by Leslie Nagel
“Know-it-all.” Charley buried her nose in her snifter. “I bet you’re a big hit with juries.”
“Maybe someday I’ll get a chance to find out.” He cocked his head. “Why exactly does Millie think the will is in a book?”
“According to Millie, Gussie told her so. ‘Read between the lines,’ Gussie apparently told her.” She frowned. “Augusta Mulbridge must’ve been senile. My dad says she was a puzzle fanatic, but that’s the worst clue I’ve ever heard. It could mean anything. For all we know, the old bat hid a hundred more clues in that house and they’ve all been destroyed by now.” She took a slug of brandy, but it didn’t cool her temper.
“The next question,” Sean said, “is who chased you, and why?”
“I’d say the ‘why’ is plain enough,” she replied. “There’s only one reason Millie’s nephew would sneak into Mulbridge House, and that’s to look for the missing will, the will his aunt Millie is obsessed with finding.”
Sean bolted upright. “Millie’s nephew?”
“I recognized his voice.” She closed her eyes briefly. “And his smell. It was Benjy Wycoff. He’s the one who hurt my shoulder.” She described her and Frankie’s visit to the Peache residence. “I was on the verge of finding out if Millie knew anything about Calvin’s murder, when Benjy burst in and literally threw us out. He’s got it in for me now, which may explain why he seized the opportunity to terrorize me this morning. Millie’s certainly terrified of him. He’s as big a bully now as he was in high school. Do you remember him?”
“He’d be tough to forget. He moved here from Australia in fourth grade after his parents died in an accident. Aunt Millie was his only living relative.” He shifted. “We called him Kangaroo, on account of his accent, and the fact that the dude had gigantic feet. He was huge—not fat, just twice the size of anyone else in our class. He lost the accent eventually, but he was always the biggest kid in school. And the meanest.”
“He’s big,” Charley said, then added pointedly, “and he’s violent. Do you happen to remember if he was left-handed?”
He blinked at her. “I’d love to see a schematic of your brain, Red. But now that you ask, yeah, I think so. He was always shoving in to grab the left-handed scissors in art class, making kids move so he could sit at the end of the lunch table, stuff like that. Why?”
“Benjy’s presence in Mulbridge House? His relationship with Millie? It all proves he’s involved. If he’d caught me this morning, I know he would’ve hurt me, maybe worse.” Charley felt the rightness of her logic. “I think he might be the killer.”
“Whoa. Just, whoa.” Sean held up a hand, palm out. “I don’t disagree that his behavior is suspicious, but it’s still not proof of anything.”
“You’re thinking like a lawyer,” she countered. “Think like an investigator for a minute. Whoever killed Calvin is at least six foot five. Marc’s six four, and that baboon is a good two inches taller. The murderer is also most likely left-handed.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” The cleaning woman was now running her duster over the framed photos near the trophy case, obviously trying to listen in on their conversation. Sean glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “You’re accusing a guy we both know of murder. I mean, yeah, K-Man liked to push smaller guys around, but it’s a pretty big leap from bullying to—”
“Stop,” Charley demanded, her pulse quickening. “Back up. Did you just call him K-Man?”
“Kangaroo, K-Man, Special K.” Sean shrugged. “We all had a bunch of nicknames for each oth—”
“Remember what Zach Martin told us? K-Man,” Charley said with growing excitement, “is the head of the Purple Tang.”
Sean’s jaw dropped, his expression almost comical as he processed this. “Damn me,” he managed at last. “It’s been so many years, I never put it together.”
Charley’s mind raced to fill in the blanks. “Last year he had them boosting cars, but the police shut that down. The group disbanded, or maybe they just went dormant, until this new opportunity presented itself. If Benjy is the mysterious K-Man, he’s been running his drug business out of the Mulbridge estate for months, since shortly after Augusta Mulbridge died. His aunt talks about Mulbridge House all the time. That’s how he knew it was empty. Hell, she might’ve even known the security arrangements.”
“Slow down,” Sean begged. He dragged a hand through blond hair still damp with rain. “You’re saying Wycoff is a drug lord and he murdered Calvin Prescott? Suddenly he’s a crime kingpin?”
