Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Read online

  Before I spoke, I checked caller ID. Angela Trotter. It was 3:00 A.M.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Someone shot out the front window of my house. I called the sheriff’s office. They’re sending a deputy.”

  She was frightened. “Calm down. I’ll come over,” I said.

  “Do you think someone meant to hurt me?”

  “It’s possible.” I didn’t know the crime statistics on the island. Was gunplay par for the course? I doubted it, but I’d know in the morning. It was a curious coincidence that she’d hired a private investigator and, the very same day, someone shot out her window. “Lock your doors. Let me get my clothes on, and I’ll be over.” I wrote down the address she gave me.

  When I hung up, I sat beside Graf. “Someone shot out one of Angela’s windows. It could be an accident or a stray bullet, but she was upset.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I told her I’d come over. Are you okay with that?”

  “I’m not particularly fond of the idea that you’re going to a place where gunshots have been fired.”

  I picked up his hand and laced my fingers through his. “Angela called the sheriff’s department. Officers will be on the scene. I don’t think it’s dangerous for me to go, but I’ll cancel if that’s what you want.”

  He dropped my hand and stood. “I told you I want you to continue your career. I meant it, but I can’t help but worry. You have to let me heal, and I have to let you work. Check on her. Just be careful. And take the dog and cat. Sweetie is a far better judge of character than either of us.”

  “I will.” I kissed him good-bye and set out for Angela’s with Sweetie and Pluto at my side.

  4

  Angela sat glumly on the steps of her cottage, the surf only a murmur because of her distance from the shore. The interior light illuminated several missing panes in the front window. Two bullet holes, small caliber, marred her living room wall.

  “Where were you when the shots were fired?” I asked.

  “In my bedroom.”

  “Was the living room dark?”

  “There was a lamp on. I should have closed the blinds, but there’s never any traffic on this street. Just the folks who live here.”

  “I think the shots were a warning of some type. If they’d been trying to kill you, they would have shot through the bedroom window. This was a down-and-dirty drive-by to give you a heads-up.” I sat beside her.

  “Warning for what? How did anyone know I was talking to you about Dad’s murder?” she asked.

  “It’s a bit of a jump to take it as fact that this”—I waved at the destruction visible in the porch light—“is because you hired me.”

  “It’s connected.” Angela was adamant. “I just have to figure out how.”

  We halted the discussion because the patrol car stopped in front of the cottage and two uniformed deputies walked toward us.

  “Looks like you made more enemies, Miss Trotter. Or rousted up some old ones.” The deputy who spoke had a swagger and a name tag that read Randy Chavis. “You got a way of pissing people off.”

  My shock at the deputy’s unprofessional behavior gave way to anger. “You must have passed the course on Blame the Victim. You need to rethink you attitude.”

  He swung around to face me, and clear blue eyes raked me as harshly as if he’d touched me. “And who are you, little lady?”

  “A friend.” Angela stepped between us. “You don’t have to like me, Chavis, but you do have to do your job.”

  So there was bad blood between the two. Likely because of Angela’s persistence in helping Larry Wofford and because she was a journalist. Cops and reporters were often at odds and viewed each other with suspicion.

  “Maybe if you weren’t always trying to tell people how to do their jobs, you’d get better cooperation.”

  “Maybe if you officers did your jobs I wouldn’t have to point out the problems in the newspaper.”

  Now I stepped between them. “Enough. Ms. Trotter’s house was shot. She could have been injured or killed. What can you do?”

  He almost snapped at me, but instead he turned to his partner. “Check for shell casings. Talk to the neighbors; see if they heard or saw anything. I’ll take some photos.” He pointed at Angela. “Can you describe the people who did this?”

  “I was asleep. It was over by the time I got dressed.”

  “Any suspects? Anybody want to harm you?”

  “I’m not a reporter any longer, Randy. I give tours of Fort Gaines. No, I can’t think why someone would want to hurt me.”

