A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set

by Adele M Cooper

  “Oh . . . well, you dropped,” he said, laughing. “It’s a wonderful surprise but next time just walk in the regular way.”

  “Thought I would spice things up.”

  Clay frowned. “Honey, you could have broken something. You’re being naughty this Christmas.”

  “I am not. I am being slightly but wholesomely mischievous. It goes with the Christmas cheer.”

  She yelped as Clay’s fingers pinched her bottom. Her hands grabbed his face. ”You’re being mischievous too.”

  As she leaned forward to kiss him, the door opened and Manatee walked in.

  “You want to go interrogate the Blue Sands . . . but I see you’re busy. I can come back.”

  “No, I called and made an appointment for this afternoon. We need to go today.”

  “Aww,” said April.

  She lowered her legs and steadied herself on the floor.

  “Boy, women don’t come by my office and leap on me,” he said.

  “You don’t have an office,” Clay said.

  “If women would come by and throw themselves at me I’d get one. That makes your day.”

  “Thank you for saying so,” April said. “Well, so much for the holiday surprise and cheer.”

  “I’m sure there will be other surprises,” Clay said.

  “Think you can keep your mind on the case after that?” Manatee said.

  “It’ll be tough but I’ll try.”

  “Besides you’re supposed to be romancing not cuddling in office chairs,” Manatee said.

  ‘Yes, I still want romancing,“ said April.

  “You’ll get it,” Clay said. “Maybe not tonight but . . .”

  “We’ll carve out some time tomorrow,” April said. “Boy, murder cases really mess up your schedule. Give me a call tonight and say hello. My visiting relative should be here this evening but I can cell phone chat.”

  “OK, but come by and jump on me tomorrow.”

  The Blue Sands had rented a beach headquarters not far from their planned hotel. Their business center looked out on Ocean Boulevard and was basically three offices in a small shopping plaza. If the project was approved a larger building would be purchased and be used as the local headquarters of the company. Manatee and Clay were ushered into a room of desks, and yellow, cushioned chairs. The lack of a conference table gave a homey atmosphere. Coffee cups, with the Blue Sand insignia were placed on the small tables near the two chairs they sat in. Blue Sands officials sat off to the side. The joked and laughed as they walked in and greeted the two.

  CEO Sid Averiman looked impressive in his dark-blue blazer, which also had a Blue Sands insignia on it. He shook the hands of the two men and introduced his Public Relations Chief, Adam Lundmark, and his executive assistant, J.B. Winslow.

  “If I understand this, Mr. Augustine, you are a private detective and investigating the murder of Joe Dinera,” said Averiman, after he sat down. He glared at Manatee, “And you have an assistant.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see no reason why we shouldn’t cooperate with you. We had nothing to do with Mr. Dinera’s death. But being the CEO, I want to be here during the questioning.”

  “Fine. First we’d like to ask where these two gentlemen were from noon to one Tuesday afternoon,” Clay said.

  “I was in and out of the office,” Winslow said. “This has been a busy time for me. I’m keeping in touch not only with county officials but also with many local groups, both for and against the company’s proposal. So I’m often on the move. I can’t tell you exactly where I was at the time, but I can say I never touched Joe Dinera. Frankly, we didn’t get along. I thought he was arrogant and disliked us when we first came into his office. His attitude was we represented a rapacious corporation who cared only about money. That’s not true, but he always carried that arrogant chip on his shoulder.”

  “I understand you exchanged views with Mr. Dinera, at times in somewhat hostile terms,” Clay said.

  “Not hostile—in firm terms. I admit the young man got under my skin. He looked down his nose at us, which I didn’t like. If the project goes through, there will be two architecturally pleasing structures on the beach. The two buildings will be scenic and beneficial to the county. Building those structures will employ thousands of people in the construction trades in well-paying jobs, and I mean well-paying. Had he ever created a job due to his nose-in-the-air arrogance? No. I came in well dressed and he had food stains on his shirt. I wasn’t about to take any . . . garbage from him.”

  “Imagine he felt the same away about you.”

  “That was fine with me. I didn’t care what he thought about me. I did care he was juggling the site-plan figures. I called him on it and he got angry.”

  “What was he juggling?”

  “The total amount of money the projects would bring to the county—the number of new jobs created. And those weren’t the only two figures he arbitrarily raised up or lowered to reflect his bias. He refused to change the figures until I had our people do a recalculation. Then I had a conversation with him in his boss’ office.”

  “Mr. Rockingham?”

  “Yes. I told him to check his assistant’s figures with our figures and see who was correct. Two days later the figures were officially revised.”

  “Don’t think it was a mistake?”

  “No, Mr. Augustine, I don’t think it was a mistake. It was a calculated effort to undercut this development, and it should tell you something about the honesty—or lack of it—from Mr. Dinera.” Winslow shifted in his seat. “And no, I did not like Mr. Dinera. Not one bit, but I did not kill him. I wanted to smack him once or twice but I didn’t kill him.”

  “But you knew he was going to personally ask the county commission to deny approval of your project.”

  Winslow nodded. “Yes, he told us that. But I wasn’t worried about it.”

