MURDER on the ROCKS (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

              If there was a way to make Sara's Bridge even creepier at night, all one had to do was to add a new moon and a touch of paranoia.

              "Dupond," she said purposely revealing her frustration.

              "Mmm hmm."

              "Was there a reason you couldn’t just tell me the name and how he was involved?"

              "What else did you find out?"

              "What else? Oh, let's see. I visited a shoe salesman with verbal diarrhea, a loner with the saddest case of unrequited love you've ever seen in your life, and a retired widower who knows too much for his own good."

              Beauchenne smiled. "Good. You're on the right track. Take what you learned from all three and put it all together."

              "You can't just tell me?"

              "I can’t tell you because I don’t know, Allie. You understand? When you investigate a crime, you have to work around the evidence and gather the small things together. Yes, I could've given you Dupond, but you went places where I couldn’t. Now use what you learned. You can do it. I know you can."

              There was something in Beauchenne's voice. Allie was falling for him, no doubt. And the closer she got, the more nuances she picked up on. What was coming through now was longing.

              "You want to work this one, don’t you?" she said.

              "Oh God, I can’t even tell you."

              She let the comment linger in the air for a moment. "Ok, I have Dupond telling two guys to silence Chap—, wait, he was caught!" She looked around, realizing she'd spoken a bit too loud. "Sorry. Chapman said he was caught. Dupond caught him. Caught him doing what? Having an affair?"

              Beauchenne's face had the ghost of a smile materializing on it.

              The idea hit her between the eyes. "Chapman caught Dupond. Probably on a shoe delivery trip."

              His smile fully materialized now. "And there you have it. That should tell you a few things about the situation."

              "Is Dupond a suspect?"

              "As far as the police are concerned? No."

              "How 'bout as far as you're concerned."

              "I don’t know. That's why you're here."

              Allie felt the exhilaration that comes only from knowledge hard won. "Ok," she said with a slight hitch in her breath. "So what's next?"

              "Gather your evidence. Go back and check things with a new pair of eyes. I can tell you one thing: they still haven't found a murder weapon. They searched the area but not rigorously. I can tell you it was fairly large. Like this." He shaped his hands as if he were holding a large sandwich. "It was heavy and had sharp angles to it, like a table leg. She was hit with just enough force to kill."

              "Table leg."

              "Don’t let that stick in your mind. Focus on what you know to be the case."

              She nodded. "Focusing."

              "Also, I don’t need to tell you that Tomlin and friends aren’t really working hard on this one, right? The secretary told me he requested files on your husband's death."

              "That little water rat."

              "He won’t find anything, will he?"

              "You're kidding, right?"

              "Sort of. All I'm saying is that I know there was a little investigation into it that came up clean. But Tomlin isn't very good at his job. His assumptions and presuppositions are enough to make your life difficult for a while. Just stay on your toes and get this done, and maybe you can beat him to the punch. Remember, use the press when it's time."

              She gave him a warm smile. "Righto."

              They said their goodbyes and shared a loving hug that lasted not quite long enough.

              And then Allie drove off, thinking about Bennett Reilly's kitchen.

              "Hi! Am I interrupting anything?" She sounded as jovial as an Avon saleswoman.

              "Uh, not really," said Bennett Reilly. "Come on in."

              She stepped in to the familiar setting. The picture in her mind refreshed now with new imagery. Surprisingly, very little had changed from her memory.

              "What brings you around?"

              "Well, I haven't gotten a chance to investigate anything about the blackmail note. But there are a couple of things I wanted to ask you before I did."

              "Ok."

              "Do you have any idea whatsoever who could've written it?"

              He thought and shook his head slowly. "Not really."

              "Bennett, I have to ask you something," she said, cocking her head to the right. "I know the guys didn’t really, um..."

              "You can say it. They didn’t like me. They called me The Clipboard."

              "Yeah."

              He shrugged. "What of it?"

              "Remember my theory? I think you may have been the target here. Now, is it possible someone disliked you enough to want to murder you for any reason other than the prospect of having a relationship with your wife?"

