Panic in the Panhandle, page 20
Shoot, if I studied the notebooks in detail from cover to cover, I’d probably end up with twenty or thirty people who met the same parameters as my main suspects.
Then, I had a brain blast.
Following a hunch, I scaled the stairs. Maybe the neighbors above Fran and Minerva could tell me something.
To my disappointment, nobody answered at either door, so I went to the front desk. The attendant was a brown-haired woman I’d gone out with twice. The spark hadn’t been there, so we parted as friends.
“Hiya, Tickle Me Elmo. How are you?”
“Hanging in there, Gretchen, thanks.” I gave her a grin but cringed on the inside. I wasn’t a fan of the nickname. The toy by that name came out in 1996. It was an ideal time for bullies to use it against me.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” I leaned toward her and kept my voice low. “After what happened to Mr. Cohen, I wanted to offer a free inspection to both the folks above him and to Ms. Longet. I knocked upstairs, but nobody’s home. Any idea how I can get ahold of them?”
“For security reasons, I can’t give you their names.” She nodded in the direction of the main office. The security guards from the other night were standing at attention by the door.
“I get it. Thanks, anyway. I’ll buy you a beer next time I see you at the Riptide.”
She held up a hand. “Hold on. I can trust you, so I’ll tell you this much. The one above Mr. Cohen belongs to a snowbird couple. They aren’t down here from Ontario yet. The other one’s owned by a family who only uses it from time to time. I haven’t seen them since the New Year holiday.”
“I’ll check back next month, then. You totally rock. And I appreciate you maintaining their confidentiality. Professionalism at its finest.” We exchanged a knuckle bump.
“Anytime, buddy. You can make it two beers at the Riptide and we’re even steven.”
“Deal.” I appreciated the limited information, but was bummed on the inside, too. Oh well. Not every idea was a winner.
On the walk to my truck, I took a moment to reflect under the shade of a twenty-foot palm tree. Was there something that connected my main suspects? Something they all had in common beyond their status as blackmail victims? A piece of information that tied them all to Fran.
As the deep green palm fronds swayed in the breeze above me, a seagull glided across the sky, its wings out full to take maximum advantage of the air currents.
Then it hit me.
All of my suspects were folks, like me, who relocated to Paradise Springs. It was clear a lot of the transplants wanted to keep their reasons for moving here to themselves. That was one of the great things about this place. Wendell taught me early on that you never asked someone about their past. If they wanted to tell you, they would.
Fran was a transplant, too.
With excitement bubbling inside me, I went to Goob’s to pick up some carryout lunch. While I was in line, I called Rambo.
“Dude, I’m onto something. I’ll be there in thirty with lunch.”
A half hour later on the dot, I rolled to a stop in his driveway. Sometimes I was pretty good.
Rambo jogged out to meet me. The way he bounced each time one of his feet hit the gravel, it was a wonder the ground didn’t shake.
“Tell me you got good news.” He yanked the truck’s door open and pulled me from the driver’s seat like he was a kid excited to see a parent who’d been away on a long business trip.
“I think so.” With lunch in one hand and a drink caddy in the other, I followed him into the barn as fast as I could go without spilling everything.
While we ate, I told him about the notebooks and the connection I’d made among the top suspects.
His shoulders sagged when I finished my report. He was kind enough to withhold comment about my news apparently failing to live up to the hype.
“Look.” I crunched down on a hush puppy. “I know it may not seem like a lot, but it’s the first connection I’ve been able to make. Cohen kept tabs on tons of people, but, if I’m right, the only people he went after were fellow outsiders with cash.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t you see? You don’t fit either of those categories. That takes you out of the suspect pool.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He sat up a little straighter and took a long sip of his ice water. “You still gotta prove it, though.”
“Believe me, with Claudine after me, I know.” I laughed, despite the grim situation. “It’s too bad Cohen didn’t keep an entry on himself in the Notebooks of Doom. I bet that would be interesting reading.”
“You don’t have to. A Web search will tell you all you want to know. It’ll take some digging because he hid all of his operations under names of shell companies, but someone like you could find the info. That’s what my granddad told me. And he’s never wrong.”
“Did he give you any details?”
“Not a lot. This was right after Cohen moved here full-time. Granddad said to steer clear of him. That he’d been neck deep in some shady real estate deals around Philly. Things like forcing folks out of their homes to make room for fancy new places to live.”
“Kind of like he was trying to do here.” I tapped a finger on the tabletop. “And you just got around to bringing this up now?”
“Sorry, dude. I’ve had a lot on my mind. Got my own problems, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Really? In the past few days, I’ve been run over by a maniac on a scooter, almost been burglarized by a borderline sociopath who has more knives in her collection than I can imagine, and had the barrel of the biggest gun I’ve personally seen in my life pointed at me. And why did all of these things happen to me? Because I’m helping you with your problems.
That’s what I wanted to say. It wouldn’t have helped the situation, though, so I went with something more diplomatic.
“I may have heard a rumor.”
Rambo stared at me for what seemed like ages. Then he barked out a massive laugh and slapped the table with his palm.
