Coastal Corpse Page 13

  “Not true to his type? That could be significant.” Joe Earl rolled down his window, wiping his forehead. “It’s heatin’ up in here.”

  “Think cool thoughts. The AC is broken.” I offered an apologetic smile. At any given time, I had a working heater or a working air conditioner, but not both at once. Hey, it was an old truck.

  “I’ll try.” He stuck his head out the window. “And, if Bucky was having money problems, it might’ve been the reason he was dating Destiny and cut corners with Liz Ellis’s landscaping.”

  I felt the sweat bead on the back of my neck, and I lowered my window, as well. “As Anita always says, ‘Follow the money.’ ”

  “What about this Travis dude?”

  “From what I could tell at the town-council meeting, there was bad blood between them, way beyond just dissolving their business partnership. He got into a knock-down, drag-out fish fight with Bucky that was truly nasty.” I turned into the Twin Palms. “And, just as a heads-up, Travis has quite a temper under that southern-gentleman veneer.”

  “I’ll watch myself when we interview him.”

  Pop Pop stirred, opening his eyelids, and flapping his arms, sort of like a homing pigeon approaching the nest. “I must’ve dozed off. Sorry I missed the last part of our date, Mallie.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror once more, ready to make a snappy retort, but I spied Pop Pop take a deep whiff of oxygen, so I refrained. Maybe he had stopped taking his blood-pressure medication and it was affecting his judgment (not stellar to begin with).

  As I pulled up to the main office, Wanda Sue came jogging out in a matching tropical-print top and Capris with cork wedgie sandals. How she moved so fast in those three-inch platforms was beyond me.

  The moment I parked, Pop Pop sprang out of the back seat and headed to his trailer, tank in tow. He waved good-bye.

  “Hey, nice of y’all to tote him back here, but it’s the least you can do after you jilted him again, Mallie.” She propped one arm against my truck roof. “I heard tell that Pop Pop tried to re-stake his claim as your fallback guy at Cresswell’s Diner, just in case Cole dropped out as the fiancé.”

  “Who told you that?” I thumped my steering wheel in frustration. “It just happened a few minutes ago.”

  “This is a small island, honey. I was getting texts from the time Pop Pop walked in. Is it true that he collapsed in a heap when he saw Joe Earl had already taken up the second-string role?”

  “Those are bald-faced lies,” I protested hotly. “First of all, Pop Pop didn’t collapse. Some old lady tried to steal his oxygen tank, and he tripped over the hose while he was trying to hold onto it. Secondly, just to remind you, Joe Earl is now quasi-working at the Observer. He wasn’t my date.” I gestured toward him; he nodded. “Thirdly, we’re investigating Bucky McGuire’s murder, so you don’t go to jail, remember?”

  “Sorry. How could I forget?” She grimaced. “I’ve got that orange prison suit hanging in my closet as a reminder every day.”

  “I just wanted to set the record straight.” Mollified, I cut off the truck’s engine. “We’re heading to Travis’s tilapia farm to question him, but I wanted to ask if you remember why Bucky dissolved his partnership with Travis. Did that happen when you were seeing him?”

  Wanda Sue tapped a little bongo beat on my truck, as if she were drumming up memories. “As I recall, they were tighter than two peas in a pod when I first starting dating Bucky, but then I started hearing them argue when I dropped by the fish farm—not raisin’ their voices much—but still, kind of riled up. Travis had somehow taken over the whole tilapia operation, leaving Bucky with only his landscaping service. I never got more than snatches of conversations when I’d hear them fussing about feeding the tilapia, keeping up the fish tanks, customer orders, and stuff like that.”

  “Anything else?” Joe Earl inquired.

  “Destiny Ransford.” Her drumming stopped. “I heard her name mentioned a couple of times.”

  My eyes caught hers. “Wanda Sue, you told me last night that Bucky had been cheating on you. Do you think it was Liz Ellis or Destiny? Which one called your house the day of the frying-pan incident?”