              "I— I don’t think so. Why?"

              "Just checking." She looked around. "Uh, could I have a glass of water?"

              "Sure." He went to the kitchen and she followed. She had on her new glasses, the figurative ones Beauchenne had told her to use, their lenses sharpened with new information. The kitchen seemed barer now, in comparison with the other rooms in the house. The huge island with its marble countertop dominated the space – itself a slab of desolation – a few papers, a cutting board shoved off to the side, a utensil caddy obviously scrounged from a heap of overlooked prizes in some thrift store. The bareness of the countertop alone seemed to overemphasize the shimmering immensity of the kitchen.

              "You know, I still can’t get over how nice this place is."

              "Thank you." He handed her a glass and she sipped.

              "Really, it's beautiful. I was thinking about it the other day as I was sweeping up the shattered remains of some knick-knacks that got knocked over. Knick-knack knock. Funny, huh?"

              He chuckled generously.

              "Anyway, I was upset because I'd bought them at a thrift store. And then I thought, if there was anyone who knew you had money, it would be a thrift store or antique shop owner. Maybe a place where you and she were regular customers?"

              He shrugged. "I don’t know. We frequented quite a few places."

              "Hmmm, yeah. But your wife obviously knew the guy."

              "True," he said softy, "that's what they're saying. And that's why I think you're barking up the wrong tree here. We knew these thrift store people and shop owners only on a casual basis."

              "I know that, but—"

              "Listen," he said impatiently, "I was at work down at the quarry when it happened. The only person who could've been absolutely sure that I was at work was a fellow worker."

              She searched for sincerity in the man's eyes. "Bennett, you know who it is, don’t you? You’re afraid to say it."

              He seemed to struggle with his voice for a moment. Then he leaned on the expansive marble countertop, as if in prayer. "I think it was Matson."

              "Matson?"

              The man nodded.

              "Who's Matson?"

              He looked up at her. "One of the quarry rats. We got into an altercation once. I was badgering him about quality control issues. He started screaming and ranting. Boss put him on suspended leave for a few days. After that, nothing. Then the note came about three weeks later. I think having an affair with my wife may have been his way of getting back at me in the first place."

              "But you don’t know for sure if it was this guy, Matson."

              "I don’t know for sure. But if what you say is true, then this is the only guy I can think of who might want me out of the picture."

              Allie paused to fit the name Matson into her head, and to fit a new, jagged piece into the puzzle. "Ok," she said resolutely.

              "What are you going to do next?"

              "I have to have a look at Matson. There's got to be some evidence there."

              "I told you," said Bennett, "he's not stupid. Maybe not much by way of book smarts, but he's got street smarts. And I've been thinking, too. The murder weapon."

              "What about it?"

              "The cops haven’t found it yet. If it was Matson, I think he may have used something he later ditched down at the quarry. It's a little theory I've been playing around with."

              "Well it certainly would make sense. Thank you, Bennett. And thanks for the water."

              He followed her to the foyer. Then Allie decided it was time to try her favorite
Columbo
trick again. "Oh, hey, by the way," she said, abruptly turning around. He almost bumped into her. "Sorry, excuse me. You know, all this investigating and all this time spent trying to fit together all the pieces, I never really asked you: How are you getting along?"

              He looked sullenly around. "It's hard. I live day by day. The things I miss most are the little things. Little facial expressions she had. You know, it's hard walking around this house and running into parts of her. These knick-knacks. Little things. The marriage may not have been perfect, and she wasn't the easiest person to get along with, but... I guess it's true that you really don’t know what you have until...anyway, I'm thinking of moving."

              "I understand," said Allie, cocking her head. "And I'm sorry. You know where I am if you ever need to talk."

              "Thank you," he said.

              Allie walked away from the Reilly McMansion with an updated picture of the house, of Bennett Reilly, and his kitchen.

              She'd seen nothing in there that could have been used as a weapon.

              "... which means the murderer brought something with him or used something close at hand and then got rid of it," said Allie, pacing up and down the library's 900 section.

