by N. C. Lewis
Amy didn’t respond. She knew the wheels of justice moved slow, and often in unpredictable directions.
Lizzie Dawson arrived with Trixie Nithercott. The two women chattered happily like long-time friends. Amy marveled at the dexterity and ease with which Lizzie maneuvered her wheelchair. It was almost as if she was a different person—much more at ease in the chair than when Amy had first met her. Then, Amy thought reflectively, she seemed ham-fisted and awkward. But wasn't that what Peter Thistle had said? That she had recently become sick and taken to a wheelchair?
Trixie was a wonder to work with. Fast, efficient, well organized, and eager to do a good job.
"If you are looking for extra work," Amy said, her voice filling with admiration, "I run a staging business and would love to have you on the team when business picks up."
Trixie answered as she packed a crate. "Can't say I'll take you up on the offer but thank you anyway. I've taken a position at the animal sanctuary. The job pays well enough, comes with health insurance, and the hours suit me. Ain't nothing more I like in life than working with animals."
Zach carried crates out to a waiting truck, with Victoria giving instructions, and recounting details of her pregnancy to Danielle, who listened and made sympathetic noises at the right time.
At long last they were finished.
The gathered crowd gazed around the almost empty room. Trixie leaned a hand on Lizzie's wheelchair. Danielle stood next to Amy. Victoria and Zach held hands near the door. Auntie Folate sat on a stool nattering with Mrs. Stanton and Mrs. Lopresti.
"All that remains," said Mr. Sartain, who had arrived after Duke Savage had been taken away and was now up-to-date with the situation and still a little in shock, "is for the Rumpus House sign to be replaced with its new name—Kitty Clawfoot's Parlor."
There was a murmur of surprise from the gathered crowd, but they put their hands together in polite applause.
Auntie Folate stood to her feet and raised a hand. "There is one more thing, and I almost forgot it." She turned and hurried out of the building.
Moments later she returned carrying a bird cage, a heavy cloth draped over the wire frame. She placed it on the counter and with a flourish removed the heavy sheet. A small bird with an aqua breast, speckled head, and mustard yellow beak cocked his head to one side.
"This is Percy," Auntie Folate said. "He was Mrs. Foreman's budgerigar, a gift from Lizzie, but I'm looking after him now. He is great company for my budgie, Charlie. They serenade each other, you know?"
Auntie Folate turned to look around at the gathered crowd.
Everyone was smiling.
Auntie Folate continued, "I wanted Percy to have one final look around his old home. These little birds are social, and I'm sure he considered the clients of Rumpus House part of his flock."
Percy hopped onto a small ledge, his head moving from side to side as he glanced around the room. The little creature seemed to pause for a moment as it gazed at Lizzie. Its beady eyes flashed with recognition. Then it puffed up its feathers and opened its beak.
"It's for your own good. It's for your own good. It's for your own good."
Amy recognized the shrill voice.
She recognized the words.
And in that instant, Amy King knew who had killed Mrs. Foreman.
Chapter 35
Amy walked over to Auntie Folate and peered into the cage then she turned to face the gathered crowd.
"Well," she said. "Will someone please call the police?"
"Why?" Auntie Folate asked, her voice high pitched and as sharp as a knife.
Amy stepped forward.
"The Beast of MoPac is still at large."
"Are you crazy," cried Mr. Sartain. "The police took Duke away. I still can't believe it, but there you are." He paused, placed his hands on his hips. "We've had enough excitement for one night. Now let's go home."
Auntie Folate crossed her arms, eyes peering through Amy as if trying to see into her soul. "I hope they throw away the key on the drunken bum!"
"I'd agree if that were true," Amy replied. "But it isn't."
"Amy girl, what you talking about?" asked Danielle, concerned the stress of the past few days was finally taking a toll on her mind.
Amy raised both hands palms facing outward. "Danielle, the Beast of MoPac is in this very room."
The collective gasp was audible.
