Panic in the Panhandle, page 17
“That’s great, dude.” I extended my fist for a knuckle bump. More than likely, he was riding the desk to keep him out of trouble. He meant well and was trying his best, so I thought it was logical to encourage him. Being logical with Spock. That was a good one.
“Hey, I saw Chief Eikenberry’s car out front.” After five minutes of him talking nonstop, I cut him off. “Would you mind checking if she has a minute to see me?”
Susan Eikenberry held what she called office hours on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from one to three. These were designated times when residents could stop by without an appointment and exchange a few words with Paradise Springs’ top cop. Because of that, she wasn’t accessible during other hours without an appointment.
My visit was a roll of the dice, but sometimes you had to say what the heck. If she was busy, I’d give the key card to Spock with detailed instructions to have the chief call me before returning it to Jolly Roger.
My hand was in my pocket, ready to pull out a pen, when Spock returned. “The chief can see you right now, Elmo.”
All righty, then. Things were looking up. I followed him down a hall to the last office on the right.
“She’s in a mood,” Spock said barely above a whisper. “Thought you’d want to know.”
Maybe things weren’t looking up, after all.
I gave the door three light knocks.
“Come on in, Simpson.” She tossed a pair of reading glasses on her desk as I took a seat.
“Care for a green tea?” If I was going to bug her, at least I had the foresight to arrive bearing gifts.
“I shouldn’t, but these reports give me a headache. There’s an upward trend of arrests for possession. The mayor wants answers. Not your problem, though.” She took a sip. “Mm, Mary makes a fine green tea. Thanks. Now, what do you want?”
Her abruptness caught me off guard. Instead of attempting to ply case information out of her, I went straight to giving her the key card.
“I’ve been meaning to return this to you. It’s from Fran Cohen’s condo.”
“Thanks.” She leaned forward with her elbows on the desktop and smiled. The expression reminded me of a barracuda going in for the kill more than anything else. “Speaking of which, I heard a rumor that your truck was spotted near Cohen’s place last night. I didn’t know you had friends at the Sea Breeze.”
My brain froze as my insides turned into jelly. Susan Eikenberry was a sharp woman, but how could she have known that? It was like she was Batwoman, who’d spent the previous night on patrol, guarding our beloved community from the shadows.
“I, uh, don’t.” My gaze went to the picture of palm trees on the wall to the printer on the corner of her workstation, to my bag. Then I had a brain blast that Jimmy Neutron would have been proud of. Hey, that movie appealed to college-aged kids, too.
“But you heard correct.” I took the invoice I’d prepared before heading out to my appointments out of the bag. “Since everything was so crazy last week, I wanted to go through the condo to make sure it was critter free. That’s what I was doing last night.”
“Really?”
I gave her the invoice. “Yep. I thought it would be good to make sure there were no surprises for the next owner. You were there. You know how both doors were open for hours. Who knows what could have snuck in?”
“Hmm.” She made a show out of putting her reading glasses back on and studying the document. “So, you inspected Mr. Cohen’s condo for stray wildlife.”
“Yes. Free of charge.”
“How magnanimous of you.” She brushed some strands of her blond hair out of her eyes. “Even though I don’t recall anyone asking you to do this. You sure there wasn’t an ulterior motive for these services rendered? Something to do with your friend Mr. Quigley?”
“Just trying to do my part to help out the community. It’s like my mom says, Be part of the solution.”
“Uh-huh.” She picked up a pen and twirled it in her fingers. “And my mom liked to remind me that a sucker was, in fact, born every minute. I’m no sucker, Simpson. Please don’t tell me you were there on some harebrained detective scheme—”
“Then I won’t.”
“And to drag your girlfriend along, too. I mean, come on. Really?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just friends these days.”
“Whatever. You’re on the edge of becoming a pain in my backside. If Mr. Raines shows up for our meeting with even the most minor complaint about you, I won’t be happy. Am I clear?”
“Yes.” I raised my hand to ask a question.
“Do us both a favor and go away now. I have work to do.” She pointed at the door and turned her focus to her computer monitor.
I wanted her to like me. Actually, I wanted her to think highly of me. If I annoyed her too much, those hopes would be sunk forever, like the secondhand Jet Ski I bought that turned out to have a leak in the hull and now resided on the Gulf floor.
I left without another word.
The weekend flew by. It seemed like everyone within fifty miles had some animal or other that needed removed ASAP. The work was good for my ego. I tried to do a good job for my clients and for the animals I was moving. The fact that I continued to get business from new customers via word of mouth was proof that I did quality work.
The increased business was good for my bank account, too. The nest egg from my prior life was a welcome security blanket. The knowledge that I could tap into it if money got tight was a constant source of reassurance.
Still, I preferred not going there. The longer it stayed there, the better.
So, it wasn’t until Sunday evening that I cracked open the first notebook. It didn’t take long to figure out why someone wanted to murder Fran.
The man had used the notebooks to keep tabs on virtually everyone living in the Springs. Some of the notations were short.
For Spock, there was only a single line, A well-intentioned dullard. Not a threat to anyone but himself.
Yikes.
