MURDER on the ROCKS (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

             
Meet me on Sara's Bridge. 8pm sharp.

              The text came through just as she was about to give Dinah an insulin shot. The number was 000.             

              The last time a cryptic message like this came in, she’d wound up at the Verdenier Water Works with a gun to her head. She was about to call Sgt. Beauchenne when another text came through from the same non-number.

             
Sorry, I forgot. Swordfish.

              She laughed, a warm relief pouring over her. Almost. Did he have to choose that location?

              Sara's Bridge was over near the eastern border of the town. It was a quaint covered bridge in chipped, apple red that had stood for 183 years. In autumn, the bridge popped to life surrounded by larches burning bright yellow for the season. Spring was a sweet time for the bridge as well, as the largest bore their pink buds, transforming the bridge into a rustic centerpiece. However, whatever the season, the bridge was not a very nice place at nighttime. Officially called the Silas Creek Bridge (Silas Creek had dried up completely by 1920), locals had nicknamed it "Sara's Bridge" due to a local legend about a girl named Sara, who in 1843, spurned by a lover, strung a length of hemp over the rafters of the bridge and hanged herself. At night the larches sway in the wind, and breezes whistle and whine through the boards of the old bridge, and they say on certain nights you can hear Sara's anguished cries as she tosses her ex-lover's letter into the creek and strings up her rope.

              Twenty minutes later, she was pulling up at the old bridge. A crystal clear sky and half a moon provided just enough light to cast eerie shadows swooping down over the roof of the creaky structure. Beauchenne's car was parked. She could see there was no one in it.

              Great. She'd have to get out.

              But any fears, rational or not, dissipated quickly at the sight of Sgt. Beauchenne, leaning pensively on one of the open windows that looked out on the vast plain that was once a bubbly creek.

              "You know," she said, "if this wasn't so godawful spooky, I’d say it was kinda romantic."

              "Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that," said Beauchenne.

              "Then it's just godawful spooky. So what's with the stealth phone?"

              "It's just that. Untraceable."

              "Uh huh." She breathed in chilly air laced with wafts from the field, earthy and moist, and there was the cold scent of old wood all around her. "So what’s the story?"

              He licked his lips, took a deep breath, as if in anticipation of a long tale to tell. "Dupond is forcing me to back off this case. He said Tomlin is capable of handling it by himself."

              "All by himself?"

              "He and his people."

              "Not for nothin', but how many people could you guys possibly have in that department?"

              "It's a joke. They're stretched as thin as it can get. As for me, they’re handing all of Tomlin's back jobs to me. Stuff like check fraud and petty vandalism cases. Just enough things to keep me busy and out of their hair."

              "So, I don’t understand. Why would Dupond do it?"

              "I can’t say."

              "You can’t or you won't?"

              "That's a thing you need to look into. Now, the details. Listen closely. Reilly says he came home and found his wife on the floor of the kitchen. Our guys say there was no sign of a break-in. Usually, that means—"

              "She knew her assailant."

              "That's right. Honey Reilly was bludgeoned in the back of the head with a heavy object. Nobody's found a weapon."

              "And Reilly?"

              "His story checks out so far. He was working late at the office. We got a hold of his timesheet. Time of death was about an hour before he got home."

              "Ok then. Where do I start?"

              "Start with motive. I'll give you a lead. I can't do the work though. If any of this has my fingerprints on it I can get into some serious trouble. I could lose my pension."

              "Ok, I'll do what I can."

              He licked his lips again. "Honey Reilly bought a ton of shoes. She had them custom made. Start there."

              She waited for more info, until it became painfully obvious that this was all she was going to get. "That's it?"

              "That's it."

              "Oooo-kay then. Start with the shoes."

              "One more thing."

              "Ok?"

              "Tomlin thinks you had something to do with your husband's death."

              "Yeah, I know."

              Beauchenne looked surprised. "You do?"

              "He's dropped hints before, the weirdo."

              Beauchenne turned back to the view of the plain. "It's tabled for now, but if Dupond wants him to back off this thing as soon as I think he wants him to, he may switch gears and use the free time to go after you. I'm just saying. I can do all I can to vouch for you, but he's itching to make a score."

              Allie breathed a heavy sigh into the chill night air. "Hoo boy. Ok, thanks."

              "Just be careful."

              "Will do."

              "Oh, one more thing."

              "Another one more thing?"

              "When it's time, you'll need to use the press."

              "And how will I—"

              "You'll know."

              She nodded. "Follow the shoes. Use the press. Got it."

              "You got work to do."

              "Oh, I sure do. Thanks, Frank. You've been a treat. Any chance of dinner any time soon?"

              "Soon," he said.