              She and Del had decided to meet there, as it was Allie's favorite place in all of Verdenier. She'd sustained the ribbing from her friends about her bibliophilia – Allie Griffin would rather spend time with a book than a man, they said – but it was somewhat true. Men in books had secrets that needed decoding, just as real men did. But there was the satisfaction of having those secrets revealed over the course of the story. Getting to know someone that way in real life was too much work. She'd done it once, and had lost him. And now, walking up and down the 900s – the travel section – she was once again reminded about how she'd wanted to get away for some time now. To see some strange new place where the secrets were safely hidden, and stayed that way. A place she could visit and not have to be Allie Griffin for a time.

              "...the cops searching the entire area." said Del.

              "Hmm?"

              "Hello? You were daydreaming again, weren't you? Your grizzled boyfriend the sergeant again?"

              "Not this time. What did you say? The cops?"

              "I said he wouldn’t get very far, the murderer, if the cops were searching the entire area."

              "Right, only Bennett has a theory about that. He thinks the guy could've ditched the weapon at the quarry."

              "Ah,” said Del, thumbing through a book about Argentina. "So where you off to next, Holmes?"

              "Well, I'd wanted to check up on Bennett's blackmail note. I was going to go to Dougie's Bar but then I thought I'd better have a look around down at the quarry. If the murderer brought his own weapon with him, it could've been some tool they use down there. I don’t know. Who knows? But it will give me a chance to feel the place out. Again, I don’t know."

              "You sound real sure of yourself," Del said, replacing the book on the shelf and pulling out another.

              "That's just the thing. I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach – like I swallowed something that's hardened into a rock. Everywhere I turn it feels like it's getting harder, which means I'm getting further away from where I need to be."

              "You think too much."

              "No," Allie said abruptly. "I'm not thinking enough."

              Verdenier Granite was a noisy place.

              Machines whirred and squealed at a constant level, every so often rising in pitch, every so often accompanied by a foreign sound that had something to add to the song, but all of the sounds screeched together as part of some grand, mechanized opera.

              It was an imposing place, cordoned off by fences with cautionary signage. Beyond the fences she could see the dip of the granite bowl, a huge chasm carved out over a century, with deep, horizontal cuts in its walls like archeological strata extending all the way to the bottom.

              About ten feet away from where she stood, a line of three trailers sat like unnatural growths on the land. Workers of every stripe entered and exited. Some looked like they had some urgent purpose, somewhere to get to quickly. Some lingered lazily by the doors, either awaiting instructions or just stealing a moment or two in order to pad their shift until it was time to quit and hit the bar before heading home.

              She approached the third trailer on the right, where a large man with a clean, tucked shirt and a hardhat (they all wore hardhats) barked out orders in a fearsome baritone just outside the door. He gestured and pointed, yelling hard syllables to four employees, who then sauntered off together as soon as he was through.

              "Mr. Brugel?" She extended her hand. "Allie Griffin. I spoke to your boss on the phone yesterday?"

              "That's right. He said something about The Clipboard's wife?"

              "Yes, I just need a little information, if you don’t mind. And I'd like to have a look around the place. A tour or something?"

              "Well, we're a little busy." He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "And the guy who does the tours, he comes in once a month – once a week during tourist season. He ain't here today. But I guess I can show you around."

              "I'm sorry to impose."

              "Nah. I can talk a bit."

              "Can we go somewhere maybe less noisy?"

              "Yeah, come on in."

              One side of the trailer's interior was cozy enough, with a couch, a miniature fridge, and functional space for all the basic human necessities. The other side was the office, complete with a desk, chairs on each side, computer, file cabinet, and a calendar with this month's model sporting an outfit that would get her banned from most public places.

              "Charming office," she said.

              "What can I do for you? Have a seat."

              He pointed to the front of the desk and then maneuvered his huge frame behind it. He plopped down into his leather chair, which creaked in protest.

              "Well, uh, to start, how long have you been foreman?"

