by Eddie Jones
“To get your hands on Randolph Manor. That’s why you stopped by Mrs. Forester’s.”
“Oh sure, I might be interested … at the right price. But not enough to kill someone. Besides, the Randolph estate is not for sale. That’s why I stopped by Lucy’s place. I wanted to see if she could confirm a rumor. I’d heard Forester might have had a change of heart and amended his will. See, before he died, it was my understanding that he was going to leave the estate to a wildlife conservation group. If you’ve been digging into his death, then you know what I’m talking about. But from what I’m hearing, he had a change of heart and was going to cut the nonprofit out altogether. Seems to me if you are looking for motive and opportunity, you should be talking with the owner of Dead Lines Books. If anyone stands to gain from Forester’s death, it’s Phillip Raintree.”
“Where were you the night Forester was murdered?”
“His death hasn’t been ruled a murder yet. At least, if it has, no one told me. But I get what you’re asking. You want to know if I have an alibi.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was at home with my wife.”
“All night?”
He pulled a silver card case from his pants pocket and jotted a number down on the back of a white business card.
“My wife’s name is Nell.” He pushed the card toward me. “She’ll vouch for my whereabouts. But don’t wait too late to call her. She goes to bed around nine. Her chemo treatments take a lot out of her.”
I tucked the card away and said, “Did Mr. Forester have any enemies that you know of? Upset business partners, or anyone who might have a grudge?”
“In all honesty I didn’t know much about the man except what I heard from others. And most of that was pure speculation.”
“Did you know about the vampire game he was running out of the manor?”
“I had heard something about that. I wondered if the manor was zoned for recreational activity of that nature. I asked a friend on the city council to check. When I found out it wasn’t, I thought about making waves but then decided against it. Forester was mentally unstable — anyone could see that. And his wife had just left him. Kicking a man when he’s down, that’s not my style.”
“What is your style, Mr. Hamilton?”
“I gotta tell you, kid, some people might not appreciate you coming across this confident and smug. Might think of you as some kind of know-it-all. But not me. I wish more of the people working for me had your nerve. Being pushy and confident might be a turnoff to some, but it’s been my experience those are the individuals who get things done.”
Ouch. Mom had warned me I needed to work on my “condescending arrogance,” and I thought I had, but I guess not enough.
Hamilton gazed out the window for a long time as if lost in thought before finally saying, “Money. If you’re looking for motive, I’d start there.”
“Not revenge or greed?”
“Oh sure, it might be something like that, but I doubt it.”
“Forester, he didn’t need your money, though, did he?”
He smiled at me the way a proud father might when his son scores a basket. I got the impression Hamilton enjoyed sparring with me and didn’t see me as a threat at all.
“If you are asking if I tried to buy him out after he purchased the manor, yes, I did. I made him a substantial offer, much larger than what he paid for the place, but he turned me down.”
Hamilton hunched forward and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret with me. “Look, kid, for the right amount of money, people will do almost anything. And it doesn’t even have to be a large amount. Just having the chance to earn a steady paycheck can be reason enough to kill someone. Take that fellow living at the bottom of the mountain in that dilapidated guesthouse.”
“You mean Dr. Barlow?”
“Doctor my foot. I’ve had more medical training than that clown. He calls himself a pathologist, but I know for a fact he’s never set foot on the campus of a medical university. The man is a two-bit actor. He had some small parts in the Dark Shadows television show back in the seventies. If you ask me, Barlow is trying to pass himself off as an authority on vampires so he can get back to working in Hollywood. Having his name linked to a murder like this — if Forester’s death was a murder — would give Barlow credibility.”
“Are you saying Barlow killed Forester just to pad his résumé?”
“Of course not. What I am saying is, if Forester dropped dead of a heart attack or some other reason and Barlow found out about it, he could easily dress Forester up like a vampire and dump him on the course. Barlow loves being quoted as an expert on vampires. Have you spoken with him?”
“Barlow? Yes, sir.”
“Did you use anything he said in your story?”
“A little. He has some interesting thoughts on how all this vampire business began.”
“There you go,” he said, grinning at me. “He played you. But don’t feel bad. He’s an actor and you’re, what, sixteen, seventeen?”
There you go, stroking my ego to make me feel big and important. You’re smooth, like a snake.
Almost mumbling, I said, “I turn fifteen this month, but let me ask you — is there anything Forester had, other than Randolph Manor, that someone would want?”
“Nothing except Mrs. Forester. I’m sure you noticed she’s quite attractive. I also happen to know the county coroner has a thing for her.”
“Dr. Edwards?”
“Don’t let his title fool you. He received a doctoral degree in philosophy from an online university. He lets people think he’s a medical doctor. It works, too. He keeps getting elected county coroner.”
“So he doesn’t have any medical training?”
“Only what he’s picked up on the job. That’s why he works at the car dealership. He has to do something that actually pays the bills. He works in their accounting department. My niece works in the service department and she’s told me a couple of times about how they’ve asked Edwards to stop leaving flowers in the front seat of Lucy’s car. It’s against company policy for anyone but the technicians to be in the vehicle while it’s being serviced.”
