With Baited Breath (2 page)

“I will. I’ve got my duffle in the car. I can go back to Rochester tomorrow and pick up Daisy before lunch, and then we could get started on the house.”

“If I ain’t too busy in the shop,” Herb said. “Weather’s supposed to be better tomorrow. I might have a load of customers.”

And he might not, either.

Tori looked from the dock’s non-functioning lamppost to the empty guest rooms. If she paid an electrician to come fix the lights, maybe over the summer she could also work on getting at least one of the guest rooms open again. The big Rochester brewery sponsored a fishing derby in August, which was a boon for those who could put up a couple of guests. If she worked really hard, maybe she could get two of them back up to speed by then. After all, now that Billy was gone she had nothing else planned for the summer. Well, she’d send out some resumes and if nothing else, do substitute teaching once the school year started in September.

Tori stared at the shabby Lotus Lodge. She knew she’d have to bide her time about presenting her ideas for refurbishing the rooms to Herb. He was a proud man. If he decided to sell after the season, anything she could do to increase the value of the property would bring him more cash, and that was what he was going to need no matter what he decided. Now that her plans for a grand vacation were gone, she had a few bucks put aside that she could contribute to the project.

Perhaps she needed to nudge him toward accepting the idea of improving the look of the place before she told him all that was on her mind. She liked to take on pet projects such as this. She’d done a number of DIY projects in her own home, as Billy didn’t like to dirty his soft hands or risk his back swinging a hammer. When she thought about it, what had she ever seen in the guy in the first place?

She took a couple of steps toward the guest rooms and bent to pull some weeds from the grass.

“Don’t bother with that,” Herb said. “I’ll get it with the lawnmower tomorrow.”

Tori straightened. “I thought you were going to be busy with the shop tomorrow?”

“The way things are, I might have an hour or two I can devote to the lawn. If it doesn’t rain.”

“You said the weather was going to clear.”

He scowled. “Do you remember everything everybody tells you?”

“Just you,” she said. “I’ve always paid attention to everything you’ve ever told me.”

It was the old man’s turn to smile. “Yeah, well, you’re the only one who did. Even your grandma listened to only half of what I ever said.”

“She heard the words ‘I love you.’ And so did I.”

“Don’t you get mushy on me. I’ve shed too many tears the last few days. My sinuses are all clogged up and it ain’t ’cuz of the pollen count.”

Tori tossed the weeds aside and moved closer to the first guest unit. “I wonder what it would take to get just one of these rooms back in shape for the derby.”

“Now don’t you go getting a lot of grand ideas about reopening the Lodge. It’ll be all I can handle to keep the shop in business.”

“I was just playing with the idea. I guess I watch too many of those renovation shows like
This Old House
and the stuff on HGTV.”

“Your grandma’s been using the Lodge as her personal storage unit—and God knows what the hell is in there. A dead body, for all I know.”

“That isn’t funny, Gramps,” Tori chided.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. It’s gonna take a really big Dumpster to clean out this place out. But maybe we could go through all the stuff and hold a sale or something. Some of your grandma’s junk has got to be worth something. Then maybe we could afford to get the lights fixed and maybe paint the bait shop.”

So, he had been thinking along the same lines as she had.

“Sounds like a great idea.”

“It might take more than just a couple of weeks. I don’t know as I could do it all myself.”

“I told you—I’ve got the whole summer free. Daisy and I can clear a space in the guest room and make ourselves comfortable. I’ll bring her toys and her litter box tomorrow.”

“Litter box? Why can’t she just go outside like every other cat on the planet?”

Tori shook her head. “She’s an indoor cat, and that’s the way she’s going to stay. It’s a deal breaker, Gramps.”

Herb scowled. “Oh, all right then. But I ain’t gonna empty no cat box.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“And I ain’t gonna feed her. She’s your problem.”

More like pride and joy.

“I understand.” Daisy would win him over in a day or so. Herb really was just an old softie.

Tori took in the doors on all the guest units. They seemed in good shape. Nothing a coat or two of paint couldn’t spruce up. But the end unit’s door didn’t seem to be quite closed. “Gramps, what did Grandma stuff into these units?”

“I don’t know. I was happy all the time she was getting it out of the house.”

Tori grabbed the door handle, turned it, and found it wasn’t locked, but the door wouldn’t open. Something appeared to be stuck under it. Fabric, maybe? She yanked on it several times and the door burst open, the momentum tossing her onto the damp grass.

Herb hurried to help her up. “Are you okay?”

“Just a little damp,” Tori said, and got up, brushing at her rear end, which had taken the brunt of the fall. The door had swung back and she pulled it open, gasping at the sight of an older black man stuffed into the small cavity that wasn’t crammed with boxes.”

“Gramps!”

Herb stepped up behind her. “Holy smoke. It’s Michael Jackson!”

#

A Ward County Sheriff’s Department cruiser’s lights bounced off the low buildings that made up the Cannon compound. Tori had always liked that term—compound. It made it sound like her grandparents were rich, like the Kennedys. Of course, to a child’s eyes, the compound had been a wonderful playground—a place to play hide and seek, or to fish off the dock, or feed stale bread to the ducks. But now, everything was just shabby, and worse … they’d found a body at the Lotus Lodge.

“There was no identification on the body. You’re sure the deceased’s name is Jackson?” the lead detective, a man named Osborn, asked. He wasn’t all that tall, about forty, with slicked back dark hair and a paunch that suggested a sedentary lifestyle.

“As well as I know my own.”

“How long have you known the deceased man?” They’d been over this ground with at least four deputies, and now they’d have to do it yet again.

“Twenty years at least,” Herb said and sighed. “He’s been buying bait off me for that long. He lost his dock in a storm last year and kept a little rowboat here. Lived up on Resort Road in a crappy little bungalow.”