              Once again, Allie Griffin realized she was woefully underprepared for an interview.

              "Listen," Brugel said, "I'm happy to answer any questions, but I'd just as soon leave my name out of any official records. Ok?"

              "That's fine. Feel free to consider this entire conversation off the record."

              "I've been here for fifteen years." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand again and sniffed prodigiously.

              "Ok. Listen, Mr. Brugel, I am here to talk to you about something very serious."

              "The Clipboard's wife. I know."

              "Yes, of course. Can we talk about that?"

              "Nothin' really to talk about. Honey Reilly came down here a few times. We never really saw her."

              "But you knew her?"

              "Yeah, from the bar."

              "Dougie's"

              "Flamingos."

              "It's Dougie's now."

              "It is? Oh good. I always hated that name. Made the place sound like — how should I put it?"

              "You don’t need to say. So she came into the bar?"

              "Yeah, never really drank nothin' except club soda. Always lookin' around like she was suspicious of everyone."

              "Interesting. What was your impression of her?"

              "I thought she was a little cold. No, stuck up. That's the word. Stuck up. Like she didn’t want nothin' to do with any of us. And she had The Clipboard whipped. Everyone knew Honey wore the pants."

              "Did she ever talk to any of your employees?"

              "If she did, I never saw it."

              "What did the men think of her?"

              "They thought she was a cutie. Made a lotta rude jokes about her. You know how guys can be."

              "Oh I do. What about Bennett?"

              "What about him?"

              "I know the men didn’t really like him."

              "Lemme explain somethin' to you. These guys don't mind it so much when you boss 'em around and tell 'em what to do. You know why? Because they know that without you, they'd sink. Remember that. You can practically say anything you want to 'em once they have that understanding. But don’t come around here and tell them what to do otherwise. That's why they hate The Clipboard. Always tellin' 'em what to do and how to do it, and meanwhile, it don’t mean nothin' to 'em. The Clipboard could disappear tomorrow and their jobs wouldn’t change a bit."

              "I understand."

              "So I can sit here behind my desk and drink my coffee and tell 'em all what to do in any way I feel like. And they'll never do nothin' about it. They hate me, but they need me. Remember that."

              "I will. So, back to Honey Reilly. You said they made rude jokes."

              "Yeah, about wantin' to be with her. You know how guys are."

              "Yep. You think any of them may have had an affair with her?"

              He began a chuckle, stopped briefly to say, "Are you kidding me?" then resumed his laugh, which grew into a full-on guffaw, complete with a slap on the desk.

              "Mr. Brugel?" she said. She waited for him to stop laughing, and then said again, "Mr. Brugel?"

              "I'm sorry. That's the funniest thing I ever heard."

              "Do me a favor and don’t share it for now."

              "You gotta meet some of these guys. Hoo boy."

              "Tell me what made you laugh," she said, concealing the depth of her annoyance.

              "Like I said, you gotta meet these guys. They’re good men, most of 'em. But they're, you know, blue collar. Like me. I'm blue collar and proud of it. We keep America runnin'. But these guys and a girl like Honey Reilly? It's just funny. It's like a construction worker datin' the queen of England. It would never happen."

              "You don’t think so?"

              "Not in a million years."

              "You're sure about that. Even if Honey Reilly liked to slum it?"

              "Listen, if she liked to slum it, she slummed it with retail managers or small business owners. Not working class. Nope. Didn’t happen."

              "You knew her that well?"

              "Nope. But I knew what she was like."

              "Can you show me around a bit? And if you don’t mind, there's someone here I'd like to have a word with. Guy by the name of Matson?"

              "Sure. Lemme take you to him. You'll probably want a hardhat. And put this on." He handed her a tag on a lanyard to wear around her neck. It had the company's logo – a rock with a crack down the middle against a green mountain – and it read simply, "Visitor."

              Brugel was a gracious host, despite his rough exterior. He obviously knew his trade backward and forward, and seemed proud to impart his hard-earned knowledge. Describing the years of carving, their international contracts, how they still do some things the old-fashioned way, all imparted with a pride that Allie seldom encountered in the world of Verdenier social events and posturing, Brugel talked extensively on all subjects granite.

