Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (25 page)

Getting back to that morning, if you will…”

She snapped her fingers. “Now I remember. His mug wasn’t on the tray. It was back in his office, on the shelf. At first I figured maybe they hadn’t had their cocktails, but they had. The liquor bottle was there and a silver bowl of almonds, almost empty. It was just her mug sitting there, yet Dr. Klinger wasn’t the type to drink alone. Now that you mention it, I thought it was a little odd at the time.”

“And Mr. Farley told the police they’d had a drink together that night,” I said. “Could she have returned the mug to his office?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Farley locked the connecting door behind him when he left. It locks from the inside. Even if she wanted to return it, she’d have to go outside to the corridor and use his main door, which would be locked.”

“You think that’s unlikely?”

“Why go to all that trouble to return a cup? Remember, those two were used to people cleaning up after them.”

“If that’s the case, someone must have returned his mug,” I said.” Did you mention this discrepancy to the police?”

“I told them only what they asked me. My clients’ business is none of their business.”

“So the coffee mugs were never mentioned?”

“Not by me.”

“Doris, I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been. I’ve got a lot of work to do right now.” I got up, my head whirling.

“Tell your dad I’ll wash his shower curtain next week.”

“Thanks, Doris, thanks a lot.” The nagging thought in the back of my head was expanding, pushing out all extraneous matters. Most likely it had been building while I, distracted by life’s minutia, hadn’t paid attention. This time I wouldn’t shut it out.

At the office I let myself in without bothering to turn on the main light. After switching on my gooseneck desk lamp, I booted up the computer. From a zippered case, I removed the stack of photo CDs, flipping through them until I found what I hoped was the right one. Seconds later the monitor bloomed with photos of the Professional Women’s League awards luncheon. The photos advanced in a slide show as I studied each. After repeating it, I began to think the image I was seeking had been a figment of my imagination, a snippet from a dream.

Until a face in the background caught my attention.

I clicked on the photo to enlarge it, peering at the results. The intensity of raw emotion on the features made me shiver. I sat back, awed, as everything fell into place. I hadn’t imagined it after all. I’d been on the right track. Most likely my unconscious mind had stored the image. Now, six weeks later, it sent me a reminder.

I switched off the lamp. For a little while I sat in the darkened newsroom. Outside, people passing by cast long shadows across the wall. Soon the street lights would go on. In the meantime, I would wait. What I had in mind required the cover of darkness.

The sunset was fading when I finally locked up. Streaks of lavender colored the horizon. In my car, I joined the line of late commuters inching along Main Street. Then, leaving the traffic, I got onto Route 62, passing Stella’s restaurant. The waning light bathed the pigs in a soft glow.

Prank Night had finally arrived. Would the seniors cave in to pressure from authorities, or would they uphold decades of tradition? Although I felt protective of Stella’s pigs, I was rooting for the kids. Now more than ever, the world needed pranks.

My first stop was Kevin’s house. I pulled in behind his Mustang, noting that his trunk was open. An assortment of speakers, cables and lights was neatly arranged inside. It was a far cry from the interior of Kevin’s house.

Walter was in his vegetable patch, pants rolled to his knees, revealing the whitest legs I’d ever seen. “Rose, I want you to have my bean salad. I’ll get it inside.”

“Thanks, Walter,” I said, rapping on Kevin’s front door. “I’ll be right out.”

Seeing me at his door, Kevin looked surprised. “Rosie, what’s up?”

“Just thought I’d stop by to borrow something.”

He cocked his head. “You look like a kid at the carnival. Your eyes are like pinwheels.” He pulled me inside and wrapped me in an embrace. But soon he pulled back, saying “What’s wrong? Do I have B.O. or something?”

“Sorry, Kevin. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I wanted to ask if I could borrow your button-down black shirt.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not involved in Prank Night, are you?”

For a moment I considered telling him my plans until I realized how much he’d worry. Although his manner is irreverent, Kevin is not a risk taker. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, okay? I’ve got to go now.”

He slipped into his bedroom, plucking the shirt from his closet. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t approve.”

“How do you know I’m up to something?”

“I can tell. You’re humming on all burners.” He pulled me to him again, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Rosie?”

