Murder in Montauk

by Carter Fielding

  “I have to get some of those shell napkin rings before we head back.” Mama pointed at some hammered metal rings to which a variety of different bleached shells had been affixed.

  “Why don’t you stop and get them now?” Whitt suggested. “We aren’t in any hurry. Dinner isn’t until 7:30 p.m.” She and Mama headed into the little shop called The Catch, which featured everything nautical.

  “You coming?” Mooney asked.

  “Nope. I will people-watch out here,” Finley had decided. “I am all shopped out.”

  “How can you be shopped out when you never shop?” Mooney laughed. “I just want to see what they have. I’ll be back to keep you company in a little while.”

  It was closer to thirty minutes before they emerged from the shop, and when they did, they were greeted by a growing circle of people gathered in front of the bagel shop. Finley was standing at the edge of the circle and summoned them over.

  “I don’t know what’s happening. Officer Stephens pulled up three minutes ago, went in, and then there was some shouting that caught people’s attention,” Finley reported. “The cops are trying to get the crowd to move on.”

  “Do you think they have a suspect already?” Mooney asked, peering over the heads of the dozen or so people who were gathered.

  “Don’t know,” Whitt said, shrugging. “That would be pretty fast work, if they do.”

  Just then, Officer Stephens stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Move along, folks. There is nothing to see here.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Why are you hassling me?” a voice was asking—a voice that they all recognized. “All I did was go to work! Why would I want to kill the man?”

  Another officer followed Stephens outside, his hand on the arm of the suspect. Rachel was cuffed, hands behind her. She still had on her t-shirt from the bagel store—which was apparently her second job—as she struggled against the constraints.

  “This is crazy. I didn’t do it!” Rachel continued to shout to anyone who would listen.

  “Come on, Rachel. Make it easier on yourself and just cooperate,” one of the officers said.

  “Just cooperate? While you railroad me into a death sentence! Like hell!” Rachel backed against the wall between the shops, her feet glued to the ground. She wasn’t going willingly, and she wanted everyone to see that.

  Finley and Whitt moved forward, even as the crowd began to dissipate. Mama stayed far away from the commotion, eventually taking a seat on one of the benches that circled the plaza.

  “Whittaker! Finley! Do not get involved,” Mama hissed under her breath, but it was too late.

  “Rachel, do you have a lawyer? Is there someone that we can call?” Finley asked as she got closer to Rachel.

  “I don’t know. My husband hasn’t been home. I don’t know where he is. I don’t have money for a lawyer!” She was crying now. Her shoulders heaved with the sobs. “I didn’t do it! I wouldn’t hurt Mike. He was my friend.”

  “You can tell it all to the judge,” Officer Stephens said as he almost picked her up and shoved her into the squad car that was parked in front of the shop. “Watch your head.”

  All they could hear as she was driven away was Rachel screaming that she hadn’t done it.

  “Do you think she did it?” Whitt asked as they walked over to Mama.

  “Hard to say. I don’t think so, but who knows?” Finley replied. “Whether she did or not, she will need a good lawyer.”

  “Won’t the court appoint one for her?” Mooney asked.

  “Yeah, but you know how it will probably go. Whoever they appoint is likely to have too many cases and not able to give any of them the time they need. And this case is going to be tricky. It’s going to need someone who has the time and resources to sort through everything.” Finley’s mind was sorting through what she might do, who she might call to help, her jaw working back and forth as she thought.

  Mama was trying hard to ignore the continuing conversation of murder. Her lips pursed. This is not how she had planned to spend her special birthday weekend with her girls.

  “We are going for a drink! At Star Island!” Mama stood and headed toward the hotel that was another of Gurney’s properties in the middle of Lake Montauk. “I need one after all this! I think we all do.”

  No one disagreed.

  The waitress showed them to a table on the deck overlooking the marina. The black and white awning provided protection against the direct rays of an afternoon sun that was still surprisingly strong. Once seated, Whitt ordered a bottle of Pol Roger Sir Winston Churchill champagne, another of her favorite bubblies, to settle Mama’s nerves.

