A Side of Murder

by Amy Pershing

  “They’d better be,” I said. “He’s a politician and she’s a pretty prominent journalist.”

  “Exactly,” Miles said. “But Krista says they’re super careful. He lives in Barnstable for his work now, but his family still has one of those big houses by Reedie’s landing. He keeps his boat moored there year-round, and that’s where they meet. Krista says nobody’s ever suspected anything.”

  So Krista didn’t know about Estelle’s photo. Had Henson not told her?

  “Nobody’s ever suspected except for you,” Miles added meaningfully. Then he just looked at me.

  I knew what he wanted. He’d dished, and now it was my turn to dish. But I didn’t know what to say to him, what to tell him. This had gone way beyond gossip shared between friends. This was essential information as part of a murder investigation. I needed to talk to Jason. He could take it from here. And for the first time, my feelings about that were not resentment, but relief. We’d get the phone from Mr. Logan, and I’d be out of it.

  There was just one thing I needed to do first.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Once I’d escaped from Miles (who was all flustery because I wouldn’t tell him anything) and Grumpy had finally agreed to start, I headed back toward town. I pulled into the Sunoco station for gas (the Sunoco was the only gas station in town that still offered full service, which meant that I didn’t have to pump my own, which was something—I’m ashamed to admit—I’d never learned how to do). While the nice gentleman filled Grumpy up, I took the opportunity to text Krista. I didn’t want to explain anything over the phone.

  Where you?

  Work

  It was 7:30 on a Saturday morning. Of course she was at work.

  Don’t move coming by

  The Clarion’s offices were deserted and very quiet except for the sound of Krista clicking away at her computer. I stuck my head in her door and said “Hey, you” to her back.

  She jumped about a mile and turned to me, frowning furiously. “Jeez, don’t do that!”

  Great, Sam. Get her all pissed off before you even begin.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I, um, I need to, um, talk to you about something. . . .”

  Krista just sighed dramatically. “Just spit it out, girl. Some of us have work to do.”

  I took a deep breath. The words came out in a rush. “I know about you and Curtis Henson and so did Estelle. She took a picture of the two of you . . . together . . . probably on that boat . . . with her cell phone.”

  Krista was no fool. She didn’t even try to pretend she didn’t know what I was talking about. “And you’ve seen it? You have Estelle’s cell?”

  I nodded. Well, I almost had her cell.

  Krista went silent. But I’d known her for so long that I could read her like a book, and I watched as something like the five phases of grief flitted across her face—denial (This can’t be happening), then anger (Who told?), then bargaining (How do I get out of this?), to depression (I can’t get out of this), to acceptance (This is happening, there is nothing I can do about it). She bowed her head and put her face in her hands.

  It wounded me to see my admittedly annoying friend brought so low. I wished mightily that I hadn’t been the one to bring her this news, that I’d never gotten involved in investigating Estelle’s death. I’d never meant to hurt anybody, particularly not Krista.

  Then Krista raised her face to mine.

  “That scumbag.”

  Oops, we’re back to anger. Now, that’s more like it.

  “Curtis?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Of course Curtis. Curtis Slimebucket Henson. He dumped me, you know.” Of course I didn’t know, but now was not the time to interrupt. Krista was just getting started.

  “About six months ago. Ghosted me, the gutless rat bastard.” Krista has an amazing vocabulary when she’s mad. “Just stopped answering my texts, sent my calls to voice mail. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. The funny thing was, I was planning to call the whole thing off myself. In the beginning he’d had that sexy power thing going on, you know? And a killer smile. But once you got to really know him, he was kind of a weird, kinky guy.” I could feel myself getting flustery, but fortunately Krista moved on.

