by Jane Heller
“So he’s retired?”
“No, he’s dead. Both my parents are.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I’m not alone in the world though. I’ve got an older brother in Palm Beach Gardens, in Ballenlsles, golf community to the stars. His name’s Doug. Or, as he prefers to be called, Douglas.”
I smiled, catching the tone in his voice. I knew sibling rivalry when I heard it. “And what does Doug do?”
“He’s the ‘Douglas’ in Douglas’s Menswear. He’s got six shops, from Miami up to Jupiter.”
“Sounds like he takes after your father, the big businessman. How did you come to be an expert in historic buildings?”
“How did I come to be the black sheep in the family, you mean?”
“Is that how you see yourself?”
“Only in the sense that, unlike my brother, I work for the county, I don’t make a lot of money, and I don’t play golf.”
“No golf?” I pretended to look horrified.
“No. I’m a Gators freak.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Gators. The football team of my alma mater, the University of Florida.”
“Oh, right. You mentioned that you went to school there.”
“And I’ve rooted for the Gators ever since. College football sort of stays in your blood, or, at least, that’s how it’s been for me.”
I nodded, underwhelmed by this news. While Ray’s background was all very interesting, I needed to fast-forward to the present, to the reason he hated Jeffrey, to where he was on the night of the murder. The question was: How to segue? “You know, Ray, I think Jeffrey Hirshon was a Gators fan too,” I said, winging it. “Is that how you two met? By sitting next to each other at some local sports bar one night and yelling: ‘Go, Gators!’?”
Ray’s expression grew serious. “I met Jeffrey Hirshon in the emergency room at Martin Memorial.”
“Really? Did you have a heart problem?”
“No. My wife did.”
His wife. So there was a Mrs. Scalley. If Sharon had been doing the questioning, she would have unearthed that detail first.
“Look,” Ray said, “the guy helped your mother, and you and your sister were friendly with him, so you don’t want to hear why I—”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “Yes, I do.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
He cleared his throat. “My wife and I had been trying to have children since we first got married,” he said, speaking more slowly than before. “Six years ago, she finally got pregnant.” He stopped abruptly.
“What’s the matter?”
He got up from his chair. “This is silly, Deborah. I shouldn’t be dumping this on you. You’ve got your own problems. Not only that, we don’t really know each other, like I said.”
“Yes, but we’ve got to start someplace, don’t we? I’m the keeper at the House of Refuge. You’re in charge of the buildings here. We’ll be working together on a regular basis. Why not share a few confidences?”
“I don’t hear you sharing any.”
“That’s because we’re concentrating on you this time around. My turn will come. Now. Go on with your story. Your wife got pregnant. What happened next?”
Ray sat back down. “The pregnancy was uneventful. We were preparing for our new life with our baby. She went into labor. I took her to Martin Memorial, as planned. The obstetrician showed up. Everything was fine, completely normal. Then, out of the blue, she had a heart attack. Boom. A healthy—or so we thought—thirty-six-year-old woman. The cardiologist on call that night was your pal Hirshon, which is how I met him and why I despised him. The long and short of it, see, is that he couldn’t save my wife, which complicated the delivery of the baby, which resulted in the death of both my wife and my baby. All in all, not a happy ending.”
I was speechless momentarily. The man sitting opposite me had lost his wife and child at the same time. He must have been devastated. Anyone would have been. But were the deaths of his loved ones Jeffrey’s fault? Did he kill Jeffrey to exact revenge? And if so, why did he wait six years to do the deed?
“The hospital conducted a thorough investigation,” he went on. “They’re a class outfit, Martin Memorial. No coverups. No double-talk. It turned out that Beth—that was my wife’s name—had a congenital heart defect that had gone undiagnosed for years. The stress of the labor was the straw that broke her, literally. What I’m saying is that Hirshon was cleared of any negligence.”
“Then why the anger and resentment toward him?” I asked. “When his name came up the other day, you—”
“Wouldn’t you be angry and resentful toward him?” he cut me off. “I’m not a fool. I understand—intellectually, anyway—that there was probably nothing Hirshon could have done to save my wife and child. But he was on the scene. He was the one who said the words ‘Your wife didn’t make it.’ He was the one who was there. How do I know that another cardiologist wouldn’t have found a way to prevent the situation? How do I know that if, by some twist of fate, Hirshon hadn’t been on call that night, things wouldn’t have turned out differently?”
“You don’t know,” I said softly, looking out over the Intracoastal Waterway, the sun beginning its descent into the water. “How could you know?”
And how in the world am I supposed to proceed with my little inquisition after that tragic tale? I wondered, thinking it would be cruel to question Ray about an alibi, under the circumstances.
Still, I wasn’t about to go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.
I was on the verge of asking Ray about the night of the murder when he volunteered a juicy tidbit.
“You’ll probably find this hard to believe after the story I’ve just laid on you,” he said, “but when that cop walked into the Black Marlin last night and told everybody at the bar that Hirshon had been murdered, I was actually sorry. Sorry! It was like, with him gone there’ll be nobody for me to blame anymore, no way to hold on to the past. I felt sort of empty, as if the air went out of me. Maybe that’s why I’m here, Deborah. I had to talk to somebody who knew the guy.”
