Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Read online

  "Oh goodness," I said, as if something important had just occurred to me. "Thanks for the reminder. I need to get my driver's license renewed too, before it expires on Saturday. Well, have a nice day, dear. I'll be back on the twenty-fourth to pick up my new choppers."

  The receptionist advised me to go to the DMV in a neighboring town, which just happened to be the office where Royce worked. See what I mean about things happening for a reason? The DMV in Aransas Pass was always so busy that people would often have to get there at the crack of dawn to get their license the same day. And I didn't have that much time to wait in line. As I walked away, the receptionist gleefully remarked, "Plus, it'll give you and Mr. Chrisman a chance to catch up."

  We're going to catch up, all right, I thought, as I stepped up into the truck. Driving back to the RV park, I was trying to devise my next move. Due to his evasive actions, I felt confident that Royce Chrisman, a.k.a. Big Bob, was involved in Claypool's murder, if he hadn't actually done the dirty deed himself. My driver's license actually was set to expire on my birthday, December eighteenth. I had several weeks to have it renewed, but there was something to be said about not letting grass grow under one's feet. Especially when time was of the essence and one had an ulterior motive not to waste it.

  My new plan was to visit the DMV office that very afternoon rather than put it off until a later date. According to Dr. Shaft's receptionist, even though the DMV where Bob worked was farther away, it'd still be more time-efficient than going to the closer one. And, even if it wasn't, my only reason for renewing my license this early was to get a face-to-face meeting with Royce Chrisman. We needed to "catch up", you see.

  Given the fact driver's license photos were notoriously hideous, and also that Texas driver's licenses were now good for seven years, I'd have to remember to avoid flashing my usual toothy smile when the picture was taken. The gaunt appearance from being toothless made me look old enough as it was. Lord knows when it came to photos, I didn't have much to work with even in the best of times.

  * * *

  When I returned to the campground, Rip was fast asleep on the couch. I knew this before I even opened the trailer door because his snoring was vibrating the blinds. On the way home from the dentist, I'd been thinking about how I'd ever convince Rip to accompany me to the DMV office and hadn't come up with a feasible plan yet. I wasn't likely to convince him this man named Royce, and/or Bob, and/or any other possible alias, was a viable suspect to begin with.

  I could explain what had taken place at the dentist's office a hundred times, embellishing the story more and more with each telling if I had to, and Rip would still never believe confronting this huge, cagey fellow was a good idea. As usual, he'd tell me I was chasing my own tail, barking up the wrong tree, acting like a dog with a bone, turning our investigation into a dog and pony show, or any of a dozen other canine clichés. But, frankly, I wasn't quite ready to let sleeping dogs lie.

  I don't know if you'd call it woman's intuition, or just a wild-ass hunch, but something told me I was finally on the right trail. I had to act on a gut feeling this overwhelming, or I'd get no sleep that night.

  As my Pappy used to say, "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission," and that's especially true when you're fairly certain permission wouldn't be granted. So I grabbed a memo pad off the counter and penned "Out and about, be back in a few hours." I placed it underneath the remote control, where I knew he'd find it because the remote would be the first thing he'd reach for when he opened his eyes. At least if the half-finished Crown and Coke on the table next to him had already warmed up to room temperature and the ice had melted.

  I quietly gathered up the items I'd need to renew my license. I knew from experience it was usually on the third attempt you'd finally brought all the miscellaneous documents that the DMV clerk would demand to see. I'm sure there are few people who relish the idea of going to their local DMV. It had the reputation of being one of the most disliked public offices in nearly every county in the country. But I found myself looking forward to the opportunity to speak with Big Bob where he couldn't just race off in his Jeep when he recognized me in the crowd. At least not if he valued his job or needed the income it provided.

  Little did I know at the time, my enthusiasm would evaporate like morning dew on a pumpkin as soon as I reached my destination.

  Chapter 18

  "Number seventeen."

  As I walked into the building, I heard a nasally female voice call out from her position behind the counter. I recognized it from the call I'd made to the DMV on my way home from the dental office to collect the necessary documents.

