Killer Crab Cakes (14 page)

“Good morning,” Consuela said. She smiled as she nodded toward the various pots and pans on the stove. “They may not eat it, but I’m going to fix it anyway. That way the choice is up to them.”

Phyllis knew who Consuela was talking about: the guests who were still sleeping upstairs. Phyllis admired Consuela’s determination and said, “If those wonderful aromas don’t make them change their minds, then I don’t know what in the world could. Everything smells delicious.”

The decanter on the coffeemaker was full. Phyllis poured herself a cup and asked, “Am I the first one up?”

“You’re the only one I’ve seen so far.” Consuela paused, then asked with a worried frown, “You and Mr. Fletcher have to go to the police station this morning, right?”

“I suppose so.” Phyllis sipped her coffee. “I hope by the time we get there they’ll have solved Mr. McKenna’s murder . . . or decided that it was an accident after all, even though I don’t hold out much hope for that.”

“I know they’re gonna call Tom in,” Consuela said with a sigh. “I’m surprised they haven’t already done it, since Chief Clifton knows about him doing time in Huntsville.”

“Maybe Chief Clifton has already decided that Tom couldn’t be guilty. I suppose you’ve told him about it?”

“Tom?” Consuela nodded. “I told him right away, so he’d know to expect trouble.”

“But he hasn’t even been here at the house since he got back in from the oil rig this time, has he?” Phyllis asked. “You said he was going to do the yard work today.”

Consuela didn’t answer, just stood there slowly stirring something that was simmering in a pot.

Phyllis frowned. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Tom
has
been here since he got back?”

Consuela grimaced, clearly not wanting to answer Phyllis’s question and yet unwilling to lie about it. “Night before last,” she finally said. “I went off and forgot my purse, so I sent him back over here to get it. I told him to just let himself in the back door, get the purse out of the cabinet, and not to bother anybody.”

“I never even knew he was here,” Phyllis said.

“Well, he probably didn’t turn on any lights. He knows his way around this house pretty good.”

He ought to, Phyllis thought, since he handled all the maintenance work on the place. What Consuela was telling her now meant that Tom Anselmo had had the opportunity to poison those leftover crab cakes.

But he’d had absolutely no reason to do anything like that, as far as Phyllis could see. Tom probably remembered Ed McKenna from McKenna’s past visits, but Tom hadn’t even been in town for the first part of McKenna’s stay this time.

Unless Tom had been waiting to commit murder ever since McKenna’s visit the previous year, and that seemed too far-fetched for Phyllis to give the idea any credence at all.

Would the police believe that it was equally far-fetched, though? Or would they think that given Tom’s criminal history, his presence on the scene automatically made him the strongest suspect?

“You won’t tell the cops what I just told you, will you, Mrs. Newsom?” Consuela asked.

Phyllis didn’t know what to say, and her silence was all the answer Consuela needed. The woman’s shoulders slumped.

“Ah,
Dios mio
,” she said. “How could I even ask such a thing of you? Of course you have to tell the police the truth. Anyway, it’s not gonna matter. They’ll ask Tom himself as soon as they get around to questioning him, and he’ll tell them. He’s too proud to lie. I’m betting that’ll be sooner rather than later.”

“I’m sure everything will work out all right, Consuela,” Phyllis said, trying to make her tone as comforting as possible. “We just have to wait and see what happens.”

Consuela nodded. After a moment of silence, Phyllis went on. “I’m going to step out onto the porch and watch the sun rise.”

“Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“I won’t be gone long.”

Pink streamers of clouds floated low over the water as Phyllis went out onto the porch carrying her coffee. The sun was still below the horizon, though it would be peeping into view any minute now. Sunrise was close enough so that a vast pink-and-gold arch had already formed in the sky, heralding its arrival. Just like the day before, nature was rewarding early risers with a glimpse of breathtaking beauty.

But not everything was like it had been the day before, Phyllis reflected.

Yesterday at this time, Ed McKenna had still been alive, even though the poison was already working in his body.

