A Crabby Killer (5 page)

Zambuco rasied his voice and turned to face the whole diner to include them in his invitation. “I was hoping one of
you
could tell
me
that.”

“I know why,” Josie chimed in from the next table. Heads swiveled in her direction.

“Why?” Zambuco jiggled the cubes in his empty glass—an apparent signal to the waitress to get a refill.

Josie straightened her spine and primped her hair, obviously enjoying the attention. “He
was
looking to build condos on the Biddeford and Landry farms, but he also had another business venture that he was going to start right away. In fact, he'd just signed a longterm rental lease for the property.”

“What property is that?”

“The long dock at the end of the pier. He was going to open a tour boat charter. He said it was going to be so spectacular that it would put the other tour boat charters out of business.”

D
om leaned
his hip against his car in the
Chowders
parking lot. The sun had heated the metal and he could feel it burning through his pants. He shifted his weight away from the car as he watched a myriad of emotions travel across Claire’s face.

“You can’t mean that you think Mae or Tom did it?” she was saying.

Dom shook his head. He was well aware that the islanders stuck up for each other and he knew Claire would not accept them easily as suspects. The truth was, he didn’t really think they did it, either. He couldn’t tell if that was his investigator’s gut instinct or if he was becoming an ‘islander’ himself and adopting their protective nature for one another.

He cautioned himself to ignore any emotions or attachments he had to the suspects and go only on the physical evidence and clues. It was doubtful the senior citizens killed Blunt, but he’d seen people do much worse before, when their family heritage was threatened.

“I’m not saying I think they did it. I’m just saying they both have a motive. It’s just something we need to look into in order to make sure we do a thorough
and impartial
investigation,” he said.

“Right. Exactly.” Claire seemed mollified by his words. “I just wish we knew what the police knew.”

Dom whistled through his teeth. “No kidding. Maybe it’s time to pay Robby a visit. Do you think he would share anything with us?”

“I don’t know. He does kind of owe us after the last murder when we gave him credit for capturing the killer. But Zambuco will be mad if he finds out Robby shared evidence with us and I don’t want to jeopardize his job. Then again, an aunt does have a right to visit her favorite nephew any time she wants, doesn’t she?”

Dom laughed. “Of course. No one could blame her for that.”

They were silent for a few minutes, each turning over the news of Blunt’s real reason to be on the island in their minds. Dom listened to the sound of gravel crunching under tires as the last of the breakfast-goers pulled out of the lot. A movement by the window caught his eye. He looked up to see Sarah frowning out at them. She caught him looking and ducked back in.

Claire had noticed it, too. “Sarah seems awfully out of sorts. Is something wrong with her?”

Dom shrugged. "Maybe she’s mad because I told her the tiramisu needed more mascarpone.”

Dom had noticed Sarah seemed out of sorts, too, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with the mascarpone. He’d thought it had to do with the fight she’d had with Blunt. But apparently Sarah didn’t have ties to him or Zambuco would have mentioned it in the diner. Dom had to admit he was relieved that there were other suspects who were more interesting than Sarah. After all, all Sarah had done was argue with the guy—Mae, Tom, Donovan and Bob had much more compelling reasons to want Blunt dead.

But if Sarah didn’t know Blunt, why the argument? Maybe Blunt really did just go in there for pizza. It sounded like he was a jerk, so having a temper tantrum over not being able to get pizza might not be so far-fetched. And if that were the case, there was no reason to tell Claire about the argument he’d witnessed. When he was consulting for the police, he would never have kept something like that from his partner, even if the detail clearly had nothing to do with the case, like this one. He wasn’t consulting and Claire wasn’t his partner, but still, the pang of guilt gnawed at his stomach, threatening to spoil his breakfast.

“I also think we should research the victim,” Claire was saying. “He doesn’t sound like he was very nice. He may have made a lot of enemies and any one of them could’ve come to the island to do him in.”

“That’s a good idea. And I think we need to go back to the dock and talk to Donovan and Bob. Their businesses were threatened by his new business venture.”

“And Bob Cleary doesn’t have a very good alibi for that night. He was drunk in the bar by his own admission. He doesn’t even remember how we got home.”

