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

  "So you weren't questioned by the police, huh?" I asked, Royce's last remarks echoing in my head. Everyone seemed to have formed the same impression of the victim: reckless and impetuous. What kind of situation had Cooper Claypool's risky and impulsive behavior gotten him involved in? Obviously it was something that had placed him in grave danger.

  "No, the police never contacted me. Cooper and I were the only two in the vicinity when that incident at the boat launch occurred. No one witnessed the confrontation, so no one had any reason to suspect me of committing the murder," Royce explained. "And, believe me, ma'am. I would never kill another human being no matter how big the temptation. I just don't have it in me to take another person's life."

  "I believe you, Royce." And I truly did. "That explains why you didn't want to admit you even knew him when we mentioned him on Pinto's boat. You didn't want to give anyone the idea you might be a likely suspect when you had nothing to do with the victim's death. And you feared if you willingly waltzed into the police station to offer a statement about the boat launch episode, you'd suddenly be relegated to the investigating team's radar, guilty or not, and put under intense scrutiny as a potential suspect. Am I correct? "

  Royce nodded his head. "Exactly. I don't need that complication in my life right now."

  "Yes. I totally see your point." I knew instinctively Royce Chrisman was telling me the truth, and I could understand his reluctance to get involved in the investigation in any way. I actually felt sorry for the guy and didn't want to be the person responsible for bringing the wrath of God down on his head when he didn't deserve it. I was getting ready to tell him I wouldn't repeat a word of what he'd told me, but Royce was not finished explaining his circumstances. Now that I'd tapped the well, it didn't want to stop flowing. And, as you could probably guess by now, that was just fine by me!

  "I was afraid I might lose my job even though I was not responsible for the guy's death. And I didn't want my reputation tarnished by being a suspect for a murder I didn't commit. Even after an accused person is exonerated, the negative vibes hang over them like a fog that never seems to dissipate."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean," I said in agreement. "It's like a teacher who is falsely accused of molesting a student. Rip and I were just discussing that very subject. Even after being proven innocent, their careers are adversely affected, along with their personal lives, for the rest of their existence. Definitely not fair to the wrongly accused individual, but reality just the same. I can understand why you'd want to avoid that at any cost."

  "Worst of all, Rapella, I didn't want my grandmother to think I might have done something that unchristian-like. I'm not scared of much, but I'm terrified of Grammy Webb. Grammy's four-foot-nine and one-hundred pounds of pure badass when she's teed off. I walk the chalk when I'm around her, let me tell you."

  I had to laugh at his admission of being scared spitless of his diminutive grandmother. But he wasn't fooling me. This man loved her above all others, and feared disappointing her more than angering her. "Grammy Webb means the world to you, doesn't she?"

  "Yeah, she does," he replied, blushing at the admission. "Grammy raised me after my parents were killed in the same helicopter crash that took my arm. I was seven at the time and don't know where I'd be now if not for her."

  I was enjoying the illuminating exchange with Royce, but I didn't want him to put his job on the line by spending any more time talking to me. I'm sure Ballbusteria's grandchildren were scared spitless of her, just like Royce claimed to be of his much-beloved Grammy Webb. I told him he better get back inside and assured him his story was safe, and would go no farther than me, him, and the lamppost—or the DMV parking lot, in this case.

  As he opened the truck door, I asked one last question. "Before you go, do you know anything about Julio Sarcova or Dr. Patrick O'Keefe? Both are on my personal suspect list, you see."

  "Working here at the DMV, I know a lot of people in the area, ma'am. I worked in the Aransas Pass office for a few years before I was transferred to this one, and that's where the majority of Rockport citizens go to renew their licenses. Believe it or not, that office usually has a longer wait time than we do here. So, anyway, Sarcova is a well-respected barber in Rockport, and known for being a mouthpiece for every cause one can imagine. I think he files lawsuits more frequently than I change underwear. But Julio has good morals and is basically harmless. And O'Keefe? He's just a full-of-himself doctor who thinks he's God's gift to the medical profession. But regardless of his overwhelming ego, and underwhelming bedside manner, I'd bet big money that, in line with the Hippocratic Oath he pledged, he'd never actually harm anyone. And, frankly, everyone in town thinks he's still in love with his ex-wife, Avery Curry, and also that Avery was only using Claypool to make O'Keefe jealous. Cooper was nothing more than a rebound boyfriend, according to a few of Avery's friends."

