Designed to Kill (15 page)

“Please.” I leaned back in the chair.

“I heard she had threatened to sue the developer, this Baucus fellow, over some units she claimed to have sold. According to the story, he contended his in-house people had made the sales. I don’t think she ever went through with the lawsuit.”

If that were true, it didn’t sound like Sherry Hoffman would have been involved in anything on behalf of The Sand Castle. But Charlie was admittedly relaying rumors. “We heard something about her wanting to run for state senator. You know anything about that?”

“That’s no secret,” Charlie said. “She’s a very bright woman with an agenda.”

“What’s holding her back?”

“Money, I’d say. I hear she hasn’t lined up the financial support she needs. She’s something of a sharpie, though. After a brief marriage some years ago, she took back her father’s name.”

“Smart lady,” Jill said, “if her dad was quite popular here.”

“How does Sherry Hoffman figure into your investigation, Greg?” Charlie asked.

I shrugged. “Frankly, I’m not at all sure right now. But we need to call on her and see if it might lead somewhere.”

“One other point I might add,” said Charlie. “They say Miss Hoffman is a bit kooky in some ways. I’ve never been in her home, but I’ve heard the décor is rather...well, to put it charitably, eccentric.”

Oddball or not, I hoped she could shed a little light on what had happened to Tim last Friday night.

18

We stopped by the condo after winding up our visit with Charlie Brown. As we walked through the door, I heard the answering machine’s beep. When I played the message, Walt Sturdivant’s voice burst furiously through the speaker.

“I looked at Farnsworth’s copy of the plans. The bastard was right. They show the smaller rebars. But I’m damned certain that’s not what was on the original. Furthermore, it specifies the wrong strength of concrete. We specified four thousand p.s.i. What he has shows three thousand. The structural engineer’s seal on it must be a fake. The sheet was a copy. Some sonofabitch must have pasted the seal on before they copied it. I also talked to the building inspector’s guy. He says they called Boz on the carpet yesterday. They questioned him closely about his certifications. He claimed he didn’t realize the rebars were too small. He was just going by what the plans called for. I’ve heard enough of this shit. I’m headed back to
Nashville
. Call you later.”

“What do you make of it?” Jill asked.

“Our friend Walt has an acid tongue,” I said. “Worse than yours truly.” Jill had worked to shorten my four-letter vocabulary since retirement, with modest success.

“Granted. But I was referring to his remarks, not his rancor.”

“I don’t know. I just hope we can find some way to establish exactly what the original plans called for. Sounds like Farnsworth is being a bit devious. And remember, Walt said earlier that Detrich would be the guy most likely to benefit from altering the plans. I think it’s time we checked on the contractor.”

I found Tidewater Construction in the phone book, with the same address as The Sand Castle development office, called and asked where I could locate Claude Detrich. I was given a phone number for Tidewater Construction in
Biloxi
. At the
Mississippi
office, a slow-talking secretary advised that Mr. Detrich would not be in until tomorrow. I started to leave my number, then changed my mind.

When I got off the phone, I saw Jill standing at the balcony railing, gazing out at the emerald green waves rippling toward the shore. She heard me walk through the doorway and began pointing. “The dolphins are out in force. Right there. Must be at least half a dozen.”

Following the direction of her good arm, I saw dark shapes bobbing in and out of the water, sometimes propelling themselves completely out in a graceful arc.

“Glad you had some success at dolphin watching,” I said. “I wish I could say the same for my detecting.” I told her about my unsuccessful attempt to reach Detrich.

“What about Baucus, the developer?” she asked. “Didn’t Walt say he also had a copy of the plans?”

“True. And I’m sure he could clue me in on Mr. Detrich.”

I went back to the telephone and called The Sand Castle office. Again I was given a phone number in
Biloxi
. There I reached a receptionist who informed me that Evan Baucus was out of town.

“When do you expect him back?”

“He should be here Friday. He’s visiting corporate headquarters.”

Walt had said the development firm was Perseid Partners. “What corporation would that be?”

“Perseid, Limited,” she said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

I was beginning to feel like a baseball player in a batting slump. I had struck out again. “No,” I said. “I’ll contact him later.”

Jill had come in from the balcony. When I gave her the bad news, she shook her head. “Doesn’t sound like you’re making much headway, dear.” She held out the bag with the velvet jacket in it. “What about Sherry Hoffman? Are we going to confront her with this?”

I nodded. “Looks like that’s all we’ve got at the moment. But we’ll keep it under wraps until the time is right.”

Jill had brought along a large handbag that I always kidded her looked more like a weekend bag. I had her drop in the red jacket to serve as my ace in the hole when we called on Ms. Hoffman. But first I had to find her.

A call to Coastal Realty brought word that she was not in the office today. She was not feeling well and had decided to stay at home.

