The Clam Bake Murder: A Windward Bay Mystery (3 page)

“Would you like a Cepacol, Deputy Kramer?” I asked.

“No thanks. I had a couple before I came out. It’s just a summer cold, I reckon. I’ll be all right.”

“You look like you should be at home in bed.”

“I wish.”

Mattson declined a glass of lemonade, then leaned forward, perched on the very edge of the sofa. “I’m afraid we have some bad news, Sylvia. It’s about your cousin, Alice McNair.”

“What’s...happened?” I think a part of me already knew the answer to that question, had considered it ever since Alice had described her life with Gordo. The breath in my lungs froze, and I went pale. There was just something inevitable about where a situation like theirs would lead. What the outcome had to be. I just wasn’t remotely prepared to face it.

“I’m sorry to tell you—she’s dead. Her body was found in the bay a few hours ago.”

The words pierced deeply and icily. Hearing them from the lips of the Chief of Police suddenly made the news feel too real and unreal at the same time, like the time Uncle Sean had told us his cancer was inoperable, that the time he had left was shorter than a baseball season.

“But...but I was with her yesterday. At the clam bake. We drank appletinis together.”

Kramer sneezed, then apologized for the timing.

“We’re trying to piece together everything that happened from that point on,” Mattson explained. “Specifically, what caused the fight between her husband and Ray Moreno. And where everyone went afterwards. Is there anything you can tell us, Sylvia? Please, take your time. I know how hard this is.”

Mentally rewinding the series of events at the Cache found way too many gaps. We’d been idiots, Alice and me. We’d gotten drunk, we’d said and done idiot things, and somewhere in there Ray, another idiot, had appeared, which had prompted Gordo, arguably the biggest idiot of us all, to fly off the handle. But I decided to water it down for my official statement. “Alice and Ray had words, I remember that. A lot of that stuff goes a long way back, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”

“When you say they had words, what prompted it? Who triggered the argument?”

“I honestly can’t remember. But I think, no, I’m pretty sure, Alice was shooting her mouth off—that’s what got Ray annoyed. And it just snowballed from there. The next thing, Gordo chinned Ray, and the two of them went at it.”

“So Gordo attacked Ray?”

“Yes, he struck the first blow. I guess we should have seen it coming.”

The Chief tilted his head to one side. “Why do you say that? Did Ray and Gordo know each other?”

“Um, not that I know of. I mean they must have been aware of each other, through Alice. But I don’t think they’d ever actually met, not properly.”

“Then why should you have seen it coming?” asked Kramer.

“Well, because of Gordo. What he was like.”

“How do you mean?”

I scrambled to get it all straight in my mind: the bits and pieces Alice had spilled, the gaps my intuition had filled in, the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to answer these questions in her own words. It was up to me to speak for her.

“Based on what she told me yesterday—and she only hinted, mind—I think Gordo has been an abusive husband. I think he’s controlled her, manipulated her, and I think he drove her nearly out of her mind. That’s why I started us on the appletinis. She was so uptight and scared of what he’d say, I had to get her loose. I had to remind her what the old Alice used to be like. And for a while there, we
were
those kids again. I’m glad about that. I’m glad she got to experience that before...yeah.

“But it only emphasised how much she’d changed since she’d married Gordo. I’m telling you, it was tough to recognise her, and I’m her cousin.”

The two officers were very thorough, very patient with their questions, and didn’t leave till they were satisfied I’d told them everything I could remember. On their way out, they promised to be in touch. But I realised they hadn’t told me much of anything, and damn it, Alice
was
my cousin. “So you have Gordo in custody, right?”

“Actually, no. I should have mentioned that,” replied Mattson. “He’s missing. We have an APB out on him. But if he should contact you, for whatever reason, ring my office right away. Is that okay, Sylvia?”

“That part is, Chief. But I’d like a little more information before you go. I felt Alice was reaching out to me at the clam bake, in her own troubled way, and I want to do everything I can to help with the case. She would want me to.”

Mattson shook his head emphatically. “Not a good idea. With Gordo McNair being such a big shot, the State Police will want to get involved if he doesn’t show up soon. And maybe the FBI. Things are liable to get a little crazy round Windward. My advice is to sit tight and wait this thing out. We’ll let you know if anything new develops.”

