by N. C. Lewis
Nick grunted. "I think I should have a quiet conversation with Mr. Yates."
Chapter 28
The rain had eased, although it was still too early for the first rays of dawn as Amy busied herself preparing breakfast, and Nick sent text messages to police department headquarters. "I need to track down an address for Eddie Yates."
They fell into silence while Amy prepped. The whole business surrounding Gwen Williams seemed so unfair. If Eddie was the killer, Amy wanted to speak with him; there wouldn't be closure without that. For a moment she glanced at her husband knowing he wouldn’t agree.
Nick stared into his cell phone, but as if by some sixth sense asked, "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing," she replied, her mind planning what she would say, but she'd wait until after breakfast to broach the idea with Nick. "Breakfast will be ready shortly."
For several minutes the only sound was that of pots clattering and the coffeepot burbling. It was Nick who broke the silence. "The department's sent over an address for Eddie." He raised his cell phone in the air like a trophy. "Mr. Yates is a resident at our old friend Ethel Babbage's place."
Amy poured scrambled eggs into a pan. "Eddie's staying at the Five-Star Motel?"
"Seems so."
"I thought they only provided temporary accommodation."
"Legally, yes, though they also have a few long-term residents. I suppose they stay because the rent is cheap, and it's less hassle than leasing a trailer. I'll give Ethel a call, find out about his movements." He dialed and waited. "It's early. I wonder if anyone will pick up?"
The toaster pinged. Amy placed the crisped bread into a silver toast rack—a gift from an English aunt. Then she flipped the bacon in the grill pan.
"Ethel, it's Detective Nick King. Can you call me when you get this message? I need information on one of your long-term residents—Mr. Eddie Yates."
"Want fried tomatoes as well?" Amy asked.
"Sure, what's the occasion?"
"Oh, nothing." Amy piled the food onto two plates. "It's early, and we have time," she said joining Nick at the table.
"What have I done to deserve this?"
"You are such a good husband," Amy replied. "So attentive and caring."
Nick buttered his toast. "So, what is it?"
"Eh?"
"What do you want?"
There was no point beating around the bush; Nick knew her too well for that. "I want to go with you to visit Eddie Yates."
"Are you crazy? Eddie's a thief, and he might even be the killer. It would be too dangerous."
"Honey, we don't know that yet. I think he is the Tin Man, but I'd like to ask him a few questions in case I'm wrong."
"Like what?"
"Why he stole the suitcase, and what happened to the statue I saw in the cabin."
"I can ask him that." Nick popped a slice of bacon into his mouth.
"Want a refill of your coffee?"
"Thanks."
Amy walked to the kitchen counter, picked up the coffeepot and refilled Nick's cup. "I'll stay out of harm's way."
Nick steepled his fingers and closed his eyes as if deep in thought. The emotion in his wife's voice and determined set of her jaw told him all he needed to know. He had to find a compromise. "Stay in the car. If it is all clear, I'll call you, and you can ask Mr. Yates whatever you want."
"It would be safer in the reception area. That way I can chat with Ethel. She might have useful insights. You know how well she keeps tabs on her residents."
Nick didn’t speak for a moment and when he did, it was with an air of resignation. "I suppose so. It's not an official visit, anyway." He reached for the bottle of ketchup. "Whatever happens, we'll have to pass on any information to the county sheriff's office."
Amy shrugged. "I only hope they do something."
"If we hand it to them on a silver platter, they'll have no choice."
Amy smiled, then forked scrambled eggs into her mouth. "When shall we visit?"
Nick nodded. "If Ethel gets back before eight, we can swing by the motel, provided he is at home."
Nick's cell phone rang.
"Speak of the devil," he said, glancing at the number.
Amy cleared the table, half listening to the conversation.
"Hi, Ethel. What type of incident? Oh... I see... In the motel room, you say?... Oh dear... Yes, you did the right thing... Okay… She is one of the best… Okay… Yes, I'll be in touch."
Nick stared at the phone a moment before placing it on the kitchen table.
"Honey, what is it?"
"Ethel found Eddie Yates in his motel room—dead."