Dom looked up at the clear, blue sky. The smell of home fries from breakfast still lingered in the air, even though it was mid-morning. “The charter boats will probably be out right now. I don’t think we’ll be able to catch Donovan or Bob, but maybe we can do something even better.”

“What’s that?”

“Find out what really happened in
Duffy's Tavern
that night.”

D
uffy’s Tavern
had been
a local watering hole for as long as Claire could remember. It sat on a side street, parallel to the pier, in an old, brick building with a large, iron-hinged oak door.

Claire was going to burst if she drank another cup of tea, but she ordered one anyway. It was too early for beer. She slid her small, square napkin around on the polished oak bar as she waited for the bartender, Emile, to pour the hot water into a mug. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the faint smell of bleach that wafted up from the smooth surface of the bar.

One small window in the front, home to a lone, wilting plant, let a shaft of light in which illuminated the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar in jewel tones of red, amber and blue. On a typical Saturday night, one would have to shout to be heard above the din, but at mid-morning on a Sunday, the tavern was pretty much empty. The only sounds came from old-timer Floyd Green who sat at the end of the bar with a newspaper spread out in front of him, cracking peanut shells and flipping the peanuts into his mouth in a rhythmic cadence. A tumbler filled with dark liquid, which Claire hoped was just cola, rested by his right hand.

“We were wondering if you saw Bob Cleary here Friday night,” Dom asked after Emile slid steaming mugs across the bar to both of them.

“Yeah. I remember Bob being here Friday night.” Emile worked a white bar cloth around the rim of a glass. He held the glass up to the light, squinted at it, then put it down and grabbed another. “I’ve never quite seen him like that before.”

“You mean drunk?” Claire asked.

Emile nodded. “Usually just comes in for a few beers.”

“How many drinks did he have?” Dom asked.

Emile stopped polishing and looked out at the room. “You know, I didn’t think he had that many, but I really wasn’t watching. It was busy in here with everyone winding down after a hard day of setting up the tents for the Crab Festival.”

“Bob said someone kept sending drinks over to him. Any idea who that was?” Claire asked.

Emile shook his head. “Like I said, I was too busy to pay attention.”

Dom took a cautious sip from his mug. “Do you know who Bob talked to that night?”

“Sure. He talked to lots of people—Donovan Hicks, Tom Landry, Gus Stevens, Larry Gorham.”

“How long did he stay?”

“A little past midnight, I think.”

“How’d he get home? Did he leave with someone?”

Emile twisted his face in thought. “I think Shane drove him. He was one of the few sober people in the bar.”

“Shane?” Dom’s bushy eyebrows dipped inwards. “You mean Shane McDonough, Sarah White’s boyfriend?”

“Yep.”

Claire slid a sideways glance at Dom. Did Dom think Shane was mixed up in this? “Was Bob angry? Did he get in a fight with anyone?”

Emile made a face. “Bob? No. You know how he is. Not much gets him riled up.”

“Maybe you were too busy to notice,” Dom suggested.

“It wasn’t Bob that got into it Friday night,” Floyd cut in.

Claire swiveled her head toward Floyd. “What do you mean? Did someone else get into a fight? Who?”

Floyd picked a peanut out of the shell, tilted his head back, tossed it into his mouth, then deposited the empty shell in a bowl. He rubbed his hands together and turned his attention back to Claire. “Yep. The ball game was on and everyone was getting a little worked up about it. We were having a good old time cussing out Jeter and the Yankees. Some outsider was sittin’ on the stool next to me and he got real worked up. I guess he doesn’t like them. Anyway, things were getting a little rowdy when that blond guy came in and really boiled the outsider over.”

“Outsider? Do you know who it was?” Claire asked.

“Some tall, lanky guy. Acted like he owned half the island, but I never saw him before.” Floyd started patting down the pockets in his fishing vest. “He gave me a card and I might have kept it. Or I might have tossed it. Tell the truth, he was a pompous bore so I had no reason to keep it.”

Claire slid a sideways glance at Dom. The description sounded like Blunt.

“Who was the blond guy?” Dom asked.

Floyd finished with his vest pockets, stood and started looking through his pants pockets. “Some guy staying over at the Gull View Inn. Darn tourists. Ruining the island, if you ask me. Don’t even know how to act civil in a bar.”