              Like the gentleman he was, Beauchenne waited for Allie's car to start and pull away before he got into his own. And Allie's mind prepared to begin moving the details into position.

              Bennett Reilly's front door opened up on a living room that looked as though someone had clipped it from a magazine. A walnut baby grand piano that had obviously served as little more than a very expensive shelf for picture frames dominated a corner of the room, and the rest of the space was taken up by miscellaneous
objects d'art
and antiques.

              "This is lovely," Allie said, allowing Bennett to take her coat.

              "My wife. I suppose I could let you in on the secret. A lot of the smaller knick-knacks were scrounged from thrift stores. It made no difference to Honey. Antiques were antiques wherever they came from. Come inside, I've got coffee on."

              He led her through the kitchen into another living space and bade her wait here. This room was a bit more accommodating. A large L-shaped couch was the dominating piece here. Beautiful masonry adorned the chase and mantel of the giant fireplace against the far wall.
The perks of working in the quarry industry
, she thought. Windows looked out onto woods that seemed to go on forever. She craned her neck to view the high ceilings and the lights that were set into it. The whole place was warm and inviting. Knick-knacks were everywhere, presumably more of Honey's acquisitions. A peculiar thing struck Allie: There were no pictures of the two of them here. The piano held pictures, and she could see of whom, but she was willing to bet they weren't family members. However warmly or luxuriously decorated the house was; it didn't seem to be
for
anyone
.
It was generic decoration with no personality to it.

              Bennett Reilly entered with a tray of cups and creamers. "There's milk and cream here. Sugar as well. Not sure how you take it."

              "Black is fine," she said. "Thank you. Honey spent a lot on...things, didn’t she?"

              He sipped and nodded. "Mmm hmm. It got to be a problem sometimes."

              "Was it just antiques?"

              "Antiques, clothing, shoes."

              Allie nodded. "Shoes are a girl thing."

              "Not like this. She had a problem. I think she was trying to fill up some giant emptiness inside of her. At any rate, I was always sickened by the expenditures so I stayed out of it mostly. Except for the antique hunting; I liked that."

              "Bennett, I'm sorry to ask this, but do you have any idea who could have killed your wife?"

              He looked at her with the combined expressions of incredulity and insult. "No," he said flatly.

              "It was just a question. I'm sorry. I really am. There's no way to phrase it correctly." She cocked her head to one side, a move she'd read about in
Psychology Today
, utilized for when you want to convey sincerity.

              "I guess it was just the suddenness of the inquiry."

              He looked at her, sizing her up. Then he excused himself. "It's about time I showed you what I originally wanted to show you."

              He left the room for a moment, and then returned brandishing a battered envelope.

              "Two weeks before Honey was killed, I received this in the mail. No postmark. No nothing. Whoever wrote it either delivered it himself or had someone deliver it."

              He handed it to her then sat down solemnly.

              She opened it up and read the computer-printed note:

             
Your not a verry nice persun. Don’t forget I know things. 25 large to kep it quiet. We talk in 1 week.

              "You have any idea who could've written this?"

              He nodded, staring down at his shoes. "I think it's one of the workers."

              "Down at the quarry?"

              He nodded again.

              "Now, Bennett, you know what I'm going to ask next, right?"

              He gave a nervous smile. "What do they know?"

              "Bingo."

              He stood up and paced over to one of the windows. "This used to be a nice town. Things like this never went on here, you know? I was born in Verdenier. And I grew up before the money started coming in. That's when it all changed, with the arrival of the money. That's what money does." He turned to her. "She was cheating on me with one of the workers, maybe more than one. I don’t know who; she refused to say. But she'd confessed the affair to me after this note arrived. I never told her about the note. She said she had ended it a week before and wanted to make a clean slate. Anyway, I guess he was going to rat me out. Make me look like a cuckold. Humiliate me. For all I know he had pictures."

              "You sure it was one of the workers?"

              "She told me it was."

              "But Bennett, she – how do I put this delicately? – she didn’t hold your workers in too high a regard."

              "Yeah, but with affairs, she preferred to slum it."

              "Affairs? There was more than one?"

              He nodded.

              Allie stood up and handed him her empty cup. "You got a refill?"

              He took it carefully. "Of course. How could I be so—terribly sorry."

              "Don’t be so sorry. I've been guzzling it like a maniac lately."

              She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he began pouring out another cup.

              "You know," she said, "I have a pretty good idea of the answer, but I'd like to hear it from you. Why didn’t you take this letter to the police? And why don’t they have it now?"

              He shrugged. "My wife was cheating on me. I was trying to avoid people finding out. You know how it is in this town."

              "I know how it is."

