Designed to Kill (14 page)

“Actually, that was my first choice. But in my second year of med school, I ran out of money. So I took paramedic training and worked with the Emergency Medical Service a couple of years. I’ve been here the past five. Did you say you have a condo on Perdido Key?”

“At Gulf Sands.”

“I live near
Perdido
Bay
, not far from the key. We bought a little house there after our second son was born.”

“Tim Gannon had three boys,” I said.

He rubbed his chin. “That’s bad.”

“Very bad. What did Dr. Crandall come up with regarding the time of death?”

“He put it somewhere between one and three a.m.”

“If I turn up evidence that somebody besides Tim Gannon was likely there at that time, would he be open to a change in his ruling?”

“You’d have to ask him, and he isn’t in now. But I’d say he would be happy to consider any evidence you can develop. I’m sure the district attorney would, too.” He grinned. “I don’t know about the sheriff.”

Neither did I. And I was a long way from putting anyone else on that road at the National Seashore early Saturday morning.

17

When I met Jill back in the lobby, she had an appointment slip for Friday at
one P.M.
“Any chance you’ll have Tim’s death figured out by then?” she asked.

I mimicked her eye-rolling routine. “I’ll be lucky if I can figure out all the players by then.”

“Where do you plan to start looking?”

“Our best lead at the moment is Sherry Hoffman. But it would help to know a little more about her before we turn up on her doorstep.”

“Any ideas there?”

“Who do we know who keeps up with everything that goes on in the vicinity of Perdido Key?”

“Marilou?”

“She’s not bad. But I’m thinking about somebody else—our friend Charlie Brown.”

She nodded. “Charlie knows all.”

———

The Rev. Charles Brown was pastor of
Lost
Bay
United
Methodist
Church
, located on the mainland almost in sight of the key. Lost Bay was smaller than our church in Hermitage, with a few hundred members who met in an attractive one-story building with a high-pitched roof over the sanctuary. This was topped by a soaring steeple with a simple cross. I don’t know how the steeple managed to escape the wrath of hurricanes like the one that pummeled the area back in the summer, but it did.

Jill insisted we attend Sunday services at
Lost
Bay
whenever we were in residence at the condo. By chance we happened to be there for Charlie’s first sermon in July. At the reception that followed, he got interested in my background—his son was an Air Force navigator—and we wound up visiting in the Brown home a couple of times before being chased out of town by the hurricane.

When we reached the church around two, the sun was doing its shirt-soaking best to let us know that summer was still intent on making a last stand along the coast. A line of cumulus clouds drifted overhead like fat sheep marching in lock step. After blowing through the pines, the breeze carried the odor of turpentine. I parked the Jeep near the entrance to the white stucco building and we went inside. The secretary told us to go on into his office. Charlie was just getting off the phone.

The room was small, containing a cluttered wooden desk, a few padded metal chairs, a table that looked old enough to have come off the ark stacked with magazines and papers, several shelves packed with books. A few pictures adorned the walls, including two portraits with collars I assumed meant early bishops of the church. Hanging above his desk was a large drawing of the other Charlie Brown, signed by Charles Schulz.

“Jill, Greg...great to see you again.” The good reverend jumped up from his chair and hurried around the desk to greet us. He was a master at making everyone feel welcome. You’d almost swear he had been sitting around all day waiting for the chance to speak to you.

“We just got in last night,” I said.

He started to give Jill a hug, but she raised a cautioning hand. “Watch the shoulder,” she said. “Remember, I’m a recovering surgery patient.”

He nodded. “I remember. Greg e-mailed me about it. Are you doing okay?”

“Doing fine, thanks.”

Charlie was a little shorter than me, about the same height as Jill, with a build that was more oval than rectangular. He had lively blue eyes that made his broad smile glow and a thick mane of white hair he groomed in something of a Robert Redford look. A tan jacket hung on the back of his chair. At sixty-three, he was winding down toward retirement, but you’d never know it by the pace he kept.

“You ought to come down more often,” he said. “Enjoy the sunshine. Please have a seat. Is it getting cold back in
Tennessee
?”

“Cool, but not really cold,” I said, scooting onto one of the chairs.

“We got out ahead of a cold front that was swinging our way,” Jill said. As a pilot, she always described the weather like an airman.

Charlie moved behind his desk. “Gee, I haven’t been back to
Tennessee
in I-don’t-know-when. I think I told you I graduated from UT. Journalism.”

