Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (10 page)

"Go on—"

"Well, you see, to protect her from knowing too much, I had to tell my daughter that
I was going to Myrtle Beach to meet you. Remember you offered to be my tour guide
and all? The leaves are all so pretty back here this time of year. And the crabs are
good too, I'm sure." I was floundering, humiliated to the bone, and probably making
no sense at all. I felt as if I was beginning to hyperventilate and feared I'd soon
need to breathe into a brown paper bag. "But to make a long story short, Stone, I'm
just fine."

"That much is a relief. I'm not sure I understood the rest of what you said, but I
think I'd like to hear all the details. And, of course, the tour guide offer still
stands."

"Well, actually I'm not in Myrtle Beach at all. I'm in Schenectady, New York."

"Now I think I'd really enjoy hearing all the details." He laughed pleasantly into
the phone. "Say, a thought just occurred to me. I've got to fly up to New York City
in a couple of days. I need to pick up some diamonds at a shop up there. I'll have
a rental car and some spare time before my return flight. Any possibility of meeting
me for lunch one day this week? I'll book my flight for whatever day works for you.
I'm flexible on which day I pick up my diamond order. If we meet for lunch, you'll
be able to explain it all to me then. I sincerely would like to meet you, Ms. Starr."

"Have lunch with a guy hauling a load of diamonds around with him? How could I pass
up an offer like that? Diamonds are a girl's best friend, you know." And for some
reason, I really wanted someone to hear my ideas who might offer suggestions and opinions.
I'd welcome someone to talk to, someone with whom I could share my concerns. Perhaps
then I wouldn't feel so overwhelmed by trying to tackle all this alone. Stone seemed
like just the type of person I was visualizing.

Stone laughed again at my comment about girls loving diamonds. He asked me to take
the ferry to Liberty Island on Thursday morning, and he'd meet me at the top of the
Statue of Liberty at eleven o'clock. I told him I'd never been there before, and he
insisted that no trip to New York was complete without a visit to the statue. He'd
pick up something at a nearby deli on the way. We could talk and have a picnic on
the grounds of Liberty Island. It sounded like fun to me, and I was looking forward
to Thursday. I sincerely hoped he was as nice a guy in person as he seemed on the
phone. Of course, Ted Bundy could have easily charmed a lady into meeting him on Liberty
Island too. Oh, goodness, I thought. What had I gotten myself into?

As Wendy had said, I didn't know him from Adam. When I expressed concern about how
I'd recognize him in a crowd of strangers, he said, "I'll be the one wearing a T-shirt
that says, 'Myrtle Beach is for Lovers.' Will that work?"

I blushed. I was thankful he couldn't see my reaction to his remark over the phone.
"I guess that'll work," I said, and chuckled nervously. "See you at eleven on Thursday,
Stone."

* * *

I spent the next few days at the Schenectady Public Library on Clinton Street, on
one of their computers, searching through databases of old editions of the local newspapers.
I also searched again through the microfilm I'd borrowed from the library where I
volunteered my services, in case I'd overlooked something about the case. I didn't
find out much, but I hoped what little I did discover might prove useful at some point.

One article mentioned that since the murder of his wife, Clayton had been staying
in Boston with a friend, Jake Jacoby, during the week, and returning home to New York
on weekends. It was too far to commute to the police academy in Boston each day. Clay
had told the reporter it was hard enough to go home to an empty house on Friday nights.

Clay claimed to be at a library in Boston, studying by himself, on the day Eliza disappeared.
So far no one had come forward to substantiate that claim other than Jacoby, whose
credibility was also questionable. That answered one of my questions—Clay had moved
from the Boston motel to his friend's house after Eliza's death. Only on weekends
did he travel back to his home in Schenectady.

Another article mentioned that when the hiker, Rod Crowfoot, had stumbled across the
body some twenty feet off a hiking trail in the Adirondacks, there'd been a thirty-aught-six
cartridge found near the crime scene, although there were no bullet wounds in the
body. The authorities had yet to determine if the high-powered rifle cartridge was
connected in any way to the murder, or murderer.

One last bit of information gleaned from the newspaper articles was that Eliza's car
was found in the Food Pantry's parking lot with several bags of groceries in the trunk.
A young employee of the grocery store, Kale Miller, had carried the bags to her car,
placed them in her trunk, and headed back into the store. According to Kale, Mrs.
Pitt was rearranging the contents of her trunk as he walked away from her. He didn't
recall anyone else in the parking lot, but admitted he hadn't been paying much attention
at the time. Eliza apparently had been abducted from the parking lot after she'd closed
the trunk, and before she'd gotten into the car.

I made photocopies of every article I could find about the case and stored them in
my notebook. I promised myself I'd go about this impromptu investigation in an organized
manner, even though "organized" was not one of my natural traits. So far, so good,
I thought.

The rest of my spare time was spent reading and relaxing on Harriet's back porch.
I had found another little diner, several blocks west of the Camelot B&B, which served
sourdough English muffins for breakfast. I went there each morning, and to the Union
Street Diner for supper.

I had fallen into a comfortable routine. Harriet usually joined me on the back porch
in the evenings for a quick chat. She allowed herself about ten minutes of downtime
each day. She'd sit on her rusty bucket and smoke three cigarettes in ten minutes
before rushing off to tackle another chore.

