Beach Town Trouble (A Port Grace Cozy Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

“
S
o that’s
the witch’s house, huh?” said Ryan, stepping out of Georgia’s Rolls-Royce.

“Yep.”

“Appropriately spooky,” said Ryan with approval. “The dead tree is a nice touch. You think she has a pet vulture that lives in it?”

“Knock it off,” said Georgia with a laugh.

“What do you call a pet vulture?” said Ryan. “It would have to be something sort of spooky. You couldn’t really call it Cupcake.”

“How about ugly beyond belief?” said Georgia. “Those bald, red heads gross me out.”

“Hey, you could call it Curly!” said Ryan.

Georgia threw him a narrow-eyed look.

“You know, like the Three Stooges,” said Ryan. “You get it? Because vultures are bald; Curly is bald.”

“I get it,” said Georgia. “I’m just wondering why we’re still talking about this.”

“Well, I’m asking her what she calls her vulture,” said Ryan with a smirk.

“You do that,” said Georgia, rolling her eyes as she knocked on the door.

After a full minute had passed with no answer, Georgia knocked again and put her ear to the door.

“I don’t think she’s home,” she said, her shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“Does she have a garage? Or does she ride a broom?” said Ryan.

Georgia smacked him on the shoulder and said, “Why don’t you go find out, Sherlock?”

Georgia waited on the porch while Ryan went around the back of the house.

“There’s no car in the garage,” he said when he returned. “She’s not here.”

Georgia sighed and looked up at the clouds. “I don’t have time for this. My client is getting antsy. I had to tell him about the murder. If I can’t resolve this fast, or if Matthew can’t find a house that equals Skimmerhorn’s, the client’s going to pull out. We need the business right now more than ever. The branch is still recovering from the damage Bruce Fowler did.”

Ryan pulled a small, black leather case out of his pocket and got down on one knee in front of the door.

“Uh, what are you doing?” said Georgia.

“Dashing P.I. Ryan Yates at your service, doll face,” said Ryan, unzipping the little case to reveal a collection of thin, silver tools.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s a lock picking kit, then yes.”

“We can’t!” said Georgia.

“We need to find evidence,” said Ryan. “The cops aren’t helping. It’s time for some P.I. work.”

“I did some P.I. work with you a few times, and we never broke into a house,” said Georgia.

“Yeah, well, I knew you’d react like this,” said Ryan with a shrug, inserting two tools into the key hole.

“Ryan! Cut it out! That’s illegal.”

“No one will ever know. Calm down. We’ll get in, look around, hopefully find something useful, and get out.”

“We won’t even be able to use anything we find. We can’t go up to Crimbleton and say, ‘Hey, look what we found when we broke into Camila’s house.’”

“That’s why we use what we find as a starting place to legally find some evidence we can turn in to the police,” said Ryan. “Or, you know, we lie.”

There was a click, and Ryan turned the knob. The door opened, and Ryan got to his feet with a cocky smile.

“Ladies first,” he said.

Georgia stared at the open door. Her conscience was screaming at her not to do it, but there was another voice in her head that asked,
If you don’t, who’s going to investigate? What if the killer gets away with it?

Georgia walked straight and steady through the door.

“Breaking the law, breaking the law,” Ryan sang under his breath, earning himself another whack to the shoulder.

The house had a sharp, medicinal smell that stung Georgia’s nose. The black curtains on the windows blocked out the bright sun, darkening the home’s earthy-toned furniture even more. Georgia flipped on a light and saw that the couch and even the kitchen chairs were draped with shawls and scarves in rich, dark colors like burgundy, hunter green, and navy. The kitchen counter was covered with plants—in bundles, in bowls, and in vases.

“Where do we even look?” said Georgia.

“Let’s see if she has an office,” said Ryan. “She probably does if she sells the stuff she makes. We want file cabinets, somewhere she would keep documents or even personal letters. If she has a computer, that’s even better, but at her age, I doubt it.”

