The three walked downstairs to the sidewalk. Barnsworth asked Amanda to call him in the morning and let him know how she would proceed. Then he left leaving Amanda and George Simmons alone.
“Drink?” Simmons asked.
“Why not.”
* * * *
“What happened to the rest of Will’s items? From the boat? From the house?” she asked after they found seats at the bar of a busy after-work establishment.
“There’s an inventory from the boat inside that envelope Clint gave you,” he said. “As for the house, there wasn’t much. I shipped his music to Los Angeles. Clothes went to charity. Sculptures, paintings were handled by Christies in New York. There’s an inventory and photos of their items inside Barnsworth’s envelope. The man is thorough. And a local company came in to handle the sale of the furniture. Terra was there as was Mallory, Will’s friend. Talk to her.”
“I will.”
“I always meant to tell you how sorry I was about your car accident.”
Amanda looked down at her left hand. “The French doctors repaired it beautifully. But it couldn’t take the strain of being a touring concert pianist so I had to find another occupation. I was lucky. I was famous enough to get booked into embassy events. ‘An evening with Amanda Haines at the American Embassy in Paris.’ That kind of thing. When I was slated for the Russian Embassy, a friend from the FBI Paris office asked me to do a favor. Kind of undercover. I loved it. Was invited to join and never looked back.”
“So what division of the FBI are you in?”
“White collar crime. Art theft division.”
For just a moment Simmons’ smile faltered. Then he regained it. “Interesting.”
* * * *
It was after seven by the time she made it back to the house. Just enough light remained for her walk. She gave Louis his dinner as well as a few ounces of meatloaf which he devoured immediately and left some dry food for Sami. She changed into beach clothes, removed her sandals and armed with a Pinot Grigio in one hand, camera in the other, and a flashlight in her pants pocket, she headed across the dunes to the beach and west along the shoreline into the setting sun.
The beach was a straight line for a while, then it widened as it began to curve toward the Bridgehampton Surf and Tennis Club. She had already walked about fifteen minutes and the Club was as far as she intended to go. It would be dusk by the time she reached it.
She flipped on her camera and stopped to snap a few photos. As she paused, the edge of the incoming tide swirled about her bare feet. The coldness of the water made her jump, and she moved a few feet inward from the water’s edge to where the sand still held the warmth of the sun. At that moment, she heard what sounded like a bee cutting the air just to the left of where she had stood. A bullet. Someone was shooting at her. She dropped to the sand wishing she had brought her gun.
She remained inert for a few more moments. When no more bees buzzed by, she scooted across the sand to the nearest dune. Judging from where she had stood, a straight line would put the shooter on a dune to the east of her.
In the distance, she heard the sound of a motorcycle gunning its engine. In a moment it was gone leaving only the residue of waves washing upon the beach.
Crawling to the top of the dune, she looked around. Houses were far apart. Dune grass and various types of sand shrubs separated her from the road. Whoever it was had left. She pulled out her flashlight and stepped carefully, looking for the place the shooter might have stood. In the glow she found shoe prints. Not the entire shoe but enough to take a photo. Holding the flashlight in her teeth, she shot off a few. The prints had to belong to the shooter. If they had been there earlier, the evening breeze would have dusted them with a layer of sand.
Someone followed her and waited. From the terrain, probably used a rifle with a suppressor. Who would have one of those things except for the police? And possibly cousin Gil. No coincidences. Therefore, it had to do with the Will Peterson case.
She looked down the long stretch of beach where night was rapidly settling in. Time to return to the house. Welcome back Amanda Lee Haines.
* * * *
The late morning air had the oppressive heat of August as Amanda got out of her car in front of Canfield Shoes. She went in hoping to find Emory, the owner who was a friend of her father’s. He was there and was happy to help. She showed him the photos taken at the dunes.
“It’s a designer shoe. But that’s all I know right now. Give me your number. I’ll call you when I have something. Might not be until late tomorrow. How’s your parents?”
“Hong Kong.”
“Still doing those government gigs?”
“They’ll be here in October.”
“I’ll see them then.”
Amanda handed him a card with her cell phone number on it.
* * * *
Her next stop was the storage facility where she was meeting George Simmons. Will’s death occurred on the Friday of the second week of September. Re-creating the week he died was the place to start. Earlier this morning she went online and found articles in local newspapers and magazines that provided a backdrop for that time in September. But she needed Will’s perspective for the foreground. That would only come from his personal items.
The two-story storage facility on Hill Street resembled a hotel on the outside. The interior was divided into spaces that looked like large offices complete with floor to ceiling storage cabinets, a desk and table. Will’s items were piled in three boxes. Not much of it mattered except for his appointment book, a music journal, and another notebook for personal ramblings.
Amanda put them in a beach bag. “This will give me a start,” she said.
“If you want to get back in here let me know,” Simmons said.
She waited until he walked away then she headed for her car. Most of her work would center around Southampton. It made sense to find a space to work here rather than sitting in her car or traveling back to the house. Picking up lunch, she made sure she wasn’t followed, then checked into a motel two blocks away. The room had adequate space along with two sofas, a desk and a large dining table. And no one looking over her shoulder or asking questions.
