by Mary Ellis
“Would that helpful coworker be named Crystal? I met that little gold digger and wouldn’t describe her as a credible witness.”
“What reason would the girl have to lie to the police? What didn’t you like about her? Violet-colored hair is commonplace among women her age.”
“Her hair is fine. It’s her ideas for a secure financial future that leave much to be desired, morally speaking.”
“As Mrs. Doyle’s PI, you should be less concerned with my potential witnesses and more worried about what we found in her bushes.”
Beth felt Rossi’s dark eyes bore through her forehead. It took everything she had to feign confusion. “Is that supposed to mean something to me, Detective?”
“We found a bullet in the backyard—another thirty-eight. I’m betting it was the shot Mrs. Doyle fired Wednesday night to back her story about a prowler. What do you want to bet it will match the ballistics of those taken from Mr. Doyle?”
“What does that prove?”
“As I said, only two people knew the combination to the wall safe—Lamar and Evelyn. With no other viable suspects, it’ll be enough for a first-degree indictment once we match it to Lamar’s Beretta.”
“The gun you don’t have.”
Rossi smiled, almost as though the two women were old pals.
“We’ll find it. What with the showering and clothes washing, I’ll bet that gun couldn’t have gone far. We have techs with metal detectors combing the sand and divers checking underwater for a quarter mile in both directions. Mrs. Doyle wouldn’t have pitched the gun into the surf farther from home than that. She wouldn’t want members of the bridge club to see her.”
Beth stood and slung her tote bag over her shoulder. “Such a waste of taxpayer money, but I understand you need to do a thorough job. Speaking of which, I’d like to check on my client. If her new lawyer doesn’t take control, the state will have her railroaded into Emanuel Women’s Facility by the weekend. Plus, Mrs. Doyle might need help with funeral arrangements until her sister arrives from Atlanta.”
“The ME hasn’t released the body yet. No one will be burying Mr. Doyle anytime soon.” Rossi tucked the folder into a briefcase and rose to her feet. “Keep your cell phone on, Beth, in case I have more questions. And for the record, Emanuel is medium security. Evelyn will be headed to Arrendale with the rest of the murderers.”
Beth left the Tybee Island police station with far less assurance than she had this morning. And that had nothing to do with Diane Rossi. Like the detective said, she was merely doing her job. The fact that Rossi had already questioned another suspect indicated she conducted a more thorough investigation than Beth’s former partner in Natchez. No, Beth was troubled that Bonnie had a story lined up. Either she knew she needed an alibi, or the size 2 latte maker really was at a Saturday night sleepover.
Things don’t look good for Mrs. Doyle.
During the ten-minute drive to her client’s home, Beth was again amazed by the calming effect of the ocean. Just seeing a great expanse of water mitigated her anxiety. Why worry about Arrendale State Prison when I can walk the pristine sands of Tybee today? Someday before she died, Beth vowed to live somewhere with a view of water, even if it was from the window of a nursing home.
Mrs. Doyle opened the door wearing a pair of dark slacks and a long tunic. Her hair, which usually was in an elaborate upsweep, was held back by an enamel clip.
“How are you feeling today?” Beth asked. “I won’t stay long, but I wanted to check on you.”
“I’m much better thanks to you.” Mrs. Doyle led the way to the kitchen. “My sister called. She should arrive sometime tonight. I will be so happy to see her. And you just missed Mrs. Gwinn. She agreed to take my case, and I have officially fired Alfred Singleton. Coffee?” She held up a carafe.
“Yes, ma’am.” Beth climbed onto a tall stool. “This might mean the end of your friendship with Sybil Singleton.”
Mrs. Doyle snorted. “No great loss there. I always found that woman arrogant and self-aggrandizing. I doubt she performed a single good deed without the press or at least an audience watching.”
“My mom has a few friends like that too.”
“Sybil’s dinner parties were tiresome affairs of haute cuisine and social climbing, while Alfred peppered every conversation with political vitriol, no matter what the original topic.” Beth couldn’t think of an appropriate comment.