  “I have had Pol Roger, but not the Churchill,” Finley commented. “This will be a treat.”

  “Only the best for our mama on her special weekend.” Whitt was working all the angles to get Mama in a better mood.

  “When did you get your appreciation for fine champagnes?” Mooney asked. “I mean, you are pretty young to have such a refined palate.”

  “Comes with the territory.” Whitt smiled. “It is hard to be in the company of Mama and Daddy and not know wines and bourbons. And then Finley came along and added a few more refinements to the mix.”

  “So, you’re just continuing a family tradition,” Mooney concluded.

  Finley gazed at her sister admiringly. “Yeah, but this kid takes it to a whole new level when it comes to champagnes. I love doing flights with her. You can taste the differences immediately.”

  “Well, for now, I will just do with one bottle at a time,” Mama said. “But in my current state, I think there will be multiple orders.”

  Some two hours later, Finley rose to head to the ladies’ room, leaving Whitt to continue soothing Mama’s ruffled feathers. One would think that after going through two bottles of champagne and a razor clam pizza that she wouldn’t have any ruffle left in her—but then again, this was Mama they were talking about.

  Rachel’s situation kept going through Finley’s mind. Neither she nor Whitt were convinced that Rachel had killed Mike. Then again, they didn’t know what evidence Harris had on her. But something just didn’t feel right, and Finley couldn’t put it to rest. We need to talk to Rachael. But how? There has to be some angle we can use to get in to speak with her. We’ll just have to find her a good lawyer, now, won’t we?

  Finley checked to be sure Mama couldn’t see her from where she stood just outside the entrance to the hotel restaurant and then pulled out her phone. She googled the number for the Montauk police department and hit “call”.

  “Hello, this is Finley Blake. I was wondering if I could speak to Captain Harris, please.”

  Finley knew that they probably had the call on speakerphone and the officers were rolling their eyes. They were likely wondering why she was getting involved. That was a question not even she could answer. She simply felt that help was needed.

  “Captain Harris. How may I help you?”

  “Captain Harris, this is Finley Blake. I saw that you had brought Ms. Daly in for questioning. I know that you can’t discuss the case, but can you at least tell me if she has representation?”

  Harris paused a long time—so long, Finley thought she had lost the connection.

  “She will have a court-appointed attorney assigned once she is arraigned,” he finally said.

  “You know as well as I that that isn’t going to help her in a case like this. Can I at least visit her briefly to offer some suggestions for counsel?”

  “Don’t know what good that is going to do. She can’t pay.”

  “That can be arranged. Let me just talk to her.”

  “Are you an attorney?”

  “Yes, I am. Not a criminal lawyer, mind you, but I know quite a few. Good ones. And she needs someone skilled.”

  Harris hesitated. “Be here at 8 a.m. tomorrow. I can give you fifteen minute
s with her.”

  “By the way, do you know where her husband is? Have you been able to contact him?”

  “Yeah, we finally found him sleeping off a bender. He isn’t going to be any help to her. Useless.” The captain’s disgust was palpable. “Be here at 8 a.m.”

  With that, he hung up.

  Six

  The Montauk jailhouse was tucked away in a ramshackle Quonset that looked like it would blow away in a good wind. Any savvy criminal with even half a brain could easily kick through the wall or jimmy the lock and be out before the officers had a chance to park the squad car.

  But Rachel wasn’t that kind of criminal. Whitt and Finley suspected that she wasn’t a criminal at all, just someone caught up in a cycle of circumstance and innuendo that led the police to claim her their prime suspect.

  Captain Harris met Finley at the jailhouse promptly at 8 a.m. He was clearly in a mood.

  “Come on in.” He unlocked the door and threw it open so hard that it bounced off the jam. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He led her to a small desk and passed her some papers to sign. She scanned them briefly before signing and passing them back. He then knocked on the metal door that separated the office from the cells.