“So, what did they fight about?” Claire asked.

“I couldn’t hear all of it, but the blond guy, he was hot under the collar. He came over to the other guy and tapped him on the shoulder right after the game-winning home run.” Floyd pulled out his wallet and started removing things, placing each item one by one on the bar. Ticket stubs, pictures, a dollar bill, fishing line.

“Did they actually get into a fist fight?” Dom slid his eyes over to Emile, who shook his head.

“There wasn’t any fist fight, but I remember keeping my eye on the two of them just in case,” Emile said. “The young guy's body language suggested he might throw a punch, but he didn’t. It was a short exchange.”

“That’s right” Floyd said, his eyes on his wallet which he was still emptying onto the bar. “The older guy was acting all cocky and self-satisfied, almost as if he was challenging the younger guy. I remember the young guy said something about finishing off the job 'she' started and the older guy just started laughing. It wasn’t no pleasant-sounding laugh, either.”

“Then what happened?” Claire asked.

“The blond guy got all red in the face. I thought he was gonna haul off and hit the other guy, but he turned around and stomped out.” Floyd squinted at a thin card he’d taken out of his wallet. “Yep, here it is right here. This here’s the guy.”

He handed the card to Claire. Dom leaned in to look at it over her shoulder. Neither one of them were surprised to see it was the business card of Melvin Blunt.

D
om squinted
at the noon sun as they emerged from the dim bar.

“We need to find out who this blonde stranger is,” Claire said.

“And who the
she
he referred to
is
and
what she started.” Dom’s thoughts drifted to Mae Biddeford. She had motive—Blunt wanted to take her land
and
he played dirty, so he'd probably threatened her or pulled some shenanigans to get his way. But what could she have started that the stranger would finish? And how did Mae know the stranger? His words implied they had some sort of history. Dom thought Mae was a long shot. She would not have the physical strength to kill Blunt … unless, of course, she had a much younger and stronger accomplice.

“Boy, I’d feel a lot better if the killer was this stranger,” Claire said as they headed toward the dock.

Dom wanted to think it was the stranger, too. His earlier fears of Sarah being involved had resurfaced when Emile had mentioned that Shane was the only sober one in the bar and that he’d driven Bob home. Dom couldn’t figure out why that had blipped on his radar, though. Why did he think it unusual that Shane would be in the bar sober? He was probably just being paranoid. “Me, too, but we have to check all the suspects to be thorough.”

“I think we need to pay a visit to the Gull View Inn and see what we can find out about the stranger,” Claire said.

“I agree.” Dom craned his neck toward the end of the long dock where the tour boats parked. “But first we can question two of our other suspects. I think I see Donovan down there. Maybe he and Bob are in.”

They started down the dock. Dom noticed the wooden boards were unusually littered with bird poop and a strange, purple stain. “They need to clean this dock up.”

“Uh-huh.” Claire picked up the pace beside him. Dom could have sworn she was avoiding even looking at the dock. He shrugged and quickened his step to keep up with her.

Donovan’s fishing charter had just come in. On board, the deck hand was gutting and cleaning the morning’s catch of haddock. Dom was surprised at the way his stomach soured at the pungent, fishy smell. He’d smelled much worse at crime scenes, but the years away from the field had softened him. He took a deep breath as if taking in more of the fish smell could harden him back up.

Beside him, Claire seemed unaffected by the odor. “Hey, Donovan.” She waved at Donovan, who was just coming out of the pilot house.

Dom couldn’t help but glance at the twine net piled in the back of the boat. It was all blue.

Donovan came over to the boarding ramp and leaned against the boat railing. “You guys are back again? More questions?”

Dom shrugged sheepishly. “I guess so. We’re just trying to figure this thing out and we got some interesting information.”

“What’s that?”

The last customer squeezed by Donovan with his gutted fish in a plastic bag. Donovan, Dom and Claire moved out of the way while the deckhand started spraying down the boat. Donovan side-stepped so as not to get hit by the spray, but he was a little slow. The deck hand grimaced as the spray splashed Donovan’s scuffed boat shoes and the bottom of his tan Dockers, wetting the bottom inch and soaking into a faint grease smudge on the inside cuff.

“Sorry, boss,” the deckhand said.

