Murder by the Seaside (5 page)

Mine would be the one professional building this side of the mainland without a tropical island or boat theme. Hunter green walls, cherry-stained woodwork. I’d buy black-and-white photographs with one-color detail to add interest. Like a dramatic print of the Eiffel Tower with a distant umbrella in bright yellow, or a black-and-white wedding shot where the bride’s lips were romantically red.

The Prius slid against the curb at my new office with a hush. I couldn’t wait to get started. When I climbed out onto the street, my dusty Chucks came into view. Not the four-thousand-dollar, twentieth-anniversary Louboutins, but things were changing. No more working HR for the man. I
was
the man.

My shoulders slipped a bit. Seriously, how did she get those Louboutins?

And that bag. The implications of such high-end accessories on a fisherman’s wife had my wheels spinning. Could she have been having an affair with a wealthy businessman? If so, would he have wanted to be rid of the husband to have her to himself? Could she have been involved in something illegal? The HBO series
Weeds
came to mind. Selling smack to island folk?

Questions distracted me as I walked the perimeter of the boathouse. I couldn’t get inside without a key.

How did she have those shoes?

I held my breath and made a decision while heading back to the car. One phone call. I would make one phone call for Adrian’s sake. Scrolling through the contacts on my phone, I dipped back into my driver’s seat. There was someone back at the FBI I wouldn’t mind talking to. This seemed as good a reason as I would ever have to call him.

“Clark.” He answered on the first ring, before I’d thought my plan through. A recurring theme in my week.

Sebastian Clark had been my first new hire as HR manager. I’d based the recommendation on facts, numbers and his healthy two-inch-thick file of achievements. He’d served overseas and led numerous squads and teams on various life-threatening missions. He never lost a man, though he’d been shot twice. He had a degree in psychology, training in military intelligence, and boasted a stint at the White House. On his application he said Secret Service limited him to guarding political figures. He wanted to protect the people, not their representatives. I liked him immediately. The special agent in charge agreed and I took mental credit for discovering Sebastian in a pile of hopefuls.

When he rolled into my office for his first face-to-face interview, I dropped my pen into my coffee. Thirty-five at the time, he looked more like any guy in upper-middle-class America. His suit fit him like it was tailored for the purpose. His shoes were Italian. Not the typical applicant for special agent. His personnel file and his face didn’t mesh. He threw me off. No one else ever did that, and I liked it.

His dark hair shined under fluorescent lighting. He wore it disheveled and youthful, not the über-popular military crew cut, or the I’m-trying-too-hard side part. I flipped his file open to the inside cover once more and checked his age again. Thirty-five. I might’ve given his marital status a quick peek too. Single agents had more time and less distractions. As the woman who hired him, he was off-limits to me. A pipe dream, anyway. Sebastian was fierce. I was a marshmallow.

Now, as back then, air caught in my throat.

“Patience?” I pulled the phone from my ear to examine it then clipped it into the holder on my dash.

“Hey.”

“Everything all right?”

“Sure. Hey, can I run something by you? Get your thoughts.”

“Absolutely. Do you want to meet for drinks?”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview. My eyes stretched round. My lips opened and shut looking for words they couldn’t find. I looked like a fish out of water.

“I’m sorry. It’s okay to ask you that now, right? I heard you’re not with the agency anymore.”

“Right. Yes. No. They fired me. Downsized. I was downsized. I’m not in town, though.”

Idiot.
My head hit the steering wheel.

“Oh. Well, go ahead then. What’s on your mind?”

If he knew, he’d have me arrested.

I gave him a rundown of the last two days while I drove home.

“So, you’re investigating your ex-boyfriend’s murder charge?”

I bit my lip. “Kinda.”

During the next few beats of silence, I contemplated driving my Prius into the harbor.

“Have you talked to the sheriff?” Sebastian’s voice was low and steady. He’d slipped into cop mode while I considered a saltwater death.

I cleared my throat, hoping to sound mature and professional. “Yeah. He hates me, but that’s a long story.”