Amy continued, "I believe Duke Savage is innocent of murder. The police have arrested the wrong person."
"That's ridiculous," Auntie Folate cried. "Duke admitted he was Speakeasy. That man threatened my dear friend Mrs. Foreman then killed her!"
"No," Amy replied. "Duke Savage is not the killer."
Silence.
Amy strolled over to Lizzie, placed a gentle hand on her arm. She looked like a fragile doll, sitting low and tiny in her antique wheelchair.
"Why did you do it?"
Lizzie drew her legs up and clasped her knees to her chest with both arms. Her voice was weak and feeble. "Do what?"
Amy bowed her head slightly as if in prayer. "Kill Mrs. Foreman."
Lizzie looked astonished. "What makes you say a thing like that, Mrs. King?"
"The police discovered Mrs. Foreman's phone at the murder scene."
"So what?" Lizzie replied, voice as cold as steel. "Did the police find my fingerprints on her phone? Even if they did that's only circumstantial evidence—we worked together."
Amy shook her head. "They found no fingerprints, but you crept in here late Thursday evening and killed Mrs. Foreman."
"You can't prove that!" Lizzie's eyes were wide, glowing like orbs of coal in a smoldering fire.
"No I can't, nor can anyone else," Amy replied. "But Percy can."
"What?" Lizzie tried a smile but couldn’t quite manage her facial muscles.
"He was your gift to Mrs. Foreman. You trained him to speak, and he only ever spoke to you." Amy turned to face Auntie Folate. "That's true, isn't it?"
Auntie Folate agreed. "Yes, some budgies are like that. He's been living with Charlie and me since Mrs. Foreman died, never said a word until tonight."
"This is ridiculous," Lizzie spluttered. "What about Percy talking? Everyone knows he only speaks to me."
"I don't believe I mentioned that Mrs. Foreman's cell phone had a voice recording app," Amy replied. "It came on during the struggle with the killer, probably when Mrs. Foreman dropped the phone, but that's just speculation. Anyway, at some point during the struggle, the app came on, and you know what it recorded?" Amy didn't wait for an answer. "Percy's voice!"
"Stop!" Lizzie spoke the word as she sprung like a cat from her wheelchair, arms outstretched, powerful hands grasping hard and tight for Amy's neck. There was a commotion, voices shouting. They struggled, twisting and turning, making it hard to see exactly what was happening.
When it was over, Lizzie Dawson lay prostrate with Zach's knee pinning her to the floor and Mr. Sartain wrenching her arms behind her back. Tears streamed down her cheeks smearing her pale clown-like makeup.
"I killed her," Lizzie hissed, her lips curled into a savage sneer. "For the sake of the animals."
Chapter 36
A few days later…
"Have some more potato salad," Amy said dishing out a scoop onto Nick's plate.
The family was seated around a large wooden picnic table under the shade of a cluster of tall oak trees on the lawns of Mayfield House. The beautiful peacocks that roamed freely around the grounds were for once silent, the only sound being the gentle breeze rustling the leaves.
"So when you heard the bird speak," Zach said, "you realized Lizzie had to have been at the scene of the crime when Mrs. Foreman was killed?"
Amy nodded. "That's right. Now please, Zach, eat up; they don't serve barbeque like this in London." Amy forked out several slices of smoked brisket plopping them onto his plate.
"I'll miss this when we fly back next week," Zach admitted. Then he added, his face flushing, "And you and Nick
too!"
Victoria spoke up. "But I don't understand how you first got the notion that Lizzie might be the killer."
Amy chuckled. "I suppose the idea germinated in the back of my mind when I visited the orphaned animals barn at the sanctuary to see a baby goat called Maxi. Lizzie volunteered there, but I couldn't figure how she managed to get around that place without crutches. When I went to her apartment, I noticed It had a rutted driveway, very difficult for a wheelchair. And later in the hallway outside her room, I held her hand and noticed how they were thin and bony but also very large."
