Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (13 page)

“He’ll take mine.” Grant’s voice hardened. “Tell him Grant Huffman is on the line.”

The ME didn’t sound happy when he picked up. He sounded even less happy when Grant told him why he called. “We never lost a body. Michael Terry is in cold chamber 52. He will be released on your order when the hearse arrives.” His voice was cold enough to frost glass.

Grant’s voice matched the ME’s. His tone demanded an explanation, his words stopped just short.

The man blustered for a few moments. Then, in a defeated voice, he said, “Someone transposed the chamber numbers when they entered them into the record. Purely an accident. We discovered the transposition almost immediately this morning.”

He paused for a beat or two. I could practically see the man chewing his fingernails. “My assistant was supposed to call you. Unfortunately, the young man you spoke to didn’t bother to check the refrigerator room or call someone more experienced. Instead, he called his brother. Who happens to be a stringer for the local news station.”

Grant winced at the words and expressed sympathy. Tension broken, the two men arranged for Mike’s release in the morning.

Conversation over, he looked at me. “Go home, Kent. It’s been a bad day.”

I stayed seated. “The woman who answered the phone. Did that voice sound familiar to you?”

He shrugged in reply. Now that the crisis passed, he wasn’t interested in pursuing the whys and wherefores. The voice bothered me. If I figured out the
who, I might understand the why.

I listened with half an ear as Grant called the funeral director and finalized the arrangements. My ears perked up when he told the undertaker there would be no family viewing and hung up the phone.

“Dana’s not going to the funeral home?”

He shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips. “No. She doesn’t want cremation. She prefers burial. We discussed the subject rather heatedly.”

Puzzled, I walked toward the door. Dana loved her son. I couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t want to say goodbye. Grant’s voice sounded wistful as he continued, “She said she couldn’t stand the thought of his being burned again. She doesn’t want anything to do with it.”

It made sense. I ached for her, understanding she was powerless to change his final decisions.

I made it to the front door before I remembered the owner of the voice on the morgue phone. I turned and marched back to Grant’s office.

“The woman who answered the phone before. When you called the morgue. It was Lisa Freeman. Why did she try to stonewall you?”

His expression told me he wasn’t interested in pursuing the matter. Given the restraining order, I couldn’t question her. Grant didn’t know anything about that yet.

He must have seen something in my face. He took his pen between both hands and rolled it a few times. Then he said, “She’s the ME’s assistant. She works there.” He sighed as if he didn’t want to have this conversation. “She wanted him buried and not cremated.”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline. Grant discussed what to do with the body with Lisa? When did he meet her?

“She and Dana were both insistent on that.” Grant’s voice held an unfamiliar hardness.

Twenty-Two

I drove home through the drenching rain. By now patches of deep puddles covered most of the roadway. My thoughts tried to put Dana and Lisa in the same room. From all accounts, neither liked the other. Dana thought Mike’s girlfriend was a gold digger.

It took me almost an hour to make the twenty-minute trip to my door. This time, I backed into the driveway. Even with my hood up, rain beat against my face. I raced for my door.

Tiger waited to greet me. I petted him and put some food in his bowl while I debated calling Dana. As much as I longed for the comfort of her voice, she didn’t need to know her son’s body had been misplaced. The story was too fresh in my mind, and I feared I might blurt it out. Instead, I headed for a hot shower. Dressed in my warmest flannel pajamas I microwaved a cup of hot cocoa and dialed Janice. She could answer my questions about morgue protocol before my imagination ran too far away. The call went to her voicemail. I hoped she wasn’t on the water tonight. The windblown rain beating against my windows meant that conditions at sea would be awful. The clock read seven when I crawled into bed. I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep last night and I was determined to make up for it tonight.

I slept deeply, but woke to bright sunlight feeling less than refreshed. The storm ended sometime in the night, leaving behind icy cold air. I waited until the last moment to get out of bed and into the shower. Something nagged at me. Fragments of dreams about the Terry case clawed at the edges of my brain. I hadn’t followed up on Devon’s comments about the insurance or anything else. In fact, I hadn’t even told Grant about the restraining order. The loose ends bothered me.

I dressed in a pair of brown wool blend trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a heathered brown wool sweater over the shirt. Miraculously, my car was fog free, so I didn’t even stop to wipe down the windows—a rare winter treat. I drove to work happy that the puddles had all dried up.

Ruth sat at her desk when I arrived. She greeted me with a quick smile.

“Did you make it home all right?” I asked. “Took me an hour. I was worried about you.”