“You’re all right. You know that, Elmo? I apologize. When I told my grandad what you’re doing for me, he said I’ll be okay.”
“Really? I didn’t know he knew anything about me.” To have that intimidating man think I could make things turn out all right was the highest of praise, indeed.
“He didn’t until after the hearing the other day. Told me if you get me out of this pickle, he’ll make you a pot of his special alligator stew and give you a bottle of his special brew to wash it down with. That’ll put hair on your chest.”
I gave Rambo the best smile I could. Alligators were incredible animals. I had the greatest amount of respect for them. I didn’t want to eat them, though. Growing up in Indiana, I’d been quite content to get my meat from cows, chicken, pigs, and even bison on a rare occasion. That hadn’t changed in my decade residing on the Gulf Coast.
“That’s really thoughtful, but I wouldn’t want him to go to any trouble.”
“Grandad don’t make his gator stew for just anybody, Elmo. A bowl of that with one of his home-brewed beers is a meal to remember.”
“I’m sure it’ll be unforgettable.” In more ways than I could imagine.
With my report complete and the dinner gone, I told Rambo I needed to get going to check out a potential lead. I lied.
It was either that or stick around and run the risk of more conversation involving consumption of various parts of large carnivorous reptiles. The choice to tell him a little fib was a total no-brainer.
By the time I got home, nightmarish visions of gigantic, mutant alligators rising from a nearby swamp to take their retribution on me for dining on one of their cousins had been replaced by something much better.
A vision of me on the front porch, sipping a cold drink.
Oscar must have sensed something special was brewing when I picked him up and kissed him on the head upon my arrival.
“I’ve got an idea, buddy. I think it’s a good one.”
He responded by rubbing his cheek against my hand. Then he gave me a quick and harmless bite on my thumb. Snuggle time was over.
I made us both dinner, brewed an herbal tea, and got settled at the patio table. While I snacked on some popcorn, I went through the notebooks and created a chart on my tablet. It consisted of two lists. They were the names of folks Cohen had made observations about. The one on the left consisted of Paradise Springs natives. The one on the right included folks who’d moved here.
It was painstaking work as I had to make certain I didn’t put people on the wrong list. The effort was worth it, though. By the time I finished reading the last entry in the third notebook, an unmistakable pattern had emerged.
Fran had made notes on hundreds of people. And by that, I mean every person over the age of eighteen who resided in Paradise Springs and might have had money over the last fifteen years. The thing was, his observations about the area’s natives tended to be fairly benign. Yes, they were often tasteless and offensive, like the entry about Seven, but they didn’t include sensitive information. That data only appeared in his entries about the transplants.
People like Claudine, Minerva, The Vampire, and Sybil. Yeah, and me, too.
“This can’t be a coincidence, buddy.” Oscar had gotten comfortable in the chair to my left. I ran my fingers up and down his spine as I examined the two lists. “From what I can tell, Cohen didn’t mess with the locals. If I’m right, that means I can disregard everyone on that list.”
Satisfied I was correct, I prepared to delete the list of lifetime locals. Something in the back of my mind stopped me. I went through the chart, one name at a time. Almost eight hundred souls in all.
Thank goodness I was a fast typist.
When I reached the final name, a local teen who ran his own lawn maintenance service, a light bulb blazed to life.
The only people who were worthy of his interest were business owners, politicians, a couple of local activists. The movers and shakers of Paradise Springs and its environs. With the exception of one name.
Jolly Roger Raines. For some reason, the good resort owner had escaped being mentioned in Fran’s journals.
“That’s eyebrow-raising, don’t you think, Oscar?” My cat gave me his patented unblinking stare. “Right, you don’t have eyebrows. Sorry. But if you did, you’d have to admit Roger’s absence from these notebooks would make you raise at least one. Right?”
He kept looking at me. Then he blinked and followed that by licking a paw and rubbing his ear with it.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Our discussion was interrupted by an SUV coming up the driveway. It was Susan Eikenberry’s ride.
“Evening, Chief.” I gestured for her to take one of the two remaining seats while I closed the tablet. “Oscar and I were enjoying an evening outdoors. What can we do for you?”
As if on cue, my roommate climbed onto the table and sauntered over to her. When she put her hand out to him, he sniffed, then rubbed his head against her fingers and began purring.
The old tomcat was putting on the charm. He was going to get some treats at bedtime tonight.
“I was on my way home.” She scratched under Oscar’s chin. “Thought we could have a little chat.”
“Great. I don’t want to cause too much trouble for Claudine, but just because she’s famous, she shouldn’t be allowed to do whatever she wants.”
“Yeah, about that.” She raised her eyebrows when Oscar leapt onto her lap and demanded more scratches. “She’s sticking to her story that you went overboard when she knocked on your door asking for help. That you almost whacked her over the head with that bat of yours.”
“Is that so?” I looked up. The night sky was clear, the total opposite of the conditions when Claudine tried to break in. Thoughts about the vastness of the universe tamped down the sense of resentment the chief’s words had triggered inside of me.