The information in the appointment book was fairly readable. That week Will met with Mark Ashford, a woman named Lina Walsh, and Mallory Griffin. She grazed through the music diary and the third notebook in which he had written his thoughts on meetings and projects. That would need more time to review.
Mark Ashford was her favorite suspect. He carried an anger that could have erupted in murder over Will reneging on a music deal. Songs promised but never delivered. While that happened long before Will’s death it could be a matter, as the French say, of revenge being a dish best served cold. Only one way to know. She punched in the last number she had for him. He answered.
After all the ‘how are yous’ and was she coming to the concert, she invited him to dinner tonight. He agreed and said he’d bring the band and some steaks. He already knew about Will’s investigation.
“Is interrogation part of the entertainment?” he asked jokingly.
“I’ll be talking to anyone who can tell me something.”
“At least I have an alibi. See you at six thirty.”
She called her aunt and cousin and left messages about the extras for dinner, then she called Barnsworth to tell him about someone using her for target practice. “I got a photo of a shoe print from the sand dune. May or may not lead to something. I’ll know tomorrow.”
“Unfortunately, there was no discreet way to get Will’s case files,” he said. “Add to that the poor handling of the letter at the law firm. Maybe the whole town knows.”
“Mark Ashford, my number one suspect, who’s coming to dinner tonight, knew about the investigation. The power of word of mouth.”
“But how many knew you’d be working on it?” he pointed out. “I’ll look at gun registrations. Not sure we’ll find the sniper that way but it’s a start. And refrain from
beach walks until I get there.”
Amanda agreed. She checked her watch. There was enough time to visit the scene of the crime. The house Will owned back then was on water near the end of a small peninsula. The southern tip of the sliver of land was a sanctuary and across the inlet was an Indian Reservation. The house was pretty isolated.
She parked in the sanctuary’s small visitor parking area. Various paths had been cut through the salt scrub to the water. Amanda took one that paralleled the house and within five minutes reached the shoreline where she had a good view of the house and the dock where a large, maybe sixty-foot power boat was anchored.
The route from the house across the lawn to the dock, then down the long dock to the boat was the same now as it was ten years ago. One could not reach the boat without being seen. Therefore, Will knew the person who killed him.
* * * *
Ellen was in the kitchen when Amanda returned at four thirty. Louis and the second cat Sami were curled up on chairs on the back porch. Her aunt looked good. She was the prettiest and youngest of her mother’s sisters. Medium height, graceful, with blond hair cut short that always looked great regardless of the weather. In all her years, it probably never saw an ounce of hair spray. She was ten years beyond Amanda’s forty-two.
Cousin Gil arrived a little after five. With well-cut blondish brown hair and a trim, muscular build, he usually maintained a Gentleman’s Quarterly appearance. Always a kind of adventurer, he served in the Gulf Wars, then in Intelligence in Afghanistan. When he wasn’t at the law firm, he could be found on the links or at the helm of his fifty-five foot Hatteras moored in Sag Harbor.
Around six thirty, Amanda heard the cars of Mark and the band pull into the driveway. Mark was tall, maybe six-two, and except for a few lines they were all getting around the eyes and mouth, he was still a good looking man with his down-to-the-collar head of hair and a powerful stage presence.
As the evening progressed, Amanda tried to imagine Gil, Mark, and even Ellen traipsing along the dunes at twilight looking for the best place to take a shot at her. It seemed inconceivable it was one of them. Then again, they were all athletic enough to have done it.
When the dinner plates started to be cleared away, Mark and Amanda left the group and headed for the beach. As they sat down he said, “So the letter went to Terra and Simmons? Wonder why it didn’t go to the police? Different chief now.”
“Whoever sent it wanted action. The police don’t answer to Terra but George does.” Amanda sipped her glass of wine.
“So how was Terra?” he asked.
“Very business-like. Not emotional. Antagonistic toward George. Was wondering if she sent it. Had to be someone close to the case.”
“Well, if you had me pegged as the bad guy you’ll have to find someone else. That week was important for us. Our Far East tour was coming together and another album was in the works. I went to the city that day to do contracts. I called Will before I left to tell him I couldn’t make our afternoon meeting but I could do dinner. He didn’t answer so I left a message. Didn’t hear back so I called again around two. Still didn’t answer. Then, on the way back I stopped at his house. I think it was around seven, to see if he was free. Police cars surrounded the place. I went in. And Sheriff Davis, I think that was his name, told me about Will’s accident.
“I mentioned Will had some papers for me. He was okay with me going into Will’s office to find them. The office was a mess. Not like someone was riffling through it. Just disorganized. Besides his music, he was working on some book, and then there were maps all over the place. But sitting on top, as though he had been waiting for me to pick them up, were the songs he’d written for our band. The ones he reneged on five years before. They were stacked together. So I picked them up and left.”
“What incredible luck.” Amanda couldn’t believe that he had an alibi for the time of the murder. How could that be possible? Her number one suspect had slipped out of her grasp. For murder. But not for theft.
