He nodded and went on: "Height, five foot eight inches. Florida doesn’t put your weight, your eye color, or hair color on the license?"
"No. Do you need it?"
He peered at me. "Blue and brown for eyes and hair? That’s good enough." He wrote on his pad. "All right, how about your phone number?"
I gave it to him. After that, he dug a business card out of his wallet and handed it to me. "We’re going to go through everything now in detail, but if you think of something else later, I want you to call me. Okay?"
I nodded.
"Good. Ms. Hope, tell me what the four of you were doing at the Welcome Center."
"Matt and I have a sailing charter business, out of Florida."
He gave me a nod to go on.
"We usually charter Matt’s boat, Just Add Water, but this time we’re helping Nathan and Alex move their boat from Virginia to Florida. Nathan’s a friend of mine from college who lives in Tarpon Springs now, and Alex is his partner. Nathan’s aunt and uncle in Virginia gave him their boat, Thief of Time, so they wanted some help bringing it home. We locked into the canal today and ended up staying too late at the Welcome Center to make it through the lock on the other side. We hadn’t intended to stay the night."
"So why did you stay so late?"
I shifted in my seat. "Nathan didn’t want to leave. He was…he’s been…uh, a little, uh, stressed out the past few days. He insisted on staying, so we missed the time window to lock out."
"I see. Tell me more about that. Why didn’t he want to leave?"
I realized belatedly that he was trying to find out if Nathan had something to do with what had happened. I felt uncomfortable. "He’s just been under a lot of pressure, I think, from work. He got a phone call right after we got here, and so he missed seeing the Center with us. We were ready to go by the time he’d finished his call. When Matt told him it was time to leave, he insisted on staying, walking the trail, talking to the folks who work at the Center, looking at all the literature. He said this was his one big chance to see the only visitors’ center in America accessible by both car and boat. He kept repeating that like a parrot, like it was an excuse for his behavior—"
"What behavior?"
I wriggled again in my chair, feeling worse. "He’s been in a bad mood lately, because of whatever is happening at work. But he doesn’t have anything to do with this."
Detective Fairholm looked at me for a moment, then went on with his questions. "So you’re sailing from Virginia all the way to where, again?"
"Tarpon Springs. On the west coast of Florida, not far from Tampa."
"Okay." He paused, thinking. "That’s going to take some time, right?"
I nodded. "Probably five or six more weeks. Maybe longer, depending on how much sightseeing we do."
"So you and Matt do this for a living, but what do Alex and Nathan do that they can take all this time off?"
"Well, Alex is a freelance photographer. He’s actually working some along the way, getting pictures for a contract he’s got with one of his clients. Nathan’s an architect, but he owns his own company. He thought he’d be able to be away without a problem, but from the sound of it, there’s some problem going on right now with one of their projects…" my voice trailed off. "You know, he could probably tell you more about it."
His head was bent over his notes. He looked at me from under his eyelashes, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"Oh," I said. "You’re checking that our stories all match."
He grinned, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "It’s my job. Do you want some coffee or water before we go on?"
"Some water would be great."
He got up and went to the door and said something to someone outside, then sat back down and wrote in his notebook, his pen moving smoothly across the page, looking up occasionally and asking me to clarify a few things I’d said. A few minutes later, a uniformed cop brought me a bottle of water. I opened it and drank gratefully.
Detective Fairholm waited until I put the cap back on, then said, "Okay, let’s start from when you got off the boat and tell me what happened this evening."
"Well, I couldn’t sleep. It’s been hot all day, and where we’re docked in the canal, we weren’t getting much of a breeze, so the cabin felt really stuffy. I thought if I got something cold to drink and went for a walk outside, I might cool off enough to go to sleep."
"You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving?"
"No, everyone else was asleep, and I didn’t want to wake them up."
"Okay. So when you walked up to the Welcome Center, was anyone there?"
"No, the parking lot was empty." I told him the rest of the story. He stopped me occasionally with more questions, and he had me repeat the killer’s description several times, trying to get more details. Then he asked me about the second person. The shadow passenger.
