Six —
Disaster on the Double
Blanche crossed over the drive toward the marina within a couple of blocks of Sunny Sands and Peaches in the island shopping district. The street and the rest of the nearby mall were empty. She hardly recognized the place.
A pall hovered beneath the puffy clouds and blue sky. Bob had been ordering a cup of coffee at his favorite deli, and then he was dead.
What had gone wrong?
For one thing, the town hall meeting had been unsettling, and she wondered about possible connections: that Bob died, or was killed, so soon after the plans were formally unveiled at the meeting. And how about Bob and his check from the historical society? That the two disasters—the meeting and the murder—occurred back to back struck Blanche as more than just a coincidence.
At the marina, she looked around for Langstrom. He was not circulating in the crowd and promoting the so-called “beautification” plan. He’d missed an opportunity. What a pity. Here was a major island event, and, for once, he was not in the middle of it finding a way to use it to his advantage. It was a relief, though a small one, not to lay eyes on him.
She hung back on the edge of the parking lot and tried to think. But all she could do was feel. Bad. The familiar corner, usually jammed with the locals’ pick-ups and SUVs, instead looked like a set for a disaster movie. Diesel spewed from the back of one vehicle, grinding away, no driver in sight. A bell dinged over the harbor. The scanners squawked and gulls answered, swooping in from the bay. The police scribbled in note pads and wandered around, united in mayhem and confusion. A lot of them. Force and authority on parade without any apparent purpose and organization.
A red truck with bright gold stripes boxed in Bob’s mint-condition Mercedes standing alone. A sad monument to murder.
Blanche’s heart stopped. Bob’s car was empty. The medical examiner’s van pulled away. A white mound visible through the rear windows. It revved tiredly over a low-pitched hum among the bystanders, and Bob was gone. She stumbled toward the van, but it was futile. What was she going to do? Run after the medical examiner and insist on some answers?
She stood at the edge of the lot. It was a strange place to murder someone, in the wide open in the middle of the day. And Bob was such a big guy. Someone strong, efficient and evil, had killed quickly, confident in getting away with it. Or someone who just didn’t care about what he, or she, was getting into. But careless murder rarely occurred. Someone cared enough to do it. It was the careless murderer who got caught. Blanche couldn’t believe a person like that would be walking around on the island. It had to be a stranger. Everybody else was like family.
Chief Duncan marched along the dock. He was about as easy to wrestle to a standstill as a dirigible, but she was determined to get something out of him. He was one of her main sources at the Island Times, and they were fond of trading jokes over awful coffee. A talker, he almost always opened up.
Then she hesitated. Duncan shouted orders into a radio. A harried boat owner gestured to the chief, who shook his head, and yelled back. His voice carried above the noise, an incongruous figure, avuncular and corpulent, in green, against the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the canal and the bottoms of white sailboats on davits.
She ducked behind a sign advertising charter fishing trips, and when she looked up, he was gone.
How did that happen?
She drew a notebook out of her bag. The blazing blue sky, the salty, musty smell of fish in the harbor, the shouting. Who what where when why and how. She wrote fast, with one eye on the parking lot and one on the lookout for Duncan. She’d sort out the scribbling later. When she did find the chief, she’d have some details and context to offer in exchange for information. It was always a give and take with Dunc. Eventually, she’d have to talk to Clint about writing up a piece for the Times even though she felt too close to this one.
“What in God’s name is going on around here, Blanche?” Melly Ragani popped up beside Blanche. Mel clucked, her hair in wispy disarray, her arms fluffing up and down. “Just how. Tell me this is not true!”
Blanche shook her head. “Oh, Mel. Did you see Liza?” Mel’s real estate office was down the block from Sunny Sands.
“No.” Her eyes were misty and round with fright. “The office was dark. I hope she went home to get some rest but I don’t know how.” Then a surprised look. “Have you been drinking, Blanche?”
“I’ll say. I wish we’d finished the whole bottle. Liza and me.” She fished in her bag for gum.
“My goodness, I could certainly use a little something.” Mel fanned herself, and they both glanced across the marina at Decoy Duck’s, the local watering hole where worries drowned and celebrations skimmed along. The front window with its gold lettering was dark, the pink neon sign turned off.
“Have you heard anything, Mel?” She was loath to use the word murder. Again. She’d said it once already and regretted giving voice to possibility.
“No. Except for the worst… Killed! Right here in the marina.” She screeched. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. A whiff of Tabu.
“You heard that? Where?”
“Duncan let it slip. Oh, he was furious. Clapped that big old hand over his pie hole and scooted right off! Never saw our Duncan move that fast.”
“Well, that couldn’t be a pretty sight.” Blanche was stunned at Mel’s announcement and relieved he’d disappeared. The irritated Duncan was to be avoided until he calmed down, which was his fairly usual state but probably not now. Not by a long shot.
“Blanche, just tell me. Who would kill our Bobby?”
“No one you or I know. By the way, how would they know Bob was murdered? And know it so soon?”
“Oh, there was no doubt. I saw them take him away, his head rolling to one side. Some signs of a struggle when they lifted him out. Oh, Blanche, I’m telling you it was awful.” She stopped. Her hands fluttered to her cheeks. “I have to make that chicken fajita casserole for Liza. Her favorite. I just don’t have any idea what else to do.” Mel taking care of Liza. It filled Blanche with the tiniest bit of hope. Well-wishers thought of noodles and tortillas at a time like this when the body needed food for the soul. Blanche knew from experience that Mel’s casserole would be good for both body and soul.
Mel hurried off, and abruptly turned back, the purple chiffon sailing around her. “Oh, dear. Was about to get in touch with you, Blanche. Some fellow name of Sal came around asking about Tuna Street. Seems he has his eye on property along there.”
Blanche froze, if that could be, standing in the ninety-plus-degree heat. “What exactly did he want? What did he say?”
“Why, said he was looking for beachfront. Like they all are. I told him to get lost. Politely, of course. Nothing for sale along there. I know you’re not going to give up that cabin. Although, I have to tell you, Blanche, the guy threw out some crazy numbers for a lot or two along there. Over two million.”
“Mel, he could offer two million coquinas. Or dollars, or whatever. It’s all the same. We’re not budging. I’m sure Bertie and the others wouldn’t go for it either.”
“That’s what I told him. But you know the type.”
“Yes, I know.” Was this a Langstrom lackey? Sal who? “Mel, if you see him again, be firm. Please.”