Murder Makes Waves (5 page)

“Have I read it?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll let you read it today. It’s about a wheelchair repo man.”

“A wheelchair repo man?”

“It’s real sad. He works for this company that sells wheel-chairs and when the customers don’t pay for them, they send this guy out to get them back. It’s chock-full of angst and existentialism.”

“Sounds like a winner. Nothing quite like a good dose of angst and existentialism.”

“It’s good, Miss Smarty Pants, and don’t you go being smartass about it until you read it. You just thought you
were the only person in this family who knew about angst and existentialism, didn’t you?”

Fortunately, someone banged on the door again and saved me from answering.

“Dear God. Grand Central.” Mary Alice got up, brushed the crumbs from her peignoir, and headed toward the door. I followed her, curious, half-afraid that it was Fairchild with bad news.

It was Millicent. Not the Millicent of the night before at the Redneck, but an older, tired version with no makeup and uncombed hair, wearing the same outfit she had had on at the Redneck, which had obviously been slept in.

“Good morning, y’all. I’m sorry Fairchild bothered you. I had a couple of drinks and I’m not used to it, and I just plain went to sleep in the parking lot at the Redneck.” Millicent smiled wanly. “I’m real embarrassed about it.”

“Don’t worry your head about it, Millicent,” Sister said. “It happens to all of us sometimes. We’re just happy to see you’re okay.”

“Thanks.” Millicent looked relieved.

“You want some coffee?” I asked.

Millicent shook her head. “I’ve got to go calm Fairchild down. Did you know he was about to call the sheriff?”

“He was scared,” Sister said.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Her eyes were tragic pools of brimming tears,” I said as Sister closed the door. I scooted down the hall out of her reach.

“Hmmm,” Sister said. “Hmmm.”

“And what was that ‘it happens to all of us’ bit? I’ve never gotten drunk and passed out in a parking lot.”

Sister looked at me, looked through me. “What
have
you
done, Patricia Anne?” She walked into her bedroom and shut the door.

Oh, God. I walked back heavily to Sister’s balcony where the sweetrolls I had acted a fool about cooking stared at me accusingly. What
had
I done? Had I ever been as kind, as generous, as much fun as Sister? I sat down wearily while angst and existentialism covered me like a blanket.

“You okay, Mama?” Haley was dressed in pink shorts and a white T-shirt. Her strawberry blonde hair and olive skin seemed to glow in the sunlight reflected from the beach.
Well, I had done this
, I thought. I had produced this golden woman.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just thinking.”

“You look sad. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. What time is it?”

“About ten. What was all that commotion early this morning?”

I was explaining Millicent’s disappearance when Mary Alice walked out onto the balcony and handed me several sheets of paper. “Here,” she said, and went back into the apartment.

“You and Aunt Sister have a fight?” Haley asked.

“Not really. I think I’d better read this right away, though.”

“I’ll go get some cereal.”

I took the story into our bedroom, shutting the door so I could concentrate. And somewhere in the middle of the wheelchair repo man’s angst, mine began to disappear. By the time I finished, I was laughing so hard I was sobbing. The repo man was a Poor Soul: Charlie Chaplin eating his shoes, Buster Keaton with the wall falling around him. In one scene a ninety-year-old woman in a wheelchair was
chasing the bumbling repo man, hitting him with her cane while he tried to apologize. Woody Allen could play this part, I thought.

The door opened. “Well?” Sister asked.

“It’s great!” I said truthfully. “He’s Everyman with a conscience and the job from hell. I wonder why that’s so funny.”

“Funny?” Mary Alice scowled. “It’s not. It’s sad, Patricia Anne.” Then, after a pause, “Come on, let’s go to the beach.”

Frances arrived about three; we had left a note on the door that we were at the beach. Mary Alice and I were in the shade of a huge umbrella, both of us half-dozing, half-reading, with Factor 45 sunscreen coating us, and Haley was taking a dip in the water when Frances flopped down on the sand beside us. She had on unwrinkled linen beige pants (don’t ask me how) and every strand of her blonde hair was caught in her usual chignon.

“Hey, y’all,” she said. “Did you order this weather?”

We admitted that we had. Eighty-three degrees and a nice sea breeze in June is a day to be savored in Destin.

“You want a Coke or a beer?” I asked. “Or do you want to go unpack first.”

“Beer first.”

“You got it.” I reached in the cooler and handed her one. “You want one, Sister?” I asked. We were still being polite to each other. She took one.

“I thought you were going to be at a writers’ conference, Mary Alice,” Frances said.

“It doesn’t start until tomorrow. It’s a three-day thing with a reading on Friday night.”

