Dead Wake (The Forgotten Coast Florida #5) (19 page)

Maggie watched him go, saw weariness and maybe defeat in the set of his shoulders, reluctance in his pace. The overactive nurturing response in her made her want to stock his fridge with casseroles and launder his bedding.

Wyatt was right: this place just plain sucked.

“In the four years she’s been there, she’s never had a visitor, other than her family doctor and her lawyer,” Wyatt said as they headed out of Port St. Joe. “You don’t think that’s weird?”

“Sure I think it’s weird,” Maggie said. “I just don’t know if it means anything.”

“I’m still keeping it as a notable weirdness,” Wyatt said.

They rode in silence for several minutes, and Maggie looked out the window at the pines and overgrown brush that lined that stretch of Hwy 98, a desolate length of road that Sky had once said would be a perfect location for
The Walking Dead
.

“I ran into Evan Caldwell in the main lobby,” Wyatt said after a bit.

“Yeah, I was talking to him outside,” Maggie said.

Wyatt was quiet for a moment. “She slipped and fell and hit her head on a dock,” he said finally. “That’s it.”

“That’s awful,” Maggie said. “Was he there?”

“No, he was working,” Wyatt answered. “All she did was hit her head.” He sighed. “You just never know when life’s going to jump out and bite you.”

Maggie looked over at Wyatt’s profile. The laugh lines around his mouth were deeper, tighter, and he looked straight ahead at the road. She knew he was thinking about his wife. He and Lily had been married fifteen years when she’d died, from a cancer she hadn’t even told him she had until it was absolutely necessary.

Maggie couldn’t think of anything to say that was appropriate but not pithy, so she said nothing at all.

“You’re hung up on Luedtke,” Wyatt said after a while.

“Yeah,” Maggie said, grateful for the change of subject.

“She said he was harmless.”

“She said I was my mother,” Maggie said. “Besides, everybody always says that so-and-so was a nice guy, until they find out he buried his parents in the basement.”

“I’ll give you that the suicide thing is a bell-ringer,” Wyatt said. “We need to see if we can find anyone that knew him pretty well.”

“I’ve got Dwight looking into it,” Maggie said.

“I still think Boudreaux,” Wyatt said.

“I know.” Maggie looked back out the window. “I don’t.”

“But your reasons are partly personal,” Wyatt countered.

“So are yours,” Maggie said.

“I won’t argue that.”

A couple of hours later, Maggie and Wyatt sat on opposite sides of her desk, comparing notes on their day.

“So, I ran down the nurse that helped take care of Mrs. Crawford’s sister,” Wyatt said. “Just to confirm what she told officers back in ’77. Please thank me for keeping an open mind.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said dryly.

“She says yeah, Mrs. Crawford was there that night, got there around eight-thirty,” Wyatt said. “According to her, and she’s a very sweet lady who also says she’s seen me in the paper and I’m a doll-baby—her words—according to her, Mrs. Crawford was there a lot at night. Sometimes she spent the night so someone was with her sister until the morning nurse came.”

“She didn’t have round the clock care? She died like two months later, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, but no. A nurse came in the morning to fix her something to eat, help her bathe, give her meds, that kind of thing,” Wyatt said. “Another nurse, usually Mrs. Porter, came in the evening to do it all over again, but she didn’t have someone overnight. She was ambulatory and lucid, though.”

“That’s so sad,” Maggie said.

“Yeah.” Wyatt looked down at his notes. “We were lucky. We had hospice. Good hospice.” He coughed into his hand. “Anyway, she says Mrs. Crawford was there when she left around nine.”

“And where did the sister live again?”

“Off Gibson Road,” Wyatt said.

“Okay.”

“See, I’m keeping an open mind,” Wyatt said.

“I’ll get you a sticker,” Maggie said.

Wyatt looked toward her open door. The hallway was empty.

“How about you come over for dinner instead?” he asked. “You said the kids had sleepovers tonight, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you should come over,” he said.

Maggie nodded. “Okay. Or you could come out to my house. I have actual food.”

“You’re a delight,” Wyatt said. “But no. I’d like you to come over. Wear something nice.”

“Why? And what are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. I just think it would be nice if you wore something without legs. I have a surprise for you.”

“That sounds kind of suggestive,” Maggie said.

“Quit being a letch,” Wyatt said. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Maggie said, a bit snippily.

Wyatt opened his mouth, no doubt to shred her with some witty remark, but he was interrupted by Dwight appearing in her doorway.

“Oh, hey, y’all,” Dwight said. “I finally got hold of that guy Luedtke’s brother.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Well, he says Luedtke got dumped,” Dwight answered. “That’s why he moved over there where his brother lives.”

Maggie sat up a little straighter. “Who dumped him?”

“He didn’t know. Luedtke wouldn’t talk about it,” Dwight answered. “But, hey, when they went through his things afterward, they found a ring. Looked like an engagement ring, the brother said. He ended up pawning it, which is kinda sad.”

“Yeah,” Maggie said. “Is he sure Luedtke never said who she was?”

“Yeah, real sure,” Dwight answered. “Not a peep. Love, huh? It’s a real kick in the pants.”

