Designed to Kill (17 page)

“Didn’t his mama try to straighten him out?” Jill asked. Crossing her legs, she twitched her foot from side to side.

“If she did, she must not have had much luck,” Charlie said. “Actually, I think he’s become a bit of an embarrassment to the family.”

“Does that mean he could be on his own now, no more bail-outs by dad?” I asked.

“That’s probably a fair assumption.”

I rubbed my chin as I stared across at him. “If you can’t tell us any more about young Farnsworth, can you recommend somebody who might?”

He thought a moment. “Let me make a few calls and see what I can come up with. I’ll get back to you.”

21

We pulled up outside the condo just as the rain began to move ashore. Though the clock showed it was not yet five, a cheerless overcast gave the place the dismal look of an evening gone sour. We switched on lights and I checked the bedroom to make certain the window facing the beach was closed. Battered by wind-driven rain, the large pane began to chatter like the head of a snare drum.

“Turn on the TV and see if you can get a line on this weather,” Jill said. “I’ll fix us a fruit salad for supper.”

I sat on the sofa with the remote and surfed the local channels, which included both
Pensacola
and
Mobile
. I finally found a radar image showing a large, oddly-shaped blob moving onto the coast from the southwest. As a loud crash of thunder rumbled overhead, a slim blonde weatherperson in a hot pink outfit warned that we could expect the storm to hang around for the next few hours.

“I think this would be a good evening to stay home and read or whatever,” I told Jill.

She brought out two salad bowls filled with sliced-up bananas, apples, pears, red grapes and pineapple and set them on the table, then looked up, grinning. “How about we read
and
whatever?”

Jill has a way of expressing herself that can at times seem perceptive, at others perplexing. However, this time I didn’t need anyone to draw me a picture. I leaned over and kissed her on the neck. “You’re on, babe.”

I had already sniffed with anticipation at the aroma of baking strawberry mini-muffins wafting through from the kitchen. She brought them out to go with our salads. Tall glasses of fruit tea, another of her famous creations—made with pineapple juice and a dash of cherry—completed the menu.

After we finished eating, Jill broke out a bottle of Riesling, filled a couple of wine glasses and set them on the coffee table next to our current books. She switched on the stereo and inserted a torchy Peggy Lee jazz CD. That was a concession to me. Her tastes ran more toward Beethoven and Bach. Her mother had studied at Julliard and pursued a classical violin career before meeting Daniel Parsons, who was already a highly successful insurance salesman. I parked beside Jill on the sofa with the latest novel by Sue Grafton, who, I noted, was about to exhaust the alphabet with her titles, and turned to the exploits of Kinsey Millhone, girl PI. The thunder appeared to have taken a break for the moment, though I could still hear the wind and rain doing a number on our balcony.

We propped our bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. After a couple of chapters and several sultry songs by Peggy, I felt Jill curl her toes onto mine, occasionally rubbing my foot suggestively. She topped off my wine glass and my head soon became filled with ideas about things other than reading. Then the phone rang.

I picked up the portable and answered.

“Mr. McKenzie,” said a deep voice.

“Yes,” I replied. “This is Greg McKenzie.”

“Sgt. J. W. Payne, sir. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

I wasn’t sure if there was ever a good time to be caught by J. W. Payne. But I said, “No, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering how your investigation was going. Brother Charlie Brown told me you had been by to see him.”

I hadn’t asked Charlie to keep our discussion confidential. Now I wished that I had. “Did he tell you what we talked about?”

“No, sir. I didn’t ask him. I knew Mr. Gannon had attended services at
Lost
Bay
. I assumed that was what you were seeing him about.”

Thank goodness Charlie had been discreet regarding our conversation. I needed to dig a lot deeper before I would be ready to get into a detailed discussion of the case with Sergeant Payne. I decided to bring up a particular matter, however, and get his reaction.

“There is one point I didn’t mention yesterday,” I said, “since I wasn’t sure how it fit into the picture. But now it looks pretty clear.”

“Is this something involving my investigation of Mr. Gannon’s death?”

“Possibly. It happened in
Nashville
, however, way out of your jurisdiction. During the weekend, Walt Sturdivant, Tim’s assistant you met Monday, discovered The Sand Castle plans held by his company were missing. Not just the blueprints, but the entire computer file on the project.”

“That sounds odd.”