“What about the victim’s family and friends? What’d they say when you spoke with them?”

“I only spoke with the wife.”

“How’d she react? Do you like her for the murder?”

“I don’t know. I liked her shoes.”

A car door slammed somewhere on Sebastian’s end of the line. “I’m on my way to a bust, or I’d stop to see you while I’m on the coast. I’ve been undercover so long I don’t recognize myself.”

“I’d recognize you.”

He grunted. “It’s my last night as Angelo Cordileone, undercover heavy for the Risso crime family. Let me buy you a drink later, and we can talk through this thing with your ex.”

“I’d like that.”

“You sure he didn’t do it?”

“Eighty percent.” Hey, if I was too certain, Sebastian might not come visit.

It took a few minutes after we disconnected to text the highlights of our conversation to Claire and head for my front door.

A woman waited on my doorstep.

“Hi there!” She waved her free arm. The other supported a glass dish. “My name is Mary Franks. I live on Baxter Court. When I heard you were here, I thought I’d drop over and say welcome.” She shoved the dish in my direction.

“Thank you.” The question in my voice raised her eyebrows. “Would you like to come inside?”

Her head bobbed and she cut in front of me when I opened the door. She took the dish back, set it on the countertop and without any prompting began to tell me about her husband. They’d moved to Chincoteague a few years before to get away from the temptations of the city. She had a jealous streak that threatened their marriage. She knew it.

Lucky for me, she had a chocolate pie under the foil. I grabbed two plates and did my best to cut normal-sized portions. The scent was rich and heavenly. This was the kind of pie a girl curled up with at night and paired with peanut butter straight from the jar. I served us each a modest piece and made plans to live out my fantasy as soon as possible. She accepted the slice with a weak smile and continued her story.

“He’s too friendly, if you know what I mean. He gives women the impression he’s single and then they can’t help themselves. I can hardly blame them. He’s gorgeous. And sweet. But he won’t listen to me. He doesn’t see what I see. Can I get you some more pie?”

My plate was empty. How’d that happen? “That was delicious. Have you thought of selling your pies?”

“No.” She put the dish in my sink, the remaining pie in my refrigerator and hefted her handbag onto one shoulder. With a deep sigh, she excused herself. “Thank you so much for everything. It feels good to connect with a neighbor.” She offered a small, cunning smile.

“Thank you for the pie.”
What just happened?

Before I could collect myself, she was back on the sidewalk moving away at an amazing speed. I locked the door and transferred the leftovers from Mom onto the shelf above the pie. I needed a nice long bath to relive the conversation with Sebastian. He’d asked me out for drinks. Best. Day. Ever.

On my way to the bathroom, I noticed money on the countertop. Upon inspection it turned out to be a crisp new fifty. The bill was folded in half with one corner tucked under my saltshaker.

I looked at the front door. Mary Franks must have left it. Was the rumor of my destitute condition already making its rounds? Now I had to figure out how to find her and return the cash.

Later. Sebastian Clark had asked me out for drinks.

I slid into my bubble bath with nothing but happy thoughts on my mind.

And those damn Louboutins.

Chapter Five

I met the Realtor, signed my way into a one year lease and pocketed my new office key in record time. He said he had a motivated owner. A three-ring binder of decorating ideas and color schemes lay on the passenger seat beside me. I gathered the binder and climbed out of the car. Suppressing the urge to skip up the sidewalk, I noted a number of weeds shooting up between the cement slates. The small lawn needed mowing. I didn’t have a mower.

I leaned against the door with one shoulder, juggling the binder and my purse. Before the key turned in the lock, the door creaked.

“What the—?”