“Mrs. Forester said she had a friend who helped her with her blog. Do you think she meant Dr. Edwards?”
He sipped from a water glass and glanced around the dining room before turning his full attention back on me. “You like this, don’t you? Asking all these questions.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then said, “I would imagine Edwards would be pretty handy with computers. If Lucy needed help and she asked Edwards, I’m sure he’d jump at the chance. But you didn’t hear that from me. I don’t want Lucy any madder at me than she already is.”
“What do you think happened on your golf course, Mr. Hamilton?”
With a pained expression he said, “I wish I knew, I honestly do. Bottom line? I think Forester keeled over and somebody, Barlow maybe, dragged him onto number thirteen and drove a stake into him. He’s the only one I can think of crazy enough to try a stunt like that. Fame and money, that’s my guess. Barlow needs both.”
I told him I appreciated his time and excused myself.
Hamilton had one theory on what happened to Forester’s body. Maybe Barlow did have something to do with it, but I had another idea of how Forester’s body ended up on the golf course: one that did not involve Barlow or Raintree or any vampire game.
Only thing left to do was test my theory against the television episodes and see if I was right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEAD WRONG
While walking under the breezeway connecting the main building to the Last Resort Shopping Market, I laid out several possible scenarios for how Barnabas Forester ended up dead.
One idea was that Barlow found Forester dead, probably from a heart attack, like Hamilton suggested, and dumped the body on the golf course. We’ll call that means. But why? Just for a few quotes in the media? I pondered Barlow’s motive and means against the risk. Was Barlow really so desp
erate to resurrect his acting career that he’d risk jail time by desecrating a body? Or maybe get himself arrested on murder charges? Besides, according to Barlow, he was out of town the night Forester died. But if not Barlow, then …
Perhaps Raintree. Maybe the bookstore owner panicked when he heard Forester was about to renege on the land deal. If Lieutenant McAlhany was right, the bookstore wasn’t the success it appeared to be, and Raintree certainly didn’t appear to be the type of person who could stand the public ridicule resulting from bankruptcy. He could die a thousand deaths from the lips of small-town gossips — he knew that better than anyone. His cultured persona struck me as contrived and prideful. Winding up as head of a nonprofit with even a small but stable salary would solve a lot of Raintree’s problems, especially if the vampire slayer game wasn’t doing well. But that would only happen if Forester’s will left the land to the wildlife group. Or …
Maybe Lucy Forester found a chance to ditch her husband for good before he could drag her down in his spiraling depression. Her car had been at the crime scene and no one could vouch for her the night of “Barry’s” death. Had she approached her husband about reconciling their differences so that he would put her in his will? Was that what she and Hamilton were discussing at her house? Or …
Had Victor Hamilton figured out a way to seize the Randolph estate in probate court? Could be if Forester’s will became muddled, Hamilton and Lucy Forester might be able to combine their efforts and keep the property from going to Raintree’s nonprofit. It wouldn’t be the first time a businessman killed his rival in order to grab land. Or …
Dr. Edwards killed Forester because he had a crush on the dead man’s wife. Or …
There really were such things as vampires, and Forester was one of several roaming the countryside of Transylvania. The business in the alley still haunted me. I still smelled the mugger’s stale breath and felt his clammy hands on my throat. Of all the scenarios I rehearsed in my mind, that one seemed the most vivid and frightening.
I found Meg chatting with a salesclerk at the checkout register of a gift shop. I caught her attention and pointed to my phone, then stepped outside to phone Dad.
“How’s the story coming along, son?”
“Okay. I have lots of leads but I’m having trouble settling on one suspect. I’ve narrowed it down to five or six.”
“Sounds like you still have some work to do.”
“Yeah, but I think I’ll get a better idea of who the killer is once I see the report.”
“Report?”
“I’m running a search of our database to see if I can find episodes that match the circumstances surrounding this case. Sorry I didn’t call earlier. How’d Wendy do last night?”
“Here, I’ll let her tell you.”
I leaned against the railing of a wooden walkway that overlooked a man-made lagoon. A circular fountain stood in the middle of the pond. Atop the foundation was a fat bronze sculpture of Cupid holding a water pitcher under his arm. Clothing stores and quaint boutiques lined the walkway. Inside the large front window of a pastry shop, children camped on stools while a pastry chef decorated a three-tier cake. Someone was having a birthday. Birthday — oh my gosh, I forgot mine’s coming up. I haven’t even told Mom and Dad what I want.
Wendy’s snarky comment yanked me back to the call.
“Have you reached a dead end yet?”
“Good one, sis, that’s funny. How’d you do last night?”
“Fourth place.”
“Hey, that’s great. I mean, it’s not first, but wow, fourth, that’s awesome.”
“What happened, did you fall on your head? You never say anything nice about my cheerleading.”
“Sure I do.”
“Yeah? When?”
I eased toward the doorway of the bakery and inhaled the sweet smell of fresh-baked brownies. “Just then.”
“I meant before.”
“Before what?”
“Before now, you goober.”
One of the salesladies passed me a small, dark square on a toothpick. I wolfed it down and asked my sister, “How far away are you? It’s getting sort of lonely not having anyone to pick on.”