Chapter 29
Nick sat at the kitchen table staring into space. "Ethel says the police are at the motel." He sounded like a dispatch operator relaying the bare necessities to patrol officers. "Detective Mary Wilson is at the scene." He had taken Mary under his wing when she first joined the police department. He had encouraged her as she rose through the ranks and recommended her for promotion to detective. Mary was a family friend.
"That's good," Amy said, her voice neutral. Then it hit her, and she shivered. "Was Eddie murd—?" She couldn’t bring herself to say it and changed the question. "Did Ethel say anything else?"
"Yep. On a counter in his room she found tins of silver body paint, a tin hat, a purple suitcase with a large yellow bow"—Nick glanced at his wife, then away—"and she mentioned Eddie had a bullet hole through the side of his head."
Amy shuddered, stood up, walked to the kitchen counter to prepare a fresh pot of coffee—strong and black. Her mouth was dry, and she struggled for breath as if something had sucked the air from the room. "Did they find the—"
"Blue-footed booby?" Nick completed her sentence. "No. The suitcase was empty." He slipped on his jacket. "I'm going over to the motel. Then I'll brief Detective Wilson on what I know."
"I'm coming with you."
Nick shot her a sharp glance. "No."
She didn't argue.
By her third cup of coffee Amy had pulled herself together enough to think. The more she went over the death of Gwen Williams and Eddie Yates, the more she came to believe the blue-footed booby held the key to the murderer's identity. She closed her eyes, seeking an answer from her subconscious mind. Images of Gwen Williams' battered head, grotesque and ghastly, was its only response.
For the next half hour she sat hunched over a coffee mug running over the facts. Eddie Yates was the Tin Man. Why had he stolen the blue-footed booby? Money! "Not a fact, only a guess," she said, chiding herself for letting her mind wander down the path of speculation. "What are the facts?" She concentrated hard, but her mind meandered back to conjecture. Perhaps Eddie Yates had sold the blue-footed booby to Gwen Williams, then killed her and taken it back to resell. Yes, that was it! The man lived in a cheap motel and needed the money. Amy had figured it all out. But who killed Eddie? If this was a television soap opera that would be easy—his long lost half brother. Did Eddie have any relatives?
"Stop!"
Startled by the volume of her voice, Amy retraced what she knew. First, Marge Christopher bought the statue at auction. Second, a Tin Man stole it. Third, the Tin Man sold it to Gwen Williams. "No!" That last point wasn't a fact, but speculation. Now the Tin Man was dead, probably murdered, although that wasn't a fact, either. "Might have committed suicide."
Amy placed her face in her hands. The coffee had helped, but her mind was still tired. Once again, she concentrated on the facts. The Tin Man was also the security guard. That offered a connection between him and Gwen Williams. But both were dead, so what was the relationship between each victim and the killer?
Oceana Peach popped into Amy's mind. Their meeting at the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club was a touch strange. Amy sat bolt upright recalling the words of Marge Christopher as they ate lunch in the Joyeux Mangeur Bistro— "She is our club secretary. Keeps minutes, manages the schedule…"
"Oceana Peach!"
The puzzle pieces were fitting toge
ther. Oceana knew Gwen Williams and Eddie Yates, and she kept Marge's schedule and knew what was in the suitcase. The fog had lifted, the picture becoming clear. It was a conventional tale, one filled with deadly jealousy and greed. Didn't Oceana work as a store clerk? As the secretary of the Jersey Rodin Collectors Circle, she'd seen how the wealthy live. Like a shark that tastes human blood, Amy rationalized, Oceana could no longer tolerate the bleakness of her own penniless existence—she'd tasted the good life and wanted more.
"Yes! It is so obvious; how did I miss it?"
Amy ran through the rest of the scenario. Oceana had the statue stolen by Eddie Yates. They'd sell it to Gwen Williams and split the difference. Hadn't Oceana said Gwen and Marge were rivals? But why did Oceana kill Gwen? And now Eddie? That much wasn't clear, but she had to warn Marge of the danger and let Nick know what she'd discovered.
Her hand reached for the cell phone. She'd dial Nick first.