As I pushed harder with my palm, the whole door frame inched inward under my weight. The wood was weathered gray and splintered severely around the door and hinges. Great. With my luck, a client would knock and the door would fall down. Gingerly, I turned the knob and pressed the door wide. The door swung with a mild squeak. The frame stayed intact. Thank goodness. The inside looked like I expected an abandoned boathouse to look. I sighed, squared my shoulders and made a trip to my car and back. I’d nearly wiped out the cleaning supply aisle at Frontier Foods in preparation. My new office had to sparkle. It represented me. If I looked like a mess, no one would trust me to help them with theirs. I shoved the idea that my life
was
a mess from my head and got busy.

Two hours later, the place looked a touch less abandoned and smelled of bleach and Windex. I’d taken my Louboutin frustration out on the place and it showed. How did she afford those shoes? The business card she gave me taunted me from my purse on the countertop. The McGees were probably up to their eyes in credit card debt like the rest of the country. Sebastian would probably run a credit check on the McGees if I asked him. So would Claire, but where was the fun in that? I picked up the mop and headed for the bathroom. Mr. Perkins, Brady’s business partner, probably had the scoop I needed. Partners talked, didn’t they? Claire and I always dished about our frustrating dates. Maybe Brady told Perkins something incriminating about his wife.

Something moved nearby. Pressing my back to the wall, I held the mop handle like a weapon. Mrs. Davis had better steer clear or I’d knock her sideways. I’d had enough of being snuck up on for one lifetime.

“Come out. I hear you.” I widened my stance, ready for anything.

Silence.

“Come on.” I whacked the mop hard against the wall and a herd of rats bounded across the floor at my feet.

“Ahhhhhh!” Not that. I wasn’t ready for that. The mop hit the floor. The next thing I knew, my Prius was making its way over the bridge to the mainland.

I dialed an exterminator and told him the door was open and he could bill me.

Half an hour later, I arrived at the Perkins’s residence. On the whole, the house didn’t impress. A typical Virginia home in an old neighborhood where brick streets from days gone by stood exposed at the bottom of potholes. I slid the Prius in behind a fancy black Mercedes SUV in the driveway. Way to waste money and ruin the ozone. Hairs stood up on my neck and arms. I grew up on an island of fishermen and none of them drove a Mercedes. Perkins and Mrs. McGee had something in common. Both had expensive taste.

The doorbell brought a guy who looked like a Vegas pimp to greet me.

“Yeah?” His gaze ran over my body from chest to toes, never climbing above my collarbone.

I clenched a fist at one side. “Hi. I’m...”
going to hell for lying
, “... a friend of Mrs. McGee’s.”

“Yeah?”

What an ape. Did he say anything else? I considered squatting so we might make eye contact. “I wondered if we could talk about Brady?”

Examining my legs in cutoff shorts, he opened the door to let me pass. He didn’t step out of the way. I’d have to burn my clothes when I got home.

“Right this way.” He led me to the front room, where he helped himself to a shot of whiskey and offered me one. At eleven thirty. In the morning.

I shook my head. “I wonder if you know why Brady was at the marina so late the night he was killed.”

“They found him in the morning.” He rolled the small glass in his fingers.

“The way I hear it, he died several hours earlier.”

“What are you, an investigator or something?” He smirked and tossed the amber liquid into his mouth. Clearly, this wasn’t his first drink of the day.

True. I had dressed to clean an abandoned boathouse, not visit a stranger’s home, but I got the feeling it wasn’t my clothes that made him laugh. I saw it all over his smarmy face. A woman couldn’t be an investigator. I couldn’t possibly have anything above my barely C cups worth offering. I inhaled and counted to ten. “Just curious. Did anyone have a problem with him?”

“How should I know?”

“You’re his business partner. He told you things, right?”

A disbelieving puff of air blew through his lips. He poured another shot, ran a hand over his thoroughly greased-back black hair then traced a thumb over each oversized eyebrow. All he needed was a toothpick to roll in his mouth and I’d have laughed.

“He kept secrets, that guy.” The scoff on his face said this was a problem between business partners.

“Anyone bothering him? Maybe you saw him with someone? Overheard something you didn’t mean to hear?”

