“What is it, Liza? Who was that?”
“Bill again. It’s Bob. His neck, broken. Or strangled! They think he died. On purpose.” Dying “on purpose” seemed to avoid the fact altogether, a denial that Bob had passed away in an untimely, and unthinkable, manner.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He was there when they lifted him out of the car. It looked really bad.…” It was all she could manage before she dissolved again.
Blanche blurted out: “What does that mean? Murder?” It was too late to take it back. The word shot from her like an arrow and hit the mark. But surely cause of death could not be determined until the medical examiner had a look.
Liza crumpled into the chair.
“Oh, Liza.
Murder is something that is definitely done on purpose. He was sitting in his car…
It doesn’t make any sense at all.
Why? Who?”
And why, of all people, Bob?
Five —
Say It with Murder
No! There was no reason for this. Blanche made herself reserve judgment, but her mind was whirling. What reason—the word was related to rational—could there be for murder? Especially here. Him. Bob was a leader, rallying the preservationists, showing up at every potluck and wedding—a familiar figure in his brown suits. Professional, crisp. Generous.
Blanche had to find Chief Duncan. He wouldn’t be able to take it back, and he wouldn’t have a reason. After all, he probably wouldn’t tell her a damn thing, at least not until Bob’s family knew about the death and officials confirmed the circumstances. But Duncan was Blanche’s go-to. He was Duncan—the law, an island institution, a rock on shifting sand.
Well, that’s stretching it. Duncan could be unpredictable, but he was true.
It would be the first murder—if that’s what it was—on Santa Maria Island, a place where people left their doors open and bikes unlocked. The safest spot on earth. Residents and snow birds knew each other. No murderers were among them; Blanche was certain of that. They had the occasional burglary and bar fight—even a stabbing or two to punctuate the Fourth of July—mostly tourist related, and few and far between. The worst incident reported lately was an item in the Island Times about under-age drinkers caught throwing water balloons on Kumquat Street.
And then there was Conchita Beach. The drug drops—a new turn of events—and, yet, infrequent. Still, they had become a nagging sore spot in this otherwise peaceful corner of the world.
But, murder? Here?
I
Blanche sighed. Deflated, she squeezed Liza’s shoulder and set the coffee and water in front of her, and the bottle of whiskey. Liza cried. Blanche wasn’t much of a crier. She was more of a rager, and this rage punched about inside her, urging her to find out what happened.
She eyed the bottle and took a swig. It burned like holy hell, which was fitting. She was still standing there, one hand on her chest, warm guilt spreading through her for taking up drinking in the morning. That feeling went away, fast. What she wanted to do was sit down with Liza and finish it off.
Liza lifted her head. “Please, Blanche, go. Now. You have to see what is going on over there. I just can’t imagine. Bobby…”
“I’m going,” she said.
Blanche closed her eyes. The perking coffee filled the office with a homey scent. It was small comfort. When she looked around, nothing had changed. There was Liza. The picture of disaster.
She refilled Liza’s cup and swept a mess of soggy paper cones and tissues into a wastebasket. She pressed the last tissue into Liza’s hand.
“If you could find out anything, Blanche…”
“I’ll try, but I really hate to leave you here.”
Liza shook her head. “I’ll be OK.” She splashed some whiskey into her coffee.
“I’ll get back. Soon,” Blanche said. She tried to sound reassuring, but her voice shook.
She slid the bottle closer—after she took another belt. Oh, God. What am I doing? She hoped it would be empty when she came back.
“You need some lunch, Liza. I’m going to ask Marge to send over a salad.” Tomatoes and cucumbers seemed ordinary, and that’s what they needed. Something ordinary. The thought that Bob had been at Peaches right before his death made her wonder if Marge had seen something out of the ordinary. She had to ask.
Liza nodded and slumped over her folded arms, her back erupting with sobs. Blanche gave her one last squeeze. “And I’m going to find Duncan.”
She hurried down Marina Drive and dashed into Peaches’. Marge was chopping celery behind the deli counter, her hairnet askew. She drew a knife out of the mayo.
“Girl. What a day.” Her face, usually a wreath of smiles, drooped. The news was everywhere in the damp, heavy wind. Everyone on the island knew.
They both looked down the street. People were hurrying toward the marina. Red lights flashed against the blue sky.
“Marge, have you seen Dunc?”
Marge shook her head. “No.” She waved the knife and banged it on the counter with an emphatic twang. “I can’t believe this, Blanche. Bob was just here picking up coffee. How could this happen?”
Blanch focused on a splat of mayo on the glass cabinet behind Marge’s head.
“Oh, God, Marge, I don’t know.”
“Wish I could go over there. It’s a hep-less feeling, ain’t it? I got this lunch crew and need to stay put.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
“I’m going. Got to find Duncan, but, before that, I want to send a chef’s salad over to Liza.”
“Of course.” Marge looked around like it was the first time she ever saw ham and lettuce.
“Was there anything funny you noticed when Bob came in this morning? Different, maybe? Anyone, but Bob, hanging around over here?” She couldn’t say, before the murder. It would all come out soon enough. The awful truth.
“No. Seemed kind of usual around here. No one in and out but the regulars.” Her gaze wandered, the corners of her mouth quivered.
“How was Bob?”
“He was fine. Busy. Ol’ Bob. In a hurry, but always had a good word, ya know.” Marge stared at the case stacked with muffins. “He didn’t want a blueberry nut today. Was watching the weight and all, he said.”
Blanche mulled this bit of information. Bob was not uneasy, or even fearful, moments before his murder. It had to be a surprise. A terrible, random surprise?
She laid a ten-dollar bill on the glass deli counter. “Do you think Billy would run that salad over to Liza?”
Marge said, “Done.” She chopped and fretted.
“If you think of anything, I mean, about Bob and this morning…Will you give me a buzz? I’d like to let Liza know. Don’t know what else to do,” Blanche said. “Maybe I can find out something before they move out of there.” A thought stabbed her. Before they move him out of there. Dead. “I promised Liza.”
“Oh, Lord, of course, go on now.” With vigor, she resumed piling lettuce, cheese, and ham into a clear plastic container and bagged a saucer-size white macadamia cookie, for good measure. “We’ll get these goodies to Liza. Girl’s gotta eat.”