“Hey, Frances!” Haley called.

“Lord, look at that child’s shape!” Frances waved. “Did any of us ever have a waist like that?”

“Patricia Anne did,” Sister said graciously.

“But you had boobs and I didn’t.” We smiled at each other.

Frances looked at us, puzzled, but she was too polite to ask us why we were being so nice to each other. Instead, she scooped her hand into the sand and said, “Goodness, this is wonderful.”

Haley came up, got a towel, and found a place in the shade of the umbrella. There were two little girls building a sandcastle close to the water, and WUWF was playing Beethoven’s Sixth, nice beach music. There was no hurry; there was no supper to cook, no sweet Woofer dog to walk. Bless his heart. But Mitzi would be good to him.

We finally left the beach, almost in slow motion. We helped Frances unpack her car, got her settled, took showers, decided we would have dinner at The Summer House, an old Victorian mansion on the bay. We even dressed for dinner, as much as you ever dress in Destin: a sundress for Haley, skirts for Sister and me, and a split skirt for Frances. And we set out for The Summer House.

We were headed into another beautiful sunset. “Drive down to the end of Holiday Isle, Aunt Sister,” Haley said. “We can show Frances all the blue herons, and maybe we’ll see the green flash.” And Sister turned left and drove down Holiday Isle.

The road ends at a dune. We got out and clambered up so we could see the sunset. To our right, across a large inlet, was Destin Harbor, where fishing boats were being berthed for the night. To our left was the Gulf. We were standing on a small spit of beach that tends to disappear during storms and then rebuild. It’s a favorite place for seabirds,
particularly the herons. The water is shallow enough there for good fishing.

We came down the dune and walked toward the water. The sun was in our eyes, but we saw several of the huge birds had waded into the water.

“This is so beautiful,” Frances said.

Mary Alice reached down and picked up a beer can. “Drives me crazy when people dump trash off the boats.”

“There’s a whole garbage sack,” Haley said.

And that’s exactly what it looked like, a white plastic sack filled with garbage at the edge of the water. And that’s what we thought it was until we were right on it. Sister was slightly ahead, so she was the first one to see what was really lying on the beach, close enough to the water to be lapped by small waves. “My God!” she exclaimed, stepping back, holding out her arms to stop us. “It’s a person!”

F
or a moment, there was utter confusion. I think Frances screamed. I know she stepped back into me, knocking me flat on my behind on the hard sand. I remember her arms whirling like windmills as she tripped over me and tried unsuccessfully to keep her balance.

“Is he dead?” Haley asked, looking around Mary Alice at what we had thought was garbage.

“Definitely.” Mary Alice took a step closer.

“Dear God,” Frances moaned into the sand.

“Are you hurt?” I whispered. I don’t know why I was whispering. It just seemed the thing to do.

“Dear God,” Frances moaned again. “A dead body.”

Mary Alice and Haley were creeping toward the form at the edge of the water as if it might do something unexpected, like sit up and say, “Trick or treat.” I sat up and a pain shot through my tailbone. “Shit!” I muttered.

The sun was close to the horizon, shining right into my eyes, but I saw Sister and Haley stop. Sister turned to Haley and said something, and they began to back up. I groaned and got to my feet. Pain! I’d busted my butt for sure. I started shuffling toward them.

“Stay back, Mama,” Haley said. Her face was strange, contorted. “It’s Millicent Weatherby and you don’t want to see her.”

I stopped. “Millicent? Millicent’s dead?”

“Run to the car, Haley,” Sister handed her the keys. “Call 911.”

“That’s Millicent over there?” I pointed to the form in the water. “That can’t be Millicent!”

Frances moaned. She was on her hands and knees in the sand, her face hidden in her arms, her behind stuck up in the air.

“It’s Millicent.” Sister sat down beside Frances. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Put your head down, Aunt Sister,” Haley said. “Take deep breaths. I’ll be right back.” She sprinted across the dune toward the car.

I sat down gingerly beside Mary Alice. And then there were several strange minutes I’ll remember all my life. Everything seemed beautiful, peaceful, and surreal. The sun touched the water and I imagined I could hear the sizzle; several blue herons sailed in on giant wings to join the others on the beach. A small boat crossed the inlet to the harbor, the music from its radio louder than its engine. A moment or so after the boat’s passage, its wake stirred the white bundle that was Millicent Weatherby. Millicent who was dead, whose body was being pushed higher onto the beach by small waves.

None of us spoke for a few minutes. We heard the sirens
as the rescue squad left the fire station across on the mainland. Then another siren crossing the bridge.