They found a small office upstairs, though it was unlike any office Georgia had seen. There was no desk, just a big, brown comfy chair with an ottoman, all draped in dark red scarves. A large window overlooked the garden. The room was overtaken by stacks upon stacks of papers.

“How on earth are we going to sift through all this before she gets home?” said Georgia, her fingertips pressed to her temples.

Ryan put his hands on his hips and blew air in a heavy puff from his mouth. “No idea.”

Georgia knelt down to examine the closest paper pile. It was a jumbled mix of what appeared to be Camila’s personal ramblings, some recipes, and bills.

“Okay, maybe we should get out of here and regroup,” said Ryan, examining another stack. “I don’t know what to make of any of this.”

“I agree. Let’s go.”

They made their way back downstairs and toward the door, but this time, they cut through the kitchen. Something caught Georgia’s eye. There was a red light blinking in the middle of a bundle of herbs. Georgia moved the bundle aside to unearth a telephone. The voicemail light was flashing.

“Go on, press it,” said Ryan at Georgia’s shoulder, startling her.

She pressed the button, and the automated voice announced that the message was from four days ago, the day before Tim’s murder. When the automatic voice clicked off, a man’s voice immediately started yelling out of the machine. Judging by the way the voice cracked in its fury, Georgia instantly knew it was an old man. The exact identity was easy enough to figure out.

“You crazy old bat!” Tim Skimmerhorn’s ghost yelled through the phone speaker. “What have I told you about meddling in my affairs? My son is none of your concern! That’s right, I know you’ve been talking to him. I know everything, Camila, so you’d do best to keep to your rain dances and your potion cooking and steer clear of me and my son! Don’t forget who paid for that dump of a house of yours. I can take it away just as easily! You watch me!”

The automated voice announced that was the end of the message and asked if they would like to save or delete it. Georgia, slack-jawed, pressed save.

“Geez, he’s a winner,” said Ryan. “Did you know he had a son?”

“No,” said Georgia. “Chief Crimbleton has some explaining to do.”

“So, to the station I take it?”

“Yep.”

Georgia drove in silence, fuming, the whole way to the station. Why had Crimbleton not notified Tim’s son of his death or asked him any questions? And if she had, why had she left Georgia out of the loop when she had said she appreciated any help she could get? A son could create a whole other suspect. A son would most likely inherit everything the old millionaire had.

When they pulled into the station’s lot, Georgia got out without waiting for Ryan and busted through the front door without stopping. Deputies Rutherford and Peak looked up in surprise, both with donut crumbs from the large box between them stuck in their large mustaches. Georgia ignored them and opened Crimbleton’s office door without knocking.

“Why didn’t you tell me Tim Skimmerhorn had a son?” she said before Crimbleton could do anything but look up from the report she was reading.

“It’s rude to barge in on someone like that, dear,” said Crimbleton, folding her hands calmly on top of her desk.

Georgia eyed her angrily and said, “Well?”

“Tim doesn’t have a son,” said Crimbleton. “He never married, much less had children. Who told you he had a son?”

“I h—”

Georgia bit her lip. She had almost revealed that she’d heard it on an answering machine in a house she’d broken into.

“I…it was a…”

“An anonymous source,” said Ryan, appearing in the doorway. “We’ve been doing some digging around town since you don’t seem interested in following Georgia’s leads.”

Crimbleton’s lips pursed in a stern look as she turned to Ryan.

“And who might you be, coming in here and telling me how to run my investigation?”

“I’m Ryan Yates, a New York private investigator and a friend of Georgia’s,” said Ryan, unfazed by Crimbleton’s look. “We are just trying to help. You’ve never worked a murder before. I’ve worked over thirty. You need me, whether you like it or not.”

Crimbleton unfolded her hands and leaned back in her chair.

“All right,” she said. “Who’s this source?”

“The point of an anonymous source is that they only give information if they can remain anonymous,” said Ryan. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal the name. However, with your police resources, you can verify whether Mr. Skimmerhorn has a secret son out of wedlock rather easily. If our source is wrong, we’ll butt out of your investigation and let you put down the poor dog without a fight.”

