April crossed her arms. There was little physical evidence in this case. Even if the city had a CSI team, it wouldn’t find much to work with. The intruder could have first gone into the store. He sneaks into the back. Yes! If the murderer knew Joe, then he may have known of the medical problem. Maybe he knew or guessed Joe would be running back to the store’s washroom occasionally. Perhaps knowing that, the intruder simply lay in wait. With the medical problem, Joe could not have gone too long without taking a bathroom break.
She could ask questions of the store’s staff, but during the Christmas season would they remember anything worthwhile? She had questioned Capt. Viceroy, and after a little wheedling, he admitted the police had few clues. Physical evidence at the crime scene was virtually nil.
So why was she standing out in the cold with snowflakes colliding with her face? With her gloved hand she wiped her wet cheeks.
“Must be something, some clue,” she said aloud. She looked around then shrugged. “Maybe not,” she said. “Maybe I’m just spinning my wheels, or rather standing still not spinning my wheels.”
She walked toward the street then stopped.
“Wait a minute. Of course, I said it but didn’t realize what I said.” She raised her gloved hand and lifted a finger. “If this scenario is true, the killer had to be not just someone Joe knew, but someone he trusted. He walked back into the alley with his killer. He wasn’t alarmed or apprehensive. It had to be someone he trusted. If he was uneasy in any way, Joe could have stayed by the kettle and talked with the man. But he wasn’t upset or uneasy.” She stayed silent for a moment. “But he should have been.”
6
Nate Widmon lived in a basic, one-room apartment, in a seedy apartment house. Papers, debris, and random items stuck out of the three inches of snow on the parking lot. One man with a day-old beard and wearing only a thin T-shirt stood outside his apartment drinking a beer. When Clay knocked, Widmon pulled the door back about a foot and peered out.
“What do ya want?” he said, in a voice full of annoyance.
“We would like to talk to you, Mr. Widmon,” Clay said. “It’s about your brother.”
“I don’t talk about him. At least not for free.”
“You don’t want to help find the person who murdered him?”
Widmon’s shaggy black hair wriggled as he shook his head. “I don’t care who killed him. Although whoever it was did me a favor.”
Clay pulled out his wallet and took out two fifties. “Then perhaps we can buy a little of your time. This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Ten dollars for each minute.”
Widmon’s bright-blue eyes widened in amazement. The defiant voice diminished. “Deal. You have to forgive how the place looks. The cleaning lady didn’t come in this week.”
As he walked in Clay put the bills in Widmon’s palm. Widmon’s fingers snapped shut like a trap.
The green, aging sofa the two men sat on had two large holes in it. A layer of dust covered mostly everything. Widmon, with a beer in his hand, sat in a chair that looked like it was destined for the garbage dump. Widmon looked at the money with fascination and amazement. For a moment Clay thought the man might literally lick his chops. But fortunately the man’s tongue stayed behind his lips.
“You don’t seem too upset at your brother’s death,” Clay said.
Widmon took a swig from his beer. “That’s because I am not upset. Joe and I were brothers, but the Cain and Abel variety. I heard that story a long time ago in my childhood. Cain and Abel. Even back then I thought—that’s Joe and me.”
“Cain was the brother who was murdered. Fortunately you’re the modern-day Abel,” Clay said, “But in the Biblical story, it was Abel who killed his brother.”
Widmon laughed and raised the beer as if toasting the two men. “Not me. I wasn’t wandering around in the snow.” His hand gestured toward the room. “As you can see, I’ve had some financial setbacks. I don’t have a good winter coat, so on snowy days I don’t go out unless I have to. Besides, at about the time of Joe’s murder I was half drunk.”
“Why didn’t you and your brother get along?”
“Because he was Daddy's and Momma's perfect little boy—always studious, always polite, always sweet, always this and that. I was the rebellious son. My father and I never got along and Joe and I didn’t see eye to eye either. He always had a clean record too. I have a minor arrest sheet and done a little time for a misunderstanding.” His hand was around the beer can, but he lifted one finger and pointed at Manatee. “Does he ever say anything?”