  “And then last week he called me, said he wanted to explain, asked if we could meet. Like an idiot, I agreed. He told me his wife had gotten suspicious, that was why the sudden silence. It made sense to me. The sleazeball is scared to death of her. She runs this big hedge fund and he needs her money in his run for state’s attorney. He said he was sorry about the way he’d left things, that his wife wasn’t suspicious anymore so he wanted to get back together. What a degenerate, horny, money-grubbing piece of crud.” It was a fantastic aria, and I was kind of enjoying it, but even Krista had to stop to take a breath.

  I took advantage of the opening. “He never mentioned Estelle? Or the photo?”

  “Nope. But I bet that’s what it was really all about. His clueless wife probably never suspected anything. What probably happened was Estelle showed him that photo and he freaked out and dumped me. And probably used his wife’s moola to pay her off. And then when Estelle died, he figured he and I could get it on again.” She stopped for a second as another thought struck her. “I wonder why Estelle didn’t try to hit me up, too.”

  “Your back is to the camera in the photo,” I said. “I recognized you by your hair. But I’ve been looking at the back of your head since ninth grade. I don’t think most people would know it was you, least of all Estelle.”

  “Well, thank heaven for small favors,” Krista muttered.

  I paused, wishing I didn’t have to ask Krista my next question. I took a deep breath and punched it out. “Do you think Curtis could have killed Estelle?”

  Krista gave a short bark of laughter. “Do I think he could have? Yeah, sure. The guy is totally eaten up with ambition. But did he? No. That was the night after you got back, right? That night he was with me.”

  “I thought you just met to talk,” I said. “So maybe he did it before or after your meeting?”

  Krista had the good grace to look a little ashamed. “We were . . . busy . . . for a couple of hours.”

  I looked at her, aghast.

  “I dumped him after,” she said proudly. “But I wanted the dirtbag to know what he was missing.”

  And then I realized that this was good news. “He’s in the clear, then,” I said with relief. “If he was with you, nobody has to see that photo.”

  Krista, to give her credit, was horrified by what she thought she was hearing. “Don’t you dare delete that photo,” she said. “That’s tampering with evidence and it is against the law.”

  “But, Krista,” I said, “if they bring Henson in for questioning—which they will because they’ll recognize him—he’s going to use you as his alibi. Your name is going to get out. Not all publicity is good publicity you know, not for a journalist anyway. But I don’t see why the authorities even need to know about it. We know Curtis didn’t kill Estelle. Let them concentrate on the other possible suspects, real suspects.”

  “Absolutely not,” Krista said, and her tone brooked no argument. “You touch that photo and I’ll have your guts for garters.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I burst into laughter. “You’ll have my guts for garters? What are you, a pirate?”

  And suddenly we were both doubled up, hiccuping with laughter. It felt good. It felt like old times.

  When I managed to get hold of myself, I stood up. “Look, I’ve got to go talk to Jason.”

  “Go,” Krista said, pointing imperiously to the door. “Do your duty as a citizen.” I could have sworn she was enjoying all this.

  As I turned to leave, I saw her from the corner of my eye picking up her desk phone.

  I turned back to her. “And you tell no one about this. Particularly that dirtbag ex-boyfri
end of yours.”

  I didn’t wait for her to respond. Krista would do what she wanted to do. But at least she knew how I felt about it.

  * * *

  * * *

  Before I left the Clarion’s parking lot, I tried Jason again on my cell. The call went to voice mail, and I decided not to leave a message. He was probably still asleep back at Aunt Ida’s. I headed home.

  But Jason wasn’t asleep at Aunt Ida’s. He was gone. I knew he’d seen my note because he’d scribbled a peremptory “call me” below it. Yes, sir, I thought. Right away, sir. Except you’re not answering your phone, sir, so whose fault is that?

  Nonetheless, I tried the Harbor Patrol offices. The woman on the other end of the line informed me that the harbormaster had been called out to bring in a kayaker who’d lost his paddle.

  “He’s probably in a spot with no cell service,” she said, “but he should be back soon. Do you want me to radio him with a message?”