Georgia threw Ryan an alarmed look, but he gave her a nod of reassurance.

“All right, deal,” said Crimbleton. “I’ll make some calls.”

G
eorgia sipped
her champagne and kicked off her shoes as she and Ryan swung back and forth in the large, white wicker swing in the bed and breakfast’s garden.

“Nice out here, isn’t it?” said Ryan.

“Mm-hmm,” said Georgia absently.

She was working through something, thinking back to Camila’s house.

“You know how I told you that Camila knew Crimbleton and I were there about her brother?” she said, planting her feet so that the swing stopped.

“Yeah.”

“What if Crimbleton was half right, and Camila just assumed it was about Tim because of that nasty message he left her?” said Georgia. “We came knocking the day after he left it, so maybe she assumed Tim had sent the cops after her again.”

“Maybe,” said Ryan, “but don’t discount her as a suspect just yet. It’s just as likely that she knew why you were there because she murdered him herself.”

“I’m not discounting her; she has tons of motive,” said Georgia. “I’m just sort of thinking out loud, trying to look at every angle.”

“And that’s good detective work,” said Ryan with a smile. “So let me do a little thinking with you. She saved the message, right? Even after you and Crimbleton told her that her brother was dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Now, it could just be that she forgot to delete it. She is a little senile. But, it could also be that that message is what gave her the courage to finally stick up for herself and go confront Tim. She may not have meant to kill him. Maybe she feels guilty. Maybe she’s keeping that message to remind herself why she did it, to convince herself it was the right thing to do.”

“Wow. I never would have thought of that,” said Georgia.

“Well, it is my chosen career, you know, to think up these things and prove them right,” said Ryan, tugging at the lapels of his trench coat.

“And you’re a regular star,” said Georgia with a wink.

Their eyes locked, and Georgia felt a little flutter in her stomach. Ryan’s face was vulnerable as he said, “Georgia, I—”

Georgia’s phone rang, but she almost wished it hadn’t. She held it in her hand and looked at Ryan apologetically.

“It’s Crimbleton,” she said.

“Go ahead,” said Ryan.

Georgia took the call.

“I don’t know how, but you two were right,” said Crimbleton on the other end of the line.

Georgia gave Ryan a thumbs up and said, “Maybe next time you won’t doubt us.”

“Guess not,” said Crimbleton. “We dug up a birth certificate for a Tim Jr. Our Tim is listed as his father, but the kid took his mother’s last name: Shaw. He was born in Massachusetts. I checked around, and it seems Tim Sr. did a lot of business up there in the two years before Timmy Jr. was born. His mother, Olivia, and Tim Sr. were never married that I could find, but looking at Mr. Skimmerhorn’s old bank statements shows that he put a monthly amount of a few thousand dollars in an account in Tim Jr.’s name for eighteen years.”

“So that’s why nobody around here knew he had a kid,” said Georgia.

“Accept for that anonymous source you and your friend found,” said Crimbleton.

“Uh, right,” said Georgia, mentally smacking herself. “Does he still live in Massachusetts?”

“No. He’s been living in Hamilton Bay for about five years now,” said Crimbleton. “That’s about two hours away from here. I’ve just got off the phone with him. I asked him in to answer some questions. Figured you’d want that, though I don’t see how he could have done it if he wasn’t even here.”

“We can’t know for sure he wasn’t,” said Georgia. Two hours wasn’t too much of a drive. “Thank you, Chief. I appreciate it.”

“He’ll be here tomorrow. I’ll call you when he gets in.”

“Thanks again, Chief.”

“Sounds like good news,” said Ryan when Georgia hung up.

“Yeah. They found the son.”

Before she could elaborate, her phone rang again. It was Julie.

“Hey, sis. Is everything alright? Did the computer get fixed?”

“Oh, yeah. Cooper was a big help,” said Julie. “Turns out Mittens just turned the monitor off. That’s why I couldn’t see anything on the screen. Nothing got deleted, although she did type a line of Qs into a document.”

