Read Online The Clam Bake Murder: A Windward Bay Mystery by Samantha Doyle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Samantha Doyle
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Don’t call me that. Not ever. You’re not related to me. You disgust me.”
“Be that as it may, we’re still going to your house. And I want what you found.”
I squeezed the knife handle in my fist. “And if I say no?”
“You might not leave this forest.”
I flashed the blade inside the beam. “Try it.”
“Don’t make me.”
“Don’t make me make you.” I got up slowly, swung the rucksack onto my shoulder. “You keep saying you’re innocent. So far, you’re not doing a great job of convincing me.”
He took a step toward me. “I’m warning you, Sylvia. And I’ve nothing to lose.”
“You’ve everything to lose. Or you wouldn’t still be here, skulking around. You’re desperate to prove your innocence. I say threatening me isn’t the way to do it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You knucklehead. You let me investigate, and you point me in the right direction! If the real killer’s out there, he’s working against you, making sure he doesn’t get caught, only he’s got the advantage because no one’s looking for him. He doesn’t have to stay hidden. It’s only a matter of time before you get caught, Gordo. And if you haven’t got the evidence to exonerate you before then, you’ll never get it. Unless you give me what I need and I can get it. Don’t you see? If you’re innocent, I might be your only hope.”
He considered that for some time. “Then how about a compromise?”
“What sort of compromise?”
“We go to your place and plan the whole thing there. I tell you everything I know, and you tell me what you found in Alice’s room. You don’t have to show me, just tell me, and we can decide together how best to use it.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
He seemed surprised at how quickly I agreed to that, and took a few steps away. “What’s the catch?”
“Only one. You wipe your boots on the doormat before you come in.”
That offset his suspicion, and we made our way through the forest—without flashlight—to my side of town. And inside the rucksack, my cell phone would (I hoped) still be on, beckoning Billy Langdale toward the biggest arrest of his career.
Chapter Six
Windward after dark on a week day was as empty and ghostly as an eighteenth century seaside village on smuggling night. People kind of knew everyone’s business, the various stealthy visitors, the timing of their arrivals and departures. My street, located in the working class property band between the retail and business owners and the outlying affluent retirees and summer home owners, was one of the most densely packed in Windward. About a dozen large families lived there, alongside divorced fishermen, a couple of schoolteachers, and three or four single women, of whom I was the youngest. We were all mostly on speaking terms, and loaned out the odd step-ladder or bag of sugar without thinking twice. Every year, twice a year, on the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving, we held a street party. They were always fun, but usually ended up more flirty and swinging than I liked. Of those fisherman, at least two had partied their way to a long-term alimony hangover after being lured by Edith Fawcett’s prom queen honey trap.
Edith lived next door but one to me. A knockout, even at forty-six, she was unfortunately prone to highs and lows, but was always friendly enough with me. Three children by three different fathers—she’d never married—tended to give her more lows than highs in those days, but Edith never let that get in the way of a good time.
When Gordo and I crept up the street past her house, she was draped all over one of her gentleman callers at the front door. She threw me a wink, as if to welcome me to the club—I shuddered at the thought—and then snogged her man goodnight. I couldn’t tell if she’d seen Gordo’s face or not. If she had, and recognized him, and my cell phone trick hadn’t worked, I could be in deep trouble with the authorities. This could be construed as
“Be that as it may, we’re still going to your house. And I want what you found.”
I squeezed the knife handle in my fist. “And if I say no?”
“You might not leave this forest.”
I flashed the blade inside the beam. “Try it.”
“Don’t make me.”
“Don’t make me make you.” I got up slowly, swung the rucksack onto my shoulder. “You keep saying you’re innocent. So far, you’re not doing a great job of convincing me.”
He took a step toward me. “I’m warning you, Sylvia. And I’ve nothing to lose.”
“You’ve everything to lose. Or you wouldn’t still be here, skulking around. You’re desperate to prove your innocence. I say threatening me isn’t the way to do it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You knucklehead. You let me investigate, and you point me in the right direction! If the real killer’s out there, he’s working against you, making sure he doesn’t get caught, only he’s got the advantage because no one’s looking for him. He doesn’t have to stay hidden. It’s only a matter of time before you get caught, Gordo. And if you haven’t got the evidence to exonerate you before then, you’ll never get it. Unless you give me what I need and I can get it. Don’t you see? If you’re innocent, I might be your only hope.”
He considered that for some time. “Then how about a compromise?”
“What sort of compromise?”
“We go to your place and plan the whole thing there. I tell you everything I know, and you tell me what you found in Alice’s room. You don’t have to show me, just tell me, and we can decide together how best to use it.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
He seemed surprised at how quickly I agreed to that, and took a few steps away. “What’s the catch?”
“Only one. You wipe your boots on the doormat before you come in.”
That offset his suspicion, and we made our way through the forest—without flashlight—to my side of town. And inside the rucksack, my cell phone would (I hoped) still be on, beckoning Billy Langdale toward the biggest arrest of his career.
Chapter Six
Windward after dark on a week day was as empty and ghostly as an eighteenth century seaside village on smuggling night. People kind of knew everyone’s business, the various stealthy visitors, the timing of their arrivals and departures. My street, located in the working class property band between the retail and business owners and the outlying affluent retirees and summer home owners, was one of the most densely packed in Windward. About a dozen large families lived there, alongside divorced fishermen, a couple of schoolteachers, and three or four single women, of whom I was the youngest. We were all mostly on speaking terms, and loaned out the odd step-ladder or bag of sugar without thinking twice. Every year, twice a year, on the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving, we held a street party. They were always fun, but usually ended up more flirty and swinging than I liked. Of those fisherman, at least two had partied their way to a long-term alimony hangover after being lured by Edith Fawcett’s prom queen honey trap.
Edith lived next door but one to me. A knockout, even at forty-six, she was unfortunately prone to highs and lows, but was always friendly enough with me. Three children by three different fathers—she’d never married—tended to give her more lows than highs in those days, but Edith never let that get in the way of a good time.
When Gordo and I crept up the street past her house, she was draped all over one of her gentleman callers at the front door. She threw me a wink, as if to welcome me to the club—I shuddered at the thought—and then snogged her man goodnight. I couldn’t tell if she’d seen Gordo’s face or not. If she had, and recognized him, and my cell phone trick hadn’t worked, I could be in deep trouble with the authorities. This could be construed as
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