Murder Came Second (3 page)

I smiled insincerely back, introduced myself and explained there had been a minor accident at the Chambered Nautilus, and I wondered if she would check her credit card dupes, just to confirm that a Gale Withers had indeed dined there tonight. She sighed at the enormity of it all, but finally turned and walked toward the waitresses’ station.

When she pulled out the slip, I took it gently but quickly from her hand and looked at the order stapled to it. From what I could make out, Gale Withers had had three martinis, scrod and something, a glass of Pinot Blanc, followed by what looked liked a Cointreau and coffee. Well,
of course
Gale had seen an alligator! Who the hell wouldn’t, after two or three sherries, three martinis, a glass of wine and a liqueur, plus a highball? I was only surprised she didn’t invite him in for a nightcap.

I asked the manager if she could make me a copy of the credit card slip. Her answer was about what I expected. “Oh, I’m sorry, but, no. In a restaurant of this caliber, our customers do expect privacy, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am, and I have no intention of making this public. I am a private insurance investigator, investigating an accident. While you make me a copy of that and I speak briefly to Mrs. Withers’s waitress, not a soul will know what’s going on. Or in twenty minutes there will be two uniformed police officers here, and they will not speak quietly, and they may even wonder loudly and officially why your establishment continued selling liquor to an obviously intoxicated woman who later injured herself and caused injury to another person. Your call.”

She grabbed the paper from my hand and turned toward a door marked “Private.” Over her shoulder she snapped, “Her waitress was Shelley, the blond girl who’s now serving the front table.”

I waylaid Shelley en route to the kitchen. She did remember Mrs. Withers, not by name but as the lady who had “really put it away.” She recalled that the lady had, “Looked so sad, you know? She didn’t eat hardly any of her meal. I asked her was anything wrong with it, and she said no, she just wasn’t hungry, and then she wiped her eyes with the napkin, you know? I felt sort of sorry for her, but I didn’t think I should say anything. I hope she’s all right. She seemed pretty sloshed.”

“Why didn’t you have the bartender cut her off?” I asked.

“What? And have her get mad and cause a scene and I’m the one who gets fired? I didn’t feel that sorry for her.”

I could see her point. The manager returned with my photocopy. I thanked her sweetly and left. I didn’t bother to tell her that the cops would probably be there tomorrow anyway, asking if anyone had seen an alligator.

Back at the inn, while I waited for the wounded to return, I gave the area a more detailed look. There were some scratches on the porch floor, which could, I supposed, have come from an alligator. Or luggage, or golf shoes, or a toy. The plants where Gale had made her leap were crushed, as they would be. The lawn at the foot of the tree was not disturbed any more than normal from someone trying to climb the tree and then falling out of it. At the back of the property was a hogwire fence, with a short length broken and pushed up, as if something had crawled under it. Big dog? Small kid? Big coon? Small alligator? Tonight? Two months ago?

Off to my left, I heard a plant rustle. I quickly aimed the light in that direction and saw a hydrangea bush move slightly. My mouth went dry. Could I make it to the house before
whatever
made it to me? I took a careful step back. The last thing I wanted to do was fall. Out of the bush popped Martha and Bill’s sleek black ex-tom cat . . . come to say hello.

“Mew.”

“Hello, Lexus, you scared me to death.” Lexus sat on my foot, in case I hadn’t realized I was supposed to pet him. I complied and then scooped him up. “I don’t think you better be outside tonight, chubby. You might have more company than you bargained for.”

As I carried him up the steps, his weight was making me pant. “I dunno, maybe I ought to let the gator chase you around the block a few times. It’s that or join a health club, fella.”

I set the cat down in the kitchen and closed the various doors. I gave him some water and me a cigarette. Surely I wasn’t over five for the day, my daily allowance. If I exceeded that allowance, I gave myself a harsh scolding.

The group arrived home, casualties bandaged and salved, all ready for bed. Mrs. Withers opted for the upstairs room, the Joyners took her vacated one on the ground floor. Apparently alligators weren’t an issue for them. Everybody would leave tomorrow morning and return for a weekend in the fall. Not as a threesome, I judged. I dispensed Plymouth Rock’s largess, got my releases and the three guests toddled off to rest and recover.

Bill made us a very welcome drink, and I broke the news that while I waited for them I had also called police headquarters with news of the event. “I felt there wasn’t a choice, guys. There is one chance in a million Withers is right. There is one chance in a thousand she is wrong about the alligator, but saw something else. We can’t take the risk that something lethal is wandering about.”

“You can’t believe her!” Martha exclaimed.

“I believe she thinks she is telling the truth.” I took a sip of my drink and yearned for a cigarette. “But she was certainly drunk and had very little dinner. Add that to her mental stress at the moment, probably little sleep the last few nights, plus a tiring drive from her home to here. She probably thinks everything in her life is an alligator right now. I think she fell asleep and had one of those terribly realistic dreams you can’t seem to get out of, and she thinks it really happened.”

“Oh, God, and now the cops will come at midnight and wake everybody up,” Bill moaned, mustache aquiver.

“I don’t think they’ll be on your property tonight unless something else happens,” I reassured him. “I spoke with Sonny.”

Detective Lieutenant Edward J. “Sonny” Peres is my brother, and sometimes he gives me credit for having a brain. I told him I’d covered the inn property and what I had seen, and not seen. He agreed that anything that might have been there was now gone. But he would have his minions on the alert overnight and speak with Withers and the Joyners in the morning.