“Wow,” said Georgia, chuckling. “I’m glad everything’s fine.”

“Cooper’s a saint. We’re at lunch right now actually. He says he’s been assigned to watch out for me.”

“Is that okay?”

“Definitely. He’s a doll. I get why you like him so much.”

“Julie, quit it.”

“Everything okay at the office?” Ryan asked.

“Was that Ryan?” said Julie, her voice playful. “Is he there with you? He always did come running when you called.”

“Ryan’s there?” said Cooper in the background.

“Oh boy,” said Georgia.

T
he next morning
at a lunch meeting with Matthew, Georgia got a call from Crimbleton saying that Tim Jr. would arrive within the hour.

She and Ryan arrived at the station before him and took seats in the station’s small waiting room that was really just a row of uncomfortable chairs lined up against the wall.

Both Rutherford and Peak eyed Georgia and Ryan with not-to-subtle looks of distaste. Georgia imagined they didn’t like being replaced.

“I think you’ll be happy to know that I’ve asked animal control to release Cupcake for now,” said Crimbleton, coming out of her office to greet them.

“Really?” said Georgia.

“Yep. You’ve proven you know what you’re doing, so if you don’t think Cupcake did it, then I’ll play along. He’ll be coming to stay here until we get it all worked out, though. Maybe, in the meantime, I could train him a little bit.”

“Thank you,” said Georgia.

“Sure. He’ll be here shortly, actually, and it looks like our guest, Mr. Timmy Jr., just pulled up,” said Crimbleton, squinting out the window. “Get a load of that car.”

Georgia and Ryan watched out the window as Tim Jr. stepped out of a candy apple red Chevy Camaro that looked like he’d just driven it off the lot. He was tall, thin, and wearing a navy blue, tailored suit. His hair was like spun gold. He had a shadow of dark blond stubble on his jaw, and he looked to be in his late forties.

“Mr. Shaw,” said Crimbleton, holding out a hand to him when he came through the door, “thank you for coming down on such short notice. And I’m sorry again to have had to inform you of your father’s death, especially so late. I would have contacted you immediately if I had known Mr. Skimmerhorn had a son.”

“Please, Chief, there’s no need to apologize, and you can call me Tim.” He shook her hand with a morose downturn to his mouth and said, “I still can’t believe he’s dead. I never felt like I fully knew him, and now he’s gone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Crimbleton. “If you’ll just come back into this room with me, we can get this over with as quickly as possible.”

Tim followed Crimbleton to the door of the interrogation room but turned around curiously when he noticed Georgia and Ryan following them.

“Oh, these are some…consultants I’ve hired: Miss Mason and Mr. Yates,” said Crimbleton. “We don’t get many murders around here, and I want to make sure that if what happened to your father was murder that we solve it quickly.”

“You really think it could be murder?” said Tim, his brow wrinkled in concern.

“There are some circumstances that point to it, yes,” said Crimbleton, opening the door. “I’m sorry to make you come into the interrogation room. It’s not very accommodating, but with such a small station, this really is the best place to conduct any sort of interview.”

“I understand,” said Tim Jr.

The room consisted only of a metal desk and three chairs, but the walls were at least painted a dark blue. Georgia and Crimbleton took the two chairs opposite the one Tim Jr. sat in, and Ryan stood behind them.

“I wouldn’t be all that surprised if you are right about my father being murdered,” said Tim before anyone else could speak.

“Why is that?” said Crimbleton.

“You said you knew him a little, Chief. You should know he had a temper. He didn’t really trust anybody, not even me. In trying to protect himself from others, he made a lot of enemies. His business was cut throat, and he had to adapt, but I’m afraid that as he grew older, it took a piece of his mind.”

“How well did you know your father?” said Georgia.

“Not as well as I would have liked. When I was young, he visited a lot because he was doing business up in Massachusetts. He was pretty normal back then, a little strict, I guess, but normal. I always looked forward to his visits.