  "I think I'd have to agree with you on that score. Now get back to your post before you land yourself in the unemployment line."

  "Thank you, ma'am. You're actually an all-right kind of gal." He flashed me a beguiling smile as he shut the passenger door.

  I unrolled my window and hollered out as he walked toward the back door of the DMV building, "You're a fine man, Royce. I watched you interacting with that young boy earlier. You'll make a great father someday when you've settled down with that family you're longing for. I appreciate you being open and honest with me."

  Royce Chrisman smiled one last time and waved as he disappeared inside the building. I felt extremely satisfied with the outcome of my spur-of-the-moment decision to come to the DMV and speak to the man I now knew was one-hundred-percent innocent of the malicious killing of Cooper Claypool. I could hardly wait to get back to the trailer and tell Rip all about my revealing and rewarding day. Unfortunately, however, I was going to have to make another trip to the DMV before my license expired in mid December.

  Chapter 20

  "I've been thinking, Rip."

  "Did it give you a headache, my dear?" He asked, as he placed my chosen afternoon highball on the table; equal amounts of tequila and orange juice with a splash of Grenadine.

  "Watch it, buster!" I replied playfully before continuing. "I'm being serious, Rip."

  Rip sat down across the table from me with his own drink. In a teasing manner, he leaned forward, put his elbows on the kitchen table, and dramatically placed his chin in his cupped hands. Looking directly into my eyes and with a mischievous smirk, he said, "Talk to me, girl."

  He was in a light-hearted mood, and that's when I most enjoyed his company. But there was no time to engage in joyful banter with him. "You made a comment about how it was unfortunate the murder weapon had not been recovered."

  "Yes, I remember," Rip replied, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. I was almost sad to watch his cheerful frame of mind disappear like money in a slot machine. With a more somber tone, he replied, "Sometimes the murder weapon can speak louder for the victim than any witness or trace evidence ever could. Where are you going with this?"

  "I've just got this niggling notion about Claypool's death."

  "And what would that be?"

  "I really don't want to tell anyone yet."

  "Then what was the point of bringing it up if you don't want to share what this "niggling notion" of yours is about?" Rip reacted almost angrily, as if I was purposely dangling a glazed doughnut in front of him that he couldn't quite reach.

  "It's just that I feel so strongly inclined to pursue this idea, even though it sounds preposterous, highly unlikely, and ridiculously absurd even to me. I guess I'm just curious if you could get Milo to take us back out to where we discovered Cooper's body."

  "Yes, of course I could. And then?" Rip still sounded as if he were peeved. "I know you well enough to know there's more to your inquiry than you've shared with me so far."

  "I want to try to find the spear-gun that was used to kill Cooper."

  "Seriously?" Rip asked,
now appearing skeptical. "And while we're at it, shouldn't we search for that needle someone lost in a haystack somewhere?"

  I tried to suppress my frustration, knowing patience would fare better than snippiness in this situation. "It might actually turn out to be not as difficult as you'd think. Milo sounded confident the spear came from Cooper's own gun because he recognized it as the same, or at least similar, model he and Cooper used to spear red snapper and occasionally sharks. Remember?"

  "Yes, I recall him making that comment. But that doesn't mean others didn't purchase the exact same models at the show as they did."

  I was glad I hadn't overreacted to his caustic remark as I took in the fact he was now settling into our discourse with more enthusiasm. The idea of Cooper being killed by some other suspect, using an identical spear-gun as the victim's, was really not the suspicion I'd had in mind. But if that's what it took to get Rip to go along with me, I'd latch on to it. So I switched gears and continued.

  "I realize, given the law of averages, the possibility of the spear, itself, belonging to some other individual is not great. But, don't you agree it's still within the realm of possibility? The boys purchased the new-fangled spears at the same expo where they bought the guns. Correct?"