              "The cops start digging, they'll find it. Word gets around. I thought maybe, from what I knew about you, you could keep a secret."

              "Well I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered by your perception of me."

              He handed her the cup. "Anyway, they have the case now. Without this letter there's a possibility that they won’t uncover this sordid little aspect of my wife's life."

              She took a thoughtful sip. "So, you don’t think her murder was tied to this letter?"

              "Oh, no. Definitely not."

              "Huh. Well I guess you're right. I mean, you have an affair with someone you don't go and kill that person a week later. Unless he wanted to continue it and she refused."

              "Possible. Funny, I didn’t think of that."

              She watched his eyes as she brought up the letter. "Or unless this wasn't meant for you."

              His face drained slightly of its color. "What are you saying?"

              "I'm saying, what if the letter was meant for her? And what if
you
were the intended victim?"

              "Allie, I'm not sure of what you—"

              She put her cup down on the kitchen table. "Just think about it for a second. Joe Shmoe is sneaking around having a tawdry affair with your wife..." She saw a twisted expression in the man's face, and then recognized it as the result of her callousness. "I'm sorry, Bennett. I get caught up with these details and all I think about are the details and I sometimes don’t realize to whom I'm speaking. Please forgive me."

              "It's ok. Now what are you saying?"

              "This guy is having an affair with your wife. What if he wants it to continue? Would he come after her or you?"

              She watched him as he thought it over.

              "Of course, before I proceed," she continued, "I need to know: Are you sure the affair was still going on at the time this letter was written?"

              He sighed and said quietly, "I'm...almost positive about it."

              "And you say she told you she'd broken it off."

              "Right."

              "A week before she was killed."

              He nodded.

              "Bennett, don't you see what's happened here? We're dealing with two separate motives. Whoever wrote this letter wanted cash. Whoever killed Honey wanted a continuation of the affair. However, killing you would make both things a reality. With you out of the way, ostensibly the same person could benefit in both cases; in other words, he could stand a chance at rekindling the affair, and then with access to whatever was bequeathed to her—"

              He held up his hand. "Alright, that's enough. I get it."

              Allie paced the kitchen. "Anyway, the guy comes here and finds her here instead of you. You said she normally had yoga on Wednesday nights. So he finds her here and she invites him in. They argue a bit. She turns around, and wham!"

              She looked at him, once again, self-aware. "Sorry. Anyway, it's just a theory with a lot of assumptions. But I think it holds up better than yours. Unless there's something you’re not telling me?"

              He took a long, hard breath and put his head into his hands. "
Oh God
," he whimpered, "
I paid the guy
."

              "Oh, Bennett."

              He picked his head up, a perfect picture of mental anguish creeping out through the skin. "Two days after I saw you; the day after she confessed. I thought if I paid him off that would be it. We'd be free to put it all behind us. I hated the whole thing. It was all anonymous and...
sleazy
. It was in the middle of the night in some alleyway on Cherry Street in Burlington. He pulled up in a car; and then would you believe he actually sent some kid out, a ten year-old boy, to collect it? Now what am I gonna do to a kid, right? I still remember his little blue cap and those glasses of his. You know, with the black rims? Like what Woody Allen used to wear? Whoever the guy was, he stayed in the car and waited. I gave the money to the kid and that was that. Nothing was spoken. No signs or gestures. All I saw were headlights. I paid the kid and it was done."

              "Were there any more exchanges thereafter?"

              "None."

              "Level with me, Bennett."

              "I'm telling you the truth."

              "Twenty-five grand?"

              He nodded slowly. "Yup."

              "None of it was marked?"

              "What? No."

              "Just asking." She sighed, her mind racing. "Well then, I suppose the next thing to do would be to start asking around the quarry, see if anyone's been throwing money around."

              "I know this guy's not the brightest bulb – you can tell that from his letter – but he's not so stupid as to out himself like that."

              "He could be. But you're right. Either way, we need to dig a bit."

              He rubbed his forehead. "I suppose. Do what you have to do."

              "I'm going to conduct some interviews. I'll let you know what’s going on. Oh, Bennett, before I forget: Where did your wife get her shoes?"

              "Her shoes?"

              "You said she had quite a collection."

              He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. More of an obsession than a collection. There's a place up in Burlington she went to that made shoes custom."

              "Burlington. Ok, just wondering. It's a girl thing, you know."

              "I guess it is."

              He picked up her coat and held it open for her. After thanking him and doling out some feeble pleasantries, she stepped out into the chilly air. A thick smell of wood smoke hit her and she braced herself against the wind that was beginning to pick up. The cloud cover blanketed darkness over everything.

              And then she thought about a car in an alley on Cherry Street.