Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery (3 page)

In her quest to be kind, she was only pointing out Graf’s disability. “You’re very thoughtful,” I said. Pulling a business card from my pocket, I handed it to her. “I’d love to come back. When you set up another tour, could you give me a call?”

“Will do.” She pushed the card into her jeans pocket. “Have a great stay on the island.” And she was gone.

“Why does everyone feel they have to make special allowances for a cripple?” Graf asked.

“She’s really proud of the history of the island. She just wants to share her enthusiasm.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just hard when all people see is my injury.”

“At the rate you’re improving, by the end of the week no one will even know you were hurt. You just have to build up your stamina again.”

He nodded. “You’re my private cheering squad. Thanks, Sarah Booth.”

When I was pulling into the cottage, my cell phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. Angela Trotter was on the line. I signaled Graf to go on inside while I took the call.

“Your card says you’re a private investigator. I googled you. You have a remarkable success rate,” Angela said.

“Okay.” I didn’t know where this was headed.

“My father was murdered here on the island. I want to hire you to investigate his death.”

I wasn’t prepared for a job offer. “I’m on vacation. My fiancé is recovering from an injury—”

“Sustained when he was kidnapped because of a case you were working. I know the timing is awful, but I’m desperate.”

She’d done her homework, but that didn’t change the facts. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” The one thing I didn’t need to do was take on a case. Graf was my priority.

“An innocent man is serving a life sentence. He’s been in jail for over a year. I need your help to free him. Larry Wofford didn’t kill my father, but he’ll rot in prison unless you help me find out who did.”

Her tactics might not be fair, but they were effective. My father had been a lawyer in a rural Mississippi county. He’d stood up for the rights of the poor and those whose skin color set them up for mistreatment and injustice. He’d taken cases pro bono when he felt an innocent man was at risk of being railroaded. Unknowingly, Angela Trotter had pressed my hot button.

“Can we at least meet to talk about it?” she asked. “I’m parked on the road in front of your cottage.”

I glanced toward the road—a little blue compact idled beside the drive. Since she was already there, I didn’t see the harm in hearing her out. “Sure, the least I can do is listen.”

In less then a minute she was parked and standing beside me, the wind riffling her dark curls. “I realize you’re here to be with your fiancé, not take on a new client. But I’ve tried to work with the sheriff here, and with some local private investigators. I haven’t gotten anywhere.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she managed to control them.

“I have to put Graf as my first priority. He needs me now.”

“He’s hurting. I understand.” Her chin lifted half an inch. “But you could look into this in your off time. Just see what you can turn up while you’re here. Do it when Mr. Milieu is resting. I wouldn’t ask more than that.”

How to explain that an investigation deserved a hundred percent of my efforts and so did Graf. “I’ll be happy to find someone local who can help. I’ll only be here a week. That’s not enough time.”

“I want Delaney Detective Agency. It’s like fate brought you to me. I can’t help but believe providence is at work. Will you just do what you can? At the end of the week, I won’t ask more.” And then she added the killer. “Larry Wofford has already lost a year of his life. Every day that passes is another cheat against him. My father was brutally murdered on his own boat because he claimed to have found a pirate’s treasure. Someone killed him for a stupid legend that likely wasn’t even true.”

“Ms. Trotter—”

“Call me Angela. I’ll pay your full fee. No matter what you do or don’t find.”

I hesitated, and she jumped on it.

“Thank you. Can we get together later today so I can give you the full story? I’ll have a check ready for you, and I’ll give you all the information I’ve gathered. Thank you, Ms. Delaney. Thank you so much.”

She never allowed me a chance to say otherwise. She jumped in her car and drove away. I debated whether I should call her back and make it clear I wasn’t taking the case. Then I reconsidered. Everyone urged me to allow Graf to find his own path. Perhaps this was providence, giving me a focus that kept me from mother-henning him to death.

*   *   *

When I left the beach house to meet Angela, Graf was asleep. I’d told him about Angela’s request, and he’d encouraged me to at least explore the details of the case. We’d lunched on leftover curried shrimp salad, and Graf had taken a mild pain pill and conked out on the sofa. Because I was meeting Angela at the marina, I took Sweetie Pie and Pluto along with me. The marina might provide some interesting aromas for a bored kit-kat.