  "Yes," Rip consented. "And I see exactly where you're going with this now."

  You do? I wanted to ask. I don't even know where I'm going with this yet.

  I listened intently as Rip went on to explain where I was supposedly going with my niggling notion. "It goes without saying those three were not the only local men who attended the gun show in Corpus Christi. The Coastal Bend is home to many hunters and anglers. And spear-guns, along with the necessary spears, were likely hot-selling items at the show."

  "My thoughts exactly, Rip!" Not really, but I had him right where I wanted him and had every intention of taking advantage of it. "Do you know if the investigating team has looked beyond the same individuals we've targeted? Or have they cast their net wider and discovered possible suspects we're not privy to yet?"

  "As you know, I'm not exactly being kept in the loop. But I haven't heard any suspect mentioned that we haven't considered. In fact, I spoke to Detective Reeves, and he was more informative today than he's been to date. He indicated in a round-about way that every one of them has been cleared. Their alibis checked out, or there were other factors making them virtually incapable of committing the murder."

  "Including Sarcova, O'Keefe, and Avery Curry?"

  "Yep."

  "The Schillings? Both Mack and Trey?"

  "Yep."

  "And dare I ask? Does that also take in Milo?"

  "Sorry. That I don't know. For obvious reasons, he didn't even bring up Milo's name when we spoke earlier. I assumed Branson would have told me if he'd been cleared, however."

  "I was afraid of that. You didn't mention Royce to Detective Reeves, did you?" I knew my voice sounded edgy, but I had promised Royce his story would be safe with me. When I told him it'd go no farther than him, me and the DMV parking lot, I'd forgotten to mention I'd be singing like a canary in a gas-filled coal mine the second I saw my husband, the former county sheriff.

  "Of course not, honey. I promised you I wouldn't say anything about him to anybody, not even Milo and Reggie, and I haven't. You told me you didn't believe Royce could commit such an atrocity. After hearing your recital of the conversation you had with him, I agree." Dolly had leapt up onto Rip's lap and he'd been absentmindedly scratching her behind her ears as he spoke. At any moment she could reach her daily allowance of human contact and turn to embed her needle-sharp teeth into Rip's hand. "Trust me, sweetheart. I don't want to complicate Chrisman's life without good reason any more than you do."

  "Thank you. I'm going to call Milo and see if he'll take us out into the Gulf where he told us he and Cooper often fished. They hunted for red snapper around the oil rigs with their spear-guns, he said. He also mentioned some island with an oyster reef near it."

  "Yes, I remember that. And, believe it or not, I agree it's worth a shot," Rip said with a satisfied wink. He was getting more and more enthusiastic with every thought he voiced. "If by some chance we do locate the spear-gun, it might provide the clue that sews up the entire investigation. After all, solving a crime often rests on one small discovery that blows the entire case wide open. We could take it to the seller the three men bought their spear guns from and ask him if he remembers, or had a record of, any other buyers who purchased the same model of gun and/or spears. As you inferred, the spear may not have been fired by Claypool's own gun as everyone's been presuming. His spear-gun could have fallen to the sea floor when he was shot by someone else's, and still be where it landed. After that, and only after that, I'll turn the murder weapon over to the investigating team. Good detective work, Miss Marple!"

  Even though I hadn't meant to infer what Rip thought I had, just hearing him agree to my suggestion to take a trip out to search for the murder weapon took a load off my shoulders. Not only that, I was impressed he could so casually drop the name of one of Agatha Christie's main characters, Miss Jane Marple. For that matter, I wouldn't have wagered he could pull any classical literary character's name out of his hat other than the Pink Panther and Rhett Butler. He'd always enjoyed watching Peter Sellers movies and what little he knew about Rhett Butler was only due to the amusement he got from saying, "Frankly, my dear Rapella, I don't give a damn."

  * * *

  While I'd reiterated my interactions with Royce Chrisman, Rip had been seasoning two tiny chuck-eye steaks he planned to barbecue on the small gas grill that slid out on a shelf from inside one of the outside storage compartments. I'm certain it had been the main feature that had put Rip over the edge when deciding which trailer he'd wanted to purchase almost six years ago, even though I'm also certain he'd never confess to it.

