Sand Sharks

last night. There was something teasingly familiar about the man, but I couldn’t think where, if ever, we’d met before.

Up in the room, the telephone on the desk was flashing its message light. The first message was from Chelsea Ann at 9:45. Her breakfast meeting had ended early and if I hadn’t had breakfast yet, come on down. The second, at 10:12, was from a local newspaper reporter who hoped to catch me around the hotel before he left. The third was Detective Gary Edwards only fifteen minutes earlier, asking me to return his call.

Too late for breakfast and no, I didn’t want to talk to a reporter. Nor did I particularly want to talk to Detective Edwards. How about I went to the beach instead and pretended I didn’t get his message?

“You’re an officer of the court,” scolded the preacher, “and it behooves you to cooperate.”

“Besides,” said the pragmatist, guiding my fingers to the dial pad, “you know you want to hear what’s happening with his investigation.”

So I called his number and learned that he was in the hotel, too, in one of the small conference rooms off the main ballroom, and would I join him for a cup of coffee?

Thinking I might still get in some pool time before lunch, I changed into my red swimsuit, topped it with a jungle print skirt and matching shirt, and made sure I had sunscreen in my raffia tote bag before heading out.

Down in the lobby, I ran into Chelsea Ann, who was drifting back from breakfast with the Sunday paper under her arm. She wore a peach-colored knit shirt that flattered her golden hair, gold hoop earrings, and a short white skirt that showed off her long tanned legs.

“You were up and out early,” she said. “Or were you in the shower when I called?”

“I had breakfast with Reid and his friend over in Wilmington,” I said. When I told her that I was on my way to meet with Detective Edwards, she immediately invited herself to come with me.

“Only let’s duck into the ladies’ room first and let me put on fresh lipstick.”

Why was I not surprised?

Edwards on the other hand was surprised. Pleasantly, if I could judge by his big smile when he saw my friend as we came down the hall to where he stood in the doorway. “I see you got my message after all.”

“Message?” Chelsea Ann said.

“That I wanted to see you again.”

She wasn’t quite twinkling at him, but a mischievous smile curved her lips as her big green eyes met his. “In your official capacity, Detective Edwards?”

“Of course, Your Honor.” He tried for deadpan and missed by a nautical mile.

“Should I come back later?” I asked with mock irritation.

He laughed and ushered us into the conference room. It was small and windowless but vivid seascapes brightened the sand-colored walls, the chairs were upholstered in a flame pattern of aquamarine, yellow, and coral, and the long rectangular table was bleached oak.

There was a coffee station just outside the door and Edwards made sure we were both well supplied before we sat down across from him. Instead of asking us to repeat last night’s account of finding the body, he gave us each a sheet of paper printed with blank round circles meant to represent the porch tables at Jonah’s.

“We’re trying to get a snapshot of the evening,” he said, “so if you would, try to remember as many people as you can and write down where they were seated. Also the approximate time as closely as you can where Jeffreys was the last time you saw him.”

“Does this mean you don’t think it was a random act of violence?” I asked.

“Well, robbery doesn’t seem to be a motive,” said Edwards. “His wallet was in his pocket with over two hundred dollars in cash and a credit card in every slot. His car keys were on the ground next to the driver’s side.”

“Like someone came up from behind him with that dog leash as he was about to unlock his car?”

“That’s what it looks like. The parking lot isn’t brightly lit. Lots of deep shadows under those trees, but still enough to recognize faces, so we don’t think this was a stranger killing. Whoever did it had to know it was Jeffreys.”

I soon saw that the diagram did not include the restaurant next door. I briefly considered not mentioning it. What the hell though? Reid couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder and Bill Hasselberger might not have been the only one at their table with a reason to hate Jeffreys. So I drew a right angle to indicate the adjoining porch and wrote in the names of the four lawyers I had recognized.

“I saw Jeffreys twice with a man at this table,” I said, touching a circle that was somewhat removed from the area we had occupied. “Did you know him, Chelsea Ann?”

She looked up from her own diagram and frowned. “Describe him.”

“Late forties, early fifties. Dark hair, a little longer than most. Short beard, bushy mustache. Had a little girl and a smaller boy with him.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw them when they came in. Don’t know him though.”

“You say Jeffreys went up to him twice?” asked Edwards.

I nodded. “The first time he was by himself. A little later, I saw him introducing Judge Blankenthorpe.”

“Really?” Edwards leafed through several sheets of paper that were already covered with scribbled names. “That’s odd. You’re sure that’s the table?”

“Pretty sure,” I said and Chelsea Ann agreed.