  I pulled a paper tag off the roll—number thirty-four. Every chair in the room was occupied, and there were at least a dozen people standing or sitting on the floor. A couple of younger men looked as if they'd been camped out all night. It reminded me of the Best Buy parking lot the evening before Black Friday

  I knew I was in for a long wait. I don't normally suffer from claustrophobia, but in this small room, filled to the gills with people, I experienced an overwhelming sense of not having enough oxygen to breathe. I considered standing outside where I could at least breathe in clean, fresh air. One rogue germ in here could potentially launch an influenza outbreak in all of south Texas, I thought. And I don't have time to lounge around in bed for several days while I recuperate.

  On the other hand, I didn't want to miss my chance when number thirty-four was called. There were only two clerks working behind the counter. Royce Chrisman and an older woman with snow white hair, who looked to be at least twenty years beyond retirement. It was clear she wasn't still working because she loved her job or enjoyed dealing with the public. Her face was frozen in a petulant frown. Her raspy voice carried across the room as she harshly snapped at each person she assisted. To make matters worse, like a sleeping sloth, she moved so slowly you'd have to place a pole beside her to determine if she was moving at all.

  Scanning the room for a place to sit, I saw only one decent spot left on the floor to park myself for a long spell without being trampled on. I decided I better claim it before the portly man with a sunburned bald spot on the top of his head snatched it up. He had walked in the building just seconds after I had, letting me go inside ahead of him as he'd gentlemanly held the door open for me. I had assured him I was most appreciative before two other people entered directly behind us. It seemed as if two people were walking in the door for every one that was walking out.

  A sense of impatience and disgust filled the room like a cloud, as if it'd been fogged for termites. Every few seconds, I could make out an audible sigh from someone in the room. When a man with a low-timbered voice spoke to an elderly gentleman, who was no doubt his aging father, the white-haired clerk squawked. "Quiet down over there. If you folks have something you need to say, take it outside."

  Wow, I thought. What a ray of sunshine that old bat is.

  This wasn't my first rodeo, and I was thankful I'd thought to bring my iPad with me just in case I'd need something to while away the time. When our daughter had gifted us with the tablet the previous Christmas, Rip and I had been outwardly enthusiastic, but inwardly skeptical. As I mentioned earlier, after serving as an over-sized coaster on the end table for eight months, I had learned enough about the device while staying at the Alexandria Inn to render it useful. Not only that, but I was now on the verge of needing an intervention for my Candy Crush and Boggle addictions.

  "Eighteen," Royce Chrisman called out. He looked up to scan the crowd for his next customer, then stopped abruptly when his eyes locked with mine. The expression on his face was priceless. I could almost read his thoughts. Is that old lady stalking me, or what? I wanted to tell him I was his bad penny and would keep showing up until I was convinced he had nothing to do with Cooper Claypool's murder.

  That thought made me turn on the iPad and Google his name. Royce isn't a common name, so I wasn't surprised when only four Royce Chrismans popped up. Two were already decease
d and had resided in Alaska and North Carolina, and another one was starring as Chantilly in a drag queen production on the Las Vegas strip. The only other hit I got was a Bar Mitzvah announcement. Considering this Jewish Royce Chrisman was most likely around the customary age of thirteen, I disregarded him, too. But congratulations and Mazal Tov to the young man, just the same.

  I found nothing of interest on the list of sites my search produced other than a few articles about the late Alaskan who had won a number of dog-sled races and at the age of sixty-two had fallen just short of being a contestant in the inaugural Iditarod competition in 1973. Sounded like a remarkably fascinating fellow, but he obviously wasn't making threatening phone calls from the great beyond.

  Could Royce Chrisman be just one of a number of aliases this man used? I wondered again. Could one of his monikers be Captain Hook?

  He did have a prosthetic with a "hook" of sorts in lieu of a hand. I glanced up at him and noticed he was wearing a different prosthetic today. As Pinto had noted the previous day, it was almost undistinguishable from his other, natural arm and hand.