  He'd always been drawn to cleverly designed gadgets and flashy widgets when purchasing vehicles. The man in Rip attributes his choices to things like horsepower, torque, and handling. But the little boy in him buys the truck with the shiny dual exhaust pipes because the growling roar they emit when he stomps on the gas pedal sounds so incredibly awesome.

  A few minutes later, while Rip lounged in a lawn chair with his daily cocktail, refilled four times already, he was keeping an eye on the sizzling steaks. As he relaxed and enjoyed the beautiful sunset on the west horizon, I mulled over every entry I'd made in my notebook since our impromptu investigation had commenced. It wasn't a complete accounting by any means, so I tried to recall other details I'd committed only to memory—a risky and ill-advised practice at my age.

  I desperately did want to locate the murder weapon, but my "niggling notion" was not exactly what I'd led Rip to believe. I still believed the actual concept running amok in my mind was almost too far beyond probability to share with anyone, even my often cynical, and always bullheaded, husband.

  Chapter 21

  "Who just pulled out of your driveway?" I asked Regina when she opened her front door the following morning. While we'd been driving down Flamingo Road, a faded green Chevy S-10 pickup had been backing out of the kids' driveway. When the vehicle passed by, we'd tried to make out its occupant, but the windows were too darkly tinted to identify the driver. As Reggie responded to my question, she was plainly shaken up by whatever had just taken place.

  "That whack job just told me to tell Milo he knew what had happened to Cooper. He also said if Milo doesn't pay what Cooper owes his boss, he may be in mortal danger, along with the rest of his family. I didn't know what to do or say to him, but I was ticked off, so I just kind of freaked out on him." Reggie turned to her father as she added, "I'm so relieved you're here now, Daddy."

  Rip gave her a quick one-armed hug, and asked, "Did the man tell you his name?"

  "No, but he was really creepy. Would never make eye contact with me, which gave me the willies."

  "Can you recall the exact words he used?"

  "No, not exactly. But, fortunately, I have most o
f it recorded."

  "You do?" Rip's eyebrows arched as he spoke. "That's my girl! I taught you well."

  "Yeah, you did. I had my phone in my hand when I answered the door. As soon as he told me to give Milo a message, I hit the record button so I wouldn't forget what the message was. Since he never looked directly at me, the weirdo had no clue he was being taped."

  "Can you describe him for me?" Rip inquired.

  "Um, let me see. Kind of a hard description to put into words, actually."

  When Regina hesitated, I asked, "Does 'weasel-faced little dweeb' seem to fit the bill?"

  Reggie thought about it for a second before nodding enthusiastically. "Yes, it does, Mom. That description fits him to a tee! Skinny geek with a bad complexion and gnarly teeth. As you'll notice in the recording, he had a slight British accent. Kind of like he'd moved here to the states years ago but still retained a touch of his native brogue."

  I turned and spoke directly to Rip. "I bet it was Paulie Winterkorn, the man Royce told me about."

  Then I turned back to Reggie and explained, "Winterkorn works for a loan shark out of El Paso. He's probably afraid he'll lose his job if he doesn't produce the money Cooper owed him. Royce is certain he's the one who called himself Captain Hook in those threatening phone calls and messages to Cooper."

  "Who's Royce?" Reggie asked. I merely shrugged. "Loose lips sink ships" was a phrase that came to mind. There was no reason to test how loose my daughter's lips were at this stage of the game. I'd made a vow to keep my conversation with Royce Chrisman to myself, after all, and I intended to keep my word.

  "Let's go sit at the kitchen table and listen to the recording," Rip suggested after I'd neglected to answer our daughter's inquiry.

  * * *

  The transcript of that recording went as follows.

  "Tell him I know what happened to Claypool, and I'm not going to let up until I get my boss's money back. I can't afford to lose this part-time job, because working at my regular job ain't cutting it and I got bills to pay." We listened to the high-pitched, nasally voice emanating from Reggie's cell phone. I'd been right about Paulie's insecurity regarding his part-time job. As Reggie had said, there was definitely a hint of an English accent to Winterkorn's voice.