Chapter Eight
Not many details to go on, right?
The person's build is similar to both Philip's and Hank's, but I don’t recall either of them wearing a cap. Means nothing. He could’ve put it on in the car.
I grab the pizza box and napkins and go inside before whoever it is sees me. I’m literally a target out here. I want to look out the bedroom window where I can’t be seen. I lock the door and get into place between the bed and the wall. This window overlooks the shore.
He’s making his way down the dock, walking slowly but with purpose. Unfortunately, all I get are glimpses as he passes in the narrow slice of space between boats tied up side-by-side along the dock. I get no further description of the guy. Could it be Philip or Hank returning? Yes, if one of them put on a hat. Or…it’s someone else altogether.
From my location, I hold my breath waiting for him to reach the houseboat, which is about two-thirds toward the end of the dock. The footsteps stop. Dead silence. A wave rocks the boat and I think for a moment, the man has stepped aboard. But no shadow appears. No person steps to the door. Then, my crazy-wild mind wonders if they’re placing a bomb or something. My heart’s beating like a hummingbird’s wings, overshadowing any sounds that might be coming from outdoors. I count off the seconds…ninety-eight, ninety-nine. One hundred. Not a sound has occurred. Not a shadow or movement. A couple of breaths rasp past my lips and I turn to peek out the window. Can’t see anything so I move a half-step, bend sideways. See nothing. Another half-step. Where is he?
Gradually I end up out on the deck, hiding behind a side panel. I see nothing of the man. Though I stare for what feels like hours, there is no motion except a rat or some kind of rodent slinking along the dock. I go back inside, locking the door, which I usually don’t do. Then I spend the rest of the night on my back, arms folded under my head, Diablo nestled beside me as we listen.
Monday morning
No sense lying here any longer. I get up and watch the sun rise. Well, I try but clouds still pepper the sky and obscure the appearance of the yellow ball until it clears the trees. I shower, feed the bird, clean up last night’s mess on the back deck, then head to town with Diablo on my shoulder. There is no sign of my nightly visitor. As we enter the main area of town, he crouches, gets a grip on my flesh, and takes off into the air. “Bring clues,” I call after him and receive the customary squawk. “Fine. Be that way.”
The plan for today is to stop in and see Anna so we can catch up on news. I bet she’s been doing some investigating on her own. Better yet, maybe she’s got an idea who might’ve been on my dock last night. Is there a chance the person’s appearance had nothing to do with me? Of course. But I want to cover every contingency.
First things first though. I pass Isaac’s shop, today intent on breakfast at Dannion’s bakery. I smell the Danish pastry as I turn the corner onto Main Street. I let my mind wander over the possible flavors he’s concocted today.
The place is steamy with heat and moisture from the ovens going nonstop this time of day. Fergus is in his usual spot at the back. He’s sagged over a cup of coffee, but looks up and smiles when I enter. Adonis-handsome Dannion pushes through the batwing doors wiping his hands on a towel looped through the ties of his apron. As usual this time of day, he’s covered in flour. There’s a spot of something black on his cheek that I hope is jam. I point to it and he grins. “Blackberry,” is all he says. He knows I like my coffee strong and black, so there needs to be no discussion on the topic. He gestures to a tray of the aforementioned pastry cooling on a counter. “Dark chocolate and mandarin orange with a touch of fresh basil.” He slides a large mug across the gleaming counter.
“Just what I’ve been craving,” I say and head over to take a seat at the table next to Fergus. He motions for me to join him so I do.
“I hear you’re on the warpath again,” he says with a sly tilt of his head. He’s got a scruff of beard and it makes scratchy sounds as he runs his hand across his chin.
“Warpath? Interesting choice of words.”
“I expected you’d be grinning from ear-to-ear this morning, delighted to have caught Nona Williamson’s killer.”
I definitely would have been happy about that. “Not yet. Sorry to disappoint you. Do you have any ideas?” I ask as Dannion arrives with my breakfast.
“Haven’t found the killer yet?” He holds up his wrist and looks at a non-existent watch, chuckling as he heads back to tend to a customer.
Is this the reaction I’ll get from everyone? Have I really gotten that much of a reputation? Will I be the butt of their jokes?
Fergus taps my wrist. “Earth to Joy. Coming in to land anytime soon?” He chin-motions toward the street. “Are you bothered by the comments?”
This makes me laugh out loud. I don’t care what any of them think. I just want to help out, and I tell him so.
He nods. “I know. Just pulling your chain. What can I do to help?”
“Tell me all you know about Nona.”
“You got something specific in mind?”
I counter with, “Do you know so much you don’t have time to tell me?”
“Love your sense of humor.” He takes a long drag from the mug, leans back and crosses his feet under the table.
Hmm, maybe it will be a long story.
“I remember when she came to town. She ruffled feathers right away when she tried to get the landlord to discount her rent because she was unemployed. That really takes balls.”
“Did the landlord do what she asked?”
“Hell no.” He catches himself and apologizes. I wave it off. “The landlord sent her away because, as he told me, ‘If I let her get away with it, you’ll all try.’”