“I don’t know about ‘suddenly,’ ” Charley objected. “He’s got a record for petty theft and low-level drug possession. So it’s not such a big leap after all. And if I’m right, it means everything’s connected: the Tang case, the burglaries, Calvin’s murder.” She shifted and winced at the pain in her ankle, wishing she could pace as she worked it out in her mind, a habit she’d picked up from Marc. “Calvin walked in on Benjy ransacking his office. Calvin was friends with Millie; it follows he’d know Benjy by sight. Getting caught would lead to all sorts of awkward questions, questions that might uncover Benjy’s involvement with the Purple Tang. So, instead of just running away, that cowardly bastard grabbed something and bashed Calvin’s head in before he could call the police.” Remembering the wrecked office and her friend’s lifeless body, she clamped down on a surge of grief and anger. “I need to call Marc. The sooner they arrest Benjy and get to the truth, the better.”
Sean touched his temple, then spread his fingers wide. “Mind officially blown here. But I still don’t understand why Wycoff was hunting for the will. Because his aunt asked him to?”
Charley shook her head. “I doubt he cares one jigger about Millie’s dreams for Mulbridge House.”
“Maybe he wanted to find the will so SOAP could stop the demolition and he could maintain his base of operations,” Sean suggested.
Charley’s gut told her this didn’t play either. “Any fool could see the writing on the wall, and believe me, Benjy is no fool. After lying abandoned for eighteen months, Mulbridge House is now very much in the public eye. Whichever way the vote goes this afternoon, Benjy needs to move on. Even Zach Martin knew the base’s days were numbered.”
“So if the cops already know about the Purple Tang, and he’s done using Mulbridge House, why risk going back there?”
“I don’t think Benjy knows they know, or he didn’t until this morning. He’s kept his identity completely secret, even from his own foot soldiers. The only person he communicates with directly is a boy named Corey Reynolds, and he’s disappeared.” She took a thoughtful sip of brandy. “Who knows why a criminal does anything? One thing I do know: His type doesn’t lift a finger unless it benefits Number One.”
As she spoke, Charley sensed this was a critical point. Benjy Wycoff wouldn’t do anyone any favors, not even his own aunt. So, if he wasn’t trying to save a drug base that was already doomed, why had he gone on a crime spree that included murdering a defenseless old man? It always came back to motive. What would motivate someone like Benjy? Money? Power? Millie seemed an unlikely source for either.
Before she could pursue this train of thought further, Sean asked, “What I mean is, what was Wycoff doing this morning? If he wasn’t there to search for the will, why do you think he was at Mulbridge House?”
“He definitely didn’t follow me,” she said firmly. “Now that we know Benjy’s the K-Man, the simplest explanation for this morning is that he left something in that garage, or thought he did. When he went back to get it, he saw me entering the main house and decided to give me a good scare.”
“Or worse.” He shuddered. “If you quote me I’ll deny it, but part of me can’t wait for tomorrow, when that garage and everything else out there will be a pile of rubble. Holland can build her nice little subdivision, and we can all go back to our safe, boring Oakwood lives.”
Charley hesitated, wondering if she should mention her suspicions about Phase Two. Sean was on the Planning Co
mmission, after all. “What do you think of her?”
“Holland?” Sean asked in surprise. “Aside from her bossiness and general disregard for other people? Not much, to be honest.”
“Aside from that.” Charley waved a hand. “Do you think she’d ever break the law to get what she wants? Pamela Tate certainly thinks so.” In a few words, she sketched the salient points of Treasure Girl’s accusations. “I’m certainly not colluding as Pamela suggests, but given the chance, do you think Holland would?”
Sean turned the coffee mug in his hands, staring at nothing as he considered the question. He was silent for so long that Charley wondered if he intended to answer. It struck her that her old friend looked exhausted. Suddenly he turned to her, his gaze intense. “Over the last few days I’ve been poking around, doing some digging, and I found…Well, I’m not sure what I’ve found. But something doesn’t add up.”