“After I was about ten, he started showing up less and less. We grew apart during my teenage years and hardly had any contact in my twenties. In my early thirties, I got back in touch with him, but he was different. He accused me of only getting in touch because I wanted something out of him. It took me forever to convince him otherwise, and even up until he died, we only ever saw each other at Christmas, but we did talk on the phone every now and then.

“I talked to him just a few days ago, actually. You know, he actually came as close as he’s ever come to saying he was proud of me.” Tim Jr.’s voice wavered a little, and he drew in a slow breath. “He’s always been hard on me, but I thought maybe, in his old age, he was finally coming around.”

“In what way was he hard on you?” said Georgia.

“Now, Miss Mason, that’s a rather personal question,” said Crimbleton. “I don’t see why he needs to answer that.”

“Please answer the question, Mr. Shaw,” said Ryan. “It just gives us a better idea of your relationship. It’s all standard procedure in a case like this. We have to look at every angle. You understand.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tim. “He never approved of how I used the money he left me.”

“What did you do with the money?” said Crimbleton, trying to take back the authority of the room.

“My father left me with a trust, a rather stingy one in comparison to what he had, but a trust nonetheless,” said Tim, and Georgia did not like the bitterness in his voice.

He seemed so put together and genuinely upset about his father’s murder, and yet, in that moment, Georgia had detected the hint of a spoiled brat peeking out behind the polished business man’s face. Still, she could not totally blame him for feeling some left over bitterness toward an absent father.

“I’ve always had good investment judgement,” said Tim. “It comes naturally to me, I guess. I invested everything my father left me in that trust, and I made a fortune of my own. But was my father proud of me?” Tim chuckled cynically. “He disapproved of the fact that I don’t have to work. ‘A man learns to be a man through the sweat of his brow, Timmy.’ That’s the first thing he said when I told him. I guess it makes sense; he was a self-made man. But what he couldn’t understand was that I am too, just in a different way.”

Georgia resisted the urge to point out that Tim Jr. started out with a large sum of trust money that he merely turned into a larger sum, which hardly made him self-made.

“He brought it up every time we talked,” said Tim. “When he was in a mood, he called me lazy and foolish and an embarrassment. On a good day, he just told me to start my own business with the money.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shaw,” said Crimbleton. “Now, I just have one more question that I have to ask as part of standard procedure. Where were you on the morning of your father’s murder?”

“I was at home in Hamilton Bay,” said Tim. “I’ve only been here in Windy Cove maybe three times in my life. Normally, my father came to me when we met face to face.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shaw,” said Crimbleton. “That’s all we need to know for now. You’re free to go.”

“Mr. Shaw,” said Ryan, as Tim Jr. rose from his chair, “you will be staying to make arrangements for your father’s funeral and affairs, I presume?”

“Yes, of course. My aunt is a little…”

“We’ve met her,” said Georgia.

“Then you know it’s best if I took over.”

Crimbleton opened the door for all of them.

“Looks like Cupcake arrived while we were talking,” said Georgia, going over to the large pen set up for the Rottweiler, crammed against Peak’s desk.

“He nearly made a break for it when the animal control guys put him in there,” said Peak, eyeing the dog with distaste.

“Why on earth didn’t you just leave him with animal control?” said Tim Jr.

Georgia took note of Tim Jr.’s suddenly pale skin and the fact that his hands were clenched into fists.

“You don’t like Cupcake, I take it,” she said.

“Who does?” said Tim Jr. “He’s a menace. In fact, he’s my dog now. I want him put down immediately.”

Georgia clenched her jaw.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Crimbleton. “Until the estate is settled, he’s still your father’s dog, and he’s a suspect. I think he may have accidentally knocked your father off the cliff when he jumped up on him. Until the matter is resolved, he will remain in my custody.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did do it,” said Tim. “I would be sort of poetic, really. My father coddled that silly beast; he let
it
do whatever it wanted. He loved it more than anyone or anything else. I’d rather not stand around looking at it. I need to be on my way.”

Georgia, Ryan, and the cops watched him go and rev up his flashy car.