"Was the person male or female?"
I paused. "I don’t know. I guess I just assumed it was a guy, but I don’t really know. I didn’t see enough to be sure."
"Tall? Short? Dark? Fair?"
Helplessly, I looked at him. "I really didn’t see clearly. I just saw a shape in there. Then…the man with the scar walked over to the car, and I was watching him the rest of the time."
"Are you completely sure there was a second person?"
I hesitated. "Well, I’m sure I saw something in the passenger seat. And when the killer got back into the car, he laughed and turned that way, like he was talking to someone."
He tilted his head to one side, looking at me and thinking that over. "Okay. Well, if you think of anything, anything at all, you have my card." He wrote some more on his pad.
"Detective, do we have to stay here? After tonight?"
He looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Can we move on? We were planning to go down to Elizabeth City. We don't have to stay here, do we?" The thought of staying another night in the isolation of the canal was not to my liking.
"No, no, of course you don't. I have your contact information. If something comes up, I'll get in touch with you." He bent his head over his pad again, wrote something else, and then asked me to wait a few minutes. He got up and left the mobile unit, shutting the door behind him.
While I waited for him to come back, I rested my head on the table. I hadn’t slept at all that night, and fatigue and reaction from the stress were setting in. I think I was actually dozing a little when he came back. I sat up and tried to pretend I hadn’t been asleep, furtively wiping the corners of my mouth on the off chance I’d been slobbering.
Detective Fairholm walked around the table and sat across from me again. He grinned. "You’ve got a crease mark on your forehead," he said.
Embarrassed, I rubbed my head, trying to smooth out the lines.
"Don’t worry about it. I know it’s been a long day for you. Just a few more minutes, okay? Earlier, we put out a BOLO, a Be On the Look Out, for this guy. I wanted to make sure they had all the details you just gave me."
A sharp rap sounded at the door. The detective called, "Yeah, come on in."
One of the officers that had arrived first poked her head into the doorway. "ATF just got here. They’re asking for you. Guess it’s about this Eric Bluesky guy."
"Okay, thanks." Her head disappeared, and Detective Fairholm sighed, pushing back his chair and standing up. "Sorry. Bear with me for a minute while I go see what they want." He left again. The door clicked closed. I stood up and stretched, feeling sore from sitting so long. My eyes felt dry and itchy. God, I was tired. I wondered how much longer I’d be here, and I wondered what the guys were doing. Idly, I wandered around the mobile unit, looking at the crime scene equipment and materials. It all looked pretty mysterious to me.
I had just reached out to pick up a bottle so I could read the label when I heard rapid footsteps coming up the steps, and then the door jerked open. Guiltily, I whipped my hand back. Detective Fairholm leaned in and said, "Ms. Hope, I’d like you to come with me
."
"What? Why?" I asked, startled. Was I under arrest?
He must have seen the expression of panic on my face, because the corners of his mouth twitched up a little. "Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry. We just arrested someone, and if we get you over to the squad car that’s holding him right now, you can tell us if he’s the guy you saw."
"Oh. Um. All right."
"Don’t worry, I won’t let him see you. We’ll be very discreet."
I followed him down the steps and over to his car, looking around quickly for the guys. I caught a glimpse of Matt and gave him a quick wave. He made a move toward me, but the officer standing near him put up his palm in the universal motion that means stop right there, buddy. I tugged at Detective Fairholm’s sleeve. "Could I tell my friends where I’m going? They’ll be worried if they see me leave in your car."
He said, "I’ll let them know. Go wait in the car, if you would."
While he walked over to tell the others what was happening, I walked toward his car. Unsure of protocol—did I sit in the back or the front?—I hovered for a few moments until he came back. He opened the front passenger door for me, and I slid in. He went around the front of the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. After he started the car, he turned the air conditioning up to its max cold. Blissfully, I leaned toward the vent, feeling like a dog that hangs its head out the car window.