She rolled her chair back a bit from the desk. “It was a nightmare. But I made it ahead of Public Works. The truck with the barricades drove up right behind me.” Her phone buzzed; she glanced at the caller ID screen and said, “Grant’s in his office, and all is right in his world.” Then she touched a button on her headset and greeted the caller.

I gave her a finger flutter wave and headed for the hallway. Still carrying my handbag and briefcase, I tapped on Grant’s door.

The difference in him was remarkable. Concern filled his face when he saw me still carrying my briefcase. “Something happen?”

I shook my head and set the briefcase down. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Terry case before I got lost in the day. I’m confused about the insurance. Why would his boss keep paying a policy on his life?”

The leather of Grant’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “I wondered the same thing. So I checked the documents. Terry left us a copy of the worker’s comp settlement. The employer paid the policy for five years as part of the deal.”

My brain worked. Mike’s accident took place more than five years ago, closer to seven if I remembered correctly. “So the agreement expired?”

“For the subsidized insurance, yes. The Marital Settlement Agreement required he replace the insurance with a like amount if the policy canceled. That must have been what Devon meant.”

My booted left foot rose and rubbed the back of my right calf. I stopped as soon as I saw Grant’s stare. “Any way we can find out if Mike did that?”

“Check the corporate papers he left with us. Maybe there’s something in there.”

Recognizing my dismissal in his tone, I stood and walked to the door. I turned before I trod halfway and faced the desk. “Grant,” I began, feeling my way for the right words. He glanced up, a hint of impatience in his face. “Devon and Mike cut Jake out of the salvage permit.” I raised my hand to stop the question forming on his lips. “Devon told me. He also told me he thought he and Jake owned the bar together.”

“So?”

“That’s not how the salvage permit reads. Or the will.”

“Same question. What’s the point?”

“Well, Devon had the means to murder Mike. He didn’t have motive, not if he stood to share in the bounty of the treasure.”

Grant’s face softened. “Call the State. They should have the databases for the salvage permit and the liquor license updated by now.” He paused. “Are you so sure Mike was murdered? Mike was an unhappy man in pain with a lot to lose. I know you promised Dana to look into his death, and she hates the idea of suicide, but you need to keep an open mind.”

On my way to my office, I stopped at a bank of file cabinets and removed the Terry file. Once in my office, I pulled the drapes wide and opened the blinds. I needed natural light to work. Artificial helped, but I wanted sun. The bright blue sky made a perfect backdrop. I sat and opened the file, flipping rapidly through the pages. A loud clap of thunder startled me. Clear air thunder happened in the Keys, but it wasn’t common and it was always disorienting.

At the sound, my hand hit the file and it fell to the floor. The unsecured papers scattered everywhere. Scowling at the window, I knelt and started to gather the pages. The one on top bore the heading “Employee Benefits.” I scooped it up and scanned it.

My heart leapt with excitement. The document held the details of the policy Devon told me about. I quickly gathered the rest of the papers that made up that particular package and raced to Grant’s office. Just as I reached up to tap on the closed door, it opened. A man I recognized as a process server gave me a friendly smile as he walked past me.

Without preamble or greeting, I burst into the room. “Look,” I said. “Mike did replace the insurance policy. He rolled it over from…”

Grant stood at his desk scowling. His face stopped me midsentence. My stomach tightened. Did he get served with something about me? Grant’s hand trembled when he gave me the papers he held. I took them in my free hand and looked down, expecting to see a copy of my restraining order.

I read the caption on the document I held in my hand. “Lisa Freeman v. Estate of Michael Terry. Complaint for Construction of Will.” The document put everything in perspective. Lisa didn’t fear Hayden Kent. That wasn’t why she got the restraining order. She feared what she might slip and tell me. Lisa was starting a will contest. The complaint was the first salvo fired.

Twenty-Three

My mouth opened to say something to Grant about the complaint. Instead, the story of the restraining order tumbled out. I expected him to tell me to turn the estate over to someone else. He responded by picking up the phone and dialing.

“Judge, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I have a few questions about a restraining order against my paralegal, Hayden Kent.”

My face heated with embarrassment as I listened to Grant’s side of the conversation. After a few minutes, he hung up and smiled.

“Judge Rodriguez entered the order ex parte because Lisa said she felt threatened that you went to her house and her child was present.”

I knew that ex parte meant without anyone else being present to argue. Restraining orders didn’t need a hearing or argument to obtain. That came later. “But…”

Grant raised a hand. “Pete Rodriguez has known me all my life,” I finished on a whisper.

“Because of that, he asked Officer Barton to do some investigating into the incident. She found nothing to substantiate Lisa’s stalking claim, so the Judge called Lisa, who admitted she never saw you at her house before, and you left when she asked you to.” He rolled back his chair. “The Judge is vacating the order.”