“Yes?”

“Will you come over tonight afterward?”

“You won’t be through until two a.m. How about Friday night instead?”

“Good. I’ll make us breakfast.”

“Uh huh. Captain Crunch and Mountain Dew.”

“Nope. Eggs and bacon, the real thing.”

I looked up at the ginger-colored freckles sprinkled across his cheeks. This time when he kissed me, I responded. The events of the day vanished. Everything was centered on the present. It was blissful until a voice outside shattered the silence. “Rose, I’ve got your beans!”

Kevin groaned, and I laughed. “It’s Walter. I’ve got to go.”

He held my face in his hands. “Be careful.”

“I always am.” Even to my ears, I didn’t sound convincing.

Back in the car, I headed for Shore Road. It was dusk, and the sea was silvery calm. In the distance, a lobster boat headed for home trailing an entourage of seagulls.

I slowed, approaching the entrance to Settlers Dunes. A half-dozen blue and gold balloons were tied to the sign: Coming Soon! Cormorant Cove! I drove past the entrance, pulling into a narrow dirt path further down the road. It was a seldom used turnaround, overgrown with tall pampas grass. It would conceal the Jetta. I shut off the engine. Outside, the tree frogs were in full chorus while above, an early moon appeared in the darkening sky. The air smelled of wild roses and seaweed.

I put on Kevin’s shirt. The sleeves were long, the cuffs hid my hands. Locking my pocketbook in the trunk, I pocketed the keys. Muttering a quick prayer to St. Theresa, I set out, pushing through the tall grass and down the road toward Settlers Dunes.

I kept to the edge of the road, ready to leap into the bushes should a car approach. In the event I was spotted, my excuse would be that I’m a reporter covering Settlers Dunes. I had every right to be there, I reminded myself.

Upon reaching the entrance, I ducked inside and scurried over the sandy, rocky road until I reached the clearing. The sight of the pale, undulating dunes and the sea beyond filled me with awe. According to the history books, the group of individuals who settled the area preferred living by the open sea rather than in town with the others. They were a small band, their shelters clustered together against the Atlantic gales.

Despite the first harsh winter, the group survived. They were on good terms with the Indians who fished nearby. Early drawings show the wooden fish shacks and the Indians’ weathered canoes. The sea provided for all, the bluefish so plentiful the settlers scooped them from the surf with bare hands.

I hid behind the giant boulders at the entrance. Just as I expected, the black Mercedes station wagon was parked in the clearing near the eel grass. I approached in a crouch, circumnavigating the dusty parking lot. When I got closer to the car, I stopped, waiting for my heart beat to slow.

Still crouching, I scurried to the opposite side of the car and waited, my chin resting on my knees. When I was sure all was quiet, I raised my head and peeked inside the window. In the front seat a crumpled blazer lay across a brief case. In the back, a half dozen signs lay stacked on the seat. The station wagon’s rear door was open; I crawled to the back.

A wooden tool box was covered by a blanket. I yanked it off, finding jars of nails, a collection of paint brushes and two cans of paint. I continued peering into the dark recesses of the trunk. Frustrated, I pushed the tool box aside to lean in.

Too late, I heard a crunch of gravel behind me. I turned, felt a whir of motion, and
thunk
. Lights exploded in my head while a buzzing like soda water filled my ears. It grew louder, the vibrations traveling in waves through my body until everything faded to black.

Time passed. I came out of the blackness aware of movement. At first I thought Chester was pulling at my blankets. I opened my mouth to scold him, and an all-encompassing pain gripped my head, radiating from the back. When I reached to touch it, I discovered my hands were tied.

I longed to sink back into the fog. Instead, I reluctantly turned my attention to my body; it was in motion. In fact, it was being dragged over slippery, wet grass. The grass gave way to smooth, cool sand. I liked the coolness, despite the clumps of dried seaweed that scoured my skin.

Finally, I opened an eye to squint at the night sky, the clouds covering the moon. Against this panorama, a bent figure pulled me across the sand. The strong, bowed back reminded me of a character from the painting, “The Peasants Wedding,” by Brueghel.