"Large hands?" Victoria quizzed, taking a nibble at a cob of corn.
"And unusually strong for someone who looked so pale and frail," continued Amy.
"Yes, she certainly was strong," Zach confirmed, taking a bite of brisket. "It took Mr. Sartain and me to restrain her. The woman bucked and scratched like a wild boar."
Amy put down the serving spoon. "I also thought her face was a little too pale, almost like that of a clown. But then again, I only really ever saw Lizzie for brief snatches or under dim light. I suppose I thought she was a Goth, but she didn't wear dark clothes or black lipstick."
"When the makeup came off at police headquarters, she looked remarkably healthy." Nick forked beans into his mouth, chewed, then continued, "The medic found nothing wrong with her, at least physically." Then he nodded for his wife to continue.
"I suppose I should've put two and two together when I saw Lizzie fumbling around in that wheelchair. It had to be at least fifty years old, and she was clearly a novice. No one uses that type of wheelchair these days."
"It was actually a 1950s Everest and Jennings wheelchair," added Noel, who had picked up a lot of random knowledge since becoming a docent at the Bullock Texas State History Museum. "One of their earliest models. They were originally designed by an injured miner called Herbert Everest and his friend, a mechanical engineer, by the name of Harold Jennings—"
"Thank you," interrupted Amy. "Peter Thistle, the poet who lives in the same building as Lizzie, mentioned they were part of the same acting group. That she was an actress and the heavy makeup gave me the idea she wasn’t what she appeared."
"So the wheelchair was all an act," Nick added, slipping his arms around Amy and giving her a kiss. "We gotta get you and Danielle badges!"
"I'm not clever enough for that." Amy laughed. "If it weren't for Percy, I wouldn’t have put two and two together. He deserves the badge!"
"Those English budgies are clever little birds," Auntie Folate said with a grin. "Now, is there any more of that peach cobbler going around? I'd like another helping, please."
Murder in Hidden Harbor
Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Chapter 1
The wind blew a cooling breeze from the north that evening in late summer when businesswoman Gwen Williams pulled into her reserved parking space at the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club. On her way to the campsite at Pedernales Falls State Park, she'd only stopped to riffle through a box of files left on her boat, the Star of Gwen. It contained documents she wanted to read as she stretched out in a hammock under the shade of state-protected oak trees.
In a hurry and in her usual foul mood, Gwen climbed out of her late-model Mercedes and scurried to the gated entrance that led to the marina. This weekend, out in the natural beauty of the Hill Country, she intended to listen to podcasts, read messages on her phone, or speed-read the latest business books. Cell phone reception at the state park could be spotty, so she'd taken paper reading, just in case. "No sense wasting time on vacation," she had hissed at her personal assistant. "I didn't become wealthy by doing nothing with my time off!"
The security guard, wearing a dark blue uniform with golden shoulder tassels and a bicorne hat, glanced up from the local newspaper. He popped a potato chip into his mouth, munched, then greeted her with a friendly wave.
"Howdy, Gwen."
His informality would have angered her at another time. In her rush to collect her reading material and be on her way to the Texas countryside, Gwen brushed his greeting aside.
The man continued talking.
"I said how've ya been keep'n?" He pronounced each word in a slow southern drawl.
Gwen paused and looked the security guard up and down—short, fat with tiny pumpkin-seed eyes and a smudge of a nose. He reminded her of her first husband. She opened her mouth to tear the man down to size, but he spoke before she could get any words out.
"Gwen, I knew you would visit with us tonight." His lips curved into an unpleasant all-knowing clownish smile. "Ya see, I was expecting y'all."
It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then a thought struck Gwen. It hit her harder than the spiteful words she'd planned to spit out at the inconsequential, little man.
How did he know I would be here this evening?
Ever since the threats on her life, Gwen took great care about her movements. She lived alone, divorced four times, had no children, and kept her whereabouts private. Even her personal assistant didn’t know Gwen would be at the yacht club tonight. Neither did Gwen. She'd visited on a whim, only remembering the weak cell phone service at the state park as she left her apartment.
