That niggling suspicion about Joe wouldn’t leave her alone. She remembered what Sheryl said about it seeming like Joe wanted Marc to be guilty. She’d blamed it on Joe’s attraction to her, thinking he saw Marc as a potential rival, but what if it was more than that. She couldn’t completely discount Joe’s strange reaction when he saw the photo of Eve Cornelius, but Joe Odum was not a killer, no matter how it appeared. Rupert Cornelius was another matter.
There were two things she needed to know more about: Rupert Cornelius’ relationship with his stepmother and the sheriff’s relationship with Rupert Cornelius. Operating on the assumption that Cornelius was the killer—and it was only an assumption at this point—it seemed like he and the sheriff were the keys. After her lunch with Cornelius the day before, she felt certain she wouldn’t get any more information from a frontal attack—at least information about him or his family—so she decided to approach it from another angle. But first, she would talk to the sheriff.
At the photo store, she requested four copies of the picture. At the rate they were going, that wouldn’t last her a week. The guy behind the counter seemed disappointed that her cleavage had vanished but sucked it up after a long sigh. He looked at the negative she held out to him. “Same picture, huh?”
Allie smiled. “People keep taking it from me.”
His brow furrowed, as he studied the negative. “What’s the big attraction?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
He promised her it would take only an hour this time, which seemed reasonable since the sign read “One-Hour Photo.”
She was developing a relationship with the folks at Starbucks. They greeted her by name when she came in. The place hummed with activity. Allie chose a sinful looking bakery confection to go with her coffee. Sheryl would be proud. She took a seat at a little table and watched the crowd pass by. The tourists were easy to spot. They were the ones with bright shirts and peeling noses. The residents—like her, she thought with a little thrill of pleasure—wore unremarkable garments and glowed with sun-induced good health. Her nose no longer peeled, and she didn’t give skin cancer more than a passing thought a half dozen times a day.
Cancer reminded her of her aunt, and her glow dimmed. The ache was never far from the surface. It still hurt to be back and not have Lou around. As she nibbled on her pastry, she wondered what life had been like for her aunt during the years Allie didn’t visit. Had she missed Allie, or was her life full of friends her own age, as Garrison so brutally pointed out?
“Was Garrison right?”
“Not even once in his life, but which of his wrongs are you talking about?”
“About me not being fifteen anymore. About your having friends of your own and not wanting me around?”
“He was dead wrong about that. You enriched my life with every moment we spent together.”
“So, I was wrong not to come.”
“No, Allie. You weren’t wrong. You were getting on with your life. It’s what you needed to do.”
“You’re saying it would have been right if I’d come back, but it was right that I didn’t? You make is sound like I couldn’t have done anything wrong.”
“Now, you’re getting it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure it does, if you’ll quit trying to make yourself out to be the villain. I would have loved to have you here, but I was so proud of you, of what you were becoming, and glad you stayed away to pursue it.”
“You couldn’t have been glad about Garrison.”
“It’s all part of you, of what you are now.”
“Right. A quivering mass of insecurities.”
“No, you’re not. Underneath that quivering surface is a very courageous young lady.”
“I hope so,” Allie said aloud, as she finished her coffee and headed out to confront a man who scared her to death.
Chapter 18
An hour later, Allie set off for the sheriff’s office, a twenty-five mile drive up US 1 to Titusville. The drive was tedious, the scenery unremarkable. Although on the mainland, Titusville was a typical beach town, although it somehow seemed older and more settled than Cocoa Beach. It, too, had that sense of impermanence that characterized most of the Space Coast towns, probably because they’d exploded on the heels of the first space exploration. During the sixties, the area fairly sizzled with cosmic excitement. When the space program faltered, so did Brevard County, but it never gave in completely. Even though large housing projects were abandoned in mid-construction when the government pulled the money plug out of the cape, the area hung on.
The Sheriff’s Office headquarters was located in what appeared to be a converted elementary school, bland against a too blue sky. She followed the signs to the back parking lot. Outside stairs led to second-floor external corridors. Allie ignored them and wandered around the building until she found the main entrance. The woman at the front desk wore civilian clothes. When she gave her name and asked to see the sheriff, the receptionist smiled and motioned her to a chair. Allie wasn’t sure whether to be happy when the woman informed her that the sheriff was in his office. Suddenly, her impulse to come didn’t seem as rational. What did she hope to find out—that he was covering up for a serial killer?
She glanced around as she waited, but she didn’t see anyone she recognized. That wasn’t surprising. Lou always maintained a clear division between her work and her personal life. Allie knew no one from the Sheriff’s Office except Joe and Sheryl and Sidney Finch, she reminded herself, their childhood nemesis, although she doubted she’d know him if she fell over him.
After a brief phone call, the receptionist led her down a long hallway and into the sheriff’s office. Allie couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d expected a tiny room jammed with institutional furniture—a steel gray desk and a couple of straight back chairs, with maybe a metal file cabinet in the corner with manila folders piled on top. A dead plant or two in the window. The reality looked more like Rupert Cornelius’ office, sans the monstrous conference table.
