April chewed on her lip, not sure what to make of Hocken’s statement.
“I will say, off the record, I have no idea if the matter at Coltran-Nash has any connection, whatsoever, with the murder of Mr Barton. I doubt it. But if so, I’m sure the Sea Oak Police will find it. And that,
Ms Longmont, ends our conversation.”
April thought about giving a sarcastic reply, then decided discretion was sometimes the better part of a newspaper interview. She thanked him and walked out.
Later that evening, the Chocolate Slab was eased toward April on a sparkling white plate at the Ocean Wave Restaurant. The Chocolate Slab was a six-layer buttermilk chocolate cake with raspberry coulis. After her day, she figured an exquisite dessert was needed. She grabbed her fork. Augustine settled for Irish Coffee.
“You are making me feel guilty, Clay. You’re drinking coffee, and I’m having the sumptuous, rich, gooey chocolate that will put five pounds on me.” She held up the fork. “However, in my defense, I would like to say that I will be doing lots of legwork tomorrow, so I will be working it off.”
“I’m sure the chocolate will only add to your gorgeous figure.”
“That’s what I like. A man who will compliment me whether it’s true or not.”
“This is very true.”
When she tasted the first bite of the Chocolate Slab, she ahhhh-ed with pleasure. She tapped the dessert with her fork.
“Desserts don’t get better than this.”
Clay smiled and sipped some of his Irish Coffee.
After the second bite of the Slab had been swallowed, April allowed her gaze to study Clay again. His manner did remind her of Roger Moore, a man who was confident in any situation whether he was at a high-class dinner party or in a forest being shot at by bad guys. But with Clay, there was also an underlying rough look. His baritone voice spoke precisely, but she thought a twang would come naturally to him. Clay would also look perfect in cowboy boots. North Carolina had changed tremendously – not always in beneficial ways – during the last decades of the 20th century, but there were still acres and acres of cow country. Put Clay on a horse, and he would fit right in while singing “Git Along, Little Dogies.” What emanated from the tall, brown detective was an aura of masculinity which, she thought, is in shorter supply nowadays than it was half a century ago. It was the type of masculinity that made some women weak in the knees. She was glad she was sitting down because her knees didn’t feel all that strong.
His single-minded determination was part of his personality. He had made a promise to a late friend, and Clay would do his stoic best to fulfill it. That was his top priority now. Which was an annoyance since her mind drifted toward a midnight swim. Clay’s determination increased her desire for him. She had met many men whose word was worthless. If his promise is worthless, then a man is worthless. Clay was valuable, indeed.
She realized she was looking at him a bit too intensely. She blinked, shook herself like a dog running out of the water, and forked another piece of the Chocolate Slab.
“We are… not exactly finding a lot of clues in this case. Fine private detectives we are. Philip Marlowe would be ashamed of us.”
“Not to mention Travis McGee,” Clay said.
“Oh, you read the McGee series?”
He nodded. “I tend to enjoy the private detective genre. Gosh, wonder why? The author John D. MacDonald lived most of his life in Florida, over in Sarasota, which is not too far from where I was born. The family moved to Sea Oak when I was eight. Some years ago, when I was in Ft. Lauderdale, I drove and checked out Slip F-18, Bahia Mar, the home of his fictional detective.”
“Yes, Travis lived on a boat there.”
“Somewhere I still have a picture of me at Slip-18. I think I’m going to dig it out and put it on the wall in my office. I’ve read almost all of MacDonald’s books. There’s not really a bad one among them. But McGee never had a case like this.” He took a long gulp of the Irish Coffee, as if frustrated.
“Oh, on that matter. I had to postpone my session with Jerry’s pastor. I wonder if you could talk to him tomorrow instead. I will be doing a couple of hours of legwork.” When Clay looked puzzled, she added, “This is a longshot, but on Jerry’s block there are about six houses facing west toward the park. On the adjoining street, there are six or seven houses facing north toward the park. I’m going to knock on doors tomorrow to see if anyone saw anything the day of Jerry’s murder.”
Clay nodded. “It is a longshot but a good idea.”
“If his murder is connected to something he saw in the park, I’m thinking it would have to be early morning on Monday. He was away for four days. If he saw something the previous week, would the murderer wait a week to kill him? But if whatever it was happened early Monday morning, maybe the murderer knew he had to act fast and did so. Say Jerry woke up early and couldn’t sleep, so he walked the dogs early and saw something.”
“Or someone saw him. I wish you luck but if any resident on the nearby streets saw anything they would have to be early risers.”
April raised her glass. “Let’s hear it for insomnia.”
The flicker of the orange flame on the table’s candle revealed a small dimple on her face, just below her lips. Clay thought it looked adorable. The ripple of his emotions flowed through his body like waves flowed toward the beach. After his last relationship, he told himself he was going to be cautious. He should have seen through the woman but, for some reason, for a while, he was blind to her lies and deceptions. He told himself he’d be less open. He’d close himself off for a while, like a sandcastle on the beach, the walls keeping out the wind, water and intruders.
