Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

              "Wow," was all I could say.

              "Wow indeed. So Mitch said you had something for me."

              I took a breath and flooded my lungs with what I suspected were the fumes of typewriter cleaning fluid. "Here," I said, handing him the coffee grinder out of my bag. "Police say this is benzene. Our friend Mitch thinks it's impossible due to the fact that benzene isn’t normally found in powder form. We thought maybe..."

              He looked up at me, that mischievous twinkle in his eye, and stared, waiting for me to finish.

              "I..." I said, "I thought maybe you could..."

              He kept staring. It was starting to creep me out.

              "Can you help me find out for sure? I'll pay you."

              "Sure," he said. "Ninety-three dollars."

              I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly. "Ninety-three you said?"

              "Mm hmm," he said, looking at the grinder and turning it over in his hands.

              "That's an odd figure," I said.

              He looked up at me. "Is it?"

              "Well... I... I guess not."

              He shrugged. "Yeah, ninety-three dollars should do it. And I'll need it up front."

              Luckily, I'd taken a handful of my advance from Zelda Calverton with me. And luckily, ninety-three of it was all I'd be giving away to Ford Bannerman. I handed him his money, which he took without counting and placed into his front pocket.

              "Come back tomorrow."

              "Tomorrow? Really?"

              He nodded. "Come back at four."

              "Ok," I said, bewildered and a bit dizzy. The fumes, though faint, were beginning to get to me.

              I left his basement apartment and saw the same little old man tending the same spot of the garden.

              "Thank you," I said. "And farewell."

              "No," he said, without looking up. "Thank
you
."

              "For what?"

              Here, he looked up. "For giving my son something to do. He's a talented boy. I can’t stand to see him squander it. "The old man nodded with a smile and a mouth full of white teeth.

              "Well," I said, "you're quite welcome."

              If private investigation was going to put me onto characters like this, I'd seriously need to consider my future in brewing.

              I was hesitant about pointing the finger at Shawn Ward, only because I didn’t yet have a motive for him to commit murder. I guessed that was the next step, finding a motive. So far, the only person who really benefitted from Eli Campbell's death was Zelda Calverton, who wasn't exactly hard-up for cash. If I could find out some way in which Shawn Ward may have benefitted, I could link him to a motive, and then I had him in close proximity to a weapon – or at least the means to manufacturing a weapon.

              Thing is, I didn’t really know Shawn Ward. There was one person who did, and that was Maisie.

              Then I thought: what if Maisie herself knew? What if Shawn Ward did it and Maisie knew but kept it a secret?

              Shawn Ward's words came back to me at that moment:
Family looks out for each other, don’t they, baby?

              This little sudden hunch of mine gave me a chill. Taking one more step away from Shawn Ward brought me to Sheila McCann. I needed to speak with her.

              I called her and set up a meeting in Bay View Park, the same park where Eli Campbell was murdered, along the same body of water where that clod Lester Moore, excuse me,
Detective
Lester Moore, and I had our fight.

              She met me there an hour later. That gave me a little time to sort out some last minute details on our tasting room opening. Gerry commented on how I was looking a bit ragged lately, and asked if I was getting enough sleep. If he only knew what I'd been tangled up in. Tanya, bless her squishy little heart, had a mouth like a clamshell.

              Sheila McCann was wearing large Greta Garbo shades and a black, floppy-brimmed hat. For a woman ostensibly trying to keep a low profile, she certainly knew how to stick out like a raisin in a marshmallow.

              "I'm glad you called me when you did, because I'm going away for a little while."

              "Where to?"

              "Seattle. I have family there."

              "Is Maisie going with you?"

              She shook her head. "She's ready to be done with me. She'll be leaving for college in the fall."

              "She never mentioned that," I said, genuinely surprised. "What is she going for?"

              "Culinary studies. She'll be attending the Southampton Culinary Institute."

              "Good for her."

              "Well, you're partially to thank for that," she said.