“I think we’d best be going, too, Chief,” said Georgia. “Thank you for letting us listen in.”

“Don’t think it did much good, but you’re welcome,” said Crimbleton.

“She’s right, you know,” said Ryan, when they were in Georgia’s car. “Tim Jr.’s relationship with his father was strained to say the least, but what would his motive be? He has a fortune of his own, so it can’t be money. He didn’t know Tim Sr. well enough to really hold a grudge befitting of murder, like Camila. They didn’t interact enough. Animosity usually stems from proximity.”

“I guess, but since when do you take everything a suspect says at face value?” said Georgia.

“Good point,” said Ryan. “Hey, pull over here.”

Ryan tapped on his window at a widened part of the shoulder used for sight-seeing. The area overlooked a section of public beach. Georgia pulled over.

“Why are we stopping here?” she said.

“Let’s continue our discussion during a walk on the beach,” said Ryan. “It’s a great day for it.”

Georgia couldn’t disagree. The sun was bright and warm, but a calm breeze eased some of the heat. The sky was nearly cloudless, and the waves were a gorgeous royal blue.

“How do we get down there?” said Georgia, eyeing the guardrail and the hill leading down to the beach.

“We hop the railing.”

“I’m wearing heels, Ryan.”

“Take them off. Don’t you always keep a pair of comfy shoes in your trunk?”

Georgia smiled. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a natural observer, especially when it comes to people I care about.”

He said it casually, but Georgia didn’t miss the sideways glance he shot her way as he undid his seat belt.

“All right, I’m game,” she said.

Georgia retrieved her pair of flip flops from the trunk, and Ryan helped her over the guardrail. The walk down to the beach was steep, and her flip flops wanted to slide out from under her, but Ryan kept a steady grip around her waist.

“So I take it you don’t trust Tim Jr.,” said Ryan once they had both removed their shoes and had sand between their toes.

“I don’t know,” said Georgia. “I just got a feeling he was hiding something. I think maybe it was just that he’s a little more spoiled than he lets on. He comes across as this refined man of wealth, but it seemed like there was a petty little boy underneath it.

“I mean, did you hear him snivel about the money his father left him not being much? Thousands of dollars every month over eighteen years really adds up, especially in a trust. Then, when he was talking about how his dad let Cupcake do anything he wanted, implying that
he
couldn’t do anything he wanted, it just sounded really whiny. And why so much animosity toward poor Cupcake? He basically sentenced him to death.”

“Yeah. He’s definitely got more severe daddy issues than he tried to let on,” said Ryan. “He’s probably just jealous of Cupcake getting all the attention when he only gets a visit once a year and some phone calls. Still, if he craved his dad’s attention and had money of his own, killing Tim Sr. doesn’t seem logical.”

“You’re right. Camila is still our best bet.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, taking in the day. Then Ryan slowed his pace.

“How are things with you and Chief Harris?” he said, his eyes fixed on the sand.

“Cooper? He’s great. He’s a gentleman, and he is always genuinely interested in what I have to say. He makes me feel…respected.”

“So, things are serious between you?”

“I wouldn’t say that. We go out every now and then and have a good time, but there isn’t any sort of commitment yet.”

“Oh,” said Ryan. “So, do you think there’s somebody who’s a better match for you? Someone you could commit to?”

Georgia stopped, and Ryan peeled his eyes up from the sand to look at her sheepishly.

“Ryan,” said Georgia, “I know things have been hard since you and Sam split. I think maybe you’ve latched onto this idea of the two of us being together because of what she said when she broke it off about you putting other things…me…first. But she was wrong. You don’t put me first. You just came when I really needed you. That’s friendship. I don’t want to mess up that friendship, Ryan. I care about you. I really do, but you have to let go of this idea of me running back to New York to start a relationship with you. That’s not what I want right now. Okay?”

Ryan looked stunned and hurt, as if she’d slapped him, but only for a moment. He cleared his throat and then gave her a lopsided smile and a shrug.

“Yeah, sure. You’re right. We’re too good of friends to be anything else.”