Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  "A sneak thief?"

  "No. Someone stealing sneakers—and a sweat suit."

  "Wow!" Beverly feigned awe. "That sounds exciting. Major crime wave hits Connor Beach."

  A door opened behind her and Mickie knew who that would be. She heard the raspy voice of Morris asking, "Something going on?"

  Without turning around, she answered, "No, just a petty theft."

  When Mickie had been promoted to detective, just over a year ago, she had been not quite twenty-five. Many, she knew, had been dubious that she could hack it. Morris had been vocal about it. But then, Morris was vocal about everything.

  "Too bad," he said. "We could use some action around here."

  She turned to see him standing in the doorway. He was big, with a gut even bigger, the kind that shirts can never quite cover. Strong, though, deceptively so. She knew several macho types who had underestimated Morris.

  "What's the matter, Mo? You still have paperwork you haven't caught up with?"

  "Hell, who hasn't? Look, if you'd like a hand with this, let me know."

  "Oh, gee, thanks." She could just see it. Morris taking charge, giving orders, leaving her, the mere woman, to watch and admire. Well, to hell with that. "I'll let you know if it gets too heavy."

  Yeah, hold your breath.

  Turning back to Beverly, she asked, "What did Paul want?"

  "Just wanted you to call. Didn't say why." She tried on an evil grin. "Why not go see him? Maybe you'll get lucky."

  "With Paul, it's not a matter of luck. Listen, Beverly, do you know anyone around here with a blue Mercedes convertible?"

  "Ooh, I wish. And speaking of studs, who was that hunk in your office?"

  Mickie frowned at the memory. "You wouldn't want to know. Trust me."

  Beverly was dubious. She was just far enough into her thirties that her search for Mr. Right was beginning to take on a desperate edge. Mr. Not Actually Wrong might do nicely.

  CHAPTER 3

  FINDING TINA

  Just off the North Carolina coast hangs a necklace of long, narrow islands. The chain actually begins in Virginia to the north, and continues to the border of South Carolina. There are familiar names here: Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, Jockey's Ridge, Nag's Head—colorful names that conjure up images, but only hint at the history of these islands. Somewhere around Oregon Inlet, the mainland cuts away to the west, while these overgrown sandbars continue on southward into the sea. At Hatteras, as if surprised to find themselves some thirty miles from shore, they make a sharp dogleg right and head back toward more solid land. From there to the South Carolina border they hug the shore, like children afraid to leave their mother.

  South of Wilmington, not far from the mouth of the Cape Fear River, is the island of Connor Beach. It's just over three miles long, less than three hundred yards at its widest point. Only a hundred yards of the Intracoastal Waterway separate it from Wilford on the mainland. A bridge put up by the Corps of Engineers in 1954 makes it only technically an island. Nevertheless, its citizens consider themselves in no way a part of Wilford.

  There is a hotel, the Buccaneer, opposite the bridge, and a Coast Guard Station on the southern point. There are shops for the summer tourists, two fishing piers, one very good restaurant and several others just so-so.

  The northern half of the island is filled mostly with overpriced homes and a long string of townhouses and apartments. After Labor Day, the population here falls off to a small cadre of year-round occupants, the true beach people. The southern half is lined mainly with summer cottages, most with neither heat nor insulation, nearly all of them empty during the winter months. This part begins to blossom only in May and June, as the vacationers return, suddenly turning a ghost town into a crowd of suntans, surfboards and spendable income. Beach umbrellas sprout like colorful mushrooms, and the sand is awash in near-naked bodies. In other words, a beach town.

  Near the foot of the bridge to the mainland is a large, grassy area with nothing at all on it. It's big enough to be a soccer field, which it is. It's as if the people of Connor Beach, severely limited as to space, had decided on one great extravagance. At one end of the field is a white, single story, concrete block building holding the Town Administration offices. Bracketing the field on the other end is a similar building, serving as both Fire Department and Police Headquarters.