"We have kind of an informal procedure here, Ms. Hope," he said, as he clicked on his blinker and pulled onto the highway. "If we pick up a suspect within a couple hours of the crime who matches the description a witness has given us, we don’t need to do a formal lineup. We can just drive past the squad car, and you can tell me if that’s the guy. There’s a baseball cap on the backseat there. I’d suggest you put that on. Maybe put your hair underneath it. When we get closer, I’ll tell you, and you can slide down in your seat. Okay, Ms. Hope?"
"Yes," I said. "And, please, call me Shelby." I grabbed the hat and stuffed my ponytail up inside, pulling the brim down as far as possible.
"All right, Shelby." We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then I said, "You said suspect, not suspects. You only found one guy? Not two?"
"Just one."
"Where did you find him?"
"He was trying to steal another car." Fairholm grinned. "Apparently, he couldn’t be satisfied with something easy to steal. He was going for another muscle car, but it seems that the owner had a pretty compelling anti-theft device."
"What was it?"
"A Great Dane." His grin got wider, and despite my anxiety, the image of Marmaduke as an attack dog made me laugh. "The owner heard a noise and sent the dog out while he called the police. Imagine our guy’s surprise when a two-hundred-pound dog zoomed out of the night and landed on him. I wish I’d been there to see that."
We turned off the highway onto a side street, winding back through a neighborhood until we reached a cul-de-sac. He slowed the car. "Okay, Shelby, slide down now and just look over the edge of the dash. Stay low."
I slid down, peeping through the bottom of the windshield. There was a police car parked at the curb, emergency lights flashing but the siren off. Two officers stood guarding a man. A dark-haired, strong-looking man in a tight tee shirt. There was a long jagged scar down his left arm.
I felt a wash of fear; he seemed to be staring right at me.
"That’s him," I said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I’m sure. Remember when I was telling you that just before he, uh, just before he shot that other guy, he looked around the parking lot? I saw his face clearly then, only for a second, but I saw him. It’s him. And that scar—I saw that too. It’s the guy who killed that other man. What’s his name?"
"Rumbar. Johnny Rumbar."
Chapter 3
The next morning, I woke up with a bad feeling, although it took me a moment to remember what had happened. I pushed away the sheet—it was far too hot for a blanket—and sat up. I’d slept in the salon on one of the settees, which was a lot like sleeping on my mom’s living room sofa, narrow and not all that comfortable. I usually stayed in the aft cabin, but it had felt claustrophobic last night, so Matt had slept there instead.
I heard quiet voices in the cockpit. Apparently, the guys were already awake but trying to let me sleep. I got up and used the head, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. My hair needed some work, but I couldn’t find my hairbrush, so I just smoothed it with my hands and refastened my ponytail holder. The humidity had made it go from its usual almost-curly state to full-on frizzy. I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, but I didn’t feel like taking a shower just yet, so I left my wrinkly, creased shorts and tee shirt on while I went to the galley for some coffee. Someone had thoughtfully set my cup out, next to the coffee pot. I poured a cup, stirred in sugar and cream, grabbed a blueberry muffin, and headed out to the cockpit.
"Well, hello, Sunshine," Matt said, grinning at me. "Sleep okay?"
I nodded, too intent on my coffee for civil speech. The others observed a moment of silence while I tore into my muffin.
After I felt more human, I asked, "And what about you guys? Did you get much rest?"
Matt said, "Yeah, I slept fine. You know me." He can sleep at the drop of a hat, but if for some reason he has to go without, he manages to stay fresh and uncranky, unlike me. Regardless, I suspected that he’d slept very little. It had been late when I got back to the boat. Detective Fairholm had then interviewed each of the guys, and it was the early hours of the morning before Matt got in.
"I didn’t sleep much, to be truthful," Alex said. "Last night…that was awful."
"Yes, it was," I said, trying not to remember the limp form with the dark splotch on its chest.
