Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (14 page)

I pleaded with Rip, prepared to pull out the never-failing foot massage offer if everything else I threw at him landed like a lead balloon. "We went to great lengths to exonerate Lexie, and she was merely a good friend. Milo is family, for goodness sakes!"

Rip was unmoved. Even with several more persuasive appeals, he remained stoic; unconvinced we should put everything on the line for a grown man who was behaving like a full-blown idiot. I had to admit Rip had a point. Even so, I persisted.

The plea that finally hit pay dirt was, "Think about it, Rip. If Milo goes to prison, what's going to happen to Regina? Do you want to risk being forced to sell this trailer and buy another home here in Rockport so she can move back in with us?"

"Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'm all over it," he replied zealously after he quit choking. "I'm not sure why, but all of a sudden I agree with your assessment of the matter. I even approve of your health clinic visit this morning."

"Good. I'm glad to hear you say that, because my stomach is beginning to cramp and I'm feeling a wee bit nauseated. I probably should return to the clinic at noon to see if Dr. O'Keefe can make certain I haven't contracted some nasty bug going around."

Rip shrugged and said, "Whatever it takes! Remember to pick up your insurance cards while you're there."

With that, he turned, picked his truck keys up off the counter, and opened the trailer door to leave. He looked like a man on a mission.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Down to the station to speak with Detective Reeves again. You were absolutely right, sweetheart. We need to beat every bush until we flush out the real killer, even if, God forbid, it turns out to be our son-in-law. It's imperative we do whatever we can to clear Milo of the charges, provided he's not deserving of them that is. Just do me a favor and keep me in the loop next time. I'll be back in time for you to return to the clinic, even though I think you're barking up the wrong tree when it comes to O'Keefe. There's no evidence whatsoever indicating your Irish doctor has killed, been in contact with, or even been anywhere in the vicinity of the victim in the recent past."

"We'll see," I said, reluctant to quit barking up that particular tree until I was convinced O'Keefe had nothing to do with the murder of Cooper Claypool. "Has he been at least questioned by the investigating team? Has he even provided them with an alibi to prove his whereabouts at the time of the death? For that matter, what about Avery Curry? Has she been interrogated? How can we be certain
she
wasn't somehow involved in her so-called boyfriend's death? I know where she works, and I think we should drive to Corpus for supper tonight. I want to get some answers out of her so I can cross her off my suspect list if she passes our scrutiny."

Rip's expression said it all. He was asking himself why he'd agreed to assist me and trying to convince himself that having Regina live with us for an indeterminate period of time would be a rewarding experience. With all the voices in Rip's head at that moment, I can guarantee you there was a very lively and uncomfortable conversation going on in there. He shook his head again, as if to still the voices, before exiting the trailer.

The noise from the door shutting roused Dolly from her nap. She'd been atop the couch, curled up and soaking in the sun. After yawning a couple of times, she jumped to the floor and, out of pure habit, strolled over to her empty food bowl. Searching and unable to locate a single kibble or bit, she looked up at me with pleading eyes.

This was an oft-used ploy to evoke sympathy so I'd break down and feed her. That tactic always worked for Rip when he was sure he was on the verge of dying of starvation, and it worked for Dolly the majority of the time, too. Rip often accused me of lowering our beloved pet's life expectancy by feeding her every time she begged for food. He had yet to realize I was probably lowering his in the exact same manner.

I poured a dab of dry food in the cat bowl and picked up the iPad. I was content to exercise my brain with a game or two of Scrabble while I waited for Rip to return with the truck and whatever news he was able to garner at the police station.

Chapter 8

I could sense Rip was seething internally when he walked in the door thirty minutes later. He laid his old
Rockport Police
ball cap on the table, and said, "Might as well pitch this out with the leftover scraps from breakfast."

"What's wrong, honey?" I asked in concern. I knew he wasn't merely upset; he was hurt. I'd rarely seen him looking vulnerable or emotional, and he was clearly both at that moment. The look in his eyes scared me. I hadn't seen that look since he'd been forced to shoot a fifteen-year old boy. He'd stumbled across the troubled teenager, who was selling methamphetamines behind the old abandoned Wal-Mart store late one night. The young man pulled a gun out of the waistband of his baggy jeans and fired twice at Rip, intent on killing the county sheriff. The shots missed their mark, but Rip's aim was true when he returned fire before the boy could shoot again. Even high on meth, the kid could have hit his intended target on a subsequent attempt. That disturbing experience had been the final straw that ended my husband's career in law enforcement. He put in for retirement the morning after the incident.

I watched now as Rip exhaled forcefully and sat down on the couch. He leaned his head back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. I sat down beside him and put my hand on top of his, willing to wait quietly until he was ready to talk. Finally, he said, "I bailed out Milo. I don't think they have any concrete evidence to merit charging him with murder, but I guarantee you they're doing their damnedest to come up with something. And he still has the assault charges to deal with."

"Is that what's bothering you?" I asked.

"No," he said. "That was exactly what I expected to happen."

"So, what is it?"

"I went in to discuss the case with Sheriff Peabody with whom, as you know, I worked side-by-side for years. Mind you, I wasn't trying to interfere with the murder investigation in any way, or requesting to use any of the department's resources in order to insert myself into the homicide case. I only wanted to offer my services and detective skills honed from a lifetime of experience in law enforcement. Not only to help close the case, but also, of course, to clear my son-in-law's name, who I contended was not guilty of murder. And, after all, I have an inside track on the matter, having been present when the body was discovered."