Angela was standing on the dock when I pulled up. Sweetie and Pluto brought up the rear as I walked down the wooden pier to a grand old sailboat, the
Miss Adventure.

“She’s a beauty,” I said.

Angela bit her bottom lip. “I spent summers on this boat with my dad, helping him hunt for pirate’s booty. He always believed he would hit the grand slam of treasures one day.” The softness that had touched her face hardened. “He believed he could make up for neglecting my mother and me. Like he could undo time and rewind all the recitals and field hockey games he missed. All the nights my mother worked a second job to pay the mortgage.” Her laugh was sad and bitter. “He never lost his dream. And the night he was killed, he called me to tell me he’d hit the mother lode. He’d figured out where Armand Couteau had hidden the great Esmeralda treasure.”

“Did he find it?” The idea of a real pirate’s gold excited me. What kid hadn’t read adventure tales and dreamed of finding fabulous wealth?

“He was killed before he could claim it. If someone else found it, they sure kept it quiet.” She shook her head. “One of the reasons I’ve stayed here, though, is to keep an eye out. The person who finds that treasure will be my father’s real killer.”

We stepped aboard the boat, Pluto with more grace than I’d ever attributed to him. For a porcine pussy, he could make an elegant leap when the mood struck.

“My father was shot in the chest in his cabin.” Angela led the way down a steep, narrow stairway. She stopped outside a door, her hand on the worn wood.

The boat shifted in the water, and I realized I’d need practice to gain my sea legs. Technically, I wasn’t a boat person. Given a choice between a boat and land, I would take mother earth every single time, but I needed to investigate the place where Mr. Trotter had died.

“Did you live on the boat with your father?” I asked.

“Only part time, when I was a kid. After my parents divorced, I spent the summers helping with Dad’s treasure hunts. During the school year, I lived with my aunt Molly. My mom died when I was sixteen. After I graduated college, I came to Alabama and went to work for the newspaper in Mobile.”

Angela had had a rough go of it, for sure. “Did you talk often with your dad?”

“At least once a week. Dad was independent. And he was obsessed with the Esmeralda treasure. He’d worked on it, off and on, for two decades. It was a puzzle he could never walk away from.” She hesitated before adding, “Our relationship was a bit thorny.”

“So tell me about the treasure.”

She leaned against the closed door. “After the pirate Jean Lafitte moved down to the Texas coast, Armand Couteau became the most notorious pirate on these waters. He was a relative of Napoleon and, from all accounts, a handsome man with great charm. He’d attack the Spanish and French galleons headed into Mobile Bay or New Orleans, rob them of their riches, and send the shamed crews into port. Couteau wasn’t a ruthless man, but he was a pirate. It was said he entertained the wives and daughters of the Mobile and New Orleans ruling class right under the noses of their husbands and fathers.”

I could only imagine the appeal of such a man. “There’s something about a scoundrel that heats the blood.”

She laughed. “How true. At any rate, Couteau and his crew of pirates intercepted a Spanish ship that was bringing a young girl of noble birth to Dauphin Island. She was set to marry one of the fort’s commanders. With her was a huge dowry of gold and jewels.”

I saw how this story would go. “Couteau intercepted the ship and took the dowry and the girl.”

“Well, he was a man of honor. He declared a cease-fire and escorted Esmeralda to shore and into the arms of her betrothed. While he was onshore, the Spanish ship was burned. Some say the fort’s commander ordered the ship burned. Others blamed the pirates. But the treasure either sank or was taken by the pirates. My father believed Couteau brought the treasure ashore and hid it.”

“Is there any evidence the story is true?” I had to bring a little skepticism to the high-seas tale of romance and gold.

“My father searched the records, and one Jean-Jacques Baton, the fort’s second in command, was married to an Esmeralda Cortez about the time this would have occurred.”

So far, so good. “And what did your father tell you about the treasure.”