During her ten-minute break on Wednesday evening, I asked her about her family. She
told me she had one son living in Schenectady, and another son in Florida. Her husband
had been killed in a boating mishap when her boys were both in high school. He was
drunk one day, Harriet said, and capsized his fishing boat by running it into a submerged
log. Her husband drowned when the boat sank to the bottom of the lake.

"Oh, Harriet, I'm so sorry. That was really a terrible tragedy," I said.

"Yeah, it shore were," she said and nodded. "It were a brand-spanking-new boat."

Chapter 10

I crawled out of bed early on Thursday morning, even earlier than Harriet. I knew
it'd take me a while to drive to Battery Park in New York. From there I planned to
take the ferry across to Liberty Island. I preferred to get there a bit early and
wait for Stone than to get there late and have him waiting for me. I wasn't familiar
with New York or the traffic there, so I didn't know with any degree of accuracy how
to estimate the time it would take to drive there.

Since my four and a half days were up on my fuss-free hairstyle, I had to spend a
good twenty minutes with the curling iron. Then I had to spend another ten or fifteen
minutes changing into every outfit I'd brought with me before finally settling on
the first outfit I'd tried on. The thought occurred to me that getting back into the
dating scene required almost more time and trouble than I was prepared to sacrifice.

I bypassed my morning English muffin since we'd have an early lunch and I didn't want
to run the risk of arriving late. Not to mention I was leaving Schenectady in what
seemed like the middle of the night. As it turned out, I got turned around a couple
of times in New York City, driving through a tunnel three times before I recognized
it as the same Holland Tunnel I'd already passed through twice before. I finally arrived
at Battery Park at about ten-twenty-five. I paid the ten-dollar fee to take the ten-thirty
ferry across to the island. Crossing over to the island on the ferry, I overheard
two young women chatting.

One of them remarked, "Too bad we can't go up in the statue." I wondered why they
couldn't. Neither one of them looked to be handicapped.

I found out soon enough that no one could go up in the statue. It'd been closed to
tourists since the September eleventh terrorist attacks in 2001. Because of the mob
of people milling about the grounds, I wondered whether I'd even find Stone. I was
too vain to wear my glasses, so I'd left them in my car's glove compartment. Now I
had to get within about ten feet of a fellow to read the front of his T-shirt. I walked
around for forty-five minutes staring at every man's chest that drew near me.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already almost noon. Would Stone wait for
me or had he left? I wondered. Maybe he'd decided I'd stood him up when I didn't appear
at eleven. Then again, maybe he had stood me up! I didn't think he'd do something
that inconsiderate. From what little I knew of him, it didn't seem his style at all.
Mine, maybe, but not Stone's.

I was just about to sit down on a nearby bench and sob when I felt a gentle tap on
my shoulder. "Are you Lexie Starr?" I heard a soft-spoken voice ask. I recognized
the voice from our previous phone conversation and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Yes. Stone?"

"Uh-huh," he replied with a nod. He gave me a brief, casual embrace. "I was beginning
to think we wouldn't be able to find each other in this swarm of people. You were
standing there alone and looking as frustrated as I felt, so I took a chance and approached
you. I'm sorry, I had no idea they hadn't reopened the statue to visitors since the
nine-eleven attacks. I did manage to find a little out-of-the-way corner for us to
have lunch. No picnic tables, but I guess we can make do with a bench."

With his arm draped loosely over my shoulder, he led me to the spot he'd found. As
he unloaded a bag of sandwiches, cheese slices, grapes, and Diet Cokes, I checked
him out as best I could without being obvious. I had to smile at his silly-looking
Myrtle Beach T-shirt. He obviously had a fun sense of humor.

Stone wasn't a tall man, maybe five foot nine or ten, but he was still over a half-foot
taller than I was. He carried an extra ten or fifteen pounds around his waist that
I found rather comforting. Better to look slim next to a chunky guy than chunky next
to a slim guy, I've always thought. His silver hair was fashionably cut and just beginning
to recede a little on top. He had the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen, so light
they were almost translucent. I felt that if I looked straight into Stone's eyes,
I'd be able to see through the irises to a bank of information behind them. He spoke
in an intelligent, articulate manner.

Stone also had a very small gap between his two front teeth, which were otherwise
straight and extremely white. I thought he was one of the most handsome men I'd ever
met. I thought this right after he commented that I was even prettier in person than
I'd sounded on the phone. And younger than he'd anticipated. He said, "I would have
guessed you'd be in your mid-forties, but you can't be out of your thirties yet."
Right, Stone, I thought. And I can't be more than a hundred pounds, soaking wet, either.
One of the things that impressed me most about Stone, aside from his expressions of
adulation, was the fact that he was an excellent listener. Between bites of my lunch,
I found myself telling him about my late husband, my daughter, my son-in-law, and
my volunteer service at the library.

Eventually I explained the situation that had brought me back East to begin with and
that had prompted the frantic phone call he'd received from Wendy. I even told him
about my aversion to poached eggs and my allergies to bee stings and mushrooms. He
seemed so sincerely interested in everything I had to say that I couldn't prevent
myself from talking incessantly. It never occurred to me that a near stranger couldn't
seriously care about my tendency to swell up like a hot air balloon after ingesting
a truffle.

Now and then, when I stopped to breathe, I learned an interesting tidbit about Stone,
as well. He told me he was fifty-five and widowed. Having both lost our spouses was
something we had in common, he pointed out. He was financially able to retire, but
was afraid he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he didn't have a job to go
to each day. He wasn't a man who welcomed idle time, he said.