  Mickie Wilder had spent a good part of her youth risking life and limb on the soccer field. It had seemed only natural when she went to work in one of the adjoining buildings.

  * * *

  Mickie drove south toward the Coast Guard Station, moving slowly, checking the side streets as she passed. About a third of the way down, she saw what she was looking for. A dark blue police cruiser was coming toward her on the main road. As it approached, she held her hand out like a stop sign and, when it had pulled over, made a U-turn and pulled in behind it. She recognized Tom Reynolds driving, and was glad it was him. He was observant, and had a knack of remembering useful things.

  She got out and met him as he opened the door and unfolded upward. He was a big man, with middle-aged gray, his uniform always pressed and incredibly neat, even at the end of his shift. She always wondered how he managed it.

  "Morning Tom. Everything quiet?"

  "The way I like it. I've just been down talking to the guys at the Coast Guard Station. You'd be surprised how much they know about what goes on around here. Today, even they haven't heard anything."

  "They also have good coffee."

  "They have great coffee."

  He knew she hadn't stopped to discuss coffee. He looked at her expectantly and she said, "I'm looking for a car."

  He glanced at her old, blue Honda, nodding in agreement. "You could use one."

  "Not for me. Actually, I'm looking for the driver—a woman in a blue Mercedes convertible. I don't know if it's local or not, but I thought you might have seen it. You know everything that goes on around here.”

  She stopped as he raised his eyes and shook his head slowly. "What'd she do now?"

  "You know her?"

  "Sort of. She parks that car of hers any-old-where. We write her tickets, she ignores them, the county clerk raises hell, then her husband comes in and pays up and gets it straightened out. I was at the courthouse once when they came in. He seems like a pretty decent guy—he's just married to a flake."

  "What's the name?"

  "Frank Siegert. He has a business in Wilmington. Some kind of wholesale marine supply. The wife's name is Tina."

  "Do they live here or in Wilmington?"

  "Here. They have a place up on the north end. Don't know the address."

  "I'll get it."

  "You want me to come along?"

  "No, thanks. I'll just have a talk with the lady. When they came in to pay the fines, how was she? Did she get snotty?"

  "No. She just smiled, and put on that Silly-me-I'm-so-forgetful look."

  "Oh, God, not one of those. I'd rather have a screamer."

  * * *

  It was a two-story house on a corner lot, pale yellow with white trim. It looked new. In back, wide verandahs on the upper floor gave a broad view of the Intracoastal Waterway. The front of the house was open to the street, but a high privacy fence grew out of the sides and enclosed the rear. A short walk between two patches of struggling lawn led to the front door.

  Mickie rang the bell, wondering how she should handle this. She had held her detective's badge for just over a year, but in that time she felt she had seen her share of weird situations. This was beginning to look like another one. It had the feel of a domestic dispute, and she wondered again if Brodbeck had been telling the truth about not knowing the woman.

  When the door opened, she knew that at least his description had been accurate. The clothes were different, the skirt and sweater replaced by blue jeans and a sky blue UNC sweatshirt. Was that to match the car, or the other way around? The sandals were still there, the rings and bracelets, and the hair in pale ringlets. And the legs
. The jeans showed them off even better than the windblown skirt.

  "Mrs. Siegert?" She showed her badge. "I'm Detective Wilder."

  The smile on the pretty face turned to a puzzled pout. "Oh, that can't be right. I'm sure my husband paid those tickets."

  "It's not about parking tickets."

  "Really? Well then —"

  "May I come in?"

  "What? Oh yes, of course."

  They went into a living room that gave the impression of a great deal of money gone to waste. It was furnished expensively, conservatively, in earthy tans and muted greens. A few paintings, modern in tone, but not outrageous, complimented the decor. Here and there, in contrast, were pillows, throw rugs, a shawl over the back of a couch in raw, basic reds and greens. It looked like a room decorated by a schizophrenic. Somehow, it gave Mickie an edgy, unsettled feeling.

  Mrs. Siegert indicated the couch to Mickie, then curled herself into a wing chair across from her. She didn't ask why Mickie was there, but smiled agreeably, waiting for her to start.