  “I can’t say for sure ’cause maybe I’ve just blocked it out of my mind, but I think the phone call was from that Ellis woman in Paradisio,” she admitted with a small shrug. “I’m long over that womanizing Don Johnny; he was nothing but trouble, God rest his soul.”

  “Thanks. One last thing. Could you make sure Pop Pop is taking all of his medications? He’s acting a little weird, even for him.” With a salute of gratitude, I started up Rusty again and steered back onto Cypress Drive. “Joe Earl, would you Map-Quest Travis’s tilapia farm?”

  “Already did. Drive south past the island center, and make a right at Maria Drive; it’s 1.3 miles down the road, near the mango farms.”

  “Try to be more precise next time.” I pressed down the gas pedal, feeling the breeze lift my hair from the back of my neck. “You’re better than having a GPS system, not that poor old Rusty could handle one of them.” Needless to say, my aging truck had been built long before GPS was invented, and I couldn’t see spending some of my meager salary on a portable unit. But what other vehicle could pull a 4,220-pound Airstream through the Smoky Mountains and emerge with its transmission intact?

  “Where does Travis fit on the suspect list?” Joe Earl inquired.

  “Pretty high, especially after I heard Wanda Sue’s comments.” My thumbs rubbed against the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. “Let’s get some background on Travis’s company. I think it’s public, so we should be able to find a financial statement online through the Securities and Exchange Commission. That might give us a clue as to what happened to his partnership with Bucky, and why there was bad blood between them.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He checked the MapQuest again. “Then again, from everything I’ve read online about Travis, he seems more like a white-collar crime kind of dude. I mean, he might take over your company and even steal your girlfriend—but murder? I don’t see it.” He paused. “Maybe we should stop at the office and ask the Abe Lincoln violin again. It may have come up with something more concrete—”

  “Than a bridal-magazine cover?” I finished for him. “Let’s question Travis first; he might let something slip.” There was no way in hell I was going to let a damned violin guide my investigation.

  “You know, that violin is over two hundred years old, and it’s been played by musicians all over the world. To think that some essence of them might cling to it isn’t that farfetched. One of the owners supposedly played it at a concert in front of Lincoln, so who knows?” He turned and looked at me. “There are more things in heaven and earth than you’ve dreamed of, Horatio.”

  “Now you’re playing unfair to use Shakespeare’s Hamlet against me.”

  “High-school English, from what I remember.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one, but I’m going to do my investigation the good old-fashioned journalist way: dig through the muck of information, harass people, and hope I get lucky.” Considering my so-so luck during the last couple of murder investigations, maybe his suggestion wasn’t completely bonkers. “The violin is our last resort.”

  I spied the sign for the Tropical Tilapia Farm and made a right turn, slowing down as Rusty lurched over a few potholes on the rough gravel and shell road. Joe Earl reached for a passenger-side strap, but it was long gone, so he braced himself against the dashboard.

  “How does Travis haul fish on this road?” I said as Rusty thumped hard on a particularly deep hole.

  “He probably has his own eighteen-wheelers for deliveries. The tilapia have to be moved in large, iced coolers from what I read.”

  “To keep them fresh?”

  “Yep.” Joe Earl inclined his spike-haired head. “They’re grown in large tanks with a water-filtration system. It’s really kind of cool. Anyone with a little ingenuity, some PVC pipe, and a plastic blow-up pool from Wal-Mart ca
n start farming tilapia. It’s a low-cost backyard business, if you start small.” His voice upped a notch in enthusiasm. “The main problem is the filtration system. It has to be set up right or you’ve got a lot of dead fish. But if you keep the water fresh and put one male in a tank with a lot of females, you’ve got a lot of baby tilapia.”

  “And a potential moneymaker,” I added, wondering if I could set up a little fish biz for fast cash behind my Airstream. Probably not, unless I could run it from a kiddie pool that was small enough to fit on my site. Not likely. As I turned onto a palm tree–lined entrance road, I spied several large, tent-like structures draped in canvas with humming generators on the side. My eyes widened. “I stand corrected: a big-time money-maker.”

