A Quarter for a Kiss Page 14

Tom studied their faces and then handed the pictures to me. They were both Caucasian, looked to be in their mid-fifties, and ugly.

  “So what will the cops do now?” I asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Probably nothing. I’ve run into trouble like this before. They know I’m a PI. Comes with the territory.”

  I sat back, my heart pounding.

  “No it doesn’t, Chris,” I said. “I’m a PI, and I’ve never, ever been injured like this.”

  She looked at me, an ugly grin on her face.

  “You’re a corporate investigator,” she said scornfully. “Things can get a lot nastier down here in the trenches.”

  Tom put his hands on his knees and exhaled slowly. I knew he was agitated, and some of it had to do with concern for my safety.

  “So how can you help us?” he asked finally.

  She shook her head and then looked up at her brother. He bent over her chair and disengaged the brakes.

  “I can’t help you,” she said. “And I don’t want to hear from you again unless you can tell me who did this to me. I just…I thought it would be fair to come here and warn you. Whoever these people are, they’re not playing games.”

  Twenty-One

  Tom and I were silent on the ride back to St. John. After all of the events of the day, we were exhausted and confused and just a little bit terrified. I kept seeing Chris’s face, the mottled blue and purple around her swollen eyes.

  Jodi was still up when we arrived home, sitting out on the deck with a group of four friends—two women and two men—playing cards and drinking what looked like margaritas.

  “Join us!” she cried, sounding just a little bit drunk. She scooted her chair to one side and grinned at Tom and me.

  We declined, saying it had been a long day and we were exhausted.

  “Well, at least meet my guests,” she said, slurring her words just a bit. “Callie, Tom, this is my friend Sandy, the archaeologist I was telling you about.”

  The woman politely stood and shook our hands. Attractive in an athletic, no nonsense sort of way, she didn’t seem as if she had been drinking.

  “That’s Sandy’s little sister, Fawn,” Jodi added, “and this is Zach, and that’s Larry.”

  Fawn gave us a little wave, and I realized that she was young, maybe 16. Zach, on the other hand, looked to be in his early thirties, and Larry was older still—in his late thirties or early forties. The two men made an interesting contrast. Zach was tall and model-handsome, while Larry was short and a little bit dumpy. Though he had a crooked nose and thinning hair, there was something familiar and engaging about his smile.

  “Nice to meet you,” Larry said, standing also to shake our hands.

  “Yes, very nice,” Zach added, sounding not at all as though he meant it.

  They sat.

  “Does everyone work with SPICE?” I asked.

  “Zach volunteers there,” Sandy said, gesturing toward the good-looking fellow. “Larry’s been involved lately as an insurance appraiser, and Fawn’s just here for a visit.”

  “My parents went to Greece for a month,” Fawn said, not looking happy about it. “They dumped me here on the way.”

  “That’s not true,” Sandy corrected, putting a hand on her sister’s arm. “I asked if you could come. I knew you’d like the dig.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Fawn’s the designated driver tonight,” Jodi said.

  “I’m seventeen,” she said, holding up a bottle of coke and rolling her eyes. “That makes me the designated driver every night.”

  “You sure you won’t join us?” Larry asked us, and I had to wonder if he wasn’t hoping to add a few people to the mix who were a little closer to him in age.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “We’re heading to bed. It was nice to meet you, though.”

  “Goodnight,” said Sandy.

  “Goodnight,” echoed Larry.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” cried Jodi, and then she and Fawn burst into giggles.

  Tom walked me to my bedroom, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. I knew I needed nothing more right now than for him to hold me. That he did, in the darkness of the bedroom, gripping me fiercely, pressing his hands tightly into my back. I held onto him as well, my face buried against his chest.

  “If anything ever happened to you…” he whispered.

  “Shhh,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  We held each other for a time and then reluctantly we parted.

  “In the morning we’ll visit the police station,” I said, “and see what we can learn there. Tonight, let’s just try and get some sleep.”

  He ran his hands through my hair, kissing me on the forehead.

  “I wish I could stay in here with you,” he whispered. “I just want to hold you all night.”

  I knew what he was saying. He wasn’t asking if he could, just stating what he wished. Truth be told, I wanted the same thing.

  I kissed him goodnight, his lips warm and soft and gentle on mine.

  “I love you,” I said. Then, because I loved him, I showed him the door.

  Because he loved me, he took it.

  I got ready for bed and then pulled out my little travel Bible before climbing under the covers. I needed to find something that would comfort my soul. After skimming around and flipping pages, I finally settled on Isaiah 41:10: “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

  I repeated the verse to myself until I had committed it to memory. Then I put the Bible on the nightstand and turned off the light. Finally, I drifted off to sleep, my mind filled with the comforting thought of God’s righteous right hand.

  The next morning, I didn’t stir until almost 9:30. By the time I was up and showered, it was 10:15. I used the last of the shampoo in the bottle to wash my hair and then tossed it in the trash. I would either need to get to the store to buy some more, or borrow some from Jodi. I also needed to do laundry soon. A trip to St. John hadn’t exactly been in the plans when Tom and I left North Carolina.