  A solidly built woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun came out into the office. She looked to be forty, but Finley suspected that she was probably only in her early thirties. The cut of her uniform and the severity of the hairdo brought out a tightness in her face that aged her.

  “Clara, can you pat her down and be sure she hasn’t brought anything in?” Harris nodded at Finley.

  “Please step in here.” The woman led her to a small curtained-off area where Finley presumed body searches were conducted. When she had been patted down, Clara returned her to Harris with a grunt, nodded, and opened the metal door leading to the cells.

  “You can have fifteen minutes. Exactly. No more, so don’t ask for it,” Harris snapped as Finley walked into the cell area. As soon as she was through the metal door, it shut, and the lock clicked into place.

  There were three cells, all empty except for Rachel’s. She sat on the edge of a metal cot that was covered with what looked like an old Army Surplus blanket. A tray with non-descript yellow and gray mounds of food sat largely untouched on the small table beside the bed.

  Finley tried to break the palpable tension in the room. “Not hungry?”

  Rachel shook her head. She resembled a rag doll. A forlorn-looking, second-hand ragdoll. Her corkscrew curls hung in her face. Her face, still ribboned with tear-tracks, was now vacant of emotion.

  “Rachel, we don’t have much time. I want to help you because I don’t believe you did this, but I need to know everything you know so I can figure out what the next steps should be.”

  “Are you a lawyer? I can’t pay you.”

  “I am. I’m not the kind of lawyer you need—but I will find the right person,” Finley vowed. “Don’t worry about the money. Let’s get you out of here first.”

  “Why do you want to help me?” Rachel had moved away from Finley, seemingly suspicious of even her physical presence, never mind her motives.

  “Because I don’t think you did it. Isn’t that enough?”

  Rachel eyed her, still unsure, even with the bars between them, that she was safe.

  “Look, we really are eating into precious time. Did you kill Mike?” Finley shifted tactics. Fear might loosen her tongue.

  “No! I did my regular massage at his house around 5:30 a.m. He got a call and said he needed to make it short this time. He went to dress. I packed up and let myself out.”

  “What time did you leave?

  “About 6:15 or so.”

  “Do you often do massages at that time in the morning?” Finley didn’t try to hide her incredulity.

  “Mike likes—liked—to get the kinks worked out before he started work at around 6:30 or so. So, I would come at 5:30 three days a week and give him a forty five-minute massage, go get some breakfast, and then head to work at the spa.”

  “But this was a Saturday. Why were you there on a Saturday?”

  “He texted me late Friday night and asked for a special session. He’s a regular. I could still make your sessions at the spa, so I obliged.”

  Finley stood, looking at her through the bars, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, Finley tried another tack. “Were you and Mike having an affair?”

  “No! God, no! Where are you coming up with this sh—” Rachel was on her feet now, pacing. “Why do people, especially you city folks, always rush to the idea of an affair? ‘Did you hear? She killed him because he broke it off.’ Bull hockey!” Rachael turned to look at Finley. “Can’t men and women be friends? You have male friends, don’t you?”

  She returned to the bed and plopped down. Exasperated. “Mike and I go way back. He was my big brother’s best friend in Massapequa. We all grew up together. Mike was always around. Even though they were both years older than me, they were pretty nice to a pestering little sister. Let me tag along sometimes.” Rachel paused and swallowed hard. “When my brother died in a car accident several years ago, I really lost it. I adored him. So did Mike. After the accident, Mike stepped in to look after me. He became my surrogate big brother.” Rachael raised her head and looked straight at Finley. “He never, ever touched me.”

  Finley nodded in silent understanding.

  Turning to the wall, Rachael whispered, “Now he’s gone too.” Fresh tears streamed down her face.

  Giving Rachael a moment to compose herself, Finley changed tack again, conscious of the limited time. “Was Mike trying to quit smoking? Did he wear a patch?”