  Mr. Chrisman was holding a small boy around a year old while the boy's mother filled out some paperwork. I saw the boy laugh joyfully at something Royce had said or done in an effort to entertain him until the mother was able to reclaim him. Royce Chrisman had to look like a gigantic monster to such a tiny child, but the boy appeared very much as ease in his arms. He giggled, babbled blissfully, and grasped the thumb on Royce's prosthetic hand with his tiny fingers. It was a touching scene, I had to admit.

  I've always heard that dogs and children were good judges of character and wondered if this young Hispanic child had judged Royce correctly. Despite my inclination to dislike everything about the fellow, I was truly impressed with his resilience, tenderness, and "can do" attitude.

  To help fill the time as I waited for my number to come up, I played a few games of Scrabble against my cyber opponent. The computer had the benefit of unlimited knowledge at its disposal, yet still I managed to beat it on my fifth attempt. Out of desperation I'd made up the word "bezique," using all seven tiles including my "Z" and "Q" and landing on a triple-word-score space. Unlike the "quizbee" I'd tried my previous turn, it turned out "bezique" really was a word, defined as a card game resembling whist, and the lofty score it generated was enough to put me over the top on my final play.

  I decided to quit playing Scrabble while I was ahead. Instead, I read a note from my niece in Buffalo, Wyoming, and deleted spam messages, which encompassed at least seventy-five percent of my email folder. I then tucked my iPad away in my purse and withdrew a small spiral-bound notebook.

  Anxious to make at least some measure of progress in the murder investigation, I was going over everything we'd learned to this point, ruminating about who might have had the most provoking motive and greatest desire to kill Cooper Claypool. I began creating a list of the suspects I still believed were potential perpetrators.

  Under Philip Bean's name on the list, I penned in "a.k.a. Pinto." The oyster boat captain seemed genuinely fond of both Cooper and Milo. However, it was always conceivable he'd been pulling the wool over our eyes. And, I suddenly realized, Cooper and Milo's eyes, as well.

  After all, how often do they interview neighbors of serial killers on television who describe them as the "nicest neighbor I've ever had." I'm sure the men who flew hijacked planes into the World Trade Center had made a few American friends while they were infiltrating themselves into our society. American citizens who'd never have suspected one of their Muslim friends could carry out an act of brutal terrorism that would result in the death of almost three thousand human beings.

  The 9/11 attack also killed nineteen hijackers, whom I considered sub-human and destined for hell anyway. If not for convincingly portraying a perfectly normal and rational citizen, the terrorists would have been apprehended and awarded a free trip to Guantanamo Bay before they could pull off such a devastating act of violence. My point is you really couldn't count anyone out until you could crawl inside their head and see for yourself what made them tick. And that was exactly the reason I was sitting in the crowded DMV office that afternoon. I wanted to crawl inside Royce Chrisman's gigantic head and have a look around.

  Percolating in my mind since meeting Philip Bean was his slight British accent and some of the terms he'd used; bloody, bloke, and so forth. Milo had told Rip and me he was almost positive he'd recognized an English accent in the voice mail message he'd come across: Captain Hook threatening great bodily harm to Cooper, Milo, and their families if Claypool didn't make good on his loan soon.

  And looking back, I also recalled that the name of Pinto's oyster boat was "Hook 'em." At the time, like Milo had inferred, I'd taken for granted the name was derived from the fact he was a fan of the University of Texas, as in their motto, "Hook 'em Longhorns." Could "Hook 'em" actually be derived from his own nickname, Captain Hook? Or even vice-versa, perhaps?

  Just who was this intimidating man who referred to himself as Captain Hook and had threatened Claypool numerous times? Figuring that out was my main focus at this point, particularly since in his last threatening message, Captain Hook had increased his pool of possible targets to include Milo, Regina, and my grandkids. As these thoughts crossed my mind, I scribbled annotations in my little notebook, as Lexie Starr had taught me to do.

