There were indications that his neck had been broken. Someone strong had gotten to him. Or someone just awfully good at killing. And somehow that tie had been removed.
Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the grunting at first—like an old motor being dragged over concrete. Jess Blythe’s work boots stuck out from under the rear bumper of the Mercedes. “Drat this tow!”
“Hey, Jess!” She bent down to take a look. He slid out from under the car. “Blanche!” He dropped the wrench into his bag, sat back on his haunches. “Stinks, don’t it.”
“I’ll say.”
“Who’d want to kill our Bobby?” There it was again. That’s how they all thought of him: “Our Bobby.” The island stuck together, thick as a patch of mangrove, reliable as the sunset.
“Jess, I don’t have any idea. I just saw Liza. She’s torn up. It makes me sick.” Blanche peered into the car window again, stood back with her hands on her waist. “So, why do you suppose his tie is on the seat. Can’t imagine Bob would take it off.”
“I haven’t got one idea.”
“I’m stunned.”
“That about says it.” He was still sitting back on his heels, squinting up at her. He took off his hat and slapped it over his knee.
“Were you here when they took him away?”
“Yeah, but they whisked him out of here pretty fast. Looked like there’d been a struggle ‘cause that shirt was mighty rumpled. That sure ain’t Bob. I didn’t see much more than that.”
“I hope he gave whoever did this a good one.” Maybe he’d left a mark. She was thinking skin under the finger nails, a hair left behind. Something left behind.
“You betcha.” As if he read her mind, he added, “They went over this here car worsin’ you do on a dog with ticks, and that investigator is comin’ around again to bag some things. Hope they find somethin’.”
Blanche went off to peek again. Jess said, “They gets pinchy when you stands too close now. They says to me, be quick. Not to touch nothin’, ‘cept under.”
“Got it.”
She backed away. A couple more notes on the pad. The coffee cup, the tie, nothing much else. No stains, tools, ropes. Nothing. The back seat was clean. It must have happened from the back seat. The guy hiding, reaching up and forward. Or just getting into the Mercedes casually, greeting Bob. Bob, so friendly, wondering, what property the guy was interested in seeing. And then, whammo!
She held the notebook over her eyes, crouched down out of the officers’ sight. Jess finished the clanging and wrenching, and it jangled a string of thoughts that popped and scattered. First, this business with Langstrom, then the murder. Now the stranger and the white van. Her fingers sifted through the broken shell, her knees weak and wobbly.
She longed to put it all back together and make it right again. She needed solid facts. Maybe she had at least one or two, the guy, the cellophane—maybe not. She had this, and an awful feeling, this uncanny sense of connection and absolutely not one iota of proof. Facts and feelings.
Jess was standing now, wiping the grease off his hands. Blanche brushed her shorts off. She stood, scanning the parking lot one more time. “Jess, you notice any strangers around here?”
“Nope.” He jammed his cap down squarely, picked up his bag. “Not really. It’s all pretty strange though.”
“Hmmm. You didn’t notice a guy and a white van? Didn’t seem to fit?”
“Why, Blanche, there’s so much comin’ and goin’, who’d know? An awful lot of white vans out there.” He mumbled, shuffling up to the rear door of his truck. He shook his head. “Why you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I saw this guy…”
“Oh, Blanche, now, you let Duncan and the boys take care of all that. That business of lookin’ here and yonder.”
Blanche smiled. “I hear you, Jess, but you know, I’m just asking. You know me.”
“I sure do. We can’t know where all this is headed, but I can say this, Blanche, and you hear me good. You take care now. I mean it.”
“I will, Jess. You, too.”
She watched him hoist his tools into the cab, mumbling to himself, and slam the door.
Blanche’s stomach growled. She was disgusted—and starving. The whiskey had been a bad idea. She was sweating like crazy and in need of food and shelter. Naturally, she thought of Cap, grilling fish and frying potatoes, but, best of all, they would talk. If anyone could bring some calm and perspective to the day, it would be Cap. Surely, he’d know about Bob because he stopped by the police station almost every day to gossip and see Aloysius Duncan and bring him soup, or something more nutritious than his usual diet of pizza and Chinese.
She didn’t have one worthwhile thing to report to Liza. What could she tell her? I just saw the murderer driving away in a white van! Blanche was loath to offer some half-baked theory and risk further upsetting her. Wouldn’t do any good to go blabbing about a guy and a white van because he had now dissolved into a sea of white vans cruising around Florida. He and his license number were long gone, and the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed anything would come of trying to find him. Unless he showed up again. Oh, what if he shows up!
Her sandals dragged across the lot. An investigator arrived, snapping on the gloves, frowning in Blanche’s direction. Jess sat in his cab, the motor running. She waved, listlessly. She couldn’t believe it. She’d started the day angry over the planned destruction of the island, and now she was sadder than hell.
How are we going to fix this?
We can’t get Bob back. That’s really the worst of it.
She was afraid to think of how it would end—and what needed to happen to end it.
Eight —
Lost and Sort of Found
The office of Sunny Sands Realty was dark when Blanche peeked through the blinds on the French doors. She hoped Liza had gone home to sleep. She’d left a note taped to the glass: “Be back later.” Better later than sooner. She’d need a lot of rest to get through this mess.
Blanche dropped by the police station. She was eager to test her suspicions on the chief, and at once reluctant. He always greeted her with eyes like BBs. She wanted to get into “context” about the sighting of the guy and the van, and she hoped he’d calmed down some. She only half expected him to be there. He was not.
Pennington sat at the information desk. “Gone, Blanche,” he said. “Official business at county.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning business, and not yours.”
“Really.”
He hardly looked up from his Sudoku. “Sorry, Blanche. Orders. Got to keep it all on the down low.”
It was deadly calm in the large, open police station—as if the world did not know Santa Maria had been turned upside down. Pennington bent his head over the crumpled newspaper. Down low, Blanche noticed. Her eyes blazed onto the puzzle in front of him, hoping to ignite the damn newspaper under his nose.
“Don’t know when he’s coming back, Blanche.”
“Well, thanks a bunch.” She turned on her heel and walked out.
She didn’t really care about Pennington’s rudeness. She was used to it. A bit of friction between the press and the police lingered over every conversation. Blanche was nosy, and persistent, and Duncan put up with it. The police had other fish to fry, sometimes, literally. Once Blanche tracked the boys to the Starfish landing dock where they were smoking mullet and grilling whitefish. It was a Monday, and the business of policing was on hold, as usual.