  “No? That might have been a rather dramatic moment at the county commission meeting?”

  “But his boss, the planning director, was leaning our way. We were confident of his positive recommendation. The opinion of a planning director with thirty years of experience trumps the opinion of his assistant with less than a decade of experience. I was confident the board would have put more emphasis on Rockingham’s recommendation than Dinera’s.”

  Clay nodded. He thought Winslow was right. He turned toward Lundmark. The man gave a wan smile. Lundmark didn’t wait for a question.

  “To be honest I was in downtown Sea Oak that day. I ate lunch in the city and spent an additional hour touring the stores and buying Christmas presents, but I didn’t see anybody I knew.” He shrugged. “I’m new in town. I don’t know that many people. But I was in the area where Mr. Dinera was ringing his bell. But no, I didn’t kill a Santa Claus.”

  “But no one can verify your presence during the time of the murder?”

  Lundmark shook his head. “I visited a half-dozen stores during that time, but I doubt anyone would remember me. I asked several clerks and salespeople a question or two but there were many customers in those stores. I had no reason to kill Mr. Dinera.”

  “It might make your bosses happy,” Clay said.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Averiman interjected sharply. ‘Let me assure you that this company is not happy with, nor does it condone, any type of criminal behavior. That goes double for murder. This company has an exceptional reputation in the business community and in the political arena. We have never looked the other way in any case of criminal or unethical behavior. We’re not Hollywood.”

  Clay nodded. “I know. I’ve checked on your background. Your reputation is solid. Still needed to ask.”

  Lundmark didn’t look disturbed by the question. “May I point out that my pay is the same whether the development is approved or if the county turns thumbs-down on it. I don’t get a bonus if the hotel is built, and as Mr. Averiman pointed out, I wouldn’t get a bonus for killing an assistant planner. If management knew about it, they’d turn me in.”


  “That’s true,” Averiman said.

  “Just as a matter of curiosity and to show I’m a detective who asks probing questions, may I ask you, Mr. Averiman, where you were last Tuesday, midday?”

  Instead of being enraged, as Clay thought he might, Averiman chuckled and smiled—the smile of a man with an alibi.

  “I was on the road. Monday I traveled over to our regional office in Charlotte to confer with our board of directors. I checked out of my hotel at about ten thirty in the morning. I made one brief stop on the road and arrived here at about two thirty in the afternoon. And with that I hope we have answered all your questions satisfactorily.”

  “You have,” said Clay.

  As April donned her Santa suit in the dressing room of Anthony’s to get ready for her Salvation Army stint, she stopped buttoning her red top when an idea flashed through her mind. She blinked, and her hands stopped fingering the buttons.

  “I might have been wrong,” she said aloud. “I was thinking it was possible for the murderer to have walked up to Joe on the street.” She shook her head. “No. The killer had to come through Emlet’s exit door.”

  9

  At the door of Captain Jeff Viceroy’s office, April stuck her hand in her purse, and pulled up her reporter’s pad so it stuck out. It would remind the captain that she was a reporter and would be asking questions. However, she was a feature writer at the Sea Oak Daily News, not a police reporter, but she hoped the captain would forget that distinction. The notebook, now sticking conspicuously out of her purse, showed clear blue letters stating "Reporter’s Notebook." She knocked and opened the door when Viceroy said, “Come in.”

  He sat behind the brown desk staring at his computer. He looked up and smiled.

  “Hello, April,” he said.

  “Good morning.”

  She grabbed the reporter’s notebook out of her purse as she sat down at the chair beside his desk.

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  “Our police reporter has the sniffles and aches. He’s at his desk sipping some awful-smelling flu medication. I told him I would drop by and check on the Dinera case. Have any new leads?”

  “No, and there’s nothing new to be said about it. The department is still investigating, but no one has come into the office and confessed to his murder,” he said.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yes, we prefer having three eyewitnesses to a crime and a confession by the suspect. But that’s not always the case.”

  April had a black-and-white Papermate pen in her hands. She tapped her lips with it.

  “Do you have a theory of the case? I thought for a while the killer walked up to Joe on the street and then perhaps asked for a private conversation. So they walked back in the alley to confer.”

  Viceroy nodded. “We’ve considered that. I’m working with Roy, Lt. Roy Skinner, and that’s one of our theories.”

  “But then I began thinking what if the murderer was in Emlet’s and sneaked into the back rooms, opened the exit door and called to Joe from the alley, or walked some of the way to the kettle and called out to Joe. Then, for some reason, Joe walked back into the alley with him.”

  Viceroy nodded. “That’s a possible scenario.”

  “So, I was wondering if Emlet’s has security cameras. It’s a men’s clothing and sports store so it’s not one of my regular shopping shops, so I’m not sure if it has cameras or not.”

  “In this case it’s ‘or not.’ No cameras in the store. But the management did install outside cameras for the holidays, testing them to see if they should keep the surveillance or forget about it. During Christmas and other holidays owners know a random drunk or troublemaker can stand outside the store and ask for money or simply just harangue customers. That cuts down business.”

  “I assume you looked at the tape.”

  “He nodded, but said nothing.

  April frowned. She reached out her arm, palm flat, and wriggled her fingers.