But the twinkle in April’s eyes, her laughing smile and what he perceived as her incredible goodness were circling around the castle readying for an assault. But he felt he should focus solely on the case. Business first. Recreation later.
Then April smiled that wonderful, life-affirming smile.
Resurgent waves slammed into his sandcastle, devastated it, and spread the granules far and wide.
After dinner, they walked slowly along the beach. April took off her shoes and tread barefoot in the sand. Clay put her shoes in his coat pocket. An orange half-moon looked down on them. The orange light lit the beach dimly, but Clay’s eyes were sharp enough to steer April around a spot. He pointed to tiny creatures scurrying along.
“Sand crabs,” he said. “Very small ones. They keep out of the sun but come out of their burrows at night to scour for food.”
April bent down and saw one crab disappear into a small hole in the sand. She patted Clay’s hand as they continued their walk.
“Tell me Clay, do you want two kids or three, and how do you feel about a house on a lake?”
He roared with laughter. “Fine, as long as that house and lake are close to a golf course.”
She chuckled. “I use that line sometimes on men. If they don’t dash into the sea to get away from me, I give them high marks.”
His arm was around her shoulder. He squeezed gently. “I would never run away from you.”
“The last guy did. But to be honest, his emotional problems would have taken a psychiatrist years to sort out. If anything upset him, he just took off.”
“You can’t do that in life,” Clay said, his raspy voice becoming deeper. “You have to face problems head on. If you run, then sooner or later you’ll slam headfirst into the same problem. Keep that up and, in time, there’ll be no place to run to.”
Her feet sank softly into the wet sand as they walked. April felt a zest inside. Plus, she felt warm and secure beside Clay. It was something of a contradiction, between steps of serenity, bolts of lightning swept through her body. Her arms and legs tensed with excitement. It was a toss-up—which of the two emotions would win out but, tonight, her mind said she had to put her thumb on the scale of serenity, even though her body and emotions ferociously dissented. She thought of one thing that could cool her down. Perhaps she should run fully
clothed and jump into the Atlantic. It was night, and the ocean was cool. Steam would be coming out of the water when she dived, but at least the dunking would calm the heart. Get it thumping back to the normal rate. It had hit the red zone. A wave splashed into the beach, and the cold waters swirled around her feet.
“Maybe we should go back. We both have long days tomorrow,” she said.
“I guess so,” Clay said.
She turned around and moved into his arms. He bent down, and in the shadows of the orange moon, they kissed. The Bogart and Bacall kiss. The Casablanca kiss. The Love is a Many Splendored Thing kiss. Yes, she liked the old movies. They were much more romantic than the mostly romance-free newer films. She thought for a moment she might trip and fall on the sand, but Clay’s arm was around her waist. She took a deep sigh. She thought a darker shade of orange now covered the moon. Its temperature was heating up too.
At a distance, standing in the midst of oaks, pines and North Carolina shrubs, the man lowered the binoculars and frowned, almost growling. The dark shadows of the trees covered him. He made sure he was hidden. He did not like this unexpected development. Out of nowhere, two people were investigating Jerry Barton’s murder. Bafflement. That was his emotion. He knew Barton was a loner, but that was the only thing he knew about the dead man. He wished he could kill the two beach walkers the way he had killed Barton. But that was too dangerous, especially since he only needed a week to complete his plan. A week. Maybe less. Then he and Cassie would be in a foreign country with seven figures in their bank account. They would pick a nation with no extradition treaty with the United States. Or one with officials that could be bribed to find legal exemptions to the extradition treaty.
If the two sand walkers turned up dead, the police would begin asking questions. They would easily discover that Ms Longmont and Mr Augustine were investigating the murder of Jerry Barton. That would raise very intense scrutiny in the case. One of the theories the Sea Oak Police were considering was the random murderer scenario. Burton was, for whatever reason, killed by a random stranger. Currently, it made as much sense as any other theory. That was the theory the man wanted the police to believe. If they did, he was safe. If the two night beach walkers were found dead, that theory went down the drain.
He cursed his bad luck again. Cassie and he should have controlled themselves. They could not be seen together, not by anyone in an official capacity. Who would have known the stupid, toothpick of a man would walk his dogs in freezing and snowing weather? What was the temperature on that Monday morning? Eight degrees. And the darn fool was walking his dogs?
It was double bad luck that when he drove past Barton and stared at him through the window of his truck, Barton looked back at him. He wore a blank, neutral expression. He wasn’t sure if Barton recognized him. Snow was falling, and he didn’t get a clear view of Barton’s features. But so close to the payoff he could not take any chances. Barton was a cypher of a man who could disappear into any crowd and not be noticed. He was a nonentity. But he would have added two and two together and come up with a possible crime. And he would have gone to authorities.
