The Fear Hunter Page 8

  They knew that the shark didn’t do it, but they didn’t know about the large hook that Remington said was the murder weapon. I kept everyone’s coffee filled so that I could listen in on their conversations, as I moved around from table to table. One of the good things about Auntie Prudence’s prospector coffee pot was that it poured both regular and decaf, a neat trick that no one seemed to notice.

  I worried that Mouse would notice, though. She didn’t come in until lunch when we only served water, iced tea, and soda, but she was already asking questions about the shop’s little trick for cleaning up at the end of the day. I would have to ask my aunts what to do about that. It was important not to draw too much attention to ourselves.

  “I heard it was flesh-eating bacteria in the water that did her in,” one of the knitters said as I filled her coffee cup.

  “We’ve got flesh-eating bacteria in addition to sewage, now?” another knitter asked.

  “Maybe the sewage grew the flesh-eating bacteria,” another knitter suggested. “Like the Penguin in the Batman movies.”

  The door opened, and Eddie Acid entered. He was carrying a knitting bag, like most of the customers, and he posed when he stepped inside. There was a general murmur of oohs and ahs in the shop, and Eddie bowed to the diners. When he spotted me, he pointed and smiled while he walked toward me.

  “Thank you for setting up a knitting practice session, Agatha,” he said.

  “Actually, it’s just breakfast. I didn’t set up a knitting session. Lunch is going to start soon.”

  As if on cue, Mouse walked in. “I’m sorry I’m late!” she squeaked. “I was up all night with my roommate, making signs to save the sharks and not to kill all of them just because one of them is a murderer. And then this morning I saw Amy, who told me it wasn’t the shark, after all, and nobody wanted to kill the sharks. So, I made twenty-four Free the Sharks signs for no reason at all. Oh, my God. It’s Eddie Acid!” she squeaked with glee.

  Eddie posed for her in his best punk rocker pose. It dawned on me that Mouse wasn’t old enough to know what punk rock was, let alone Eddie Acid.

  “Can I count on you for another knitting session tomorrow in the shop?” Eddie asked me.

  “Sure!” Mouse squeaked.

  “But we’re closed tomorrow,” I said, half-whining. I had been looking forward to a day with my lighthouse instead of with soup.

  “You won’t have to serve anything. Just keep it open for knitters,” Eddie said.

  Mouse hopped up and down. “Oh, please, Agatha! Please, please, please. I’ll be in charge. You don’t have to do anything.”

  But I would. The shop wouldn’t open for Mouse. Or close for that matter. She wouldn’t be able to handle the key. It would never allow it. I would have to be there to unlock the door. Even though I wanted a day off, maybe it would be good to have it open, I thought after a moment. Perhaps the suspects would gather there, and I could work on my investigation. That’s why I agreed to open the shop to knitters on Sunday. Eddie called me a hero and spoke to me at length about the importance of knitting.

  When the lunch rush started, the theories about Felicia’s death flew around the shop. I couldn’t keep up with all of them. Customers suspected everyone in town of murder, and more than one wanted to know where Felicia had been during the days leading up to her death.

  It was a good point. Where had she been before she had been murdered?

  Halfway through the lunch rush, a group of people came in, and two of the Area 38 guys were with them. Just like Eddie Acid, they came right for me.

  “Did you see?” one of the Area 38 guys asked me, breathlessly. His eyes were wild, darting from left to right and settling on me only for the briefest of moments.

  “What?”

  “That woman. They got her. They tried to pin it on a shark, but they’ve been found out.”

  My skin prickled, and my heart raced. I had forgotten about the mysterious Area 38. Could they have murdered Felicia and set the scene to make it look like a shark attack? “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Of course we are.”

  “Do you have proof?” I couldn’t wait to tell Remington that I knew who had killed Felicia.

  “No, not yet,” the guy said. I could feel my face drop in disappointment. Without proof, they were just another rumor-mongering group of people in my shop, pointing fingers at suspects. “But we’re close. We’re going to start to have meetings here. We need a base of operations, and this place has cookies already. We’ve got about ten people so far, but once word gets out about what the government is doing, we should have at least a hundred people here every day. Okay?”

