Island Blues (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

Lima Lowry looked old, and that was something Mary Garrison Tubbs did not like to see, because it meant she was old, too. Of course, nobody looked their best laid out on a hospital bed in a paper-thin gown with tubes stuck up their nose. But still…Lima didn't look capable of swatting a fly right now, much less burping the national anthem, which he was known to do on the Fourth of July.

“I have Sara Lowry coming in at four this afternoon, Josie McCall at eight, and Nettie Wrightly has offered to do the midnight shift.”

Sabrina Dunsweeney smiled without looking up from where she sat beside Lima's bed, holding his hand.

Mary huffed in annoyance and said, “I happen to love cute little birds, especially in good gravy. How about you?”

Sabrina nodded with the same absent-minded enthusiasm. She'd been like this since Mary arrived this morning, smiling and nodding when spoken to, answering direct questions if necessary, but for the most part saying nothing as she held onto Lima's hand with single-minded determination. At first Mary thought Sabrina had the sulkies, paying Mary back for firing her yesterday, but Sabrina barely seemed to notice that Mary was in the room.

The old man having a heart attack was no surprise. Mary had been after him for years to get himself checked out, but it was like arguing with a stop sign. Couldn't get him to do anything you said. Thinking back on it, Mary should have told him to go kill himself, sure as anything that would have sent him straight to Doc Hailey for a check-up.

Long ago, Mary adopted a sensible diet and an exercise plan, and look at her, her heart was as strong and fit as any eighteen-year-old's. Lima should have listened to her advice, but then, Mary didn't understand why everybody didn't do what she told them to do. She was always right, wasn't she? People might squawk about the way she did things, but they always appreciated the results. She had no patience for people who were too squeamish to get the job done. Take Mayor Hill, for example. Mary didn't understand why the islanders wouldn't elect her mayor—it was just plain stupidity, that's what—but she could have moped about and watched the island go to helius in a handbasket.

Instead, she'd done the island a favor. Hill was a council member for many years while he was florist, before he retired and got strange. With prodding—well, okay, and the judicious use of a little blackmail—Mary got him to run for mayor. It was mainly due to voter apathy that he triumphed. The other candidate was Hoopla McCall, who was running on a one-plank platform to keep the bars open another two hours every night. Hill did what Mary told him to do, and everybody was happy. A perfect case of the end justifying the means.

Hill had squawked a bit when Mary told him it was time to fire Sabrina. For a minute during the emergency council meeting, it looked as if he were going to vote with Nettie and Sondra against her and Bill Large, in favor of keeping Sabrina on. But in the end, Mary had prevailed, as she knew she would. She was only doing what was best for everybody, even if they were too stupid to see it just now.

Mary looked down at her list of things to do: putting together a group of girls to go clean Lima's house, contacting his brother, and making sure Matt Fredericks worked out a way to put up the Hummer group a couple more nights to accommodate the ongoing police investigation. Who else would think to do these very necessary things?

Sabrina was now gazing out the window at the parking lot. Mary didn't understand the woman, she really didn't. Suggesting the ombudsman job for Sabrina was the right thing to do. It needed to be done, Sabrina needed a job, and it seemed like something she could handle. Mary didn't care for the woman much, but Sabrina was part of this community now, and as such, she had to be looked after like everyone else.

The fact that Sabrina screwed up in such a spectacular manner confirmed Mary's basic distrust of the woman's character. But now…Mary didn't know what to think, and she wasn't afraid to admit it. It was hard not to have a little respect for the woman after she saved Lima Lowry's life. Mary heard Sabrina performed CPR for the twenty minutes it took to get an ambulance on the scene—Mary would make sure Hill addressed
that
tardiness at the next council meeting—and then followed the ambulance to the hospital. She hadn't left the man's side since.

“Sabrina, go home and get some sleep. I've got things under control.” It wasn't the first time Mary had issued the order, but she was surprised when Sabrina looked up and met her eyes for the first time that day. Almost against her will, Mary softened her voice. “You heard them say he's going to be fine. You did good. Now it's just a matter of time. Go on home.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Thank you, Mary.” With that, Sabrina leaned forward, touched Lima's cheek, and then got up. She hesitated at the door, and looked back.

“Go on,” Mary said, already moving to the seat Sabrina had vacated. “You look like a stray dog someone forgot to feed.”

That sweet, preoccupied smile, and then she was gone.

***

Head librarian Iris Hillkins heard the front door open and glanced at her watch to see that it wasn't quite closing time. Not that she would have turned the person away, as long as he or she had legitimate business in the library. Lucas passed away five years ago, and Iris didn't have any pressing reason to be rushing home, even on a Saturday night.