  “You can’t help yourself, Angela. You’re making trouble wherever you turn. You haven’t been stirring the pot on Larry Wofford again, have you?” Chavis asked.

  “No,” she said, and I could almost hear her teeth gritting.

  The second deputy returned. “Neighbors across the street were up. They noticed a dark car driving down the street real slow. It took off right after the gunshots.”

  “Good job, Teddy. I’ll get after the photos.” He spoke to Angela. “If we come up with anything, we’ll let you know.” Chavis walked away.

  “And I won’t hold my breath,” Angela said. “That man hates me.”

  “Why?”

  “He was up for detective, and I wrote a story that put him in a bad light. The story was true, but Chavis holds it against me. He feels like I ruined his chances for promotion.”

  For the first time, it occurred to me that Angela might be taking the lid off a box of snakes. It was always true in crime investigation: if an innocent man was in jail, then a guilty one was on the loose. A guilty man had a lot to lose if I solved the case. Intimidating Angela was a tactic a lot of guilty people might use.

  “You look worried,” Angela said.

  “If the person who killed your father is free and is still around here, you could be in danger.”

  “And you too.”

  “I have to really discuss this with Graf. I can’t put him in a place where he could be hurt again.”

  “I understand.”

  “In the meantime, write down everyone who might be linked to your father’s death. And a list of everyone you talked to since you met me. Maybe a list of the people who took the fort tour.” The strange behavior of the slender woman wearing the hat and sunglasses came back to me. “There was a woman. Tall and blond. Attractive. Maybe my age. Hat and sunglasses. Do you recall her?”

  “Yes.” Angela considered. “She wasn’t on the tour, but I saw her several times, trailing behind us. It’s odd, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.”

  “Nor did I. I saw her on the beach earlier. She’s here with a child, presumably her daughter. Probably just tourists.” Still, if I saw them on the beach again, I’d initiate a conversation and see if I could find out more about them. Strangers were always worth a glance in an investigation.

  “Someone has something to hide, Sarah Booth.” Angela lowered her head.

  “If someone intends to hurt you, Angela, this may be a blessing in disguise. At least now we’re on the alert. Forewarned is forearmed, as my aunt Loulane would say.”

  “She must have been a mighty wise woman.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  * * *

  When I returned to the beach cottage, Graf was gone. For a few heart-pounding minutes, I suffered under the delusion he’d been kidnapped yet again—until I found the note he’d left on the kitchen counter saying he couldn’t sleep and was taking a walk on the beach.

  Dawn was not far away, and I was too keyed up to sleep. The deputy, Chavis, had a huge chip on his shoulder where Angela was concerned. I understood why law officers were suspicious of the press. Whenever a lawman messed up, it was generally the media who pointed it out. And journalists had written more than a few stories of lawmen taking justice into their own hands. From the officers’ side, they felt journalists rushed to print and jeopardized cases, even lives.

  Lucky for me, my experience with Coleman
gave me a new perspective. He told the truth to Cece and other reporters. He didn’t always tell all the facts, because he had an investigation to run and protect. But he offered what he could, and Cece trusted him. Things worked out very well. But that was a rare arrangement.

  When I got the chance, I wanted to read the stories Angela had written when she worked for the local newspaper. That might explain Chavis’s antagonistic attitude. The other possibility involved guilt—and wanting to stop her from finding the real killer. Fifty-fifty either way.

  Hitting the beach, I headed west. At one time the island extended farther west, but storms had eroded the beaches. Numerous cottages had been washed away or destroyed by the fury of the Gulf hurricanes. As I looked down the beach, no lights were visible. For all practical purposes, I was alone.

  The wind off the water was cold, and there was a sense that something big and powerful lurked just beyond the horizon, out on the water. Pulling up what I remembered about the Gulf Coast history, I knew there were Native American tribes that lived along the coastal rim. None built permanent homes on the barrier islands. They knew better than to trust the weather gods.