  “Uh,” I said.

  “Come on, gang,” he said to his group. “There are tables behind the bookshelves. We can go there.”

  I was getting nowhere fast, except that the shop was becoming the center for every weird group in town. I wasn’t any closer to figuring out who killed Felicia. But Remington had a point about Donald. Even if he had an alibi, he was the obvious suspect. So, if I really was going to Dashiell Hammett this case, I had to start with him.

  I left Mouse in charge of the shop for the second day in a row and took a basket with Irish stew and Mouse’s sourdough to Donald’s house. I arrived just as two casserole stalkers were leaving with their casseroles still in their hands.

  “He’s not there. No answer,” one of them told me as she walked by.

  “He’s probably setting up the funeral arrangements,” the other stalker said.

  I carried the basket up to the front door. I rang the bell, but just like the casserole stalker said, there was no answer. But I knew he was there. Don’t ask me how. It was a Bright thing. I was sure he was hiding from the casserole stalkers, and I didn’t blame him one bit.

  Tiptoeing around the house, I spotted him through the kitchen window. He was on the phone having an animated conversation. He didn’t look like he was making funeral arrangements. He didn’t look like he was even in mourning. He was waving his arm around while he spoke, and he was wearing a euphoric expression on his face. Donald White was thrilled that his wife had turned up dead with her head in a shark’s mouth.

  He did it. He did it. I knew that Donald did it. He was guilty as sin. Guiltier than sin.

  I watched as he hung up, slipped his cellphone into his pocket, and gathered his keys. He was going somewhere, and I was determined to follow him.

  Chapter 7

  “I am wicked in many ways.”

  –Jessica Spotswood, “Born Wicked”

  I left the basket in the dirt by the side of Donald’s house and slinked along the house and peeked around the corner. Donald came out of the front door and locked it with his key. After putting his key chain in his pocket, he took a deep breath and smiled wide. Yep, he definitely wasn’t a man in mourning.

  I felt sorry for the Area 38 conspiracy theorists and my shop full of townsfolk who had their theories about the killer. I knew who the killer was, and I was looking right at him. But knowing and proving were two different things. I needed to bring proof about Donald’s guilt to Remington, and that meant that I needed to follow Donald. That’s exactly how it worked in a mystery novel. Follow the suspect. Find the clues. Get the proof.

  Luckily, Sea Breeze was a walkable town. Donald walked away from his house instead of taking his car. Keeping him at a safe distance, I followed him. Now I really was inside a Dashiell Hammett book. I was following my main suspect, trying to get evidence that he killed his wife. That he had ripped her face off with a hook.

  I was going to get justice for Felicia, and I had never been more excited about anything in my very long life.

  We walked like that for a couple of blocks away from town. Turning west, I realized that we were heading for the marina. Donald’s phone rang, and he stopped to answer it. I stopped walking and pretended to look at a bush with great interest so that he wouldn’t notice that I was following him. But I was still craning my head, trying to hear every word of Donald�
��s phone conversation.

  “You got it?” Donald asked into the phone. “Look, I’m being nice. I’m accepting installments. What’s nicer than an installment plan? I’m nicer than the bank. Get me the first installment today, or I get mean.”

  Donald put his phone back in his pocket and smiled wide. I’d never seen him look so blissful. Just like a sociopath. He had guilt written all over him. It was so clear to me that he had killed his wife. It couldn’t have been clearer if guilt was tattooed on his face in neon.

  As we got closer to the marina, it was more difficult to follow Donald without him noticing. There were fewer people around and fewer places to hide. I kept a longer distance between us so that he wouldn’t get suspicious.

  When he walked through the gate to the docks, I worried that I would lose him. Luckily, Donald walked into the marina office just inside the gate. The office’s door was propped open, and I ducked behind it to listen in.