“Occasionally I give pithy little sayings full of wisdom and insight,” Manatee said.
Widmon chuckled. “Pithy. That’s nice.” He giggled. “Don’t get many pithy sayings around here.” He took another swig of the beer. A line of liquor flowed down his chin.
“When you went to see Joe at the planning department, what did you two argue about?”
Widmon burped before answering. “We argued about money. Joe had stolen money from me, and I wanted it back. Or I wanted some of it back.”
“You have a secret safe full of bills that you’re hiding from everyone? Or did you find some underwater treasure?” Manatee said.
“Well, you are pithy. No, our parents passed away a short time ago. I had long since been written out of their wills. But I know our father left eighty thousand in cash to Joe. Dad was very industrious and worked from sunup to sundown. And he saved. He didn’t waste money. That was one of our points of contention. He thought I wasted what little money I had. Anyway, I went up to tell Joe that I thought half the money should be mine. After all, I was their son too. Got a few bad breaks in life, but I was still their flesh and blood. Thought it would be nice if Joe split the money with me. Parents willed other valuable stuff to him too. They had a few stocks and bonds. Besides, he’s got a good job. He’s not hurting. He wouldn’t break into a sweat if he shared. But he refused to. Said our parents gave it to him. If they had wanted me to have it, they would have put me in the will. We argued. I raised my voice.”
“Bet you do that a lot,” Manatee said.
Widmon narrowed his eyes. “I think I’ve had enough pithy for the day. We yelled at one another. Told him he was a greedy little pig to keep all the money when I was his brother, and I needed some. I’m not living in a mansion here.”
“So there was acrimony in how you two parted?”
“Yes, there was acrimony, anger, bitterness, resentment, and a whole lot of other things. So about a week later someone kills him. I guess there might be justice in this world after all. A bolt from the blue.”
“Actually it was a blow from a blunt object,” Manatee said.
Widmon smirked as he took another sip of the beer. He looked at Clay, “Actually, his pithiness sort of grows on you, don’t it?”
“You get used to it,” Clay said.
“But if you’re looking for his killer you have to look elsewhere. I didn’t do it.”
“Maybe not. But you had a motive.”
‘Yeah, I hated him. That doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“No, your motive was money. If your parents only had two sons then you are the closest living relative to your brother. You will inherit all he has, including the eighty thousand cash he got from your parents. Except if he has a will. If Joe wrote out a will, which young people rarely do, he would have designated who would receive his worldly goods.”
Widmon’s eyes lit up. He stared at the two. “Is that true? Really? I get the money?”
“I suggest you get a lawyer and pursue the claim,” Clay said, “and put down the beer. It may be blurring your judgment.”
“Yahoo!” Widmon yelled, jumping up from the chair. “I’ll get my money after all. When I get it, I might even send some flowers for poor Joe’s grave. Hey, you guys know a good lawyer?”
“Mack Radcliff is an honest and very capable attorney. If the money belongs to you, he’ll see you get it,” Clay said.
“Wow! This really is the Chris
tmas season! Santa Claus has come early! Hey, do you know where Radcliff’s office is?”
“About two blocks from the courthouse,” Clay said.
Widmon looked down. “Guess I’d better get a clean shirt on. Wanna look good when I walk in. In a short time I may be a rich man.”
The two men stood up and walked out. Widmon still celebrated inside the apartment, yelling about his good fortune.
“You really hate being with a grieving relative,” Manatee said. “Spoils the whole day.”
“Cain and Abel indeed,” Clay said. He looked back toward the apartment.“ At last one man will have a merry Christmas this year.”
“You really think he was dumb enough not to know he would inherit if his brother died?” Manatee said.
“Fifty-fifty. Right now, he’s still a suspect. He had a great motive.”