  “So, would you like to share?”

  “No, this is official police business.”

  “I’m a reporter, Jeff. The paper has a good, working relationship with your department. I won’t print anything you don’t want printed. But I knew Joe and am interested in finding his killer.”

  A coffee cup sat on Viceroy’s desk. He picked it up and sipped it. “OK, I’ll tell you off the record. The only item of interest was one young man who seemed to be having an argument with Joe early in the morning. About fifteen minutes after Joe set up the kettle.”

  “That was before I arrived. I set up my kettle at about eleven.”

  “As I said it was a young man. We sent the photo out and finally discovered his identity. He’s the pro at our local country club, a man named Andrew Lester.

  “Is he now a suspect?”

  “Maybe.”

  April tapped her lips with the pen again. “That’s hardly a definitive answer.”

  “That is also official police business. I’m not revealing anything more about the case. I will tell you that Mr. Lester claimed to have an alibi. We checked it out and he has a gray-area alibi. He arrived at the county club about ten, maybe fifteen minutes after Dinera was murdered. It’s about an eight-to-ten-minute drive from downtown to the country club when it’s good weather. The weather wasn’t great on the day Dinera was killed. Long story short, Lester could have traveled to the country club from downtown after knocking off a Santa Claus, but it’s doubtful. We can’t eliminate him completely, but the timeline is questionable.”

  “But a country club pro would have a good swing. And someone with a good swing killed Joe.”

  Viceroy nodded. “That’s true but you don’t need a huge powerful swing if you have a blunt object. A moderate swing could do the job. There is one other factor that puzzles us.”

  “Could you share that too?”

  “Mr. Lester changed shirts when he arrived at the country club that Tuesday. Two employees said he entered the clubhouse and went almost immediately to the men’s room.”

  “Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go,” April said.

  “But the two employees also noticed a short time later that Mr. Lester was wearing a different shirt. It was a blue shirt but he had arrived at the club wearing a yellow shirt.”

  “So you are perhaps wondering if the yellow shirt had a red stain on it, a blood stain, so he wanted to replace it?”

  “The thought crossed our minds. I won’t be too graphic but from the angle and power of the blow there could have been a blood spatter. If so, it could have sprayed blood on the killer’s shirt,” Viceroy said. “Mr. Lester said he had dropped some of his lunch of roast beef and gravy on his shirt so he wanted to change it.”

  “That’s feasible,” April said.

  Viceroy nodded.

  “Did Lester tell you what the shouting match was about?”

  “About a woman, but that’s all I’m going to say. Everything else is still confidential, at least for now.”

  “But I assume Lester has become a suspect in the case.”

  Viceroy slowly nodded. “But we’re not jumping to any conclusions without evidence, and we’re still short on evidence.”

  The Sheffield County Manager’s office was on the second floor of the Sheffield County building which stood right next to the courthouse. The courthouse was a fifty-year-old structure that was scheduled to undergo a renovation at the beginning of the next fiscal year. Employees were very pleased about that. The elevators in this three-story building moved slowly and gave off loud creaks as they rode up and down, which created a sense of impending doom among employees.

  The county headquarters had been built two years previously, so there were no worries about the elevators as April rode up to the second floor. County Manager, H. Deacon Smith, had been granted an exemption from the no-smoking rule that the county government had ordered. On his desk, to the side, was a long ashtray and two packs of Kent cigarettes. Smith had no intention of giving up
smoking and the five county commissioners did not want to antagonize their county manager by enforcing the no-smoking rule. Smith had been hired three years ago and all county commissioners agreed he was the finest administrator in county history. A medium-height, chunky man with black glasses, Smith held an engineering job in the private sector until he decided he wanted to work in public service. His dedication was so high that he took a pay cut from his private industry to work in Sheffield County. He had a genial personality but could be stone tough in dealing with commissioners, or county pressure groups.

  He had a cigarette between his lips when April knocked on the door.

  “Mr. Smith, wonder if I might talk to you?”

  He looked up and smiled. “By all means. I’m reading some very dull reports. It’ll be nice to take a break from it. Governments always demand reports. At times it’s needed, and at times it’s an exercise in CYA. Come in.”

  Two green chairs sat opposite his desk. April eased down into one of them.

  “You haven’t been over in the county for a while. City taking up your time?” he asked.

  “Now I’m in feature writing. I’m letting other reporters handle politics.”

  He tapped cigarette ashes into the long ashtray. “If that’s the case, why are you here?”

  “I wanted to ask you one or two questions about the Blue Sands project. Since you’re the county manager, will the commissioners ask your opinion of the project?”

  “They might. I don’t think I’ll be asked, but if they vote on my recommendation . . . well, that’s another way of playing CYA. If a commissioner gets in trouble due to his vote, he can always say that he followed the advice of the county manager; that he thought he knew what he was talking about.”

  April chuckled then nodded her head. “Yes, I can see where that might happen.”

  Like many counties in the south, Sheffield County had a history of voting democratic for a half century and then switched and leaned republican for decades. But the votes in commission districts were almost evenly split between the two parties. Almost every election year the commissioners running for reelection had a tough race.