              I was having trouble discerning sarcasm in everyone's voice lately. "Is that so?"

              "Sure. The contest. Your complimenting her as you did. She looks up to you."

              My mind began to race. They say after a murder you should watch out for anyone spending large sums of money.

              If college tuition isn't a large sum, I don’t know what is.

              "So," I said, "must be costing you a fortune. Unless she got a scholarship or something."

              "No, it was too late to apply for scholarships, at least for this semester. No, she borrowed money from Shawn."

              "Is that so?" I said, trying to hide my rising gorge.

              "Yes, but we didn’t come here to discuss college, did we?" she said curtly.

              "Uh, no," I said, "I guess not."

              "You want to know about that damned safe deposit box."

              I'd almost forgotten about that.

              "Well," she said, "I have some free time tomorrow. You and I will go to the bank. We'll take a look at what's inside that box and then I'll step out of this. Ok?"

              "Sounds good to me," I said.

              "Fine then."

              She'd stopped suddenly, and had turned to look at the water.

              "Ever wish you could just go to sea? Sounds so romantic, doesn’t it?"

              "I guess so," I said. I'm not very articulate when I'm baffled, nervous, excited, and queasy all at the same time.

              "Makes you wish you could just dive in and disappear from everything. The water, I mean. It could swallow you up along with all your secrets and no one would ever know. The ocean doesn’t talk."

              "Sheila," I said, "the ocean can't talk. It also doesn’t wish to...consume all that stuff."

              She turned to me, steadying the brim of her hat in the breeze. "You're pretty smart for a beer-guzzling busybody."

              She wasn't smiling, but I'd finally gotten my humor mojo back and chuckled accordingly.

#

              When I got back to my car, my phone lit up with a text. I'd forgotten that I'd given Mitch my number.

             
Ford says thanks. Confirmed benzene. Made into solid by silica and water mixture binding to benzene molecules. Makes for easy transportation. Ground up in grinder.

              Added to my queasy stomach was now a spinning head. I typed as fast as I could.

             
THANK YOU!!! How does anyone get a hold of it?

              Waiting for his reply was an eternity of suspense, and when it finally came through, I felt an odd rush of excitement. I had to read it twice. And then a third time. There it was:

             
Variety of uses. Industrial
.
Sometimes additive for automotive fuel. Professional racing.

#

              Into the belly of the beast.

              AKA Shawn Ward's house.

              Ok, maybe it wasn't exactly the belly of the beast. As luck would have it, there was a TV crew in the driveway, setting up for what looked like a one-on-one interview in a shady spot on the front lawn. Most likely it was due to Ward's participation in this fall's Sprint Cup Series. Anyway I felt pretty good knowing that I'd have Ward's adoring public as witnesses should there be any funny business. But I have to admit that I had more than a bundle of nerves in my belly as I pulled up to his gorgeous mini-mansion in the heart of Southampton.

              I saw the man himself bustling with nerves of his own on the side of the house. He stiffened somewhat at my approach, looking as though he was trying to place my face.

              "Mr. Ward?" I said professionally.

              "Do I...?"

              "Madison Darby, I'm a friend of your niece Maisie's."

              "Oh sure, Madison, how the hell are ya?" He shook my hand vigorously. "What brings you around these parts?"

              I lowered my voice. "I'll only take a minute of your time. I was wondering about some money for Maisie's college tuition."

              I wasn't sure what kind of response I was going to get. I wasn't even sure what kind of response I wanted. All I know is that it was a bold move on my part to come out with it as bluntly as I did.

              But whatever I was expecting, his response wasn't it.

              His lips got tight and he put his head down and swiveled it left and right. "I'll never live that one down. She put you up to this?"

              "No sir," I said, trying to sound disarming.

              "Well..." he threw a nervous glance at the camera crew. "Listen," he said, his voice lowering to a whisper. "I made the decision at the last minute, and it was my own decision. My wife, she makes some of the money decisions but this one was mine."

              "Ok," I said.