Donovan laughed it off and waved to the deck hand to continue. “No worries. They need to be cleaned anyway.” He turned to Dom and Claire. “You wouldn’t believe how much time I spend doing laundry. Now, what were you saying about something interesting?”

“Oh, right,” Dom continued, watching Donovan’s face carefully. “We heard the murder victim, Milton Blunt, was going to open a tour boat business just like yours.”

Donovan studied the deck of his boat, then his eyes drifted across the long planks of the dock to where Barnacle Bob’s boats bobbed up and down. “So, that’s why he was so upset.”

“He?” Claire asked. “You mean Bob Cleary? What makes you say he was upset.”

Donovan snapped his attention back to Claire. “Oh, nothing. I mean, I knew he was out of sorts because of the divorce and all, and he did mention something about another boat cruise outfit the other night, but I thought he was just babbling. So, that was true? Someone really is going to start another boat charter?”

“Was,” Dom said. “According to Josie, Blunt signed papers to rent the long dock just the other day.”

“Well, I’ll be. I guess Molly must have known about it, seeing as she works with Josie. Maybe that’s how Bob found out.”

“Maybe.” Dom studied Donovan. “You didn’t know about it, then?”

Donovan shook his head. “No.”

“You were at Duffy’s Friday night, right?” Claire asked.

“Yep.”

“Did you notice Blunt there having words with anyone?”

Donovan’s face turned sheepish. “I can’t say that I did. I have to admit I had a bit too much to drink.”

Dom’s brow drifted up. “Really? Were you drinking with Bob?”

Donovan shook his head. “No. We aren’t that good friends. But I saw him there. He was feeling pretty good himself.”

“Did you see who was buying Bob drinks or notice when he left?”

Donovan’s brow creased. “Buying him drinks? I wouldn’t know about that, but I think he was still there when I left at around ten.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“No. Like I said, I had a few too many and I didn’t want to drive. I live on the other side of town. So I walked to my sister Sally’s over on Packard Road. It’s only a mile or so. I stayed there overnight. She doesn’t mind me sleeping on the couch, but I won’t do that again.”

“Why not?”

Donovan grinned. “I woke up to my nephew Jonathan jumping up and down on the couch to get me up. Not what you want when you’ve been drinking. Sally did make me breakfast, though, so I guess I can’t complain.”

“Did you notice Blunt arguing with a stranger?”

Donovan’s cheek moved in and out while he thought about the question. “I didn’t pay much attention to Blunt and the bar was full. Lots of strangers were in there. The Crab Festival brings them in. Why do you ask? You think this stranger killed Blunt?”

“Maybe. We’re just trying to cover all the angles.” Dom’s attention moved across the dock to Barnacle Bob’s fleet. “Do you now if Bob Cleary is around?”

Donovan looked at his watch. “No, his charter doesn’t come in for another hour.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we can talk to him later, then.” Dom raised a brow at Claire in an unspoken question as to whether she had anything else to ask.

“Nice talking to you, Donovan.” Apparently she was done questioning him, too, because she turned and led the way down the dock.

“That wasn’t all that informative,” she said once they were out of hearing distance.

“I don’t know about that. I found it interesting that Bob knew about Blunt's boat charter venture. He had to know that would impact his business and that gives him a motive.”

“True, but if he was as stumbling drunk as he said he was, I doubt he had the ability to strangle Blunt and dump him in the pot,” Claire pointed out.

“Sure, but maybe he wasn’t as drunk as everyone says.”

“Like the Beauchamp case.” Claire referred to one of their cases in Boston where the killer had gone to great pains to put on a show of how wasted he was at a party so that later on everyone would testify that he wouldn’t have been physically able to murder someone.

Dom thought it was a long shot, but everything had to be considered. “No one saw who was buying him drinks. Maybe he made that up to make it
seem
like he drank a lot and didn’t realize it. It’s easy enough to act drunk in a bar full of people drinking.”

Claire gnawed her bottom lip. “Emile said Shane drove Bob home. Maybe he noticed something. But I hate to think that was the case. I just kind of assumed Blunt pissed someone off and was killed on the spur of the moment.”

“But if Bob faked being drunk so he could give himself an alibi, that means Blunt’s death was premeditated murder.”