MURDER on the ROCKS (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  She drove slowly, unsure of what she was looking for. Something had taken ahold of Bennett Reilly, some urgent matter that was obviously causing him a great deal of stress. There didn’t seem to be anything here. But this was better than staying home with a diabetic cat.

  Lights. Red and blue. Flashing.

  A police car sat across the street, blocking passersby.

  She slowed and rolled down the window.

  A flashlight in her eye said, "Ma'am, do you live here?"

  "No, I was looking for a friend's house?"

  "Which house, ma'am?"

  "The Reillys?"

  "Ok, could you do us a favor and just pull over to the side of the road, please, ma'am?"

  She did as the cop asked. He radioed someone that there was a woman looking for the Reilly house. And he came by and told her to wait so someone could come down and ask her a couple of questions. She waited until a car sidled slowly down the winding road to meet her. A silhouette walked toward her.

  Her heart jumped a little when she saw the silhouette brighten into the image of Sgt. Frank Beauchenne.

  "Allie?"

  She waved coyly.

  "Allie..." he walked over and leaned in on her window. "Did you tell my guy you were coming here to meet the Reillys?"

  "I was looking for the house, yes."

  "Any particular reason?"

  "I- I guess... I don’t know. I called Bennett a little while ago and—"

  "How long ago?"

  "I don’t know...twenty minutes maybe?"

  The sergeant looked at his watch. "Ok. I guess that was you then. He was in the house with us."

  "Ok. What happened?"

  He stood up, took a deep breath and looked around, then leaned back down again. "Mrs. Reilly was murdered in the house. The husband came home and found her. We've got him up there now."

  "Oh my," she said. "I don’t know what to say."

  "What was the intention of calling him?"

  "Oh, you’re not gonna start being a cop at me now, are you?"

  "Allie, can you just answer the question?"

  She sighed impatiently. "He'd asked me to."

  "Any particular reason?"

  "You do like that phrase, don’t you, Frank?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Allie, c'mon."

  "You and I dated a couple of times. Remember? I didn’t call you sergeant over dinner."

  "And we'll date again," said Beauchenne, managing a crooked smile through his gray-flecked stubble. "But you gotta be straight with me now. Why did Bennett Reilly ask you to call him?"

  "He said I might be able to help him with something having to do with his wife. Said it was because he read about me and, I don’t know. I've gotten a couple of crackpot calls since the Cardinal affair. People coming up to me in the supermarket. One lady actually thought I was only able to crack the case because I was a psychic. She wanted me to contact her dead iguana."

  Beauchenne tucked his head down, stifling a laugh."

  "I'm serious!"

  His raised his head up with a toothy smile. "You're a funny lady. But I have to go to work now. We'll be in touch."

  "Oh, I can’t wait. Tomlin?" All she needed was Detective Harry Tomlin getting wind of her presence at another murder site.

  "He's up there. Don’t worry; I'll keep him away from you."

  "Righto."

  He smiled and winked and tipped his hat and went back to his car.

  There was something in that smile of his that could melt Allie Griffin on her coldest night. She turned and began her drive home.

  She caught herself smiling and wondered how long she had been. It was Beauchenne. That damned Beauchenne with his stubbly face and those steely eyes of his. But there was another reason why she felt her senses sharpen and her mind quicken before many nights of sleepless contemplation: once again, a crime needed solving.

  4.

  – Verdenier Police Department, how may I direct your call?

  – Sergeant Frank Beauchenne, please.

  – One moment, please

  – Beauchenne.

  – Frank? It's Allie.

  – Yep. What can I do for you?

  – I was wondering if you could maybe do your buddy here a favor and answer a question or two about the Reilly murder.

  – Nope. Sorry. Not gonna happen.

  – Frank.

  – (voice lowers)Allie, don’t call me here about this again, ok? I'll talk to you soon.

  – Fine.

  – (normal voice)That all?

  – That's all, Sergeant.