“You know this man? You rent from him also?”
“It was the apartment next to mine she was trying to rent. I’ve been there thirty-something years.”
“Do you know anything about a car accident Nona was in three years ago? She would’ve been gone from Uncertain for several weeks.”
He shakes his head. Suddenly his face lights up. “Rumor said she’d gone away to either have a baby or an abortion.”
“Was she seeing anybody?” I ask this as a lead-in for the news I was told yesterday.
“I don’t think so. She’d only been in town a short time. If she was pregnant, it wasn’t by anyone here.”
“Has she been seeing anyone lately?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
I take a moment to eat, and think. So far he’s told only info I already know—except for the baby thing, which I am pretty sure was just gossip started by people with nothing better to do. How can I get to the nitty-gritty of her life? I guess, not by asking someone who only knew her in passing. I need to find someone who knew her deeply, and for a long time. Like her band-mates, comes the little voice in my head.
All at once, Fergus shocks me with, “She told me she was thinking of quitting the music business.”
This makes me frown. “When did she say that? I ask because right now she’s paying Whitney to do some serious renovations so she can record at home.”
“Yes. But that’s the thing. She wants to open a recording studio. You know, a place where other artists can come to record.”
Ooh. Interesting. “Did the guys know the plan?”
He smiles. “Oh yes. She told them. Actually, she said she offered them positions saying she thought they could make a lot better income without as much work as being on the road all the time, packing and unpacking equipment...”
“Seems like there would be a lot of benefits. Why weren’t they in favor of it?”
“You’ll have to ask them,” he says. “Nona told me they just came out and rejected the idea.”
“Both of them?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“So, if she followed through with her plans, it would leave Hank and Philip without a lead singer for Loco-Motion. I can see that being upsetting for them.”
“Don’t forget though,” he adds. “There are three sides to every story. It would be good to know what’s what.”
“Three sides? Oh yes, Nona’s, Hank’s, and Philip’s.”
Fergus purses his lips and picks up his coffee. “That would make four sides—hers, each of theirs, and what really happened.”
I don’t have to think long to get his point. We all see things through our own perspectives, our own set of senses. That’s why, when there’s been a horrible auto accident or a crime, authorities speak to everyone who witnessed it. Then they piece together the story the way it makes sense.
“So…” He waits till he’s got my full attention. “Whichever story is true, one way or another, each man has a solid motive to murder.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
I say goodbye to Dannion and Fergus and head over to see Merrick. I don’t really want to visit with Amanda right now; I want the conversation with my ghost to be completely private, so I let myself in the back door. Merrick’s not here. Why would he be when nobody’s here for him to talk to, visit with? He can’t exactly sit around waiting for someone to show up. After all, how many times a day can Amanda come looking to restock the shelves?
A surge of Merrick-guilt pushes through me, not only because I’m staying on the houseboat, but also because, every time a case wraps up, I leave to go on the road again.
I whisper his name. No response. I call him in my head. Soon there’s the pop-pop-a-pop-pop sound and the smiling spirit appears in the chair at the table.
You look exhausted.
I relate the events of the past twenty-four hours, ending with, “I’m getting so much conflicting information.” I tell him about the rumors of Nona’s pregnancy and how it differs with the news about an auto accident.
I don’t remember hearing anything about a car crash.
“It would’ve been in her home state.”
Yes, but you know how news travels. If she told only one person here in town…
“You’ve got a point.”
The info about the accident is kind of confirmed by Preston though. I tell him about the prescription for liver issues.
Is it possible the accident was concocted to cover an old drinking problem that escalated into cirrhosis? I ask because cirrhosis has a negative connotation that might affect the way people view her and the band. An accident would be a way to cover it up.
“I suppose that’s possible but do you think it can be related to her death?”
I do.
I wait but he doesn’t continue. “What makes you think that?”
It’s just a feeling. I’ll let you know if it gets more solid. For now, let’s play the What If game. What if she did have an abortion back then? Or a baby she gave up for adoption. What if the father found out?
“And came after her so many years later? I guess that could happen.”
Merrick’s face sags into sadness. It did happen just last month.
Best if we not talk about that.
You’re right.
“Stop reading my mind.”
He chuckles. It’s not always easy to tell the difference.
“You could watch to see if my lips are moving.”
Gee, he laughs, I never thought of that.
“Riiiight.”
I think the most important things right now are to find out—he holds up a finger—how she died. He holds up another finger—talk to the doctor. Another finger—and I think it’s pivotal to get into her place.
“That’s one item on the list. I want to find out how she lived, who she talked to—”
Whether she paid her bills.
I lift my chin, lips crinkled. Not sure how that might apply, but you never know. “Do you know any of her friends? Did she go to church? Participate in the weekly bingo tournament? Play pickle ball?
Pickle ball? His face is scrunched.
“Don’t ask. All I meant was we need to know everything she does. It could help make a list of possible murder suspects.”
Sad. He pops out, so I leave, through the front.