              They entered a machine shop with about a dozen workers all involved in cutting, splitting, washing, and stacking. A barrage of hammer blows assaulted Allie's ears. Eight hours of this a day, five days a week, would drive her to throw herself over the precipice of the chasm in no time.

              They passed by a table of tools. Every single one looked like a holdover from a more barbaric time, and yet every one still had a great deal of use. Brugel described the functions of each, using rocky terminology she'd never heard before. She found herself overwhelmed suddenly. But not because of the onslaught of specialist verbiage, but because this whole time, she'd been keeping her eyes open for a possible murder weapon.

              Mashing hammer, jointer, blocking chisel. The tools of the trade all had names that implied the violence for which they were designed. It was then her mind began to wander away from Brugel's lecture as she considered the tools.

              The hammers were the most imposing, with heads of solid steel. Any one of these could feasibly crush rock. She recalled what she knew about Honey Reilly's head wound. Though fatal, it wasn't bad enough to have been caused by a hammer like any of these. The murderer would have to have had a light touch with it. Honey obviously knew her murderer, and it certainly seemed like she didn’t see the attack coming, meaning the guy couldn’t have been holding one of these as he entered. So it had to have been sudden. And sudden meant very little time to build up strength with a wind-up swing of the weapon. Moreover, nothing on this table before her was large enough to cause a wound that size. Not even the largest of the masonry hammers. Unless, Allie thought with a shudder, you turned it sidewise.             

              But then she returned to the problem of an assailant entering Honey's home with a hammer like this. She wouldn’t just casually turn around if she felt threatened in any way. It just didn’t make sense that someone would be standing in your kitchen brandishing a masonry hammer and not have it be oddly threatening in some way. Maybe he snuck up on her?

              Brugel gestured to one worker over the din of banging, whirring, and cutting.

              "That's him," he yelled.

              The man he'd pointed out was tall and broad, thick-browed and mustachioed, with short brown hair that jutted out slightly from beneath his hardhat. He looked as though he'd been born with safety gloves and goggles on. She watched this man guide giant slabs of granite through a machine that cut it into manageable chunks, and then take the chunks and split them into smaller pieces.

              Brugel called the man and motioned him over.

              "Take your lunch now."             

              Allie offered her hand warily. "Mr. Matson? Hi. Allie Griffin."

              A deep, gruff voice erupted from the man's chest. "Oh yeah, hey there!" He took her hand as if he was going to kiss it. "You're the girl on the news. Yeah I heard about you."

              "I was wondering if maybe you and I could go someplace to talk."

              He motioned to her. "Hang on." He disappeared and then reappeared holding a brown paper bag. "Follow me."

              She followed him to the rim of the quarry. There were tables set up here where men could take their breaks. The view overlooking the deep, rocky chasm was breathtaking, illuminated as it was by the bright sun beneath crystal blue skies, and the green mountains off in the distance, rising up out of the landscape like ancient gods.

              They sat, and he brought up the brown paper bag from which he extracted a wrapped chicken salad sandwich and a can of grape soda.

              "Do you mind if I eat while we talk?"

              "I don't."

              He took large, healthy bites and chomped with his mouth respectfully closed.

              "Well, Mr. Matson. I'm here to talk about Honey Reilly."

              "Ok," he said, covering his food-filled mouth with a napkin he kept clutched in his left hand. His face was solid and serious.

              "For starters, how did you know her?"

              "I didn't."

              "You didn’t?"

              "No."

              "Hmm," Allie said, narrowing her eyes at the man. "Because I have it on pretty good authority that you did know her somewhat."

              "Nah, that was a rumor. I bragged about, you know, scoring with her. But it was all lies."

              "You dislike her husband?"

              He smirked. "Who doesn't?"

              "Why do
you
dislike him?"

              The man shrugged. "I don’t know. He's got a way about him that kinda grates on you."