A Hint of Murder

by Mary Maxwell

  “Let’s hope so,” Shaw said. “Tell me about the tattoos again. I want to make sure I wrote down all the particulars that he shared with you.”

  “Won’t you drive down and conduct your own interview?” I asked.

  “You can count on it,” he replied. “But I want to go over it once more with you. I’m running on about three hours of sleep and fumes at this point. My mind’s a little fuzzy.”

  “Okay, sure,” I said. “Jason saw two tattoos when he delivered the barbecue to the guy at the Beachcomber. He had a watch with no hands on his right wrist. The other was two sets of initials inside a heart.”

  “What were the initials again?”

  “NM and BG.” I paused to think about the second pair of letters. “And I’m guessing the first set represents the barbecue fan, and the other one—”

  “If it was BC,” Ethan cut in, “would you go with Big Caboose?”

  “Baby Girl,” I said. “The guy that owns the Mercedes SUV referred to his companion with that nickname.”

  CHAPTER 17

  After I returned to Crystal Bay, I parked the car at home, walked over to Belle Harbor Beach and sat on my favorite bench between Rocky’s Rent-A-Ride bike stand and the volleyball courts. Since moving back to town, I’d enjoyed a nightly respite by the water. It was usually just me, a gentle breeze and a black velvet sky overhead. But as soon as I got settled on the bench, I realized that I had company: Reginald Park was strolling along the waterline with a phone to his ear. He was cursing angrily at someone named Taylor about a troubled business deal.

  I tried to be discreet as the bank president carried on his conversation, but a few words floated across the sand to my perch on the concrete bench. I’d heard most of them before, of course, but a few made my face go pink. “Aunt Dot would be going over there with a bar of soap and a hickory switch,” I said under my breath. “Not to mention a few choice words of her own.”

  When Reg finished his call, he finally noticed me. I returned his wave and watched as he shuffled over to the bench.

  “Howdy, Liz!” he said in his trademark bellow. “How are your aunt and mother doing?”

  “They’re both fine,” I said. “How’s your family?”

  “Fair to partly cloudy,” he said. “Our youngest got a scholarship to Florida State and her brother announced last week that he’s going to Hollywood to be in the movies.”

  “How exciting!” I said cheerfully.

  He scowled. “For who? The kids or the parents?”

  “Well, hopefully everyone,” I said. “Has your son done much acting?”

  Reg laughed. “Oh, Travis doesn’t want to be an actor. His goal is to work as a stuntman.”

  “Aha! Talk about a hard knock life.”

  He grunted. “That’s one way to describe it. Another would be dead broke and calling home to borrow money from dear old dad every month.”

  I listened for a few minutes as Reg shared a long story about the differences between his son and daughter. When he finished, I asked if he’d heard the news about Simon Wargrave.

  His jolly grin vanished instantly. “Poor fool. I always knew he’d meet an ugly end.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Why did you think that?”

  Reg shrugged. “Hey, when you burn the candle at both ends and burn every bridge, there’s no avoiding those come-to-Jesus moments.”

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  “Well enough to know I didn’t want to know everything,” he replied. “If you get what I’m saying.”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’ve heard a few things since the news got around town. Sounds like Simon followed his own path.”

  Reg sat down beside me. “That’s one way to put it. I do believe that being born with a silver spoon in his mouth set the poor guy up for nothing but trouble. He thought he was like a god, someone who lived by a different set of rules than other folks. In his personal life, he treated all of his friends and family members like doormats. And in the real estate business, he was a greedy, bitter, vindictive bully.”

  “I’ve heard about both sides of his life,” I said. “That’s why I wasn’t totally surprised when I learned that he’d been murdered.”

  “When I heard that Simon was dead, I figured it was his ticker,” Reg told me. “His health hadn’t been all that good the past few years, and he had a heart attack scare recently.”

  “I heard about that,” I replied. “But twenty-five stab wounds aren’t generally associated with coronaries.”

  Reg whistled. “It was really that many?”

  I nodded. “That’s the scuttlebutt,” I said. “The police haven’t released the autopsy results yet, but my sources claimed to have heard that detail from someone with first-hand knowledge of the crime scene.”

  “You know, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression,” Reg said. “I shouldn’t bad-mouth somebody that died in such an awful way. But what goes around, comes around, right? You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

  “True,” I said. “But there’s a big difference between fleas and that many stab wounds.”

  He nodded. “Crime of passion, right? I’ve seen some of those Dateline shows on Saturday nights. They always say a murder that violent was a crime of passion that probably involved somebody the victim knew.”

  “Correct,” I said. “One or two stab wounds, it might’ve been a crime of opportunity.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Reg.

  “Well, for example, if Simon interrupted a burglar, the guy might’ve grabbed a knife in the kitchen to use as a weapon.”

  “This wasn’t a kitchen knife,” Reg said. “I talked to somebody at the coroner’s office. Whoever killed Simon Wargrave used a military-type survival knife.”

  “How can they be certain?” I asked.

  His eyes went wide as a huge smile appeared on his face. “Because they found it.”

  “Come again?”