  “What?” Rachael was trying to follow Finley’s new line of questioning. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah, he had been a pretty heavy smoker several years back, especially after my brother’s accident, but has been trying to quit. Started using nicotine patches to help.” She smiled wryly. “Funny thing is that it almost seems like he traded one vice for another. He became addicted to those smoker’s patches. He was always afraid of running out, so he would get me to go to the store if he ran low. I picked up some for him the night before he died and dropped them off when I did his massage. Why? What’s that have to do any of this mess?”

  Finley searched Rachel’s face for tells. “The police are saying Mike died of nicotine poisoning.”

  Rachael shot to her feet. “And they think that I messed with his patches? Why the hell would I do that? Mike is—was—my friend! One of the few in the world that I had. I didn’t mess with his patches. My God, I would never do anything to hurt Mike! He was like my brother.” New tears ran down the streaks on her cheeks like rainwater through backstreet gutters.

  “We’ll get you out of here,” Finley stated with a calmness she didn’t feel. She wanted to reach through the bars and give Rachael a hug to stop her from crying. “They may not let me back in, but I will find you a lawyer to represent you in the next day or so. Just hang tight.”

  “Time’s up!” Harris barked through the door. He clearly ate raw biscuits this morning. He showed her to the door without even a parting word.

  Finley didn’t really need one. What she needed was for him to do his job and find the person who did kill Mike. She knew in her gut that Rachel wasn’t the one.

  Finley walked over to the bagel shop and ordered coffee. Black, as usual.

  Completely lost in thought, it took a while for Finley to realize that someone was speaking to her.

  “Word has it that you saw Rachel this morning.” A middle-aged black woman with caramel skin and hypnotic amber eyes spoke from behind the counter. “I’m Lyla, by the way.”

  “Hi, I’m Finley. Yes, I did,” Finley replied. She wasn’t sure which way the conversation was going, so she waited. She shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly word of her involvement woul
d get around in this small town, but she was.

  “I’m glad. That poor little thing wouldn’t hurt anybody. She’s a hard worker. Comes here when she isn’t booked at the spa. She just never gets a break. Should have been that mongrel husband of hers that died instead of Mike.”

  Finley raised her eyebrow. “I take it you don’t like her husband much.”

  “He’s useless. Completely and utterly useless.” Finley had heard that word used before to describe Rachel’s husband.

  “Speak of the devil…there he goes. There!” Lyla inclined her head toward the window as she came over to the table to pour Finley more coffee.

  A tall, gangly young man with surfer-cut blond hair was walking past the shop. As he drew alongside the door, he cut a sharp look at Lyla. His lip curled up into a smirk as he nodded a sarcastic greeting.

  “Mangy creature,” Lyla muttered. “I will never understand what Rachael saw in him.”

  Lyla stood near Finley’s table, coffee pot in hand, and watched him pass.

  “Does he have a job? Or does he just hang around?” Finley asked.

  “He got the family business—heating and air-con—when his dad died.” Lyla topped off Finley’s coffee again before going to set the pot on the burner. “He has a good little outfit. All these mansions around here all wanting their HVAC units serviced. A lot of them want upgrades, too, so Rachael says.” Lyla shook her head. “But that one … he rarely does anything. If it weren’t for the rest of his crew, they’d be out of business. He’s just trifling if you know what I mean. Just trifling.”

  “So, what does he do all day if he’s not working?”

  “Goodness only knows. Most days it seems as though all he does is spy on poor Rachel. Don’t know why. She is a good girl, you know. A hard worker here and at the spa. Takes on private clients as well. Just trying to bring in some money like the rest of us.”

  During the breaks in the conversation, when Lyla was waiting on other customers, Finley sent a message to a former colleague who might be willing to take Rachel’s case on pro bono. Now she had to wait and hope Maryanne took the case. She thanked Lyla for the coffee and headed for the door.