“It is.” Susan took a page from Oscar’s book and stared at me without saying a word more.
“That’s it, then? End of story? The famous restaurateur goes scot-free while I get a visit from the police? Not seeing a lot of blind justice in this equation.”
My use of a conversational tone was intentional. There was no need to shout at Susan. My pointed comments were every bit as intentional, though. I didn’t like it when the little guy got trampled by the big shot.
“I reviewed the responding officer’s report, along with your and Claudine’s statements.” She placed her police cap on the table. “It comes down to a he-said, she-said situation. The officer on duty found no sign of a break-in and you didn’t report anything stolen. Without any witnesses to corroborate either your story or hers, there’s not much for us to go on.”
“I see.”
“Unless there’s something you want to tell me that you didn’t include in your statement.” She’d moved from scratching under Oscar’s chin to scratching his belly. The one time I attempted that, he bit me, hard. What a traitor.
“Don’t think so. Not that it would matter anyway.” Under no conditions would I divulge the existence of Fran’s notebooks to her.
“Come on, Simpson.” She shook her head. “Fran Cohen’s murder has my team stretched to the breaking point. Most of them have never had to deal with a murder investigation. The overtime’s going to destroy my budget. Given the current state of affairs, I suggested to Claudine that she should steer clear of you and your property. That’s the best I can do.”
“Fine, whatev—wait, are you all still investigating Cohen’s murder?” I leaned forward in my chair. The resentment had vanished into the nighttime darkness, replaced by curiosity.
“We’re still exploring all appropriate paths of inquiry. Mr. Cohen’s daughters and ex-wife are proving to be difficult to pin down for interviews. I’m not at liberty to say anything more. Which leads me to the other reason I’m here.”
Oscar had curled up in her lap and was purring away. The sucking up he was doing was causing me to have second thoughts about that kitty treat promise I’d made.
“I know Rambo asked you to conduct your own investigation. You have the right to do that. That said, the office has received some complaints regarding you and said investigation.”
“Who from? Or are you not at liberty to tell me that, either?” I had a solid idea who the complainers were. If you made a Venn diagram of who my main suspects were and who the complainers were, odds were good you’d have a solid circle.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to say. And before you get all snippy with me about it, I’m doing you a favor telling you this informally.” She traced a circle on the tabletop with her index finger. The yellow nail polish shined in the light by the outdoor lights. “While I don’t have anything to support this assumption, I can’t help wondering if your investigation is making certain people uncomfortable. For the right reasons.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” It was true. Actually, more than interesting. It was energizing. Confirmation I’d made someone nervous enough to prompt a complaint to the police. No doubt, with the intention of scaring me off the case.
That wasn’t gonna happen.
“Did you know Claudine doesn’t have an alibi for the hours of nine to eleven the night of Mr. Cohen’s murder?”
“That’s a bold accusation.”
“It’s the truth.”
She pushed a few strands of her blond hair that had come loose behind an ear. It amazed me that she could get so much hair into a tiny bun at the back of her head.
“I’ll look into it. It’s also my duty to remind you about the importance of not interfering with an ongoing police investigation. Do we understand each other?”
“We do.”
Oscar decided the meeting was over, so he made a graceful exit from Susan’s lap. As soon as her car was out of sight, I grabbed for my phone. There was no way I was making an exit, graceful or otherwise, from my investigation. The finish line was too close to quit now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wednesday morning brought clouds and scattered showers to the area. It was the kind of weather that led the lifelong residents of the Panhandle to put on jeans and sweatshirts and grumble about the chill in the air.
My Hoosier blood hadn’t thinned that much yet. With my rounds to do, I wore long workpants with only a T-shirt on top. No heavy clothing for this guy.
“It’s like fifty-five degrees, Elmo. Put on a jacket. You’re making me cold.” Nic was wrapped up in an oversize sweater that came down to her thighs. She pulled the sleeves over her hands and shivered.
“Back home, they’re having sleet with a high of thirty-eight today. This isn’t cold.” Having said my piece, I shrugged into a rain jacket I kept in the truck’s toolbox. I didn’t want to get distracted by one of our all-too-common quarrels that were usually over nothing of significance.
“That’s better.” She climbed into the truck. “Where are we going? Your text message was awfully cryptic.”
“That was on purpose.” I filled her in on recent developments as I drove out of the marina’s parking area. My report didn’t end until we arrived at a public beach access area on the eastern edge of town.
“I wanted to talk to you someplace where we wouldn’t be overheard, so here we are.”
“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” She took the po’ boy sandwich I’d picked up at Goob’s without objection. “I mean, do you really think someone’s trained a listening device on you?”
“No. That’s a little over the top, even for this town. That doesn’t change the fact that I was followed for three days before I noticed. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Well, you weren’t a real member of the OG Paradise Springs crowd until Sybil tried to run you down. With that hurdle crossed and Claudine following you, I’ll indulge your paranoia.”
“Thanks.” I stared at my sandwich for a moment. “I think.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said through a mouthful of toasted French bread, lettuce, and shrimp.
“When did Sybil try to run you over?”