  “My contact at the coroner’s office told me that the police found a hunting knife in the alley behind some barbecue joint in Coral Glen,” he said.

  “Smokehouse?” I asked.

  Reg laughed. “You clairvoyant these days, Liz?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “But am I right?”

  “According to my friend,” he said. “The knife was wrapped in a towel from a nearby motel.”

  “How did they know to look in the alley?” I said. “That seems like a pretty good stroke of luck.”

  “It wasn’t luck,” Reg told me. “It was a tip. But it was actually about another crime they were investigating. An anonymous caller reported that jewelry taken from a house in the area could be found in a trash can behind the restaurant. When they went to investigate, they found the diamond bracelets and rings taken during a burglary a couple of months ago, but they also got a twofer—the blood-spattered hunting knife was on top of the briefcase holding the stolen gems.”

  “Nice day for the CGPD, huh?”

  He nodded. “You bet! They’re one step closer to solving their burglary case and they found a critical piece of evidence in the Wargrave murder inquiry.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “do you have any thoughts on who might’ve wanted Simon Wargrave dead?”

  Reg exhaled loudly. “I’m afraid that could actually be a very long list, Liz. Like I told you a second ago, he’s always been a real jackass when it came to how he treated other people.”

  “Then why did everyone call him the King of Real Estate?” I asked.

  “Probably out of habit,” Reg answered. “And for that industry, being ruthless and brash and pushy is an advantage. You encounter plenty of tough cookies in real estate, especially commercial properties. It’s a good way to launder dirty money. And organized crime has always had a few fingers in the pie when it comes to construction, concrete and trash removal.”

  “So you’re telling me that more than one person could be celebrating Wargrave’s demise?”

  He laughed ag
ain. “For sure, Liz. I’m not saying they’re all capable of murder, but I’d guess that there must be literally hundreds, if not thousands, of people with a grudge against Simon Wargrave.”

  CHAPTER 18

  After saying goodnight to Reginald Park, I was walking back to my apartment when a text from Aunt Dot flashed on my phone: Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!

  After I dialed her number, it barely rang before I heard her wheezing on the other end of the line.

  “I am so glad you called so fast, Lizzie!” Her voice shuddered. “This is giving me a case of the cold shivers!”

  “Are you okay?”

  She huffed. “No, I’m not okay! I just told you that I’ve got a case of—”

  “Then what’s wrong?” I cut in. “Were you hurt at the shop?”

  “No, no!” she wheezed. “Nothing like that! I heard someone talking about the dead guy.”

  “Simon Wargrave?”

  “Yes! The dead guy!”

  “Well, what did you hear?” I asked. “Was it about his murder?”

  “You bet your sweet buns!” She hooted into the phone. “And I wrote it down as soon as I got back into the shop.” I heard paper rustling and she cleared her throat. “Okay, here we go. One of the guys said, ‘Dead is the best place for that jerk!’ Then the other guy man, the one with the scratchy voice, said, ‘If someone else didn’t do it, I was about ready to shoot the lying fool.’”

  “And you’re certain they were talking about Mr. Wargrave?”

  She heaved another sigh. “Yes, Little Miss Doubtful. Otherwise, why would we be talking right now? Your mother mentioned that you’re doing a little snooping into the Simon Wargrave murder case. Well, I have, too! I’ve been calling my girlfriends to see if they’ve heard anything about the situation.”

  “Have you learned anything?” I asked.

  My aunt nodded. “I learned that Elise Strong loathes the women that she works with, but that isn’t exactly helpful in the search for Simon’s killer.”

  “Not every seed bears fruit,” I said.

  She huffed. “Anyway, now that we’re talking about the past, I also remember how you loved those Scooby-Doo shows and Agatha Christie books when you were a little girl. Then you’d skulk around the neighborhood interviewing people and taking pictures of suspicious activity.”

  I laughed. “Which usually involved men sneaking in through a window to visit the married woman on the next block.”

  Aunt Dot groaned. “That bimbo! What was her name?”

  I answered the question.

  “And the irony was pretty rich, too,” Dot added. “She wasn’t even married. That was a bit of gossip that someone made up because they were jealous.”

  “Do you know why the men always came and went through the window?” I asked.

  “Because she lived with her sister,” my aunt explained. “They were bitter rivals when it came to the affection of gentlemen callers.”

  “Ah, the good old days,” I said. “Now, let’s get back to what you heard tonight.”

  “Right,” she said. “It was basically what I already told you. I was taking some trash out back of the shop and I heard a couple of people discussing Simon Wargrave. They both obviously had no love for the man. From what I was able to make out, they played poker and golfed with Wargrave, despite the fact that he cheated at both.”

  “Hardly seems like motive for murder,” I said. “Unless they were gambling sizable amounts of money.”

  Dot snickered. “Which they were, based on the amounts they mentioned. But both of the chatterboxes seemed to think they knew why Wargrave was killed.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Two reasons,” my aunt answered. “In fact, two of the oldest reasons in the book.”

  “A woman?” I guessed.

  “That’s right,” Dot said. “And money.”

  “How much money?”