“I’m sorry, dear. You didn’t need to hear that.”
“No problem. I take it Alfred was more your husband’s friend than yours.”
“Yes, but enough about the Singletons. With Lamar gone, I’ll soon discover who my true friends are.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. “I’m very grateful you found Hilda Gwinn.”
“You’re welcome, but Michael was the one who found her.” Sipping her coffee, Beth mustered her courage. “Mrs. Doyle, something is bothering me, and I want it cleared up now, with no surprises down the road.”
“Ask me anything you want, Beth. You’ve proven worthy enough for my complete confidence. I need to prove worthy of yours.”
Beth drew a breath. “The night that someone took a shot at you down on the beach…you said it wasn’t a car backfiring because you knew what a gunshot sounded like. Yet you told me you never fired Lamar’s gun, that neither of you had taken classes at the firing range. Then how do you know?”
Mrs. Doyle rubbed her knuckles one at a time. “I didn’t grow up on Tybee Island in a house like this. For that matter, Lamar isn’t from Tybee either. He grew up in a mansion on Broad Street in Charleston. One of those four-story pastel houses the tourists gape at from carriage rides.” She smiled at Beth. “I grew up on a farm in Wilkes County, although I use the term ‘farm’ loosely. After my grandparents passed, my father never planted another crop, but he did love to hunt. My mother used to make stew from squirrels and rabbits that was quite good. My father was nice to my mother and us, but he had to be the laziest man on earth. He actually shot at deer from an upstairs window so he didn’t have to stomp through the woods. That’s how I know what gunfire sounds like.” There was no condemnation in her voice, only a simple statement of facts.
“How did you meet Mr. Doyle?”
“At college. Both my sister and I met our husbands at the University of Georgia. After being kicked out of several private schools, Lamar finally found his niche at UGA. I graduated with a degree in art history, but Lamar wasn’t much of a scholar. But then again, he knew one day he’d inherit from his rich father.” She drained her cup. “And he did. By then we’d fallen in love and eloped, much to his mother’s dismay. Lamar and his brother both worked for their father in Charleston. I didn’t exactly fit in with Lamar’s social life there, but I managed. After his dad passed, Lamar and I moved to Tybee Island. Unlike in Charleston, few people here know where I came from.”
“Why should people care? You made something of yourself.” Beth felt defensive for her new friend.
“The Charleston old guard judges every book by its cover. But I never really worried much about it. As long as I had Lamar and my art, I was a happy woman.”
“Thanks for sharing that story with me,” said Beth. “Michael will be the only person I ever tell, and I’ll swear him to secrecy.”
“What do I care who knows now?” Her smile was full of sadness. “Tell me about him.”
Beth straightened her spine. “Michael? Not much to tell other than he’s my partner.”
“Nonsense. There is plenty more to tell. You just might not realize it yet.”
“All this talk about young love has you imagining things.” Beth refilled her cup for something to do. “We get along pretty well, but that’s it.”
“I know how partners can get along, and I know about good friends. But I sense there’s something more. Wait and see. What you’re capable of just might surprise you.”
What I might be capable of? Doesn’t Michael have a say in this? What is this woman talking about?
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br /> Questions ran through Beth’s mind, but she didn’t have the guts to ask any of them. “Thanks for clearing up the question about the gunfire. Now I’d better get back before my partner sends out the bloodhounds.”
Mrs. Doyle pulled a Tupperware container from the refrigerator. “I had a feeling you might be by today, so I baked a German chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. I made it, not my maid. I hope you and your partner enjoy it.”
Beth accepted the cake with thanks and then was on her way. It took her ten minutes in the car with windows down before her head cleared enough to call Michael. “Hey, I just left Mrs. Doyle. What are you doin’?”
“I finished my workout and now I’m in the pool. After all, I am on vacation.”
“Stay where you are. I’m hot, tired, and dying to get in the pool. What about your assignment?”
