Killer Crab Cakes (24 page)

“Listen, if Consuela’s been arrested, she’s going to need a good lawyer,” Dorothy went on. “It’s not enough to just know that she’s innocent. She’ll have to have somebody fighting on her side.”

“I feel the same way,” Phyllis said.

“If she needs help with hiring someone, I’m committed to doing everything I can. Nobody could ever ask for a stronger, better right hand than she’s been to me in running that place, and whatever it takes, Ben and I will do it.”

Phyllis had known that Dorothy would feel that way. Unfortunately, Dorothy had problems of her own and might not have the resources to do as much as she wanted to for Consuela. Once the news got around that someone else had been murdered at Oak Knoll, no one was going to want to stay there. The business was slipping away like a beach being eroded by the tide, and Phyllis was sickened by the fact that it was happening on her watch, so to speak.

“You’ll tell her that, won’t you?” Dorothy went on.

“Of course I will,” Phyllis promised. “As soon as I get a chance to speak to her. I don’t know when that will be. The police can hold her for up to forty-eight hours without actually charging her, I think.”

“We’ll be heading that way as soon as the baby is well enough to be released from the hospital. Until then . . .”

“I’ll hold down the fort,” Phyllis vowed . . . even though she felt that she hadn’t been doing a very good job of it so far.

The cousins said their good-byes and hung up. As Phyllis turned toward the kitchen table, Carolyn demanded, “What’s all this about orgies going on upstairs?”

“She didn’t say there were orgies going on, dear,” Eve pointed out. “She said the Forrests and the Blaines were wife-swapping.”

“What’s the difference?” Carolyn snapped.

Eve frowned in thought for a second, then said, “Quantity?”

Sam leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. “You sure about this hanky-panky goin’ on?” he asked Phyllis.

“No, not really. I just saw Sheldon Forrest and Jessica Blaine alone together in the Blaines’ room yesterday afternoon, and they looked like . . . well, they looked like
something
had been going on. And they acted like they knew exactly where Leo and Raquel were, and I took that to mean that they were together the way Sheldon and Jessica were together . . .” Phyllis sank into one of the empty chairs. “Oh, I don’t know what anything means anymore. All I know is that I thought this would be a chance for the four of us to get away and have a nice vacation while I helped out my cousin at the same time. I didn’t know we were going to land smack-dab in the middle of more murders.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Sam said.

Phyllis had no clue what he meant by that, unless it was the idea that terrible things often came out of nowhere, with no warning. Even though she had just sat down, she stood up again and said, “I’m going to the police department. I want to see Consuela, if they’ll let me.”

“They probably won’t,” Carolyn said. “They’ve probably got her locked up in some little room with bright lights and rubber hoses.”

Eve said, “I don’t believe the police do that anymore, dear, if they ever did.”

Sam got to his feet as well and said to Phyllis, “I’ll go with you.”

She started to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but then the prospect of venturing into the police department without his strong presence at her side seemed too much to contemplate. She nodded instead and said, “Thank you.”

Carolyn said, “It’s nearly time for supper. If anyone wants to eat, there’s a pot full of tamale soup I can have finished in a few minutes.”

And it probably still smells delicious, Phyllis thought as she went out the back door with Sam at her side. But not to her.

Two murders in two days had pretty much ruined her appetite right now.

A
late-afternoon breeze ruffled the fronds of the tall palm trees along the road. Tall, ungainly-looking gray herons stood in the shallow waters of the bay, waiting for fish to venture unwisely close. Seagulls floated in the sky with apparently effortless grace. To the west the thick clouds that had hung over the area earlier had begun to break up, letting shafts of orange sunlight slant through them. Everything was as beautiful as ever around here . . .

Except the police department. There was nothing beautiful about it.

Sam parked the pickup and they went inside. The officer on duty at the reception desk asked if he could help them. The name tag on his shirt read KINCAID.

“We’d like to speak to either Chief Clifton or . . . Assistant Chief Clifton,” Phyllis said, wondering if the two top officers in the department having the same last name ever got awkward.

That didn’t appear to be a problem, because the officer said, “Dale’s not here, but Abby still is.” He reached for a phone. “Who are y’all?”

“Just tell her that Phyllis Newsom and Sam Fletcher would like to talk to her,” Phyllis said.

The officer nodded, punched a button on the phone, and relayed the message after saying, “Couple folks out here to see you, Abby.” Obviously, they didn’t stand on formality around here . . . at least, Officer Kincaid didn’t.

When he hung up the phone, he said, “She says for you to come on back. Her office is—”

“We know where it is,” Phyllis said, remembering how she and Sam had come here to give their statements that morning. It seemed a lot longer ago than that now. “Thank you, Officer.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

They found Abby Clifton standing in the door of her office, waiting for them. She smiled as she said, “I didn’t expect to see you again this soon. Come on in. What can I do for you? Did you remember something that could be important to the investigation?”

“Actually, we just came to see Consuela and make sure she’s all right.”

Abby’s friendly smile disappeared. “We haven’t been working her over with a rubber hose, if that’s what you mean.”

Sam said, “Carolyn’s gonna be disappointed.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Phyllis said. “I’m sorry . . . Do I call you Chief, too?”

“Why don’t you just call me Abby, like everybody else around here? And Consuela’s fine. She declined to answer any questions until she talks to her lawyer, which is her right. But he can’t get here until tomorrow morning.”

“So you’re going to hold her overnight.”

Abby shrugged. “It was Consuela’s decision. I don’t like it any more than you do, Mrs. Newsom. I’ve known Consuela practically since I was a little girl.”

“And yet you believe she could have stabbed a man in the chest. Murdered him.”