Grant came around the desk and pulled me into a quick hug. “Don’t worry. Go back to your office and work on strategy for the complaint.”

His embrace warmed me all the way back to my desk. Before I started on the complaint, I called the court and asked for the underlying affidavit for the restraining order. The Judge’s judicial assistant promised to scan it to me.

A slight throbbing started in my head. I rubbed my forehead and turned my attention to the complaint.

Lisa’s suit didn’t want the will interpreted. It wanted the will we filed overturned and the second will, the one Buddy deposited, declared valid. I flipped to the last page. Buddy signed as attorney. No surprise there, but that didn’t explain how Lisa learned the details of the first will.

Thinking our transmittal letter sending the will to Mike might hold a clue, I pulled it up on my computer. Grant signed the letter on the thirteenth. The same day Dana found Mike’s body. The address read a post office box. Damn. Lisa probably picked up the mail, opened the lawyer’s letter, and read the documents.

I rocked back in my chair. Except it didn’t explain why Mike signed a second will or why Kristin filed for part of the salvage claim the day Mike died. Bad timing seemed to dog the woman. Or bad luck. With Mike dead, would we ever be certain?

I calendared the response date for the complaint and created a new file for the action. Files on other matters covered my desk and I needed to get to them. With a sigh, I pulled another probate file toward me and started work on the documents.

It was impossible to concentrate. My thoughts kept returning to the complaint. If I was honest with myself, I had to admit that I wanted the handwritten will found valid too. To salve my conscience, I did a quick search of case law. There were a lot of cases about testator intent, but nothing about timing. The light pouring through the windows glared on the computer screen. In response, I got up and closed the curtains.

“In a funk?”

Startled, I looked over my shoulder. Grant stood in the doorway holding two sandwiches wrapped in Subway wrappers.

“Now that you scared me out of my funk—I’m fine. Is that food I see?”

He entered and kicked the door closed behind him. I pulled paper plates, packaged eating utensils, and a stack of napkins from my credenza drawer and two bottles of cold water from the little refrigerator in the other side. “
Semper Paratus
,” I said.

“Always ready? Are you telling me you’re joining the Coast Guard?”

I laughed a belly laugh. It had become a joke between us ever since I’d been the subject of a Coast Guard investigation because of a body I’d found during a dive.

“Yeah, is that good news or bad?”

“Depends. Will you still teach me to dive?”

We hadn’t been on his boat lately and lessons lagged. Partly because of the winter weather and poor diving conditions for newbie divers, and partly because I was still doing the two steps back, one step forward dance about our relationship. To buy time before I responded, I unwrapped and bit into the sub.

“Veggie, no dressing. Your favorite.”

My smile curled around the edges of the nine-grain roll as I took another bite.

Our conversation flowed comfortably on non-work subjects while we ate. Grant gathered up our plates, napkins, and spent water bottles and set them on the little table in the corner to deal with the washing and recycling later. Then he returned to his seat and cleared his throat. “I made some calls. Mike never changed the corporate records or the liquor license.”

My heart deflated a little. Part of me wanted to keep the discussion light and personal. I wasn’t ready to give up my Grant for boss Grant. Before I felt too bad, I realized his return to business was actually a relief. I tabled the thought to look at later. The last thing I wanted was more conflict in my life. “Maybe he didn’t have time. We don’t have the name of his corporate attorney.”

“Buddy.”

His answer almost pulled me out of my seat. “You can’t be serious. When I saw him, he acted like he never met Mike.”

“Well, it’s possible he didn’t know him, but Buddy’s the registered agent on the corporate documents filed with the State.” He pursed his lips as if he tasted something sour. “When did the insurance policy change?”

I paged through some papers in the file. “December fifteenth.”

He shot me a sharp look. “Filed?”

I pawed a few more pages, found one with an insurance company stamp, and nodded. “When did the corporate records get filed?”

“January second.”

Grant and I glanced at each other. “That was before the argument over Dana,” I muttered.

He nodded. “I still don’t agree that Mike was murdered, but we need to find out who gave Buddy the will.”

“Do you think it’s tied to The Petard?”

“Don’t know, but someone thought of Buddy first. Had to be a reason for that.”

“What about Lisa?” I got up, walked around the desk, and leaned over Grant. My hand rested on his shoulder. I let myself enjoy the contact while I glanced at the pages of corporate documents he held in his hand. “Nothing here about her being an officer.”

I returned to my seat, keyed in the corporate records site, and scanned the newest annual report for the officer information. “Lisa’s not listed here either, but I see the change of registered agent.”

Grant’s hands pressed down on the arms of the chair as he stood. “I’ll call Buddy.”