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said, trying to convey genuine concern.

“She isn’t sick, actually,” the woman said. “I mean she isn’t ill. It’s just that she lost a friend she’d known a long time. I think it hit her pretty hard.”

“Anybody we’d know?” I asked. Of course, she had no idea who I knew, since I hadn’t identified myself. But she took the bait.

“He wasn’t from around here,” she said.

When I repeated the conversation for Jill, she gave me a puzzled look.

“A friend she’d known a long time? A man?”

“It may be somebody else,” I said, “but it sure sounded like Tim. Somebody from out of town who just died. Sounds like we’re on the right track, doesn’t it?”

“Do we pay the lady a visit at home?”

“Absolutely. But I doubt it would be wise to call in advance. She might put us off with the excuse that she’s not feeling well. Anyway, surprise is always good to have on your side.”

“Think she’ll talk to us?”

“If she won’t, we’re back to square one.”

19

It was after
3:30
when we crossed the
Intracoastal Waterway
and turned right onto
Gulf Beach Highway
. Sherry Hoffman’s home was in an upscale development not far past the Big Lagoon State Recreation Area, a heavily forested park that looked across to the National Seashore on Perdido Key. I turned between angular stone pillars that marked the subdivision entrance and drove past trim green lawns, fashionable homes, mostly brick, many with large boats perched on trailers in the driveway.

The real estate broker’s street ran along the waterfront. I found her mailbox beside a concrete drive that ended beyond a decorative stone wall. The wall partially hid a long brick ranch with a dark red roof, almost a match for the velvet jacket. As I turned the Jeep into the driveway, palm trees swayed in the closely cropped yard. A bed of red and white impatiens accented the wall.

I parked in front of a closed garage and we walked across herringbone-patterned bricks to the front entrance. The door was large, mahogany, with shiny brass hardware, and stood behind a black wrought iron security door. I pressed the lighted button and waited. I was beginning to wonder if she had changed her mind about staying home when the door opened slowly.

Appearance-wise, Sherry Hoffman lived up to her billing. She had a strikingly attractive face with wide brown eyes. She looked closer to thirty than forty. Long, tanned legs below bright green shorts provided the foundation for a shapely body. A short-sleeve green shirt that left her midriff bare completed the skimpy outfit.

“My name is Greg McKenzie,” I said, smiling. “This is my wife Jill. I hope we’re not intruding. I’m investigating the accident at The Sand Castle, and I need your help. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”

She frowned. “Are you with the county?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a private investigator.” It was a risk, but one I felt I had to take.

“Who are you working for?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. I’ll try to keep it short, though. I know this has been a difficult time for you, witnessing that terrible tragedy Friday night.”

“Who told you I was there?”

“It came from Sgt. J. W. Payne.” Not directly, I didn’t add.

Her shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, then she unlocked the security door and invited us in. Finally, I had something to thank the sergeant for.

The first thing I noticed as we entered was the unmistakable scent of Shalimar. I glanced around and saw Jill twitch her nose. The second thing I noticed was the bizarre collection of furnishings. Sherry Hoffman led us through a living room that looked like a combination of
South Sea Islands
and Disney World. A large wooden sculpture I took for a Polynesian god stood in one corner. Tropical plants and rattan furniture abounded, along with large, stuffed Disney characters placed about like live occupants. We crossed a glassed-in den with recliners in colors that practically glowed, a large TV and enough books to delight a
New York Times
reviewer. I believe it’s called a
Florida
room down here. We emerged through a rear entrance onto a broad terrace with a marble-chip terrazzo floor. That led us back to the
South
Sea
mode, where a small grass hut was surrounded by plants and totems and beach chairs. A swimming pool lay just beyond.

I now knew what Charlie Brown meant by kooky. Actually, I had been known to display a few oddities around the house myself, like an album full of beer bottle caps my dad helped me collect—some kids had to settle for postage stamps. But Sherry had me beaten hands down. Still, no more than ten feet away lay a small island of normalcy, where ordinary white metal chairs were clustered around a glass-topped table. A big flowered umbrella sheltered the table, its scalloped edges flapping in the strengthening breeze.

Stopping behind one of the chairs, she spoke in a bittersweet voice. “I love it out here at this time of day, but I don’t often get the chance. Please have a seat. I rather doubt that I can be of any help. My only connection with The Sand Castle project was to help sell a few units.”

As we sat down, I looked out across the lawn to the rippling waters of the lagoon. Billowing white clouds had begun to crowd the sky overhead; darker ones were farther out. In the distance a line of white dunes cluttered with sea oats and scrubby bushes—the Gulf Islands National Seashore—stretched endlessly in either direction. Man’s wasteland, I reflected, was an endangered mouse’s castle. And that thought brought me quickly back to the woman across the table.