  "A complaint was made this morning. There's probably some kind of misunderstanding, but we have to check. Could you just tell me where you were at about eight o'clock this morning?"

  The smile grew even brighter, but it seemed to Mickie a bit stiff at the edges. Tina's glance flicked about the room like a bird, and then settled back on Mickie. "Eight o'clock? Why, I was right here—having breakfast."

  "Was your husband with you?"

  "No, Frank's in South Carolina. Something about his business. He'll be home later today."

  "You were alone, then?"

  The smile grew tighter. "Alone? No, actually a friend was here. We had breakfast together. She left at about nine."

  She reached to the coffee table between them, and picked up a dark, wooden statuette a little under a foot high. It was a fat, jolly-looking Japanese, the kimono partly open so that his generous belly hung out. "Do you know this? This is Hotai. He's one of the minor Japanese gods, or something like that. It's supposed to be good luck if you rub his stomach. Isn't that silly? But then, I don't suppose policemen—or women, whatever—believe in such things."

  Mickie wasn't sure what she believed about such things, but she liked the looks of Hotai. Unlike most minor gods, or major ones for that matter, he had a look of tolerant good fun. She guessed he would have been a blast at a party. She noticed the other woman cradling him in one hand, the other hand caressing his belly.

  Mickie took out her notebook and pen. "And your friend's name?"

  "Why?" The smile disappeared, then came back, this time looking a bit sly.

  "As I said, I have to check."

  "Well, this is all a little silly, isn't it? You said a complaint was made. What kind of complaint?"

  "Nothing very serious. Someone stole a man's clothes and wallet on the beach this morning. He's pretty upset about it."

  "And he said I did it?"

  "He doesn't know who the woman is, but the description he gave us matches. And his description of the car. You do have a light blue Mercedes?"

  "Well, yes, but I'm certainly not the only one. There must be lots of them around."

  Not that many. Mickie smiled, she hoped reassuringly, and said, "Of course, if you were here at eight, it couldn't have been you. I'll just confirm that with whoever you had breakfast with, and that will be that."

  "Of course. Her name is Kathryn Meadows. She's an old friend. We worked together before I married Frank."

  "Would you happen to have her address?"

  "It's 14 Bayside. I remember because I used to go there a lot. She was teaching me astrology." She said it as if she expected a response. When she didn't get one, she asked, "Do you believe in the power of the stars?"

  "I really don't know much about it."

  "It's real. It's as real as any other form of power. The difficulty is getting the people who know to share their secrets. I tried very hard, but Kathryn simply wouldn't open up."

  "That's too bad." She put the notebook and pen into her bag, and stood up. "Well, that should do it." On the way to the door, she added, "I just hope that whoever did this is as smart as a pickpocket."

  Tina shot her an inquisitive glance.

  "A professional pickpocket usually drops the wallet into a public mail box—after he's taken the money, of course. The Post Office finds it and gets in touch with the owner. He gets his wallet back, and often doesn't bother making a complaint. It puts less heat on the dip. I think, in this case, if the victim gets his things back he might drop the charges. After all, they're not really much good to anyone but him. Are they?"

  As Mickie slammed the door of her secondhand Honda, she reflected on how much fun it can sometimes be talking to liars. Sort of a Superman feeling, being able to see right through them.

  CHAPTER 4

  RELATIONSHIPS

  The voice was seductive, so soft it could barely be heard. It whispered, "Now. Now is the time. You mustn't wait."

  The one who heard it knew the voice came from within, knew the logic and the truth of it, but shrank from the whisper, pulling back from its meaning.

  "I don't want to. God, but I don't want to."

  "Of course you don't want to. But it's necessary. You know that."

  "I can't."

  "You can. You must."

  "It's wrong."

  "Things that are necessary can't be wrong. You know what will happen if you don't do it. Do you want that to happen?"

  "It mustn't happen."

  "Would it be right?"

  The listener felt the answer form. "No."