  “Can’t tell you that,” she replied. “But it was connected to a commercial real estate transaction.”

  “Did they mention the property?” I asked.

  “It was on Bougainvillea,” Aunt Dot said. “They didn’t give the street number or anything, but I doubt if it’ll be too difficult tracking that down. All of Wargrave’s completed sales transactions will be in the public record.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Any chance that the two men used their names while they were talking behind the shop?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But they did mention a woman.”

  “Did it sound like she’s the woman?” I asked. “The woman that came between Wargrave and the assailant?”

  “Who was she?” I said.

  My aunt revealed the name, adding a few choice words about the woman. Then she told me that the two men in the alley also talked about one of Wargrave’s neighbors.

  “According to the two chowderheads, Simon and Lionel Mercer have been engaged in a long-running dispute about the property line between their homes.”

  “Well, that’s not such a farfetched possibility,” I said. “People have been killed over much more trivial matters in the past.”

  “Seems utterly insane to me,” Dot said.

  “If you disagree with someone,” I replied, “the solution is talking long enough to find a solution that satisfies both parties. If you refuse to consider a reasonable compromise, then you’re a fool.”

  “Or a bully,” Dot added. “They often refuse to cooperate at all if they disagree with someone else.”

  “Good point,” I said. “And Simon Wargrave’s reputation for being a bully is legendary.”

  “Legendarily idiotic,” my aunt grumbled.”

  “Did you get a look at the two guys you heard talking behind the shop?” I asked.

  She sputtered into the phone. “Well, of course not! Do you think I’ve completely lost my marbles. I know better than to let bloodthirsty killers see my face while I’m eavesdropping on their incriminating conversation.” She paused. “Even if I am easy on the eyes and had just reapplied my makeup, I wasn’t about to let them know I was in the alley at the same time.”

  “Good thing they didn’t see you,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Since Wargrave’s killer is still on the loose, you actually may have heard the real perpetrators. And if they saw you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation..”

  My aunt gasped into the phone. “There you go, Lizzie! My goosebumps were almost gone, but you just brought them back with a vengeance.”

  “I’m sorry, Dottie,” I said, “I’ll try not to mention it again.”

  “And you’ll fail,” she grumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not a bad thing,” she said. “I just mean that you’re very persistent about these types of things.”

  “What things are you referring to?”

  “Solving mysteries,” she said. “Like when you were a little girl, you would sometimes stay up all night long to keep vigil over possible perpetrators. You’d sit in your bedroom window with the second-hand binoculars that your cousin gave you after he received some new ones from Santa Claus.”

  I laughed at the memory. “Oh, you’re right! I hadn’t thought about that in years.”

  “It used to make your teachers at school nuts,” she said. “After being up all night, you’d almost always doze off during the school day.”

  “Thank goodness that doesn’t happen now,” I said. “Especially since I’m working for one of the most demanding female entrepreneurs in all of Crystal Bay County.”

  She cleared her throat. “Do you mean me?”

  “I am,” I said with a faint chuckle. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  CHAPTER 19

  I was in the Big Dipper office the next day, doing a cost comparison between two suppliers to see if we could save anything on napkins if we switched companies. Aunt Dot loved pinching pennies almost as much as she enjoyed pinching my cheek when I asked a question that she con
sidered silly.

  As I finished my third calculations and fretted about how Dot would react to the results, my phone rang in my jacket on the coat rack.

  “Saved by the bell,” I said to the empty room. “Maybe those numbers will magically switch so the bid submitted by Dot’s friend will look more attractive.”

  I giggled at the wishful thinking, got up from the desk and scooped my phone from the pocket.

  “Liz Hutton,” I said, not bothering to check the screen. “How can I help you?”

  Someone sighed. “Well, you can be less formal when I call,” a woman said.

  I shifted the phone so I could see the caller’s name.

  “Oh, Grace!”

  “You sound frazzled,” she said.

  “No, no,” I replied. “It’s just…I was running some numbers to compare bids for paper napkins. Math’s never been my favorite subject, so it’s nice to take a break. How are you?”

  “I’m doing great!” She sounded even more cheery than usual. “One of my favorite influencers on Instagram picked our newest exclusive designer for a weekly feature.”

  “Congratulations!” I said. “Which one?”

  “It’s Danielle Wheelan,” she answered. “She does the adorable lace panties and bras.”

  “I don’t think that I’ve seen those yet,” I said.

  “Well, maybe you can pop in when you come over to talk to Maybelle’s business partner. She just got back to the office with a carryout order from the deli around the corner. That’s a good sign that she’ll be at her desk for at least the next hour or so. That dear girl eats like a bird. Teensy, tiny bites and little pecks at her Dr. Pepper can.”

  “Fantastic! Thanks for remembering.”

  “Oh, no problem,” Grace said. “You asked me to keep an eye out for her so you can do your Miss Marple thing.”

  I laughed. “Do I look like an elderly spinster?”

  “Not at all,” she replied. “How many elderly spinsters buy lace panties and bras?”

  “I bet we’d both be surprised by that answer,” I said. “Are you going to be there for a while?”