"Wait!" she cried. "What if I'm overreacting?" After a moment's hesitation Amy took a long gulp from her mug. The coffee was lukewarm. "I'll speak with Marge first, have breakfast with her and share my thoughts. Then if I have something more concrete, I'll call Nick." Searching through the contacts, she found what she needed and dialed.
"Mrs. Christopher?"
"Yes, who is it?" The voice was friendly, warm, filled with the confidence of wealth.
"My name's Amy King. We—"
"Oh, Mrs. King, how delightful to hear from you again. I was so grateful for your company in the Joyeux Mangeur Bistro, especially after the dreadful incident."
"How are you recovering?"
"Very well, thank you. Things cheered up considerably when I spoke with my insurance agent."
"Oh?"
"I've been paid for the full replacement cost. I'd rather have the statue, but the cash is better than nothing."
"I suppose Oceana would have known about the insurance policy?"
"Of course, dear. Oceana found the insurance agent and took care of the details. I don't know what I'd do without her. That girl really is a peach." Marge let out a little chuckle at her joke. "Already got my eye on another Rodin—Adam from The Gates of Hell—an original bronze cast!"
Amy had to warn Marge of the danger. "I wonder if..." But she stopped speaking as doubt filled her mind. If a relative stranger called her to say Danielle was a wild killer, she'd think they were crazy. How could she break the news about Oceana? "Are you free for breakfast this morning?"
There was a long pause. Amy thought she heard a sound like a heavy thud, then there was silence for several seconds. "Hello?" she said, fearful the line had gone dead.
"Breakfast is a wonderful idea." Marge sounded breathless. "Alas, I have plans today, and I'm afraid they can't be changed. I do so hope we get the chance to meet before I leave town on Friday."
Amy wouldn’t forgive herself if there was another murder. Her mind raced for something to say. "Marge, I have a problem, but I suppose it can wait."
"A problem?"
"It is rather difficult to explain over the phone. It involves Oceana Peach. I was hoping you might help resolve the matter."
Again, another long pause.
"Mrs. King, I have a nine a.m. breakfast appointment, but if you could find your way over to the Cherry Tree Towers Hotel, Suite 2513, we could have a morning coffee in my apartment. I'd only be able to spare an hour or so."
"I'll be over in thirty minutes."
Chapter 30
Amy hurried through the executive entrance of the Cherry Tree Towers Hotel almost knocking over a tall man in an expensive blue suit.
"Amy!" he said, steadying his steel-rimmed glasses. "What brings you rushing in here this bright and breezy morning?"
"Oh, so sorry, Patrick," Amy said. Patrick Crenshaw was the general manager and often attended Amy and Nick's social dinners. He enjoyed mixing with local celebrities, politicians, and business people.
"That's okay. No damage done, eh?"
Amy flashed a broad smile. "It's so good to see you."
Patrick opened his arms and gave her a hug. "How are you? I hear your staging business is knocking the socks off the competition."
"Nick and I are not retiring to the Bahamas yet, but you never know."
"I'm pleased to hear that." Patrick smiled then glanced at his watch. "Do you have time for a coffee? I can take a break, and you can tell me all about your business…and your next social party. Can I expect an invitation soon? "
"Some other time."
Patrick's eyes drooped. "Of course."
Amy felt a tinge of guilt. "I would love to chat, but I'm running late for a business meeting."
"I understand."
As Amy turned to leave, she added. "There'll be an invitation to my fall social. The members of the Tarry Town Revival Band are coming, might even get them to play a song or two."
Patrick's face broke out into a broad grin. "I'll look for the invite. Thank you."
"You are welcome."
"Oh, and if I don't receive it in the next week, I'll drop you a friendly reminder."
"That's a good idea," Amy said as she rushed by the reception desk and into the lobby that led to the elevators.
Suite 2513 was on the twenty-fifth floor, along a wide hallway with plush carpeting and luxurious wallpaper. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the luxury apartment offered panoramic views over the city. There were leather couches and wall paintings, a large flat-screen television inside an oak wood cabinet, and on the far side a door which led to the executive bedroom.