“Yes. Of course you did,” I said in a soothing tone. “And I’m glad you chose me to confide in. But do you mind if I back up a second? The Black Marlin is that restaurant in downtown Stuart, right?”
“Yeah. Next door to the Ashley, on Osceola Street.”
“And you say you were there last night?”
“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t have been? I had a date. I thought I’d take her there, if that’s okay with you.”
So he was dating again. And why not, after six years? “I was just curious,” I said. “I’ve never been to the Black Marlin. You and your date had dinner there?”
“Yeah. Grilled snapper. Roasted potatoes. Some kind of squash thing I wasn’t crazy about. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re asking me about my dinner at the Black Marlin when I just got through spilling my guts about my wife and kid?”
He was pissed off at me. I glanced over at the big tacky lamp. In case.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I was totally insensitive. Chalk it up to my lack of sleep.”
I must not have sounded very convincing, because Ray glowered at me, his mouth in a tight line. And then he said, “I think I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Get why you’re so interested in me and my dinner. You’re wondering if I killed Hirshon, because of the way I talked about him the other day. You want to know if I have an alibi.”
I shrugged, caught. “So the thought crossed my mind. So shoot me.” I bit my lip, wishing I could take back that last one.
“Fine. For your information, I have an alibi,” he said hotly. “From seven to about eleven-thirty, I was in the company of Willow Janson.”
“You’re actually dating a woman named Willow?” I asked.
“She said it’s a childhood nickname. Because she’s always been thin and willowy.”
How nice for h
er, I mused, sucking in my stomach. “Listen, Ray. The police think I’m involved in Jeffrey’s murder. I have a vested interest in finding the real killer, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m suspicious of everyone around here. Particularly someone who expressed negative feelings toward Jeffrey. I apologize. Really.”
His scowl receded gradually. “Apology accepted.”
“Thank you,” I said, mentally crossing Ray Scalley’s name off my list of suspects—for the time being. I mean, he could have killed Jeffrey before he and Willow went out for dinner. “How about this great weather we’ve been having?”
He smiled. “The weather’s swell. Now, I think I’m entitled to ask you a couple of questions. What were you and your sister doing at Hirshon’s house last night?”
I sighed and told Ray what had happened.
“I wasn’t in love with him by any means,” I said as a footnote. “I guess I was drawn to him because I was scared I was going to lose my mother and he was so reassuring about her prognosis and in some ways he reminded me of my father, who was also a doctor, and my sister liked him too, which played into our rivalry. Plus, I was lonely.”
“I don’t doubt it. It’s tough to move to a new town. This part of the world must seem like another planet compared to New Yawk.”
I laughed at his southerner’s attempt at a New York accent.
“It is different here, but I was ready for a change,” I said. “What I wasn’t ready for was a murder. The thing that gets me is that my sister and I probably missed the killer by an hour or two—at the most.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m no forensics specialist, but when I worked for From This Day Forward, I wrote enough scenes with dead bodies in them to learn about lividity and rigor and stuff like that. Last night, I was kneeling right next to Jeffrey’s body, and I promise you there was plenty of blood but hardly any lividity or rigor. He was dead all right, but he hadn’t been dead for long. Someone shot him and left the house, and then Sharon and I stumbled onto the scene, too busy bickering outside his front door to notice anything.”
“You mentioned a rivalry. You and your sister don’t get along?”
“That’s an understatement. And now this shifty lawyer has glommed onto her. God knows what advice he’s been giving her.”
“You haven’t hired a lawyer?”
I shook my head. “I’m not guilty. I don’t need one. Besides, I’m going to nail the killer myself.”
I expected Ray to tell me I was out of my element, but he didn’t. “Shouldn’t be too hard to do,” he said. “Sewall’s Point’s like Peyton Place. Everybody’s into everybody else’s business and nobody’s shy about sharing what they know. Even the people who don’t live in Sewall’s Point gossip about what goes on there. So you might very well ‘nail the killer’ yourself.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Welcome. Hungry?”
“What?”
“Are you hungry? It’s practically dinnertime.”
“Oh. Yes, come to think of it.”
He nodded. “We’ll go to the Black Marlin. Since you’re so curious about the place.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry about all that,” I said, wanting to stay on his good side. “I’m especially sorry about your wife and baby, Ray. I hope you believe me.”
He nodded. “Let’s get fed,” he said, pulling me up from my chair.
“No date with Willow tonight?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said, and left it at that.
Chapter Thirteen
I was a little apprehensive about going out for dinner, about going out in public, for that matter. No, the newspapers hadn’t run a photo of either Sharon or me in their articles about Jeffrey, but they might as well have, as far as I was concerned. Just having my name printed in connection with the murder of an upstanding doctor in the community made me feel exposed, vulnerable, as if everybody would be staring at me, pointing at me, thinking she’s the one! She killed him! Let’s lynch her!
And so, before entering the Black Marlin, I quickly combed my hair forward until it literally covered most of my face.
