Cape Refuge (6 page)

 

A
n hour later, when he could finally leave the crime scene, Cade pulled away from the warehouse with Jonathan still cuffed in the backseat.

Blair hadn't shed a tear yet. Instead, she stood on the gravel that filled the parking area, between an ambulance and the hearse where her parents' bodies lay, feeling as if she had nothing to do with this scene or this circumstance. She was some detached soul, watching from outside the glass bubble that was her life, filing facts in her mind, filtering them, and coming up with answers.

Only none of them fit. There were more questions for every answer, different answers for every question. It was as if someone had mixed up a couple of intricate jigsaw puzzles and she was trying to fit the wrong pieces into the holes left empty.

Morgan, standing nearby, had a blanket around her now, but she was still shivering so hard that Blair thought she needed medical attention. “He didn't do it,” Morgan said as the car pulled out of sight.

“Morgan, we don't know
who
did it.”

“My husband did not kill Mama and Pop!” Morgan bit out again.

“He fought with them this morning, Morgan. It was his gun.”

Morgan started walking toward Jonathan's truck, which he had left parked haphazardly at the edge of the parking lot. “Where are you going?” Blair asked.

“Away from here,” her sister said.

Blair tried to shake herself out of her morbid detachment and think. She had all her faculties—her heart was still beating, her lungs still took in air, her mind still processed the things that were happening. She had to think and act. She had to do what needed to be done. “Don't go home,” she said. “You ought to stay away from Hanover House.”

“Why?” Morgan turned around. “There are people there who need to know.”

“
They
might be the killers!” Blair shouted.

“How can
they
be if Jonathan is?” Morgan screamed back. “Make up your mind, Blair.”

“
Somebody
did this, Morgan. We have to be careful. We don't know who it was. Or why.”

“We know who it was
not,
” Morgan rasped. “It was not Jonathan.” She turned around and shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. “I've got to get him out,” she said. “I've got to go down there and convince them that he didn't do it. Oh, where are my keys?”

One of the cops who had just come out of the building walked toward her. “Morgan, are you all right?”

She opened the door to Jonathan's truck, and the bell began to ring. Jonathan had left the keys in the ignition.

“Don't let her drive, Doug,” Blair said. “She's in no shape to drive.”

Morgan was sobbing when she turned back to her sister. “Just tell me one thing, Blair. He's your brother-in-law. You know him. Okay, so you don't get along that well. But you were my maid of honor just a few months ago. You were right there beside me when I married him. How could you give us your blessing and be so happy for us and now turn around and think he could have done this?”

“I didn't think
anybody
could have done this,” Blair said. “But somebody did. And the evidence is pointing toward him.”

Morgan just shook her head and got into the truck.

Blair stepped up to the window, touched it with her fingertips. “I'll go with you,” she said.

But Morgan started the truck and pulled out into the street.

Blair watched her drive away as a smothering sense of aloneness washed over her. Standing here, between the vehicles that held her parents' white-cloaked bodies, she felt like a dot at the center of a massive mountain range, so small and insignificant that some little breeze could blow her off the earth like a flake of dust.

The crowd that had formed outside Crickets couldn't help her now. The police, still working the scene, had other things on their minds. The God to whom her parents had been so devoted seemed distant and far away, too busy with other matters to waste his time with her.

She didn't know what to do or where to go. Taking action seemed as abhorrent as standing idle. But her thoughts were too fragmented, and her organs didn't seem to be working in tandem. Her body was a cage for this tornado that had ravaged her life.

And any moment now, it would all go flying apart.

 

T
he Greyhound bus held an odd combination of smells that made Sadie Caruso feel slightly sick. The woman behind her had been eating oranges since they had left Atlanta, and the man next to her who had slept the whole way snored in her direction, his bad breath sending up a cloud that was almost visible in the fading light. The man in front of her had a fierce case of body odor that spoke of disease and perhaps homelessness, but she had no room to talk—now, she was just as homeless.

She cradled her left arm across her stomach and wished she had enough money to spare to buy a bottle of Tylenol to ease the pain. The bone was broken; she had no doubt. Her forearm was swollen, discolored and disfigured. But there was nothing she could do about it until she found safety. For that reason, she kept it under her shirt. When people saw it, they inevitably gasped in shock and insisted she get medical help. There would be time for that later, she told herself. When she had gone as far as the forty-two-dollar ticket would carry her, then she would see to herself.

