Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (20 page)

"I wanted to, naturally. But they led him to a different room, and I never had an opportunity to speak with him again."

"Do you know where he works or lives?"

"Maxwell?"

"No, Rapella," Rip said impatiently. "Focus now, darling. I'm referring to Julio Sarcova."

"No, but wouldn't Milo know where Sarcova lives since he purchased one of MC Hammerheads' flipped homes?"

"Oh, yeah. I guess you're right. I should have thought of that."

"Focus, darling," I said, in a touché fashion.

Rip flashed me one of his most endearing smiles. I was relieved to see he hadn't taken my sarcastic jab to heart when he continued. "Let's try this again. Did Sarcova give any clues about where we might locate this Maxwell individual he referred to? I'd hate to have to drive to Sarcova's house and ask him."

I shook my head, and asked, "Shouldn't Milo know who Maxwell is?"

After Rip shrugged his shoulders, I placed a quick call to the Moores. Reggie answered the phone and shouted my question to her husband, who was repairing an electrical outlet in another room. She returned to the phone and reported that Milo knew nothing about a man named Maxwell. I informed Rip of Milo's negative response, and he said, "We don't know if Maxwell is a first name or last, but fortunately it's not an extremely common name like Smith or Johnson, and this is a small community. We can ask around. For that matter, I could look at the police department's databases."

"You think they'll let you do that?" I asked.

"Good point, dear. You're much smarter than your average jailbird," Rip joked. "After Detective Reeves informed me Sheriff Peabody had banned me from interfering with the case, I'm kind of hesitant to ask."

"You don't have to, honey," I volunteered. "That's why God created the Internet."

"Oh. And here all this time I thought that was Al Gore's brainstorm."

I chuckled at his remark. Rip swallowed the last sip of his Crown and Coke and then asked me why I was barefoot when he bailed me out of jail. I had hoped this topic wouldn't come up in our conversation. "Well, you see, I threw one of my tennis shoes, and it just so happened that this police officer's head was in the wrong place at the wrong—"

Rip put both of his hands up to stop me in mid-sentence. "I just decided I don't want to know any more about it. This embarrassing incident is going to be hard enough to live down as it is."

"Sorry, dear. Would you like a refill?"

The question went without asking.

* * *

"I struck out," I said the next morning when Rip returned from the police station.

"No luck here either," he replied. "I asked everyone I know and no one's heard of a Maxwell around here. You couldn't find anything on the Internet?"

"I found three Maxwells in Aransas County. Mildred Maxwell is ninety-four and living in a nursing home in Aransas Pass. However, according to the nursing staff, on any given day she thinks she's forty and performing on Broadway, or twenty-one and eight months pregnant. Just yesterday she insisted she was one of Shirley Maclaine's former incarnations. A touch on the senile side, you understand."

"Yes, I got the gist. Don't get sidetracked."

"Oh, sorry. Then there's Rowena Maxwell, who's a nun living at the Sisters of Schoenstatt Convent on Live Oak Peninsula."

"Okay, not much potential in those two," Rip said. "So, what's behind door number three?"

"The dearly departed," I replied. "Maxwell Short, former harbor master who passed away with lung cancer in October. He's buried in the Rockport Cemetery, according to a website called
findagrave.com
."

"And that's it?"

"Yes. Unless you want to count Max Wells, a seven-year-old attending Sacred Heart Elementary."

"Not really. I think we can safely mark him off the suspect list," Rip said. With an amused grin, he added, "If Max is anything like Regina was at that age, his alibi could well be that at the time of the murder he was having a jelly bean extracted from his left nostril."

I chuckled at the memory of that traumatic day with Regina in the Corpus Christi Spohn Hospital's emergency room . Then I said, "Or, more likely in this kid's case, he was memorizing words like logorrhea and vivisepulture, because he has the honor of being this year's second-grade spelling bee champion. But, seriously, that's all I could come up with online."

"Hmm, then I guess our best bet is to talk to Milo and get the address of the house Sarcova bought from them. We can feel him out about Sarcova and Cooper's relationship, too. Maybe Milo can shed a light on how volatile their conflict was, and whether or not he thinks Sarcova would resort to violence."

"Good idea, even though he'll realize that I was playing him like a fiddle in the paddy wagon." Reluctantly, I agreed. "Then we can visit Julio Sarcova at his home and see if we can wrangle more information out of him. Find out who Maxwell is and why he feels this person might have a motive to want Cooper dead."

"Sounds like a plan to me!" Rip agreed. And with a chuckle he asked, "By the way, what does logorrhea mean and how do you spell it?"

"I spell it wrong, most likely, and it means the act of talking incessantly. For example, what you were doing on the way home from bailing me out."

"Hmm. I see. And vivisepulture?"

"What I was contemplating doing to you at that same time."

"Do I really want to know what that would have been?"

"Probably not."

* * *

"Want to go to Bealls and Wal-Mart with me?" I heard Regina ask when I answered Rip's cell phone. I'd been filling time crossing out addresses in my organizer book that were no longer valid, or that belonged to someone like Cooper Claypool, who was no longer among the living. It had me feeling melancholy while I reminisced about the many friends and family who had already passed.

One begins to think about death a bit more when one's approaching seventy and has to read the obituaries every day to see whose funeral or memorial to notate on their social calendar. Meanwhile, on this Thursday morning, Rip was crisscrossing town looking for someone who knew of a Maxwell in the area. Earlier he'd discussed Julio Sarcova with Milo and discovered very little useful information. Milo hadn't had much contact with the man, and from what Cooper had told him about his interactions with Sarcova, the guy was more bark than bite.

"So? Wanna go?" Reggie repeated over the phone.

"Sure, sweetheart. I'd love to go shopping with you."