It was Sabrina Dunsweeney, and she looked like she just stepped out of a wind tunnel. Sabrina often looked some variation on this theme, but the wrinkled clothes, flyaway hair and lines around her eyes were more pronounced tonight than usual. Iris liked Sabrina's energy and spunk, and like any good librarian, she knew more about the woman than she would ever share. You can't help but notice what sort of books a person checks out, and wonder about the questions your patrons ask.

Tonight, Sabrina looked tired, but at the same time jazzed, as if she just gulped a large shot of espresso. She had a long night, Iris knew. She must have come straight from the hospital on the mainland.

“Hi, Iris. Is there a computer free?”

“Nobody here this evening. Help yourself. How is Lima doing?”

Sabrina signed the clipboard. “They say he's out of the woods.”

“It's a wonderful thing you did for him.” Iris wished someone could have been there for Lucas, but he was fishing by himself when the stroke hit.

For the next two hours, Iris read quietly while Sabrina Dunsweeney worked her way from the computer to the microfiche machine to the original document section, where she asked permission to look through several old diaries. Iris helped when she was needed and stayed out of Sabrina's way the rest of the time. She wasn't sure what Sabrina was up to, but she recognized that it was important to the woman, so important that Sabrina didn't even realize that closing time had come and gone. Iris wasn't about to mention it. In her eyes, Sabrina was a hero.

Iris did think it was interesting that prohibition on the island had become such a hot topic lately. She couldn't remember any time in the past fifty years that some of these books and microfiches had been requested, and here they were being perused twice in the same month. Of course, Iris prided herself on not letting herself think too much on the items her patrons requested. More, she would never betray the inherent confidences they placed in her discretion.

Iris was thinking about calling to see if the Pub would deliver her some dinner when Sabrina leaned back from the table and smiled with deep satisfaction.

“Ah. So
that's
what it's all about.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

All day Sunday, Comico Island was abuzz with rumors and speculation. The frenetic energy gripping the island was not unlike the dreadful, excited animation that preceded a hurricane's approach. Every piece of news, no matter how insignificant, was vital, every rumor was amplified, and every person was eager to talk.

There was so much going on! It wasn't every week that a murder occurred on the island, and not just any murder either. The news teams made it clear that if the death of Gilbert Kane wasn't important enough to rate national news, basketball player Dennis Parker's involvement certainly did. Throwing in a strange cult and a comely model made the story all the more fascinating. It was true, it would have been more interesting if Dennis Parker was guilty of the murder (perhaps in cahoots with his model girlfriend?), but now that someone had been arrested, the media were circling like vultures over road kill.

The news teams were asking locals and vacationers alike their reaction to the news that Nicholas Samuel Myers had been arrested for the murder of Gilbert Kane. The fact that the people they interviewed did not know the victim, or the suspect, did not stop the journalists. It was not easy to find the dumbest person on the island to interview for national news, but, as usual, the news crews took up the challenge with relish.

Most of the islanders affected indifference to the media, though many of them had taken to dressing in their finest clothes and finding various reasons to walk by the plastic-faced men and women brandishing microphones.

Lima's heart attack and the new island ombudsman's abrupt termination were also good for a minute or two of gossip currency. Another tidbit kept cropping up as well, though no one knew where it came from, or why everyone else was so interested in it. The Shell Lodge was infested with termites, it seemed, and major demolition was going to start tomorrow.

This piece of news was tacked on to the bigger stories of the day, so as one person stopped another in the street, the conversation might go something like this:

“Sure glad the rain stopped. How things going for you?”

“I've been interviewed by three different news crews this morning. You?”

“Just the one, but that was CNN, so I guess that counts for something. Did you hear the news about Sabrina Dunsweeney?”

“No, what happened?”

“The town council fired her. Saved Lima Lowry's life last night, you know. They should be giving her a medal, not firing her.”

“I don't know her well, but she always has a smile for me when she goes by. I think it's a darn shame they fired her. How about the Shell Lodge? Did you hear about the termites? Going to tear it down tomorrow, I hear.”

“No! Really?”

And so on and so on and so on. Around six o'clock, the news about the termites at the Shell Lodge hit the ears of someone who actually cared.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Even in the middle of the night, discreet spotlights played across the thousands of whelk shells embedded in the walls of the lodge, imbuing them with a wavering mobility they never possessed in life.

The back doors to the lodge were locked. No surprise there. The front door was open, but that avenue led past a sleepy desk clerk watching an infomercial on kitchen knives that were sharp enough to slice concrete and move onto steel beams for dessert.

There were several guards to avoid, but this proved easy. Despite the lights, there were plenty of rustling shadows in which to duck in a hurry, and really, just standing still as the flat-footed guard leisured past with his flashlight trained on the ground was good enough.