  – Right.

  (click)

  #

  It was a typical Tuesday afternoon at the Walker Street IGA. Allie pushed her cart from aisle to aisle in half a daydream. The Reilly case was gnawing at her. A meeting in the bar conducted in urgent, hushed tones, and then a week later a woman is dead.

  She collected her staples in robotic fashion, playing over the small details of the case, which she knew, when assembled properly, would point her in the direction she should most likely head next. The problem was, there were too few details, and nothing was assembling. It made her restless.

  She reached for Dinah's favorite brand of cat food, a bag of diabetic formula dry food.

  And a man's hand reached for it at the same time.

  She gasped out of her reverie and beheld the smiling face of Sgt. Frank Beauchenne.

  Allie shook her head and returned the smile. "Hi. What are you doing here?"

  "I wanted to apologize for the terse phone conversation."

  "You were in work mode, I get it."

  "Not exactly. Listen." His voice died down to a whisper. "We'll talk about this case, but it will be on my terms, understand?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Allie, I'm serious."

  "Ok."

  "You'll need a code word to recognize my communiques. I'll use the word 'swordfish'."

  "Communiques? Code words? What's with all the spy stuff? And where the hell does 'swordfish' come from?"

  "Just take my word that I have need for secrecy. I shouldn’t even be seen talking to you but I'm in a bit of a bind here. I'll explain. And 'swordfish' is from a Marx Brothers movie."

  "Marx Brothers."

  "Right. We all clear?"

  "And how will you contact me?"

  He mulled it over for a moment, and then said resolutely, "You'll know."

  He turned to leave.

  "Oh, Sergeant?" she sang.

  He turned.

  "How the devil did you know where to find me just now?"

  "I followed you."

  Allie Griffin smiled and took the lesson: the simplest answer is usually the correct one.

  5.

  Meet me on Sara's Bridge. 8pm sharp.

  The text came through just as she was about to give Dinah an insulin shot. The number was 000.

  The last time a cryptic message like this came in, she’d wound up at the Verdenier Water Works with a gun to her head. She was about to call Sgt. Beauchenne when another text came through from the same non-number.

  Sorry, I forgot. Swordfish.

  She laughed, a warm relief pouring over her. Almost. Did he have to choose that location?

  Sara's Bridge was over near the eastern border of the town. It was a quaint covered bridge in chipped, apple red that had stood for 183 years. In autumn, the bridge popped to life surrounded by larches burning bright yellow for the season. Spring was a sweet time for the bridge as well, as the largest bore their pink buds, transforming the bridge into a rustic centerpiece. However, whatever the season, the bridge was not a very nice place at nighttime. Officially called the Silas Creek Bridge (Silas Creek had dried up completely by 1920), locals had nicknamed it "Sara's Bridge" due to a local legend about a girl named Sara, who in 1843, spurned by a lover, strung a length of hemp over the rafters of the bridge and hanged herself. At night the larches sway in the wind, and breezes whistle and whine through the boards of the old bridge, and
they say on certain nights you can hear Sara's anguished cries as she tosses her ex-lover's letter into the creek and strings up her rope.

  Twenty minutes later, she was pulling up at the old bridge. A crystal clear sky and half a moon provided just enough light to cast eerie shadows swooping down over the roof of the creaky structure. Beauchenne's car was parked. She could see there was no one in it.

  Great. She'd have to get out.

  But any fears, rational or not, dissipated quickly at the sight of Sgt. Beauchenne, leaning pensively on one of the open windows that looked out on the vast plain that was once a bubbly creek.

  "You know," she said, "if this wasn't so godawful spooky, I’d say it was kinda romantic."

  "Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that," said Beauchenne.

  "Then it's just godawful spooky. So what's with the stealth phone?"

  "It's just that. Untraceable."

  "Uh huh." She breathed in chilly air laced with wafts from the field, earthy and moist, and there was the cold scent of old wood all around her. "So what’s the story?"