Because the cypher nonentity was an honest man.
That sealed his doom.
7
The Rev. Alec Harris was unlike any minister Clay had ever known, not that he had known many men of the cloth. His parents were not churchgoers, but in life, he had bumped into two or three ministers and had occasionally watched a television preacher. He was agnostic but interested. He thought the existential questions of the day such as “Is there a God?” and “Is there a meaning to existence?” were worth pondering. So, from time to time he’d pick up a book by a Christian minister or Jewish rabbi and glance through it. While the authors hadn’t convinced him, they made a number of intriguing arguments which he seriously considered.
But Rev. Harris was not like the ministers he saw on television. He did not wear the finest coat and trousers. He was casual in manner and in dress. He wore dark pants and a yellow golf shirt. A bit stout, a goatee covered his chin. He had a distinctive voice and a firm handshake. Clay thought the minister had an authenticity about him. What you see is what you get. He also readily answered questions.
“I was deeply sorry when I heard of Jerry’s death. He was a reserved man and had experienced great difficulties in life. But he never let that get him down. He had some low times, but he always bounced back. For a man who definitely had not lived a funny life, he demonstrated a degree of wit that caused many of us to laugh out loud.”
“I don’t remember Jerry being funny,” Clay said. “He always appeared a bit melancholy to me.”
The minister folded his hands around his plump middle and smiled. “Jerry said once that the wit came only after he became a Christian. He said it was the working of the Holy Spirit. He attended our Wednesday night prayer sessions where we intercede for the church and nation and anything else we need to. We have about eight people who attend, and we talk for about five to ten minutes before we pray. Very often he’d make a quip that would have the entire group laughing. I believe that’s one thing that attracted Melanie. They were becoming friends.”
“Melanie.”
“Melanie Kenney is a saleslady in ‘Anthony’s,’ a high-class women’s clothing store on the beach section of town and has been a member of the church for three years. Pale and dark-haired, she’s a very nice woman. She’s divorced but was getting to know Jerry. I don’t think they had officially dated yet, but I think that would have come.”
Clay nodded, shifted in the chair and crossed his legs. “But what I really wanted to know Pastor is if Jerry was worried about anything lately. Did he seem to have anything on his mind?”
Rev. Harris shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he did, he did not share it with me. In the past, on two occasions Jerry came to me with problems and asked for guidance. I can’t go into what was said in those meetings, of course, but he did come in several times for counseling. But not recently. If something was bothering him shortly before his murder, he didn’t talk about it. But in the weeks before his death, I saw him frequently at church and at our prayer meeting, and there was no hint of anything bothering him.”
Clay frowned. “Another dead end. I thought maybe…something unusual had happened, and he might have wanted to talk with a pastor.”
“I wish I could help. I want his killer to be caught. But the last time Jerry asked to talk privately with me was about nine months ago when a girl broke up with him and the circumstances were a bit strange. She was from out of town, and he met her on a Christian website. She lived about fifty miles south in Ocean Hills. I think they had been seeing one another for several months. Jerry, who at that time was still working two jobs, made a fiscal mistake in his bank account. On a Sunday afternoon, he went over his account and discovered the mistake. He estimated a check would be coming in Wednesday or Thursday that would cost him at least one overdraft fee, maybe two. That would be $30 or even $60, and he was on a tight budget. After the disaster at Golden Sands,…you know about that?”
“Yes.”
“After that, he tried to watch every dollar, and it really upset him to get an overdraft. It was just money wasted. So, he called up his girlfriend. I forget her name, but he asked if she could exchange checks with him. He asked if she could send a fifty-dollar check that he could deposit immediately and he would send her one that she could deposit that Friday when he got paid. The extra fifty would cover the check he had coming in. He told her he knew that some people simply did not loan out money and he understood that and said it was a good policy to follow. If she had that policy, fine, but he just wanted to ask. She was a woman who was in good financial shape. She owned her house and her car, so that eliminated any house or car payments. But not only didn’t she exchange checks with him, she broke up with him, saying she thought the request was inappropriate.
“What? She wasn’t losing money. I’ve done that with friends. You have their check or their word, and it�
��s a sure thing,” Clay said.
“Yes, that’s my view, but she had a different opinion. Jerry just came in shaking his head. He was stunned and figured he should have just kept silent and taken the loss. He said most people can make mistakes but have them overlooked. But when guys like him make mistakes, the consequences can be devastating. I told him he didn’t make a mistake. There was nothing wrong in asking. But…another piece of bad luck for Jerry.”
“I think he was better off without her.”
Harris chuckled. “Possibly, but that’s not how Jerry saw it. As I said, that was the last time I had a one-to-one session with him…but that doesn’t help you with your investigation.”
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