  Hurricane season extends from June 1 through November 30. Late-season storms are often less powerful, more drenchers than blowers, but could still do millions in damage because the coast had become the haven for the wealthy who could afford to build on the water’s edge. The Indians were smarter. They lived on the beach for short stints but moved inland when foul weather threatened.

  The worst storms come in late July, August, and September. The names of the hurricanes that had strewn disaster along the Alabama-Mississippi coasts were legendary: Camille, Ivan, Katrina. The effects of the last big hurricane were evident all around me.

  My mind on the power of nature, I was startled to see lights in the distance. They were near the water, and they moved back and forth. My imagination had been teased by Angela Trotter’s stories of pirates, and my first thought was smugglers sneaking booty onshore.

  In this day and age, it wouldn’t be gold and jewelry. More likely drugs. And drug smugglers were far more dangerous than pirates any day of the week.

  A low growl slipped from Sweetie’s throat.

  “Easy girl, let’s take cover behind the dunes.”

  Using the drifts of sand to block us from the view of those on the shore, we made our way toward the lights. Before we could see anything clearly, I heard voices.

  “That’s one! Look, it’s headed straight into the water. It’ll make it.” The male speaker couldn’t contain his excitement.

  “Will they be okay if a storm comes up?” a young woman asked.

  “A storm won’t be good. Not for those in the water and especially not for the ones still hatching here on shore.”

  Instead of pirates or smugglers, I’d stumbled into a nest of biologists working with turtles. Abandoning the dunes, I walked toward them.

  “Hold up!” A tall, athletic woman in an insulated jacket held up a hand to stop me in my tracks. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll crush them.”

  Sweetie and I froze. The woman’s tone of voice made me feel as if I’d committed a capital crime. “What am I about to crush?”

  “Loggerhead turtles. The species is fighting extinction. We don’t need a big foot smashing them.”

  After my last case with a wacked-out academic who wore banana boats for shoes, I was a little sensitive about the size of my feet. “Now hold on. No cause for insults. I was merely out for a walk.”

  “If I had my way, you tourists would be shipped off this island, along with most of the residents. This place could be the finest habitat for aquatic reptiles along the Gulf Coast. But no, it’s just one more beach for people who have too much time and too much money.”

  A tall man approached and gripped her arm. “Dr. Norris! You can’t accost people. The city council will ban you from working with the turtles.”

  I could almost feel the heat of her anger, but she checked herself. Even in the dim starlight I could see her efforts to relax her shoulders and straighten her posture. “I apologize. These turtles struggle against so many predators, and man is the worst. Thoughtlessness kills eighty percent of the hatchlings. This is a very late nest, and the babies are finally trying to make it to the water.”

  “You’re obviously passionate about the creatures.” I could appreciate a person who defended the helpless. “It’s okay. I’m not offended. But, really, my feet aren’t that big.”

  She laughed, and it was a transformation. “I do apologize. My behavior was awful. I’m Phyllis Norris.” She reached out and took my hand. “Let me show you.”

  I followed her to an indentation in the sand. In the beam of a flashlight, the tiniest baby turtles crawled out of the nest and scurried down the beach. Several volunteers made a wedge-shaped human barrier to keep humans and other predators away and to give the hatchlings a chance to gain the water.

  “How many will make it?” I asked.

  “Not enough. This particular turtle is in danger of extinction. Climate change has impacted the nesting times. Late October is unheard of for hatchlings. That’s why we’re out here. I mostly believe in letting nature take its course, but the oil spill hit the turtles hard. Not to mention relentless development of the Gulf beaches.”

  She didn’t bother to hide her bitterness. Development on the beachfront was an ecological and insurance disaster. Yet the developers returned as soon as a hurricane knocked them down.

  “The Gulf Coast has been lucky this year,” I said. “No serious hurricanes, and the season is almost done.”

  “Don’t speak too soon. There’s a tropical storm off the coast of Jamaica. Good chance it’ll go into the Yucátan Peninsula, but if it veers into the Gulf and heads this way, it’ll be terrible for these nesting turtles. The beach erosion is devastating.”

