Two Sleuths Are Better Than One

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "Thanks."

  I let Emma get back to supervising the takedown of the quilt frame and considered who else might know if any other local businesses had been victims of Gabe's visit to Danger Cove. While I was thinking, I caught sight of Mayor Kallakala heading toward the parking lot.

  *

  I got Matt to run over to stop the mayor for me so I wouldn't risk my endocrine system going into overload and causing me to pass out. It was nice being able to ask for the help instead of having to hide the effects of my health from him.

  I followed more slowly, and when I arrived, the mayor was pointing at where the forensics team was gathering around Matt's truck. "I really should go see what they're doing," Kallakala said, "so I can answer any questions from constituents."

  "I can tell you," Matt said. "They're checking whether a flashlight on the grass over there is what killed Coach Andy."

  "I see," Kallakala said. "In that case, I'd best leave them to their work. I'm sure Bud Ohlsen will let me know as soon as he has some useful information."

  "Before you leave, I have a quick question for you, Mayor," I said. "I've heard that Gabe Portillo had a habit of not paying his debts. I was wondering if you know of anyone in town who felt cheated by him last weekend."

  "Ah," he said. "You must be looking into the man's death because of his connection with the quilting guild. You've been helpful to the police in the past, Keely, and we're all very grateful, but it's not necessary this time. Detective Marshall assures me he's on the verge of an arrest."

  "Even so," I said. "Perhaps you could humor me? The police have been wrong before, and we wouldn't want that to happen again." I turned to look pointedly back at poor Emma, who'd had a brief and totally wrongful stay in jail, suspected of murder.

  "True." He paused. "You won't pass this on to anyone unless it's relevant to the murder investigation? I'm sure no one wants to be seen as a victim."

  "I'll treat it like lawyer-client privilege," I promised. "I won't tell anyone who doesn't need to know to solve the crime."

  "All right." Kallakala looked away for a moment, as if checking his memory, and then rattled off the names of three businesses. "They were each owed between five hundred and a thousand dollars for various deals Gabe made the last time he was in town and that he promised to pay for when he returned. They were all angry, but none of them was desperate enough to kill someone."

  I made a note of the names in my phone, reserving judgment on whether they were good suspects. The chance to file a quiet little claim with the estate rather than the very public process of a lawsuit was a possible motive for murder.

  "You know," Kallakala said, "there is one person who claimed he was cheated by Gabe and wasn't shy about announcing it. Not from the most recent visit but the prior one. The money was supposed to have been paid as soon as Gabe got home from that trip, but he didn't. A small claims court action was filed a few weeks ago."

  I looked up from my notes. "Who was that?"

  "Jack Condor, of all people. Usually I field complaints about him not living up to his deals and having to be sued, rather than being the victim of someone else. Half the businesses in town and a quarter of the private citizens have probably been involved in a lawsuit with him at some point or another. And he's ruthless, wearing people down even when they ought to win the case."

  "I'm surprised anyone will do business with Condor, given his reputation."

  "Most locals won't anymore," Kallakala said. "Or they think they'll be one of the exceptions. As long as Condor really needs something from you, he's a good business partner. But then if he decides he doesn't need you any longer, he'll pull the rug out from under you. Did that to a general contractor a while back, reneging on a deal after all the work was done, and the guy ended up in bankruptcy. Not unlike what I heard Gabe Portillo did to Zoe Costa, promising her money after she fronted the out-of-pocket costs and all the labor and then claiming the work was inferior."

  "Sounds like Gabe and Condor deserved each other," I said. "But what brought them together? I can't imagine Gabe moving to a small town and buying one of Condor's properties."

  "I'm not sure what their deal was," Kallakala said. "The court complaint was pretty vague, and apparently there wasn't anything in writing, more of a handshake deal. Probably something to do with promoting one of Condor's projects within Gabe's circle of influence in Seattle. Condor's always trying to get me to buy into his daydreams about bringing hordes of big-city people into quiet little Danger Cove. Not that I don't appreciate the prospect of more jobs and housing in my town, but Condor was looking for an overnight doubling of the population, not a more sustainable growth. That's not happening on my watch."

  "I, for one, am grateful to you for that," I said, even as the mayor pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  "It's Bud Ohlsen. I've got to take this."

  "Of course." I had the information I needed from him and something more—Jack Condor as a murder suspect. It was a little too good to be true though, and I'd reserve judgment until I had some solid evidence. I definitely couldn't tell Dee and Emma just yet, or they might be a little too quick to round up the quilters to picket his offices with potentially libelous signs accusing him of murder.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Maria Dolores

  As closing time approached and the number of buyers dwindled and the parking lot emptied, the police presence, mostly checking the area around where the flashlight had been found, became more noticeable. It would be better if Keely and I weren't too blatant about our working together on the murder investigations, so I texted her with the suggestion that we meet at the Lobster Pot on the pier around three o'clock. It was close enough to walk from the market in case Matt's truck was still off-limits, and Merle and I had found that it was often fairly quiet around that time on Sundays, when he would often deliver his perry and then we'd have an early dinner. We should be able to get a private table where there wouldn't be much risk of other diners overhearing our discussion of the murders. It wouldn't be good for that to get back to Bud Ohlsen or, even worse, Lester Marshall.