  "You're prepared. Be strong. Go. Do it now."

  The listener shuddered, felt the fear, felt the knot in the stomach, knowing it had to be done. Answered, "Yes."

  * * *

  Kurt was feeling better about things. He was sure she hadn't spotted him. Even when she had pulled the U-turn and stopped to talk with the cop, he had just driven on by—she hadn't even glanced at him.

  He kept well behind her. The road that runs the length of the island is almost dead straight, except for a jog where it meets the road coming over the bridge from Wilford. The traffic was light, just enough so he could keep a car or two between them, but still see if she turned off.

  He was two hundred yards back when he saw her pull over to the side. On his left were expensively spaced private homes overlooking the Waterway. To his right were groups of townhouses, backs to the street, facing the ocean. Most were vacant now, each group with its own parking area. He pulled into one of these and parked where he could see her car.

  He watched her get out and cross the street to a big yellow house with a fence around the back. Was this it? You'd have to have money to have a place like this. Not filthy rich, maybe, but not exactly hurting, either. Just the kind of place to park a Mercedes.

  He saw her standing on the porch, talking to someone inside. Then the screen door swung open and she went in. Damn! Why hadn't the other one come out where he could see her? He settled back in the seat and waited, telling himself he was good at that—he had patience.

  Within ten minutes he was getting antsy, wondering what the hell she was doing in there. He looked at his watch, saw it was 11:40. A couple of broads get talking, it could take forever. That's all right, though. He was patient. He had time. It was Saturday, so he didn't have to be at work until 3:30.

  The privacy fence wasn't solid. There was a gap toward the rear where the driveway went through. He thought of walking down there and seeing if he could get a look into the garage, but decided against it. He didn't want her catching him.

  Then Mickie came out and he had a decision to make. Should he continue following her or stay where he was? This might be only one step in the trail. Then again, she might not even be on that trail. She might be doing something entirely different. But the house looked right. It's the kind of place a bitch like that would live. He wished again that he could get a look in the garage. Then he would know.

  When Mick
ie pulled out, he decided to stay. He'd give it another half hour. If nothing happened, he could start thinking of ways to find out who lived there.

  As he sat there, watching nothing happen, he realized he was beginning to get hungry. He began thinking of places to have lunch. He could go back to his place, but that meant he'd have to think of something to fix, and he wasn't sure there was much available. He could scramble some eggs, but he'd had an omelet day before yesterday. He allowed himself eggs only twice a week. Maybe he would pick up something at the store. But what? What was he hungry for?

  He awoke with a jerk as his head rolled sideways on the headrest. Damn! How had that happened? He checked his watch. 12:10. He decided to leave.

  As he was about to start up, a car drove past him and turned left at the corner. He didn't pay much attention until he saw it turn into the driveway of the yellow house and disappear behind the fence. Ah ha! Maybe now something would happen.

  For twenty minutes, nothing did. It was quiet up there with no tourists. If he listened carefully, he could hear the breakers beyond the townhouses and, now and then, a gull screeching. He looked at his watch again. By now, hungry had turned to ravenous. He had just decided to give it up, when he heard a car start up, and saw the same one coming back out. He thought he saw someone in the passenger seat. He wanted to see who it was, but if it was she he didn't want to be seen. Not yet. He slid down in the seat until he heard it go by, then pulled out behind them.

  Not too close. Just keep them in sight. He watched the right hand side of the car, hoping she would turn her head enough so he could be sure. There was no movement at all. He had a nasty thought, and pulled up closer to check. Damn! It wasn't a head at all, just the headrest on the back of the seat. There was no one in the passenger seat. Maybe he should think about getting glasses after all. Maybe contacts.

  The car kept on southward and, his hunger temporarily forgotten, Kurt followed.

  * * *

  14 Bayside was a tiny, shingle covered house, weathered to a dark gray. It sat in the midst of a clump of short, twisted trees, almost on the edge of the Waterway. A tarred driveway led down to an attached garage on the left.