Finally, Perkins looked at my face. His glassy brown eyes struggled to focus. This guy had an obvious problem. I hoped it was grief and not guilt. Inviting myself over to a murderer’s home seemed stupid on a number of levels.

His mouth opened and shut. He sat on a leather wingback across from me, his knees flopped wide apart. “I don’t know nothing.” Defeat colored his tone. “He was screaming at some broad that night. We played poker on the boat, and she came yelling at him about breaking promises or some crap like that.”

“You saw him the night he was killed?”

He shrugged.

“Was it Mrs. McGee he fought with?”

“I don’t know. I never met her.”

“Blonde. Tiny.”

“Nah. This chick was big.” He cupped his hands a foot in front of him. Nothing but class, this guy. “Brunette. Legs for miles.” His attention turned to my calves, and I was back on my feet. My hair fell over my shoulders and I wished it were long enough to cover all of me.

“You never met your partner’s wife?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Nope.” He tossed back the shot in his hand. “We were partners, not girlfriends. We didn’t get manicures and share our deep, dark secrets. We ran a business.”

“Thanks, Mr. Perkins. I hope you start feeling better soon. It’s hard to lose a friend.”

He followed me to the door, keeping a few steps between us. I was on the sidewalk before he spat, “Brady McGee was nobody’s friend.”

Well, there it was. Perkins was with him the night he died, along with an unknown brunette. Now I had three persons of interest. Not that I believed for a second Brady’s little sprite of a wife could lift anything heavy enough to drop him, but goons-for-hire were still a possibility.

Back on the island, I went straight for the shower. Sweat and dust from my rat-infested office space had turned to paste on my skin. I smelled like Lysol. Good thing Perkins had been snockered. I’d hate to think I made such a stinky first impression on a sober person, even one like him.

I toweled off my hair and had dug out my blow-dryer when the doorbell rang. Imagine. Someone using the doorbell.

I leaned my head into the front room, torn between finishing my hair and dealing with Mrs. Davis. “Who is it?”

“Coach Peters.”

The current high school football coach, and my old track and swim coach? Perfect. I wanted to talk to him about the fight at the field between Adrian and Brady. Relieved it wasn’t Adrian’s mom, I pulled my still-damp hair into a loose knot and hustled to the door.

“Wow, how long has it been?” I pulled him into a hug and immediately regretted it. He stepped back and looked around.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

“Um.” Two things came to mind. Why was he so nervous, and should I be? “Sure.” I grabbed my purse and slid into my favorite, strappy-heeled sandals. Amazing how some shampoo and a clean outfit could change a girl’s day.

“Tasty Cream?” I asked.

“I was thinking Island Brew.” He eyeballed the summer crowd outside the Tasty Cream. Lots of teens. Probably he coached a few of them. “You still swimming?”

“Yeah. I don’t run as much, but I do swim. There was a nice pool at the apartment complex where I last lived.”

“Aw, pools are for girls. Swimming in the ocean, now that takes muscle.”

That sounded like the coach who pushed my team to state in track and field. Unfortunately, our swim team had lacked muscle.

A couple of blocks and two right turns later, we arrived. I squinted inside Island Brew. It was dark and almost empty. The opposite of the Tasty Cream. We took seats near the back with our drinks, staying clear of the front windows.

“I have a gambling problem.” He exhaled and leaned against the table with his elbows.

I braced myself. This was it. Brady McGee liked to gamble. Coach would put the pieces together for me, and I’d solve the mystery before I ever officially decided to try. Claire would be impressed. So would Sebastian.

“I’ve bet on high school games since I was in high school. It’s half the reason I decided to coach. Figured I’d have the inside scoop on at least one team. Improve my odds.” His thumbs twirled. His fingers wrapped around his mug.

“Uh-huh.” Talk about starting a story from the beginning. I shifted in my chair, waiting for the punch line. What happened to Brady McGee?