Cord Arbutten didn’t look particularly pleased to see her standing in the doorway; but Southern gentleman that he was, he rose and offered her a seat. “What brings you down here, Allie?” he asked.
She thought he seemed stiff and a bit wary, but she’d passed the first hurdle—at least he remembered who she was. She gave him her best smile. “A couple of things. I wanted to let you know that I will be working for the Brevard Sun, so you might be seeing more of me.”
His eyes were hooded, his body perfectly still. “I look forward to it,” he said neutrally.
She reached into her purse and pulled out the photo. “I also wanted to bring you this.”
He studied the photo for a minute before putting it down on the desk in front of him. “And?”
Allie wasn’t prepared for the shift in his manner. Clearly, this was not a man to be trifled with. Cord Arbutten wasn’t a huge man physically. He stood maybe five eleven with only slightly above average musculature, but his personality was a force. Allie began to feel a lot less sure of herself.
“And?” he repeated.
“I found the picture in one of my aunt’s albums. I wondered if you could identify the woman with the scissors. Since I recognized you, I thought you might know.” It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t unrealistic. He could believe it if he wanted to.
The sheriff picked up the photo again and glanced at it. “She’s Eve Cornelius,” he said, tapping the photo on the desk. “Rupert Cornelius’ stepmother.”
“The one killed a few years ago?”
The sheriff sat straighter in his chair. “He only had one. What’s this about?”
Now, he seemed more irritated than wary. She decided to go for broke. “I’ll be honest with you, Sheriff. I thought I might do a story on the woman who washed up at the jetty. This woman, Rupert Cornelius’ stepmother, looks like her. I thought I’d look for a connection.”
His surprise seemed genuine. He
picked up the photo again and studied it. His face gave nothing else away. “Mind if I keep this?”
She suppressed a sigh. “Of course not. Do you think there might be a connection?”
He put the photo face down on his desk and seemed to relax a little. “I can’t see how there could be. Eve was killed in a boating accident. The woman at the jetty was strangled. Did you ask Rupert about it?”
“He said he was on a fishing trip with you when it happened.”
He nodded what might have been a confirmation.
“Where did it happen?”
“In West Palm Beach.”
“Who found her?”
“Fisherman coming in. Saw the boat first. She was in the water close by. This is all a matter of public record, Allie. You can look it up at the library.”
The grim set of his mouth told Allie he’d answered the last question. She stood. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
He looked at her with what she would swear was surprise. “Was that all you wanted?”
She smiled again. No need to cut off her line of communication, tenuous as it was. “No, I hoped for a hot story, but I can see I won’t get one.”
His eyes turned to flint and narrowed. “Not from me, you won’t.”
She felt a chill slide over her flesh. It wasn’t the words, but the way he said them. She wouldn’t get any more information from Sheriff Arbutten. About anything.
It was a straight shot back down US 1 to the Brevard Sun offices. As she drove, she mentally replayed her conversation with the sheriff. The man didn’t want her around. She had felt that since the first time she ran into him at Jetty Park. Surely, he couldn’t have perceived her as any kind of threat then. His manner that day seemed more dismissive than hostile. Today, it was hostile. Could it be a police officer’s general distrust of the media, or something else? Her next source of information was a whole lot less threatening.
She pulled into the Brevard Sun parking lot, praying Rupert Cornelius wasn’t there. After their lunch, she didn’t think she’d get any information worth having from him and hoped to have better luck with his employees, starting with the receptionist, Myrna. She remembered the look Myrna gave her boss before he closed the door in her face. Maybe he treated all his people that way. You didn’t have to be a super detective to know that disgruntled employees were great sources of information.
As it turned out, Myrna stood in the nearly deserted parking lot smoking a cigarette when Allie climbed out of the Jeep. The woman was probably in her fifties, but she looked older. Her hair, a nondescript brown heavily streaked with gray, hung limply from a center part. Her makeup was spatula heavy, probably to cover skin ruined by years of Florida sun and smoking. Her clothes were ill fitted, and the cigarette ashes sprinkled down the front of her blouse didn’t help. She squinted against the smoke, as Allie approached her.
“Hi, Myrna. Is Mr. Cornelius here?”
Myrna looked suspicious of the question, or maybe she always looked like that. She blew out a cloud of smoke. “You a relative?”
Allie’s mouth fell open. “Me? A relative?”
The woman looked her up and down, clearly hostile.
“No, I met Mr. Cornelius for the first time the other day. I’m starting work here at the paper next week,” she added. “I wanted to drop by and introduce myself and get an idea of the layout. I thought I’d say hello to Mr. Cornelius.”
Myrna’s face cleared. “Oh, so that’s you,” she said, dropping the cigarette on the ground and grinding it under her sandal. She immediately lit another, inhaling as if it had been hours instead of seconds since her last. “I did your paperwork. He’s over in Orlando for the day, thank God.” Allie’s surprise must have registered on her face, because Myrna grimaced. “He has a shit fit when I come out for a smoke. Says it tarnishes our image.”
“I had a boss like that once,” Allie lied to keep her talking. She leaned against a car, trying not to think what the road film would do to her linen slacks.