I'd been wanting to find a couple pairs of reasonably-priced shorts that didn't begin right below my boobs or end right below my rear end. I wanted to look chic and fashionable, not like a prostitute—or worse, a centenarian. There was a fine line between the two that made it difficult to locate the perfect fit. As for Wal-Mart, there were always things there I needed, but didn't realize I needed until I saw them on the shelves.

"Cool. I'll pick you up in ten."

* * *

Seconds before Reggie pulled up to the curb behind our trailer, Rip returned home, irritated and discouraged. He had gathered the nerve to walk into the police station and enter the office of lead detective, Branson Reeves. Although Reeves swore he'd never admit speaking with Rip about the case, he shared what little information the investigators had obtained. Many people had been interviewed, including Milo, Avery Curry, Patrick O'Keefe, Julio Sarcova, a fellow named Lee Gordon, and a few other peripheral individuals.

"Most had hard-to-verify alibis, and only moderate motives, Branson told me. No evidence has surfaced yet proving any of the suspects were involved. This morning the detectives were taking a closer look at the boat, spear, and photos of the victim, trying to come up with any clue or trace evidence that could point them in the right direction."

"Who's Lee Gordon?" I asked.

"Some real estate guy who was a competitor of Cooper and Milo's. He apparently attended some of the same AA meetings that Cooper did, too. The two men had been embroiled in a nasty confrontation during a meeting about a month ago, which is why the detectives brought Gordon in to question. But his alibi checked out easily enough."

"How's that?"

"He was arrested on DUI charges in Galveston Friday night and not released from the drunk tank until late Sunday morning. It's too bad the murder weapon was never recovered."

"But they have the spear that killed Claypool," I said.

"Yes, but like someone who's killed with a handgun, it's the gun that is considered the murder weapon, not the bullet that actually killed the victim. In this case, the murder weapon is the spear gun itself, which was detached from the spear when the cord that connects them was severed by the shooter."

"I see. Well, it sounds like the investigating team has gotten no further than we have in determining who the killer was," I said, now sharing Rip's disheartened mood.

"Did you ask him about a possible suspect named Maxwell?"

"Yeah. Struck out there too. Branson didn't know of anybody named Maxwell in the area. Are you sure that's what Sarcova said?"

"Yes, I'm certain. You're the one wearing hearing aids, not me," I replied defensively.

"Doesn't mean you don't
need
to be wearing them. You make me repeat things almost as often as I do you."

"True. But I'd almost swear that he said, 'Check out Maxwell'. Well, dear, Reggie's here and I'm going shopping with her."

"Pick me up a large bottle of Crown Royal at Spanky's. I have a feeling I'm going to need it."

* * *

I was able to find one pair of red shorts that were ideal, and a white pair that were questionable. I'd bought the latter pair with the idea I could always return them. They felt a bit snug in the waist, but had enough extra room in the legs to squeeze in another person my size. There was also a risk with the color. Just wearing white made me so apprehensive and jittery, I tended to spill everything I touched.

"You get everything you needed, Mom?"

"Yes, and a few things I didn't," I replied.

"Like that quart of churned vanilla ice cream?" Reggie asked me with a teasing smile as she glanced at the items in my section of our shared cart.

"That's for your father, Regina. I've landed myself in one of those long-term sucking-up situations, and ice cream usually helps turn the tide."

"What's stuck in his craw? You getting arrested at a protest again? He should be used to it by now. This was what, your third time?"

I merely shrugged my shoulders.
It was actually the fourth time, but who's
counting
?
Besides you, that is
, I wanted to say.
And probably your grouchy father
.

Instead, I said, "If you're ready, dear, let's go check out."

We scrutinized the three open lanes. One lane had a man and woman, each with a loaded cart, and three young children trying to talk their parents into letting them have one of the candy bars offered along the check-out lines. Store owners must not have young children or they wouldn't do this to parents, who are merely trying to get out of the store without an embarrassing meltdown scene by Junior. The last thing these poor folks needed was a trio of even more hyped-up kids to deal with. Most juveniles these days have already been diagnosed with attention disorders. Back in my day, this disorder was called "sugar overload."

Line two had five people with only a few items each. The turn-off was that the last lady in line had a baby who was screeching, not happy about being strapped in a car seat attached to the front of the cart. Her shrieks were approaching ear-drum-splitting level.

Line three was the hands-down winner. There were two ladies in my age bracket with one half-full cart between them. We waited as the blue-haired lady sifted through the items in the basket, picking out her purchases from a mound of intermingled products, which was a time-consuming ordeal. I wanted to tell the ladies that two carts might have been a wiser choice, but I held my tongue. This was a good thing, considering it'd have been a "pot calling the kettle black" sort of thing, with Reggie and I sharing a basket, too.

When the lady dug in her purse and came out with a fistful of coupons, I quickly backed up to take another gander at the other two lines, only to find they'd both grown tremendously in the interim. Reggie and I had no option but to wait it out in the line we'd chosen.

"Can you believe the price of bacon these days?" The lady being served asked the young check-out boy, who looked as if he spent the majority of his free time picking at his acne. He shook his head and kept scanning the UPC codes on each item as it moved down the conveyor belt.

"Son, are you sure $2.97 is the correct price on the asparagus? I recall the sign saying $2.79 per pound. By the looks of those scrawny stalks, you should be charging even less than that. I have half a mind to return them to the bin. You know, at that ridiculous price, and all."

I had to give the young man credit for the way he handled the situation. "Okay, ma'am. I'll just set them aside and have the sacker return them to the produce department."

The customer quickly changed her tune. "No, that's okay, young man. I'll go ahead and bite the bullet. I just asked in case you suffered from dyslexia. But I guess asparagus is out of season, and produce is always higher then."