Her eyes drifted out the window to the highway, and she scanned the cars, making sure Jack hadn't followed her. She didn't see his car, but that didn't mean he wasn't back there somewhere, waiting to pounce the moment she stepped off the bus. It had happened before. She had once believed she was home free in St. Louis, but he had been standing there just inside the bus station, waiting to descend on her the moment she got off. That time he had broken three ribs and given her a concussion.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the dirty seat. With her right hand, she fished through her bag for a mirror. She couldn't look like a runaway when she got off this bus. She needed to look older, full of purpose, like she knew where she was going, even if she didn't. But the huge black bruise under her eye would attract attention. And the blonde, wispy hair that feathered around her face gave her the look of a fourteen-year-old. That would never do. She would be seventeen next month, but she had to look at least eighteen so she could get a job and support herself while she hid.

With one hand she tried to scrape her hair up into a ponytail, then tried to flip it around so that it looked like some kind of well-planned updo—something a professional woman might wear. Or at least a sorority sister. But Sadie knew better than that. She had never even known a sorority girl. And she wasn't the type to be college-bound, not with a ninth-grade education, a broken arm, and thirty-three dollars to her name.

Abandoning her hair, she threw the mirror back into her backpack and fished around for the thin wallet at the bottom. She opened it, found the picture of little Caleb, only nine months old. In the picture she held, the light hadn't gone out of his eyes just yet, and fragile laughter still rose from that open mouth. His hands were poised as if to clap. He loved to clap.

She closed the wallet and buried it deep beneath her few belongings. She would go back for him soon enough, and then things would change. The bus engine changed its pitch, and she looked out the window again and saw the station up ahead. It was the end of the line, as far east as Greyhound would take her. Savannah, Georgia. Judging from the map on the wall in the Greyhound station, the Atlantic Ocean was just a few miles east from here. Then she would have to decide whether to stay put or go north or south. West was simply too treacherous.

The man next to her grunted awake and turned his smelly mouth away from her. He got out of his seat and she followed, standing in the aisle waiting to get off. Through the window she could see people milling around just outside the station waiting for loved ones . . . or not-so-loved ones. She felt alone and cold, but she straightened her shoulders, pulled her bag over her shoulder, and cradled that arm against her stomach.

The passengers began to file off one by one, and as she stepped down onto the hot pavement, she looked around helplessly.

“Hey, baby. Need a ride?”

She turned and saw a scruffy man with dreadlocks, a scraggly beard, and a lusty, amused look in his eyes. She knew that look, and she'd been around enough to know that he was not her answer.

“No,” she said, lifting her chin. “I've got it under control.”

“'Cause I can fix you up real nice,” the man said, “give you a place to stay, even some money. And if you use—”

“I don't use,” she snapped back, “and I don't need a place to stay, and I don't need a ride.”

She started to go inside but realized that was where Jack had been waiting in the St. Louis station. This time she turned and took off across the street. When she was half a block away, she glanced back over her shoulder. No one had followed her, thankfully, but she wasn't dumb enough to take that for granted. Walking fast, as if she knew exactly where she was headed, she made her way into downtown Savannah.

 

C
ade pulled the squad car into the parking lot in front of the police station, still running murder scenarios through his brain. Someone had thought it through. They had deliberately used a weapon that wouldn't make noise, so they wouldn't draw attention from the people at Crickets or on the dock.

Did that ruin the theory that Jonathan could have lost his temper and acted out of rage?

For the life of him, Cade couldn't conceive of Jonathan
deciding
to kill them, plotting the murders, taking out his speargun, going back to the warehouse, and looking them in the eye. . . .

He had known Jonathan too long. It wasn't like him.

But what if he had had the gun in his car for some reason and in his anger had grabbed it and reacted?

It was a brutal way to die. The spear could kill a large fish at a range of twenty-four feet. When they'd hunted off the Florida Keys, Jonathan had caught a forty-seven-pound amberjack with that gun. At closer range, the point could easily kill a human. But would
Jonathan
do such a thing? Maybe he would scream and yell, maybe even shove Wayne. But raise a speargun to their throats and fire?