              "Ok," he repeated. "So we’re square on that."

              "I guess we are."

              "Now, I don’t want to hear anything else about it. I put my foot down and that was that. I can’t afford to part with that much cash at the moment. This house ain't cheap. And frankly, I'm getting too old to race."

              I was momentarily stunned into silence.

              "Wait," I finally said. "So, you
didn't
pay for her college?"

              "No, I didn’t. And I mean it when I say I'm getting sick of hearing about it. First from her mom, now from you."

              "Hold on, I'm confused. Did you originally give her money and then take it back?"

              It had been less than twenty-four hours since I'd spoken with Sheila McCann. Was it possible Ward took the money back in that time?

              "Take it back? I never gave it to her. What, is Sheila saying I gave it and then took it back? Out of respect for our Native American brothers and sisters I won’t use the term some folks use for that, but I can tell you that ain't me."

              "So, ok," I said, trying to get my bearings.

              "This was my choice," he said. "No one else's."

              "I understand that, but—"

              "No buts. This was my choice. I have a standard and frankly that girl does not measure up to it. Brewing beer? Now what kind of occupation is that for a lady?"

              "Ex
cuse
me?" I said, raising my voice.

              The look in his eye told me that something had clicked inside his head. His mouth dropped open, with nothing coming out of it for a good twenty seconds as I stared.

              "Listen," he said, "what I meant to say was, I want her to go to a good school and learn something that can make her some money in life."

              I turned and started walking away from him.

              He was yelling after me. "I mean, what good is it to follow your heart when all that does is lead you into the wrong places?"

              I turned and looked at him. "Some of us enjoy the view no matter where we are."

              I think that stopped him. At least he didn’t say anything else. I headed toward my car, fuming, dizzy, tired, and stressed. So Ward never gave her any money for college in the first place. Was Sheila lying? Or just clueless?

              Shawn Ward, for whatever reason, couldn’t part with his hard-earned cash. Did it matter why? I now had probable cause, at least a slight one, to suspect that he was in need of money. If only there was a way to find out if and how he benefitted from Eli Campbell's death.

              "I apologize for my husband," said a voice.

              I turned to see a woman standing before me. She was a plain woman, somewhat worn-looking, a permanent frown on her face.

              "I don’t believe we've met," I said.

              "Margaret Ward. You have to forgive him. He's under a lot of stress lately."

              "I understand that."

              "Yes, well. You don’t know what it's like. I know who you are. You're that little brat that had everything handed to her."

              "Excuse me," I started to say, but she held up her hand.

              "Maybe I'm a little drunk, so you'll have to forgive me too. Life isn’t easy around here."

              "I'm sorry to hear that."

              She stared at me for a moment. "He cheated on me. Did I leave him? Of course not. We celebrity wives stick by our men no matter what. We have no choice. It would have been bad for his image. You know, apple pie, motherhood, the proud, all-American family unit."

              "So you stayed."

              "I stayed. He even called her in his sleep once. Zelda. Like the princess."

              I almost fell over.

              "That was her name?" I said with a shaky voice.

              She nodded and smiled. "Glamor and glitz, that's what he likes. Look at me. Do I look like glamor and glitz? Well, go on, then. Pity me and be on your way."

              She stumbled away, her head hanging.

              It had been under my nose, alright. Shawn Ward didn’t benefit, but I now had him tied to someone who did.

              And this same person was paying me the down payment of a house to find it out.

#

              So here I was, outside the First National bank of Carl's Cove. It was the only bank in town, but a fairly well equipped one. It had to be, with all the money rolling in from the Hamptons over the past ten years or so.

              Sheila McCann pulled up in a cab. She got out and hurried toward me.

              "I told him to keep the meter running. After this, I'm off to the airport."

              She looked frazzled and nervous, glancing around for someone or something that was following or watching her. Her paranoia began to rub off onto me, and I began aping her mannerisms. Anyone paying the slightest bit of attention to us would have thought we were casing the joint, or worse, about to knock it over.