I’d already made my mind up
not
to sit this out in any way, shape or form, but he meant business. I wasn’t about to argue. “Does it look like a straightforward drowning?” I asked. “Or was she killed some other way and then put into the water?” They both glared at me like I was peeing on their lawn. “It’s a simple question,” I added. “And I have a right to know. She’s family.”

“The investigation’s only just started,” Deputy Kramer reminded me with a sincere enough smile. “When we know, you’ll know, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Chief Mattson asked.

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind, I’d like Deputy Langdale to pay me a visit. Will you ask him to come round when he’s next available? It’s important.”

“He’s going to be tied up for a while with the case,” Kramer said.

“This evening, then, when he’s off duty.”

“I don’t know if that’s—”

His boss cut in, “But we’ll pass the message on. You can count on that.”

“Appreciate it.”

When they’d gone, the first thing I did was ring Gabe to tell him what had happened, and that I wouldn’t be coming into work for the next few days. It was true I was in shock, and needed some time for myself; but what I intended to do with that time was not quite what Gabe or the officers had in mind.

To hell with Mattson, to hell with Kramer, and to hell with the FBI. Until I was satisfied, until I knew beyond doubt what had happened to Alice and why, I would turn Windward Bay upside down and make no apology for it.

That was
my
promise.

###

A good place to start, I felt, was to gather a little more background information on Gordo McNair. He was clearly the number one suspect—the jealous, controlling husband who’d flown off the handle at the clam bake—but I knew precious little about him. He’d provoked the ire of some of Windward’s oldest, most provincial residents in the past, though, with his ambitious condo land-grab that had been summarily (and with extreme prejudice) overruled by the Town Select Committee.

The number one head honcho on that committee was Delano Brady, a prissy, tough-on-crime but easy-on-the-dime kind of official. He had a complexion so ruddy you worried his heart would go ker-plooey at any moment, yet he’d been that way ever since I’d known him—all my life. He also had the most immaculate silver comb-over, with strands so stiff and perfectly placed they might even be glued down. His house was only a few hundred yards from Alice’s; he’d known Uncle Sean quite well, the two of them being fishing buddies back in the day.

“Sylvia Blalock, what can I do for you? I heard about poor Alice, and I’m sorry. Won’t you come on in?”

I’d caught him in the middle of erecting a new display feature for his numerous pool and billiards trophies. And I recalled my dad had beaten him in a semi-final one time; not just beaten, hammered. I’d always liked that fact. It was fun to best a politician.

“You’ve probably heard that Gordo McNair has gone missing,” I said.

“I have heard that. He’s only tightening his own noose, running like that. They’ll get him eventually.”

“Let’s hope so. In the meantime, I’m going to do everything I can to help. For Alice.”

“Good for you, Sylvia. And I’m glad to help in any way
I
can, of course.” He started for the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Soda?”

“I wouldn’t mind a soda.”

He returned with two Sarsaparillas—a drink I hadn’t had since the last time I’d been here with Alice and Uncle Sean, so long ago I couldn’t remember anything else about the visit except that the Sarsaparilla had been equally as chilled and sparkly back then. It had tasted just as good, too.

“So what would you like to know...about Gordo McNair?” he asked.

“Whatever you can tell me. He was a pariah around Windward several years back. What was he like back then? You investigated his background, right?”

“Well, we ran an investigation into his previous real estate ventures, spoke to clients he’d dealt with, other investors. We concluded that he was above board as a businessman, beyond reproach legally speaking. But he was a...how would one say it...” He sipped his soda, looked to the fizz for inspiration “...a bit of a rodeo rider in the real estate market. High risk ventures, gutsy investments, and he came on strong, full of bravado, that can-do attitude that never fails to impress the wide-eyed and the quick-buck audience. But it was clear he didn’t have much stamina as a businessman. Almost every project he’d tried had hit a snag early on, and rather than stay for the long haul, try to weather it, he’d pulled out. That pretty much typified him as far as the Select Committee was concerned: tough out of the gate, but just you wait. He’d have dug up half of Windward to build his condos, then at the first financial hurdle, he’d have left us high and dry. All legal-like, abiding by his contract and his clauses. But Windward would have been just as a dug up, unfinished,
used
.