The Ocean Wave restaurant owners had a fixation on music from the forties and fifties. The pictures on the wall of the first-class restaurant were of Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin, and the rest of the famous “Rat Pack” of that time period. Also on the wall was a quote by a person unknown to Clay and April, but the individual proclaimed that Sinatra was the greatest singer of all time. Clay granted the incredible singing talent of the Hoboken native but, like many people of huge talent, the singer didn’t win any accolades as an exemplary human being.
The tables and booths in the restaurant were covered in red. Clay pulled out a chair for April.
“Thank you, sir. That’s very gentlemanly,” she said.
“And romantic?”
“And very romantic.”
They picked up the burgundy, rectangular menus and opened them. A smiling waitress almost danced to the table to greet them.
“Shall I bring you something to drink or would you like a minute to decide?” she said.
“I’d like a nice red wine. What would you recommend?”
“We have a marvelous house red wine. Almost everyone who has tasted it, has praised it.”
“I’ll take it,” April said.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have a whisky sour, if you can make it.”
“Our bartender specializes in whisky sours. He’ll make you a great one.”
“Thanks.”
April leaned back in the booth and flashed a joyous smile.
“Clay, this is very nice, but we both had items piled high on our plate. Not sure we should be taking a night off.”
“We have time. If I were in my apartment, I’d probably be watching a football game and that’s not romantic.”
“No, it isn’t. This is very sweet. And I love this location. You can hear the waves.”
The Ocean Waves was located not only on the beach section of Sea Oak but was actually on the beach. Waves crashed onto the sand just about twenty yards from the restaurant. April would have enjoyed an open-air balcony table, but the night was too chilly. What would have began, as a romantic dinner, would have ended with her constantly blowing her nose due to the chill.
“Because we are both so busy this holiday season I thought the time was perfect for a quiet, romantic evening. After dinner, if it’s not too cold, we can walk on the beach,” Clay said.
“Sounds perfect. But let’s not talk shop. We will not discuss the case tonight,” April said.
“Fine. But tell me about the progress on your book. That’s not shop, that’s personal. I know how much that means to you.”
Like many reporters, April wanted to try her talent for creative writing. She was penning a novel.
Before she could answer Clay’s inquiry, the smiling waitress returned with their drinks and also brought a basket of baked bread. She scribbled down their dinner orders.
April sipped her wine. “I’m changing that a bit. I had the novel almost completely outlined, and I had written about fifteen thousand words, but I think I’m going to change it and scrap my initial outline.”
“How come? Decide you didn’t like the plot?”
“Yes and no. The initial novel was a contemporary tale, but the writing was difficult. I had to slog through the chapters, and I wasn’t really satisfied with it. The plot just wasn’t clicking, and the prose wasn’t flowing—more like stagnating.”
“I’m sure writing can be tough. I like to read, and my guilty pleasure is reading classic detective novels, but I never had an urge to write. I would not like sitting at a computer and typing eight hours a day. Frankly, that would drive me bonkers. But . . .” He lifted his whisky-sour glass. “I will do everything I can to support you in your literary endeavor. I’m sure you will soon be a critically acclaimed author.”
She clicked her wine glass on his glass. “Ah, that is so sweet. That’s one thing I like about you, Clay. You are always so supportive. You’re never a Debbie Downer.”
“Thank you. What is the new book about?”
“It’s a mystery.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, I thought I could use a little—just a little—of our activities for a novel. It won’t be based on our cases. That would just be a rehash. Also it’s as much character driven as a mystery. There’s a mystery and a murder but it’s not a current one. The protagonists are investigating a murder that is a half-century old.”
“A cold case. Those are always intriguing.”
“But I don’t have much time to work on the novel. I have a full-time newspaper job, plus the Christmas volunteering—“
“Plus the romancing,” said Clay.
“Yes, plus the romancing which is going well. But I am doing my best to write two hours a day on the novel. Which means after you take me home, I will head for the computer and write at least one, and maybe two brilliant chapters of “Murderous Tide.” That’s my tentative title.”