  Meanwhile, I had to make sure the market was fully cleared and check in with Officer Fields to see if he'd heard anything new about whether the flashlight was indeed the murder weapon.

  While I went from stall to stall, checking for any problems, I noticed Officer Fields across the Memorial Walkway from me, chatting with the dairy farmers.

  I hurried over to talk to him, partly for information and partly to keep him from slowing down the people who would likely be the last to finish, even without distractions. I pulled him aside to ask, "Any news about the flashlight?"

  "Not yet," Fields said. "They've got Richie Faria securing the scene while the forensics team works. And he's getting better at not giving away any information, so if you're thinking about questioning him, you won't get much out of him."

  "I was just going to stop by and ask about Matt's truck and how long it would be off-limits, so we can arrange a ride for him if he needs one."

  "He'll probably need it," Fields said. "This sort of thing takes time. Especially if the initial work suggests that the flashlight is likely to be the murder weapon. It's often quicker to disprove the connection than to prove it."

  That was good to know. I'd have to see if they were still working on the scene when we finished at the Lobster Pot. If they were still there, it meant we'd been right about the flashlight's role in Coach Andy's death.

  "Let's hope next weekend goes more smoothly than this one," I said. "I just hope none of the judges back out. The mayor is all set, but I need to check with all of the preliminary judges. You're still willing to do it, right?"

  "Of course," he said. "I'm really looking forward to it."

  "I'm surprised you chose the traditional category to taste, rather than the alternate one. I thought those entries might appeal to your sweet tooth."

  Fields shuddered. "There's a time and place for sugar, but a salsa contest isn't one of them."
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  "You sound like Cassidi Conti. She told me the only acceptable fruit for salsa is peaches. Although Merle disagrees of course. He reminded me that, technically, tomatoes are a fruit, so it's not that big a leap for him to use pears. He's been working on perfecting his recipe whenever he isn't needed in the orchard or with the goats."

  Fields had held up a hand before I finished speaking. "Don't tell me. The judging is supposed to be blind. We're not supposed to know who's entering which category."

  "I'm afraid it's going to be obvious who did the pear salsa. No way to hide that."

  He sighed. "True, but it's going to wreak havoc with the 'blind testing' aspect of the contest. I can just imagine what will happen if Jack Condor enters the same category and then loses to Merle. You'll never hear the end of his complaints that the contest was rigged. Condor will claim that since everyone could easily guess that it was Merle's, the judges ranked it high just because he's so well-liked, not because of the salsa itself."

  "Pretty much everyone in town is liked better than Condor is, so there's not much I can do about that." I brightened. "But you don't have to worry about it in any event. You won't be judging Merle's category—Gil from the Historical Museum is—and I'll make sure she knows neither of us expects her to treat him any different from the other entrants. Merle only signed up because I told him I was afraid not enough people would enter the nontraditional category. Of course, then he kind of got into the spirit of it, and he probably will be disappointed if his salsa doesn't at least make the finals. His pears and his goats are about the only things he cares about these days."

  "I'm sure that's not true," Fields said. "He cares about you. Anyone can see that."

  "I do know that, even if I don't always feel it." I was grateful for the reassurance from Fields though. He was a good judge of character. "I'm just experiencing a little wanderlust. Much as I love Danger Cove, I've been longing for some serious travel, but Merle can't leave the orchard because of the aforementioned fruits and goats."

  "Surely he can get away for a long weekend or two, once the harvest and the cider pressing are done."

  "Yes, but I'd like to take a whole month to see a solid bit of Africa or China or maybe India. It's part of why I was so interested in the market manager job, since it was seasonal and would leave me free for long periods during the winter. But Merle still has responsibilities at the orchard then."

  "Why not go on your own?" Fields asked. "You could take one of the professionally organized trips so you're not completely alone."

  "But I want to share the experience with Merle." I heard the whiney tone in my voice and didn't like it. Maybe I was being unreasonable and should consider some other options. I couldn't help adding, "I like being with him, and the travel wouldn't be the same without him."

  "You'll work it out," Fields said. "If you can organize twenty independent vendors and turn them into a cohesive whole for the weekly market and even solve a murder or four in your spare time, I'm sure you can come up with a plan to travel with Merle and still get his orchard chores covered."

  "I know you're right," I said. "I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed right now, between the market, the salsa contest, and Coach Andy's murder. Especially since I can't find anyone who should be considered a suspect. Except perhaps Jack Condor."

  "Condor?" Fields frowned. "Really? He's frequently a jerk, but I've never known him to be violent. He's the sort of bully who runs away crying and complaining if you stand up to him, not the sort who would then beat you to a pulp."

  "It is unlikely, but Condor's the only person I've found so far who had all three of the basic elements of a crime—means, motive and opportunity. He told me he saw Coach Andy near the first aid tent shortly before the murder, so that's opportunity. It doesn't take much skill to bash someone over the head, so he had the means, although I'm not sure why he would have had the murder weapon on him or where he'd have picked it up if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing."

