Right from the Gecko (6 page)

“There aren't many of us to talk about,” he replied. “We're a pretty lean organization.”

“What about the other reporters on the staff?” I asked.

“There's only one. Bryce Bolt.”

“Were he and Marnie close?” I asked.

He hesitated before replying. “Not really. Actually, the two of them were pretty competitive with each other. I guess that's not surprising, since they were both ambitious. They were similar in other ways too. He's another one who never stops talking, although what he talks about ninety-nine percent of the time is himself. Everybody in this office knows everything there is to know about him. His social life, his apartment, his passion for windsurfing—you name it. Oh, his car too. Can't leave that out. He's always talking about his flashy silver BMW. He bought it used, but still, I'm sure it's a financial burden.” He snorted. “I guess maintaining his image matters to him more than the struggle of keeping up with the monthly payments, but that's Bryce for you. A real show-off.”

I made a mental note to try to corner him while I was at the office, since I suspected he might be a good source of information about what was going on in Marnie's life. Especially her professional life, which at the moment was what interested me most.

“Is there a photographer on staff too?” I asked, curious about the person who sat at the desk with the photos tacked up above it.

“We use a freelance photographer,” Mr. Carrera replied. “He also does the layouts. He's in and out all the time, does some of the work from home. Then there's Peggy Ehrhart, who handles advertising. The classified ads too. Real estate, help wanted, used cars. But she's only part-time. Most of our advertisers are regulars who put ads in every week, so Peggy's job is pretty routine. The only other person here is Karen Nelson, our receptionist. You spoke with her when you came in.”

Leaning forward in my chair, I asked earnestly, “Mr. Carrera, do you think it's possible any of the people Marnie worked with had anything to do with what happened?”

“I sincerely doubt that,” he replied, sounding a bit defensive. “We're a family here. When you work with such a small group, you become very close in a very short time. There's no way anybody at the
Dispatch
wished her any harm.”

I suddenly had another idea. “What about the person who found her on the beach?” I asked. “Do you know who it was and whether the police consider that person a suspect?”

Mr. Carrera shook his head. “I can't imagine they'd suspect Alice. She's not the type to give anybody any serious trouble.”

“‘Alice'?” I repeated. He'd already given me more information than I'd hoped for.

“Alice Feeley. Kind of a burned-out hippie who moved here from California ages ago. Wild hair, funny clothes, occasionally does a little ranting and raving. Nobody really knows how she gets by, but she's a regular on the beaches after hours. She uses one of those metal detectors to find valuables that poor unsuspecting tourists lose in the sand. Jewelry, mostly, but also money. Probably picks up cans too and brings them back to the market for the deposit. She may be eccentric, but she's perfectly harmless.”

Perhaps she's harmless, I thought, but she might be able to tell me something that nobody else can, some detail or even an impression she got when she discovered a young woman's body washed up on the beach—something even the police weren't aware of that would help identify the killer. I made a mental note to try to track her down.

I also decided to try out the theory that had been haunting me ever since my conference packet was stolen from my hotel room.

“Mr. Carrera,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, “I can't help wondering if maybe the reason Marnie was killed had something to do with one of the stories she was working on.”

His bushy eyebrows flew upward. “Why would you think that?” He was back to sounding guarded again, and his teeth were clenched together more tightly than ever. “The police are convinced she was strangled by a man she was seen coming out of a bar with, and I'm afraid they're probably right. As sad as it is, young women get killed by strangers like that all the time. In fact, that's the story we're running with in the next edition.”

“But what if there's more to it?” I insisted. “What if her murder was the result of her being in the newspaper business? Like maybe she was investigating something that somehow got her into trouble…?”

Mr. Carrera made a strange hiccuping noise that I had to assume was his version of a laugh. “I think you've read too many novels, Ms. Popper. And to be fair, that theory might make sense if Marnie worked at some big-city newspaper. But here on Maui, the biggest stories we get are tourists having their cameras stolen off the backseat of their unlocked rental cars and the occasional entrepreneur getting caught growing pot in his backyard.”

I just nodded, since pretending to agree seemed like the most graceful way of getting out of what had somehow become an uncomfortable moment.

Mr. Carrera also seemed happy to move on. “Since you were a friend of Marnie's,” he said, “I suppose you've been in contact with her family.”

“Actually, I haven't,” I replied, smiling ruefully. “Even Marnie wasn't in contact with her family. It seems they didn't agree with her decision to move so far away from home just for her career. According to her, her parents pretty much cut her off. So I'm leaving it up to the police to take care of that end of things.”

“Probably wise,” he agreed, nodding. “Since her parents might not be around for a while, then maybe you'd do me a favor. Would you be willing to fill a couple of boxes with her personal possessions and move them out of here? I've already taken care of her files and all her work-related stuff. But when it comes to the rest, like the mug she always drank her coffee out of and all the other junk she stashed in her desk that we always used to tease her about, I don't think any of us could stomach it.”

I tried not to look too surprised. “I would have thought the police would take her possessions as possible evidence. They have been here, haven't they?”

“Sure. That homicide detective you mentioned you'd spoken to, Paleka, came by first thing this morning. He's the same guy who called me last night, asking me to come in and identify the…identify Marnie.” He swallowed hard, then took a deep breath before continuing. “He asked the usual questions and looked through her desk, but Detective Paleka wasn't all that interested in what he found there. Especially since he seems pretty sold on the idea that Marnie was killed by the guy she was seen with coming out of that bar near the airport. The one they're still working on identifying.”

