Clean Getaway (Squeaky Clean Mysteries Book 13)

by Christy Barritt

  He shrugged and readjusted the boards he was carrying. “It’s a small town. It’s not often we find something interesting to talk about. Re-opening a murder investigation fits the bill. Does Jarrod know you’re coming?”

  I shook my head. “No, I didn’t know how else to track him down. He’s not in the phone book, but someone did mention he worked here.”

  “He’s working in one of the fields out by the water. Would you like to catch a ride in the Gator? That would save you some time.” He nodded toward a vehicle that looked like a souped-up John Deere golf cart.

  I figured getting a ride couldn’t hurt. I hoped it couldn’t hurt, at least. For that matter, I really hoped he didn’t end up killing me, burying my body in the field, and then using me to fertilize his newest vino.

  Pinot Gabby-io.

  It had a nice ring to it. A little too nice.

  “Sure,” I finally said, remembering that I had my gun in my purse. I’d use it if I had to. I hoped I didn’t have to.

  On one hand, I wanted to stop suspecting everyone. On the other hand, I wanted to live.

  Decisions, decisions.

  I climbed onto the Gator a minute later and pulled my coat closer to my neck as the wind hit me again. As it did, my stomach groaned. Was that anxiety? I didn’t think so. It wasn’t my normal MO. I hoped the feeling would pass.

  “Nice place you have here,” I said, pushing past the discomfort. “It’s unexpected.”

  “Thanks. We like it out here. We started doing the kayak wine tours last year, and it’s brought a lot of attention to the area. There are two other vineyards on the coast who participate.”

  “So people kayak to different wineries on the water?” I clarified.

  “That’s right. People have seemed to really enjoy it.”

  “Clever idea.” I paused as an ice-cold wind smacked me in the face. “How long have you been in the area?”

  “All my life,” he said.

  “Did you know Ron and Margie?” Yes, I went back to my standard question. It was simple but effective, and one never knew when surprising insight might be revealed.

  “I went to school with them, as a matter of fact.”

  “Did you? I forget what it’s like in small towns.” My stomach groaned again. This wasn’t good. Especially since I was in the middle of nowhere.

  “They were nice people,” he said. “I can’t imagine them having any enemies. That’s why I’ve always thought the crime was random. It was the only thing that made sense.”

  “No enemies, huh?” Must be nice. I had enemies like a prom queen had friends.

  “None that I knew about. They were good people.” He paused near one of his workers out in the field. “Here you are. I’ll be back around in fifteen if you want a ride. Otherwise, just keep walking toward the house, and you’ll get to your car eventually.”

  “Thanks.”

  I climbed out and walked between rows of grapevines. A man, maybe a few years younger than I, was pruning the vines as I approached. The man wasn’t especially tall. He had light-brown hair, scraggy facial scruff, and a hooded gaze.

  “Can I help you?” He squinted against the morning sun as I approached.

  I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. “I hope so. I have some questions about Ron and Margie Simmons.”

  He froze before slowly straightening and lowering his pruning shears. “No one’s asked me about them in a long time. Who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Gabby Thomas.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who hired you?”

  I shook my head, keeping an eye on those pruning shears. “I’m being funded by a private organization to help solve cold cases.”

  “I see. What can I help you with?”

  My uncomfortable stomach churned with a bout of nausea. Nausea? Morning sickness?

  No, that couldn’t be. I’d had no other symptoms or indications that I could be pregnant, so I was going to scratch that possibility.

  “I understand that you were arguing with Ron a few days before he died,” I said, my throat suddenly uncomfortable and dry. “I was hoping you could tell me what that was about.”

  His gaze darkened. “He didn’t want me to date his daughter. That’s what we always argued about.”

  “But you dated her anyway?” The breeze swept over me again, and I pulled my coat tighter.

  He shrugged and began pruning again, expertly using the sharp sheers. Did he know how to work a gun with the same expertise? I needed to be careful.

