Bloody Point (10 page)

†

Bloody Point

Chapter 10

F
OR her first
assignment, Cassie chose the Triton Beach Seafood Festival, an annual event
drawing thousands from the Bay region as well as the nearby Washington and
Baltimore metropolitan areas. As she pulled into the parking lot full of
minivans and SUVs, she wondered momentarily what she was doing. Covering crab
pickings was a long way away from finding out who had assaulted Jake. And who
killed Mike.

Beggars can’t be choosers
, she told herself with a
sigh. Her appeal with the FBI could take months. She wasn’t willing to wait
that long.

Pulling her Cabrio into a parking place, Cassie joined the
stream of moms, dads, kids, and couples making their way to the brightly
striped tents set up on the sand at the edge of the Bay. She was going to have
to detach from her thoughts, to pretend she was just a tourist.

The day was sunny and bright. A few puffy cotton-ball clouds
broke up the monotony of the dazzling blue sky. Several gulls soared overhead,
looking for easy pickings at the fair.

As she entered the festival grounds the smell of Old Bay
seasoning, on the crabs, in the soups, even in sauces, filled her nose as
surely as sand filled her boat shoes. Oysters still in their shells lay spread
out on grills sizzling in their own juices, and mounds of Chesapeake Bay blue
crabs, their shells bright red and steaming, were heaped on tables covered with
brown paper. Peppery coleslaw filled bowls and gallons and gallons of iced tea
stood at the ready. Smiling men in white aprons and chef’s hats stood under the
tents preparing the food, their ample girths indicating they didn’t need to eat
a bite of it.

Pulling out her little reporter’s notebook, with her press
pass hanging around her neck, Cassie began to take notes. She jotted down her
initial impressions: the colors, sights, sounds, and smells. She listed
participating charities, menus, colorful images, and featured events. She
sketched the layout of the tents, noted the colors of the striping, and
described every barbeque rig employed.

Cassie had only two goals: to get enough information to write
a story, and to network. Many people from the town of Goose Creek would come to
this nearby festival, and one of them might just know something. Who burned
down the marina? Who hurt Jake? Who killed Mike?

It was only when he appeared at her elbow that she remembered
a photographer, Brett Cooper, was supposed to meet her there. “Hi, Cassie!
Sorry I’m late. The traffic …”

She dismissed his apology with a wave. “No problem. I’m just
getting started.”

Together they worked the crowd. A little blonde
three-year-old girl looking curiously at the cooked crab in her hand became a
photo op and a quote. The weathered crabber, in his high boots, standing behind
the Ruritan booth gave them a primer on crabs, or the lack thereof, in the Bay.
And an impish African-American boy grinning from ear to ear as he ate fresh
corn on the cob added a multicultural element to the story.

“Great job!” said Brett when they’d gotten all they needed.
“You really know how to talk to people. Where’d you work before?”

“For the government.”

“Oh, man. You will find this a lot more interesting than
being a bureaucrat.”

Cassie smiled. “Probably so.”

Brett leaned against a wooden gate. He was tanned and
athletic, nothing like the stereotypical artsy photographer. He reminded her of
the fraternity boys at college. “Listen, would you like to do something now
that we’re finished? Go out somewhere? A movie or something?”

Was he asking her out? On a date? He was about her age,
single … but no. Not yet.

“I can’t do it,” she said. “I want to get this done and then
I’ve got somewhere else to go.”

“Okay,” he shrugged. “Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” she offered.

“Yeah,” Brett said, grinning, like he knew he was being put
off. He seemed like the boy-next-door type, so baseball-and-apple pie with his
All-American good looks and blue eyes. “I’m guessing we’re going to be seeing a
lot of each other, anyway. You’ll probably get sick of me. Len told me I was to
cover the festivals with you all summer. He said to keep an eye on you.”

Cassie smiled and shook her head. “Do I look that fragile?”

“You look just fine,” he said, gathering his equipment. “But
hey, see you Monday. I’ll have the pictures done.”

“Sounds good.”