I didn’t think police work was the right profession for our local Leonard Nimoy lookalike. Still, it wasn’t up to me. If he kept the chief happy, that was all that mattered.
I found the dirt on me in the second notebook. It left me gobsmacked. Two full pages were filled with Fran’s research on me. It included information about my critter-removal business, who I hung out with, where I banked, and other facts. The volume of info he had on my current life was disturbing.
Toward the end of the section on me, there was intel from my old life. Some financial, some personal. All of it confidential. It was the kind of stuff only a hacker would be able to obtain. Or a government agent.
My blood began to boil as implications of the notebooks’ contents fully hit me.
The man had personal, private information. A lot of it. The kind that he could use against people who wanted that information kept secret.
And kill to make sure it stayed that way.
A few hours later, I strode through the entrance of the Riptide with my laptop under my arm. The notebooks were back at the trailer, hidden away under lock and key.
I waved hi to Seven and took a seat in a corner booth.
“Heard you paid Big Baby a visit.” She placed a tumbler filled with ice and an amber liquid on the table. “With the expression on your face, I thought we’d go straight to the hard stuff.”
I nodded, then took a large drink. The Irish whiskey went down my gullet with a soft burn. Just enough to make me shake my head while still being enjoyable.
“Thanks.” The only thing left in the glass was ice. “I could use another.”
She pursed her lips and gave me a long stare. I couldn’t tell if she was thinking about asking me about my deepest, darkest secret or throwing me out of the barbeque joint then and there, before I started causing her problems. After a long while, she raised her eyebrows.
“I’ve worked here long enough to know slugging down a shot of whiskey isn’t your style. Between that and your pasty complexion, something’s wrong and you’re here to talk to Pops about it.”
I nodded and turned my gaze to the glass in my hand.
“He’s got the night off. Tell me what’s on your mind. Maybe I can help.”
Seven was the kind of woman your typical dude didn’t say no to. She was the total package—smart, gorgeous, could drink a guy under the table, and mysterious enough to make said guy want to get to know her better. She was also way too young for me. And even if she wasn’t, she was way out of my league.
Like, I was a musician busking for loose change on a street corner and she was recording albums with Coldplay and Lady Gaga, out of my league.
We had a few things in common, though. Among them, we were both mentioned in Fran’s notebook collection.
“Okay, but you have to swear on Poseidon’s trident that you’ll keep this between us. You can’t even tell your dad.”
“Wowzers. This sounds like we both need a drink.”
At the end of Paradise Springs Marina closest to the Gulf, a bronze statue of the mythical god of the sea stands guard. Legend says he was sculpted from the remains of a pirate ship that sank during a tropical storm. According to old news reports, he appeared out of the blue one Wednesday in 1923. The locals considered it a sign from a divine spirit and erected a pedestal on which he stands with trident in hand, guarding the town, to this day.
Over the years, it became a routine for crews of outbound vessels to touch the trident before boarding as a way of asking for a safe voyage. While confirmation is impossible, the old seamen who hung out at Goob’s claim that every captain who laid a hand on the weapon brought their ship home safe and sound.
Among the younger generation, Poseidon and his trident took on another function. He became an avatar for something of huge importance. So, when I asked Seven to swear on it, there was no doubt that our conversation was going to be significant.
She returned with another ice-filled tumbler and a bottle of Irish whiskey. While she poured, I tried to put my thoughts into order. It was vital that our conversation avoid devolving into a complaint session about Fran.
“Hit me with your best shot.” She drained her glass in one gulp without the slightest hint of a grimace. Then she refilled it without a moment’s hesitation.
“Recently, information has come into my possession. It involves Fran Cohen.”
“Was said information obtained Friday night when you and Nicola snuck into his condo?” She took another drink, then smiled. “You should know by now that nothing stays secret in this town for long. Come on. Out with it. We can talk about how much time you and your not-girlfriend spend together another time.”
“You might want to rethink that position after what I’m about to tell you.” I spent the next ten minutes telling her about the contents of the notebooks. I even showed her the pictures I took of the entry about Wendell. “I only took this because I thought I’d be having this conversation with him. I’d never share this with anyone. You gotta believe me.”
She downed her glass in a single gulp yet again, then gestured for me to do the same. When I did, it caused a little less grimacing this time. She refilled both glasses straightaway.
“Hell’s bells, that man was a real piece of work. If he was still alive, I wouldn’t mind feeding him to Rambo’s gators myself.”
From the sharp edge in her voice, I got the impression that Seven hadn’t been joking.
“What do you think I should do?” I shrugged. “Sorry, this is usually the time when your dad imparts some of his patented Wendell Banderas wisdom on me.”
“I may not be my father.” She took a drink. This time it was only a sip. “I’ve been told he’s not the only member of the Banderas family with the knack for offering prudent counsel.”
I’d never heard anyone say that about the woman sitting across from me. When I did hear comments about her, it was mostly about how she could mix a mean cocktail and leave a man quaking in his boots with an arch of her eyebrow. At the same time. It couldn’t hurt to hear her out.
“At the risk of sounding like a copycat, hit me with your best shot.”
