.”

  “What?”

  “I’d rather talk about it inside.”

  “Talk about it right here.”

  Joe hung back, clearly not wanting to tell her while he stood in the doorway. Tough. Allie’d had enough of his high-handedness. Finally, Joe took a deep breath. “It’s about Frederick. I got a reply from Miami.”

  She didn’t care to hear anything he wanted to say about Marc, but she intended to tell Joe exactly what she thought of him, and because her sunbathing neighbor watched from her yard, she decided to do it in private. She stood her crutches against the wall, turning her back to him by way of invitation. She perched on the edge of the chair closest to the door, crossed her arms, and glared at him. “This couldn’t have waited until I got home?” she demanded. “You couldn’t have called me with the information?”

  “Allie, I—”

  “You’re pushing the boundaries of friendship here, Joe. It’s one thing for you to barge into the bar where Sheryl and I are having a drink and embarrass the hell out of us, but this is over the top. I don’t appreciate being followed around like—”

  “I wasn’t following—”

  “The hell you weren’t,” she snapped, her voice vibrating with anger. “You followed us for miles, and you didn’t even pretend you weren’t. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is? He already thinks my friends are overbearing, overprotective nuts. He’s already avoiding the two of you because of the way you act, and then you—”

  “He killed his wife,” Joe said, his face stony.

  Allie gasped. “What?”

  “Frederick killed his wife.”

  “That’s absurd.” Allie didn’t know why her disbelief was so total. Maybe because she knew firsthand how kind Marc could be or because she spent nearly four idyllic hours in his company. Hell, maybe it was because he kissed well. Whatever it was, she didn’t believe Joe for one minute. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  Joe sat stiffly in the armchair across from her, his eyes drilling into hers. “Marcus Frederick, arrested on June 23, 2007, on suspicion of murder,” he said, as if reading off a cheat sheet. “Victim, Karen Frederick, age 26. She was strangled and dumped off a pier in Miami.”

  Allie’s head spun, and she felt as if she would throw up. “She was murdered?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’re saying Marc did it?”

  Another nod.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. The Dade County police believed it. They busted him for it.”

  “Then, why isn’t he in jail?” She didn’t know where the clarity came from to ask that question.

  Joe didn’t smirk, but he appeared sure of himself—arrogant, even. “His cock-and-bull alibi checked out. They let him go, but they aren’t through with him.”

  “Three years ago? They couldn’t prove it in three years?”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “He told me she died—”

  “Did he tell you that she stood to inherit a shitload of money?” Joe’s voice rolled over her. “Did he tell you that his parents raised her like a daughter? She even lived with them. Frederick’s parents are dead now. They had hefty insurance policies. Frederick and his wife stood to inherit equally. I can’t imagine he liked losing half his inheritance to a stray they took in.”

  He held up a hand when she started to speak. “There’s more. He married her right after his parents’ death. Interesting timing, don’t you think? Keeps all that money in the family. She started running around on him within six months. I guess she liked the free and easy life, because she filed for divorce. She died ten days before the divorce was final.”

  The nausea built. “You said he had an alibi.”

  “A real tidy one. He was at a convention in Denver.”

  “Then, how can you accuse him of killing her?” she demanded.

  Joe’s face flushed red. He bolted out of the chair and went to stand behind it, gripping the flowered cushion as if he’d like to rip it to shreds. “Come on, Allie. You’re not that naïve. You know you can hire a hit man if you know where to look. Hell, you can get a pro for a thousand bucks down there. Set it up for when you have a nice tight alibi.”

  Allie felt tears burn the backs of her eyes, but she’d be damned if she would shed them in front of Joe. “So, what’s he doing up here?”

  “Scoping out his next victim?”

  “Come on, Joe,” she said jumping to her feet. When her foot hit the floor, pain shot through her body. She bit her lip and closed her eyes until the urge to scream subsided. Then, she opened them and narrowed them on Joe. “That story is nothing but a lot of supposition, not to mention that he had an alibi for when his wife died. I don’t know why you keep trying to….” Her voice trailed off, as Joe reached deliberately into his uniform pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Allie shrank back as if he were going for a weapon, which in a way, he was. She unfolded the paper with shaking hands, knowing and fearing what she would see. The woman’s eyes were wider, her brows darker, but the similarities were unmistak
able. She handed the paper back to Joe and said nothing.

  Joe told her he would pull Marc in for questioning. He wanted her to know first. “Just in case,” he told her, never getting around to spelling out in case what. She didn’t ask. Joe folded the picture and stuck it back in his uniform pocket. “Are you OK?” he asked. She didn’t answer. “Allie,” he said, reaching toward her. She shrank back.

  After he left, she lay on the bed wishing her aunt were there. She needed her. She needed her compassion and level head, and she needed Lou’s arms around her.

  Suddenly, she felt chilled. She got up and went to the closet, determined to find something to wrap around her. When she opened the door, her eyes went involuntarily to the purse in the top. She pulled it down, but couldn’t bring herself to take out the gun, so she put the purse on the bed. It wasn’t fear for her safety that compelled her to bring the gun to bed. Despite what Joe told her, she didn’t fear Marc Frederick. She was uncertain what it was. Walking back to the closet on her heel, she found a raggedy sweater in the back corner. She couldn’t remember seeing her aunt wear it. It would have been too big for Lou, but it held her fragrance. She pulled it on and lay across the bed with the old purse beside her, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of what Joe said.

  Marc a killer? Marc who sat for hours with her in the emergency room? Who staunched her bleeding and brought her Subway for dinner? Who joked with her at lunch and held her hand and whose kiss stirred up feelings that she’d thought were gone forever? Was it possible? She felt attracted to him, more than attracted to him—she genuinely liked him. How could she have trusted him so completely in such a short time?

  She remained there, as the day turned to evening, with the same thoughts circling through her mind. When Spook insisted, she got up, fed him, and took him out in the front yard before going back inside and hobbling into bed. Spook curled up beside her and pushed at her hand until she stroked him absently. She heard neighbors arriving home on either side. Doors closing. Someone cranking up a TV. She heard kids—teenagers—out on the streets, probably riding bikes. She heard a small child laugh. The same one she’d heard before? Later, she heard what might have been rain against her window—a soft, soothing patter, except that it couldn’t soothe her now.