“It’s getting harder to mask the losses. My wife’s on my case every Friday night. Did I bet on the game? Does she need to have another intervention? She doesn’t get it. I can’t just stop. Gambling ain’t like smoking. You can’t just go cold turkey. Her busting my balls ain’t the answer, either.” He sucked on his coffee and pouted.

“No. Addiction is a serious illness and needs to be treated that way. It’s a decision you have to make for yourself. No one else can make it, or you won’t stand by it.” My mouth spilled details straight from a textbook or any simple Web search, but my brain stuttered. Where was the firsthand information I needed? What about Adrian’s fight with Brady?

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. That’s what I told her.” He stood and clapped me on one shoulder. He tossed a fresh one hundred dollar bill on the table and strutted out the front door.

“Hey.” I stood, lifting my hand in the direction of his departure. “Coach Peters?”

That was the second person in as many days to feed me and then pay me. Strange, even for island folk. I pocketed the bill. I’d need to stop by practice soon and return his money. He sounded like he could use it, and I didn’t accept handouts. As soon as the exterminator moved the current disease-ridden residents from my new office space, I’d be in business. Until then, I had time to think about Adrian’s mess.

I swigged my latte and considered the empty chair before me. Mrs. Franks and her pie came to mind. She and the coach were unlikely candidates for giving me a handout.

A slow smile crept over my face. My capacity for missing the obvious astounded me, and frankly didn’t bode well for Adrian, but that wasn’t the point. Coach Peters needed me. He wanted someone to talk to and he chose me. Mrs. Franks had brought me pie as a cover up. She wanted help too. My mom and Mrs. Davis were wrong. This island needed a counselor.

* * *

Waves crashed along the shoreline. The national forest was a part of the island. The seashore stood between the forest and the ocean. There was no place like it on earth. I sat down on the beach and buried my toes in hot white sand. When did life get so confusing? A month ago I accepted my graduate degree and planned to ask for a promotion at the FBI. Now I lived in a bad-luck apartment, owned a dilapidated boathouse and worked for free as a nosey ex-girlfriend to Adrian, the man who had turned my heart to stone. I twirled my ponytail in one hand, contemplating the train wreck.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Adrian waltzed across the empty beach in my direction. He had on a pair of low-slung jeans and sandals, looking more like a Hollister ad than a felon. His shirt was untucked and clinging to the planes of his chest from the heat. “You always twirl your hair when you’re plotting something. You used to do it so much I wondered if you’d wind up with curly hair.”

“Ah, if it isn’t the fugitive.”

“Don’t be mad. You’re too cute when you’re mad.”

“Ha.” I spoke the word, unamused.

He helped himself to a seat beside me. Our hips touched. I inched away. He laughed. “Your parents cursed you. You’ve never had any patience. It’s funny, right?”

I squinted into the sun-glistened waves. If I ignored him, he’d go away.

“You went over to the mainland today,” he said. “Was that about me?”

“Not everything’s about you.”

“What were you doing? One minute you’re at my boathouse, the next minute you’re tearing across the bridge like there’s a shoe sale somewhere.”

“What do you mean
your
boathouse?”

He bumped his shoulder against mine. “I bought it when I moved back here. I planned to fix it up, turn it into a unique office space. Great minds.” He tapped a finger to his temple.

“We don’t think alike.”

“Then how did I know I’d find you here?”

“Because you’re following me.” I dug my fingers into the sand. My phone rang.

Adrian got comfortable, leaning back on his elbows beside me.

I rolled my eyes and answered the call.

“Hey,” Sebastian’s voice cut through the roaring waves.

My breath hitched.

“Do you still want to talk? I have time for a trip out there tomorrow.”

“That’d be fabulous. Yes, please come.” I blushed at my choice of words.

Adrian chuckled beside me.

I shot him the stink eye, and he pretended to button his lips.

“Text me your address.”

We disconnected. Adrian rolled onto his stomach and fluttered his eyelids. “Was that your boyfriend?” He bent his feet skyward then crossed and uncrossed his ankles.

“Shut up.”

“Boy, everything makes you cranky.”