  "Twenty-three," the old gal called out. When the rickety gentleman she'd shushed earlier took a few seconds to grab his cane and stand up unsteadily from his chair, with the assistance of the younger man sitting next to him, the irritable clerk, who was snail-like herself, harshly chastised him. "Step it up, mister. I ain't got all day, you know."

  Meanwhile, in the last few minutes, seven more customers had entered the room. Fortunately, five of them took one glimpse at the crowd and returned to their vehicles, no doubt thinking the next time they showed up they'd be waited on instantly. Silly fools.

  As Royce Chrisman, or whatever his real name was, called for number twenty-four, I went back to concentrating on my list.

  Julio Sarcova: I considered him a highly unlikely suspect. Granted, he was irate about the mold issue in the home he'd purchased from MC Hammerheads. Who wouldn't be? He wanted the problem resolved, and once again, who wouldn't? But would Sarcova kill the man he was counting on to eventually complete the job? It seemed to me to be a flimsy, illogical motive to commit cold-blooded murder. And, according to Detective Reeves, Sarcova's alibi had been verified, placing the barber in a Las Vegas hotel on the day of the murder. But that hadn't necessarily prevented him from putting a hit out on his nemesis.

  Murder for hire was an option any one of the suspects on my list could have chosen, for that matter. I didn't think the mob still had a stronghold in Las Vegas, or much affiliation there whatsoever, but it was always possible the true reason behind Julio Sarcova's Vegas trip was to make arrangements or pay for services rendered.

  Dr. Patrick O'Keefe was still on my list even though the detectives had cleared him as a viable suspect. It would not be a far-fetched notion that he might want to exact revenge on the man who stole his wife. A wife he still seemed to be carrying a torch for, at least in my opinion. And then there was the woman in the middle of the three-ring-circus, Avery Curry. What motive might she have to want her boyfriend dead? She seemed to be a very sweet lady when I interacted with her at Jugs 'n Mugs. But that takes us right back to Ted Bundy, who could charm the pants off one beautiful woman after another.

  Could this feasibly be a crime involving more than one perpetrator? I wondered. After all, there are several possible scenarios involving twosomes.

  Lexie Starr had taught me to never overlook any conceivable possibility. I felt a tag-team type killing was one of those possibilities that shouldn't be overlooked.

  Could Pinto and Royce Chrisman, who I still preferred to call Big Bob, have planned Cooper Claypool's murder together? Could it have been part of a devious scheme created by O'Keefe and Avery Curry to execute Coo
per for personal, or even monetary, benefit?

  And what were the odds that Mack Schilling, and/or his son, Trey, might have killed Cooper out of revenge for not being paid for their work? They'd been stiffed not once, but three times. Both Schillings also loathed the victim for his illegal and immoral fishing practices. When I had questioned Milo the previous evening, he'd told me Trey only helped out on odd jobs for his father when his work schedule as a game warden allowed. Milo also admitted that indeed it had been Trey who'd been responsible for the arrest that earned Cooper his lifetime ban from spear-fishing in Texas. Milo also stated he'd never personally been arrested or even ticketed by Trey.

  Mack had said he would have turned Milo and Cooper in to a game warden if one had been in the vicinity when he spotted them poaching with his binoculars. So why did he not mention to Regina and me that his own son was a game warden and had arrested Claypool for serious offenses in the past?

  I found it hard to believe either of the Schillings hated Cooper enough to kill him with his own spear-gun. A spear-gun, turned murder weapon, which had never been located despite, according to Detective Reeves, numerous attempts by the Coast Guard, homicide detectives, and scuba divers the police department had contracted. Branson Reeves had informed Rip that the spear itself, which had been extracted from Claypool's chest, had produced no clues to whom might have fired it.

  But if killing Claypool out of anger at his penchant for poaching game fish was true, could Milo be next on either Schilling's list?

  It was questions like the last one that convinced me we needed to find a way to get to the bottom of this "who killed Cooper?" conundrum as quickly as possible. We didn't want to give the other shoe the opportunity to drop. For if it did, it just might kill Milo and crush Regina in the process. And who knew for certain whether or not our grandchildren could be in danger, as well?