“Our first interview will be tomorrow at breakfast. Candidates two and three will be on Wednesday and Thursday. I take my job seriously, Miss Kirby. What do you think about free sliders in the Lodge tonight, along with Southern potato salad and coleslaw?”
“I say the price is right. Pencil me in, but save room for dessert. Our favorite client baked us a German chocolate cake that’s calling my name from the backseat.”
Despite Mrs. Doyle’s generosity, Beth ended the call feeling mildly annoyed with her. Why did she have to put ridiculous romantic notions in my head? It was hard enough staying focused this far from home.
TWELVE
Michael contemplated a grueling workout to compensate for the calories he consumed last night. After three Angus sliders and both side dishes, he devoured two pieces of chocolate cake. Although he didn’t believe Mrs. Doyle baked the four-tier cake herself, Beth was willing to stake her life on it. For some inexplicable reason, his partner had taken a shine to Savannah’s newest widow.
It was the last thing he would have expected when they accepted the case. What had she called them—Sleaze Incorporated? Michael knew that no middle-aged woman could fool Beth, so he had no trouble believing their client was innocent. Convincing their boss was a different matter. He didn’t know Nate Price well enough to understand why he’d rallied around Reverend Dean’s widow in their last case. Nate had wanted no stones left unturned as they searched for the killer. How was this any different? Mrs. Doyle hired them to determine the extent of her husband’s duplicity. When Lamar turned up dead, wouldn’t a client on Tybee Island deserve the same benefit of the doubt as one in Natchez? But knowing Beth’s intuition, he would stick with his partner, even if they both ended up in the unemployment line.
Michael poured his third cup of coffee and stared out at the Savannah River. A mist rose from the unusually calm surface, lending eeriness to the morning light. He knew he should do something. If he sat around mulling over the case, his thoughts would turn to Beth the way they always did. Last night they had overindulged in free food, shared a piece of chocolate cake, and played a silly board game under the stars. They had talked about old friends, high school flames, and their favorite movies. They laughed at themselves and each other and nothing at all, like very old, very good friends. It was too soon to tell, but that might have been the best night of his life. He loved being with Beth. That could be a problem. And sitting alone, reliving the night in his mind, wasn’t doing him any good.
When his phone rang, Michael practically fell over the railing.
“Are you ready to grill the next potential member of Price Investigations within an inch of her life?” Beth seldom began a conversation with any form of identification.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I have the standard set of interview questions Maxine emailed me.” Michael retreated into his hotel room, closing the balcony doors behind him.
“Ha!” Beth howled. “I have a list of questions meant to thin the weak and hapless from the herd.”
He grinned at the image. Beth was the type who bottle-fed abandoned birds until they were ready to leave the nest. He couldn’t wait to see her promise put into action. “Ms. Hancock isn’t meeting us until nine. It’s only eight fifteen by my watch.”
“Let’s discuss our strategy in the Lodge and share our initial thoughts on the applicant.”
“I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
He appeared on the first floor in eight minutes.
Beth was already in a front booth sipping iced tea. “Let’s see the résumé of today’s contestant.” She practically ripped the top sheet from his hands.
“Easy, partner. We each have a copy.” Michael tapped the sheets into a pile. “I contacted your favorite choice first. Ms. Hancock can set the bar, so to speak.”
“Undergraduate degree in political science and finished two years of prelaw at Columbia,” Beth read from the sheet. “Well educated, that’s for sure. Received her investigative experience with the Georgia Department of Tax Enforcement. What do you suppose that means?”
“I imagine she tracked down people who didn’t pay their state taxes, such as store owners or business employers who withheld the money from customers or employees but didn’t fork it over.”
“She hauled them off to debtors’ prison?” Beth laughed behind the sheet.
“Those have been turned into shopping malls. Now tax agents issue threats and file liens against any real estate the debtor owns. Sooner or later, the state gets their money.”
“Do you think she carried a gun? A forty-four magnum might prod folks into pulling out their checkbooks.”