• • •

After Brett left, Cassie took one more spin around the
grounds, just people-watching. She’d seen a few whom she knew, but she was
looking for a hunch to play, a person who might give her a lead. Ninety-nine
point nine percent of the people there were just Americans who were out having
a good time. Most barely remembered the marina fire that took place a few weeks
ago, few would have seen the obscure news story about the unidentified person
found stabbed in the park some thirty miles south. Even fewer would remember
the murder at Sullivan’s Wharf. And Mike? He was just another accident
statistic.

She walked the aisles, lingering over the craft booths,
listening to the talk around her. She bought a cup of crab bisque soup and ate
it leaning against the fence near a group of watermen chewing the fat. She
struck up a conversation with a security guard, a heavy-set man who reminded
her of a prison guard she’d known.

Putting her notebook in her purse, Cassie turned to go home.
Maybe she should visit the mistress of the man who was murdered, Frederick
Schneider. A “Hi, honey!” stopped her in her tracks. She turned around. Pat,
the waitress from the Blue Goose restaurant gave her a big, broad smile.

“I thought that was you! Remember me?” she asked.

“Of course. Pat, right?” Her heart was thumping. Was it a
coincidence she’d run into her?

“Right! And here you are. Feeling better, honey?”

Cassie’s mind flipped back to the night of Jake’s assault.
After they’d argued, and Cassie had walked down the dock to watch the storm, it
was Pat who had come out to make sure she was okay. “I’m fine,” Cassie said.
“And how are you? Your job burned down!”

“You bet it did, honey!” Pat glanced over her shoulder. Two
teenage girls wearing bored expressions stood waiting for her. “I guess I’d
better go before my girls have a fit. I just wanted to say hello. Glad to see
you survived that storm and all.”

“Listen, wait,” Cassie said. “Could we get together? Have
coffee or something? I, uh, I wanted to ask you about some things. About that
night you saw me.”

“Well, sure. When?”

They agreed on a time and place, and Pat waved goodbye.
Cassie returned to her car, the framework of a story on her notepad and an
appointment set for the next day.

† † †

Cassie and Pat met at the IHOP south of Annapolis on Sunday
morning. “My treat,” Cassie said, and the waitress ordered the Big Breakfast.

“I just love their pancakes,” Pat said.

Cassie smiled. “Pat, I’m a reporter for
The Bay Area
Beacon
.”

“Is that so? I love that paper. I read the comics and Ann
Landers every day, I mean every day. And the TV guide, well it’s the best. It’s
got the soaps all summarized in there so if I have to work an afternoon I don’t
miss nothing and then …”

“Pat,” Cassie interrupted. “What’s the latest on the marina
fire? Have you heard anything?”

“Honey, the word is, some dude set the thing off. Now I know
Mr. Hardesty, the owner, and I’m telling you there’s no way that man would
torch the place. He cares too much about his people. I saw the man standing
there watching them boats blow up and there was tears in his eyes, real tears.
So I got money on the fact that ol’ Hardesty had nothing to do with that fire.”

“Any idea who might have?”

They were interrupted as their meal was served.

Pat took a bite of her pancakes. “Let me tell you who I think
did it: a jealous wife.”

“What?”

“I got the whole thing worked out in my mind,” Pat went on.
“Some man’s been spending too much time on his boat. Maybe took his mistress
out on it. And his wife just had enough. Set fire to the man’s boat. That’s my
guess. Domestic violence of the marine sort.”

Cassie suppressed a smile.

“Now Joe, the cook? He’s of a mind that somebody had a boat
they couldn’t afford, and set it on fire for the insurance. That, to me, is
just too boring.”

“Where were you when the fire started?” Cassie asked, sipping
her coffee.

“Serving up the lunch special, red snapper and rice pilaf, to
a couple of businessmen. I heard the first boat blow, and honey, within fifteen
minutes we knew we had to get out. Those customers took their plates with them.
Stood outside watching the fire and eating red snapper!”

“Did you see anything unusual before the fire, out on the
docks or in the parking lot?”

“No. It was a right windy day, and I remember thinking the
sailors would be loving it and the fishing parties would all be coming in sick.
The Bay gets whipped up right good in that kind of wind, as you know!” Pat
scraped the last bit of pancake off her plate and licked her fork. “That was
great, honey. Thank you.” She glanced at her watch. “Listen, I gotta run. My
girls want to go to the mall.”