  “No message, thanks,” I said. “I’ll catch him later.” She told me to have a nice day. I wasn’t sure that was on the cards.

  Diogi in the meantime was clearly jonesing for an outing, so I decided to take him with me to Bits and Bites. He’d enjoy romping on the beach while I charged Estelle’s phone. I tucked the charger in my bag, and we settled into our respective seats in Grumpy. But Grumpy wasn’t going anywhere. Grumpy didn’t even wheeze at me. Grumpy had finally given up the ghost.

  In response, I had one of those temper tantrums where you rock back and forth and bang on the steering wheel with both hands and generally behave like a spoiled five-year-old.

  Tip: When the universe sends you a message, don’t fight it. Listen to the universe.

  Which, of course, I didn’t. Instead I explored other options. I’d seen a bicycle in Aunt Ida’s toolshed when I’d gone in to dig out the loppers for the briars in front of the house. I could ride the bike to Bits and Bites. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of riding along Route 6 (I had visions of being sucked into some truck’s slipstream). But if I went on the private roads through Bayberry Point, it would only be a couple of miles farther and the sandy lanes, though narrow, would be mostly deserted at this hour.

  It was not an ideal day for a bike ride, chilly and gray and very windy. Through the gap I’d created in the briars, I could see whitecaps on Bower’s Pond and noted with the sailor’s automatic reflex that the wind would be even stronger out on the bay. Well, I wasn’t planning on a sail. I was just going to take a little spin on Aunt Ida’s bike.

  So, full of the usual misplaced optimism that taking action, any action, tends to give me, I prepared for my bike ride. I tucked my phone and wallet into the front pockets of my jeans and the charger into the hand-warmer pocket of my hoodie. At the shed door, I zipped up my sweatshirt and cinched the hood around my face attractively. The shed was essentially a spider condo. I didn’t want any of those suckers in my hair.

  I stepped in and tugged the chain hanging from the bare bulb overhead. The rusted, red Schwinn was leaning against one wall. The bad news was that it looked like it weighed a ton and it had only three speeds. The good news was I’d never gotten the hang of shifting gears on a ten-speed anyway. The tires were not exactly flat but they were definitely soft. That, though, would be an advantage on the sand roads.

  I pushed the contraption out onto the lawn, and Diogi erupted into a volley of barking at the monster wrestling with his human. I told him to shut up, which he did, then propped the bike against the shed (the kickstand having long since gone wherever it is that kickstands always go) and led him back into the ell.

  As I pedaled away, I could see Diogi looking woefully out the window as the monster carried me off to who knew what terrible fate.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The ride only took me about twenty minutes but it was a little hairy. The scrub oaks and pines shielded me from the worst of the wind, but the occasional gust sometimes rocked me and once actually knocked me over. But I got back on that horse and continued on my wobbly way. When I finally skidded into the parking area behind Bits and Bites, I could hear the by now familiar whine of the bandsaw in the dining room. Also good. I just needed a minute to take a quick look at the rest of Estelle’s pictures without Mr. Logan peering over my shoulder. I really did not want to explain to him what I was looking for. It would only upset him.

  I slipped into the kitchen. The phone was still on the cluttered counter where I’d left it. I plugged the charger into the closest outlet and then into the phone itself. Presto. We were back in business. I quickly scrolled back through Estelle’s photos until I came to the beach scene that I’d briefly glimpsed before the phone had died.

  It was one of two photos, actually. And not of beach scenes. As I’d suspected, they were of the Skaket Point dune. Taken from the water.

  I think I stopped breathing for a moment.

  In the first picture, a distant figure was walking along the top of the dune. It was impossible to identify who they were or what they were doing. But not in the next photo, which had been taken with the zoom function. Which meant Estelle meant business. Which meant she had really wanted to capture who was walking on that dune and what they were doing. Which she did.

  It was Trey Gorman. It was Trey Gorman about to step on a baby bird huddling in the sand while its frantic parents dive-bombed the attacker.