"The investigating team should have been overjoyed to have you onboard."

"You'd think," he replied dryly. "Instead, I was informed that I was to keep my nose out of the case. Joe explained that any involvement from me would be an egregious conflict of interest. In fact, he had already demanded I be barred from the station during the course of the investigation. He had the balls to say, 'You know yourself you shouldn't be here.'"

"Wow! Joe said that to you? And even banned you from the station? Has he forgotten that you're the former sheriff and the primary reason he's in that position now?"

"Yes. Exactly my point! I'm the one who convinced Joe to apply to the police academy and then groomed him the next six years to take my place when I retired. Now he's banning me from the station I spent over half my life working in while putting my neck on the line to keep Rockport a safe place to live. How's that for a kick in the teeth?"

"I'm sure it wasn't a personal decision on his part, honey." I was trying to soothe his wounded pride. I knew Joe Peabody's respect for Rip was unmatched. He'd said more than once how much he'd appreciated the way Rip had taken him under his wing and helped him become the person and lawman he was today. I reminded Rip of that, and then said, "He's probably only following protocol, like you always did. In fact, I remember you preaching to the men on the force the importance of always going by the book in order to avoid giving a criminal a loophole in which to walk free and avoid punishment."

"I know, I know," Rip relented. "You're right. I don't blame Joe. I'd have probably done the same thing if our roles were reversed. I just feel useless. I guess my feelings were bruised. It was mighty humiliating, too, being thrown out of the station like a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman."

"I know, honey. It's only natural you'd feel the way you do. After all, you've always treated Joe as if he was your own son, and I know it's hard to accept those words coming from him. But put yourself in his place. If he'd welcomed you into the case with open arms, knowing full well standard procedure classified you as having a conflict of interest—and the fact you're just a citizen now—what would be your opinion of him? I'm sure Joe wants you to respect him as the new sheriff, not make you wonder if grooming him to replace you had been a mistake."

"Yes, I guess you're right. Joe was actually pretty kind and considerate about it. And he did have his arm around my shoulders as he escorted me out of the station. I'm sure I'm just over-reacting to the situation. But after talking to Milo on the ride home from the station, I really do believe he is innocent. And I've always been a good judge of character, you know. Of course, you might have been that rare exception but—"

He laughed and I joined him, knowing he was only kidding me. I was giddy in relief that Rip's mood had lightened. He quickly turned serious again when he said, "They might be able to ban me from the station, by God, but they can't stop me from looking into the murder on my own."

"Our own," I corrected him.

He glanced at me with a blank expression. He clearly was not overly confident of my detective prowess, and I didn't believe it was the proper time to remind him of my crucial role in helping exonerate our friend, Lexie Starr. After a few long seconds, he nodded and said, "You look pale, my dear. Could you be coming down with something?"

I smiled broadly, delighted to have his consent to return to the health clinic. This time I'd request to be seen by Dr. Patrick O'Keefe. I'd be danged if I was going to shell out another co-pay for no good purpose.

* * *

By the time I pulled the truck into the clinic's parking lot for the second time that day, I was actually beginning to feel a little queasy. I'm not sure if I was really falling prey to a virus, just reacting to an overabundance of jittery nerves, or perhaps being reprimanded by God for my deceitful actions. I chose the middle option.

"You again?" The receptionist asked as I approached the check-in counter.

"Been one of those days," I replied. "I think I've contracted a bug. Maybe that twenty-four hour flu that's going around."

"Oh, that's too bad." I could tell her insincere response was out of habit from speaking to dozens of ill patients every day.

"To be honest," I replied, being anything but honest. "I'm thinking I might have picked it up in the waiting room when I was here earlier. That Asian fellow sitting next to me looked feverish, didn't you think? If I recall correctly, he coughed several times and blew his nose once or twice, as well."

"Mr. Nguyen was here to have a broken finger set."

"Doesn't mean he couldn't also have a virus, does it?"

"Okay, ma'am. Whatever you say." It irked me that this snooty lady clearly didn't agree with me. Granted, it was a total cock-and-bull story. But it's still rude to infer a patient is lying about her ailment. She told me to have a seat in the waiting room "once again," and said, "A doctor will see you soon, ma'am. Dr. Patel is just finishing up with his previous patient and—"

"I'd prefer to see Dr. O'Keefe, even if it means I have to wait a spell."

"But you saw Dr. Patel just a couple of hours ago. Did you have a problem with him?" She looked befuddled at my request.

I winked at her as if it was apparent we shared a bad opinion of the Indian physician, and whispered, even though there was only the two of us in the room. "Well, let's just say we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on the diagnosis."

Not knowing what to make of my response, she stared at me blankly and said, "Please take a seat
once again
and the nurse will call you when Dr. O'Keefe is available."

I picked up one of the pamphlets I'd already thumbed through on my first visit. Pretending to be absorbed in an article about the importance of dietary fiber, I made sure to cough and sniffle in convincing intervals. I'm allergic to dust mites and was pleased with an unfeigned sneeze just as the tubby nurse, Becky Winslow, opened the door and said, "Mrs. Ripple, the doctor is ready to see you now."