Life drew sharp dividing lines. The birth of a child, the death of a loved one . . . any birth and any death, really . . . and nothing was ever exactly the same afterward as it had been before. What was, could never be again. Sometimes the change was for the better, but even in those instances, Phyllis reflected, for every gain there was a loss, and that was sad somehow.

There ought to be a way to go back, if only for a moment, and reach out to touch the past. To feel her husband’s hand in hers, to hear the sound of her son’s laugh when he was a baby and feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Memories were all well and good . . . in the end they were all anyone had, after all, and they had to suffice . . . but as the days of her life grew shorter, what Phyllis would have given to be able to hold all the things that were gone. If she could only do that, she might not ever let them go.

She wasn’t aware that her shoulders were shaking with sobs until Sam’s hands rested on them lightly. She turned, coffee sloshing out of the cup and splashing on the porch as she did so, and went into his arms. She pressed her face against his chest.

“Whoa there,” he said. She felt him take the cup out of her hand; then he put both arms around her and held her. “I don’t know what’s wrong, Phyllis, but there’s no need to cry. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

“You . . . you don’t
know
that.”

“Well . . . no, I reckon I don’t. But I can hope.” He kept his left arm around her and lifted his right hand to the back of her head. He stroked her hair and went on, “I’ve already had more luck than I ever figured I would again. I hate to think what my life would’ve been like if Dolly Williamson hadn’t told me about that room you had for rent. I never would’ve met you and Carolyn and Eve, never would’ve had all the good times we’ve had—”

“They haven’t all been good.”

“Maybe not. But a heck of a lot more good than bad, I’d say. And the bad times . . . well, the way I look at it, they’re just the price we’ve got to pay for the good ones.”

Phyllis shook her head. “No. The price for life is death.” She looked up at him. “My God, Sam, you and I both know that as well as anyone. You lost your wife. I lost my husband. Those McKennas, as horrible as they seemed to us, they lost their father. Nothing will ever be the same for them again.”

“Maybe that’s the way one of ’em wanted it,” Sam said, his jaw tightening. “Sounded like they had some grudges against the old man.”

“But surely they wouldn’t have . . . wouldn’t have killed him.” Even after all the things she had seen in her life, Phyllis could barely conceive of such a thing. “Anyway, they couldn’t have poisoned those crab cakes. They were in San Antonio.”

“They said they were, anyway.”

Phyllis used the back of her hand to wipe away the tears that lingered on her face. Sam had a point there, and she was grateful to him for distracting her from the gloomy mood that had seized her for a moment.

All three of the McKenna siblings had been in San Antonio yesterday morning, because they had driven down here together after the police notified them of their father’s death. But Alamo City was close enough so that any of them could have driven to Fulton the night before, gotten into the bed-and-breakfast somehow, and poisoned the crab cakes, then driven home to wait for the fateful call from the police the next morning.

That was crazy, Phyllis told herself as soon as those thoughts went through her head. The idea had so many holes in it, it wasn’t even funny. For one of the McKenna siblings to be the killer, he or she would have had to get in and out of the house without leaving any sign and would have had to know that the crab cakes would be wrapped up and sitting in the refrigerator, waiting for Ed McKenna to have them for breakfast. Phyllis just couldn’t make herself believe it.

But she couldn’t ignore the theory entirely, she realized. She didn’t know what Oscar, Oliver, and Frances were capable of. Maybe one of them knew how to pick locks. Maybe Ed McKenna had talked to one of his children on the phone that night and mentioned the crab cakes he planned to eat the next morning. As nutty as it seemed to Phyllis, things
could
have happened that way.

And one thing was certain, at least according to statistics: You were a lot more likely to be murdered by a family member than by a stranger, and while Tom and Consuela and their girls weren’t exactly strangers to Ed McKenna, they weren’t nearly as close to him as his children were. None of the Anselmos had a motive, but Oscar McKenna might hate his father for giving him power in the company and then snatching it away. Oliver and Frances might have equally powerful reasons for wanting their father dead. The more Phyllis thought it, the more intrigued she was by the idea.