No way.

Still, he couldn't base his actions as police chief on gut feelings or on the years of history between him and Jonathan. He had to be objective. And objectively, he knew that the evidence pointed to Jonathan.

“This is just a formality, right?” Jonathan asked from the backseat. “You just want everybody to know you're a big man doing your job, right? You really don't mean to parade me in there in handcuffs and lock me behind bars.”

Cade looked over the seat. “Jonathan, what am I supposed to do? It was your gun. There are two people dead on this island. I have no choice.”

He slammed out of the car. But before he opened the door to get Jonathan out, Cade stood for a moment on the gravel. Looking back toward the beach across the street, he saw that people had converged—no doubt to talk about what had happened. Word was spreading like a barely controlled fire across the island. There had been two murders. Jonathan Cleary had been arrested. He took a deep breath and opened the back door, helped Jonathan out of the car.

Jonathan met his eyes. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I've got to do my job, Jonathan.”

“Your job is to find the killer,” Jonathan said, “not to go locking up the victims. They were like my own parents, you know.” His voice broke off and his mouth trembled. “I loved those people. I
lived
with them.”

“But everybody knows about your temper, Jonathan,” he said and started toward the door. “Everybody knows that you get raging mad at them sometimes. Until I'm sure what happened, until I sort out what happened with that gun, I've got to bring you in.”

Jonathan looked around as if wondering who was witnessing this. Cade didn't even want to know how many across the street were taking pictures, noting every detail for later gossip. He hoped he had done the right thing.

He ushered Jonathan into the small station, converted from an old Laundromat. Three officers sat at their desks in the front room, making the phone calls to track down the information that Cade and Joe McCormick had asked for. The police force was small—only twelve uniformed officers who worked four to a shift, two office workers, three dispatchers (one per shift), and him and McCormick. The twelve lifeguards on the island were under his jurisdiction as well. Under ordinary circumstances, there were no more than five or six people working at the station, but today, all of the uniforms had been called to work to help with this investigation, and the phones were ringing as the cops working the town called in information for Cade and McCormick to process.

Cade put Jonathan in an interview room that had served as a closet in the building's former life. It was only ten by ten, just enough room for a table and a few chairs. Jonathan plopped down, his hands still cuffed.

“You can undo these, Cade. I'm not going to break and run.”

Cade leaned toward him and unhooked the handcuffs.

“So much for you blocking for me on the football team,” Jonathan said. “When I ran the ball, I always knew you were going to be clearing a path for me. If I'd known someday you'd be arresting me for murder, I wouldn't have saved your life when you were drowning in that lake at scout camp in fifth grade.”

“I wasn't drowning,” Cade said. “I was faking it. It was a joke.”

“It didn't look like a joke,” Jonathan said, “when I dragged you out of there and Mr. Martin had to do mouth-to-mouth. And that time I had tickets to the Super Bowl, I wouldn't have taken you.”

“That's enough, Jonathan,” Cade said quietly. “This is hard for me too. I have a job to do on this island and I intend to do it.”

“You have something to prove,” Jonathan said, “and you're using me to do it. You want to prove that you're not some lightweight the mayor hired because you were related.”

Cade didn't react. He had heard enough of that from every resident of the island who got a ticket or a fine. They all claimed he had gotten the job because his uncle was mayor. No one ever considered the fact that Cade had a degree in criminal justice and ten years on the Savannah police force. At thirty-three, he might be a little young to head up a police force, but he wouldn't have taken the job if he hadn't been qualified.

He started toward the door.

“Where you going?” Jonathan asked. “You're not going to just leave me here, are you?”

“It's your choice,” Cade said. “I can leave you here or put you in a cell. I'm just going to get a stenographer, and then we're going to get started answering some questions.”

“Fine,” Jonathan said, “let's get on with it. I'm ready to get this over and get out of here. My wife needs me. There are two funerals to plan.”

Cade stopped at the door and slowly turned back. Jonathan had his hands over his face and was rubbing it roughly. “Those are going to be tough funerals,” Cade said, letting out a long, sad sigh as he leaned back against the door casing. “I'm going to figure out who did this, and if it's you, I don't care if we
were
in scouts together. If it's you, Jonathan, I'm going to make sure you pay. And if it's not, you'll go free, and somebody else will fry.”