The clouds scurried by. The moon appeared, and the pulling stopped. The figure turned and spoke: “For a skinny bitch you’re awfully heavy.” Although the voice lacked its Hemlock Point diction, it was one I knew, the voice of a high school field hockey captain.

My voice was a croak. “Martha, let me go.”

She dropped her end of the coarse rope that bound my ankles and rubbed her hands. “What were you doing snooping in my car?”

“Your car?” Confusion increased the pain in my head. Tonight I’d visited the Dunes, but why? Through the fog of pain, an image appeared of a young Martha Muldoon running down the field in a short, plaid skirt and waving a stick. I squeezed my eyes shut. No, it wasn’t a stick, it was a mallet, like the one she used to pound in her real estate signs.

That night, on the way to the Phipps’s party, when Kevin yelled to Martha, her angry face had remained stuck in my mind. For good reason. The expression was identical to the one she wore in the photo of the Professional Women’s luncheon. As Dr. Klinger received her award, those around her smiled, all except Martha, who wore a murderous look.

Her voice interrupted my reverie. “Forget it, McNichols. I don’t care what you were looking for. You’ve caused too much trouble already.”

I tried to raise myself up despite the throbbing in my head. “Martha, I understand what you went through. You felt threatened by Vivian Klinger, didn’t you?”

She snorted. “People were stupid not to realize what a phony she was.”

“Did you hit her?”

“Ask anything you want, McNichols. This isn’t TV where you get a last-minute confession.”

I tried another angle. “It must have hurt, knowing she was having an affair with your husband.”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t impressed with the Ivy League degrees. She was a tramp who’d do anything to make a name for herself.”

“You were smart,” I said. “You slipped Valium into the scotch. That’s why Spencer was sleeping in his car the night she died. You had no choice but to drug the two of them.” When she stared at me I continued. “It’s common knowledge. In fact, the police are waiting to make an arrest.”

Her laugh was harsh. “You’re the one tied up, yet you expect a confession from me?”

“I know everything that happened, Martha. Not only me, but others, including Cal Devine. Chief Alfano suspects you put Valium in the Jack Daniel’s you bought for Rusty. Your fingerprints are all over the receipt you carelessly left in the bag.”

“Rusty.” She spat the word. “The town’s better off without that parasite. He was a Peeping Tom, a snoop just like you. You know what happens to snoops? They learn their lesson the hard way.”

“Rusty was in the park the night Dr. Klinger died,” I said, “and he saw you.”

“That scumbag dug his own grave when he demanded money from me.” She turned and scanned the shoreline. “Okay, the tide’s just about to turn. Let’s get this over with.”

“Martha, use your head. The note you threw in my car window? It’s now at the state police lab. If anything happens to me, that note will lead straight to you.”

“I don’t know what note you’re talking about, McNichols. That whack I gave you must have scrambled your brains.”

She yanked on the rope. Soon I was being dragged over sand, wet sand. In desperation I looked around the deserted beach. No one, not even a lone seagull to witness my plight. Finally, I spoke, my mouth dry, my throat constricted. “Cal Devine knows I’m here tonight. He’s looking for me right now.”

“Nice try,” she said. “Cal’s at Stella’s keeping an eye on those pigs.” Finally we reached the water’s edge. She peered at her watch. “One more minute and the tide turns. With any luck your body will wash up in the Azores.”

I struggled to raise myself up. “You’re jeopardizing everything, Martha. It’s not too late to let me go. On my father’s life, I promise this will stay between us.”

Instead of responding, she looked all around, turning in a full circle. “You see this stretch of beach? It’s going to be mine someday.” She gestured toward the dunes. “Cormorant Cove villas will sit over there. Right here I’m thinking of building a pier for the residents’ yachts.” She looked down at me on the ground. “Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about? Of course you don’t. You’re a loser who’s content to write about other losers.” One second later, her tone was conversational. “McNichols, do you know what my grandfather did for a living?” When I shook my head, she said, “At the turn of the century he drove a wagon around Hemlock Point. He cleaned the residents’ out houses.” She chuckled. “Imagine Mickey Muldoon’s granddaughter becoming the richest woman on Hemlock Point.”

“It’s an amazing story,” I said, frantically attempting to work my hands free, “and I’d love to write it.”