Who is he?
Gwen took a moment to weigh her response. "Toby, isn’t it?" she said flashing a plastic smile and touching her handbag where she kept her revolver. She didn’t like the man's eyes, too much like her first husband's after the judge had announced her generous divorce settlement—all silty and vengeful.
The man's pumpkin-seed eyes narrowed. "Mama named me Edward, friends call me Eddie."
"Really? I always thought your name was Toby. You look like a Toby."
"A businesswoman like you," Eddie began in his slow cadence, "got more than she can say grace over. Big houses, fancy cars, boats, money. Can't expect ya to remember my name, but it's definitely Eddie to my friends." His lips curved, again into that clownish, all-knowing smile. "Edward to you."
Gwen didn't care about his name, wouldn't remember it anyway. But she was curious, wanted to know how Mr. Nobody knew she would be at the docks this evening. She offered a fig leaf of politeness. "Do you like working here?"
Eddie's face scrunched up, wrinkles appearing like crevices in a prune. "The job's less exciting than a mashed-potato sandwich." He chuckled at his dry humor.
"Good, good," Gwen said impatiently. She wanted information from the little man. That was how she had become wealthy: looking for information and acting on it. She met her first husband, a real estate tycoon, while she waited tables in a fancy Congress Avenue restaurant. Overheard he was in the middle of a nasty divorce. Six months later she was his fourth wife—a twenty-five-year-old trophy for a sixty-five-year-old man. That was fifteen years ago.
Gwen offered another fig leaf along with a dazzling smile. "It is nice to see you again. My goodness, you've been working security here for…" She rubbed her chin trying to think of when she'd first met the uniformed man. The truth was she never noticed security guards, or waiters, or taxi drivers. They were servants, unimportant characters, part of the background like blades of grass on a neatly manicured lawn. Gwen guessed. "Five or six years now."
Eddie leaned back in his chair and shot a cynical glance. "This is my second week."
"Really?" Gwen almost snorted. "Well, I was passing on my way to…an event and thought I'd d
rop in. Hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"No, ma'am. Not much happening now." He glanced at his watch, then looked at Gwen. "It's after eight?"
"Just a quick visit," Gwen answered without further clarification. She would not explain herself to a hired hand, and certainly not to a man whose eyes belonged on a Halloween pumpkin.
Eddie stood up, walked in front of the counter, and gave a little bow. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
Gwen thought he looked like a caricature of an aged Napoleon. It was the fancy uniform and pointy hat that did it. Then she wondered about his feet. They were so large and flat he couldn't chase after a villain even if he wanted to. And she doubted he would want to.
"That is very kind of you, Toby." Gwen had already forgotten his name. "There is nothing I need help with."
"It's Edward!"
"Of course it is."
Eddie coughed, wheezing and gasping as if sucking in his last breath. "That's all right," he spluttered. "I'll answer to anything, so long as I get paid."
Gwen was out of patience. Mr. Nobody was flat footed and sick! She made a mental note to call the property manager on Monday; the man would have to seek employment elsewhere, she'd make sure of that.
Eddie straightened, coughing fit over. "As long as I gets y'all money for me little jobs, I'm as happy as a hog in mud."
In an unconscious gesture Gwen moistened her lips. "How did you know I'd be here tonight?"
"Today is Friday. The thirteenth!" He paused, eyes watching her face. "Not superstitious are you, Gwen? They say odd things happen to folks on Friday the thirteenth."
"Explain yourself." Gwen slipped a clammy hand into her handbag, felt the weight of her revolver and felt safe.
Eddie chuckled. "I saw you heading this way from a website that tracks the movements of people." He picked up his cell phone and held it out. "Someone puts an app on your phone and slick as a whistle they can track y'all. It's kinda like Google maps. Alerts when a person is within a block or two. Look, there you are."