  "I didn't know he'd been near the crime scene," Fields said, still frowning but with less skepticism. "What about motive though? Why would Condor want Coach Andy dead?"

  "That's where it gets speculative." I was distracted by a glimpse of someone pulling a handcart stacked with the salsa demonstration supplies toward the parking lot, and it took a moment for me to realize it was Cary and not someone stealing the market's property. He'd matured so much since last summer, and I'd been giving him more and more responsibility, with less and less supervision. I'd hardly even talked to him today.

  I turned back to Fields. "Condor is clearly jealous of anyone who's well-liked here in town, and Coach Andy was definitely popular. Condor seems obsessed with the idea that everyone in town hates him and he needs to do something to change our impression of him, so he might have lashed out at someone he viewed as holding him back. He also had a reason to hate Gabe—some sort of business deal gone wrong that led to a lawsuit—and if he heard about Gabe's connection to Andy, that might have caused Condor to blame Andy for the situation."

  "I guess that's as good a theory as any," Fields agreed.

  "Do you know if Detective Ohlsen has any solid suspects?"

  Fields looked grim. "Not that he's said. I can usually tell from his mood how well the case is going, if not the details, but if that's anything to go by, Bud doesn't have any suspects that are any more likely than Condor."

  "I found you, Maria Dolores!" Cary called out from several stalls away. He didn't have the handcart with him any longer so he was free to race over to join us. "Scott Ingell was picking up passengers in the parking lot, and he wants to know if he should be here at the same time as usual next week. He said it might be better if the deliveries could be ready to pack about half an hour earlier than usual."

  "I think that's a very good idea," I told him. "I'll text him later. And I'll let everyone know they need to get their orders ready before they set up their stalls next week."

  "I could do some deliveries," Cary said. "If it's too much work for Scott Ingell, I mean. He's been teaching me what I'd need to know to be a professional driver someday, and I've been making a list of what safety supplies I'd need."

  Like a car, for starters, I thought, although Scott might not have realized Cary didn't own one. The young man worked for a car dealer, after all, and frequently talked about "his" car, which was more aspirational than reality. I didn't want to discourage him though. He took criticism too much to heart.

  "I think we'll be all set at least for next week," I said. "That will give you time to finalize your list of supplies."

  "Good idea, Maria Dolores," he said. "There's so much to research and so many options to consider."

  Cary left, muttering to himself about spare tires, battery cables, and other things I couldn't make out.

  *

  Fred and I returned to our separate end-of-day routines, and the market breakdown proceeded smoothly. Eventually I followed the last official vendors—the dairy farmers, as usual—down the Memorial Parkway to the much emptier parking lot. The quilters were still packing up, so the few remaining parked vehicles probably belonged to them or the people over on Two Mile Beach, but now there were more empty spots than occupied ones. In the far corner, Matt's truck was surrounded by a lot of open space marked off by cones and police tape.

  The squeal of tires making too fast a turn into the parking lot caught my attention. It was the bright red Volvo sedan that belonged to Andy's widow, and it continued over to where I stood near the beginning of the Memorial Walkway.

  What on earth was Eileen doing here again so soon after her husband's death?

  She jumped out of her car, leaving it running like before, and straightened her bunched-up pencil skirt before pointing at me. "We need to talk, Maria."

  "Of course."

  "Somewhere private," she added.

  I couldn't help thinking of the possibility that Coach Andy's killer might be lurking around the market and Eileen was a potential suspect. She didn't seem to be carry
ing any weapons, and her tight skirt and semisheer silk blouse couldn't have hidden anything like the long red flashlight Keely had found near the parking lot. Still, I wasn't going anywhere isolated with anyone other than Merle until Andy's killer was arrested.

  "We can walk over to that tree," I suggested, pointing to where the Second Chance Animal Rescue group frequently displayed pets for adoption during market events. It was a few yards away from the edge of the parking lot but still in full sight of anyone who happened to look in that direction. And within hearing of the police over near Matt's truck, if I needed to shout for help. "It's cooler in the shade, and no one will be close enough to overhear us."

  "The mayor isn't here, is he?" Eileen demanded from behind the open door of her car. She peered at the now-deserted area in front of the historical garden.

  "Not as far as I know," I said. "I saw him heading for his car at least half an hour ago. But I can call him if you need to talk to him."

  "No," she said. "I'd be ecstatic if I never had to deal with him ever again."

  That was odd. Despite being a politician, Kallakala had a reputation for getting along well with everyone, including people who voted for his opponents and even the opponents themselves.

  She didn't give me any time to frame a question about her dislike of the mayor. She snapped, "Well? Let's go." She headed for the tree, leaving me to catch up with her. When we reached the edge of the shade, she stopped and abruptly said, "I'm not good at this sort of thing, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for how I behaved yesterday."

  "Thank you," I said automatically. She really wasn't good at apologies. I'd been expecting some renewed attack, and her tone still felt more accusatory than conciliatory. Still, she had apologized. "It's certainly understandable. You must have been in shock then, having just learned your husband had been murdered."