The problem of how to get in the lodge was a little more difficult. All the doors were locked, but that wasn't any surprise. With all that had been going on at the Shell Lodge, it would have been surprising if the doors
weren't
locked.

However, it was a nice night, and there were several windows open to admit the brisk night breeze. Most of these windows led into sleeping rooms, which would not work, but one window in the dining room had been left open, barred only by a thick screen. Perfect.

Wait for the guard to pass, and then slide up the screen as quietly as possible. There. Now it was a simple matter to shimmy in through the window and close the screen so as not to attract any unwanted attention.

Creeping through the halls on bare feet, keeping a sharp eye out for the old man. Last time he jumped out from behind a door, screaming bloody murder. The decision to wait for a while on the second attempt was an easy one after that. There was no hurry.

But hearing the news about the termite damage, and more importantly, the demolition work that was supposed to begin tomorrow, put an urgent spin on things. It had to be tonight, or never. And never wasn't an option.

Reading about something in a book in the comfortable, well-lit library, however, was a far cry from trying to find it in the dark, sleeping hotel. Where to start? The lounge seemed like a good bet. Unlike the cottages and the west wing, the lounge was part of the original hotel, and used to be Kenneth Fredericks' office in the twenties. That seemed an obvious place for Fredericks to hide something, so that would be first.

Thankfully, the lounge doors were not locked. For a moment, fleeting doubt—why weren't the doors locked?—but excitement won out over discretion.

That excitement was soon extinguished at the flare of overhead lights, which revealed an array of people sitting at bar tables.

Marilee Howard stood blinking in astonishment at this turn of events.

Chapter Forty

“Right before his heart attack, Lima mentioned that his nephew Kealy received another anonymous envelope of cash. Kealy was the only direct descendent of Gerry Lowry, who supposedly committed suicide back in the twenties. His death has been the subject of rampant rumors over the years. Many people think he was killed because he had a falling out with his smuggling partners.” Sabrina looked around the Shell Lodge's lounge and saw she had everyone's complete attention. Good. Marilee took her sweet time showing up, and Sabrina had to talk fast to keep everyone sitting in the darkened lounge.

Marilee Howard, dressed in black jeans and shirt with her long red hair tucked beneath a dark baseball hat, sat at the bar with an untouched soda in front of her. The young girl listened without speaking as Sabrina recounted the events that led up to Marilee's unmasking as the serial burglar.

“Then Lima had his heart attack, and I didn't think about anything else for a while. Yesterday evening, though, I went to the library and discovered some interesting coincidences. Most of the good stuff was in private diaries, not in the news accounts, but it was all there if you knew where to look.”

“Sabrina, it's three in the morning, and I don't understand how this connects with Marilee breaking into houses. You should be ashamed of yourself, girl, trying to mess with my driftwood collection!” Missy Garrison glared at Marilee. She had needed no persuading to come this evening once Sabrina promised her the identity of the burglar would be revealed.

Sabrina had a harder time convincing the other two victims of the break-ins to attend this overnight vigil, but both Mayor Hill Mitchell and Maggie Fromlin sat on either side of Missy. This trio of accusers did not seem to faze a defiant Marilee.

“She wasn't trying to mess with your driftwood collection, Missy. She was looking for rum-runner hiding places. That's why she needed the handsaw. It was possible she would have to cut in the wall to find what she was looking for.”

“And what was she looking for?” Walter Olgivie had an avaricious gleam in his eye. This was why he was here. After Sabrina came to him with questions about what kind of valuables could still be hidden in forgotten rum-runner hiding holes, he enlisted himself in the operation.

“I don't know what she was looking for exactly. I'm sure she will be happy to tell us.” They all looked at Marilee, who showed no signs of happiness or that she intended to tell them the time of day.

“What I want to know is how you knew she would break into the lodge tonight, and what she planned to do.” Matt Fredericks looked weary. Only Sabrina's abundant confidence that the Shell Lodge would be burglarized in the near future if he did not cooperate in the sting tonight had convinced him to participate. Sabrina wasn't on his top ten list of favorite people at the moment, but he was too good a businessman not to realize what a messy burglary would do to the hotel's image at this point. The Shell Lodge's reputation was already in tatters after an employee had been arrested for the murder of one of its guests.

“I'm getting to that.” Sabrina felt a wave of exhaustion hit and barely suppressed a yawn. She could feel two nights of no sleep catching up with her. “It's pretty simple. Besides Booker Howard, Marilee's great-grandfather, there were four men rumored to be involved in Gerry Lowry's alleged murder, all deeply involved in the smuggling business on Comico Island. Those four men were: Sheriff Fitz Mitchell, David Harrington, Foster Garrison, and—” Sabrina paused for dramatic effect—“Kenneth Fredericks.”