“You mean with Holland?”
“I’m not saying that.” He grimaced. “But there’s more involved here than—I’m worried it could get dangerous for anyone asking too many questions.”
“Dangerous? Dangerous how?” she demanded. “Sean, what have you found out? Did Holland actually bribe someone to get her project approved?”
And there it was again, that momentary glimpse of darkness, of shadow, an unnamed burden dragging at Sean, weighing him down. Was it fear? Anger? Grief? He started to answer, then shook his head, clearly torn. Finally he said firmly, “I’m not going to accuse anyone. Not until I know more. But I need you to promise me, Red. Promise me you’ll stay away from Holland and anything to do with the Mulbridge estate. Please? No more sneaking around, no more crazy detective stuff until I can find proof, one way or the other.” He laid his hand on hers, blue eyes pleading. “I need you to trust me. Will you steer clear of all this, at least for now?”
“Proof of what?” Charley thought of the plans she’d glimpsed, of Holland’s own anger and fear. “Sean, I think—”
Just then an earsplitting shriek caused her to jerk violently, spilling brandy into her lap as Sean nearly dropped his coffee. They turned to find the cleaning woman white-faced, pointing at the trophy case, duster hanging limp from her other hand. The case’s glass door stood wide open.
“What the hell?” Sean exclaimed.
“Sangre!” the girl cried out, then screamed again. “Eso es sangre! Madre de dios!”
They heard running footsteps as Davey reappeared, accompanied by a man in a coat and tie. He was in his midfifties, with intelligent brown eyes and close-cropped black hair touched with white at the temples. Time had carved deep laugh lines around eyes and mouth in a strong face the color of rich dark chocolate. He wasn’t laughing now. He approached the girl, speaking sharply in Spanish, as she continued to wail and point into the case.
Charley climbed to her feet, discarding the ice bag on her shoulder and wincing slightly as she put pressure on her ankle. “What is it? What’s she saying?”
“Sangre means ‘blood,’ ” Sean translated. “Can’t do much business in Florida without picking up a few words of Spanish.”
They joined the others around the trophy case, peering inside at what Charley could see were seven clubs, each one different, each mounted horizontally on a pair of curved wooden brackets set against a background of green velvet. Each had a small brass plaque beneath it with a name and date engraved. A larger plaque centered at the top read presidents’ club. Charley looked closer and saw that each name was that of a former president of the United States. Presumably, these men had all played the historic Dayton course on the dates indicated.
Unfortunately, Gerald Ford was going to be royally pissed if he ever paid a return visit. Charley could now see that, unlike the other clubs, which gleamed with polish and the loving care lavished on items of special value, his club was dull with grime, the royal blue leather grip darkened by years of handling, frayed and coming loose where it wrapped around the wooden shaft.
She recognized that blue grip instantly. She’d recently seen clubs just like this one, a collection of clubs with royal blue grips in a matching antique leather golf bag.
But it was the bulbous head that most strongly held her attention, and at which the young woman still pointed, although her screams had subsided to a quiet keening. Davey shushed her gently and put an arm around her shoulders. For the dark stains on the club head were not the discoloration of dirt or neglect, but were instead the reddish black of dried blood, thick smears of gore, and gobs of some other substance that didn’t bear thinking of, to which several short gray hairs still adhered.
Chapter 17
Once again she braced herself against the seismic wave of Marc’s presence as he burst through the double doors, long dark coat swirling behind him. This time she sensed more fury than fear. She watched his eyes flick around the elegant lobby, cataloging the important details, measuring the potential for danger, utterly in control as he took possession of the room without saying a word. Everyone fell silent. Davey stood with the cleaning woman while she sniffled and dabbed at red, puffy eyes. The man in the suit, pacing and talking rapidly into a cellphone, took one look at Marc and ended his call. Sean steadied Charley with a supporting arm around her waist as she stood protectively over the open display case and its grisly contents.