"Take a seat," Marge said cheerily, handbag rested in her lap. "Room service has just brought up a pot of kopi luwak, a most delightful coffee, don't you think?"
Amy settled herself into the opposite armchair. The woman seemed stiff and formal in her dowdy, brown smock and dainty, white gloved hands. "Thank you for taking the time to see me."
"Now, Mrs. King—"
"Please call me Amy."
"And call me Marge. Now, Amy, how may I be of service to you?"
Her directness caused Amy to fumble. "I... It's"
Marge waved a gloved hand. "Take your time. When you called, I knew there was something important you wanted to tell me." She nodded slightly, lips curved. "Something confidential, eh?"
"It's...not an easy matter to discuss," Amy began in a soft voice. The drive to the hotel had given her time to collect her thoughts, organize what she wanted to say, but now in the spotlight of Marge's sharp gaze that all dropped away. "It's about the blue-footed booby and Oceana."
"That's all settled," Marge said, shifting in her seat. "As I said earlier, I have the insurance money. Now, what has this to do with Oceana?"
"I'm afraid she may be in some rather serious trouble."
Marge picked up her cup, regarded it for several seconds then put it down without drinking. Beneath her neat makeup, a sheen of sweat formed. "What type of trouble?"
"Theft and possibly murder."
"Murder!" Her eyes flashed with alarm.
"Marge, I believe you may be in great danger and that—"
A strangled scream followed a sharp thud.
"Help! Help!"
The cry came from behind the bedroom door.
Amy was on her feet, across the room and tugging at the door handle before any thoughts of danger entered her mind. The door opened with a creak. She stumbled, falling headlong onto the hard, polished oak floorboards. At first, she thought she'd tripped on a pile of discarded bath towels. Then she saw Oceana Peach. Her arms and legs were tied with cords of rope. The strip of tape that had covered her mouth flapped loose at one end.
"Help! Please help! She's going to kill me."
Amy clambered to her knees, tried to get to her feet, but her left leg gave way in pain. She'd twisted it in the fall.
Behind her in the doorway stood Marge Christopher, handbag across her left shoulder.
She stepped into the room.
In her right hand she held a bronze statue of a blue-f
ooted booby.
Chapter 31
It took all of Amy's strength to roll onto her right side. Sharp shards of pain shot up her left leg, and her knee throbbed. If she could move, it wouldn’t be far. Her eyes took in the room. There was a bed, a bedside cabinet with a tombstone of a book on top, a chest of drawers and walk-in closet. But there was only one way in and one way out—the doorway in which Marge Christopher stood.
"She killed Gwen Williams," Oceana whimpered. "Murderer!"
"Shut up!" howled Marge, eyes filled with fury. Amy watched in horror as Marge swung the statue hard like a baseball bat. It connected with a violent thwack into Oceana's head. There was a gasp like the sound of a pierced balloon and Oceana flopped limply to one side.
Marge turned to face Amy, sweat smearing her makeup, and took a deep breath. "Mrs. King," she said quietly, "let me explain, and perhaps you will understand why I had to do it."
"We need to get help for Oceana." Amy gasped, mouth dry, trying to buy a little time to think.
"No!"
"Why did you strike her?"
"For the same reason I had to kill Gwen Williams."
"Go on," Amy said, her breathing labored with pain and fear.
"I introduced Gwen to the mystery of Rodin, showed her the finer details of the maestro's work, and then she stole my my babies—took them one by one with her filthy divorce settlement money."
Marge stepped over the limp form of Oceana, nostrils flared, eyes smoldering like coals on a late-night fire. Then she raised the statue above her head ready to strike the lifeless figure once more.
"Wait!" Amy cried. "Don't hit her again."
Marge laughed. "I don't suppose Miss Peach is going anywhere." Her voice dropped to a nasty snarl. "I'll finish the job later."
Amy glanced around. If she could make it to the walk-in closet, close the door, that would buy her enough time to dial for help. She needed to stall Marge. "What do you mean Gwen stole your babies?" She shifted her weight. A new wave of pain shot through her body as she inched toward the bedside cabinet.