Feeling better now, she picked up the coffee cup from the porch railing where Sam had put it. She used her other hand to squeeze his arm and said, “Let’s go have some breakfast. We have to talk to the police this morning, so we should probably have a good meal first.”

“In case they lock us up and put us on bread and water?” he asked with a grin.

“Don’t even joke about it,” Phyllis said. Food was serious business.

Not as serious as murder, of course . . .

 

They had brought Phyllis’s Lincoln and Sam’s pickup on the trip down from Weatherford, loading most of their bags in the back of the pickup. They took the pickup this morning, Sam following Fulton Beach Road as it twisted its way along the shore of the bay. As was true the overwhelming majority of the time, a wind was blowing in from the water, keeping the humidity high but maintaining pleasant temperatures as well. That near-constant wind was what had caused the trees along the shore to grow in bizarre shapes that leaned sharply inland.

Though Rockport and Fulton had a thriving fishing industry, both towns relied heavily on tourism as well. As they drove along the beach road, Phyllis and Sam passed numerous places for tourists to stay, ranging from small, independently owned motels and cabins to old-fashioned motor courts that dated from the forties to fancy, sprawling resorts that looked like they had been built within the past few years. The resorts catered to a very wealthy clientele, judging by the luxury vehicles in the parking lots.

“If this is the slow time of year, the folks who own these places must be makin’ money hand over fist durin’ the summer,” Sam commented.

“That’s the way Nick made it sound,” Phyllis agreed. “This is one of the biggest growth areas along the coast. Maybe
the
biggest.”

“I’ll bet the folks who live here year-round miss it bein’ the way it used to be. They can’t be happy about all the traffic and the crowds.” Sam rasped a thumbnail along his jaw. “Reckon they’re probably pretty happy about all the money the tourists bring in, though.”

“I’d say you’re right about that.”

They reached the municipal complex a few minutes later and found a parking place without any trouble. The rest of Rockport and Fulton might be crowded, but the police station, fire station, and city hall weren’t. When Phyllis and Sam went inside, the dispatcher on duty directed them to the office of Assistant Chief Abby Clifton.

“I think she’s waitin’ for y’all, honey,” the woman said. “Just knock and go right on in. We don’t stand much on ceremony around here.”

Phyllis had spent enough time in the police station and sheriff’s office in Weatherford in recent years so that she wasn’t as uncomfortable about being here as some civilians might have been. The same was true of Sam, she supposed, or maybe it was just the fact that he was one of those men who was comfortable wherever he happened to be.

They went down the hall to Abby Clifton’s office and found the young woman sitting in front of her computer. The monitor was turned so that Phyllis couldn’t see the screen, and even though she was curious, she didn’t think Abby would appreciate it if she leaned over the desk to take a look.

Abby smiled at them and said, “Mrs. Newsom, Mr. Fletcher. Please have a seat and I’ll be right with you.” She clicked the mouse a couple of times as Phyllis and Sam sat down, then turned away from the computer. “Thank you for coming in like this.”

“We’re glad to help,” Phyllis said. “I want this matter cleared up as quickly as possible.”

Abby nodded. “So that it doesn’t damage the reputation of your cousin’s business too much, I’d expect.”

“That’s right.”

“Having guests drop dead can’t be very good for a bed-and-breakfast. That’s one reason right there to think that you didn’t have anything to do with Mr. McKenna’s death.”

That was pretty blunt of her, Phyllis thought, but undoubtedly true.

Abby went on, “Then there’s the fact that you and your friends didn’t even know Ed McKenna until you got here a few days ago. I suppose a motive for murder could have developed in that amount of time, but it seems unlikely.”

“We appreciate you givin’ us the benefit of the doubt,” Sam said.

“Just trying to be reasonable about things,” Abby said. She opened a desk drawer, reached inside, and took a small digital recorder. As she placed it on the desk, she continued. “What I’d like for the two of you to do is simply tell me in your own words what happened yesterday morning. Include everything that you can remember, up until the time that the police arrived on the scene. I’m going to record your statements, and then they’ll be transcribed so that you can sign them. Does that sound agreeable to both of you?”