“What I believe or don’t believe doesn’t matter,” Abby said with a sigh. “Around here we go by what the evidence tells us.”

“What evidence?”

Abby opened her mouth to say something, then stopped abruptly. Her smile came back, but it wasn’t completely friendly.

“You know better than that, Mrs. Newsom. I can’t divulge details of the investigation. But I’ll tell you what . . . I was just about to go out and grab a bite to eat while I’ve got a chance. Why don’t you and Mr. Fletcher come with me, and if you’ve got any ideas about the case, I’d be glad to listen to them.”

“You mean an unofficial interrogation?”

Abby shook her head. “Nope. Just a conversation. I know you’ve done some investigating in the past, and I’d love to pick your brain about this mess.”

Phyllis hesitated. She wasn’t hungry, and she suspected that the assistant chief was really fishing for more evidence that could be used against Consuela, but it was always possible that Abby would let her guard down enough that something important might slip, something that could
help
Consuela instead of hurting her. Phyllis glanced over at Sam to see what he thought about the invitation.

“Where’d you plan on goin’?” he asked Abby.

“A place called The Dancing Pelican.”

Sam nodded. “I’ve seen it when we were drivin’ by the water. Wouldn’t mind checkin’ it out.”

“All right, then,” Phyllis said. “I don’t suppose it would hurt anything.”

“I’m glad,” Abby said as she pulled the door of her office closed. “Actually, I think we could be friends, Mrs. Newsom, if you’ll just give it a chance.”

“We’ll see about that,” Phyllis said, her voice cool. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be friends with someone who could arrest an obviously innocent woman such as Consuela.

But then she realized that she was falling into the trap of jumping to conclusions of her own. As much as she wanted to believe that Consuela couldn’t be a killer, it would certainly be nice to have some proof . . .

Phyllis and Sam followed Abby in Sam’s pickup. The assistant chief drove along the waterfront until she came to a point of land that jutted out into the bay near the boat basin. At the very end of that point was a weathered-looking building with a rear porch built on pilings, so that it extended out over the water, and a pier that stuck out even farther. Old fishermen’s nets and floats hung on the walls, giving the place a nautical look. A large wooden sign on the roof proclaimed THE DANCING PELICAN, and in addition to the words, the sign also depicted a cartoon pelican who seemed to be dancing an enthusiastic jig.

Abby parked the police cruiser in the crushed-shell parking lot, and Sam pulled the pickup to a stop beside it. As they all got out of the vehicles, Abby grinned and asked, “What do you think of it?”

“Very picturesque,” Phyllis admitted.

“I have an ulterior motive for asking,” Abby admitted. “I own the place. Inherited it from my uncle Dave, my mother’s brother.”

“The assistant chief of police owns a bar and grill?”

Abby shrugged. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It looks sort of odd. That’s why I’ve got a good manager, the same one who ran the place for Uncle Dave. Come on in.”

Quite a few cars and pickups were parked in the lot, so Phyllis wasn’t surprised to see that The Dancing Pelican was doing a brisk business. The interior was dimly lit, with a bar across the back and tables covered with mismatched table-cloths scattered over the floor. A jukebox in one corner blared loud music. The interior walls were decorated with nets and floats, like the exterior ones.

“Good Lord,” Sam said as he looked around. “It’s 1972 all over again.”

Phyllis leaned closer to him and asked over the music, “Is this what they call a honky-tonk?”

He looked at her. “You’ve never been in a place like this before?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I guess it’s part honky-tonk,” Sam said. “Part biker bar, part fisherman’s bar, part hippie bar, and pure beer joint. Some of my, uh, misspent youth was misspent in places a lot like this.”

Phyllis clutched his arm. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“You’ll be fine,” he told her as he patted her hand. “Just don’t throw a drink in anybody’s face and start a brawl.”

She frowned at him, thinking that he was joking. He had to be joking.

The plank floor seemed to be vibrating a little from the loud music as Abby led them over to the bar, where a huge man with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard was filling beer mugs for his customers. Nobody seemed bothered by the fact that a police officer had just come in, so Phyllis supposed that Abby was a regular visitor.

“Hey, Boaz,” she said to the massive bartender, “couple new friends of mine, Phyllis and Sam.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at them. Evidently everybody was on a first-name basis around here.

“Howdy,” Boaz rumbled as he nodded to them. White teeth gleamed in a grin partially hidden by the beard. “What can I get you folks?”

“Cheeseburgers and beers all around,” Abby ordered for them, then shook her head. “Deep-six the beers. I’m still on duty. Better make it Dr Peppers instead.” She glanced at Phyllis and Sam. “That all right?”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam said, and Phyllis didn’t want to be a problem so she nodded, too.

“Comin’ right up,” Boaz promised.

Abby led them over to a booth upholstered in red Naugahyde that showed cracks of age. The dark wood table was scratched and bore countless ringed stains where condensation had dripped off of icy beer mugs. She slid in on one side, Phyllis and Sam on the other. The song on the jukebox changed from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” to “Dust in the Wind.”

Phyllis leaned forward and said, “Calling it picturesque doesn’t really do the place justice, does it?”

Abby grinned. “I practically grew up here and at the police station. Not your normal upbringing for a little girl, I know. But I turned out all right . . . I hope.”

“I’d say that bein’ assistant chief of police is turnin’ out all right,” Sam said.

“My dad plans on me taking over the department when he retires in a few years.” Abby shrugged. “We’ll see.” Those pleasantries aside, she got down to business. “You’re convinced that Consuela is innocent, aren’t you, Mrs. Newsom?”

“That’s right,” Phyllis answered without hesitation.