Cassie raised her hand. “Just one more question, please. The
night you saw me out on the dock, remember that?”

Pat reached out to touch Cassie’s hand like a mother would.
“Well, sure, honey, I remember that very well.”

“Did you see anybody else out there that night? Anybody at
all?”

The waitress withdrew her hand and her eyes grew distant, as
if she were searching her memory. “No … no … no, wait! Yes! Yes, I did!”

“Who? Who did you see?”

“It wasn’t so much who, but what. I was walking down to the
dock to check on you. The thunder was loud, and it was scaring me. I saw a car
pulling out of a space in the marina parking lot. And he didn’t have his lights
on! He started to drive away, real slow, and I was going to go rap on his
window and tell him to turn his lights on. But then he sped up and zoomed away
before I could get there. I never did see him cut on his lights!”

Cassie’s scalp was tingling. “What kind of car was it, Pat?”

“A big, dark truck … one of them SUV’s. I don’t know what
kind.”

“Who was driving it?” Her throat was dry.

“I never saw the person. Didn’t get close enough.” Pat took a
big drink of water, finishing it. “Then I came down to see you. By the time it
started to rain, I just ran for my car. I had had enough! People driving with
no lights. Girls sitting out on the dock in the storm.”

“Pat, listen. If you remember anything else, anything at all,
will you call me?” She gave her a business card printed for her by the
newspaper. “Call me, please.”

“Will do, honey! I will surely do that.”

Cassie paid the bill and the two women left. Cassie sat in
her car in the parking lot for ten minutes trying to absorb what she had
learned. Pat had probably seen whoever had assaulted Jake.

† † †

Monday morning Cassie sat at her desk, staring at her
computer, trying to pull words from her brain to construct a coherent story. It
had been a long time since she’d written anything but Bureau contact reports.
She reached back into her memory to pull out what she could remember from her
high school journalism class about the inverted triangle framework, creating a
snappy lead, and the reporter’s who, what, when, where, why, and how questions.

While she was concentrating, Shonika Blackwell appeared at
her desk. “Hey, girl,” she said, “you were dead right about that fire at the
marina.”

Cassie looked up.

“It was arson.”

“How do they know?” Cassie wondered how much information they
were giving out. She knew about the first boat, the tampered hoses, the propane
in the bilge. Was the MO for the marina fire the same?

“They’re not telling me. The fire marshal, Loughlin, he got a
boat surveyor to go over those hulls. And an insurance investigator from New
York, he was there, too. They’re both saying it was definitely set.”

Cassie pushed her chair back. “What was the name of the
surveyor?” Anybody who hung around boats knew the local surveyors. They
inspected a boat from stem to stern before it was purchased. Nobody wanted to
invest thousands in a vessel just to find it was riddled with blisters or had
rigging that was about to fail, so everybody tried to get a handle on who the
good surveyors were.

Shonika flipped pages in her reporter’s notebook. “It was a
guy named Skip Shelton.”

Cassie knew him. She had used him, in fact, to inspect
Time
Out
for the insurance company once she’d fixed it up. With only thirty or
so surveyors in the Bay region, it was a lucky hit, but not extraordinary. Skip
Shelton was the best in the business, according to most of the marina
community. No wonder Loughlin had called on him to help out.

Shonika went on her way. Cassie immediately called Skip’s
number. She caught him just finishing a boat. He was willing to meet her later
that afternoon.

“Can we make it around four?” she asked.

Skip agreed. Cassie hurriedly finished the write-up on the
Triton Seafood Festival, transferred it to the editing basket, and headed for
the door. On the way she stopped by the desk of her editor, James Lee. “The
article on the seafood festival is in editing,” she informed him. “I’ve got to
run. I have an appointment to talk to some organizers prior to this weekend’s
event.”

“Where are you headed this weekend?” James was in his
forties, with distinguishing silver temples and gray eyes. Not a bad-looking
guy.

“Solomon’s Skipjack Appreciation Days.”

He nodded. “Okay, then.”

“If you have any questions about the article, you can reach
me on my cell,” Cassie called over her shoulder as she headed for the exit.