“I wonder how often they see drownings,” I mused.

“Too often,” Mary Alice’s head was still down so she was talking to the sand. “But this isn’t one of them.”

“What?” I asked.

“Oh, Lord, Mouse! It looked like someone tried to cut her head off!”

“What?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re coming!” Haley called from the top of the dune. Just at that second, the last of the sun was swallowed by the water with a great green gulp.

“Someone killed Millicent?”

“Oh, Lord!” Sister moaned.

“Oh, Lord!” Frances echoed.

“They’ll be here in a minute.” Haley sat down beside me and took my hand. “Are you okay, Mama?”

“Her throat was cut?”

“Be grateful you didn’t see her, Mama. And she’s been in the water, so her body’s probably damaged other than that. You know, by sharks and things.”

“Shut up, Miss Open Heart Cut People’s Guts Out Nurse,” Sister said into her hands. “Lord! And to think we saw her this morning all in one piece.”

Frances burrowed her head deeper into the sand. “Oh, God! There are pieces missing? I’ll never touch seafood again.”

“Sorry, Frances,” Haley apologized. “I was just speculating. Of course there aren’t any pieces missing.”

“Well, quit speculating,” Sister grumbled.

I jumped in. “The child said she was sorry, Mary Alice.” I patted Haley’s hand.

“It’s okay,” Haley said. “We’re all just rattled.”

The sirens were screaming down the Holiday Isle road now. A few of the herons, disturbed by the noise, took off, running a short distance on their stick legs before they lifted into the air.

“What do they do for broken tailbones?” I asked Haley.

“Put a shot of xylocaine in it. Cortisone. Why?”

“I think Frances broke mine when she knocked me down.”

“Shut up,” Frances said. “Everybody shut up.”

And we did. The sirens wailed to a stop at the dune and three uniformed men and one woman came scrambling over it, carrying all kinds of heavy and totally unnecessary resuscitation equipment. We all stood up to meet them, including Sister who was about as green as the sky had been a few moments before.

“You the women who called?” the youngest of the men wanted to know.

“I did.” Haley took a step toward them. “There’s a body over there.” She pointed toward the white form that was Millicent, and that had now washed farther up on the beach.

Lugging their heavy equipment as if they expected to perform a Lazarus miracle, the four hurried toward the body. The four of us stayed where we were. We watched as they circled the white bundle, as they conferred. Finally the woman broke away and came back to us.

“She’s wet,” she said. We looked at each other, puzzled.

“She’s part way in the water,” Sister stated the obvious.

“Was she like this when you got here?”

“Wet? Yes. Dead? Yes. Why?”

“If she’s wet she belongs to the Florida Marine Patrol, not us. We’re the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department. We’ll call them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Haley said. “How long will it take for them to get here?”

“Depends. Sometimes they’re right in the harbor. Sometimes not.” She turned around and yelled at one of her cohorts, “Buddy, get the marines.” Then she turned back to us. “Sorry about this, but it’s out of our jurisdiction.” She shook hands with Mary Alice who was standing closest to her. “I’m Lisa Andrews. Are you ladies okay?”

“Been better,” Sister admitted. “We know the lady.”

“Really?” Lisa Andrews took out a notepad. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Millicent Weatherby. She’s resident manager at Gulf Towers where I have a condo.”

Officer Andrews looked up from her writing. “Fairchild’s wife?”

“Yes. You know Fairchild?”

“Sure. He’s one of the head honchos in the Polar Bear Club. Bunch of old fools get naked and go swimming every winter, freeze their balls off. Get arrested every time because their wives call and tell us when they’re going. Scared they’re going to have a heart attack. That’s his wife?” She motioned toward the water.

We all nodded.

“I think I’ve talked to her.” She turned and screeched, “Buddy! You get the marines?” We all jumped.

“They’re out of the boat,” he answered. “They’ll be here in a few minutes in the van.”

“Well,” Lisa Andrews said, “I guess there’s no hurry. Why don’t y’all sit down and make yourselves comfortable?”

We sat and looked over the darkening harbor. Lisa Andrews went over and joined the three men who were huddled around Millicent’s body.

“What,” Frances wondered, “if someone got killed in the dunes and it rained.”

“You’d have to wait on the Marine Patrol,” Mary Alice said.

“My tail hurts,” I said, but nobody was paying any attention.

In June, twilight lasts a long time, but we were about to run out of light when the Florida Marine Patrol officers finally made it over the dune.

“Where the hell you been?” Lisa Andrews called when she spotted them.

“Home eating supper,” one of them said.

“You probably shouldn’t have! Wait till you see this!” Lisa Andrews sounded gleeful.

