The Ghost and the Mystery Writer (20 page)

Wiping her mouth on a napkin, Melony shook her head. “No. He moved here after I was gone. I haven't lived in Frederickport since I was a teenager. Eddy didn't grow up here.”

“I just got the impression you two were friends,” Hillary said with a shrug.

“We are, actually. His wife and I were college roommates. We were best friends.”

“Are you still friends?” Hillary asked.

Melony stood up from the table. She picked up her fork and now empty plate along with Hillary's and carried them to the sink. “No. She died. He's a widower. But we've stayed in touch over the years. I consider him a good friend.”

“Then you know about him questioning me regarding your mother's murder,” Hillary asked her.

Standing by the sink, Melony turned to face Hillary. “Adam told me Eddy interviewed everyone who was at Pier Café the night Mother was killed. He mentioned you were there. I have to assume you didn't see anything, or I would have heard about it.”

“Then he didn't mention my notes?”

With a frown Melony asked, “Notes? What notes?”

Picking up a napkin from the table, Hillary wiped imaginary crumbs from the edge of her mouth. She looked up at Melony. “It happened again. My crime scene for the book I'm writing.”

Melony stared at Hillary, her expression unreadable. She began to shake her head. “No…”

A
ccording
to the background information on Tom Fowler, he and his wife had moved to Frederickport the past summer, after he retired from his job as a high school track coach in California. Wearing faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt, he sat at the table in the Frederickport Police Department's interrogation room and warily glanced around. Officer Brian Henderson sat across the table from him, thumbing through a file folder.

“My wife told me I had to come in,” Tom began.

Brian closed the folder and set it down. He looked across the table at Tom. “I'm glad you did. Why didn't you come in right away?”

Tom shrugged. “Didn't see any reason to. It's not like I saw anything that night.”

“You might have seen something that can help us find the killer.”

“Yeah, that's what my wife said too. And then she heard on the radio you were looking for whoever was fishing on the pier that night; I figured she was right. I better come in.”

“Were you down there alone?” Brian asked.

“Yeah. My wife doesn't like to fish, and I really don't know too many people in town yet.”

“Why don't you start by telling me everything you remember that night, starting with when you arrived at the pier. Try to remember people you saw that night or anyone you might have talked to.”

Tom sat quietly for a moment, composing his thoughts. With a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “When I arrived, I remember the parking lot had about half a dozen cars. But I didn't see anyone walking around. When I got up to the pier, I only saw one other guy fishing. I figured the cars must have belonged to whoever was in Pier Café.”

“About what time was that?”

“I got there late. Around nine thirty or ten.”

“What did you do when you got to the pier?”

“Like I said, there was one other guy fishing. I started to go ask him if he was catching anything, but he was cussing, fighting with his line.”

“Fighting with his line?”

“Yeah. It was all tangled. By the way he was handling his pole, it was obvious he didn't know what he was doing. I moved to the other side of the pier.”

“So you didn't talk to him?”

“No. Looked over at him a few times during the night. Seemed like he spent more time screwing with his line than actually fishing.”

“Did you move around on the pier that night or stay in one spot?”

“Pretty much stayed at the same spot all night. Started catching fish right away. So I didn't see any reason to move.”

“Whereabouts were you?”

“Same side of the pier as the row of shops. About twenty feet from the café entrance.”

“So you could see who was coming and going from the café?”

“I suppose, when I was looking that way.”

“Did you notice any other fishermen?”

Tom shook his head. “Nahh. Just that one guy. It was pretty quiet that night.”

“Do you remember anyone else on the pier, aside from that one fisherman?”

“Yeah. I was just reeling in a fish and this guy walks by. People tend to stop when you're bringing in a fish, want to see what you got. That's one reason they come down to the pier. But this guy didn't seem very interested. Just kept walking.”

“Which way was he walking?” Brian asked.

“To the end of the pier.”

“Do you remember what time it was?”

Tom shook his head. “Not really. I'd probably been down there at least an hour. Maybe more. I started catching fish right away, but they were all small, tossed them back. This one was a nice size. Gave me a good fight.”

“But you don't remember the time?”

“No. I didn't look at my watch.”

“Did you notice what the guy did at the end of the pier?”

“I saw him walk that way and thought it was funny that he didn't seem remotely curious about what I was bringing in. In fact, he didn't even pause, just kept walking. But then I was dealing with the fish and didn't notice him after that.”

“What did he look like?”

“Can't really say. Average height. Didn't get a look at his face. He had some sort of hat on. Big jacket, jeans, maybe. Had his hands in his pockets, never really looked my way.”

“Any idea how old he was?”

“Sorry. He might have been twenty or fifty. Like I said, I didn't see his face. He just walked by, and I was pretty focused on the fish I was bringing in.”

“Do you know where he came from, from the café maybe?”

Tom shook his head. “I didn't notice him until he was there, walking by me as I was reeling in the fish. He could have come up from the beach, parking lot, café, I have no idea.”

“Did you see anyone else that night on the pier?”

“Yeah. After I landed that fish, a young couple came by to see what I'd caught. We talked for a minute. He works at the gas station by the grocery store.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him the next day when I went to fill up for gas. I remember thinking he was the kid I talked to on the pier.”