  “Donald White,” I heard Donald say by way of introduction.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve been waiting for you. You want to sell your boat, right?” I heard the marina worker ask.

  Donald had a boat? Why did he own a boat when his house was about to be foreclosed on? It wasn’t responsible financial planning.

  “That’s right. I don’t need it anymore,” I heard Donald say.

  “Nobody needs a boat, Mr. White. It’s a lifestyle thing.”

  “My lifestyle has just improved, and there’s no room for a boat in it anymore,” I heard Donald say. “What can you get for it?”

  “If you’re selling as is, I think I’ve got a buyer for thirty-five thousand. If you want to put some elbow grease and financial investment into it, I’ve got a few other buyers who will give you up to forty-five thousand for it.”

  “I want to sell now. I’m in a hurry. I’ve got things to do. When can you get me a check?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good deal. I’ll be back tomorrow,” Donald said, and I heard his shoes click on the tile floor, coming closer. I crouched down even lower and closed my eyes, as if that would stop him from seeing me.

  It worked.

  Donald walked out of the gate without looking back. He didn’t notice me behind the door. He was still in a stellar mood. This time, he turned toward town. I jumped up from behind the door and, keeping an eye on him, I maintained a long distance. After a couple of blocks, there were enough people and traffic that I felt comfortable to get closer to him without being seen.

  I watched as he stopped at the jewelry shop window and ogled the men’s gold watches. It looked like Donald might already have plans for the money from the sale of his boat. It was foolish to buy a gold watch when he was going to lose his house, but who was I to judge? Unlike most of the world, I never went shopping, and didn’t spend a dime in any given month. Still, Donald didn’t seem like a reasonable person to me. Maybe he wasn’t just a killer. Maybe he was a psycho killer.

  Donald pointed at one of the gold watches, and shot at it, like his finger was a gun. “I’ll be back for you,” he said to the watch.

  I followed him for another block, when suddenly Frances came out of nowhere, running at Donald at a fast clip, which was an amazing feat in her business suit and high-heeled pumps.

  “Yoo-hoo! Donald! Yoo-hoo!” she sing-songed in a loud screech.

  Donald’s whole body flinched, and he froze in place. He looked around him, like he was searching for a hiding place. I didn’t blame him. Frances was coming straight for him like it was the Super Bowl, and he had the ball at the four-yard line. I hid behind a bush by a store and continued to spy on him.

  “Yoo-hoo! Donald! Can you hear me, Donald!” she hollered, her voice breaking.

  “Of course, I can hear you,” Donald snapped at her. He was still frozen in place, and I guessed that he had given up on trying to escape. “The whole world can hear you. Dogs are breaking free of their owners and are on their way here because they hear you. The astronauts in the space station hear you, even though in space no one can hear you scream.”

  Frances reached him and stopped just before she would have crashed into him. She had worked up a sweat, and her mascara was pooling under her eyes. She mopped at her forehead with her hand. “I’ve been trying to reach you, Mr. White.”

  “I know. I’ve been busy. A shark ate my wife.”

  “I heard it wasn’t the shark. The shark was set up.”

  Donald shrugged. “Whatever. Look, I’m busy. I have stuff to do.”

  He took a step, but Frances put her arm out, barring him from getting away. “We have to talk about your house. You’re going to lose it if we don’t act fast.”

  “I don’t care about losing it. I’m out of here. I’m packing up and getting out of this backwater sewage depository.” Holy crap. Donald was getting out of Dodge. He was probably going to flee to Brazil, and then he would never be arrested. In that case, I didn’t have a lot of time to find proof that he killed his wife. There was a small window of opportunity now to get justice for Felicia.

  Frances smiled wide. “Really? So, you wouldn’t mind me putting it on the market for you?”

  “You can try. But I’m upside down on the house, so it doesn’t mean anything to me. Consider it a gift from me to you. I’m feeling magnanimous, lately,” he said and stepped to the side out of Frances’s reach in order to escape.

  I watched him walk down Sea Breeze Avenue, swinging his arms, happily.