“I believe Ms. Hancock is headed this way, so add that question to your list.” Michael clenched down on his back teeth, annoyed that the candidate had arrived thirty-five minutes early. Some might consider it a mark of good manners. At the moment, he considered it an invasion of privacy.
Beth stood to greet the applicant. “Are you Anita Hancock? I’m Beth Kirby of Price Investigations. Thanks for being punctual.”
“I make it a point to be early instead of just on time. I can’t stand people who are always late.” Ms. Hancock offered a toothy smile.
While the two women shook hands, Michael had a chance to assess her appearance: fortyish, tasteful hair and makeup, dark suit with white blouse, high heels. Conservative except for a rather short skirt.
“How do you do?” he greeted, also rising to his feet. “I’m Michael Preston. We spoke on the phone.”
“I’m doing just fine ever since I saw your ad online. Finally, I thought, something I can sink my teeth into and leave the government work doldrums behind.” She widened her smile in his direction.
“Why don’t you sit there, Ms. Hancock?” Pointing at his vacated seat, Michael pulled a chair to the end of the booth. “It’ll be easier for a three-way conversation.”
“Anita, please. Ms. Hancock makes me feel old.” She slipped into the booth. “And I assure you, Mike, I’m far from being that.”
“Coffee, Anita?” asked Beth, filling the extra mug. “May I ask why you didn’t finish law school? The world always needs more lawyers, considering how litigious society has become.”
Anita wrapped her fingers around the mug. “Do you have any idea how boring law school is? Obsessing over ancient court cases that might be useful in the future. I thought my eyes would permanently cross. I had to get out or go mad. Don’t believe what you see on TV—law school is filled with geeks who love memorizing useless trivia.” She mimed a yawn.
Michael tamped down a frisson of irritation. His ex-fiancée had described accountants—his former profession—with the exact same words. “Did you find tax enforcement work more interesting?” He struggled to keep his voice even.
“You bet I did. I loved tracking down white-collar thieves. They thought that just because they went to work in a suit and tie, they could avoid paying what they owed. We’re not the IRS, willing to settle for partial back taxes as long as you promise not to cheat again. If you collect sales tax on purchases, you’d better turn over every dime, or I’ll make your life a living nightmare.”
Odd
ly, a few legitimate reasons for being late with payments sprang to Michael’s mind, but instead he asked a more pertinent question. “Why do you wish to change careers if you find the work satisfying?”
“Ever been a government employee, Mike? Stacks of paperwork, endless mumbo-jumbo meetings, plus all that backstabbing and hand kissing. Ugh. That’s why I steered clear of the police academy. Bring down one bad guy, and you’ll be filling out forms at your desk for weeks.”
Beth laughed, mainly to take control. “I doubt you carried a weapon in your last job, but we sometimes do in ours. Are you licensed to carry in this state?”
“You bet I am, sister. Fully trained and certified. I usually pack a Sig Sauer.”
Beth glanced at Michael before answering. “A Glock is my weapon of choice, but let’s get back to—”
“How ’bout you, Mike?” asked Anita, apparently not ready for the topic to change.
“I have a new Smith and Wesson I’m becoming proficient with,” he murmured.
“Where are you really from? Most Mississippi guys owned a gun before they owned their first car.”
Michael locked gazes with the applicant. “That’s funny. None of my friends had a gun rack in their truck or an arsenal in the basement to fit your image of Southern manhood. I suppose it’s in the company you keep.”
“I suppose so.” Anita forced a laugh, finally aware she was standing on thin ice.
He glanced down at her résumé. “I’m curious as to what special skills you have.”
“I’m a self-starter, accustomed to hard work and long days. I’m willing to travel and can be flexible with my schedule. I have no husband or kids tying me down.”
He shook his head. “Let me be more specific. Beth is adept with surveillance and interrogation, while my accounting background helps us follow the money trail to the suspects. What specific talents will you bring to the team?”
She hesitated a few seconds. “I hold a black belt in mixed martial arts. I could do the heavy lifting, so to speak.” Her big, toothy smile reappeared.