She felt Marc’s eyes take in her disheveled appearance: her wet hair, the mud-stained knees of her snug leggings, her missing right shoe. She knew the instant he realized, with a sharp intake of breath, that Sean wasn’t merely standing with his arm around her, he was supporting her weight because she was favoring her right ankle. His expression morphed from anger to alarm in an instant. Nevertheless, Charley offered no explanation, merely pointing awkwardly into the display case with her left hand.
“That club matches the set in Calvin’s office,” she announced. “Recognize the grips?”
“What happened? All you all right?” He ignored the golf clubs, his voice taut as his fingers hovered just short of touching her. “What’s wrong with your shoulder? And your ankle?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a bit surprised that her voice sounded so calm.
“You don’t look fine. Your face is scratched. You’re obviously in pain. Did someone attack you?” He glared at Sean.
“I fell,” she said impatiently. “It’s nothing serious. Can we please discuss me later? Because this has to be the golf club that Calvin’s killer used. Isn’t that more important?”
Marc opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get the words out, Paul hurried in. His shirt was buttoned off-kilter, buttons and holes mismatched, and he’d missed shaving a long patch of his heavy square jaw below his right ear. He, too, appraised her appearance with one swift glance, deep-set eyes registering mild surprise followed by amused resignation. He turned to Marc.
“What’d I miss?”
At the same moment, the man in the suit stepped forward and extended his hand. “Virgil Ames, day manager. You’re with the police, I hope? This situation is extremely distressing. Naturally we’ll cooperate in any way we can.”
“Glad to hear it.” Paul displayed his shield. “Detectives Brixton and Trenault, Oakwood Safety Department. What’ve we got here?”
With obvious effort, Marc tore his eyes from Charley and produced his shield. “Everyone step back, please.”
He removed a small flashlight from an inside pocket of his raincoat and played it over the interior of the case. The beam lingered on the bulbous wooden head and along the shaft of the club with the blue leather grip, revealing the dark stains and short gray hairs. Charley’s mind shied away from the possibilities of that other substance.
Marc snapped off the light. “Did anyone touch it?”
“Not since we arrived.” Charley avoided his gaze, knowing what was coming. “The case hasn’t been out of my sight since we came in.”
“And when was that, precisely?” The question carried an unmistakable edge.
“A little after seven. The lobby
was deserted,” she continued quickly, not allowing him to pursue the question of where she’d been prior to seven a.m. “She”—Charley indicated the cleaning woman—“came in a few minutes later and started dusting and polishing, working her way around the room. She opened the display case and started screaming. I recognized the golf club instantly and called you.”
“When was the last time you cleaned inside this case, uh, Miranda?” Paul asked, reading her name tag and giving her a friendly smile. She stared back in wide-eyed silence.
“Her English isn’t good, but I can translate for you,” Virgil Ames said, “if that’s acceptable?” He repeated Paul’s question in rapid Spanish, keeping his voice low and soothing, as if coaxing a frightened animal from its hiding place. Miranda replied slowly, but clearly and without hesitation. At one point her eyes darted toward the case and its horrific contents. She paled, then kept her eyes fixed firmly on Virgil.
“She dusts all the public areas every other day or so, and vacuums everything daily,” Virgil related. “Cleaning of the secured artifacts is normally done with the dusting. We have several trophy cases throughout the building. The last time she opened this case was Wednesday morning.”
“It’s kept locked between cleanings?” Paul scribbled rapidly in a tiny battered spiral notebook. “Who keeps the key?”
“Well, ahem.” Virgil shifted his weight. “The case is kept locked, but the key is, um…well, it’s quite decorative. The case is antique, as are most of the other display cases here. All the keys are on an antique brass ring, which hangs on the wall just through there.”
He indicated an arched opening to their left. Charley had stepped through it earlier—careful to keep the display case in her sight line—and found herself in a sort of inner lobby, the space lined with low padded banquettes, potted palm trees, and useless pieces of furniture bearing oriental vases or candelabra. The walls were crowded with a collection of framed prints. To the left hung a hideous gilt-framed mirror over a small chest of drawers. Protruding from the wall next to the mirror was a brass hook, easily missed among all the décor unless you were looking for it. Or unless you already knew where it was.