“Did you see anyone else on the pier that night?”

“Not that I remember.”

“What time did you go home?”

“I'm not sure what time I left, but I remember it was a little past midnight when I got home. So I imagine I must have left here sometime after 11:30.”

“It takes you thirty minutes to get home?”

“No. But it takes time to pack everything up and get it in my car. Maybe I left after 11:45.” Tom shrugged.

Brian opened the folder and removed a photograph. He slid it across the table to Tom. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

“That's Hillary Hemmingway, sure!” Tom smiled.

“You know her?”

“Not personally. But I've read every one of her books. When my wife said she was staying in Frederickport, I didn't believe her, but then I saw her that night.”

“The night of the murder?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn't mention seeing her on the pier,” Brian said.

“I didn't see her on the pier. When I went by Pier Café, I looked in the window and saw her sitting at a booth. I was sure it was her, especially after my wife said she was staying in town.”

“Was she alone?”

“She was when I saw her.”

“Did you see her again that night?” Brian asked.

“Yeah. I was tempted to ask her for an autograph, but I didn't have anything for her to sign.”

“When was that?”

“I don't know the time. I think it was after I reeled in that fish—might have been before. But I saw her leaving the restaurant, and she took off in the opposite direction, heading for the street.”

“You didn't see her walking on the pier that night.”

“No. I'm sure I would have noticed. I only saw her leaving the restaurant and heading down to the street.”

J
oe Morelli filled
two cups with coffee. Turning from the coffee maker, he walked to the table and handed a cup to Brian and then sat down with him. The two officers sat alone in the Frederickport Police Department's break room.

“He seemed pretty confident Hemmingway didn't walk down the pier that night,” Brian told Joe as he sipped the coffee.

“If he's right, then how could she have seen anyone toss those rings off the pier?” Joe asked.

“Or how could she have tossed the rings herself?” Brian added.

“If the killer is the one who threw those rings off the end of the pier, then that takes Hemmingway off our suspect list—in spite of what she wrote.”

“What about your fisherman? Did you get anything?” Brian asked.

“His story isn't much different from Fowler's. He remembers the young couple—they stopped and talked to him too. He thinks he remembers at least two—maybe three other people on the pier that night aside from the other fisherman. One of which was Steve Klein. He recognized Klein from the bank.”

“Did he talk to Klein that night?” Brian asked.

“No. Said he started to say hi to him, but he seemed preoccupied. Watched as he walked down to the end of the pier.”

“Klein did admit to walking on the pier that night. Did your fisherman happen to see Klein throw anything off the pier?”

“No. It was dark. And he wasn't the only one on the pier, just the only one he recognized,” Joe said.

“So what do we have here?” Brian set his mug on the table and leaned back in the chair. “We've already interviewed our young couple, who like your fisherman, recall seeing three men on the pier that night, along with the two fisherman. Your fisherman is the only one who could identify any of the men on the pier—Steve—who already admitted to being there. None of them saw Hillary on the pier that night.”

Joe's cellphone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at it. Before answering it, he said, “It's the chief.”

Brian sat quietly, listening to Joe tell the chief what he and Joe had learned in their interviews with the two fishermen they had finally tracked down. When Joe got off the phone a few minutes later, he told Brian, “If Hemmingway typed that letter, it wasn't done on her typewriter. The chief's stopping by Pier Café and then returning to the station.”

“Why is he stopping there?” Brian asked.

“I guess he wants to talk to Carla again.”

C
arla sat
across the booth from Chief MacDonald, staring at the photocopy of the letter he had received. After a few moments, she looked up at him. “Where did you get this?”

“You don't know?” he asked.

Setting the paper on the table, she shook her head. “Steve really did kill her?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me who wrote that letter.”

Carla frowned. “Why would I know who wrote this letter?”

“Whoever wrote that either witnessed the murder or knew about Jolene blackmailing Steve and wanted to implicate him for some reason. You knew about Jolene blackmailing Steve, and I imagine you weren't happy with the fact Steve was so casual about breaking up with you.”

“Are you suggesting I wrote this letter?” Carla gasped.

“I don't know who wrote that letter.”

With a shove, Carla sent the letter moving the rest of the way across the table to MacDonald. “If I witnessed a murder, I would come to you; I certainly wouldn't send a letter like this. And if you recall, I did come to you and tell you I suspected Steve. Why would I do that if I actually saw him murder that woman?”

“But if you didn't witness the murder, yet suspected he might have been the killer—and you knew he had a motive, and you felt unsafe, then I could see how you might write a letter like this. Who else knew about the blackmail?”

“I don't know. Aside from you, I never told anyone about the blackmail.”

“Do you own a typewriter?”

“Typewriter? Who has a typewriter these days?”

“So I take that as a no?”

“I don't own a typewriter. I have a printer for my computer.”

“Do you know anyone who has a typewriter?”

Carla shook her head. “Like I said, who has a typewriter these days? But I suppose this letter proves one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I was right. Steve Klein murdered Jolene Carmichael.” Folding her arms across her chest, Carla slumped back in the booth seat and glared off into space while muttering, “Damn, I certainly know how to pick them.”