“It certainly does. And before he left here yesterday, Walt looked at the copy of the plans used by the Threshold Inspector, Bosley Farnsworth. Those plans showed smaller rebars than specified in the original plans. And the concrete strength was less than Tim had specified. No doubt that’s why the balcony collapsed.”

“Wait a minute,” Payne said. “You’re telling me the plans Gannon drew called for one thing, and the plans used down here called for another?”

“That’s what Walt said.”

“And how did he know?”

“He worked with the original and remembers what was in it.”

“But he doesn’t have a copy of the original to prove it.”

“Right.”

“Mr. McKenzie, it sounds to me like an excuse to get out of some big lawsuits. If he wants anybody to believe that nonsense, he’d better produce the evidence...the original plans.”

“But they’re missing, apparently stolen.”

“You know what I think?” Payne’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Tim Gannon arranged to have those plans destroyed before he committed suicide, so his people could claim they would show something different.”

He was expressing the same thought I had considered at first, though I no longer believed that a possibility. “What difference would it make to Tim if he wasn’t going to be around?”

“Well, I’d say he hoped it would keep his name from being tarnished.”

And suicide wouldn’t tarnish it? I saw this was going nowhere, so I thanked the sergeant for his interest and said I would talk with him later. I’d barely finished relating the conversation to Jill when the phone rang again.

“I think I have what you’re looking for,” Charlie Brown said.

“What did you find?”

“A fellow named Harold Nixon. He was a roommate of Boz Farnsworth at
Gainesville
.”

“That’s the
University
of
Florida
?”

“Right.”

“What does he do now?”

“He’s a civil engineer. Works for the state in highway construction.”

“How did you find him?”

“Sorry. Us reporters are like you detectives,” he said with a chuckle. “We have to protect our sources.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “Sergeant Payne just got through telling me that you had confessed to being one of my sources.”

“Confessed? Come on, Greg. You never said anything about keeping your visit a secret. The secretary could as easily have told him you were here.”

“No problem, Charlie. Payne said you didn’t tell him what we talked about. He just assumed it had something to do with Tim Gannon since Tim had attended church there. I don’t mind him knowing I talked with you.”

“Good. You can be sure I won’t mention what we discussed with anyone.”

“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, do I need to look up Mr. Nixon in the phone book, or do you have a number for him?”

“What do you take me for, a cub reporter? Of course I have his phone number.”

I copied it down, then asked, “Is it okay to mention your name as a reference?”

“Sure. I don’t mind people knowing we’re acquainted.” He chuckled. “But it may not get you anywhere. Chances are he’s never heard of me. I got his name from a relative.”

“Thanks a million, Charlie.”

I told Jill what I had learned.

“Are you going to call this Nixon fellow?”

I checked the clock, which showed a little after eight. “Right now.”

When I dialed, the phone was answered by a teen-sounding voice.

“Could I speak with Harold Nixon?” I asked.

I heard the girl call out, “Dad...it’s for you.” He came on the line a few moments later.

“I got your name from Reverend Charlie Brown at
Lost
Bay
Church
,” I said. “My name is Greg McKenzie. I’m an investigator, and I was told you might be able to give me a little background on Bosley Farnsworth.”

“Must be about that mess at The Sand Castle,” he said. “I read where Boz was involved in it.”

“That’s right. I plan to talk with him when I can arrange it, but I’d like to know a little more about him before we meet. Would you mind helping me out on that score?”

“Fine with me. But I haven’t been too close to him in several years. I’m afraid we don’t travel in the same circles. You know who his dad is. Mine was a tire salesman at Sears. I run into Boz now and then professionally, but his thing is a lot different from mine.”

“When would be a convenient time to get together?”

“I’m sure you don’t want to get out in this storm tonight. Anyway, I’m helping a high school sophomore with an assignment due tomorrow. In case you weren’t told, I live in the area north of Saufley Field.”

Saufley was a Navy air base on the west side of
Pensacola
, and that gave me an idea. “How about having breakfast at the Cracker Barrel off
Pine Forest Road
near I-10?”

His voice brightened. “That I can manage. They have the best pancakes around. Would seven-thirty be too early for you?”

“Sounds fine,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

I noticed Jill had been listening with keen interest. “You aren’t going to the Cracker Barrel for breakfast without me,” she said after I had hung up.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, babe. You know, he sounded just like you. Said they have the best pancakes around.”

“Good. Then it’s a date.”