“We’re stuck in traffic. You know Dad and his shortcuts. He thought driving through Atlanta would be shorter than taking the interstate.”
I could hear Dad in the background yelling it would have been shorter if the stupid GPS hadn’t sent him through the middle of the Georgia Tech campus. From down the walkway, I saw Meg exit the gift shop and come ambling toward me.
“So what’re we looking at? Another five hours before you get here?”
I listened to Wendy ask Dad and then him yelling to her: “WE’LL BE THERE WHEN WE GET THERE!”
“Got it,” I told her. “Maybe you can ring me back when you’re on the other side of Atlanta. We should probably work out where we’re going to meet.” I motioned to the saleslady for another brownie sample and handed it to Meg. “Hey, Wendy?”
“Yeah?”
“All kidding aside, I really, really am happy for you. I know how hard you worked. Tell Dad no more shortcuts.”
“Thanks, big brother. See ya when I see ya.”
I snagged Meg another brownie sample and waved a Last Resort brochure at her.
“Did you know this is one of the top golfing resorts in the state?”
“I did not.”
“Here, listen to this: ‘Noted for its understated elegance and southern charm, the Last Resort has served as the backdrop for countless movies and hosted dinners for international dignitaries. Guests can relax in one of 212 rooms and themed suites, enjoy a drink by a massive fourteen-foot fireplace, or watch the sunset from a rocking chair overlooking the Great Smokey Mountains. Last Resort boasts three dining facilities, an eighteen-hole golf course, a tennis and fitness center, an award-winning spa, and spacious convention facilities.’ ”
“Thinking of booking a room?”
“Just saying, Victor Hamilton and his partners have done pretty well for themselves. I can see why he would want to get his hands on the rest of the Randolph property. If he doubled the size of this place, he might have the largest golf resort in the Carolinas.” I tucked the pamphlet in my back pocket and nodded toward the gift bag. “Can I see what you bought?”
Meg pulled out a snow globe. “It’s for your aunt. She’s been so nice, driving us around, helping you get in to see people. I thought she might like something as a souvenir of our ‘great caper.’ ”
“Speaking of which, I think I’ve narrowed down our list of suspects to five, but I’m leaning toward one in particular.”
“Really? Who? And don’t tell me Dr. Edwards.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“You can’t be serious. I already told you, he —”
“ ‘Wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ ‘is as pure as the driven snow,’ ‘a model citizen,’ you pick the cliché. Probably helps old ladies cross the street, buys every kind of Girl Scout cookie there is, and volunteers at the soup kitchen on his days off.”
“Stop being such a jerk — this is my boss we’re talking about.”
“Did you know he’s not even a doctor?”
“Is too.”
“Of medicine?”
“I, ah … never thought to ask.”
“Come on, I need to figure this out before it gets dark, and to do that I need your laptop.”
We left the shopping area and returned to the resort’s main lobby. Colorful oriental rugs covered marble floors; ornate chandeliers hung from dark wooden beams. Guests sat in rocking chairs on the patio and watched the sun setting behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. We dropped into comfy chairs and Meg got out her laptop. My goal was to see if I could find any connections between the circumstances surrounding Forester’s death and a TV show that featured similar elements.
I opened the database report I’d run from our TV Crime Watchers website. The first listing was a summary of an episode from a television show called ‘Til Dea
th Do You Part.
“Before I start reading, I want to make a prediction. I bet these results will reveal the killer in all these shows was a jilted lover.”
Meg leaned from her chair and clamped down on my arm, squeezing it hard. “I don’t know how many ways I can say this: Dr. Edwards did not kill anybody.” Her tone got a little more desperate. “You have to trust me on this.”
“Fine, whatever,” I said, not convinced. “You take notes. Jot down character profiles and motives.”
“Why can’t I read and you take notes?”
“You have better penmanship. I want the lieutenant to be able to read this when we’re done.”
I moved the laptop into my lap. “This episode is called ‘Skyfall.’ ”
A man sits in a leather chair with a book in his lap. Heavy drapery covers the window. A half-empty liquor bottle sits on a small table next to his chair. Glass empty. Suddenly a whispering voice calls to him. Man looks toward French doors leading onto a balcony. Nothing. He goes back to reading. Bedside lamp flickers, balcony door blows open. Man stands and walks outside. Wind blows through trees, a limb rakes the side of the house. We see him leaning over the railing and looking down at a candle moving mysteriously across the back lawn. In the door’s reflection we see a translucent figure approaching from behind and …
Next morning: Scene opens with the show’s main character, a quirky detective who constantly repeats what people say to him, standing beneath the balcony looking up. Local deputy working the case admits he’s never handled a homicide before. Body lies facedown on bloodstained cement. Deputy announces the victim is a forty-three-year-old recluse suffering from depression. Separated from his wife. No children. Victim was fascinated with the occult and bought the house with hopes of turning it into his own private museum featuring paranormal artifacts. Deputy speculates the man probably committed suicide.
I continued reading aloud until I reached the summary paragraph and stopped.
Peering over at Meg, I asked, “Well, who are our suspects?”