She barked out a laugh. “Well played. Here’s what I think. If word got out about those notebooks, people would have been lined up around Cohen’s building to have a go at him. The thing is, the only people who’ve seen them, that we know of, are you and your gal pal.”
Even though Nic had only taken a token stroll through the pages, Seven’s assessment was close enough. I nodded for her to continue, then took a sip of my drink.
A tiny one.
“I think the reverend’s guilty of something, but murder’s probably not it. That leaves you with Rambo, Claudine, The Vampire, and Sybil as your strongest suspects. That we know of. I agree that Rambo’s not the guy.”
“Which leaves me with the other four.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t put it past Claudine to take him out if she felt threatened.” She shivered. “That woman scares me.”
I did a double take. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
“I won’t put up with drunks and I can hold my own in a fight, but that woman? I would not want to tangle with her. But the only hard evidence you have is that letter from Sybil. I’d lean on her first.”
It made sense. And dovetailed in perfect formation with the conclusion I’d reached with Nic. I bumped my fist on the table.
“Sounds like I should pay her a visit tomorrow.”
Seven clinked her glass against mine. “Good sleuthing. Just be careful. If she’s within reach of her scooter and gets mad at you, be ready to bolt. She can be deadly on that thing.”
I smiled but didn’t feel it. Not only did I have to worry about Sybil’s potential shadowy connections coming for me, but I also had to keep an eye out to make sure she didn’t run me over. As I took another sip of my drink, I decided that someday I was going to have to write a book about this insane quest of mine.
Chapter Twenty-One
With Seven’s advice in hand, I stuck around the Riptide for a while and feasted on a rack of ribs. With water to wash it down. The funky soul of JJ Grey & Mofro’s “99 Shades of Crazy” kept me company while I motored through an ear of corn on the cob dripping with butter.
The song made me laugh and shake my head. Yep, I was probably a dozen shades of crazy pursuing this investigation. I wasn’t an idiot, though. I’d never catch Fran’s murderer if I got busted for drinking and driving. Fate had smiled on Nic and me during our Friday night adventure.
It would be foolish to tempt it again.
Which is why I leapt out of bed the second the alarm went off Monday morning like a man on a mission. Which I was.
It was Mission Get Sybil to Confess to Murdering Fran.
The woman was a member of the OG and she was a client. Because of that, I knew her workday schedule. After all, she didn’t want me checking for rodents in the middle of one of her sessions. And who could blame her? She paid her bills on time and referred potential clients to me on a regular basis. The least I could was show her some respect.
Since it was Monday, her first appointment wouldn’t be until ten a.m. From eight to nine, she hung out at the Springing Dolphin Coffee Shot. I’d catch her on her way out the door.
My chest swelled with pride when she emerged from the shop with a paper cup in her hand at twenty after the hour. All the efforts to know clients’ comings and goings was paying off. In a way I’d never thought possible. I’d never imagined becoming a murder investigator, either. So, there you go.
She made sure her coffee was secure in the scooter’s drink caddy, then put her helmet on. The glittery orange headwear with a four-inch lime-green mohawk clashed with her purple frock and brown handbag in eye-watering fashion. I still complimented her on the ensemble when I strolled up to her. The whole attracting bees with honey instead of vinegar thing again.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“You can schedule an appointment like everyone else. Booking online is the most efficient option.” She started the engine. It produced a mild blurp, blurp, blurp that paled in volume to Oscar’s purr.
“It’s not about…wait a minute. When did you start online scheduling?” Apparently, her age, whatever it was, didn’t mean she was technology-averse.
“Rolled it out the first of the year.” She held her phone out to me. “I’ve got an app that will be ready in time for the spring-break crowd. I had a vision these tech upgrades were needed.”
I wanted to tell her the second sight wasn’t needed to know folks used their cell phones more and more every day. I held my tongue, though.
“That’s great. I wanted to talk about Fran Cohen, though.”
“I got nothing more to say about him.” She rocked the scooter off its kickstand and revved the engine. “The police came pounding on my door yesterday asking about him. I was in the middle of a session. The nerve of some people.”
Before she could get away, I stepped in front of her. “You wrote him a letter begging him not to expose you. That was after he overheard you insulting him.”
“Get out of my way.” She nudged the black scooter forward, pushing me back a few steps.
“What happened, Sybil?”
“He came to me a while back. Claimed he was writing a history of Paradise Springs. We had a few drinks while I told him about my past.”
I already knew what she told him. At least Cohen’s version of it.
“Something happened, though. He learned something you didn’t want anyone to know. Was that it?”
“Never you mind. If I find out it was you who sicced the cops on me, I’ll put a hex on you that’ll turn you into one of those chipmunks you love to trap.” She gunned the scooter. It leapt straight at me, knocking me back.
I fell with my arms pinwheeling in a useless attempt to grab something. The back of my skull hit the asphalt with a crack, and I saw stars.
When the world came back into focus, Sybil was remounting her scooter. Had she taken a few seconds to check whether or not I was dead? Didn’t matter the reason, she was still here. I staggered to my feet. The world started to spin so I grabbed on to her handlebars.