  He licked his lips, took a deep breath, as if in anticipation of a long tale to tell. "Dupond is forcing me to back off this case. He said Tomlin is capable of handling it by himself."

  "All by himself?"

  "He and his people."

  "Not for nothin', but how many people could you guys possibly have in that department?"

  "It's a joke. They're stretched as thin as it can get. As for me, they’re handing all of Tomlin's back jobs to me. Stuff like check fraud and petty vandalism cases. Just enough things to keep me busy and out of their hair."

  "So, I don’t understand. Why would Dupond do it?"

  "I can’t say."

  "You can’t or you won't?"

  "That's a thing you need to look into. Now, the details. Listen closely. Reilly says he came home and found his wife on the floor of the kitchen. Our guys say there was no sign of a break-in. Usually, that means—"

  "She knew her assailant."

  "That's right. Honey Reilly was bludgeoned in the back of the head with a heavy object. Nobody's found a weapon."

  "And Reilly?"

  "His story checks out so far. He was working late at the office. We got a hold of his timesheet. Time of death was about an hour before he got home."

  "Ok then. Where do I start?"

  "Start with motive. I'll give you a lead. I can't do the work though. If any of this has my fingerprints on it I can get into some serious trouble. I could lose my pension."

  "Ok, I'll do what I can."

  He licked his lips again. "Honey Reilly bought a ton of shoes. She had them custom made. Start there."

  She waited for more info, until it became painfully obvious that this was all she was going to get. "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  "Oooo-kay then. Start with the shoes."

  "One more thing."

  "Ok?"

  "Tomlin thinks you had something to do with your husband's death."

  "Yeah, I know."

  Beauchenne looked surprised. "You do?"

  "He's dropped hints before, the weirdo."

  Beauchenne turned back to the view of the plain. "It's tabled for now, but if Dupond wants him to back off this thing as soon as I think he wants him to, he may switch gears and use the free time to go after you. I'm just saying. I can do all I can to vouch for you, but he's itching to make a score."

  Allie breathed a heavy sigh into the chill night air. "Hoo boy. Ok, thanks."

  "Just be careful."

  "Will do."

  "Oh, one more thing."

  "Another one more thing?"

  "When it's time, you'll need to use the press."

  "And how will I—"

  "You'll know."

  She nodded. "Follow the shoes. Use the press. Got it."

  "You got work to do."

  "Oh, I sure do. Thanks, Frank. You've been a treat. Any chance of dinner any time soon?"

  "Soon," he said.

  Like the gentleman he was, Beauchenne waited for Allie's car to start and pull away before he got into his own. And Allie's mind prepared to begin moving the details into position.

  6.

  Bennett Reilly's front door opened up on a living room that looked as though someone had clipped it from a magazine. A walnut baby grand piano that had obviously served as little more than a very expensive shelf for picture frames dominated a corner of the room, and the rest of the space was taken up by miscellaneous objects d'art and antiques.

  "This is lovely," Allie said, allowing Bennett to take her coat.

  "My wife. I suppose I could let you in on the secret. A lot of the smaller knick-knacks were scrounged from thrift stores. It made no difference to Honey. Antiques were antiques wherever they came from. Come inside, I've got coffee on."

  He led her through the kitchen into another living space and bade her wait here. This room was a bit more accommodating. A large L-shaped couch was the dominating piece here. Beautiful masonry adorned the chase and mantel of the giant fireplace against the far wall. The perks of working in the quarry industry, she thought. Windows looked out onto woods that seemed to go on forever. She craned her neck to view the high ceilings and the lights that were set into it. The whole place was warm and inviting. Knick-knacks were everywhere, presumably more of Honey's acquisitions. A peculiar thing struck Allie: There were no pictures of the two of them here. The piano held pictures, and she could see of whom, but she was willing to bet they weren't family members. However warmly or luxuriously decorated the house was; it didn't seem to be for anyone. It was generic decoration with no personality to it.