"Hey, look who it is, Shelby. It’s your friend from last night," Nathan said, nodding toward the Welcome Center. Detective Fairholm was heading toward us. We waited until he got closer, then Alex invited him aboard. He shook his head. "I’m only here for a minute. I just came to tell you some good news."
"We could do with some good news," Matt said. "You want a cup of coffee?"
The detective hesitated. "Yeah, you know, that would be nice. Thanks."
Matt went below to get the coffee and brought back a muffin along with a mug. The detective grinned in anticipation. "Thank you. So, the good news is—"
"Shelby! Shelby Hope!"
Surprised to hear my name, I looked up to see a young woman trotting toward the boat. I didn’t recognize her. Who was she, and how did she know my name?
I stared at her as she came closer. Despite the heat, she wore a navy blue skirt suit with a long-sleeved white blouse. And, she actually had on pantyhose. While we waited for her to get closer, I speculated irrelevantly about when I had last owned a pair of hose. Maybe sometime in the nineties. The woman finally made her way to the dock and stood patting her chest with her hand while she caught her breath.
Detective Fairholm’s smile had slipped off his face. "Well, well, well, look who it is. Amazing Grace."
She ignored him and gave me a quick, tense smile that didn’t reach her eyes, before rummaging through the large bag she carried and dragging out a notepad and pen. Close up, I could see she was in her mid-twenties, with dirty-blonde hair that was pulled back so tightly it looked like it might scream from the tension. Her too-small eyes were made to look even smaller by the excessive black eyeliner she wore. The feminine grooming instinct in me made me yearn to scrub her face, unpin her hair, and dress her in something more reasonable for the climate. She might have been pretty. And certainly much more comfortable.
"Shelby? My name is Grace Martin. I’m a journalist."
"She’s not a journalist," Detective Fairholm said, crossing his arms across his chest.
"I am too," she said, in a tone of voice that made me wonder if she’d stick her tongue out at him next.
"You’re not. You’re a blogger."
She shrugged and flapped her hand at him, as if he were of no account.
"What’s a blogger?" Matt asked.
She looked at Matt, with an expression on her face that said, Where have you been for the past fifteen years? Despite the tension, I grinned to myself. Matt’s extremely low-tech. Grace sniffed and said, "I have an online column that provides local news. It’s very well-respected in this community—"
Nathan cut her off. "Are you employed by a real newspaper, or do you just post a lot of gossip, lies, and innuendo on your web page?"
"Nathan!" Alex said.
She stiffened, and her mouth straightened into a grim line. "I’m self-employed, but I maintain the highest journalistic ethics—"
"Who pays you?"
"It’s—I do it as a public service. The public has a right to know about crimes in our community. Early this morning, for instance, I posted a column that was entirely factual. No gossip, lies, and innuendo. I said that there’d been a murder here. Fact. I said that Eric Bluesky, the victim, was a known felon. Fact. I said that the police were questioning Ms. Hope with regard to the crime. Fact." She smirked at Nathan.
"You did what?" I said, stunned. "You printed my name?"
"Yeah," she said, lighting up at what she took to be excitement at my sudden escalation to fame and renown on her blog. She dug through her bag. "Here’s a hard copy of the article. I wasn’t sure if you’d have internet access out here or not." She held out two printed pages, which Alex, open-mouthed, took from her. "And I mentioned your boat here too, Thief of Time. I bet people will be watching for you now."
My temper flared, and I stood up and stepped around Nathan, whose smug expression when he’d been baiting her changed to annoyed surprise when she mentioned his boat. I stomped up onto the side deck so I could look right into her beady little eyes, my hands on my hips. "Yeah, I bet they will be too. How could you do this?"
"Do what?" she said, taking a step backward when she realized I wasn’t yelling at her out of happiness. She stumbled when her heel landed in the groove between the cement dock and the grassy lawn. She scowled with embarrassment as she tried to regain her balance. "Don’t you want to be famous?"
Telltale (Shelby Hope Book Two) (Shelby Hope Novels 2) Page 2