“And to be honest, I didn’t like him personally. He seemed so...single-minded. Not much of a sense of humor. What young Alice ever saw in him is beyond me. Maybe it was the out-of-town thing, the rancher thing; girls seem to go for that kind of cowboy bravado. I’m glad you’ve got more sense, Sylvia. I think you’re more like your Uncle Sean was—true to your roots.”

“Maybe. Back to the condo venture: has there ever been any talk of him re-applying for permission? Like recently?”

He looked out the front window, swilled the drink in his mouth, and swallowed. “What was that? Re-apply?”

“Has Gordo re-applied for building permission?”

“Um, as a matter of fact, there was something mentioned...”

“About the condos?”

He excused himself while he leant past me to brush a few stray wood shavings into the waste basket. He’d always been fussy like that. I glimpsed an unusual gum wrapper in the trash, one with orange and silver stripes. “Not sure if it was condos or not,” he said. “But Melissa Briggs said a land developer had been in touch with her—someone from Elysium Homes—asking about official channels, who the best person to speak to was. She gave him my number, but I haven’t heard from him.”

“Was that recent?”

“About a week ago, I’d say. Is any of this connected to what happened to Alice?”

“Not sure. I’m just trying to get a background picture. It does strike me as odd that after all these years...”

His grip tightened, squeaked on his moist glass. “Yes, it does seem strange. A week before Gordo returns to Windward.”

I thanked him for his time and the Sarsaparilla, told him I’d be in touch if I found out anything more about Gordo. Then I decided to drive to Melissa Briggs’s place on the other side of town, hoping she might be able to shed some light on the mysterious land developer’s inquiry. The timing of it seemed a little too coincidental.

On the way, I spotted Arlene Moreno, Ray’s mother, marching past the playground of John Paul Jones Elementary wearing tight leggings, high heels, and a green Vikings jersey. So I pulled in, scurried after her, tried my best to get her to stop so I could have a word.

“Gonna have to walk with me, sweetheart,” she said. “I ain’t slowin’ down for no one. Those sumbitches, they got my Ray locked up, sayin’ he’s a suspect in your cousin’s murder. I aim to knock some sense into their dumb frickin’ heads. Ray told me what happened, what that psycho husband of hers done at the clam bake. He started it, right? The fightin’?”

“Gordo started the fight, yes.”

“Then he’s the one with murder’s rage in him, not my Ray. My Ray was with his friends all night—just ask em, any of em—then he come straight home, like he always done. Blows my mind they’d stoop to holdin’ him even a second with that psycho husband of hers on the run. Anyone with even half a tank of gas upstairs must see it for what it is. In case they can’t catch him that’s done it, they need a scapegoat. Even if he’s innocent. I seen it before. We all seen it before. Those sumbitch cops, they don’t care who goes down as long as they tie up the case. It’s that Warren Mattson. I’m telling you, he’s had it in for my Ray all along. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re beatin’ a confession out of him right now while we’re walkin’ along. Those sumbitches. Those ass-covering goddamn Nazi sumbitches.”

“Okay, well I won’t hold you up any longer,” I told her, already picturing the scene at the police station: Arlene at full pitch, the poor boys in blue almost turning blue for real as they held their breaths (and their tongues) and played civil, trying to placate her. Good luck there, boys!

I didn’t know whether I believed her or not about Ray—a mother’s alibi was one of those sure things you’d be shocked if you
didn’t
get, like a band-aid in a kindergarten class—but I just didn’t buy him as the killer. Too much time had passed since he and Alice had split. Sure, he’d always been sore about it, but not
that
sore. If he’d wanted to kill her over it, he’d have done it around the time he really did go off the rails.

Melissa Briggs wasn’t home, so I drove out to Alice’s place instead, not exactly sure what I’d find...if anything. I’d spent a lot of time there as a girl, playing with my cousin in the ginormous garden that reached almost to the water’s edge. And I’d visited often in the years since, mostly to take Uncle Sean’s old rowboat out around the bay. Rowing had always had a calming influence on me. Something in the rhythm and grace of the strokes, and the solitude of being alone on the water; it had become my church, in a way, the place I went to get perspective, to figure things out.