  Frances was watching the bush I was hiding behind.

  “I see you there, Agatha,” she announced, loudly. “What are you playing at? Agatha? Agatha!”

  I debated with myself whether I should keep hiding, in hopes that she didn’t really see me and would leave. No such luck. Frances marched over to the bush and looked down at me with her raccoon mascara eyes.

  “What’s going on today? Am I invisible? Does no one hear me?” she demanded.

  I stood up. “I was just tying my shoe.”

  “You’re wearing slip-on sandals, Agatha.”

  “Oh.” Damn it. I really needed to learn how to lie.

  Frances crossed her arms in front of her. “Spill. Why are you spying on Donald?”

  “I’m not spying on him anymore. You let him get away.”

  She turned around, and we both watched Donald recede into the distance.

  Frances turned back around toward me. “Are you trying to catch him? I don’t blame you. There aren’t a lot of single men in Sea Breeze who don’t use the beach showers as their only means of personal hygiene. You better work quick because he just told me that he’s leaving town for good.”

  “I’m not trying to catch him,” I told her. Well, not catch him the way she thought I wanted to catch him. “His wife is still at the morgue, for goodness sake.”

  “All’s fair in love and real estate.” She took a piece of bush out of my hair and handed it to me. “So, why were you spying on him?”

  “Spying is a broad term.”

  Frances wagged her finger at me. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I think I know what’s going on here. Doris told me that you suddenly developed an interest in mystery books. Do you think Donald killed Felicia?”

  Yes. Yes, I did. “No,” I lied. “Of course not.”

  Frances took a step back. “Wow, was that you trying to lie? You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen. It was like the first time you ever tried to lie. Do you want me to teach you how to lie? I’m a great liar. You have to be when you’re trying to sell houses next to an ocean full of sewage.”

  She was friendly and inviting, and I believed her offer to teach me how to lie was genuine. Nevertheless, Frances stood to make a lot of money off of Felicia’s death from the sale of her house. That moved Frances up on the suspect list. So, as much as I might liked Frances, I needed to remember that she might have a hook back at her office and that she might have designs on my face next.

  I shuddered at the thought. “That might come in handy.”

  “The main
thing is to never break eye contact,” she told me, never breaking eye contact. “It’s all in the eyes. Everything. That’s how you know if your man is cheating on you. Do you have a man?”

  Did I have a man? Technically, I didn’t have a man. But I had a couple almost men.

  “If you have to think about it, you don’t have a man,” Frances said, kindly. “If you’re looking, I belong to a singles club. You can come with me one night. There isn’t much to choose from, but Tuesdays are hot wings nights.”

  “Hot wings sound good,” I said, but I couldn’t imagine anything worse than going to a singles club. I had just started talking to men who were alive. I didn’t think I could make a jump to a singles club right now.

  “It’s tomato soup day, right?” Frances asked. “I could go for a bowl with some crackers. Are you going back to the shop? We can walk together.”

  I took a peek down the street. Donald had disappeared. I had lost him. Who knew what he was doing, now. Maybe he was hiding the giant hook that he used to kill his wife, while I walked down the street with Frances to get her a bowl of tomato soup. It was a huge disappointment. My first real detective-ing had gotten cut short, and I couldn’t help but feel that I failed.

  As for Frances, she seemed open and friendly, but I needed to remember that she was a suspect. She stood to make a lot of money from Felicia’s death. That was a big motive for murder. Maybe she was buttering me up with friendship before she hooked me through the eyeballs.

  “Look at Amy with the lifeguards,” Frances said when we got near the lifeguard tower. “She’s working those cats of hers. Dogs are better to attract men, but she can do wonders with a tabby.”

  Amy had two cats on leashes, one around her shoulders, and a fourth in her arms. Sure enough, a couple lifeguards were petting the cat in her arms, and Amy was lapping up the attention.

  “She’s very happy since Felicia went missing,” I said, remembering her argument with Felicia in the soup shop.