  I breathed out. So, yes, Estelle indeed had evidence of Trey Gorman destroying plover nests.

  I should have been thrilled. My theory had been right. But all I felt was a deep sadness, for the birds, for Trey, for Estelle, for the greed and insecurity that had led to such a terrible end. For the whole sorry story.

  But maybe I was rushing too quickly to judgment. There were other people Estelle had been blackmailing, other photos, probably some I hadn’t even seen yet. I’d go back a few years and then scroll forward, starting with the few I’d looked at the first time. After all, I hadn’t recognized Curtis Henson the first time I’d whizzed through the gallery. Maybe looking through the photos again, someone would strike me as familiar or something would give me a clue as to their identity.

  But it was hopeless. I didn’t know the lady with the lipstick, although I thought maybe it was taken in Livingston’s drugstore. I tried again with the rich old man on his dock and though he reminded me of someone, I had a feeling it might be Mr. Burns in The Simpsons.

  “You got it to work. You’ve found her pictures.”

  I whirled around. In my concentration, I hadn’t registered that the wailing of the bandsaw had stopped. Nor that Mr. Logan had come in and was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder at the phone.

  “I did,” I said, putting the phone down as casually as I could on the counter. “But most of them are just of her cat.”

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Logan said, distracted by the mention of the cat. “That reminds me, I’ve been meaning to check in with that neighbor of Estelle’s who’s taking care of it, see how it’s doing.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “You should probably do that.” I tried to sound calm, but all I could think about was how I was going to explain to him that I needed to keep Estelle’s phone. Mr. Logan didn’t even know Estelle’s death was being investigated as suspicious. I doubted very much that Jason or McCauley would appreciate me giving the game away.

  But before I could say anything, we both heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel and turned to peer through the back door to see who was coming into the parking lot.

  I literally felt my blood run cold as Trey Gorman’s black SUV slid into view.

  I grabbed Mr. Logan’s arm.

  “What’s Trey Gorman doing here?” Even I could hear the panic in my voice.

  “Probably come to talk to me about making the right-of-way he’s been using for that development of his permanent,” he said. “I figure it will be good for business, once I open the restaurant. Plus, he see
ms like a nice young man. He’s given me a key to that fancy boat of his out there so I can take it out when the blues are biting. He hardly ever uses it. He’s more of a sailor type, keeps a nice Wianno at the yacht club, I understand.”

  I liked Mr. Logan, but sometimes he just talked too much.

  Actually, maybe that was a good thing. . . .

  “Look, Mr. Logan, I really don’t want to see him. Trey, I mean. We had a kind of . . . falling out . . . yesterday, and I just need a little time to sneak out the front, okay? Could you stall him for me, talk to him for a while?”

  Mr. Logan smiled and chuckled. “Of course, Sam. I understand. The course of true love never runs smooth.”

  I wanted to laugh at how wrong he’d got it, but if it kept him on my side and Trey occupied while I got away, then great. He could think whatever he wanted.

  Mr. Logan toddled out the back door, and I heard him hailing Trey cheerfully. I pulled out my own phone. Maybe I could call or text Jenny to come pick me up. But still, no cell service. The place, like most of the bay it bordered, was too remote.

  I slipped my cell back into my jeans. Then I quickly unplugged the charger and Estelle’s phone and dropped them into the pocket of my hoodie. I ran through the dining room and out the front door, then peeked around the side of the building to make sure the coast was clear. Unfortunately, I hadn’t given Mr. Logan specific enough instructions. Instead of bringing Trey into the kitchen while I snuck out the front, he was chatting to him by the SUV, which was parked about five feet away from my bike. Even on foot, I couldn’t get past them without being seen.

  I crept back to the front of the building. The only thing Trey couldn’t see from where he and Mr. Logan were chatting was the small strip of beach the restaurant looked out on. The beach with the Sunfish pulled up on it.