There was a deafening silence, not at all the reaction Sabrina was expecting.

“I'm sure it's because we're outsiders and don't recognize the names, Sabrina,” Patti said tactfully. “Perhaps you could explain further?” She looked tired, but kept stealing pleased glances at Sophie's rapt expression. When Sabrina had confided in Patti her plans for the evening, neither were aware that Sophie was listening. But the plan seemed to tickle the girl so much that neither had the heart to say no when she pleaded to be included. Of course, Sophie told Dennis, so there he sat yawning and trying to look interested.

The last member of their “unveiling the villain” party was Lance Mayhew. Sabrina wasn't sure who told him about the plan, or why he was interested, or even that he did not come upon them accidentally in the lounge while looking for an after-hours drink. In any case, he sat in the back as always, soaking up every word uttered.

“Don't you understand?” Sabrina fumbled through her fatigued memory. Didn't she say it plain as day? Evidently not. “Did I mention that Maggie's first rental cottage, the one called Seas the Day, was built by David Harrington, a friend of Kenneth Fredericks, who constructed the house to be used as a rum-running depot? Sue Harrington, his great granddaughter, still owns it.

“All of the houses that were broken into thus far, Hill Mitchell's, Sue Harrington's, and Missy Garrison's—I'm not counting the unrelated break-ins that happened here on Shell Island—were connected in some way to the alleged cover-up of Gerry Lowry's murder over eighty years ago. Hill is Sheriff Fitz Mitchell's grandson, Maggie was staying in David Harrington's old house and—”

“Foster Garrison was my great-grandfather,” Missy said. “I'm living in the house he built. Are you saying that Marilee was breaking into houses looking for rum-running treasure?” Her pique had disappeared now that she realized Marilee wasn't interested in her driftwood collection.

Again, they all looked at Marilee, who affected intense interest in the bar napkin soaking up condensation from her glass.

“It looks that way. That's why I hoped Marilee would come tonight. I suspected that she was the guilty party—there were other possibilities, but Marilee made the most sense—but I knew I had no proof, so the only solution was to catch her red-handed. She dropped a note at the rental cottage. I think it must have been her list for the houses she had targeted. ‘Mit,' ‘Har,' 'Gar,' and ‘Fred.' Do you see? It's shorthand. Hill Mitchell's was the first house, Sue Harrington's the second, then Missy Garrison's, and finally—”

“Fredericks. The Shell Inn,” Matt Fredericks said.

“Exactly.” Sabrina felt light-headed. She'd been on such an emotional roller coaster ride the last couple of days that she wasn't sure how to describe the way she was feeling. Numb was probably the best word for it. Numb, but the Novocain was wearing off.

“Can you please explain again about this Gerry Lowry's suicide, or murder, or whatever it was? You ran it by me last night, but you were talking so quick I didn't understand half of it.” Matt ran his fingers through his hair and then looked at his fingers as if baffled about the whereabouts of the rest of his hair.

“There isn't much to tell. Seventeen-year-old Booker Howard found Gerry Lowry dead with a gun in his hand. Sheriff Mitchell held an inquest and they ruled it a suicide. In the news reports it seems pretty cut and dried. But the newspapers don't reveal the whole story, not by a long shot. Like the names of the men supposedly involved in a Comico Island rum-running ring, or the fact that Gerry was rumored to have been cheating his rum-running partners, or that Booker got a job with the sheriff's department soon after Gerry's death.”

“How did you set this up? How did you know she would be here tonight?” Sophie leaned forward, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched and listened with intense delight. She could have been watching a movie, or the opera, and Sabrina wondered if she was expected to sing.

“With the help of a couple of people, I spread the rumor that the Shell Lodge was infested with termites, and that demolition started tomorrow.” She pretended not to notice Matt wince. This was the part of the plan he disliked the most. “Who knew what the demolition crew would discover? From something Matt's grandfather said, I suspected that the burglar had tried the lodge once already, and that this news would spur her into action. It did.”

Marilee waved as they all turned once again to look at her. “Okay, Miss Dunsweeney, you got me, though I wish you would have come to me first, instead of setting me up like this. You've been so nice, helping me with college and everything. Were you doing that so you could get information?”

It was the first words she had spoken since being caught.

“I'm sorry, Marilee, I really am. And no, I didn't suspect you until last night. I've been assisting with your college admissions because I wanted to help you. Would you have confessed to all of this if I had come to you with no proof?”

“Probably not.” Marilee took off her hat and ran her fingers through her gleaming red hair. “But you caught me fair and square, so I suppose I'll come clean. You've heard the official version of Gerry Lowry's suicide. Let me tell you the story my Granddad Booker told on his deathbed.”