He closed the door and locked it before he lost control of his own emotions. He stood outside it for a moment, swallowing his grief. Then, drawing a long breath, he went out to one of the desks in the front room and picked up the phone. He dialed the stenographer's number, and as the phone rang, he closed his eyes and saw those bodies again. He would see them tonight when he tried to sleep. He imagined he would see them for a long time to come.

After telling the stenographer to come to the station, Cade gathered the information that had come in over the last few minutes. Gus Hampton was still at large; the other tenants were all being questioned at Hanover House; his officers had gotten the manifests of every boat that had come in or gone out from that dock today; they had found two others on the island who owned spearguns; they had done background checks on all of the spearfishermen, and none of them had records.

His mind wandered to the eclectic group of church members who met in the warehouse on Sunday mornings. Many of them
did
have records. Some were drifters, hard to trace.

He rubbed the tense muscles of his neck. What would they do about church services without Thelma and Wayne there to lead things? Would the church just fall apart and scatter? Half the people there would never be welcome at other churches. Some of them were only in town while their boats docked; others hadn't had a bath since they'd gone out to sea. No, they'd never fit in at the other churches in the area.

And what of Hanover House? For so long it had been a fixture on Cape Refuge. Even lately, with the city council threatening to close it down, Cade couldn't picture the island without it. It was why this island was known to be warm and friendly and welcoming, even to the most lost and rootless soul. No—Hanover House wasn't the reason. Thelma and Wayne were the reason.

He got up, telling himself that maybe he should let his old friend go. Maybe he should just tell people he had brought Jonathan in for questioning, then had let him get back to Morgan and Blair to comfort them and do what needed to be done. Cade honestly didn't know the right thing to do.

One of the squad cars pulled up in the parking lot. It was Joe McCormick, his best and only detective. Cade met him at the door.

“Jack wanted me to tell you that the coroner put their time of death at five this afternoon.”

“Five,” Cade said, raking his hands through his hair. What did that tell him? “Have them check to see what time Jonathan's rig came in.”

“I already did, Chief. It came in about four-thirty.”

Cade closed his eyes. “He was at the six o'clock meeting tonight. He had showered and shaved. Would he have had time to kill them, shower and shave, and still get to the meeting?”

“Depends,” Joe said in a slow southern drawl. “Rage goes fast sometimes. Don't take long to snap. But it seems like somebody would have seen the killer going into the building or coming out. Nobody saw anything.”

Cade heard another car in the parking lot and looked out. Melinda Jane, the stenographer, was just pulling in.

“Well, looks like we can get started questioning Jonathan,” he said. “Where are the three guys you brought in earlier?”

“The jail was empty, so I put 'em into a cell for now. I have Jim Henry guarding them, with the door open so they can't come back with unlawful imprisonment. We were very clear that we just wanted to question them.”

Cade walked to the plateglass window on the front of the building and stared out at the passing traffic.

“You okay, Chief?”

Cade tried to shake off his emotions. He had work to do. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You want me to do the interview?” Joe asked. “I don't have a history with him. Might be harder for you.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Cade said. “I'll jump in where I need to.”

The door swung open, and Melinda Jane rushed in. “Oh, Cade, it isn't true, is it?” the chubby woman asked. “About Thelma and Wayne? Melba called cryin' so hard I couldn't hardly understand a word. Oh, it's just terrible!”

He swallowed and tried to look unmoved. “Melinda Jane, do you think you can do this objectively and confidentially?”

She dabbed at her eyes and straightened her shift. “Well, yes, of course. I'm a professional, Cade. Are you interrogating the killer?”

“We're interviewing Jonathan Cleary,” he said.

“
Jonathan Cleary?
Not Jonathan! Oh, Cade! He's the one fixed my roof last month when it was leakin'. Did it for free, just because I'm a widow and on a tight budget. Well, he wouldn't hurt a fly.” She dug into her purse for a tissue, then dabbed at the tears in her eyes. “Oh, that poor man. And Blair and Morgan . . . I just don't know what they're gonna do.”

Cade wondered whether Melinda Jane would make it through the interview as he followed her back to where Jonathan waited.