The deputy scribbled in a small notebook. “And you, ma’am?”

“I only knew him by name—just to say hello. I don’t think I’ve even seen him for at least ten years,” Tori said and shivered. She hugged herself, hoping to generate some warmth. They’d been standing out in the chilled air for hours. “Any chance we can go inside and sit down? It’s been a long day.”

The detective shrugged and held out a hand, suggesting they move to the bait shop, which wasn’t going to be much warmer than the great outdoors, but at least the cement floor would be dry. The medical examiner and her team were still clustered around the motel’s last unit, working. Tori was glad that once inside the shop, they wouldn’t be visible to her.

The lights inside the shop were still on, and from the scores of damp footprints, it looked like the entire Sheriff’s Department had trudged through there during the preceding hours, but Tori, Herb, and the detective were the only ones there now. “So you came back from the cemetery and found Mr. Jackson,” he muttered.

“No, we didn’t,” Herb said. “We had coffee, then came out to open the shop. Then we took a walk around the yard before Tori found him. He don’t smell, so he can’t have been there long.”

The detective scowled. “What do you know about the decay of flesh?”

“Look around you, man. This is a bait shop. I’ve been around dead fish my whole life. If they aren’t iced down, it don’t take long before they start to stink.”

Tori stifled a smile. The detective didn’t look happy, but didn’t dispute her grandfather’s logic.

“When was the last time you talked to Mr. Jackson?”

Herb thought about it. “Last weekend. He bought some night crawlers from me and went fishing.”

“Did he say anything pertinent at the time?”

“Yeah. He said he hoped he’d catch something worth eating.”

“I mean that might be pertinent to our investigation.”

“What do you mean?” Herb asked, and Tori wondered if he was just being obstinate.

“The man didn’t stuff himself into that unit. Somebody put him there,” the detective said, losing his patience.

“Well, we certainly didn’t do it. Kill a paying customer? Do you think I’m out of my mind?”

“Gramps, Gramps!” Tori pleaded. She turned to the detective. “I’m sorry. This has not been a good day.”

The detective sighed. “I understand that, ma’am.” He took another breath and tried again. “When was the last time you saw Jackson?” he asked Herb.

“Last night. He walked down here to use his boat.”

“What time was that?”

“After supper. Maybe seven o’clock.”

“Is his boat tied up nearby?”

Herb walked over to the door and looked out at the slips, which were mostly empty. “Yeah, it’s there.”

Osborn frowned. “Did Mr. Jackson have any enemies?”

Herb shrugged. “Not that I know of. Seems to me he got along with everybody around here. ’Cept maybe Lucinda Bloomfield.”

Tori looked up sharply at the name. Lucinda Bloomfield had been a pain in more than just Mr. Jackson’s side. For generations the Bloomfield’s had owned most of the property at the top of Resort Road. They’d put up PRIVATE PROPERTY signs and Lucinda’s elderly father would patrol the perimeter of their estate from a little white golf cart, hollering and shaking his wooden cane at anyone who dared set foot on their sacred land. Though Lucinda was probably only in her mid-forties, she’d inherited the moniker of ‘Old Lady Bloomfield’ after her mother’s death and, like her parents, apparently ruled the end of Resort Road with the same iron fist.

The Bloomfield’s had money. Mega bucks. Word was that pictures of the big, meticulously restored and expanded farmhouse and the lush and carefully maintained landscaping had appeared in more than one home decorating magazine.

“Why would this Bloomfield person have a problem with Mr. Jackson?” Osborn asked.

“Because the family has been trying to rid his house from Resort Road for as long as I can remember,” Herb said.

“Why’s that?”

“They called it a pocket of Dogpatch. You have to pass by it before you enter their
compound
.”

His contempt of the word made Tori wince. They didn’t share the same opinion on its definition.

“No one’s mentioned the word murder, detective. Isn’t it possible Mr. Jackson was ill and simply crawled into our unit and just … died?” Tori asked.

The man positively glowered. “No.”

Tori’s heart sank. If that was true, then it was even more imperative that she move in with her grandfather. She knew for a fact that he rarely locked the door to the house. The bait shop was another matter. What it housed was of value to fishermen, and she also knew that just because a man enjoyed the sport didn’t make him trustworthy. She’d heard too many tales about the fish that got away.

“Detective?” The lady medical examiner stood at the shop’s open doorway. “We’re about to move the body. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks.” Osborn closed his notebook and glanced at Herb. “I think that’s all for now. But I may have more questions as our investigation continues.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” Herb said.

Osborn turned and followed the ME.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” Herb said. “We’ve got nothing in the house except cookies. Let’s head over to The Bay Bar and get us some supper.”

The Bay Bar was exactly what the name implied—a bar that was almost directly across from Cannon’s Bait & Tackle. They served—what else?—bar food. Greasy burgers and fries, and right about then Tori was more interested in imbibing a margarita than a cheeseburger, but then, maybe she’d go for both.

She headed for the yard and then turned and watched as her grandfather switched off the lights and locked up the bait shop for the night.

They didn’t bother going back in the house, but crossed the lawn and then the road to get to the bar. It wasn’t exactly swinging on that Tuesday evening, but there were five motorcycles parked outside, and four of the tattooed bikers sat nursing beers on the deck as they burned through a cigarette or two. They nodded to Tori and Herb as they mounted the steps and entered the bar.

It was the typical redneck bar, with three flat-screened TVs mounted on the walls, a generous supply of blue-and-white neon signs courtesy of the Rochester brewery, a Quick Pick game flashing in the corner, and lots of knotty pine. Tori had only been inside once or twice. When she wanted to party, she drove up to Lotus Point. The bars there played her kind of music and made her kind of drinks.