My eyebrows flew to my hairline. Grant offered to call Buddy, opposing counsel. Now? The same day we got the complaint? Reading my expression, he chuckled.

“About the corporate records. No matter what, I’m the Personal Representative once the court enters either will. I’ll need to wrap up the estate’s interest.”

Wordlessly, I touched in the numbers and handed him the phone. A million thoughts tumbled through my mind as Grant went through the ritual of small talk. He glanced at me and nodded after he asked Buddy for the corporate records. He concluded the call and handed me back the phone. “Easy peasy,” he said. He doesn’t have much, just the corporate book. He’s sending us a copy.” He dusted his hands together and left my office.

My head spun. I put it down on the desk and closed my eyes. Lights indicating the onset of a migraine danced behind my closed eyelids. I raised my head and fished in my handbag for one of my sublingual lozenges. I tucked the pill under my tongue and waited. Ten minutes later the blue and purple zigzags resolved to the edge of my vision. I buzzed Grant and told him I was going home because of the migraine. He offered to take me, but I wanted my car. So far, I felt okay. Either the medication would work, or the pain would hit in about a half hour. That gave me time to drive home. If this kept up, Grant was going to think I was a part-time employee. Good thing he knew he could depend on me to work long hours when the workload required it.

I called a hasty farewell to Ruth as I passed through the lobby. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Kristin seated in the waiting room, magazine in hand. Surprise made me pause in mid-stride and consider returning to my desk. A zigzag of migraine-induced ribbon danced in front of my vision. Nope, I was heading home.

Bad migraines brought visual problems. I drove through the tourist-congested streets as quickly as I dared. Every now and again, a flash of zigzag interrupted my sight, but so far, nothing inverted or, worse, went missing from my vision.

I pulled into my street and up onto my driveway. The zigzags abated and almost disappeared by the time I locked the car, ran to the house, unlocked the front door, and keyed in the alarm code. Then I threw myself on the couch, letting the cool leather soothe the tense muscles on the back of my neck. It was always like this. The waiting for the migraine was almost worse than the migraine itself.

Tiger jumped on me. I kicked off my shoes and let my heavy eyelids close. Dreams of Dana swirled in my sleep.

I woke at sunset without pain, but couldn’t shake thoughts of Dana. I picked up my phone and called her. It went to voicemail. Feeling guilty that I’d neglected her this weekend, I abandoned my plans for a soup supper and decided to drive over and take her out for dinner if she was home. If she was out, then I’d stop off at the Iron Kettle for a homemade soup takeout.

Stars twinkled overhead as I pulled up in front of Dana’s house. Two cars occupied the parking pad under the residence. Dana’s and one I didn’t recognize. Lights blazed through the floor-to-ceiling glass panes. A tremor of concern coursed through me. On tiptoe, I mounted the steps outside the house to the catwalk. The view through the slider framed Dana sitting bolt upright at her dining room table. She stared into the kitchen and looked terrified. I dropped to a low crouch and slowly and carefully crept toward the front door.

Something was wrong. Knocking was out of the question. I picked up the dolphin statue on the walkway and slid out the key it concealed. The well-oiled lock turned without a sound.

A shot rang out. Dana’s scream pierced my ears.

Throwing caution to the wind, I tucked myself into a small ball and rolled into the room.

A baby’s wail, loud and insistent, added to the cacophony, and then faded away.

From my prone position, I stared at Dana. Why hadn’t she moved? Her face, now turned toward the hall that led to the guest rooms, contorted in a rictus of fear. The wall behind her held a small hole. She screamed again. My fingers fumbled in the pouch at my side. I managed to get my phone free and press 911 and the green call button. The dispatcher’s voice sounded loud in the silence that followed the screams.

I whispered the address, my voice shaking and uncertain.

A woman’s voice from the kitchen shouted, “You parasitic bitch. It’s not yours.” Another shot. This one sounded like a cannon. Chips flew from the wall behind Dana. This time the hole that opened was closer to her head. A dusting of something white now decorated her shoulders. Whoever fired improved the aim with each shot. The baby’s cry cut the air again, this time not stopping.

I left the phone on the floor and executed a flying leap toward Dana, grabbing her as I soared through the air. My arms wrapped around her shoulders and my momentum pulled us both to the floor. She was attached to the chair with duct tape. “Get the baby,” she screamed in my ear as another shot blasted the air.

Time expanded and contracted in the way that only happens in a crisis. Seconds, minutes, or hours later, footsteps pounded up the concrete stairs. Kristin Terry came out from behind the kitchen support pillar, gun in her hands, at the same time two green-clad deputies, each staring down the barrel of his weapon, burst through the door shouting, “Police!”