“What in the world are you doing?” Ray asked as we stood on the street.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You’re trying to hide behind your hair,” he persisted. “Either that, or the Bride of Frankenstein Look is big in New Yawk.”
“Okay. I was trying to hide,” I admitted. “I started having a panic attack at the thought of people in the restaurant whispering about me.
“If you don’t fix your hair, they will whisper about you. The important thing is that you’re innocent, Deborah. What do you care what a bunch of strangers say about you?”
I fixed my hair, grateful for Ray’s pep talk. “Actually, it’s you they’ll probably whisper about. Two nights at the Black Marlin with two different women. Imagine.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s me. The big stud,” he said, his tone self-deprecating.
“Did you enjoy your date with Willow last night?” I asked.
“Not especially. A buddy of mine at work fixed it up. He tries that a lot, usually with better results.”
“So you date pretty often. I sort of assumed it would be hard to have a social life down here, since most people are either married or my mother’s age.”
“It is hard, but I’m a guy. We’re a hot commodity. Especially if we wear tight jeans and a carpenter’s tool belt.”
“Is that right?” I said wryly.
“Sure. I think it has something to do with the hammer and tape measure and nail pouches we carry around. Very manly.”
I laughed, fully aware that he was pulling my leg. “Well, I’ll be living vicariously through you then. I don’t see myself back on the dating scene any time soon, not with Jeffrey’s murder hanging over my head.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Maybe my buddy at work will fix you up too.”
“Yeah, and maybe we could double date.” I smiled, thinking that Ray was a good sport for dragging me out to dinner, for being a pal to someone he barely knew—provided his motives were pure.
The Black Marlin is a dark, cozy place with a nautical theme, a busy bar, and better-than-average pub food. To my enormous relief, nobody stared or pointed or fired accusations at me as we were seated at a booth. Ray, on the other hand, was recognized by several people, including our waitress, Kimmy, who kissed him on the cheek and then handed us our menus.
“Looks like you’re a regular,” I commented.
“I come over after work now and then,” he said. “They’ve got TVs at the bar, as you can see, so if there’s a sports show on and they’re covering the Gators—”
“You’re here,” I said.
“You bet,” he said.
We ordered drinks and dinner and talked; Ray asked me about my work in television; I asked him about his work for the county. We also touched on his relationship with his father and brother and mine with my mother and sister. It was sort of a novelty for me, I realized, to sit and trade stories with a man I wasn’t dating, a man who didn’t make me feel as if I had to be “on,” a man with whom I would not be having sex. An added bonus was that Ray wasn’t recoiling in horror because I had spent the previous evening in the company of the police.
Not that there weren’t constant reminders of the murder throughout the meal. As I’ve said, there had never been a homicide in Sewall’s Point, and Jeffrey’s was the talk of the town. The people sitting in the booth directly behind me, for example, spoke of nothing else. Maybe it was a drug hit. Maybe it was a woman scorned. Maybe this. Maybe that.
“I think I need to go home,” I said, after Ray had suggested that we order another cup of coffee. “I haven’t had any sleep and I’m dying to crawl into bed and let the sound of the ocean lull me into dreamland.”
“Not a bad plan,” he said, signaling to Kimmy for the check, which she brought right away and placed in front of him. He tallied it up, passed it over to me, and said, “I f
igured we’d split it. Your half comes to twenty-fifty.”
“Oh, sure,” I said, reaching for my wallet, relieved that Ray didn’t appear to consider our evening a date any more than I did.
He drove me back to the cottage. We stood outside the door for a few minutes, talking and admiring the view. “What’s your next move?” he asked at one point, referring to my own little murder investigation.
“I’m going to have a chat with a nurse at the hospital,” I said.
“Which one? Maybe I know her.”
“Her name’s Vicky, and she works in the Intensive Care Unit.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Well, Jeffrey knew her. He had an argument with her recently, and now he’s dead.”
“Have you told the police this?”
“I tried, but Detective Gillby doesn’t seem all that interested in my theories about the case. I’m not giving up on him though. He told me I could pass along whatever I learned, and I intend to.”
“Atta girl.” Ray patted my shoulder.
“Well, you probably have to be up early tomorrow,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable when I realized that I didn’t know how I wanted to say goodnight to him, to a man who was neither a date nor a business colleague, to a man who was being very nice to me but, for all I knew, could have killed Jeffrey.
“You’re the one who needs sleep,” he said. “I should let you get some.”
“Yes, I do. Need sleep, I mean.”
“Okay. I’ll say goodnight then.”
“Goodnight, Ray. I really enjoyed dinner.”
“Me too. We’ll have to do it again. Just give me a holler.”
“I will.”
“Look forward to it.”
God, you have to picture this. As if our back-and-forth wasn’t banal enough, we were standing at the door to the cottage, inches apart, hands at our sides, like a couple of uptight imbeciles.
Why is this so awkward? I asked myself. After spending an evening with my friend Helen, we’d always kiss each other on the cheek and that was that. Now, there I was with Ray, and I was practically paralyzed.
He’s no different than Helen, I decided finally. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then went inside the cottage.