  Once I was dressed, I came out to find Jodi at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and looking hungover.

  “Hey,” she said softly, squinting my way. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “But I feel like I was run over by a truck.”

  I thought of Chris Fisher and her battered face, and I realized I shouldn’t even use an expression like that. If anyone felt as though they’d been hit by a truck, it was her.

  There weren’t any eggs in the fridge, so I made a light breakfast of juice and toast and then joined Jodi at the table, listening as she talked about how good it was to be back in the islands, especially to be able to spend time with her old friend Sandy.

  “We had a good, long talk about the charity yesterday, before the margaritas came out. She gave me the names and phone numbers of all of the board members, and she promised to round up the paperwork I asked for—the salary info, meeting minutes, stuff on fund-raisers, and audit reports for the last three years.”

  “Jodi, it really sounds like you did your homework.”

  “It was fun. She said it might take a few days to get everything together. In the meantime, she arranged for me to help out on the dig site. They’ve turned up all kinds of artifacts. Larry thinks it’s going to end up being a very significant dig.”

  “He’s not an archaeologist, right?”

  “No, he does something with insurance. I think he catalogs the artifacts or something.”

  “Cool. How about Zach?”

  “Believe it or not,” she said dreamily, “when he’s not volunteering at the site, he works as a masseuse at some of the big resorts on the island. Can you imagine, ordering a massage and he walks in the door? I would just die.”

  “Hmm…” I said, not daring to comment.

  “Yesterday, he got down with me in the pit and showed me how to b
rush the dirt off this little zemi. Gosh, I don’t know how the other women who work there can stand it. I didn’t hear a word he said.”

  “What’s a zemi?” I asked.

  “Some kind of Taino idol, I think. They’ve already found hundreds of them. This one was cool. It was carved with the face of a crocodile, about the size of my fist.”

  We finished the dishes and I wiped off the table while she recounted some of the more interesting finds the team had already uncovered. Apparently, there was a long process that only started with unearthing the artifacts. Then they had to be extensively mapped and photographed, sorted, cleaned, weighed, counted, logged, analyzed, radiocarbon-dated and finally put into climate-controlled storage.

  I only half listened as she recounted the process, my mind already working toward our upcoming visit to the police station. After a difficult night, I was eager to get moving on this investigation. The conversation with Chris Fisher had left me rattled and apprehensive. The sooner Tom and I could get down to the truth of the matter, the better.

  “While you’re waiting for Sandy to get you the paperwork,” I said, forcing myself to focus on Jodi, “there are also a few other things you can do.”

  I dried my hands, and then I found paper and a pencil and wrote down some websites she could visit to check out the nonprofit.

  “These are mostly watchdog groups like the Better Business Bureau and Guidestar. See what pops up for SPICE. You might be pleasantly surprised, or you might find some red flags.”

  “Thanks, Callie,” she said, taking the list from me.

  “Just remember one rule of thumb,” I said, putting the cap on the pen. “Don’t make up your mind one way or the other until all the facts are in. You’re not trying to prove if it’s good or it’s bad based on some preconceived notion you have. You’re just trying to find all of the information out there so then you can make a wise and informed decision.”

  “So I guess I should put the bearer bonds away for now?”

  I looked at her.

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” I said. “Did you really bring three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bearer bonds down here?”

  She shrugged.

  “I thought I might be giving them away to SPICE.”

  I tried not to groan.

  “Well, until it’s time,” I said, thinking of Eli’s spy closet, “would you like for me to put them in a safe place for you?”

  “Sure,” she replied, and then she stunned me by simply pulling them from her purse and handing them over.

  I waited until she had left, and then I opened the hidden closet and put the envelope on the top shelf, out of sight. It wasn’t a perfect hiding place—a safety deposit box at a local bank would’ve been better—but it would have to do for now.

  Twenty-Two

  Sergeant Abraham Ruhl wasn’t too hard to find. We called ahead to the police station and were told he had just left for Francis Bay. Some tourists were trapped there, feeling threatened by a trio of feral donkeys, and Sgt. Ruhl had gone along to save the day.

  We followed the map to the bay and then stopped the car beside the road in beach parking that was empty except for a police car and two other vehicles. We weren’t quite sure what “feral donkeys” would do, so we left the car unlocked and made our way up the path toward the beach in a cautious manner.

  The sound of braying came from up ahead, and Tom and I moved closer together as we walked. We could also hear a man shouting over the sound of the donkeys. As we stepped through the brush, we could see the gorgeous beach and the water and the scene that was unfolding down the way. There seemed to be two couples there, all in bathing suits, standing beside their towels and kind of huddled together. A dark-skinned man in a crisp police uniform was tossing sticks and rocks toward a small donkey that seemed to be stuck in a bush.

  “Can we help?” Tom asked as we drew closer, making a wide arc around the other two donkeys.