  “I was young and stupid,” he said. “I liked her. I liked her a lot. And she liked me.”

  “But she was only thirteen.”

  “Nothing about her seemed thirteen.” His voice sounded hard and unyielding.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “When you’re seventeen, you don’t think like an adult. I thought Mr. Simmons’s argument was ridiculous. I told him it was Jessie’s choice. Why should he come between us and our happiness?”

  Because Jessie was too young and immature to make decisions like that herself. I kept the thought silent.

  “How did he respond?”

  “He was mad. Really mad. But that didn’t change anything.”

  No one could have probably told me that when I was his age either. Actually, even when I was older that would have been true. I could be a bit headstrong at times, but I was starting to mellow . . . maybe.

  “So, you didn’t kill him so you could keep dating Jessie?” I asked, deciding to be direct.

  He clipped more vigorously. “Of course not. I had an alibi for that night.”

  “Did you get one of your friends to do it then?” Oh . . . more bluntness. Were Evie and I more alike than I thought? Maybe I was just in denial.

  His grip tightened on the sheers in his hands, but he paused. “That’s ridiculous. None of my friends were like that.”

  “But you were all doing drugs, right? Maybe you made some kind of deal.”

  Three for three in being forthright today. Maybe not the best idea considering how isolated it felt out here. As if to confirm that, another wave of nausea swept over me.

  This wasn’t good. And it wasn’t passing.

  His pruning was forgotten. Instead, he turned an icy glare on me. “Look, lady. Don’t come into town making all these accusations. I didn’t do anything. I loved Jessie and didn’t want to hurt her. She was devastated by her parents’ deaths. I wouldn’t have done that to her.”

  The jury was still out on that. “I see. Do you know who might have?”

  “I have no idea.” He stared at me, daring me to defy him.

  I took him up on that challenge. “You’ve been mixed up in the wrong crowd. What did you hear?”

  “How do you know I’ve been mixed up with the wrong crowd? Was someone pointing a finger at me? Because maybe I should set them straight.”

  His emotions were escalating. I needed to tread carefully.

  “It’s a hunch,” I said. “It’s my job to question everyone. That’s all.”

  He shrugged it off. “No, I haven’t heard anything. And I probably would have. Some of the local troublemakers would have confessed during some of their drug-induced blab sessions. I never heard anything. Whoever did it, he wasn’t from our group.”

  “So, you have no theories?” I confirmed.

  “I have no theories. I wish I did. I wish I could help you. But that’s all I’ve got to say.” He went back to pruning.

  With that, I started the trek back toward the warmth of my car. Before I reached it, I emptied the contents of my stomach right beside the roots of a grapevine. Did puke count as fertilizer?

  I wasn’t sure. And, at the moment, I couldn’t even think of anything remotely witty to say about it except . . .

  Oh no.

  This wasn’t over.

  I had to pull over to the side of the road twice as I traveled back to the cottage, both times to throw up. I also had to stop at a grotesque gas station to use the bathro
om. This was shaping up to be an awful day, to say the least.

  This wasn’t morning sickness, not with the way my stomach was cramping up and the cold sweat that sprinkled my skin.

  Could it be a stomach virus? Or maybe it was food poisoning?

  But if it was food poisoning, then Sherman and Evie could be sick also. We’d all basically eaten the same things. Had it been the seafood last night at the Banks’s house?

  If I remembered correctly, food poisoning could start within hours or days of eating something bad. I mentally reviewed everything I’d eaten. It was hard to narrow it down, but seafood always had a bad rap.

  How about those clams I’d eaten from the shack on the side of the road? The location had been sketchy.

  I sighed. This was yet another setback. How many more could we face before this whole investigation dried up? It wasn’t for lack of trying, but because someone was setting obstacle after obstacle in our way.

  Was that what this was? Had someone set me up again? Gas leak. Slashed tires. Food poisoning?