  “A storm? I checked the weather Saturday, and there wasn’t a mention.” The beach cottage had a television and radio, but neither Graf nor I had turned them on. I was way out of touch with what was happening outside of my tiny world.

  “Tropical Storm Margene. It may not develop into a hurricane, and it may not come this way. Welcome to the watch-and-wait lifestyle of the Gulf Coast.”

  “Sometimes the remnants of the storms make it up to the Mississippi Delta.” And brought floods, relentless rain, and wind gusts, not the full-bore effect. Even the last vestiges of a big storm could prove destructive, though.

  “What brings you to Dauphin Island?” Dr. Norris asked.

  “My fiancé and I are vacationing for a week.”

  She tried to hide the distaste she felt for more tourists, but in the glare of a coworker’s flashlight, I caught the fleeting expression before she covered it. “The island is at its best in the fall. Most of the tourists are gone. The beer swillers, sun worshippers, and litterbugs have returned indoors.”

  I understood her frustration, so I let it go. “We toured the old fort yesterday. An interesting history.”

  “Then you met Angela Trotter?”

  “I did.”

  “I wish she’d accept what happened to her father and move on. She’ll end up spending her entire life championing a man who doesn’t deserve it.”

  In small towns, everyone knew the business of everyone else, so I wasn’t surprised at Dr. Norris’s knowledge of Angela’s situation. I was a little shocked at her blunt assessment made to a stranger.

  “You believe Larry Wofford is guilty?”

  “I see she’s filled you in on all the details. Poor Angela. She tells every new person she meets about the injustice served on Wofford. She wants to believe her father died because of a treasure. It’s hard for a daughter to accept that two drunks got into an argument and one killed the other.”

  “Simple as that?” I asked.

  She checked on the progress of the turtles before she answered, and she motioned me away from the group. “Angela was a top-notch reporter. She dug into things and held people accountable. S
he could have gone on to national prominence. Then her father was killed. Her whole life contracted, and she gave up reporting and moved to the island. She’s spent the last year asking questions. It’s a waste of talent.”

  “You know a lot about Angela.” More than a casual acquaintance should.

  “I do.” She hesitated. “I dated John Trotter for two years. When I couldn’t take his drinking any longer, we broke it off.”

  “I see.”

  “Angela and her father were estranged. I was trying to repair their relationship, and making progress. They’d begun to talk a bit, and Angela even visited him on the boat. She felt abandoned by his pursuit of the everlasting treasure. John was a dreamer. An extraordinary man who could weave a tale and captivate any audience. Even me.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “I didn’t care that he talked foolishness. I just loved his heart and his undying hope.”

  “And you think Larry Wofford killed him?”

  “Beyond a reasonable doubt. I attended the trial. John and Larry drank together. A lot in the latter months of John’s life. Two old sea dogs hitting the bottle, sharing yarns and tales of treasure. Both had given up their families.”

  The picture she painted was all too familiar. Lonely men drinking, an argument, a gun. It happened all the time. “Why do you think Angela is so determined to believe Wofford is innocent?”

  “I’m no psychologist, but she can cling to the belief her father was about to find the treasure of his dreams. He can be a near success instead of an alcoholic failure. Wouldn’t you rather believe that about your father?”

  “So it’s more about her father than Wofford?”

  Phyllis Norris shrugged. “That I can’t determine. Wofford is a handsome guy. Charming as all get-out. Angela has a thing for him. That’d make it doubly sad, wouldn’t it?” She shifted so she could monitor the turtles. “I have to get back to my students and volunteers. Enjoy your stay on the island.”

  “I will. Thank you. And good luck with the turtles.”

  5

  I entered the cottage on the QT, but my efforts not to wake Graf were pointless. He hadn’t returned from his walk. I tried his cell phone, only to hear it ringing on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t taken it with him.