  I brought Rusty to a halt in front of the compound and sat there for a few minutes, taking in the breadth and scope of the farm. Impressive, to say the least. The two main permanent structures had loading docks, and a large, refrigerated truck was pulling away from the one to the left. Both buildings were painted sea-foam green with island murals on the front and meticulous landscaping all around.

  “This is quite a setup,” I commented to Joe Earl as we climbed out of the truck. I pointed at the “Office” sign on one of the main buildings, and we headed in that direction. Two elderly guys in overalls, carrying pipe parts and nets, shuffled past us silently, both of them on the high side of seventy.

  “Buenos dias,” one of them said with a half-smile.

  I smiled back. “Do you work here?”

  They didn’t stop or respond.

  I opened my mouth to repeat my question, but was interrupted by a familiar voice. “Hi y’all. Can I help you?”

  Travis Harper came toward us, but there were no overalls on him, thank you very much. He sported khaki chinos, short-sleeved, white polo shirt, and a straw, Panama hat. Ever the southern gentleman, right down to the polished, leather loafers. The elderly men disappeared around the corner of the building, but I sensed their continued scrutiny.

  Not sure what that was all about, I murmured to Joe Earl, “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Un poco.”

  “Good. See what you can find out from them.” I stretched my hand out in Travis’s direction. “Hi, Mr. Harper. I’m Mallie Monroe, Senior Reporter for the Observer, and this is my assistant, Joe Earl.” Joe Earl waved his iPhone as a greeting. “I’m doing a story on Bucky McGuire’s death.”

  “You’re the young woman from the town-hall meeting,” Travis cut in, a brief, calculating gleam darting across his eyes. Just a momentary blip, but I caught it.

  “Guilty.” I shook his hand. “I was there as part of my local-politics beat, expecting the usual routine session, but it turned out to be quite a melee with that fish fight. Did you ever get the tilapia guts off your jacket?”

  “No.” His features tightened.

  “And I’m sure you heard about Bucky’s death only hours afterwards.”

  “Yes.” More tightening of the face.

  “Very sad and . . . unexpected.” Clearing my throat, I looked away with a shake of my head. “It’s hard to believe that someone who appeared to be the picture of good health just keeled over like that in a fish tank.”

  “Was there something odd about Bucky’s demise?” he asked.

  I lifted my shoulders in feigned ignorance.

  “If there was, the police probably need to arrest that maniac, Wanda Sue. I don’t need to remind you that she threatened all of us with a gun.”

  “Flare gun,” I corrected. “And, no, to my knowledge, the police haven’t released a statement, nor has she been arrested.” Hitching my hobo bag higher on my shoulder, I continued in a neutral voice, “Not to be disrespectful, but you were the one pummeling Bucky with fish guts on the floor only hours before he died. If there was foul play, I might be wrong, but you could be considered a person of interest.”

  A red flush of anger burned across his face, but he recovered quickly with a charming smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Where are my manners? Here I am keeping you standing under the hot sun when we could be cool and comfortable inside my office. Come on in. I’ve got a fresh batch of iced coffee and homemade, Florida-orange cake.”

  Coffee? Cake? My heartbeat quickened at the holy grail of caffeine and sugar. I wasn’t a big fan of the “iced” part, but I’d take my java any way I could get it. “Lead the way.”

  “Um . . . I’m going to look around the property, if you don’t mind, Mr. Harper,” Joe Earl cut in. “I’m really interested in tilapia farming.”

  Travis hesitated for a fraction of a minute. “Sure, young fella, but don’t take any pictures of the tanks and facilities. My workers don’t like to be photographed.”

  Joe Earl moved off toward one of the large, canvas-covered structures that housed the fish tanks.

  “Now, Molly—”

  “Mallie,” I corrected, as I followed him into the office.