“Thanks again, Alex.” Martha patted my hand. “I’m sorry all this had to happen.”

“Oh, don’t be. Cindy and I were about to be reduced to watching the Red Sox stomp all over Texas,” I lied happily. “Anyway, it’ll give everybody in town something to do. I anticipate three hundred and six alligator sightings by the weekend.”

“Oh, God,” Bill groaned again. Humor was not always his strong point.

I downed my drink. “Go to bed. You have to feed people in the morning.”

As I drove home, I admit my head was on a swivel, looking for an alligator.

But alas, I saw none.

I closed the car door quietly and met a silent Fargo at the back door. We went out for last patrol, and Fargo didn’t flush anything, either. Inside, most of the lights were off and Cindy had fallen asleep, eyebrows back in place. As I climbed into bed, she stirred and asked, “Did you catch it?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s sleeping overnight in your car.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet!” Cindy smiled. She turned over and snuggled down and I turned out the light.

Chapter 3

The Joyners and Gale Withers all got an early start for home Wednesday morning, which was fortunate, as the media arrived around nine. There were a couple of cable TV stations with nothing better to cover, plus some radio and press reporters, all looking for the naked lady who had fallen from a tree, escaping ravishment by a giant alligator.

Martha and Bill Meyer appeared on their porch, tight-lipped and unhappy, trying not to accuse Gale Withers of being either a lunatic, a liar or a drunk, and so managing to sound rather lunatic themselves. Bill wrapped it up nicely, I thought. “We’ve known Mrs. Withers for years, and if she says she saw an alligator, I’m sure she did, although, of course, we know there wasn’t one. Naked? Yes, she was naked. Haven’t you ever gotten hot and taken off your clothes?”

Police Chief Franks was also unfortunately uneasy around cameras and microphones, and stubbornly refused to use a typed statement. His ad lib remarks did little to confirm the very real intelligence and common sense he had. “Yes, we are investigating the uh, possibility there was an uh, alligator, although we don’t have alligators in Provincetown. They don’t like our uh, cold climate, although of course it is warm now. We are looking into every uh, pond and making sure everyone there is uh, safe. And we are certainly taking the sighting of Mrs. Withers seriously. No further comment.”

Various passersby squealed their delighted fear into the cameras and mikes or laughed it off or announced with tough NRA grins that they were ready with loaded guns to take care of the scaly bastard, which must have thrilled my brother. A bunch of trigger-happy fools, heavily armed in a town crowded with tourists was the perfect recipe for acid reflux.

I clicked off the noon news and turned my mind to the deck attached to the cottage my Aunt Mae rented to Cindy. A couple of floorboards were rotting out, and one of the railings was wobbly. If anyone had accidentally leaned hard against it, it could have been dangerous. Although slightly beyond my own carpentering expertise, I did not think the job was a large or complicated one.

The complications were with Cindy and Aunt Mae. As soon as Aunt Mae noticed it, she would have it repaired. This would upset Cindy, who would feel that since she was paying quite a low rent for a year-round cottage, and since she was the one who most often enjoyed the use of the deck, she should pay for the repair. If Cindy noticed it first and had it repaired, Aunt Mae would be upset that Cindy had paid for repairs on property Aunt Mae owned. In either event, each would take it as a serious failure in their stewardship.

They were quite fond of each other, and I wanted no rift, however small, to come between them. The simple answer would be for
me
to have it repaired and present it to them as a
fait accompli.
They could both unite in being upset with me, but probably not for long.

I knew that Aunt Mae would be away Thursday and Friday at an herb growers’ show and convention down in Stonington, Connecticut. Cindy would be gone those same two days to a financial advisors’ seminar in Boston. So-o-o, all that remained was to find a handyman who could complete the repairs during that period. I thought I knew the person.

I saddled up Fargo and we went in search of Harmon. Harmon is a town character who beachcombs and sells driftwood and other artistic detritus that washes ashore—lobster pot markers, shell-encrusted old bottles, broken oars, etc.—to gift shops and arts and crafts stores.

But if he’d been looking for odds and ends, he would have been on the beach at or before dawn, not at this hour. Harmon also sometimes fills in as an extra hand on a fishing boat to bring in an additional bit of income. If that were so, you could easily spot his old rattletrap pickup, once red and now a delicate faded pink, parked on the wharf awaiting his return, so we checked the wharf . . . to no avail. He might be engaged in handyman work anywhere in town. I drove around the most logical spots, but struck out there, too.

Since it was near the noon hour, however, I figured the odds might be pretty good that Harmon could be found dining at the Wharf Rat Bar.

He and other not-fully-employed men-about-town made the Rat their personal club and “owned” the big round front table. There, they discussed
ad nauseum
the quotas on fish, the shortages of fish, the foreign trespassers upon fish and the cost of fuel for the boats to go looking for fish. Joe, the bartender, had dubbed them the “The Blues Brothers,” and Harmon had added the subject of drugs to their repertoire.

He was convinced our small town was the drug capital of the world and that giant international deals were consummated hourly on every corner, by a multitude of unlikely people. His list of suspects had included a visiting movie producer, a born-again preacher, a retired botany professor, an undertakers’ supply salesman and a Swedish hairdresser. Harmon protected us against them all, and drove my brother crazy with “reports.” Harmon, according to Sonny, had reported thirty-six of the last three drug sales in Provincetown.

So I parked, and Fargo and I walked down the alley to the Rat, where I secured him to a large anchor outside, with his choice of sun or shade, and entered the building.