  Once I arrived back home, I changed into some yoga pants and a T-shirt and crawled in bed. In between getting sick, I lay in bed and attempted to keep working by reviewing my notes.

  Really, I just wanted to be at home. I always did when I didn’t feel good. All my energy had been zapped.

  Finally, an hour after I got back, Evie called. I hadn’t wanted to call her, just in case she was in the middle of talking to someone about the case. I didn’t want to interrupt and risk ruining a helpful conversation.

  “Hey, Evie.” My voice sounded raw and crackly.

  “You sound terrible,” she said. “Did you drink too much vino at the vineyard? Do a little private wine tasting?”

  “No, I don’t drink.” My dad was an alcoholic, so I never wanted to touch the stuff. “I’ve been incredibly sick. Are you and Sherman showing any symptoms of food poisoning?”

  “Food poisoning? No, not that I know of. What did you eat that we didn’t?”

  “I have no idea. I grabbed some orange juice and a granola bar this morning.”

  “Well, we’re okay. Do you need to go to the ER?”

  Did I? “No, not yet. But if I get worse, I’ll consider it.”

  Had someone done something with the food in our home? Maybe when the gas line had been tampered with?

  “Here’s the good news—Ron’s and Margie’s deaths don’t appear to have been a murder suicide,” Evie said. “I’ll tell you more when I get back. For now, rest.”

  I hung up and leaned back in bed again. Another wave of nausea simmered inside me. I really hoped this didn’t last long. Because I wasn’t good at resting.

  I couldn’t let this set me back. No, I could work in between feeling sick. Who needed to sleep off a sickness when you could power through it?

  I stared at my notes, my gaze drifting from focused to blurry again and again. Sleep wanted to find me. I should let it. It would be the best thing for my body. But I was too stubborn.

  Based on what I’d learned today, it appeared that Jarrod was innocent. I had no evidence that Dewey was guilty either. Migrant worker Emilio Perez was long gone.

  Where did all this leave me?

  Nowhere. That was where.

  I needed to talk to the Watfords. Maybe I could even explore the highway serial killer theory. I was running out of ideas.

  I ran to the bathroom one more time and then nearly collapsed back into my bed. Despite the fact that I wanted to pull the covers up and fall asleep, I didn’t. Instead, I grabbed my computer and began doing a search of other murders that had occurred off Lankford Highway, which stretched up and down the Eastern Shore.

  I knew it was a long shot, but I decided to explore the idea anyway. At least this way I could potentially rule out this theory as a possibility.

  I didn’t find much, but I decided to go back fifteen years.

  There was one other murder that caught my eye. It took place twelve years ago up in Onancock. A man had been found dead off the highway, and he’d also pulled over to the shoulder for no obvious reason.

  I was intrigued.

  Out of curiosity, I picked up the phone and called the police department in Onancock, the town where the murder had taken place. The detective on the case agreed to meet with me.

  The catch was, he had to meet with me today because he was leaving to go out of town tomorrow.

  My stomach groaned in protest. The things I did for my job.

  Thirty minutes later, I pulled up to a small-town police department. I’d showered, brushed my teeth, and I was pretty sure there was nothing left in my stomach. I still felt clammy, and my belly still cramped some. But I didn’t want to let this opportunity pass.

  The town of Onancock was adorable and picturesque. All these small towns were making me want to move here. They just seemed so happy with all their cheerful gift shops and local, unique restaurants. These places had history and community, and what wasn’t there to love about that?

  Once inside the station, I was led into a conference room where a Detective Marshall was waiting. As I walked past other offices, the scent of a microwaved dinner made another bout of nausea rise in me. I did a quick scan for the bathroom, just in case I needed it.

  Please, Lord. Don’t let me throw up here and now. Make me throw up all You want once I get home and have privacy.

  I drew in a deep breath and tried to compose myself.