  “My apologies, my dear. Mallie. Lovely name and so distinctive.” He removed his straw hat, placing it carefully on an antique, wooden rack next to the door. “I’ll get us some coffee and then we can chat.” He gestured toward a sofa and coffee table off to one side of the room. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black, please.” I took in the surroundings as I headed for the sitting area, my sneakers squeaking on the wood floor. Travis had obviously taken great pains to give the office a homey yet refined feel, from the warm-yellow walls to the cozy, overstuffed furniture and subtle smell of cinnamon potpourri. It screamed southern charm, rather than fish farmer.

  As I sat down on the red and yellow, tropical-patterned sofa, I inhaled the mouth-watering aroma of baked goods as Travis returned with our refreshments. Maybe there was something to this southern hospitality after all—even during a murder investigation. I could get my caffeine and sugar fix along with an interview all at the same time.

  “Here we are.” He set down a tray with delicate, etched glasses filled with ice, a silver coffee pot, and paper-thin cake slices. Then, he seated himself in a wingback chair and slowly poured a small amount of coffee over the ice. “The trick is to let the coffee cool before you fill the glasses. Too hot and they shatter.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Hah. My glow of satisfaction faded at the miniscule portions of the confection and half glass of my favorite adult beverage.

  Helping myself to the cake, it started to break apart, so I quickly gobbled it up. Not wanting to look too eager for more, I took a few sips of coffee and reminded myself that Senior Reporters didn’t indulge in those weaknesses. They were tough as nails.

  And I figured I could always swing into the Dairy Queen for an ice-cream cone dipped in chocolate on the way back to the office.

  “How long have you known Bucky McGuire?” I asked, as I grabbed my notepad and pen from my bag. “You were partners at one time, but how far back did your acquaintance go?”

  Travis leaned back in his chair, taking a long drink before he answered. “Let me see. I guess that I’ve known him maybe ten years or so, from when I first came to Coral Island. He did some landscaping for me at my house.” He crossed his legs, smoothing down the neatly pressed material of his trousers in a relaxed gesture. But I still detected a certain wariness around the eyes every time his glance darted back to me. Could it be just nervousness, or did he have something to hide?

  “When did the two of you start the tilapia farm?”

  “Uh . . . about . . . maybe five years ago,” he said slowly, as if running through a mental calendar. “I provided the business expertise for Tropical Tilapia, and Bucky oversaw all day-to-day aspects related to the fish production—the water quality, breeding—and the fertilizer/landscaping, of course.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven,” I said, jotting down some notes and gulping the rest of my coffee in one swallow. Maybe he’d take pity on me and refill the glass. “So what caused the rift? Why did you break up the partnership?”

  “Everything was great in the beginning, but t
hen . . .” He stared off in the distance for a few moments and sighed deeply. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but I discovered that Bucky wasn’t exactly . . . well, how should I say it? Not the most ethical person in terms of bookkeeping.”

  “You mean he stole from you?” I stopped writing.

  “Let’s just say my profits were dwindling every quarter, even though our business was thriving. There was no apparent reason for the financial downturn. Of course, I never accused him of anything. A gentleman would never do that. I simply said that I wanted to take the company in a new direction, and he was more than willing to let me buy him out. In fact, he still did landscaping work here.”

  “So you parted ways amicably?”

  “Very much so.” He held up the silver pot and refilled my glass.

  “That’s interesting, because it seemed to me at the town-hall meeting like there was bad blood between the two of you, what with the personal attacks and the fish fight.” I pretended to jot down a few notes again.

  He set his glass on the table with a distinct thud, but he kept his composure. “Look here, you think I had a problem with my ex-partner? Maybe I did at one time, but I’d moved on. That’s what professionals do. We take care of business. You’re way off base if you think I had an ax to grind with Bucky McGuire.”

  “But at the town-council meeting—”

  “You didn’t take that seriously, did you? That was just pure political show. Nothing else.”

  “Oh.” And pigs fly.

  “I don’t have to remind you that Wanda Sue was practically unhinged when it came to Bucky McGuire. She couldn’t forget that he left her for another woman. In fact, I remember when they were dating—Bucky was still my partner—all they did was fight. One time, she hit him upside of the head with a frying pan. Crazier than a road lizard.” His southern drawl became more pronounced as he grew animated.