“Yeah, it can do that to you,” Wyatt said, almost under his breath.

“Anyhow, that’s what I got,” Dwight said. “You need anything else?”

“No, thanks, Dwight,” Wyatt said.

Once Dwight had gone, Wyatt looked at Maggie.

“I’m telling you,” he said. “Two men, two motivations, working together toward a common goal.”

Maggie shook her head. “If Boudreaux wanted to kill Crawford, he’d just do it,” she said. “He wouldn’t have someone else there as a witness.”

“Maybe he didn’t even know Luedtke was there,” Wyatt said. “Maybe Luedtke was working late and came out when he heard a ruckus.”

“And?”

“And saw a chance for Mrs. Crawford to not be a missus, and helped Boudreaux get rid of the body,” Wyatt said.

Maggie shook her head again. “Boudreaux would have just killed him.”

“I thought your version of Boudreaux was a great guy,” Wyatt said.

“I don’t have my own version of Boudreaux,” Maggie said.

“Sure you do,” Wyatt said. “Why wouldn’t you? But it’s colored by gratitude.”

Maggie almost replied that she’d kind of liked Boudreaux
before
he’d saved her life, but caught herself.

“Boudreaux has an alibi,” she said instead.

“He says he doesn’t,” Wyatt countered.

“He’s lying.”

“Why?” Wyatt asked.

“I think he was with somebody important,” she answered. She got a picture of her dad and Boudreaux on the pier, and pushed it out of her head. “Somebody it wouldn’t be good to be with.”

“Maggie, this was umptity-ump years ago,” Wyatt said. “He wasn’t pals with all these senators and congressmen back then.”

“Still,” Maggie said.

“I’ve got some stuff I need to do,” Wyatt said as he stood up and stretched his back. “Six-thirty good?”

“Yeah, sure. No legs.”

She watched Wyatt head down the hall, and then sat there tapping her pen on the edge of her desk. She sat there like that for several minutes, then flipped through her notes before picking up her phone and dialing.

Bradford Wilson answered on the second ring, but he didn’t sound too excited when Maggie said who it was.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Boudreaux’s alibi,” she said.

“What about it?”

“He needs it.”

“Then ask him,” Wilson said.

“I have. He says he didn’t have one,” Maggie said. “You say he did.”

Wilson was silent, though she could hear him breathing.

“It usually happens in the reverse, doesn’t it?” Maggie asked.

“Look, I’ve told you everything I remember,” Wilson said finally.

“You told me crap,” Maggie answered, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Both of you are lying, and you’re telling opposing lies.”

“I don’t like your tone,” Wilson said, trying and failing to sound authoritative.

“I don’t like your ethics,” Maggie said. “Wyatt is pretty convinced that Boudreaux was involved in Crawford’s murder. I need to know whether or not he had an alibi and, if he did, what that alibi was.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because I don’t think he did it.”

“He didn’t,” Wilson said. “I told you that. Listen, I don’t want any damn problems with Bennett Boudreaux.”

“You remember that he didn’t do it, but you don’t remember who or what he said his alibi was?”

“He didn’t, dammit,” Wilson said.

“What does that mean?” Maggie asked.

“He said he was home alone,” Wilson said, sounding like she was torturing him for answers.

“So why does the case file say he had an alibi?”

“Because his alibi came forward, dammit!”

Maggie sat there for a second. That wasn’t one of the answers she’d expected.

“Who?” she asked.

“Look, lady,” Wilson said. “Your grandfather meant a great deal to me. If I could help you I would. I can’t. Subpoena me if the opportunity arises.”

He hung up on her, and Maggie sat there with the phone to her ear for a moment, angry as hell with no one to yell at.

Then she stood up, shoved the phone in the back pocket of her jeans, grabbed the case file and her purse, and stalked out the door.

W
hen Maggie stopped by Sea-Fair, Boudreaux’s receptionist reluctantly told her that Boudreaux had just walked over to Boss Oyster, so that was where Maggie went. She could have called Boudreaux directly, but she really didn’t feel like giving him a lot of time to think before they talked. Of course, he seemed to think very well with or without notice, but Maggie liked to believe she was giving herself some kind of advantage.

When Maggie walked into Boss, she could see through the picture windows that Boudreaux was sitting in his usual spot on the deck out back, the same spot where she had sat with him just a few months ago, familiarizing herself for the first time with his particular brand of verbal cat and mouse.

She waved off one of the servers, Beatrice, who was headed in her direction with a tray of dirty dishes, then walked on out back. Boudreaux was leaning back in his chair, watching a small black cat gnaw a fish head out on the dock. He held a sweating bottle of Red Stripe in his hand.

He glanced over as Maggie approached. “Maggie,” he said with a surprised smile. Always the gentleman, he stood up, setting his beer down on the table.

“Mr. Boudreaux,” Maggie said.

“Please, sit down,” Boudreaux said. She did, and they considered each other across the table. “Are you here for a late lunch or an early dinner?”

“Neither,” she answered. “I came to talk to you.”

He smiled politely at her, and the skin around those startling blue eyes crinkled just a bit. “Well, it’s always good to see you,” he said.