  Bennett Reilly entered with a tray of cups and creamers. "There's milk and cream here. Sugar as well. Not sure how you take it."

  "Black is fine," she said. "Thank you. Honey spent a lot on...things, didn’t she?"

  He sipped and nodded. "Mmm hmm. It got to be a problem sometimes."

  "Was it just antiques?"

  "Antiques, clothing, shoes."

  Allie nodded. "Shoes are a girl thing."

  "Not like this. She had a problem. I think she was trying to fill up some giant emptiness inside of her. At any rate, I was always sickened by the expenditures so I stayed out of it mostly. Except for the antique hunting; I liked that."

  "Bennett, I'm sorry to ask this, but do you have any idea who could have killed your wife?"

  He looked at her with the combined expressions of incredulity and insult. "No," he said flatly.

  "It was just a question. I'm sorry. I really am. There's no way to phrase it correctly." She cocked her head to one side, a move she'd read about in Psychology Today, utilized for when you want to convey sincerity.

  "I guess it was just the suddenness of the inquiry."

  He looked at her, sizing her up. Then he excused himself. "It's about time I showed you what I originally wanted to show you."

  He left the room for a moment, and then returned brandishing a battered envelope.

  "Two weeks before Honey was killed, I received this in the mail. No postmark. No nothing. Whoever wrote it either delivered it himself or had someone deliver it."

  He handed it to her then sat down solemnly.

  She opened it up and read the computer-printed note:

  Your not a verry nice persun. Don’t forget I know things. 25 large to kep it quiet. We talk in 1 week.

  "You have any idea who could've written this?"

  He nodded, staring down at his shoes. "I think it's one of the workers."

  "Down at the quarry?"

  He nodded again.

  "Now, Bennett, you know what I'm going to ask next, right?"

  He gave a nervous smile. "What do they know?"

  "Bingo."

  He stood up and paced over to one of the windows. "This used to be a nice town. Things like this never went on here, you know? I was born in Verdenier. And I grew up before the money started coming in. That's when it all changed, with the arrival o
f the money. That's what money does." He turned to her. "She was cheating on me with one of the workers, maybe more than one. I don’t know who; she refused to say. But she'd confessed the affair to me after this note arrived. I never told her about the note. She said she had ended it a week before and wanted to make a clean slate. Anyway, I guess he was going to rat me out. Make me look like a cuckold. Humiliate me. For all I know he had pictures."

  "You sure it was one of the workers?"

  "She told me it was."

  "But Bennett, she – how do I put this delicately? – she didn’t hold your workers in too high a regard."

  "Yeah, but with affairs, she preferred to slum it."

  "Affairs? There was more than one?"

  He nodded.

  Allie stood up and handed him her empty cup. "You got a refill?"

  He took it carefully. "Of course. How could I be so—terribly sorry."

  "Don’t be so sorry. I've been guzzling it like a maniac lately."

  She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he began pouring out another cup.

  "You know," she said, "I have a pretty good idea of the answer, but I'd like to hear it from you. Why didn’t you take this letter to the police? And why don’t they have it now?"

  He shrugged. "My wife was cheating on me. I was trying to avoid people finding out. You know how it is in this town."

  "I know how it is."

  "The cops start digging, they'll find it. Word gets around. I thought maybe, from what I knew about you, you could keep a secret."

  "Well I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered by your perception of me."

  He handed her the cup. "Anyway, they have the case now. Without this letter there's a possibility that they won’t uncover this sordid little aspect of my wife's life."

  She took a thoughtful sip. "So, you don’t think her murder was tied to this letter?"

  "Oh, no. Definitely not."

  "Huh. Well I guess you're right. I mean, you have an affair with someone you don't go and kill that person a week later. Unless he wanted to continue it and she refused."

  "Possible. Funny, I didn’t think of that."

  She watched his eyes as she brought up the letter. "Or unless this wasn't meant for you."