“I'd be happy to clean out Marnie's desk,” I told Mr. Carrera, pleased that I'd be getting the opportunity to look through the personal items Marnie had left behind. While my main concern was that there might be someone out there who thought I had Marnie's tape, I was also trying to find everything I could about someone who died just hours after I met her. My hope was that this little cleanup job would tell me a little more about her life. Maybe even her death.

“Thanks.” He sounded relieved. “You'll find some cartons in the kitchen, way in back. If you need any help, just ask Karen.”

“I will. By the way,” I couldn't resist asking, “did you ever meet Marnie's boyfriend, Mr. Carrera?”

He looked surprised. “I didn't even know she had one. I figured all that girl ever did was work. I'd come in here at seven in the morning and she'd be working. I'd come in at eleven at night to pick up something I forgot and she'd be working. How any guy would ever put up with that is beyond me.”

I wasn't about to admit that I was a little curious about Marnie's social life myself. But that would have to wait until later.

At the moment, I was much more concerned with the fact that my interview with Marnie's boss was coming to a close. He glanced at his watch, the sides of his mouth twitching downward.

I decided to go for broke.

Desperately hoping he couldn't hear how loudly my heart was pounding, I said, “Mr. Carrera, one of the things I wanted to ask you about was a tape Marnie recently made. I can't help wondering if it had anything to do with her murder.”

“A tape?” The hardness I'd perceived on Mr. Carrera's face when I first walked into his office returned, fast and furious. His eyes blazing with suspicion, he insisted, “I don't know anything about a tape.” I noticed he was suddenly enunciating quite clearly. “Why don't you tell me what
you
know?”

I began to feel extremely uncomfortable. And the fact that I'd come here to find out what he knew, not to tell him what I knew, was only partly responsible. From the way he reacted, I got the distinct feeling he knew exactly what tape I was talking about. “Nothing, really. It was just something she mentioned.”

“Tell me what she said,” he insisted.

Instead, I plastered on an innocent-looking smile. “My mistake,” I said with a shrug. “When Marnie and I last spoke, she said something about a tape, that's all. I thought it might have meant something, but I was obviously wrong. For all I know, she was referring to the latest Green Day CD.” I laughed, trying to make light of a subject I wished I hadn't brought up in the first place.

I told myself I was probably misinterpreting his reaction. After all, I hardly knew the man, and he certainly didn't seem to be someone who openly displayed his emotions. It was possible that he had some policy about his reporters not taping interviews, or…or maybe as the managing editor, he insisted upon being made aware of every tape his staff members made. Who knew how things worked in the newspaper business?

“Well, I know you're busy, so I guess I'll get started cleaning out Marnie's desk,” I announced abruptly, popping out of my seat like a jack-in-the-box. “Thanks for your time.”

I hightailed it out of there, wondering if perhaps in addition to changing his mood, the mention of Marnie's tape had also prompted Mr. Carrera to change his mind about electing me to go through Marnie's personal things. But I wasn't about to let him rescind his offer.

I wasn't about to linger at the
Dispatch
's offices any longer than I had to either. Not when I got the feeling that even though I'd only been on Maui for a little over twenty-four hours, I already seemed to be making myself pretty darned unpopular.

I found a lot more than a stack of abandoned cardboard boxes in the newspaper office's small kitchen. I also found Marnie's counterpart, Bryce Bolt, downing a couple of donuts and a cup of black coffee he'd poured into a ceramic mug. The fact that he hadn't bothered to sit down while doing so may have explained why he had such a lean, muscular frame despite his obvious weakness for dough fried in grease and saturated in sugar.

“Bryce, right?” I greeted him. Actually, I felt pretty confident about holding my own with reporters, even though they were in the habit of being the ones asking the questions. Thanks to my penchant for getting involved in murder investigations, I'd gotten to know a newspaper reporter on Long Island—strictly on a professional basis, of course—named Forrester Sloan. Even though he had a tendency to be cocky, the fact that I'd outshone him a few times when it came to getting the scoop had won his respect, enough that on more than one occasion he'd actually suggested that I follow in his journalistic footsteps.

“You found me.” Bryce looked me up and down in a way that was all too familiar. For a minute there, I thought I really was talking to Forrester. He too was an incredible flirt. With me, anyway. As much as I hated to admit it, there was definitely chemistry—however minimal—between Forrester and me.

But chemistry is one thing. Biology is something else altogether—and with Bryce, I got the feeling his interest in me was determined by something much more basic, not to mention more base. He was clearly trying to decide whether or not this particular female was worth his time.

I guess I measured up to his standards, because he cocked his head and grinned. “Which means this must be my lucky day.”

“Too bad we can't say the same for Marnie Burton,” I replied curtly.

His engaging grin was gone in a flash.

“I was a friend of Marnie's,” I said, figuring that even though I disliked the guy on sight, I owed him an explanation. Especially since Mr. Carrera's claim that Bryce had worked closely with Marnie made me anxious to pump him for as much information as I could. “I came by today to see if anybody here at the paper had any inside information on the horrible thing that happened last night. I was just talking to Mr. Carrera.”

“Really?” Now that Bryce realized I hadn't followed him into the kitchen to admire his charms, he was suddenly standoffish. “And was Dickie-boy helpful?”

I raised my eyebrows. If this guy's rude enough to say insulting things about his boss to a complete stranger, I thought, he should at least have the grace to do it out of earshot.