* * * *
The smell of warm rolls and bread greeted Amanda as she entered the crowded pastry shop that Thursday morning. Mallory Griffin, the library manager, chose it as a place to meet since the library was closed on Thursdays. Since the last time she saw her a few years back, Mallory’s hair was lighter and longer, which made her look younger.
“Can’t believe it’s almost ten years since he’s been gone,” Mallory said. “We were never serious but we were close. For Will, work in L.A. had been demanding that summer. September was the only time he could make it, with a promise to return at Thanksgiving. Then came the call from the woman who lived in the house on the adjacent property. She told him about people being at his house at odd hours and about this boat going in and out. It sounded strange. He asked George Simmons to look into it. I guess that wasn’t enough because Will flew in in late August to investigate on his own. He stayed with me but was mainly at the woman’s house… the one who called him.”
“Did Will contact the police?”
Mallory paused. “I don’t think so. He got copies of local maps that showed the coastline. I asked if he thought those people could be involved with one of the groups looking for buried treasure. He said he thought it could possibly be some type of criminal activity and I’d be safer if I wasn’t involved.”
“Does the neighbor still live in that house?”
“No. She moved some months later. Do you know Lina Walsh? The real estate agent. Maybe she knows something. She was the one who eventually sold Will’s property to that British company.”
“I don’t remember her,” but Amanda remembered the name from Will’s appointment book. She paid the bill then said she’d see Mallory Friday night at Ellen’s reception for the Surfriders.
On her way to the car, Amanda called Lina Walsh and arranged to see her at one thirty. Stopping at a deli, she picked up lunch then went back to the motel where she ate and reviewed Clint Barnsworth’s notes. Especially the boat’s inventory. Having been on it many times, she knew there was one item Will kept in his top deck cabin that he valued. A large, octagonal crystal with nautical carvings. It wasn’t listed. She called Barnsworth and asked for a blowup of that section of Will’s skull. She thought she could identify the murder weapon.
* * * *
Lina Walsh was a striking, dark-haired, well-built woman in her late forties. Her real estate office was in a gracious old building just off Job’s Lane. “Will emailed me on Tuesday of the week he died,” the agent said. “He wanted to sell his house as soon as possible.”
“Will planned to sell the house? That’s news. Why?” Amanda asked.
“Work in L.A. was demanding. And I had a client looking for such a property. There aren’t many places on that south shore to anchor a large boat. The inlet that Will’s house bordered on was such. I drew up the preliminary papers and dropped them at Will’s house around noon on Friday. He planned to bring them over on Monday to close. The buyer was wiring in the funds and we could conclude the deal. The buyer couldn’t believe his luck.”
Either something happened to make Will suddenly decide to sell or Lina Walsh was lying. But why would she do that?
“Will was planning to return to the house in November for Thanksgiving. I heard this from his sister and from a friend of his. Doesn’t sound like he was planning to sell.”
The woman drew a deep, irritated breath. “He’d been talking about it for months. So, when he suddenly decided, I didn’t think much of it.”
“Since you were handling the sale, do you have any idea what became of the items in Will’s house? Particularly his office,” Amanda asked as she stood.
The woman’s expression hardened. “I got to the house fairly early Saturday morning to make certain nothing got moved but George Simmons was already there, packing. And your aunt. I’m not sure. It’s been many years.”
Lina Walsh’s story was total fabrication. Amanda thanked her then walked outside. At this point, a chocolate chip cone was in orde
r. As she headed to the ice cream shop she called Terra. Getting her voice mail, she left a message about Lina and the sale of Will’s house.
Stymied, she decided to the return to the motel and read through Will’s journals where he must have mentioned his concerns. She spread out the maps, then opened the journal. Will arrived around the twenty-third of August. He watched the property for three nights, then he began an online search for thefts at Hampton museums and art galleries. He circled one in East Hampton.
Art thefts. Interesting. She opened the FBI’s database and did the same search. There were three robberies that stood out from August to early September. A gallery in Southampton, the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, and the Cultural Center Museum in East Hampton. All three were major thefts. All three were still open cases.
She looked at the map and could see what Will thought he discovered. It was possible that the thieves were using his property as a base to move priceless merchandise. The items were taken from a vehicle and transferred to his house to wait for transport out of the country. Down the inlet, through the canal, and into the open ocean. So easy. Who would expect it? Or note it? Except the woman on the adjacent property.
She called Clint Barnsworth, left a message, then headed for her car.
* * * *
Enough people knew she had been looking into Will’s death. The sniper missed once. She might not be so lucky the second time. Had to be prepared. With a half hour before she met Ellen for dinner at a Bridgehampton restaurant, Amanda pushed the speedometer as she headed along Route 27. Two days ago she saw only leisure-enriched days ahead. She must have been reading someone else’s horoscope.
The phone rang as she turned onto Ocean Drive. It was Emory Canfield. His news nearly made her plow into a potato stand near the edge of the road. He said he was not mistaken. She called Clint Barnsworth to see where he was.
“Should be there around nine or a little after,” he said.
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 16 Page 8