  “Ah, the baby is separated from the mama!” he cried, tossing another rock. “He can get himself free from dat bush if he just want it bad enough.”

  The little donkey did seem to be growing more agitated. As the two large donkeys made even more of a ruckus, and the policeman threw rocks at the little guy’s rump, he started kicking and jumping until, finally, he burst free of the vines that had ensnared him. Once he made it clear to the sand, he shook himself off, flicked his tail, and then the three donkeys turned and simply walked away.

  The two couples thanked the officer, all looking greatly relieved. The sergeant waved away their thanks before turning to head back to his car.

  “The donkeys won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” he said. “It’s their island too.”

  We tailed along behind him back to the parking area. When we were out of earshot of the people on the beach, Tom called to him.

  “Sergeant Ruhl.”

  “Yeah, mon?” he asked, not seeming surprised that we knew his name.

  “We need to talk to you. The dispatcher said you would be here.”

  He glanced back at us and kept walking.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “We’re friends of Eli Gold,” I said.

  That stopped him straight away.

  “Eli!” he said, turning to face us with a wide grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? How is the old coot? Are they back in town?”

  Tom and I glanced at each other.

  “No,” I said. “Eli’s been hurt, actually. He was shot by a sniper. He’s in a coma. In Florida.”

  The man stepped closer.

  “Shot?” he asked. “Will he live?”

  “It happened Friday night,” I said, “and he’s still hanging on. According to the doctors, every day he makes it through increases his chances of surviving.”

  “What happened?”

  The three of us walked to the shade near the rental car and leaned against the hood, talking. Tom and I explained the entire incident. The sergeant took it all in while chewing on a toothpick he had produced from his pocket.

  “So now we’ve taken over the investigation that he had been doing,” I said, “because it seems like the sniper shot was a direct result of that.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “So what has any of this to do with me?” he asked. “I’m glad to know about Eli, but how can I help?”

  “We’re not quite sure,” Tom admitted. “Your initials are in his case notes. He came to you to run a license plate back in December. It’s relevant to the case somehow, and we’re wondering if there’s anything you can tell us.”

  He shook his head, flicking the toothpick into the brush and standing as if to go.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t run plates for civilians. It must’ve been somebody else.”

  He walked to his car and opened the door.

  “Please,” I said. “We’re not here to make trouble. It doesn’t matter if you ran plates or not. We just want to know about Earl and Dianne Streep. We want to know what you know.”

  “Sorry,” he said abruptly. “Can’t help you.”

  “Don’t worry, Callie,” Tom said quickly. “We can just go down to the police station and ask around until we find out who else has the initial ‘A’ and is a friend of Eli’s. I’m sure we’ll find the man who ran that plate.”

  That seemed to give the policeman pause. If he had already done something he wasn’t supposed to do, giving us the cold shoulder now would only make things worse for him.

  “Did you say Callie?” he asked, pulling down his dark glasses to look at me.

  “Yes,” I said, walking toward him to hold out my hand. “I’m sorry, we didn’t introduce ourselves. I’m Callie Webber. And this is my associate, Tom Bennett.”

  He pulled his glasses off and shook my hand, finally looking me in the eye.

  “Callie Webber,” he said. “I know who you are. Eli has talked of you many a time.”

  “He has?”

  “You are the protégé.
He say you are almost a better detective than he is.”

  I smiled.

  “That’s not true,” I replied. “But I’ll be sure to thank him for the compliment.”

  “But now, who are you?” he asked, gesturing toward Tom.

  “Tom’s my boss,” I replied. “He’s helping me with the investigation.”

  The officer looked at Tom skeptically for a moment.

  “I don’t know you. I won’t talk to you.”

  “I understand,” Tom said, holding up both hands and stepping back.

  “You, on the other hand,” the officer said, turning to me, “at least I know who Callie Webber is. Tell me something to prove it’s really you.”

  “I have ID,” I offered, reaching into my bag.

  “Anybody can get ID. Tell me something about Eli that only Callie Webber would know.”

  I thought for a moment, my mind racing.

  “He puts mustard on French fries instead of ketchup,” I said finally.

  Both men laughed.

  “Something a little more personal,” the officer said. “From his past, maybe. Do you know the real story of how he lost the tip of his toe?”

  I nodded, wondering if he knew the real story.

  “Eli tells people it was frostbite,” I said. “While hiking in the Alps.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “The real truth is that when he was eight years old, he accidentally slammed his toe in the icebox.”

  Tom chuckled, the story new to him.

  The sergeant reached out and shook my hand a second time.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Bennett,” he said, “this lady and I have some talking to do.”

  “By all means.”

  “We’ll be back in a bit.”

  The cop pointed toward the police car, and I climbed in.

  “For starters, you can call me Abraham,” the officer said, starting the engine.

  “Should Tom follow in our car?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said, “we’re just going for a little ride.”

  With a wave, we drove away, leaving Tom standing there on the beach.

  Twenty-Three