Clay nodded. “Very catchy.”
The waitress returned and placed Clay’s T-bone steak, potatoes, and green beans in front of him. April had ordered the filet mignon.
“Like another glass of wine?” the waitress asked.
April drained her glass, “Yes, I would. That is very good wine.”
“Told you we’ve had a lot of compliments about it. You, sir?”
Clay raised his empty glass. “I’ll have another.”
With knife and fork in hand, April cut into her steak. “Oh, let’s break pledge not to talk shop for about three minutes. Did you and Manatee come up with any clues today?”
“Not necessarily a clue. But we may have found three suspects.”
April brought her fork up to her mouth but it stopped two inches in front of her lips. “Three new suspects? You hit the jackpot.”
“Four, if you count Joe’s brother. The two did not get along, and the brother will inherit Joe’s estate, which appears to be considerable. When Joe is put into the ground his brother may be dancing on the grave. Talk about motive.”
“Wow. We have suspects galore. Money is always a good motive.”
“Yes. But I know nothing about the three Rivenbark brothers. I forget their first names but like a good detective I wrote them down. The three were pressuring Joe to approve the project.”
“Rivenbark. The name isn’t familiar to me either.”
“Apparently they own property near the Blue Sands project. If it’s approved they think their investment would increase tremendously in value.”
“Have you talked with them yet?”
“No, Manatee and I will have a discussion with them tomorrow. It was getting late in the day when their names came up.”
“Let me talk to Rollin Meadows first. He’s our county reporter. He’s been on that beat for three years. He may be able to give some background. I can talk to him early tomorrow, and I’ll give you call.”
“Fine. Now let’s get back to our dinner.”
“The steak is magnificent,” April said. “Food here is always the finest. I need to dance away the pounds I’m putting on, but the dance floor is in the open air, and the open air is cold tonight.”
“You d
on’t need to lose weight. You have an hourglass figure.”
“Oh, yeah? You’ve seen my butt lately?”
“Yes, tonight it fits perfectly in that glistening-green evening dress, and it is one of the wonders of the world.”
Laughing, April choked on her wine. She coughed and coughed before the wine finally slid down her throat. She smiled. “I will remember that line. I’m not sure it’s true but it’s endearing. Gosh, you’re romantic.”
Later, hand in hand, Clay walked her to her apartment. When they were at the door she turned around, expecting an electric jolt of a kiss. Clay took her hand and brought it up to his lips and tenderly kissed her fingers.
“I know you have to get to writing so I will bid you adieu until we meet again.”
Her heart skipped a beat, then protested as she saw him walk toward his car. She found her keys and opened the door. When she closed it, she leaned against it and took a deep breath.
“OK, may have to modify this romance thing,” she said aloud, panting. “Then again, for a couple of days, maybe a week this . . . could be all right. Kinda sweet.” She held up the kissed hand and smiled. “Yes, this is sweet. And romantic.”
7
Rollin Meadows arrived promptly at the Sea Oak Daily News at eight in the morning. April arrived two minutes later, said a sunny hello to him and eased down on the chair beside his desk. Rollin was a man whom she both liked and respected. He had spent most of his journalism career at the Richmond Times-Dispatch but when he reached sixty-two, he took early retirement. He and his wife, Marla, liked the small town of Sea Oak to enjoy retirement instead of metropolitan Richmond. However, after two years, Meadows became bored and missed the newspaper profession. He inquired if the Daily News needed another reporter. The editor jumped at the chance to hire a reporter of Meadows’ experience and background. Meadows fit perfectly as the county reporter. He always wore a coat and tie to the office. Even at his age he was a ruggedly handsome man. His silver hair gave a distinguished quality to him as did the black-framed glasses on his nose. He was a slender, soft-spoken man who quickly gained great respect in the newsroom and from county officials on his beat.
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