Myrna must have assumed she meant smoking because she reached in her pocket and pulled out her cigarettes and lighter. “You want one?”
“No, thanks. I quit.” Another lie. She’d never smoked a cigarette in her life. “Too much of a hassle anymore.”
“I know what you mean,” Myrna said sympathetically. “I’d quit, too, but I’ll be retiring in six months. Why put myself through all the hell of quitting if I don’t have to is what I say. How long?” At Allie’s blank look, Myrna gestured toward her cigarette. “Since you quit?”
The lie slid off her tongue more easily this time. “Six months ago.”
Myrna pursed her lips. “They say the craving never goes away.”
Cheerful thought. Allie shrugged. “You do what you have to.”
Myrna nodded morosely. Allie could see her fingering the pack of cigarettes in her pocket. Counting how many were remaining?
“I thought I’d look around the place if that’s OK.”
“Sure.” She thoughtfully waved the smoke away from Allie’s face. “Not much to see, but what the hell. Go for it.”
As Allie turned away, Myrna lit another cigarette from the one in her hand.
Allie remembered Cornelius’ office was off the hallway to the left, so she turned that direction first. She intended to talk to the other employees, but she might never have another chance to poke through his office. Myrna probably had three or four cigarettes left in her pack, which should give Allie twenty minutes or so to check it out. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to find. Maybe a note from the sheriff to Cornelius about the cover-up.
Allie went straight to the desk. The folder Cornelius carried with him at lunch, the one containing her employment contract, lay dead center on the desk, and she flipped it open. Added to the papers she’d signed were references from her former employer. She smiled at the glowing praise someone in personnel had no doubt written and chose to believe the words were true. She pulled out a form and held on to it. If someone stumbled on her nosing around, her excuse would be that she’d neglected to sign this one paper.
It happened that no ruse was necessary. Myrna didn’t come back in. Allie heard the phone ringing occasionally, one ring and then silence. Myrna must have it on voice mail. The desk drawers were locked. No key conveniently sticking out of the keyhole and no file cabinets. In the credenza, she found a mini bar stocked with premium brands. Cornelius might not approve of drinking, but he kept plenty of the good stuff for his guests.
His office was a waste of time. Allie slipped the paper back in her employment file and considered heaving it into the trash, since she had no intention of working for the man, but that would be a red flag that someone had rifled through his office.
Next, she headed to the newsroom, a large space with desks lined up like gray metal tombstones, divided by short partitions. At first, Allie thought the room empty, but then she caught a glimpse of curly hair sticking up over a half-wall. She moved in that direction. The man—boy, she amended—seemed engrossed in what, to her untrained eye, looked like a video game. A closer look told her he was designing graphics. The AJC boasted a huge graphics department. At the Sun, it looked like this guy was it. He wore headphones, no doubt why he didn’t hear her approach. He pushed back his chair when he saw her standing next to his desk and ripped off the headset. “The public—isn’t allowed—in here, ma’am,” he stammered.
Ma’am. God. She smiled to reassure him. “I’m Allie Grainger,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’ll be starting work here next week. I’m taking a look around.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy him. “Oh, then I guess it’s OK.” He shook her hand limply and turned back to his monitor.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Ad design,” he said, hunching lower in his chair.
“We design ads for our advertisers?” She didn’t know if the AJC’s graphics department did that or not, but she assumed they did.
“Some.”
&nbs
p; Not a man of many words. She decided to seek more fertile ground. “Good to meet you—um—”
“Stuart,” he mumbled into his chest.
Allie headed out of the newsroom in search of Myrna, who was getting her purse out of her desk drawer.
“All done,” she said, coming up behind her.
“Jeez Louise!” Myrna spun around. When she saw Allie, she smiled. They were apparently smoking buddies now. “Whew! It’s you.”
Allie gave her a wide smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought I’d go grab some lunch. Any good places to eat around here?”
Myrna waved a stubby hand in the general direction of the door. “Ranch House is up the road. Not the cleanest place, but the food’s OK. And there’s the Dixie Diner at the corner of 520 and US 1. You can still smoke in there.”
Ye gads. “Why don’t you join me? You can show me around. My treat.”
Myrna rewarded her with a smile. “You driving?”
Allie sighed inwardly. “Sure.”
Myrna smoked two cigarettes on the way to the Dixie Diner, a half-mile from the office, while Allie bit her tongue and took shallow breaths, wondering how she would ever get the stench out of the Jeep.
The restaurant was a real old-time diner with chrome stools attached to the floor in front of a long counter and upholstered booths across the room. Almost every table was taken, which Allie hoped was testimony to the food, and not the full ashtrays on each table. The painted walls were yellowed, with a combination of ancient grease and nicotine. Canned music competed with the sound of table chatter and clanging dishes. No fancy maître d’ here. Myrna grabbed two menus and took the only empty booth, immediately lighting up a cigarette. Someone needed to tell her about the patch.
The menus were half the size of the table and only a little less food-stained. Myrna ordered the special—meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. Allie ordered the same, tacking on a salad in hopes her arteries wouldn’t shut down before she got the information she needed. Myrna smoked a cigarette as an appetizer.
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