  I was surprised to see the detective was only in his mid-thirties—not terribly older than me. Since this was a cold case, I’d expected him to have more years on me. He had short light-brown hair, a thin build, and a cleft chin.

  “You’re Gabby?” He rose to greet me.

  I nodded, knowing I looked pale and sickly probably. He had no idea that I didn’t always look like this. Nor did he probably realize that each of my movements felt weak and weighed down by unseen anchors.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” I said, my stomach gurgling.

  I picked a professional outfit to wear, at least. The black pants and tailored jacket fit better now that I’d purged an easy five pounds from my system.

  I was trying to look on the bright side.

  “It’s no problem,” he said, nodding to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I nearly collapsed into the chair, my body rebelling against being here.

  He lowered himself into his chair also. “I’ll do what I can to help. The lead detective on the case was Lewis Thompson. He had a heart attack five years ago and passed away. I was only a junior detective at the time, but I hope I can help you.”

  “As I told you on the phone, I’m investigating the murder of Ron and Margie Simmons down in Machipongo. I was researching to see if there were any other similar murders in the area, and I came across some news stories on Max Winchester.”

  “Yes, I’m very familiar with Ron and Margie Simmons’s murder. The entire Eastern Shore talked about it for months.” He remained emotionless and professional.

  “Did anyone ever look into whether or not the two murders could be connected?”

  He nodded once—slowly and thoughtfully. “We did, actually. Mostly because of the abandoned car on the side of the highway. But we couldn’t find any strong connections other than the highway.”

  “How was Max Winchester killed?”

  He pushed a folder my way. “It’s all in here, and you’re welcome to take a look. He was also shot, but it was with a different weapon. And he was shot from behind.”

  “And, to your knowledge, there was no connection between Max and the Simmons? They didn’t know each other?”

  He let out a slow breath, as if the question burdened him. “We questioned several people about this, and no one indicated that there was a connection. Max retired early and moved to Onancock so he could spend his days fishing and boating. He’d been an investment banker from up in New Jersey. He was divorced with no children. In fact, he’d only been in this area
for six months.”

  “That’s not exactly long enough to make enemies.”

  “He was in town for long enough to make at least one.”

  My back straightened as I sensed he was about to say something interesting. “Who’s that?”

  “Dewey Witherspoon.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dewey Witherspoon? His name kept coming up, didn’t it?

  “Why were he and Dewey enemies?” I asked, nearly holding my breath with anticipation.

  “Apparently, the two had some type of altercation while out boating,” Detective Marshall said. “Dewey claimed he’d been cut off. It really was nothing worth killing over. But he was a connecting point between the cases.”

  “He claims to have an alibi the night of Ron and Margie’s murder,” I said.

  “And he claims to have had one on the night of this murder as well,” he said “We couldn’t pin it on him, even if we wanted to. The case against him just wasn’t strong enough.”

  I leaned back, absorbing the new information and almost forgetting how badly I felt. “Given the fact that this man was shot from behind makes me think he could have been killed by someone he knew,” I said. “Like, maybe he tried to walk away from an argument.”

  “Or he could have been trying to escape.”

  I nodded. “Good point.”

  “We checked Max’s bank records and his emails and phone records. We couldn’t find anything that would indicate he was having problems with anyone—other than that one incident with Dewey.”

  “Were there any other suspects, however vague?”

  He crossed his arms and remained stoic a moment. “We looked at his ex-wife. She was very bitter toward him. We played with the idea that she’d hired someone, but we couldn’t find any proof of it.”

  I nodded, realizing this trip had pretty much been for nothing. But at least I had more insight. It was a shame to have so much insight, but no answers.

  Of course, there was always Dewey. He kept popping up again and again like one of those annoying Whack-A-Moles. Only this mole had crazy, bloodthirsty eyes.

  “You can take this with you.” He nodded toward the folder. “We’d love to close this case, but it’s gone cold. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any connection between Max and the Simmons. Nothing strong enough to pursue, at least.”