“If I remember correctly, you worked as a newspaper reporter in
Pensacola
.”

“For eight years. Then I got the call and went back to school, to seminary at Candler in
Atlanta
. What’s going on in
Nashville
? I see the Titans are still winning.”

Jill gave him a serious look. “Right now, Charlie, we’re more concerned about what has been going on down here.”

“Meaning what?”

“That balcony collapse at The Sand Castle,” I said.

He raised both hands and rubbed them downward across his chubby face, letting them meet in a prayerful gesture. “A horrible tragedy. I knew two of the people who were injured. And then the young architect committing suicide. Did you know he had been to church here?”

“Tim Gannon?” Jill arched a questioning brow.

Charlie’s blue eyes widened as if a light had suddenly flashed on. “Of course. I remember now. He told me he was staying at your condo. He was a friend of yours.”

“His mother and dad are our closest friends,” I said. “The whole family goes to our church.”

“He was just a young man. Such a terrible waste.” Charlie glanced across at a newspaper on the table. “I believe I read where the funeral was to be in
Nashville
yesterday.”

“We left right after the burial,” I said. “I need some help, Charlie. Tim’s father asked me to find out who killed his son.”

Seeing the puzzled look on his face, Jill spoke up. “We don’t think he killed himself.”

He sat still for a moment, staring. Then his eyes resumed their normal glow. “Well, I know exactly the man you need to talk to.”

That perked me up in a hurry. “Who?”

“A sergeant with the sheriff’s office. He’s one of my parishioners. He did the investigation.”

My hopes took a sudden dive. “Sergeant Payne?”

“You know him?”

“We met at the sheriff’s impound yard where they had Tim’s Blazer. I’m afraid the sergeant is one hundred percent certain it was suicide. And he’s not about to change his mind.”

“He’s about as stubborn a man as I’ve encountered lately,” Jill said.

“Sorry to hear that.” Charlie frowned. “I’ll admit, he has definite ideas about most things, but he’s really a good man. His wife runs a beauty shop near here. He’s a devoted husband. They have no children, but he’s great with the young ones. Helps teach Sunday School for sixth graders.”

I nodded. “No doubt he looks like a giant to them.”

“I’ll grant you, he doesn’t have discipline problems. Not on the job, either. He was in the Army—Rangers, I think—before working for a private security firm. He’s been a deputy the past fifteen years. I’ve heard him say he’s never fired his gun except for practice.”

“I’ll agree, he sounds like a fine man,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s not going to do anything to help me.”

“I regret that. Is there any way I could be of help?”

I smiled. “Actually, you’re the one I planned to look to for some answers. I want you to put on your old reporter’s hat and see what you can come up with.”

He gave me a skeptical glance. “That’s been a long time ago, Greg. But I’ll try.”

“What do you know about a lady named Sherry Hoffman?”

“Well, that’s an easy one,” he said, smiling again. “Sherry is a beautiful young lady, probably around forty. She lives just off
Gulf Beach Highway
, not too far from here. It’s a nice house on Big Lagoon. She runs a very successful real estate firm closer into town. Want more?”

“Anything you can give me.”

“Her father was Admiral David J. Hoffman, better known among the troops as Davy Jones. He was commander of the Naval Air Station some years back. He did a lot to help the city and was quite well thought of by Pensacolans. Sherry had finished college by the time he transferred to
Washington
. She had a good job here—I think she worked in a law office—and decided to stay. I believe she’s been in real estate for ten or fifteen years.” He tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “I guess that’s about it.”

She sounded quite interesting, but I still didn’t see anything that might offer a tie-in with Tim Gannon. “Do you know if she had any connection with The Sand Castle project?”

“I know she was there Friday night when the accident happened. Sergeant Payne told me she was the one who called
911.”

I caught Jill’s eye and saw the look of surprise. We were definitely on the right track. “Do you know why she was there?”

He shrugged. “I’m pretty sure she sold some condos for it. In fact, I heard...well, I don’t know.”

“You heard what?”

“It was just a rumor.”

“Charlie, investigators thrive on rumor. What did you hear?”

“As a preacher, I don’t like to indulge in rumor and gossip. I have found most rumors tend to exaggerate the situation.”

“You’re not preaching now. You’re reporting.”

“If you put it that way, I guess I might as well give you what you military types call the scuttlebutt. You’ll have to sort out the fact from the fancy.”