“He was so excited the night he called. I’d never heard him so over the moon. He apologized to me about the neglect. He told me he’d never loved anyone but my mother and that he would make up all I’d lost out on. He wanted me to finish my graduate degree. He intended to retire the
Miss Adventure
and buy a house, and he said he would be home every night, should I ever want to see him.” Her voice cracked, but she held it together. “He never got a chance to make any of it happen.”

The last little vestige of guilt at taking the case evaporated. Angela needed my help, and Graf was fine with it.

“Tell me exactly what he said,” I asked.

“Dad said he’d found the key. I asked him what he meant, and he said he knew how to find the treasure. He had a list of things he had to accomplish, and the first was to buy back a spyglass he’d sold. Once that happened, he said he’d have the treasure within a week. He was so
positive
he’d figured it out.”

“Your father was a treasure hunter. He spent his life chasing a dream. Is it possible this was all just wishful thinking?” I had to ask, and I was as gentle as I could be.

Angela slid the door open to a spotless bedroom/office. Every trace of the murder had been removed, but it didn’t take much imagination to understand what had happened. The space was small but tastefully decorated with what looked like original artwork in a modern style. Shades of blue, green, and teal painted on a translucent sheet rather than canvas reminded me of the crystal water on the south side of the island. A blank spot on the wall indicated someone had removed one of the paintings.

“Dad dabbled in painting,” Angela said. She went to the blank spot. “He gave a lot of paintings away, but the one that was here—it was his last. I tried to find who he gave it to, but no luck.” She was lost in memory for a moment. “He was like that. Just giving things away.”

I continued my examination of the stateroom. A bunk took up the wall to the left, and a large desk was centered in the remainder of the space. Built in filing cabinets and storage lined the wall to the right. The only space for a body was on the floor behind or in front of the desk. “You believe he found the treasure?”

“Dad was a dreamer, that’s true. This was different, though. He was excited, but also grounded. Whatever it was he’d found, it was something solid.”

“What do you think he meant by the key?”

“The way he said it, it had to be a physical thing. Maybe even a real key. It wasn’t just an idea or a mental thing. He’d found something physical.”

“And you searched the boat looking for it afterwards?”

“I can only assume the killer took it.”

“But the killer hasn’t used it to retrieve the treasure?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Which leads me to believe the killer doesn’t understand the value of this key or hasn’t figured out how to use it.”

Angela’s hand brushed across the teak desk. The gesture spoke more eloquently of her loss than words. “My conclusion exactly.”

“Do you have any idea who killed your father?”

“I wish I did. I’d confront him. I’d make him confess.”

Not the smartest move. Someone who had killed once would do so again. “How long since your father died?”

“Eighteen months. Larry was convicted a year ago. I haven’t found a damn thing to help apprehend my father’s murderer.”

“And yet you haven’t given up.” She was as hardheaded as I was.

“I can’t bring my dad back, but Larry Wofford was falsely convicted. He said he didn’t do it, and I believe him. I won’t give up trying to help him, and I need to find something before his appeal date.” She sat on the edge of her father’s desk. “So you’ll help me?”

“As much as I can without neglecting Graf. And only for this week. I’m headed to New Orleans on Saturday, and I won’t be back this way.”

“Deal.” She reached out her hand and I shook it. She pulled a check from her pocket. “Is five thousand enough?”

I pushed the check back at her. “Let’s see how much time I have to work on it. It won’t be a lot.” I really didn’t feel I could accomplish much, but I’d try. She carried a lonely burden, and sometimes just a friend on the road was a big help.

“What’s your first step?” she asked.

“I’ll call the sheriff’s office in Mobile. I need to talk to the officers who investigated and check with the court clerk to see the trial transcript.”

“Sheriff Benson is a complete ass,” she warned me. “When I was a reporter, I did some stories that teed him off. He won’t go out of his way to help.”

“He doesn’t have to help; all he has to do is not obstruct.” Besides, I had my own secret weapon. Coleman Peters, the sheriff of Sunflower County, where I lived, would call the Mobile County sheriff and ask him to cooperate with me. Most lawmen offered courtesy to their fellow officers. Maybe Coleman could work a little magic.