“I think I hate that woman,” Sister said. “Don’t you hate women like that, Mouse?”

“Women like what? My tail hurts. I may need to go to the emergency room.”

“You know. Trying to act tough.”

“Maybe she
is
tough,” Frances said. “Women in her position have to be, have to develop a tough veneer.”

“The guidance counselor has spoken,” Mary Alice said.

Frances began to cry. “I think I better just go home tonight. I wasn’t expecting the vacation from hell.”

Haley put her arms around her. “It’ll be all right as soon as we get away from here, won’t it, Aunt Sister?”

“I’m sorry, Frances,” Sister said. “I’m just upset.”

“I’m in pain,” I said.

“Ladies?” A large man with thinning hair and a round, babyish face had walked up. He was dressed in the uniform of the Florida Marine Patrol. “I’m Lieutenant Major Bissell. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Please hurry,” Mary Alice said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He smiled. “I’ll make it quick as I can.” He took out the usual notepad and pen. “Your names?”

We supplied that, our addresses, where we were staying in Destin, and why we were there.

“I’m going to the writers’ conference, too,” he said, beaming at Sister. By now it was so dark, he had had to turn a penlight on to see his notepad.

“Good,” Sister said. “I’ll see you there. Now, tell me, would I be breaking one of your laws if I made a quick trip back in the dunes?”

“I think it would be all right.”

“Just don’t get wet,” Frances called as Mary Alice climbed up through the sea oats. I could tell I was going to have to keep these two apart.

“Lisa says you knew Mrs. Weatherby, the victim.”

“We’ve known her for years,” I said. I explained that she and her husband had the condo next to Sister’s.

“I knew her, too,” Lieutenant Major (what kind of a title was that?) Bissell said. “Destin’s still a small town in the wintertime.” He flicked his pen off and on with his fingernail. “She showed me some property in the new development. It’s beautiful, but too rich for my blood.” He cleared his throat. “She was a nice lady.”

“Lieutenant Major Bissell—” Haley began.

“Just Lieutenant. Major’s my first name. Confuses everybody, including me.”

“Lieutenant Bissell, I saw Mrs. Weatherby’s body. I know you have a murder case on your hands.”

“I think we’re safe in saying she didn’t die of natural causes.”

I remembered what Sister had said about Millicent’s throat and shuddered.

“Well, who’ll tell Mr. Weatherby about it?” Haley continued. “Is there some policy that you have to be the ones to do it?”

“We usually do. Why?”

“We all know Fairchild very well, especially my aunt. I know it’ll be hard, but I think it should come from us.”

What a wonderful child I had raised. When Sister got back from her trip to the sea oats, it was all settled. The lieutenant would go with us, but Mary Alice would be the one to break the news of Millicent’s death to Fairchild.

“You volunteered me to tell Fairchild?” It was too dark to see the expression on her face, fortunately. She was quiet for a moment and then sighed. “Well, so much for having to pee.”

He knew when he answered the door, when he saw all of us, including Lieutenant Bissell, when Mary Alice held out her arms. He had had a similar visit when his first wife Margaret centered the utility pole on Highway 98.

“Millicent?” he asked, the blood draining from his face. “What happened?”

“She was killed, Fairchild,” Sister said.

He looked confused. “But the lights are still on.”

“She didn’t hit a utility pole, Fairchild. We found her body on the beach.”

“Millicent drowned? She never went near the water.”

Sister looked imploringly at Lieutenant Bissell, who stepped forward and suggested that we all go in and sit down. Just at that moment, the elevator opened and Eddie and Laura Stamps, the couple who live in the apartment on the other side of Sister’s, got out. Like Sister, they had
owned their apartment for years, but they had retired and moved from Atlanta three years ago to become permanent residents. In their mid-sixties, the Stampses both had the tanned, extra crispy skin of people who spend most of their time on golf courses and boats. They stopped when they saw us standing at Fairchild’s door with Lieutenant Bissell.

“Patricia Anne? Mary Alice? Is something wrong?” Laura asked.

“It’s Millicent,” I said. I remembered that Millicent had been her close friend and I couldn’t say the next words.

Laura walked toward us with Eddie trailing her. “What about Millicent?”

Haley answered the question. “She’s dead, Mrs. Stamps.”

Laura’s hands flew to her chest. “Dead? Millicent’s dead? Where’s Fairchild?”

“Here I am, Laura.” Fairchild’s voice was shaky and frail. Lieutenant Bissell backed up so the Stampses could get through the door to Fairchild. They both embraced him.

“What on God’s earth?” Eddie Stamps asked. “What’s happened?”